A/N:
Lady Ivy Castillo: Thank you, Lady IC. Glad that you dropped in, and that you think so well about my work. :)
amber75: LOL, Thanks!
PadawanKitara: PK! So glad that you're here! –waves-
A. NuEvil: no, I wasn't joking – but here's a longer post. All updates in future will be really loooooooong. :)))
Katieelessar: …and your wish has been granted. :) Thanks for dropping in.
szhismine: Done!
Seven: Ah, padawan! Glad that you're sticking with this one again. It's good to have you here. :)
Note 2: Sentences between / indicate conversations within a bond.
III
Scaltia—or, to be very precise, Scaltia's capital city, rather unimaginatively, thought Obi-Wan, named Scalti—seemed a fairly prosperous place, judging from what could be seen through the plexi-glass embrasures of the Royal ground-car. The padawan, after throwing a questioning glance at his mentor (who appeared to have fallen into a reverie), could not help sinking into the luxurious cushions, as he drank in the sights of the city.
A quick glance through information from the databanks of the Temple, prior to the start of their journey had provided him a few details regarding this rather out-of-the-way planet—namely, that they had chosen to arrive in the middle of the Season of Joy…the month that preceded the scorching, parched Months of the Sun. This was a time that was all too brief, for the Scaltians…a period of respite that offered relief from blazing heat, withering winds and general discomfort. The Season of Joy was known for its clear skies, comfortingly cool breezes, and a general upliftment of spirits. This was also the month during which crops were harvested, marking the end of a great deal of hard work—and the happiness was enhanced if the crops had been good, that year. Judging by the expression of Scaltian citizens milling about the streets, and signs of enjoyment, Obi-Wan came to the conclusion that it must have been a very good year, indeed.
Not that this explained by Master Jinn had chosen Scaltia for their brief vacation from Jedi duties—for that it was a vacation, Obi-Wan could no longer doubt. They had been assigned no mission—a fact that the apprentice had been able to wrangle of the reticent master; no planet required their absolutely immediate skills in negotiating/mediating/plunge-in-with-sabres assistance to stop a civil war/communal riot/general idiocy/massacre machinations, in recent times…and there had been King Zor's invitation. There was only one hitch in Obi-Wan's hitherto logical reasoning…the fact that Scaltia was blessed with a not-quite-so-salubrious climate. This might be the Season of Joy, and the skies might sparkle an azure blue…but the fact remained that Scalti would prove to be a furnace in the mid-mornings. And it was, he had noticed, not very well endowed with vegetation.
"It is a mountainous country, yes," remarked Qui-Gon, suddenly rousing himself out of his stupor, and therefore jerking Obi-Wan to wakefulness from the half-dreamy state he had fallen into. "Nevertheless, Scaltia has it's merits."
Obi-Wan watched, with interest, what appeared to be a fair of sorts, in which certain exotically clad humanoid females appeared to be disporting themselves at the cost of considerable merriment to the crowd around them. What they were doing with several pots and ladles was anybody's guess. "Enlighten me, please."
"Scaltia's wealth is it's people."
"And ladles," remarked obi-Wan, his sight now obscured by the fact that they had passed the scene.
"Ladies?" Qui-Gon's brow rose.
"No, 'ladles." Obi-Wan chuckled, describing the scene he had seen earlier, while noting, on an aside, that their Royal escorts were looking at them in undisguised astonishment—due, probably, to the fact they were now actually talking without recourse to their bond.
"Ah, yes." Qui-Gon relaxed in the seats, eyes gleaming, long legs crossed at the ankles. "For a moment, I thought your attention had been drawn to…other things. " Obi-Wan snorted. "All masters learn to fear the symptoms of..." he paused. "What is generally called the 'Bane of er…Mastership.' "
"Mastership? Does the word even exist?"
"Certainly it does. I used it, didn't I? Learn to trust my judgement, young padawan."
"I do. It's your command over language that I'm doubtful about."
Upon which statement, Obi-Wan received a Force-thrown mauve cushion at his spiky hair—and which the padawan dodged, albeit with some surprise. It had been a long time since Qui-Gon had done away with the stern, cold-as-Hoth demeanour that he had adopted during Obi-Wan's younger days…but the feelings of obvious light-heartedness he was sensing through their bond were new, too. Abruptly, he realized what had been missing in the past weeks—a sense of camaraderie, the sheer exhilaration of being thrown into missions at neck-or-nothing pace…the feeling of togetherness. It occurred to him, (not for the first time) that Qui-Gon had missed his apprentice's presence at his side, during the recently concluded negotiations—it was not often that a Jedi master was sent on solo missions, especially when his padawan was of an age, and possessed enough experience to participate on such missions. Such things happened, nevertheless…and realization came to Obi-Wan, again, that he too had missed Qui-Gon's comforting presence during his weeks of scroll-searching on Chandren.
He sensed anew the feelings of relief, tinged with exhaustion emanating from his mentor, and pursed his lips in sympathy—an expression which changed as soon as he felt Qui-Gon's quizzical gaze on him.
"Sympathising with my plight, my young padawan?"
"No, master. I'm much too worried about my own, to sympathize with yours." The mauve cushion, after a careful scrutiny at the Royal guards (who had, by now, thoughtfully raised a screen that effectively isolated their cabins) was thrown back with equal fervour.
Fifteen standard minutes later, their escorts, after seeing the Jedi into the Royal Palace, would look inside the ground-car, and gape at the remarkable spectacle of mauve cushions, trimmed with gold - stuck to the roof.
A large Dining-hall of truly impressive dimensions, enhanced by strategically placed mirrors, and a vast, mural-infested ceiling. Cool breezes. Huge window embrasures that showed a beautiful view of the city they had just come through. Menials who stood around, waving elegant hand-held fans, in an attempt to control the heat. Through it all, Obi-Wan still felt stifled.
The fact was not aided by what was before him.
An impossibly large banquet table filled his eyes, both to the left and right. Large wooden dishes holding every delicacy known to the Scaltian palate filled his vision, and Obi-Wan sat in front of his plate, entranced and baffled in equal parts. A pink and brown confection lay in it, dammed by what appeared to be stiff pieces of an insect. A large one.
/I sense the Living Force, master,/ Obi-Wan looked at the plate carefully, a spoon in one hand.
To his left, Qui-Gon sat silently, submerged in equal contemplation of the food in front of him. /Do you, now? Is it possible that Scaltia has taught you what I've failed to teach you, in all these years?/
Obi-Wan frowned. /I think my meal is alive. Strange. I had thought to learn the intricacies of the Living Force by meditation…I hardly expect to imbibe it by eating it./
He sensed his master conceal a snort. /Padawan mine, I doubt the Scaltians would usher us into a banquet, and subject us to such…cruelty. Besides, consider their motives regarding you./
/The road to a Sith-hell is paved with good intentions./
They were roused to the present by a good-natured rumble that proceeded from the head of the table. Obi-Wan sighed.
All Scaltians, it seemed to Obi-Wan, were blessed with a deep pink complexion, small eyes that gleamed with good humour, and remarkably round bodies—which they appeared to use to amble their way towards anyone they wished to address. Certain females were exceptions to this rule, the padawan had noticed as they were shown into the impressive Throne Room on arrival, (with its high, vaulted ceiling and intricately carved marbeil columns)—and predictably, they were not natives of Scalti, but of neighbouring provinces.
The monarch of Scaltia was no exception to this genetic rule. The Royal Court had convened in all its glory that day, in honour of the beginning of the Season and the arrival of the Jedi, and their welcome had been uproarious, by royal standards. Both master and apprentice had had their hands shaken, been bowed to, and embraced countless number of times (which, Obi-wan noticed with amusement, was borne by his master with pained Jedi stoicism—until he was subjected to the same treatment)—both by the monarch, the ever-enthusiastic King Zor, and his courtiers. An exhausting experience, which Obi-Wan chose to ignore by discreetly admiring his surroundings.
Before many minutes had passed, however, the padawan understood that a skinny figure was held in contempt by Scaltians—a sign of malnourishment, a disregard for the 'finer things in life'. His own master, built along impressive dimensions and possessing a height envied by the shorter Scaltians, had earned much respect and approval…Obi-wan had not been so fortunate. Hasty statements issued about his physique and Jedi training did nothing to protect him—King Zor's guests, especially the little Jedi, was sadly underfed, and this situation had to be speedily remedied.
The last prospect filled Obi-Wan with something akin to horror—as it appeared that the Scaltians had decided to nourish him using all the tools available.
Hence the groaning table, with food that apparently moved.
"Zu eat," recommended King Zor, in broken Basic, thereby favouring them with Royal courtesy—Scal was, after all, the official language of its loyal citizens. "Goo foo, leetle Jedi."
Obi-wan controlled the laughter that threatened to overwhelm him, aided by Qui-Gon's stern gaze—their host was being extraordinarily kind to them, after all.
/Obey the King, young one—it is their way of showing kindness./
/Forgive me, master./
/And you will restrain yourself./
/I couldn't possibly pack it up and eat it in our…ah…royal Chambers, could I?/
/Our light sabres are meant to be weapons used in self defence, young one./
/Your point, master?/
/I will not allow you to cook your meal with it. And certainly not in our guest quarters./
/Ah. So you think it's alive too./
/No, I do not. Merely half-cooked. Try the 'frata cake to your left. That should suit your palate./
A burst of relief. /Are you sure that isn't alive…? You are. In that case…/ Obi-Wan picked up what appeared to be the Scaltian equivalent of a fork, and speared the pink substance.
/Padawan?/
/Yes, Wise One?/
/The 'frata cake isn't alive. But your fork is./
Jedi master Qui-Gon Jinn's ingenuity was greatly taxed during that meal, trying to explain to a puzzled King Zor about why his apprentice had chosen to emit an Unjedi-like gasp, break a crystal water-holder, crack two meal-plates, and knock a delicate Cren vase—all in a matter of seconds.
tbc...