[Legacy Of The Force] - 04(82)

Mara gave Corran a scowl that all but said Not now, you idiot.

Kyp lowered his face into his palm. “Talk about straying from the topic,” he said.

Corran relaxed, his expression becoming more neutral. “All right. Back on topic. We’ve all been talking about dispassionate analysis in this argument. Now, I approve of dispassionate analysis. That’s how criminals get caught and convicted. But we’re also Jedi, and encouraged to trust our feelings. I just spent several days in Leia’s company, and, friend or not, I came away convinced that she wasn’t supporting Corellia, any more than she’s supporting the Alliance. She wants to find out the truth. The truth behind the war, the truth behind her son’s questionable decisions, which also reflect badly on the order, despite the fact they’re government-approved, I might add. She’s trying to identify the wrong and to maneuver herself in front of it. I don’t think that we should discourage her from that, even by a reprimand some of us consider irrelevant. I think we should trust our feelings.”

They were all silent for a moment, and Luke wanted to cheer.

Finally Katarn said, “I’m probably the Master present who has the fewest connections of family or longterm friendship with Leia Solo, and I formally recommend that we take no action against her for the time being.”

The others agreed.

“That’s my agenda,” Luke said. “Anyone else?”

“I have something,” Cilghal said. “The war, limited as it has been so far, has increased the rate of Jedi injury … and, sadly, death. We have had no trouble dealing with the in crease with our available resources. But now the war is spreading…”

ZIOST

Ben spent a cold night.

In the first part of the night, he found a low hollow spot where the wind couldn’t reach him. He rolled up tight in his Jedi robe and fell almost instantly asleep.

Then, two hours later, he woke up, so cold that it was his own body shaking that had jarred him from sleep. He was also blind, or so he thought, unable to see Shaker less than a meter away; but when his cold-stiffened hand was able to extract a glow rod from his pocket and ignite it, he realized that he was surrounded by fog.

Together he and Shaker clambered their way out of the hollow, and he found that the temperature rose by several degrees as they ascended the slope.

Toward the top, he used his lightsaber to cut dead branches from some of the trees. With them and leaves he built a fire, igniting it with his lightsaber. After a few minutes of warming himself, he made a sort of nest out of snow and more leaves. Only then did he allow himself to fall asleep again.

The cold awoke him several times during the night-and once distant screams, like a primate being tortured, jarred him from his rest. Each time he was able to doze off again, though it was to formless dreams in which dark shapes crawled close to his sleeping body and whispered into his ear in a language he did not know.

By morning he was slightly more rested, but he would have traded a month’s service to a Hutt refresher-cleaning firm in exchange for a tent and a portable heater.

Once the sun was up high enough to provide some sparse heat to his surroundings, he and Shaker set out again. He could still feel the distant glee.

At midmorning he ran out of the food he had bought himself on Drewwa.

“I don’t suppose you have anything stored in an inner compartment?” he asked Shaker.

The droid responded with a low, negative trill. “Know anything about hunting?”

Shaker gave him the same answer.

“I mean, I’m not asking you to hunt, I was just wondering if you had any texts on hunting, something I could read. To learn how.”

Shaker’s answer this time was a more excited series of beeps, but the R2 unit lurched forward, waddling faster. They were now at the edge of a large, snow-filled clearing, and Shaker moved into that open space.

Following, Ben saw the reason for the astromech’s agitation. In the distance, beyond the next verge of trees, a plume of smoke rose into the sky. Someone had built a fire-and that beacon was in exactly the same direction as the sense of glee Ben sought.

An hour later, they were at the edge of another clearing, looking at a camp. There was a tent, improvised from several bright red emergency blankets and yellow cord. There was a fire, as paltry as Ben’s own from the previous night. There was an enormous backpack, rigged from an oversized carry-sack, a few durasteel spars doubtless salvaged from the downed YT 2400, and more yellow cord.

And there was a man.

Leaving Shaker behind, Ben crept forward, keeping low behind snow mounds. When he was close enough to get a good look at the man, he felt a sense of disappointment.

Faskus of Ziost didn’t look much like a protector of Sith artifacts. He was a pale-skinned human with a chin that was just two steps short of being adequate and a thick, curling black mustache that only emphasized his chin’s inadequacy. He wore gray garments that were the height of anonymity. He moved slowly, adding branches to his fire, and talked to himself, words that Ben could not hear.