It was nearly evening when Master Tholme finally sent Quinlan out of the room to ask one of the servants for a glass of wine.

Master Tholme didn't drink wine; he preferred cider or beer. Quinlan supposed he was trying to play up the whole 'businessman' aspect of things. As the padawan hurried down the hall, he passed two other servants, and was careful to keep his head down even when he felt them gazing after him.

Upon reaching the door to the servants' quarters, he knocked twice and stepped back. It was nearly a full minute before it opened. A light blue Twi'lek female stared down at him, one hand on her hip.

When she didn't speak, Quinlan gestured vaguely back down the hall. "My master sent me for wine."

She turned away, leaving the door open behind her, so Quinlan slipped inside and followed her down a short hall and into a room on the left. It was the kitchen, or at least a kitchen. Or maybe it was more like a pantry. There was only one table in the center, and the walls were lined with shelves, from floor to ceiling.

After setting a small flagon of wine and a glass on a silver tray, the woman handed it to Quinlan. "Anything else?" she asked.

"Not right now." He hesitated. "Maybe soon, though. I never know."

She shook her head in mild irritation. "I'm busy," she said, leading the way back to the wooden doorway. "You don't know your way around yet?"

"No," Quinlan answered. "My master is a guest, we just got here."

"I see." She unlocked the door and tapped the latch. "Well, most of what he'll want is in this area. If you need anything further, don't waste my time by knocking. Just get what you need yourself, or find one of us."

Quinlan nodded and hurried back down the hall, careful to hold back his glee. He had a way in – now, maybe Master Tholme would let him do some actual investigating!

Closing the door to their room behind him, he checked to make sure no one had come to visit in his absence, then said, "Master! Hey, Master, guess what?"

Tholme looked up from his datapad. "What has you so excited?"

"One of the women unlocked the door to the servant's quarters! She's busy, so if you need anything, I'm supposed to go right in!"

"Good," Tholme said. He gave Quinlan an approving nod – and went back to studying what looked vaguely like a map on his datapad.

Quinlan set the tray down, removed the lid on the flagon and put it back on, and fiddled with the glass. When Tholme said nothing else, Quinlan cleared his throat. "So . . ."

His master didn't seem to hear him.

The padawan rocked back on his heels, then forward before blurting out, "Don't you want me to go investigate or something?"

"By all means, feel free to," Tholme said, looking up. "But tell me first – what exactly is it you intend to investigate?"

Quinlan set the glass down. "Um."

"A fascinating subject, to be sure," Tholme said, raising an eyebrow.

"Master . . ." The padawan huffed and planted both hands on his waist. "Well, I guess I was hoping you'd have something for me to look for?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," Master Tholme said. "Dinner."

When Quinlan shot him a disgruntled look, Tholme smirked and relented. "Very well, young one. I do have something for you to investigate. But you will have to have a reason to be back in the servants' quarters, and fetching a meal for your obnoxiously fastidious owner is a very convenient reason."

Quinlan nodded, excited all over again.

"Now . . ." Tholme tapped his datapad screen. "I have been running some scans, but nothing particularly useful has turned up. These walls interfere a good deal with the sensors I have. In fact, there might even be some sort of technology interfering, at least from the living quarters of the house."

"Oh," said Quinlan, frowning thoughtfully. "Okay, do you want me to sneak your datapad into the kitchen and try a scan from there?"

"No, I cannot risk you being seen spying on our hosts." Tholme tilted the screen towards him and pointed to a mostly blank area. "But, if you can find this out without endangering yourself, I would like to know whether there is an entrance to the cellars through the servants' quarters. There should be."

"You think the second mine entrance is down there?" Quinlan leaned on the back of Tholme's chair, peering over his shoulder at the incomplete map. "But why would the Securas let their slaves have access to the mines?"

"I don't think they would." Tholme tapped a finger against his lips. "However, it's likely the servants have access to at least part of the cellar. . . And, if you discover a way for us to get down there, we can reach the other part of the cellar with – ah, how shall we put it – the quick installation of a new door?"

Quinlan glanced at Master Tholme's bed, where they'd hidden the lightsabers, and grinned. "Yeah. I got pretty good at installing doors."

"I know," Tholme said, with a wry look. "There are several walls in the Temple maze challenge that can attest to that."

"Well, Master Yoda said to get through as fast as I could, so I did," Quinlan defended himself cheerfully. "I'll go see what I can find out, Master."

"Remember," Tholme said. "You have a role to play as a slave. Try to keep to that cover."

"Right . . ." Quinlan nodded slowly, thinking. "Hey, can I tell the other slaves you're really difficult? So they won't try to interfere too much with anything I'm doing?"

"Well, I am difficult," Tholme said, with a brief flash of amusement. "And yes, that would probably help you gain some freedom of movement."

"Okay," said Quinlan, pouring some wine into the glass. "And I will be so nervous and worried about coming back to you with the wrong things that the other slaves will let me get it on my own. I hope."

"A good plan." Tholme tilted his head at the wine. "What do you think you are you doing with that?"

"I'm tasting it." Quinlan took a sip and made a face. "Because you're kind of paranoid, and you always make me test everything in case it's poisoned."

". . . I see." Tholme leaned forward and held out a hand. "Let me have that, young one."

"I could splash it all over my tunic," Quinlan suggested, giving him the glass. "And say you threw it at me because you didn't like the taste."

"No," his master said, then took a sip of his own. "I am a guest, and would not risk ruining the quarters we have been granted. Not only that, but I am a businessman, and therefore I understand the value of good wine. And this wine, young one, is excellent."

"Oh." Quinlan frowned, slightly disappointed. "It tastes weird to me."

"I'm sure it does." Tholme set the glass on the table and leaned back, crossing his legs. "But now that we have established that I would not throw wine at you, you will have to think of something else."

Quinlan promptly poured a little wine on the wrist of his left sleeve. "There," he said, replacing the lid on the flask. "I was clumsy while pouring it, and so you shouted at me for wasting good wine and then you decided to send me out to get dinner before I could destroy anything else and –"

"Quinlan?" Tholme interrupted.

"Yeah?"

"Don't get too elaborate. Off you go, now."

"Oh, all right. . ." Halfway to the door, Quinlan grinned cheekily and said, "Hey, are you sure you don't want to shout at least a few things at me? I could repeat them to the horrified slaves who I'm sure have never heard worse in their lives. . ."

When his master picked up the wine glass and pretended he was about to throw it, Quinlan snickered and ran for the door.

Quinlan entered the servants' quarters again, closed the door carefully behind him, and slipped up to the pantry door. A teenage girl was filling a basket with tubers from a large sack, but the older woman was nowhere in sight.

"I was told to come here," he said, but before he could explain further, the girl turned around and thrust the filled basket into his hands.

"Oh, good. Take this to the main kitchen," she ordered, wiping her face with her sleeve. "And hurry."

"But I – don't know the way," he began. "And –"

With an irritated huff, she snatched up a couple of small sacks and jerked her head towards the door. "Follow me, boy."

Boy? She was only a couple years older than he was. Quinlan rolled his eyes, but followed anyway. They traveled down a wide, shallow flight of steps to a large kitchen, where several Twi'leks and a human woman were working to prepare a meal. Quinlan set the basket on the nearest table, then glanced at the girl, who left briskly. She seemed to have forgotten about his existence. Maybe he should say something. Maybe he should just stand here until someone was free to talk –

Suddenly, the human woman was beside him, hand closing tightly on his shoulder as she pushed him back. "Don't you have anything to do but stand around and get in the way?" she demanded.

"I was going to get –" Quinlan paused as she left the kitchen with a platter. "Um, never mind."

A maid rushed past. The padawan stepped backward to avoid her and bumped into another one, who snapped in Twi'leki at him and hoisted a pot off the stove. As he turned away, one of the older women jerked a pan out of the oven and swung around, forcing Quinlan to duck or be hit with her elbow.

Then another blue Twi'lek caught his arm and pulled him aside with a jerk, handing him a covered platter. "Get this up to the dining hall," a sharp feminine voice said. He opened his mouth to ask the way, and she slapped his ear. "Move it!"

Quinlan moved it, but only until he had left the kitchen. Then he paused to rub peevishly at his ear. A room full of women who were busy cooking – danger zone. Noted.

And he'd been told to get the platter to the dining hall. Okay . . . the dining hall wouldn't be in the servants' quarters, right? Maybe? He reached the wooden door, which was propped open now, and peeked down the hall that ran past the guest quarters. Oh well, he could always say he was lost.

As it turned out, he didn't need to. He'd only just turned the corner at the end of the hall when a green Twi'lek woman appeared from a door to his left, snatched the platter from him, and vanished back inside.

So – that was the dining room? Quinlan hesitated, then poked his nose through the doorway. There were three places set at the polished table. One of the places had small dishes, and a spoon placed next to the plate. Maybe Lon had a family or something.

The woman returned, caught sight of him, and shoved him out into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind them. "Are you trying to earn yourself a beating?" she hissed.

"No –"

"If Master Secura catches you spying –"

"I wasn't spying," the padawan protested. "Just looking!"

"He calls that spying, you fool." She released his arm with a shove. "I should report you to the chief of staff. You don't even belong here!"

"I know that," Quinlan said, following her. "My master sent me to get dinner, and one of the cooks needed me to bring that platter to the dining hall."

She sniffed, but at least she seemed less angry now. When they reached the kitchen, she pointed to a wall. "Stand there. I'll make up a tray for your master. Did he ask for anything specific?"

"Well, um," Quinlan stammered. "No, but – he's really particular about who gets things for him. I can take care of it."

"Not in my kitchen, you can't."

"Your kitchen?" Quinlan blinked, distracted. "But aren't you –?"

"I am a paid servant," she said, lifting her chin as though disgusted at the idea she could possibly be mistaken for a slave. "I have served the Secura family for twenty years."

"Oh," the padawan said, watching as she set out a couple of small plates. "Did you earn your freedom?"

Shaking her head, she dished up some sort of meatballs. "I never lost it. The Securas never owned slaves. Well – until recently, that is," she amended with a shrug. The idea didn't seem to upset her at all. She turned to hand him the tray. "Here. Off you go."

The padawan hesitated, glancing around the kitchen to see if there was any other excuse he could use for staying nearby. Wait – maybe he could slip back into the room he'd gone in earlier . . .

"Well?" The woman made a shooing motion at him with her towel. "Get that to your master before it gets cold!"

"I have to bring back more wine for him," he blurted out.

"Well, I don't have the cellar keys," she replied, already busy with another pot of food. "So there's no point in your staying here."

"But I have to get it," Quinlan insisted, fidgeting nervously with the edge of the metal tray. "Who should I ask?"

She huffed, then relented, stepping past him out the door. "Down the hall to the end," she said. "Stairs to the cellar are on the left. My husband's the chief of staff, he's around that area somewhere. Ask him. Now, out with you!"

Quinlan left the room in a rush. Balancing the tray carefully, he hurried to the end of the hall, trying to appear purposeful and in a rush. When he reached the wide stone steps leading down, he looked around. Finding the chief of staff on his own could take a while, so he reached out through the Force, trying to discover other life forms.

There was one directly below – already in the cellar. Quinlan was halfway down the steps when the tugging from earlier returned, only to vanish an instant later. This time, he did look over his shoulder; once again, though, nobody was there.

That is so weird . . .

Stepping into the cool, dry air of the cellar, he cleared his throat..

"Who's there?" An orange male approached from around a wine rack, a datapad and stylus in hand. "Well? What do you want?"

"My master wants some wine," Quinlan replied. "And one of the cooks said you'd be around here."

Without speaking, the Twi'lek hoisted a keg onto his shoulder and started up the stairs. "Grab the small one," he directed. "No – bring that tray first, then get the keg to the kitchens."

"Yes, sir." Quinlan scrambled to obey.

As soon as he reached the guest quarters, he knocked once, then slipped inside and set the tray on the table beside Tholme. "Apologies for my tardiness, Master," he said hurriedly, grinning a little when his master looked up in surprise. "I'll be back as soon as I fetch your wine."

Ducking out through the half-open door, Quinlan closed it hastily behind him, then ran back to the cellar. Nobody else was around. Good. He only had a few seconds to look around, though, so he headed straight for the opposite side of the room, skirting around wine racks and barrels until he reached a wall – which did not match the stone walls around him at all. It had been made out of some kind of plaster, and there were streaked marks around the edges from whatever had been used to seal the crevices between walls, or between the wall and ceiling.

"I think I found it," he said to nobody. He was turning away when an idea struck him and he reached out, brushing the fingers of one hand against the cool surface. There was no immediate impression, so he put his hand flat against it and closed his eyes.

He felt . . . several impressions from several people. Boredom. Irritation. Slow, lasting exhaustion. A crawling sort of fear. And then, from someone else, he felt a flicker of fear that vanished almost immediately and was replaced with disgust. Curious, Quinlan reached deeper into the impression, and saw an image of a huge, bloated spider crawling slowly out of a hole in the floor.

Jerking his hand away, the padawan ran back through the room, hoisted the keg in both arms, and scurried up the stairs. He didn't stop until he reached the kitchen.

The chief of staff only glanced up from where he was transferring wine into jugs and said, "Put it in that corner. Fine. All right, here you go." He handed him a small pitcher.

"My thanks," Quinlan said, keeping his eyes lowered. Then, without waiting for a response, he hurried back to the quarters he shared with Master Tholme.

When he entered, Tholme was already standing, facing the door. "What happened, Quinlan?"

"Nothing." The padawan set down the jug and folded his arms, hunching his shoulders against the creepy-crawly feeling he still had from seeing that spider. "Nothing bad, I mean. But, Master? I can definitely assure you that the entrance to the mine is in the cellar."

Late that evening, Tholme seated himself in front of the fire, hands resting on his knees, and closed his eyes as he reached into the depths of the Force. Filaments of emotion and intent and purpose touched his mind and drifted off, the usual everyday occurrences and feelings of people well-settled into their routines and lifestyles. Tholme dismissed them all and let his mind drift. He was searching for brighter, clearer, more deliberate threads, not those existing out of habit or mild emotions. Strands that could be traced back to their sources . . .

There were many of those in the city, but only three in the manor. He thought one of them was Lon Secura; he recognized the Force-signature. Another, he was completely unfamiliar with, though it seemed to echo Lon's in many ways. Perhaps Pol Secura had returned. And the third, the brightest of all and very familiar indeed, had no intent. Only excitement.

Opening his eyes to gaze at the fire, Tholme said, "I thought I told you to meditate."

"I am, Master!"

In the fire, a long, hard piece of wood – or perhaps dry cactus – split in a shower of sparks. Without turning around, Tholme said, "Tell me, are performing handstands part of meditation?"

"Well, I –" Thud. "Ow."

The Jedi waited. There was a scrambling sound, and then Quinlan said, "You told me moving meditation was sometimes better than – well, just normal meditation like you're doing."

"I did." Tholme got up. "But practicing handstands was not what I had in mind. Did you gain anything from your meditations?"

"Not – specifically," Quinlan said, looking a little guilty. "Hey, Master, are we always supposed to gain amazing insights from meditation?"

"Definitely not," Tholme said. "Where do you get these ideas, young one?"

"Well, you always ask me if I gained anything."

Tholme realized he might need to be more specific in the future. "When I ask that, I am referring to your state of mind. Have you gained calm or peace, or have you been able to reflect on your shortcomings and how to improve them?"

"Oh." His padawan thought. "Nope, not tonight. I keep wondering if Pol Secura's going to ask you to work for him and what we're going to do and what that strange feeling was – things like that."

"I see." Tholme took off his robe and folded it neatly. "It can be hard to focus when there are many questions to be answered – but I don't think they will be answered tonight, at least not by you, young one. It is well past time you were asleep."

Quinlan hunched his shoulders slightly and sighed. The Jedi master was well aware at this point of his padawan's dislike of being kept away from the action, but he was also well aware, as Quinlan seemed not to be, that people – especially excited younglings – needed rest.

Moving a bit slowly, Quinlan went to clean his teeth. As usual, though, his visible disappointment didn't last long. When he came out of the refresher, he tossed his outer tunic onto the nearest chair and said, "Well, good night, Master! Hopefully, we don't miss too much of the action."

"Don't worry about that," Tholme told him. "We are not actively investigating at the moment, so I doubt there will be trouble – or 'action', as you put it."

"Oh. Okay." The padawan, who had just finished pulling the blanket off his bed, wrapped it around his shoulders and dove into bed. Then he popped up again to add, "But if there is, will you wake me?"

"That depends." Tholme glanced up from where he was unlacing his boots. "Are you interested in listening to me discuss business deals with Pol Secura? Because if anything does happen tonight, it will most likely be that."

With a defeated sigh, the Kiffar slumped back to the pillow.

Tholme smirked, then got up to turn off the lights. "Good night, Quinlan."