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  Then there were the people. Luke had decided that he and Ben would walk to the Baran Do Sages’ temple, as the map showed it to be not too far for a leg-stretching hike, and so Ben had the opportunity to see hundreds of the Kel Dors in the spaceport terminal building and on the streets.

  Like the two who had performed the inspection, most were tall and angular. Unlike the inspectors, they were bare-faced … and what faces they had! Round bald heads, sunken eyes, narrow ridge-like noses that looked to Ben like failed attempts at becoming birds’ beaks, and large, toothless mouths that looked like they belonged on very old humans … Ben tried not to stare at every face he passed, but he couldn’t help himself, and did not like himself for the conclusion he reached.

  When he and his father arrived at the street where the temple was to be found, a street almost free of speeders but still trafficked by pedestrians, and they were no longer near any crowds of natives, he said, “Dad, these are not a pretty people.”

  Luke considered. “From a certain point of view, perhaps.”

  “It sort of bothers me that I see them that way.”

  “Well, you know the answer to that. What’s one of the first things you learned in training to be a Jedi?”

  “Don’t cut off your own head with your lightsaber.”

  “After that.”

  “Your eyes can deceive you. Be mindful of your feelings. Girls are fun but dangerous. Lando has extra cards up his sleeve.”

  “Well, the truth is in there somewhere … Tell you what, if you think it’s wrong for you to think of them as ugly, just think of how you look to them.” Luke made a sweeping gesture, taking in his son from head to foot. “Short, squat, unlined skin, a nose that puffs up like a rodent, tiny little mouth with jagged white things in it, a horrible shrublike growth on your head.”

  Ben laughed. “This, from the man who’s worn a bowl-cut hairstyle almost all his adult life.”

  “You’re young, Ben. You’ll learn to see with wiser eyes. And if you deliberately set out to do that, it’ll be faster.”

  The stretch of the city between the spaceport and their destination had been thick with smaller buildings, the exterior signs in the Kel Dor language suggesting that most were businesses. Now the buildings were larger, some set within walled enclosures. Ben checked his datapad, using a comfortingly familiar planetary positioning system to compare their location with the maps, and found they were only forty meters from their objective. He pointed ahead and across the street. “There.”

  What he was looking at was clearly an estate—one large ziggurat-shaped building, each of its four levels darker than the ones below it, graduating from thundercloud gray-black down to sky blue, surrounded by two-story outbuildings in similar colors, all within a wall made up of black wrought-durasteel posts with transparisteel sheets laid across them. The transparisteel was smooth and a little uneven, and Ben could visualize, perhaps as a tiny vision in the Force, Baran Do apprentices polishing it over the years, removing minute scratches, that had caused the transparent material to become slightly worn and misshapen. Through it, as he and Luke advanced, the buildings seemed to distort and sway.

  They stopped before the gates, which were ajar and undefended. A path of red-orange flagstones led from there to the steps rising into the main building. The double front doors were also open, with light streaming out from the interior.

  Luke looked at the approach and grinned.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Tradition. You’ll see. C’mon.” Luke put on his serene Grand Master face, made sure his robes were smoothed into presentability, and headed in. With a quick check of his own hair, Ben followed, a pace back and to the right.

  The entrance chamber of the temple of the Baran Do Sages was large and imposing. Black stone walls reached up more than six meters. White stone columns against those walls, rounded and slightly narrower at the base than the top, not only suggested that the ceiling would be kept at a distance but helped offset the darkness of the décor. The ceiling was of a blue-black stone and sparkled like a starry sky, while the floor was a brown permacrete polished smooth, perhaps even waxed. It was all dimly lit by blue glow rods at floor level against the walls.

  Ben nodded, instantly grasping the intent of the decorative style. Sky above, ground below, darkness of the black holes to either side, columns suggesting the constructions or intents of living beings keeping those nightmarish celestial anomalies at bay.

  Immediately opposite the main entrance was a raised platform with steps leading up to it. It was only a meter higher than the floor itself, and there was no furniture on it. Ben had half expected a throne of some sort, or a circle of seats like in the Masters’ Chamber at the Jedi Temple. There was a Kel Dor woman standing on the platform, her robes white with curved dotted-line decorations in red and black; she was staring off at the left wall as Luke and Ben entered, and did not react to their arrival.

  No other doors or hallways seemed to exit this chamber, but the square sheets of black stone on the walls, fitting together almost seamlessly, could hide a dozen exits.

  Luke drew to a halt two meters from the platform steps and waited. Ben stood silently beside him.

  The Kel Dor woman turned toward them. She spoke, her Basic lightly flavored with a lilting accent: “Who comes to us?”

  “I am Luke Skywalker, a Jedi. This is my companion, Jedi Ben Skywalker.”

  “Ah. Famous names.” The woman tilted her head as she studied them. “My name is not so famous. I am Tistura Paan.”

  Luke nodded a greeting. “I am pleased to meet you.”

  “What is the business you bring before us?”

  “I am investigating the travels of a former student of mine. I am trying to determine whether he came here and what he might have learned.”

  “Your student’s name?”

  “Jacen Solo.”

  “Also a famous name.” Tistura Paan scratched at her nasal ridge. “I think these are questions for the Mistress of our order, Tila Mong.”

  Luke nodded. “Then I wish to speak with your Mistress at her convenience.”

  “And whom shall I say wishes to see her?”

  Luke hesitated so briefly that Ben suspected only he detected it. “As I said before, Jedi Luke Skywalker and Jedi Ben Skywalker.”

  “Ah. There is a puzzlement. How can I go before my Mistress and say that the famous Luke Skywalker is here, when I cannot prove that you are indeed he?”

  The faintest trace of a smile appeared on Luke’s face. “You could take my word for it.”

  “A word that is beyond price if you are indeed Luke Skywalker, and without measurable worth if you are not.”

  “I do resemble my holos. Somewhat. If my family is to be believed.”

  “As would any truly skillful imposter.” She spread her arms, palms upraised, a very human gesture of helplessness. “I fear we are at an impasse. Unless …”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I would stand no chance in combat with the true Luke Skywalker.”

  Luke smiled outright. “Or any sufficiently well-trained imposter.”

  “That is not a given. Regardless, were you to defeat me, I would acknowledge that your claim to be Luke Skywalker was possibly true, and convey your message to my mistress.”

  Luke nodded. “A useful solution. But impractical.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you are not worthy to face me.”

  Ben felt his eyes widen. He forced himself to resume an impassive, sabacc-playing expression. But his father’s words baffled him. They sounded so agreeable in tone, yet were more arrogant than anything he had ever heard his father say.

  Luke continued, “Still, if a former apprentice of mine can best you, then the same conditions apply.” He turned to Ben. “Son, go beat her up.”

  Ben froze as if his father’s gaze were that of some paralytic monster from myth. After a moment, he was able to clear his throat, covering his confusion, and said, “Sir?”


  “Go on up there and knock her down a few times.”

  “Yes, sir.” His mind reeling, Ben strode up the steps to stand before Tistura Paan. And he wondered for a moment if Valin Horn had been right, if the Jedi he knew were suddenly being replaced by impersonators.

  Tistura Paan gave Luke a look Ben interpreted as scornful. “I hope you have another child, so that a healthy one can be in rotation while this one lies bruised and crying.”

  Luke turned his back on them. “Just fight. Let me know when it’s over.”

  Tistura Paan lashed out at Ben, a left-handed, flat-fisted blow straight toward his face. She did not look at him beforehand, gave him no visual warning of her intent. But feeling her channeling her power through the Force, he swayed out of the way, the blow snapping into place just to the side of his nose. He trapped her wrist with his left hand and struck at her elbow with his right—a hard blow but not a savage one, it hyperextended her joint but did not break it. She gave a sudden yank and was instantly meters away, shaking her arm as if to cast the pain free.

  Ben sidestepped to take the center of the platform and dropped into a defensive posture. He wouldn’t make the same mistake Tistura Paan had. If her role here was to challenge every visitor, or just every visitor claiming to be a famous Jedi, she’d probably be good at her job.

  She charged him, arms flailing. He sidestepped, reaching out for her right hand, intending to give it a twist and push to launch her past him out of control, but the wildness of her attack was all show—leaping past, she kicked at his midsection, a fast, hard blow. He continued his own maneuver into a spin; when the Kel Dor connected, the force of the blow was reduced. It still hurt, her skinny leg striking home like a cane, but he was merely forced to step back, his gut stinging where she’d hit him; he did not fall.

  Tistura Paan hit the platform in a practiced roll and came up on her feet at its edge; she spun, ready again.

  Ben spared a glance at his father. Luke still had his back to the fight and looked as though he were digging dirt out from under a fingernail.

  Tistura Paan advanced more carefully, short steps, her left side forward, hands up and ready in a classic martial posture. Ben mimicked it. He wasn’t sure how long he should go on letting her demonstrate her skills and tactics as the fight’s aggressor—the longer he did so, gauging her skill, the longer he gave her to develop a successful strategy. But neither did he want to rush blindly into an attack for which she had a ready, practiced defense.

  She stopped well short of him and gestured as if shooing children before her, but the move was more sudden, more forceful. And Forceful: Ben felt a surge in the Force, and then suddenly wind was shoving him backward toward the platform’s edge, tugging at his garments, pushing at his breath mask.

  He knew instinctively that going over the edge would mean losing the match. He got his feet behind him, bracing him against the Force wind, and drew on his own powers to root him in place.

  He stopped, his tactical sense telling him that his rear foot was mere centimeters from the platform edge. But he held where he was.

  Then Tistura Paan’s attack tore the breath mask from his face. It flew behind him; a sudden yank against his back told him it had reached the end of the cable by which it was attached to the canisters in his backpack.

  This was bad. If he devoted any effort to getting the breath mask on, she’d be able to assault him, perhaps successfully. If he did nothing, he would be limited to the endurance the air still in his lungs gave him—less than a minute, considering his exertions. But he had to do one or the other …

  No, he didn’t. His father had always taught him to look for the third of two options. He shucked the backpack, letting Tistura Paan’s Force assault carry it away from his body. He heard it clank against the stone wall.

  Tistura Paan’s eyes grew wide. She smiled. “Thank you for handing me the victory. Well, in a few moments.” The Force wind stopped.

  Ben wasted no breath on a retort. He advanced and threw a rapid punch–kick–punch combination, not quite at full speed or strength. The Kel Dor blocked the maneuvers with a smooth, defensive style.

  Ben settled into an aggressive pattern, one he’d practiced so often with Jacen and at the Temple that it was almost second nature to him. It was second nature, which meant that it occupied very little of his mental faculties.

  In his mind, he focused on his discarded breath mask and canister pack. He could feel them against the wall, almost see them. He exerted his will against the rig through the Force, lifting the whole mass a few centimeters, bringing it forward to the base of the platform.

  Tistura Paan’s fist hit him in the ribs, an attack he’d failed to anticipate because of his inattentiveness. The rock-hard blow drove the air from his lungs and forced him to take a step back.

  The Kel Dor’s smile grew wider. It was an unattractive smile, lips pulled back over hard upper and lower palates that Ben supposed must take the place of teeth. “Wake up, Jedi boy, whoever you are.”

  Ben felt a twinge of panic, but he knew it was just a physiological reaction to not being able to breathe. He suppressed the emotion and divided his attention more equally between what his body was doing and what he was up to with his manipulation of the Force.

  Tistura Paan struck; he parried. The breath mask rig floated another few meters along the base of the platform and rounded a corner. Tistura Paan threw a flurry of feints and punches; Ben blocked each, exerting himself as little as possible, but could feel his energy starting to wane. Still, the breath mask rig floated and rounded another corner. Now it was at floor level behind Tistura Paan.

  She stopped for a moment and backed away a step. “Would you like to rest?” Though voiced as if in all seriousness, the question was a taunt, since Ben could not recover without breathing.

  Ben glowered as if angered by the question. He sprang at her as if ready to begin one last, futile flurry of blows, then yanked with the Force.

  The breath mask rig sailed up over the lip of the platform and caught Tistura Paan behind the knees. Suddenly falling backward, she flailed her arms. Ben spun on one foot, placing the other precisely past her now vanished guard, and hitting her in the center of her chest.

  Tistura Paan sailed off the platform and hit the floor beyond, only a few steps from Luke. She did a backward somersault and came up on her feet, eyes flashing. “You failed. You brought outside objects into play.”

  Ben stooped to pick up his breath mask. He fitted it over his face, not bothering yet to strap on the canister pack, and took a couple of deep breaths. “You brought it into play,” he said. “You yanked it off me and therefore made an attack of it. I merely followed your lead. Logically, I would have left it right where it was if you hadn’t meddled with it.”

  Tistura Paan glowered, then turned her head as if looking into the distance well beyond the walls. Finally, she turned her attention to Luke. “I will communicate your request.”

  He looked at her blankly, then turned to Ben. “Are you all done?”

  “Yes, sir.” Ben donned the canister pack.

  “Did you win?”

  “Yes, sir. I only knocked her down once. But it was off the platform.”

  “Well, that will have to do.” Luke turned back to the Kel Dor. “Yes, please, and convey my compliments.”

  Tistura Paan turned and strode, her steps rapid and her upper body a bit stiff, toward a blank section of side wall; a segment of stone, two meters high and two wide, withdrew about a handspan, then slid to one side to allow her entry. Once she was through, it closed.

  Ben hopped down to stand beside his father. Keeping his tone down, he asked, “What was that all about?”

  Luke gave him a slight, private smile. “Rival school traditions.”

  “Huh?”

  “In many martial schools, such as rival lightsaber training academies in ancient times, or military academies outside the Old Republic, someone visiting a rival school would generally be denied any aid or information
until he’d proved his worth. Which meant proving it to a Master of the school in one-on-one combat. As we arrived, I could sense Tistura Paan’s presence within and what her role was. And that she knew we were coming.”

  “But you didn’t fight her.”

  “Correct. If I had agreed to fight Tistura Paan, someone beneath my rank, I would be acknowledging that I was not the equal of her Master, so I’d never see the leader of the Baran Do Sages.”

  A light flared into luminescence in Ben’s head. “Ah, so your student had to beat her student.”

  “And you did, and very well. You turned your mistake into her mistake and your weakness into your strength.”

  “And you got clean nails in the bargain. A win all around.”

  The wall panel slid open again. Tistura Paan moved out, her face impassive, and gestured for them to precede her through that entrance. “Mistress Tila Mong will receive you now.”

  CALRISSIAN-NUNB MINES, KESSEL

  They glided forward in near darkness now. The only lights to be seen were the dim bluish readouts on the control console. The whine of the vehicle’s repulsors and the occasional pinging of the sensor board were almost the only sounds to be heard.

  “Have we passed any spice yet?” Leia asked. She glanced between the various sensor readouts, each occupying one-eighth of one of the console monitors. Her face was ghostly in the faint light from the instruments.

  Han shook his head, then realized Leia might not be able to see the motion. He tapped the lower right readout on her screen. “That’s the spice sniffer. A chemical sensor. Also detects ryll, and distinguishes between the two. These things are so sensitive that they’d pick up even very old, activated spice within a hundred meters. What are you detecting?”

  “Just what you see here. Mostly air currents caused by our repulsors. They return short, false movement positives.”

  “No, I mean you. Through the Force.”

  “Ah.” She shook her head. “Not much. There’s life all around us, mostly very faint—lower life-forms like insects, I think. Nothing as bright or vital as a humanoid or a giant arachnid.”