Hot, dry wind kicked sand into the air around Quinlan's speeder as he tried to keep up with his master. The usually smooth vehicle handled clumsily in the gusting wind, which blew almost perpendicular to the direction in which they were traveling. Of course, Master Tholme wasn't having any trouble. He seemed to have caught on quickly, or maybe he'd done it before, because his speeder wasn't swerving all over the place.

Quinlan, though, had to keep slowing to correct his heading.

Ahead of them, sharply visible in the setting sun but still some miles away, was Kala'uun, one of the two capital cities of Ryloth. Master Tholme had landed their shuttle in a smaller city, several miles to the west. That way, anyone who got curious would have a harder time tracking where they'd come from. It also meant that Quinlan and his master would have a harder time escaping, if it came down to that, but if they played their cards right they wouldn't have to escape at all.

At least – that was the idea.

As Master Tholme had said, being a Shadow meant being exactly that. Any signs or impressions the enemy received of you should be as quick and fleeting as a shadow, even when they were looking right at you. But Quinlan wasn't sure that worked as much as it was supposed to – an escape route seemed to be the first thing his master usually considered.

Across the top of the dune just ahead, a vinelike cactus had meandered across Quinlan's path. He swerved to avoid it and pressed the accelerator a little harder, trying again to catch up with his master.

Only last week, he'd been complaining to Obi-Wan about how his first real mission probably wouldn't happen until he was twenty. He'd gotten on the ship expecting to be left inside while Master Tholme carried out his investigations. But then they'd landed and Tholme had procured two speeders.

Quinlan's excitement at being on Ryloth, and actually driving a speeder, grew with every new thing he saw. He only stopped grinning when sand started to squeak between his teeth.

His Nautolan friend, Kit, always said that when Quinlan was little he wanted to be a Shadow because he thought that meant being able to turn invisible, but Quinlan wasn't sure he believed that. Kit was a prankster, despite being three years older and supposedly more mature. He had a habit of shoving Quinlan into various pools and fountains and then gasping, "Oh! I apologize, my friend – I thought you were a Nautolan!"

It had taken Quinlan months to figure out that Kit was referring to his dreadlocks, which actually looked nothing like Nautolan head-tentacles. Well, I guess I just need to make him look like a Kiffar when I get back.

He was thoughtfully considering which would be better – painting a tattoo over the bridge of Kit's nose while he was asleep, or painting his head-tentacles black – when a touch of thought from his master brushed his mind.

Quinlan blinked, and Tholme called, "Focus on the present, Padawan."

Oops.

The Kiffar padawan looked ahead, squinting against the warm, dry wind and the blindingly white walls of Kala'uun. He didn't know much about the mission yet, only that his master wouldn't talk about it until they were in the safety of their ship and in hyperspace. It probably had something to do with a senator. Getting on the wrong side of a galactic senator could be hazardous – but really, so could getting on the wrong side of anyone important. And Tholme hadn't yet told Quinlan the plan; he was probably still finalizing it.

Speaking of which, they were getting closer to Kala'uun. If they were to enter the city without being noticed, they should change their approach. But Tholme was showing no signs of slowing.

Quinlan waited until they were in the shade of a tall bluff before speaking. "Master Tholme?" he called, then blinked and coughed, spitting out sand.

Tholme glanced over his shoulder, a faint tilt of one eyebrow the only sign of amusement in his expression. Then he turned his speeder sideways, away from the wind, and halted before saying, "Yes, Padawan?"

"Are we –" He coughed again.

Tholme waited patiently, grey hair whipping around his head.

When Quinlan couldn't get the gritty feel from between his teeth, he took a mouthful of water from his canteen, then spat it out and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Sorry," he said. "I wanted to ask if we were trying to get into the city unseen."

"No, there is no chance of that. However –" The Jedi Master looked up at the towering bluff that protected them from the sun. "I would have stopped soon to explain our goals to you anyway. We may as well take advantage of our current position."

Quinlan skidded to a halt beside him as his master took out a sheet of flimsi. "This is a map of Kala'uun."

"How old is it?" Shutting off the engine, Quinlan swung one leg off the saddle so he could turn sideways.

"An important question. It is current. I picked it up in the spaceport." Tholme's weather-beaten features creased in a slight smile. "You probably want to know why I'm not using a datapad?"

"Sort of . . ." Quinlan admitted.

Master Tholme handed him the map. "The ability to navigate on one's own is invaluable – especially to a Shadow. I would go so far as to say it is vital. Now, Quinlan, what does this map tell you?"

Quinlan rotated the map slowly. "It shows the main streets and the city gates," he said.

"Unsurprising," Tholme said dryly, turning to sit sideways on his speeder. He folded his hands in what Quinlan recognized as his lecturing pose. "Maps generally show those details. What else does it tell you?"

Biting his lip, Quinlan stared hard at the piece of flimsi. It just looked like a normal map. Then, tiny numbers at the perimeter of the city caught his attention. "Oh. It tells how big the city is."

"Which means what, for us?"

"Well . . . I guess it means once we know our destination, we can figure out how far it is, which means we can make a rough estimate of how long it'll take us to walk there?"

"Good. However, that is not the detail I was waiting for you to notice."

The Kiffar padawan looked down at the map, then up.

Tholme shook his head and drank from his canteen. "If it were obvious, you'd have seen it by now. Don't just look at it, think through it."

Think through it. . . think through it. After a moment's consideration, Quinlan rested a finger on the markings for the northernmost gate, then picked a tiny building in the southwest quadrant. If he were traveling to that house from the gate, he'd have to take the main road to the center, then turn off onto – well, he wasn't sure how to pronounce the name, but whatever street that was – and then make a left and a right and a –

Wait. Quinlan squinted. Was that a street, or something else? It looked the same, except there were dotted lines next to the plain lines that marked the other streets. Turning the map over, he checked for a key, but there was none. "Master, what do the dotted lines stand for?"

"Ah. You have found the detail." Tholme sealed his canteen and slung it on his vehicle's saddle. "Now, the next step is to solve it."

Quinlan looked expectantly at him. Tholme gazed back for several seconds, then closed his eyes and rested his hands on his knees.

"Wait . . . why do you need to meditate to solve this?" Quinlan asked. "Isn't there a general – well, I don't know – maybe a sort of universal rule for what kind of lines mean different things on maps?"

"I have never asked," Tholme intoned, and cracked open one eye. "You may ask one of the Jedi librarians later, if you wish. But for now, we are on a mission, and have only our wits to help us solve the puzzle."

"Okay." Quinlan spent a minute perusing the map on his own before looking up again to see that his master was apparently dozing.

A mischievous grin crept across the padawan's face. "Master Tholme? I thought you always say that an active mind is key to success."

"I do." Tholme's serene expression never faltered. "And it is. And while my mind actively pursues peace, your mind will actively pursue the solution to that map."

". . . Yes, Master." Thwarted, Quinlan sat cross-legged on the sand and leaned back against the warm rock as he set to work locating all the dotted lines on the map. Then, he found a set of dotted lines that were not accompanied by the street lines. In fact, they seemed to cross between two parallel streets that had the dotted lines running alongside them –

"A TUNNEL!" he yelled.

Master Tholme flinched and opened his eyes.

"Sorry." Quinlan lowered his voice. "Master Tholme, is it a tunnel? I mean, are the dotted lines tunnels? Look, this one connects these two and they're running parallel to the streets but maybe they're actually beneath the streets which is why there are sometimes dotted lines with the straight lines and then sometimes there are just straight lines, because those ones don't have tunnels under them but I'll bet these ones do! Is that right, Master?"

"It is." Tholme eyed him. "Padawan, just out of curiosity – how are you capable of speaking so long without taking a breath?"

"I don't know." Quinlan bounced to his feet, gesturing excitedly with the map. "Are we going to explore the tunnels, Master?"

"Not unless we have to." Tholme rescued the map, smoothed out a crease, and pointed to one of the tunnels. "Kala'uun is known for its production of glitterstim."

"Okay, but what's that got to do with tunnels?"

"Padawan," Tholme said patiently. "I thought I told you to read the data packet on Ryloth."

"I did read it."

"Then tell me – what is glitterstim?"

"Well . . . it's a drug . . ."

"Made from what?"

"Oh!"

"It is most certainly not."

Quinlan laughed. "It's a drug made from the webs of energy spiders, and they live in dark, underground areas. Do they live on those tunnels, Master?"

"I believe they do. And while I would like to avoid entering those tunnels, I may have to. Thus the map. Now, as to our mission. Some weeks ago, I began to have suspicions about a senator named Chom Frey Kaa."

"I've seen him!" The padawan eagerly raised a hand. "He's that really fat white Twi'lek who's always got three or four guards with him."

Master Tholme's mouth quirked in displeasure. "Yes, Padawan, although I hope you refer to him as 'Senator Kaa'."

"When anyone else is around, I do," Quinlan promised. He definitely wasn't dumb enough to call a senator names where he could be overheard! Well – except by his master, anyway.

"Hm, very well," Tholme said. "To continue . . . While investigating, I came across evidence which led me to believe that the senator is secretly funding a member of the Twi'lek Clan Council – who, I am nearly certain, runs the glitterstim industry in this area of Ryloth."

"He runs it?" Quinlan frowned. "Then what does he need money for? Or what's the senator funding him for?"

"That is what I want to find out. Pol Secura lives in a manor in Kala'uun. He is one of the five members of the Twi'lek Clan Council, and is by far the least popular."

"Hm." Quinlan stretched his arms over his head and tried to hold back a yawn. The heat reflecting off the rocky overhang was making him drowsy. "So, is that what we're going to investigate? The glitterstim?"

"Possibly . . . if I can find no other leads." Tholme frowned slightly. "I find it difficult to believe that Kaa would provide funding for Secura's slave trade, though if he is I will of course collect evidence."

"Evidence for what?" Quinlan asked. "I thought Twi'leks sold each other already."

"Some do, but while it is more or less accepted in the Outer Rim, it isn't legal in the Republic . . . of which Ryloth is a part. Not only that, but there are five clans; slave traders kidnap and sell from the other clans, not their own. But from what I have gathered, it seems that Secura has taken to selling his own people."

"Slob," Quinlan remarked, flicking at a sandfly.

"Padawan."

"Yes, Master."

Tholme's mouth twitched. "Pol Secura may indeed be a slob, but that is not what we are going to investigate him for, nor what we will arrest him for, if it comes to that."

"Arrest him?" Quinlan shifted. "Master . . . I've never actually made an arrest."

"For a Jedi Shadow, there will always be a first time," Tholme replied. "Most of our missions deal with locating or incriminating wrongdoers."

"Yes, but . . ." Quinlan trailed off. He'd been eager to go on a real mission, but would he have to arrest someone? How were you supposed to do that, anyway? He tried to imagine himself telling a much bigger person to stand down or to raise his hands, and in his imagination, the criminal simply laughed and walked away.

Quinlan sighed. Despite the shiny new lightsaber on his belt, he suddenly felt inadequate.

"What is troubling you?" his master asked.

The Kiffar padawan hunched his shoulders, then huffed. It felt silly to admit. "Master, I'm so short. I know Master Yoda always says size doesn't matter, but –"

Tholme cleared his throat. "His exact words are 'size matters not'. Do you think he is wrong?"

"Sort of."

"Explain."

"Well . . . I just don't see how it can't matter. When I sparred with the older padawans, they had an advantage because they had longer arms, right?"

"Presumably." Tholme eyed him shrewdly. "And when exactly did you spar with older padawans, plural?"

"Oh, a couple years ago. I was still a youngling." Quinlan didn't see how that could possibly be important. "It was only two padawans I was dueling. Anyway, I lost a billion times."

"A billion?" Tholme raised both eyebrows in a look of mild interest.

"I mean, I lost five times," Quinlan corrected.

"I see. Did you consider that may have been because you were fighting two far more experienced students?"

"Yep! So then I challenged both of them to fight me one-on-one. But I only beat each of them once, and they each won seven times. Then they said they felt bad about dueling a kid and they wouldn't do it anymore." Quinlan shook his head darkly and perched on his speeder. "I dunno if they think people learn to fight without practicing or what, but . . ."

Master Tholme gazed at the sandy ground for a long moment as a flash of amusement simmered in the Force.

Quinlan thought back over what he had said, but it sure didn't seem funny to him, and anyway Master Tholme wasn't laughing or even smiling when he looked up. Maybe Quinlan had just imagined it.

"Perhaps the students felt you would learn better with someone closer to your skill level," Tholme said. "I'm sure they meant well. However, in that circumstance, experience, size and strength were against you – and so you lost. And that is why you think size matters?"

"Yeah." Quinlan swung his feet. "Don't you think it matters, Master?"

"To an extent." Tholme stood, brushing sand from his robes, and looked down at Quinlan. "But I believe the lesson Master Yoda is attempting to teach is that size should not stop one from doing his best."

Quinlan nodded. He understood that. Why couldn't Master Yoda just say what he meant instead of always speaking in riddles, though?

"And do not worry," his master added, studying the map again. "Padawans very rarely have to make an arrest."
"Okay." Quinlan peered over Tholme's arm at the streets he'd pointed out. "Are we going right to Pol Secura's house?"

"No, we will look around first."

"Okay. Does he know we're coming?"

"He does not, to the best of my knowledge." Master Tholme smiled faintly. "And I am sure he has no idea I am bringing a padawan."

Quinlan felt his eyes widen. "Do I get to actually help you with this mission? I mean, I'm going with you now, but do I actually get to help with the investigation part?!"

"You help me with all my missions." Tholme sounded confused, and Quinlan couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

"Master . . ." he complained. "Staying on the ship isn't helping."

"It is." Tholme mounted his speeder. "It allows me to focus, rather than having to fetch you from the nearest jail."

"That was only one time." Quinlan sighed, shoulders slumping. "And I know you'd told me to stay on guard, but then I saw those thieves sneaking up on that old woman and I couldn't just let them keep going."

"You were right to defend her," Tholme agreed. "But it was unfortunate that the old woman happened to be Madame Nu."

"Yeah." Quinlan kicked at the ground. His very first mission, and he'd jumped headfirst into a fight he couldn't possibly win, forcing Madame Nu – who had been playing the bait – to fight the gangsters herself to save him, which had completely blown the Jedi's cover and nearly ruined the mission.

As if that weren't bad enough, Quinlan had landed in jail after chasing down one of the escaping thugs, since a policeman had arrested the two of them for fighting in the street. But at least the bad guy had been caught, too.

"Do not feel bad," Tholme told him, starting his speeder. "You chose correctly, if perhaps a bit foolishly. And it was my fault for not telling you the plan. Jedi Shadows work alone so much, Padawan, that it becomes second nature to reveal nothing of our missions."

Quinlan started his own speeder, feeling a little dejected. Sounded like he wasn't going to work for real on this investigation after all. How many missions was he going to have to sit out before his master decided he was capable of helping? This was his fifth, already. He'd always thought that being a padawan would be exciting, but more and more it seemed to be a lot of lectures and sitting around on the ship.

As they set off toward Kala'uun again, this time at a slower speed, Tholme dropped back to drive alongside Quinlan. "You asked if you would be helping with this mission. The answer is yes."

"Really?!" Quinlan straightened so fast that he swerved. "Oops."

Tholme didn't correct him for the mistake. "Yes. You proved you could obey me over the last few missions, despite how – stupidly boring, as you put it – it was to stay on the ship."

"Thank you, Master!" Quinlan glanced at the fast-approaching city walls. "And are we going to pretend to be smugglers or something? Is that why we both get to wear disguises?"

Tholme snorted. "We are not dressed like Jedi, but I would hardly count this as a disguise. Though I recommend hiding your lightsaber."

"My lightsaber? Okay." Quinlan glanced down at his black tunic and grinned. "See, I thought we were dressing like Sith."

Tholme glanced sideways at him, and Quinlan snickered. "I mean, not you, Master, you're dressed like a . . . like a . . ."

"Common thug?" Tholme suggested.

"Well – kind of, I guess." Quinlan clipped his lightsaber to the back of his belt. "I'll wear my cloak, is that fine?"

"Yes. It'll be cold soon enough, at any rate. Now, we were speaking of size. Your size might mean a good deal in this case, Quinlan."

Frowning, Quinlan glanced at him. Maybe Tholme knew of some way to make him look bigger or taller or more threatening somehow, because if it came to a fight with armed guards –

"You can slip into very small areas," Tholme finished. "And for a Shadow, the ability to remain unnoticed is invaluable."

". . . Oh," said Quinlan, relieved. "Will I be spying on someone?"

"Very likely, but only if you promise me you will not put yourself in danger. Glitterstim dealers make billions of credits each year, and they will do almost anything to keep that wealth. Including murdering Jedi padawans."

"Okay." Quinlan jerked the handlebars, narrowly avoiding a gutkurr skeleton. "But what if someone really needs my help? You said Pol Secura was selling Twi'leks. What should I do if I find them?"

"You will not help them," Tholme said. "I know it will be difficult, especially if they are being mistreated, but you will not talk to them or approach or get involved in any way. No matter what you see. Do you understand?"

Quinlan deflated again, ducking his head. "Yes, Master."

"I know it feels wrong," Tholme said more quietly. "But you must learn that you cannot help anyone if you are dead. Several of our best agents have disappeared while trying to destroy drug rings in the past year alone. And lately, Kala'uun has become a very dangerous place for enemies of the Securas. So dangerous that I would not have brought you at all if I wasn't sure I could trust you to obey."

The padawan nodded, thankful that he had not followed his impulse to climb on top of the shuttle last time he'd been forced to wait for his master. Nearly eight hours of silence had made him not only bored stiff, but worried as well, even though Tholme had told him it might be quite a while before he returned. But he'd stayed in the ship, and somehow managed to stay occupied. His master – when he returned over a day later – had been so pleased that he hadn't even scolded Quinlan for taking apart the nanowave. He'd just made him take it to the technicians when they got back to the Temple, so they could show him how to put it back together again.