“You’re jumpy,” she said. She had a covered tray in her hands and something bundled under one arm. The merlie nuzzled Etain’s knees, seeking attention. They were distressingly intelligent animals, nearly a meter high at the shoulder and covered with long brown ringlets of wool; their round, green eyes were too disturbingly human for Etain’s peace of mind. “Here’s your dinner.”
“Thank you,” Etain said, watching as the woman put the tray down on the mattress and placed the bundle of brown fabric beside it.
“Quite a job getting that dung off your cloak,” the woman said, eyeing the lightsaber the way Birhan had. “Still a bit damp. But clean.”
“Thank you,” Etain repeated. She turned off the blade and peeled the cloth back from the tray. Two rough clay plates held a couple of thin-breads and a mush of stew, on top of which whole barq grains were visible. She could smell their cloying musky scent.
That quantity of barq was a week’s earnings for these people. “You shouldn’t have gone to that trouble for me,” Etain said, embarrassed.
“You’re a guest,” the woman said. “Besides, once I’d scraped the dung off, shame to waste the grains stuck to it, eh? Oh-ah.”
Etain’s stomach rolled but she kept a steady expression. Coruscant’s food hygiene regulations certainly didn’t apply here.
“Very kind of you,” she said, and forced a smile.
“They’re coming, you know,” the woman said.
“I’ll be ready,” Etain lied, and indicated the lightsaber.
“No, not them Hokan thugs. Not them at all.”
Etain wondered whether to press her, but decided against it for the time being. She had no idea who she’d be asking for answers.
The woman sighed and shooed the merlie out the door with impatient hands. “They’re coming, all right,” she said, and smiled, closing the door behind her.
3
CLASSIFIED, HIGHEST: ENCRYPTION ONLY
You’re the best in your field–the best soldiers, tacticians, sappers, communicators, survival experts. I picked you personally because I want you to train the best commandos in the galaxy. You’ll have everything you need, whatever you want, except one thing–home. This is a top-secret project. You’ll not tell anyone where you’re going and you’ll not leave Kamino, ever. As far as your friends and family are concerned, you’re already dead.
–Jango Fett, recruiting his handpicked commando instructors, the Cuy’vul Dar—in the Mandalorian tongue, “those who no longer exist”
The Neimoidians had a taste for elaborate and wholly inappropriate grandeur, and Ghez Hokan despised them for it.
Lik Ankkit’s huge villa was set on top of a hill overlooking a kushayan plantation—a foolish choice given the prevailing winds, but it seemed to satisfy the Neimoidian’s need to show he was boss. The location might have made sense from a military perspective, but—as Ankkit was a bean-counting coward like all of his kind—he didn’t need defensibility, either.
No, the Neimoidian was a di’kut. A complete and utter di’kut.
Hokan ran up the hedge-flanked steps of the veranda spanning the entire front of the building, headdress tucked under one arm, his shatter gun, knives, and rope-spike provocatively visible in his belt.
He wasn’t rushing to see his paymaster, oh no. He was just in a hurry to get the meeting over with. He ignored the servants and minions and swept into Ankkit’s spacious office with its panoramic view of the countryside. Qiilura’s commercial overlord was watering pots of flowers on the windowsill. He paused to flick one with his fingertip, and it sprayed a powerful, sickly scent into the air. He inhaled with parted lips.
“I do wish you would knock, Hokan,” Ankkit said without turning around. “It’s really most discourteous.”
“You summoned me,” Hokan said flatly.
“Merely checking on the progress of your conversations with the Jedi.”
“Had there been any, I would have called you.”
“You haven’t killed him, have you? Do tell me you haven’t. I need to know if his activities will affect market prices.”
“I’m not an amateur.”
“But one has to do the best with the staff one has, yes?”
“I do my own dirty work, thanks. No, he isn’t talking. He’s rather… resistant for a Jedi.”
If Ankkit had had a nose, he would have been looking down it at Hokan. Hokan controlled an impulsive urge to cut this glorified shopkeeper, this grocer, down to size. For all his height, the Neimoidian was soft and weak, his only strength contained within his bank account. He blinked with passionless, liquid red eyes. Hokan almost—almost–reached for his rope-spike.
“Jedi do not visit worlds like this to take the therapeutic waters, Hokan. Have you confirmed that he has an associate?”
“He’s a Jedi Master. He was seen with a Padawan.”
“Not a very discreet Jedi Master, it seems.”
Fulier couldn’t have been good at calculating odds or he’d never have started on Gar-Ul in the tavern. But at least he was prepared to stand up for himself, despite all that soft mystical nonsense he spouted. Hokan admired guts, even if he rarely tolerated them. They were always in short supply.
“We’ll find the Padawan, and we’ll find out what intelligence Fulier has, if any.”
“Make sure you do. I have a lucrative contract resting on this.”
Hokan had become practiced at controlling his urge to lash out, but he saw no reason to subject his mouth to the same discipline. “If I succeed, it’ll be because I take pride in my work.”
“You need the credits.”
“For the time being. But one day, Ankkit, I won’t need you at all.”
Ankkit gathered his robes a little closer and drew himself up to his full height, which had no effect on Hokan at all.
“You must learn to accept your reduced station in the galactic order, Hokan,” Ankkit said. “This is no longer the hierarchy of brute force in which your warrior ancestors thrived. Today we need to be soldiers of intellect and commerce, and no amount of strutting around in that museum-piece uniform will revive your… glorious past. Alas, even the great Jango Fett succumbed to a Jedi in the end.”
News traveled fast. Fett was a source of pride among the remaining handful of Mandalorians in diaspora. Even if he fought for money, he was the best. Ankkit must have known perfectly well how much that comment would sting.
Hokan was determined that the Neimoidian would see no evidence on his face to prove it. He’d certainly tried to keep that out of his mind when he was interrogating Fulier, much as he wanted to blame all Jedi for the humiliation of a cultural hero. He had to be clear why he was smashing the Jedi’s bones. Revenge was unprofessional.
He took a careful breath. “Do you keep gdans as pets, Ankkit? I hear some offworlders do try.”
“Gdans? No. Filthy little creatures. Most savage.”
“But if you did keep one, and didn’t feed it well, would you be surprised if it bit you?”
“I suppose not.”
“Then feed me well.”
Hokan turned and walked out without being dismissed, deliberately unbidden, and deliberately fast so that Ankkit couldn’t have the last word. He replaced his helmet and ran down the steps of the ludicrously extravagant villa.
He didn’t care if Ankkit rented the whole planet out to Separatist scientists. They weren’t honorable enough to fight with real weapons, either: they got bugs to do their work for them. It was a disgrace. It was unnatural.
Hokan felt in his blood-red jacket for the Jedi’s weapon. It didn’t look like much at all. And it was surprisingly easy to activate, even though he suspected that fully mastering it might be another matter. A humming blue shaft of light, vivid as day, shot out from the hilt. Hokan swept it scythe-style along a neatly clipped tarmul hedge, cutting its height in half.