Inheritance
36.
The Skywalker boy trots along at his master's heels, face turned up expectantly, focus completely centered and calm. I've never seen the Padawan in such a state of perfect Jedi serenity – poised without tension, alert without anxiety. And Kenobi echoes his balance, striding confidently along with his little satellite in tow, exuding a quiet strength I wasn't aware he'd been missing.
It's a subtle but marked change. And a moment ago the pair of them were tangled in a heap upon the ground, like a pair of silly schoolboys at a private Coruscanti prep academy. I would have remarked upon the lapse in conduct were it not such a welcome relief to hear Kenobi laugh again. Such an open display is always a rarity among the Jedi; we do not indulge in wanton levity. But there was a time when the dojo or the Temple corridors might be occasionally and unexpectedly graced with a musical burst of wicked delight, generally followed by an exclamation from Jinn- something along the lines of Wretched brat! or possibly That's enough, Padawan!
Again, I wasn't aware until now that this was somehow missing. Has the Council been so very repressive and grim in all these months since Naboo? I steal another sideways glance at my companions. At the outset of this journey, I was wont to blame Skywalker for Kenobi's change in demeanor since his own master's demise- or, failing that, the real if inappropriate scars of grief.
And now I wonder whether it was our own doing all along. My own doing. Fierfek. Old Yoda saw it, didn't he? He'll be immensely pleased to hear that I learned my lesson. Here I planned to intervene and set things aright between master and student, and I end by discovering that the only thing required is an alleviation of Council pressure.
They've discovered their own balance – with or without assistance. I stand humbled.
"Master?" Skywalker asks his teacher, quietly. "Is a development like a situation?"
Kenobi glances down briefly. "Nowhere near. It's a bit worse than a difficulty but not as bad as a complication."
"Oh." His Padawan nods, diligently storing away this information with the bright sobriety of childhood.
And though Kenobi's face is composed in a well-practiced mask of academic abstraction, I can still feel the smirk, lurking in the Force just beyond the veils of physical expression.
Very funny, boys. "Well, Padawan," I inform the youngest member of our party. "Had you opted to participate in the Legislative District tour last week rather than gallivanting in a scrap pile, you would find yourself well-prepared for the ugly ruckus we're about to encounter."
"In the elders' longhouse?" the boy asks. "I'm used to it, Master Windu sir. I don't need to see the Senate in session. Master says its just like a bar brawl in Mos Espa anyways, an' I've seen tons of those."
I cock an eyebrow at the young Knight striding beside me, but Kenobi returns the silent question with another bland gaze, one that challenges me to contradict his assessment of the Republic's democratic ruling body, or his decision to share that opinion openly with his apprentice.
He's entitled to his opinion, and to teach as he sees fit. After all, he is no longer a Padawan himself; he's earned the privileges of rank. And if there is any outstanding disagreement between us, we'll just have to settle it in the dojo like peers of the Order.
I look forward to it.
Of course, that doesn't mean I can't throw my weight around in the meantime.
"Skywalker," I suggest, authoritatively. "Why don't you go fetch your master's cloak from wherever he's abandoned it – again."
Two pair of startled blue eyes widen at this pronouncement: one in open delight and the other in mortification.
"Yes, Master Windu!" the Padawan chirps, almost prissily. I'll wager he's eager to please me, after that little talk we had yesterday.
I direct a pointed look at Kenobi. It's not far above freezing out here and he is still recovering, whatever nonsense he may claim to the contrary. I think I see why the man has such an ill reputation among the Temple's venerable healers. I have a feeling that quirk in his character won't see any improvement with time, either.
"You can help me break up the bar brawl in the council-house," I tell him. "And no sabers. I don't want anyone to lose an arm."
He has the good sense to limit his reply to a demure yes, master. We cover the distance between here and there in a handful of strides, and enter the hazy confines of the longhouse to witness a scene of unbridled chaos, or at least the Feorian approximation of the same. Thank the Force most the government officials fled the premises at the first sign of trouble. On one side of the smoke-filled room – ordinary wood fire smoke this time, mercifully – the chieftain and his advisors are in high dudgeon, throatily accusing the younger generation of rank rebellion and purposeful sabotage. Across the way, Yonso and his followers shout and gesticulate freely, calling their elders a senile gaggle of hide-bound and unimaginative buffoons. And in the center of the wide space, the dispute has come to blows, a few private debates having devolved into scuffling fistfights.
Kenobi and I split the difference, each taking one side of the strife-ridden company. There's no point in trying diplomacy when both parties are in such an irrational state; there's little hope of swaying such a lot of fools with mind influence. Without any overt show of force or weapons, it takes us a good ten minutes to herd the disputants out opposite ends of the meeting-house and away to their respective dwellings. We have to break up a few heated exchanges in the village courtyard, too, and then station ourselves in its midst to discourage any new outbreak of hostilities.
"Lovely," Kenobi grumbles, as we stand back to back, peering balefully at any of the aggressive Feorians who peek out from doorways or windows, looking to rejoin the fray.
Skywalker comes jogging back with a heavy brown bundle in his arms. "And look," he announces cheerfully. "There was this busted repulsor drive unit out by the tram shed. I guess they won't be using it anymore, right?"
"The authorities agreed to donate a new vehicle," I concur. "That old model won't be worth anything to them now, even if it was reparable."
"Can I keep it?" the boy asks hopefully, clutching the rusting piece of junk to his chest.
His young master shrugs into the cloak and rolls his eyes. "Yes, Anakin, you may keep your pathetic stray life-form. Just don't foist it off upon me."
Neither Skywalker nor I quite gets the reference, but Kenobi seems to derive a dark private amusement from it.
And as we stand sentinel another half hour to be sure the Feorian's tempers have cooled, I have time to reflect that this entire group of villagers, and their troubles, are a large bundle of pathetic life-forms foisted off upon the galaxy at large by Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn. Fierfek, that man had a talent for attracting trouble.
Eventually, when the cold becomes unbearable even for Jedi, and the disturbance in the Force has smoothed to a collective sullen resentment, we retreat into the shelter of our own primitive lodging. But I can sense that the trouble is not over – not at all.