Translation guide from Mando'a:
aliit = "clan"
aruetii = "traitor" or "foreigner"
beskar'gam = "armor" (don't worry I won't use this every time)
The Beskar'gam and the Bes'uliik = "The Armor and the Basilisk Droid"
Beskaryc'gi = "Armored Fish"
burc'ya/e = "friend." "e" suffix indicates plural form.
braala = "hero"
Cabur'alor = "Regent." Literally means "guardian leader."
demagolka = "monster." Specifically an individual who has done terrible things. Derogatory.
Evaar'prica be Manda'yaim = "Princess of Mandalore"
ge'ver'alor = "aide"
Ja'hailid = "Watcher." A ceremonial and specialized role within Clan Saxon to tend to the Hall of Tyrants
Kom'rk = "Gauntlet"
Kyr'tsad = "Death Watch" (will only used when a character is speaking Mando'a)
Laamyc'buir = "Patriarch" or "High Father." The head of the clan if they were male.
Mand'alor = "sole ruler"
ori'ramikad = "supercommando." Both an official and unofficial title, signifying the best of the best
ori'vod = "big brother" or "special friend"
oriya/e = "city." "e" suffix indicates plural form
rugame = "balls"
Ruug'verda = "Ancestors." Literally means "old warriors" but is more commonly used for the former
Solus'alor = "Councilor." Literally means "united leader."
Taakuir'tsad = "Horned Watch" (will only used when a character is speaking Mando'a)
verd/e = "warrior." "e" suffix indicates plural form.
vod = "sibling" or "brother" or "sister." Used affectionately, especially for younger siblings.
XXX
Tiber Saxon
XXX
Filtered light from Sundari's protective dome struck the city as early as 5:30 AM in the early summer season, but even before then Tiber was awake and supervising the final sweep of the Vaunted Hall. So far there had been nothing, but…
There can't be any missteps.
Somewhere below, he knew Verideon was doing his own private scouting. The two had concluded the insurgents were likely going to mine the stage, but when a quadruple sweep done by the secretive "aide" himself had yielded nothing, that assumption had fallen apart. Tiber could pick him out by the black civilian tunic he wore, the olive uniform with its colorful rank traded out to appear less conspicuous. The insurgents weren't to know there was an Imperial present at the First Primary after all.
At least not until they were meant to.
On the high catwalk, Tiber smiled tightly. With the enhanced scanning vision of his helmet, he could see the subdued stress on the other as he swept the audience seats with his scanner. The other had been hardly enthused by Tiber's plan, but when he could find nothing else to counter it, he had grudgingly accepted.
Now all they could do was hope it went perfectly.
"Kando'al'verde." Tiber turned from the distant Verideon to his approaching deputies. The two wore distinctive armors: one gold and cream and the other an almost violently blended complexion of dark purple, blue, and black. Braxxis Wren and Jules Kast. He gestured for either of them to speak.
"We've completed our third sweep of the entire building. Outside of the liquid nitrate we'd found replaced in the extinguishers, there's been nothing else."
Frustration clouded his mind. The discovery of the explosive fuel had been a genius discovery by Braxxis, and naturally he would bring it up now to further cement his place in the final reports of the day. But no extinguishers had been near the main stage with the candidates or even any of the audience of Laamyc'buire, rather they had been left in their traditional locations by main exits and frequently traveled hallways. Perfect to try and trap all the Hall's occupants inside, but not to kill.
A hostage situation? But they've never attempted to kidnap before, only outright murder. And any available schematic of the building would show that even if they had all gone off, the structural integrity would hold.
"And the outside?" he asked, trying to fill the silence as he plundered his mind for clues.
"Nothing suspicious," Jules put in. "The airspace has been locked down by the Perfunctory and Razor's Edge."
"Nothing else?"
"No."
Which was excellent. That meant not even his two deputies had caught wind of the favor he had called on for Captain Zymek of the Iron Hand, one of the Crusader-class gunships meant to be stationed at Krownest. Zymek's only rebuttal had been that it had to be cleared with Primir Wren, who was effectively the planetary governor in addition to being the Laamyc'buir for Clan Wren. A quick call and explanation and the old man had gravely approved the dispatch. The Iron Hand was now just five klicks away, ready to lift off and blast any hostile fighter out of the sky.
But the internal situation was still unresolved. Surely, they weren't banking it all on the extinguisher trap. Only someone as thick-skulled as Gar would be so straightforward. What, then?
"Kando'al'verde?" Jules was polite, but there was no mistaking the expectancy in her tone, either. "Is there anything else?"
Tiber grit his teeth. Are the extinguishers bait, then? To lure us off the scent like they did with Moore? But we haven't uncovered anything…
Yet the tingling sense of danger in the pit of his stomach refused to go away.
"Let them in," he said at last, letting the frustration ooze from his mouth. "If we can't find anything with this much security, I can't see how they brought anything in."
Both snapped him a salute, their gloved hands smacking their breastplates. "Shall we bring the podium's out, too?"
Tiber snapped his helmet to the blank stage briefly, then back to Braxxis. "You swept them personally?" he said sharply. "I requested their own investigation."
"I have," Braxxis assured him, perplexed even through the helmet. "Nothing but petrified wood, iron, and plasteel. Three scans." He paused. "Would you like a fourth?"
Part of him wanted to rebuke the other for even this slightest hint of sarcasm. But wasting time not would be fruitless; there was only three minutes left until the doors were meant to open, and he wanted those few minutes spent picking out any odd activity in the new occupants he could. Undoubtedly the terrorists would be among the newcomers.
But Braxxis was annoying him, somewhat. "Yes, do that," he sneered. "Jules, take over interior control in that time. Let the party begin."
Both nodded and with a blast of heat took off from the catwalk to land below in the main hall, to begin shouting out commands.
Tiber watched them a moment, then activated his comlink. "Dark Hawk."
"Red Falcon?" In the distance, he could see Verideon had paused in his search.
"Did you uncover anything?"
"Absolutely nothing." Tiber was glad that the other's chagrin was matching his own. Both could feel the missing puzzle piece, and yet could not find it anywhere. "I take it we're out of time."
"We are. But a final task; one of my pigeons is checking the standers for me one more time before they're brought out. Would you help him clear them?"
"Will do." The connection cut and the small form of Verideon went quickly for the other end of the expanse. Tiber watched him until he was out of sight through the right door of the stage, then sighed. He changed the frequency from their private one to the broadband. Here goes nothing.
"Let in groups A thru J."
At once all the nine doors leading to the outside opened. A throng of people tried to enter in an uncivilized mass, only to be quickly corralled by the stationed guards into orderly lines to inspect their passes and IDs. The human wave became a trickle of bodies, to slowly but steadily begin to fill out the seats.
From the tenth door at the east wing came another line of Mandalorians, but they carried with them a host of recording equipment as well: holocams heavy enough to need two carriers, squat cam droids with shuffling feet, bulky audio recorders, cases stuffed with cam accessories like extended barrels and sound dampeners. All were dressed in semi-fancy and colorful attire to match their high-pitched and vibrant exclamations as they pestered his guards to hurry with their careful screening of them and their equipment.
Tiber shook his head. He wondered if reporters all over the galaxy matched those of Mandalore's excessive presentation.
Even without showcasing the armor, we have to find a way to stand out from the rest.
As the reporters were gradually cleared to begin setting up their cams all around the central stage, Tiber tracked his eyes back to the seating guests. Thousands of people from all over the sector were in attendance, and even some from the outside; a pair of olive uniforms in one of the four high galleries confirmed that the cursory delegation from Celanon were indeed present.
But from his hawk point of view, out of sight from everyone below unless they directly looked up at him, nobody stuck out to him. Years of searching for the faults in those around him had made him especially talented at picking out those with something to hide, and he had hoped the insurgents would be clumsy enough to believe that in the crowd they would be especially revealing in trying to link.
Nobody stood out. Everyone found their seats and began animated conversations with their neighbors, regardless of whether they had come in with them or not. Mandalore was collectively energized for the proceedings, to see if they could determine at this first key stage who would be their future leader.
It would have been endearing if he did not find them all so idiotic in their complacency. Do you not care that the terrorists are still out there? That they would never let an opportunity like this escape them? He shook his head for his own benefit. Fools blinded by spectacle. To think all it takes for Mandalorians to lose their edge is a little political dazzling.
His comm beeped, but it wasn't Verideon as he had expected. "Report, Braxxis?"
"Sweep completed by myself and my team, Kando'al'verde. Shall we bring the podiums out?"
"What of the ge'ver'alor I sent over to you?"
A slight pause. "Err… ge'ver'alor? It's just us here, sir."
Tiber frowned behind the helmet. "I sent someone over to you," he explained more plainly. "He should have been there to assist you by now."
"Nobody else is here, sir," Braxxis replied, trimly this time. "Could he have gotten lost? If he was a new addition to your personnel, perhaps he didn't have time to familiarize himself with the building layout."
No, that couldn't be it. Verideon had found his way to the service tunnel easily the other day, demonstrating either a preexisting familiarity or mere knack for navigation. Tiber chewed his lip as a dark thought crossed his mind. Something of the situation was…
"Don't worry, Captain Braxxis. I'll go find him."
"All due respect, sir, you're needed up there to supervise. I'll send two of my men out to find him. But as for the podiums…?"
"Yes, bring them out." He cut transmission, cutting again to the broader frequency. He let out a terse curse between the actions. Let me be wrong… "Group K is fine to come out."
The stage was slightly off-center to the audience and the two doors flanking its rear left and right. The left one opened and a small line of thirteen elderly looking Mandalorians emerged, escorted by four double ranks of blue royal guards. Instantly the crowd became loud, some cheering and others jeering depending on their clan history. It all gradually blended together into white noise.
One by one the thirteen figures took their seat at a pristine white table laid out two meters before the main platform, ignoring the mixed reactions of the crowd. Most were dressed in robes that could have dated back to the previous century, but four of them had been unable to resist putting on their ancestral beskar'gam.
His lip curled. One of the armored ones he recognized, recognizable by the smooth crimson helmet with gun-metal gray accents. He took his seat at the second to last chair from the right, between the Laamyc'buire of clans Wren and Eldar.
But as easily as his amusement came, it was drowned out. It was two minutes until the candidates were to emerge from the left side of the stage. Stage hands were hastily putting out the podiums while the crowd talked to itself excitedly. Still nothing from Verideon. He could only assume two polar outcomes: the plan had succeeded perfectly, or had just gone disastrously wrong.
He keyed the comm one final time. "Jules, Braxxis? Anything?"
"Nothing, sir," they chorused. "All looks safe and well. We'll be returning to the catwalk shortly."
It was all so perfect. He was certain the old bat from Clan Awaud that had organized the primary was smug in her chair somewhere, oblivious to encroaching dangers around her.
Let's hope you get the show you wanted, woman.
There was nothing else to do except possibly cancel the entire event, and he couldn't do that. Not that he particularly cared for the event outside of its success enhancing his reputation, but part of him had the genuine curiosity of whether or not Gar would be able to pull this off. If his brother had even a chance of winning, of giving Tiber his own chance at stardom, then he supposed whatever the insurgents tried would be worth it.
But the plan…
He tried one last time. "Dark Hawk? Dark Hawk?" He licked his lips. "Verideon!"
Quiet, unnerving static.
Tiber savagely bit his lip, enough to draw a metallic flavor of blood. There would be no way of knowing until the moment was upon them.
"Send in the candidates."
XXX
Gar Saxon
XXX
Relax. It's hardly different from talking to the Taakuir'tsad. They're all still Mandalorians. He waved a hand half-heartedly as he crossed the stage, trailing close behind Gabiene Rook. Dazzling white lights made him squint. Hardly different…
Just as they had done in the simulated rehearsal, the six figures paused at the very front of the stage, letting the cams get a wide shot of them together. They all linked hands by grasping each other's fingertips; to his right, he felt Bo-Katan Kryze give her best effort to crush his own.
He allowed himself a small grin. She's on edge, good. That the Cabur'alor felt threatened by him instilled him with fresh confidence; letting the smile become genuine, he flashed his teeth to the cams. Somewhere above, he hoped the screens were projecting a good shot to the audience.
"For the unity of Mandalore!" This was Mareev Awaud, the appointed moderator for the discussion.
"For the unity of Mandalore!" chorused the audience.
Mareev threw a gesture to the six candidates and their linked fingers broke. Each moved to their respective podiums on the stage. Gar was situated one way from the far left; that spot was reserved for Kryze. To his right was Gabiene, and then went on the other three, spread out apart so that they were just out of arm's reach.
His lip twisted; of the six, three were in armor. He had desperately wanted to appear in his own suit, but the ancestral beskar'gam was long gone now, confiscated after he had surrendered after the Siege. Tiber had offered his own, but Gar knew it was too slim-fitting for his person, not to mention the disrespect he would feel to the Ruug'verda who had intended it to be passed to Tiber.
Plus, he suspected with a scornful thought. Tiber rarely cleaned it.
Gar was in a muted gray and white tunic and pants with a rich burgundy cloak, all procured by Arcadius. It was best, they had decided, to avoid leaning too much on Clan Saxon colors since none of them had sponsored Gar and his relationship with his clanmates was at best strained. The reminder stung but was necessary. The neutrality of the main garments, they hoped, would bring comparison of Gar to the hundreds of ancient stele and murals scattered about Mandalore, while the burgundy was just a vague accent that could be interpreted as anything from the blood of a warrior to the patriotic striping of the Sector Defense Fleet.
The short stubble he had boasted for years as his personal display of maturity was totally gone, presenting the sharp angles of his chin more prominently. Another signal: the genetics of their people tended to favor that sort of tight jawline, as did most Mandalorian myth speak of beardless warriors. He would miss those hints of a beard, but if looks were really as important as Arcadius insisted, so be it.
Gar had a feeling Aurelius Saxon saw through it all. The old man was almost parallel to him at the Elder's Table. His jaw was working silently, his eyes alive with disdain. Perhaps he saw the burgundy as a taunting imitation of the blood red armor he was wearing, or could hardly believe that the wayward son had by chance been situated directly in front of him.
Or he just hated that his son had had the gall to appear on stage after their last conversation.
Holding his repulsed gaze only briefly, Gar nodded to the man he had once faithfully called Father. Then he tilted his eyes up to again offer the cams a striking view. Lights from above and below were still flashing as they captured the candidates lined up, the reporters eagerly gesturing to them with their fronts to the cams.
Gar wondered it they felt as out of place as he did. They were only the second generation of reporters, the first having been inoculated by the Duchess Satine in an effort to offer the Mandalorian people transparency and did also bring the planet in greater parallel with the galaxy. Some sparse takes at journalists had existed before then, but those few individuals had been practically shamed out of the mainstream culture by the proud warriors who demeaned them for shirking their beskar'gam for tablets and cams. That first wave had introduced rules, metrics, and conduct for how and what a Mandalorian broadcast would look like.
It now fell to this one to perfect that process, with Kryze dead and the cultural reformation she had attempted lying in crystalized statis. How many of them were former warriors, maybe even veterans from Death Watch or the Siege? Had they ever imagined themselves in a weaponless position like this? Could some of the technicians even be former Horned Watch? He had often wondered where his former comrades had ended up since being released, how they had found their way back into society.
This was a new era for them all, and here Gar was at the threshold of it. It filled him with a sense of wonder, but also newfound pride and humility. Whoever became viceroy would decide what direction the dazed masses followed. That was why so many were seemingly transfixed by this chance encounter with democracy, even if it was the Empire insisting upon them it take place. All were eager to see who among those on this glamoured stage, with the visages of past Mand'alore around them a final array of silent judges, would be the one with the answers for a difficult time.
Mareev brought the crowd to silence with a wave of her hand, broadcasted onto the many screens. "I welcome all those in person and those watching from their holos at home," she announced, the words loud and powerful enough to bounce all throughout the hall. "Today marks the beginning of a transitional period of people. For before us stands six of our kind. Each of a different clan, but of the same soul as all of us. Each of a different personality, but of the same cultural values we have cherished for thousands of years.
"Of these six, only one will become the Viceroy of Mandalore by majority vote in four months' time. Today, we hope the discussions held will help begin clarifying to you who best represents you. Think of the lives you lead now. Of the lives your children will have. Of our budding union with the Empire." Mareev let that sentence hang in silence for perhaps a second too long, but continued after as if she hadn't stopped. "Of what this election means for all of us. I am Mareev Awaud, moderator for this First Primary. Here are your candidates."
"Lorka Gedyc, with the sponsorship of House Gedyc."
One of Vizsla's top officers in Kyr'tsad, Gar thought, recalling the dossiers Arcadius had constructed for him. Conservative, voluble, but far too idealistic to the past. House Gedyc is decades past its prime but still has the second-highest majority stake in MandalMotors.
"Silva Skirata, with the sponsorship of the Tripartite Clans."
Veteran of the Great Clan Wars. Got his entire command killed trying to capture Mount Lor but claims they all died for an honorable cause. Outdated preconceptions of honor. The Tripartite Clans have some sway on the colony worlds but are so minor a force back home they couldn't even drum one of themselves up to a House.
"Hr'renek Bralor, with the sponsorship of House Ordo."
Traces his lineage back to Mandalore the Preserver. Measured in ambition but has a hard time expressing himself. Rides almost entirely on the legacy of his Ruug'verda in hopes the people will equate him with them. Clan Bralor has lost even more of its steam than House Ordo, but the House's leadership found him a useful mouthpiece for his bloodline.
"Gabiene Rook, with the sponsorship of House Rook."
Former advisor to Duke Adonai and then the Duchess. Oldest one here and the softest by far. Gives the fiery reputation of House Rook a bad name, which was how Cleitus was able to briefly split up the House's support until his death. But she has the experience and wisdom to redeem her position, and she still retains energy when she criticizes the Empire.
"Gar Saxon." The shortness of the description was glaring and he felt his face redden slightly.
No, this is what we want. Entirely grassroots, no sponsorship of any clan or house. I am not bound by those confines, I'm one from the people. Still, it hurt to not hear the sponsorship of Clan Saxon. He suddenly felt very isolated…
"Bo-Katan Kryze, reigning Cabur'alor with the backings of House Kryze, House Vizsla, and the Journeyman Protectors of Concord Dawn."
Arrogant, moronic, insipid, scheming, hateful—need I go on?
The audience broke into respectful applause with some scattered, wilder cheers of enthusiasm. Mareev let them carry their energy for a few moment, then willed them back into quiet stupor. The atmosphere of the room seemed heavier now, somehow, and Gar resisted the urge to adjust his clothes to give his body some fresh air.
"We have before us the thirteen Laamyc-buire of the largest and most prestigious aliit of the Mandalorian sector. The questions of the people have been categorized, reviewed, and approved by them to now be offered before the candidates." Mareev gestured to the table seating the clan heads, who nodded respectfully to the cams as they quickly swerved to acknowledge them. "For this First Primary, they may posit their question towards either just one candidate or all of them at once. Each of the thirteen have been allowed to ask only three questions for the sake of time, though they are allowed a follow-up if they deem it necessary."
"Let us begin, starting with Laamyc'buir Kaloran of Clan Spar."
Rising from the opposite end of the lineup from Aurelius, the black-bearded patriarch nodded his thanks to Mareev before then looking to the candidates. The cams focused in on him, but he paid them no need, brown eyes only for those before him.
"For Hr'renek Bralor, from a metalworker on Zanbar: 'What are the biggest challenges facing the colony worlds so far?'"
Gar fought a climbing sense of panic. Arcadius and he had sparsely reviewed the situation of the broader Mandalore sector with the constrictions of time, favoring instead to master the myriad of issues clouding Mandalore itself. Was the primary going to be instead be dominated by talks of the sector's petty worlds?
Petty or not, they're still Mandalorian, he told himself, forcing himself to cycle calm into his thought stream. Answer honestly, if it comes to me. Panic gravitated to the desired calm, which was then circumvented by shame. Wilting and it's barely the first question, get a grip!
"The reopening of the Mandalorian Road to traders from the Hydian Way has certainly harmed the industries of the colony worlds, who originally had total dominance of exports to Mandalore," Hr'renek responded, speaking with an almost painful slowness as if to avoid tripping over himself. "While these new avenues of trade have opened up a plethora of previously untapped goods and exchanges with the outside galaxy, I propose how new tariffs and custom fees might still allow these goods to flow in while protecting the industries of our clansmen abroad."
Rehearsed, Gar thought bitterly. Slow, even with the rehearsal. Clan Spar is under House Ordo's umbrella, it was framed to let Hr'renek clearly show his position on the trade.
"For Lorka Gedyc, from a struggling artisan in Brassin: 'How do you plan to address the crippling resource shortage in my city when it was House Gedyc that siphoned off craft materials to build their extravagant plaza at their Clan Home?'"
Some disgruntled titters from the crowd; that event was in recent memory and been widely publicized in the late reign of Satine's rule. But Gar thought that wasn't the only reason for the disturbance; the question itself was overtly more belligerent than how it had been for Hr'renek, one of Ordo's own. Now Kaloran was on the attack.
It was working. Lorka seemed absolutely ashen. "I… well, I can agree that some actions of House Gedyc have been less than positive for Mandalore. But that I am supportive of that particular act is unfounded. As to how I would—"
"Were it not your late brother, father, and grandfather who had statues erected in the plaza among the many others?" Kaloran interrupted. "Do you thus not support their legacies, in your own Home?"
"Of course I support them!" Lorka snapped, hands gripping the podium. "Those resources were well spent to honor their image, and I'll stand by that!" He suddenly seemed to remember where he was and coughed, suddenly changing to his original placid tone. "That said, how those materials were procured I hardly stand by. We can fix the resource crisis in the oriya of Brass through…"
But the crowd was rising in uproar; Kaloran had successfully caught Lorka in the maw. Gar blinked in wonder. Incredible. He forced Lorka to choose between totally dishonoring his family or admitting to his personal involvement in the construction of the plaza and then put on some personal pressure. Lorka was fooled and now just admitted to his own biases. Gar swallowed uncomfortably. A bad answer for progressives, but traditionalists would've liked that for staying true to his family. I think I would have answered that on an impulse, too.
Mareev was again restoring order to the agitated audience, and with great reluctance the backtalk subsided. Lorka was ashen again, now fully aware of his self-inflicted wound. His bottom-lip shook slightly.
Still standing, Kaloran offered him what could have only been a bow of mockery. "Thank you, Lorka." Gar braced himself—
"For Hr'renek Bralor, from a doctor in Sundari: 'What is your vision for Mandalore?'"
Gar blinked once, twice. You're wasting a question on as something as vague and simple as his broad vision? Just look up his damned mission statement if you want that! Then he recalled the relationship between the Lammyc'buir and candidate and he settled into a grim stillness. Of course, just trying to make him look good.
Hr'renek gave his answer with the same careful slowness as before, but there were nonetheless some sounds of approval from the audience. Even one of the spectating reporters was nodding their head.
Kaloran dipped his head. "Thank you. This concludes my questioning." He raised a hand to the man still seated to his right. "I now raise up Lammyc'buir Tiridas of Clan Eldar."
As he sat, the other rose. Tiridas' booming, rich voice commanded attentiveness. "For the Lady Bo-Katan Kryze, from the Tracyn'verde of Sundari: 'What did you do for Keldabe in the aftermath of the bombing?'"
"You mean besides being there at onsite response?" Her response was smooth, natural, without any sign of the mechanical rehearsal of Hr'renek. Gar looked down at her; she was leaning upon the podium, the admittedly captivating blue dress rippling around her as she shifted in place. "I directed further relief from the nearby settlements to Keldabe. I donated funds from my personal finances in addition to diverting funds from the planet treasury to aid in the reconstruction. I walked the tents of the injured to speak with and comfort the survivors." She tilted her chin up. "I was there for my people."
The crowd responded favorably. Tiridas himself nodded, a slight smile on his face. Gar glowered at him; it had not been that Kryze was informed beforehand of the questions she would receive, but Clan Eldar was one of House Kryze allegiance. He would not throw a damaging question at one of his own.
But he would not have those reservations for the others. He quickly proved Gar's prediction right, but he did not look to Gar. "For Silva Skirata, from a grieving family on Cheravh: 'What is your plan to continue supporting the veterans of the war against the aluetii Maul, when you have been unable to find it within yourself to help those from our own civil war?"
Silva's indignation was immediate, but Gar tuned out the response. The strategy of support and attack from the Laamyc'buire was obvious now, and something he had guessed would happen with the candidates so plainly split along house lines.
But four of the six have been asked now. I would have thought the odds would have been asked something by now would be… higher. He shuffled his feet, trying to eject the new anxious energy out through them. Not even a broad spanning question yet.
"They don't care about you, Saxon." Gar slowly craned his head to look at Kryze. Her emerald eyes were full of malice. "They're not going to ask you a single thing," she whispered.
"Scared I'll one up you?" he retorted in the same hushed timbre.
She gave no reply, simply straightening back up from the podium to give a beaming, inoffensive look to cams.
As if she, too, was able to dismiss him easily.
Anxious, Gar turned back to the rest. Silva was finishing his angry response, the crowd silent but with some shaking heads of resentment. The floor was again Tiridas'.
Me, it's my turn. Just attack, I'm ready.
"For Gabiene Rook—"
No!
"—from a doctor working in Keldabe: 'If elected, how will you handle the integration of former vagrants from Taakuir'tsad, many of whom belonged to your clan and house?"
No, no. The chances I would be last are ridiculous. I'm ahead of Skirata at the polls, and even he has been asked already. He shot a quick look at Kryze, looking for a sign of anything there, but she was ignoring him now, attention on Rook's defensive response. Gar was between them, and yet she glanced over him without a hint of acknowledgement for his plain stare.
He looked to the base of his podium. Confusion and anger bubbled up within him. Were the elders really going to gloss over him? No, surely it wouldn't be the case. Clan Mowar was next, who were close allies of the Saxons. Surely, they would look kindly on him, ask him something—
But they didn't. Two neutral questions for Kryze, one belligerent one for Bralor that saw him stumble over his words.
Then the Laamyc'buir from Clan Ordo. One redeeming posit for Bralor, a hostile one for Rook and Kryze each, which the Cabur'alor disarmed handily to the warm appraisal of the crowd.
There was no mistaking it. There were going to be no broad questions, not when the chance to enhance the house's representative on stage or ruin a rival was so easily before them. It was a warrior's game, picking the best battle to wage and supporting one another as if on a battlefield. Even in a war of words, the Mandalorians could not help but be themselves.
Leaving Gar decidedly out of it. None of the crowd seemed to care, captivated by the relations of asker and answerer. The game was worthy of their attention the same way their Ruug'verda had been enthralled by watching the verde of their time fight beasts in staged events hosted in long-destroyed arenas in Keldabe. And just as the crowd would have cared little for the womp rat present when a mudhorn was bashing a Mandalorian right next to it, so now did they care for the small, sponsorless candidate in their midst.
He had never felt such loathing for his fellow people before. Not when they had supported Kryze over Maul, not when they had thrown him below to the rot. He could understand, however cruelly, their rejection of him.
But to just ignore him…
There was nothing he could do. One by one, the Laamyc'buire stood and performed their practiced questions. The candidates joined the dance willingly, reluctantly, defensively. But at least they were part of it, given their chance to have a voice.
Until he caught someone looking at him, matching the malignant intent of Kryze. The original look of distaste and anger when he'd first come on stage. Gar felt himself pale. No, you wouldn't…
The gaze held his own as the elders' turns passed, until finally it was his turn. The Laamyc'buir of Clan Jeban finished their denigration of Lorka Gedyc with an aloof, curt nod. "This concludes my questioning." He gestured to the man still seated to his right before seating himself. Gar's throat closed in on itself as if by the choking of another. The eye contact did not break once.
"I now raise up Lammyc'buir Aurelius of Clan Saxon."