Chapter Six
A distant, low whine floated over the lapping water, drawing old Coran's eyes into the glistening heat over the lake. Distances were blurry now, but his ears deciphered the craft approaching. He shrugged his hunched shoulders and knuckled the brim of his floppy hat upward. It would be a few more minutes, no need to rush.
His chapped hands shucked the long, thick vegetable in his hands, the silken fibers dropping to the growing pile at his feet. Sweat trickled down his temples, slipping into his ears, irritating him. Coran rubbed his left ear against his shoulder. Telmé would be here soon, basket on her hip, to collect the silk. She would lament over stolen time, but Coran knew behind her rough, grouchy words, she had been impressed and excited by the young couple's brief time on the verandah. And, no doubt, she had been just as pleased with last night's communication. No doubt, indeed, she had poor Evvé cooking delicious treats Coran would never be allowed to touch.
Coran stopped mid-shuck.
His beady, aging eyes sought the gondola nearing this northeastern shore. It flashed under the high, late morning sun. No one was expected until the afternoon . . . They could not have reached Balmay from Thasyin so soon, unless they traveled by night . . .
The old lake master dropped his chore and shuffled out of his shady perch on the dock's crest. Curiosity more than alarm glittered in his dark eyes. The gondola slowed as it neared the dock, and Coran could see it was a smaller craft. A lone figure sat at the helm.
"Lok'hai," he uttered.
Telmé will love this, Coran thought as he entered the dock hut. The dock's computer twittered alertly, its main screen focused on the gondola now gliding smoothly to a stop. This unexpected arrival had hailed him upon entering the Great Mouth two hours ago, but he had been enjoying his mid-morning pipe and soaking in the rising heat as the sun finally topped the mountains.
No matter.
Coran left the hut and shuffled down to the dock. Oh, Telmé would love this indeed. Lok'hai, here! How long had it been? At least it was Lok'hai and not someone expecting a grand holiday getaway, not now, not with those two due up from Thasyin!
"Hallo!" he called when he reached the gondola.
The lone figure was standing motionlessly at the prow. Although he had not seen one in years, Coran knew a Lok'hai when he saw one. The religion tended to wax and wan among the Naboo, sometimes emerging as the new vogue for the young. He had never really understood it, only knew it had something to do with self-placement, meditation, and lots of inward thinking and outward flowing or some other nonsense. This one, like the others that used to come up here, was clad head to toe in solemn, earthy green so faded it could almost be gray. A thin veil covered her face, blurring her features except for her eyes, which watched him with utter calm.
"Hallo," Coran said again, knuckling his forehead. "I s'pose you've taken that vow of silence, then?"
The hooded head nodded once.
"Right, right." Coran shifted a bit. He never liked that about the Lok'hai. They were easy guests for a lake master, being so quiet and isolated and respectful, but it made him feel a little foolish. At least the Vowed Ones were allowed to whisper to the common folk when need be.
"Well, come on out," he said. "I wasn't expecting you, but your lot aren't any trouble."
The Lok'hai, so still and motionless, seemed to dissolve into fluid as she stepped up onto the dock. She was so small, almost like a child. But Coran had never seen a child with those eyes. They watched him from beneath her hood, large and dark, calm and emotionless.
She carried only a rucksack. Some Lok'hai came with nothing. The old lake master remembered hearing about different levels in the monk's journey, different peaks of enlightenment and discovery. This one—she had to be young, didn't she?—must be a pupil, fresh on her first journey without her mentor. But the other ones carrying rucksacks before her had a spark of adventure and maybe a little fear in their eyes.
"Come along, then."
Coran started up the dock. The Lok'hai followed silently behind him. When they reached the hut, he let her in and gestured to the old bench at the back. She stood, waiting.
"Just got to log you in," Coran explained. "It's pretty quiet up here. Usually. Got a couple comin' up from Thasyin this afternoon. Wedding party. Important people. They left just a week ago—guess they decided to come back for the wedding and honeymoon. It's all very hush-hush, of course. Best place for that, Balmay. 'Spect that's why you're here, eh?"
As he talked, the Naberrie party chimed in, logging their progress. "Ah, right on time," he grinned at the monk-girl. "They'll be here about an hour before supper. Plenty of time to get you settled. Speaking of which . . ."
The Lok'hai bowed her head, acknowledging that she must and would break her silence vow out of respect for his convenience.
"Good, good." Coran scratched the back of his neck. "Now, are you looking for actual lodging or are you wildering it?"
The Lok'hai stepped closer, all smooth and silent.
"Simple lodging," she whispered.
"Good, good. Can't put you up in the estate house with the Naberrie wedding coming."
Curious people, those Lok'hai, Coran thought as he led the monk-girl up the steps cut into the hill. He waved to Telmé under his abandoned tree. She shook her white head, the basket of silk on her round hip. Coran chuckled under his breath and continued upward. Had to focus on the climb now. He was getting too old for this.
Mastering the Balmay landing was in his blood, his bones. Generations of Yonahans had minded the remote beauty of Lake Balama. They kept the estate beautiful and isolated, providing a comfortable and serene retreat for some of Naboo's finest. Coran grew up in the village on the other side of the hill, and he did not mind he would die there. He would never be well-traveled, would never venture into those stars or touch the moons reflected in the lake on clear nights, but Coran liked to think he'd seen the better part of the galaxy right here.
After all, he was hosting a former Queen and a Jedi!
Coran glanced over at the golden stone of the estate house. The gardener was trimming the vines winding up the pillars. Then he focused on the steps again and they passed the house, cresting the hill. Coran stopped to catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his brow with his hat. The Lok'hai halted silently just behind his right shoulder. It seemed perfectly natural, as if she always stopped just behind someone's shoulder, waiting patiently for the next move.
"Coran! Coran!"
"My wife, Telmé," he explained to the monk-girl. He didn't bother to turn as Telmé hurried toward them, her skirts flapping. Coran never did understand skirts. He glanced at the sensible attire of the Lok'hai. Tunic, trousers bound by wrap-leggings around the calves. The hooded half-cloak might be a bit excessive for the warm days here, but that was culture for you.
"Coran," Telmé said breathlessly, coming to his left side. Her blue eyes sparked and her hollow cheeks darkened as she sucked in a deep, stern breath. "What's this?"
"Lok'hai. Just came up." Coran rather thought this obvious, but he knew better now than to say so.
"Oh, really?" Telmé gave the monk-girl a scathing glance. The Lok'hai only watched. "Well," Telmé huffed, shifting her basket with Coran's unfinished morning work. "Best get this one seen to before you-know-who gets here. Hope we don't get in trouble now."
"She won't be a bother, Tel," said Coran soothingly. "Silent vow and all that. Take to herself, I bet. Just wants bed and roof. No bother."
"You haven't been running your mouth, have you? This is supposed to be secret."
Coran merely smiled. Really, all this hush-hush seemed rather ridiculous to him. The whole village knew about it—no one kept secrets in Balmay—because they had to provide the ceremony, food, and service needed to run the estate and a wedding. And why should he be hush-hush with someone who had a vow of silence?
"You have, haven't you?" Telmé rolled her eyes in despair. "Fine. Take her to Ulsa's. If she can take time from her solitude journey, maybe she can be some help?"
Coran almost chuckled at the lack of acknowledgement from the Lok'hai.
"No doddling, Coran."
With that, Telmé started back down to the estate house, her back as bossy as her mouth. Coran shoved his hat back onto his head. "Don't mind her," he told the Lok'hai. "Do whatever it is you do. If you do want to help out, that's fine. No one will bother you."
The Lok'hai bowed her head again.
Coran started down the wide path leading to the village. It really was just a small, crooked street of supply housing and a meeting house for the tribal homes further in the mountains. Here remote families could socialize at gathering times of the year, or come for aid or relief if need be. Still, Coran liked to think of it as his little town.
Today, the steady populace of house help were bustling back and forth from the house to the village buildings. Coran wondered if the Senator really had any idea how much work went into a small, quiet wedding. Nevermind the wealthy, he thought, hearing Telmé lamenting in his ear.
"Hope you don't mind this," Coran said when they reached the living quarters. He knocked on the door out of politeness, his eyes running up the leafy wall of the two-floor building. All the windows were open to the lake breeze.
The door opened and Ulsa, who thought she owned Balmay, greeted him with raised eyebrows and a slightly soiled apron.
"Coran."
"Ulsa." He removed his hat and dipped his chin to the plump woman. "Do you have a spare room? We have a Lok'hai."
Ulsa, warm and soft if she liked you, cold and hard if she didn't, cast the Lok'hai a cursory look. "I suppose she won't be in the way if she stays out of things. Master of ceremonies just came in about an hour ago from Lopai. He's dipping his finger in the pudda, I bet, now my back's turned."
Ulsa huffed a little breath and tucked her graying, flyaway hair behind her ears. Coran had yet to see a tidy bun last long on that head. "Fine. Come in. I suppose you want feeding, then?" she said to the Lok'hai behind his shoulder.
The monk-girl shook her head. Coran thought he detected a hint of curiosity in those wide, dark eyes.
"You'll be fine with Ulsa," he said to her.
Her eyes focused on him, and through the blur of the veil, he thought he saw her face soften. As if she wanted to smile at him.
"If you need anything, just let me know," he said, scratching the back of his neck. He couldn't explain it, but he felt a little heavy in his feet, as if he did not want to leave her. "Anything at all. I'll be on the dock or up at the house seeing to things. Just ask someone to get ol' Coran for you."
Now why did she look so sad? Or was his mind just playing tricks on him?
She did that little bow with her head. Then, so graceful and light, she went to Ulsa and the open door. Coran watched her float behind Ulsa, a shadow, into the house.
She had pulled the night's fog inward, woven it into a tight, impenetrable veil around her.
Naboo filled the air, was the very breath of the breeze. If she stretched out with her senses, they would hum with its day song, warm and lush with just a hint of crispness. But she did not stretch out from her veil. Coolly she acknowledged the passing of her birth home somewhere in the dark, clouded night. But Naboo was no longer her home, and, like all things, the emotion it held should pass.
She was separate. Behind the veil.
Eyes fastened far across the glittering lake on the south passage, Sabé sat cross-legged under the protective shroud of arching trees and bushes masking this look-out point over the lake. Her mind clicked rapidly over all she had learned from the talkative lake master. Somewhere under the cold, solid veil, something simmered. She acknowledged it coolly for what it was, but would not let it rise.
Calm, cool, and collected.
Sabé drew her palm-sized visual comlink from her belt and activated it. As she waited for Yoda to respond, she smirked at the wonders of Jedi technology and efficiency. Simple, practical, and unassuming in appearance, Jedi belts could compactly store a plethora of gadgets and capsules needed on diplomatic missions that often took a more aggressive turn. The comlink resting in her palm could only be activated by a Force-sensitive, and its signal, wonderfully, was very difficult to trace (no signal, she knew, was completely untraceable).
The small device vibrated almost imperceptibly and then a blue flicker appeared above the flat surface. The little static cloud formed into a miniature Master Yoda, though his eyes seemed as large and unblinking as ever.
"Sabé."
"Master."
Sabé knew she could not hesitate, could not conceal anything. "I am on Naboo waiting for the Senator and Skywalker to arrive. There is a complication."
She took a deep breath.
"They are to be married."
The holo flickered. Yoda's long ears rose, his eyes widened. For a long moment, he said nothing, and then, finally, he raked his long, sharp claws through his wispy mane.
"Know this, how do you?"
He was not doubting her word, Sabé knew. "The lake master told me. It is supposed to be a secret, but the keepers of Balmay are rather open about it. The master of ceremonies arrived just before I did. Skywalker and the Senator are due in two hours. They are to be married at sunset."
She tried to keep any derision from her voice. Sunset, honestly! Had the Senator completely lost her mind? Marrying a Jedi, to whom marriage and love was strictly forbidden? Not only that, but trying to conduct a secret wedding in romantic fashion when the Republic was going to war? Incredible. Just absolutely incredible.
The lurking something stirred like a twitching tail.
She would have to tell Yoda.
The Jedi Master let out a sigh and looked up at her.
"Right, Obi-Wan was," he sighed. "Cautioned the Council against Skywalker's attachment to the Queen. Too eager to place confidence in him, the Council was."
Sabé understood Yoda's meaning. Although she never dealt with the Jedi Council, she knew of its divided stance on Anakin Skywalker, Chosen One or not. This division manifested in reservation, seeming to the unruly Padawan as if the Council were against him. In an act of goodwill to settle ruffled feathers, and perhaps giving in to the pro-Skywalker members of the Council, the Jedi leaders had granted him a solo mission and great responsibility of protecting the Senator.
They had overcompensated.
"Master," Sabé said quietly, as Yoda seemed to be lost in thought. "Where does my order stand?"
Yoda blinked meditatively at her. "Trusted, he cannot be. Broken his oath, he has. Murdered first. Now falling from the Jedi, Skywalker is."
Sabé closed her eyes. So be it.
"I must be honest, Master," she said, opening her eyes. Although her voice was void of emotion, she could feel it quivering somewhere deep. "I am not certain I can complete this task with the Senator present. I want to believe I can, but I . . . I fear my emotions may interfere."
Yoda gazed at her silently, his eyes unreadable.
Sabé waited.
"Of clear mind, you must be, to complete this task," Yoda said finally. He tapped his gimer stick, its sound coming across the galaxy in little clicks. "Feel, if you do, that this you cannot do in the Senator's presence, wait you must. Ordered, Skywalker is, to join Master Kenobi in three days."
Sabé listened carefully to her Master's orders, letting them fill her head and focus, pushing everything else temporarily away. If she could not trust herself to complete the task here, then she had a few hours on a freighter before he joined Kenobi, who would be just one of many Jedi being dropped off around the galaxy clarify the Republic's war mandate to worried and confused systems.
"Look inward, you must," Yoda concluded. He bowed his little head, his holo seeming to fold in on itself. "May the Force be with you, Sabé."
The pressure to scream. Or kick something.
Or be sick on the polished floor.
The sloping, illuminated confines to the ship's throne room were too small, too tight for this, but there was nothing to be done about it. She desperately wanted to kick the bulkhead, but the Queen's travel gown was not very mobile.
Sabé's painted lips quirked at the thought. Then she resumed her pacing.
It was a not a proper pace, but it would have to do. Even though only she, Rabé, and Eirtaé occupied the chamber, she could not toss dignity to the sands. Queen Amidala was steadfast, did not break under pressure. She did not show emotion, unless to level a hard glare.
She, Sabé, had been leveling quite a few of those today.
The heavy, feathered headdress kept the decoy from shaking her head ruefully. The morning had started early and unsettlingly. Once Amidala had given them all the details on Master Jinn's "plan," Panaka had been irate, and Amidala had more or less given Sabé permission to give Obi-Wan Kenobi "a little tongue" for withholding information. Eirtaé had snorted, earning a glare and eye-roll from Panaka. It'd taken Sabé a moment to catch on to Eirtaé's reaction, and then she'd been beyond grateful for the white mask.
It had been her first glare of the morning.
Amidala, thankfully, had been oblivious to all of this.
Without breakfast (not that she had much of a stomach for it today), Sabé ordered an audience with Obi-Wan, trying her best to keep Eirtaé's smirks and barely stifled snorts out of her mind. Frankly, she was rather shocked and displeased with Amidala's full version of the doings in Mos Espa, but she could not really bring herself to be upset with the younger Jedi. Being under command herself, Sabé was willing to bet—but not with the bloody ship—that Obi-Wan had been withholding under orders.
Still, she had to let him know she, the Queen, was not happy about this. Panaka, unfortunately, was overzealous, probably secretly delighting in his validated mistrust in the Jedi.
"Captain," Sabé had snapped. "Contain yourself."
Panaka stopped his tirade on Obi-Wan Kenobi, his mouth remaining open for a fraction of a second as he turned to her. Sabé gave him a hard, unyielding look. It was her glare, not Amidala's, but Saché had once told her it was just as fierce and uncompromising.
Panaka shut his mouth and stepped back from the Jedi. Sabé silently scolded her superior a second longer, and then turned her eyes to the Jedi.
Obi-Wan had taken Panaka's yelling in stride, not a flinch crossing his passive face. He stood, arms loose at his sides, lost somewhere in the flow of his long robe, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his eyes. Sabé fought the urge to grin back and instead kept her voice and face stern.
"The Captain is right," she said darkly. "Master Jinn has stepped beyond his bounds. This ship belongs to the Naboo, not to the Jedi. I believe many cultures—including ours—would consider this act stealing."
Obi-Wan started, looking caught between defense and disarm. "Your Highness," he said tightly. "I understand your . . . displeasure—"
Sabé raised her eyebrows a fraction.
"—and I admit it to be valid."
Panaka snorted. Sabé briefly spared Obi-Wan her stare to silence the Captain. How could she be expected to act with perfect dignity when he, her senior and superior, was behaving like a child?
Obi-Wan, to his credit, plowed on as if Panaka did not exist. In the second it took Sabé to shush Panaka, the Jedi's face had slipped into serious innocence. "I believe, Your Highness, my Master believed he had your permission to use what means necessary to secure a hyperdrive, and thus, your safe passage to Coruscant."
"We gave him permission to use our jewels for barter, not our ship." Sabé wanted to say more, could feel her incredulity rising in her throat. But she fought it down. She would not lash at him, would not reiterate the audacious circumstances surrounding this race and bet. Obi-Wan was well aware of them.
And she needed to stay composed.
"I understand all betting is validated by the Hutts," she said.
Obi-Wan seemed to straighten a little. He'd obviously been bracing for another tirade. "Yes, Your Highness."
"Then it is too late." Sabé swore silently. Ordering Qui-Gon Jinn out of the bet would result in the Hutts discovering them, which would not result in anyone going to Coruscant for help. "Master Jinn has played us well."
Obi-Wan was giving her a keen look, and behind her, Eirtaé shifted slightly. Sabé wanted to curse Jinn's audacity. He very well knew that he would not have the Queen's permission in this, but by placing the bet, he left them no option but to see it through. And he'd left his apprentice here to deal with his actions.
The decoy and Padawan stared at one another for a silent moment. Sabé sensed he was not happy with the situation, either. Recalling his words while he stood vigilant at her side last night, she could not be angry with him.
Just with the situation.
Obi-Wan's face seemed to soften as it had last night. "Please, trust us, Your Highness."
It seemed such a ridiculous request, after being tongue-lashed for breaching that trust. And she would have said so, if not for the sincerity in his gaze last night and now.
"I have no choice, do I?"
Sabé paused in her slow, methodic pace of the throne room. Something had flickered in Obi-Wan's face then, but she could not define it. Almost like her words had hurt, but that was ridiculous, and her words had been the truth. Qui-Gon Jinn had left them no choice.
She'd dismissed Obi-Wan, ordering him to keep her fully informed from now on. He'd bowed out, his face unreadable. Panaka, looking eager to continue without her warning looks, started to follow.
"Captain. Let him go."
That was a mistake, Sabé thought ruefully. Unable to heckle the Jedi Padawan, Captain Panaka had turned his simmering thoughts on the handmaidens. Finally, unable to take his disruptive presence any longer, Sabé had ordered him away. Eirtaé and Rabé then spent a good five minutes badgering their absent commander before falling quiet.
And the quiet had continued all morning, only briefly broken by a half-hearted attempt at levity. Talking about the situation made them all sick.
Now, it was just the waiting.
And waiting.
Oh, and waiting.
It seemed to Sabé the past six months had merely been training for this long, tedious, gut-wrenching moment for fate to either bless them or damn them.
She was beginning to think it had all been a waste.
Such negative thoughts we're having, a lighter voice teased her.
The handmaiden paused again, facing the empty throne. Rabé and Eirtaé were sitting on the bulkhead benches on either side, to all appearances either dozing or doing a good job of pretending. Seeing them soothed some of Sabé's nerves.
Enough of pacing, there were better ways to cope with stress.
Eirtaé and Rabé looked up as Sabé resigned herself to the throne again. "I'm going to meditate for a while," she said quietly. "Could one of you watch the entrance and warn me if anyone approaches?"
Rabé nodded and took new sentry by the entrance.
Sabé smiled at her, and then closed her eyes, thinking how much she would rather be in the other girl's place. Always behind a shoulder or watching nearby; a shadow in the room instead of its centerpiece.
This thought carried Sabé deep into herself, beyond the cumbersome fabric swathing her, past the steady thumping of her heart, the deep, throbbing rhythm of her blood. Her breathing resounded around her, like a soft, steady barrier that warded off intruders. She sank past it with her thought, drifting softly down into a familiar yet always intriguing and enlightening cocoon.
She had always known she was meant for greater things. She, herself, was not meant to be great. Nor did she want to be. But even as a small girl from a mountain village north of Thasyin, Sabé had sensed she was part of something greater. A small part, probably only insignificant, but intricate nonetheless. She had no extraordinary talents; she was just a fast learner. Her fellow precocious classmates shone in their brilliant lights, excelling in one form or another, illuminating their futures as leaders, scientists, artisans, musicians, and inventors. But not Sabé. Her instructors said she was talented, but they could never say precisely in what or how.
Sabé did not mind. She did not want the spotlight, did not want greatness. To be of it—yes, she yearned for that—but that wasof, a piece, not it. Once, she had tried to explain this to Saché, but she feared her words were insufficient. Saché had laughed it off. "That's just your shy girl excuse. I think you should cease with the philosophy classes, by the way."
Then Captain Panaka had arrived at the Thasyin university, and Sabé could put her feelings into action. She immediately excelled at the weapons training, but her instincts were not her own, but part of a something greater. That was fine. Things were beginning to fit, shewas finally fitting, no longer an irregular piece of the puzzle. She fit behind the shoulder, melded into the shadows. As handmaiden to Queen Amidala, Sabé could suddenly place words, actual names, to this "greater" of which she knew she must serve. Queen Amidala was idealism in action. She, too, was greatness embodied. Serving her meant serving the Naboo and its people. The spotlight was on Amidala, and Sabé could do her small part under the hood, in the shadows, behind her shoulder.
That was what she did not like about being the decoy. Here she had no shadow, no shoulder to stand behind. A mask, yes, but the spotlight could melt it away. Then she would fail her Queen, be unworthy of her duty. A chipped piece.
Resting in her cocoon, Sabé studied this fear. It was valid. She would not ignore it, nor should she. Unfortunately, the fear fed her impatience, which in turn snacked on her uncertainty. She saw herself standing outside the ship, shrouded in Tatooine's night, her fear and uncertainty dancing under the starlight. Then the tingling warmth of the Jedi's presence bubbled in her memory, soothing the shaky dance while bringing other worries to bear.
Tingling . . . Dare she ask the others about it? Sabé could not quite tell the source of her fear. She feared Rabé and Eirtaé would say no and give her suspicious looks. Only Panaka knew of her almost-life with the Jedi Order. She rarely thought of it, until now. It made sense with everything else. Apparently, she was part of the Force but not shining with it like a Jedi.
So, what did she fear? Maybe she did not fear the source of her fear . . . but that sounded a little mad.
Unfurling, she rose up from the deep place, letting her senses stretch out like invisible fingers through the barrier of blood and breath. She followed her exhale out into the chamber as her skin itched in acknowledgement to the heavy gown hiding it. Eirtaé and Rabé's steady, silent breathes brushed against her ears. Below her feet, the common room buzzed with anxiety and dissent in the aftermath of Panaka's tantrum.
Sabé hovered in this outward state, letting physical details come to her. No thought, just absorption. When she came out of her meditation, she would be better able to deal with the high tension straining the bulkheads.
She fancied she could mentally travel the ship and spy on others, swoop down upon pilot banter or even discover where Obi-Wan was avoiding everyone. The corridors opened before her, formed by her memory, and she passed through them almost playfully. If only she really could haunt them like a ghost—
Then she felt it.
An odd sensation, like a soft bump that left tingles around her. The port corridor seemed to flicker and retract, a hazy image hovering around her senses. She refocused on it, wanting to continue her game, let her imagination out, if only to pass the time . . .
Bump.
A tingling brush.
Almost like a soft, hesitant kiss . . . or how she imagined one to be . . . What a terrible description, she thought vaguely as the corridor dissolved, Papa and Mums's kisses don't tingle, that's silly—
Red-white alarm sirened through her mind and her mental shields flew up.
Sabé gasped as her eyes flew open and the throne room flashed into harsh, physical life.
Eirtaé was at her side in an instant, Rabé already halfway across the room.
"Sa—Your Highness?" Eirtaé murmured, her voice hitting Sabé's ear and ricocheting off her pounding heartbeat.
"I—"
An all-too-familiar sensation played along her neck. Oh no, oh no, oh no! Sabé swallowed the panic rising up her throat, but she must have looked wild-eyed when she turned to Eirtaé, because the handmaiden backed up a step.
"The Jedi is coming," Sabé said tightly.
Eirtaé gave her a quizzical look but obediently fell behind Sabé's left shoulder. Rabé took her right. Sabé had only two seconds to compose and brace herself before Obi-Wan Kenobi entered the throne room.
He stopped shortly just within the threshold, as if entering the wrong room. Sabé had a wild urge to pretend she had not noticed him, but then the Jedi's blue-gray eyes locked on her and he came forward and bowed. His eyes never left her and Sabé's heart wilted under the intrigue she saw there.
"Jedi Kenobi." Somehow, somewhere, Queen Amidala's voice floated into the throne room. All calm, aloof, and in command. "Has Master Jinn finally remembered his manners?"
Oooh, snarky.
"No, Your Highness—I mean—" Obi-Wan paused, a corner of his mouth twitching upward. "I have no word from Qui-Gon as of yet. The race is, I believe, running. It should not be long now."
The next question, of course, would be: Then what are you doing here? But Sabé did not want to ask this, did not want to play this game. The Queen's disguise was at stake. Yet she needed to know if, somehow, Obi-Wan had just bumped into her mind. How much did he know? Was her decoy already discovered? What would he do?
She would have to play the game.
Beware the playful Padawan.
Obi-Wan was waiting for her to play, but Sabé stared at him expressionlessly. She would play on her terms, not his. She just hoped it did not result in a silent staring match.
Perhaps he thought the same thing.
"I was merely touring the ship and thought to check in," said Obi-Wan.
Was it her imagination, or was there a double-meaning behind his words?
"How thoughtful of you." Yes, let a little sarcasm in. Just a touch. Sarcasm, perhaps one of the lower defense mechanisms, was always an ally.
Obi-Wan's mouth twitch upward again. "I am only here to serve, Your Highness."
Then serve your posterior out of here. Sabé, thankfully, was too trained to say it. The silence seemed to stretch, urging her to fill it with "indeed." She resisted and continued to stare Kenobi down. I will not give in, I will not give in.
Obi-Wan's eyes flickered downward and Sabé raced his averted gaze. With a jolt, she realized her fingers were kneading the fine, black layers of fabric in her lap. Immediately they ceased, folding shamefully into stillness.
When she looked up a second later, Obi-Wan looked decidedly smug.
Almost against her will, she gave in to the smarmy bugger.
"Is there anything else, Jedi Kenobi?" she all but snapped.
Oh, yes, there was a flash of blue triumph.
"Actually, Your Highness," Obi-Wan said, somehow sounding formal and conversational all at once. Yet Sabé felt like she was under interrogation. "Curiosity brought me here."
Of course it did.
"I was meditating a few minutes ago, and while Jedi cannot actually read minds, we can sense minds."
She could feel Eirtaé and Rabé inhale. She had to take control now.
"I believe I know your enquiry," said Sabé. She thanked her training she did not sound breathless or scared or disturbed. "Meditation is a custom on Naboo. With all the tension and uncertainty onboard, I'm sure you can understand why a crew member would wish to find some inner quiet. I am sorry if someone has disturbed you."
Obi-Wan said nothing, his wretchedly steady gaze never leaving her. She prayed he would take it. Whether or not he believed it a crew member he encountered or not, she just wanted him to shut up and take it. Sabé knew that in meditation one should not be able to trespass on another's mind, but rumored had it Jedi could. Now it was obviously a fact.
"It did not disturb me, Your Highness," said Obi-Wan. "I was only surprised." He paused and Sabé felt, like she had last night, he was looking into her.
She focused on not blinking, on keeping her mental shields tight and blank.
"I take my leave, Your Highness," said Obi-Wan, bowing. "I will return when I have word from Qui-Gon."
He lingered for a second longer than necessary, and then—finally—left the throne room.