The next morning, Quinlan woke up to hear someone knocking on their door. He sat up abruptly, blinking against the sunlight that streamed in through the open shutters as Master Tholme crossed the room to the door. He unlocked it, opening it just a crack, and Quinlan heard a quiet murmur.
"In half an hour?" Tholme said. "Of course. Tell him I will be there."
He shut the door.
"Master?" Quinlan asked, sitting up.
"Pol Secura has requested that I join him for breakfast," Tholme said. "Oh – and we can speak freely, I checked the rooms again this morning."
"Good!" The padawan stretched and got out of bed. "So . . . are you actually going to betray our contact?"
"Of course not," Tholme said, disapprovingly. "I would never do that – unless he agreed to it, that is. But I do intend to come up with an excuse for us to remain here a bit longer. I have been coordinating with our contact and his people in case we decide to go through with a raid."
Quinlan, who was hopping on one foot as he put his left boot on, nearly fell over in surprise. "You're planning a raid?" he gasped.
"Well, not necessarily. Sabotage might be better in this case. But either way, the goal for this morning is to arrange a meeting with our contact – supposedly to gain information for the Securas, but really to discuss with him whether he believes a trap to be a good idea."
Quinlan thought about that while he was fastening his tunic, then shook his head, perplexed. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to think like a Shadow, Master. . . Everything is so convoluted."
"Not always." Tholme hefted the two lightsabers, then lay on the floor to hide them under the bureau, against the wall. Getting up, he checked his clothes for dust. "Every so often, we get simple missions. In fact, one time I was sent to capture a criminal who had already been tracked down. It was strangely simple. A four hour flight there, and another four hours back, but the actual capture took less than three minutes."
"Wow. Maybe I'd prefer the complicated ones after all." Quinlan bounced on his toes near the door, ready to go – but it was another ten minutes before Tholme joined him.
His master did not seem to be in a hurry at all. He carefully shaved, tied his grey hair back, adjusted his clothes until they were perfect, tied a small moneybag to his belt, rubbed lotion into his calloused hands, cleaned his nails, and generally made himself look like a snobbish businessman with too much time on his hands.
At last, Tholme turned to look at him. "Well? How do I look?"
Quinlan grinned. "Like a snobbish businessman with too much time on your hands."
"Excellent, that is what I intended to look like." Tholme narrowed his eyes in pretended annoyance at Quinlan's amusement. "This is one of the personas I adopt the most, along with that of a smuggler. Now stop laughing, or as soon as you are old enough, I will make you be the one to disguise as the arrogant, self-absorbed and shallow-minded merchant."
Quinlan straightened out his expression in a hurry.
Ten minutes later, they were shown into the dining room by the chief of staff. As Quinlan stood against the wall, Pol Secura, who had been sitting at the polished table, stood up and approached to greet Tholme. He looked very similar to Lon, but it was the differences between them that drew Quinlan's attention. Pol's expression was a little harder, his eyes much sharper, and he looked more closely at his guest than Lon had.
"I assume Lon summarized our conversation for you," Tholme said.
"He did." The blue Twi'lek turned to look at Quinlan, who ducked his head quickly and stared at the floor. He'd almost forgotten about not meeting people's eyes. . .
"One thing before we begin, if I may." Pol gestured Tholme to the table. "Is it necessary that your slave stay here?"
"Of course not." Master Tholme turned to Quinlan. "Get back to our quarters."
"Yes, Master." The padawan bowed and hurried out, shutting the door quietly behind him. For once, he had no complaints about being sent away from part of the mission. He'd rather study than listen to the long conversation that would be taking place.
He unlocked the door to the guest quarters and wandered over to the satchel to select a ration bar. There were two flavors left – fig, and goldfruit. Both were equally unappetizing, so he reached in and grabbed one without looking.
Okay, guess it's goldfruit today. He took a bite, then picked up his datapad and sat on the edge of his bed to check for new assignments. Hmm . . . it looked like Master Rancisis wanted a three-page essay on the top three differences in societies ruled by historical monarchies as opposed to oligarchies. Quinlan was just making a face at the assignment, which the Thisspiasian master had given his students one week to complete, when his ears caught the faintest brush of what sounded like fabric against wood.
Setting down the ration bar, Quinlan listened carefully. There it was again – coming from underneath Master Tholme's bed. Tossing the datapad on the bed, Quinlan stood up and reached out in the Force. He couldn't find anything. . . That was weird. Even if it was a small animal, he should have been able to sense it. Maybe it was a cleaning droid? But he'd locked the door behind him after entering.
As he considered, he suddenly remembered the huge spider he'd seen in the vision. Maybe it was one of those . . . but no, because he'd sense that, too. Right?
I hope it's not a spider, he thought fervently. But they'd be too big to fit under the bed . . . I think.
Quinlan took a deep breath. Keeping one hand ready to summon his lightsaber from under the bureau, if need be, he knelt and peered across the room. He wasn't quick enough, though; he only just managed to catch a glimpse of movement as whatever it was slid to the back wall, out of sight thanks to the blanket hanging over the edge.
The padawan crossed the room in three steps and jumped onto the end of Master Tholme's bed, then lay flat and scooted forward. Grabbing the blanket, he yanked it up and hung over the edge of the bed to look beneath it. A pair of wide eyes met his, and the tiny, blue-green Twi'lek girl who lay curled up beneath the bed blinked twice.
Quinlan couldn't decide whether to be relieved or outraged. "Come out of there right now!" he exclaimed. "What do you think you are doing?"
She scooted back against the wall with a gasp, and Quinlan promptly felt awful. "Hey," he said, in a quieter voice. "Sorry – I didn't mean to scare you. Can you come out?"
Her eyes flashed, and she shook her head vehemently. Quinlan realized, with some confusion, that she hadn't been scared, she'd been startled. And now it looked like she was angry at him. . . Great. He had to get her out of here before someone came looking for her, but she was looking very stubborn at the moment. Fortunately, he had some experience with younglings.
Getting off the bed, Quinlan lay flat on his stomach to peer at her. She was tiny and looked delicate – like many Twi'lek children, she was probably smaller than human children of her age.
"Won't you come out?" he tried again.
She shook her head vehemently.
"Okay. Well, can I come in there?"
She narrowed her eyes and shook her head harder.
"Well, I guess we'll just have to both stay where we are, then." Quinlan rested his chin on his arms and looked at her. "What's your name? How'd you get in here?"
The look she gave him implied that he was absolutely stupid, and the padawan couldn't hold back his laugh.
At that, the Twi'lek girl tilted her head, eyes lighting with amusement, and pointed at the doorway.
"Oh, you came through the door!" he said, in pretended surprise. "I thought you'd come through the window or been in the closet or something. Hmm . . . are you hiding from someone?"
She nodded, a mischievous flicker of a smile lighting her whole face. Then she shifted to mimic his position, lying flat on her stomach with her chin on crossed forearms as she stared at him. There was something very strange about the girl – Quinlan could feel her in the Force now, but not very well. And she kept looking at him curiously, like she knew something about him.
"Can you tell me how old you are?" he asked next.
She held up four fingers, then tilted her head and pointed at him.
"Me? I'm fourteen. Hey, isn't that neat? I'm exactly ten years older than you!"
The little girl did not look impressed.
Quinlan was pretty sure he'd never dealt with quite so difficult a youngling. She wouldn't come out, and he was running out of topics to try and get her to talk. "I guess we're back to names. . .?" he suggested.
When the little girl didn't answer, he said, "My name's Quinlan."
She nodded once, somehow giving the impression that his name was old news to her, then bit her lip and looked down. He could practically see her considering whether or not to answer. He didn't want to leave her alone in the room, but it was starting to look like she wouldn't come out unless he wasn't watching her.
Quinlan shifted to pillow his head on his arms. "If you stay under there much longer, I might fall asleep," he warned, letting his eyes slide shut. "In fact . . . oh no . . . I'm getting so tired. . ."
He relaxed and started breathing deeply. There was a very suspicious silence, but Quinlan kept his eyes closed and didn't react when he felt her slowly crawling closer. It took about a minute for her to get to the edge of the bed, and another half minute for her to inch out next to him.
Eventually, a tiny finger prodded his hair, then his forehead. Keeping his eyes shut, Quinlan shifted to cover the right side of his face. There was a pause before the little girl moved again, creeping around to his left.
This time, when she touched his tattoo, Quinlan opened his eyes to see her face mere centimeters from his. She let out a squeak of surprise and sat down hard.
Grinning, Quinlan reached out and poked her nose. Her thin eyebrows furrowed in irritation, and she slapped his hand away with all the strength of a baby tooka.
"Wow," Quinlan said. "You're a feisty little thing, aren't you?"
"No," she said clearly, and crossed her arms.
The padawan sighed and rolled onto his back to gaze resignedly at the ceiling. It probably shouldn't surprise him that the very first word out of her mouth was 'no'.
"Are you generally this difficult?" he asked.
"No."
"Are you supposed to be in here?"
"No." This answer sounded quite satisfied.
"Are you going to tell me your name?"
"No."
Quinlan thought for a moment. "Are you going to leave the room?"
"No."
"Are you going to stay in the room?"
"N –" She caught herself too late, then sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat. "Yes."
Finally, another word! Quinlan sat up. "Okay. Well, in that case, can you tell me your name?"
She nodded and sat facing him, playing with one of the stubby lekku that hung just past her collarbone. "I'm Aayla."
"Oh – that's a really pretty name. What are you doing in here, Aayla?"
"Hiding," she said.
"From what? I mean, who?"
"From Ryll." She leaned back, hands braced on the floor. "I don't want to sit in the kitchen anymore."
"Why do you have to sit in the kitchen?"
"Because she's s'pposed to watch me." Aayla shrugged one shoulder. "And she has to work in the kitchen."
"Oh." Quinlan wondered who Ryll was. "Hm. That doesn't sound like much fun, but don't you think you should go back? She's going to worry."
She scoffed and rolled her eyes. "No, she isn't."
"How do you know?"
"Because I always run away." Aayla lifted one foot and tilted her shoe back and forth, admiring the red embroidery on top. "And then she sends someone to look for me."
"Uhh . . ." Quinlan was really beginning to feel out of his depth. "Is Ryll your – aunt?"
"No. Nobody's my aunt. I only have uncles."
Quinlan remembered the small dishes he'd seen at the dinner table the night before, and what Tholme had said about Hirana and her daughter, whose whereabouts had been unknown for years. "Wait . . . are Lon and Pol your uncles?"
"Uncle Lon and Uncle Pol," she corrected severely.
"Right, okay. They're your uncles?"
She nodded.
"Aayla," he said slowly. "Have you always lived here?"
"No. We're just visiting." Her small nose wrinkled in disapproval. "But we've been just visiting for a long time."
"Who's – we?" Quinlan asked. "I mean . . . you've been visiting, and who else?"
"Ryma."
When the padawan just stared at her, Aayla shifted, drawing her feet under her, and said, "My mother."
Quinlan tilted his head, wondering if he'd been wrong. "Hang on, your mother's name is Ryma?"
She lifted a finger to point at him. "Ryma means mother," she said, sounding much too lecturing for someone her age.
"Oh, I see! What do your uncles call her?"
"Hirana. That's her name." Aayla frowned. "I think she wants to go back."
"Go back where?"
"Back home." Aayla glanced over her shoulder, then leaned forward a little, lifted a hand to her mouth, and whispered, "But she keeps forgetting."
Quinlan got a chill down his spine. "She keeps forgetting where home is?"
The little girl nodded seriously. "Uncle Pol says she just wants to stay here, but she doesn't. She told me a long time ago. . . But now she doesn't remember."
"Does – does she remember you?"
"Not sometimes." Her eyes got glassy, and she blinked quickly and looked down, twisting her fingers in her lap.
As he'd done for other upset younglings, Quinlan reached through the Force to touch her mind reassuringly. Just as he realized maybe that wouldn't work with non-Jedi, Aayla looked up. All of a sudden, she wasn't shielded in the Force anymore, and the strange ache he'd felt in his chest came back, though it wasn't as strong as before.
"What – was that you?" he exclaimed. "Aayla, when I was in the market –? And in here? And in the cellar? Were you watching me or something?"
"Well . . . you're like me," she said, standing up uncertainly. "So I tried to call you."
"You called me . . ." Quinlan flopped onto his back in surprise. "That's why! And just now when you were trying to hide from me I couldn't feel you at all – you were shielding yourself! Aayla, do you know what that means? You're a Force-sensitive youngling!"
Her anger sparked in his mind just as she stamped her foot. "I am not!"
"Yes, you are, and it's a good thing!" Quinlan sat up again. "I'm Force-sensitive, and so is Master Tholme, and so are you!"
"What's Forsentive?" she asked suspiciously.
Quinlan grinned at her pronunciation. "Well, you said you tried to call me. How'd you do that?"
"With my head."
"Okay . . . that works, I guess. Like this?" He touched her mind, and she blinked in surprise. "That was the Force. You were using the Force to call me, Aayla. Oh – wait until Master Tholme hears this! We were afraid I was feeling a dark side artifact or something."
He laughed at the very idea, but sobered when he caught the concerned look on Aayla's face. "What is it?"
She hesitated, then said. "Master Tholme?"
"Yeah, he's the one who came here with me. You must have seen him talking to me in the marketplace?"
A silent nod was followed by a whisper. "But Master Tholme is scary."
Quinlan snorted. "Yeah, he kind of is, I guess . . . but he won't be once you get to know him, I promise. He's just habitually grim."
Aayla didn't look convinced.
"Maybe you can just stay here long enough to meet him," Quinlan suggested, then bit back a grin. "And if you get scared, you can hide under the bed again. And I'll hide with you. Then he'll have to wait for us to come out until he's not scary anymore, how's that?"
She smiled, still a bit hesitant, but at last she nodded and sat down beside him. Now that she wasn't instinctively shielding herself, he could feel an underlying, muted current of sadness and loneliness.
After a half-minute of silence, he tilted his head. "Hey – what's the matter, kiddo?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing at all? Not one, teeny, tiny thing?"
She sighed, glanced up at him, then hunched her shoulders. It only took a few seconds for her to reach a decision and say, "I don't think Ryma will remember. Uncle Pol said something went wrong. I heard him."
Uncle Pol is a monstrous liar, Quinlan carefully didn't say. Maybe something did go wrong . . . but I'll bet he caused it, accidentally or otherwise. "I met your uncles," he said, by way of a neutral response.
Aayla jumped up, stamped her foot fiercely, and spun to face him with her fists on her hips. "I don't like Uncle Pol!" she exclaimed, the words tumbling out of her mouth. "And I don't like Uncle Lon. They said Ryma was already sick when we came here, but she wasn't! They keep saying she'll get better, but she gets sicker! And they don't really want her to get better! The servants pretend they don't know about her, and no one lets me talk to her, and – and – and when I sneaked in today, she – she said – 'Who's Aayla?' –"
She tried to say something else, but instead burst into high-pitched, hiccupping tears and covered her face with both hands.
Quinlan's eyes burned. Leaning forward, he picked up Aayla. As soon as he set her on his lap, she twisted around to press her face into his tunic. He wanted to tell her it was okay – but it really wasn't, so he didn't. I hope Master Tholme gets back quickly, he thought. We have to do something to help.
He wasn't even sure what Tholme could do, except maybe find a way to talk to Hirana Secura. There were ways to help people remember. Though if she'd been given that new drug, whatever it was, maybe there was no way to help her. Squashing that thought aggressively, he glanced down at Aayla, who was still sobbing.
"Aw, Aayla . . ." Sighing, Quinlan hugged her. "I'm sorry."
She threw her arms around his neck, but it wasn't until a few moments later that she squeaked out an indistinguishable phrase.
"What'd you say?"
The little girl hiccupped, "Can you come see Ryma?"
"Oh – I don't know, kiddo. I want to. . . but I don't think the servants would let us."
"We c-can hide." She wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeve.
"Here . . ." Quinlan reached for Tholme's small disguise kit, which was in the satchel on his bed, and dug around until he found a clean handkerchief. "Here, use this. Do you hide a lot?"
She scrubbed the handkerchief ineffectively over her whole face. "Just when I run away or go see Ryma."
"Like you hid from me? How?"
She nodded, then frowned. "I just – want everybody not to notice me."
The Kiffar padawan took the handkerchief from her, folded it, and dabbed at her eyes to get all the tears she'd missed. "Okay," he said. "Well, how about I wait and see what Master Tholme thinks? He should be back soon."
After another sniffle or two, she nodded. "And then you can help –" Her big eyes got even bigger, and she sprang to her feet. "Uncle Pol's coming!" she whispered loudly, clasping her hands at her chest.
At almost the same moment, Quinlan felt the approach of his master. He and Pol were already in the hallway!
"Oh, stars," he groaned, hoisting Aayla into his arms. Rushing over to the armchair, he plopped her in it and twisted it around so she wouldn't be visible from the door. "Don't say anything, understand?"
She nodded, still wide-eyed.
He rushed across the room and snatched up his datapad, sitting down on the bed just as the door opened.
"I agree," Tholme said, stepping into the room. "And I will go into town to settle the details, rather than risk his tracing the call. Ah . . ." He glanced at Quinlan, then lowered his voice. "Might I ask your permission to leave my slave here, to simplify matters?"
"Of course, though I prefer he stays in these quarters."
"Naturally. I will return here within a few hours."
"Very well." But instead of leaving, Pol seemed almost to hesitate.
To Quinlan's horror, Tholme opened the door wider and said, "If there are further details to discuss, you may as well come in."
"Oh – no, I believe everything is settled. . ."
Even though Quinlan was looking at the floor, he felt Pol's gaze resting on him for a long moment. Then he heard a footstep, and Pol saying, "I will meet you at dinner, then."
"I should have information for you by that point." Tholme shut the door, then spun around and shook his head warningly.
Quinlan, who'd been on the verge of telling him about Aayla, shut his mouth with a snap. His master went to the armchair and looked down at Aayla, holding a finger to his lips. She nodded frantically.
"Quinlan, I'm going back to the inn for a while," Tholme said. "Give me my satchel."
"Yes, Master." Quinlan rushed to obey, then pointed to where the lightsabers had been hidden.
Tholme shook his head again, then said, "I am off on a matter of business, which means that you are to stay here. Do not leave these quarters."
"Yes, Master."
Aayla knelt up, peering over the back of the armchair at the closed door. A few seconds, later, she slid off the chair and scampered over to Quinlan. "He's gone," she whispered.
"Yes, he is." Tholme dropped to one knee. "And you, little one, came very close to being caught. You came here to find Quinlan?"
"Yes." She cast an uncertain look at Quinlan, then set her chin stubbornly. "He's like me. He said we're both Forsentive."
Tholme's mouth twitched. "Did he, now."
"Force sensitive," corrected Quinlan. "And Master, can't you tell?"
"Yes. . . I can tell." Master Tholme smiled at her, or tried to. The expression looked foreign on him.
Aayla ducked behind Quinlan, and the padawan whispered loudly, "Master, she thinks you're scary."
"Ah." Tholme sat back on his heels. "Perhaps I am. Quinlan, I have to leave in a few minutes, and Aayla cannot stay here."
She popped back into view, fingers wrapped tightly around the loose material of Quinlan's pants. "Why?"
"Because it wouldn't be safe," Tholme told her, then looked up at his padawan. "Pol Secura was asking questions about your psychometry."
Quinlan blinked. "What?! How'd he know?"
"He knows your race. He said he was only curious, since one in a hundred Kiffar have some level of psychometry . . . but I'm certain he knows it's a Force-ability."
"Did he guess?" Quinlan asked. "I mean, what you're doing here? Who we are?"
"No. In fact, he's not even slightly suspicious of either of us." Tholme's tone indicated scorn. "But he is suspicious of his niece."
The padawan reached down to take Aayla's hand. "But why? What could she do to him? She's four!"
Tholme studied Aayla. "He informed me, in a very casual manner, that I should keep the doors locked because his niece, young Aayla, is in a habit of hiding away in the guest quarters. He was lying."
"You mean, he knows she's Force-sensitive?" Quinlan tightened his grasp. "Pol's worried about her sneaking in here to find me, isn't he?"
"Yes. I told him, of course, that you were psychometric. Thus his sudden desire for you to stay here, where it's less likely for you to discover something he'd rather remain hidden. . . and less likely for his niece, he believes, to talk to you." Tholme reached towards Aayla. "You, little one, need to stay where you belong for now. You must go back to your caretaker."
"No!" Aayla scowled and backed away from the Jedi. Her eyes filled with tears, which made them look even bigger than they already were as she sent a pleading look at both of them. "I want to stay with Quinlan!"
"Not yet," Tholme said firmly. "Now come, Aayla."
She squeaked a protest and wrapped her arms around Quinlan's leg, but Master Tholme detached her easily and picked her up.
With a flash of violent frustration, Aayla pounded her little fists against his chest and squirmed and struggled to get away – then, abruptly, she lay down on his shoulder, exhausted. The look she gave Quinlan as Tholme carried her to the door was one of abject betrayal, which really wasn't fair.
"Master," the padawan said hesitantly. "Are you sure you can get her to the servants' quarters without Pol seeing you?"
"Yes. Don't worry." Tholme opened the door, glanced both ways, and stepped into the hall with Aayla gazing forlornly over one of his shoulders at Quinlan. "I might be gone for some time, Quinlan."
Then the door closed behind them, and the young Kiffar sighed. All of a sudden, he felt rather lonely.