Author's note: Okay, guys, this is a big chapter. A really, really, big chapter. I hadn't meant to make it quite so large, but thought it read better this way than split into two parts.
As always, please review if you are so inclined. I appreciate the feedback and it really helps to hear your comments. Thanks, everyone!
Always, LJ
Nine hours earlier
The trip from Dxun to Onderon was quick, but crowded with nineteen on board the Phoenix. Canderous in his role as host had insisted on escorting them all. It would have taken two shuttles to accommodate so large a party; much more efficient to take the falcon. Atton sat as copilot, watching Dax proudly fly his Mandalore's favorite possession. He was a good pilot, Atton noted, competent and steady. If he lacked Atton's brilliance behind the controls, well, he certainly had nothing to be ashamed of. Few pilots were as instinctive as he was, he knew. It wasn't boastful when it was truth. Carth, now, Atton would love to pit himself against. He may be close to fifty and hadn't flown in combat for a while, but the man had the touch. Confident, cool headed and just reckless enough to be a real threat. Atton could learn a trick or two from the admiral and wondered when they might have some time to really talk shop.
They parked at the docks and Canderous handled visas and landing fees. That done, he led them to a local hotel to check in. The plan was to party on Onderon, sleep it off, then fly back mid-afternoon tomorrow. That still gave everyone plenty of time to spiff up for the ceremony. Atton hadn't bothered to bring anything with him but his lightsaber and a shave kit, not trusting the disposable jobs found at hotels. Laundry recyclers ensured he'd have fresh clothing and he was used to traveling light. He noticed no one else carried a bag either.
More interesting, no one, not even Quatz, was in robes. All the Jedi carried their 'sabers, of course, which is a dead giveaway, robes or no. He wondered if the collective decision to wear casual clothes was from the last year's habit of not drawing attention to large group of Jedi, or in deference to their Mandalorian host. For his part, he was proud to be Jedi, but found he still felt a bit like a fraud in robes, so wore them only on official occasion or when his status mattered, like when he'd gone to the Eternity to meet Ladria.
The Mandalorians all had blasters and swords strapped either to their backs or their hip, along with the shields none of them ever left Dxun without. He suspected most of the others had other more concealable weapons stashed on their persons; he always carried a dagger or two in a boot or wrist sheath. Old habits die hard.
Check in took no time at all and with no luggage to stow no one bothered to go to their rooms yet, just took the passkey and pocketed it. They gathered in the lobby, the size of the group attracting attention. Nineteen men usually meant a mercenary group looking for work; unusual in the more upscale hotels. Atton was amused by Canderous' choice, knowing like himself the Mandalore would have preferred to either sleep on the ship or take a room in the seedier part of town. But he was taking his duty as host seriously and chose something that the more senior Jedi would be comfortable in.
"It's early for dinner yet," Canderous rumbled in his deep voice. "I thought you gents would enjoy a night out, Mandalorian-style. We don't stand on ceremony much. But we have an hour or two before the real nightlife starts. Anyone have any suggestions?"
"I have a couple of errands I need to run," Atton spoke up. "Wedding details," he explained with a grin. The expected joshing of being whipped came, which he fended off cheerfully. "Ladria can kick any one of your asses," he said easily. "I like mine intact, thanks."
Carth nodded, adding, "Me too, actually. Revan expects some participation from me. I bet you're heading where I am."
"And me," Dustil chimed in.
"Well," Canderous said, clearly amused, "you three better get your asses in gear. Wouldn't want them chewed off tomorrow."
"So says the man with the deadliest wife in known space," Atton deadpanned. This earned him a friendly, if solid, cuff to the shoulder.
They got directions to the tavern where they'd meet in two hours, and scattered. Most of the Jedi took off to see the sights. Canderous, Jarxel and Dax melted into the crowd, a nice trick for three big guys, Atton noted. That left Carth, Dustil, Stefan and Jolee. He eyed the four men and shrugged.
"Flower shop," he said briefly, and they trooped off.
Even with full access to his assets, Atton had not changed his spending habits much. He liked nice things, and good food and drink, but never felt the need to be tied down by possessions. He had often spent lavishly, however, on transient things, such as spontaneously buying a round or six at a cantina, passing the largesse off as Pazzak winnings. Trinkets for the women he indulged in, or a few nights in a really good hotel, taking advantage of the luxury services available during the day, and the high-class but expensive nightlife. And from time to time he'd anonymously paid for shelter or transport off planet of people that needed a hand, or used his pickpocket skills in reverse, slipping credits to likely looking subjects.
The few possessions he owned and never cut corners on were ships, weapons, and boots. He had been known to literally wear his footgear through the soles until he could afford or have access to the best. One thing he had to give the Republic: they issued their soldiers outstanding combat boots and Atton had learned how important such a seemingly small detail was. He could march for days in those boots and hardly ever blister, and they were almost as silent as being barefoot when he chose. In his early days of hiding from the Sith, when he was flat broke and expecting each day to be the last he breathed, he had made an inane bet with himself to keep his sanity: every day he survived, he'd put aside whatever credits he had above what he needed to eat and house himself. When he'd acquired enough, he'd go to the best cobbler in known space and get a pair of custom made boots. It had taken a year. Not to build the credits; that had only taken a few weeks. But he had been a little crazy during that time and become obsessed with finding the perfect cobbler. He'd found him on Onderon, and putting on that first pair had been almost better than sex. It had been a sort of catharsis, the first step to letting go the darkness he fleeing. Even knowing it was dangerous to acquire a steady habit that could allow someone to track him down, he couldn't let go this particular luxury, and never bought his boots anywhere else if he could help it.
With that same single-mined intensity, he had been slow to build his lightsaber until he was certain he had acquired the finest materials and designed the most efficient unit he could. He was justifiably proud of his 'saber; it was sleek and powerful and the dark blue of the crystal was almost the exact shade of Rowena's eyes, the Jedi who first opened his mind to the Force. He had chosen it to remind himself that she had believed him worth redemption. Jennet had given him a 'saber off a dead Dark Jedi, and he had changed the blade from red to blue with a crystal he'd found along their travels. When he was building a new one, he'd almost chosen green, thinking of Ladria and her gorgeous emerald gaze that looked at him with such trust and love. But on reflection, he had wanted to honor the first woman besides his mother that had really believed in him. It was a trust he never wanted to betray. Oddly, Merrit had had blue eyes too, and that comforted him somehow. He often wondered what had become of his crafty former mentor.
Following this principle of putting his money where it was important, the ship he'd lost on Peragus had been a decommissioned Republic scout sold at auction he'd picked up for a song and spent about five times what he'd paid to modify it to his own satisfaction. The ship had been soundly built, well armed, and fast, well worth the investment. Not wanting to get anything of lesser quality, he hadn't bothered to replace it until the Sphinx had turned up on the market. But that baby was worth every credit and flew like a dream, he reflected with an inward smile as the five men strolled down the streets of Iziz.
He had the urge now to spend lavishly for his own pleasure, and more importantly, for Dria's. He knew credits meant very little to her, and was wise enough not to shower her with expensive playthings that she'd find pleasant but unimportant. The brooch had been a small exception; every woman needed something pretty on her wedding day. One of the things he loved the most about her was she appreciated beauty of all sorts, whether it was fine art, an otherwise plain woman with a lovely smile, lyrical poetry, music, or a lovingly tended garden. Barely aware of her own dazzling good looks, she responded to what most people never noticed: anything that was made or tended with love. He had bought the painting in his apartment both because he had an eye for quality and beauty, but also because he'd known the instant he'd seen it that Ladria would adore it. Most people would regard it as a valuable antique that was a pretty picture. Ladria saw the care and effort in making it and loved it even more for that than its composition.
It was something that Atton shared with her, but never with the same intensity or honest pleasure. Like her, he was adept at noticing people's strengths and complimenting them on it, something he enjoyed because he liked making people feel good. But he was honest; he knew the habit had started back when he was a street rat and charming people kept him better fed and out of detention centers. Ladria simply saw what good was there and spoke truth. It humbled him to see her charm someone like Quatz, knowing she personally didn't care for his narrow views, yet found something in him that was honest and fine. Atton hadn't that sort of patience, but wanting to follow Dria's example, tried hard not to bait the Quatzes of the universe as much as he had in the past.
He had been reflecting on this while habitually keeping up the constant patter in his mind while simultaneously joking with his friends. They had been discussing the merits of eloping versus a formal wedding and agreeing that tomorrow would be splitting the difference. Carth and Ladria were a lot alike, Atton had noticed, and Dustil a good deal like his father too. None of these three cared overmuch for fuss and bother. All were thoughtful, intelligent, decisive, yet cautious, but were flexible enough to trust their instincts. They all had a natural air of authority that people responded to. Only Revan possessed that as easily; Mission and Atton could project it when needed, but lacked that effortless leadership the other four exuded from their very pores.
But damn it, he wanted to have fun on his wedding day, and knew Mission and Revan felt the same. Surprising his bride with flowers and candles was the most fun he could think of that Ladria wouldn't protest. It would appeal to the romantic she was and the look on her face when she saw the hall and altar decorated with thousands of blooms would be something he'd carry with him forever. Atton wanted to see that look of childlike wonder in her eyes as she came down the aisle.
Ladria chronically worried too much about everyone else to let herself go very often; it seemed to him that Carth and Dustil were the same. How Revan had retained her sense of whimsy after all she'd been through Atton hadn't a clue. But it was good for the admiral to have a mate that dragged him out of his self-imposed saving the universe mindset. Atton had made it his personal challenge to make Dria lighten up, as well. Sure, they were facing a war that was going to be ugly and never end. But if you can't laugh about it…
He jerked out of his train of thought with the clanging of the old-fashioned bell over the shop door. Carth was looking at him quizzically and he wondered what he'd just missed.
"Sorry, woolgathering," Atton said with a smile. "You were saying?"
"Just wanted to make sure we were on the same page," Carth said easily. "Not even Mission thought of flowers. I put in my order last week, you?"
"Me too," Atton confirmed. "I included arrangements for the tables, too, and a standing piece for the altar."
"I hope they got Mission's right," Dustil said worriedly. "I'll be the jerk of the universe if they made the ankle wreaths wrong."
"Listen to these saps," Jolee spoke up behind them, eyeing the three grooms with mock exasperation and nudging Stefan with a conspiratorial snort. "I can just feel the testosterone draining out of their sorry ass bodies."
"Hey, I've done this before," Carth defended. "Never screw up wedding flowers, trust me."
"It's a good thing Jennet didn't have any at hers," Stefan said cheerfully. "She doesn't know a rose from a lily. Your ladies, I think, have more discerning taste."
Jolee eyed Stefan with disgust. "You're not even getting married. No excuse at all. Damn pansies, the lot of you."
"Nope, Crysallis flowers," Atton corrected. "Beautiful and deadly as Dria."
Carth regarded Atton with respect. "I got the same for Rev," he said approvingly. "There's hope for you yet."
Jolee snorted again, but Atton saw the smile he hid. Checking on the order took about a half hour, and Atton made sure the delivery would be early afternoon.
The five Jedi made a couple of more stops, one to the chandler to assure themselves of the candle delivery, another to pick up the boots Atton had ordered two months ago and hadn't had time to retrieve. He pulled them on with a satisfied grunt and flexed his foot.
"Perfect as always, Roberre," Atton complimented, turning in the old pair for repair and tipping generously. "Best damn boot maker in the universe," he said to his companions. "You ought to order some for yourselves."
"Better than Republic issue?" Carth asked doubtfully, but his sharp eyes noted the quality and he reached toward Atton's foot reflexively. "May I?"
"Sure," Atton tugged one off and tossed it to the admiral.
Carth examined the boot, running his hands over the leather and noting the stitching, the sole, and the lining. "These are good," he pronounced admiringly.
"Waterproof, and custom made. They fit so well, even new, you hardly notice you're wearing them." Atton bragged. "I always have at least three pair, to rotate around, you know. But I wanted a new pair for the wedding." His basic optimism had prompted him; as angry as he was with Ladria at the time, and not even knowing when she'd return, he'd still carried out a few preparations: designed the rings and had them made, had formal clothing tailored, and been fitted for new boots. But he didn't mention this to his friends, only adding, "Takes at least five years to wear out completely. Longer, if you can get them to Roberre for repair once in a while."
"How much?" Carth asked, and Roberre obligingly recited a price list. Carth whistled. "Expensive," he said, "but worth it if they're as good as you say. How long does it take to make a pair?"
"For you, two weeks," Roberre said promptly. "Mr. Rand is one of my best customers; it would give me pleasure to accommodate his friends. If all of you buy, I'll give a twenty percent discount."
"It's on me," Atton said with a grin. "Call it a wedding gift."
Stefan and Jolee in particular protested, but Atton talked them down, and soon all four were measured and had picked out what they wanted after thanking Atton heartily. He just shrugged and waved off their thanks.
"You'll hate me later," he laughed. "Nothing else will do now, and you'll live in poverty, saving up for your next pair."
That made them all laugh, and Jolee slapped him on the back.
"You've redeemed yourself over the flowers," he joked. "Nice to see you have some manly priorities."
They had about fifteen minutes to catch up to the rest of their party, and hurried their steps. The others were already there, taking up two large tables and gesturing to the five of them. Atton swiftly evaluated the room and chose a chair that gave him the best view of everything. He was certain Canderous had chosen these tables on purpose; anywhere you sat there was only one spot you couldn't see easily. He accepted a mug of Mandalorian ale and reminded himself to keep up enough healing that he didn't get drunk. The stuff was lethal, but very tasty. Quatz was drinking his with gusto and seemed to be unbending a bit. All to the good.
Atton found himself next to Windor, the Master with the icy blue eyes that Ladria had mentioned made her uneasy. By habit, he scanned the man's aura and found nothing out of the ordinary; the surface thoughts were the usual random words flitting around like anyone's. He was not as comfortable in a semi-seedy cantina as he seemed, Atton noted. Otherwise, perfectly normal and average powerful Jedi Master thoughts. Windor raised an eyebrow at him and tilted his mug in salute.
"To the groom," he said, and they drank. "Hear anything interesting?"
I just did, Atton thought, his face slipping into his customary charming blankness. He's confident enough in his own abilities to mask his thoughts that he let me know he noticed my probe.
He caught the slight widening of Windor's eyes when his own probe was effortlessly detected and blocked. He was good, though: that was the only indication of surprise. Windor sat back and regarded Atton thoughtfully.
"I've underestimated you," he said, pitching his voice so only the two of them could hear. "You're neither the fool you project nor, I think, the mercenary bastard I suspected was under that. Your mind control is extraordinary."
Atton smiled pleasantly. "You got half that right. I'm not a fool, but I am a mercenary bastard. Or used to be." He kept his voice light and sipped his ale.
"Possibly," Windor said. "But I don't think so. You really love her, don't you?"
"What," Atton asked, his voice now charmingly bland, "business is that of yours?" He was beginning to be pissed at this game.
"None at all," Windor said silkily. "Merely that I acknowledge your motives are pure. I congratulate you. Ladria is a lovely woman."
"She is," Atton said shortly, but even his irritation with Windor couldn't hide the softening of his eyes at the thought of Dria. Windor tipped his mug again and turned to speak to Jarn.
What the hell was that all about? Atton wondered.
He put it out of his mind as dinner was ordered and the entertainment began. The cantina was a strip club, of course, and Atton caught the gleam of satisfied amusement in Canderous' eyes as he regarded his guests. Atton stifled a laugh; Mira had let slip she wanted to pull something similar on Dxun. He hoped Jennet didn't choke too hard on her wine when she saw Xarga in his natural glory. As for his own bride, the thought of her ogling naked men bothered him not at all. Dria might appreciate the view, but she didn't think the grass was greener.
Atton amused himself watching the Jedi as the floor show progressed. He paused to admire the more athletic of the beauties on stage, but mostly found the various reactions of his companions far more entertaining. Disciple was watching the women on stage with almost clinical interest, as if gauging their muscle tone and vitals statistics long distance. Bao Dur was watching his companions more than the stage, and caught Atton's eye with an amused wink. Canderous stayed in his seat, talking with anyone who spoke to him, occasionally watching the women on stage with casual disinterest. Jerrel was enjoying himself thoroughly, it seemed, animatedly chatting with his neighbors and moving around the table to speak to whoever caught his attention. He barely looked at the stage. Timon and Renault both seemed mildly amused by their surroundings and the antics of the crowd but Atton saw that Timon would occasionally watch a performer closely. The third time this occurred Atton concluded Timon had a weakness for tall, well-endowed brunettes. Carth and Dustil both watched the show with an air of if one is dragged somewhere they might as well enjoy it, which made Atton chuckle. Jarn, the youngest of the Knights and probably most sheltered of all, was trying to behave in a worldly manner but staring at all the nudity when he thought he wasn't being observed, his mouth dropping open in amazement at some of the more creative poses.
Jarxel and Dax were drinking sparingly and Atton guessed they considered themselves on duty as the Mandalore's guards. They, along with Jolee, were unabashedly eyeing the dancers, clearly not feeling any sense of impropriety. Atton considered Mira and Visas' characters and decided they both were very tolerant women; Dax and Jarxel were safe enough. As much as those two were enjoying the spectacle, they were keeping sharp eyes out for any possible threat against their leader.
Gru and Geru were talking mostly with each other, sipping ale and enjoying a hearty dinner, occasionally growing silent as a particularly lovely dancer took a turn. Atton was pleased to see that the general lack of respectability of the place didn't seem to faze anyone. There was little old school Jedi snobbery among any of them.
Stefan, he saw, had attracted the attention of a tasty little barmaid who was flirting outrageously. He split his time chatting with her as she passed by and idly gazing around the room, missing nothing. It was Stefan's sudden look of concern that made Atton look up suddenly.
Six Mandalorians had entered the cantina, obviously fresh from the docks. They'd made an effort to clean up some, he gave them credit there. But they spotted Canderous, Jarxel and Dax almost immediately and their faces grew suspicious and angry. Atton was at the other end of the table and had no opportunity to warn his friend before the newcomers were upon them.
"I never thought I'd see the day that my brethren consorted with jetii," the meanest looking of the six said by way of greeting. "Even without robes I can smell them. You ought to come with us, men, we're on our way to pledge ourselves to the Mandalore."
Canderous stood, his face set in what passed as a pleasant smile. Atton saw several patrons edge away at the look. He rolled up his sleeve with leisurely patience and smiled wider. One of the men actually looked worried. Atton stifled a laugh.
"How convenient," the Mandalore said, "You found me." Atton saw the man that had spoken widen his eyes.
Canderous shifted so his Clan tattoo was displayed, the Ordo phoenix blazing on his bicep. Jarxel and Dax had stood with their leader and pulled aside the necks of their tunics to show the tattoos emblazoned on their chests, identical to their leader's. Jarxel spoke.
"I am Jarxel Tauran, the Mandalore and his Lady's second in command. I suggest you choose your prejudices more wisely. The Mandoa are allies with the Republic now, and the Lady of the Mandoa herself is Jedi." He growled this and the six men stood straighter. They didn't quail though, and Canderous give them a look of approval.
"She is the one we felt?" Mean Face asked incredulously. "We were working as mercenaries seven months ago and felt a presence like a bolt of lightning. All of us had the same vision of a beautiful warrior woman and knew her for our Lady, the true Mate of the Mandalore. We couldn't see the face of the Mandalore, though, but felt him too. And she's Jedi?"
"She's not even Mandalorian," Canderous confirmed. "And you'll show her respect or I'll kill you myself."
"We meant no offense," Mean Face said hastily. "The universe is changing, we know that. But our people are stronger now, we felt that too."
"The Mandalore and Lady have pledged their lives to the Mandoa and the Clans have disbanded and reformed under Clan Ordo," Jarxel informed him with a hard stare. "Accept this or get out. Daxon here is the Lady's Champion; if you offend her, you'll answer to him, the Mandalore, and me. Not necessarily in that order. If our Lady doesn't leave you in pieces first."
"I have spoken out of turn, Mandalore," Mean Face said. "We meant no disrespect."
"Keep it that way," Canderous said, nodding. "Have a drink on me and I'll see you on Dxun in a few days."
The tension eased and everyone went back to their drinks. Atton quirked an eyebrow at Canderous who nodded back, a grin on his face. Jarxel went to talk to the newcomers for a few minutes, then returned to the table.
"They're likely enough lads," Jarxel said cheerfully. "Just confused. They didn't want to appear weak by groveling."
"Good boys," Canderous approved. "I can't abide whiners. Have Kelborn assign them a sponsor until they learn their way around."
Jarxel nodded.
The evening would have been an unqualified success if it wasn't for the locals. Quatz had unbent so far that Atton suspected he'd had a personality transplant. He spent time with everyone, even Canderous, chatting and sounding them out about politics, the Sith situation, the upcoming mission. Atton gave him his best smile when he approached and flatly refused to discuss it.
"I'm getting married tomorrow," he pointed out. "I'd rather not think about having to leave her behind right now."
Carth and Dustil agreed, and Quatz hastily backpedaled. "I do apologize; that was insensitive of me. I can be such a single-minded bore at times."
Atton almost choked on his ale at this observation, and Carth pounded his back helpfully. "Apology accepted, Master Quatz," he managed after a moment.
Quatz serenely moved along and Bao Dur watched him meander. "He's drunk," the Zabrak said with amusement.
"You think?" Atton said wryly.
The other Jedi seemed to be having a good time. Each of them took a few minutes to get to know the grooms, and Atton was starting to think the Order really was moving into the modern age. He couldn't wait to share impressions with Dria.
Then the trouble began.
The six Mandalorians that had confronted Canderous were being hassled by a large group of locals. Atton sprang to his feet, alert for trouble, and saw Canderous roughly shoulder his way through the crowd to the table, Jarxel and Dax on his heels. Atton had started to follow, Carth, Dustil, Bao Dur and Jolee in his wake when a flash of steel caught his eye and Canderous was bleeding, a knife stuck under his bottom rib. Jarxel and Dax bellowed in rage and attempted to help their leader. The six remaining Mandalorians roared and went utterly berserk.
Fighting his way upstream, Atton got to Canderous first, shoving aside Jarxel, grabbing the knife and yanking it out before the Mandalore could realize his intent. Fiercely, he channeled healing into his friend and saw the wound close. It all had happened so fast, none of them had time to get out of the way of the suddenly raging crowd. Engulfed on all sides by gleefully swinging patrons, Atton and Canderous were buffeted back and forth, Atton nearly losing his footing. Canderous grabbed his hand and yanked him upright.
"Well shit," Atton shouted, "I can't use my 'saber; too lethal." He ducked under a fist aimed at his face and knocked the attacker flat with a brutal uppercut. He saw Carth and Dustil not far away, holding their own admirably but the odds were against them. Jarn was near them, ducking and weaving like a champ.
"Get to my men," Canderous roared over the deafening noise of the brawl. "They think I'm dead."
"Speak for yourself, Sir," Dax yelled from behind him. He was back to back with Jarxel, the two of them had been apparently been surrounded after being pushed aside by Atton. "Remind me to thank Master Atton later." He lowered his head and barreled through three men rushing at him, knocking them aside and giving himself enough room to execute a truly magnificent spinning back kick that put two of them out of the fight. Canderous and Atton knocked the third senseless with synchronized blows to the jaw. Jarxel was faring well with the four in front of him, ducking and blocking so fast no one had landed a serious blow yet. Canderous viciously slammed his fist on the top of one's head and Atton kicked the legs out from under a second. All four were out in moments.
A glance around showed their friends scattered around the room, all fighting to incapacitate, not kill. The more senior Jedi seemed to be trying to contain the crowd and prevent it from spilling into the streets.
Good idea, Atton thought. Less chance of attracting notice from the authorities.
The crowd was thinning and Atton knew they would win with no serious casualties when he heard sirens close by.
"Time to get out of here!" he bellowed, looking around wildly for an exit.
But the brawl was pressing closer and suddenly the room was full of uniformed men with stun sticks and blasters. Not wanting to give the Jedi a bad name by striking one of the Queen's guards, and unwilling to abandon Canderous, who he saw shoved willy-nilly out the door, helped along by an enthusiastic stun stick wielder, Atton allowed himself to be carted away. Once in an armored covered speeder, he found Carth and Dustil had been rounded up too.
"Damn, Admiral, don't they know who you are?" Atton asked, too busy trying to assess his chances of getting them all out of this mess to panic yet. The odds didn't look good.
"Well, I tried to tell them," Carth said ruefully. "The nearest guard just sneered, 'sure you are, buddy,' and shoved me into the speeder."
"Do you think the others got away?" Dustil asked anxiously.
"I saw Canderous being prodded into a wagon," Atton reported. "I'm pretty sure Jarxel and Dax were with him. I would be, if I were them. Jennet will make mincemeat out of both of them if we don't figure something out. It's a lot safer in jail."
"What about the other Jedi?" Carth asked.
"I saw Jolee in the thick of it," Dustil said promptly. "You should have seen him, Dad, he was having the time of his life. Training's going to be fun with him," he added enthusiastically.
"Focus, Son," Carth admonished, but he was smiling.
"Sorry," Dustil appeared to be thinking. "Jolee must have gotten taken too, unless he was willing to attack a royal guard or mind tricked someone. I think I saw Stefan slip out the back. Disciple looked like he wanted to come after us, but Stefan yanked his arm and when I looked again they were both gone. I don't know where any of the others were."
"Bao Dur got seriously hurt," Carth said quietly. "Someone thought a maddened Iridonian was too dangerous during a brawl, I guess, and took steps. He was taken out and I was trying to get to him. I can't heal, but I have kolto on me. They dragged him into one of the first speeders, I think. But I saw him stirring as they did; chances are he's healed himself already."
"I hope so," Atton said soberly. "I saw Quatz and Jerrel on the fringes, trying to contain the fight. I have no idea where they are now. Jarn was close to you, Carth."
"Was he? I didn't see him," Carth said, shrugging. "Windor and Timon weren't far off, and Geru and Gru were unfortunately right by the door when the authorities got there. They were shoved into a wagon right behind Bao Dur."
"You there, Jedi," a voice came out of the dim recesses of the hold and Atton peered, blinking to see who it was. Mean Face and two of his companions were on the far end of the cargo hold, staring with interest at the Jedi.
"Yeah?" Atton answered a touch belligerently. He knew these guys hadn't meant to cause trouble, but they weren't the ones that were facing postponing their wedding. Again.
Gods, just let me get married tomorrow on schedule, he thought. I'll pay any penance you want.
"You healed the Mandalore," Mean Face said with a touch of puzzlement. "Why?"
"He's my friend, you idiot!" Exasperated, Atton all but shouted. "But I would have healed anyone that needed it." He added in a more moderate tone, reigning in his temper with an effort.
"You seem upset that you did so," Mean Face observed.
Atton stared at him blankly. "Upset that I healed Canderous? Of course not. He's one of the best friends I have." With a small shock, Atton realized it was true.
"We're all good friends of your Mandalore," Carth said quietly. "Any one of us would help him."
"I see," the big Mandalorian looked thoughtful. "So what's the problem? We had a fight, we spend a couple of days in a cell, pay a fine, go home. No big deal."
"The problem is," Atton said through gritted teeth, "That we're going to jail and all three of us are supposed to be getting married tomorrow night."
Mean Face looked taken aback at that. "That is a problem," he said slowly. "It's never a good idea to mess with a woman's wedding plans." The three Mandalorians exchanged knowing looks.
"Yeah, well, thanks, Captain Obvious," Atton said scathingly.
The Mandalorian disregarded this jibe. "You saved the life of my Mandalore," Mean Face looked at Atton with a genuinely admiring and apologetic expression. "For this I – we – are grateful." The other two nodded. "We regret our situation has caused you difficulty."
"Not your fault," Atton acknowledged grudgingly, his irritation fading. "Just damned bad luck."
"I'm Trafgar Leit, and these two are Quinn Ains and Justin Horne." The redhead nodded first, followed by the brown-bearded fellow. Trafgar himself was a dirty blond monster with a shaggy beard and piercing gray eyes. He offered his hand and Atton took it in a warrior's grip.
"Jedi Knight Atton Rand," he said and reluctantly smiled.
"Carth Onasi," the admiral left out his various titles, Atton noticed. The Mandalorians looked surprised at the name.
"Admiral Carth Onasi, Hero of the Republic?" Quinn asked, raising an eyebrow.
"The same," Carth sighed. "It's a much more exciting story in the news, believe me."
"Ah, and here I mistook you for a Jedi."
"Well, I'm that, too." Carth said. "Long story."
"Dustil Onasi," the youngest Jedi introduced himself and shook hands around. "I just got made a Jedi. So did Dad."
"Leit?" Atton asked suddenly. "Do you have a brother or cousin that does tattoos?"
"I had a younger cousin that liked to draw when he was a kid," Trafgar said with surprise. "I haven't seen him since he was about eight."
"Jarxel will steer you in the right direction," Atton said. "Angus Leit is the Mandalore's official tattoo artisan. Damn fine work, too."
Trafgar looked pleased at the thought of locating family, but let the subject drop. Atton offered to heal any damage the three companions had taken. They politely declined.
The rest of the way to the jail was made mostly in silence. Upon arrival, the guards unloaded the speeders one at a time, leading the occupants into the processing area. Everyone was told to empty their pockets and leave belts in individual trays. Canderous, Jarxel, Dax and the other three Mandalorians were already in a holding cell when Atton and his group were brought in. He figured they were the last ones, as most of their party was present, sitting glumly on benches. Bao Dur looked healthy, and Atton breathed a sigh of relief. All of them gave their palm print and shuffled into their respective cells. The Mandalorians had one to themselves, the Jedi did as well. Down the hall, Atton heard the grumbling and occasional shouts of the rest of the bar's patrons that had been rounded up.
Canderous flashed him a rueful grimace as Atton passed his cell.
"Sorry, Rand," he said. "Damn bad luck."
"Not your fault," Atton said automatically.
They all looked at each other when the force shields resumed their humming. Atton looked around and counted noses.
"Anyone know where Stefan, Disciple, Jerrel and Quatz are?" he asked generally.
Except that glimpse Dustil had, which he reported to the rest of the group, no one had a clue.
"Well," Atton said after a moment, "I'm open to suggestion. Anybody have any ideas how to get the hell out of here in time to make my wedding?"
Dax spoke up. "Doesn't your arm break through shields?" he called to Bao Dur.
The Zabrak sat up and looked at him, a small patient smile on his face. "Absolutely. A prison break. That will help." He leaned back and closed his eyes again.
"Anyone know the justice process on Onderon?" Jolee asked from his corner.
"Generally, in a situation like this, the individuals charged with disturbing the peace will be released immediately if they plead guilty and pay a fine," Gru answered.
"How immediately?" Carth asked.
"Next morning, usually," Gru said.
"That's not so bad," Renault, whom Atton had heard speak maybe seven words all night, looked encouraging. "We plead guilty, pay our fines and go. It's only ten minutes or so to Dxun, we'll have plenty of time to make the wedding."
"Sure," Atton said pessimistically, "if it's as simple as that. Everyone shut up a minute, okay?"
He didn't normally need it to be quiet in order to do this, but it helped. Considering his luck tonight, he wanted as much information as he could get. He closed his eyes and searched the minds around him, skimming over the ones that were obviously ignorant of anything useful. The cells down the hall were basically full of citizens that had simply joined in the brawl, not caring how or who had started it. One man, though, had had murder on his mind and Atton saw clearly the image of the Mandalore stabbed with a dagger, and felt the satisfaction of the individual who had done it. He concentrated on this individual for a long moment, then moved on. The guards were not as helpful as he might have hoped, but he gleaned what he could.
Atton opened his eyes. "I have good news, bad news, and worse news." He looked directly at Canderous.
"What's the good news?" Canderous asked in a resigned voice.
"Trafgar and his buddies didn't kill the man that knifed you," Atton said cheerfully. He'd resigned himself to being in trouble now; might as well have fun. Baiting Canderous was a lot more fun than simply sulking in his cell.
Trafgar leaped off his bench and glared at Atton. "How is this good news?" he snarled. Atton smiled grimly.
"You won't be charged with his murder," he answered bluntly. "It was a spontaneous thing, but the guy wanted to kill you specifically, Canderous. That's the bad news," he added with a falsely cheery air.
"There's lots of people that want to kill me," Canderous growled, though with no real heat. "Any idea why?"
"All I got was something about humiliating him and his friends," Atton shrugged. "And a flash of Jennet's face."
"Ah, shit," the Mandalore groaned. "That was seven or eight months ago. And she healed them, too. It wasn't the leader of that pack, I remember his face. He wasn't there tonight."
Jarxel and Dax had both looked up with startled understanding and the three of them briefly explained about a fight they'd had with Jennet and the rest of the honor guard with a group of men who mistook Jennet as a captive.
"All I know is this guy remembered you and deliberately provoked the new guys to get you away from the Jedi," Atton was sure on that. "He set you up."
"Stupid asshole," Canderous grumbled.
"Proving it will be a bitch," Atton pointed out. "Unless we can get him to confess, and I seriously doubt he'll volunteer anything."
He sat abruptly on a bench between Carth and Dustil, his mind whirling.
"Damned bad luck," Canderous said, shaking his head.
"Not your fault," Atton acknowledged yet again. Gazing around at his friends, he smiled grimly. It could have been worse, he thought fatalistically. No one's dead, and as jail cells go, this wasn't bad. He'd been in enough of them to know. "But Ladria's going to kill us."
"Ladria," Carth said gloomily, "is the least of our concern. She's reasonable. Revan will go ballistic."
"Not if we figure out how to get out of here in time," Dustil said hopefully.
"It seems to me," Windor said unexpectedly, "that if the barbarian that attempted to murder the Mandalore confessed, we'll be released." He looked at Atton significantly.
Atton held the man's icy gaze, his dark eyes going cold. "I haven't done that in a long time," he said, his voice low and so utterly devoid of emotion Carth jerked slightly and felt a chill go down his spine. Rev sounded like that when forced to speak of her past. He eyed Atton warily.
"What is he talking about?" Carth asked, and glanced around the cell. Dustil had felt that coldness too, and shifted slightly away from Atton, but looked as concerned and confused as his father. The rest of the Jedi, save Jarn, were regarding Atton and Windor with expressions of understanding, but not necessarily with approval. Watching this exchange and sensing something going on he didn't understand, Canderous spoke to break the tension.
"What's the worse news?" he rumbled, and Atton broke eye contact with Windor with an almost audible snap.
"Worse news is," Atton reported, switching back to his careless good cheer, "is I caught from a guard that our fines will amount to about a thousand credits."
"That's not so bad," Geru said, brightening.
"Apiece," Atton announced, and everyone's face fell. Canderous swore loudly looked like he wanted to hit something.
"I have about four on me," he said after his temper had abated. "In my credit pouch, which they took."
"That's about what I have with me too," Atton said.
They took an accounting from everyone and found that they were about six thousand short.
"Don't trouble about us, Mandalore," Trafgar spoke up, with a wave at himself and his companions. "It was our fault you're all here. We'll join you when we're released and have worked off our fine."
"I won't leave my men behind," Canderous told him, his tone absolute. "Even if I did, I wouldn't let you pay for my mistake. You had no idea that asshole was baiting me."
"We all go, or none of us," Atton said, and everyone nodded in agreement. "If I can talk my way out, I'll cover the rest; I just need to get to my broker."
"The hell you will," Canderous growled. "This was because of me, I'll take care of it."
"Dustil and I need to get out of here as much as you," Carth added. "It's not fair to have you cover the cost."
The ensuing argument might have led to violence if they hadn't been separated by five feet and two force shields. Canderous was adamant that it was his responsibility, Atton was just as stubborn and the rest of the Jedi were protesting having anyone bear the full cost. Atton and Canderous were unwilling to leave any of their friends without funds.
"SHUT UP!" Bao Dur, unlike his usual quiet serenity, finally stopped the verbal battle with a loud roar that startled everyone to silence.
"This is not helping," he said firmly. "We need to be released. Logically, we need credits to do this. Atton and Canderous have them. So do I. The three of us will pay our fines in the morning, get the rest, and get you out. Now quit arguing and get some sleep. I won't have the General's wedding spoiled because of stupid pride."
With that, he turned his back on his cellmates and stretched out on a bench, pointedly closing his eyes and making a show of preparing to sleep.
Canderous and Atton regarded each other across the hall.
"Good plan," Atton offered, looking sheepish.
"I suppose so," Canderous allowed. "Get some rest, Rand. It'll work out."
They all made themselves as comfortable as possible and soon there was no sound but the shifting of nineteen men in close quarters snoring away. No one was bothered by lack of bunks; all of them were seasoned soldiers, accustomed to sleeping where they were.
Windor had given Atton food for thought though, and under cover of his companions' various nocturnal sounds, he mentally sought the one mind that had caused their predicament. The man was asleep; that made it all the easier. Atton's initial reluctance to use the mind skills learned from the Sith had been replaced with a calm acceptance that Windor could be right. What he saw while delving in the sleeping man's mind confirmed that this was not a nice guy. He would likely cause others damage in the near future, if the glimpses Atton was seeing were any indication. There was at least one murder to his credit, and no sign of remorse. He was on the point of implanting a suggestion that would force the man to confess his sins when he pulled back, shaking and feeling the sweat break out on his brow.
No. The bastard deserved it, sure. But Atton had sworn he wouldn't use this talent for vengeance ever again. He knew Ladria wouldn't approve either. The effort to stop so far along and knowledge of how close he'd come to it make him faintly nauseous. Breathing deeply to clear his mind of the unpleasant memories he'd witnessed, Atton set his own mind blocks and forced himself to relax and go to sleep.
The brawl was rapidly coming to a head, and Stefan was kept busy trying to defend himself without killing anyone. He heard the sirens long before they became apparent to the general populace and glanced around for an exit. Fortunately, he was near the back of the cantina, where a convenient door led to a back alley. He noted that Quatz and Jerrel had spotted it too and were swiftly making their escape. Mical was close and Stefan moved toward his nephew.
"Time to get out of here," he shouted, unaware that Atton had bellowed the same words across the room, to little effect.
Mical turned to him with a look of astonishment. "We can't leave the others!" he protested, starting to move deeper into the mass of battling bodies.
Stefan grabbed his arm. "We can't help them if we're all in jail," he hissed, pulling the younger man back with surprising strength. "Trust me, I have a plan."
Mical reluctantly followed with a swift anguished look at his friends, who were even now being rounded up by the Queen's guards. No one noticed them slipping out the back. Jerrel and Quatz were waiting a short distance away, breathing hard but otherwise unharmed.
"Where are the others?" Jerrel demanded, looking around as if fifteen men could hide effectively in a three meter wide alley.
"Rounded up by the Queen's guards," Stefan said shortly, shaking his head. "We were too spread out."
"Atton Rand seems a resourceful fellow," Quatz said with some puzzlement. "I would have thought he'd make it out."
"If I know Atton, he let himself be taken," Stefan said resignedly. "He wouldn't want to tarnish the Jedi name by striking a guard, or abandon his friends."
"Like we just did?" Mical snarled.
"Do shut up, Mical," Stefan said tiredly. "Your loyalty is admiral, but hardly practical. What good would it be if we're all in the same predicament?"
"You said you had a plan," Mical said with a touch of belligerence. "That's the only reason I followed you."
"Well, not so much as a plan as an idea," Stefan admitted. "But it's a start. Come with me."
The four of them made their way to an upscale apartment complex. To Mical's surprise, Stefan produced a passkey and led them into a small set of rooms, decorated simply but with exquisite taste.
"Who lives here?" he asked, taking in the comfortable furniture, the small but elaborate bar near the kitchen, and the few pieces of high quality artwork displayed on walls and the mantle above a holofire. He saw a collection of framed holos on a sideboard and went over to examine them. One was Jennet, laughing at whoever had taken the image, her curly hair tumbling every which way and brown eyes sparkling. There were several more of her, and a few of what must be Miranne and Drake Jax. He sucked in his breath; he'd seen Jennet's holos, of course, but was struck again by the knowledge that these were his parents. Stefan was present in some. The largest was of Jennet and Stefan, a large body of water behind them and the pink glow of early sunset streaked across the sky. Jennet was laughing out of the frame, Stefan's arm around her, both dressed in tunics and breeches, an invisible wind blowing her curls wildly. His uncle was looking at her, and the expression was so tender that Mical turned away, feeling as if he'd intruded.
"I do," Stefan answered, and Disciple nodded, unsurprised. Stefan disappeared into what Mical assumed was the bedchamber. "We need robes," he said, bringing out four sets a few minutes later. "Quatz, you and Jerrel are close enough size to me to manage. You, on the other hand," he said, cocking his head and studying his nephew with the air of an artist arranging his latest subject, "are much taller and broader. Fortunately, a friend uses this place from time to time and leaves spare clothing. These will do." He tossed the last set at Mical and ordered everyone to change.
They weren't Jedi robes, Mical saw immediately. But they were of similar design and to the uninitiated would pass. He obediently put them on over his tunic and breeches, tightening the belt and clipping his 'saber to his side.
Stefan hadn't let anyone share this particular sanctuary in a long time. It was the same apartment Jennet had lived in while they were together. After she had torn it practically to pieces, Stefan had returned a few months later, cleaned it up, and kept it. He owned it outright, and came here when the ghosts of his past haunted him too closely. Stefan knew it was illogical to maintain an expensive bit of real estate in a city that fought for every centimeter of living space, especially when he couldn't spend more than a few weeks out of a year here. But he hadn't been able to let it go. His mercenary friend stayed here more often than he did and made sure it was kept clean and comfortable. Convenient, in their current situation.
There was little hope the holos of Jennet had been missed by any of these three very observant men. Mical's parentage was general knowledge now, and Stefan saw his nephew, Quatz and Jerrel's quick minds putting the pieces together and coming to their own conclusions. He was grateful no one asked any awkward questions. He didn't really want to deal with their curiosity right now. Possibly ever. He was seriously considering selling it, anyway. It was too close to Dxun, and it didn't give him comfort anymore. Jennet didn't know he still owned it, in any case. Studying his nephew's face now, he realized that while Mical could be trusted not to tell his sister, it was long past time to let the past die. Jennet was happy, far more than he ever could have made her. That was what mattered most to Stefan, and always had.
As if sensing the need for distraction, Quatz, who was idly inspecting a painting above the mantle, spoke. "This is extraordinary work," he commented admiringly. "I don't believe I know this artist. Where did you get it?"
"It's one of mine," Stefan confessed, sizing the change of subject. Mical, he saw, had unobtrusively stood to block the bank of holos on the sideboard from view. A thoughtful gesture, if unnecessary. "It helps me meditate."
"Hiding your light under a barrel, eh?" Quatz said a shade too heartily. Stefan winced. If he needed any confirmation that Quatz and Jerrel had understood immediately the significance of the apartment, Quatz's attempt at casualness did it. He was thankful they were too polite to barge into his bedchamber to see the portrait there he'd done from memory. "It's good to have a hobby, but this is exquisite," Quatz continued, seemingly oblivious to Stefan's discomfort. "I'm amazed no one knows you paint."
"I sell them at a local gallery now and then," Stefan said, shrugging. "Most of the profits go to a children's orphanage. I don't use my real name, of course. But they've gained some small popularity."
"A philanthropist as well," Quatz said in surprise. "There's more to you, Master Stefan, than I guessed. Why haven't you ever told the council?"
"It's nothing," Stefan said, genuinely embarrassed. "A hobby only. If I kept all of my work, I wouldn't have room to move. As I said, I use it to help me meditate."
"So what's our next move?" Disciple interrupted, both to spare his uncle more discomfort and to get back to the point.
Jerrel nodded. "You obviously have something in mind, Stefan. Time to share."
"I'm well acquainted with the Onderon justice system," Stefan said briskly with a quick look of thanks at Mical. "It's far less corrupted now that the Queen has full control, but the common guardsman are notorious for accepting bribes. They also are in awe of Jedi, and know that their Queen feels indebted to the Order. They won't believe that our friends are Jedi, however, owing to the recent decimation of our ranks. They're well aware of how few are left. Despite most of our party being in possession of light sabers, they would likely dismiss this as mercenaries posing as Jedi, trying to con the locals. We weren't exactly in the sort of establishment that a large group of Jedi would gather."
The other three men nodded, agreeing with this logic. Stefan smiled grimly and continued.
"I'm certain, however, that if the four of us approach the jail in full robes and Council authority, at least Atton and the others of the Order will be released. We can insist on the Mandalorians being remanded to our custody as well. Whether they'll agree to it is uncertain." Whether he meant the authorities of the Mandalorians themselves was open to question.
"What about fines?" Jerrel asked immediately. "Or bribes, for that matter?"
"Bribes are a last resort," Stefan said firmly. "It would be difficult to smooth this over with the Queen if such action is taken. Better to pay and go as the law dictates, and this unfortunate incident will never have to be brought to her attention. Fines will be steep, however. I'd estimate at least eight hundred to a thousand credits per man."
"If they accept a draft from the Oder, that is not a problem." He looked at Stefan quizzically, who nodded. "Very well, then. We need to wait," Quatz said thoughtfully. "At least long enough to give the illusion that we were notified of the situation and came as quickly as we could. Go too soon, and someone might suspect we know more than we're telling."
"Good point," Stefan acknowledged. "Let's give it about three hours, then go. Anyone like a drink in the meantime?" he smiled charmingly, and everyone sat down to wait.
"I am Master Stefan Tai'rhi, Chairman of the Council of the Jedi Order," Stefan announced to the sleepy guard on duty at the front desk. "My associates and I are here to secure the release of our fellow Order members, and Canderous Ordo and his party."
"Hearings are in the morning," The guard said, unimpressed. So much for being in awe of Jedi. "Come back then."
Stefan's expression remained authoritatively pleasant as he leaned over the desk. "I think," he said quietly, "you need to release them now."
The guard's eyes glazed over and his mouth dropped open. "Yes, Sir," he said, his voice curiously flat. "But there's fines involved."
"You realize that one of your prisoners is Admiral Carth Onasi, Hero of the Republic?" Stefan said sternly. "It would be unfortunate if such blunder, however understandable, is made public. Or if it were known that so many Jedi were arrested when they were simply trying to keep the peace."
"N-no, sir, I mean, y-yes sir, that would be bad. Very bad," the guard gulped, trembling now. Stefan cursed inwardly. The poor fellow was too susceptible. He carefully throttled back his influence. "I'm relieved you understand that," Stefan said with a charming smile. "There's no reason to keep a record of this, is there?"
"No, not at all," the man said automatically, stutter now gone.
"Why don't you take care of that now, and then show us to your superior officer?" Stefan suggested, his eyes never leaving the guard's face.
"Right away, Sir." He logged on to his computer, tapping away. Mical came around the desk to check his progress. Looking up at Stefan, he nodded.
Speaking to the officer in charge took very little time, and in short order, Quatz had drafted a note to cover any fines, with the secure knowledge that the incident would not be in any official record.
The drama of four Jedi in full regalia sweeping into the holding area was enough to wake most of the party. Atton and the others had only gotten an hour or so of rest when Stefan strode in, trailed by Quatz, Disciple, and Jerrel. They stared, blinking and astonished, as a guard powered down the force shields on both cells and ushered the group to the secured personal effects room, where their belongings were returned with profuse apologies. No one dared ask any questions, and Canderous kept his newest men silent with a sharp look, seeing them unwisely about to demand what the hell was going on. He had his suspicions, but wasn't going to blow anyone's cover.
Once safely away from the jail, however, the Mandalore stopped in the street and stood in front of Stefan, blocking his progress.
"What the hell was that all about?" he demanded with a glower. Stefan calmly looked up at the much taller man and smiled thinly.
"No thanks necessary," he said.
"I'm going to pay back the Order for me and my men's fines," Canderous said flatly. "That's not what I'm talking about. Where the hell were you, and how did you get us out?"
"The four of us made it out the back and used the authority of the Order to get you released early," Stefan said simply. "We made sure that none of your names would be on official record. Not good publicity, for one. I didn't think you'd want to explain to the Queen why the Mandalore was arrested for brawling in a cantina on Onderon, either. She's still wary about the Mandoa living so close, as you well know."
"I'm aware of that," Canderous snapped.
"I'm also aware that none of this was your fault," Stefan said calmly. "Something had to be done, and there's three women on Dxun that don't deserve to have to wait yet again for their wedding."
"I don't like being indebted to you," Canderous growled, oblivious to the interested audience watching the pair. Atton made as if to speak, but Carth shook his head at him. This confrontation had been coming for a while; best to let it get out. He knew Canderous well and saw the signs.
"Well," Stefan said with elaborate patience, "I could care less what you feel towards me."
"We had it covered," Canderous glowered. "We didn't need your help."
"You did if you wanted it kept quiet," Stefan pointed out. "As if you cared what might happen if it came out publicly."
"I care," Canderous snarled. "But I clean up my own messes."
"And such a good job of it, too," Stefan was icily sarcastic now.
"They're not talking about the brawl anymore, are they?" Dustil murmured to his father.
"No, Son," Carth muttered back. "They never were."
Atton was torn between stopping a possibly ugly fight between two of his friends and letting an overdue clearing of the air continue. One could possibly end up getting them all thrown back in the jail they just left, while the other could cause a rift that neither of them intended. Throwing up his hands in equal parts frustration and resignation, he strode over to a nearby bench, crossed his arms, and sat. Carth and Dustil joined him. The rest of the party, including Dax and Jarxel, followed suit. The six newbie Mandalorians stood uncertainly near the Mandalore, not having a clue what was going on. Jarxel muttered a colorful oath and towed them all out of the way.
"Loyalty is one thing," he growled at the recruits, "stupidity is another. This isn't your fight."
"What the hell does that mean?" Canderous roared at Stefan.
"It means you can't control everything, and it wouldn't kill you to gracefully accept help now and then. Gods know why Jennet puts up with you," Stefan shouted back, deliberately provoking the bigger man. He knew that her name would bring everything out in the open, and he found he was relieved at the notion.
"You leave her out of this," the Mandalore's voice had dropped to a low dangerous snarl. "She has nothing to do with it."
"She has everything to do with it!" Stefan snarled back, and with a move that was too fast for anyone to follow, twisted the big man's arm violently around, wrenching it behind his back and slamming him against the wall face first. He leaned all his weight on the arm, brutally twisting the wrist, pinning Canderous and snarling into his ear. He could tell the bigger man was in considerable pain but made no sound. "I am sick to death of your judging me, being suspicious of my motives. All I ever wanted was for her to be happy. You won, you bloody idiot bastard! I would sooner cut my own throat than take her away from you."
He let up the pressure just enough to spin Canderous around and slam him back, getting one arm across his throat so quick Canderous had no time to break free. Stefan was eye to eye with him now, both of them blazing at the other with blue fire. Canderous' face was set in a snarl but he could barely breathe. Stefan knew better than to let up, though, and leaned closer.
"You listen to me," he rasped, all vestiges of the urbane charmer gone. "She loves you. You. Do you have any clue what that means? Do you think I'm so selfish to take that away from her? She can't breathe without you, she's the very life and soul of your people. You gave that to her, not me. Never me. All I gave her was a glimpse of a life she could never have, followed by pain. And I get to live with that. I don't care, as long as she keeps looking like she does when she's with you. I'm glad I left her now, because she would never have been that with me. But I'm tired of tiptoeing around you bloody pride and pretending I like you. Hate me all you want, I could give a bloody damn. I'm done."
Canderous had stopped struggling now. "You done yet?" he wheezed, not trying to remove the arm across his windpipe.
"No. If you ever hurt her like I did, I'll kill you myself." Stefan said simply, but with utter deadly sincerity. He shoved away from the Mandalore, releasing him and the big man rubbed his neck reflexively.
He strode over to the Jedi, looked him up and down appraisingly, then clocked him with a brutal punch across the cheekbone, smiling grimly at the sound of crunching bone. He'd broken his nose, too. Blood poured down Stefan's chin, and he spun halfway around but didn't fall.
"That's for hurting Jennet," he said. "And this," he spun into a back kick that caught Stefan in the side and knocked him sideways, "is for doing this in front of my men. Now we're done."
He offered his hand, and blinking, Stefan just stared at it. He hadn't tried to stem the flow of blood pouring down his face and hardly winced at his now broken ribs. Canderous noted both with an inward smile of admiration. Stefan wasn't a big man, but he was tough. "Heal yourself, Jedi," Canderous said with a grin. "That's got to hurt."
"It does," he admitted ruefully, and shook the big man's hand. "We okay?"
"Yeah." He looked at Stefan with new respect. "I wanted to fight you for her, you know. I guess I didn't realize you were fighting for her all along. You just didn't want to win."
"Oh, I did want to," Stefan shrugged. "But I'm not what's best for her, that's all."
He gingerly touched his nose and with a grimace, pulled as hard as he could to set it straight, clenching his teeth against the pain. Only then did he heal himself. Canderous frowned.
"Why did you do that?" He asked curiously, waving a hand in the general direction of Stefan's face. "Won't your healing take care of it?"
"You hit like a bloody Wookie," Stefan said with a wry grimace. "If I'd healed that as was, my nose would have been literally out of joint, and I like to breathe through it occasionally."
"Ah," Canderous said with a nod. "I'm used to Jennet; she would have straightened it while it healed."
"She's exceptionally good at it," Stefan agreed. "Most of us need a little more to work with. While we're on the subject, you need any?"
The Mandalore looked at him consideringly. "I wouldn't normally, but if I come home with a sprained wrist, Jennet's gonna want to know why. Go ahead."
Stefan grinned, and took care of the damage. "I'd like to be friends, if that's okay with you."
"We can be," Canderous agreed. "Now."
"Why?" Stefan asked frankly.
"You fought for her," he said simply. "If anything ever happens to me, I know she'll be okay. You'll see to it."
"I will," Stefan promised.
"Hey guys," Atton called, and both of them turned to see the rest of the party watching with relief and amusement. "It's almost seven in the morning. Do you think we could go back to the hotel and get some sleep sometime before the wedding?"