[Thrawn Trilogy] - 02(42)

“Thank you,” Luke said. “That seems straightforward enough, then,” he continued, turning to the Radian. “Pay your associate with New Republic currency at a five/four exchange rate and take the Empire scrip back for the next time you work in their territory.”

The Radian spat something. “That is lie!” the Barabel snarled back.

“He says he doesn’t have enough in New Republic currency,” Lando translated. “Knowing Radians, I’d tend to agree with the Barabel.”

“Perhaps.” Luke stared hard into the Radian’s faceted eyes.

“Perhaps not. But there might be another way.” He looked back at Ferrier, raised his eyebrows questioningly.

The other was sharp, all right. “Don’t even think it, Jedi,” he warned.

“Why not?” Luke asked. “You work both sides of the border. You’re more likely to be able to spend Imperial scrip than the Barabel could.”

“Suppose I don’t want to?” Ferrier countered. “Suppose I don’t plan to go back any time soon. Or maybe I don’t want to get caught with that much Imperial scrip on me. Fix it yourself, Jedi-I don’t owe you any favors.”

The Barabel whirled on him. “You talk respect,” he snarled. “He is Jedi. You talk respect.”

A low rumble of agreement rippled through the crowd. “Better listen to him,” Lando advised. “I don’t think you’d want to get in a fight here, especially not with a Barabel. They’ve always had a soft spot for Jedi.”

“Yeah-right behind their snouts,” Ferrier retorted. But his eyes were flicking around the crowd now, and Luke caught the subtle shift in his sense as he began to realize just how much in the minority his opinion of Luke was.

Or perhaps he was realizing that winding up in the middle of an official flap might buy him more attention than he really wanted to have. Luke waited, watching the other’s sense flicker with uncertainty, waiting for him to change his mind.

When it happened, it happened quickly. “All right, but it’ll have to be a five/three exchange,” Ferrier insisted. “The five/four was a fluke-no telling if I’ll ever get that again.”

“It is cheat,” the Barabel declared. “I deserve more from Radian.”

“Yes, you do,” Luke agreed. “But under the circumstances, this is probably the best you’re going to get.” He looked at the Radian. “If it helps any,” he added to the Barabel, “remember that you can pass a warning to the rest of your people about dealing with this particular Radian. Not being able to hire expert Barabel hunters will hurt him far more in the long run than he might cost you now.”

The Barabel made a grating noise that was probably the equivalent of a laugh. “Jedi speak truth,” he said. “Punishment is good.

Luke braced himself. This part the Barabel wasn’t going to be nearly so happy about. “You will, however, have to pay for the repair of the droid you shot. Whatever the Radian said or did, he is not responsible for that.”

The Barabel stared at Luke, his needle teeth making small, tight biting motions. Luke returned the cold gaze, senses alert to the Force for any intimation of attack. “Jedi again speak truth,” the alien said at last. Reluctantly, but firmly. “I accept judgment.”

Luke let out a quiet sigh of relief. “Then the matter is closed,” he said. He looked at Ferrier, then raised his lightsaber to his forehead in salute to the two aliens and turned away.

“Nicely done,” Lando murmured in his ear as the crowd began to break up.

“Thanks,” Luke murmured, his mouth dry. It had worked, all right:but it had been more luck than skill, and he knew it. If Ferrier hadn’t been there-or if the ship thief hadn’t decided to back down-Luke had no idea how he would have solved the dispute. Leia and her diplomatic training would have done better than he had; even Han and his long experience at hard bargaining would have done as well.

It was an aspect of Jedi responsibility that he’d never considered before. But it was one he’d better start thinking about, and fast.

“Han’s following one of Fey’lya’s Bothan pals up on Level Four,” Lando was saying as they moved through the crowd toward the exit. “Spotted him from the west central ramp and sent me to-“

He stopped short. From outside the Mishra the sound of wailing sirens had started. “I wonder what that is,” he said, a touch of uneasiness in his voice.

“It’s an alarm,” one of the tapcafe patrons said, his forehead wrinkled in concentration as he listened. The pitch of the siren changed; changed again:”It’s a raid.”