When he could no longer make her out in the crowd, he turned
towards the cantina and checked quickly that his 'saber was
still hidden. A few lazy drinkers sat outside, lounging at
sturdy tables, but when Obi-Wan walked through the door, he
found the interior almost empty of everything save dust motes,
shadows, and a pervasive smell of stale sweat and intoxicants.
Even so, it was cleaner and more decent-looking than all the
other cantinas he'd seen in Mos Espa.
The bartender directed him to the holobooths at the back. The
first was broken, the second took only local currency, but the
third accepted his credit chip. While he waited for the call to
go through, he rolled his shoulders back, trying to dispel a
lingering tension. He might have slept wrong, with Qui-Gon
taking up so much room in the bed. The holo clicked and
whirred, and a blurry image jumped into existence in front of
him, glaring at him with its one good eye.
Obi-Wan knew that glare of old and wasn't intimidated. He
inclined his head respectfully. "Master Piell. I have news, and
I wish to ask the Council's advice."
Even Piell snorted. "Just because you've got this comm code,
that doesn't mean you get to use it every time you run into a
problem. Is it really that important?"
"I believe it is." Obi-Wan marshaled his thoughts. He had not
used this particular comm code lightly. "Jabba the Hutt did
have an ulterior motive in wanting to discuss business with a
Jedi; he wishes to blackmail me into using the force on his
behalf, and--"
"So?" Even Piell broke in. "You've been in situations before
where someone's tried to use you. What makes this so
different?"
"What makes this different, Master Piell, is that the
instrument of blackmail is Qui-Gon Jinn."
Even Piell leaned forward, his gaze pinning Obi-Wan in place
over the light years. "Jinn? He knows something about Jinn?"
"Qui-Gon Jinn is here," Obi-Wan said simply, and sat back even
before Master Piell held up a hand and told him to wait, and
waved at someone out of range of the pickup to come and join
him, and thumped a fist against his knee in slow astonishment.
The holoimage grew wider, and after a little while Obi-Wan was
facing not just Even Piell, but also Yoda and Mace Windu. Piell
was scowling, Windu looked intent, and Yoda... One ear was up,
one down, and Obi-Wan sat up as straight as he could, bowed his
head again, and then looked at them and waited for the
questions. It was Yoda who began. "Found Qui-Gon, have you?"
"Yes," Obi-Wan confirmed. "He is a slave in Jabba's palace."
Even with the bad holocomm reception, he thought he could hear
a sucked-in breath, though he couldn't tell whose it was. "I
didn't get to see him until last night, but it appears that he
has been there for some time." He knew far too little, he
realized, about how Qui-Gon had ended up where he was. "He has
been implanted with a slave transmitter and a force inhibitor
device. Any attempt to remove the inhibitor will cause the
transmitter to explode. And any attempt to remove Qui-Gon from
the palace without deactivating the transmitter--"
Obi-Wan let his closed hand bloom open. Yoda's eyelids drooped.
"You mentioned blackmail before," Even Piell said. "What does
Jabba the Hutt want you to do, and how does it relate to Jinn's
presence?"
"Jabba has a business meeting planned for tomorrow, and he
wishes me to use a force suggestion to ensure that the meeting
goes to his liking. If I do, he has said that he will
deactivate the transmitter and give Master Jinn to me."
Piell shook his head. "Why don't you just take Jinn and get out
of there? You have a ship."
"Not without knowing how to deactivate the transmitter," Master
Windu said firmly. "We can't risk Qui-Gon's life like that now
that we've found him again."
"Turn it off with the force, you could," Yoda suggested.
"I can't touch Master Jinn with the force," Obi-Wan said. "Not
while he's wearing the force inhibitor. It works both ways.
Besides, there is an additional problem." All three of them
looked at him, and he reminded himself that he was a knight on
a mission, not a padawan who had dyed Master Yaddle's tunics
bright pink. He straightened his spine. "Master Jinn refuses to
leave without two other slaves who live here in Mos Espa. A boy
and his mother. Master Jinn believes that the boy is the Chosen
One."
Even through the distance that the holotransmission and their
Jedi composure lent the three Council members, Obi-Wan could
tell that they were a little disconcerted. It cheered him a
little, perversely, to be able to share the headache that
Qui-Gon had given him. Finally Mace Windu asked, "And what do
you believe?"
"I don't know, Master Windu," Obi-Wan said honestly. After a
brief inner debate, he added, "I had a vision."
"Of what?" Yoda's ears rose a notch. It was Yoda who had taught
Obi-Wan to recognize precognitive dreams and force-visions for
what they were, given him the tools to handle and interpret
them.
"I'm not entirely sure. A vision of darkness, and it involved
the boy. I have the feeling that he is dangerous." Saying that,
Obi-Wan felt oddly as though he were betraying Qui-Gon. But it
was true; Anakin made him uneasy. "I think perhaps I need to
meditate further on it."
"What you need to do is to get Jinn out of there," Piell said.
Mace Windu nodded agreement, though he looked more cautious.
"Your first priority is Qui-Gon Jinn," he said. "If Jabba will
really give him to you--"
"Use the force for the Hutt's gain, you think he should?"
Yoda's voice was very dry. "Already does Jabba have a Jedi as a
slave. A Jedi who works for him, he does not also need."
"We don't know that it would stop there," Even Piell said.
"Jabba could try to string Kenobi along. One more negotiation
before Jinn is freed, and then it'll be one more deal to be
closed or Jinn will be tortured, and so on. The Hutts are
treacherous, and they like to watch their enemies squirm. I'm
surprised Jabba hasn't tried to humiliate the pair of them
already in some way."
"He has," Obi-Wan said. "Master Jinn was presented to me as a
pleasure slave, and it was made clear that unless he pleased
me, he would be punished--tortured, essentially."
The three of them looked at him again, but he was more prepared
for it this time. Yoda raised an ear. "Understand the Jedi,
Jabba does not."
"No, he doesn't," Obi-Wan agreed. "That is why he believes that
I am going to negotiate on his behalf tomorrow. If nothing
else, it has bought me some time." He fought the urge to tuck a
stray strand of hair back behind his ear. One did not fidget in
front of the Council. "I suspect that it may be a particularly
important business deal."
"Find out what you can." Mace Windu crossed his arms and looked
serious.
"Take Jinn and get out of there," Piell growled.
"Listen to the force," Yoda said. "Lead you right, it will."
Something very like a smile wrinkled Yoda's face. "And bring
Qui-Gon back to us."
"Yes, masters." Obi-Wan bent his head again in respectful
acknowledgement, and the transmission ended in a flicker of
static. He flicked off the transmitter on his side and picked
his card out of the slot, looking at the readout. There were
enough credits left for a few more calls, should it prove
necessary. The lack of specific orders from the Council was at
once unsettling and exhilarating. He was on his own.
No, he wasn't on his own. He had Qui-Gon to consider. And with
Qui-Gon came Anakin and Shmi, and a host of complications.
Obi-Wan rose and left the holocomm booth. Passing the bar, he
nodded at the bartender and tossed a couple of coins into the
tip jar, taking care to make his aim look natural, not uncanny.
The place was still very empty. Maybe it was too respectable
for the daytime drinkers. About to leave, he paused as he felt
the heat coming from outside and went back to the bar to buy a
couple of water packs, hooking them onto his utility belt.
When he came out into the street, the first thing he saw was
the heat-haze shimmering over the hard-packed dirt. There were
fewer people moving around now, as everyone who could stayed
inside and rested during the hottest part of the day. Obi-Wan
looked up and down the street, quickly orienting himself, and
then followed the narrow strip of shade that ran along the
buildings on one side until he had to turn into the sunlight in
order to head for the space port.
Down in the port district, the bustle increased. Interplanetary
traffic didn't take siestas, and although Mos Espa didn't see
the trade volume of Mos Eisley, it was big enough to have
round-the-clock loading and unloading. Obi-Wan picked his way
along the shady side of the street, what there was of it, and
kept an eye on the crowd.
Outside hangar six, a crowd of gawkers were getting in the
dockworkers' way: adults talking to each other in low
knowledgeable tones, children who bounced up and down, frankly
excited. Obi-Wan slowed down and slipped in among the others.
When he worked his way to the front of the group, he could see
in through the hangar doors.
It was a Ya'an luxury cruiser, the latest model, built in the
simplest of the proposed styles, without any of the fancy
customized exterior options. The interior might be a different
matter. Large and confident, the cruiser sat in the center of
the hangar looking as though it, or at least its captain, owned
the entire planet. Obi-Wan sharpened his gaze, but could see no
identity marks on the hull apart from a Veeri registration
code, its elegant curlicues proclaiming legality and anonymity
at once. The Veerians would let anyone register a ship out of
Veeri, and as much as promised that they didn't enquire closely
into ownership and identity.
"What do you think that's worth?" the woman next to Obi-Wan
asked thoughtfully, and the man with her named a figure that
Obi-Wan knew wasn't even a quarter of the true price. They both
sighed and nodded.
He turned towards them, nodded a little too as if agreeing with
their estimate and envious of whomever could afford it. "Do you
know who owns the ship?"
The woman shook her head. "No. It's someone with private
guards," a jerk of her chin indicated the helmeted figures in
dark uniforms who stood by the cruiser, almost invisible next
to its dazzling presence, "and enough cash to tell the
dockworkers not to gossip. Rich bastard." Her eyes grew dreamy.
"Isn't it beautiful?"
"Yes," Obi-Wan said, because it was. He tested the force
currents, but they were sluggish and unresponsive and told him
nothing; there was an elusive whisper of power elsewhere, but
some deep instinct warned him against pursuing it. For a little
longer, he stood just looking at the ship, taking in all that
his eyes could tell him. Then he slipped out of the crowd again
and continued past the hangars to the speeder rental lot.
His speeder was where he'd left it, neither stolen nor deprived
of any vital parts. Obi-Wan paid the fee, in cash, got into the
speeder and powered it up. He went out the back entrance of the
lot and took off into the desert.
At this time of day, the dunes seemed to glow, as though the
sun had heated them until they took on a light and warmth of
their own to rival it. Obi-Wan set his speeder skimming over
them, surfing the sand waves. Off to the left he could see a
large oval structure, open at both ends, and on an impulse he
went towards it. It loomed up out of the sand, heavy and
silent, the first thing he'd seen on Tatooine that wasn't
dwarfed by the sky. The closer he got, the smaller he felt.
Rounding its curved side, going in through one of the open
ends, he saw that he was coming into a vast arena. On both
sides, tiers rose upward with enough seats for every sentient
being in Mos Espa and half of Mos Eisley. Empty, like this, it
looked eerie.
Obi-Wan flew slowly along one side of the central concourse,
looking at what appeared to be empty service bays as well as
sloping ramps up into the higher tiers. This must be where the
podraces were held. He went through the entire arena and out
the other end, and tried to guess what course a podrace would
follow. There were no marks to indicate it, but something drew
him across the stone-strewn sandy plain, and when he looked
down he thought he could make out metal parts half-buried in
the drifts, the wreckage of pods that had crashed or been
forced off the course.
The terrain grew rockier as stone shot up through the sand like
a stubborn plant growing in dry soil, with strange formations
scoured by storms to form pillars and arches. Obi-Wan wove his
way among them; it was rather like flying through a forest. He
imagined the speed at which the podracers must navigate, and
shook his head, looping lazily through and over a stone doorway
leading nowhere. At a slow pace, it was enjoyable.
The rock formations closed up into cliff walls, and he was
entering a narrow canyon. Very narrow. No wonder Anakin thought
smaller pods had an advantage. Obi-Wan tasted the force, felt
nothing but emptiness all around. He brought the speeder up as
high as it would go and set it down on a ledge about halfway up
the side of the canyon, shutting the engine down and listening
with pleasure to the silence that followed.
Here, where the sun never reached, it was as cool as Tatooine
ever got in the daytime. He leaned back in the seat and ran
both hands through his hair, digging his fingers in to make his
scalp relax. Closing his eyes, he let his breathing slow down,
and attuned himself to the quiet and the stillness.
There was no sound anywhere, no motion. Obi-Wan sank deep into
himself, into the steady place at the core of his soul, and
rested there until it grew as perfectly clear as the force
itself, until inside and outside had ceased to matter and all
that remained was an unfocused, wordless awareness, as
unselfconscious as birdsong.
He didn't know, nor did he care, how much time had passed when
he began to ascend into thought again. The first thing he
became aware of was Anakin, seeing the boy again with his inner
eye, every gesture and word from earlier in the day replayed
for his consideration. There was something very likeable about
Anakin, something engaging; the boy was intelligent and
passionate, cheerful, devoted to his mother. The passion lay
close to anger, though Shmi seemed able to guide her son away
from it.
Anakin was many years older than the oldest child ever brought
to the temple as an initiate. Far too old, and completely
untrained. To catch up on eight or ten years of training was
not an easy thing, but it was more than that, Obi-Wan knew.
More was taught during those years in the temple than the
skills imparted through lessons. Initiates were shaped by their
surroundings, just as Anakin had been shaped by his, and
whatever he might be able to learn later, those early years
would always be with him.
Despite the lack of training, Anakin was an instinctive force
user. He had been encouraged by Qui-Gon to pay attention to his
abilities and use them. Even if he were left to himself, his
skills would grow, somehow, through trial and error. Impossible
to say what he might turn into, unguided.
Obi-Wan picked out the memory of the vision in the
junk-dealer's yard and examined it dispassionately, turning it
this way and that, reflecting on what he'd felt and heard. The
sensation of danger was clear enough, the connection to Anakin,
as well, but there was nothing concrete in there, nothing
specific, beyond the conclusion that at some point in the
future he might be facing a great evil, and that it had
something to do with the boy. Being mindful of the future,
Obi-Wan sometimes thought, was an impossible and compulsive
state. All he thought and did in response to what he saw would
affect the possibilities--it was a peculiar madness, judging
what present actions could or could not lead to an envisioned
result.
He'd be a fool to ignore the warnings that came to him through
the force, but he did sometimes wish that the force could be a
little more clear. There was danger. So, he would be watchful.
But was there danger in training Anakin, or in not training
him, or was there danger in Anakin regardless? Obi-Wan tried to
recapture the visionary state, not just the memory of it, tried
again to find that trancelike fall and its unsettling gifts of
not-quite-illumination, but it eluded him. He didn't struggle
with it, just let the force flow through him and waited.
The next face that presented itself to him was Shmi's, calm and
work-quiet and sensible. What a Jedi she would have made, he
thought. Not as powerful as her son, at least not in the
obvious ways, at least not from what he'd noticed, but she had
the soul for it, the heart for it, the strength for it, he
thought. Instead, she was a slave on a harsh planet. Obi-Wan
looked at the feelings she'd awakened in him: admiration,
liking, sadness, uncertainty, and unease. Admiration for her
composure, liking for her kindness, sadness that she was doomed
to this life of unfulfillment, but the reasons for the other
feelings were less clear.
Perhaps it spilled into him from her, the worry she felt for
Anakin. It was the one thread of unease in her calm, as obvious
as a trail of blood on Jedi whites. Her son worried her, and
that worried Obi-Wan.
He let the force balance him, so that he could hold all these
thoughts at once and yet not be pushed and pulled by them.
There was much to consider. There were decisions to be made,
but he wouldn't make them here, alone, out in the desert.
Obi-Wan drew himself together and began to surface from his
meditative state, only to be stopped by a third image, a third
face brought to his attention.
Qui-Gon Jinn. There was a complexity of feeling and intention
there far beyond anything Anakin or Shmi woke in him. Obi-Wan
could remember the days when all his dreams and hopes had
revolved around Qui-Gon, as though Qui-Gon were the only master
in the world, the only one that could teach him, and then, the
only one who could save him from not being chosen.
That had certainly been proven false. After their final
parting, Qui-Gon had been a memory of rejection and
disappointment, the pain of it soothed and eventually blurred
as he was chosen, and trained, after all. Qui-Gon's subsequent
disappearance had been an odd kind of blow, unexpectedly
painful, but somehow unreal, like a sorrow in a dream,
remembered without understanding in the morning.
To meet Qui-Gon now, like this, was very strange. He couldn't
dwell on that strangeness. The council had told him to bring
Qui-Gon back, and he was going to do it.
Obi-Wan saw Qui-Gon standing naked on damp tiles, flinching
away from an examination of the scar on his hip. He saw Qui-Gon
lying stretched out on the bed, gasping quietly at the touch of
Obi-Wan's hands. He saw Qui-Gon kneeling in the throne room,
unbowed, unafraid. It was impossible to feel any resentment
over the past. It was impossible not to respect such a man.
What had happened on Bandomeer didn't matter. Hadn't mattered
for a long time, really.
He remembered Qui-Gon lecturing him, Qui-Gon insisting that
Shmi and Anakin be included in any rescue plans, Qui-Gon
refusing him knowledge and information. Impossible not to be
infuriated by such a man. Obi-Wan sighed, and with that sigh,
became aware of his breathing and his being. He drew a deep
breath, and then another one, recapturing his calm. Slowly, he
rose to the surface of himself and opened his eyes.
Nothing had changed in the canyon except the light. Obi-Wan
stretched, tensing and relaxing one muscle group at a time
until his body felt easy again. Unhooking one of the water
packs from his belt, he drank deeply. The water was desert-warm
and tasted flat, recycled, but he could almost feel his
dried-out cells popping back into shape.
He powered up the speeder, lifted off the ledge and dropped
down towards the bottom of the canyon. Down there, surrounded
by the high narrow rock walls, he could look up and see stars
picked out against a darkened sky. Obi-Wan set the speeder
skimming back out of the canyon, the way he'd come. It was time
to return to Jabba's palace.
When he came out in the open, the light from the suns, standing
low on the horizon, was in his eyes, and he squinted
uncomfortably. This time he took no pleasure in navigating the
rock formations, merely plotted out the shortest and simplest
route. He passed to one side of the vast arena, and went around
the outskirts of Mos Espa, seeing from a distance the cluster
of cramped houses and huts that made up the slave quarters.
Some of the houses at the edge of town looked as though they
were sinking, with drifts of sand piled high along the walls.
Somewhere in that cluster, Shmi and Anakin and their dreams
were penned up. Obi-Wan nudged at the speeder's controls, going
a little faster. He watched shadows stretch out over the sand,
lapping like dark tongues at the sunset-gilded dunes. There
would be some special entertainment in the palace tonight, a
new band would be playing; he was expected to attend, couldn't
just shut himself up in his room with Qui-Gon and talk and make
plans. In the distance he saw a small group of Tusken raiders,
their long brown robes making them look strangely Jedi-like.
They turned at the sound of the speeder and aimed their rifles
at him, but he flew swiftly out of their range.
The sky was the darkest, richest, most beautiful blue he'd ever
seen by the time he came to the big square lump of a stone
fortress that was Jabba's palace. Obi-Wan smiled. He slowed the
speeder down, managing the controls with one hand and flipping
his hair off the back of his neck with the other; it was damp
with sweat, starting to twist into curls. When he drew closer,
he sent his guest code, and after a moment, the door began to
slide up for him. The space inside where his speeder had been
parked that morning was occupied now, but he found another, set
the speeder down, and powered down the engine himself, ignoring
the offers of a tech droid to take care of all the post-flight
checks for him. Obi-Wan was sure the droid was competent, but
he didn't trust its programmer.
Jumping out of the speeder, he noticed that his legs were a
little stiff from the long time spent in the seat. He flexed
his muscles slowly as he walked to the doorway that led to the
interior of the palace. Maybe a workout would have been more
useful than that long meditation. It had been several days
since he'd taken the time to do more than the simplest
exercises. As he strode down the corridor the smell of food
came floating through the air vents and his stomach growled.
Obi-Wan checked his timepiece. It was a while yet until he had
to be in the throne room. Time enough, at least, to take a
leisurely shower and tell Qui-Gon what had happened during the
day. The rooms and hallways were empty except for the
occasional droid and guard, and Obi-Wan picked up his pace.
Rounding a corner, he sensed something moving towards him and
stepped to one side just in time to not collide with Bib
Fortuna. "My master sent me to find you," Fortuna said, taking
a step backwards and smoothing his robes. "To welcome you
back."
Before last night, no one had cared about his comings and
goings. Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow, but said, "I appreciate the
courtesy." Fortuna gestured him along, and they walked side by
side in silence until Obi-Wan continued, "Has your master
decided to provide me with more information about the meeting
tomorrow?"
"You have all the information you need," Fortuna said. "My
master has full confidence in your abilities." A sidelong
glance, sharp as glass, dared Obi-Wan to protest. "You don't
want to disappoint him, Jedi."
Obi-Wan could not come up with a reply that combined honesty
and diplomacy, and he felt no need to waste a lie on pretending
to yield to the malice in Fortuna's voice. They were in a
familiar hallway now, with guest quarters on both sides. "I
hope Jabba will at least inform me of when the meeting is,"
Obi-Wan said, coming to a halt. "It would be very inconvenient
if I missed it." He opened the door to his room, looked inside,
then turned around before Fortuna could leave. "Where is the
pleasure slave that was assigned to me?"
"He has been doing his other duties while you were away...Of
course, if you need him..."
"His other duties?" Obi-Wan kept his voice carefully
controlled. "I was under the impression that he would be
assigned to me for the duration of my stay here. Do you mean to
imply that I'm sharing his services with others?"
Perhaps not controlled enough, though, as Fortuna backed up a
step before answering. "No. No. Just... ordinary work duties on
the lower levels of the palace." Fortuna took another step
backwards. "He will be ready to serve you when you come to the
throne room."
"Good," Obi-Wan said, and in trying not to growl, he came down
so heavily on the icy politeness side of things that Fortuna
was almost at the opposite wall before nodding at him and
turning to walk away.
Obi-Wan went into his room, shaking his head at himself. He
could hardly get any less subtle if he tried. If it was his
intention to hide how badly he wanted to protect Qui-Gon, he
wasn't doing a very good job of it. The council's injunction to
bring Qui-Gon back as soon as possible rested heavily on him,
but that was no excuse for sloppiness.
Besides, Qui-Gon had been a slave for a long time, and would
probably find the idea of anyone trying to protect him from the
harsh realities of that situation more than a little absurd.
Obi-Wan stripped out of his clothing, throwing it carelessly on
the bed, and went into the bathroom. Servants had been there
and replaced the used towels with fresh ones, wiped off the
counter, refilled pots and jars. Obi-Wan turned the water on
and stepped in under the spray with a shiver of pleasure at its
coolness. It felt so good to get the sweat and sand off his
skin. He washed himself, and felt an echo of other hands on his
skin, Qui-Gon's hands last night, strong and efficient and
completely impersonal.
They would have to talk later, and this time Qui-Gon would have
to answer Obi-Wan's questions instead of avoiding them, if this
mission were to have a chance at being successful.
Obi-Wan caught himself up short. He searched his mind
carefully. Was there a slight feeling of glee there, some
element of revenge in the thought that he of all people should
be the one to find and rescue Qui-Gon, after Qui-Gon had
refused and abandoned him? He breathed deeply, and then had to
snort water out of his nose, and shook his head. He hadn't
rescued Qui-Gon yet, he reminded himself, and Qui-Gon had long
ceased to be important in his life, and he had presumably never
been important in Qui-Gon's, and the best thing to do was
concentrate on the situation at hand. They would have to talk
later.
Getting out of the shower and drying himself off, he wondered
idly if it were possible to use the force on Jabba to get the
truth about tomorrow's meeting. He'd never heard of anyone
successfully using the Jedi mind trick on a Hutt. Obi-Wan
combed through his wet hair and pulled it back into a tail at
the nape of his neck, leaving it to drip sweet cool drops down
along his spine. He went into the guestroom and dug into his
luggage for a clean uniform, or at least part of a uniform; it
seemed impractical to wear more than one shirt. His master had
usually iObi-Wan pulled the boots
on, sighed, wished he could go barefoot on the cool tiled
floors, but decided that in this case, dignity came before
comfort. He wouldn't present himself to Jabba as a shoeless,
ragtag urchin.
When he was ready, he checked his lightsaber, touched the
force, and headed out the door. The smell of cooking was
stronger now, and as he went towards the central parts of the
palace, he heard voices and laughter, and a shrieking glissando
of notes, like the sound a horn would make if it were a cat and
you stepped on its tail, that might be one of the new musicians
warming up. Obi-Wan already knew that he did not share Jabba's
taste in music, and he wasn't looking forward to the
performance this night. Particularly not when there were other
things he'd rather be doing.
He slipped inside the throne room, trying to be unobtrusive,
and found the party already in progress. Most of the others in
the room were familiar to him from last night, and as he walked
past them, Obi-Wan could feel them look at him, could feel the
speculation in their eyes. He looked around, trying to find an
empty seat and a tall, longhaired man.
But it was Qui-Gon who found him, appearing silently at
Obi-Wan's elbow, kneeling in swift greeting before getting to
his feet again and saying, "If you will consent to come with
me, master, there is a place set aside for you."
Obi-Wan did consent, and followed Qui-Gon, walking around the
edge of the room to an empty bench that looked a lot like the
one he'd been seated on that morning, though farther away from
the dais, set almost against the wall. He sat down, glancing
towards the dais to see that Jabba was engrossed in a
conversation with Bib Fortuna. Obi-Wan looked up at Qui-Gon
instead. "Get some food," he suggested, then, remembering the
previous evening, "lots of food."
Qui-Gon nodded and went off, and Obi-Wan leaned back against
the wall and looked around the room, searching for new faces,
wondering if the person he was expected to negotiate with
tomorrow was here somewhere. There were more beings present now
than last night, but he didn't feel an urge to look at any one
of them more closely; they all appeared to be Jabba's usual
crowd of sycophants. Certainly no one here looked like the
owner of a Ya'an luxury cruiser.
Hand halfway to fiddling with his years-gone braid, Obi-Wan
paused. He had no real reason to connect the cruiser with
Jabba's business meeting. But the possibility, the possibility
alone was enough to make the thought a very interesting one.
Jabba was very nearly all-powerful on this planet, but for
negotiations with a rich and influential offworlder, he might
feel that he needed reinforcements.
When Qui-Gon came back, he was balancing two plates of food, a
square bottle, a glass, and a loaf of fresh bread, moving
easily among the milling guests and servants without dropping
anything. Watching him, Obi-Wan felt an urge to tell Jabba, to
tell everyone in the room, that this was not the purpose such
bodily awareness and assurance was meant for. He wondered if
Qui-Gon's usual work duties involved the kitchen, took the
glass from Qui-Gon's outstretched hand, then the bottle as
well. The plates were set down next to him on the bench, and
Qui-Gon settled on the floor at his feet.
The band started playing. To Obi-Wan's ears they sounded much
like last night's entertainment, except for having a singer,
which was no great improvement. He began to feed Qui-Gon
steamed tubers and chunks of bread, feeling less self-conscious
about it this time, and after a while remembered that he was
supposed to eat something himself as well. The bread was good,
and the bottle turned out to hold a slightly bitter, pale green
juice that he thought came from some spiny desert plant or
other.
Qui-Gon was still wearing the same rough pants, but looked
reasonably clean and still smelled, when Obi-Wan leaned over
him to let him drink, faintly of last night's cleanser and
creams under his own body-scent, so he'd probably not been set
to any hard labor during the day. It was impossible to talk
here, with all the noise and all the people. Obi-Wan looked at
the band and wondered how much longer they would play, and how
soon he could reasonably take Qui-Gon and leave.
They finished the food, with Qui-Gon eating most of it, and the
band was still playing. Obi-Wan thought he should have worn his
dirty shirt so he could have wiped his fingers on it. The
singer gyrated to an insanely cheerful melody, wriggling this
way and that and ending in a dramatic pose, two arms outflung,
two on her hips, as the music crashed to a halt. Jabba clapped,
the whole room clapped, and Obi-Wan tensed his leg muscles,
waiting for the moment that would allow him to get up and
leave. His hair was drying, and the shorter strands at the
front had slipped free of the tail and hung around his face; he
pushed them back behind his ear on one side.
It was a small gesture, but as though he'd jumped up and waved
both arms, it attracted Jabba's attention, and Obi-Wan found
himself under scrutiny from those big, glassy eyes. Jabba said
something to Fortuna, and Fortuna made his way over to where
Obi-Wan was sitting, as though to have a private word with him,
but then spoke loud enough that everyone sitting around could
hear.
"My master wants to know why you aren't touching the slave,"
Fortuna's gaze flicked down and then up again, dismissively.
"If he no longer pleases you, we will gladly offer you
another."
Fortuna actually reached out as though to pull Qui-Gon away,
and Obi-Wan instantly clamped a hand down on Qui-Gon's
shoulder. "He pleases me well enough," and he wasn't sure if
the small shake of Qui-Gon's shoulder under his fingers was,
incongruously, laughter, "but I prefer to keep some matters
private."
"Of course, of course," Fortuna said, "as long as you don't
give us cause to misunderstand you. If the slave pleases you as
much as you say, I'm sure you would regret it if we
accidentally punished him because you seemed unwilling to...
accept him."
"I am not the only one who would regret it," Obi-Wan said
clearly, then felt Qui-Gon's fingers brush against the back of
his hand and silenced himself with some effort. Fortuna looked
at him, he looked back, and not until Fortuna began to turn
away did Obi-Wan tug at Qui-Gon's shoulder. "Come up here,
then."
Obi-Wan got to his feet and settled Qui-Gon in his place on the
bench, and then sat down again between Qui-Gon's legs, leaning
back against the broad chest. He hoped he looked sufficiently
enthralled, or at least possessive, for Jabba's taste. "This
might be better. We can talk," Qui-Gon said in his ear.
"Yes." Obi-Wan shifted, trying to get more comfortable and not
to make it too obvious that he was desperate not to lean
against the chain. It brushed against his shirt all the same,
and he flinched; Qui-Gon's hands on his arms prevented him from
moving too far, too fast. "How did you meet Shmi and Anakin?
Did Watto visit the palace and bring them here with him?"
"No. I've been sent on errands into Mos Espa," Qui-Gon's breath
stirred Obi-Wan's hair, making it fall forward again, "as I'm
one of the few who can walk the whole distance there and back
again in one day, in the heat. I met them when the drainage
system needed work and I was sent to buy new parts."
Obi-Wan nodded and was about to ask a second question when the
band launched into their second set and all conversation had to
be suspended. He drank some more juice, reaching up over his
shoulder to share it with Qui-Gon, hoping that they looked
involved enough in each other to pass Jabba the Hutt's
scrutiny. He did not want any further disturbances. To be on
the safe side, he pulled one of Qui-Gon's arms around his waist
and held it there, linking their fingers. Qui-Gon had calluses
in many places, not the clear pattern of 'saber calluses that
Obi-Wan had himself, and some of his nails were cracked.
Obi-Wan made a mental note to find some more softening cream in
the bathroom later and tried to look as though he were
listening to the band.
The party grew more raucous, just as it had the night before. A
Yarna woman got up to dance, and Obi-Wan thought he recognized
her as the one who'd been drenched in wine by the Tulkuth. She
was skilled, and her performance distracted him from the music
and the singer's voice, which was beginning to grate on him.
After a while he became aware that Qui-Gon's hand was moving on
him, just a little, thumb gliding up to stroke his breastbone
through the thin shirt, fingers stretching as though to measure
the strength of his stomach muscles. Obi-Wan tensed.
"Sorry," Qui-Gon whispered in his ear, "but I'm attempting to
add some verisimilitude to our performance."
"Yes, but please don't add it right there," Obi-Wan hissed
back. "I'm ticklish." He closed his hand around Qui-Gon's
roving fingers again and settled them firmly in one place.
Qui-Gon's voice speaking low in his ear reminded him of what
had been said in the morning, before they'd parted, and he
wondered how best to bring up the subject. After a while he
began, "I spoke to the council today. They will be very glad to
have you back."
"Who did you speak to?"
"Master Piell, and Master Windu, and Master Yoda." And because
Obi-Wan knew that Yoda had been Qui-Gon's own master, once upon
a time, he wished that he had some special message from Yoda to
Qui-Gon, but perhaps that wasn't necessary; perhaps Qui-Gon
would know anyway how Yoda had looked, hearing that Qui-Gon was
found again. So he waited for a while, taking in the quality of
Qui-Gon's silence and watching the dancer, whose hips moved as
though they were on ball bearings. Then the question he really
wanted to ask refused to be put off any longer. "Did it really
take you seven years to track down Xanatos?"
The Yarna dancer spun and twirled. Cymbals crashed. "I was
trying to shut down Offworld Corporation," Qui-Gon said, "but
the force would not let me walk a straight path towards that
goal. There were other injustices that needed to be righted
along the way."
Spun and twirled, bent so that her hair brushed the floor and
then straightened up and flipped backwards, one leg at a time
sweeping through the air... upright again, she swayed slowly,
turning in a circle like sand stirred up by the wind.
"You spent seven years," Obi-Wan said, incredulous, "making up
your own missions? And the council let you get away with this?"
"Essentially, yes." Qui-Gon shifted, and his hair fell over
Obi-Wan's shoulder. "I take it you feel that they should have
stopped me. Controlled me. Do you believe that suspicion is
better than trust?"
Obi-Wan breathed deeply, considered his answer before speaking.
"The Jedi order needs discipline. If ten thousand force users
were all to follow their own initiative, the galaxy would be
plunged into chaos."
"Are you saying you do not trust in the guidance of the force?"
"The force, yes," Obi-Wan could not entirely keep the tartness
out of his voice, "but not, perhaps, the decisions of ten
thousand beings who, for all their abilities, still have flaws,
and personal interests, and the occasional bias. Where would
the line be drawn between following the will of the force, and
following one's personal preference?"
"Yet you trust in the council, flaws and all," Qui-Gon said,
"to make decisions for you."
"Someone has to make those decisions." Obi-Wan shrugged. "It
may not be ideal for the many to be ruled by the few, but I do
believe a structured chain of command is better than the
alternative. Without organization, without a recognized and
cohesive structure, we would be less effective as mediators and
peacekeepers."
Qui-Gon was not to be stopped. "And when the council makes a
decision for you that you cannot support, what will you do
then?"
The dancer turned faster, obedient to the drumbeats that drove
her. She rippled in a single perfect moment from the tips of
her gilded toes to the ends of her long hair. Her outflung arm
undulated to a sharp pipe trill, as though waving a last
frantic farewell--
--and then she stopped, and the music stopped, and there was a
heartbeat of silence before Jabba clapped, and everyone else
clapped and hooted and called out ribald comments in many
languages. Obi-Wan clapped as well.
"I don't know," he admitted, at long last. "I don't know. But
it hasn't happened yet." He took a firmer grip on Qui-Gon's
hand, ran his thumb over the fingertips, feeling the uneven
edges of the nails. "I think we can leave now."
He got to his feet, pulling Qui-Gon along with him, and moved
towards the exit. Hearing the unmistakable rumble of Jabba's
voice, followed by laughter, he glanced back over his shoulder
to see Jabba watching them, chuckling fatly, but at least this
time there was no translation, no comments from Fortuna. Just a
look from both of them that repeated the same old threats about
Qui-Gon and 'failing to please,' a look that said that they
knew what Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon would be doing, that they'd
better be right.
The laughter of Jabba and his guests fell away when they left
the throne room. There was no guard following behind them as
they went towards the guest quarters. Obi-Wan wondered if he
ought to have groped Qui-Gon right in front of the dais, just
to make his understanding of Jabba's terms perfectly clear. It
was a juvenile power game, he thought, unexpected from someone
with Jabba's reputation as a hard-headed and ruthless business
dealer, although now that he had seen the people Jabba
surrounded himself with and the entertainment he chose, Obi-Wan
was less surprised than he might have been. Power sometimes
bred pettiness.
They didn't speak on the way. Qui-Gon walked behind Obi-Wan,
slightly behind and to one side, like a padawan--that
association made Obi-Wan smile. He lengthened his stride,
feeling curiously comfortable at having Qui-Gon there, as
though to protect his back. At the door, he opened it slowly,
stepped inside and stopped, testing the force currents, while
Qui-Gon closed the door behind them. Obi-Wan could hear very
faintly the hum of surveillance equipment, could sense the
presence of a guard, watching, the same guard as the night
before.
Qui-Gon put his hands on Obi-Wan's shoulders from behind, slid
them down his arms, and leaned forward to whisper, "Are we
being observed?" Obi-Wan nodded. "Then I suppose we'd best get
this over with." The last words were muffled against Obi-Wan's
throat, just before Qui-Gon bit him, not too hard, teeth
tugging at the sensitive flesh just below the ear. Qui-Gon
pressed Obi-Wan's hands with his own and then let go, starting
to unbuckle Obi-Wan's belt and untie his sash. He took the belt
and sash in one hand and stroked Obi-Wan's chest with the
other, in under the shirt, callused thumb rubbing over a
nipple, shooting sparks right down into Obi-Wan's groin.
Obi-Wan couldn't hold back a shiver, and there was really no
reason why he should hold it back. He took the belt and sash
from Qui-Gon, intending to go and put them somewhere, at least
put the lightsaber somewhere safe, but then Qui-Gon had two
hands free to touch him, and the hand that wasn't on his chest
immediately slid down to curve against the front of his pants,
rubbing his cock through the cloth with a simple, demanding
motion. And Qui-Gon was flicking his nipples--calluses could
feel very good--moving back and forth between them.
When Obi-Wan was just about to thrust up against Qui-Gon's
hand, Qui-Gon stepped back, pulling Obi-Wan's shirt off and
reclaiming the belt and sash. Obi-Wan stood where he was and
watched Qui-Gon cross the room and put shirt, belt, and sash
down on the low table by the wall, taking proper care with the
lightsaber; watched him come back and kneel on the floor and
begin to unbuckle Obi-Wan's boots. When Qui-Gon touched the
leather, Obi-Wan could smell the oil he'd rubbed in earlier in
the evening.
He stepped out of the boots, lifting one foot at a time in
obedience to Qui-Gon's light touches, stood still again as the
boots were put aside, and Qui-Gon unfastened Obi-Wan's pants,
tugging them down, tugging the close-fitting linens down at the
same time. The cloth pooled around his ankles, and Qui-Gon
leaned in, hands on Obi-Wan's hips, right over the bruises from
last night, as he ran the flat of his tongue all down the
length of Obi-Wan's cock in a single hard lick.
Obi-Wan felt light-headed. He stepped out of the pants, and
Qui-Gon took them and went to put them with the rest of
Obi-Wan's clothing. Then he held Obi-Wan's eyes for a moment
and began to unfasten his own pants. Today, as yesterday, that
was the only garment Qui-Gon was wearing. Stripped naked, he
was big and handsome and half hard, and as Obi-Wan watched,
Qui-Gon touched himself, closing one large hand around his own
cock and stroking it, bringing it to full erection, that hand
moving at a measured, deliberate pace that seemed familiar and
long-practiced.
Qui-Gon glanced towards the bed, and Obi-Wan nodded. As Qui-Gon
had said before, it was best to just get it over with. At the
same time, it probably wouldn't do to seem to be too
efficiently brisk about it; they had parts to play. Obi-Wan
thought of something and waved his hand in a stay-there gesture
at Qui-Gon before going into the bathroom.
All the jars and bottles stood there just waiting for him. He
made a quick search, looking suspiciously at unfamiliar oils
and creams, until he found an oil that was scentless and had a
pleasing consistency when he rubbed a little between his
fingers. Obi-Wan sniffed it, licked it, force-probed it, and
decided it was harmless. He went back into the bedroom, rubbing
the oil on his fingers into his stomach, to find Qui-Gon on the
bed, lying propped up on one elbow, stroking himself lazily
with the other hand.
That looked good. Obi-Wan went to the bed, holding up the
bottle in a gesture that was half question, half suggestion,
noticing as he did so that he'd left the stopper behind on the
broad stone counter. After a barely perceptible pause Qui-Gon
nodded, and began to roll over on his stomach. The movement
looked easy enough to Obi-Wan's eyes, unconstrained. But for
the first time, he saw something in Qui-Gon's blue gaze that
might be uncertainty, or reluctance.
"No," Obi-Wan said, bending to put his free hand on Qui-Gon's
upper arm, wrapping his fingers around muscle and skin. He
tugged until Qui-Gon turned over on his back again and lay
flat. That was better. He wasn't going to do anything that
would make Qui-Gon look like that. If they had to do this, it
should at least be bearable, for both of them. Obi-Wan sat down
on the bed and trailed his hand along Qui-Gon's torso, a slow
stroke, breastbone to hipbone. There was so much to read on
Qui-Gon's body, so many experiences written there, on the skin,
in the movements. Obi-Wan felt new by comparison, unscarred,
although some of that was due to bacta, he reflected wryly.
Qui-Gon's erection had flagged. Obi-Wab brushed the back of his
hand against it. He steadied himself by putting his hand on the
other side of Qui-Gon's hips, bent down, and drew the head of
Qui-Gon's cock into his mouth and sucked on it, just the tip,
swirling his tongue around and around until he heard Qui-Gon
make a sound, an actual noise that spoke of pleasure. Then he
straightened up again and tipped the oil bottle that he'd been
warming in his hand, pouring a thin stream into Qui-Gon's
navel, flooding it until the oil began to spread over Qui-Gon's
stomach. Obi-Wan only stopped pouring when he thought the oil
would start to spill over on the sheets and caught the last few
drops on his fingers before setting the bottle aside.
He reached around and began to oil and stretch himself with the
ease of long practice, using his fingers as well as trained
muscle control to relax, dipping several times into the oil
pooled in Qui-Gon's navel. Obi-Wan took his time, watching the
light catch in prismatic sparks on Qui-Gon's oiled skin,
watching those sparks move in time with Qui-Gon's deep, steady
breathing. He wanted this to be as easy as possible, for both
of them. He slicked up Qui-Gon's cock, smoothing oil over it in
slow gentle strokes. Then he knelt over Qui-Gon's body, meeting
the other man's eyes, once again seeking agreement to the act
they were about to perform. The acknowledgement was there: do
it.
Obi-Wan moved back, positioned himself, felt the snub pressure
of rounded hardness against his opening. Ready for him to use.
He pressed down. This... was no hardship. This was more than
just bearable. This was a spine-sizzling, disturbing pleasure.
Qui-Gon's cock felt so good in him, stretching, burning,
wonderfully filling. Obi-Wan rocked on it, sliding down all the
way until they were locked together in an intimate press of
connection. He held still for a little while just to get used
to the feeling, to the idea, of having Qui-Gon inside him, in
his body.
A slow movement up and down brought a shiver, heavy waves
rolling through him. Obi-Wan shifted, trying to find the
perfect angle. He put his hands on Qui-Gon's chest, so that his
fingertips just barely brushed Qui-Gon's nipples, and every
time he moved up and down on Qui-Gon's cock his fingertips slid
forward a little, and back again, making the soft skin pebble
into tight hardness. Qui-Gon panted a little, losing the
measured pace of his breathing, and Obi-Wan drew trails of oil
up from Qui-Gon's navel, stroking, teasing. He painted a
gleaming picture on Qui-Gon's chest, using his own motion,
sliding up and sinking down, drawing lines heavy with lust.
Under his fingers, Qui-Gon's muscles tightened and grew tense,
and they began to move together, not just Obi-Wan moving over
Qui-Gon, but the two of them finding a rhythm. It was a little
like sparring, Obi-Wan thought, with an unknown opponent,
advance and retreat, searching for a pattern, learning the
other's style and idiosyncrasies.
Obi-Wan tried to brace himself more securely against Qui-Gon,
and his hands slipped in the oil. This was a good position to
go slow in, but slow wasn't what he wanted any more, and
neither did Qui-Gon, to judge by the forceful way his hips
lifted to meet Obi-Wan's on every stroke. Obi-Wan pressed down
a little on Qui-Gon's chest, a stay-there gesture, and rose up,
swiveling his hips and feeling a slight pang as Qui-Gon's cock
slipped free.
He lifted one leg and stretched it, easing the knee, then swung
it over so that he was on the inside of the bed, between
Qui-Gon and the wall, and could stretch his other leg before he
moved again. Looking at Qui-Gon, who had pushed himself up to
lean on one arm, Obi-Wan lay down on his back and pulled his
legs up to his chest, one hand behind each knee. Qui-Gon sat up
on his knees, and slid his large hands under Obi-Wan's hips and
lifted them even higher, lifted him to exactly the right height
and pushed inside, sinking deep on the first stroke.
And it was all deep and hard from that moment, at a steady
pounding pace, every thrust forcing the breath out of Obi-Wan,
and then he had to gasp for air. Qui-Gon's hands held him so
steady, and Qui-Gon felt so good in him, and at the same time
something felt a little strange... oh. It was strange, very
strange, to have sex with someone he couldn't touch with the
force. Good, but strange, and for one moment he felt as though
he were in bed with just a body, as though he were using
Qui-Gon as a sex toy, nothing more. But then he looked up at
Qui-Gon's concentrated face, at the bright blue eyes, and saw
the man there, the soul, the mind, the presence.
There was so much, Obi-Wan breathed out on a groan, pleasure
flooding his body in a wave that sent tingles all the way out
into his fingers and toes, so much that remained untouched, so
many things about Qui-Gon that he didn't know, but he knew they
were there, locked away behind Qui-Gon's eyes, and somehow that
made him feel good rather than frustrated right now, rolling
his head on the pillow, wishing he could push back better into
those relentlessly deep thrusts. Good, because it meant that
Qui-Gon had kept his self intact through years of slavery and
force-deprivation and was there, all there, deep inside,
somewhere behind those eyes the color of the evening sky over
Tatooine.
Perhaps Qui-Gon could sense, in the abortive movements of
Obi-Wan's hips and legs, what Obi-Wan wanted, because he leaned
back, pulled out, took hold of Obi-Wan, and flipped him over,
and Obi-Wan rolled with it, the whole thing as smooth as though
they'd practiced. This was much better, Obi-Wan thought, on his
elbows and knees with Qui-Gon's hands splayed over his ass and
Qui-Gon shoving into him almost clumsily and Obi-Wan shoving
right back, so much better...
Qui-Gon fucking him with deep intense strokes that fit right
into the space between one ragged breath and the next: it was
perfect, it was bliss, and Obi-Wan arched his back and tilted
his hips, wanting more, craving it. His whole body was taken
over by that lovely, heavy feeling, and he clenched his hands
on the bedcovers, trying to brace himself against the pleasure
so he could take more, and more. It filled him, the pressure
building higher and higher, until he wasn't large enough to
contain it any more and it all exploded out of him, flowing
like a cascade of stars, bright and startling and beautiful.
Dazzled as he was, he still moved back against Qui-Gon's fast,
hard thrusts, until Qui-Gon choked on a noise that was half
growl and lunged forward, burying himself deep, shaking with a
quake of the flesh that Obi-Wan could almost feel, too. Obi-Wan
clenched his muscles around Qui-Gon, and then he relaxed,
sinking forward until his cheek pressed against the bedcovers,
and Qui-Gon slumped forward as well, over him, blanketing his
body, warm and sweaty against his back and that was good, until
a wave of horror and nausea hit and Obi-Wan convulsed, the back
of his head slamming into Qui-Gon's face.
The chain. That chain against his bare skin, pressed into him
by Qui-Gon's weight. Shamefully, Obi-Wan whimpered.
He felt Qui-Gon withdraw abruptly from his body, scramble away
from him until they were no longer touching anywhere, and then
Qui-Gon said, in the flattest, most expressionless voice
imaginable, "I'm sorry."
Obi-Wan gathered himself and managed to roll over on his back.
Qui-Gon was kneeling on the foot of the bed, hands on thighs,
chest gleaming with sweat, softening cock gleaming with oil,
face a mask of nothing, lids lowered to keep anything from
showing in his eyes. There was a red mark on his left cheekbone
that would probably turn into a fine bruise. Taking a deep
breath, Obi-Wan wheezed, "Don't--worry about it. I'm... fine."
Qui-Gon still would not meet his eyes, said instead, "I'll get
you a glass of water," and moved off the bed, walking a little
stiffly towards the bathroom. Obi-Wan lay still, breathing with
slow deliberation to settle himself down. When the first rush
of nausea had passed, he gingerly pushed himself up, away from
the wet spot, and sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed.
Deep breathing helped, and as soon as he could touch the force
again, he did, clutching at it rather in the manner of a
night-frightened child with a favorite toy.
A few moments more and his rational self told him that it would
not be taken away from him, and he relaxed. Reaching out more
concentratedly, Obi-Wan could feel the presence of the watching
guard. He brushed against the man's mind, wishing he were
stronger in the living force, and felt a trace of boredom.
Movement. The guard was leaving. Obi-Wan waited until he was
sure the guard was gone, and then touched the monitoring
equipment instead; that was easier. He nudged a couple of
things, wondering if the effect would be attributed to
mechanical error, sloppiness on the guard's part, or traced to
its real source.
Qui-Gon came back; he had washed most of the oil off. He had a
glass in his hand and held it out, looking extremely ungracious
about it. "Thank you." Obi-Wan accepted it gratefully, sipping
at the water, settling down. He looked at Qui-Gon, and at the
chain.
All the times he'd touched it, it had been a surprise and a
shock, particularly this last time when he'd been softened by
pleasure, his defenses low. He'd been completely unprepared for
the creeping horror that was the chain. Almost unwillingly, he
lifted his hand, reaching deliberately this time, just to find
out, to see if he could--
Qui-Gon moved as fast as if his reflexes were still
force-guided, and seized Obi-Wan's hand in his own, gripping it
hard, pulling it down. "Don't." Qui-Gon's voice was strained
and rough. He squeezed Obi-Wan's fingers together, and Obi-Wan
used his deliberate concentration, his preparation for pain, to
keep from wincing at that, instead. "When the chain was put
on... I was not myself for a long time. I don't want to see
you--I don't wante saying,
and was stopped by a look in Qui-Gon's eyes, a sudden
alertness. Qui-Gon glanced towards the ceiling, towards the far
wall... Oh, that was right, to where Obi-Wan had indicated,
last night, that the guard and the monitoring equipment were
hidden.
"The guard's gone," Obi-Wan said, trying not to sound too
obviously reassuring, "and I disabled the audio pickup.
Visual's still on, but they won't be able to listen to what we
say here tonight." He didn't think Qui-Gon would have wanted
anyone else to hear that moment of openness, the confession
about the chain and how it had felt. And if Obi-Wan had
anything to say about it, they would be discussing several
sensitive issues later during the night.
Qui-Gon nodded, and dropped his eyes, and then, as if only then
seeing that he was still holding it, let go of Obi-Wan's hand.
Obi-Wan's fingers were almost white, and he wiggled them as
soon as they were free, feeling them tingle as the blood began
to flow again. Qui-Gon had a strong grip. Shifting so that he
could shake his hand without hitting Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan felt that
Qui-Gon's semen was seeping out of him, creating a second wet
spot. He unfolded his legs and stood up with only a slight
wince, and headed for the bathroom.
The air seemed cooler in there. Once again Obi-Wan concentrated
on his breathing, trying to collect his thoughts and put some
of them aside for later. His body was still tingling with
conflicting sensations; being thrown from extreme pleasure into
shaking nausea had unbalanced him. He centered himself,
reasserting his dominance over his body and its reactions,
actually going so far as to put both hands just below his rib
cage as an aid to focusing.
When he felt easier, Obi-Wan cleaned himself up. At first he
was just going to wash the relevant parts off, but he was
sweaty all over, and the shower too much of a temptation.
Standing under the running water, he recalled Anakin's words
about water cartels, felt wasteful, and washed himself as
quickly as possible. He was a bit sore, and judged that he
would be even more so the next day. Once past that initial
reluctance, Qui-Gon had been a vigorous lover.
Dropping the jar of cleanser, Obi-Wan bent very slowly to pick
it up. That had not been the right word. Partner, perhaps,
enforced partner in this, and for the entire mission. He would
do well to remember that. But it was too bad, he reflected
wryly, that the best sexual experience he'd had in a long time
had been the result not of love and attraction, but the whim of
a power-mad and perverted Hutt.
Obi-Wan rinsed himself, turned the water off, and reached for a
towel. He really had nothing to complain of; this would have
been much worse if he and Qui-Gon had for some reason not been
physically compatible. Drying himself, he discovered that he
had a few new bruises to go with last night's. Mostly
compatible, he amended, if Qui-Gon would just stop digging his
fingers quite so hard into whatever part of Obi-Wan happened to
be nearest at hand. The man had a very strong grip. Obi-Wan
hung the towel up neatly and went back into the room.
While he'd been getting himself cleaned up, Qui-Gon had
stripped off the soiled bedcovers and put them at the floor by
the foot of the bed. He was sitting against the wall, drinking
the rest of the water in the glass he'd fetched. Obi-Wan
wandered over to the bed and flopped down on his back,
stretching and then relaxing. He felt warm and a little sleepy,
although it couldn't be very late. Staring at the ceiling, he
concentrated on not closing his eyes; he wasn't going to fall
asleep.
"So, who did train you?"
"What? Oh." Obi-Wan rolled over on his stomach and propped his
head in his hands. "Luxewa ya Dthon. You probably won't
remember her."
Qui-Gon frowned a little. "There's no Master ya Dthon that I
know of--Luxewa? Luxi? She was Yaddle's padawan. She
wasn't even knighted."
"She passed her trials just after we--just after I'd left
Coruscant, back then. Mopping up after the mess on Bandomeer
was her first mission. Agricorps assigned me to fill her in on
what had happened, since I'd experienced so much of it
first-hand, and she took me as her padawan." Two days before
his thirteenth birthday. "We were on Bandomeer for half a year
before we got back to the temple."
Qui-Gon was still frowning. He leaned over Obi-Wan to put the
empty glass aside, and then sat back again. "The council does
not usually encourage new-made knights to take padawans."
"No," Obi-Wan agreed, "that would be why we were on Bandomeer
for half a year before we got back to the temple, while Yaddle
and Yoda talked the rest of the council into agreeing to it."
He smiled a little. "Not that I minded. I got to spend more
time with Si Treemba, for one thing." And they'd had a lot of
fun together. Towards the end, he suspected that Agricorps had
been just as pleased to lose him. Before he could lose himself
in recollections, Obi-Wan made an effort to steer the
conversation onto more immediate topics. "You didn't tell me
that Anakin was so old."
"I didn't think it was relevant. He is the chosen one. And he
is still young enough to be chosen as a padawan, if you want to
be formal about it."
"It's not a question of formality," Obi-Wan said. "When
initiates are chosen as padawans, they've had nearly ten years
of training. Do you really think he can make up for that? He'd
always be behind, different from the others, and he does have
something of a temper."
"We're not discussing whether or not he's suitable." Qui-Gon
crossed his arms. "Anakin must be trained. Now that you've seen
him, surely you understand--you've seen who and what he is."
"I saw something," Obi-Wan said, holding up his hand when it
seemed that Qui-Gon would interrupt him. "Yes, he's force
sensitive, there's no doubt about that, and since he has raced
pods and is still alive, he is very talented. But there is
something about him that disturbs me. When I looked at him, I
saw a vision of a dark future."
His memories of that vision were still vivid, although the
vision itself was so vague. Obi-Wan closed his eyes, seeing
once more the darkness, and the flare of red, like fire; heard
his own voice and tried to understand its tone, to grasp the
nuances of the words.
"The future isn't set in stone." Qui-Gon's tone was close to
lecturing. "Even if you did see a true vision, you can't know
which choice would lead to that future. You must make your
decisions in the here and now. You must listen to the force,"
and Obi-Wan wondered how much it cost Qui-Gon to say that, "and
heed what it tells you."
"I did listen to the force," Obi-Wan said. "It sent me a
vision." Hearing his own doubts about the usefulness of
prophetic vision echoed by Qui-Gon made him perversely more
inclined to believe in the importance of what he'd seen. He
opened his eyes. "Do you have a plan for getting them away from
Watto?"
"No." Then Qui-Gon shrugged. "But my stipend has gone untouched
for seven years, accumulating interest, unless the order
decided to cancel my account. I'm not sure what the exchange
rates are now, but it's possible that I could afford,"
Qui-Gon's mouth twisted, "to buy them."
"I don't suppose you could afford to buy yourself as well?"
Obi-Wan suggested, and succeeded in wiping the bitter look off
Qui-Gon's face.
"Unless the temple has changed its ideas of how much a Jedi
knight needs for his personal expenses, I don't think it will
stretch to three," Qui-Gon said, much more lightly. "We could
at least contact Watto in the morning and find out what he
would ask for them. How are you at marketplace bargaining?"
"Not as good as I could be, I expect," Obi-Wan said, "but I'll
do my best." He rolled his head from one side to the other,
trying to work out a few kinks in his neck. "I can understand
that you want to get them away from their present situation,
and I certainly can't argue with that. But Qui-Gon, you do
realize that the council will never allow the boy to be trained
as a Jedi."
"I will train him with or without their permission."
"Has it ever occurred to you," Obi-Wan said, "that you might be
wrong?" His voice came out sharper than he'd intended, but he
forged ahead anyway. "You're force-blind. You think he's the
chosen one, but you're just guessing. I've listened to the
force, and I tell you, the boy is dangerous."
Qui-Gon turned his head to look straight at Obi-Wan, and his
eyes seemed to turn even more blue, as if lit from the inside.
"And having been knighted for all of a year or so, you know
everything about the will of the force. Don't you want to wait
until the council has pronounced an opinion on Anakin, before
you dare to have one?" Qui-Gon levered himself up, clambered
over Obi-Wan, and crossed the room, going into the bathroom and
closing the door.
"Four years," Obi-Wan muttered, then let himself fall face-down
on the bed and ran both hands into his hair. "Four years, and I
think that when my master pronounced me ready, she
overestimated my diplomatic abilities."
He rolled over on his back and stared up, wondering how Qui-Gon
Jinn would have dealt with having him for a padawan, how he
would have coped with having Qui-Gon Jinn for a master. It
certainly would not have been boring, Obi-Wan thought, but the
question of whether that was a good thing or a bad thing
remained unanswered. Would Qui-Gon have tried to teach him to
be so casually dismissive of Jedi tradition, to disregard the
council's wishes if they did not agree with his own, even to
neglect or ignore force-granted visions?
No, that was unjust, that was the peevish reasoning of an
offended child. There were no doubts in Obi-Wan's mind, or in
the minds of anyone that he had spoken to within the order,
that Qui-Gon had been a great Jedi, in touch with the living
force in a way that few had ever been able to match. It would
not have been possible for such a man to teach anything that
went against the will of the force.
Qui-Gon came back with his hair trailing in a neat braid over
one shoulder, looking clean-scrubbed and as contrary as ever.
He looked icily at Obi-Wan, who sat up in response to that look
before he could even think about it, like a padawan caught
napping during an important lecture. "Do you require anything
else of me tonight, master?"
"There is one more matter we should discuss," Obi-Wan said,
deciding that it might be wise not to comment on the way
Qui-Gon had just addressed him. Qui-Gon knew perfectly well
that the audio-based surveillance was off. Qui-Gon also knew
perfectly well how to use sarcasm to make a point. "Have you
heard anything about a business meeting that is planned for
tomorrow?"
"Jabba rarely informs me of his schedule." But Qui-Gon sat down
on the bed as well and flipped his braid back. "I assume you
know something about this meeting."
Obi-Wan leaned forward, putting his arms around his knees.
"Yes. Jabba wants me to negotiate a business deal for him at
this meeting, although he won't give any details about the
nature of the business. It seems clear that he expects me to
use the force to make events come out in his favor."
"Unless things have changed vastly at the temple since I left,"
Qui-Gon said, "using the force on behalf of an unethical Hutt
would definitely go against the council's wishes."
With an effort, Obi-Wan did not give in to his first impulse,
which was to roll his eyes. "Yes," he said, in what he hoped
was a neutral tone of voice. "The unethical Hutt in question is
providing some added incentive by threatening to torture you if
I don't comply, and promising to give you to me if I do."
Unexpectedly, Qui-Gon smiled. It made him look younger, and
almost mischievous. "And which possibility do you find more
appealing?"
"Don't tempt me," Obi-Wan muttered. He straightened up a
little, elbows on knees, chin in hand. "The meeting is
important. I have a strong feeling that I ought to be there."
That, at least, was an argument that would make sense to
Qui-Gon. "If the meeting doesn't prove to be successful, I
believe it would be possible to... persuade... Bib Fortuna to
deactivate the transmitter. The problem would be to keep him
from reactivating it later on."
"The transmitters are keyed to a specific control device,"
Qui-Gon said. "You could get him to give it to you, and take it
away with you. But that still leaves the problem of Jabba.
Hutts are..."
"Notoriously difficult," Obi-Wan agreed.
"Not happy about having their possessions taken from them. If
the meeting went badly, Jabba would have a very strong
incentive to track us down. We would have to leave Tatooine
immediately. Your ship is waiting in Mos Espa?"
"Yes. It's ready for take-off." Obi-Wan could almost feel the
familiar controls of the Arrow under his hands; he wanted
nothing more than to plot a course for Coruscant and leave this
sandheap of a planet behind. But he wouldn't do it unless he
had Qui-Gon on board. Which meant that other matters had to be
dealt with first. "I will call Watto tomorrow and find out what
his asking price is for Shmi and Anakin. How much money do you
think you have?"
Qui-Gon shrugged. "I really don't know. Bargain him down as
much as you can, and settle for that. The force will provide."
"Does that mean you're going to try to borrow from me?" Obi-Wan
stretched and yawned. He swung his legs over the side of the
bed and put his feet down on the floor. It was chilly now, as
night fell and cool air drifted in through the small, high
window. Too chilly to sit naked on the bed in any comfort. "Get
under the covers," he suggested, and got to his feet. "I'll be
right back."
He padded into the bathroom to relieve himself, wondering when,
exactly, he had agreed to help free Shmi and Anakin. He had his
doubts about the boy, but Qui-Gon wasn't leaving without them,
and Obi-Wan wasn't leaving without Qui-Gon. The question of
what should be done with Anakin could be resolved later.
Obi-Wan cleaned his teeth and made a half-hearted attempt to
comb his hair. He picked up the stopper to the oil bottle and
took it with him when he went back.
Qui-Gon lay under the covers, on his back, taking up most of
the bed. His eyes were closed and his breathing slow and
regular. Obi-Wan sighed. He stoppered the oil bottle, turned
out the light, and crawled in under the covers as well, pushing
gently but firmly at Qui-Gon to make room for himself. After
deciding to provide him with such a large bed companion, Jabba
ought in all courtesy to have provided a larger bed. Obi-Wan
succeeded in making himself relatively comfortable, and began
to drift off.
He passed through a shadowy landscape of waking dreams, where
the faint moonlight on the wall shone on the faces of those he
had met during the day. Raiders danced gleefully around the
rock formations of the podracing course, their steps a brisk
parody of the funeral rites on Dapni III; Anakin disappeared
under the metal plates of his pod, and when Obi-Wan went to
look for him, there was only a hollow shell left; Shmi turned
her face towards the sky and stars fell into her eyes; the
dying khant cried out, again and again, until it dried up and
blew away on the desert wind. Obi-Wan tried to catch hold of
Qui-Gon, but Qui-Gon was slippery with oil and eluded his
grip... only to turn around abruptly and plant an elbow in
Obi-Wan's ribs.
Coughing with surprise and pain, Obi-Wan discovered that he was
awake, and that the elbow in his ribs had been only too real.
He grabbed hold of Qui-Gon's arm before he could get his
kidneys bruised or his nose broken. "Wake up!" Qui-Gon flailed,
and Obi-Wan clutched at him and shook him. "Wake up!"
"No," Qui-Gon said, but he stopped fighting, and when he moved
again it was only to untangle himself from his braid, which had
wound itself around his throat. He'd probably dreamed that he
was being strangled, Obi-Wan assumed, and made a mental note
not to grow his own hair that long. It seemed impractical. "I'm
sorry."
Qui-Gon spoke in the same flat voice that he'd used when he'd
apologized to Obi-Wan earlier, after they'd had sex. Obi-Wan
thought that he would really rather not be apologized to any
more; there was something about that tone of voice that made
him feel he never wanted to hear it ever again. "That's all
right," he said, and then went on, against his better
judgement, "Did you have a bad dream?"
"I won't bother you again," Qui-Gon said, and Obi-Wan hadn't
thought it possible for that voice to get any worse. Pulling
his arm out of Obi-Wan's grip, Qui-Gon turned over on his side
to face the wall, and Obi-Wan was left staring through the
darkness at the wide expanse of Qui-Gon's back.
Slowly he shifted forward and laid his hand between Qui-Gon's
shoulder blades. He could feel Qui-Gon's heartbeat, steady but
fast. Muscles tensed under Obi-Wan's touch; Qui-Gon wanted to
be left alone. Obeying that unspoken statement would probably
be a wise thing to do. Obi-Wan ran his hand down Qui-Gon's back
and settled it over his hip, intending to pull Qui-Gon over on
his back again, to see his face, to talk to him.
Qui-Gon grew perfectly still, and Obi-Wan realized that he'd
put his hand over the scar, the one Qui-Gon had shied away from
having examined the night before. Very cautiously, he traced it
with his fingers, felt the stripes that cut across some other,
almost obliterated shape, tried to find that first shape with
his fingertips. It was rounded, he thought after a little
while, like a crescent moon--no, almost like a circle, but not
a whole one. There was a piece missing. The circle was broken.
His touch grew even lighter, just one fingertip drifting around
the curve of that half-erased mark. Obi-Wan remembered that
symbol, the circle that did not quite meet. He remembered
seeing it on the boxes of explosives, and on the panel by the
sealed door, down in the mine on Bandomeer when he'd been so
certain, so very certain that he would die, and then for a
moment so very certain that Qui-Gon Jinn would choose him for a
padawan learner, and he'd been wrong on both counts. Still, he
knew whose sign this was.
"Xanatos," he said, and now Qui-Gon's muscles were locked
together so tight that the man was almost shaking. Obi-Wan ran
his hand along Qui-Gon's back again, up and down, long slow
strokes. He felt painfully inadequate, and his own back muscles
were beginning to tense up in sympathy. It seemed to be very
cold in the room now.
"I didn't find him," Qui-Gon said to the wall. "He found me."
Obi-Wan listened to Qui-Gon's breathing, slow, deliberate
breaths. "A contact I'd made in one of Offworld's subsidiaries
gave me up to him. I never knew if I'd been betrayed, or if she
had been... persuaded." Obi-Wan couldn't stop moving his hand.
He didn't think he could lift his palm away from Qui-Gon's
skin. "I was drugged, and when I woke up the transmitter was in
place, and they were," deep breath, "putting the chain on me."
"And no one could find you," Obi-Wan whispered, half to
himself. No wonder Qui-Gon Jinn's disappearance had been so
complete. Force inhibitors were nothing new, but inhibitors
that removed all trace of a person's presence from the force
had only been a vague rumor up until now.
"It must have appeared as though I simply vanished from the
force. No sign of my life or of my death." No sign at all of
what had happened, and the Jedi had searched for this man,
Obi-Wan knew that, never giving up on him, but unable to
discover where in the wide galaxy he was, how he was held
captive, and what was being done to him. "I was with Xanatos
for several years. Eventually, he turned me over to Jabba."
Obi-Wan waited for the next words, but they didn't come. It was
so quiet, when Qui-Gon was no longer speaking, that Obi-Wan
thought he could hear grains of sand rustling against each
other on the floor. He thought about all the years that lay
hidden behind that 'eventually,' about how Qui-Gon's voice,
when it was flat and hard like that, lay like ice over dark,
cold water.
The lighter stripe of night along the wall that was a
reflection of the moonshine moved as they lay there in silence.
Qui-Gon's heartbeat slowed down, but he was tense to the touch,
unyielding under Obi-Wan's hands. Perhaps, Obi-Wan thought, he
should try to give Qui-Gon a little of the privacy he wanted.
Slaves had none, and Qui-Gon wasn't free to choose to go, not
yet.
"I have to sleep now," he said, not adding anything about
Qui-Gon's own need for sleep. He settled himself down close
against Qui-Gon's back, laying his face against Qui-Gon's
shoulder blade, drawing in the scent of Qui-Gon's skin every
time he breathed. "But please wake me if..."
"I imagine I will," Qui-Gon said bleakly, but he made no move
to shrug off Obi-Wan's touch. Obi-Wan drifted off to sleep on
the rhythm of Qui-Gon's heartbeat, listening to the quiet
susurration of Qui-Gon's breath.
Something tickled the end of his nose. Obi-Wan sneezed and
opened his eyes to find that the end of Qui-Gon's braid was
lying over his face. He was flat on his back, and Qui-Gon was
on his side with one heavy arm draped over Obi-Wan's chest.
Qui-Gon was also snoring ever so slightly. Obi-Wan's sneeze
hadn't made him so much as twitch an eyelid.
That was good. Obi-Wan didn't know how long Qui-Gon had lain
awake last night, but he probably needed his rest. Sliding
carefully out from under Qui-Gon's arm, Obi-Wan sat up on the
edge of the bed, rubbed at his eyes, and yawned. The morning
air was still cool, and the skin on his arms and legs began to
pebble. He stood, stretched, rolled his neck and then his
shoulders, and headed for the bathroom. It was early enough,
and the air was cool enough, that a hot shower would be
pleasant. Or at least a warm shower. Tepid.
Obi-Wan turned on the water and watched the steady spray for a
little while before stepping into it. He had spent time on
water worlds, visited floating cities and subaquatic
civilizations, but after only a few days on Tatooine he had
adjusted to thinking of water as something rare and precious.
When he tilted his head to let the water wash over his face, it
felt like both a blessing and a curse.
As he'd suspected the night before would be the case, he was
much more sore this morning, and when he'd finished his shower
and dried himself off he applied more soothing cream, rubbing
it in carefully and feeling a surprising twinge of remembered
arousal. From the height of this cool clear morning he looked
back into the depths of the night and considered his reaction
to Qui-Gon's touch, the readiness of his response. He could
feel his cheeks heat up a little.
Perhaps he'd let his body overrule his mind, taking an unseemly
amount of pleasure in an act born of sheer necessity. There had
been nothing in the force to steer him away or warn him, but
then, the daylight reminded him with shocking clarity, Qui-Gon
and Qui-Gon's feelings were locked away from the force and
could not affect its currents. As far as the force was
concerned, Obi-Wan had been having sex with an inanimate object
last night.
So all he had to go on was what Qui-Gon himself said. And
Qui-Gon did not say very much.
Qui-Gon had fallen asleep, and had a nightmare.
Obi-Wan picked up a comb and yanked it through his hair, taming
every knot and tangle, the teeth of the comb scraping against
his scalp with every vigorous stroke. Things would change
today. He was going to get Qui-Gon out of the palace, one way
or another. He was going to get both of them out of this
impossible situation. The meeting later in the day was
important, he felt certain of that; he would follow the
guidance of the force and trust it to lead him to the right
choices. Just in case it didn't, though, he'd probably better
come up with a reserve plan.
Fortuna was the weak link in Jabba's household. He could be
force-nudged, or perhaps just bullied, into deactivating the
transmitter. But unless they could bring the control with
them--no, even if they did bring the control with
them--Qui-Gon's freedom would only be temporary unless they
could leave Tatooine immediately. Which meant that Shmi and
Anakin had to be free and ready to go as well. Obi-Wan didn't
know if there were any special rules for the buying and selling
of slaves on Tatooine. There might be a generally agreed-upon
time delay between a sale and the actual transfer of ownership.
He made a face. To stand there and idly consider the buying and
owning of another was like wading in raw sewage.
It was Qui-Gon, he reminded himself, who would be the real
buyer and owner, and presumably only for as long as it took to
set the boy and his mother free. Obi-Wan was the one who was
going to have to place a call to Watto the junk shop owner this
morning, though. And this was exactly the same plan that they'd
discussed last night, and he was adding nothing new to it, and
very nearly pulling his hair out by the roots. Putting the comb
down, he tucked his hair back behind his ears and walked back
into the bedroom, heading for the low table where Qui-Gon had
laid their clothes.
Obi-Wan pulled on linens, pants, and shirt before turning
towards the bed. Qui-Gon had rolled over on his back, one arm
flung out in relaxed freedom over the space Obi-Wan had
vacated. The bruise over his right cheekbone was coming up
nicely. Obi-Wan put a hand to the back of his head and felt
some mild tenderness, nothing more. He stretched his spine,
felt as though he were fidgeting, and slipped without conscious
thought into the third moving meditation, a slow and simple
exercise that energized the body and calmed the mind. There was
just enough room between the table and the door, and Obi-Wan
concentrated on the movements, letting them flow through him,
letting himself flow with them. Harmony was not something that
came naturally to him in the mornings, but gradually, he began
to relax.
He went through the meditation four times, and then stopped.
The air coming in through the window was warm now, and the
patch of sunlight on the wall had moved lower. Obi-Wan reached
out and force-nudged Qui-Gon, first a gentle touch, and then a
more firm one, until Qui-Gon shifted and opened his eyes.
Qui-Gon lay still until he had caught sight of Obi-Wan; then
his eyes cleared, and he yawned, and sat up in bed. His braid
looked fuzzy, haloed with hair that had worked itself free of
the plaiting. He lifted one hand to his cheek, touched the
bruise, and frowned, eyebrows drawing together.
"I'm very sorry about that," Obi-Wan said. "I just..."
Qui-Gon waved a hand at him, apparently not willing to listen.
He got out of bed and strode towards the bathroom, looking
unnaturally well coordinated for someone who had just woken up.
Obi-Wan looked at the unmade bed and at the tangled covers that
lay in a heap on the floor at its foot, still smelling of sex.
He wanted to leave this room.
Instead, he smoothed out the sheets and sat down in the center
of the bed with his legs crossed, wondering if he could manage
a short meditative trance while Qui-Gon went through his
morning ritual in the bathroom. Despite the ease that the
moving meditation had given him, deep inside he still felt
tense and uncomfortable with himself. It was an elusive
feeling, slippery as a fish in water. He could not get as close
to it as he wished, but it had something to do with having had
sex with Qui-Gon.
Discomfort shouldn't be part of his response. Obi-Wan did not
see, looking back, how he could have resolved the situation
they'd been placed in any other way, did not see how he could
have acted differently. It had been necessary, and he didn't
feel as though he had done anything wrong, at least not
intentionally, but still there was a disturbance in him, deep
down, as though something had not gone the way it was supposed
to go. There was nothing new in that, Obi-Wan told himself.
Things rarely went exactly as planned. The force that swirled
around him in unsettled eddies was no help at all.
He wrenched his thoughts away from sex and confusion, and set
himself to work out how much money Qui-Gon might have in an
account that had been untouched for seven years, calculating
upwards from his own stipend to estimate that of a master, and
what that would come to in local currency, given the very bad
exchange rates for Republic dactariis on the rim. It might, he
thought when he'd worked it out to his satisfaction, be enough
for two slaves.
Provided that Watto did not become suspicious or contrary, and
set an unreasonable asking price. Provided that Watto would be
willing to sell at all. He must value these two, Obi-Wan
thought, must value them very highly. Shmi was obviously a
skilled worker, and Anakin, despite his youth, w />
"There's a comm just down the hall," Qui-Gon said somewhere
above his head. "Watto usually opens early."
"Good." Obi-Wan buckled his boots. Then he discovered that his
left sock had bunched under his instep and so he had to
unbuckle that boot again, straighten the sock, and do the
buckles up one more time. It took him a while to finish, and
when he straightened up, Qui-Gon was already standing by the
door. "Let's go, then."
There were cleaning droids roaming the hallways, the whirr and
click and whisk-whisk-whisk of their passing the loudest sound
in the palace. Obi-Wan strode along, glancing down at Qui-Gon's
bare feet. He pictured boots there, too, and then pants, shirts
and sash and cloak, the lightweight, comfortable, concealing
garments of a Jedi. Qui-Gon really needed something clean to
wear. With a shrug, Obi-Wan settled his own shirts more
comfortably into place. He wanted to look like a respectable
customer.
Which was a futile wish, he realized a moment later as they
stopped by the alcove that held the holocomm, because what he
looked like was a Jedi. About to step into the alcove, he was
stopped by Qui-Gon's hand on his shoulder. "Here."
It was a business card, wrinkled and rather grimy from having
been stashed away in a pocket of Qui-Gon's pants, and it had
the holocomm code for Watto's shop on it. Obi-Wan nodded his
thanks. He stepped in front of the comm, adjusted the pickup
range, and checked the code again before placing the call.
Jabba's comm console was newer and sleeker than the one he'd
used yesterday in the cantina, and without any interplanetary
lag to contend with, the call went through almost immediately.
The signal blinked two times, three, and then the call was
accepted.
Obi-Wan hadn't known what to expect, not having thought to ask
what species Watto was, and he really should have thought about
this possibility, but nevertheless it startled him when Shmi
answered. For one brief moment he wondered what the code of
behavior was when you called up to inquire about someone's
going market price and they answered the comm, but then he got
a good look at her face.
She was pale under her Tatooine tan, pale with blotches of pink
on her cheeks, and her eyes were red-rimmed. She'd bitten her
lower lip until it bled; the holoimage was good enough that he
could see the smear where she'd wiped blood off her chin. Her
knot looked more lopsided than yesterday. "Watto's--" Then she
recognized him, paused, and started over. "How may I--help
you?"
Obi-Wan leaned forward, intent on her face and the misery he
saw there. "What happened?"
Shmi looked over her shoulder, then turned back to the comm.
"Watto has sold Anakin. The meeting yesterday... He came back
and told us that he had been offered a fortune f-for a
podracing pilot. I don't understand it." Her face was bleak.
"He always said that he would never separate us."
A hard grip crushed Obi-Wan's shoulder, and Qui-Gon leaned
forward over him. Obi-Wan tapped a few keys to adjust the video
pickup. "The right price changes a lot of minds. Do you know
the name of Anakin's new owner?"
She shook her head. The movement made her braids slip free of
the pins and begin to uncoil. "No. Watto wouldn't tell me."
Shmi drew a deep breath, visibly collecting herself. "But he
bought both Anakin and the pod for a very high price, so he is
rich, and no one here has ever expressed an interest before, so
I believe he is a stranger."
"There is a Ya'an luxury cruiser in the spaceport," Obi-Wan
said. "Docked yesterday." There might be other rich strangers
in town, but that was a place to start. "Veeri registration
code, but it might be possible to trace it."
"Better if we find him before he leaves the planet," Qui-Gon
said. "There aren't all that many places that hold podraces. He
might be planning to stay for a while."
Shmi took hold of her braid and wound the end around her
fingers. "There is a race. Tomorrow." Again she glanced quickly
over her shoulder before continuing, "Anakin is already entered
as a racer. If this buyer stays, he will let Ani race. It is a
festival celebration race. Lots of prize money, and the betting
is always heavy on those races." Shmi bit her lip, the same
spot, and another bead of blood welled up. "Ani was planning
to--"
Her voice broke. Obi-Wan thought he knew what she had been
going to say. That would be the race that Anakin had wanted to
bet their savings on, to buy their freedom. Even if Anakin had
any money of his own to bet with now, it would be fairly safe
to assume that his new owner would not want to sell. And as for
Shmi herself, it certainly wasn't the first thing on her mind.
Obi-Wan rolled his shoulder under Qui-Gon's clenched hand, not
trying to shrug it off, just to ease the grip a little.
"Knight Kenobi is coming into Mos Espa later today," Qui-Gon
said. "He will contact you and find a way to help you."
"We're both coming," Obi-Wan amended, sparing half a reassuring
smile for Shmi before looking up at Qui-Gon.
"That's not entirely certain." Qui-Gon tightened his grip on
Obi-Wan's shoulder again. "We don't know how the meeting with
Jabba will go. The boy is more important than I am."
"No," Obi-Wan said flatly. He heard a gasp from the holovid. "I
will do everything I can to help Shmi and Anakin, but my
mission here is to free you. I'm not leaving the palace without
you." He tilted his head farther back in order to be able to
see Qui-Gon's face. "Master Piell would skin me alive, for one
thing."
"You have too much respect for authority," Qui-Gon growled. "As
a Jedi master and your superior in the Jedi order, I command
you to leave me here and find and rescue Anakin Skywalker."
"The council still outranks you," Obi-Wan said. He drew a deep
breath, uncertain whether he wanted to scowl, or, for some
insane reason, grin. But he was well aware of the worry coming
from Shmi, and the worry coming from Qui-Gon, even though he
couldn't actually sense either of them. "We will find
and rescue Anakin Skywalker." He turned towards the holocomm
again, towards Shmi's image. "We'll be there later today."
"Thank you." She stiffened, turned fully around to look at
something beyond the scope of the vid pickup, then quickly
turned her face towards them again. "I have to go." Obi-Wan saw
her hand reach out, and then the transmission was broken.
He turned the comm off on his side and got to his feet, pushing
himself upright under the weight of Qui-Gon's hand. When he
looked at Qui-Gon's face, he could see determination just about
to break forth into a fresh argument. Obi-Wan had never
attempted to rescue anyone quite so uncooperative before.
Before Qui-Gon could begin to talk about the importance of
going after Anakin again, Obi-Wan said, "Do you think that any
of the servants or slaves might know more about the mysterious
meeting today?"
"No." Qui-Gon turned him around so that they faced each other.
Obi-Wan was expecting another heated argument, another repeat
of the accusation that Obi-Wan was a council yesman and cowed
by authority, but to his surprise, there was something else in
Qui-Gon's eyes, a look so far from what Obi-Wan had anticipated
that it took him a moment to recognize it: the quiet
professional assessment of a colleague. "I'll go down into the
kitchen and ask. But I think you're going to have to
improvise."
"This meeting is important," Obi-Wan said, feeling a need to
explain himself now that no explanation was being demanded. "I
can feel it."
Qui-Gon nodded briefly, and finally let go of Obi-Wan's
shoulder, and they left the alcove together. Two steps down the
hallway and Obi-Wan turned back, ducking into the alcove again
and tapping at the holocomm keys, wiping the call record clean.
There was no time to make a thorough job of it, but there was
no point in making it too easy for Jabba and his staff to find
out everything about their activities, either.
When he stepped out again, he saw Qui-Gon disappearing into the
shadows of the far end of the hallway, probably headed for the
kitchen. Obi-Wan took a deep breath and started to walk back
towards his room. He didn't particularly want to spend any more
time there, but if Qui-Gon were to come looking for him, he'd
better be in a place where he could be found. As he walked he
tried to calm himself and open up to the force, turn to it for
guidance, but he felt on edge and strangely distracted.
Back in the room, he paced. Over to the far wall, looking up at
the window; back to the door, waiting for it to open. Every
time he passed the crumpled sheets piled at the foot of the
bed, he glanced at them, and then away again. He had to be
ready for the coming meeting and for whatever it was Jabba
expected of him. Had to be prepared for whatever might happen.
Obi-Wan broke off his pacing to put on his outer shirt and
straighten his clothing, adjusting sash and belt and 'saber
until he was perfectly comfortable and sure that nothing would
hamper his movements.
As though he were preparing for battle. He frowned and strode
back to the window again, catching a glimpse of blue sky. Since
he didn't know what he was preparing for, it made sense to be
ready for anything and everything. The feeling that there was
something significant about this meeting remained stable in
him, despite his inability to settle down and read the force
currents for any trace of what the future might bring.
Obi-Wan drew his brows together as he looked at the sky. He'd
had enough of troubling visions of the future for one mission.
The memory of the darkness pierced with flashes of red, of the
hollow voice taunting him and his own sad reply, sat in his
mind like a fresh bruise, tender and unpleasant every time he
touched it. He was going to concentrate on the present, on the
meeting later in the day, on getting Qui-Gon out of the palace.
After that, they'd have to find out what had happened to
Anakin, and... he was trying to plan ahead again, to anticipate
possibilities. That was the way his mind always worked.
A knock on the door made him turn swiftly. Surely Qui-Gon
couldn't be back already. Surely Qui-Gon wouldn't knock.
Obi-Wan went to the door and opened it, and found himself face
to face with Bib Fortuna.
"Jabba wishes to see you now," Fortuna said, sounding more
tense and less affected than Obi-Wan had ever heard him be
before. "Come with me, please."
"Is it time for the meeting already?" Obi-Wan asked. He
wondered if he could somehow tell Qui-Gon where he was going,
but couldn't come up with a way of doing it, short of carving a
message into the wall with his lightsaber.
"Come with me," Fortuna repeated, and turned to walk away along
the hallway, leaving Obi-Wan with no choice but to follow. He
caught up with Fortuna, walking beside the Twi'lek rather than
behind him, but forbore to ask any further questions. He'd get
answers soon enough, or whatever passed for answers with Jabba.
This morning, no one had cleaned up the throne room from the
previous night's party. Benches were scattered over the floor,
chairs had been overturned and never righted, Obi-Wan had to
step around the remains of a broken bottle on one of the steps,
and to judge by the smell, someone had been sick in a corner
somewhere. Dust and smoke hung in the air. Jabba sat on the
dais, a bloated, brooding presence. Obi-Wan walked up to stand
in front of the Hutt and waited to find what he would be told.
The silence was short, or at least shorter than he'd expected.
Jabba broke it with a low rumble, a sound that hovered between
menacing and businesslike. Obi-Wan kept his eyes on Jabba while
Fortuna translated. "My master says that you will use your
abilities to make sure that the meeting goes the way my master
wants it to go. If you do not, the Jedi will receive a
holographic recording of your activities during the past two
nights."
Obi-Wan shook his head. "The Jedi council is aware of those
activities," he said. "Such a recording would merely confirm my
report." He tried not to think about Master Yoda or Master
Piell watching a holographic projection of himself having sex
with Qui-Gon Jinn.
Jabba gestured with one short, stubby arm and said something
else, ending with a fat chuckle. "My master suggests that the
recording might be put to other use instead. Such as being
duplicated and sold in every sex shop on the outer rim."
That, Obi-Wan reflected, could be somewhat embarrassing. But
embarrassment didn't change the basic fact that Jedi did not
allow themselves to be blackmailed in this fashion. "I'm sorry
to hear that your business is going so badly, Jabba," he said.
"But do you really think a blurry holo with bad lighting is
going to sell well enough to allow you to recoup your losses?"
Jabba leaned forward and said something long and angry,
whipping his tongue out in the middle of it in what seemed to
be a gesture of contempt. Once again, Obi-Wan found himself
wondering about his own diplomatic abilities. He preferred
annoying Jabba the Hutt to upsetting Qui-Gon Jinn, though.
Looking to Fortuna for a translation, he was surprised to see
that the Twi'lek was shaking his head, and said something back
to Jabba in Huttese. The two of them went on talking intently
for a while, and Obi-Wan listened, trying to pick up on a word
or two. All he could sense was tension.
After a long, agitated exchange, Fortuna turned to Obi-Wan and
said, "The man who is coming here will make demands that Jabba
does not wish to comply with. You will make sure that those
demands are withdrawn. By any means necessary." Jabba rumbled;
Fortuna nodded. "I have the control to the pleasure slave's
implant here," he said and held up a short, stubby data rod.
Obi-Wan regarded it thoughtfully. He would have to get it away
from Fortuna somehow, use it, and then destroy it so that
Qui-Gon's implant wasn't reactivated before it could be
removed. Was there a backup copy somewhere in the palace? Was
there a way to find out? And what, exactly, did Jabba and
Fortuna mean by 'any means necessary'?
Then he felt something, like a cold current in a warm sea, like
a cloud shadow passing over a sunlit meadow, and turned in time
to see a dark-cloaked figure step into the throne room.
"Isn't this pleasant," a cool voice drawled in flawless
Standard. "It's always a joy to meet old friends again."
Obi-Wan drew a deep breath. "Xanatos."
Xanatos pushed back the hood of his cloak and came strolling
down the steps from the door, moving with the confident grace
of a trained fighter. He had changed since Obi-Wan had last
seen him, fifteen years ago; there were creases around his eyes
and mouth, and his face was a little broader, fleshier. His
black hair was cut short now, showing a square jaw and small,
lobeless ears. When he smiled, his teeth gleamed. "I didn't
think you'd ever manage to become a Jedi," he said, looking
Obi-Wan up and down with what seemed to be measured amusement.
"Not after the way Qui-Gon treated you."
"Considering that you tried to blow me up, I didn't think you
cared." Obi-Wan was tempted to say something about the way
Xanatos had treated Qui-Gon, but then he realized that he
didn't want to go into that, not here and now, perhaps not
ever. Instead, he glanced at Bib Fortuna and Jabba. "Now, will
someone tell me what this meeting is all about?"
Fortuna fidgeted. The light was dim, as no sunshine ever
penetrated into the depths of the palace, but Obi-Wan thought
that the Twi'lek seemed even more sickly pale than usual. "My
master wishes--"
"I'll tell you," Xanatos interrupted smoothly. "I'm here to
conclude negotiations that were begun the last time I was here,
and come to an agreement about Offworld's presence on
Tatooine."
Jabba growled and thumped his tail twice on the dais, a clear
warning signal. "There can be no agreement," Fortuna said. "The
Hutts will not accept that Offworld Corporation establishes
itself here."
"How ungenerous," Xanatos said, sounding at once mildly
regretful and utterly bored. "After all, I offered you
excellent terms."
"The Hutts don't want Offworld here on any terms." Fortuna
looked extremely nervous, glancing back up at Jabba as if for
reassurance. "It is the considered opinion of the Hutt
syndicate that Offworld Corporation would damage the Tatooine
economy."
Xanatos was a rival, Obi-Wan mentally translated, and the Hutts
didn't want any rivals; they wanted to remain in sole control
of the Tatooine economy, legal and illegal alike. Exactly what
Xanatos wanted was less clear. From what little Obi-Wan had
learned during his previous encounter with Xanatos, it was
usually difficult to judge his motives. While Fortuna looked
nervous, and Jabba as unsettled as a Hutt ever got, Xanatos was
eerily calm.
"I would ask if that is your considered opinion," Xanatos said,
"but it took you so long to arrive at it that I can only
conclude that it is. It is just as well that I have other
interests to amuse me here on Tatooine."
Jabba began to talk again, but over the thick outpouring of
Huttese, Obi-Wan asked, impelled by something he couldn't
explain, "And what interests are those?"
"Tatooine really only has two things to offer." Xanatos smiled
at Obi-Wan. "Since I am apparently barred from entering the
spice trade, I thought I would involve myself in podracing
instead." He glanced over his shoulder, back at the doorway
through which he'd come, and snapped his fingers. A small
figure appeared and came shuffling down the steps, dressed like
a miniature copy of Xanatos, all in black, but with blond hair
that shone even in the gloom of Jabba's throne room.
"Anakin," Obi-Wan breathed, and the boy looked up at him with
miserable blue eyes. "Are you all right?"
Anakin looked as though he didn't know whether to nod or shake
his head. Obi-Wan thought he could answer his own question,
anyway: of course Anakin wasn't all right, separated from Shmi
and in the hands of Xanatos. Xanatos might claim that he had
bought Anakin solely for the boy's podracing skills, but
Obi-Wan didn't even try to tell himself that Xanatos might have
missed Anakin's extraordinary force potential.
"I'll be in Mos Espa for a little while longer," Xanatos said,
looking up at Jabba, "in case you should happen to change your
mind about my proposed joint business venture. There is a
podrace tomorrow, and I wouldn't miss it for anything, now that
I have such a talented pilot to cheer for."
"My master will not change his mind," Fortuna said with
unexpected firmness. Obi-Wan wondered why Jabba and Fortuna had
insisted on his presence here; it didn't seem as though they
wanted him to speak for them, after all, even had he known what
to say. "Jabba wants--"
"Oh, and one other thing." Xanatos flicked a finger lazily, and
Obi-Wan felt the wave of power in the force that made Fortuna
fall involuntarily silent. "I left some property with you a
while ago that I thought I might as well take back now." He
smiled and ruffled Anakin's hair with one slender, black-gloved
hand. "That particular item has some rare qualities. You could
say that I've become something of a collector."
Jabba said something short and succinct, coughed wetly, and
spat onto the floor in front of the dais. "The property that
you gave to Jabba is now promised to someone else," Fortuna
said, his voice reedily hoarse now, as though Xanatos'
temporary silencing had constricted his throat. Obi-Wan felt a
tingle down his spine. "My master has promised to give the
slave to Knight Kenobi."
"You can't give away what isn't yours," Xanatos said
reprovingly. "Circumstances forced me to leave that slave here,
but I still own him, and I plan to take him back." His eyes
narrowed, and his hand twisted in Anakin's hair; the boy
winced, and tears of pain rose in his eyes, but he said
nothing. "Don't make more of an enemy of me than you already
have, Jabba. It would be unwise."
"If you try to claim the slave that has been promised to Knight
Kenobi, you make an enemy of the Jedi," Fortuna said, looking
at Obi-Wan rather than Xanatos, "and the Jedi are formidable
warriors."
Obi-Wan began to suspect the purpose of his own presence at
this meeting. He wasn't a negotiator, he was a bodyguard.
Xanatos still carried his lightsaber, and Jabba, presumably,
wouldn't go up against Xanatos without another 'saber wielder
at his side, in case things got ugly.
Xanatos laughed. "Do you think to make me fear a knight who's
barely out of his padawan robes? I made an enemy of the Jedi a
long time ago," he said, "and bound their greatest warrior in
chains."
"Your exaggeration flatters me." The words were softly enough
spoken, but made everyone else fall silent. Qui-Gon came out of
the shadows at the other end of the throne room, padding
quietly on bare feet, his eyes fixed on Xanatos. Obi-Wan
wondered how long he had been standing there, listening. "But
then, I suspect your true purpose is to indirectly flatter
yourself. Capturing me was hardly your finest hour, Xanatos."
"Perhaps not, "Xanatos said, "but keeping you captive certainly
had its moments."
Obi-Wan flexed his fingers. He could still feel against his
fingertips the knot of scars on Qui-Gon's hip where Qui-Gon
must have cut again and again into his own flesh to try to
eradicate Xanatos' mark. When he shifted his weight, turning to
keep both Xanatos and Qui-Gon in view, he was very conscious of
the weight of his lightsaber. At the same time, he could sense
everything else in the room with preternatural clarity: the
exact dimensions of Jabba's bulk behind him, the rhythm of
Fortuna's nervous breathing, the wine stains behind Anakin's
right foot. He felt poised on the crest of a wave about to
break.
"I'm touched to hear that you missed me." Qui-Gon folded his
arms, fingertips neatly aligned with his elbows, and Obi-Wan
was almost bewildered by that traditional Jedi gesture, coming
from a bare-chested man with a tangled braid. It looked both
wrong and right. "Since you did, I suppose I'd better come back
to you. You can have me, but leave Anakin here."
Obi-Wan looked at Qui-Gon, at the set of Qui-Gon's mouth and
the look in his eyes, and swallowed hard, feeling as though he
were choking on ground glass. This was what he was here to
prevent. Xanatos could not be allowed to take Qui-Gon back
again. But neither, Obi-Wan thought, could he leave a child
like Anakin in the hands of someone who had given a Jedi master
nightmares.
"Oh, Qui-Gon." Xanatos sighed fondly, shook his head, and
smiled. "This misguided nobility of yours is sweet, but
pointless. You can't trade yourself for him. I own the boy, and
I own you." He shook Anakin by the hair again, and then let go,
and Anakin edged away from him, half a step, and then another
half a step.
Jabba began to talk, and Fortuna spoke over his master's words,
"You own the boy, but you gave Qui-Gon to Jabba, and Knight
Kenobi has staked a claim to him."
"Oh?" Xanatos looked Obi-Wan up and down with knowing, scornful
eyes. "A Jedi claiming a slave. How unusual."
"We don't abandon our own," Obi-Wan said. "Not unless they
choose to abandon us, which Master Jinn," stressing the name
ever so slightly, "did not."
Xanatos' mouth tightened. He turned his head with impatient
abruptness and looked at Fortuna. "This stalling is useless.
The slave belongs to me, and I'm taking him with me. Deactivate
the implant and then wipe the code from the control rod."
Fortuna stared back nervously. Xanatos raised his hand.
"Deactivate the implant," he repeated, and Fortuna's eyes
glazed over.
The Twi'lek took the control rod out of his pocket and began to
tap its keys. "I will deactivate the implant," he said in a
flat voice, ignoring an annoyed gurgle from Jabba.
Glancing at Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan saw a momentary glint in the other
man's eyes, and nodded infinitesimally back. Since Xanatos
wasn't having the code transferred to a control rod of his own,
it seemed likely that he planned on controlling Qui-Gon by
physical means alone. Xanatos carried a blaster as well as a
lightsaber, and Qui-Gon was still wearing the force-inhibiting
chain.
"I'll have the implant recoded once we're back at the ship,"
Xanatos said, as if to confirm this. "I find my own private
coding to be much more secure and reliable than some Tatooine
hack job. I just thought you might enjoy a short taste of
freedom, Qui-Gon."
"I am free," Qui-Gon said, and his eyes locked with Xanatos';
Obi-Wan thought he could almost see that look, blue on blue,
sizzling and burning like two 'saber blades meeting. "I have
always been free."
Xanatos smiled. "You called me master, Qui-Gon." The control
rod beeped in Fortuna's hand as the code was deactivated. "And
you will call me master again." Xanatos' hand went to his belt,
and he began to walk towards Qui-Gon.
Faster than thought, Obi-Wan moved to put himself between the
two of them. His lightsaber was in his hands, humming steadily,
and the grip of his fingers around its familiar hilt felt like
the simplest and most perfect thing in the universe. He met
Xanatos' eyes, looking there for the man's next action and
reaction; they faced each other over Obi-Wan's blade for a
drawn-out moment of silence, and then Xanatos raised his
lightsaber as well. Its vibrations were pitched slightly lower
than Obi-Wan's, and the sounds created an eerie harmony, like
the opening chord of a battle hymn.
The last time he'd faced Xanatos across a lit 'saber blade,
he'd been twelve years old and frightened and angry enough to
go on the offensive, needled by Xanatos' derisive comments,
driven by his deep desire to prove himself to Qui-Gon. Not that
that had worked very well, Obi-Wan reflected. They had fought
side by side then, but when it was all over, Qui-Gon had once
again been distant and silent and no more inclined to take an
apprentice than he ever had been.
This time, Obi-Wan held still and waited. He opened himself up
to the force, feeling its warmth surround him, trusting in its
support and guidance. When Xanatos moved, Obi-Wan was ready,
and met the first quick slash with a simple parry. Their 'saber
blades scraped together, a screechy unpleasant rasp that was
familiar from a thousand exercises, sparring drills,
competitions, and demonstrations. Obi-Wan had wondered as a
child why he spent so much time sparring against others with
lightsabers, when the only people who used lightsabers were
Jedi. The first time he'd faced Xanatos, he'd been deeply
grateful for all that practice. Now, he was even more grateful
that he'd faced Xanatos that one time. This wasn't a training
exercise; it was as real as anything would ever get.
He stayed where he was, in a simple defensive posture, and
waited for Xanatos to come to him again.
The attack, when it came, was fast and subtle. Xanatos was
lighter on his feet than Obi-Wan had expected. His style was
pure, classic Jedi, seemingly drawn directly from a kata
demonstration. Obi-Wan countered unthinkingly with the next
logical move, only to find Xanatos slipping aside in a movement
from another exercise. Free-form sparring. No. Fighting. He had
to clear his mind of all preconceptions.
Xanatos came at him, and everything shifted; Obi-Wan didn't
know if he was moving faster, or time more slowly, but every
movement and moment was filled with the force's subtle whisper.
His awareness narrowed down to the movement of Xanatos'
lightsaber through the air, and widened to sense the breathing
and pulse of everyone in the room. One of them was moving.
Anakin, slipping farther away from Xanatos, gravitating slowly
towards Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan blocked a high blow, twisted, pressed
his advantage, and drove Xanatos back a couple of steps. The
presence that was Anakin was almost behind him now.
Two quick steps to the right, the second one longer, to avoid a
slippery patch on the floor. He tried a feint, but Xanatos
didn't fall for it, and soon they were in the middle of another
flurry of exchanged blows, their blades leaving wavering light
trails in the dimness of Jabba's throne room. Jabba growled
something, and Fortuna said, "You will regret going up against
Jabba the Hutt, Xanatos. But you will not regret it for very
long!"
Obi-Wan was tempted to flip over Xanatos' head and turn the
fight around, but decided to stay on the ground and keep
himself between Xanatos and Qui-Gon, Xanatos and Anakin. Anakin
must have reached Qui-Gon; there was an odd hum of force around
him. So Jabba was hoping that Obi-Wan would kill Xanatos. That
made a certain amount of sense, and only a Hutt would hope to
be able to use a Jedi as a pet assassin. Obi-Wan parried
another familiar move from Xanas
aimed just as much at Anakin. "No!"
Obi-Wan didn't know what was going on. He couldn't spare the
attention to find out what Anakin was doing; he put everything
into beating Xanatos back again, turning from defensive moves
to offensive ones, pushing the other man step by step towards
the other end of the room. Force filled the room, thick and
syrupy, and it felt as though they were both slowed down,
weighted down with it, even though Obi-Wan knew their true
speed. Glass crunched under Xanatos' right boot. Parry. Lunge.
Xanatos' next move was classic--textbook--right out of a
demonstration kata--stupid, Obi-Wan thought, and went with the
equally classic defense--
--and Xanatos moved completely the wrong way and jerked his arm
up, and it was only by throwing himself backwards that Obi-Wan
avoided getting a lightsaber handle slammed into his chin.
He rolled across the floor, felt the shattered glass cut
through his shirt and into his skin. Stupid, he thought again,
and put some force into his own motion, came upright again.
There was a long ugly burn mark where his 'saber had scorched
the floor. He'd have to learn that move, learn how to counter
it. To his right, Xanatos was already moving towards him again.
To his left, Qui-Gon was kneeling on the floor and Anakin had
his hands on Qui-Gon's shoulders, and blood was running down
Qui-Gon's chest.
The force stirred, shifted. There was a moment of silence, and
then Obi-Wan raised his arm almost casually, blocking Xanatos'
next strike. Anakin couldn't possibly know what he was doing,
and if no one managed to stop the boy, Qui-Gon might end up
torn to pieces, physically or mentally, by what Anakin was
bringing to bear on the chain. But if Obi-Wan let Xanatos get
past, who knew what he'd do, to Anakin or Qui-Gon.
Spin. Block. Thrust. Obi-Wan started to push Xanatos back
again; this time he was the one to step on the remaining glass
shards, the ones that weren't embedded in his shoulder. He
leaped over an overturned bench and the downward sweep of his
saber blade sheared the hood off Xanatos' cloak. If he could
only fight Xanatos to a standstill, disarm him, then...
What then?
A wave of pressure came through the force, crested, broke. The
air shivered and broke apart, shattered by a soundless scream.
Obi-Wan jerked back, and so did Xanatos. Obi-Wan had the oddest
feeling that his ears were ringing. He glanced over his
shoulder and froze. Qui-Gon was lying on the floor, his chest
heaving with rapid painful breaths, the chain in a heap beside
him. Anakin knelt by Qui-Gon's side, grinning hugely, even
though his hands were covered with blood. "I did it!" he said,
meeting Obi-Wan's eyes. "I did it!"
Obi-Wan stared and nodded, too stunned to say anything, then
twisted quickly to face Xanatos again. He expected another
attack, but Xanatos was staring, too, with wide shocked eyes.
Several heartbeats passed before he seemed to collect himself.
"Anakin." Xanatos dug into a pocket with his free hand and drew
out a control rod. "Come to me. Now."
Anakin glared rebelliously over Qui-Gon's prone body. "No!"
Xanatos lifted the control rod higher, thumbing casually at it.
"Yes. Either you leave this room with me, or you leave it in a
sack, in tiny pieces."
"I'd rather be dead," Anakin said, and though his voice was
thick with boyish sulkiness, the sentiment sounded honest
enough.
"Very well." Xanatos shrugged. "I don't care one way or
another. I can find something else to amuse myself with. I've
been thinking that it may have been a mistake not to buy your
mother as well."
"No!" Anakin leaped up, shaking with anger; Obi-Wan could feel
it pulsing through the force with dangerous strength, pounding
at his temples like a headache. Jumping over Qui-Gon, Anakin
stalked towards Xanatos, one reluctant step at a time. "Leave
her alone. I'll come with you, if you leave my mother alone!"
"Don't be so ill-tempered," Xanatos said, grabbing Anakin's arm
as soon as the boy was close enough; his voice was kind, but
his fingers dug bruisingly hard into the boy's fair skin.
"There is much you could learn from me." The words were
chilling, and Obi-Wan wanted to protest, but he felt pulled in
two directions at once, to go to Xanatos and take Anakin away
from him, to go to Qui-Gon and make sure he was still
breathing. "And you, Qui-Gon. Get up and come with me, or the
boy and his mother--"
Obi-Wan had never been even mildly synesthetic. The wave of red
sound that rolled over him with a touch like clawed velvet
knocked him to his knees. He was drowning in the blood-ripe
taste of it, deafened by its vivid color. "Stop," he breathed,
and tried to anchor himself in the force, but the force was a
whirlwind of tangled light around him, dancing crazily through
the room. "Stop..."
Far, far away, Jabba was shouting, and Anakin screamed, a short
high burst of sound that was mercifully free of taste or
texture. Obi-Wan concentrated on that sound and forced his eyes
to focus on the ordinary world, though the force battered at
him from all sides, with unpredictable random violence. On the
dais, Jabba was bright green and hazy as a gas cloud; Obi-Wan
shook his head to clear it, and abruptly, everything snapped
back into place. The world looked and sounded normal again,
everything the same shape and color as before.
Xanatos was dragging Anakin away, one hand locked around the
boy's wrist, the other holding the control rod. Before Obi-Wan
could take even a step forward, they'd disappeared into the
shadows, out of the room, and Fortuna's voice rose over Jabba's
steady grumbling. "My master is very displeased."
He's not the only one, Obi-Wan thought, and for a moment he
could taste the dryness of the words, but that small resurgence
faded when he turned and got a good look at Qui-Gon. The
bleeding had slowed to a trickle, and Qui-Gon had pushed
himself up to kneel on the floor, putting a little distance
between himself and the broken chain. He looked a mess, dirty
and bloody and with a tremor running through his shoulders and
down his arms. He was shining with force, lucent with it: it
streamed through him like light through glass.
Obi-Wan strode up to the dais, powering down his lightsaber but
keeping it comfortably in his hand. He yanked the slave implant
control rod out of Fortuna's hand and dropped it to the ground,
crushing it with his boot heel and a bit of force. "You will
delete the control codes to Qui-Gon's implant and purge all
traces of them from your system," he said quietly.
"Jabba is very displeased," Fortuna tried again. "You have not
held up your end of the bargain. We cannot allow you to take
the slave."
Looking up into Fortuna's flat, frightened eyes, Obi-Wan
thought that he probably didn't need to use the force for this.
"Delete the control codes," he repeated evenly. He could hear
Qui-Gon stand up and take a couple of steps in his direction.
"I will come with you and watch you do it."
Jabba heaved his great bulk forward and said something glottal
and furious, punctuating it by thumping his tail against the
dais. Fortuna swayed visibly, caught between his master's will
and Obi-Wan's. About to grasp Fortuna by the arm and pull him
away, Obi-Wan felt the force move to another's bidding. "Be
quiet," Qui-Gon said, and Jabba sank back, stunned into
silence; one short arm attempted to reach towards a set of
buttons, then dropped into immobility.
With a small sound of distress, Fortuna looked at his master,
at Qui-Gon, and finally at Obi-Wan. He got down off the dais
and pulled himself into a semblance of dignity, adjusting his
left tentacle and straightening his robe. "Come this way," he
said and walked around the edge of the dais, into the shadows
behind it. Obi-Wan followed just in time to see Fortuna push a
small lever, and part of the wall slid soundlessly aside.
Behind it was a small room filled with the hum of electronic
equipment.
Fortuna went to the nearest computer bank and started pressing
symbols on a small touchpad. Obi-Wan watched, trying to make
out the symbols before Fortuna's fingers hid them. He didn't
entirely trust Fortuna not to attempt something that would
shift the balance of power again. Now that Qui-Gon was free, he
was going to stay free.
"And the surveillance records," he said. "Wipe them. Destroy
the holo." Blackmail issues aside, it wouldn't look good for
the Jedi if he and Qui-Gon became unwilling porn stars on the
outer rim, and Obi-Wan wouldn't put it past Jabba to release
the holo out of sheer spite. "Where are the guards? Why didn't
they come rushing as soon as the fight started?"
"My master made it clear that no one was to interfere."
Fortuna's mouth crimped. "He was depending on you."
"And he's still alive," Obi-Wan pointed out. The text on the
screen was in Huttese, but he could read that pretty fast by
now and everything that scrolled by seemed right, nor could he
feel any deceit from Fortuna, only sour anger. "I tried to
negotiate for him. The other party wasn't willing. This
concludes our, ah, business association."
Fortuna made a derisive sound in the back of his throat,
entered a final command, and turned away from the terminal.
"There. Everything has been deleted, as you asked. And you have
made an enemy of Jabba the Hutt today."
Shaking his head, Obi-Wan took Fortuna's elbow and steered him
out of the small room again. Jabba had never liked the Jedi.
This changed nothing. But the small attempt at intimidation
seemed to cheer Fortuna up, and it was better to have him think
that the departing Jedi were running scared than to aggravate
him into suggesting a full-scale pursuit to Jabba.
"Let's get out of here," he said to Qui-Gon, to strengthen the
impression. When he glanced up at Jabba, he found that the Hutt
was still in a force-induced stupor. "Let's just leave."
Qui-Gon nodded, turned, and walked away without a single
backwards glance.
Obi-Wan followed, but with a quick glance over his shoulder at
Fortuna, who was hovering by Jabba's side. No one tried to stop
them or speak to them as they went down to the ground level. It
was still early, and there were few people about, but even the
guards they encountered backed away and disappeared around the
corners. Obi-Wan kept looking at Qui-Gon, trying to reconcile
the man whose body he had come to know with this incandescent
presence in the force that swept all obstacles out of its way.
The speeder was where Obi-Wan had left it, and powered up
smoothly, its sharp engine whine echoing off the walls. The
droid guarding the exit obeyed his order, and the heavy door
slid up, letting in air and sunshine, letting them out. Obi-Wan
flew straight and fast, skimming the dunes, until he'd put a
little distance between them and the palace. Then he veered to
the right and slowed down, looking around, until he found a
place in the shadow of a twisted rock formation where he could
put the speeder down again.
Qui-Gon shifted. The small speeder was a cramped ride for two
people when one of them had long legs. "Why are we stopping
here?"
"We can't go into town looking like this." Obi-Wan rummaged
through the compartment under the controls until he found the
rental firm's first aid kit. "Especially not you."
He sacrificed his stole and one of the water bottles on his
belt to wash the blood off Qui-Gon's chest. The holes left by
the chain links looked deep and nasty, an infection waiting to
happen, and he splashed on disinfectant from the kit--Qui-Gon's
eyes narrowed and a muscle in his jaw jumped--and then smeared
antibacterial ointment all around before taping on bandages.
The padded rectangles looked very odd, taped so symmetrically
over Qui-Gon's collarbones, like some new form of body art.
"Thank you," Qui-Gon said gravely.
Obi-Wan pulled off his shirts and twisted in the speeder seat,
turning until his back was towards Qui-Gon. "Do you think you
can get the glass out of my shoulder? There's a needle in that
kit somewhere."
"Hold still," Qui-Gon said, and Obi-Wan felt a tingle and a
quick sting of pain. Qui-Gon was using the force to dig the
glass out. A delicate task like that would not have been
Obi-Wan's first choice to let Qui-Gon reacquaint himself with
the details of fine force-manipulation, but he set his jaw and
said nothing.
Staring out beyond their patch of shade, he watched the air
swirl in lazy heat shimmers above sand and rock. The sand had
an uncountable number of colors, each grain slightly different.
When his eyes unfocused, it all became dull, hazy. When he
sharpened his gaze again, the subtle differences were there,
showing him unexpected beauty. Obi-Wan breathed. "About
Anakin... you were right."
"You believe now that he is the chosen one?"
Obi-Wan hesitated. "I don't know about that. But you were right
in saying that he must be trained. With abilities like that,
the boy needs a guiding hand, and Xanatos wouldn't be my first
choice. Ow," he added mildly as Qui-Gon's focus wavered and one
of the glass fragments dug deeper.
"We have to hurry," Qui-Gon said. "Xanatos could be taking the
boy offplanet while we sit here."
"I'd prefer it if you didn't rush this." Obi-Wan gripped the
edge of the speeder seat a bit more firmly. One of Qui-Gon's
large, rough hands took a grip at the join of Obi-Wan's neck
and shoulder, bending his head away and stretching the muscles
and skin uncomfortably. The glass splinters popped out one by
one, each leaving a moment of tiny bright pain behind. Obi-Wan
kept quiet, not wanting to disturb Qui-Gon's focus.
"There," Qui-Gon said finally, and without warning rubbed a
compress soaked in disinfectant over Obi-Wan's shoulder. "I
don't think it needs covering up."
Obi-Wan nodded and squirmed around in the speeder seat again.
All the cuts had been shallow, and the pain was negligible. He
was more concerned about Qui-Gon's injuries. He pulled one of
his shirts back on, and handed the other one to Qui-Gon. "I
know it's too small, but it's better than nothing. It will make
you a little less eye-catching."
Qui-Gon poked a finger through the rent over the right
shoulder, where the fabric was stiff with the brownish-red of
dried blood, but said nothing. When he pulled the shirt on,
there was another rip of tearing fabric, and the ends of the
sleeves didn't come anywhere near his wrists. Still, Obi-Wan
thought, packing up the first-aid kit and putting it away, it
was better than nothing. There were many poor and
strangely dressed people in Mos Espa, and too-short sleeves
were probably fashionable somewhere in the galaxy.
When he powered up the speeder engine, several small animals
that had ventured forth skittered back into their hiding places
again, little tan-on-brown ghosts, only visible in motion. A
fine cloud of sand rose around them, and then they left it
behind as the speeder shot forward. The heat felt more intense
than the day before, or perhaps it was just that he felt it
more clearly through only one thin shirt. Obi-Wan increased
their speed until the wind lifted his hair off his shoulders
and rushed coolingly down his back under the sweat- and
blood-soaked fabric.
There was no sign that anyone had pursued them from Jabba's
palace. Obi-Wan was inclined to think that Jabba would let them
go. Under other circumstances the Hutt might have wanted to
retaliate for a perceived loss of dignity, but not while
Xanatos was still around. From Jabba's perspective, Qui-Gon and
Obi-Wan would make a good distraction for Xanatos.
Beyond the next dune, Obi-Wan saw the first buildings appear.
He circled around the outskirts of Mos Espa, as he had done the
day before, coming up on the space port district. For a
commercial area, it was inexplicably low-key; not even the
rental agencies had adopted the large, garish signs that
Obi-Wan normally associated with competitive marketing
strategies. He parked the speeder in the same lot as the day
before and jumped out. Turning, he saw that Qui-Gon clambered
out a bit more slowly. Obi-Wan frowned, but before he could say
anything, Qui-Gon waved a hand dismissively. "I'm fine."
"There is a luxury cruiser docked over in hangar six that I
think may be Xanatos'." Obi-Wan waited for Qui-Gon to come
around the speeder before he started walking. He assessed the
other man's movements: a little stiff, a little slow, but only
a little. Qui-Gon didn't look too flushed. Not feverish, then,
at least not yet.
"If it's still there." Qui-Gon fell into step beside him. "He
must know it's in his best interests to take the boy and leave
as soon as possible, particularly now that I am--"
Obi-Wan waited, but Qui-Gon didn't finish the sentence. They
left the lot and went into the street, crossing it to get to
the shady side. There were more people around than there had
been yesterday, Obi-Wan noticed. The hum of excited talk in the
air seemed more intense. When they got to hangar six, the crowd
outside the hangar doors was smaller, but still there. Obi-Wan
looked up at Qui-Gon, who was staring over the top of a
Yuznan's wheezy environment suit, eyes gone coldly granite. "I
take it it's the right ship."
Obi-Wan stepped to the side, getting a better view past the
Yuznan's shoulder. "It doesn't seem as though they're getting
ready to leave just yet." Two crew members in the dark outfits
he remembered from the day before were going over a landing
strut, pointing out areas here and there to a woman in
mechanics' coveralls with a hydrospanner in her back pocket.
"Not if they're in the middle of a maintenance overhaul. And
there is the podrace tomorrow to consider, too."
"All the talk about podracing may have been a smokescreen."
Qui-Gon glared at the Ya'an cruiser. "We must find Anakin."
Obi-Wan drew a deep breath. "I don't care what your orders are.
I'm not leaving without him. We're going to have to find out
where Xanatos is staying."
Before Obi-Wan could say anything, Qui-Gon walked away from
him, pushing his way through the crowd until he was at the
hangar doors. A guard came up to stop him, and Qui-Gon gestured
emphatically with his right hand. The guard frowned, reluctant
or resistent, and Obi-Wan wasn't surprised. Qui-Gon was sweaty
and tangle-haired, and in his battered pants, with bloodstained
bandages insufficiently hidden by a too-small, also
bloodstained shirt, he looked neither respectable nor
confidence-inspiring. Obi-Wan was well aware that he wasn't
much more presentable himself.
The Yuznan turned to leave, and as Obi-Wan moved out of the
way, he came up against a short woman who was studying a flimsy
printout list. "I'm sorry," he said, and then, getting a closer
look at what she held, "Excuse me? Are those the most recent
odds for the podrace?"
She nodded. "Got them over at the betting office just now. This
is the final list, there's been some changes." The woman
steadied the flimsy and tapped her thumb near the top of the
list. "Parreeth isn't starting after all. Sebulba's still the
favorite, but I think Ynn Rarr has a good chance."
Obi-Wan tilted his head, scanning the list. "What about Anakin
Skywalker?"
The woman shook her head. "Not a chance. Humans can't fly
racing pods. The kid's only been in two races before, and he
didn't finish either of them. I'm surprised he's even trying
again after that last crash."
"But he's still entered," Obi-Wan said, catching sight of
Anakin's name down at the bottom of the flimsy. With odds like
that, it was no wonder Anakin had thought he could buy his
freedom if he won.
"Yes, and some rich idiot's been betting heavily on him, too.
Have you ever noticed how rich idiots rarely remain rich, but
they always remain idiots?" The woman snorted, and Obi-Wan
nodded absently, half-turning to see where Qui-Gon had gone and
if he'd had any luck getting into the hangar. "What's he going
to do, walk home when he has to sell his fancy,
customized, over-polished excuse for a space yacht? Anyone who
registers out of Veeri is hiding something, and this guy's sure
hiding his intelligence real well."
Obi-Wan turned back abruptly. "This--the man who owns this
cruiser has placed a bet on Anakin Skywalker?"
"Yup. Some goon wearing his staff uniform, anyway, but the
hired help never has that much to play with." She folded the
flimsy and stuffed it into the side pocket of her jacket. "It's
his money and it'll be his loss. Me, I'm betting on Sebulba,
and so should you."
The woman walked away. Obi-Wan caught sight of Qui-Gon, who was
coming his way again. He turned as Qui-Gon reached him, and
they moved out of the crowd, stopping further down the street.
Qui-Gon looked grave. "They don't know where he's staying. They
don't even have a comm code for him."
"But he is staying," Obi-Wan said. "He's placed a large bet on
Anakin in the podrace tomorrow." He resisted the urge to
scratch at his shoulder. "We should be able to find them there,
if not before. Anakin's former owner might know something,
depending on what method of payment Xanatos used. But first--"
"We must talk to Shmi," Qui-Gon said.
"Yes, and the council. But before we do that, we need to buy
you a new shirt."
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