When they reached the gates of Kala'uun, the two Jedi drew to a halt and dismounted, securing their speeders' engines with electronic keys. After wrapping his lightsaber in a piece of black fabric to keep reflections from catching someone's attention, Quinlan clipped it to the back of his belt and put on his cape.
Tholme told him to turn around a couple of times, to make sure it was truly hidden even when the cape moved, then nodded his approval. Just to be prepared, Quinlan practiced reaching for his lightsaber a few times before following his master.
The city gate, which stood open, was constructed from thick, vertically placed metal bars that were close enough together to prevent anyone stepping between them. Quinlan wasn't even sure he could even get an arm through, which was weird. There was more metal than space on this gate. Tilting his head back, he stared at the massive stone archway before hurrying after his master, who was striding confidently into the city.
Kala'uun was lively and bustling, and it was hard to focus on any one thing. All the buildings were made out of stone – cool grey or orange-red or dusty brown – but everything else was a swirl of riotous color.
The Twi'leks, of course, caught his attention the most. Their skin was so many different colors – bright blue, aqua, lavender, green, purple, orange, pink . . . he even saw a woman who had nearly white skin, and a man who was deep red. As if that wasn't enough, most of the Twi'leks also wore bright, contrasting clothing.
Quinlan was surprised to see the number of humans in the crowd. He'd read that Ryloth didn't receive a high number of visitors. Of course, Kala'uun was one of Ryloth's two capital cities, so it made sense visitors would end up here. At least he and Master Tholme wouldn't stand out so much.
Noticing he'd fallen behind, the padawan ran to catch up. Everyone moved so fast, hurrying along the paved streets, some talking and laughing, some conversing in low mutters. There were two or three different languages being spoken at once. Vendors sold different wares from small, hastily constructed stands and from store fronts. The spicy smell of barbecued meat blended with the smells of leather and fresh fruit.
It was almost overwhelming, and Quinlan soon realized that he had completely forgotten which street they were on. Tholme, though, strode through the crowd like he belonged there, and everyone else parted around him. Quinlan trotted after his master, trying to stay close, but Tholme moved so fast that by the time they reached the third intersection, though, the padawan was struggling to keep up.
"Master," he panted. "Can we – pause – for a second?"
Tholme stopped so abruptly that Quinlan nearly ran into him. "Of course," he said, turning to face him. His dark eyes swept the crowd. "We do not seem to be drawing much attention. Excellent."
"Oh." Quinlan frowned and lowered his voice. "I just called you 'Master' – I forgot to ask what I should call you."
Tholme shook his head. "I cannot refer to you as 'padawan' here, but for you to call me 'master' will not catch anyone's attention. It is, after all, a planet where many own slaves."
"Okay." Quinlan drank from his canteen, unable to keep from trying to look everywhere all at once. It was so different from the halls of the Temple. Everyone there moved at a steady pace. Well, at least the grownups, which was nearly everyone, moved steadily, never faltering, never hurrying. Here, though, it seemed like no one could move fast enough.
The padawan looked up at his master, feeling a little dizzy. "It's so –" He gestured vaguely. "Active."
"This is the busiest time of day for many Ryloth cities," Tholme told him. "Work comes to a halt in the midday heat, but this time of day is when most of the buying and selling takes place."
"Oh." Quinlan blinked at the swirl of color for a bit longer. "Is that why we entered the city now? Because it's so busy?"
"Partly. But also because any auctions will take place now, and I would like to see one of them."
He set off again, and Quinlan followed on his heels, trying to visualize their position in relation to the map as they walked. It looked like they were heading to the center, which made sense, since Pol Secura's house had been close to the center.
When they paused at an open square near the center, there was an auction going on – or at least, there were a lot of people clustered around a big tent, hollering at the top of their lungs and waving datapads and credit chips overhead while the Twi'lek males standing in the tent entrance tried to yell over them.
Most of the buyers were humans, and there were also a few other species mixed in, but there were no Twi'leks. Just as Quinlan opened his mouth to mention that, Tholme stepped back into the street.
"Hmm," he said, face grim. "Quinlan, do you see that food stand across the plaza?"
"Yeah."
"You have credits?"
Quinlan nodded.
"Good. Go buy some dinner for us. Start without me, I'll be there shortly. And Quinlan." Tholme bent a little, looking him in the eye. "Remember what I said."
"Yes, Master – I'll remember."
Tholme patted him on the shoulder, and Quinlan hurried across the wide plaza to the food stand. A green Twi'lek female was running the stand. She didn't look up when Quinlan approached, but kept silently focused on the sticks of meat and vegetables she was grilling.
"Excuse me," Quinlan began, then frowned in realization. "Um, do you speak Basic?"
"Yes," she replied shortly.
"Oh, good. I'd like to buy some –"
A burst of talking and noise came from the auction area. The woman looked up, then turned abruptly and vanished into the small tent that stood behind her grill.
"Okay," Quinlan said awkwardly, swinging his arms. With nothing else to do, he glanced around, but there was no one nearby. In fact, now that he stopped to consider, the whole plaza, with the exception of the auction, seemed lifeless all of a sudden. The stands were all in place, but many of the vendors had left. Why?
His master was slouching against the wall at the edge of the crowd, eyes fixed on the tent's canvas door.
Quinlan frowned in confusion. Then a crackling sound caught his attention, and he realized that one of the kebabs was smoking.
"Oops," he mumbled, and turned it over. Glancing at the closed doorway of the food stand's tent and wondered if he should call the lady who ran it. Maybe not, she'd looked pretty upset and he didn't want her to start yelling at him. That would probably catch everyone's attention.
Blend in with your surroundings. That was what Master Tholme always told him.
After a moment's hesitation, Quinlan stepped around the grill and turned the heat down. Another stick of food at the back started to smoke, so he grabbed the tongs and set to work meticulously turning each one. He was halfway through when he glanced up at the auction again and saw that the guards had finally moved away from the tent door.
A blue Twi'lek male sauntered out, dressed in dark brown robes with gold trim, and raised his arms. Immediately, a hush fell. The Twi'lek shouted something in his native language, and Quinlan caught the name Secura. Wait – was this Pol Secura? Surely not, someone that important wouldn't run his own auctions. Right? Had the Twi'lek recognized noticed Tholme's presence?
A glance at his master made Quinlan blink. Tholme's greying hair had been tied back and stuffed into the collar of his sloppy jacket, and he stood with his weight on one foot, making him look a lot shorter than usual. And – was he smoking?
Quinlan stared in silent tilted his head, as though aware of his padawan's attention, and removed a black stick from his mouth, brushing aside the plume of smoke.
Wow, Quinlan thought. Guess I don't know a lot about him after all.
Secura, or whoever he was, glanced around the plaza, laughed once, and said something else that made the buyers chuckle and exchange glances. Quinlan decided to go back to flipping kebabs like a good food stand owner. Which he wasn't. Well, it was either turn food over or watch the whole stand go up in smoke, so . . .
Then the auction tent door was pulled open, and eight Twi'leks filed out. Six were women, two were men. They wore plain robes and collars and were chained together. All of them hung their heads, not even lifting their eyes. It was like they had no will left. Maybe they didn't.
The auctioneer switched to Basic. He started talking about the slaves behind him, explaining that they were hardworking and competent, and that their spirits hadn't been broken, whatever that meant. It looked like their spirits had been broken. Quinlan glared at the auctioneer before remembering he was supposed to not draw attention, and that people usually noticed when you glared at them. He blinked, trying to make himself look more neutral.
The Twi'lek was busy explaining that if the buyers got tired of their slaves, or found them uncooperative, they could sell them off world for a better price than he would sell them for today. Apparently, the pink Twi'lek woman in particular would fetch a lot of money among the Weequay.
A couple of guards unchained the woman in question from the others and pulled her to the front first. She cried and begged in her native tongue, but her hands were pulled away from her face and the auctioneer grabbed her chin, turning her head forcibly so the customers could get a better look.
Someone in the crowd shouted that he would pay one thousand credits. A sharp-faced woman with two blasters on her hips raised her voice, saying that her master Gall the Hutt would pay three thousand.
Quinlan could only stare as people shouted out price after price. In the end, the Twi'lek woman was sold to the mercenary woman for ten thousand, six hundred credits, to be paid immediately. The auctioneer bowed graciously and gestured to his guards. They cuffed her hands and dragged her over to the buyer. The slave sobbed, shouting furious curses at the auctioneer, who only smirked and gestured to the next slave.
Quinlan jerked his gaze to Tholme, who still lounged unconcernedly against the wall. Surely, his master could do something –? A pale blue female was standing in front now, and the seller was busy pointing out how unusually beautiful she was, even for a Twi'lek. Then, he asked who would start the bidding.
To Quinlan's complete shock, Tholme raised a hand and yelled, "Eight hundred!"
"Oh, come, human!" the auctioneer shouted back. "For a beauty such as this? Are you from Corellia?"
Several people in the crowd laughed, and the bidding started in earnest until she was sold to a Weequay for eight thousand, four hundred credits.
Quinlan felt sick. He bit his lip and glowered at the grill until a movement behind him made him spin around.
The Twi'lek woman who had been running the stand stood there, looking at the food she had been making. "The first one," she said.
Quinlan glanced at the first stick of food, but she sounded too sad to be talking about that. "The first Twi'lek?" he asked.
"She was my cousin."
"I'm . . . sorry," Quinlan offered, not sure what to say. How were you supposed to talk to someone who had just had her cousin sold?
"Her husband vanished," she went on. "And now –" Her face was streaked with tears, and she started flipping kebabs with a vengeance.
"You mean . . ." Quinlan hesitated, trying to word his question correctly. "You mean, Pol Secura captured her because she didn't have a husband?"
Muttering something bitter, the woman grabbed a bottle of sauce and squeezed it quickly over the sizzling meat. "I mean that her husband stood up to Pol, and then he mysteriously vanished!"
She slammed the sauce down so hard it splattered everywhere. Grabbing a rag, she scrubbed harshly at the tray. "And then, not one day later, I find out my cousin is a slave. He has gone too far – he went too far a long time ago. . ."
Quinlan watched her for several seconds. Despite how angry she was, a tinge of fear overlaid her emotions, and she never looked directly at the auction.
The padawan hesitated, then reached out to touch the bottle she'd been holding. A flash of regret-hatred-fear made him blink, and he moved his hand away. "Does he do that a lot?" he asked. "I mean . . . would he capture you?"
"No." She scoffed. "I am not beautiful enough, thank the Sun." She trailed off, watching as the fourth slave was sold. Suddenly, she spun to look at him, as though seeing him for the first time. "Why are you still here, anyway?"
"I was just – coming to buy some food," he said. "Then you left, and I didn't want your stand to burn, so I just kind of –" He gestured vaguely.
"Oh. My thanks." She tried to smile, but didn't quite manage.
The awkward silence between them was broken by shouting from the buyers as they tried to outbid each other.
Quinlan fidgeted and then pulled out some credits. "Well, anyway – uhh, can I buy five of those?"
"Of course," she murmured, still subdued. "Ten credits."
But when she handed him the kebabs and he paid her, she seemed to come back to herself. "Oh," she said. "I am not . . . you helped –"
Quinlan shot her a quick smile, left the credits on the counter, and walked over to a group of small, round tables. There were stools lined up against the wall, so he grabbed a couple and brought them to a table, then sat down. The food smelled really good, but he didn't have an appetite anymore. In fact, the longer he sat there and stared at it, the less he wanted to eat, despite what Tholme had told him. He knew he should blend into his surroundings, and sitting there without eating probably looked suspicious or something, but he just didn't care. He kept remembering the way the pink lady had shouted and cried as she was led away.
Tholme joined him a few minutes later, glanced at the cooling food, and pulled his stool up to the table. Two slaves had not been sold – one woman and one man – and Pol Secura had said he would be willing to consider offers come the morning. Like they were a discount sale, or something.
When his master didn't speak, Quinlan looked up at him. "The first woman was her cousin."
"Ah." Tholme cast a quick look at the Twi'lek, who was busy serving other customers now that the auction had broken up. "I see."
Quinlan frowned and kicked at the table leg. "Because her husband – the pink woman's husband, I mean – vanished. I guess."
Tholme sat quietly, without answering. Quinlan fidgeted, picked up a kebab dripping with the sour-sweet sauce, and dropped it back on the paper holder. "Why did you bid?" he asked, more angrily than he meant to.
Tholme eyed him, and for a moment Quinlan thought he was going to ask a question, like he always did – maybe 'why do you think I bid?' or something like that, but instead his master said, "The auctioneer was watching me. I wanted him to think I was a customer."
". . . Oh," Quinlan mumbled, feeling ridiculous. It was such an obvious answer, and he'd been too upset to think of it.
"Yes," Tholme said, taking a kebab from the tray. "Now, eat your dinner. We have some information, but we'll need some more."
"Why? Didn't we – I mean, can't we just – capture him or something? Pol, I mean?"
"If it were that easy, I believe the citizens would have done it long ago. Did you get any information from the stand owner?"
"No," Quinlan said, nibbling reluctantly on a piece of grilled fruit. "I mean, she said she wasn't beautiful enough to be a slave, and she was angry and sad about the slaves, and she was afraid."
"Of what?"
"I don't . . . know. I only got a quick impression."
"And what was that impression?"
The padawan hesitated, considering. "I think she was afraid for herself."
Tholme nodded slowly. "She was afraid, despite telling you she wasn't beautiful enough to be a slave? Hm. Can you get a clearer reading?"
"I guess? I can try." Quinlan dropped his kebab in the tray again. "Want me to do it now?"
Tholme raised an eyebrow. "How are you going to buy more food from her if you don't eat what you have?"
"Well . . . I got two for me and three for you," Quinlan said hastily. "But I'm not hungry, so maybe you could also have mine? And then I'll get you some more?"
Tholme looked at him, and Quinlan resigned himself to eating. Despite how upset he was about the auction, it didn't take his body long to remember how hungry it was. He finished quickly, then got up and grabbed the paper tray. "I think I'll buy some more," he said, as though it had been his idea in the first place.
"Mm-hmm." Tholme, who was working his way methodically through the third stick, gave him a shrewd look. "And perhaps, rather than suddenly picking up the bottle, you could ask for extra sauce."
Quinlan paid for two more kebabs and asked for the sauce. The busy woman grabbed the bottle without even noticing who had asked and set it in his reach. Knowing he only had a few seconds, he closed his eyes, took a breath, and picked it up.
This time, he knew what he was looking for. The jumbled impressions formed a quick picture in his mind, and he set down the bottle immediately. Then, remembering he'd asked for sauce, he hastily squeezed a healthy amount on the kebabs before returning to the table and taking a bite.
Almost choking at how sharp the flavor was, he grabbed his canteen and gulped some water.
"Guess I used – a little much," he said, then paused to clear his throat loudly. "But anyway, it worked."
Tholme glanced up at a passing couple, then nodded for him to continue.
"She's afraid of forgetting." Quinlan frowned. "I don't know what she's afraid of forgetting, but she is."
Tholme shook his head slightly and reached for the second stick of food. He ate without seeming to notice the overwhelming flavor, which Quinlan thought wasn't exactly fair. The padawan finished his meal a couple minutes later, but his master had that look on his face that meant he was thinking. He ate really slowly, gazing at nothing, and didn't speak once.
Quinlan perched on the edge of his stool, swinging his feet as he waited. A group of children were playing catch in the middle of the plaza.
Finally, Tholme set down the empty skewer and looked up. "Quinlan, I'd like you to do something."
"Okay." Quinlan got up, but Tholme caught his arm.
"Not so quickly. This could be very unpleasant; I will understand perfectly if you don't want to do it. Do you see the chains the guards left outside the tent?"
"Yeah . . ." Quinlan glanced uncertainly at them. "Do you want me to read them?"
"Yes – for the same impression you got from that bottle."
"Okay, I can do that." Quinlan tried to sound calm and unconcerned. He didn't want his master to think he wasn't ready to be on missions, but he also didn't want to touch those chains. He'd never been afraid of much – yet – but he'd felt someone else's fear once, and it hadn't been pleasant.
Hm . . . guess I'm afraid of that, he thought.
Master Tholme's hand closed around his wrist, and he looked up. "Remember, Quinlan – you need a surface impression only. Try not to lose your surroundings when you touch the chain."
"Okay." With a quick look around to ensure that nobody was watching him in particular, Quinlan wandered across the sand-dusted plaza towards the auction tent. It was empty of guards now, of course, and there was no reason for anyone to be watching it, but he couldn't help but feel that someone was watching him.
Yeah, dopey, he thought to himself. Master Tholme's probably watching. . .
As he neared the tent, he kicked out idly at the end of the chain, which lay a couple meters before the entrance. He figured he might as well give the impression of being a bored teenager. . . he knew how to do that, all right.
But when nobody's attention shifted to him at the clinking sound, he stooped and picked up the chain in both hands. Everything around him vanished, ever so briefly, but nothing replaced it. Fear – fear – fear –
The metal links clattered to the ground, and he rubbed the palms of his hands against his pants, trying to get rid of the crawling sensation.
"Stop playing with that chain, boy!" snapped a gruff voice, and Tholme appeared beside him, glaring. The fingers of his right hand flickered outwards and then into a fist, the Shadow's sign for We are being watched.
"Yes, Master."
Tholme released him, and Quinlan followed, kicking slightly at the chain as he passed it. His hands still tingled, but as usual, the physical feeling faded quickly enough.
Not until they were three streets away from the square did Tholme relax, slouching against a sidewalk railing as he observed the road they'd just left.
"Two guards entered the plaza just after I sent you over," he muttered. "I don't think they suspect anything, they didn't even follow us."
"Two guards?" Quinlan glanced over his shoulder, even though he couldn't possibly see them. "From Clan Secura?"
"Yes. They seemed to be observing the people in the square. Now, were you able to discover anything?"
"Not exactly." The padawan bit his lip, trying to word what he'd felt. "I don't think they were afraid like the other woman was. They were more afraid, but – not of the same thing?"
"I see." His master folded his arms and bent his head, eyes gleaming in the torchlight from across the street. He seemed to be seriously considering his padawan's words.
Quinlan shifted uncomfortably. He didn't really know how to draw concise information from psychometric visions yet, and he didn't want his master to be misguided because of it. "I could have misunderstood," he began.
His master looked up, then shook his head. "Doubtful, Padawan. Your skills can and will be refined over time, but I have faith in them as they are now."
Well, that makes one of us, anyway. . . Quinlan shrugged. "But Master, what does that – knowledge – gain us?"
"A theory," Tholme answered, straightening. "Or more accurately, a hypothesis."
"Um. . ." Quinlan was forced to break into a trot to keep up as Tholme strode briskly away. "What do you mean by that?"
"I mean that perhaps there is something more than glitterstim smuggling going on here."
"But I thought – you already knew that!" Quinlan dodged around a Twi'lek pulling a small cart.
"I only suspected it." Tholme stopped short, then whisked into an alleyway. "But I wish to gather some more data before drawing conclusions. Quinlan, we are going to the Moon and Stars."
"Without our ship?" Quinlan asked cheekily. "And doesn't Ryloth have more than one moon?"
"It is a hotel," Tholme replied, unamused. "And once we are settled, I am going to meet with a contact while you stay in our room. I might be gone some hours."
Quinlan opened his mouth to ask if he could come along, then closed it. Master Tholme had practically said 'no' anyway – and although the padawan always denied being tired, he could feel himself lagging. He'd never admit it, of course. He wasn't a youngling, he was a padawan, and that meant he had to be able to keep up with his master.
It was too bad that Master Tholme didn't seem to think the same thing.