Queen's Peril

by E. K. Johnston

  “That’s why we have a senator,” Mariek told him. “A senator you like, you’ll remember, and who is actually friends with you for some reason.”

  Mariek and Palpatine politely tolerated each other, but neither could see what Panaka saw in the other.

  “I am a very likable person,” Panaka said. “Just ask anyone.”

  “You did bring me dinner,” Mariek allowed. “Twice, since you’re not going to eat yours, apparently.”

  He handed over his plate so she could keep stealing things from it without reaching across the little table in the break room.

  Obi-Wan Kenobi did not like politicians. It was nothing personal. To be honest, he didn’t know that many politicians, and those he did know were generally decent to him, even though he was only a Padawan. The problem was that politicians wrote so many things down, and then Obi-Wan had to read them, because his master had a feeling that something was coming. Qui-Gon had a deeply annoying habit of being correct about this sort of thing, which was one of the reasons Obi-Wan hadn’t mutinied. Well, that and because he’d tried something very like mutiny once, and it hadn’t gone well.

  He was a Jedi apprentice. He was supposed to be meditating on his lightsaber forms. Or helping his peers contemplate their feelings. Or rearranging stones in the rock garden. Or doing literally anything else, but no: he was reading Senate bills about tax reforms for space lanes that went to planets he’d never heard of. At least he’d always liked the library in the Jedi Temple. Jocasta was friendly to Qui-Gon and didn’t seem to mind his odd requests even though she bucked when anyone else asked for her assistance. And it was quiet. Sometimes Obi-Wan was just really, really grateful for the quiet.

  “What do you think, Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon asked. He didn’t look up from the file he was reading. Obi-Wan resisted the urge to squirm.

  Having a master who could sense your discontent was a real pain sometimes. It had averted disaster on a couple of occasions, but it was still embarrassing. Obi-Wan had hoped to leave it behind in his childhood, but he’d settle for cutting it off with his braid when the time came.

  “I think there are a great many people who have too much time on their hands,” Obi-Wan said. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face. “And I think I don’t understand why it’s so important that they spend that time talking about this.”

  “It’s a matter of perspective, my young apprentice,” Qui-Gon admonished him. He looked up from the file and gave Obi-Wan his full attention. “The most important thing to the people who do this is control.”

  “The Jedi think control is important, too.” Obi-Wan slid into the argument with the ease of long practice. Sometimes he and his master argued when they didn’t even disagree.

  “A Jedi controls themself,” Qui-Gon said, which was more or less what Obi-Wan was anticipating. The familiar back-and-forth was a hard-won rhythm, and for all his personal misgivings, Obi-Wan wouldn’t have given it up for anything.

  “Politicians seek to control others,” Obi-Wan said.

  “It’s not just politicians, but yes,” Qui-Gon said. “These taxes would drive a wedge between planets and the corporations they trade with. That’s a lot of control to lose.”

  “And what are we doing, Master?” Obi-Wan asked. He was used to Qui-Gon getting involved in things the Council didn’t entirely approve of, but he appreciated some advance warning about when it was going to happen, if only so he could pack.

  “We are listening, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said. “So that when the time comes, we will be able to act.”

  “With or without orders?” Obi-Wan asked.

  Qui-Gon smiled indulgently. It would have bothered Obi-Wan, once upon a time. As a boy he’d held the Council in such high regard, the be-all and end-all of true Jedi ambition. He still didn’t entirely agree with Qui-Gon’s approach to things, but he had long ago accepted it as a viable alternative. It was, after all, important to avoid absolutes.

  “I think we’ll be more or less in alignment with the Council this time, my young Padawan. You don’t have to start worrying yet.”

  “At least that means we’ll be less likely to get involved in local labor disputes,” Obi-Wan said.

  “Or kick-start unlikely romances with the local nobility.” The rebuke in Qui-Gon’s tone for Obi-Wan’s choice of wording was unmistakable: some things were too serious to be understated.

  Obi-Wan coughed, and changed the subject.

  In a factory on Geonosis, a very large order was registered in the central computer. The furnaces flared under the desert sun, and a river of molten metal began its journey. The production line clanked to life.

  At the end of the week, Queen Amidala appeared on the steps of Theed palace. For the first time, she was dressed for the part. Her dress was red with a wide, ruffled skirt. The bodice was stitched with gold thread, and the wide sleeves were lined with gold fabric, turned back against her elbow so that the color shone in the sun. She wore the headpiece that she had worn as a candidate. It was less dramatic than the one the soon-to-be-former Queen Sanandrassa was wearing, but it was still marked by elaborate braids and curls. Tsabin had pinned it on that morning, and Padmé had remarked it was much easier for Tsabin to reach the back of her head. Tsabin had also done Padmé’s makeup, painting on the royal symbols for the first time.

  It was pageantry, but it was necessary. A planetwide invitation had been issued for the coronation, and all of the schools and academies had been given a holiday. Amidala was the youngest queen in quite some time, and her Ascendancy was to be a spectacle, even by Naboo standards. The girls had left nothing to chance. Even Tsabin’s robes, dyed the same color as Padmé’s dress, had been selected to make her as unremarkable as possible. She had followed in the procession, and it was entirely possible that no one saw her, even as she stood next to Amidala on the steps. Panaka led a contingent of guards behind, but today they were entirely ceremonial, and arranged themselves in loose formation.

  Sanandrassa stood beside Padmé at the top of the palace stairs, carrying the symbols of the Naboo monarch. Governor Bibble stepped between the two women and accepted the scepter into his hands. For that brief moment, Naboo had no queen at all. Then Bibble turned to Amidala and held out the scepter. She picked it up with both hands and held it high for the assembled crowd to see. Bibble smiled broadly as the plaza filled with cheers and flower petals, and both queens looked out over the people with solemn expressions.

  Sanandrassa led the way through the palace doors when the ceremony was done. Padmé walked beside her. She had been in the palace on school trips, but never on such a momentous day, and this was the first time she’d met the Queen as an equal, not a candidate. Sanandrassa pointed out various artwork as they went along so that Padmé could gawk in a polite way.

  “You may select your own pieces, of course,” Sanandrassa said. “Especially if there are artists you are interested in.”

  “It all looks magnificent,” Amidala said. “Changing a single piece would ruin the effect.”

  “Perhaps,” Sanandrassa said. “But keep the idea in mind. Sometimes your control of your surroundings is all you have.”

  Padmé never, ever intended to be pushed that far. Still, a bit more blue might be nice. And there was a girl in the southern province who was doing amazing work with water sculptures.

  They reached the throne room at last, and Sanandrassa paused on the threshold to let Padmé enjoy the moment. The room was large and round, with the seats arranged in a circle under the broad dome of the roof. It was an arrangement for conversations, not audiences, which was the preferred style of Naboo governance. But there could be no doubt about which chair was Amidala’s.

  Padmé straightened her spine and walked across the floor to the throne. The actual chair was strangely narrow, and pitched forward so that she would always appear to be taller than she was. Careful of her skirt, she stepped up onto the platform in front of the chair, turned as gracefully as possible, and leaned into the seat. Her skirt collap
sed under her as she sat on it, the bustle folding in on itself so that it didn’t impede her posture. She placed one hand on each of the throne’s armrests and looked into Sanandrassa’s face.

  “Your Highness,” the former queen said.

  Then she took one of the other seats. The government officials sat down once the Queen was settled, and the guards—including Tsabin—disappeared into the wall decorations.

  “Thank you,” Amidala said. “We are hopeful that we will fill this role as well as you have.”

  The governor took over the conversation at that point, and Padmé let him. There was no real work to be done today by any member of the government besides him. Padmé watched the faces of the other officials, memorizing their names and faces even as she learned the sort of expressions they made as they reacted to what was said. None of them had even a fraction of the control Tsabin was teaching her, but members of the legislature ran under their own names and reputations, so they didn’t really require it.

  An aide approached Panaka and whispered in his ear.

  “Your Highness,” Panaka said, interrupting Sanandrassa’s description of the school for weavers she planned to found. “My apologies, but there is an incoming transmission from Senator Palpatine.”

  “Of course, Captain,” Amidala said, and Panaka activated the holoemitters in the middle of the throne room floor.

  Palpatine was dressed in his traditional wide-sleeved tunic, even though Panaka was reasonably sure it was the middle of the night on Coruscant.

  “Queen Amidala,” Palpatine said, bowing slightly. “Allow me to offer my congratulations. I won’t keep you long, but I wanted to convey my greetings to you personally.”

  “Senator Palpatine,” Amidala said, nodding in acknowledgment. She stayed as cool and formal as she could. “We look forward to working with you on behalf of Naboo and its people.”

  “As do I,” Palpatine said. He turned to Sanandrassa. “My lady, it has been my pleasure.”

  “Thank you, Senator,” Sanandrassa said. There was no way to tell what they really thought about each other.

  The senator made his excuses and disappeared.

  “On the rare occasions you have to deal with offworld issues, the senator is your best resource,” Sanandrassa said. “He’s very busy, of course, but he always has time to pay close attention to his home planet.”

  Padmé nodded politely. She had her own opinions about how Sanandrassa had dealt with offworld issues, but this was hardly the time to bring them into the conversation.

  “In any case, Your Highness,” Sanandrassa continued, “my effects were removed from the royal apartment this morning, and I am ready to depart at your leisure.”

  “Thank you for your welcome today,” Padmé replied.

  She wished that there were some ritual words she was supposed to say, some finite way of ending the conversation without dismissing Sanandrassa directly. Fortunately, the governor chimed in with his own farewells and offered to see the ex-monarch to her conveyance, and that took care of two problems at once.

  At last it was just Padmé, Tsabin, and the guards in the throne room. Padmé took advantage of the relative privacy to give herself another moment to bask in her victory. Subtly, of course. She drank in the beauty of the room, the carved wooden chairs and the delicate marble. These trappings were not the most important aspect of her new job, but Padmé was Naboo to her fingertips: she knew how to appreciate good art, and the throne room was full of it.

  “Captain Panaka,” she said, reining in her wayward emotions, “would you see us up to the royal apartment?”

  Panaka had every intention of conducting his own inspection of the suite, and Padmé allowed him the space to do it while she and Tsabin unpacked their few personal belongings in the largest bedroom. The suite consisted of a dressing room, a sitting room, a small meeting room, and three rooms for sleeping, one of which was obviously intended for the Queen. There was also an extensive wardrobe system attached to the dressing room, but it was still being stocked and was not yet ready for examination.

  “We may have to move some of the furniture in the sitting room,” Panaka reported when his inspection was done. “There’s no good place for your guards to stand.”

  “I don’t need my guards in the room with me at all times, Captain,” Padmé said. “That is why you wanted Tsabin here.”

  Panaka’s face darkened under the brim of his hat as he fought to keep himself from a grimace.

  “Your Highness, Tsabin is not meant to be your only guard in here,” he said. “We can cut the rotation down to two guards in the room and the other two in the corridor, but—”

  “No, Captain.” It was the first time Amidala had truly brought her will to bear, and everyone flinched. She looked absolutely splendid in that dress, like a red-gold comet that was going to go exactly where it wanted. Panaka’s stance shifted slightly to something defensive. “We are on the fifth floor. The only other people who live in this section of the palace are the guards you selected yourself. Any craft approaching the balcony would be spotted long before it got here. I thank you for your dedication, but I will not require any of your guards in my rooms.”

  It was the moment when they would all figure out how far the Queen could be pushed, and it was happening in front of several witnesses.

  For a heartbeat or two, Tsabin thought there was going to be an argument. Panaka did not look like he was going to back down, and she knew there was no way Padmé would.

  “Very well, Your Highness.” Panaka looked like he had swallowed a sourfruit. “Tsabin, we’ll begin your combat training tomorrow.”

  “You’ll teach us both,” Padmé said firmly. “The others, too, when they arrive.”

  “Of course, Your Highness.” Panaka didn’t wait for her dismissal. He turned on his heel and led the guards out of the room.

  For a few moments after the door was shut, the girls stood there in silence.

  “Do you really trust me that much already?” Tsabin asked. The sleeves of her robes hid her twisting fingers. It was the one part of her body she didn’t control, because usually she had to move her fingers when she was performing anyway.

  “No,” Padmé said. She reached up and pulled the headpiece off. A few pins fell into her skirt, and she shook them to the floor so she could retrieve them. “But I am going to eventually, so we might as well establish boundaries at the start.”

  They went into the dressing room, and Tsabin helped Padmé into a set of robes that matched her own. Padmé brushed her hair out from the braids they’d put it in under the headpiece, and wiped her face clean. Tsabin opened the wardrobe door and fiddled with the controls for a moment until she figured out how to send the dress to its assigned spot.

  “Why don’t you like Sanandrassa?” Tsabin asked once they were back in the sitting room, reclining with their feet up on one of the footstools Panaka had wanted to move.

  “Was it that obvious?” Padmé said. She sounded more concerned about that than anything else so far, but Tsabin knew it was only because the Queen let her guard down a bit when they were alone.

  “Probably not,” Tsabin told her. She linked her fingers in her lap the way Padmé did. It wasn’t just combat training they had to share. “I learn your tells as you learn to hide them, that’s all.”

  “It’s not that I dislike her as a person,” Padmé said after considering it for a moment. “But I didn’t like how she talked about the other planets in the sector during her reign. We share one senator, but she talked like Naboo was the only planet out here. I’d rather reach out and make allies. Naboo traditions are important, but they aren’t the only things that matter in the galaxy.”

  “You didn’t mention that on the campaign trail,” Tsabin said.

  “No,” Padmé allowed. “But it’s on my list.”

  “I imagine your list makes Captain Panaka quake in his boots,” Tsabin said.

  “Probably,” Padmé said. “We’ll break it to him gently.”

/>   “It’s time for your breathing exercises, Your Highness,” Tsabin said, and they got back to work.

  Watching Padmé relax without actually relaxing was a bit unnerving, but Tsabin knew that most people would only see the studied calm of the Queen’s face. Padmé had to work hardest at not showing her compassion in her eyes, so Tsabin had already modified their practice to focus on appearing politely interested, not placid. It was difficult for Tsabin, because she had done her best to train herself to disappear entirely, and now her role called for both. To be perfectly honest, she hadn’t had this much fun in years, and she’d never felt so useful.

  A few more deep breaths and Padmé had it, the face Amidala would wear in public. Tsabin blinked twice, flexed her fingers in her sleeves, and matched her exactly.

  Their proud smiles were identical.

  “Did you know that there is—officially—no such thing as a jail on Naboo?” Panaka said artlessly. The girl across the table from him rolled her eyes.

  “Only because we send everyone to the moon,” she replied. She spoke in the carefully clipped tones of someone who was modulating their natural accent.

  “Exactly,” said Panaka. “Just so we’re both clear where this is headed.”

  The second eye-roll was a smidgen less sure of itself.

  Panaka had found Rabene Tonsort on a list of dropouts from one of Naboo’s more prestigious schools. She was, according to her record, brilliant in a variety of media, from music to acting to sculpture. Her teachers praised her creativity and adaptability. Her classmates—she had few friends—enjoyed working with her, since she always seemed to deliver results. School administrators had thrown her out when it was discovered she’d been running a forgery ring out of the school’s basement. Several other students had been suspected, but the only hard evidence anyone ever found pinned the entire operation on Rabene.

  “You’re a fairly accomplished conwoman, I see,” Panaka continued. “Or is it congirl?”