Inheritance


48.

"Sit down, Skywalker."

The boy promptly drops back into his seat and folds his hands together. He thinks he's managed to dissemble and mime his way into my good graces with that outward imitation of proper Jedi calm.

I'm in a generous mood. I'll accept it, for now.

The chieftain signals that the music and dancing should begin, and the throbbing cacophony of the traditional Feorian music fills the dining hall. This is the signal for the feast to begin in earnest, I am sorry to say. Feorian cuisine is not among the galaxy's finest - but we do what is required of us, even if it involves roasted grubs and a sinus-searing hot sauce. Perhaps the latter is the kindest complement to the former. I don't really have an opinion on the matter, and I'll be sure to down a good quantity of their fermented tuber-beer before I dare make an empirical verification.

Beside me, Kenobi discreetly levitates his helping back onto the serving platter and takes a delicate sip of his own beverage. Scoundrel. He would never get away with that at the Chandrilan Unity Convention. On the other hand, the Sorority doesn't consider bugs gourmet vittles, so it's of little consequence.

To my left, the Director of the Republic Rim Branch Committee for Cultural Reservations leans in to whisper in my ear. "Very, ah, energetic music, eh, Master Jedi?"

You could say that. I peer across the hall. While the Feorians have reached a tentative armistice within their own ranks in the aftermath of the jabuuer-weki's final assault, tension remains. Yonso grieves for the lost ithyll, the treasure on which he had staked his fond imaginings of ease and prosperity. The chieftain thinks the monster's demise a providential acclamation of the Old Ways. Though Darkness no longer fans the fires of their dispute, the issue has not been resolved.

"Director," I say. "Has there been no provision made for Feorians who may wish to attend a Core-world university?"

"What?" the portly man harrumphs. "Well, ah, the expense. Funding, Master Jedi. We were able to secure these people their generous land grant on the grounds that they would not be a burden to the Republic. Self-sufficiency, you see, not charity. And frankly, there are so few of them – if we hold out an aurodium incentive like that, what do you think will happen to this Reservation? Hm?"

"An exchange program," I insist. "Two students per year. The cost of an internship here might pay for one Feorian's scholarship during the same time. A fair exchange, Director."

He shifts nervously in his seat. "I would have to discuss it with the other members, of course, ah, make a proposal to the Finance Secretary, clear it with the Golian Presidency and so forth."

"We'll send two Jedi students the first year," I decide. "The Agri-Corps can spare them. I'll await the Committee's decision impatiently, Director. I can be contacted on Coruscant, at the Temple."

I believe he choked on a bit of spicy grub. Too bad. Bureaucrats occasionally need a prod in the right direction.

"I'll, ah, see what I can do," the man simpers.

Good enough, for now. I'll speak to the Agri-Corps coordinators later; the "exchange" students ought to be able to at least submit an initial evaluation of the horticultural possibilities here. If they can grow crops on Bandomeer, surely they can grow them here, though it will take time.

Yonso continues to scowl at me balefully. He has no idea I've just bought him a ticket to his coveted dream. Nor will he ever, in all likelihood. He still blames the Jedi for a supposed murder attempt against him and his companions; and he will credit the sudden shift in his fortunes to a capitulation on the chieftain's part, and an unexpected epiphany on the part of the government.

But his opinion on the matter is not mine to mold and influence. We come to serve, not to garner praise and due credit.

Kenobi stands up and excuses himself with a few murmured words of apology. I allow the server to refill my drinking bowl with deep amber liquid, and watch his progress across the boisterous gathering. He slides into a seat beside one of the offworld hangers-on, a sly-faced fellow with a distinctly oily air about him. He professes to be an expert on the Feorian culture, his origins and intentions shady as the uncouth stubble lining his jaw.

I can't hear a word of the exchange, but I can see by Kenobi's posture and graceful hand gestures that he has launched into full-blown negotiation mode. Idly I pick up his cup and slosh the contents. Only half-empty. Well, if my fellow Jedi wants to drive some private bargain with a disreputable charlatan, far be it from me to interfere. I have to admit: in some small way, it's good to see Jinn's legacy carried on with such devotion. I just hope young Kenobi has the sense to keep it legal.

The din beneath the low rafters swells as a troupe of costumed dancers enters, stage right. The Feorians apparently intend a pageant of sorts – the tale of the jabuur-weki's undoing, fancifully rendered.

The Director looks upon the primitive festivities with a bored condescension. He leans in close again. "Ah, might I ask you, Master Windu… before you arrived, there was some hint on the part of the younger generation here that some valuable resource might be, ah, contained within the Reservation boundaries. I wonder- have you discovered any evidence of such a claim?"

I keep my gaze trained on the graceless but mesmerizing rhythms of the Feorian tribal dance. "It is not always wise to give credence to the promises of the discontent minority," I tell him. "You would not wish to appear a fool among your colleagues."

"Oh, no, certainly not," he stammers. "Yes, yes, I see. Thank you, thank you indeed."

"My pleasure."

And now a monster of twisted fiber and rough-spun cloth emerges, a puppet given life by two or three cavorting Feorians. It roars, and the audience cheers. Somewhere under a table. a child screams in terror.

"Sit down, Skywalker," I say again.

"I can't see over anybody's head!" he has the gall to complain.

I've heard that before. I was Yoda's Padawan, many years ago… but I'll not be hoisting Skywalker onto my own shoulders to afford him a better view. "Very well. You may find a more favorable vantage point."

He scuttles away, almost forgetting to bow. I scowl. Protocol, protocol – if you can't remember a simple thing like courtesy, how can you remember vital instructions or key intelligence on a mission? I sigh and shake my head. Thankfully, this is Kenobi's problem now.

Of course the boy wants to see the theatrics; he doubtless supposes himself to be the hero of the day. If only it were so simple. I will commend his actions in Council, of course. Bravery and intelligence should not go unremarked, and his destruction of the cave was a merciful ending to a rare confrontation. But it would be a dereliction of duty, an abandonment of hard-earned wisdom, to suppose that with the monster's demise we have somehow vanquished injustice and suffering, even here among the Feorians.

For the Dark is on the prowl, seeking a foothold, leverage with which to tip the galaxy into everlasting night. I can feel it, drawing nigh. And while we have here obliterated one vergence, there is surely another and greater waiting elsewhere, in the future. One beyond the scope of imagination.

This was but a foretaste, a parable tale, much like the fairy-legend that the Feorians even now spin and chant, weaving fact into memory, reality into myth until they are indistinguishable, a textured embroidery of history and warning. I watch the play unfold, hear the stamp of feet and the pounding of drums, the humming chant of the old language, and I release my questions into the Force.

When the time comes, I will not be caught off guard, for I have heard well the warning here issued: Beware. Beware.