Quinlan stood at the corner of the Moon and Stars rooftop restaurant and leaned on the railing, eyes fixed on the manor house across the road. His master had left the hotel very early – hours ago, in fact – to 'attend' another slave auction that was being held this morning. Quinlan, though, had been told to stay behind and finish his studies.

He'd done it, of course. He'd studied, then retaken and submitted the test he failed last week. But it had definitely been boring. In fact, it was so boring that if Quinlan hadn't had Master Jinn's lightsaber classes to look forward to, he'd probably have died of boredom. At least when he studied at the Temple he had other padawans to suffer with, or to prank. That was always fun.

Quinlan snickered at the memory of the time he'd crawled under the table to sew Luminara's and Obi-Wan's robes together at the hem. When Obi-Wan had finished his studies – half an hour earlier than everyone else, as usual – he'd shoved his chair back decisively . . . and promptly fallen over backwards, dragging Luminara off her chair in the process. Of course, Luminara had then used the Force to knock Quinlan off his, from her position on the floor.

Quinlan thought it was rather telling that she just assumed he was guilty. Well, he reflected, maybe his hysterical laughter had given her reason to suspect him. . .

His datapad screen lit up, and he glanced down to see that his teacher had sent back a message with his score and a rather unnecessary message that read: 'I'm sure, Padawan Vos, that you will agree when I state that a score of 87% is lightyears better than a score of 24%.'

Quinlan sniffed. It was so weird that teachers always preached about how grades weren't important, but then harped on them anyway. Of course, they knew their students pretty well. The rather sarcastic remark from his teacher might have been based on the fact that she knew he nearly always scored in the nineties, and therefore that for him to score in the twenties meant he hadn't studied. Which he kind of hadn't. He'd actually forgotten about the assignment completely.

Oh, well. He was glad to have finished, anyway. He'd even done a little extra studying for next week's test. Then, after doing a few sets of katas, he had proceeded to fold the clothes in his pack. He hadn't really folded anything earlier; for him, packing usually meant grabbing everything in his room and shoving it into his pack. After tidying up the room, Quinlan felt quite accomplished, but had nothing else to do, so he came up to the roof and purchased some fruit for breakfast.

No one else was on the roof with him. The lunch rush hadn't started yet, and the breakfast rush was long over, so eventually Quinlan draped himself against the railing and studied the Secura manor house.

There hadn't been anything interesting to see yet, and there probably wouldn't be, either. He'd thought a couple of bad guys would have a more interesting place to live. But there were no spiked fences or patrols or anything unusual. Just a couple of stiff-necked guards at the back door, which faced the hotel across the wide street. Even the designs carved into the stonework of the doorposts looked normal.

Quinlan's Force-bond with Tholme told him his master was nearby, so he leaned over the rail, trying to locate him in the crowd of people that walked the street three stories below. There were several humans, but three of them were women. And none of the men had grey hair, long or otherwise.

After a few more minutes, the padawan turned away from the railing and glanced back at the still-empty rooftop. With nothing better to do, he decided to practice handstands. Kit was able to do a one-handed handspring, which meant that Quinlan was determined to learn how as well. He hadn't managed it yet. Obi-Wan had told him that Nautolans were significantly stronger than humans, and that besides, Kit was three years older, so Quinlan shouldn't expect to succeed at everything the Nautolan did. Luminara had only said that Quinlan didn't always need to compete.

Quinlan flipped onto his hands and straightened, trying to lock his knees. He'd basically ignored both of his crechemates, because they didn't seem to see the fun in competing anyway. Luminara was one of those perfect student Jedi, always calm and quiet and reserved. Obi-Wan was a little better, but not by much.

Kit Fisto, though, was just fun to hang out with. When Quinlan didn't have ideas, Kit did – and it went the opposite way, too. It was Kit who'd suggested the whole fake tattoos thing, which had gone awesomely. And it was Quinlan who'd suggested diving into the pool in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Sure, they'd spent the entire week on kitchen duty for that one, but the twenty meter dive had been absolutely worth it.

Confident in his balance, the padawan slowly transferred his weight to his right hand, then raised his left slowly –

Easy does it . . . almost there . . .

"What are you doing?" Tholme asked, from less than a meter away.

With a surprised yelp, Quinlan wavered and lost his balance, falling clumsily to his knees. "Ow. I was just practicing handstands."

"I see."

Getting up, the padawan brushed his hands together to free his fingerless gloves of the sandy dust. "Did you find out anything? I couldn't see much of the manor from here."

"I did find out several things." Tholme gestured him to the stairs, and they started down. "For one, I learned that it is Lon Secura who pays the men who run the auctions. I also learned that the manor house belongs to the chief family of the Secura clan, as opposed to belonging to a single member of that family. There were two other siblings, both males, but one died as a child. The other, the eldest, was named Sienn. He used to be in the Twi'lek Clan Council, but was killed three years ago during a gutkurr hunt."

"Accidentally shot?" Quinlan asked. "Or – not accidentally?"

"Not shot at all. By all accounts, Sienn led the hunt because a pack of gutkurr had been raiding his wife's native village. During the hunt, several Twi'leks were killed by the creatures. Even Pol's adversaries do not accuse him of murder. In fact, Sienn was the only Secura – and the only non-local Twi'lek – on the hunt."

"Okay." Quinlan said, chin in his hand. "So it wasn't an assassination."

"It seems unlikely. Another thing I learned is that it was Sienn's popularity that helped Pol Secura get elected to the Clan Council. Until this year, there were no real complaints about his leadership. . . but there was also nothing remarkable about it. The people I spoke with seemed to think Pol hasn't done much of anything, one way or another, since his election."

"Huh." Quinlan stretched his arms to either side as he followed his master down the outer stairs to the street. "Where's Sienn's wife now?"

"That is of note." Tholme glanced at him, and Quinlan felt a quick sense of his approval. "No one has seen Hirana Secura or her daughter since Sienn's funeral. Overall, people seem to believe that they left Ryloth."

Quinlan shook his head. "They didn't," he said, then stopped walking as he registered his own words. Blinking in confusion, he looked up to meet his master's sharp eyes.

"Why do you say that?" Tholme asked.

"I – don't know?" The padawan fidgeted, embarrassed by how he'd just blurted that out without any thought. "I don't know, Master."

"Hmm. . ." Instead of scoffing, Master Tholme gazed thoughtfully at him. "You have no basis for thinking that at all? You didn't hear anything about it?"

"No, Master." Quinlan hunched his shoulders. "I really have no idea. Sorry. Just, when you said that, I felt like I was telling you something I knew."

"Perhaps you do know," Tholme said, with an enigmatic look. He headed towards the manor house.

Quinlan gaped after him for a moment, then ran to catch up. "That's not really helpful, Master!" he whispered loudly.

"I am aware." Tholme walked right past the manor house, completely ignoring the guards, who only cast him brief, disinterested looks. "And yet I am not entirely inclined to disregard your – instincts, shall we say?"

"Why not?!" Quinlan gave his head a brief, hard shake. "Master, I know nothing about what happened or about Hirana or her daughter or anything. What I said doesn't make any sense!"

"The Force," Tholme stated, "tends not to make sense, either. . ."

"Well, you're not the Force," grumbled Quinlan, then clapped a hand over his mouth. "Uh, sorry Master, I didn't, um."

But Tholme only raised an eyebrow at him before leading the way into the central plaza. "The main entrance to the glitterstim mines is right across from us," he said in a low voice. "I believe we will take the opportunity to look around the marketplace. Perhaps you should buy a couple of small items, Quinlan. I'll do the same. But try not to touch anything that might trigger a vision."

"Yes, Master." Quinlan tried not to sigh. He'd never had much trouble with his pscyhometry in the Temple, because he'd learned early on what to touch and what not to touch. Besides, most Jedi were so – even – that there wasn't much of an impression made on most things that he might end up touching. But since starting to go on missions, he'd had several moments where he'd casually touched something and then jerked out of a sudden vision or emotion to find Tholme standing over him or keeping him from falling over.

Apparently, psychometrics got better at handling visions as they got older. Hopefully, that was the case. He didn't want to spend any more time keeling over because he couldn't keep track of his actual senses and his vision senses at the same time.

Sending a quick smile at the elderly woman who sat behind one of the booths, he paused to study her selection of handmade dolls. There were Twi'leks, Jawas, what was probably a Togruta, and several other humanoids. They were floppy dolls, not all stiff or able to stand. Most likely, they were meant for younger children. Quinlan picked up one of the human ones. The fabric was soft and smooth, and whatever kind of yarn had been used to make the hair, on those that had hair, was ridiculously soft. He touched it a few times, just because it felt so nice. The dolls' features were drawn on with black ink, very simplistically, which was kind of cute.

Quinlan set the doll down and was just about to move on when something seemed to tug at his chest. He turned quickly, looking up at one of the windows in the Secura manor, but there was nothing in sight.

Weird. . .

Trying to act casual, Quinlan turned back to the old woman's table. Maybe it was something he'd seen here? Yeah, right. The only impression he'd gotten from the dolls was calm – the woman who made them was always calm when she sewed.

Still, he carefully checked every item on the table; then, because he'd been standing there so long, he decided to buy something. He picked out a sturdy basket woven from reeds and paid for it, even though he wasn't sure what he'd do with it yet, if anything.

A couple of booths later, though, he realized he could fill it with fruit. That way, he'd look like he was running an errand or something. Hey, I think I'm getting the hang of this blending in thing, he thought happily.

As the shopkeeper was weighing out the starfruit, the strange tug came again. It felt similar to when he could sense someone watching him, but much stronger. Quinlan stood motionless, struggling not to look over his shoulder again, then paid the fruit seller with as normal a smile as he could manage.

The feeling didn't go away as he walked towards his master, who was already seated at one of the small tables around the perimeter of the plaza – in fact, it got worse and worse until it was almost a physical pain. It felt like loneliness.

When he set the basket of fruit down, Tholme said, "Quinlan? What's wrong?"

"Nothing that I know of, Master." Quinlan sat down, pressing a hand against his chest. It didn't help. When his master narrowed his eyes in concern, the padawan tried for a grin. "I'm good, maybe I'm just having a mild heart attack or somethi –"

The feeling vanished so fast that he found himself drawing in a quick breath. "Okay, that was seriously weird."

"I told you to be careful," Tholme scolded.

"I was! That wasn't –" Someone walked by, and Quinlan lowered his voice to a whisper. "That wasn't psychometric, Master, it didn't happen from touching anything."

"Hmm." Tholme looked up at the manor walls, then back down. "It didn't feel like a Force object, did it?"

"Not at all." The padawan picked up a starfruit and put it back down. "Wait, why are you asking that?"

His master stared at the starfruit, clearly lost in thought. A minute later, he still had not explained himself, so Quinlan frowned at him, to no avail.

At last, Tholme gave a thoughtful hum, then leaned forward to select an orange starfruit. "Our contact called. Pol Secura is away for the day, attending a session of the Clan Council in Lessu."

"So are we going to try to get inside?" Quinlan asked, leaning forward.

"Yes. . . possibly. Alternately, one of us might try and get inside while the other causes a slight disturbance to provide a distraction."

The padawan stared at him, then mused, "I really can't figure out which of those I'd rather do."

"Fortunately, I'm going to choose – if it comes to that, which it might not. Did you get to look at the mine entrance?"

"Nope. Anything interesting there?"

"Not particularly. Eight fully armed guards. . . supposedly because the energy spiders are so dangerous; I know that isn't true, though."

"You sensed they were lying?" Quinlan asked.

"No." Tholme's gaze flickered. "I noticed they are carrying energy weapons, which do not work against spiders who live on energy."

"Oh. So you think they're carrying weapons to keep people from escaping." Quinlan reached for the map.

"Correct. I can sense lifeforms down there . . . and the mines are deeper than the tunnels on that map. Cham tells me they were originally made for the Twi'leks to shelter in during dust storms and gutkurr raids. There are guards down there, as well, near the surface. Those guards are likely the ones who will deal with the spiders in case they decide to attack. But there's not even a chance of our getting down there."

"Blast it," Quinlan said, shoving the map back into his pocket. "I was hoping we could sneak in."

"If that were the case, the Twi'leks would have done it by now." Master Tholme glanced at the walls again. "No, we'll have to go about this somewhat differently. As Cham said, the other entrance is likely inside the manor itself."

He trailed off, apparently thinking. "And the easiest way to get inside might be to insist on speaking with his brother. Yes."

Quinlan blinked at him.

Pulling out his comm, Tholme clicked it twice. "Cham."

"This is Syndulla. What is it?"

"I believe betraying you would be useful."

Quinlan opened his mouth and shut it again.

"Do you." The Twi'lek's voice was cold. "I have six people watching you at this moment."

"Don't be ridiculous." Tholme sounded more insulted than annoyed. "I would have killed you last night if I wanted to get rid of you. But to get inside the manor house, I require a reason to insist on speaking with Lon Secura."

". . . Ah. I see." The Twi'lek paused for a long moment. "Better come up with a good story about how you know me, Jedi."

"I believe that will not be difficult." A rather strange smirk crossed Tholme's face, and Quinlan narrowed his eyes just as his master said, "I will tell him you approached me with information, believing me to be a Jedi."

"You cannot be serious!"

"I am perfectly serious." Tholme hung up on him, raising an eyebrow when he looked at Quinlan. "What, Padawan, you too?"

"I – how is that –"

"It is the truth," Tholme said, standing. "And the truth is always the best. Cham did approach me with information, believing me to be a Jedi, did he not?"

"Ye-es, but –" Quinlan shook his head and got to his feet. "How am I going to help, then?"

Tholme tilted his head and pointed to the basket of fruit. "How do you think you should help?" he asked. "Consider, Padawan. What have I done in the past two days?"

"Well," Quinlan said brightly, picking up the fruit. "You told me to stay behind while you explored Kala'uun."

"Yes." His master gazed down his nose, unimpressed. "What else?"

"You . . . wandered around the streets and asked questions and – ohhh. You bid in two slave auctions."

Master Tholme turned on his heel and left the plaza, Quinlan hurrying to keep up with him. "You want me to pose as your slave?" he asked.

"It would be easiest to get you inside the manor house that way." Tholme glanced down at him. "You do not have much practice yet in taking on different roles, but you wouldn't have to remember much – as long as you can remember to curb your remarks, that is."

Quinlan nodded and pretended to zip his lips together.

"And if you can learn to act disinterested," Tholme added. "I already mentioned to you that for others to hear you referring to me as 'Master' would not be unusual. Now, you must play on that a bit more – attempt to sound subservient."

"I can do that." Quinlan looked down at himself. "I don't look much like a slave, though, do I?"

"Many nobles on various planets own household slaves," Tholme said. "It is not unusual to see well-dressed and well-educated slaves."

"Okay." Quinlan almost grinned. "This is gonna be interesting."

"Hmm. I am sure it will be that, if nothing else. Once we have been granted an audience, I am hoping we will stay in the manor house until I can report to Pol Secura in person. . . Hopefully, that will give both of us a chance to move around."

"Master," Quinlan said, breaking into a half-jog. "Do you always come up with plans on the spur of the moment?"

"Often, yes. I stopped making detailed plans years ago." Tholme strode through the hotel entrance, nodded to the owner, and went up to the room. As he shut the door behind Quinlan, he said, "I have never had a plan not need to be altered mid-mission."

"Oh." Quinlan set the basket down on the mantelpiece. "I guess I'll just follow your lead, then."

"Yes," Tholme said. "But for now, we will rest. No one will be up and around during the heat of the day. . . well, except perhaps for our friend Syndulla. I have a feeling he will come tearing by to ask what in the name of the galaxy we are up to."

"Yeah, probably." Quinlan shoved all the blankets and furs on his bed to one end, then sat on the mattress. "I'm going to research."

"Oh? Research what?"

"Kiffar slaves," Quinlan replied. "And whether they have specific tattoos added when they are made slaves. I remember something about that from somewhere. . ."

Two hours later, after a lengthy meeting with Cham Syndulla, who had demanded they meet at the Golden Rycrit, Tholme went back upstairs to the hotel room. He now had a better idea of what he was up against, and they had discussed exactly what information he could and could not give Pol Secura. After all, Cham had said, the Twi'leks had no assurance that Tholme could pull this off.

Trying not to yawn, Tholme opened the door and slipped inside. The shutters were closed against the midday light and heat, but the sun was so bright that the room was dim, rather than dark. His padawan was fast asleep, curled up on one end of the mattress with his datapad balanced precariously on the edge.

The Jedi Shadow rescued it, setting it on the mantelpiece as he checked his chronometer. He and Quinlan had at least another hour or so before they could reasonably expect to be given admittance to the Secura manor. For most people, that would hardly be enough time to even start resting; but Tholme's experience as a Watchman and Shadow had taught him to fall asleep within minutes, no matter where he was. It was fortunate, too, because he had a feeling he would need to be well-rested for whatever happened tonight.

As he unbuckled his holster, a glint of yellow on Quinlan's outstretched arm caught his attention. Tholme leaned closer, raising his eyebrows when he saw the temporary tattoo just above the inside of Quinlan's left elbow. It was a mark like the one on his forehead, but there was a thin red line slashed through it.

Curious, Tholme got the datapad again and checked the record from Kiffu of clan tattoos and their meaning. Sure enough, a red line through a tattoo meant that either the person had been banished from the clan, or that he or she was now a slave. Kiffar tattoos were always symmetrical. Tholme checked Quinlan's right arm. He'd positioned the tattoo perfectly. Interesting. . .

Tholme was beginning to have questions about who, exactly, had taught his padawan how to draw and apply temporary tattoos. He remembered an incident at the Temple, a few months back, involving several newly knighted Jedi waking up with the words 'JEDI KNIGHT' temporarily tattooed on their foreheads in red ink. Tholme had always thought it suspicious that three of the victims were from young Kit Fisto's class, and that Quinlan had disappeared from his and Tholme's shared quarters for over two hours the night before.

Tholme had never bothered bringing the prank up, as no trouble at all had resulted from it. If Kit Fisto's classmates had learned nothing else during their seven years of advanced classes, they had definitely learned how to take a joke. But his mild suspicions about Quinlan's involvement were now near-certainties – especially now that he knew Quinlan actually had a temporary tattoo kit. That was not a standard issue supply, even for Jedi Shadows, much less a Shadow padawan.