by Timothy Zahn
“But I forget my manners,” C’baoth continued. “This is a full and rich city, and you and Master Skywalker will undoubtedly wish to sample its amusements while you’re here.” He gestured to Lorana. “My Padawan, Lorana Jinzler, would be honored to escort you on your explorations.”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” Kenobi said, throwing Lorana a measuring look. “We’ll be fine.”
“I insist,” C’baoth said, and there was no mistaking the command in his tone. “I wouldn’t want you getting in the way of the talks, or accidentally running afoul of any of the negotiators.” He looked at Anakin. “Besides, I imagine Master Skywalker would enjoy the company of another Padawan for a while.”
Again, Anakin looked at his teacher. “Well…”
“And I’d take it as a personal favor, as well,” C’baoth added, looking back at Kenobi. “There’s really nothing for Lorana to do in the negotiations, and thus no real reason for me to keep her there. I’m sure she’d prefer to be out and about, and I’d feel better knowing she was touring the city with someone reliable.”
Kenobi’s lip twitched. He wasn’t at all happy about this Lorana could see that even without the Force. But he’d been outmaneuvered, and he knew it. “As you wish, Master C’baoth,” he said. “We’d be honored to have your Padawan’s company for the present.”
“For as long as you wish,” C’baoth said. “Now I must go. Farewell.” Turning, he strode away.
Lorana watched him go, her throat tightening. She’d been perfectly content to sit behind C’baoth during the negotiations, and up to now he’d seemed equally content to have her there. Had she done something to displease him?
Still, whatever the reason, she had her orders, even if they’d been largely unspoken. Bracing herself, she turned back around.
To find Kenobi and Anakin gazing expectantly back at her. “Well,” she said, wincing at the inanity of the word. A Padawan of Jorus C’baoth’s should be more urbane and eloquent than that. “I’ve only been in the city for a day, but I did pick up a guide card for visitors at the spaceport.”
“So did we,” Kenobi said, lifting his eyebrows slightly. Clearly, he wasn’t going to make this easy on her. “Master Kenobi—”
“You know anyplace to get good tarsh maxers?” Anakin spoke up hopefully. “I’m hungry.”
Kenobi smiled at his Padawan, and when he looked back at Lorana she could feel the tension between them fading away. “Actually, that sounds good to me, too,” he agreed. “Let’s hunt down a diner.”
Seated on the balcony of his hotel room, Doriana watched as the three of them headed off toward one of the city’s more mid-scale restaurant districts, scowling as he followed their leisurely progress through his macrobinoculars. So the Jedi Council had pulled a fast one on him, sending Obi-Wan Kenobi and his upstart Padawan to keep an eye on C’baoth. That hadn’t been part of Sidious’s plan.
But then, these two seemed to be making a career of that sort of thing. He remembered vividly Sidious’s anger after the Naboo incident and the unexpected defeat of his Trade Federation allies. Their army should have been able to occupy the planet for months or years, creating a turmoil and paralysis in the Senate that Sidious and Doriana could have used to devastating effect.
But all that had been lost, thanks to Skywalker and his dumb luck in taking out the Trade Federation’s Droid Control Ship. Darth Maul’s death at the hands of Kenobi and Qui-Gon Jinn had been equally devastating, short-circuiting a quiet reign of terror that would have distracted the Jedi even as it pruned the edges of their close-knit group.
And now here they were on Barlok, threatening to interfere with Sidious’s plan to eliminate Jorus C’baoth.
He set his lips firmly together. No—not this time. Not if Kinman Doriana had anything to say about it.
Inside his pocket, his special comlink beeped. Still watching Kenobi and his companions, he fished out the device and flicked it on. “Yes?”
“Defender?” a hoarse Brolf voice asked.
“Yes, it is I, Patriot,” Doriana said. “I have returned as I promised to help you in your time of need.”
“You are late,” the other growled. “The negotiations have already begun.”
“But nothing is yet decided,” Doriana said. “There’s still time to send a message that the Brolf people will not be cheated. Has everything been prepared according to my instructions?”
“Almost,” Patriot said. “The final components should be on the way. The question is whether you’ve brought the contribution you promised.”
“I have it right here,” Doriana assured him.
“Then bring it,” Patriot said. “Third North from Chessile and Scriv Streets. Two hours.”
“I’ll be there.”
There was a ping as the connection was broken. Putting away his comlink, Doriana glanced at his chrono. Excellent. The address wasn’t more than half an hour’s walk away, which would give him time for a leisurely stroll and a careful survey of the neighborhood before he arrived.
But first, he would see what he could do to keep Kenobi on the sidelines where he belonged.
Fortunately, that shouldn’t be a problem. Whatever his purpose here, chances were he wouldn’t make any serious moves without first consulting the Jedi Council. A little tweaking of the city’s HoloNet computer access system, and there would be nothing coming into or going out of Barlok for the next day or two. Plenty of time for him and his Brolf allies to finish the job.
Stepping over to the desk, he opened his computer and set to work.
The cantina they found didn’t have the most promising decor Obi-Wan had ever seen. But like Dex’s Diner on Coruscant, appearances could be deceiving, particularly where food was involved. The hearty aroma of roast tarsh was definitely in the air, maxers were the headliners on the menu, and Lorana’s guide card gave the place a triple-porken rating. All in all, it looked like a pretty good bet.
A WA-2 droid scuttled up as they chose a booth overlooking the street and sat down. “Welcome to Panky’s,” it said, its electronic voice somehow managing to convey both courtesy and the fact that it was being severely and unfairly overworked. “What may I provide for you?”
“I want a tarsh maxer and bribb juice,” Anakin said eagerly.
Obi-Wan suppressed a smile. Anakin had discovered bribb juice on his first trip as a Padawan, and ever since then he’d ordered it every chance he got, whether it really went with the rest of the meal or not. “Same maxer for me, but make my drink a Corellian noale,” he told the droid.
“I’ll take the bribb juice, but with a prisht-fruit salad,” Lorana said. She gave Obi-Wan a hesitant smile. “After all, Barlok does produce the best specimens.”
“So I’ve heard,” Obi-Wan said, studying her. She was about medium height, with dark hair and striking gray eyes. She had an intelligent face, a nice smile, and that sense of global awareness that came from knowledge of the Force. To all appearances, she seemed well on her way to becoming a typical Jedi.
And yet, there was something about her that felt odd to him, something that didn’t quite ring true. Her air of dignity and confidence felt strained, like an accessory she put on every morning instead of something that was truly a part of her innermost being. Her smile had a similarly tentative edge to it, as if she was afraid it would get her into trouble.
On the surface, she had everything down just right. Beneath it all, she was still a Padawan learner with a lot of work yet to do.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone before who was trained by Master C’baoth,” he commented as the droid bustled away. “What’s he like to study with?”
The corners of Lorana’s mouth compressed, just noticeably. “It’s been a valuable learning experience,” she said diplomatically. “Master C’baoth has a depth and strength in the Force that I can only hope I’ll someday be able to approach.”
“Ah.” Obi-Wan nodded, his mind flicking back to his last conversation with Master Windu. She mi
ght be right, or it might also be that C’baoth wasn’t nearly as deep into the Force as she thought. Possibly even not as deep as C’baoth himself thought.
But discussing a Jedi with his Padawan was considered poor form, particularly in front of another, younger Padawan like Anakin. “I’m sure you’ll make it,” he told her. “In my experience, a Jedi can gain as much depth in the Force as he or she wants.”
“Within his or her limitations, of course,” Lorana said ruefully. “I don’t know yet where that line lies for me.”
“No one does until the line is reached and tested,” Obi-Wan pointed out. “Personally, I don’t believe there are any such limits.”
Another droid bustled up with their drinks balanced precariously on a tray. Obi-Wan leaned back, ready to reach out with the Force to rescue the glasses if it became necessary, but the droid set them down without spilling a drop and bustled away. Picking up his drink, Obi-Wan sent a slow look around the room.
Small, unassuming places like this, he knew, were usually passed over by casual visitors looking for flash and sparkle. Sure enough, most of the patrons were locals: hornskinned Brolfi in varying shades of yellow and green, plus a counterpoint sprinkling of the more delicate arboreal Karfs from the vast tisvollt forests that edged the city on two sides.
But there were also a few other species represented, including three more humans. Perhaps the guide card recommendation was actually having some influence on the visitor trade. His leisurely gaze drifted to the genuine duskwood bar at the far end, where a skinny, mostly yellow-skinned Brolf was serving drinks.
He frowned. “Lorana, that human over there—black vest, gray shirt, talking to the bartender. Have you ever seen him before?”
She turned to look. “Yes, he was in the group waiting outside the negotiating chamber when the talks ended yesterday. I don’t know his name.”
“You know him, Master?” Anakin asked.
“Unless I’m mistaken, that’s Jery Riske,” Obi-Wan said. “Former bounty hunter; currently top enforcer for the magistrate’s office of the Corporate Alliance.”
“What does an enforcer do?” Anakin asked.
“Pretty much anything Passel Argente tells him to,” Obi-Wan said. “Bodyguard, investigator, and probably extra muscle if there are bad debts to be collected. I wonder which of those roles he’s performing here.”
“Probably the bodyguard one,” Lorana said. “Magistrate Argente’s leading the Alliance’s negotiating team.”
An unpleasant sensation crept up Obi-Wan’s back. The head of a powerful, galaxy-spanning organization such as the Corporate Alliance hardly had the time to deal personally with a minor contract dispute like this.
Unless the Barlok dispute wasn’t as minor as everyone seemed to think.
He looked back at Riske. The man was still talking with the bartender, both of them leaning slightly over their respective sides of the bar, their heads close together. “Anakin, you see that dish of quartered nuts on the bar near Enforcer Riske?” he asked, setting down his drink. “Go and grab a few of them.”
“Sure,” Anakin said. Sliding out of his seat, he started threading his way between the rows of tables.
“What are you doing?” Lorana asked.
“Giving myself an excuse to go over there,” Obi-Wan said, watching Anakin’s progress across the room and judging his timing. One more table… now. “Wait here,” he added, standing up and heading off after his Padawan. Focusing his attention on the conversation at the bar, he ran through his Jedi sensory enhancement techniques.
He got within eavesdropping distance just as Anakin reached the bar, squeezed himself in between an Aqualish and a Rodian, and started helping himself to the nuts. “—centered in Patameene District,” the bartender was saying in a low voice. “But that’s just a rumor, mind.”
“Thanks,” Riske said. His hand brushed over the bartender’s, and Obi-Wan caught a glint of metal as the bartender straightened up, his closed fist dropping casually behind the bar. The Brolf’s eyes shifted to Obi-Wan, the hornskin puckering a little as he frowned. Riske caught the change in expression and turned, his right hand dropping casually to his belt, the fingertips dipping inside the edge of his vest.
“That’s enough, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, keeping his voice light but firm as he came up behind Anakin and took casual hold of the boy’s shoulder, carefully keeping his eyes away from Riske and the bartender.
“Just one more?” Anakin asked, turning and holding up a large tashru.
“All right, but for after your lunch,” Obi-Wan said firmly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Riske’s hand drop the rest of the way to his side and sensed both his and the bartender’s suspicions fading. “You don’t want to spoil your appetite.”
The boy sighed theatrically. “Okay,” he said. Closing his fist around the nut, he started to turn around.
And as he did so, his shoulder bumped the Aqualish’s back just as the burly alien was lifting his drink to his mouth, sending a small wave of bright red liquid sloshing over the rim and down the alien’s massive hand.
Obi-Wan winced. It was a minor accident, as such things went, with equally minor damages. But such subtleties were lost on the typical Aqualish mind and temper.
And this one was very definitely typical. “You—child human troublemaker—” he grunted in his native tongue, spinning around fast enough to slosh a little more of his drink over the edge. “What do you do to bother me?”
“It was an accident,” Obi-Wan said quickly, pulling Anakin back to just in front of him. “I apologize for his carelessness.”
“He is no babe in leafwrap that you must clean up his messes,” the Aqualish retorted, glaring at Obi-Wan with his huge eyes. He looked back at Anakin, his hand dropping to the blaster belted at his waist. “He must learn manners and self-discipline.”
Obi-Wan tightened his grip on Anakin’s shoulder as he sensed the boy’s flash of anger. Self-discipline was one of Anakin’s biggest problem areas, something Obi-Wan had to call him on probably twice a week. The last thing the boy wanted to hear was the same lecture coming from a grumpy alien. “Easy, Anakin,” Obi-Wan warned, aware that every eye in the cantina was on the confrontation. His little playacting had alleviated Riske’s first suspicions about the would-be eavesdropper, but those suspicions would be back with a vengeance if Obi-Wan was forced to reveal himself as a Jedi. “Come, friend,” he said soothingly to the Aqualish. “Surely you have more worthwhile ways to spend your energy. Let me get you another drink, and we’ll be on our way.”
For a long moment the Aqualish glared at him, his hand now openly gripping the butt of his blaster. Obi-Wan stood motionless, his mind slipping into combat mode, his hand ready to dart beneath his tunic and snatch his lightsaber if and when it became necessary.
And then something seemed to flicker in the Aqualish’s anger. “A Likstro,” he said, lifting his hand off his blaster and pointing at his half-filled glass. “A large one.”
“Certainly,” Obi-Wan said. The other’s glass was nowhere near large size, but this wasn’t the time or place to quibble over details. Senses still alert for a last-minute sneak attack, he turned and caught the bartender’s eye. “A large Likstro,” he said, gesturing to the Aqualish.
The bartender nodded and busied himself with his tap. A minute later the drink was in the alien’s hand, the payment was in the bartender’s, and Obi-Wan and Anakin were heading back toward their booth.
“That wasn’t a large drink he had,” Anakin muttered as they maneuvered between the tables.
Obi-Wan nodded. “I know.”
“That means he stiffed you,” Anakin said, an accusing edge creeping into his voice. “Probably what he had in mind all along.”
“Possibly,” Obi-Wan acknowledged. “What if he did?”
“But we’re Jedi,” Anakin growled. “We shouldn’t have to put up with that kind of shakedown.”
“You have to learn to see the bigger view, my young Padawan,” Obi-Wan
reminded him, glancing around. “All we really wanted to accomplish here—”
He broke off. Riske was gone.
So was Lorana.
6
It was apparently her lot in life, Lorana thought as she wove her way through the crowds on the walkway, to be forever trying to keep up with someone. Earlier it had been C’baoth; now, she was struggling just as hard to keep Riske in sight.
She had to admit, though, that it was an interesting study in contrasts. C’baoth’s technique was the straightforward one of intimidating others out of his way. Riske gained the same result by taking advantage of every opening or opportunity for advancement, seldom disturbing any of the other pedestrians, slipping through the crowd like a night animal through the trees of a forest.
Master Kenobi had said that the man used to be a bounty hunter. He’d probably been a very good one.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t thought to get Obi-Wan’s comlink frequency before they split up. C’baoth might have it, but she knew better than to interrupt him during the negotiations for anything short of an imminent catastrophe.
But the Jedi Temple on Coruscant surely had the listing. Dodging around a strolling Ithorian, she pulled out her comlink and keyed for the city communications center and a HoloNet relay.
“Vast apologies, citizen,” a mechanical voice said from the comlink. “All connections offworld are unavailable. Please try again at a future time.”
So much for that approach. Lorana shut off the comlink and returned it to her belt, sidestepping as a pair of large Brolfi suddenly loomed in her path. They passed her by and she started forward again, craning her neck to sec over the crowd.
To find that Riske had vanished.
She hurried forward, scanning the street and stretching out to the Force. But there was no sign of him.
Calm yourself Padawan, C’baoth’s oft-repeated admonition whispered through her mind. Riske couldn’t have gotten very far in the brief time he’d been out of her sight. He must have either gone into one of the dozens of little shops that lined the street or else ducked down one of the pair of narrow alleyways branching off to the left and right just ahead.