[Legacy Of The Force] - 08(51)
Mirta and the two men without helmets followed him. Beviin stayed. The big guy in dark gray took off his helmet and gave Jaina the kind of look that said she was something he’d wipe off his boots.
“Is this Fett’s idea of mystic enlightenment?” she asked.
Beviin shrugged. “It’s not hyperspace engineering.”
“Pity.” Jaina considered wiping the scowl off the big silent guy’s face but decided it was impolitic. “I could handle that.”
Beviin walked toward the doors and jerked his head for her to follow. The man in gray ambled along beside him.
“We’ll try to give you an alter ego, “Beviin said. “A nasty Jaina. A crafty, cheating Jaina. A bounty-hunting Jaina. You up for that, Med’ika?”
“I’m all for giving folks a second career option, “he said. He was very well spoken, surprisingly so, as if he was a highly educated man. Jaina had expected him to be an inar-ticulate brute. “But she can service the tiller droids first. Can’t we send her back and get an AgriCorps Jedi instead?”
Beviin laughed. “Ingrate.”
Fett had vanished. Jaina wondered what he got up to in his private hours, and when Beviin pointed out the hovel Fett was staying in, she was genuinely shocked. He could have had a palace. Beviin’s farmhouse, with its shantytown of outbuildings and moat-like boundaries, reminded her more of a bastion than a haven of rural peace. The tunnels and passages seemed to run everywhere. Nothing was quite as it seemed.
She stood in the grimy workshop with her arms in the oily guts of a tiller droid, listening to the whine and roar of vessels overhead-fighters, definitely, the way the falling note indicated something moving away from her at high speed. While she adjusted clearances and checked filters, a small girlfive, not a day older, she was certain-appeared in the doorway to stare at her. She wore a tiny version of the flight suit every Mandalorian had, with scaled-down but loose fitting plates that looked a couple of sizes too big, and a hold-out blaster hanging from the belt that looked full-size on her.
The blaster was real.
“Hi, kid.” Jaina smiled, ready to deflect a bolt.
“Su’cuy, jetii.”
“Is that your blaster?”
“Mama gave it to me.” The girl unholstered it like a professional, checked the safety catch, and held it with the muzzle pointing safely away from Jaina. “I’m five and a half. I’m training.”
“You and me both, sweetheart.” Jaina swallowed hard, more touched than worried. “You and me both.”
No, Mandalorians weren’t what she’d expected at all.
And she would learn to be as much of a surprise to her brother as they were to her. Thanks, Fett.
IMPERIAL PALACE, CITY OF RAVELIN, BASTION: TWO DAYS LATER
“Show the young lady in, Vitor.”
Receiving visitors in the Palace drawing room always reminded them what they were dealing with, Pellaeon thought. It was an imposing chamber that whispered casual wealth; it hinted that the Empire didn’t have to try too hard. While he never let himself think of having an emperor’s role-that way lay delusion and moral corruption, he was sure-he was in command, and he liked visitors to know that.
“And will it be caf or murrih tisane, sir?”
“Both, please.” Pellaeon could see a patch of vivid turquoise sky from the floor-to-ceiling windows, a little promise of escape in an otherwise stormy day. He missed being out with the fleet. “And monitor the meeting, will you?”
“Of course.”
Pellaeon saw no reason not to listen to what Jacen Solo’s envoy had to say. Listening committed him to nothing; it simply filled in the gaps, if his informants had actually left any. In a career spanning more than seventy years, he had built up a personal network that could give any state intelligence corps a run for its money. Even the apparently omnipotent Jacen couldn’t do much without leaving traces. He had to work with the raw stuff of society-troops, civil servants, clerks…. even droids. The ship of state could leave an awfully big wake if you knew where to look.
Tahiri Veila glided into the room right on time. Her bright blond hair and general artless demeanor made her look too young to be sent on a task like this, although the
Yuuzhan Vong markings still visible on her forehead evoked unpleasant memories.
Jacen, if you send a pretty girl to sweet-talk me, don’t break the spell by reminding me of the Vong…
Pellaeon stood and ushered her to her chair. The spell was definitely broken before she’d even had a chance to cast it.
“Is this your first visit to Bastion?” he asked, pouring her a murrih tisane that spread an amethyst pool of light on the white marble table. “If it is, don’t leave without seeing the Imperial Gardens.”