It was getting towards evening as Quinlan followed his master down the side road and across the street towards the Secura manor. "Remember," Master Tholme said in a low voice. "Keep your eyes down when you're spoken to. Do not look directly at anyone higher than a servant in status, and do not make comments or react to conversations, no matter what I or any others say."

"Yes, Master," Quinlan said, careful not to look at him. It was a little tricky, but as long as he paid attention he knew he could do it.

As they approached the door, the two guards crossed their halberds over it. "What is it you want?" the yellow one demanded.

Tholme stepped forward, haughty arrogance in every movement. "I wish to speak with Pol Secura."

"He's not available," the green Twi'lek answered, sounding bored. "Now go on, get out of here!"

"He is not available?" Tholme said dangerously. "When I know that he has particular interest in the information I have for him?"

The green one looked suspicious. "He's gone to Lessu," he said at last.

"I see." Quinlan's master drummed his fingers impatiently against either arm, then gave a begrudging nod. "Very well. Then let me speak with whoever is head of the manor in his absence."

The yellow Twi'lek's hand drifted towards his blaster. "About what?"

Tholme scoffed audibly. "You can hardly expect me to tell you. Who is in charge here when Pol is away?"

"Lon Secura."

"Ah, his brother." Tholme stepped forward, ignoring how their halberds now pointed at him. "Well, kindly tell Lon that he had better receive me. If he asks about what, tell him I am willing to speak to him, but only him, while I wait for Pol to return."

The two Twi'leks exchanged hesitant looks, but finally the yellow one nodded and drew his blaster. "I'll escort you in," he said. "Your slave can wait here."

Quinlan gazed at the manor wall and carefully did not react.

"No," Tholme said. "I know the reputation of your city in the past year. He's a valuable slave, and I have no intention of coming back out to find him stolen."

Rolling his eyes, the yellow Twi'lek turned to unlock the door. "Fine. Inside, both of you. Come on! I don't have all day!"

Quinlan bit his lip and retorted in his mind instead of out loud. Yeah, looks like you were really busy out there.

A mental nudge from his master made him blink, and he focused on clearing his face of every expression.

They were led into a sort of narrow courtyard and told to wait. As the guard left, Quinlan glanced at his master, whose fingers flicked out before curling into a fist. They were likely being watched. . . well, that wasn't unexpected.

But to Quinlan's surprise, Tholme began talking. "Once we finish here, I want you to resupply the ship. And this time be quick, do you hear me?"

"Yes, Master."

"We don't want a repeat of Pantora, do we?"

Quinlan shook his head and tried to look ashamed even though he had no idea what was supposed to have happened on Pantora. "No, Master."

Tholme folded his arms, lifting his chin as he stared at the doorway through which the Twi'lek guard had disappeared. Quinlan stood next to him and looked around. There definitely wasn't much to see . . . Sandstone and more sandstone, with a couple of doors, and – oh, look! More sandstone.

"Lon Secura will see you," the guard said, returning suddenly. "But you leave your weapons with me."

Quinlan almost held his breath, feeling the weight of two lightsabers in the satchel he carried over one shoulder. This would be the hardest part to pull off. But his master only nodded and pulled a small blaster from his shoulder holster. He handed it over, then stood motionless while the guard performed a quick check.

"All set," the Twi'lek said, and Tholme started for the door at a brisk walk.

Quinlan started to follow, but paused as the guard shot him an uncertain look. At exactly the same time, Tholme looked back and rolled his eyes. "By all means," he said, gesturing widely. "Since one always allows his slave to carry weapons."

With a huff of bored irritation, the Twi'lek marched through the door, leaving Tholme and the padawan to follow.

Quinlan couldn't believe that had worked. . . and yet, it had. Everyone sees through a filter, his master had said, as though that explanation should make perfect sense. When Quinlan eyed him, unimpressed, Tholme had explained further. Everyone sees what he expects to see.

It still didn't completely make sense, but that was probably because Quinlan didn't have the experience to understand it yet. Also, of course, he hadn't exactly thought about it for more than a few seconds, so there was that. . .

He was still considering that when the guard stopped, stepping aside to let them through a heavy wooden door into a well-furnished room. Here, the walls were made out of polished wood – or something that looked very much like it. A long bench covered in red cushions stretched the length of two adjoining walls, and the light fixtures were made from some kind of crystal.

A Rutian Twi'lek male in a richly embroidered tunic stood and held out a hand to Master Tholme, who took it with a nod.

"I am Lon Secura," the Twi'lek said. "How shall I address you?"

"My name is Tholme," the Jedi replied, glancing briefly over his shoulder as though ensuring that the guard was gone. "I was told that your brother is not home. Is this true?"

"Yes. He has monthly meetings with the rest of the Clan Council." The blue Twi'lek gestured to the bench. "Sit, please."

Master Tholme seated himself, and Quinlan figured he'd better stand at the end of the couch nearest to him. Neither Lon or Tholme appeared to be giving him any notice whatsoever, but Quinlan had a feeling that the Twi'lek was actually paying attention.

"What information do you have for Pol?" Lon asked. "Or is it perhaps too important to trust me with?"

Tholme shook his head. "I did not want your underlings spreading it around, that is all," he said. "My information concerns a troublemaker in your city – one Cham Syndulla."

"Oh?" Lon narrowed his eyes. "Yes, that is of interest."

"I thought so. He approached me yesterday with information concerning the Secura clan and your . . . mining operations here."

The blue Twi'lek tilted his head, lekku twitching slightly as though in agitation. "Why would he approach you?"

"He believes –" Tholme's eyes flickered to the door, and he lowered his voice even further – "that I am a Jedi."

Lon's mouth opened slightly. "What? Why?"

"I arrived here from Coruscant shortly after contact information was traced between Senator Kaa and your brother. There is a Jedi who shares my name, and it seems that he's been seen in and around the Senate."

Quinlan kept his gaze on the carpeted floor, but it was a struggle. How much was his master going to give away? All it would take was Lon making an actual investigation into what Tholme said, and he'd . . . Wait. Everything Tholme was saying was true, so maybe that would actually help? Or would it?

Lon Secura was frowning thoughtfully, fingers tapping against his chin. "And he believed you to be a Jedi because of this? Only because of this?"

"I also have credentials from the Senate," Tholme said, reaching into his pocket. "I have been in and out frequently lately, on business of my own. He asked for proof of my identity."

"I see." Lon accepted the credentials and leaned back, crossing his legs as he carefully studied them.

The padawan bit his lip, then remembered he wasn't supposed to care.

Humming, Lon stared at the signature at the end of the folded flimsi, then nodded slowly and handed the credentials back. "Well, it is no secret that we have spent thousands of credits trying to catch Syndulla. Perhaps he is getting desperate."

"Desperate?" Master Tholme gazed at him, confusion and scorn painted over his features. "Then why did he feel safe enough to approach me in the middle of the city, with information he should never have trusted to a stranger?"

"I should clarify." The Twi'lek gestured languidly. "We have spent thousands trying to catch him at something . . . illegal."

"Ah." Tholme folded the flimsi meticulously and put it back in his pocket. "Well, perhaps you should speed up the process. He knows – or thinks he knows – a good deal about the operation Kaa is funding."

Lon's hand twitched, then relaxed again, but Quinlan knew Master Tholme had already seen the movement. "Funding from a Senator?" the Twi'lek demanded. "For what?"

"How should I know?" Tholme shrugged, but his eyes gleamed as he looked pointedly at Lon. "But Cham Syndulla believes that your glitterstim mine is being turned into something else. He kept going on about ryll mines and how a good amount of ryll is suddenly being brought into Kala'uun, but none is being shipped out. . . And of course he spoke about the citizens, how discontented they are, how some are vanishing and others are being sold to off-worlders, and how others seem to be losing their memories."

The blue Twi'lek was sitting upright now, jaw tight and hands clenched in his lap. "Is that all?" he demanded.

"Isn't that enough?" Tholme asked, getting to his feet. "His conclusion was that you are developing a new kind of drug, and that Senator Kaa is involved in helping you begin production. If you believe your brother would be interested in hearing from me personally, I will be in Kala'uun for a couple more days."

"Wait," Lon said, as Tholme stepped towards the door. "What is your interest in what Syndulla says?"

Master Tholme gazed at him for a few seconds before answering. "I have my own business to attend to, both here and on Coruscant," he said. "It would . . . interfere with my goals, should Senator Kaa be suddenly arrested for corruption."

Quinlan bit the inside of his lip to keep from smirking. That was true. Tholme wanted to set up a case against Kaa that the senator couldn't get out of.

"I see," Lon said again, though it was clear he did not actually see. "And you say Syndulla is in the city?"

"He was last night, at any rate." Tholme sent Lon an unreadable look. "I wonder, if he is such a problem for you, why you have only been trying to arrest him."

The Twi'lek stood, irritation crossing his face. "Unfortunately, he has become somewhat of a local hero. His – disappearance – from the scene would cause a major uprising."

"Ah. Well, I have told you what I know. And for both of our sakes, I hope you figure out how to deal with him sooner rather than later." With a short bow, he turned and headed for the door.

"Wait!" Lon said again. "Wait . . . Did you inform Syndulla that you are not a Jedi?"

"Of course not," Tholme retorted. "I can only imagine what that Twi'lek would do if he realized I wasn't a Jedi."

"A knife in the back, most likely," Lon said. "But that means he still trusts you."

Tholme visibly hesitated, then glanced at the Twi'lek as though in sudden realization. "He might. I did not give him much to work with . . . but he might."

"Good enough for us. I thank you for coming to speak with me, Tholme. I believe Pol would be very much interested in hearing from you when he returns. He should be back tonight."

"Hm. Well, I'm free all evening," Tholme said. "You can send someone for me at the Moon and Stars."

"I'll do better. What if you stay here, as our guest? Syndulla is a problem for you and for us, and if I know Pol, he's going to want to hire you. Are you open for a little contract work?"

Quinlan almost held his breath.

His master raised both eyebrows. "Hmm. I suppose I could be, depending what it is . . . though it could be risky, from a business point of view."

"We'll make it worth your while." The Twi'lek laughed. "If there's one thing you can count on, it's that working for the Securas pays very well. Send your slave back to the inn, if you like."

"I prefer that he stays with me," Tholme replied. "Unfortunately, Kiffar slaves are hard to come by, and he has been captured before. Quite an inconvenience."

"Ah, very well then." Lon opened an interior door. "I have some work to do, but I trust that the guest wing will provide everything you need? If not, I can send someone to the Moon and Stars."

Tholme shook his head. "I'm sure whatever you provide will be more than adequate."

Quinlan trotted behind the two men, who were silent as they traveled the long hallway. At last, Lon Secura opened a double door and gestured them inside. "If you need anything, the kitchens and servants' quarters are just down that way," he said. "Ring the bell, or send your slave to fetch one of them. We do not allow servants here to have any sort of long-distance communication while inside the manor."

"Very wise," Tholme said. "Thank you for your hospitality."

The two men bowed slightly to each other, and Lon hurried back down the hall, pulling out his comm as he went.

Quinlan followed his master into the room and set his satchel on a small table.

"Fine quarters indeed," Tholme said, standing just inside the doorway as he observed the room. His gaze focused on the corners and light fixtures in particular, and after a moment he glanced at his padawan. "Fetch me my datapad, Quinlan. As long as we are so comfortably settled, I have some work to complete."

"Yes, Master." Understanding that the ruse was not over yet, Quinlan handed him the datapad and stood next to the door, eyes lowered.

Tholme was silent for a moment as he ran two scans. Then, flipping the datapad over, he popped off a piece of the back and withdrew a small, thin device. He walked around all four walls, watching the top of the black device, then shot a quick smile at the padawan before he disappeared into the two adjoining rooms, which were probably a bedroom and a refresher.

Quinlan stared at the light blue walls and rocked back and forth on his heels. Master Tholme was probably checking for hidden cameras. It would make sense. He was eyeing the comfortable-looking armchair when the strange tug returned, catching suddenly at his chest.

Again, he almost turned to look over his shoulder – but that was ridiculous, the door was shut, he was standing against a wall. Nobody was watching him. . . So why did he feel like someone was? Quinlan hesitated and decided to stay still. If it hadn't been for the fact that he had to pretend to be a slave, though, he would have turned around.

Then, from a long way down the hall outside, a raised, angry voice sounded, and the tugging faded abruptly.

Only a few seconds later, Tholme returned. "The rooms are completely clean."

Quinlan blinked at him. "That's . . . good," he said.

His master looked at him oddly, then chuckled. "No; I meant they are clean of cameras and listening devices."

"Oh. Master, that feeling was just there again."

Master Tholme replaced the tiny device and clicked the datapad cover back into place, then sat down on the short couch. "What feeling, young one?"

"That . . . ache. It's the third time. I feel like something's calling me. Or that there's something weird here."

"Ah." Tholme's expression was almost uncertain for a moment. "Perhaps the Securas keep some sort of Force-item. Do you sense any threat?"

"None at all."

"Very well. If you do, let me know immediately. There are some dark side artifacts that are valuable to collectors who do not know the danger they put themselves in by buying such things. Most are not powerful, but if you come across any artifact, do not, under any circumstances, touch it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master." Quinlan nodded fervently. He'd read about what could happen to psychometrics, especially psychometric Jedi, when they touched powerful artifacts. One woman had been trapped in her mind for so long that the Healers had been forced to keep her on life support for eight months, until her body finally remembered how to breathe on its own again and she woke up.

Ugh . . . eight months asleep? Forget the whole aspect of being trapped in his own mind, sleeping that long would be horrid. Quinlan stood there for a moment, trying to imagine how it would feel to wake up, only to find that eight months had passed. He shivered all over, then went to the armchair and flopped into it.

"Do not fall asleep," Tholme warned, glancing up. "If someone knocks, you need to become the slave again."

"Okay." Quinlan kicked at the ground with one foot, rocking the chair slightly. "Hey, do you need anything?"

"No," Tholme said.

"Oh. Well . . . will you need anything?"

"Perhaps at some point." Tholme selected a new document on his datapad and kept reading.

"Okay, well . . . is there anything you want me to look for, or find out?"

"No," Tholme said.

Quinlan slouched a little. Well, here they were, a Jedi master and padawan in enemy territory – and apparently there was nothing to do in enemy territory. Quinlan tilted the chair back as far as it would go and kept it in that position as he stared up at the ceiling. Blank. White. Nothing of note except the tiny spider that had taken up residence in the corner. When Quinlan tried to lift it with the Force, the spider panicked and scurried down the wall to hide behind the bureau.

The padawan sighed and went back to staring at the ceiling.

"If you are bored," Tholme began.

"I'm not bored!" Quinlan jerked his feet up, letting the armchair return to its normal position with a bang, and sat upright and alert.

". . . you can practice your katas," Tholme finished, not even looking at him.

"Oh," Quinlan said sheepishly. "I thought you were going to say I could study."

"I was going to," Tholme replied. "And then, at your vehement response, I changed my mind. Go practice your katas."

"Yes, Master."