“I've done a lot of thinking in the past year,” Fi said. “Yes, there's plenty wrong. I know I deserve more than this. I want a nice girl and a life and I don't want to die. And I know I'm being used, thanks. But I'm a soldier, and I'm also Mandalorian, and my strength is always going to be what I carry around inside me, my sense of who and what I am. Even if the rest of the galaxy sinks in its own filth, I'll die without compromising my honor.” He drained his glass and started on the next one that was lined up on the bar. He wasn't that fond of the taste, but he believed in being polite. “That's what keeps me going. That, and my brothers. And that ale you promised me.”
“I had to ask.” Obrim frowned quickly and looked away for a moment. “Did that drink really keep you going?”
He thought of the insertion into Fest months before. “Yeah, Captain. Sometimes it did.”
Fi dreaded where the conversation might take him but he was interrupted by a loud cheer from farther down the bar. Skirata had arrived and was demonstrating his skill in the knife-throwing game. He let fly with his vicious three-sided knife, knocking the other knives out of the woodwork time after time. The bar droid protested.
“He's way too good at that,” Obrim said, and turned to Fi again to resume the conversation. “Now, about this—”
Fi didn't want to discuss it anymore. He straightened up and called across the bar to Skirata. “Sarge? Sarge! Want to show 'em the Dha Werda?”
There was a whoop of “Kandosii!” from the squads. “Yeah, come on, Sarge! Let's show them how it's done!”
“I'm too old,” Skirata said, retrieving his knife.
“Nah,” Fi said, and seized the chance to drag Skirata away from the game. “You taught us this, remember?”
Skirata took the invitation and limped over to join the two squads, who quickly cleared a space in the bar. Ordo, Mereel, and Jusik joined them; Corr stood back, uncertain. Troopers rarely got the chance to see the ritual chant, let alone learn it.
“I haven't had enough to drink yet,” Skirata said, “but I'll give it a go.”
Without his armor, he looked even smaller among his commandos than usual. The chant started up.
Taung—sa—rang—bro-ka!
Je—tii—se-ka—'rta!
Dha—Wer-da—Ver-da—a'den—tratu!
He fell into the rhythm instantly, keeping perfect time, taking rhythmic blows on his leather jacket that normally fell on hard armor. He was a battle-hardened warrior like his lads, just older.
Fi winked at him, careful to allow for their difference in height.
Cor—u—scan—ta—kan—dosii—adu!
Duum—mo—tir—ca—'tra—nau—tracinya!
Skirata kept up the relentless pace for verse after verse. Fi caught sight of white armor in his peripheral vision and ARC Trooper Captain Maze appeared from the crowd of CSF officers who were watching openmouthed with glasses of ale in their hands.
“Mind if I join in?” Maze said.
Fi had no intention of trying to stop an ARC trooper. Maze slipped into the line next to Ordo and smiled at his brother captain in a way Fi didn't quite like.
As Skirata always told outsiders, the Dha Werda took stamina, timing, and total trust in your comrades. Complex rhythms sharpened your brain and taught you to think as one. Turn too fast or too late, and you'd get a nasty smack in the face. It was performed without buy'cese.
Ordo wasn't quite as focused as he should have been. Maybe his mind was still on where lovely Besany Wennen might be. Whatever the reason, as Fi turned right, fists clenched, arms at shoulder height, ready to beat the rhythm on Niner's back plate, he saw and heard Maze's fist connect with Ordo's chin.
Ordo carried on, blood weeping from his lip, refusing to break the rhythm. You didn't stop if you got hit. You carried on.
Gra—'tua—cuun—hett—su—dralshya!
Kom—'rk—tsad—drot-en—t-roch—nyn—ures—adenn!
The line of commandos turned ninety degrees left, hammering the rhythm, and then right again, and Maze hit Ordo neatly and—Fi had to admit it—elegantly in the mouth again without losing the beat. Blood splashed on Ordo's pristine white chest plate. Fi waited for the encounter to erupt in a fight, but the chant finished without incident and Ordo simply wiped his mouth on the palm of his glove.
“Sorry, ner vod,” Maze said, smiling with genuine amusement. “You know how clumsy we ordinary ARC troopers are. We make lousy dancers.”
Fi held his breath. He was ready to back Ordo up against Maze; Ordo was his friend. And Fi also knew that he was utterly unpredictable and totally unafraid of violence.
Ordo merely shrugged, held out his arm, and the two ARC captains shook hands and went to the bar. Skirata watched them carefully and smiled.
All ARCs were crazy. Sometimes Fi was grateful that he'd had the most volatile bits of Jango removed from his genes.
Skirata sat down on a bar stool and wiped sweat from his lined forehead with the palm of his hand.
“I'm not getting any younger,” he said, catching his breath, and laughed. “I'll be black and blue in the morning. Shouldn't try that without body armor.”
“You could have dipped out after a few minutes,” Fi said. He handed him a cloth. “We wouldn't have minded.”
“But I would have. I can't ask a man to do what I can't or won't do myself.”
“You never have.” Fi noted that a small silence had formed around the doorway—and its cause was Besany Wennen. She walked in, looking around, then spotted Ordo and went over to him.
“I'm going out on the balcony to get some air,” Skirata said.
The last thing Fi saw before Obrim led him away to meet some officers who were very keen to buy him more drinks was Besany Wennen dabbing at Ordo's split lip with a handkerchief and berating a visibly surprised Captain Maze.
“Hello,” Skirata said. “I didn't realize you were out here, ad'ika.”
Etain looked up. She had been peering over the balcony at the lane upon lane of airspeeder traffic below. Nightscapes on Coruscant were as entertaining as a holovid. “It's too noisy for me in there. You look like you've been having fun.”
Skirata joined her and rested folded arms on the safety rail. “Been showing CSF the Dha Werda.”
“I bet that was painful.” He seemed a fundamentally good man. She adored him, even if he scared her sometimes. “It's good to see everyone relaxing. It's been tough, hasn't it?”
“We did it, though. All of us. You too, ad'ika. Well done.”
She was blissfully certain of life now. She felt good. She was also certain that Skirata was a man who understood love and the risks people would take to make those they loved happy. He defied generals and anyone who stood in his way to make sure his soldiers—his sons, for that was what they were—got what was rightfully theirs.
There was no reason not to tell him her wonderful news. She should have told Darman first, but she wasn't quite sure how. And—anyway—Skirata was Kal'buir. He was everyone's father.
“Thank you for being so understanding about me and Dar,” she said.
Skirata rubbed his forehead. “I'm sorry for lecturing you. I'm very protective of them all. But you're both happy, and I'm glad to see that.”
“I hope you'll be glad that I'm having a baby, then.”