A Knight Alone, Book Three: The Soul of a Knight
Timeline: 32 years after the Battle of Yavin
Chapter One: GamblerAngela Marshair spent a month in hiding, haphazardly jumping from each outlying station to fringe planet. But no matter where she went, she found someone hunting her. Bounty hunters, Admiral Adguard's mercenaries, Rakarisian soldiers. She found no respite from the violence and bloodshed. She left scores of dead in her wake. And she grew no closer to her goal than when she had escaped from the Fortune of Demise.
The month passed, leaving her bitter, hollow, and alone. She sat in the cockpit of the Nebula Dancer, munching on the last ration bar in the ship. She would have to raid a storehouse or loot the ship of the next bounty hunter that crossed her to keep herself fed. The cycle of bloodshed would have to continue, it seemed, and it left an acid taste in her mouth.
Her hair had grown longer, wilder. Gone was her regal elegance, her highborn stateliness. In its place was the haggard, bedraggled hardness of a hunted woman. Her Jedi robes had been confiscated during her imprisonment on the Fortune of Destiny, and she now wore the tan-brown boots, trousers, and jacket of a freighter pilot, found in one of the storage crates in the Dancer's cargo hold.
It was an unflattering wardrobe, bulky and one size too large. She had cinched the straps down as far as they would go and she still looked small inside the jacket. At least with a utility belt on, her trousers had stopped falling down her hips.
But she had long since forgotten about her appearance. Survival was all that dominated her mind—survival, and the success of her mission: find the last key of the Fall of Empire. Over the past month, she had worried that Admiral Adguard would locate it before she could, but her concern was unfounded. If Adguard was still after her, then he did not yet know where the key was.
But that advantage brought her little comfort. She had nowhere to turn to, no allies to call on. Adguard was a thorough man. He had disabled many of the Dancer's systems, including its communications array and shield generators. He had made her into a wanted fugitive throughout the Mid, Inner, and Outer Rim territories—wanted for stealing a family heirloom from Kel Sunderson, wanted for the murders of Ran Tonno-Skeve and Admiral Thufir LeFrein, wanted for her terrorist activities. Admiral Adguard had sown his lies, twisted the truth. She could not call on the Jedi Order or the Federation. He had left her completely, utterly, totally alone.
"I have to get to Corellia, soon," she murmured around the ration bar. "I can't keep running like this forever. The odds are against me. But I guess that's what's ironic about going to Corellia," she said to herself. "Why respect the odds when you have to beat them?"
She spent the next hour busying herself with her equipment. It was not much; she sold most of the spare gear on board for food. All she had left were the clothes on her back and a utility belt she had scraped together: a blaster, a liquid cable dispenser, and a glow rod.
She did not even have a comlink, for she had dismantled it and the other remaining electronics to forge a new lightsaber. The "crystal" for her weapon was only a chip of the Dancer's power core, a poor substitute for a real focusing crystal but one that served her well enough. Its blue-white blade reminded her of Ran's, a memory that gave her comfort.
"I'm done running," she said with growing conviction. "Adguard's gaining too much ground. As it is, I'm on my own without a single friend. But that's okay." She smiled into the emptiness around her. "You're still looking after me, right? Right. I'll be all right." She calculated the jump to Corellia. It was time to get the last key. "Keep looking after me, all right?"
Admiral Adguard stood on the bridge of the Fortune of Demise, his frustration barely contained. Over a month of hunting, and the Jedi princess had managed to elude them at every turn. Over forty bounty hunters and mercenaries lay dead because of her. Twenty more were soldiers he had sent against her. He had cut her off from civilization itself, and yet she continued to fight back against him.
"How is she doing it?" he often raged in the privacy of his quarters. But on the bridge, he strove to keep himself collected, though that had grown increasingly more difficult as the weeks stretched out.
One of the officers walked up to him, holding a datapad. "This had better be good news, lieutenant," he said gruffly. "I am in no mood for another death toll. I'm more than aware of Jedi Marshair's prowess."
"It is not a death toll, sir," the lieutenant said stiffly. "It's a report from one of our scout ships. The Jedi has made a hyperspace jump to Corellia."
"That's odd," Adguard noted. "She usually jumps as far away from planets as she can. She's wanted in fifteen systems by now. Why go to a Core World?" Then the answer struck him and a greedy smile stretched across his face. "The key to the Fall of Empire! Of course! She'd only come out of hiding for it. It must be there. Helm, take us on a course to Corellia. Maximum engines."
He felt it, the golden taste of victory. It was within his grasp. All he had to do was follow her, capture her. Yes, he would let her find it for him, and then he would take it from her as he did the other two keys. She was outnumbered. She was outgunned. She was a fugitive. Where could she possibly turn to, once he made his move to trap her?
The smile grew wider. "I have you now," he murmured.
Acquiring permission to land required a great deal of work. The engine signatures and registry numbers had to be altered extensively. But Angela was skilled enough at such illicit tricks to pull them off with little trouble. She docked under the alias Anissa Dakar, owner of the Ruby Falcon. Of course, since the Nebula Dancer was navy blue in color, the name was a definite misnomer.
She walked through the gray streets under a gray sky raining gray water. The rain soaked through her jacket and chilled her to the bone, so she was immensely glad when she ducked into a nearby bar. It was seedy, it was dirty, but it was warm and dry.
"Aye, what'll you be having, lass?" asked the short Sullustan bartender.
"What do you have that's hot?" she asked.
"Warm whiskey, a redberry hot, and a cup of caffa."
"How strong is the whiskey?"
"Burn your lips right off your face, it will."
Angela cringed. "I think I'll go with the caffa."
"Suit yourself." He poured her order into a porcelain mug and slid it over to her on a saucer. She toasted to the bartender's health and sip gingerly. It was far too bitter—the Sullustan did not know how to brew a decent cup. But at least it was hot.
"So what brings you to this dive, lass?" the bartender pressed. "You look like a wet cat, you do. And a respectable one, except that you're walking around here."
"My business is my own," she replied crisply, "but I guess you can say that I'm looking for something. I figured an establishment such as this," she gestured broadly, "would expedite my search."
"Establishments such as this tend to have that reputation," the bartender agreed with a bobbing nod of his wide head. "What you looking for, anyway?"
"I'm afraid I can't say."
"That would make looking very hard."
She smirked. "Indeed. Actually, I'm looking for people who might know what I'm looking for. I'm sure an establishment such as this can arrange a meeting for me with people like that."
The Sullustan was intrigued, for he leaned in close and whispered, "That was depend on who you're looking for and who you might be." His fat hands were spread wide atop the bar.
She took the hint and slipped him a thick wad of bills. "I'm someone who pays well." That was something of a lie. That wad was the last bit of hard cash she had left. But if things went well, she would not have to worry about money. "Now, do you know anyone I should talk to?"
The bartender was silent. He simply pointed behind her to a roguish Corellian partaking of a bottle of brandy in a shadowy corner. Angela moved to him, but the Sullustan quickly grabbed her wrist. "His name's Bard," he said in warning tones. She had never heard of any underworld man by that name, but she thought it was an unoriginal moniker. The Sullustan must have seen her disinterest, for he elaborated, "He's an information broker, one of the best, but don't drop your guard. He's called Bard because he gives them to people."
Angela nodded and walked up to the rogue's table. She sat in a chair opposite him without asking for an invitation. He looked up and narrowed his eyes at her. They were a brilliant green and their intensity reminded her—painfully—of Ran's.
She did not say anything at first. She just studied his face: dusky skin, hard angles, a head of short raven hair, a strong, square chin. He was handsome, she supposed, but in a purely rakish way. A livid Bard went down from his left cheekbone to his jaw, cutting through a thin shadow of black beard. He was about ten years older than she was.
"May I help you, miss?" he asked politely, but with a sharp glint to his eye that revealed his alertness. He was watching her, expecting some sort of trick or ploy.
She raised her hands and placed them on the table, keeping her fingers spread wide, showing that she was not a threat. "Perhaps you can. You're Bard, an information gatherer of some repute. I'd like to buy some information."
He seemed disinterested and sipped his drink. "You've heard right and have the advantage—after all, I don't know your name."
"I'll give you my name for some information."
Bard chuckled around the glass he had raised to his lips. "Clever, girl, very clever. But I don't work that way. I like to know who I'm dealing with before I sign my name on any transactions."
She waved a hand in front of his face. "You don't need to know my name." Suddenly, his hand shot out and grasped her wrist. His grip was like iron, strong and unrelenting. A gasp escaped her lips; she was not expecting this!
A crooked, knowing smile split his dark face. "You're a Jedi," he said matter-of-factly. "I didn't think they had any pretty ones. Thought they were all robe-wearing monks or something. And since you're around these parts, apparently going incognito, I can only imagine that you're the infamous Angela Marshair."
Angela struggled against his grip, but she was held fast. Her heart quickened in panic, but she strove to maintain an air of self-control and calm. "That is my name," she said stiffly. Perhaps she could hit him with a telekinetic burst? Pry his fingers open with her mind? No—either option would lead to a confrontation. At the moment, the last thing she needed was a bar fight.
His grip on her hand shifted, turning from a lock around her wrist to a delicate, almost courtly, touch. He held her fingers lightly and kissed the back of her hand. "A pleasure to meet you," he said coolly. "It is not often that I get to bask in the presence of a highborn lady—and the fourth cousin of the Queen of Quintesara, no less."
"You know much about me," she said, taking her hand away and rubbing her wrist. His grip was incredibly strong.
"You're one of the most wanted women in the fringe," he stated offhandedly. His green gaze shifted from alert wariness to rakish leer. His eyes traveled from the top of her rain-soaked hair to her slender neck to her small breasts. "And I can see why."
Angela sighed and rubbed her forehead. "Another one of you hormone-driven fools," she groaned. To her surprise, Bard laughed.
"I'm not so crude, Miss Marshair," he said, tipping his glass to his lips again. "I just like to look and occasionally touch, but I know when I'm not wanted or when it wouldn't be smart. Take yourself, for example. I can already tell that you're a proud and capable woman, one who'd rather pick her night's paramour rather than be picked as one. Add to that the fact that you're a Jedi, and that little equation means that I'd be walking a knife's edge if I made a pass at you."
She found herself smiling and allowed a chuckle to escape her belly. "Your assessment of me is more accurate that you can imagine, Bard. You're a crafty one, too—you've led me down a digression, away from the topic of information." She leaned over the table to look him right in those brilliant green eyes. "And you're doing it on purpose."
He leaned back, hands raised. "You've caught me."
"Of course I have. My last boyfriend was a lot like you. If you're any more like him, then you're little word games aren't going to work on me. Now, about the topic of information."
"Yes, about the topic of information."
"I'm looking for a stone rod that looks like this." She drew a folded picture from a breast pocket on her coat and handed it to him. It was an image of the Hoth key. "I'm willing to pay any price to get my hands on it."
Bard studied the picture carefully, as if burning it into his memory. Without looking at her, he said, "I can help you with this, but it'll be probably more than you can pay."
"How much are we talking about?"
"About half a million credits."
Angela balked inside, but managed to keep it from showing on her face. She simply frowned. "I don't have that much." And, she thought to herself, I've never seen that much since I left home.
The rogue simply nodded, already expecting that answer. He slipped the picture into an inside vest pocket. "I didn't think you did. But I do take barter."
"Such as?"
"Well, a night in my bed would definitely be worth half a million," he said with that rakish grin.
Angela shook her head and sighed again, though a small smile turned up her lips. "My last boyfriend would say the exact same thing, actually. And he wouldn't mean it, either. He'd just say it to raise my hackles. Here's my counteroffer. I have an antique ship that I'm willing to part with." She felt a pang in her heart. The Nebula Dancer meant everything to Ran, when he was alive. It meant everything to her, too. But she and Ran both believed in duty—and if giving away the Dancer fulfilled her duty, then so be it. That did not make it any easier to cope with, though.
"It's at least two thousand years old, with a plethora of special modifications. Right now, some of its systems are disabled and I don't have the mechanical know-how to fix them. But I'm sure it's worth more than half a million."
Bard looked intrigued, for he scratched at the stubble on his chin. "I'll have to take a look at it."
"Tell you what, if you take me to where that stone key is, I'll even throw in a Jedi's lightsaber," she said. "You can't ask for more than that: a fast ship and a trophy item."
"You got yourself a deal, Miss Marshair."
On impulse, she said, "Call me Angela."
"Now fly down between those buildings," Bard said. "That's good. We should be coming up on the Lucky Drake soon. Ah, there it is. Go ahead and settle down over in the Dragon's Nest landing pad area. We can take a shuttle bus over to the Drake from there."
Bard had explained to her that the stone key was in the possession of a noted Corellian crime lord named Druckuss Cain, a former smuggler and pirate, now a casino owner. The casino was, unsurprisingly, a front for a much more sinister business venture: slavery. The Core Worlds banned slavery as a rule, but anyone who had half a brain knew that there were ways around the bans.
Angela was reluctant to deal with scum like him. She had but one fate for men like Cain: imprisonment and punishment for his crimes. When Ran lived, she and her Master would storm or infiltrate syndicates run by men like Cain and bring them down. As such, her name and face were well known in the underworld. The fact that she was a wanted woman only increased her chances of being identified. Thus, she settled on a disguise: she dyed her hair red-gold, painted her skin dark brown, and rubbed irritants on her face to make it break out in hives. She looked nothing like Angela Marshair.
"Now remember," Bard said as they rode the shuttle back to the Lucky Drake hotel and casino, "Cain's a downright piece of Core slime, but a refined one. With your highborn background, you should fit right in. He likes to stay up in his private suites, way up at the top of the hotel. He never leaves there these days. Nowadays he just runs the organization by holoimager and go-betweens. It's safer that way, apparently."
"So how are we supposed to get at the key?" Angela asked.
"We have to earn his confidence or impress him," the rogue replied. "We have two main options to accomplish that. One, we do a couple jobs for him and do them well. Or two, we rack up enough winnings in the casino to make him sweat. Heck, maybe you can just buy it from him if you win enough."
Angela looked over at him curiously. "So, how good at cards are you?"
He smiled crookedly at her. "Not very, admittedly."
She shrugged nonchalantly. "I suppose this means I'll have to make up for the both of us."
He raised an eyebrow. "You're a master sabaac player, are you?"
"Only when I'm very, very boozed up. Think you can provide my liquid fuel?"
"If it means that I might get a chance of wooing you between the sheets—of course," he replied with a leer. She just sighed and took it all in stride. Having been with Ran for the past year and a half, she could tell when a rake was serious about a come-on or just having a bit of fun. So far, the rogue sitting next to her was in the latter category. As long as he stayed in that category, she could rein in her unhealthy desire to bruise his face.
The casino was packed, but it was very high-end. The affluent came to the Lucky Drake to gamble their earnings on the draconian pursuits of vice and drink. She recognized more than a few faces—several of Corellia's top competitors in trade were playing sabaac by the high stakes table. She knew them only by reputation, from the exposure her father gave her when she was younger. Father always thought I'd follow in his footsteps, she recalled, so he wanted me to know the…how did he put it? The "face of my enemies."
How true that was. These opulent moneybags were the only ones standing between her and completing her quest. She tapped Bard on the shoulder. "Go buy us some drinks. Lots of brandy. '64 Corellian, if there's any in stock."
"A woman of taste as well as a Jedi," the rogue noted appreciatively. He went to acquire the drinks.
Angela made her way to the sabaac tables, fingered the Bothan dealer to give her a hand. She took one look at her cards and slid a healthy sum as her first bet. The game was on.
She lost the first few hands, but she did not mind. Her goal for those initial exchanges was to gauge the players, feel them out, learn how they played. Tendrils of Force energy flowed from her and into the other players' minds, snaking within, connecting her to their primal instincts, their high-thinking stratagems. An hour passed and then two. She started to win hand after hand after hand. She knew how they thought and how they played. They were nothing to her once she had them in her mind's eye.
Throughout the game, Bard was sitting beside her, handing her drink after drink. It loosened her up, made her lightheaded, but she felt mentally limber. The Force poured out of her and wrapped around her opponents. She felt their frustration, their indignation, and their worry. A subtle nudge toward anxiety, a further push down the road of desperation…and they fell into her trap. Another hand was hers, as was the pot. She absently noted that she had won almost ten thousand credits, just a little shy of the high-stakes games.
Another hand was hers. "I'm afraid we can't let you bet on this table again, ma'am," said the Bothan dealer. He pointed to the high-stakes table. "You're going to have to take your game over there." She nodded, practically dragging Bard over to their next game. The brandy had really loosened her up, for she was giddy with the need to play.
She slapped a hand down on the tabletop. "Deal me in," she slurred drunkenly. She must have consumed more than she thought. The drinks made her impatient. It was time to play, time to get things done and over with. The dealer and players eyed her askance, but gave her cards anyway. There was no subtlety when she the Force this time. Rather than snaky tendrils, she hammered her opponents with her mind probes, ripping their strategies from their minds. Impatient.
The hands were hers again. Ten thousand became twenty, then twenty became forty. After a few hours, it became half a million. A crowd had gathered around her. The players left, to be replaced by more daring souls. She won against them, as well. "Come on," she hiccuped. "Anyone else want to go up against me, the master sabaac player? Come on, I'm on a streak here!"
She felt Bard's hand around her shoulder. "I think you might have had a bit much," he whispered. "Get a hold of yourself." She shrugged him off.
"Hey, I'm on a winning streak here," she slurred. "It's all good!"
Security guards pushed through the crowd and addressed her gruffly. "Management would like to speak with you, miss."
"Really now?" she replied. She hiccuped again. "What's it about? I'm not cheating, I swear!"
"Just come with us, you and your friend there."
"Sure. I don't have any problems with that. Just…just let me cash in my chips, okay?"
"Now, miss." Their demands were firm, hard, and brooked no insubordination.
Bard again placed a hand on her shoulder. "Get a grip on yourself, Angela. Remember, you're here for a purpose."
His words cut through the bleary cloud of brandy that surrounded her senses. She shook her head, trying to clear it. It helped some. With a bit more control, she said to the guards, "I'll come. Lead on, sirs." As the security guards took her and Bard to the nearest turbolift, she whispered to the rogue, "Thanks for back there. I guess I kind of got lost in the moment. My apologies."
He waved a dismissive hand. "Don't worry about it. I know how it's like to be on a win streak. Just so damn hard to keep your mind on things when you're doing so well."
She nodded absently, but his reasoning did not sit well with her. As a Jedi, she should have had more control than that. The events of the last several weeks have truly unsettled her, shaken her core of discipline—it was the only explanation she could come up with for her unusual behavior at the sabaac tables. I will have to strive for better self-control, she silently vowed.
"So, what does management want with little old me?" she asked the guards as they rode up the turbolift.
"You'll find out when we get there," they replied crisply. The rest of the trip was in silence. The lift stopped at the top floor—Cain's private suite. The guards did not accompany them when she and Bard stepped into the crime lord's domain. They stood alone amidst the ill-gotten wealth of a slaver. Angela looked around.
Rare Alderaanian leather furnishings complemented Coruscanti goldwork. A portrait of Druckuss Cain pained on Bimmiel hung by a Kuati-imported silvered mirror shaped into a dragon's head. The plush carpet felt like fine down, a lavish affair from Caamas, taken before the planet's razing.
Sitting behind a desk of Worshyr wood by a wall made of glass—real glass, not transparisteel—was Druckuss Cain. He was an enormous man, tall, broad, and fat. Rolls upon layers of his massive girth meandered downward beneath his robes—which, Angela noted with bile in her throat, were made of Ewok skins. The crime lord even kept the heads on as shoulder pieces. In her heady state, still a little tipsy from the drinks, Druckuss Cain looked like some hairy demon of gluttony and greed, the incarnation of mortal sin. She wondered briefly if her opinion of him would stand when she was sober.
"You've made quite the killing down on the tables," Cain rumbled through his thick throat. It sounded like a croak. "I am Druckuss Cain, owner of this fine establishment. And I would like to know the names of the fine young woman who seems to be trying to bankrupt my business."
"I'm just playing," Angela replied, calling upon the Force to push back the slurring and the growing headache. The last thing she needed was the aftereffects of a buzz.
"You made five hundred thousand credits in under four hours," the crime lord boomed. "My inspectors and security found no fake decks, slipped cards, or double-face cards in your possession or around your person. And we've been looking hard for them. You're either that good at cheating or that good at playing." His bleary eyes bored into hers. "And I don't believe in people being that good at either. Who are you and what's your secret?"
"We're just hoping to buy something from you," she replied smoothly. "I imagine that half a million credits is suitable payment for a stone key, about this long? A fairly old piece of rock. What do you say?"
Cain was on his feet in an instant, his thick hand slapping a round button on his desk. A security alarm, no doubt. "You must be Angela Marshair," the crime lord bellowed. She bowed by way of properly introducing herself. "You've donned a convincing disguise. What is so important about these keys you keep on stealing?"
"That's none of your concern," she replied. "Just know this—I want that key, and when a Jedi wants something, be certain that it's important. Now, I can either buy it from you or I can take it from you by force. Trust me, after the time I've been having, I'd rather just buy it."
"I've heard of you, Angela Marshair," the crime lord said thickly. "You and your Master eliminated many of my kind in the span of a few months. Surely you know that this casino is a front for a slave ring. What guarantees do I have that you will leave my businesses alone?"
"None. I'll be frank—I'd like to shut down your little carnival faster than you can stuff a chicken leg into your gullet. But the key is paramount. You're just going to have to trust me when I say that all I want from you is the key."
"Then there is no deal." As if on cue, the turbolift opened, admitting a score of heavily-armed guards. The room sounded with the hum of their blasters heating. Angela saw Bard begin to sweat and his hand dove to an inside pocket of his vest, doubtless for a concealed blaster. She fingered her own weapon, hidden under her sleeve and tied to her forearm by two leather thongs.
"You're making a very big mistake," the brown-haired girl warned with a grim light in her eyes. "It would save you the lives of your minions as well as your own if you just cooperate." She decided to play her trump card. "You've no doubt heard about what I did to Admiral Adguard's men. I can knock you all onto your butts with a wave of my hand and turn aside blaster bolts with a thought."
It was a bluff. The times she actually did do those things were times of desperation, when she was grasping at straws rather than at control over the Force. How she performed those strange techniques was beyond her, and she most certainly could not summon them on command. But she hoped that Cain did not know that. She hoped that he did not make the connection between her vaunted powers and the very few times she utilized them.
The crime lord looked at her, tried to read her. She deflected his gaze with her own steely look. His thick brows folded, as did his resolve. "Stand down," he ordered. The guards lowered their weapons. "I will accept half a million credits and your word that you won't shut me down for the stone key."
Angela relaxed and let out an internal sigh. Externally, she affected a stony appearance, as if totally unfazed about what was going on around her. "Deal." She tossed a bag of sabaac chips onto his desk. "Go cash it in, then," she said with a smile.
When she and Bard left the Lucky Drake, they had the stone key in their possession.
