TENS OF MILLIONS OF PEOPLE lived in the metropolitan sprawl of the First City, but in the small hours of the morning the capital felt almost like a necropolis. The juxtaposed ancient and modern structures that lined the wo’leng—the main boulevard that extended away from the Great Hall toward the river—all had been dark and silent as cenotaphs, reinforcing Worf’s impression that he was stepping farther and farther away from the world he had struggled so hard to become a part of.

Looking out from the end of the qIj’bIQ promontory, Worf watched the dark river surge past. Then, like a ghost emerging from the shadows, Lorgh was beside him, leaning against the railing and staring into the water. Worf had not heard him approach. The grizzled Imperial Intelligence agent was slight of build and far from the physical ideal of a warrior, but Worf knew his old family ally could be a skilled and dangerous foe.

“They say the river has no memory,” Lorgh said.

“But Imperial Intelligence does,” Worf said.

“You’re up late, Worf. Or are you up early?”

“You were right about the concealed level in the embassy.”

Lorgh glared with annoyance. “Did you—”

“And about Zeitsev.”

Lorgh pounded his fist on the wide metal railing. “Damn you!” He half-turned away, then clenched his fists and leaned once again next to Worf. “Why?”

“I needed information. The kind only he could provide.”

Lorgh shook his head. “That was foolish,” he said. “I trusted you with that intelligence as a warning, for your protection in case he moved against you.” He slammed his palm against the railing. “Now they know we’ve identified them.”

Worf wondered who “they” were, but because he had less than forty minutes to get the master command codes to Captain Picard, he decided that was an inquiry for another time. “There was no other way,” Worf said, hunching his shoulders against a chill wind blustering in off the water.

“Is that what you brought me here to tell me?”

“No. I need your help.”

Lorgh snorted in disgust. “I’ve seen how you use my help.”

“I need information. If I had time I could find it myself. But I need it immediately.”

Lorgh remained cagey. “What kind of information?”

“Anything I can use against Councillor Kopek. The more damaging, the better. And I need it now.”

That snared Lorgh’s attention.

“Kopek, eh?” He ran his tongue over his jagged teeth. “He’s been quite the d’k tahg in Martok’s back, hasn’t he?”

“Indeed.”

Kopek, one of the newly elected members of the reformed High Council, had made little secret of his disdain for Martok’s commoner origins. In the short time since the pompous northern aristocrat’s arrival in the Great Hall, he had done more to undermine Martok’s leadership and thwart his political objectives than the rest of the council combined. Considering that more than half of the councillors were obstructionists par excellence, that was no mean feat.

“So, Kopek plans to use the Tezwa crisis against Martok.”

“Not if I can prevent it.” Technically, that was true. Worf would endeavor to prevent Kopek from transforming a national tragedy into an issue for personal gain. He conveniently omitted the fact that such a concern was currently secondary.

A malicious grin crept across Lorgh’s face. “Are you here as the Federation ambassador? Or as Martok’s kinsman?”

Worf chose his words with great care. “I am acting on my own authority…. For the good of the Empire.”

“Aren’t we all,” Lorgh said. Worf detected a pronounced undercurrent of cynicism and world-weariness in the remark.

“How soon can you—”

“I haven’t agreed to anything,” Lorgh said. He let Worf stew for a moment before he added, “Yet.”

“I do not have time to barter,” Worf protested.

“Never tell someone that,” Lorgh said. His tone was one of menace, not friendly advice. “It just lets them know you’re desperate. That you’ll do or say anything. You might as well stick the blade in your own heart.”

Worf reminded himself that even though this man was an old family friend, he was still a lifelong spy. Lorgh had raised Worf’s brother, Kurn, as his own son after Worf’s parents were killed in the Khitomer massacre and Worf was adopted by a Starfleet noncommissioned officer named Sergey Rozhenko. Lorgh’s bond of friendship with Mogh, Worf’s late father, combined with his obviously paternal feelings for Kurn, had lulled Worf into thinking of the wily old spy as part of the family. It was an error he would not make again. “Make me an offer,” he said.

“I can get you a dossier on Kopek that’ll have his head on a tik’leth by midday,” Lorgh said. “But I’ll need information of equal value from you. Something only you can get for me.”

“I will not betray the Federation or Starfleet.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” Lorgh said. “But I’m sure you could share with an ally information the Federation has about a mutual rival?”

“Such as?”

“Eleven days ago, in the Ravanar system, Starfleet Special Ops personnel captured a Breen vessel, whose crew…” Now it was Lorgh’s turn to select his words carefully. “Met with an accident,” he continued. “The Federation Security Council denies any such incident took place. But we both know what their words are worth.”

“And you want…?”

“The schematics of the Breen vessel,” Lorgh said. “Get me its logs and I’ll get you dossiers on the entire High Council.”

“Tempting, but not necessary.”

“You hope.”

Worf scowled. “I will send the schematics in twenty minutes,” he said. “Have the dossier ready.”

Lorgh chortled darkly. “It’s been ready for six years.”

Worf turned to leave. He hesitated as Lorgh fired one last verbal shot across the weary ambassador’s bow.

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that your son is aboard one of the ships on its way to Tezwa?”

Worf did not dignify the question with a response, choosing instead to walk to his hovercar and make a swift departure. But as he raced back to the Federation Embassy, growing more anxious by the minute, his answer to Lorgh’s query simmered in his thoughts: It did not…until now.