When the door to the lodging house had closed behind them, and they were joining the heavy flow of foot traffic in the street, Qui-Gon glanced at his friend. "I hope it wasn't a mistake to bring her here. This is a dangerous and disturbing mission for one so young."
"She's a resilient girl. But I'm just as glad to see her being cautious: it's not one of her usual traits." He scanned the street ahead of them. "I asked her to stay behind at the Temple, but she wouldn't hear of it."
"I know." Qui-Gon said sharply. If he had only denied Obi-Wan's demand to accompany him to Telos... Tomas touched his shoulder in sympathy.
The market filled their senses with its exuberance. Tents and native clothing made bright splashes of color against the reddish dirt and pale permacrete buildings all around. Dark, plain spacer garb stood out as drab here. The air was full of the scents and sounds of commerce. The living Force of a thousand sentients bargaining, betting, looking for profit pulsed in their minds with a richness at once intoxicating and nauseating.
In silent agreement the two men walked slowly through the crowd, listening. The talk they overheard was mostly of bargains and sales, but many people also discussed the contests and races they had seen or had stakes in.
A silvery-skinned native to his fellow, wearing a tunic of bright orange: "Tsaiden Mir, I had money on her -"
"So you were one of the fools that fell for her!"
"That cat lost me my speeder! Would I had a shot at her -"
A human in native tunic and sandals to his offworlder companion: "Did you see Red Demon go down? He never stood a chance!"
"That's not what the commentators were saying. They've got odds against that boy for the next fight."
"They don't know anything about Sha-Zayet," said the first man scornfully. "I competed for ten years in the desert: I know."
Tomas and Qui-Gon stopped by a bright green and gold tent, unobtrusively listening.
"He was holding back. He's trained by Sitaris, you can see it in his moves."
"Why would he be holding back?"
"For advantage against later players. Sitaris is a cagey one."
"You almost make me regret my bet for Mean Streak."
"Oh, you'll lose that one, certain!"
The offworlder snorted. "Until this evening, comrade."
The native raised one arm in farewell.
"Excuse me," said Qui-Gon diffidently, stepping into the man's path. "I couldn't help but hear you speaking about a trainer..."
"Sitaris?"
"Yes. I'm looking for a trainer. Is he good? Who is he?"
"Ex-bonder: he was Sha-Zayet champion in the palace, not six years ago. Held the title a long while, until a Venderti took it from him and he was retired and freed."
"And now?"
"Now he's a trainer, and yes, he's said to be the best."
"Where could I find him?"
"Look him up in the directory. I hear he's in town." The man stepped around Qui-Gon, moving on.
"Thank you," Qui-Gon called after him. He turned to Tomas when the man had left them.
"Seen any directory kiosks?" he asked in a low voice.
"No, but I'm sure we can find something through the drop back at the lodging house."
Qui-Gon nodded. The sun was sinking rapidly; soon the second match with Obi-Wan would begin. His instincts warned him to step carefully here: the Force spoke to him of traps and plots and misdirection: but also he could feel time slipping away from him. He would follow his feelings, would be patient, but still the need for caution frustrated him. The path to success on this mission was narrow indeed.
Tomas stepped away from him, his attention caught by an approaching disturbance. Qui-Gon craned his neck to see two men with the skin and features of Mozelle chasing - what? An escaped animal? Something small - a boy of ten or twelve wearing a dull metallic collar burst out from under a table laden with crockery, spilling pots and bowls into the street. Qui-Gon stepped instinctively toward him: his bare back and legs were bright with blood. But the Mozelle owner of the clayware tent was there first, and stepped directly into the boy's path, catching him in both great arms. The boy struggled only a moment before going limp in the man's embrace. His head hung low, his breathing heavy. The stall owner seemed almost to be cradling him: though he clearly wasn't allowing the boy to get away, he was restraining him gently. The two men who had been chasing the boy pulled up short in front of the stall owner. They were dressed identically in loose tunics and trousers of dark green, and carried battered-looking blasters at their belts.
"You're the potter who owns this stall?" asked the taller of the two men, indicating the smashed pots littering the ground.
"I am. Will the owner of this runaway be compensating me for the damage to my wares, peacekeepers?"
A third being - a burly Whiphid spacer wearing black - pushed through the gathered crowd as the potter was speaking, trailing a long metal whip behind him, looking angrily at the boy. His look of anger was quickly replaced by one of panic as he caught the potter's words. He dropped the whip, turned, and tried to dive back through the crowd, to no avail: his tunic was caught in the steady grip of the shorter of the two peacekeepers.
"This is the third complaint against you today, offworlder: first for abusing instead of disciplining your bonder, second for losing control of him in the marketplace, and third for allowing the bonder to cause damage to local property. What have you to say for yourself?"
"Hand him over and I'll make certain he never causes no more trouble," the Whiphid growled. The boy whimpered.
"The first two offenses carry a penalty fine. The third requires a fine and remuneration for the damaged property. All three together mean confiscation of your bonder to the authority of Vot-Zeder-Shay. Therefore we will be taking you both into custody."
"What? You can't-"
"You will have a chance to plead your case before the tribe elders."
"The bonder needs attention," said the potter.
The taller of the two peacekeepers pulled a medical kit from the pouch at his side. The potter held the boy, now looking dull-eyed and faint, so that the wounds on his back could be tended.
"Bondswoman!" he called in a booming voice. "Bring water!"
A young human woman, barefoot, wearing a wrap of bright orange and a brassy collar, ran into the tent from where she had been cleaning the spilled crockery, and came out only a moment later with a waterbag. She stood before the potter, eyes downcast; when the peacekeeper was done with cleaning and dressing the cuts on the boy's back, she wordlessly put the waterbag into his hands. With the potter's help, the peacekeeper was able to get some fluids into the boy.
Meanwhile the Whiphid was still hollering protests at the short peacekeeper, who had clapped binders on the man's wrists, with the help of a tall Mozelle woman from the crowd. "Be silent! he snapped at the outraged spacer. "You disgrace the honor and duty of ownership! Be silent and try to find some wisdom! Or perhaps the gods plan to deliver your people into bondage, as they did the Lansarites?" The Whiphid sputtered but seemed unable to reply. The crowd parted to make way for the strange procession: two peacekeepers, one pushing a growling Whiphid before him, the other carrying the limp and barely conscious young boy. Some in the crowd, all natives, made strange warding signs as the Whiphid passed by. A few silent moments passed; then, with a shudder and a collective sigh, the crowd broke up, its members moving about their business and chewing over the event with their neighbors with all the gleeful intensity of Favers chewing on gumbelstick.
The barefoot woman was once more bent at cleaning the ruin of her owner's wares; another woman, this one Mozelle in a plainly cut flowered green dress and sandals, was helping the potter with the same task.
"A waste of a good week of work, and a sellday as well: you'll need to go to the elders to get remuneration."
"And I may come back with a new bond boy for my trouble," the potter rumbled placidly. "I don't believe that offworlder will have funds to cover all the damage, and the elders will need to find a new owner for the boy."
"A damaged bonder. A runaway."
"He was calm enough once I caught him."
The voices faded as the couple disappeared into their tent. The area was nearly empty of bystanders now; Qui-Gon nodded to Tomas, and the two matched their stride, aiming for the lodging house.
"I was just about to contact you: Tahl's gotten in to Starways. She's collecting files now."
"I'm done collecting files, and out already. I didn't want to stay long enough to be traced."
"What did you find?" asked Qui-Gon, crossing the room. Tomas stayed by the door with his Padawan, speaking with her in soft undertones.
"Haven't had a chance to sort through it yet. I pulled plans for the building, anything I could find on security, and a current guest list."
"Guest list?" Tomas joined them, Ki-Erin at his side.
"Xanatos isn't listed by name, but I'm hoping if I scan it... Hold on..." Tahl's scrolled back through the data with one thumb, her fingers not moving from the tactile readout. "Mazala Lidocha... now where have I heard that name before?"
"I don't recognize it." Qui-Gon looked to Tomas, who shrugged.
"I'm sure I've read or heard it recently..." She sighed. "I don't recognize any of these other names. Either Xanatos isn't listed or he's been too cunning for me. Let me give you the dump of these diagrams - I certainly can't use them."
Qui-Gon pulled out his datapad and connected with Tahl's station. He set the visual to read out on the apartment's wall display. Scanning through the files, he saw there were drawings of the physical layout, as well as diagrams of the power grid, air system, security system...
"This is good, Tahl," said Tomas from the seating unit, where he had settled himself to study the flat display as Qui-Gon paged through it. He returned to the physical plans, deciding to begin with plans for the arena where Obi-Wan was scheduled to compete.
"The next match starts in five minutes," Tahl informed them. Ki-Erin upped the volume slightly on the holoreceiver so they could listen while they worked.
Soon, Obi-Wan, thought Qui-Gon. Hold on just a little longer.
*****
The south public entrance to the arena glowed; its garish lights in blue and red drowning out the stars. Qui-Gon stood in the shadows, observing the guards as they checked in passholders: rowdy riff-raff for the most part, some of them staggering or dreamy-eyed with the effects of narcotics or alcohol. Around the corner, behind the landscaping, stood a less obvious entrance, at a lower level than the public entrances: one which was frequented only by natives, most of them Mozelle, all with the arrogant bearing of warriors. Trainers, perhaps? Was Sitaris among them? He had used the directory, back at the lodging house, to try to contact the man, without success: he wasn't in his quarters, or wasn't answering.
Qui-Gon had escorted Tahl to the starship as a safer point of communication than the lodging house; Tomas and Ki-Erin had come here directly. He could feel Tomas nearby: watchful, ready. He pulled his hood forward to hide his face. Time to go in. He sensed Tomas' affirmation.
The tall Jedi joined the queue behind a group of tall cloaked Qi'zar'di, shuffling along to blend in with the crowd, hands tucked discreetly within the sleeves of his robe. The guards at the door barely looked at him as they checked his passcard and took the extra currency units for admission.
Within the entrance, a wide hall formed an outer ring around the arena proper. The hall was full of vendors and milling people, guards, and arena attendants wearing flashy unisuits of bright red and gold. Each inner wall section between doors to the seating area held a large screen showing a scene of the arena floor below, currently empty: the voice of a commentator echoed above the hum of the jostling crowd. Qui-Gon made a circuit of the vendors' hall, making note of the positions of the three public entrances at three points of the compass. A fourth entrance, heavily guarded, led into the guest halls of the Palace proper: a steady stream of elegantly dressed people crossed into the arena along a carpeted path cordoned off from the rest of the vendors' hall and lined with guards at attention. The crowd from the public entrances stood watching them pass.
Sensing an undercurrent of danger in the Force, Qui-Gon moved to the outside of the hall, blending in with a large group of offworlders who stood there, talking about their wagers. Then he felt it, unmistakable: the dark presence of Xanatos, coming toward him from inside the Palace. He stilled his own presence in the Force, and stepped further into the shadows to watch him enter.
He was dressed in a flowing sable cloak over a suit of deep plum violet and black. A woman held his arm, looking up into his face as he spoke, charmed. By more than just his good looks, Qui-Gon sensed. The Dark Force churned around the couple: he held her thoughts with compulsion. The woman shook her head and laughed, setting her dark curls swinging. They passed through the inner doors to the arena. Qui-Gon expelled his breath with a soft sigh. He'd have to find out who that woman was. Later.
His chosen entrance to the Palace was behind him, mostly hidden by a vendor's stand: an air vent. Once the game began and attention was focused on the vidscreens, Tahl would cause a power interrupt in the security systems using the access codes she'd stolen. He would have only a few minutes to enter the vent here; Tomas and his Padawan would be attempting entry through a service door beneath the seating in the arena.
A short fanfare announced the start of the next game. Qui-Gon sidled behind the vendor's stall beside him, keeping to the shadows. Throughout the vendors' hall the last stragglers were making their way toward the clogged arena entrances; even the vendors had half their attention on the vids before them, watching the entry of the two contestants. Qui-Gon refused to glance at the screens himself: he was determined to keep his full attention on his mission.
In his pocket his comlink vibrated to signal incoming communication. Qui-Gon pulled it out, and, keeping the silencer engaged, activated it.
"Qui-Gon here."
"Ready?"
"Ready, Tahl"
"Ten seconds from my mark... now."
Qui-Gon counted the seconds in his head as he tucked his comlink back in his tunic, observing the crowd around him, stirring up a small ripple in the Force to direct attention away from him. When ten seconds had passed, he reached for the fasteners on the vent cover. Tahl should have deactivated the locks on the vent grills when she deactivated their security sensors - a quick flip of each of the fasteners, and he levered the cover out just enough to squeeze inside, pulling it closed behind him. Thank you, Tahl.
Air flowed around him into the vent; he could hear the hum of the intake fans somewhere beyond his position. He stretched out in the horizontal shaft, just out of sight of the vent grill and anyone who might be standing beyond it. There was just room enough in the shaft itself for him to pull himself along, not enough to actually crawl. At least I haven't far to go, he told himself. He pulled himself past a junction with a vertical shaft, and twisted sideways so he could lower himself into it, only to find his robe was caught on a loose rivet. Blast. He wriggled back up, squeezing his arm into the space under him to free the cloth. Thank the Force Tahl can't see me now, he thought sheepishly. She had argued against his taking this route, pointing out that they'd have difficulty removing his bulky body from a ventilation shaft if he got stuck. The conversation replayed in his mind as he pushed himself one slow centimeter at a time around the corner into the vertical shaft. He was acquiring some bruises on his chest for the effort.
"According to these dimensions there's room for me, Tahl."
"And are you planning to cut your clothes off when you get stuck turning those corners?"
He sighed, exasperated. Tomas didn't help his mood when he burst out laughing.
"I'll be fine."
"If you think it's going to be easy, you must have a nerf-brain to go with that nerf-sized body."
Even Ki-Erin couldn't help grinning at that one. Tahl still hated being left behind on these missions, and as usual her irritation translated into biting humor. Then again, maybe she was right, he thought as he found himself wedged halfway.