A/N: Shifgrethor is borrowed, liberally, again from LeGuin's Left Hand of Darkness. Stop reading this now. Go read that book. Well, leave me a review first?


Chapter 7: Dangerous Wagers

For Beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror

Which we are still just able to endure…

Every angel is terrifying.

-Rilke, First Elegy

Save for a handful of foreboding prophecies, and one particularly nasty recurring nightmare involving fire and lava (likely a remnant of the incident with Xanatos all those years ago), Obi-Wan Kenobi was only rarely troubled by his dreams. For all his connection to the Unifying force, for all the shades and whirlwinds that at times descended upon him in meditation in the dark voice of the earth and the crashing of waves, his sleep has largely been uneventful and undisturbed by any pressing, earthly worries. Not even the occasional night of captivity, and the lack of amenities involved therein, had the power to rob him of that limp-limbed, deathlike repose of youth.

In later years, when it seemed in the pits of night that the desert was displayed out for no eyes but his alone – in those long years as he grew old and felt the touch of years in his heart, in the long nights when sleep eluded him, in those days he would remember back to the carefree slumber of his youth with something like wonder and envy.

As it was, a young Obi-Wan woke on the morning after the sandstorm with a start, and the falling feeling of something very important having eluded him. The coming day was showing faintly in the rim of brightening blue on the horizon. He pushed his reluctant body off of the bed and staggered to the fresher. The chamber that Obi-Wan shared with his master was not large, as the Naboovian Starship was used for the speedy meeting of heads of state, not for sleepovers. Obi-Wan expected soon to be sleeping on a pallet on the floor, with his master's return. The chamber was not very tall, either, befitting the stature of the people of Naboo. Qui-Gon had been forever hitting his head on various parts of their quarters on the first day that they were here.

Obi-Wan rubbed at the prickly skin on his face, and set about with the razor. The stubble on his chin and cheek, which in his youth had been so recalcitrant in growing, had by now established a speed of growth that could only be described as ferocious. Shaving twice a day was rarely enough.

There were no regulations concerning personal appearances at the temple other than to be clean and respectable, since knights came from all parts of the galaxy, spouting all sorts of hair from all sorts of places. There were those like Mace Windu, who disdained hair of any sort altogether, then there was his master, who sported beard as well as a long mane. Obi-Wan suspected it was not so much a matter of personal preference, as convenience.

In the next room, the commlink beeped, causing Obi-Wan to flinch and nearly cut himself with the blade.

It was Qui-Gon, who looked mildly amused at his Padawan's half-shaven state, then quite offhandedly, as was his wont, outlined the whole of the fantastic plot whereby the slave boy (Anakin) would, in a lucky podrace, win the hyperdrive parts necessary for their passage out of this godforsaken planet.

This is why I had terrible dreams, Obi-Wan thought. He was still sleepy and stunned when Qui-Gon finished, and though his rational mind drew up one question after another, his barely-awakened mouth managed to trip over his own words.

"Master – what - I mean, how do you know – that is, how can you be sure the scrap trader could be trusted to uphold his end of the bargain if the boy is successful?"

Across the small screen of the commlink, Qui-Gon listened to Obi-Wan's speech with his head tilted in such a way that signified he was listening to the unspoken parts of Obi-Wan's question.

"Watto has his reputation to mind," Qui-Gon said, the half-smile coming back, "his face, dignity, shifgrethor as they say on the cold planet. AndAnakin is very special – his force sensitivity is unlike anything I have ever seen. Obi-Wan, I need you to trust me on this."

And then there were no other words to be said.

"Yes, master," he inclined his head, hoping it should hide the skepticism in his eyes, "I do, master. Master – you would not object, then, to my informing the Queen that their worries should soon be at an end?"

He looked up to see Qui-Gon regarding him with a different gaze, as of someone seeing something new, something he had not realized was there.

"By all means tell them the truth, Obi-Wan. You have a way that sets other people at ease and takes the edge off their alarm. I would be very happy if you should apply that skill liberally to this situation."

Obi-Wan could not help but crack a grin, "And use my hard-earned negotiating skills with our own people, Master?"

"They are not our people, Obi-Wan. For now they need our help, and their path falls parallel to ours for a while."

Obi-Wan checked his smile.

"As you say, Master."

Qui-Gon narrowed his eyes, "days like this, Padawan, when you unflappably tolerate the most outrageous of plans, you make me feel old. I cannot decide whether you think it is sound, or whether you are just doing it to humor me, and no doubt this inscrutability of yours is the sign of a great Jedi. You will see about this hyperdrive, though. I promise you."

"And I have only needed your word, master."

"Very well, Padawan. The Force be with you."

"And with you, Master Qui-Gon."

The blank screen replaced Qui-Gon's wry features, and Obi-Wan became vaguely aware that his shaving foam was dripping off his face and onto his sleeve.

Back in the fresher he looked in the mirror. On half of his face, young man looked back at him, smooth-cheeked, wide-eyed, and on the other half of his face, an old man in a white beard, with the suggestion of age, experience, and wisdom – but also of loss and decrepitude, of words he had not yet unsaid and mistakes not yet made.

For one bewildering instant, Obi-Wan wondered if his biological father had looked anything like him. Or perhaps he had his coloring from his mother, the red hair from her, and the cleft chin. Other people could look in the face of their parents and see the future of their bodies written there in the lines, but not he. Gazing in the mirror now he could imagine it – the beard turning grey, the eyes bleary with sun, the hair thinning from the corners.

But more disturbing he wondered what it would look like to see Qui-Gon age, the long mane growing more white. The day when remembering his master at the time of his apprenticeship would be a distant, almost unbelievable mystery.

Obi-Wan finished his shave and dressed with unusual speed. The aging of the body was not a topic unfamiliar to him, nor the mortality of each living soul. He had meditated on the subject all through his crecheling years and his apprenticeship, and during the same years he had been no stranger to loss and death.

Yet today of all days he felt pain, to imagine the slow leach of time upon the face of his master – what did it mean –

It was getting on six in the morning. Obi-Wan intended a long a thought-clearing session of form and saber practice. The corridors were deserted as he strode toward the hatchway, and passed the shut doors of the throne room, the cockpit, and where the queen slept, and her handmaidens. And passing he thought of her face as he had seen it the evening before, smooth with the agelessness of youth, and he wished that she might, with that smile and those too-wise eyes, escape the ravages of time. How easy she was to talk to. So far he had kept the interactions mostly for her benefit. But Qui-Gon was right. They were not 'our people.'


Sabé was in the engine room. She had woken with the light of morning, and strangely there was such clarity in the air .The clarity had worked itself into her lungs, and even the spaces in her sight seemed wider, filled with light. There was nothing she wanted more than to get up and do something useful.

Down she went therefore into the engine room, though not before sparing a glance out of the transparisteel windows to the sight of the sun rising like a great wave washing over the dome of the sky. In the far reaches of the horizon the night's moisture billowed up from the yellow sand, and amid the undulating air of morning she found the now-familiar shadow of Obi-Wan. This morning his exercises were slowe, his movements more fluid and controlled as he went through the trained sequence of stretches, punches and kicks.

Even back at the training compound by Theed the soldiers rarely ever awoke early to train, to put themselves through something which others would no doubt demand of them later. It would take enthusiasm and dedication of such constancy as to be inhuman to do as Obi-Wan did, every morning. And she recognized behind the graceful movement of his arms, the kicks and spins lovely to behold but a terror to withstand, was a discipline and tradition of such power as to command the near-unquestioning effort and obedience of two of the most able men that she had ever met.

Suddenly she envied them for it: for having found a master, and a cause great enough and true enough to serve with all of their heart, for all their lives. And it had been so obvious to them, from the beginning. Little wonder Jedi Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi believed in fate; fate had taken an active interest in his life from the very moment that he was born.

Then the blazing body of the sun broke over the horizon, and Sabé blinked for the brightness of it, and then, shaking her head to clear it of the thoughts, she descended the staircase into the engine hold.

Her own life perhaps was made of broken narratives. She had drifted on the edge of beingness and use, the weight of responsibility leaning and then leaving her, as if she strayed the returned to the center of things. She was not like Obi-Wan, Sabé thought, and then the absurdity of ever having to make that distinction struck her as vaguely humorous. Since when had she wanted to be Obi-Wan?

There was work to do in the engine room, and so she went. None of the astromech droids were now left in the starship, R2D2 having departed with Padmé and Qui-Gon, and the others shot to pieces. There would be no mechanical help in terms of repairs and navigational computing.

She spent the next hour in general clean up and maintenance, tapping open the panels on the engine gauge. With her multi-tipped screwdriver and pressure checker, went about tightening and checking.

She headed back upstairs as soon as she heard light turn on that signaled the use of the fresher in the crew's quarters. Back in their own room, she caught the raised eyebrows of Eirtaé, whose skeptical glance then shifted to her oil-stained hands, and ducked into the fresher herself.

She emerged to the two other handmaidens looking aghast at Padmé's message carrying over the waves.

"He did what?" spots of color splashed wine-red on Eirtaé's thin cheeks, "and you let him? Padmé, this is insanity anyway you cut it. I don't care if the boyis Saint Ailla himself – "

At which Rabé, with a deliberate movement, jostled Eirtaé out of the way of the commlink. Sabé came alongside.

"I'm not happy about it either, Rabé," Padmé said.

"We can give his padawan some hell about it," Rabé replied, though Sabé could see that she was fighting off her own surprise, "But that is the most we here could do."

"Not like that will help us at all," Padmé said, "though it might make me feel a little better. Sabé – Master Jinn just struck a bargain to get us out of here – "

"A risky one, I take it?"

"A bet on today's podrace, if our driver wins, we get the hyperdrive. If not…well, the local scrap trader gets our ship."

"Ailla protect us all."


It seemed like a stunt some young, untried, cocky man would pull, Sabé thought with confusion. Thankfully Padmé had warned them this morning, or she thought that she would not be able to keep her composure as Obi-Wan related his news to them in the well-lit interior of the Throne room.

He was at his most charming this morning, spending a little of that charisma that he had kept furled inside himself like nascent wings. He had cleaned his uniform, washed his hair until it shone. As vouchsafe for his trustworthiness, this morning the pride sat on his features and made them glow white and gold in the filtered sunlight of the Tatooine desert. The eyes, clearer than usual, seemed to alight on the things it touched like a bird of prey. He looked like one of the young lords of Theed, who strode through the archways of the palace with straight shoulders and a gaze that did not waver, so sure he was of his balance on the earth upon which he stood.

Obi-Wan sketched a very smart bow, and looking up his lips curled in a grin. His eyes damn near twinkled.

Sabé blinked.

She knew when she was being glamored out of her wits, now especially after training with Padmé. But as she looked back at Obi-Wan it was more than a little difficult to keep her features impassive, unaffected. His geniality this morning was infectious; the desire to grin back at him was suddenly overwhelming. Vaguely she noted her mouth go suddenly dry.

"And how exactly does Master Jinn plan to acquire the hyperdrive by tomorrow, Jedi Kenobi?"

"He is taking a calculated risk, Your Royal Highness," the blue eyes held hers by some invisible bond, "he made a wager against a local scrapper Watto. When our racer wins at the podrace today, we will have the hyperdrive."

All this said with the utmost confidence, as if the alternatives were too unlikely to consider.

"And surely there is a thing wagered on our side, Jedi Kenobi? What should happen then, in the event that our racer loses?"

He stood his ground.

"Risks must be taken, Your Royal Highness. But we are not betting on any simpleton racer – Anakin is a force sensitive, indeed he has the highest level of force sensitivity that anyone has ever encountered. His intelligence is near genius levels, and his knack with machines almost uncanny. Qui-Gon has wagered Your Royal Highness's ship – but without the hyperdrive, having the ship itself would do us little good, Ma'am. The odds, as well as logic, are both in our favor."

"And have you considered a course of action, should this plan fail?"

"Without a doubt, your Royal Highness. Your safety and that of your crew are of the utmost importance to us, and our assignment is to take you before the 500 Republica in Courscant as speedily as possible. This plan of action, though with its measure of risk, is the most efficient way to accomplish both goals."

He looked around at all of them, clear eyes blazing. Behind her Sabé felt Rabé suck in her breath, and even Eirtaé's usual fidgeting had calmed to the preternatural stillness of utter focus. Calm and certainty radiated from Obi-Wan, and even Captain Panaka was not frowning more than usual, Sabé noticed.

"Our paths have fallen together, your Royal Highness," Kenobi continued, training his hypnotic eyes back on Sabé, and ever word from his mouth was rounded and charged with intent, "We are bound until the end of this road, until peace has been restored to your planet. Therefore, I must ask you to trust me, Your Royal Highness. I must ask that you trust me, and wait – with hope."

Concluding, he inclined his head respectfully to her, and stood still with hands clasped before him in a position of humble supplication. The room was still as a tableau.

He believed it, too, Sabé thought; and then, irrelevantly, as the blood pounded in her ears, that the look of intense concentration he had trained on them had the same elements of that contained power as when he had looked into the box of insect specimens.

Panaka gave her a curt nod, nostrils flared with the expression of a man convinced full against his will, and Sabé spoke, feeling her voice fill the space, the void and vacuum left in the wake of Obi-Wan.

"We have not doubted your heart, Jedi Kenobi, only your methods. For you efforts you have our thanks. And for what is to come, we will wait together."

She noticed when he lifted his head that the corners of his eyes had turned up with his smile. Sweat beaded on the back of her neck as she fought the compulsion – very much a tangible compulsion – to smile back.

"You may go now."

"That trickster – oh there is no word for what he is! Despicable!"

"Eirtaé," Rabé muttered.

"What?" Eirtaé pursed her mouth and flashed her eyes, her cheeks had turned white with ire, "no doubt he used one of those Jedi mind-games on us. Sabé actually thanked him for his efforts. Utterly disgraceful. His fool of a master had bet our ship in a wager, and was thanked for his pains. If they can be so persuasive with us, why can he not practice one of his tricks on the local scrap dealer and just take the hyperdrive?"

It was some hours after the audience, when everyone had gotten their edge back. Waiting for a distant podrace to decide their fate was not a hopeful business, Sabé reflected. If anything it was irritating as all hell, and tempers grew shorter and shorter. She was standing in the corner of the throne room, massaging her neck as it strained under the weight of the heavy red-black-brocade headdress, staying out of the way as Rabé and Eirtaé argued.

"Eirtaé, be reasonable. The Jedi had obvious made the decision already, and if Padmé couldn't think of a better way – if our Queen is going along with this, there is nothing for us to do but to wait. You saying these things is not helpful in the least."

"Contrary to what your tone suggests, Rabé, I am not a complete dimwit. They might be the actors in this little drama, but at least we didn't have to take it as if we were on the same side. Sabé, you could at least not have been simple enough to thank him for his idiocy. Think what kinds of behavior that might allow for in the future. Obviously your training hasn't sunk in far enough for the simple expression of dignity to get through to you. Perhaps it never will."

Much as Sabé did not like to admit, it stung. Eirtaé had ever been the expert on deportment and reticence. Her royal upbringing had given her a mask, diamond hard and polished to a cutting edge. Sabé swallowed hard and bit down on her angry retort.

"Eirtaé, you were in that room," Rabé said, "you felt what was happening. If it wasn't some special Jedi power, then call it pure charisma. Face it, he was more persuasive that you or me at our best."

"I am not denying that, Rabé. That man's words could stop a war before it starts, if he uses them right. But this hardly sets a good precedent, to yield to his powers of persuasion – to allow him a place to play with his rhetoric and force us back into a position of thankful beneficiaries."

But her anger had run its course. Sabé watched as Eirtaé reassembled the smooth façade of cool aristocratic indifference.

"But you are right about this," Eirtaé said, looking at Sabé again, "now it is just the waiting. And perhaps there is a god you can pray to get us out of this mess."

Eirtaé was always fond of her parting shots, Sabé thought. She watched as the tall handmaiden strode from the throne room, her jaw tight, her chin a sharp jut in the air.

"She is very determined to be contrary today," Rabé said into the silence, "I hope she didn't upset you too much."

Sabé gave her a grateful smile, "Eirtaé believes in the appearance. It's not…a consideration I am used to making."

"You mean that she's not her head so firmly wrapped in the nobility's games that she can't give it a break even when it is time," Rabé said.

"The mask is a part of who she is," Sabé said, "it is a skill she cannot ignore. But I know – well, at least I think I know, that she means well. Else she would not be here; nor would she even bother to yell at me. It's just that all of this – it's all rather new – and how some people live, and how they think – it is bewildering," she finished.

Rabé sighed, brown eyes flashing distractedly to the desert outside; running a hand through her hair. "Nobility, appearance, protocol – to Eirtaé these things are more important than what actually happens. Like those generals of old who could talk composedly about bombing each other to smithereens, then bow and affect elaborate customs of respect and then go ahead and actually do it five minutes later. In fact there were probably more than a few of those in her family."

Sabé smiled, "never say that you would live despite dishonor?"

"There is a part of honor, restraint, and equanimity that is virtue," Rabé said, "But it's like what Ric Olié was saying, these are different times. We are up against those who are not constrained by any of our laws – and not to say that we should throw them all out the window. These people do not find important that which we find important. So we should throw some laws away, but only the ones that we cling to not because they make sense, but because they are there, and have been there since the beginning."

Her eyes flickered down, then fixed themselves on Sabé again, "I just never believed that there was a real chance I, or my family, might not survive this."

Sabé had nothing to say, to that.

"So I am very glad that you are decoy," Rabé continued with barely a pause, "I would be quite paralyzed. You have done well, Sabé. That you are not weighed down by the thoughts of loved ones in Naboo is a boon for you, to have no attachments."

Rabé sniffed and a glint came back in her eyes, "no attachments – almost like that Jedi. If he hadn't been trying so hard to make us all go along with his scheme demurely and without a fight, I would have quite sworn that he was flirting with you, you know."

To her everlasting mortification, Sabé turned beet red.

The commlink chose that very opportune moment to ring, saving Sabé from a doubtless poorly executed reply.

Padmé was beaming on the other end of it.

Sabé and Rabé looked at each other, stunned. The news, so long one terrible thing after another, had finally took a turn for the good. And when Obi-Wan arrived later, beaming, to make his report, Sabé allowed herself a smile. It was a little after noon local time. The hyperdrive should arrive with the victorious party at sometime after three, and they would make their long delayed departure to Coruscant later that very evening.