The Force of Magic [Star Wars SI]

[Boroda Orka]

"Even if you're a Great Sorcerer, there's still a very good chance you'll blow up your own ass instead of your enemy's if you act first and think later."
© Rung, sorcerer of the Age of Heroes.

---

Damn rain. I'd been sitting in the first cave I came across—or, more accurately, happened to discover by an incredible stroke of luck—for four hours now. First recovering from the brutal g-forces, then trying to figure out what had happened, how it had happened, where I'd ended up, and what I was supposed to do now.

Once again, I cast a gloomy glance at the wall of rain beyond the mouth of the cave. It was coming down in buckets, and something told me it had no intention of stopping.

"If something can go wrong, it will go wrong, right, Hecate?"

The goddess remained silent. The patroness of mages and sorcerers had never been particularly inclined to lavish attention on her flock in the first place. I snorted and kicked a small pebble toward the mouth of the cave. And really, why bother talking to a gathering of pompous know-it-alls, every other one of them loudly proclaiming that they would one day rival the gods in power?

"Even though they've barely mastered the very basics of the Art. Conceited degenerates."

I'd had the habit of talking to myself for a couple of centuries by now. And why not, when most of the time the only person I saw fit to talk to was the one in the mirror?

So, what did we have?

The ritual had worked. Not without errors, naturally, but it had worked. I hadn't expected the pull to be strong enough to drag me into the open portal. To be fair, I hadn't expected the new ritual to work on the first try at all.

How did it usually go? You did the math, ran the calculations, designed the thing, put together the first version—and it fizzled. Or exploded. Or did nothing. Or a demon crawled out. It depended on the number of mistakes, the amount of power put into the ritual... in short, on a great many things.

That was why another construct had been layered on top of it. Its purpose was simple: collect data on whatever effects occurred.

I was, after all, a master ritualist. An experienced sorcerer. I knew a great deal about safety procedures. I had even written an entire treatise on the subject once, and over the course of a few decades it became required reading in every academy of magic on our continent. I'd been revising and expanding it for a good hundred years now, and quite a few educational institutions paid me for it. Sometimes rather handsomely.

Especially for the extended edition, with sections on the schools of Death, Demonology, Chaos, and Darkness.

In principle, everything was dangerous, but those last four were often banned in certain countries, and the clergy tended to look askance at anyone practicing those branches of the Art. That, by the way, was why paladins and clerics had been hounding me for the last fifty years.

Tin-can idiots.

I was sick to death of them. I couldn't imagine anyone worse than those fanatics. Still, there was a grain of common sense in what they said. The danger to practitioners of those disciplines was considerable.

But it wasn't as though I was writing instructions on how to perform a ritual for selling your soul! It was just a safety manual. Follow it, and some idiot mage or brain-dead sorcerer wouldn't be able to sell his soul and trigger a miniature apocalypse at the same time...

All right. I was getting sidetracked.

Wet clothes and the unending rain were adding several heavy strokes of negativity to an already less-than-pleasant disposition. Some young pup would probably have laughed at me. A man who had written a massive book on safety had become the victim of a ritual gone wrong.

I would have knocked every tooth out of that young idiot's mouth for saying something like that, then read him a couple of paragraphs from my book:

"A newly created, independently calculated ritual being performed by a mage for the first time may produce any effect whatsoever, regardless of the result it is intended to achieve if successfully executed. Therefore, such experiments should only be carried out after ensuring the highest possible level of personal safety."

And that was precisely why I was still alive.

It was only thanks to my paranoid concern for preserving my own integrity—both physical and mental—that I was sitting alive who-knew-where instead of being dispersed as a microscopic haze across our entire continent.

A massive magical surge destabilized the first three layers of protection. Then some incomprehensible flow of energy tore apart the Kalman Cage I was inside. After that came a powerful spatial distortion. It ripped away another two protective layers and caused a portal to form at the center of the ritual circle.

The floor gave a noticeable jolt. A small crack appeared in the slab and broke the pattern whose purpose had been to anchor me in space.

Then the pull hit.

It hurled my body into the unknown.

I survived only by straining every last bit of my strength—and thanks to an exceptionally powerful artifact array that had cost me a small fortune and was built into my working clothes.

Thus did such a magnificent sorcerer as myself survive passage through an unstable wormhole.

Glancing down at the immensely powerful artifact that was now hanging off me like a wet rag, I could only sigh in dismay. Its condition was unknown, and for the moment I had no way to check what shape it was in.

The days when I, like so many fools, believed I could surpass the gods in raw power were long gone, but my defenses could have withstood a dozen or so heavy blows from a middling deity. And they could have held out for a couple of hours against some weakling little god—as far as an expression like "weakling" could even be applied to a deity of any level of power.

But the passage—or, more accurately, the violent breach—through interspace had drained me completely.

Just a little more. The tiniest bit more.

And what would have landed so gracefully in that filthy puddle wouldn't have been a vastly experienced sorcerer who had burned through every reserve he possessed and then some, but a heap of minced meat wrapped in rags.

Assuming anything arrived at all.

I burst out laughing at the thought that I really ought to make yet another addition to my treatise, On Ritualist Safety. My laughter echoed off the walls of the shallow cave and drowned in the rain.

No, it wasn't hysteria.

Why should a man be embarrassed about showing his emotions when there was no one around to see him? And I had lived like that for quite a long time, with no one to talk to but my magnificent self and my eternally silent patroness, Hecate.

All right. The portal worked.

That was good.

Once I got home, I'd have to retrieve the data from the analyzer ritual—assuming it had survived—strengthen the defenses even further, and start feeling my way toward a stable method of breaching the barrier.

Once I solved that problem—and I would solve it; it was only a matter of time—the whole world would tremble when an ancient myth became reality!

Portals.

Or rather, the "Arch of Siith," as I would call it.

It would make my name immortal!

Naturally, only after I developed a way to counter it.

I could hardly be called a good man, especially considering the meaning the clergy attached to that word, but I don't want to be the initiator of a "Portal War," which is certain to break out, just like the "War of the Floating Fortresses."

A whim, perhaps. But I wanted my name to be praised as that of a great seeker into the mysteries of magic, not cursed as the man who unleashed a bloody war.

Perhaps I might even become one of those few who, while still alive, were granted the honor of entering Hecate's halls and bending the knee before the wisest of goddesses.

My sweet thoughts of the triumph to come were shattered by a hearty sneeze.

Like everything I did, the sneeze was magnificent. Flawless execution, a powerful rush of air, a graceful movement of the body, and a noble tilt of the head. Truly, it was a sneeze no emperor would have been ashamed of.

Unfortunately, it also reminded me that I was not home yet.

I was still in a cave, wearing a wet black hooded robe that had looked quite imposing before its unfortunate encounter with a filthy puddle. Under it were a good pair of trousers and a shirt. Both just as wet. A protective vest was worn over the shirt. My boots were full of water and squelched with every movement.

In short, there was no scent of triumph or success in the air just yet. I was in something of a predicament, and I would remain in that predicament until my magical core, thrown out of alignment by the strain, returned to something resembling normal. Assuming, of course, that it had not suffered any serious damage requiring intervention in the recovery process.

Fortunately, my sense of magic was still there. So was my sorcerous sight. Those were the clearest signs that my core had not been destroyed.

I was still a sorcerer.

To be honest, as I lay in the puddle that had welcomed me after the transfer, I prayed to Hecate sincerely and with all my heart for one thing:

Let me see the movement of the ocean of magic.

Those two or three minutes, while my senses of the world around me were coming back to themselves, were the most terrifying minutes of my life. By my beard, I swear—I hadn't even been as afraid of dying as I was of losing my core and ceasing to be a sorcerer...

Although...

That was death.

Only far more terrifying than simply losing one's head.

The permanent loss of one's core is, for any sorcerer, a slow, repulsive process filled with hopeless despair. A gradual march toward the end of life. A life without the colors of magic, without the joy of the Art, without the pleasure of sorcery.

The clergy call us addicts—magic junkies—and they are partly right. Any mage can say, "I'm sick of it. That's it, I'm done with magic. I'm going to grow tomatoes instead."

And he'll quit.

Just like he would quit a profession he had grown tired of—which, in fact, is exactly what magic is to him.

A mage is a craftsman.

He'll buy himself a plot of land, start fussing over his garden beds, maybe plant some cucumbers too. And why not? No cramming, no developing his aura, no theory and practice in one of the most difficult disciplines imaginable...

I had even known a dozen or so not particularly advanced mages who simply left the profession, and even one exceptionally skilled specialist who had simply grown tired of his genuinely demanding work. Yes, it was exceedingly rare.

But it did happen.

Sorcerers, though...

For us, magic is an art.

No!

More than an art—it is life.

We see it. We feel it. In every blade of grass, every pebble, every animal, every human, elf, or troll. We feel the ocean of magic flowing through everything, including ourselves.

Magic runs through our veins, setting our hearts ablaze!

Take that away from us, and we will wither. Year by year, the colors of the world will grow duller, while the longing to feel it again—to remember what it was like to be a sorcerer—will only grow stronger.

It would be like suffocating without end, unable to draw a single breath. A thirst as boundless as the desert, with not a single oasis anywhere, would kill far more surely than an executioner's axe.

There is no death more terrible than losing your magic...

So when I felt my sense of magic returning...

No, I wasn't crying.

It was just the rain pouring down my face.

Just rain.

But I was happy, fervently thanking Hecate. The Moon Goddess might have had nothing to do with it. In fact, she most likely hadn't.

Ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent...

But if she had lent a hand and helped me...

Better to thank her for nothing than turn out to be an ungrateful bastard.

Besides, our goddess was the best, if only because she never got on our nerves with foolish whims. Serious minds deserved a serious goddess.

Ha-ha.

All right.

I couldn't use standard spellcasting methods right now. Casting with a damaged core could lead to unpredictable consequences. The mana I produced and passively absorbed was currently going toward healing as well.

Standard diagnostic weaves?

Unavailable.

Rituals?

Impossible. I didn't have the necessary components.

That left meditation and "knowing oneself," as my personal mentor used to say. The memory of the old sorcerer made me think that I really ought to take on an apprentice to help in situations like this.

Only this time, not an idiot.

I grimaced.

My first attempt had ended in a spectacular failure. I'd taken on a young man as an apprentice, and he'd gone and died like an idiot.

But that hadn't been my fault...

Well.

Almost.

I'd been deeply absorbed in my research, and that moron had wandered into a place he had been expressly forbidden to enter.

There was even a sign!!!

In the end, I got so caught up in my work that I simply forgot about him.

Five days.

Just five days!

And that... I don't even know what to call him.

Anyway, he managed to die of thirst, without the slightest flourish or elegance, after getting himself caught in a trap. The most annoying part was that I'd spent a whole four months training him!

Four months!

An absurd amount of time that could have gone toward useful and fascinating experiments!

And what did I get out of that failure?

A rather weak mana reservoir made from his skull and the bones of a novice sorcerer who had died of thirst.

In my defense, the knowledge already stuffed into that idiot's head was more than enough for him to get himself free. He knew what to do.

He simply didn't do it.

You could say that particular chunk of stupidity simply failed the test!

Yes.

Yes, that was exactly it.

Several days spent being an idiot instead of using the knowledge I had hammered into his empty skull...

Even my pet—a chimera-hamster named Quartermaster—managed to survive for nine months after I accidentally forgot him in the necropolis.

Nine months!

He simply ate nine-tenths of the bodies I had prepared for a squad of undead I planned to use to guard my home in the future.

Bones and all, the bastard.

Couldn't even raise them as skeletons afterward.

The armor too.

And the weapons.

The little beast even gnawed through the simpler artifacts.

But he survived!

Clearly, this proves the superiority of an animal over a degenerate human!!!

I think I'm starting to calm down if I'm slipping back into my "everyone's an idiot" mode, I thought with relief.

In truth, the reason for my solitude was my terrible personality. A terrible personality and an utterly excessive sense of superiority over everyone else.

Yes.

As one cheerful young woman I had lived with for many years used to say:

"Siith doesn't suffer from a lack of modesty—he revels in it."

Like me, she had been a fanatic when it came to magic. A mage with a remarkably well-developed mind, one that allowed her to advance far faster than many of her colleagues.

A sad smile touched my lips.

The girl had refused to extend her life. She used to say, "To be born into a world of magic and be unable to see it—that's the loss of all losses. Maybe I'll have better luck in my next life."

As good as my life with her had been, I respected her decision. When her time came, I did not interfere. I kept her young until the very end and gave her such a funeral that afterward I spent two years hiding in the wildest corners of the continent.

The clergy were looking for me.

So were my fellow practitioners.

Very persistently.

As a sorcerer, it was easy for me to understand her longing to become a true daughter of magic. What puzzled me was her strange certainty that she would retain her memories in her next reincarnation.

I did have a few suspicions. But whenever I asked her about them, she would only smile mysteriously.

She had always been...

Strange.

Unusual.

Not like everyone else.

The first time I told her that, she pulled a ridiculous face, bulged her eyes, and declared in that uniquely hers way:

"I'm Divergent."

Then she spent another couple of minutes giggling stupidly.

She was utterly shameless and foul-mouthed, forever making jokes no one else understood and laughing at them all by herself. She used expressions whose meanings she would then spend ages explaining.

At length.

Confusingly.

She told countless stories whose original sources I never managed to find, even after her death. She sang songs and hummed tunes in a language I had never even heard before. She worshiped a deity no one else had ever heard of—the mysterious Sheogorath.

"Because only he knows what PROPER CHEESE is all about."

But she was sincere. A brightly burning star among all those dull, dreary female mages. She admired the Art without restraint and devoted herself entirely to understanding it.

That, in fact, was how the two of us had come together.

And so there appeared in my life someone I came to love just as much as I loved sorcery...

A familiar pang of longing pierced my heart. Before my eyes rose the image of a laughing, black-haired girl with insanely beautiful, bright brown eyes.

Ah, well.

That was all well and good, but it was time to stop thinking and reminiscing and finally start meditating.

It took me about fifteen minutes to enter the proper state.

Fifteen minutes.

An unforgivably long time even for a novice.

Part of the blame lay with my less-than-ideal physical condition. The rest—with the strange way the ocean of magic was behaving.

Echoes of words.

Shadows of images.

Hazy events that had happened to someone other than me...

For the first time in my life, something like this was happening to me. And frankly, I had no idea what might be causing it.

Damage to my core?

Some kind of anomaly in this area?

Whenever another unusual effect appeared, my descent into meditation broke. Again.

It took time before I managed to distance myself from it all and finally enter the state of "contemplating the universe within oneself," as my mentor had so poetically called it.

And then I realized what I could "see"...

The endless ocean of magic was seething. Great currents—the kind that could be counted on the fingers of one hand across my entire continent—were present here in incredible numbers.

From small, feeble streams to mighty torrents.

For several moments, I struggled to balance between remaining in meditation and slipping out of it altogether...

In the end, the latter won.

I found myself sitting on a none-too-warm stone, staring into the rain in astonishment. Realization and understanding battered around inside my head like stupid birds that had accidentally flown into a room and were now throwing themselves against the windowpanes.

This wasn't my continent...

Anomalies like this simply could not exist there!

More than that, magic couldn't behave like this anywhere in my world!!!

By my beard, I swear—that breach had created a wormhole that had thrown me much farther than I could ever have imagined!

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

"When setting out on a journey, one must never forget that sooner or later even a Great Sorcerer will want something to eat."

© Rung, sorcerer of the Age of Heroes.

---

"Well, I'm up to my ass in it. Hmm... Although, as asses go, this one's actually rather nice."

No, I hadn't gone mad, and no beautiful woman with an enticing backside had appeared in the cave. I was commenting on the situation I found myself in and thinking it over.

Crossing into another world is... incredible. Great Hecate, this is far more significant than a portal within a single world!

There are drawbacks, of course... The fucking rain, for one. I cast a displeased glance at the wall of water beyond the little cave. Or the fact that I have only the bare minimum of artifacts with me—the ones I wear while working. Or the lack of provisions and any way to use magic... Or the fact that my home, treasury, component storeroom, ritual hall, necropolis, and soul vault are now lost to me for a long time, if not forever.

Quartermaster, for that matter, is still back there! The little beast will survive, of course. I delved pretty deeply into chimerology and necroconstruction when I created him, so it's the settlements nearest my home that are more worth worrying about than he is. But I'd grown attached to the creature, and I'll miss him... Rarely, of course. But I will!

As for the advantages... First: a new world! A world completely unknown to me! Thousands of new discoveries! Unknown creatures, unstudied plants, new minerals! An unimaginably vast heap of ingredients for potions and rituals whose properties I had yet to discover!

Second: new magical traditions and schools. That was inspiring. Exhilarating, even! The possibilities alone were enough to take my breath away!

And third... for the past couple of decades, I had actually been thinking about moving anyway. I was sick to death of the mountains. And goat meat. And, frankly, I was getting rather tired of living as a recluse.

It was time to remind myself why I disliked the company of other intelligent beings. I'd travel for a hundred years or so, get thoroughly fed up with idiots, cretins, shameless bastards, and all the other "wonderful" representatives of the local intelligent races, and then start thinking about which godforsaken corner I ought to proudly retire to for another few centuries, until the experience lost some of its unpleasant edge.

Although... I could always try being a city sorcerer instead—take some settlement under my protection. A few of my fellow sorcerers had done that, and their reviews had been mostly positive. Apparently, it was especially good for boosting one's self-esteem and gratifying one's sense of importance. Which was tempting... Yes. Very tempting.

As for losing everything I had accumulated—that wasn't much of a problem. A sorcerer's true essentials were his brains, his magical core, and his sense of humor. Everything else could be found again with a little effort.

Besides, I had copied my library onto my right collarbone long ago, turning it into an implanted archive artifact. One of the most tedious and unpleasant pieces of work I had ever done. Burning the pattern into living bone without cutting it open. Enchanting it until the bone became pseudo-living. Implanting miniature mana reservoirs. Transferring the entire library. Stabilizing the enchantments. Creating a query-and-response channel for exchanging information with the parts of the brain responsible for vision.

Brrr... That had been difficult. And the number of little animals that died during testing... I had the whole glacier stuffed with goat meat. I also had to deal with about five bands of cloak-and-dagger professionals. At least they produced a decent yield of useful reagents. And I stuffed their souls into prisons as well, just in case.

Right... Right, right, right... All right. Calm down and get back to meditating. The question of my core's condition was still there, and while meditating I could at least get a rough idea of the robe's condition. If the artifact had been rendered unusable, that would be... unfortunate.

Slipping into meditation came easily now, almost by habit, and I froze, watching in fascination as the currents of magic frolicked before me...

No wonder they call THIS an ocean. An infinity the mind cannot even comprehend... You can SAY that the ocean of magic is infinite, but to truly COMPREHEND it is impossible. Only when you gaze into it—into depths where you will never find the bottom—do you begin to understand something. A tiny, insignificant fragment of the Great Truth.

Old sorcerers always curl their lips into sarcastic smiles when they hear the young and impetuous say things like, "We command magic." Oh, Hecate... Fledglings. Clueless little fledglings who, as they grow, become either wise sorcerers who respectfully bow their heads before Infinity—or full-fledged Idiot Birds who, in their arrogance, die by the dozen. And they are lucky if the only life they lose is their own. Far too often, an unrestrained thirst for power and dominion leads a sorcerer to the lever that opens the doors to great cataclysms.

The calm of meditation softened my thoughts and put me in a somewhat philosophical mood. Moderation matters in everything—in personal ambition born of selfish desires just as much as in altruism. Take a sorcerer or mage who puts a settlement under his protection, for example... There is a reason sorcerers have a rather formidable reputation. Stern but fair, more often than not. Quick-tempered, but quick to cool down. Sometimes even a little mad.

A wonderful, kind mage who helps anyone and everyone for free will either be taken advantage of by some cunning bastards or... starve to death. No, I'm exaggerating, of course, but I seriously doubt people will shower him with gifts and money. They'll thank him sincerely. Uh-huh. But you can't fill your stomach with gratitude! It's one thing when a destitute family comes to you with a sick child. You can always have them work it off afterward. Easy enough.

An old friend of mine, for example, "shamelessly exploited" an orphanage in a provincial town. The orphans, covered in amulets to protect them from wild beasts, gathered herbs for him from the surrounding countryside, while the brightest of them worked in his potion workshop. In return, he kept them in excellent health.

The funny thing was, among the stupid commoners his reputation was that of the blackest demonologist-necromancer imaginable. Not everyone seemed capable of noticing that the orphanage turned out young men in perfect health who knew their way around herbs and even left with a rather expensive amulet to their name. Whenever one of them tried to return it, my friend would merely curl his lip contemptuously and say something along the lines of, "Keep that piece of junk."

Those who finished their potion-brewing "hard labor" could confidently go work as assistants to just about any master. They could even set up a little business of their own brewing simple potions. At the very least, in any village such a young man would immediately become a highly respected member of the community. And they'd marry him off as quickly as possible too, before some busty young woman from another village carried him away.

So... If ordinary folk have nothing else to give, you can accept a simple word of thanks and wave it off. But getting rid of boils on noble asses, or curing them of some nasty disease? No, thank you. They'll shake their jowls and the feathers on their hats, walk away perfectly pleased, and forget all about you until the next time they need something. To hell with that... I mean, let them go to the clerics for that particular pleasure.

So a sorcerer should be frightening. Frightening enough that people come to him only when their problem is serious enough to overcome that fear. And, of course, they should pay. Whatever they can afford. Anything from scrubbing the floors in the dungeons to a purse full of gold.

And the problem should be solved in such a way that the petitioner feels relief twice over—first because his troubles are over, and second because his dealings with the sorcerer are over too.

While I was thinking over the peculiarities of a sorcerer's life in society, I gradually entered the state in which sorcerous sight allows you to look inward, to see not only what lies outside but what lies within as well. I left checking the robe and the rest of my artifacts for later. Right now, the sorcerous core was what mattered most. Strictly speaking, calling it a sorcerous core was incorrect, but the name had come down from olden times, when sorcerers could only feel a lump of warmth in their chests whenever they strained their gift particularly hard—which was nothing more than a phantom sensation. In fact, the sense of magic, the ability to see magic, and even the body's production of magical energy are all properties of the soul.

Debates on this subject have been going on for thousands of years. The soul is the most valuable thing a person possesses. Money, material wealth, even life itself are mere dust compared to the value of the soul to a sentient being. As of today, three main components of the soul are known:

The Indivisible, or Eternal, Core—the indestructible foundation. The part that remains forever, no matter what happens. Neither sorcerers, demons, spirits, nor even gods can damage it in any way. They can only hold it. But for reasons unknown, mortals are forbidden to do even that, on pain of earning the utter disfavor of every pantheon and every demonic plane—and that is no small matter.

Next comes the personality layer. Here, things can go differently. It can be damaged, stripped from the Core, destroyed, or devoured. The last of these is exactly what demons and their minions specialize in. It contains the foundation of a person's identity. No, that does not mean a human—or, say, an elf—cannot be influenced. They can. But a sentient being with a strong personality layer has every chance of resisting the pressure of circumstances without breaking. Decent people who rise from among society's outcasts, or complete scum raised by wonderful parents, are good examples of that. By the way, it's precisely the latter who sooner or later end up as a demon's dinner, losing the foundation of their identity and, once their "painful retribution" is complete, returning to the cycle of reincarnation to start again with a clean slate.

And the final layer is the informational one. It consists of all the personal experience accumulated by a person over the course of a lifetime. It is also called the "food of the gods." Each time a sentient being dies and comes before their patron god, this layer is taken as payment. Memories, grief and joy, the memory of family and loved ones... One might think that is too high a price, but it is not. The gods are unimaginably more powerful than humans, but they produce no energy of their own, relying instead on the power of faith and on the resources gained from "digesting" the informational shells of souls. And that is far from all of it. The most important thing in the process of "eating" the informational shell is understanding. It is our memories that make the gods understandable to us; that is why they are far closer to mortals than any elemental spirit living alongside humans in the mortal world.

But sorcerers differ from everyone else in one respect. It is rather difficult to explain, but our personality layer "grows through" the informational one in the form of a system of mana channels, extending outward until it begins interacting directly with the aura. These "arteries through which magic flows" are what allow us to produce mana, use sorcerous sight, and sense magic. It is a very abstract explanation for a complex of structures that do not exist entirely within three dimensions, but it's the best I've got. And that is the main thing that sets us apart from ordinary sentient beings.

Any mortal can learn to manipulate the magical power spread throughout space and become a mage, but producing it on their own—or sensing it as naturally as a person feels warmth... only sorcerers can do that. By the way, that is precisely why no properly trained sorcerer would ever sell their soul to a demon. There is a theory, and I subscribe to it myself, that losing not only the informational layer but the personality layer as well could bar you from being reborn with the gift for sorcery for a very long time. The gods' cleansing, after all, does not touch the personality layer; it removes only the information. So, according to the same theory, once Hecate has done her work, a sorcerer is always reborn as a sorcerer.

It was precisely by peering into my own soul that I was now trying to determine the condition of my mana channels. Unfortunately, that was extremely difficult to determine by observation alone. To be frank, all I could get at the moment was a rough picture from indirect signs—the "movement" of the mana produced by my soul and the way it filled my aura. And what I saw left me puzzled once again.

As far as the energy my soul was producing went, the picture was basically normal. But the turbulent ocean of magic in this world was forcing its way into my aura all on its own, under such pressure that it washed out my own power. There was no way to gauge the accumulation rate. My mana was simply spread thin through the aura and then pushed beyond its boundaries, replaced by mana from the ocean... If meditation didn't require relaxation and calm, I would have breathed a sigh of relief right then.

The pattern formed by the points where the mana channels emerge into the aura is unique to each person, and as I studied my own, I could see no difference from what it had been before. The worst possibility—some of the mana flows being severed—hadn't happened. As for the rate of production...

After severe overstrain, the production rate almost always drops, though it usually returns to normal within a couple of days. When the reserves stored in the aura begin to run out, the soul starts pumping mana into it at an increased rate—emptiness seeks to be filled. The problem is that the channels have a limited capacity, and too much pressure can rupture them. Building up their resistance to rupture is simple enough: drain the aura's reserve until you feel warmth in your chest, but do it carefully and don't overdo it. In my case, the heat had been so intense that it felt as though a red-hot nail had been driven into my heart, and ruptures were exactly what I had been afraid of.

Thankfully, that hadn't happened... And the fact that there was such an abundance of magic here was actually a good thing. What sets sorcerers apart is both our strength and our weakness. Yes, we see and feel magic. Yes, wherever we are—even in places where the ocean of magic is thinned out so much that it cannot replenish the reserve from the surrounding world—we can still restore it through our own magical core. But a mage can drain every last bit of magic from his aura and remain a mage, suffering no harm at all, while a sorcerer who completely exhausts his reserve will, in most cases, cease to be a sorcerer at all because the system of his magical core will simply rupture.

The unusual sensations came from the fact that none of my own energy remained in the aura. In my world, my own mana would gradually fill it and push the external mana out, but here the ocean was so concentrated, so powerful, that mana from outside was pouring into me even without any effort on my part. Of course, my own mana was easier to control, but having an almost inexhaustible reserve was hardly a bad thing. I would have to come up with new exercises for strengthening my mana channels, though. On the other hand, "inflating" the aura would be much easier now.

Without leaving meditation, I formed the simplest warming weave. Just three blocks: a reservoir, a set-temperature control, and a targeting block. The magical construct manifested as expected. I designated the space around me as the target and immediately felt a pleasant warmth. My reserve dropped by the volume of the reservoir plus the energy spent on the construct itself, but refilled in barely a couple of seconds. To be frank, I was being overly cautious now, since interaction with the reserve took place at the aura level and did not affect the core at all. But this was another world, and anything could happen. So I formed a few more constructs to dry my clothes and warm the stone I was sitting on, all the while keeping a close eye on the processes taking place inside me. I noticed no problems at all and finally surfaced from meditation.

I've never liked the first few moments after returning to the real world. My thoughts seem petty and restless, the sudden dance of emotions irritates me, and I always want something to eat. No, it isn't a rule. It's a quirk. My own personal quirk. After every session of "contemplating the universe within oneself," I feel the urge to stuff my belly. Although... the exquisite roulade performed by my stomach suggested that, this time, I could use a bite to eat regardless of that particular quirk.

I carefully formed a light construct for a surface diagnostic of the robe. The incoming information made me frown. The artifact was in frankly poor condition. Every built-in mana reservoir had become nothing more than a useless piece of bone. The only good news was that the properties of the fabric itself and the internal runic embroidery had survived. Nearly seven months of work was now hanging on me as an almost useless rag—at least a dry one.

"Ohhh... Let's hope that in this new, wonderful..." I cast yet another glance at the wall of endless rain. "Wonderful but wet world, there are Crystal Wyverns. Otherwise, I don't even know who else I could use to make new reservoirs. All right, what about the rest?"

The rest of the artifacts had fared differently. The protective vest—essentially a cuirass made from the hide of that same crystal lizard with wings—was still charged to the brim, though all it carried was protection against direct hits of any kind, from a crossbow bolt to a lightning strike, along with powerful healing, stasis, and regeneration enchantments and a couple of clerical integrations for dealing with poisons and diseases. Interspace had simply never reached it—the robe had protected it.

The dagger, used mostly for sacrifices and for inscribing ritual patterns, had survived as well, since it had been hanging from my belt beneath the robe. There was hardly anything in it that could have suffered in the first place: a sharpness enchantment, a temperature enchantment, a return-to-owner enchantment, and the "Keen Eye" enchantment, which let me throw it accurately even if I was half asleep or completely shitfaced.

The adaptive protection amulet was another matter. The soul of a small-time bandit imprisoned inside it—the one that powered the amulet according to a pseudo-divine principle—was gone, but no great loss. I would have had to replace it soon anyway; the informational layer was almost used up.

True, the little god my involuntary worker is supposed to end up with is in for an unpleasant surprise: most of the work of cleansing away the informational-emotional shell around the soul's Core has already been done, so he'll get mere scraps of energy... Ah well, he'll survive. As long as you don't get greedy and steal souls that bear someone's mark, nobody pays attention to things like that. To a powerful deity, a single soul is too trivial to merit attention, while the relatively weak ones won't bother exerting themselves because they'd spend more than they'd get back even if they managed to catch the thieving sorcerer's soul. So they'll simply strip off whatever remains and forget about it.

Demons, though—oh yes. Those greedy shit-eating bastards will die before giving up, and they'll make your life miserable in the process. So if you see even the characteristic taint of a cultist on a soul, never mind an actual demonic mark—ew, drop it. Let it fly off wherever it likes. Whatever energy you might get out of it isn't worth the headache an offended demon will bring you.

That, by the way, is one of the reasons you should never buy artifacts from dubious characters. You pick up a cauldron that heats itself without a fire, only to discover that the whole thing runs on the soul-prison principle, with the soul of some cultist who worshipped "Great Dozdrogodul, Lord of Butt Plugs" trapped inside. And that's it. Sooner or later, the demon will wonder why the dear little soul hasn't come flying into his greedy clutches and decide to take a look. Or send his minions instead. He'll get angry that someone has grabbed his property and is shamelessly making use of it, and he'll start causing trouble in all sorts of ways... And there you have the legend of a cursed little thing whose every owner dies of constipation.

All right, then! Things are... partly good, but there's one question bothering me now. Do I wait for this deluge outside to end and then walk through the mud, or walk through the mud in the pouring rain? My laziness votes for the first option, while my rumbling stomach—rumbling nobly and melodiously, of course—votes for the second.

"To hell with it," I said, resolutely heading for the mouth of the little cave. "I want something to eat, and no little rainstorm is going to stop me from stuffing my belly... I just hope I don't end up with goat meat. I'm sick to death of goat meat."

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

"Good deeds are most pleasant when they benefit you too."

© Rung, sorcerer of the Age of Heroes.

---

"Damn rain," I said, staring mournfully toward the mouth of the cave I had returned to with my catch. "Does the fucking stuff ever stop?"

A forest stretched all around the little cave, which could really be called nothing more than a large grotto extending only a short way into a solitary outcrop of rock. To be honest, I had been incredibly lucky to get thrown out within direct line of sight of such a shelter. Just as lucky that the "floor" of my refuge lay slightly above the level of the groun... mud. There was so much of it—mud, that is—that without magic, getting around would have been practically impossible. Fortunately, I had done a fair bit of traveling in my time, roaming over almost the entire Continent-at-the-Tail. Not on my own two feet most of the time, of course, but I'd still had to do plenty of walking.

So "Taash's Tread" and the simplest protective dome modified into an umbrella made the walk dreary in terms of scenery, but otherwise perfectly easy. The first was a third-tier spell, while the umbrella-dome was only first-tier. The difference came from how difficult they were to create. In fact, every novice was surprised at first by the way spells were assigned tiers, or levels. The official measure was the complexity of creating the spell, not its power or field of application.

In this case, the protective dome simply created a force field that kept water from passing through. It required almost no power, and the construct was primitive: a block defining its size and shape; a block fixing it in space relative to my brilliant head, modified so that the convex side would always face upward in case I decided to bend over or happened to fall; the force-field block itself; and an energy reservoir to power the whole construct.

The "Tread," meanwhile, was a dual construct and could contain anywhere from nineteen to forty-seven blocks, plus any number of additional ones if modifications were needed. As Mage Taash wrote in her autobiography, she had been inspired by tiny beetles that could calmly stand and run across the surface of water.

The result of her observations and work was this incredibly useful spell. The enchantments placed on the soles create the same kind of force field, but in a somewhat different form. It distributes the wearer's weight over a larger area, allowing one to walk on water as though it were solid ground. The only real problem is waves, which can knock a sorcerer or mage off their feet. The field—though "coating" would probably be the better word here—keeps water out, can provide protection if the mage is traveling barefoot, muffles footsteps, and can even emit a faint glow when needed. All in all, an extremely useful thing for a traveler...

And also for assassins, thieves, spies, and tomb robbers: "nightingale floors" don't creak, pressure plates don't trigger, footsteps are muffled... All in all, Nor'ma Taash's name is now inscribed on the Monolith of Glory in the main temple of the God of Shadow Workers, and she holds honorary membership in the night guilds. Even though she passed into Hecate's keeping almost four hundred years ago.

"Sense Life" and "Search for Intelligence" told me there was plenty of wildlife of all kinds within a kilometer,* but no intelligent species had been detected. With a shrug, I set off for a walk. Since I was already out of the cave, I might as well take a look around with my own eyes.

Oh, Hecate, it was only then that I truly realized I was in a new world. Not a single plant was familiar to me. Not one. Some shared certain features with things I knew, but a closer look made it obvious that the resemblance was only superficial. The possibilities were breathtaking, and for the first few minutes I even forgot my hunger, wandering through the forest and taking in all that magnificence, occasionally giggling like a little boy.

But another musical performance from my stomach reminded me why I had come out in the first place. I headed toward the animal I had picked out. My selection criterion was simple: "bigger than a goat." No, I could have gone to the trouble of making a construct that would fly off on its own, kill the creature on its own, and drag it back to me on its own, but I was frankly too lazy to weave such complicated magic for the sake of a chunk of meat.

To common folk, magic is all huffing and puffing, obscene gestures, filthy swearing, and then WHOOSH—there's whatever you wanted. Yeah, right. As Rung wrote in one of his books: "The only thing that's easy is scratching your ass." Magic is serious business. A spell like that, designed to work properly in a forest with rain interfering on top of everything else, would be fairly high-tier.

So I simply crept up on my prey, spent a moment marveling at the strange-looking creature, which resembled a deer in some ways, and threw my knife into the back of its head. On the way back, I simply levitated the dead animal.

---

The creature turned out to taste like goat... Just my luck. Still, I filled my belly, though I did let out a few disappointed sighs. I was pondering the creation of a spell to wipe out every goat in the world once I finished the portal project, naturally, when an unusual silence distracted me.

With delight and surprise, I realized that the rain had finally stopped, and it had grown considerably brighter outside the cave.

Finally!!! Time to see where the sun was, estimate how much daylight I had left, and then decide whether to start scouting—or, if sunset was close, take a short stroll and prepare for the night. I had no intention of wandering around unfamiliar lands after dark. Who knew what kind of creatures might come out to hunt?

I remembered my adventures with Ir'rina in the Valley of Daytime Joy and shuddered. How the information about the absolute hell that broke loose there every night had somehow escaped our attention, I still have no idea. Although... she was young, I was in love, and therefore rather stupid... As she sometimes used to say, "my bad."

Stepping outside, I drew in a deep breath of the rather pleasant post-rain air. Even the smell of mud didn't spoil it too badly. Tilting my head back, I realized I had celebrated too soon. The sky wasn't completely clear, and judging by a few signs, the rain would start pouring again before long. I had two hours, maybe three.

The sun, at least, was a pleasant surprise: it stood almost directly overhead. If the day here was about as long as in my world, I still had roughly eight hours before sunset. Right... And what's that?

My attention was caught by an object that had appeared in a patch of clear sky. It was flying, though I was having trouble identifying exactly what it was. At first glance it seemed to be moving rather slowly, but that was only because of the great distance. In reality, its speed had to be impressive.

Before it disappeared from sight, I put together a construct that allowed me to see at great distances. Remarkable: there was a brick flying through the sky. No, I'm not joking. In shape, the thing resembled a large metal brick with all sorts of protrusions and assorted whatsits stuck onto it. A floating fortress? But it was flying far too high! There shouldn't even be breathable air up there! Was it airtight?

While I was studying the flying whatever-it-was, I noticed four more of the same things emerge from a cloud. Their identical shape suggested that these mysterious objects had all been built to the same design.

I scratched the back of my head thoughtfully. The objects were too large for flying boats, but too small for fortresses. But... I estimated the direction the bricks were moving and set off the same way. Besides, judging by their course and rate of descent, the things were going to land relatively close to me.

We'll figure it out when we get there. The only other question was how to make contact with intelligent beings without knowing their language, but I figured my level of knowledge should be enough for that. Maybe I'd have to hide out in the forests, or head for the mountains... Again... Back to the goats... In any case, I'd have to decide based on the situation.

---

So. The journey took me only about forty minutes. I was in a hurry, hoping both to find the locals and to get a closer look at the flying bricks. When "Search for Intelligence" began returning markers for sentient beings within a kilometer, I slowed down and started concealing myself in every way I could.

I wrapped myself in optical camouflage, turning me into a blurred patch against any background, concealed my heat signature, and hid my life, soul, and mind. I disguised every magical disturbance as a natural phenomenon: minor anomalies had been common enough in my own world—eddies in the ocean of magic, ancient wandering echoes of great spells, and the like—and on the way here I had encountered something similar about thirty times. So I wasn't particularly worried about attracting anyone's attention.

If the robe and amulet had been in working order, I would have limited myself to optical camouflage; the artifacts would have handled the rest.

A short forced march brought a small settlement into view—one that was in the middle of being raided. A quick look showed that this strange little village was inhabited by humans, while the attackers belonged to a nonhuman species I had never seen before. The humanoids strongly resembled reptiles, but differed from the lizardfolk of my world in having no tails, flatter snouts, and a far more humane attitude toward their prisoners.

At the moment, as far as I could tell, all human resistance had already been crushed, and the reptiles were busy gathering loot and transporting prisoners to their vehicles—which turned out to be those very "bricks." I decided not to take a closer look at them. I might get carried away, and right now I needed to make a decision.

The humans were being sorted into two groups: the young and healthy—and everyone else. As I understood it, the transports had a limited carrying capacity or room aboard, or perhaps they simply didn't want to bother with the "substandard" ones. I had no idea what they intended to do with them. The worst I had seen so far was a couple of solid blows and a shot from some kind of weapon at a man who refused to obey. A quick check showed that he was unconscious but alive. The lizardfolk of my world would already have been gutting a defiant warm-blood, so those who weren't going to be taken away... into slavery, apparently, had every chance of surviving the raid.

After weighing the situation this way and that, I decided to check one important point—one that would have a major bearing on the dilemma before me. Ten meters from one of the lizardfolk, directly in his line of sight, I created a powerful magical surge. No visual manifestation, just a structured knot of magic. No reaction. Which meant that even if the raiders possessed some means of detecting magic, not all of them had it. And that was good.

"And that is simply wonderful," I muttered under my breath, creating a somewhat different version of "Search for Intelligence." First, this one was stronger. Its area of effect should completely cover the entire settlement and the surrounding area out to three hundred meters. Second, I set one of the lizardfolk as the sample mind-pattern. Holding my breath and readying myself to run or fight, I activated the construct.

The raider I had used as the target shook his head... That was it. No other reaction from the lizardfolk. Excellent. Simply magnificent. The spell informed me that there were eighty-seven little creatures whose minds matched the sample. Now I just had to do this properly.

My reserve was already full again, so with a clear conscience I hurriedly began forming a complex construct in front of me, designed to perform an aggressive rapid analysis of a single specimen. Alongside it, I made another hundred similar constructs, but without the analytical module. Then I assigned the targets manually. Rather tedious, but I rejected the alternative of developing additional modules for automatic target assignment as even more time-consuming. That would have required working out the construct's operating logic, and frankly, I couldn't be bothered. Good enough as it was.

For three of the lizardfolk who were sticking together and looked particularly important, I prepared an entangling spell. I'd take those alive. The first would become a soul-battery for my protective amulet, from the second I'd pull part of the informational layer to help me learn the language, and the third I'd keep in reserve. Maybe I'd give him to the locals so they could beat the shit out of him and work off some anger; maybe I'd use him for experiments. I'd decide later.

It all began with a rather funny squeal from the target chosen for analysis. When a lightning discharge hits your spine, it hurts. Those who heard the cry of pain had only just begun to turn when the three presumed leaders dropped into the mud like toy soldiers. The second discharge produced no scream: the test subject fell unconscious, and the third killed him before he had even finished falling.

The readings I'd taken were sent through the network to the other constructs fastened around the lizardfolk's necks and multiplied by one and a half. All the spells triggered at once, except for those I had kept in reserve, and eighty-three corpses dropped across the little settlement.

The humans, herded into two groups, were still looking around in astonishment when I dropped my concealment and headed toward the three raiders sprawled on the ground at a quick but elegant pace. Quick, because two of the three had gone face-first into the mud, and I had no intention of letting prisoners I had plans for drown. As for the elegance, that was simply innate: Siith always looks magnificent. Even beaten and bloodied—you have to keep up appearances.

When I was still forty meters away, I reached out with my aura, and all three lizardfolk rose into the air. I could have used telekinesis, but this method consumed practically no mana, trained the aura, and provided tactile feedback. The moment the three of them lifted off the ground, the constructs returned to me, having spent only two-thirds of the magical power stored in their reservoirs.

And no, this wasn't just force of habit. Having nearly a hundred spells on hand that could easily knock out a healthy man was hardly a bad thing. I began assigning them new targets, choosing physically fit men—just in case they failed to appreciate my gesture in saving them and decided to come at me...

The first humans were only beginning to rise from their knees by the time I reached the trio. Ideally, I should have picked out whoever was in charge among them, but... I didn't know the language, and one more gesture wouldn't hurt. I turned sideways to the people I had rescued and pulled one of the captive lizardfolk closer. A construct designed to trap souls after death settled over him, with the amulet chosen as the prison. I pulled back my hood.

The prisoner said something, but a quick knife strike to the temple... fatally interrupted him. My face remained serious, but a thought that occurred to me brought on a burst of amusement, and a little of it still escaped, curving my lips into a slight smile. Besides, a quick diagnostic of the amulet told me it had already begun restoring all its functions. Ah, if only I could restore the robe as well... But that could wait.

The corpse was tossed toward the prisoners, some of whom had already jumped to their feet and were picking through the lizardfolk's weapons. What I liked was that when one of the younger fellows pointed a strange lizardfolk battle staff in my direction, an older one stopped him, pushing the weapon down toward the ground with one hand. The rest were still watching the performance unfold, and when the body landed, I caught satisfied, bloodthirsty smiles on quite a few faces. Good. That meant I was doing this right.

The second prisoner. This spell was extremely complex. Part of it belonged to Death magic, while another part had been copied from dark priests. It would strip the informational layer from the subject's soul, anchor it in my aura, and set up associative blocks. The thing is that a person is physically incapable of simply copying someone else's memories into their own mind. There is a hundred-percent chance of going insane, and a very high chance of ending up a drooling idiot, blowing spit bubbles and shitting himself.

This spell eliminates that problem, but at the cost of significantly reducing the reserve—by about a quarter in my case. It also cannot be used in areas with a low magical background, because maintaining the informational layer requires a considerable amount of power, but in this world that should not be a problem.

I cast it on the sentient being, who was still saying something rapidly, and he erupted into a wild, shrieking scream. Yes, having your soul torn apart hurts. I even felt a little guilty about it, though not for long. How was I supposed to know what fate these people had been headed for? And nonhuman filth from races like this rarely deserved mercy in the first place. I hated the lizardfolk of my own world with all my heart and killed them whenever I got the chance—so long as doing so wasn't likely to cause me trouble.

Done. The informational layer was deployed. The analytical blocks were now establishing associative links as far as possible. The simplest concepts and words would be available to me within a few minutes. Further improvement would either take considerably more time or require active communication.

My smile widened at the near-complete success of my plan, and I drove the knife into his temple again. I saw no point in tormenting the creature any further: even if I enjoyed that sort of thing—which I didn't—there was no mind left in the lizard's carcass anymore. I simply flung the third one onto his back in the mud so that his face was turned upward, then turned to the humans who had approached.

I studied their faces carefully but with a friendly expression. Four men in their forties or older, and one young fellow of about twenty. They looked wary, but grateful. The young one was grinning like an orc after a good fight. All of them were armed, but they were pointedly holding their weapons any way they pleased except aimed at me.

Strange, really. My appearance tends to make people a little wary: the result of one of my little jokes, which the God of Light disliked enough to curse me for it. Fortunately, nothing serious—he merely turned the whites of my eyes blood-red and made the irises and pupils coal-black. Yeah... I was young and stupid back then. Making fun of the God's high priests in his own temple... was an incredibly dumb idea. Good thing the joke itself had been fairly harmless...

"Greetings, humans," I said in my native tongue, a faint smile playing on my face. In the mirror, I had always thought it looked pleasant and reassuring, but the few companions I'd had invariably asked me "not to do that because it's annoying." No appreciation for beauty, I suppose.

In reply, I got a string of words in an unfamiliar language, their meaning reaching me with a delay of a couple of seconds. It would be like that at first, until my mind assimilated a basic set of simple expressions. After that, there will still be a relatively long road ahead before I master more advanced speech, but even so, it will be far faster than learning the language from scratch. The drawback, of course, is a fairly significant one: the death of the knowledge "donor." But creating or copying parts of a soul is still impossible at the current level of magical knowledge.

The meaning was simple enough: they greeted me, thanked me, and asked whether I spoke Common.

"Greetings. I know language bad. Came to help." I spread my hands in an apologetic gesture, then pointed with one of them at the body lying in the mud. "Gift."

In response, I got a speech that lasted about five minutes. I understood almost none of it apart from the words of thanks. There were mentions of bandits, something about transporting ore, the rain, and that "the Nimbus will be here soon."

I shrugged regretfully and repeated that my knowledge of the language was poor. The results were minimal so far, but for now the important thing was to talk more often—or at least listen to others talking. It would all come with time. For the moment, I followed the gestures of the oldest man in the welcoming group, who was inviting me somewhere. The words "dry," "warm," and the hint of a hot drink in his little speech had caught my interest immediately. I was quite curious to see what the local herbal blends were like.

---

Author's note:

"within a kilometer" — honestly, I don't want to invent any unique units of measurement. Whenever I run into that sort of thing while reading, I end up swearing and converting everything anyway, so let's just imagine that, by an INCREDIBLE COINCIDENCE, the units of measurement are the same as ours in every world.)))

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

"Sometimes you meet a sentient being for the first time and just know: this bastard is either going to cause you a ton of problems or solve a ton of them. Though more often than not, he does both."

© Rung, sorcerer of the Age of Heroes.

---

They led me to the largest house in the settlement. I figured it was something like the local scribes' hall. Once inside the settlement proper, we walked along a pretty clean, stone-paved street. I wasn't actually muddy, but clean stone still felt much nicer underfoot. I'd had enough of mud by then.

Maybe I'd arrived during the rainy season? I'd read that the Head Continent back in my world got something like this a couple of times a year.

The inside of the building looked strange to my eyes, and the bandit raid had clearly left its mark on the place. The building itself was obviously not new, and the raiders had broken some of the furniture and left papers scattered across the floor. One pleasant surprise was the lighting everywhere—electric, by the look of it. Gas lighting was common among the mountain dwarves, and my own empire had electric lighting too, though not everyone could afford such a luxury. Here, apparently, it was commonplace: the lamps were standardized and looked nothing like works of art.

Some of the materials used for everyday objects were unfamiliar too. My eye kept catching on things that, in all my far-from-short life, I had never seen back home. There was plenty of wood and metal, and I didn't recognize some of the metals either, which only made me more curious and eager to learn more. The spell helping me learn the language supplied associations when I looked at certain things. Some were vaguely clear; others left me baffled. Fortunately, I hadn't found anything truly bizarre. Doors, glazed windows, chairs, tables, cabinets—no problems there. But when they brought me something called "caf," I paused for a moment. Either the lizard hadn't known what it was made from, or the association simply wasn't coming through. Just in case, I checked the drink with a construct designed to analyze any food and determine whether it was compatible with my body.

Once I knew it was safe, I liked the taste. It was very similar to a brew made from coffee beans that merchants dealing in rarities used to bring in, and even the names sounded alike. So maybe it actually was coffee—or at least something closely related.

The man seated at the table beside me looked content, squinting slightly with pleasure as he took another sip. He'd stepped out for a few minutes to change out of his wet clothes and now seemed to be warming up. An older but sturdy fellow with a friendly face, thick eyebrows, and a mustache, he kept glancing at me gratefully.

"Thank you again," he said, making an effort to keep his phrases simple, which I appreciated. I figured he was the local headman or something similar. "My name is Derek. Derek Poe. And you?"

"Siith." I grimaced slightly. My family name had been taken from me when I was still young. It wasn't a pleasant story, so I didn't like talking about it. "Saw trouble. Helped. A man helps people. That is right. Need place to sleep. Food."

"Sith?" The man drew his brows together, thinking about something. "As for a place to sleep and food, no problem. You'll have both! But how should we... address you?"

"Siith," I said, emphasizing the correct pronunciation. Ir'rina had mangled it constantly too: "My Sith, who turned to the light side for love." What the light side had to do with anything, I had no idea. It was another one of her jokes that made sense only to her, along with things like "Oh, Master" and "Want to build a Death Star?" Though after I gave her my notes on one of the highest-order spells of Death magic—"Death Star"—she stopped joking about that last one.

"Just Siith. Call me that."

"Hmm... All right. The... military will be arriving soon. I should warn them so they don't... act rude to you. May I go?" Derek looked at me questioningly, and I could only stare back in surprise. Why was he even asking?

"Yes. Your house. You are host. I am guest. Thank you for caf. Need more help?"

"No, thank you." The man smiled gratefully again as he rose, then paused for a moment. "Can you... heal wounds? There are three people with serious injuries. We don't know if we can handle them. Our medic says they might not survive the trip to the hospital."

It took me about five seconds to make sense of what he had said. After that, I simply nodded, picked up my cup of caf from the table, and looked at Derek expectantly.

He led me, apparently, to the local healer's ward, which was in the same building. There was plenty of interesting stuff around, but the first thing that caught my attention was the three occupied beds and an older woman working over the wounded with a very grim expression.

"Etil, how are they?" my guide asked the healer.

"Bad. What are you doing here? You're getting in the way."

"Well, this is..."

I didn't wait for the man to finish explaining things to this Etil and cast a spell on all three wounded, projecting three-dimensional images of their bodies. When a naked, translucent figure appeared beside each bed, both Derek and the healer fell silent in shock.

In fact, the visual effect came from the simplest kind of magic: it merely displayed the scan results without the clothes. The construct that actually examined the human body was far more complex, but produced no visual effects at all. Each figure showed injuries resembling a hit from a fire arrow.

A girl and two guys. All three were young.

The right side of the girl's chest was badly damaged. The spell I cast to compare her body with the healer's returned plenty of discrepancies, but I only needed a reference for the damaged area. Hmm... Yes. The anatomy of the local humans was almost identical to that of people from my world. Hardly any differences at all. Part of the girl's lung and two ribs had been burned away, and she had some internal bleeding from a couple of ruptured blood vessels. Overall, nothing too serious.

I pulled out my knife and pricked my finger. Three quick steps, a startled cry from the healer, and I made a small cut into a vein in the girl's wrist. I pressed my finger to the cut.

The bandages covering the wound on her chest were in the way, so two more flicks of the knife and a touch of telekinesis cleared away everything I didn't need from the area. Fortunately, the girl was unconscious and wouldn't interfere with my work. Just to be safe, I added another sleep spell.

"Derek, what's going on?! Who is this?" I heard the stupid questions somewhere behind me and tuned them out. You asked for help—deal with the questions yourself. The last thing I needed was to waste time calming down some squawking hen.

Almost all healing spells are extremely complex. This isn't like flinging fire or lightning around. Any mage or sorcerer with more brains than a stool knows that and treats spellcasters who practice healing with great respect. I'm no healer, but I know my way around chimerology. Especially since these wounds weren't magical. Truth be told, clerics have a much easier time healing wounds and diseases, but with them it's more like... lay a hand on the patient, mutter a prayer, and either they're saved or "The gods are not merciful today." All right, that wasn't important right now either.

The "Blood Kinship" spell settled over the girl and me, making us practically a single organism. My life force began supporting hers, easing her condition. It also let me feel her body almost as clearly as my own. I stopped the blood flow through the damaged vessels and drew my knife again. One quick cut gave me access to the lungs, where blood had pooled. I pulled the clot out with telekinesis and filtered it right there in midair.

While the puncture in her chest closed up, I opened a large vein in the crook of her elbow. A small sphere of filtered blood began gradually flowing back into her body. I left the spell to handle returning the life-giving fluid to its owner, added another construct to seal the cut once the process was complete, and turned my attention back to the wound itself.

"Need animal bone, a lung, a kilogram of meat. Recently killed. Need no more than ten minutes. Quickly."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Derek—no longer holding back the healer after her earlier attempt to drag me away—leave the ward. Etil was staring, mesmerized, at the shrinking pouch of blood hanging in midair.

"You. Don't interfere." I looked the startled woman straight in the eyes. "You interfere—I hit you."

I modified the sharpness enchantment on my knife, cast a spell to numb the area I was working on, and began cutting away the damaged tissue. The knife sliced through bone as easily as flesh, while flesh itself offered no resistance at all. Chunks of burned meat and lung plopped into some kind of metal tray. I simply moved the assorted instruments out of it and onto the neighboring table with an aura probe.

Catching the eye of one of the guys lying on the next bed, I muttered, "You're next," and went back to cleaning the wound. I could have picked out a construct to do the job, but this way was easier as far as I was concerned.

By the time I was finishing up and the wound was almost completely clean, Derek returned to the ward. He and two other men carried in metal trays holding a pair of lungs and a heap of meat. The third man carried a transparent bag full of bones.

"Good," I murmured thoughtfully, grabbing one of the lungs with an aura probe. I cut off the amount I needed and placed it into the cavity. Now came the hardest part: restructuring the flesh so that it would take. Fortunately, I had a template. I started the tissue transformation, grew new blood vessels through the graft, and fused the tissues together.

Next came bone and flesh. Using the same principle, I rebuilt the ribs, replacing the burned sections, then restored the muscles and skin.

That left the most important part—the breast. You can leave scars on a man. He'll show them off to all his friends and proudly tell them how he got them. But leaving a girl with half her breast missing would just be cruel.

So I spent a whole ten minutes on that. Technically, I had just created a chimera. But those were details. Over the years, her flesh would renew itself, gradually replacing the grafted tissue with her own, until eventually even the bones would stop being "foreign."

I cast a set of spells on the girl to boost regeneration and stimulate her natural immune system. Then I removed the numbing spell, canceled "Blood Kinship," and, satisfied with my work, gave her a light slap on the exposed stomach.

"Healthy now. Eat much. Two portions. Before one, now two." I pointed at the girl lying on the bed, looking the healer in the eye. This stunted ability to communicate was getting on my nerves. "Lots of meat. Vegetables. Understand?"

"Yes, p... perfectly clear: feed her twice as much as usual." Etil looked stunned. If she hadn't needed to keep tending to the guys with abdominal wounds, she probably would have watched the whole procedure with her mouth hanging open. It was a little flattering, but it also led me to a rather unpleasant thought: either mages were extremely rare here, weak, or absent altogether—which was... a mixed blessing.

"Yes. Good. You're next." I shifted my gaze to the guy in the next bed. Pale face, beads of sweat, pain twisting features that would otherwise have made him quite the heartbreaker. One kidney had been hit, along with his bladder, and his intestines were badly damaged. "You sleep. Wake up without hole. Sleep."

I cast a painkilling spell on him first, and as soon as I saw his features relax, I followed it with a sleep spell. Purely psychological. The guy would remember the pain fading away and wake up without it.

While I was getting ready to begin healing the wounded man, the healer covered the girl's bare chest and sent everyone out of the ward except Derek. Quite right. Having strangers stare at me while I worked was irritating.

Healing the two guys took longer. I had to ask Derek twice more to bring me animal parts. By the time I was finishing up with the last patient, the first girl, the healer, and the local headman were all watching with interest. Then another man entered the ward.

For my own safety, I had placed monitoring constructs around the building that housed both the offices of the local scribes and the healer's ward, and they alerted me to the arrival of the local military. Their strange armor was the first thing that caught my eye, along with the standardized equipment, which looked to be of fairly good quality. That alone set the local ruler's troops apart rather favorably from the lizard raiders. The raiders wore a mismatched assortment of whatever they could get their hands on, making them look like well-equipped bandits—which, for all I knew, was exactly what they were.

"Good," I said with satisfaction yet again. "Him and him, holes in stomach. Liquid food. Two days. Then eat much of everything, but not all at once. Want caf."

"Thank you again. We'll have everyth—"

Derek noticed our visitor standing behind him. A relatively young, fair-haired man with a short, well-groomed beard framing a face with regular, even handsome features. His brown eyes were stern and assessing. A sword hung at his belt, along with a small battle staff similar to several I had seen carried by the lizardfolk.

"General Stratus!" Derek exclaimed, sounding both thrilled and surprised. He snapped to attention, his face taking on the expression of an experienced spellcaster granted a conversation with Hecate herself. Happy, in other words, but not mindlessly so. A sense of great honor, joy at seeing her, respect—but without groveling or surrendering one's dignity. Sorcerers and mages respect the Mistress of Magic, dedicate their discoveries to the Moon Goddess, and sometimes, very rarely, beseech the Wisest One for help. But she, in turn, treats us with indulgent respect, never demanding blind worship or that we abase ourselves at the feet of her statues.

"Derek Poe, right?" The man Derek had called a general waited for the headman's nod, then continued. "I wouldn't mind a cup of caf myself. Could I trouble you for one?"

Honestly, I hadn't expected such a stern-looking warrior to have such a disarming smile. Charismatic bastard, I thought, with a hint of envy. For some reason, nobody ever likes my smiles, even though I sincerely try to look friendly... Sometimes. Not very often. And not with everyone. But I do try once in a while!

The swordsman turned that same friendly look on me. I felt a little awkward about my earlier thoughts, because his smile for me was just as sincere as the one he'd given Derek.

"Would you care to join me?"

"Sure," I agreed. Why not? Especially since he was a general. The associative modules helpfully informed me that the rank was a high one. Maybe he would say something interesting.

We went back to the same room where Derek and I had been drinking caf. A couple of cups were brought in, and I took a sip from mine with pleasure after first checking it for anything unwanted. Two of the general's soldiers remained outside by the entrance, while another two took up positions outside by the window. There weren't many of them in total—only about thirty—but their equipment and the way they carried themselves gave me the impression that even ninety lizardfolk wouldn't be too much for them.

"I'm General Alto Stratus of the Nimbus Special Forces. With whom do I have the honor of speaking?"

"Siith. Just Siith. I am a sorcerer. Don't know language well. Learning. Need a few days. Then better."

"Sith..." Hecate, what is this? Why can't anyone pronounce my name properly?! Although... ah, to hell with them. People mangled it far worse when I was young, after I was kicked out of my home. "Why did you help?"

"I am stranger here. Lizardfolk attacked humans. I help humans, make contact. Place to sleep, food, information. Expected gratitude." I shrugged. Stratus looked like the noble sort, and people like that valued sincerity. Besides, I saw nothing wrong with admitting that I expected some gratitude in return. People who loudly proclaimed their selflessness had always made me suspicious.

"Why is general here?"

"Because I'm a field general, not a desk one." The man fell silent for a few seconds, studying the caf in his cup. Then he looked up at me with clear, intelligent eyes. "Why are you here, on Jabiim?"

"Jabiim?" I repeated. The spell supplied me with no information, as was usually the case with place names or personal names. "What is Jabiim?"

"This world is called Jabiim," Stratus said, looking at me with a mixture of doubt and surprise.

"Ah. Understand." So he had figured out pretty quickly that I was from another world. Interesting what had tipped him off. "Accident. Was doing experiments. Mistake. Appeared here. Cannot go back. Will travel. New world, many new things. Can heal. Can kill. Can do many things. Maybe build house. Maybe teach. Find apprentice. Maybe. Haven't decided."

"Kill, like those Trandoshans? The lizards?"

"I can do it in different ways." I made a mental note of the reptiles' name and fed the new information about them and the name of the world into the spell as well. That should speed up my language learning a little, and if I managed to perform the rather complicated ritual that would let me safely browse that raider's memories, those words would help me get my bearings.

"I see... And why did you heal those three?"

"Practice. Gratitude from wounded. Studied humans. Felt like it." I spread my hands, then took another sip of caf. I had a feeling this was going to become my favorite drink.

I definitely needed an apprentice to make it for me and bring it when called. Or a golem. I wonder if people here had any prejudice against the undead?

"Hmm... I'm very grateful to you. You helped us today, and I'd like to help you. How would you feel about staying here for a few days? Then I'll send transport for you. There's a fairly large city by our world's standards a couple of days' travel from here, and my unit is currently based nearby..." I interrupted him with a raised hand.

"Alto. Hard to understand. Language still bad. Speak simple. You want to help me?"

"Yes. Stay here for now, then move to a bigger city. I'll help you get settled. Maybe later I'll ask you to help with a few things, and I'll make sure you're rewarded for it."

Thunder rumbled outside the window, and then, as if someone had overturned a giant tub of water, the downpour came crashing down. I looked at it mournfully. I actually liked rain, just not this much of it.

"All right. We'll try."

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

"Friendship doesn't always begin over a mug of beer."

© Rung, sorcerer of the Age of Heroes.

---

Everything went according to the plan that had more or less come together on its own. The Trandoshans turned out to be a gang of raiders and slavers. The humans were grateful to me, and although some treated me with a little caution, they were friendly enough.

For those two days, they put me up in the apartment where two of my patients lived—a brother and sister, as it turned out. Their father and grandfather lived there too. They had lost their mother when they were very young, in a raid much like this one. The men of the family hadn't been in the settlement at the time; they had gone away for work. The woman managed to hide the children, but couldn't escape the bandits herself.

Both of my young hosts were still weak, but they had monstrous appetites: a side effect of the spells stimulating their regeneration. The body needs resources from somewhere, so naturally you're hungry all the time.

The father of the family was currently working in the mines as a shift foreman. The grandfather lived in the apartment full-time; he had grown too old for active work and retired. The brother and sister normally took turns cooking, but while they were recovering from their wounds, a neighbor—the mother of my third patient—had taken charge of looking after the family.

And while the people I was staying with were deeply grateful without going overboard, the neighbor absolutely adored me. And the way she cooked...

Mmm...

Because of an illness she had contracted in her youth, she had only ever been able to have one son, and she loved him madly. So did her husband, though he at least tried to raise the boy without spoiling him too much. As a result, I found myself treated practically like royalty. If the rooms hadn't been so small, I wouldn't have minded staying in such a welcoming place for a couple of weeks.

Yes, the locals' homes were... small. I was used to having space. Back home, even my bedroom was larger than this entire apartment. Hopefully Alto would find me something roomier. He could even just give me a plot of land. In a month, I could put up a classic mage's tower—just the thing to start with. The ritual for it had been around for ages; all I'd need to do was find components equivalent to the ones I would have used back in my own world.

I had no illusions about the general. The man looked serious and was clearly no fool. Maybe if I hadn't demonstrated that I could kill nearly a hundred lizardfolk in an instant, the conversation would have gone differently. As it was, I'd been politely offered help finding somewhere to live—but somewhere closer to the general.

Still, a healthy degree of suspicion in a man with authority was only to his credit. I had no doubt Stratus would try to make use of me either, and as long as those attempts stayed within reasonable bounds, I had no intention of resisting. A new world, no knowledge of its laws or customs, absolutely no information at all—fulfilling a few requests for someone willing to offer me patronage while I got my bearings seemed perfectly acceptable.

Besides, I started gathering information almost immediately. Learning that the locals rarely saw the sun and that the rain could go on for months gave me a sudden burst of enthusiasm. I wasn't particularly powerful when it came to controlling the weather, but back home I had made an artifact that could change it at my whim. Want rain? Set its single switch to the right position, and within an hour the sky would obediently fill with clouds and begin to "shed tears."

When Ir'rina left me forever, it rained for weeks. I sat by the fireplace, staring out the window at the clouds and wondering where, in this new life, the little girl who had once been my one and only love would be born.

Ah... For once, the rain outside the window felt appropriate. I lightly ran a finger across the glass beside me and smiled sadly. I hope she's enjoying her new life...

Shaking off the touch of nostalgia, I returned to thinking over my current situation. The only thing my artifact couldn't do was make it snow in summer or turn winter hot, but I figured the ability to get rid of the rain might interest the locals.

The second piece of news... well, there was no point softening it. It shocked me, threw me completely off balance, left me stunned. The locals lived... on a sphere!!! It was... it was sheer madness! And no, they didn't just believe it—they knew it for a fact!!! There were thousands upon thousands of these spherical worlds!!! And they were inhabited by countless sentient races!!!

For me—someone who had seen with my own eyes the tail of the Great Turtle that carried my homeworld—this was... incredible!!!

I do have a flexible mind, of course, but after I finally finished questioning my hospitable hosts under their increasingly astonished stares, I simply went out and wandered around the settlement for half an hour.

The settlement itself, by the way, was a transit point for transports that hauled ore from several nearby mines and carried it farther on to a port, from where it was shipped to other worlds!

Back home, there had been theories that somewhere out in Infinity there were other Great Turtles carrying worlds on their shells, but first of all, those were only theories, and second...

Yeah, for fuck's sake! A spherical world!!!

Mmm... I urgently needed to figure out how all of this worked! I was practically dying of curiosity.

All right, then came another surprise. Not nearly as shocking as the whole spherical-world business or the fact that people could travel to other spheres like it, but I learned that there were no sorcerers on their... planet. None. At all. Absolutely none.

There was some information that certain sorcerers called Jedi lived somewhere out there, but it was either wild rumor or an entirely different tradition. Kidnapping and devouring children, fights with lightsabers—whatever that meant—and their sorcery was described in ways that made no damn sense, so I simply stopped asking about them.

I'd have to look for information from educated people, not miners from some backwater province. No, I liked the locals well enough, but they clearly knew very little about the subject I was interested in.

They were also extremely advanced when it came to golem-building. And they didn't use magic for it at all. I chuckled quietly. I would have loved to see the faces of those underground shorties back home if they ever saw just how far mechanics had advanced here—"the future belongs to mechanics, not to all that magic-schmagic of yours."

It was always amusing to hear that from short, bearded fellows who had no qualms whatsoever about using all sorts of magical artifacts and enchantments in their machinery. And despite publicly mocking magic, the shorties were more than happy to welcome sorcerers among them. I think they had some kind of complex about it. Gnomes simply couldn't interact with the ocean of magic on the aura level, while their "rune mages" were really just ritualists with a school of their own, so they snorted at everyone who could do more.

Anyway. Golem-building. The people of this world... No, that wasn't right. The people of this universe—that was more accurate. They had droids: golems built without a single drop of magic. I was deeply impressed and gained a great deal of respect for the local craftsmen. Incredibly complex work, executed at the highest level. And that wasn't even the most astonishing part—they could make their droids fully sentient!!!

And I very much wanted to study these creations. What interested me most was this: could a soul arise in an artificially created sentient being? After all, even soulless homunculi had been known to acquire one.

And in general, nothing they used had any magic in it. Energy, mechanics—but not a trace of sorcery. Transportation, lighting, heating, even weapons—none of it was magical.

On the one hand, that was bad, because I had really been counting on learning something new. Even if it turned out to be something small, "common knowledge," utterly mundane by local standards. For someone like me, who had been practicing for centuries, a minor discovery here could spark breakthroughs in a huge number of fields. Thousands of years ago, for example, the accidental discovery of a method that allowed a spell construct's reservoir to refill itself had driven enormous advances across the board! From artifact crafting and golem-building to necromancy and combat magic. The simplest of solutions, stumbled upon by a half-trained sorcerer who had lost his mentor while traveling, had pushed the progress of magical society to an incredible new level. For a while, some sorcerers even tried to recreate that "shot in the dark" by leaving their own apprentices in dangerous situations...

No one ever managed to repeat that fellow's achievement, but that was probably for the best. Far too many promising youngsters died in those experiments...

And then there was my former apprentice. An idiot who couldn't even manage to condense himself some water. What kind of discovery could he possibly have made?

Although, why am I being unfair to the poor guy? He did make one!

People die without water.

On the other hand... I tapped the windowpane with my fingernail. On the other hand, I had quite a lot to offer those same Jabiimites. They'd be bringing me minerals, ores, plant and animal ingredients themselves...

And then there were those slavers...

I chuckled quietly, making the old man sitting nearby give a slight shudder.

As they explained it to me, pirates, bandits, and slavers often waited beyond the planet until a gap opened in the clouds shrouding it, then made a quick dash in to raid and take slaves.

But what if I could make those gaps myself?

Make a deal with the general, gather some people, stun the bandits... I doubted Stratus would object if some of the prisoners went toward building up the stock of the new soul vault I planned to create. Especially if I could offer him something interesting in return. A floating boat that didn't give a damn about the weather, for example...

The rest of the captives could be put to work in the mines.

That would be very symbolic.

I chuckled quietly again. Becoming the slave of the very person you had wanted to enslave... Now that was a magnificent joke.

I really did have a brilliant sense of humor.

---

"See that my house is prepared for our guest. And find some staff from among our own people. Ones who know how to keep their mouths shut and won't do anything stupid." Alto gave his adjutant a stern look. "A cook, a housekeeper, and one man for security. And tell everyone who knows about this that if anything about the Sith gets out because of them, I'll be very disappointed."

"We'll do it, General." The still very young man nodded. Stratus was stern and fair, but he had little patience for excessive military formality. "You are Nimbus. You are the ones who stand guard over our world. You give your lives for Jabiim and for our people. I don't need rigid stares and useless gestures. I need you to kill our enemies without missing, save Jabiimite lives, and carry out orders flawlessly. Leave the heel-clicking to the soft-handed types in the capital."

"And make sure everyone is friendly with our guest. Keep a discreet eye on him, but don't crowd him. And no talking about him outside the house. The girls should be attractive, but not too attractive. I don't want any misunderstandings."

"Are you planning to put them in the red-eyed man's bed?" The disapproval in Cordelia's question was impossible to miss.

"If that were what I wanted, I'd have told him to find girls who were easy." The general gave his cousin a warning look; her words had struck a nerve. After thinking for a couple of seconds, he decided to explain—for her sake as well as the adjutant's. "I want the sorcerer to come away with a good impression. This... Sith has already done more for Jabiim than the Republic has in all the years I can remember. He saved practically everyone at that transit point, wiped out a landing party of Trandoshan bastards, handed us a prisoner, and healed three Jabiimites who would have been dead for certain in a primitive little medical post like that. And after all that, he looked perfectly pleased with himself and asked for caf."

Alto studied his cousin for a moment, then shifted his gaze to the young man. Neither of them looked particularly impressed, but he could see that both were thinking it over.

"The sorcerer said outright that he helped because he expected gratitude." Cordelia narrowed her eyes contemptuously at that. "Don't make that face, Cordelia. He said what plenty of people think, but hypocrites hide those same thoughts behind pretty words. Honesty deserves respect, even when you don't like what you hear."

The girl met her cousin's gaze, and for several moments a silent battle played out between them. The general won. His cousin looked away and nodded, conceding that he had a point. As a patriot of Jabiim, she found it hard not to bristle at a worldview built around personal gain.

Stratus allowed himself a faint smile. His cousin would never even think about "gratitude" before rushing to help people in trouble.

"I understand your position, but you've forgotten one very important thing. The Sith owes us nothing. He could have simply gone on his way, and then we would have lost a lot of good Jabiimites to slavery. And who knows..." The general paused briefly. An old pain flickered in his eyes, and a second later anger twisted the handsome man's face. "Who knows how many would have died if those lizards had decided to have some fun with the ones they had no use for. So the sorcerer has every right to our gratitude. And we'll think about how he can help us."

At Cordelia's snort, the general rolled his eyes and reached for his mug of caf. She was hot-tempered. In that, the two of them were alike, but Alto was more objective in his judgments, while his cousin often let her emotions guide her.

He took a deep drink, let himself calm down a little, then continued quietly but with weight behind every word, staring intently at the rain falling outside the window.

"Our world is suffering. Look out the window—really look at that rain! Those are tears. Jabiim's tears for its children. We are robbed, killed, dragged off into slavery, and the Republic and the Jedi don't give a damn. All the Republic cares about is the ore being shipped to Kuat. The Republic..." Stratus's calm, measured voice rose in an instant to an angry near-shout. "The Republic is the first robber profiting off our world. We pay taxes that are supposed to provide us with security, so where is that security? Extortion, bribes, lies, and hypocrisy—that's what we get in return for the money we pay those bastards. Extortionate corporate duties slapped on our ore transports for reasons no one can even explain. Jabiim begs the Republic and the Jedi for protection from pirates, and where is that protection?! Where are the fearless knights with their lightsabers? Where are the Judicials aboard their patrol ships?! Nobody cares. Nobody gives a damn. And the most disgusting part is that even our own aristocrats don't care...

"The aristocracy is the second bandit getting fat on the corpses of our fellow citizens. Do you have any idea how much effort it took me to make Nimbus stop guarding nothing but the mines and their fat asses?! Think about that, Cordelia! They called me a hero because, under my command, Nimbus finally started doing its duty and protecting the people of Jabiim! Do you understand, Cordelia? Roger? Nimbus started doing what it was created to do!"

The general closed his eyes and let out a sharp breath, as if expelling the anger from himself. He wasn't ashamed of the outburst. His cousin, despite her combative nature, was completely on Alto's side. Roger was a distant relative of his, but that wasn't why he was here: the young man was a patriot of his world, and there was no doubt whatsoever about his loyalty.

That was what everyone in Nimbus was like. Every one of them was a hero who gave everything they had to defend their homeland—whether in training or in the slaughter they dealt out to raiders. Stratus had gone into battle alongside them more than once and knew he could rely on every soldier under his command, man or woman—it made no difference. Every one of them would die for their world and their people without a second thought. The general was proud of each of his warriors, treasured their trust, and looked after them as much as a combat officer could look after the soldiers under his command.

"So if this Sith turns out to be useful to my world, I'll become his best friend. By his own account, he can't return to where he came from. He's looking for a new home... That's something worth thinking about very carefully. For now, we'll keep his existence hidden from everyone for as long as we can. We'll learn his goals, find out what he's capable of, and try to make his presence on our planet work to our advantage. Ideally, we'll build a mutually beneficial partnership. I don't want the people of Jabiim becoming anything like the Republic Senate."

The general took another sip of caf to wash away the foul taste that always rose in his mouth whenever he thought of that breeding ground of bureaucrats and bribe-takers, then drummed his fingers on the windowsill.

"I don't know how much truth there is in what the Jedi say about the Sith. Smearing an enemy with propaganda is easy enough for anyone with more brains than a bantha. But we know better than most just how dishonest those defenders of the Republic can be, so... we get to know him, keep an eye on him, and try working with him. If it works out—good. If it doesn't... we'll deal with that when the time comes.

"But just in case, Roger, have the house rigged with explosives. Hide the charges as thoroughly as possible, but make sure that, if necessary, nothing is left of it but a crater to fill with yet another helping of Jabiim's tears."

Stratus fell silent, staring almost hypnotically at the rain. His mind ran through the possibilities. The unexpected encounter with the Jedi's sworn enemy had set his thoughts racing. It brought unease and a sea of questions. What if the stories about the Sith were true, and they really were monsters hiding behind the guise of sentient beings?

"Alto..." The girl's voice pulled the general's attention away from the view outside, and he turned to her.

"Yes?"

"You do overdo the drama sometimes, you know that?" His cousin's smile was warm, but laced with a healthy dose of teasing sarcasm.

"Cordelia... Have I ever told you that you can be unbearable sometimes?"

"Pleeenty of times, dear cousin," she chuckled, watching the people's hero roll his eyes. Roger did his best to make himself invisible and suppress a grin. In private, stern Alto Stratus and his hot-tempered cousin were often simply family. An adjutant's duty was to know when to be useful, when to be invisible, when to simply carry out orders... and, of course, when to keep his mouth shut about his general's private affairs.

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

The two days I spent in the settlement were filled with an incredible number of discoveries. I think that if I ever manage to return to my own world, the things I learned during those two days alone would be enough to fill an entire book.

The sentient beings of this universe were incredible. I simply had no words to express my admiration for how far they had advanced.

And Jabiim turned out to be an entire provincial world. So far out in the backwaters that, you could say, I hadn't even made it out of the sticks yet.

Even the level of technology out here on the fringes was enough to stagger my imagination. It wasn't that I had seen or heard anything fundamentally impossible, no—but I was endlessly amazed that all of it had been achieved without magic, through technology alone.

A younger sorcerer in my place would probably have curled his lip in mockery. I was simply overwhelmed by the possibilities and all the directions in which I could apply my knowledge and effort.

Then came a full day on the road to the city where General Stratus had promised to settle me. The first hour of the journey in an armored, self-propelled wheeled vehicle was punctuated by the driver swearing every now and then. There was a distinct note of admiration in that swearing.

The reason was that, after talking to one of the passengers—a Nimbus sergeant and the senior member of my guard detail, which had been "assigned to you solely for your safety"—I decided to do a little sorcery.

The result was a slightly modified "Taash's Tread" cast on the vehicle. As it happened, about thirty years ago I had made an artifact for a nobleman's carriage, and the work I'd done back then came in handy. Thanks to the spell, our speed doubled because the vehicle stopped sinking into the mud, while most of the escort rode with us inside or on top of the armor. The sergeant decided to keep only a small advance guard out front, rotating them from time to time throughout the journey.

For the soldiers riding outside, I decided to make life a little easier too and stretched a force-field umbrella over them. The trip itself was... honestly, pretty comfortable. Even kind of amusing.

At first, the soldiers were a little... hmm... not exactly afraid of me, but they kept giving me wary looks.

What finally broke through that slight distance between us was one of the guys returning from the advance guard. He took off his helmet, revealing the fairly pleasant face of a young man, and thanked me in a hoarse voice for helping the settlement. One thing led to another, and it turned out he had relatives there. He'd managed to spend a little time with them when the transport and escort arrived to pick me up.

After that, the conversation settled into a relaxed question-and-answer exchange. Some of the soldiers asked about me or about magic, while I asked about their lives and how things worked around here.

I learned that Nimbus was scattered all across their world. Small in number, but made up of highly trained professionals who tirelessly moved from place to place, guarding mines and settlements. Apparently, only the major cities—of which there were just a handful on the entire planet—had anything resembling proper security. Everyone else had, until recently, been largely left to fend for themselves, while all sorts of bandits carried out raids on the settlements, and not always just for plunder, waiting for the rare breaks in the cloud cover.

Alto Stratus, General of the Nimbus Special Forces, had managed to push through both an increase in personnel and new patrol routes. Effective ones. Thanks to the new patrol system, four out of every five pirate raids were now being repelled.

The self-styled aristocracy, made up of the wealthiest families, resisted, but fortunately for the common people, the general managed to push the changes through. His habit of personally taking part in patrols and battles also sent his reputation soaring.

Now, much to the displeasure of the ruling elite, Alto was one of the most influential people on the planet, enjoying enormous popular support as well as the respect and loyalty of the military. And not just Nimbus, either—the planetary militia as well.

The possibility of getting dragged into political games was a little disappointing. And what bothered me wasn't even the prospect of taking part in an armed coup—commanders with this much popular support had done that often enough back home—but the political games themselves. I really hate that shit. All the bowing and scraping, the word games, the blatant lies told straight to your face. Falling into a cesspit would be less disgusting.

So I'd need to discuss that with the general. Pretend to be some unhinged reclusive sorcerer? Hmm... why pretend? I pretty much am one already. Though I had already decided to try living something resembling a social life for a while.

All right, we'd see how things developed, but I should still make my position clear to Stratus. I had no idea what those aristocrats were like, but I'd liked the man when we first met, and the respect his soldiers showed him spoke well of him too.

When we arrived at our destination—a fairly large two-story mansion—I made each of the soldiers a weak protective charm. Nothing extraordinary: just a simple little trinket modeled after my adaptive-protection artifact amulet, only far more primitive and much weaker.

I used the bone of an animal we'd shot along the way as the material. It had only one function: absorbing blaster bolts—that, as it turned out, was what the weapons people used here were called. There were different kinds, but blasters were among the most common. The charm could take about twenty shots before the bone broke apart. Not exactly "holy crap," as Ir'rina used to say, but the soldiers were extremely grateful, and the sergeant kept asking whether she'd be able to buy more of them from me later. I gave her a polite smile at that—which made every warrior in the vehicle flinch—and asked her to bring it up again later, since I still hadn't decided what I was going to do next.

Naturally, I hadn't made the charms out of the goodness of my heart. There were two reasons, really: boredom and a demonstration of what I could do. The idea was to let the soldiers—who would definitely be questioned later—pass information about some of my abilities along to the right ears. If anyone was going to be interested in protecting his soldiers, it was a military commander. Not every commander, of course, but judging by what the troops said, the general didn't skimp on equipment for Nimbus, at least as far as his budget allowed.

Three people were waiting for me at the house: a young man serving as a guard and two girls who introduced themselves as household staff. Well, Alto had certainly found a pretty good way to demonstrate his good intentions. I appreciated it, yes. Especially after they fed me.

Very, very respectable. And the caf one of the girls made had me narrowing my eyes in sheer pleasure and breaking into a blissful smile. Though the kitchen magician did go noticeably pale, while the other girl nearly dropped her tray of dirty dishes...

Ah well. They'll get used to it...

Maybe.

Heh-heh-heh.

At my chuckle, both girls' hands immediately went to their belts. That was how seasoned fighters reached for a sword that wasn't there, which only confirmed my suspicion that the household staff had been picked from Stratus's own people. They might even be Nimbus. Alto had probably just chosen those who knew how to cook, could handle a household, and also knew exactly where to stick a knife into a person.

Predictable.

Predictable—and entirely commendable.

I was liking Alto more and more.

"Girls, afraid you need not be," I said. I had decided not to reveal just how quickly my command of the language was improving, so I often paused and deliberately kept my phrases short and simple. "A strange thing it is: my smile frightens people."

I kept my face carefully neutral, though looking at the two of them made me want to laugh.

"Good food, I thank you for. And caf. Excellent caf." I took another sip and couldn't keep myself from squinting with pleasure. "Never one like this have I tried. Siith, call me. A sorcerer, I am. Your names, will you tell me?"

The thing was, the three of them still hadn't introduced themselves. They had simply greeted me and shown me to the table, where they immediately started setting out the food.

"Maria. I'm in charge of the kitchen." The kitchen magician who had prepared the meal inclined her head in a slight bow, then gestured toward the girl clearing the table. "This is Luritta. She keeps the house in order. Sergiy is our guard. He's responsible for the security droids and the mansion's security systems."

Luritta merely nodded, gathered up the remaining dishes, and headed for the door. The guard hadn't been present during the meal at all. Honestly, even having the two girls there made me a little uncomfortable. I don't like being watched while I eat.

After that came a brief tour of the house. I picked the most spacious bedroom for myself, though even that still felt far too small. Besides that important matter, I noted another no less important—and very unpleasant—fact: there was no library. Information here was stored on small devices, while ordinary books were practically nonexistent.

My world had equivalents of libraries stored on artifact-based media as well, but every sorcerer or mage kept a room in their home lined with bookshelves, where they preserved literature for themselves and for those who came after them. Knowledge must not be lost. Knowledge must not be forgotten. Encrypted or difficult to access, perhaps, but it must remain in the libraries of spellcasters. That was one of the very few demands made by the Mistress of Magic. The Wisest One held paper books in particular reverence. It was no coincidence that only a repository of knowledge could serve as her shrine, or that her own halls were called the Great Library. Walk into any library or bookstore in my world, and you would always see the symbol of the Moon Goddess, patroness of knowledge.

So, after asking Luritta how much freedom I had to make changes around the mansion and receiving the answer, "Anything you like, preferably without destroying anything," I got to work. One of the rooms that looked like a study was completely cleared of furniture. The girl watched open-mouthed as the furnishings floated past her, temporarily relocated to other rooms.

I threw myself into the task with such enthusiasm for two reasons. First, I genuinely loved paper books and the quiet of libraries. Second, I believed that dedicating a small shrine to my goddess in another world would please Hecate—and might even attract her attention and earn me certain... favors.

The goddess answered prayers only very rarely—almost never. But, like the spellcasters who made up her flock, she respected honest dealings. In other words, if you made a significant discovery, you could expect the Wisest One to show her gratitude. To place your own work in the Great Library in person and be allowed to drink from the wellspring of divine knowledge—that was the dream of any spellcaster mature enough in spirit.

There were other possibilities as well: perform a service for the goddess and receive something in return. A blessing, her attention, knowledge, artifacts, even the ability to cast Divine Spells.

So what might a sorcerer expect if he established a shrine to Her on the soil of another world? A sorcerer who opened Hecate a path to the hearts and souls of BILLIONS of sentient beings?

That was why I threw myself into the work so eagerly, barely sparing the large, soft bed a glance. The prospect of skimming the cream off a situation like this stirred both my excitement and my greed. Of course, it was entirely possible that Hecate would merely cast an indifferent glance at yet another shrine—or that she simply wouldn't be able to cross the space between worlds.

There was also the risk of attracting the attention of someone from the local pantheon, but whenever I asked the locals about gods, they only shrugged and mentioned some kind of great force. Asking them about it brought no clarity at all—just a jumble of confused nonsense that left me with nothing but bewilderment.

Sergiy and I headed for the edge of the forest growing a few hundred meters from the mansion. The man was somewhat surprised by the effect of "Taash's Tread" and the umbrella over our heads, but he held himself together well and didn't stare bug-eyed.

After choosing a couple of trees, I felled them with spells and dropped them onto an open patch away from the rest of the woods. A quick stripping of the branches, and five minutes later I had two clean trunks, which I levitated toward the mansion.

This time the guard couldn't quite contain himself and let out a hearty curse when the stripped trunks rose into the air.

After that, things got rather tedious. I brought the trunks onto the mansion grounds, cut off a section of the size I needed, and transformed it into an open bookcase right there in the future library. I took a shape matrix from it and kept repeating the process until I had enough shelves.

Then I dragged in a small table and three armchairs and looked around with satisfaction. It had turned out quite nicely. I adjusted the color and texture of the new furniture to match the room's existing finish. Another ten minutes, and the future library looked complete.

Now for the contents: I needed a construct that would turn wooden blocks into books. I decided not to get fancy and used a simple book with a solid wooden cover as the template. The paper came out decent enough, and soon the shelves were filled with blank books.

I spent almost two hours at it before Luritta came into the room and told me the general had arrived.

"Here invite him, if Alto does not mind. Maria ask to make caf for us. Magnificent caf, like last time." I clicked my tongue in anticipation. Once I got absorbed in my work, as usual, I forgot about everything else. Taking a break for a drink that good was a fine and proper thing—and one entirely pleasing to my sorcery.

By the time the general and his companions entered the room, I had already tidied up and prepared it for guests. The room smelled pleasantly of fresh wood, and the shelves of books looked quite respectable, though the blank spines were bound to puzzle anyone who had no idea how they had been made.

Stratus entered the room, accompanied by a pleasant-looking young woman with sharp eyes and a very young man of about eighteen who practically radiated curiosity.

"General, I greet you." I rose slightly from my armchair and inclined my head, showing the man my respect, then shifted my gaze to the strangers. "And to you, a good day as well."

"My cousin, Cordelia. And my adjutant is Roger. I see you're already making yourself at home?" The general smiled quite warmly, though I could still sense a certain amount of surprise from him.

I winced inwardly. Alto had introduced his companions, but not me. Then again, maybe that was considered normal here. Different world, different customs.

"Glad to meet you. Siith, call me." I nodded to my new acquaintances and gestured toward the empty seats before settling back into one of the armchairs. The house wasn't mine, even if they had put me up here, so they could sort out the shortage of seating themselves. "A library, I am making. Luritta said this I may do."

Alto and his cousin took the armchairs, while the young man remained standing behind the general. Fine by me. Stratus was about to say something, but Cordelia beat him to it.

"Does the esteemed Sith have a name? Or are we simply not supposed to know it?" The question was polite enough, but I caught a faint edge of anger that I couldn't quite place. At the same time, the question itself surprised me. Then, a second later, all the little inconsistencies that had been piling up suddenly clicked into place, and I laughed in relief, which made the others tense up slightly.

"Siith is my name. My mother gave it to me. In your language, a word 'Sith' there is, that sounds like my name?"

I think I broke them, because all three looked utterly stunned. Alto and his cousin exchanged a few glances, and then the general spoke, calmly but cautiously.

"There is an order... of sorcerers. The Sith. There are legends about them being rather... dangerous sentient beings."

"Know them, I do not. But a sorcerer, yes, I am. Born one. Sorcery I learned. Dangerous—yes. But to your Sith, no relation I have. Of them, I did not even know. My name, Siith, means 'one who denies death' or 'one who lives in defiance.' 'Si'—denial. 'Ith'—death. In my native language. A difficult time it was for my parents. Great risk. With the name, my mother tried to drive death away from me." I disliked talking about my childhood, so I tried to explain it in as few words as possible. "If evil the Sith are, why as a guest did you take me, Alto?"

"You helped Jabiimites," the man replied, nodding to Maria as she entered carrying a tray with steaming cups of caf. "That matters more to me than ancient legends and rumors spread by the Jedi."

"Jedi—who are they? Heard of them, I have. Understood little," I said, trying to clarify the subject that interested me as I took my cup of caf.

"Defenders of the Republic," the man said with a grimace. "Sorcerers, same as the Sith, only they present themselves as the good guys. Though Jabiim has never seen much of either their goodness or their protection. I don't know all that much about them. They're raised in a temple on Coruscant, where they're taken as children. They use their magic, fight with lightsabers, travel around the galaxy on diplomatic missions and plenty of other kinds besides, and serve as obedient lapdogs of the Republic Senate—even though they never stop proclaiming how independent they are."

"Mmm... Some of that, I understood. But more I need to learn. New things, constantly I learn. Everything at once, difficult to think through. Time I need." I took a thoughtful sip of caf and narrowed my eyes in pleasure. "Wonderful drink. My favorite now. A sorcerer, why do you need, General? From me, what do you want?"

Cordelia gave a quiet snort and looked me over with amusement.

"Forgive me, sorcerer," she cut in again before her cousin could answer. "But you think far too highly of yourself."

"If me you do not need, and all this only gratitude is"—I gestured around me, meaning the house and their hospitality—"then glad I will be. Many things, I have to do. But here you are, talking to me, a sorcerer, feeding my ego. Too quickly you rush, Cordelia. With words, you try to sting. Why?"

For a moment, the girl looked flustered under my gaze, then she clearly got angry and seemed ready to start dripping venom again. Though what exactly had provoked such a reaction was beyond me.

"Cordelia, please be quiet," Stratus cut in, giving his cousin a stern look. She closed her mouth, though if anything she looked even more aggressive. Yeah... her husband was going to have a hard time someday...

"Siith, I really am interested in working with you. You've already demonstrated certain... talents. Healing, combat, crafting protective amulets..."

"Charms, those are. An amulet is reusable; a charm, single-use." I lifted the artifact medallion hanging around my neck. "This, an artifact amulet is. Powerful. Strong. Recharges itself. Good protection. Very expensive. Those charms? Little trinkets from boredom."

Stratus leaned back in his chair and stared into space for several seconds. The adjutant behind him had a gleam in his eyes; it seemed the boy had realized something. Even Cordelia set her irritation aside, and I could see that she was thinking over what I had said.

"What do you want in exchange for supplying me and my soldiers with larger quantities of those... little trinkets you make out of boredom? Or better yet, amulets?" The general glanced at the medallion. "What else can we count on from you? And what do you want... in return?"

At that, I finally couldn't hold back and broke into a broad smile, making all three of them tense. Roger even put a hand on his blaster.

"You I like, General Stratus. Amulets and protective charms—a small thing only. Charms, an apprentice could make after one month of training, if on that alone he focused. Much magic can do, but much about this world I must know. Materials I must study. Ores, metals, minerals, animals, sentient beings. A great power, magic is. Benefit it can bring. Harm too, if the spellcaster inexperienced is. Experienced, I am. Tomorrow, come. The library I will finish. An oath together before Hecate we will swear, my patron goddess, that harm to each other we will not do. Much I can offer, but secrets without oaths I will not reveal."

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

"What do you think, Alto?" Cordelia was sitting with her cousin in one of the rooms of his house, where they had decided to stay for the night. Somewhere else in the building, the strange sorcerer was busy with his own affairs while the two relatives discussed the conversation they had just had. Stratus had dealt with the urgent matters, so he could easily spare a day.

"Different things. At least he's not a Sith, which is already good. Even if word of this leaks somewhere it shouldn't, we'll be able to calmly deny any accusations. He's a sorcerer, and his name just happens to sound like Sith. He doesn't even have a lightsaber."

"If he wasn't lying. This Siith... he's creepy. Red eyes, black pupils and irises. And when he grins, it's downright terrifying. A real maniac. I already feel sorry for the girls assigned to him."

The general chuckled quietly. Ever-combative Cordelia wrapped her arms around herself and shivered as she described her impressions of the sorcerer. Alto even briefly considered asking her to "keep an eye" on him for a week, but quickly dismissed the idea.

And no, it wasn't his cousin he felt sorry for.

Alto was worried about the sorcerer. Because once the first impression wore off and Cordelia realized that Siith wasn't some terrifying maniac, he just looked frightening...

Then would begin the very thing that had driven many Nimbus officers to howl in despair—sometimes quite literally.

No, no. Even if all the sorcerer could do was make those charms, that alone was incredibly valuable. A charm capable of taking twenty full-power blaster shots was far too significant an advantage in a fight to risk him just for the sake of having a little fun. Especially considering the production cost: twenty minutes of the sorcerer's time and a piece of bone. Hell, he'd even been chatting away with the soldiers while he worked, which hardly made it look like backbreaking labor.

"You read the reports. You helped Roger select those people yourself. He's perfectly sane. He talks strangely, but as far as I can tell, that's because he doesn't know the language well yet. When we first met, he paused so often that it felt like talking to a droid that had frozen mid-conversation." The general even gave a quiet snort at the memory. "His laughter and smiles are unsettling, sure, but aside from that, he's been nothing but useful. And if we're being fair, he's actually quite polite when he isn't working. He threatened to beat the medic at the transit point if she got in his way."

"Ahem. I think I'm actually on his side here. He did patch those guys up." To the general's surprise, Cordelia sided with Siith on this one. "Don't look at me like that. I really did read the reports and watch the recordings. They asked him to help, and he agreed. He could've just said screw it and walked away because that bantha wouldn't stop shrieking. She was getting on my nerves too. So as far as I'm concerned, he handled it just fine."

"Yeah... fair enough. And there wasn't even a fight, so we can probably let that slide. What Sergiy told us is another matter. The sorcerer is clearly something like a Jedi. And judging by what I know about them, not a weak one either.* At the very least, he levitated some pretty large logs, and that definitely isn't apprentice-level stuff. He also turned them into furniture and books. According to the girls, the wood simply changed shape. No sawing, no nails. There isn't a single seam on the bookcases. It almost looks as though they grew that way—or were cast in one piece."

"What interests me more is this Hecate. Are you sure agreeing to some suspicious oath was a good idea?"

"Cordelia, don't make me laugh. Gods? Ha-ha-ha. I'd sooner believe the Senate is full of honest people working for the good of the Republic than that there are gods out there who care about our promises. If the sorcerer wants to make it all sound mysterious, let him. Everyone goes crazy in their own way."

"As you say... Listen, Alto, I've had an idea. I didn't pick those people for this assignment at random—they're all from this city. Our Maria has a brother living here, and something unpleasant happened to him a while back..."

Cordelia went on explaining her idea to the general, who listened closely, while Siith was busy setting up his library.

---

All three guests stayed the night at the house. I briefly considered eavesdropping on them, but once I started filling the books with text, I completely lost myself in the work. A couple of hours later, Maria distracted me by bringing in a cup of caf. I thanked her sincerely and took a short break.

For some reason, the kitchen magician didn't leave. She lingered uncertainly in the doorway.

"If something you want to say, say it." I didn't smile, but I tried to keep my voice friendly. Only an idiot would offend someone who cooked that well. And magnificent caf you hadn't even asked for, brought simply because someone wanted to please you, deserved at least a little attention from me.

"Yes, I wanted to ask a favor... I mean, I have a question!" The girl was clearly uncomfortable: she stood tense, her hands clasped together uncertainly. It suited her, though. A little pale, like everyone else on this world, with harmonious features, brown eyes, and dark hair tied into a simple ponytail that reached her waist, she looked very sweet. Even with the athletic build of a trained fighter that she was trying to hide beneath loose, plain clothes.

"I heard you can heal injuries. Tell me... can you regrow someone's leg?"

"Regrow it, I can. But long it takes. Very difficult. Easier, a new one to make. Make it and... attach it? Sew it on?" I scratched my chin, trying to come up with the right word for what I meant. The Trandoshan's mind had contained more than one language, so I was still having trouble both forming sentences and choosing the right words. Then I simply shook my head and decided not to get into it. "Yes. Do it, I can."

I sat there, looking at her, while she looked back at me. Silence. Slowly, I raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue. Maria finally caught on, apparently only now realizing that I was waiting for her.

"My brother lost a leg, but we don't have much money. He has a cybernetic prosthetic, but it keeps acting up. I wanted to ask if you could help him, and if so, how much would it cost?"

I looked at the girl thoughtfully. A procedure like that was fairly complicated, and back home I would have charged quite a lot for it. Good cooking alone was far too little payment for something like that. Besides, she fed me on Stratus's orders, and her loyalty was first and foremost to him. For one of my own, I wouldn't begrudge the time—but for one of Alto's people...

Then again, I did need to build up a reputation... Hmm... All right, what if...

"Value of your money, I do not know. Who is your brother? A warrior?"

"No. He's a technician specializing in droids. He has his own workshop. Two years ago, a container full of spare parts fell and... well, his leg was basically crushed beyond saving."

"Technician... Droids, he builds and repairs? How they are made, he knows well?"

"Yes." The girl was clearly a little confused, not understanding where I was going with this.

"Good, Maria. Good, this is." I took a sip of caf and leaned back comfortably in the armchair. I looked around the library, estimating how much work was left. About two more hours of fairly tedious labor, and I'd be done. "Money, I do not need. In three hours, I will wait for him. An animal I need, one you do not mind slaughtering. His debt, your brother will repay with knowledge, when I need it. And a droid I want. Assistant. Secretary. Seen ones like that, I have—protocol droids, they are called. Any will do, the cheapest one. With little things, it will help. Acceptable, this price is?"

The girl thought for a few seconds, then nodded and looked at me questioningly.

"Yes, I think that's perfectly acceptable. In three hours? Today?"

"Why put it off? The library, I will finish in two hours. Wash, I will, and then your brother's leg I can deal with. Do it today, and tomorrow no need there will be." I shrugged indifferently. "Only warn him: about this, no talking. The general, tell as your duty requires. Everyone else, no need to know. Opening a hospital—not in my plans."

"O... okay. He'll be here in three hours, and I'll warn him not to talk about it."

When Maria left the room, I took another thoughtful sip. A droid was good. Sentient, able to answer questions, remind me of things, and help with all the usual "fetch this, bring that, go to hell—don't bother me" sort of tasks. A secretary certainly wouldn't hurt. And once I got around to golem-building and started exploring the possibilities of combining my world's traditions with this world's technology, having a skilled technician who owed me a debt would be useful too.

And I needed to start weaving a web of debts and obligations as early as possible. Without connections, getting hold of something urgently—or something truly rare—could be difficult. Even back home, living in the absolute middle of nowhere, I had still managed to make use of people who owed me favors.

Here, I didn't have anyone like that yet. And as for the people I had saved and healed at the transit point, Stratus was the one paying off those debts.

Overall, things were going pretty well so far. Counting from that cave in the forest, in just three or four days I already had a roof over my head and some real prospects. And in a couple of hours, this world would have its first shrine to the Mistress of Magic.

I would put off the actual dedication for now, though. First I'd keep the promise I had already made—it would be rather awkward if some problem after the shrine was completed kept me from doing so. I don't much like failing to keep my word, even when it isn't my fault.

I finished filling the books right on schedule and went to take a shower. I had no trouble with the local bathing facilities or toilets. I had something similar back home, and I'd shamelessly stolen the basic principle from the gnomes.

I remembered how happy Ir'rina had been when I showed her the conveniences of our home. In human lands, sewer systems and running water were far from universal, while the noble elves still relieved themselves into chamber pots so they could fertilize their flowers with the results.

I shuddered under the shower as I remembered the elven tradition known as the "beloved tree" and the ritual of ceremonially fertilizing that very tree.

Brrr...

Pointy-eared lunatics. Complete dendrophiles...

No, I understand—different race, different values and traditions. But to me, they were still a bunch of idiots. Even orcs were closer to humans, as far as I was concerned.

Many human warriors even choose Gork and Mork—the orc gods of martial valor and martial cunning—as their patrons. Simple rules and absolute impartiality. If you're a good warrior, those gods don't give a damn what color your skin is or which side you fight for. All that matters is a glorious battle and a glorious victory.

While I was sitting in the living room drinking yet another cup of caf, Maria's brother finally arrived in a vehicle with enormous wheels. With him came a woman who turned out to be his wife, and some animal whose relative I had killed on my very first day in this world.

After greeting the kitchen magician's relatives, Gloria and Steve, I headed with them—and the little beast floating along beside us—to a small medical room. Yes, the house actually had one. A modest space with a single bed, a couple of bedside cabinets, and a glass-fronted cupboard packed with various medicines. The walls were gray, and the whole place was rather dull.

"Lie down. Sleep now you will. Wake up with a leg. Maria, caf for your relative. Do not disturb me. No danger there is, but difficult the work is."

Once the women had left, I gave the man a wink without smiling—no point in making him nervous.

"No need to worry. Experience, I have. To the leg, you will need to get used, but that should not frighten a man, yes?" Maria's brother gave a silent nod as he detached the metal leg, which looked... hmm... homemade. Crude, with parts of the mechanism sticking out, and some components that had clearly belonged to an entirely different machine once.

"The price, Maria told you?"

"Yes. A protocol droid, and help with droids or advice whenever you need it," the man said with a nod.

"Good. Sleep, then."

The moment I spoke the last word, the man went out cold, and I got to work. I scanned his legs—or rather, his left leg and what remained of the right, which was missing from just above the knee down.

I copied the healthy leg and mirrored it. Adjusted the placement of the blood vessels and nerves. Compared their arrangement with my own. Made a few more corrections, fitted the resulting model to his stump, and ran a simulation to check the nerves and blood flow.

That alone took about forty minutes. The sheer number of little details that had to be accounted for was tiring, but if you're going to do something, you might as well do it properly.

Next came the killing of the little beast's mind and the transformation of its biomass into a human limb. Living tissue was easier to shape than recently dead tissue, so although the animal's primitive consciousness was gone, its body remained alive and actively changing.

For now, only the shape...

For some reason, necromancy is considered the vilest branch of magic, but in my opinion chimerology is far more disgusting. I watched as the animal's hind limbs and part of its pelvis shifted and reshaped themselves under the construct, which was forcing the flesh to change at a greatly accelerated rate.

Fast, of course, being relative.

The limb would be ready in about an hour, so...

I think I'll go get some caf.

Outside the door, I ran into both women and... Cordelia. For several seconds, we all just stared at one another. They looked expectant; I looked surprised.

Then I made the universal gesture of utter shame and covered my face with one hand. At that moment, it was myself I was ashamed of.

I had completely forgotten about security.

There it was—the downside of relying on artifacts. When my robe was working properly, it highlighted sentient beings and potentially dangerous spells within a hundred meters. My home back in my own world was riddled with monitoring spells. I had simply fallen out of the habit of looking after my own security while traveling, especially without the necessary artifacts.

The girls looked astonished, while Steve's wife seemed to be imagining all sorts of things, so I needed to pull myself together and put a brave face on it.

"Here you would be, I thought." I shook my head reproachfully, giving Maria an accusing look. "That difficult it is, I told you. Though fault of mine there is. A long process it is. That, I did not say."

I shifted my gaze to the patient's wife, who sighed with relief even as she tried to peer past me at her husband on the bed. Fortunately, the animal was lying where it couldn't be seen from the doorway.

"Your husband sleeps, Gloria." I stepped aside so she could see the man lying on the bed. "The limb grows on the animal now. Transformations it is undergoing. Show you, I will not—it looks disgusting. When ready it is, the operation I will begin. An hour we have. Caf, I want to drink."

"Sorcerer, aren't you overdoing it a little?" Cordelia asked, with an unexpected note of concern in her voice. "Too much caf isn't good for you. How about a herbal blend instead?"

"Have some, you do?" I perked up at once. I loved things like that. Back in my own world, I had been a great fan of hot drinks like these. For both mages and sorcerers, alcohol was best avoided. A clear mind mattered, so over the years I had developed a taste for all sorts of brewed herbal blends.

After that, we sat in the kitchen and talked. Well, "talked" might be overstating it. The women chatted among themselves while I listened and drank a rather tasty brew, answering questions now and then. To my surprise, I actually enjoyed it. I'd spent far too long sitting up in the mountains with goats—I'd started to miss having people around.

Oddly enough, Cordelia didn't make any snide remarks or show what she thought of me, and I actually respected her for that. Within the general's close circle—with her cousin Alto, the adjutant, a trusted confidant, and me—she allowed herself a little more freedom, though she still never crossed the line. Here, though, she was polite, tried to cheer Gloria up, and treated everyone quite warmly.

Some might call that hypocrisy, but I approved of it. An important quality in any sentient being is knowing what you can allow yourself—and when—depending on the situation. She even told a couple of amusing stories, but as I said, everything in moderation. Funny, really, but you could hardly call Nimbus soldiers idiots for that.

When the time came, I picked up my half-finished mug of herbal brew and went back to work. It was already getting late. Not that I felt sleepy—there were plenty of ways to stay awake—but the mind still needed rest. Going too long without sleep was harmful not only to the body, which could be patched up easily enough, but to the mind as well—and that was a much more complicated matter.

Strangely enough, I found myself thinking more about Maria. An excellent cook who hadn't had enough sleep might cease to be quite so excellent, so my stomach had a vested interest in getting this done quickly and properly.

In the medical room, besides the patient, I found the general, who was looking with some distaste at the genuinely unpleasant sight of a human leg growing out of an animal. The local goat no longer had a pelvis or either of its hind legs, and its body was living out the last few hours of its life.

Giving Alto a nod, I got to work. "Blood Kinship." Trim part of the stump. Stop the bleeding. I severed the donor leg with a spell so the cut was exactly where I needed it; the same spell sealed the blood vessels in both the new leg and the donor carcass.

No need for any unnecessary mess.

I pressed the limb into place and started the process of fusing the tissues together and transforming the animal tissue into that of the human template. That last part, by the way, was itself one of the greatest discoveries, opening the way for both chimerologists and healers to reach heights of mastery unheard of at the time.

"All right, finished I am, General." I gave Stratus a nod.

"This... yes, Siith, this is impressive. The sight was worth losing some sleep over. Frankly, something like this is worth a lot more than a protocol droid."

"The droid, not the important part. Knowledge is valuable. When help I need, ask for it I will. Back home, always this way spellcasters did it. If money you have not, repay the debt with work. The sciences of your world interest me, and good advice from a man who knows more than I do and is grateful to me—hesitate to ask for that, I will not."

I threw a blanket over the dead animal and opened the door, letting in the girls and the woman waiting outside. This time, I hadn't forgotten about security: I'd planted monitoring spells all over the house and the estate grounds. Fortunately, I didn't need to walk around personally to place them.

Then came the thanks—from the woman first, and afterward from the man once he woke up. He was still moving his new leg awkwardly, but with obvious delight. It all ended with them thanking the general as well, which earned Alto a respectful look from me.

Sly bastard. He certainly hadn't missed the opportunity.

Though he caught my look, and from the slightly embarrassed expression on his face I couldn't tell whether he was uncomfortable because I'd seen through him... or whether he genuinely hadn't planned it that way.

Hmm...

Well, whatever. Frankly, it didn't matter.

Before leaving, Steve, whom Sergiy helped get to the vehicle, solemnly promised that by lunchtime tomorrow I would have their best protocol droid. He would spend tonight and tomorrow morning making sure it was properly tuned up.

I advised him to exercise the leg, but not to rush things or put too much strain on it. A normal recovery would take about ten days. After that, all he'd have left to do was get used to having two legs again—and start stubbing the little toes of both feet on chair legs.

The couple laughed at the simple joke and drove off, while I asked Sergiy to dispose of what was left of the carcass. I shamelessly lied that for a human, eating that meat would be practically the same as cannibalism.

Yes, exactly.

I just didn't want to eat goat again.

Better to let them treat some dogs to it.

---

Author's Note:

*To avoid any misunderstanding: Alto Stratus had been to Coruscant several times and had even spoken before the Senate, so he could quite plausibly have been acquainted with Jedi. Or at the very least, he could have heard about them from people who were. In other words, unlike most Jabiimites (most, not all), the general was a fairly well-informed man. And yes, I know that "weight doesn't matter," but I honestly don't remember any really impressive telekinetic feats from Padawans, except Luke. I could be wrong about that, of course, but the extreme rarity of such talent could easily give non-Jedi the impression that moving heavier objects is more impressive.

The planet itself is fairly cut off from the rest of the galaxy because of its harsh weather conditions and interference with the HoloNet, but it's not some completely backward corner of nowhere either, so don't think of the locals as cavemen. They have their own internal broadcasting and a local network, which they managed to run underground where wireless connections weren't practical. It's basically just a remote province where communication with the rest of the Republic works almost like sending messages by carrier pigeon.

---

A little authorial cry of despair brought on by the quirks of language community. I'm including it just for fun.

Sorry for the pedantry, but I think some things are worth explaining. The D&D crowd among my comrades keeps giving me hell over my "wrong kind of warlock, and anyway, that's a sorcerer," despite the fact that both the character and his homeworld are entirely my own creations. And despite the fact that warlocks don't actually exist and D&D doesn't have a monopoly on the word.

I swear, at this rate I'm going to start gnawing on a shield and go build myself a longship... in the middle of my desert.

Now, I could understand it if an actual sorcerer wrote to me and went, "Uh, Boroda, have you lost your mind? I've been practicing magic for a hundred and forty years! Three diplomas, five apprentices, and you're writing this nonsense."

Sorry about the smoke. At this point, certain parts of my anatomy are genuinely on fire.)))

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

After seeing the patient and his wife off, everyone except me retired to their bedrooms. I only asked Maria to make another batch of the herbal brew, then went to the library. The last task for today wouldn't take much time, but it was better to get it out of the way now so I could move on to other things tomorrow.

The dedication of a shrine was a fairly simple process. The Mistress of Magic was no great admirer of the clergy. In practice, anyone who became her follower was also a cleric—to the smallest possible degree, perhaps, but a cleric nonetheless. Spellcasters, learned scholars, and other sentient beings who revered knowledge rarely became fervent devotees. In that, Hecate was much like the gods of war, whose favored followers were warriors and commanders. To serve her was to love knowledge, to love unraveling the mysteries of magic, and to follow that path. That was why any member of her flock could perform the simplest form of the ritual over any repository of knowledge. All it required was sincere intent.

And that was exactly what I was doing now.

Above the door to the small library, I mounted a simple wooden shield decorated with the Goddess's symbol: two crescents with their horns pointing outward, and between them a stylized image of a circular labyrinth with a key at its center.

"Hecate, Mistress of Magic," I began, slowly walking along the shelves and brushing my fingers over the spines of the books. "Your follower humbly asks a moment of your attention. A Temple of Knowledge I have raised, and to you I wish to give it. Beneath the rustle of pages, beneath moonlight and candlelight, others will seek wisdom here. Look upon them as they drink of that wisdom, for the glory of Knowledge, in the name of the Moons whose light drives back the darkness of ignorance. I ask you: watch over them and take pride that their minds grow strong, that their thirst for knowledge never fades, that here they become better than they were beneath the shelter of your favor."

I bowed my head to the symbol above the door—not deeply, but with respect. Done. Unfortunately, I didn't feel anything. Not that I ever had before. Hecate wasn't one for putting on a show over things like this. Deciding to have a cup of the herbal brew Maria had made for me before bed, I glanced over at the small table where the teapot and cup were waiting.

Sprawled comfortably in one of the armchairs was a girl... a woman? Hmm... Her age was difficult to pin down. One moment, you could have called her young; the next, you realized you were looking at a mature—and incredibly beautiful—woman.

Hecate.

In person.

Here.

And she was drinking my herbal brew!!!

From my cup!!!

"You know, Siith... In all these thousands of years, you're the first person I've seen look at a goddess with indignation and at a cup of hot drink with naked greed," the Mistress of Magic said with a snort.

Then, with an almost imperceptible movement of her free hand, she grasped the cup in her other hand and pulled another full cup out of it.

Um...

Was she... showing off just now?

I wondered as I respectfully went down on one knee before her. Divine tolerance was one thing, but you didn't get rude with gods. And if you did... Well, I remembered the lesson that had left me with this nightmare instead of normal eyes—a curse I still hadn't found any way to undo.

"Have a seat," she said with a smile, gesturing toward the neighboring armchair and levitating the cup over to it. "You've surprised me greatly, sorcerer. It isn't exactly a rare occurrence, but your relatively successful experiment has the entire pantheon in an uproar right now."

The Goddess pulled a mischievous face, once again looking like a young woman—almost a girl. She took another sip from her cup and looked at me as I sat down opposite her and took my share of the brew. My heart began to pound under her gaze. Divine beauty looking upon you with favor stirred far too powerful a sense of awe. Long silver hair spilled from her shoulders all the way to the floor, curling there in rings and even whole silvery heaps. Her dress, silver as well, concealed her completely from neck to the elegant shoes peeking out beneath the hem. Her fathomless steel-gray eyes held the reflection of the roiling ocean of magic.

She... yes, for the first time in my life, I could say with certainty that the woman seated before me was divine.

"Another world, Siith. You're in another world—and with you, so am I. And after you gifted me this cozy little corner... What I've learned about Jabiim alone is enough to earn you a most generous reward. What would you like, sorcerer?"

My lips went dry in an instant, and before my eyes appeared a face framed by a mane of dark hair. The eyes in that beautiful face were laughing as they gazed at me with affection. I could almost hear the bright laughter of the woman I loved...

"Forgive me, but no." Hurt and disappointment made me snap my already-open mouth shut. The Goddess answered the request I hadn't even voiced yet, firmly and without hesitation. "It isn't that I don't want to. Think of her before you say it."

"I understand..." I said after a few seconds. And I really did. Ir'rina had chosen to continue along the path of endless reincarnation herself. Many did. Sooner or later, everyone moved on. Even I would grow tired someday and leave.

It had been a moment of weakness, one that, despite its obvious foolishness and the pain it brought, proved that I was still human.

"Will I ever be able to meet her again?"

"Children... Nothing in the universe is impossible. But for now..." The girl sitting before me shook her head with a sympathetic smile and became more like a wise, mature aunt whose beauty had not diminished in the slightest with age. "Just keep moving forward, Siith. Trust an experienced woman: every attempt to flirt with fate leads to serious trouble. There's a reason our world no longer has prophets. You don't know this, but in my memory, because of them, we came to the brink of our world's destruction four times. That is why Fate is silent. We get chills even when he merely smiles.

"Better think about what you need right now, and then we'll continue discussing business. The one thing I cannot do yet is take you from here to the Great Library. One follower and one small shrine... Even now, simply speaking with you is costing me a significant amount of power."

"Hmm..." As Ir'rina used to say: "the bummeringo bird strikes again." "Crystal wyvern bones?"

The Goddess glanced at my robe, gave a knowing snort, and theatrically snapped her fingers. An enormous pile of bones appeared to my right.

No, not bones.

BONES!!!

Absolute monstrosities of bones!!!

Only they clearly hadn't come from a wyvern. The crystal the bones were made of wasn't emerald-green but ruby-red, and the bones themselves were far too large...

That's...

"Bones of a Crystal Dragon, Siith. And this as well." A thin little book appeared on the table. "This is my wrath. Use it only as an absolute last resort." At my astonished look, Hecate merely rolled her eyes. "You asked for nothing but the bones of a winged lizard. Seriously? If I weren't a Sorceress myself, I might even have taken offense at such modest demands. And this is only the beginning."

I nodded and, trying to suppress my excitement, picked up the book. I had only ever heard of things like this in legends.

Divine Spells.

Something that allowed a sorcerer to work not magic, but miracles—a call to the Goddess, who would grant a drop of her own power to accomplish the impossible, even by the standards of the greatest mortals. Despite myself, my hands trembled slightly. All my grand words about experience, wisdom, and maturity were forgotten, swept aside by sheer childlike wonder. Even the bitterness of being unable to see the woman I loved had faded a little.

"What does the Moon Lady want from me?" I had heard her say that this was only the beginning, and I was waiting for her to continue.

"What might a girl want from a man?" Hecate gave me a sly look. "I want the whole world, Siith. Give me the chance to learn everything this universe knows, to unravel its mysteries, to solve every puzzle it holds."

The nostrils of the Goddess, who now looked like an impossibly beautiful, enraptured young woman, quivered with excitement, while her delicate fingers fidgeted with the fabric of her dress. The cup she had forgotten about hung suspended in the air, giving off fragrant steam.

"I need mages, Siith. Mages and sorcerers. I need libraries that will receive my patronage. I need enough power here for these pretty little feet of mine to walk out that door and carry me toward everything new! And when that happens, sorcerer, I will do for you anything you desire that lies within my power. If you wish, you may stand beside me and have access to everything I possess. Within reason, of course."

The Goddess read my face like an open book. There was gentle amusement in her eyes—and greed. The same hunger for the new and unknown that I felt myself. The First Mentor thirsted for knowledge just as fiercely as I did. Only hers was hunger raised to a divine degree.

"If you wish, in your next life you can retain as much of your former self's memory as you choose. Your entire personality, if you like, or only your knowledge. Besides that, child..." Another subtle change left me looking once more at a mature woman, now wearing a serious, businesslike expression. "I was very... very politely—practically tearfully—asked to make you an offer on behalf of several friends of mine from the Pantheon. Honestly, it was the first time I'd ever seen the All-Father being that tactful. And Gork and Mork trying to pay awkward compliments..."

Soft laughter, tinged with smug satisfaction, drifted through the library as the young woman took another sip from her cup and narrowed her eyes dreamily.

"If you take on my request, then once I become strong enough here, some of the Gods would be infinitely"—Hecate put special emphasis on the last word—"infinitely grateful if you chose to let them in as well."

"But... you want to become the Supreme Goddess here?" I asked cautiously.

Hecate stared at me in confusion, then her eyes widened in completely genuine surprise.

"No, no, of course not! Why would I want that?! Voluntarily putting the burden of ruling on my own shoulders? Never! I already have far too many unnecessary duties, sorcerer. Let someone who actually enjoys that sort of thing deal with it! The important thing is that no one bothers my spellcasters. I mean, some youngsters... do get a little carried away." The wise woman made a vague gesture, a trace of sadness touching her face. "I simply want to establish myself in this new world, gain enough power here to protect both you and myself, and then begin my research. Let others waste their time on all that nonsense. I'm right, aren't I, my dear?"

One hundred percent, Wisest One. I closed my eyes in agreement, basking in the warmth of divine approval. Happy is the one who tends his own "garden." Not literally, digging around in the dirt, but by devoting himself to the work he truly loves. Doing what brings joy and satisfaction. To grow, to improve, to learn something new—that had been the passion of my entire life...

Well, that and satisfying my hunger for fame, of course. But I imagine every mortal has some of that.

And now, sitting across from me, was someone who understood me better than any of my colleagues ever had. The Great Sorceress, Mistress of Magic, First Mentor—the one who had taught the world's first mages and, according to legend, given birth to the world's first sorcerer...

By the way...

I gave Hecate a questioning look and caught the slight frown on her face—a warning.

"Some questions, Siith, are better left unasked. I have my privacy too."

"Understood. I'm no fool. A fool wouldn't have understood." I gave her a slightly embarrassed smile, and the Goddess merely shook her head.

"All right, it's fairly difficult for me to remain here, so let's settle this. Will you give me this world, my dear?" The seductive young lady fluttered her eyelashes once again, smiling mischievously.

"I..."

"Wait." The Goddess sighed, adjusted a strand of hair, and let her expression grow serious again. "You are free to refuse. I have never forced anyone, and I never will. The prospects are enormous, I'll tell you that plainly. So enormous that even I am astonished by the scale of them. So let's do this: think it over carefully. My perception here and now is extremely weak. I have no domain in this world, and my power is limited. I don't know whether there are other gods here whom ordinary mortals simply know nothing about. I cannot sense them, but that does not mean they aren't here. Nor can I predict how they might react to Gods invading their world.

"While you're thinking, keep in mind that the risk is great, and so is the reward. Once you've made your decision, simply say it aloud while you're in a library—this one, or any other dedicated to me. Even if you refuse, I will not be angry, and I will not take back my gifts."

"All right, Hecate." I bowed my head in gratitude and respect.

"Thank you for the drink," I heard in reply, but when I looked up, the armchair was empty.

Gone...

I gave a slight start as something began moving on my knee. Once I saw what had caused the brief fright, I smiled with delight.

"Quartermaster! Good to see you, you glutton!"

The chimera-hamster, his reddish fur sleek and glossy with health, gave me a sharp look with his beady little eyes and confidently began crawling up my chest toward his own pocket on my vest. After chittering for a moment, he shoved his head inside and dropped into it, leaving his well-fed backside sticking out for all to see.

"You've got a fat ass," I laughed, poking him in the rump with a finger as he snorted indignantly. Then I turned my pet the right way up. "Been fattening up your main weapon, have you? Eat a lot of stuff back home, or did the Goddess fatten you up like this?"

Scratching the chimera-hamster under the jaw and listening to his contented snuffling, I fell into thought. Maybe I should ask the Moon Lady to transfer my storage here?

Then again... using Gods as movers was probably a bad idea. They might take offense. Even if only a little, there'd still be some lingering resentment afterward.

So I'd settle for being grateful for the hamster.

"Well then, my omnivorous friend, shall we go see what kind of accommodations we've got?" I glanced at the bones. "Though the bones... ah, never mind. Let them stay here."

After scribbling out a note telling everyone not to touch the bones—the writing came awkwardly after so long without practice—I headed off to bed, rubbing my hands together in anticipation. Everything else could wait until tomorrow. I'd need to start mastering the spell the Goddess had given me, and deal with my robe too. Crystal Dragon bones as a mana reservoir were just... damn. I didn't even have words for it. A truly divine gift.

And I still had things to hash out with Stratus. Fortunately, now I knew for certain there wouldn't be any problems with the oaths...

I also needed to start looking for an apprentice—or several. Whatever I decided to tell Hecate in response to her offer, sla... uh... assistants certainly wouldn't hurt. They could churn out protective charms, make simple amulets. I wasn't going to slave away over such primitive work myself, was I?

And then there was healing. What I had already demonstrated practically guaranteed that more patients would appear sooner or later. The general, for one, would almost certainly try to push me into helping wounded Nimbus soldiers. You couldn't train a competent healer or chimerologist quickly, of course, but it was better to start sooner rather than later.

Oh, dear...

So many plans that I had no idea how I was going to find time for all of them. And I really needed to get properly acquainted with this universe too.

** Very far from Jabiim. Coruscant. Jedi Temple. **

A fairly elderly man—an old man, really—dressed in the robes of the Corps of Balance, flinched and opened his eyes with a grimace.

Today, while gazing into the Force, he had seen something strange. A woman he did not recognize. Not some vague vision, but an incredibly vivid image.

An impossibly beautiful girl... or woman? She walked along a path of moonlight cast by two crescents above her head. The longer he studied the figure, whose silver hair was far longer than she was tall yet floated behind her in a breathtaking display, the more astonished he became. Her age was not merely impossible to determine—it seemed to shift before his eyes, while only her perfect beauty remained unchanged.

The beautiful dress emphasized her flawless figure, and every step the stranger took stirred feelings and desires in the old man that he had long since forgotten. Around the strange woman bounded and frolicked four enormous but strikingly beautiful beasts: four powerful legs, thick fur black as night, a single tail, and a head resembling that of a kath hound. The creatures were far more pleasing to the eye than the animal familiar to the stargazer, and instead of hooves they had paws armed with formidable claws.

Despite their size, they behaved rather playfully, and from time to time the woman stroked their large heads as she walked.

She was passing by, yet somehow, in some inexplicable way, she kept drawing closer to the stargazer—as some people called those like him... who was he kidding, the entire Temple called them that.

And then the woman looked directly at him with her gray, almost silver eyes. Under that gaze, the old man felt his heart begin to beat faster, while a strange sense of exhilaration rose within him, mingled with awe.

"What a curious boy," the beauty said with a smile, her voice seeming to come from everywhere at once, every bit as beautiful as she was. "But it's too soon. My sorcerer hasn't decided anything yet. Forgive me, child."

One of the beasts turned its head toward the Jedi and let out a sharp cry. That was what made him flinch and jolted him out of meditation.

For several minutes, the elderly man sat staring at a single point, trying to make sense of what it all meant. Then he gave a quiet snort and muttered, "Curious boy? And what was all that supposed to mean?"

The man looked around at his fellow members of the Corps and saw only the serene faces of sentients deep in meditation. He would have to discuss this with Yoda. The Master of Masters might be able to shed some light on it.

It had been far too unusual a... vision.

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

Morning... I should note that mornings are what I dislike most about this world. Over the long chain of years I spent living alone, I got used to waking up whenever I damn well pleased. "Morning is not a time of day. Morning is the moment I decide to wake up," Rung wrote in his Reflections. On that point, I agreed with the ancient sorcerer completely.

But here, people kept waking me up. My neighbors in the apartment, the need to get ready for the road, the general's business. Today, it was the last of those. Luritta, though very delicate about it, persistently woke me and told me that General Stratus was already up and having breakfast with Cordelia.

I badly wanted to tell everyone to go eat shit for breakfast and stop bothering the terrifying sorcerer, but Maria saved the situation. Or rather, a mug of her caf did—the housekeeper set it down on the bedside table. So, casting aside both my irritation and the blanket, I shot out of bed, making the housekeeper recoil and blush, grabbed the mug, took a generous swallow, and trudged off toward the bathroom.

Only after I stepped inside did I remember that I slept naked. I stood there for a second, processing that thought, then snorted and got on with washing up. Luritta was a grown woman. She could survive a few seconds of looking at a naked man.

I reached the dining room feeling refreshed, if still mildly annoyed. The general looked as he always did—calm and focused. Cordelia, meanwhile, was sporting a gloomy expression and a look full of morning irritation, which stirred a distinct sense of solidarity with her in me.

Muttering a greeting, I quickly demolished my share of breakfast, whose quality almost completely reconciled me with the morning. I even started considering trying to lure Maria into my own service, but dismissed the idea. Stratus's people were loyal to him, and I risked ending up with a permanent spy in my camp. Though the same could probably be said of most Jabiimites.

Yeah... that was a bit of a problem. Still, I figured I could find at least one decent cook. Worst case, I could always buy a slave later. I'd heard that sort of thing was practiced in this universe, even if there were almost no slaves on this planet. The locals called it some convoluted kind of contract, but the essence remained the same—bondage, servitude, slavery.

After breakfast, we went to the library for the oath and the conversation that would follow. The general looked completely unconcerned, while his cousin had grown even gloomier. Worried about Alto? Hmm... Either he was very good at hiding it, or he really was well disposed toward me and meant me no harm.

Or...

Wait. If there are no gods here—or if they're very distant—he might not be taking any of this seriously at all!

Well, that's his own stupid fault. There's a sorcerer standing right in front of him, doing magic, and I told him about the Goddess. If he chose not to believe me, that was his problem. Still, for the sake of a clear conscience, I suppose I should give him one more chance.

"Ready, are you, General? Or explanations first, you want?" I asked when we reached the library.

Before Alto could answer, his cousin cut in with a question of her own.

"Maybe you should explain the gods and the oaths first?"

Stratus gave her a slightly irritated look but said nothing, merely settling into an armchair to wait for my answer. I, on the other hand, gave her an approving nod. When dealing with the unknown, caution was only sensible. Sometimes the unknown turned out to be unpleasant as well, so Cordelia had just risen another notch in my estimation.

"I'll explain," I said, taking a seat in an armchair as well. "A full cleric, I am not—Hecate has none—but about those who dwell on the upper planes, more than some I know. Boasting, I am not: long I have lived, much I have heard. An oath before a god is insurance for anyone. The one who breaks it—dies. The deity watches over its observance and guarantees honesty. For example, we swear not to harm each other, but in battle, by accident, a blaster shot meant for someone else hits me. No punishment there will be, because harm you did not intend. A simple accident it was. And the reverse as well. Hint to one of your soldiers that I am no longer needed. No order you give, no shot at me you fire, but in the end someone tries to kill me. And the moment the killer pulls the trigger, you will die."

"Will lightning strike me from the heavens?" Stratus asked with a smirk, and I merely rolled my eyes.

Even in my world, where the avatars of gods sometimes walked among mortals, there were idiot skeptics. There was no other word for them. Fine, the ones who screamed that the gods were parasites simply didn't understand the benefits involved, and that was one thing. But when a pair of green-skinned twins could actually appear on a battlefield to join in a good, bloody fight, or the Goddess of Mercy herself might walk through hospitals healing children and those adults she considered worthy of life...

Come on. That was just stupid.

Though I supposed the general could be forgiven for it. Still irritating, though.

"No lightning. When an oath you swear, the God access to your soul you grant. A mark, he places upon it. No defense there is, because part of his power already rests within you. A single wish, and death comes instantly, while the oathbreaker's soul awaits 'tormenting retribution.' When and if we decide our cooperation to end, we simply declare the oath no longer needed."

For a while, silence settled over the library. Cordelia's frown deepened, while the general sank into thought.

"That... is useful," Stratus finally said, though I could still see disbelief in his eyes. "I'm not opposed to it in principle, but I'm curious. What does your goddess's patronage give you, for example?"

"Me? All sorcerers beneath the Moon Goddess's protection walk. Almost no benefit ordinary mortals get from her, but to us she is useful beyond measure. Mutually beneficial, it is..." I broke off for a second as goosebumps ran across my skin.

A clammy fear wrapped itself around my soul as realization struck. When you live for a long time, some basic truths begin to slip from your mind, and this was one of them. I continued, my voice a little hoarse, while my companions stared in surprise at my suddenly shaken, pale face.

"Every sorcerer, at the beginning of the path, undergoes initiation. Duty of the mentors, that is. Not a difficult ritual—more like simple intent, expressed in words. In a shrine, we tell the Wisest One that magic we wish to comprehend. Simple words, but the most important thing hidden in them is this: the Goddess protects us from madness."

As I spoke, my heart gradually began to calm. How could I have forgotten something so "minor"? It was practically one of the first things I had learned in my distant apprenticeship.

"A sorcerer or mage, as power he gains, risks losing his mind. Magic can turn him into a beast. Eyes burning like molten gold—the first sign that he stands on the brink. Strong your mind and spirit are, then resist the madness you can. But the risk of becoming an animal and never regaining your reason is high. Long has it been since anything like that happened in my world. Many schools and academies of magic there are, where mage and sorcerer alike will be initiated, and sorcerers, simply by entering a library, already receive Hecate's protection. A maniac or a bastard, you can still become—but no more than any ordinary person. No magic-induced madness."

I took a brief pause to gather my thoughts. It wasn't that I was unwilling to reveal all the secrets of my patroness, but for anyone who wasn't a sorcerer, most of it would simply be useless information. So I decided to limit myself to a general explanation of the gods.

"All gods, dwelling in the upper planes, protect the middle world from demonic invasion. Not from one succubus some fool summons for sex, but from an avalanche of rabid freaks eager to devour as many souls as they can. Terrifying it is even to imagine a world with no gods, where the spawn of chaos rule. All the more ridiculous are fools who deny the protection the gods provide. Without them, our world would become a farm where demons raise us for slaughter, devouring souls and mutilating minds." I genuinely shuddered at the thought.

More than once, I had seen cults of demon-worshipers. And on occasion, I had even taken part in burning that filth from the shell of the world. Free will allows mortals to do truly horrifying things... selling your soul to a demon, for instance.

Utter stupidity.

I simply saw no point in it. Money, authority, strength, power? All of that could be achieved by your own efforts.

Even something as simple as an incurable illness afflicting someone close to you—incurable by sorcerers, at least. It's horrible, I agree, watching someone dear to you die. I've been through that myself. But after death comes the next birth. The soul does not die; it takes flesh again and continues along the cycle of reincarnation. Besides, the clergy can heal almost anything.

So yes, situations differ, but there are only two circumstances in which you should ever deal with fucking demons: when the demon is already dead and raised through necromancy, or when it's trapped, bound in oaths, seals, chains... And even then, better not. It can go fuck itself—or serve as an anal plug for Dozdronogul, for all I care.

Demonology may be useful, but it's also the most dangerous discipline of all. Even a mere succubus can twist her way around the terms set by an incompetent demonologist, literally fuck him to death, and take his soul. Then devour it all the way down to the Indivisible Core.

"And to their chosen ones, the Gods can lend aid as well. Give strength in the heat of battle, for example, soften a mortal blow, and sometimes, when surely you would have died, your patron may even come to your aid. Rarely, very rarely, this happens, but everyone wants to have that chance. That is why almost everyone back home has a patron. Without mortals, Gods do not live long, feeding on our faith and on the memory of life in the mortal world, but without them, things would go very badly for us too. Symbiosis, perhaps, is the best word for our relationship with the Gods. Clearly enough, I explained?"

"Yes, sorcerer, more than clearly," Cordelia muttered, while her cousin merely nodded thoughtfully. It seemed the man had finally started to believe me.

"Siith, what is your planet called?" Stratus asked, coming out of his thoughts as he looked at me.

"No name. Just the World. And on a planet, I did not live. Our world rests on the shell of the Great Turtle. Through Infinity, she swims. Where to? No one knows. I suspect even the Gods do not."

After my words, I was treated to the rather amusing sight of the two relatives widening their eyes in perfect unison. It was so funny that I burst out laughing.

"The same face I had when I learned about the sphere you live on. Funny, it is. Believe me or not, but the Turtle's tail I have seen with my own eyes, looking down from the edge of the world."

"All right." Alto rubbed his face. "That's interesting, and some of it is hard to believe, but Jabiim matters more to me. Let's get the oath over with and deal with our business."

"Good. Repeat after me when I finish speaking." I nodded to the general and, without getting up, shifted my gaze to the Goddess's symbol. "Hear me, Hecate. I swear not to reveal the secrets of Alto Stratus and his cousin Cordelia. Intentionally, no harm against them will I commit, while this oath remains in force and has been sworn by all parties."

The general stared at me for several seconds, but then nodded and repeated my words. After him came Cordelia's turn, and she practically forced each word out as though she were saying them against her will. Once the oath had been spoken, the Goddess's symbol filled with a soft silver light, only to fade again a second later.

"Heard, it was. The oath, she accepted," I explained aloud, interpreting what had just happened to the symbol. Later I'd have to perform a ritual and check the oath mark. Not that it was strictly necessary, but... I'd feel better that way. I liked everything precise and free of mistakes.

Then we moved on to discussing how we could be useful to each other. I was glad I hadn't misjudged Stratus, because he had the grip of one of Hecate's hounds. Sure, maybe some people enjoyed leading others around by the nose, but I had always believed two things. First, shit tends to float to the surface, so sooner or later your schemes will come to light and destroy whatever trust you had built. And second, nothing strengthens a mutually beneficial relationship quite like honesty.

No, that didn't apply to personal secrets. I wasn't going to reveal all my secrets to anyone except those closest to me, and even they would probably never learn certain things that no one but me needed to know. But I would state a fair price for my services without trying to squeeze extra profit out of anyone, just as I wouldn't allow anyone to cheat me. That was precisely why we weren't discussing any final prices yet.

Stratus... wanted everything. Everything, and as much of it as possible. Protective charms, amulets, enchanted armor, "Taash's Tread" artifacts for vehicles in every possible configuration, including travel over water. When he heard about hovering boats that didn't give a damn about the weather, he went silent for several minutes, lost in thought. And the mention of weather control sent both officers into a state of intense excitement.

"Siith," the general began cautiously after Maria brought us a pot of hot herbal brew and left the room. "It's very hard to believe what you've just told us..."

"Yes, I understand. Calm the sky, I can. A ritual, I can perform. The effect will not last long—an hour, maybe two. Much will depend on the weather. It can be sustained, but an artifact array could do the same, leaving the sorcerer free." I shrugged indifferently and took a small sip of the fragrant brew. Tasty, though I still preferred caf. "Do not fear offending me with doubt, Alto. Normal, that is. You have not even known me a week."

What followed was a practical discussion of the ritual and what I could provide right now. For the time being, it would only be protective charms—they required the simplest materials. Wood, bone, minerals, metals, precious and semiprecious stones.

Using Crystal Dragon bone for anything like that hadn't even crossed my mind.

That was My Precious, which I would share only with... hmm...

No one. They could do without.

Even back in my own world, there was no one I would have sold a treasure like that to. Here, even less so. It was an incredibly valuable ingredient.

Soon the general would start sending me shipments of various dead creatures native to their world, along with whatever metals he could get his hands on, plus samples of local wood and minerals. We also agreed that later they would bring me live specimens as well. I'd figure out what worked best for making protective charms, and perhaps find something suitable for amulets too.

They gave me space for workshops: "Take the whole house if you want." Fine by me. I complained that the place was too cramped and easily got them to agree that later on, a proper building would be constructed for me to live and work in.

Cordelia tensed noticeably when I brought up visiting the local orphanages, and I hurried to reassure her—as well as the general, who was also looking at me with some suspicion.

"Apprentices I need, fierce-eyed one," I told her with a mocking smile. To the girl's credit, she didn't even flinch, merely flicking her eyes aside for a moment. Getting used to me, heh-heh. "For sacrifices to fill the soul vault, the bandits who come here hunting for slaves will do. For you, they will work—producing energy until their resource runs dry."

Then came the explanation of how energy was extracted from the soul's informational layer. Stratus laughed with the delight of a boy. Even his cousin wore a pleased smile, though there was at least as much menace in it as satisfaction.

Yeah, they really hated pirates here.

And I had a feeling I wouldn't have any shortage of souls. At this rate, they might make me the executioner for every prisoner they took and insist on the version of the converter that was most agonizing for the soul.

That last part, I think, I'll keep to myself. I didn't feel I had the right to condemn sentient beings to an alternative form of "tormenting retribution." My own hands were hardly clean, and there had been times when I had done... less than admirable things.

So, we came to an agreement. Cordelia would go into the city with me tomorrow to keep an eye on the recruitment of apprentices. Her face turning stern, the girl even tried to intimidate me a little—if I chose any of the children, I was to treat them well. That actually annoyed me, and I advised her not to interfere in matters between master and apprentice.

"Fighters, have you trained? Wiped their noses and led them by the hand to the training ground? When a soldier did wrong, easily you forgave him? Cordelia, foolishness the teaching of magic does not tolerate. I am not saying a monster to the children I will become. But training the mind does not tolerate indulgence. Hard the path will be, but great the reward.

"Imagine a child who carries a blaster—one you cannot take away. Imagined it? Now imagine that child spoiled and knowing no discipline. A neighbor or companion makes him furious. His weapon he draws, and fires. Will he kill? Wound? Maim?

"Into what you do not understand, do not meddle."

The general backed me up on that one, calming her down by pointing out that they really had no idea how mages were supposed to be trained.

With all the questions settled, the two cousins left to take care of their own affairs, taking the adjutant with them, while I headed for the library.

Plenty to do, not much time.

And the droid was supposed to arrive today too...

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

After my conversation with the Nimbus leaders, the rest of the day passed quietly, though I had plenty to do. I decided to set up the workshop in the attic. First, because it was one large, fairly spacious room broken up only by supporting beams, and second, because I liked the sound of rain.

I had to spend some time clearing out piles of old junk. I ended up doing it myself, since a pair of droids and three sentients would hardly have managed the job at a decent pace. So all the clutter—which, as it turned out, Stratus had inherited from the previous owners—migrated into a couple of unused rooms, floating there "all by itself" under Luritta's watchful gaze.

The girl, by the way, hardly seemed surprised anymore, though she still watched the process with interest. She looked at me with almost no wariness now, too—perhaps even with a hint of fondness. Maybe it was because I'd healed the brother of one of her comrades, or maybe because the general and I had parted on fairly friendly terms.

I dismissed as wildly unlikely the idea that she had been impressed by my vicious sleepy scowl and naked ass. No, I was magnificent, there was no doubt about that, but even for my dazzling charm, flashing my buttocks once was hardly enough to win someone over.

Once the attic was clear and the dust and debris had been blasted out the windows by a spell that whipped the room into a genuine hurricane—earning a slight frown from the housekeeper standing beside me under a protective dome—I moved the dragon bones upstairs and started shaping furniture from the leftover timber lying around the estate.

I could have placed an order through Luritta; she even offered. But that would have taken longer than simply making everything myself, and time was valuable. So I "molded" the workbenches, chairs, and cabinets I needed while questioning the combat housekeeper at the same time.

By the end of it, I'd learned that Jabiim's chief resources were ore and people. The first was needed by the Republic; the second, by slavers.

That was it. They had nothing else.

In practice, this world was little more than a raw-material appendage. I had asked about it before, but the girl explained things in greater detail and without making excuses for her homeworld. Though it was obvious enough that she didn't like the way things were on the planet.

There was practically no industry on Jabiim, and what little there was existed only to meet local needs and on the smallest possible scale. Even the ore wasn't processed after extraction; it was shipped out as loose raw material straight from the mines, which cut deeply into the profit from each shipment because of the high proportion of waste rock.

Low prices for unprocessed ore, the high cost of maintaining their few transport ships, openly predatory tariffs, and the aristocracy taking the lion's share of the profits left very little money for development. Offworld traders bought from Jabiim at low prices as well. At the same time, everything they imported was expensive, because merchants had little desire to spend months hanging around the planet waiting for the weather to clear enough to trade, while most of the spare parts and components needed by the mines had to be brought in from offworld.

So the province simply couldn't get itself into the black.

They had learned to manufacture some of the components on the planet, but only the simpler parts. For anything more complicated, the local craftsmen lacked both the necessary skills and specialized production lines. From what I understood, the latter were something like a series of machines that processed the required parts one stage after another, but I would have to look into that more closely.

Perhaps some things could be manufactured through magical transformations, and the same methods might be used to repair certain broken parts. That would need testing too. Or perhaps mining itself could be shifted toward a combination of magic and the technology available to the Jabiimites. For that matter, processing ore wasn't the most complicated procedure either. Transformation artifacts could probably handle it.

The spell that let me understand the local language had made another leap forward as well, and I was finally able to speak more or less normally without slipping into an orcish dialect or something resembling local poetry. Though I filed both away in memory. It was far too amusing watching sentients try to figure out what I was saying.

After lunch, my droid arrived. I liked the machine, both in appearance and from the description of its capabilities. M-3PO, as Steve called the model, was a military variant of a protocol droid—more durable than the civilian version and equipped with more powerful "brains." The technician had acquired it by a stroke of luck.

Steve had originally planned to keep it for himself and use it as an assistant, but after I healed him, he had worked at a frantic pace to put it in proper condition and brought it to me. After familiarizing myself with my new property and seeing the technician off, I handed the droid over to Luritta for temporary use. I didn't have time to figure it out properly right now, so for the moment, it could make itself useful however it could.

Next came the processing of the Crystal Dragon bones. It was extremely labor-intensive work. The creature had been almost completely immune to magic. The only thing that could truly affect it was concentrated Death.

I had to literally carve the crystals into the shapes I needed using necrotic energy. Mana transformation, extremely precise control, constant attention to safety—it was exhausting, but necessary.

Work like that was usually commissioned from liches. The undead could carve crystals into the required shapes easily and with little effort—but around here, no one had even heard of undead sorcerers. A pity. As far as I was concerned, liches were some of the most reasonable members of our whole fraternity. Calm, nonconfrontational, absorbed in their work, and extremely efficient.

At one point, I had even considered casting off the shackles of flesh myself, but eventually admitted to myself that I simply enjoyed life's little pleasures far too much.

I spent until late evening working on the bone, waving off every call to lunch and dinner. The only concession I made was handing Quartermaster over to the girls so they could feed him. The little glutton, incidentally, decided not to come back to me and stayed with Luritta instead, letting her brush and cuddle him. During my late-night snack, I even saw his smug little face sticking out of the housekeeper's cleavage.

If only she knew what kind of monster she had literally taken to her bosom...

Heh.

Though he certainly had it good. Warm and soft. I even started feeling a little jealous of the furry lump.

After eating, I made my way to the library and accepted Hecate's task. As for the other gods, I'd have to think about it—and would most likely refuse. We sorcerers actually needed the Mistress of Magic, but this world could definitely do without all those Light-bearing shit-eaters. I had absolutely no desire to see servants of Purity and the rest of those deranged fanatics showing up here.

Nor was I eager to run into god-blessed warriors on the opposing side. Gork and Mork, for example, granted their favored warriors a pretty solid resistance to magic.

With the Wisest One, though, there was essentially no choice at all. Either I reaped the rewards while carrying out her wishes, or she would simply approach any apprentice of mine once their initial training was complete. And if you thought about it, by training mages and sorcerers I would already be doing exactly what she wanted anyway.

You could say the Goddess had simply given me an extra push to stay here, stop looking for a way back, and get more serious about finding apprentices.

And frankly, that was exactly what I had planned to do!

Go back home from an unexplored world, an unexplored universe whose mysteries were practically begging me to uncover them...

Find some other idiot!

Especially since there was nothing waiting for me back home anyway.

In short, the day passed without any stress. Before bed, I replaced all the mana reservoirs in my robe, poured a fifth of my reserve into it, memorized the verbal formula for Hecate's Wrath—chuckling at how ridiculously grandiose the wording was—and finally crashed for the night.

Tomorrow, we were heading to one of the local orphanages. If I didn't find the candidates I needed there, we'd try another.

The girls had asked to keep the hamster overnight. The smug little beast was happily devouring a sausage while sitting in Maria's cupped hands, as she looked at me pleadingly.

"I don't mind. Keep him," I snorted, looking at the kitchen magician's delighted face. "Just don't spoil my pet. First and foremost, he is a ruthless killer. Only after that is he a cute little fluffball."

The girl walked away giggling at what she clearly thought was a funny joke.

---

Morning delighted me with the story of how the furry little bastard had eaten our cook's underwear out of her wardrobe, along with a mug of fragrant caf from the victim herself. Chuckling with great dignity, I savored it while sitting on the bed.

Remembering yesterday's incident, Luritta made herself scarce the moment I began showing signs of life. While reviewing the memories from my monitoring spells, I came across a conversation between the girls as they ate breakfast with Sergiy. The man shared my amusement, while the girls were worried about the pet.

Naive.

That creature would eat everything in this place and not even choke.

Breakfast was even more entertaining. Maria asked whether Quartermaster was going to be all right after chewing up a piece of cloth.

"No, he'll be fine. He's an omnivore. So anything you don't want to lose, keep it out of his reach," I told the girl with a perfectly serious expression. "That's why I got used to sleeping naked in the first place—the little bastard ate all my pajamas."

It was pretty hard not to burst out laughing at the girls' astonished faces and the hamster's indignant expression. Of course—it was such a shameless lie on my part. He would never chew up anything important; he was smart enough for that.

Though, judging by the thoughtful looks he had started giving the maids, I had a feeling that sly little bastard was planning something.

In a good mood, I met a gloomy Cordelia, who had come to pick me up in a relatively small vehicle with large, wide tires. Besides her, there were two soldiers inside, one of them serving as the driver.

"Good morning, Cordelia." I didn't smile, but I tried to sound friendly. "How about a cup of Maria's caf? I find mornings much easier to survive after one."

The general's cousin returned the greeting, thought it over for a few seconds, then nodded decisively and asked Luritta to bring her a cup of the miraculous brew. Then she looked at me in surprise.

"You're talking differently again."

"Side effect of how the spell works. Learning the language without it is difficult. With it, things are easier, but complicated words and turns of phrase still cause problems. Learning to build sentences properly takes a fair amount of effort even with a single language, and my donor was a Trandoshan." I grimaced slightly and waved a hand in irritation. "And that reptile knew several languages, so... mishaps happen. It's easier now, but I still get the occasional relapse."

"Convenient..." the girl muttered, slipping into that practiced-soldier state of "catching up on sleep while still moving."

---

"Our wards," said a rather unpleasant-looking man with a smile, gesturing toward a line of children ranging from twelve to seventeen years old.

Though... most people struck me as unpleasant one way or another. The fact that this world had mostly presented me with exceptions so far was simply a stroke of luck.

Children... hmm... children. Allowing for the fact that they were growing up without parents and in the orphanage of this unpleasant fellow, anyway. Most of the looks were wary, sometimes openly hostile. Some of them looked at Cordelia and one of the Nimbus soldiers with hope. A few were clearly frightened. Their clothes weren't new, but they were sturdy and decent. I saw no injuries or bruises.

"Do you need something, Siith?" The girl clearly didn't like it here. Perhaps it was because of the orphanage director's half-obsequious, half-frightened glances.

"You, you, you, you, and you." I pointed at five of the children—three girls and two boys. "Where do you have a place for me to speak with them?"

"Please, follow me." The man smiled and led Cordelia and me down the corridors.

The orphanage was... shabby. That was probably the best word for it. A fence that hadn't been painted in ages. Walls with plaster crumbling away in places. Old doors warped by the damp. And the building itself looked less like the local architecture and more like the sort of thing middle-income townsfolk built back home.

Very little metal. The doors didn't slide into the walls; they were ordinary hinged ones. The windows had wooden frames, and some had been patched over with transparent plastic sheeting because there simply wasn't any glass.

"It's not exactly cozy here," I said, giving Cordelia a questioning look.

"Cheap construction," the man walking ahead of us said with a deep sigh. "The money allocated from the budget is never enough. We do what we can, but... well, you can see for yourselves."

The girl merely let out an angry breath, staring gloomily down at the badly worn paint on the floor. Despite her impulsiveness, which often spilled over into aggression, I liked Cordelia for her sincerity. Right now, for example, the anger on her rather pretty face was easy to read.

I could even guess where it was aimed. The local bourgeoisie probably weren't exactly generous when it came to funding places like this. It was even possible that some of the money stuck to the hands of the people overseeing its distribution—including our guide.

"You're not needed right now, thank you," I told the director once we stepped into a classroom.

A dozen desks, a scratched-up board with pieces of chalk resting on the ledge, and several posters on the walls made it clear that this was a room used to study local flora and fauna.

"They don't even have a screen," Cordelia muttered after looking around.

"All right, children, take a seat," I began once the man had left, but only after glancing at Cordelia and seeing her nod to him. "Call me Siith. Just Siith—that is my name. I am a sorcerer, and I need apprentices whom I will train to become mages."

I held out my hand, palm up, and an orange flame flared to life above it. The fire licked the ceiling, then took the shape of my face.

"A simple trick," the fiery face said, giving the wide-eyed children a conspiratorial wink. "Any of you will be able to do this if you study magic."

I rolled the fiery face between my hands into a dazzling white ball and tossed it into my mouth, extinguishing the spell there. It really was the simplest sort of illusion—just a projection of my own face with a few effects added.

"Besides letting you perform tricks like that, it's also a profession that's in demand," I continued in a more serious tone. I had picked children who looked about fourteen or fifteen; they should already understand a thing or two about life. "That means you'll always have work, food on the table, and a roof over your heads. And that is the bare minimum. If you don't treat the study of magic carelessly, that roof will belong to a mansion, your meals will be prepared by personal cooks, and your work, though difficult, will be important—bringing you not only money, but respect as well. Questions?"

Hmm... five. Just five children, and they put me through the wringer. First I spent about ten minutes answering all sorts of questions about magic, and then they split into three little groups. Both boys—fair-haired and green-eyed—and one girl, a black-eyed brunette who kept staring at Cordelia's uniform in open admiration, wanted to know whether mages could join the Nimbus.

The second girl was much more mercenary and kept pressing me about how much sorcerers got paid. Smart one. I liked her already.

The last, and shyest, informed me that she had a little sister here and asked me to take her too. At first I wanted to turn her down, but after thinking it over, I decided that concern for her little sister would make her study harder, and caring for a child would make her more responsible as well, so I nodded my agreement.

"You'll be paid exactly as much as you earn, but I can guarantee that if you don't spend your time staring at the ceiling, you'll get rich. Back in my own world, for example, I have an enormous mansion and several square kilometers of land of my own." I gave the greedy little blonde an affectionate look, and when I saw her blue eyes light up, I turned to the "warriors." "And I'm sure the Nimbus can find a place for combat mages. General Stratus is a serious man. The next time he comes by, I'll introduce you to him. How far you go will depend entirely on how hard you work.

"And of course, while you're training, redhead..." I looked into the shy girl's almost yellow eyes after the other three had nearly choked on their excitement. "Your sister will live with you. Maybe when she's older, she'll follow in your footsteps. Perhaps you'll even become her teacher yourself. Either way, my future apprentice, you and your sister will have a place where you'll be safe, warm, and well fed."

Just a few words, and the children were already ready to leave with us that very moment. Even my appearance no longer seemed to bother them, because standing beside me was Cordelia Stratus herself—the same woman they had seen on the local broadcasts beside the general beloved by the people.

"Do you need time to think it over?"

"No!"

Such unanimity. Bravo, Siith: you managed to talk five children into it. Yesterday, a general whose authority extended across the entire planet; today, a handful of orphans; tomorrow—the entire universe.

This was exactly where the stereotypical evil-villain laugh from children's tales should go.

But I didn't want to scare the kids.

"All right, go get your things together. We'll sort out transportation for you in the meantime." I nodded toward the door.

Ten feet thundered away, and Cordelia and I were left alone.

"That was... pretty fast," the girl said, looking at me doubtfully.

"I looked them over. No sorcerers among them, so I simply picked five children who seemed likable enough to me."

"Likable?!" Cordelia bristled, scorching me with an angry glare.

Seriously, what was going on in her head? Sometimes the conclusions sentients jumped to left me completely baffled.

"Yes, likable. You see, Cordelia, I'll be working with these children for years, and I have no desire to force myself to spend that time with people I simply don't like. Ideally, of course, I'd take only sorcerers, and five- to seven-year-olds at that, but your brother needs results. So we take these five, I quickly teach them what they need to make things like charms and amulets, and after that it'll be up to them. If they want to keep studying, I'll be only too happy. If not, you'll have yourselves a few mages who can churn out standard products.

"And as for whatever got you so worked up: if I want a woman, I'm not going to drool over a child. I'll just go to a brothel. You do have brothels here, don't you? I don't know what exactly you were imagining, but girls who are only just beginning to show any hint of breasts can't count on my attention."

The general's cousin gave me a strange look, then snorted into her fist and shook her head. Muttering, "Can't count on your attention, huh..." she pulled out her communicator and called for transport.

Not that I had anything against young women, but I had never shared the fashion for early marriages. Especially since sorcerers tended to start families very late in life.

Well... the ones with brains did.

Living side by side for centuries could put any marriage to the test.

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

"Children are the flowers of life. On the graves of Mentors."
© Rung, sorcerer of the Age of Heroes.

---

I don't like people. And not because I don't know how to cook them, as Ir'rina used to say. I don't mean hatred or contempt by that. I'm simply more comfortable alone most of the time. Teenagers double that dislike, sometimes even triple it. Restless, impulsive, capricious, and quarrelsome. Not all of them, of course, and not out of any malice, but still. But children... I looked at the little red-haired girl, about five years old. Freckles, enormous curious yellow-green eyes, and two funny little braids! Hell, I wasn't taking her along as my apprentice's tagalong! All five were coming as an added bonus to this little darling—that was how adorable she was. Even stern Cordelia was looking at her with an involuntary smile.

And she wasn't afraid of me in the slightest. She looked at me with those clear eyes of hers, and I could read curiosity in them. More than that—I could see delight! I just couldn't figure out why yet: a red-eyed man in a black robe usually wasn't the sort of sight that inspired admiration.

"Are you our new daddy? Why are you glowing like that? Are you sick? Your eyes are all wed!!!"

She would have kept pelting me with questions, adorably mangling her r's, but her sister shushed the girl and pulled her into a hug, looking at me apologetically.

"Sorry, Mr. Siith, Karray is just little," she blurted out, while I fell into thought. For several seconds, I stared silently at the girl. Glowing? But there shouldn't have been any visible effects, and the robe was supposed to suppress any stray emissions. Except it wasn't active, because I'd wanted to fill the reservoirs to the brim first. I'd simply grown used to the artifacts I wore giving off a faint glow in the sorcerous spectrum. Which meant...

"Siith?" But I merely waved Cordelia off and crouched down beside the girl. She was still looking at me with curiosity, while her sister was clearly frightened now.

I couldn't sense any personal mana from the little girl with the braids, but this world washed away the energy generated by one's own core, preventing it from accumulating to any significant level. An aura-diagnostic spell showed me exactly what I would expect from a young, weak sorceress. Seven mana-channel outlets. Seven times fewer than I had. Not a critical limitation, really, even in my own world. And here, where the ocean's magic practically forced its way into your aura to fill it, it mattered even less. Of course, the risk of damaging her core was higher than mine, but proper training and the peculiarities of this world would offset that danger.

"I'm not your new daddy." The main thing was not to smile while looking at this little darling. Everyone was already on edge and had probably imagined all sorts of things about how I was going to start eating the little tyke right then and there, without even bothering with salt. Still, I tried to keep my face relaxed and my gaze and voice friendly. "I'll be your Mentor. Yours, your sister's, and her friends'. That's not the same as a father, of course, Karray, but a Mentor is also a very important person to a spellcaster. I still remember my own Teacher with respect and gratitude, even though many years have passed since my apprenticeship ended."

I patted the girl on the head and winked at her. Her sister—I really needed to learn the teenagers' names, by the way—relaxed a little, though she was still watching me warily. The rest of my future apprentices looked more surprised than anything by the scene unfolding in front of them.

"You're going to teach her too? I thought you were only planning to work with the older ones?" Cordelia, walking beside me toward our transport, was still radiating distrust and suspicion.

"She's the same as me. Those five will become mages, but she'll become a sorceress. Of course, the girl is still too young for serious training, but there are special developmental games and toys that won't be hard to make myself." Once I was settled inside the transport, I rubbed my chin thoughtfully, then let out a deep sigh. "More and more things to do."

"Afraid you won't be able to handle it?" my companion asked with a mocking snort.

"No. It's just depressing. I've been working exclusively on my own projects for quite a long time now, and suddenly I have to rearrange my priorities. It's not really a problem, though. A long life guarantees that sooner or later you'll have time for everything. So I plan to help you, train up a batch of spellcasters, establish decent conditions in this world, and at the same time carry out the research we'll need both for my purposes and for yours. Then, once I have more free time, I'll get back to my own affairs."

"Alto only made a deal with you for supplies of certain things, not for help improving our whole world. And you're being a little too optimistic. 'Establish decent conditions in this world,' hah! That could take decades, if not a century!"

The girl was looking at me as though I were an idiot. I, incidentally, was staring back at her with equal bewilderment.

"Oh, even a blind man can see that your cousin wants nothing but the best for his homeworld. I'm sure that once the Nimbus's needs are taken care of, he'll start thinking bigger. More likely, you're already thinking ahead—perhaps you've even discussed it and made plans." I gave the girl a condescending look. Weather control alone would make life on Jabiim considerably easier. If nothing else, it could provide a stable "window" for trade with the outside world.

The girl pursed her lips. Her expression made it clear I'd guessed right, so I raised the corners of my mouth in the faintest hint of a smile and continued.

"And what's the problem with the timeframe? If it takes a century, then it takes a century. There's a right way to hurry. If setting up a workplace in the mansion could be sped up without sacrificing quality simply by putting in more effort myself, then working with an entire planet is not something to rush. I can wait. It's no great hardship. And afterward, perhaps I'll even be able to recruit one of my apprentices into my own team. I'm used to working alone, of course, but having an assistant who shares my beliefs and ambitions would make life much easier."

Cordelia... was staring at me. There was really no other word for it. Just staring, shock written all over her face. What was with her? Ahhh, wait. I think I got it...

"How old are you, sorcerer?" the girl whispered, sounding almost lost.

Right. Of course. My age.

"Hmm..." How old was I, actually? I began my training at fourteen, said goodbye to my teacher three decades later, and set out on my first journey. Ten years after that came the first war I took part in, followed by my first period of seclusion, which lasted almost a century. Then I was talked into teaching at one of the academies, though I only lasted two decades before another war began, one that dragged on for half a century... Then I met Ir'rina and returned with her to my little "hermit's corner," followed by a hundred happy years of research together, interrupted only by the occasional journey... And after that, two centuries of solitude. Let's round it off a little. "About six hundred by my world's reckoning. Our days are almost the same length. How long is a year here?"

"Three hundred and sixty-eight," the girl replied, staring at me blankly.

"Right. Ours is four hundred... So that makes me... somewhere around six hundred and fifty by your calendar. But that's only approximate. I might've forgotten something or counted wrong, and I never really kept records."

"Holy fucking shit," came the driver's voice from the front seat, followed by an agreeing grunt from the soldier beside him.

"Yeah... Wait! What did you just say, Sergeant?" Cordelia flared with anger. "Just drive, and I don't want to hear either of you talking about this, understood?"

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry."

"Ahem... Siith, is that a normal lifespan in your world?" the girl asked, calming down just as quickly as she had flared up.

"For some spellcasters, yes. Some people with no connection to magic also find ways to extend their lives. And certain races can be naturally long-lived as well. But normally, the lifespan of our kind—humans—is eighty to a hundred and twenty years. Provided, of course, that a person lives a healthy life, eats properly, and keeps themselves in good physical condition. Rejuvenation rituals, which some mages make their living from, are extremely expensive, but still available to ordinary people, and can extend a life by anywhere from five to fifty years, depending on the ritual itself."

"Mmm... And you'll be able to teach those rituals to your apprentices?"

"Of course. Except for the really dark ones involving mass sacrifices of sentients. Sorry, but I'm not going to unleash anything like that on this world." I sighed sadly, looking out at the rain beyond the transport window. "They'll figure those out for themselves eventually, unfortunately."

"You know those too?" There it was again—that aggression. The girl was practically overflowing with indignation, as though I had just begun performing a grand ritual to summon an Archdemon right before her eyes and had already raised the knife over the first innocent infant.

"Of course I do, Cordelia." I let some irritation creep into my voice as I gave an annoyed shrug. This was starting to wear on me. "I know a great many things, but that doesn't mean I use them, understand? You carry a weapon on your belt, but I don't get angry with you just because you can"—I stressed the word—"start killing innocent people indiscriminately. Knowledge matters. Being able to identify a spell as it is being cast is essential if you want to choose the right protective magic. Idiots who turn up their noses at necromancy, malefic arts, demonology, or the schools of Darkness and Chaos will die the first time they run into an enemy who practices them. Any—let me repeat, any—competent spellcaster who wants to stay alive is obligated to know what threats they may encounter in life. To tell undead from a necroconstruct, a chimera from a creature of Chaos, a true vampire from a raised ghoul. Those squeamish prissies only live long by planting their asses in court positions and pompously preaching about the greatness of the Light. And even that lasts only until their verbal diarrhea insults a powerful malefic."

My speech sent the girl retreating into thought. Some of the concepts were clearly unfamiliar to her, because certain words had been replaced with frankly amusing equivalents—for example, "malefic" came through as "evildoer," which was basically accurate. She had grasped the general meaning, but the general's cousin needed some time to process it.

"Tell me, why do you always assume the worst about me?" I decided to break the silence, looking at the girl questioningly. Pulled from her thoughts, she first stared at me in surprise, then gave a crooked smile.

"It's my job to think the worst of everyone. Alto is our commander. He works out patrol routes, looks after us, leads us into battle, defending our world. He takes enemy fire on his shield and spills their blood with sword and blaster. My job is to make sure our people can fight the creatures who rob us and carry us off into slavery without having to fear that another creature just like them, only disguised as a friend, might start shooting them in the back. So no offense, sorcerer. You yourself told my cousin that we've known you for less than a week. Maybe you're a wonderful red-eyed sentient who wouldn't hurt a fly, but you appeared out of nowhere, tell us incredible things, and for some reason no one understands, you want to shower my world with benefits. Of course I'm looking for a catch."

"Oh... I see. Yes, I've spent quite a lot of time alone... I've gotten badly out of practice with things like this." I let myself smile, making a vague gesture in the air with one hand. "At least now I understand your suspicions. A job is a job. And as for this supposedly inexplicable 'benefiting the world,' I've already explained my reasons. I help you improve conditions back home, and in return, you don't interfere with my research. Everyone wins. My apprentices will be able to consult me when necessary, and I'll be able to order the components and materials I need through Jabiim's official channels. And if I decide to go traveling—and I will—I'll have somewhere to come back to."

"You put rather too much faith in people and their gratitude," the woman—who, as I understood it, headed the Nimbus security service—said, shaking her head disapprovingly.

"Not at all." I gave her a thin smile. "You and your cousin don't strike me as idiots, so in time you'll understand that an experienced, loyal sorcerer is an extremely valuable asset. There aren't many like me even in my own world. Duels, wars, failed experiments—they all take their toll. So a competent spellcaster is welcome anywhere, simply because having one around is profitable."

We rode on in silence after that. Cordelia was clearly thinking about something, while I reflected with mild amusement on the fact that she doubted people's gratitude yet was willing to discuss her secrets in front of two soldiers. Then it occurred to me that they were most likely from her own service, and perhaps among her most trusted people... In that case, it made sense. The hope that they might one day be granted a life-extension ritual could encourage both usefulness and loyalty. In any case, I shook my head. That was her business.

By evening, we had finished settling the children in. They were given three rooms in the mansion. This time, the furniture was ordered from the city: three bunk beds, desks for studying, wardrobes, chairs, and bedside tables. Cordelia, incidentally, had taken care of that while we were still on the road, contacting someone over a horribly crackling radio. Teachers were found to handle the children's standard subjects, but at my insistence, the rest of the curriculum was stretched out by a third. I needed their brains to have enough room left to absorb my own science as well. A physical-training instructor would also be moving in with us permanently. Along with mental exhaustion, an apprentice needed to be worn out physically too—a basic truth for anyone raising young walking disasters. A busy, tired child had less chance of breaking their own neck—or, in our case, blowing off their own head or someone else's—because the urge to go looking for adventure came less often when they were in that state.

For Karray, I made several wooden toys that "glow weally cool," earning myself a hug and a shout that I was "the bestest ever-ever." That was actually kind of nice. The toys themselves changed color and the intensity of their glow whenever they interacted with magic, flickered, and gave off "warmth" or "coolness" within the range of sorcerous perception. I'd make her plenty of other developmental things later, but this would be enough for the first few days. The girl couldn't do anything yet, and these bits of wood would serve as a passive stimulus for her gift.

Because of her, incidentally, I had to remove all the surveillance spells first and then set them up again in disguised form. The very first question she asked after getting out of the transport was, "What's that thing glowing?" That, together with a little finger pointed straight at the surveillance spell above the front doors, forced me to dispel all the observation spells except those. Then, under Cordelia's suspicious gaze and with my face carefully mysterious and unreadable, I told her that Karray herself would explain to me what kind of spells they were once she'd learned enough.

I even took the trouble to go to the kitchen myself and ask Maria whether she could handle feeding the growing crowd. For some reason, the girl turned red and rather haltingly assured me that the workload would increase, of course, but she didn't think it would cause any serious problems. I nodded, asked her for a mug of caf, and decided to assign kitchen duty among the apprentices. Five days in the week, five teenagers—what was that if not a sign from above? Heh-heh. When the kitchen magician objected, I told her that, first, work builds character, and second, learning to cook from a master like her was something they'd have to pay for anywhere else.

The girl really had no reason to be shy: she had both talent and skill. I had always respected true professionals, and cooks with a golden touch were something I rarely came across. Leaving the thoroughly flushed kitchen magician alone and taking Quartermaster with me—he was sprawled across one of the tables like a monument to gluttony—I headed for the workshop. I'd furnished it, sure, but I still needed to lay the proper enchantments on it. If I went without sleep for one day, nothing terrible would happen. But only one, I told myself sternly. Ir'rina had always scolded me when I buried myself in work for several days straight, and she had been right—a proper routine made it possible to work more efficiently. The mind needed proper rest.

---

"How did it go, Cordelia?" The general looked tired as he sat in his "temporary" office. Every Nimbus base had rooms like this. Stratus tried to visit them all, talk to the soldiers, keep an eye on their training, and take part in patrols, but the duties of command still had to be done.

"I'm fu—... freaking out, Alto. Either he's lying through his teeth, or we've taken in a genuine monster." The girl dropped wearily into an armchair and nodded her thanks to Roger as he set a cup of caf in front of her. "According to him, he's in his seventh century!!!"

"So what?" the general shrugged calmly. "That green stump who's in charge of the Jedi is supposed to be about a thousand years old already, or somewhere around there."

"The point is, he calls himself human. Like you and me. And I doubt he's mistaken about us being the same species—not after healing four humans. Here are the reports." The girl placed three folders on the desk. "I recommend you destroy them after you've read them. Life-extension rituals, Alto. He talked about them as casually as if there were nothing remarkable about it. Our sorcerer has no idea that half the galaxy would kiss his ass for something like that, while the other half would try to kidnap him and force him into their service! And he plans to teach those rituals to the children he's recruited!"

Stratus pulled the folders toward himself and looked questioningly at his cousin. The archaic way the reports had been written—archaic even by Jabiim's standards—surprised him.

"I didn't want the information digitized. Everything's on flimsi, all handwritten. Either lock it in a safe afterward or burn it." The girl took a sip of caf and grimaced slightly. "And we found a cook for him who's far too good. I had no idea Maria could cook that well. No offense, Roger."

The young man merely smiled faintly at that. Making caf really wasn't one of his strong suits, nor was cooking in general. And he had already had a chance to appreciate his fellow soldier's skill. He had even started thinking that he ought to begin courting her before someone else took an interest in that treasure.

Cordelia rubbed her forehead hard. Annoyance, exhaustion, and irritation flickered across her face.

"Tomorrow I'm sending another one of my people over there as the children's physical-training instructor. They can help Sergiy while they're at it. I'm sending the people I trust most, Alto, and they don't exactly grow on trees. And I still need to find teachers who know how to keep their mouths shut... Oh, and the sorcerer was pushing to get those samples sent over. Says he'll start training the children in the next few days and he'll need materials. He also needs some kind of consumables for the weather sorcery."

"The first shipment will be there tomorrow," the general said in a reassuring tone. "You should get some rest, Cordelia."

"Rest... and who's going to do the work? That... what's her name? Hecate? Ah... Fine, I'm off. I'm up to my ass in work..."

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

Hard... So hard... An unbearable torment beyond words: I hate waking up... Especially when I only went to bed three hours ago. And to make matters worse, it wasn't Luritta waking me up, but M-3PO.

"At least I got everything done," I rasped in a voice that barely sounded like my own. Sitting up, I grabbed the mug of caf from the bedside table.

"Master, I would like to point out that such a daily routine is harmful to your health. Humans require seven to nine hours of sleep," my new property chimed in. I merely waved him off as I headed for the bathroom, casting a simple healing spell on myself along the way. A sentient nag of a golem. If someone had told me about such a thing, I wouldn't have believed them.

Before the teenagers started breakfast, I sat down at the table and delighted them with the news about kitchen duty. I saw no enthusiasm on their faces, and the boys even came out with something along the lines of, "We're men; women are supposed to do the cooking." I ignored their words and did full justice to the excellent food. But once everyone had eaten, I asked whether they had enjoyed it. Remarkable unanimity, I snorted to myself as I listened to them sing the praises of our kitchen magician's cooking.

"There are ten of us here already, kids, and there's only one Maria. Cooking for a horde this size is hard work. Now, if you're fine with tasty food turning into slop, then I suppose we can do without kitchen duty..." I gave my future apprentices an ironic look as they started chiming in from all sides that they'd "help, fine, whatever." There we go. That's more like it.

After that, things really got moving. The teachers wouldn't start coming to the house for another few days, so I gathered all five of them in the attic. While giving them an introductory lecture—explaining the possibilities of sorcery, the basics, and the various paths they could pursue—I was also putting together some more advanced toys for Karray.

It was amusing to watch the children sneak glances at the wood flowing from one shape into another. I had added a few extra effects during the enchanting as well, so the little animal figures would flare with webs of runes one moment and multicolored lights the next. Children needed to see the beauty of magic so they wouldn't lose interest during the first couple of months of dull theory and meditation. I even found myself slipping into a kind of peaceful state. It felt as though I had taken a break from constant work—work I loved, but which was difficult and exhausting. Maybe having to put my own projects aside for a while wasn't such a bad thing after all?

"Mr. Siith," one of the boys, Dan, cut in. "You said that spellcasters are divided into mages and sorcerers, and that sorcerers can see magic. And you also said that magic is everywhere—an ocean of it. But Karray only saw your things glowing. Why is that?"

"Just call me Siith. Teacher is fine too. I don't like all those sirs and masters. Back to your question: seeing and sensing are things you have to learn as well. Humans are... mm... too material. And the material world is too bright for us—it keeps us from making out the colors of the world of magic. Just as sunlight renders any attempt by the moons to light your path pointless. An untrained sorcerer can easily live the life of an ordinary person and die without ever realizing what they were. But there is one common trait, especially in children: young sorcerers interpret sensations from magic through feelings they already know. For example, a stone saturated with the elemental power of fire will feel 'warm' to them—but not warm to the touch. More like... it somehow feels warm."

The children laughed—all except the sisters. Karray nodded solemnly, as if confirming, Yes, that's exactly right, while her older red-haired sister fell into thought, clearly remembering something.

"Yes, it sounds funny, but I heard something like that myself from one young spellcaster. And then, as children grow older, they train themselves to ignore such 'nonsense.' Though they still tend to get rid of obviously cursed or dangerous things if they're poorly disguised. There was a case, for example, when a young man inherited a mansion and threw out one of the paintings. 'It always frightened and irritated me,' he said. Later it turned out that the damned thing had been feeding on the lives of his relatives. So, something like that. As for why Karray could see my artifacts glowing—that was because they were unnatural and had no concealment spells. Free magic is everywhere. We're used to it, we live in it, and seeing it requires special techniques. Without them, a sorcerer simply experiences the world as more alive, colors as brighter, emotions as stronger... But foreign magic—magic that isn't 'natural,' that has been transformed by a spellcaster's aura—is clearly visible to any sorcerer."

---

About ten days later, I finally found the right components for the weather-control ritual. Stratus wanted to combine the trial clearing of the clouds with the departure of a couple of ore haulers that were currently waiting for a "window" in the cloud cover, but I talked him out of it. This would be my first attempt in this world—who knew how the weather would behave here, on a sphere?

So there we stood beneath an umbrella-like dome stretched over both us and the patch of ground where the ritual figure was to be drawn. The children were practically devouring Alto with their eyes, while he calmly sipped caf from a special thermos, making me envy him beyond measure—I hadn't thought to bring any from home myself. Cordelia, wearing a sleepy, disgruntled expression, glanced at each of us in turn. She didn't like mornings either. Funny, but in my eyes, that fact outweighed her constant suspiciousness and difficult temperament. So I liked her better for it—especially in the mornings.

Alto, incidentally, had met my apprentices a few days earlier. After we talked in the library, I talked him into putting on a little performance with me. To be honest, I expected another dose of skepticism, but the general surprised me by taking the matter seriously. "This isn't a performance, sorcerer. It's the truth, and it's necessary," were his exact words. Then the two of us went to the sitting room, where Emthree—as I had taken to calling the gole... droid—had gathered the children.

Stratus spoke for no less than ten minutes. He addressed each of them by name and explained how important what they were doing was for Jabiim. He knew that both boys and the military-minded girl had been orphaned in a Trandoshan raid. Choosing his words skillfully, he soon had all three practically pawing at the ground, so eager were they to start producing protective charms for the Nimbus—to save the fighters who would then keep the enemies of their world away from other civilian families. He spoke about the respect and status the young mages would earn once their training was complete. With a smirk, he added that they wouldn't be stingy with credits either, so they wouldn't have to worry about food or comfort, which earned an understanding smile from Taria, the blonde who had a healthy respect for financial security. He told Karray how lucky she was to have such a caring sister in Karina, and promised that he and the entire Nimbus would protect them and make sure no one harmed them.

Talent. I could only marvel inwardly. Alto was an extraordinarily gifted man—in war and in dealing with people alike. Even now, while preparing the site for the magical ritual, I found myself remembering that moment and feeling genuine respect for the general. I could work with people like that.

I leveled out a circle of ground fifteen meters across, dried it, and packed it down. Then I surrounded it with a force barrier to keep the water out and began drawing the patterns. For nearly an hour I moved around the circle, tracing the necessary lines and symbols and placing the components where they needed to be for everything to trigger correctly. After that came the application of the required constructs, designed to launch all the processes in the proper sequence. The final touch was setting the mana reservoirs in place to power the ritual.

According to my preliminary calculations, both the mana supply and the durability of the ritual structure should be enough for two or three hours of operation, and although I knew the ritual well, safety still had to come first.

First, we were a long way from any inhabited settlements, with one exception. There were no civilians there, only a Nimbus garrison. It had been arranged that way in case pirates happened to be waiting in orbit around the planet. I'd overheard Cordelia telling her cousin that "there won't be any problems—the cover story is airtight."

Second, about half a kilometer away, a protected zone had been set up. All the components used in the magical construction had been studied, but they were still new to me, and proper precautions were necessary even if there was only the faintest chance of failure. So I started a ten-minute timer, and all of us climbed into the nearby transport and headed for the designated area.

** Same place. Alto Stratus **

"It's started," the red-eyed sorcerer said with satisfaction, tilting his head back to look at the sky. They stood beneath a transparent dome that protected them from the rain and gusting wind. Around them, drawn on the dry, level ground, was a figure that Siith had described as "protective circuits, just in case."

The sky erupted in a succession of brilliant lightning flashes, and a second later the surrounding air filled with peals of thunder. They sounded like an artillery barrage. The noise was so powerful he could feel it vibrating through his insides. The clouds churning overhead began to move. They hadn't been still before, of course, but now there was a strange sense of order to their motion. Cordelia, standing beside him, said something, but over the fury of the elements her voice was impossible to make out. Judging by her expression, though, his cousin was swearing again.

A few minutes later, it was already easy to make out the clouds overhead gathering speed as they moved in a circle. Lightning flashed without end, and thunder rolled continuously, bringing on a mild headache and, at the same time, a strange sense of childlike delight. Glancing at the children, the general was surprised to see little Karray sitting on the shoulders of a terrifyingly grinning Siith, happily chattering away to him, every now and then looking up at the sky in delight and waving her arms excitedly. Apparently, the sorcerer had somehow muffled the cannonade of the storm for the two of them, because they were clearly able to talk without any trouble.

Alto was not an especially trusting man. Politics quickly cured a man of excessive openness and of trusting every stranger he met... Though the latter was hardly a good trait even for ordinary people. Despite that, the general considered himself an honest man. Honest and fair.

That was exactly why, back at that transit point, he had decided not to send his people to handle the conversation, but to meet the strange visitor to Jabiim personally and thank him. After all, the man really had helped the people of that settlement. He had done what the Nimbus could not have done in time. And when Alto entered the medical station, he saw the stranger treating his fellow Jabiimites. There was no showy politeness or concern, and yet not a single patient even cried out during the healing. In halting phrases, the red-eyed man gave them instructions and asked for caf. Alert and, it seemed, satisfied with the work he had done, he showed no sign of nervousness or doubt. To be completely honest, though, their conversation had been shaped not only by the general's gratitude, but also by the power the sorcerer had demonstrated: killing the entire lizard landing force at once was a very good reason to be polite to a sentient.

At first, Alto thought the Temple had finally sent a Jedi to help. Well, at least now, flashed through his mind. For centuries, Jabiim had cried out for help, begged for it, demanded it! And in return there had been either silence or some bureaucratic: "We will certainly look into your problem." The general ground his teeth, remembering the fury those little bureaucratic notes had sent him into every time he read them.

Then came the misunderstanding, and the visitor was taken for a Sith. The enemies of the Jedi Order had been wiped out nearly a thousand years ago, and Alto had only ever taken a passing interest in them. Terrible, horrible, evil, wicked things, according to the Order of the "Republic's defenders," they were little more than a bogeyman and a swear word. At the time he had thought: To hell with what they say. This Sith helped my people. He deserves a chance. I need to watch him, see what he's really like. Maybe everything they say about his kind is just propaganda. History is written by the victors, and the Sith were the losing side.

A risk, yes. But the red-eyed man had earned a measure of trust.

In the end, the sorcerer turned out to be... who the hell even knew what. Everything he told them inspired doubt and suspicion, but he only smiled that unsettling smile of his and said outright that doubt was a good thing. He didn't like working with gullible idiots, so he would demonstrate everything himself.

And he did.

He had been demonstrating his abilities even before that conversation—making little bone trinkets that provided excellent protection against blasters, healing people, and using magic that let vehicles cross the mud of their homeworld as if they were driving on a smooth road...

And now the sorcerer was demonstrating his skill again, Alto thought as he watched a patch of clear sky appear at the center of the rotating disk of clouds. The small cloudless opening grew wider and wider, like the opening iris of an airlock door.

"The doors to space..." the general whispered, not even trying to hide his smile. Soon he would see the sun and a clear sky. For a Jabiimite, that was a genuine joy. And he would do everything in his power to make sure his people felt only that joy, not the fear that bandit landing ships might come plunging down from the cloudless sky.

The sorcerer had not lied to him once so far. Of course, that still wasn't enough to trust him blindly, but Stratus was a man of honor. If Siith truly helped his world, the general would do everything he could to repay him. The main thing was that it must not come at his homeland's expense.

Half an hour later, the rain had stopped, and the clouds were circling in a ring around a vast expanse of clear sky. Sunlight gently warmed the smiling people below.

But their smiles didn't last long.

A rapidly growing speck appeared in the clear sky.

"General," the sorcerer said, drawing his attention as he pointed at the sky and at a... remarkably detailed hologram hovering above his palm. "That's it."

"A Gozanti," Cordelia clicked her tongue beside him. "Cargo hold's probably been modified for hauling slaves."

Alto frowned, running through the options in his head, while Siith bared his teeth in a frightening grin and asked an unexpected question.

"Is that thing expensive?"

"A hundred and fifty thousand credits for a new one," Alto answered automatically. "They've only recently hit the market..."

"One hundred and fifty thousand sounds excellent! Not as good as two hundred, but better than one hundred," the red-eyed man muttered, rubbing his hands together. A little animal's face poked out from the collar of his robe, sniffing the air excitedly with its funny little nose and letting out funny little squeaks. Siith gently scratched the creature under the jaw and smiled. "Yes, yes, Quartermaster. Smells like profit. I want to take a look at that flying coffin... Right, I suggest we head back to our people. As soon as that Gozanti lands, I'll shut down the ritual, and then this baby isn't getting away from us... General, if your radios have the range, order your troops to hide in the forest. No point risking them right now. I'll show you how I used to hunt bandits back home. Heh-heh-heh..."

---

Sitting in the passenger compartment and looking out the window at the rain once again pouring from the gloomy sky, I whistled a tune I had heard from my beloved long, long ago. I managed to convince both Stratuses after all. Oddly enough, Cordelia backed me almost immediately, and after her, Alto let himself be talked into it as well. Our wheeled steed had been covered with all the necessary concealment spells, which immediately drew questions from both cousins.

After a short drive, we climbed out into the fresh air and took cover behind a small grove not far from where the flying coffin was coming down. On the way, I'd arranged for them to let me inspect the prize and pay me half its value once it had been appraised. Fairly simple work on my end—neutralize the crew and the landing party, while Alto and his people handled the administrative side of things. I could have haggled, but I couldn't be bothered. Besides, I had no idea where to sell the thing, how to move it, or where to get it appraised. Half the price was perfectly reasonable under the circumstances.

I handed Karray over to Cordelia, told everyone to stay behind me and a little off to the side so that, if anything happened, a stray blaster bolt wouldn't hit them, and quickly headed toward the enemy. As long as they knew what to look for, they wouldn't lose track of me; to everyone else, all of us were hidden by the concealment spells.

This time, things were even simpler than the first. No need to pick and choose: everyone there was an enemy. And when I saw the mix of bandits, my enthusiasm reached new heights. Variety! A variety of sentients! I counted at least four different species among the raiders. There were about thirty-five sentients inside the transport, and another four were searching the buildings of the small settlement. Lucky me. Heh-heh-heh.

Today I'd be testing a new construct and conducting an experiment at the same time. Its core was a complex analytical module designed to gather information about the test subjects' minds. "Assembling" it took around twenty minutes. I wasn't worried about the others: Jabiimites were no strangers to getting soaked in the rain, and they were dressed for it.

Once the main construct was ready, I used "Sense Life" and "Search for Intelligence" to keep track of the enemies and loaded every target with influence and information-gathering modules. I activated the spell complex... The first effects began to show among the humans. Yawning, sluggishness, calm and peaceful expressions gradually settling over their faces. The others weren't far behind, though. Next came the humanoid creatures with strange tentacles on their heads, and then the rest followed.

From time to time, pockets of resistance flared up when the sentients realized something was wrong and tried to shake off the drowsiness, slap themselves awake, or say something over the radio, but the intelligent construct simply increased the pressure. Their anxiety faded, giving way to apathy and indifference. Less than forty minutes later, every marked target was sleeping soundly wherever they happened to have settled down. I was especially pleased by one crew member who had returned to the starship and left the entrance open behind him. And besides a sleeping Gozanti ready for the taking, I now had a data package containing information on the properties of the targets' minds. I transferred a copy from the construct into a little glass trinket—it would hold for a couple of days, and by then I'd find somewhere more suitable to store it.

It all ended rather boringly. The general called in his troops, who quickly flew in from the forest on their flying boots, disarmed everyone, stripped them down to their underwear, and tied them up. According to Cordelia, the ship really had been modified for use by slavers, and there were eighteen sentients in the hold who had already been captured somewhere else. They were all asleep, and when they woke up, they would already be in the firm clutches of Security. Some of the captured raiders had been promised to me for experiments and soul capture, while Cordelia had decided to keep the rest in custody for the time being. The slaves would be released after they had been checked.

"It was all somehow... too easy," Alto said, standing beside me.

"Pfft, it only seems easy to you! Three hundred years ago, I wouldn't have been able to pull off a spell like that! I simply wouldn't have had the knowledge. You can't even imagine how much time it took just to gather the information needed to begin developing it. And how many years the work itself took!!! As one old sorcerer used to say: 'The only thing that's easy is scratching your ass.'"

Cordelia laughed beside me. I really ought to translate Rung's Reflections for her sometime—there was plenty of that sort of thing in there. I think I even had an uncensored version somewhere, copied directly from the original.

"Siith," the general said, drawing my attention. "You look very... sinister right now. And tell me, is what your animal is doing normal?"

Quartermaster was sitting on the face of one of the sleeping raiders, intently... taking a dump right in his eye.

"He's establishing dominance over the enemy. Crushing him morally and asserting himself," I explained with complete composure, shifting my gaze to the captured property. Someday, I'd fly off in something like that to explore the mysteries of this universe.

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

"What is evil? Demons? Undead? Vampires? Women? Pfft. Grafters—that's True Evil! Those spawn of darkness will bleed you dry in such a way that you'll still walk away pleased you managed to hand your hard-earned money over to the monster."
© Rung, sorcerer of the Age of Heroes.

---

The days blurred together into a kaleidoscope of events, and strangely enough, it didn't bother me. Apparently, I'd grown a little tired of solitude during my seclusion. At least I felt no urge to ride off into the sunset, nor any need to sic Quartermaster on someone. Only Emthree was getting on my nerves—a real droid granny.

Pedantic, grumbling, argumentative, and annoying. Useful, though, yes. He didn't care about the faces I made when I was interrupted, my frightening smiles, or my grumbling. He even ignored my threats. "Master, it's lunchtime. Finish your work after you've eaten." "Master, it's time to go to bed. The efficiency of organics declines when they don't get enough sleep." He also brought me caf and various brews, and he was simply excellent at reminders. So despite the occasional urge to turn him into a pile of scrap metal, I restrained myself and was even a little grateful. The usefulness of the tin can outweighed the irritation he caused. And even that irritation was... mm... not exactly serious.

It was the fourth month of training—both mine and the children's. Once I had dealt with the urgent matters, I got my hands on a piece of local technology for storing and studying information: a datapad. An amazing little thing, with an enormous number of functions. We had something similar back home, but if I was being fair, the craftsmen of this universe had left my world far behind. You could argue in our defense that there were vastly more of them, but those were just excuses. What I had in my hands was a device whose size and functionality simply blew every equivalent from my world out of the water. And the ability to connect to a "global network" was altogether beyond good and evil.

At my request, that datapad was loaded with study materials: books and instructional films. An enormous amount of information, the sheer scale of which filled me with horror at the thought of how much work it would take to master it all—and with delight for exactly the same reason. Cordelia also remarked, with obvious displeasure, that there was even more to be found beyond Jabiim. Many species had more advanced educational programs, all kinds of schools and academies where they taught practically anything one could dream of!!! Magnificent! Something to strive for!

So every waking hour was packed to the brim. I even managed to corner the kids' teachers from time to time—some things needed explaining even despite the full power of my intellect. Not that I couldn't have figured them out myself, of course. This was simply faster.

Part of my time went into studying this universe: social interactions, history, moral norms—which varied wildly from world to world—and simply everyday life. It was necessary if I wanted to avoid awkward situations. Otherwise, I might offer Cordelia a cup of caf one day and find out I'd just proposed marriage... No, no, no. I'm far too young to get married!

I also spent a lot of time filling Alto's orders for the Nimbus. My apprentices were already on the verge of being able to churn out protective charms; all they needed was a little more practice, and then I could move their training on toward serious work with artifacts. As for me, I enchanted part of the Nimbus ground fleet, integrating artifacts into the vehicles that projected "Taash's Tread" and could operate for a week without recharging. I also created ten "charging stations" that allowed energy to be gathered into reservoirs more quickly, using artificially grown crystals supplied by Stratus as the reservoirs.

Some things had to be explained to the general as well: the difference between a reservoir and a mana pump, how drawing mana from the surrounding world differed from generating energy from captured souls, and the specifics of how each method worked and was used.

That day, I combined the children's lesson with my explanations for Alto and gathered everyone together.

In short, mana could be gathered into a reservoir. You created a special artifact construct—or sometimes a ritual one, if it was meant for a single use—that pumped energy into the reservoir. In principle, it was all fairly simple, with one catch: size. The larger the construct, the "thicker" the flow, and accordingly, the faster the reservoir filled.

A simple amulet that repels animals, like the ones a friend of mine used to provide for the kids at an orphanage, made sense to supplement with a small module of this kind—a modest reservoir paired with a very low-cost effect. Just leave it on a shelf overnight, and by morning the amulet's reservoir would be full.

But that wouldn't work with my adaptive-protection amulet, nor with the robe or the knife. Their energy consumption was simply too high. And that was where three other methods came in: charging reservoirs with a soul prison, "manual" charging by pouring a spellcaster's reserve directly into the reservoir, and charging them with a large artifact mana pump. The amulet had no reservoirs of its own, so without a soul-battery it simply wouldn't work. The robe was the opposite case—I hadn't been able to implement a mana converter based on a soul vault because it conflicted with some of the enchantments already laid on it.

For the vehicles, I set up reservoir charging using the third method. You take the crystal out of the artifact in the all-terrain vehicle, slot it into the mana pump—which looks like a fifteen-meter disk—wait two or three hours, and you can "refuel" the next one. I planned to handle all enchanted equipment along the same lines. Making spellcasters work full-time as glorified fuel pumps was a lousy idea, while souls came with the inconvenient necessity of producing corpses. A charging station, on the other hand, doesn't ask to be fed—just keep slotting crystals into it and take it easy.

That approach wouldn't work with charms, though, because they were single-use. They had no reservoirs; the mana reserve was poured directly into the material itself, and once that reserve was exhausted, the object broke down. Quick, cheap, and protective—but only once.

Artifact-making was a vast subject in its own right. Take reservoir crystals alone: stability, energy capacity, how both depended on quality and size. I could have talked about it for hours, but for now neither the children nor Alto needed that level of detail. I was only beginning to compile a table of characteristics for the new materials. A pity I still hadn't found anything better than Crystal Dragon bones. Though... I was getting spoiled, of course. The only way to make a better reservoir would be from crystallized blood or tears of the Gods. Hecate had supplied me with magnificent materials for artifact-making that would last a very long time... or enough for something truly enormous, like a floating fortress. Though with that much, I could probably build a floating city instead. I'd only finished charging the robe from my own reserves a week ago—the amount of energy it held was unimaginable.

In the end, Alto agreed that charging stations with mana pumps and reservoirs in the vehicles were the best solution, and we began putting the system into practice along the most troublesome patrol routes—places where the distances were simply too great and the troops sometimes couldn't get there in time. The charging-station components were manufactured to my designs and shipped to the mansion disassembled. There, right in the courtyard beneath an umbrella-dome, I enchanted them, and the finished kit was then sent off to whichever base needed it. There was no need for me to go along—the assembled construction activated automatically the moment a reservoir was inserted into its socket.

Fortunately, the Stratuses had taken my request for a "roomier" place to work and live seriously. In a week, we would be moving our work to a formerly abandoned industrial complex, now restored after falling into decline and shutting down a couple of decades ago. It had truly enormous spaces—the kind I needed for working on oversized components. It also had a spacious, modern classroom by Jabiim's standards for the children, a room for them to relax in, and space set aside for an enormous library... which, of course, I would also have to fill. Sigh... sigh... sigh...

Later on, a residential building would be constructed on the grounds of the complex as well, but for now we'd have to commute back and forth. Fortunately, the trip took less than an hour, and we had our own transport now.

Some time ago, Alto, Cordelia, and I had sat down together and discussed where on Jabiim my efforts were needed. There were quite a few such areas. The transport alone, which ideally needed to be upgraded all across the planet, already amounted to several months of daily work. The artifact complexes for weather control were simpler—one for each major city, of which there were five on the planet. One was already nearly finished. As for the hovering boats, so far there was only a design for a twelve-person craft—the size of a single Nimbus squad. We hadn't started production yet. And then there were the smaller things—amulets and charms, which for now I was churning out right in the middle of the lectures I gave the children.

Besides that, the Stratuses were very interested in the prospects of magical and technomagical ore processing, but during our discussion we put that project off for the future. As I understood it, the two of them were currently having problems with the powers that be. Well... "problems" might be putting it a bit strongly.

Trouble brewing, yes. No matter how carefully they hid our activities, no matter how thoroughly they kept me out of sight, a word here, a word there... and the rumors started spreading, each more astonishing than the last. As a result, the aristocracy had begun quietly making inquiries. For now, they were doing it lazily and without much enthusiasm, but that was how these things started.

I remembered the conversation the three of us had in the library yesterday. Over the past few months, we had started talking like that fairly often. Mostly with Cordelia, since she visited us more frequently. But Alto had also begun joining our improvised little get-togethers from time to time. In fact, it was through those conversations that I had come to understand the situation on Jabiim—and in the Republic as a whole—much better. Nothing unusual. Just plain, simple corruption, understandable to any sentient. I honestly didn't know of a sentient society that was immune to it.

The Stratuses had very little love for the moneybags sitting at the top of the planet's power structure. They made little effort to hide the fact that they were lining their pockets, paying kickbacks to corrupt Republic officials, running all sorts of schemes... As far as I was concerned, they were even within their rights to a point. The land with the mines belonged to them, almost all the transports belonged to them, the industry... well, you get the idea. They weren't called the aristocracy for nothing. In practice, they were the owners of the planet. On the other hand, they were frankly shitty owners. Stupid and greedy. A prudent owner doesn't just get richer—he invests in his holdings so he can get even richer!!! The plebs will always be dissatisfied, of course, but here it was a question of scale. And the scale was such that all Jabiim needed was a leader, and the flames of revolution would erupt. The constant bleeding of the population by pirates and slavers, poor medicine, endless shortages of practically everything—even locally produced goods—an appalling standard of living for ordinary people, and brutal working conditions. It had all been piling up for years, while the problems only grew worse: with every generation, the "aristocracy" thought less and less about Jabiim, taking everything for granted, and more and more about their own purses.

"I don't understand, Alto. Why are you sitting there kneading your tits?" I finally snapped during yesterday's conversation, after he complained about yet another cut to the budget allocated to his troops.

"Excuse me?" The general clearly had no idea what I meant and looked at me in surprise over the rim of his cup, while Cordelia merely shook her head disapprovingly. Pfft... She was hardly shy about colorful language herself, and now suddenly she was the guardian of public morals.

"Why don't you just cut their throats?" I let my irritation show on my face. "The Republic clearly doesn't give a shit about any of this. You told me yourself that during that... brain-liquefying epidemic, they didn't even send you any aid. And that epidemic threatened to reduce the amount of goods you supplied to the Republic and cut the taxes flowing into its coffers."

The girl sitting with us put on a stern expression and had already drawn breath to speak, but I gestured for her to let me finish.

"Yes, yes, Cordelia, I can see how outraged you are. People were dying, and I'm talking about money. But you're thinking about it the wrong way. That's exactly how the bureaucrats in the Senate think: the money keeps coming in—everything's fine. It stops coming in—sadness, disaster, tragedy. Stage a Night of the Long Knives, gut the aristocracy, and put people from your own little club into the positions that matter."

It was amusing to watch one cousin bristle with outrage while the other kept his face completely impassive. Only his sharp eyes showed that he was listening closely... and I saw no rejection of my words in them.

"It's simple. Keep paying the taxes and replace the crews on the ore haulers. Restrict traders' access to the Jabiimites... Quarantine, all that. Invent some nasty but nonlethal disease... Testicular liquefaction? How does that sound? Anyway, you hardly need me to teach you how to do this. That's it. With our weather, news of the coup won't reach the Republic's capital for another ten years. And by then it'll be too late to do anything about it."

Cordelia was outraged, while Alto chuckled quietly. That laugh brought a faint, knowing smile to my face, while the general's cousin practically choked on her emotions. She wasn't exactly a little girl anymore, yet idealism was practically pouring out of her. Though... something about it felt off. Forced, somehow... unnatural.

"I hear you, Siith." He shot a quick glance at his cousin, and she immediately relaxed back into her chair, no longer searching for something to say. She only glared darkly at both of us. "So, as I understand it, a development like that doesn't exactly... shock you?"

"Pfft. The only reason the regime hasn't changed yet is because of you and the Nimbus—things on the planet have started getting a little better. I have eyes to see and ears to hear." And a whole pile of eavesdropping spells that faithfully supplied me with plenty of information, but they didn't need to know about those. Though they had probably figured that much out themselves. "There's only one question now: when are you going to decide to spill some blood? And if you mean the mass killing of those in power and how I feel about that, I honestly don't give a damn. Six hundred years is plenty of time to stop fainting at the words 'political assassination' and squealing like a virgin in a hayloft."

"Is it really that obvious?" Stratus smiled calmly. Cordelia, meanwhile, stopped playing the offended innocent and let the mask of outrage drop from her face. Her expression turned serious and attentive. The general had decided to stop playing games.

"Experience." I shrugged, taking a sip of the hot, fragrant drink. "I wasn't always a recluse, and magic wasn't the only thing that interested me in life. Youth, you know... all that."

"Ancient sage," Cordelia snorted sarcastically. Despite the seriousness of the conversation, she allowed the corners of her mouth to curl into a faint mocking smile.

"Age matters not. What matters is who you feel yourself to be. Young I am. At heart."

The girl rolled her eyes toward the ceiling—she found it incredibly irritating whenever I slipped back into my original way of speaking. And yes, I knew that. Heh-heh. But she reacted so emotionally that I simply couldn't help myself.

"Since you think a change of power is inevitable and the idea doesn't exactly... bother you..." The general fell silent, gathering his thoughts, while I gave an ironic snort. Here it comes. I'm about to get an offer I have absolutely no intention of refusing. "Maybe you could help us with that?"

"I'll help. To be frank, General, there's something I need. We make a deal, and an epidemic begins." Cordelia and Alto frowned at the same time; epidemics were not exactly fondly remembered on Jabiim. I, meanwhile, was already smiling in the finest tradition of cheerful malefics—merrily and with anticipation. "It'll be fast and relatively mild, with very few deaths. And those deaths, by some strange, mysterious, utterly incredible coincidence, will occur only among your political opponents. The only thing I'll need is something that was once part of each of them. Hair, blood, a nail clipping—anything except urine, feces, or saliva. You could even disguise it as routine medical testing. They feel unwell, go to a doctor, and during the examination a vial of blood somehow finds its way to me. How does that sound? You won't even need to go pew-pew."

"How long have you been planning this?" Surprise and suspicion were written all over Cordelia's face.

"While I was on my way here from that transit point, after Alto and I first met a few months ago. The soldiers didn't say all that much, nor did the people in the settlement, but anyone who knows how to listen can pick up on certain nuances. When people love their general and their rulers... not so much, this is usually where things end up. I don't much like getting involved in politics, but right now I... need some gratitude, yes."

"And what do you need? I'm telling you right now, no sacrificing babies or anything li—"

I burst out laughing. We'd known each other for nearly half a year by now, and they were still projecting all those Jedi horror stories onto me. Though, to be fair, my appearance might have had something to do with that.

"Libraries, Alto. Just libraries dedicated to my patroness. Large ones—truly large ones. In every city. With paper books and electronic archives. And each will have a section devoted to the Mistress of Magic. That section will contain only 'religious' literature, insofar as that term even applies to Hecate's cult: mostly philosophical works and reflections on the value of knowledge. No magical manuals, so you won't have to worry about 'wild mages' appearing."

"That... could be done. But why?"

"The more believers she has, the stronger the Goddess becomes. The more seekers who come there in search of knowledge, the more power she will gain. And I'll get some 'goodies' out of it." I smiled openly, but when I saw the lack of understanding on the Stratuses' faces, I decided to explain, while thinking that this must have been exactly how Ir'rina felt when she explained that word to me. That slight annoyance when people didn't understand you. "It means I'll earn Hecate's favor, and perhaps something more tangible as well."

"And what's the catch?" Cordelia's suspiciousness was... almost endearing by this point.

"None. I swear by Hecate's pantaloons!" I jokingly raised one hand in the gesture of taking an oath. And then realized I had... uh... screwed up a little, as my beloved used to say. Yeah. Back in my own world, there was practically no chance of attracting the Wisest One's attention with a joke like that, but here... while sitting in her only shrine... Ahem. I may have been a little too quick with the jokes. I realized that at the same moment a book smacked me in the back of the head. Straight through all my defenses.

Ow...

"Sss... Ow!!!"

"If he gets smacked over the head one more time, I'm signing up as a believer," Cordelia laughed delightedly, while I tried to dodge another projectile flying straight at my forehead.

Unsuccessfully.

"Ow, all right, I get it, I get it!!! Stop hitting me!!!" I shouted in exasperation, rubbing my forehead as I gave the general's cousin a reproachful look. "Can't even make a joke anymore. And what's with all this bloodthirstiness toward me, anyway?"

"You've got an infuriating grin, my brother in faith!" Cordelia bared her teeth at me happily. "And seriously, sorcerer, have you lost your mind, swearing by a woman's underwear?!"

And at the very edge of hearing, I caught an offended word spoken in an enchanting female voice.

That word was:

"Boor."

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and soon it would be a year since I arrived in this world. For three months now, Jabiim had been groaning under a new epidemic of an unknown disease that had swept across the entire planet like a hurricane. Well... "groaning" might be overstating it. At the moment, there were practically no complaints.

For the first two weeks, the planet teetered on the edge of hysteria: the Jabiimites remembered all too well how "Brain Rot" had ravaged the population. Fortunately, the army, with the active involvement of the Nimbus and its general, managed to prevent any unrest, and the disease itself did little to encourage activity. After the first outbreaks of panic, the initial statistics helped calm the population. The disease was unpleasant, but so far there had been no deaths, and once the doctors found a way to ease the symptoms considerably, the Jabiimites settled down completely.

The thing was, a healthy lifestyle and proper nutrition all but eliminated most of the symptoms, and even those were more unpleasant than frightening: weakness, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea. Pregnant women, who, along with children, barely noticed the illness at all, even joked, "Jabiim Fever—let the whole world find out what morning sickness feels like."

Riding the wave of those jokes, even Cordelia Stratus, sporting a nobly greenish complexion and dark circles under her eyes during one interview, quipped, "I haven't given birth yet, but thanks to this Sith-damned bug*, I now have a pretty good idea of what to expect—and even more respect for the strength and patience of all mothers."

With each passing week, the doctors gathered more and more information, while Republic warships arrived in orbit to enforce the quarantine. Interestingly enough, the message sent out aboard one of the ore haulers had also included a plea for aid from the Republic... But the quarantine they set up. Doctors? Humanitarian aid? Medicine? Nothing. Alto just spat angrily at that.

He was sick too, by the way. But despite feeling awful and looking decidedly unwell, he made a point of appearing before the people and the troops as often as possible, driving his popularity among ordinary Jabiimites even higher. He even gave a couple of interviews, and some of his lines began circulating through the local network: "No illness can overcome my devotion to our homeland," "If I ever stop working for the good of Jabiim, it means I'm dead," "I don't have time to lie around in bed—there's work to be done."

Meanwhile, the internal broadcasts were running an active public-information campaign. The scientists still hadn't found the pathogen, but they had established that drug addicts suffered the worst. Next came people who regularly drank hard liquor to excess. And within a couple of weeks, Jabiim entered a golden age of Healthy Living, with some doctors even beginning to cautiously praise the disease.

According to them, the epidemic might actually prove beneficial for the planet. Studies showed that the body was actively purging itself of harmful substances. Yes, the doctors said, the strain on the internal organs increased, but a healthy diet, vitamins, and moderate exercise would help the Jabiimites cope with it. Especially since the disease affected everyone differently and placed no extreme strain on the body. The only people truly at risk were those who had either been using hard drugs for a long time or continued to live in ways that amounted to self-destruction.

"How's a man supposed to have a proper drink anymore?" complained one of the farmers who grew food crops suited to the local climate, sitting with his friends over a mug of herbal tea. "You knock back a couple of glasses, and the next morning the hangover feels like you've been drinking nonstop for a month."

His friends responded only with nods and murmurs of agreement, while their better halves chattered merrily in the next room. Snatches of conversation drifted through: "Finally," "I'm actually glad," and "Let them stay sick a little longer."

At the first signs of the epidemic, the aristocracy had shut themselves away in their mansions and country villas, and at first they didn't get sick. Healthy, plump, rosy-cheeked politicians appearing on the internal broadcasts with calls to "stand together, grit our teeth, endure, and overcome" inspired nothing but simmering resentment among ordinary Jabiimites. And once word leaked onto the network that the epidemic had reached them too, schadenfreude began blooming among the people in all its glory.

The first death from the disease was met with alarm. One of the rich bastards had literally "shit himself to death," practically forcing his own guts out in the process. The fear faded after the fifth death, though: everyone who died belonged to the wealthy clique, and the kitchen-table experts began arriving at a simple conclusion—the aristocracy were probably a bunch of junkies who had spent quarantine getting blasted on spice, convinced that Jabiim Fever would never reach them.

Those rumors were confirmed once the death toll passed two dozen and information about the deaths was released without sugarcoating anything, despite attempts to hush up certain details. The doctors' conclusion was unequivocal: the bodies of the deceased bore every sign of long-term drug abuse. After that, ordinary people began openly rejoicing at the deaths of others, and several reports showing off the dead aristocrats' lavish mansions only fanned the flames of schadenfreude. Some people even started calling the disease the People's Fever.

What finally broke the dam of public patience was the information that surfaced about the schemes the dead had been running: countless bribes, falsified workplace-accident statistics at their enterprises, safety violations, compensation withheld from injured workers. Some families had even made a practice of buying—or, more often, simply abducting—girls they took a liking to from poor families, then paying fat bribes to the police department to keep it all covered up. The cherry on top of that shit cake was the revelation that information on remote settlements and their security systems had been routinely fed to pirates and slavers.

It would have been funny if it weren't so grim, but ninety percent of what Nimbus Security uncovered was true. Not fabricated evidence, but real crimes. The "aristocracy" had quite literally been selling their own fellow citizens and profiting from their deaths. One recording of a conversation between an already-dead nouveau riche and his still-living heir even included the line, "It's no great loss. They can always breed more." Alto, to whom Cordelia sent the information first as it came in, flew into such a rage that one of his offices had to be completely refurnished afterward. Having lost his parents in just such a raid when he was a child, he finally stopped seeing what was happening as anything negative. In his eyes, the rich had gone from corrupt officials to traitors, and the epidemic had become an act of healing—his homeland purging itself of parasites.

What came to light enraged the population so badly that the Stratuses had to work hard to calm people down. Appearing on the broadcasts, Alto promised the Jabiimites that as soon as the Jabiim Fever crisis was over, he would personally oversee the investigations, while for the time being he would deploy the Nimbus to lock the rich down in their estates. Just in case. Fortunately, the quarantine squadron was doing a fine job of scaring off pirates, so some patrol routes could be left temporarily uncovered. During a private conversation in the library, the general joked darkly that he had never imagined he would find himself keeping good Jabiimites from tearing those bloodsuckers apart.

Meanwhile, the "epidemic" continued successfully mowing down his political opponents, allowing Nimbus Security to stick its nose ever deeper into their closets, packed with the skeletons of their fellow citizens.

It got to the point where every death from the disease was greeted by the population with all but open cheers of joy and approval, while reading the obituaries became a favorite morning pastime. Several attempts by prominent politicians to flee the planet were also thwarted, and in one case, when the escape could not be stopped, the quarantine fleet destroyed the fat cat's yacht.

At the moment, however, the epidemic was winding down. Only a couple dozen names remained on the target list, while Alto and his team were already hard at work drafting a plan to nationalize the enterprises, ships, and mines belonging to the planet's richest politicians—who also happened to be its biggest bastards.

---

"I never thought it could go this smoothly," Alto drawled thoughtfully, sipping one of Maria's brews.

"Smoothly?! Alto, are you... out of your mind?" Cordelia choked out indignantly. "My people and I have been running ourselves ragged to keep everything from going... off the rails!!! I haven't had a decent night's sleep in two months!!!"

"You really shouldn't do that," I remarked calmly. Then, imitating Emthree, I elaborated: "Organics require seven to nine hours of sleep for normal functioning."

If looks could set people on fire, I'd probably have been rolling around on the floor right then, trying to put myself out.

"You know, Siith... I can't decide what I want more," Cordelia hissed, boring into me with a heavy glare. "To hug you to death for helping us lance this festering boil on the body of our world—or just strangle you because of that smug little grin of yours. Thanks to you, I've been suffering through this fucking morning sickness for three months now!!!"

"I had absolutely nothing to do with that. You two were the ones who said, 'Let us share all the hardships of the illness with the people of Jabiim.' Noble, of course, but that was your decision. Don't go blaming the mentally healthy one here for your own idealism."

"He called us psychos too," the girl said, looking at her cousin almost plaintively.

"And who's healthy these days?" Stratus said thoughtfully, then looked warmly at his cousin. "Forgive me. You know what I mean. I didn't mean to diminish your contribution—or your people's—in the slightest. It's just... now we can pull the whole thing off with so little bloodshed... And there'll be practically no trouble afterward. Even those who officially did business with those bastards won't object much to the changes. We'll keep selling them ore at the same prices, at least at first, and funnel the kickbacks into the budget. That money alone will be enough to improve living standards, modernize and expand the armed forces, buy a number of warships... And if we manage to pull off an operation to get the money in their accounts transferred into the planetary budget..."

The general narrowed his eyes dreamily and took another sip.

"And how are those 'airspeeders' of yours coming along?" Cordelia asked after a minute of silence, putting particular emphasis on the last word as she glanced at me.

"Twelve are already finished—just enough for a company and a half**. Twenty hours of flight time, six hours to recharge the reservoir at a charging station, a top speed of around two hundred kilometers per hour. Each one can easily carry twelve people in full gear, plus up to two hundred kilograms of additional equipment, and has a maximum flight altitude of about fifty meters. Another couple of machines, and the apprentices will be able to handle all the routine production work themselves. I'll only have to do the final enchanting. Unfortunately, they won't be able to manage that part on their own for another year or two—rote memorization only gets you so far. But overall, the kids are doing great. I haven't even called anyone a stupid bantha in the past month."

"That's quite an achievement," Alto snorted.

"Oh, he works all of them so hard the Hutts would be jealous. It's only his precious Karray he fusses over," Cordelia ratted me out.

"Be jealous in silence. And anyway, have a little one of your own and cuddle her all you want. You've gotten into the habit of stuffing Karray with sweets, and that's bad for her teeth!"

"You're jealous, old-timer!"

"I'm not old! I'm in the prime of my life!!!"

"So no objections to the jealousy part, then?!"

"Madhouse..." Alto closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to watch our bickering, though the smile he was trying to suppress rather spoiled the effect of his ostentatious disapproval of the chaos we were causing.

To be fair, for some time now I'd been privately thinking of both of them as friends. Nothing brings people together quite like a planet-wide epidemic that was actually an incredibly complex, mana-hungry curse, political assassinations, and a coup d'état. Yeah.

I wasn't even bothered by Cordelia's constant checks anymore. The girl remained true to herself and her paranoia, periodically putting out feelers about my future. The bait varied. Recently, for example, she'd offered me a post in the future government they were now actively putting together: "We'll make you Minister of Education." Yeah, sure, I'm running so fast I'm tripping over myself. That's exactly the kind of shit my life is missing, I swear. Absolute authority over five blockheads and M-3PO is more than enough for me; they already do a splendid job of fraying my nerves.

The most I'm willing to take on is temporarily running a school for training mages someday. And even then, I'll happily dump it onto the first pair of shoulders sturdy enough to carry the load. I'll offer advice. Sometimes.

At first I had my doubts, wondering how the local sorcerous fraternity—the Jedi—would react, but after looking into the matter properly, I came to the conclusion that there shouldn't be any problems. Dozens of different cults flourished across the galaxy, from harmless idiots to outright dark-as-hell associations of necrophiliac perverts. And even the latter were hunted with remarkable laziness. So the "Mages of Jabiim" would most likely provoke nothing more than a visit from a couple of guys in robes carrying glowing sticks—those things look nothing like swords, and I know what a sword looks like; Alto has one, after all—who'd come to ask, "So, what exactly are you doing here? Oh, working for the good of this mudball? Carry on, then. Carry on."

If the Sith hadn't been wiped out, though, then yes, I'd have had to think about it a little more. Those guys were a rough bunch, assuming what I'd read about them wasn't lying.

Coruscant. Supreme Chancellor Sheev Palpatine

At today's Senate session, Palpatine pushed through a decision to send Jabiim a shipment of humanitarian aid, along with a large supply of medicines and medical equipment. He even placed the matter under his personal supervision.

It was easy enough to do. All he had to do was pull up the history of Jabiim's requests to the Senate and lay it before the senators, and it became obvious just how bad things were there. Slaver raids, brutal weather conditions, and the relatively recent "Brain Rot" epidemic that had severely thinned the planet's population all served to highlight just how little attention the Republic paid to small worlds on the periphery. And just how much he, Chancellor Palpatine, cared about the well-being of the people. Unlike his predecessor. In fact, Sheev had spent less time persuading the senators than using his eloquence to make it look as though persuading them had been difficult.

The disease itself wasn't dangerous. According to the data being sent from the planet to the quarantine fleet along with requests for aid, there had been very few deaths. Only a few hundred. And that was with nearly the entire population infected—close to a hundred million sentients. There was also evidence that the new illness, which had been dubbed Jabiim Fever, posed almost no threat to a healthy body. The only ones truly at risk were those who were heavily poisoning themselves with drugs and alcohol.

And that was excellent as well. When the media covered the story, everything could be framed as: "Only thanks to the Republic's actions—and the Chancellor's timely attention to the problem—were mass casualties averted." Combined with the planned reforms and the coming fight against corruption—or, more precisely, against those corrupt officials who were currently getting in his way, and those who needed to start being purged today—aid to a world struck by an unknown disease would be one more brick in the impregnable wall of his reputation as a champion of everything good against everything bad. Democracy, the ideals of the Republic... Blah-blah-blah...

His plan was entering a new phase. His Master was dead, the crisis on Naboo was over... somewhat unexpectedly, but that was no great concern. The Skywalker boy had been taken in for Jedi training. All that remained was to show the kid a little interest and care from time to time. Sheev Palpatine was a kind and grateful man, after all—one who would never forget the child who had done so much to help his homeworld. The boy could barely reach the controls of a starfighter, yet somehow managed to destroy the droid control ship. No one was surprised when the Chancellor promised to keep an eye on him.

Maul, on the other hand, had disappointed Sidious... Went and died so uselessly... Defeated by a boy, a naive girl, and a Padawan... Well, at least he managed to kill Qui-Gon Jinn. The tool had served its purpose, giving the Jedi's bloated self-importance one last good kick on the way out. Loyal... perhaps the Zabrak's only truly outstanding quality had been his loyalty. Unfortunately, his pride and overconfidence outweighed even that virtue. Palpatine had never regarded him as a true Sith Lord, so in a way, he even felt relieved by Maul's defeat.

Still, he'd had to cover his tracks. The Jedi were trying to find the second Sith, but Maul's ship had been almost completely destroyed, there was no recovering any data from it, and in any case it had somehow "gone missing" while being transported to Kuat. His former apprentice's droid had had its memory wiped and now had a new owner. Once that and the remaining loose ends had been dealt with, all that was left was to wish the Jedi good luck hunting for the Sith sitting right under their noses. On Coruscant. Holding the highest office in the Republic.

And he had work to do... He needed to strengthen his position. A whole nest of snakes had already taken note of the Supreme Chancellor's "kind and pliable" nature and were making plans for how they would manipulate him. He would have to play along, gather as much dirt on them as possible, and subtly nudge those snakes toward the decisions he needed. Pick the most promising among them and turn them into his supporters. That Chagrian, Mas Amedda, for instance, looked very promising. And those who didn't make the cut... they would fall in the fight against corruption.

He also needed to weaken the Jedi and prepare the ground for their eventual destruction. And, of course, prepare the Republic's transition to a new order. With him at the head of it, naturally.

---

Author's note:

*"Sith-damned bug"—in the GFFA, the word "Sith" was sometimes used much like our "devil," so the expression didn't particularly surprise anyone, while Cordelia got a little extra enjoyment out of taking a jab at Siith.

**Nimbus company: 100 people (2 platoons). Platoon: 50 people (4 squads). Squad: 12 people. (Thanks to the excellent videos by Elven Tanker on YouTube.)

---

And here's a magnificent mug of our protagonist, courtesy of one of the readers of the original Russian story. An enormous, inhuman thank-you to the supremely talented Hook and Aircoat (or Mr.Dog, as the signature says)—this chapter is dedicated to you and your talent!

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

"Good mowning, Daddy!"

"Good morning, Karray. And I'm Mentor!"

"Daddy!"

"Mentor!"

"Daddy!"

"Mentor!!!"

"Da-ddy!!!"

The little red-haired disaster climbed into my lap and hugged me, grinning from ear to ear and showing everyone around that she was missing two upper front teeth and one lower one. Uuu... Forbidden move! Cheating!!! But the little menace didn't give a damn about the rules!

"Master," my droid spoke up from beside me. "You have been trying for a year to teach this child the proper form of address, with no success. With all due respect, Master, your mentoring skills appear insufficient."

"Yes, Emthree, I think you're right." I gently stroked the girl's back. These little arguments had long since become nothing more than a game. The girl was drawn to me. At first, that surprised me quite a bit. Then I simply accepted it: mysterious and winding are the ways of a child's mind. "Let's eat."

"I can do it myself!" Karray cried cheerfully, settling more comfortably on my lap and grabbing a spoon.

I moved my own plate farther out of her reach. We had some delicious milk porridge for the child, and Luritta was just setting it down in front of her. Smiling softly, the girl took my spoon from the little fidget's hand and gave her her own utensil instead—a smaller one.

My apprentices watched the whole thing with almost no interest; they saw scenes like this regularly, a couple of times a week. Only Karina smiled as she watched her sister, occasionally turning a languid, cow-eyed village-girl gaze on me. That look filled me with annoyance and a certain amount of unease. The reason for it was obvious enough. What to do about it was another question entirely.

I have no idea what thought processes were going on inside that cute red head of hers, but the silly little idiot had developed a crush on me. And I'd been one hundred percent sure nothing like that would happen: my affectionate smile could make orcs turn pale, so surely it ought to scare off underage girls. But... here we are. Maybe it was because Karray was so attached to me, maybe it was the teacher effect, or maybe she was just a little pervert with a thing for men who looked like serial killers?

A real predicament, basically. During lectures, this lovestruck fool listened attentively for maybe the first ten minutes; then her gaze would turn hazy, and she'd start looking at me with that idiotic, dreamy expression on her face. It would probably pass with time—first crushes were perfectly normal. But at the moment, an otherwise very bright girl was taking a serious hit to her effectiveness.

Romance, in general, had turned into a real "pandemic" in our household. The boys were courting the other two girls, Sergiy had started dating Luritta, the physical-training instructor was even marrying one of the kids' teachers, and Roger, Alto's adjutant, was making a determined play for Maria... And that was where I was genuinely worried.

If I frankly didn't give a damn about everyone else's love lives, our cook was a different matter... Her peace of mind ranked second only to my own. Though, come to think of it, maybe even first! So one evening, when that dandy was here, I intercepted him for a serious talk.

"Listen closely, Roger." I caught him by the shoulder in one of the corridors. "I've noticed you've started dangling your little bells around our Maria. So here's a warning, lad: if, Goddess forbid, you upset our darling cook, I'll make your life very entertaining, you little shit, and even Alto won't be able to help you. The moment I find out you've hurt her—and I will find out, don't doubt that—you can say goodbye to your equipment. And don't get me wrong, I won't lay a finger on you. It's just that one not-so-fine day, a sausage will fall out of one trouser leg and your balls out of the other. Have I made the prospects sufficiently clear?"

For several seconds, the stunned Roger just stared into my eyes, then started nodding frantically.

"Good. That's a good lad." I clapped him on the shoulder and smiled, which made the general's adjutant go pale and swallow hard. "Off you go, then. And remember: Maria should be the happiest girl on Jabiim whenever you're around her."

Youth, I thought, watching with satisfaction as the lad walked away with a slightly twitchy gait. All that lovey-dovey stuff was secondary, but if the quality of my meals dropped, I might actually start killing people. Romantic troubles were like that: everything slipped from your hands, you thought about your wounded little heart instead of the job... and next thing you knew, the meat on the table was dried out, oversalted, and generally just over-un-delicious. So the lad needed to understand just how important his relationship was to his equipment... in every sense of the word.

My reminiscing about terrorizing the younger generation was interrupted by Cordelia's arrival. Now there was someone romance gave a very wide berth. The girl was so formidable that, for all her beauty, the men around her weren't thinking about her ass—they were thinking about how to get as far away from her difficult personality as quickly as possible.

"Hey, everyone! Luritta, does Maria have anything else to snack on back there? And a mug of caf, please." The girl dropped wearily into one of the empty chairs as our housekeeper left the room. "Crazy night. I only managed to doze off for a couple of hours."

"You really shouldn't do that," I said with a faint smile, while my apprentices murmured their greetings. "Organics require seven to nine hours of sleep for normal functioning."

"Tch, sorcerer, don't you start getting on my nerves too, all right? For Hecate's sake!"

"But Master is absolutely right, ma'am. According to my..."

"Emthree, you shut up too, you bore." The girl was clearly irritated, and at my questioning look she explained why. "There was a break in the clouds last night. A shipment from Coruscant arrived for us. Medicines, medical equipment, humanitarian aid. I was... very surprised. Those corrupt assholes in the Senate finally decided to help us! Only took them a hundred fucking years. Though maybe it's because of the new Chancellor. The accompanying documents say he's taken personal charge of the epidemic situation."

"Is the shipment at least useful?"

"You bet! There's ten times more bacta alone than all the reserves on our entire planet put together! And the equipment is all brand-new, straight from the factories. We can easily modernize a couple of hospitals now." The girl was already practically glowing with genuine happiness, with no trace of her earlier irritation left. She really did love Jabiim and cared about it every bit as much as her cousin did. "And then there's the standard humanitarian stuff. Tents, clothing, military rations, salt, heaters... We'll find a use for all of it. The rations are definitely going into the emergency stockpiles—their shelf life is long, and every batch was produced literally a month ago. We haven't found a single substandard item so far. Maybe the new Chancellor really does have them all by the balls over there. Usually those crooks love palming off defective goods and obsolete junk."

And just like that, abandoning all the important business—she was pretty thoroughly exhausted, after all—she switched her attention to the little girl sitting on my lap.

"How's my little Kavvy? Did you miss Auntie Kovdelia?"

"I'm not Kavvy!" the girl declared belligerently, waving her spoon and nearly poking me in the eye. "I'm Kavvay! Did you bwing me candy?"

"Right," I cut into the conversation, putting some sternness into my voice, because Cordelia was already reaching into her blouse with an indulgent smile. "No sweets while there's still porridge on your plate! Eat up!"

"Daddy's a tywant," the little girl drawled sadly, scooping up another spoonful of porridge with a doomed expression.

"I'm not a tyrant, I'm his henchman," I laughed, and Cordelia snorted right after me. Well, what? A general who seizes power is a tyrant any way you look at it. And since I'm part of his gang, that makes me a bona fide henchman.

"Listen, sorcerer," the head of Nimbus Security said once we'd finished eating and the children had already left the dining room. "You told us how old you are, right? So why are you so... spry? Your appearance, fine—magic and all that—but you don't act like an old geezer, you know?"

"Heh." That really was an amusing question. For me. "Because I want to live." Seeing the lack of understanding in her eyes, I decided to elaborate. "Humans are short-lived sentient animals. Relatively short-lived, of course, but our lifespan is limited by nature: a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty years, and that's it. And our brains are wired for exactly that span of time. If you ever spend time with a truly long-lived species, you'll notice that they're incredibly unhurried. Deliberate. Rarely in any hurry to get anywhere. Even the way they talk makes them sound slow: smoothly, with pauses, taking their time to choose the right words. To them, it's perfectly normal to say something like, 'See you soon. I'll be passing through your city again in about fifty years.' They're in no hurry to live the way we are. Hell, the elves back in my world often keep trees as pets!!! Partly because trees can actually live a very long time!"

While Luritta cleared away the dishes, I smiled at her, gestured for another mug of caf, and returned to the conversation.

"I really am old by human standards, but I'm young in spirit, understand? There are still things in life that interest me. Believe me, not everyone is that lucky. But if the drive to keep living ever runs out... Imagine that every goal has been achieved, every dream fulfilled. What's left to live for? That's it. The end. There's simply no point in extending your life again: you're tired, you're sick of everything. For a while you still flounder around, trying to find a new purpose, taking up whatever happens to come your way. Sometimes you even get genuinely interested in something for a while. But with every iteration, that interest becomes more and more hollow, until one day you simply realize it's time to stop, because the 'spark has gone out' and the 'grain of sand is gone.'"

I smiled bitterly, remembering dozens of people I'd known who had stopped living. Some to a knife or a spell, and some exactly the way I had just described.

"That's why it's so important for us to stay... passionate about things! That's why I'm not dropping everything right now to bury myself in research, but helping solve Jabiim's problems instead. The longer I can't devote myself fully to what I love, the more I'll... miss it, understand? The real problem with immortality isn't overcoming the inevitable death from old age, as those who have only just begun living tend to think—it's overcoming boredom. The only ones who truly live for a very long time are those who are genuinely consumed by something. Researchers, scientists, inventors, politicians, warriors, killers, madmen and maniacs—all those so deeply immersed in what they love that they're simply too busy to bother dying. Whether it's power, magic, war, or science doesn't matter. There's too much to do to get distracted by something as stupid as death."

"I think I understand," the girl said thoughtfully, giving me a look that was rather difficult to read. In return, I gave her a mocking smile.

"Sorry, Cordelia, but I seriously doubt that."

"No, I really did understand. I didn't feel it, of course, but I understood what you meant."

The girl headed toward the stairs leading to the bedrooms—she had probably decided to get some sleep at our place—while I remained slightly puzzled. She had been oddly serious when she left my company. Maybe she really had understood?

---

The "epidemic" on Jabiim ended a month later, and two weeks after that, the Stratuses' plan was put into action. People who shared Alto and Cordelia's values were installed in key positions. True Jabiimites, as the general called them. The investigative machine quickly spun into motion. The reputations of families that only recently had been second only to God on the planet were rapidly sinking to the bottom of the mire.

As Alto put it, both in public and in private, "They were lucky to die before all this came to light." Of course, there were those who suspected something was off. Anyone with enough standing in society was simply given access to the investigation materials—the findings were going to be made public anyway. In ninety percent of cases, that worked better than any blackmail or coercion. Especially when the doubters were shown some of the more memorable "sights."

For example, private prisons for sex slaves, home videos featuring them, or the swamp burial ground where some kidnapping victims had found their final resting place. And the footage of specialists recovering the girls' remains left few people unmoved. As for the financial crimes, there was no point even talking about them—the sheer amount of that filth that surfaced was unbelievable. None of this, of course, erased the questions surrounding such a conveniently timed epidemic, but it did dull the urge to dig too hard for answers.

In three months, elections were to be held for the planet's leader—the new head of Jabiim's government. The Stratuses weren't even considering playing dirty: it was already obvious who would win. Especially after the general laid the aristocracy's filth out for everyone to see. Everyone who had survived from the rich men's faction—even those who were spotless before the law—had become politically dead. The Jabiimites simply would not forgive them for having any friendly ties to thieves, murderers, rapists, and slavers.

Meanwhile, the provisional government was running itself ragged, picking up the abandoned reins of power, restoring the chain of command, and studying every possible course of action. Things worked out nicely with the rich men's accounts, by the way. Necromancy works wonders, yes. The Shadow of Life provided all the information we needed; fortunately, I had pieces of the deceased on hand, so there were no problems with getting things done quickly. Which meant Jabiim's rather lean budget would soon be receiving some very welcome infusions of very, very large sums.

Meanwhile, I was choosing buildings or plots of land for the future libraries. They wouldn't be built right away, of course. I'd told Alto myself there was no need to bleed the budget dry. Whenever he could manage it was fine—I wasn't in any hurry, and Hecate perceived time differently anyway. A year or a hundred years made little difference to her. But I was picking the best locations I could. Places with enough room for a park around them. My idea was to cover the library building and a small area around it with a rainproof dome, while artifacts inside would provide sunlight. Why the hell not? We'd disguise them as a weak force field and lamps.

We could plant trees from other planets, beautiful flowers—species that needed lots of sunlight and simply didn't grow here. But reading real paper books while sitting on a bench beneath a tree... now that would be magnificent! We'd put up stalls selling caf and ice cream! Though there'd be no need to put them up ourselves. We'd just set aside a few small spots suitable for vendors, and they'd come on their own. People would be drawn in. Even Cordelia approved of the idea—not just a library, but a genuine place for cultural recreation. Jabiim didn't have many places like that.

When I told her about the idea while we were sitting in the house library, she listened very carefully. She even set aside one of the adventure books from my world that she'd been reading during her rare breaks. And the next day, she pressed a chip with five thousand credits into my hand. I was surprised, and she just muttered, "My contribution to your project. Consider it a donation."

"Cordelia, there's no need for this. Hecate doesn't requi—"

"Just take my money, sorcerer." The girl shot me an angry look, shoved the chip into my hand, and strode decisively toward the door. Right at the threshold, she stopped, stood there for a couple of seconds, then clicked her tongue in irritation and turned back toward me.

"I just like your idea! I want to be part of it, understand? People call our world a mudball, but if they start calling it 'the mudball where people love books,' I'll like that a whole lot better."

The slam of the door put an end to our conversation and left me listening to her retreating footsteps. I have no idea how she managed it, but somehow even her footsteps sounded irritated. I looked down at the chip. A fairly large sum by galactic standards, and certainly by the standards of this world. I knew the girl didn't make a habit of using her position and connections for personal gain, so this was a rather... substantial contribution.

Coruscant. Jedi Temple.

"Master, you've seemed rather thoughtful these past few days. More than usual."

"Something has happened. Significant changes in the Force, I feel. Even through the shadow of the dark side. But no details do I have. Troubling, this is."

"Sith?"

"Perhaps. Know, I do not. Darkness I do not feel, but neither light. That the future has changed, I know. Another path, the hearts of many have chosen, and their first steps upon it they have taken. A road, yes. Like a bridge over an abyss, the paths of many it changes. Finished only recently, it was—I felt the final stone laid. Understand me, do you, Master Windu, hmm?"

"Vaguely," the man nodded gravely.

"Lucky you. Understood nothing myself, I did. Depressing, that is."

The dark-skinned Jedi glanced sideways at the small but mighty Jedi walking beside him. A faint, slightly mocking smile played across the Grand Master's face. And people call Drallig a troll, Mace thought. They just haven't spent enough time talking to Yoda.

---

Author's note:

We now have a composite sketch of the underwear thief, undead-devourer, ladies' favorite, and all-around killer hamster—Quartermaster! Let's thank Mr.Dog for the generosity with which he shares his talent with us!

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

"Are you sure, Siith?" It was strange to see uncertainty in Cordelia's eyes. Even her voice sounded somehow hesitant and lost.

"It'll be fine! We fly out, we fly back. A two- or three-month adventure, tops. Don't worry—I'll have Emthree with me, the mercenaries, and... uh... what was the pilot's name again?"

"Ras. His name is Ras," the girl sighed, rolling her eyes. Then she cast a doubtful glance at my personal Lambda-class shuttle, the one I was planning to take on my little trip. "Maybe you should stay after all? What do you need those Twi'leks for?"

"Well, we don't have many of them. Only six on the whole planet, and those are captured bandits. Not enough data, like I already told you."

"Why do I get the feeling you just wanted an adventure for your old, wrinkled ass?"

"My ass is perfectly fine! Smooth and soft as a baby's!" Damn perceptive Cordelia. I really did want to travel. No, seriously! There were a fuckton of worlds out there, and I'd already spent three years getting soaked in the rain.

A lot had been accomplished in that time. Every city now had its own weather-control artifact. There were only two spaceports, so the other three cities were equipped purely for defense: if pirate ships appeared in the opening in the clouds, it would simply be closed.

We kept the quarantine in place for another two years, "because the pathogen responsible for Jabiim Fever had still not been identified." At the spaceports, all interaction with outsiders was handled exclusively through droids. Facility maintenance took place only after every transport carrying offworlders had departed, so the workers could go about their business in peace.

The Nimbus was now fully equipped with "Jabiim-made military transport airspeeders," which had been "designed specifically for the harsh weather conditions of their homeworld." What was more, two of my apprentices, who were already married—one of the military-minded boys and the mercenary-minded blonde—had started a company producing "civilian models." They could also repair or enchant new Nimbus transports whenever necessary. Taria, the blonde, had very quickly shifted the lad's priorities from "I want to fight for Jabiim" to working for the good of the population. Work that paid well and didn't require risking his life. Clever girl. The two of them ended their formal training there, having decided to carve out a niche for themselves.

I don't judge them in the slightest—to each their own. Besides, the young couple hadn't cut ties with us; they often came by for advice and made regular use of my library for mages. So they were still improving their skills anyway. Specialized spellcasters were a perfectly normal thing as far as I was concerned. As a result, two- and five-seat airspeeders had already appeared. They were quite affordable for a Jabiimite with an above-average income. Their speed and maximum altitude were significantly lower, but their endurance had increased severalfold, and the reservoirs—now freely available for purchase—only needed to be swapped out about once a week.

The military-minded couple, on the other hand, were now with the Nimbus, heavily involved in producing amulets and charms. And they truly basked in the respect of their comrades. At first, the two of them felt self-conscious about not charging into battle with blasters at the ready, but after a few months they changed their minds. The special-forces troops turned out to be grateful men and women, and my apprentices weren't idiots. So in time, they came to terms with the fact that they weren't winning battles on the front lines—they were saving lives through their hard work. Soldiers who had narrowly escaped death thanks to their amulets and charms made sure of that, never stinting on words of gratitude.

Karina and Karray were now my personal apprentices. The former had taken the new group of five prospective mages under her wing while I was away. She had stopped losing her head and staring at me with the eyes of a lovestruck cow. Not completely, but still. I did catch her giving me long, intent looks and shooting jealous glances at Cordelia, Maria, and even Luritta, but at least she no longer lost all reason. Quite the opposite—Karina had proven so good at teaching that I'd begun training her as a generalist.

As for the little "Kavvy," she'd beaten me. I no longer resisted being called Daddy. I didn't call her my daughter, admittedly, but I'd grown deeply attached to the little one. Curious and restless, the nine-year-old sorceress was almost always at my side. Incidentally, getting out of taking her along on the planned trip had cost me a fair amount of nerves—and a promise to bring back something interesting. Little extortionist.

Cordelia came by just as often. Despite her constant flashes of anger, suspicion, or irritation toward me, she was soft and indulgent with the child. And in general, she was very sincere whenever the matter didn't involve some Nimbus secret or her cousin. No, there was no "romantic spark" between us or anything like that. Just mutual respect. The girl appreciated the three years I'd spent working for the good of her homeworld, as well as the fairly modest rates I charged for my work. Well, why not? I had virtually no expenses: Jabiim supplied all the materials, I didn't pay a single credit for the premises, and I had no staff on payroll. So for one person, the profit was very substantial. Substantial enough that, after consulting with the Stratuses, I ordered myself a shuttle, named it the "Great Turtle," hired a pilot, set aside money to hire several bodyguards, and still had funds left over. But to be honest, the price was a nasty surprise. That same Gozanti cost a hundred and fifty thousand brand-new, while this shuttle in an eight-seat configuration cost almost twice as much! They explained to me that its "guts" were high-quality and all that, but for now I still had trouble wrapping my head around it. Once I'd flown around in space for a while, I'd figure out all the finer points.

By the way, our former industrial complex, where we held our lessons, was gradually being rebuilt into the Jabiim School of Magic. The residential building they had originally planned, then abandoned after a while, would instead become a five-story dormitory. The first three floors would be for students, the fourth for teachers, and the fifth for the administration. Some of the former production halls would be converted into classrooms, while others would become rooms for practical training. It was very much a plan for the future, but both Alto and Cordelia had genuinely embraced it. They had seen the benefits mages brought to Jabiim and were making plans to integrate spellcasters into society. And me... well, I supported it. Why wouldn't I? It fit perfectly with my own plans, and besides, I liked the Stratuses and Jabiim.

I'd decided to go to Ryloth, the Twi'lek homeworld, because of a recent encounter with the Jedi. More precisely, it was the species of one of them that had given me the idea. Two Jedi had attended the opening of our first library in the capital six months ago. A master and an apprentice. The quarantine had already been lifted by then, so Alto sent me a message saying that two sentients in distinctive robes, with lightsabers hanging from their belts, were wandering around Choal and asking all sorts of questions.

I reached the capital just after they had visited the "airspeeder workshop." My former apprentices only shrugged when I asked about the Jedi. Yes, they'd stopped by, looked at the prices. Asked what principles the machines worked on, and were politely referred to the general or their teacher. For some reason, they kept waving their hands around in front of them in a funny way while asking about me. Overall, the sorcerers behaved civilly: "No one punches you in the face just for asking," as Rung once wrote.

For two days, those two disappeared into the capital, turning up here and there from time to time, talking to people. There were reports that they had met with representatives of the general's "opposition." Though in practice, that amounted to little more than a handful of disgruntled political corpses who still hadn't given up on making a fuss about their rights. A mixed bag of the stupidest or most stubborn. Alto kept an eye on them, but without going overboard: those particular sentients hadn't been implicated in any serious crimes, and disagreeing with Stratus's policies wasn't forbidden here.

We first met in person at the grand opening ceremony. The property of several former rich men had been confiscated, their mansions demolished, and in their place a ten-story cylindrical building had been erected. From the outside, the facade was completely covered in opaque, durable glass, and there were entrances on all four sides. Above each entrance was the symbol of the Mistress of Magic.

Each floor was a single circular space, with elevators in the center. Administration desks, reading tables, and an enormous number of bookshelves filled the rest. The tenth floor was reserved for the administration, while the basement housed a small print shop with an entirely magical production process.

Around the building lay a small but beautiful park with walkways, benches, and neat little fountains. The entire library grounds, park included, covered an area six hundred meters in diameter. An umbrella-dome stretched over it, and dozens of small suns hung from its inner surface, creating the impression of a bright, sunny day beneath it. At night, the suns went dark, and the inside of the dome was decorated with crescent moons—young and old. Above the building itself, Hecate's symbol lit up. That was where we met the Jedi, during Alto's opening ceremony.

---

Two cloaked figures, their hoods thrown back, stood behind the crowd of locals and watched the planet's leader, Alto Stratus, give his speech.

The Council had sent Jedi Master Tholme and his Padawan, Aayla Secura, to the planet Jabiim. Not exactly one of the more important places in the galaxy. To be perfectly honest, it was a backwater even by the standards of the sector. The weather conditions made travel to and from the world difficult, which left the planet lagging badly in development. In every sense.

The mission had been arranged at the Chancellor's request. Palpatine had taken personal charge of the epidemic that had recently broken out on Jabiim, and once the quarantine was lifted, he asked the Jedi Council to pay the world a little attention. To assess the situation.

Master Yoda agreed, and so Tholme and Aayla set off for that rainy, gloomy world with a parting instruction from the master of masters: look around, get some rest, and unwind. The man snorted.

Rest. The planet had barely any places for that. As for sights, there were only swamps and forests, and the one thing that set this world apart from countless others like it was the endless rain—and the absurdly overblown prejudices about the Jedi. People literally hid their children from them the moment the pair introduced themselves. In general, the defenders of democracy were treated with chilly politeness.

And the oddities began the moment they arrived. First, their ship was inspected in orbit. Nothing in the mission briefing had mentioned that a small fleet of two Bounty-class frigates and five CR-70 corvettes trained their guns on anyone approaching the planet. Upon landing, they had to register, receive permits for temporary stay on Jabiim outside the spaceport grounds, and listen to a warning about the recent Jabiim Fever epidemic. With a completely impassive expression, the customs officer advised them not to leave the spaceport if either Jedi used hard drugs or abused alcohol.

Tholme merely shook his head reproachfully at the officer and laid a calming hand on the shoulder of the Twi'lek girl, who had nearly choked on her indignation. The customs officer only shrugged indifferently and said that warning visitors about it was part of his job.

Then came the information gathering, conducted under an endless curtain of rain. There was a meeting with representatives of the planetary administration, who answered their questions politely enough, but they were not granted access to the leader of the Jabiimites, Commander-in-Chief Alto Stratus. "The Gen—Commander has a great many matters demanding his attention, honored Jedi. His next available appointment is in three months. Would you like me to schedule you?" Attempts to press the point that they were representatives of the Jedi Council got them nowhere: "The Commander does not care who you are. If you wish to meet with him over something other than an emergency, then join the regular queue."

The leader of the opposition, on the other hand, received them immediately, and the conversation left them with a... mixed impression.

"Master, I think he's insane. Who would infect an entire planet?"

"It certainly looks that way, Aayla. His assumptions are far too incredible—especially with no evidence to support them," the Jedi said, shaking his head. "You studied the reports, didn't you? The epidemic and those deaths brought so much filth to light that I wouldn't be surprised if the collapse of all his hopes really did drive the man out of his mind. And besides, the situation here hardly looks like the military tyranny this sentient claims it is."

The deaths caused by the mysterious disease had indeed been remarkably convenient. But the forensic reports also supported the media's official version. Secura had been unpleasantly surprised by the sheer number of drug addicts among the planet's ruling elite. Tholme, however, had not.

"Cargo traffic here is too light, and the population isn't wealthy enough. Shipping very cheap narcotics to this world simply wouldn't be profitable, but truly expensive spice for the elite—that's another matter. So yes, Aayla, it's entirely plausible. Especially against the backdrop of how bleak life is on this planet."

And then they stumbled across something unusual. Or rather, noticed it. Airspeeders. There weren't many of them, but they cruised calmly through the atmosphere—an atmosphere practically guaranteed to wreck sensitive electronics. There was a reason wheeled vehicles were the most common form of transport on the planet. Repulsorcraft wore out and broke down at an insane rate.

Their questions eventually led them to a married couple of... mages. And to a conversation that yielded absolutely nothing.

"Ask the Commander."

"You should ask the Teacher."

"Maybe you'd like to buy an airspeeder? It would improve your mobility."

When Tholme tried to use a mind trick on the man—"You will tell me about your Teacher"—he got a sullen reply:

"No, I won't. Knowing him, he'll tan my ass with a switch again, and my ass isn't government property."

The Jedi left the workshop... bewildered. Neither master nor apprentice quite knew what to make of it.

And now they were at the opening of the new library in the capital. By Coruscant standards, the building wasn't impressive, but for Jabiim it was genuinely beautiful. And there was no constant rain, so both of them were actually enjoying the warmth beneath the rays of the little pseudo-suns hanging overhead. Not even the red-eyed man of indeterminate age standing to Aayla's right spoiled the experience. At first Tholme had taken him for a Jedi—their clothing looked far too similar—but there was no lightsaber at the man's belt. Only the sheath of a small knife or dagger.

"Look, Master! It's beautiful!" the Padawan said, spellbound. And she was right: with Stratus's final words—that the library was dedicated to someone called Hecate—the symbols above the library doors flared with silvery light, small fountains sprang to life, and the suns overhead blossomed into beautiful flowers of brilliant light.

"Yeah, turned out pretty well," the stranger standing beside them agreed with satisfaction. "Glad you like it, blue girl. Nice to know I didn't spend a week busting my ass enchanting all this for nothing. There'll be a rainbow over the fountains in a moment, too."

And sure enough, rainbows appeared over each of the small fountains. Tiny ones, but they made the whole place feel even more magical. The Jedi, however, were no longer looking at the beauty around them. Their attention was fixed on the man in robes that looked remarkably similar to their own.

"Ahem..." The Jedi cleared his throat, gathering his thoughts. "I'm Jedi Master Tholme, and this is my Padawan, Aayla Secura. And you are...?"

"Siith is my name," his interlocutor said with an unpleasant smile, making both Jedi tense and rest their hands on the hilts of their lightsabers. "Once again: that's my name, not... an affiliation with some order. My parents named me that. I'm a sorcerer. At your service."

The man gave a slight nod and began studying them with curiosity through those rather off-putting eyes of his. He paid more attention to the Twi'lek girl, and when he noticed the hint of irritation on her face, he gave an amused snort.

"Sorry, blue girl. It's just that I've hardly ever seen any Twi'leks. We only have a handful here on Jabiim, and they're all men. I'm curious."

"My name is Aayla Secura," the girl muttered.

"Yes, yes." The man waved a hand airily. "Sorry, Padawan Secura."

"Strange name," Tholme drawled, still keeping one hand on the hilt of his lightsaber.

"It translates from my native language as 'one who lives despite all odds.' Perfectly normal name. Back home, 'tholmes,' for example, are temporary builders' huts—the ones they live in while construction is underway." The Padawan let out a quiet chuckle at that, but after glancing at her master, she quickly put on a serious face. "I heard you were looking for me? The teacher of those two blockheads?"

"Did you really beat that guy with a switch?" the young Twi'lek asked.

"He went and complained about it, did he? Pfft, what an idiot... That blockhead nearly burned the house down! If he can't absorb my wisdom through his ears, then I'll deliver it through his ass."

"But that's..."

"If the door to the mind is closed, knock from behind," the red-eyed man said, clearly quoting someone, his frightening smile flashing. "Why don't we go have some caf? There's a vendor stall over there. Master Tholme, do stop boring holes into me with that suspicious stare. It's rude, after all. I don't think I've given you any reason for aggression yet, and planning to hack me apart with a glowing stick just because my name gives you unpleasant associations is a bit much."

Tholme stared at him for several seconds, then gave a restrained nod.

"Fair enough," he said gravely, and the group headed toward the stall selling caf.

"And they're not sticks. They're swords," Aayla Secura commented on the sorcerer's words.

"See the general over there? Now that's a sword hanging from his belt. Yours, sorry to say, is a glowing stick. I've seen them on the Holonet. Oh, could you turn that thing on? I'd be curious to see one in person."

"Another time," the Jedi Master said firmly. "Not in the middle of a crowd. It is a weapon, after all."

Tholme was bewildered yet again. Something strange was going on on this planet. With the red-eyed man in particular. He could feel no movement of the Force in him. None at all. It was as if the man weren't Force-sensitive in the slightest—and yet he had introduced himself as a sorcerer. Was he hiding himself in the Force? Possible... So despite his outward composure, the Jedi was rapidly going through possibilities. His first thought had been that they had stumbled across a Sith, but after considering it rationally, Tholme discarded the idea. Someone being hunted by the entire Order would hardly expose himself so blatantly. A member of some other group of Force-sensitives? Or perhaps simply a technician who called technology magic? Maybe even just a charla—

"Daddy!" A shout from nearby interrupted the Jedi's train of thought. Their red-eyed interlocutor turned toward the sound, where two figures were hurrying over to them: a girl about the same age as his Padawan, and a child who looked around ten. The sorcerer broke into that off-putting grin of his at the sight of them. His daughters?

"Girls! You decided to come see the opening too?"

"Yep!" the younger one replied happily, wrapping the man in a hug. The older girl only nodded, casting an embarrassed glance at the Jedi. "Uncle Alto is awesome! As always!"

"Couldn't have said it better, kiddo," he said, stroking the girl's back before ruffling her hair to an indignant, "Aw, come on!" "How are things, Karina? How are the apprentices?"

"Fine, Teacher," the older girl sighed, while the younger one fixed her hair and muttered something aggrieved under her breath.

"Sorrow in your words I hear, young spellcaster," the man laughed, making Tholme nearly cough as he stared at the red-eyed man in surprise. The latter planted his feet wide apart, raised his gaze to the sky, clenched a fist on one bent arm, and proclaimed with theatrical grandeur and a hint of malicious glee, "Know all the pain of being a Teacher! Feel for yourself the full abyss of despair and horror that I once felt! Look nightmare in the eyes and find the strength to endure! Overcome unimaginable suffering—and make spellcasters out of these monsters!"

"Hey, Dad! We weren't monsters!" the girl protested, planting her fists on her hips. "Well, my sister and I definitely weren't!"

"Remember this, Karray. To a Teacher, apprentices are always two things at once: a gigantic pain in the ass when their training begins, and a gigantic pain in the ass after it ends."

A few seconds of silence passed before Aayla Secura was the first to break it.

"What's the difference?"

"After the training, you're proud of that pain in the ass too," the red-eyed man burst out laughing, giving Karina a light pat on the shoulder. "Don't take it personally, apprentice. You were almost always a good girl. Unlike this little fidget here."

"Daaad!!!"

"All right, enough joking around. Girls, I need to talk to... Oh, right! Introductions! These two are Jedi. Master Tholme and his Padawan, Aayla Secura. Honored Jedi, this is Karray and Karina Boon—sisters, and my apprentices."

"Wow! Real ones?" the younger girl asked, staring at them in awe, while the older sister gave the visitors an interested once-over. Aayla puffed herself up importantly—finally, a normal reaction instead of gloomy stares. Unfortunately, the girl's next words made her choke, while Master Tholme's eyes widened in surprise.

"Make sure you invite us to the autopsy, Dad!!!"

"Karray," the man frowned, while the Jedi took a couple of steps back. "You can't say things like that to sentients right away. You have to lay the groundwork first, and only then ask whether they'd agree to vivisection."

"Who would ever agree to something like that?" the Padawan exclaimed, drawing her saber but not activating it. "Are you people insane, suggesting something like that to sentients? Who would ever want to die?!"

"Padawan, calm down." Tholme placed a hand on her shoulder. "Siith, care to explain yourself?"

"Why kill anyone?" the girl cut in. "No one's ever died from that with Dad. Quite the opposite—you'll be healthier afterward."

"Karray," the red-eyed man sighed reproachfully. "Please, be quiet. Karina, go buy your sister some juice while I calm down the test subje— uh... the Jedi."

The older girl nodded and, taking her sister by the hand, led the deeply offended child toward the stall.

"Forgive the girl. She's gotten very into chimerology and doesn't spend much time around people outside her usual circle," the man said with a perfectly straight face, though his eyes made it obvious he was enjoying every second of this. Aayla caught herself thinking that he reminded her somewhat of her previous Master, Quinlan Vos. And that slip about "test subjects" had probably been deliberate too. The man was simply having fun. "No one, of course, is going to subject you to either an autopsy or vivisection. Karray simply hasn't mastered diagnostic spells well enough yet, so I give her lessons where I show her more... detailed examples. Real ones. No one dies, and no one even feels any pain. But if you are interested in earning a couple hun—"

"No, no, no! We're not interested!!!" Aayla cut the sorcerer off, wrapping her arms around herself.

"All right, all right! I'm not insisting." The sorcerer shrugged.

They did end up getting themselves some caf, and after taking one of the empty benches, they continued the conversation. Siith turned out to be a fairly decent conversationalist. It was only his smile that was off-putting—a fact he was well aware of, and he even apologized for the inconvenience. "People who spend enough time around me eventually get used to it, but at first meeting I tend to scare people, yes," he explained.

The conversation itself was about nothing in particular. Tholme tried asking about Siith's sorcery, but the man only smiled and asked in return whether the Jedi would be willing to share their own secrets.

"Come now, you flew all the way to Jabiim, you're asking about my secrets, and you won't even agree to an autopsy! That's simply unfair!"

Aayla choked on her juice at that, while the Jedi Master merely smiled. There was no aggression coming from the sorcerer. Only mild irony and curiosity. When asked whether he could help arrange a meeting with Stratus, he simply shook his head.

"Alto can't stand you Jedi. If the Chancellor had come here, then yes. He's shown that Jabiim actually matters to him. But you—sorry—the Commander won't even bother talking to you."

"But why? The Jedi are defenders of peace!" the Twi'lek girl protested.

"Yes, yes, defenders. Whatever you say," the red-eyed man drawled ironically. Then he pulled a datapad from beneath his robe, tapped at the screen a few times, and held it out to the girl. "Here. Statistics for the past hundred years. Jabiimites killed or abducted by pirates and slavers. Next page: orphans left without parents. Third page: deaths from epidemics and disease. There's no page showing how many Jabiimites the Jedi saved. Because you weren't here. And Senate aid is tucked away all by itself on page four. Personally from your Chancellor. Well, obviously he didn't buy it, pack it, and ship it himself, but he did oversee the process."

While the Jedi studied the datapad, the sorcerer pulled a funny little furry creature from inside his robe and began scratching its belly. Aayla found it terribly distracting; every so often, her fingers made involuntary grasping motions. The little beast was just far too cute.

"That's..."

"Regrettable," the sorcerer cut Tholme off, taking the datapad back. "I understand there aren't exactly many of you on a galactic scale. But you make a great deal of noise about yourselves. Defenders of peace, defenders of the Republic. So naturally, sentients start asking perfectly fair questions. If you are defenders, then where is the defense? And if there is no defense, can you really call yourselves that, hmm?"

The Jedi sighed—the complaints were fair. The information he'd just seen was staggering. Meanwhile, the red-eyed man took a sip of caf, handed the furry little creature to the Padawan—who had been staring at it without looking away—and continued.

"And you know what the worst part is? You can't even say, 'We didn't know.' Not when you proclaim your 'protection' to the whole galaxy, and not when you were aware of the problems on this planet." The sorcerer stopped the girl, who had started to bristle, with a raised hand. "I'm not saying that you personally, Master Tholme and Padawan Secura, knew and did nothing. The Senate and the Jedi Council knew. The Jabiimites asked for help more than once. And you can't excuse it by saying there wasn't enough time, either. The entire three-thousand-year history of this planet is filled with hardship and disaster, and no one ever helped the locals deal with any of it. But they were always happy enough to collect taxes."

"So that's why everyone was reacting to us like that." The Twi'lek girl looked at her mentor. "Master, how did it come to this?"

"Unfortunately, Padawan, the Jedi are not all-powerful. There are worlds in the galaxy whose people feel much the same way as the Jabiimites do."

"Oh, all right, you can sort that out yourselves," the sorcerer snorted, holding out a hand to the little beast. It immediately leapt onto his palm and scampered up his sleeve, disappearing somewhere beneath his robe. "Or maybe you won't, but either way, that's your business. Different question: is there anything else I can help you with, apart from spilling my secrets and introducing you to the Commander?"

---

I couldn't help them. Though, to be fair, I hadn't intended to. They were little more than a curiosity to me. And I'd decided to step onto the stage myself. I showed a reasonable amount of goodwill, calmly explained why they weren't particularly welcome here, and spared Alto the trouble. Those two might have decided to push for a meeting with him, and if they succeeded, I wasn't sure Stratus wouldn't say more than he should.

We exchanged contact information before parting and said our goodbyes. Three days later, they left. Fair winds, as they say.

Funny thing was, they turned out not to be sorcerers. My spells showed some kind of strange picture. An ordinary human, an ordinary Twi'lek. No anomalies at all. Shame they never used their Force—or maybe my spells simply couldn't detect whatever it was they used? No ide-e-ea.

Well, I chose Ryloth for several reasons:

First, everything there would be new to me—as it would be on pretty much any other planet.

Second, they might be nonhumans, but at least they're close enough to us—not some weird-ass monstrosities with legs growing out of their shoulders and arms out of their asses, like those... what were they called again... Dugs!

Third, the situation on the planet leaves a lot to be desired too, and my funds should definitely be enough to live there in decent conditions until it's time to fly back.

And fourth, you can legally buy slaves there. I could pick out a married couple with a child and set up a whole servant dynasty for myself. Treat them well, pay them, give them decent living conditions, and they'll be tied to me more securely than by any contract. Cordelia objected, of course—she hated slavery—but I convinced her that those sentients would be better off working for me in decent conditions than rotting somewhere in slave barracks.

And lastly. I just found out what a vacation is! I want a vacation! And I want to spend it on the planet that happens to be the galaxy's main supplier of dancers and concubines! Heh-heh-heh.

I'd just make one little stop along the way and hire myself a couple of cutthroats. Good Jabiimites were often a rather morally squeamish lot, and having a few sentients around who weren't especially burdened by moral principles could come in handy. The main thing was that they looked civilized and presentable.

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

The Sweaty Gizkat Cantina. Mos Espa. Tatooine.

The day was dragging by miserably. For a week now, Arvik and his two companions, Koit and Romri, had been haunting this cantina and others like it where mercenaries gathered. No decent employers had turned up. A few promising sentients, unfortunately, had been looking either for larger groups or, on the contrary, for a lone bodyguard, so their colorful little company—a human Mando, a Gungan, and a Togruta—hadn't suited anyone so far. And none of them wanted to break up a close-knit team that already worked well together.

Working for a kajidic* held little appeal, either. Neither he nor his friends were thrilled by the prospect of taking orders from Hutt slugs. As Romri put it, "They stink so badly it makes me want to stop living." Arvik couldn't disagree. Back in his younger days, he'd had the dubious honor of meeting one of their kind in person, and the smell had left a lasting impression. Though, of course, the stench wasn't the main reason.

"Romri," he began, if only to amuse himself. "How about showing a little more skin? You'll see—the clients will come flocking!"

It was worth noting that the girl already wore a top that covered little more than her breasts, and even there the neckline left nothing to the imagination. Look closely, and it was obvious she wasn't wearing anything underneath it at all. Her shorts weren't much better—the barrel of a blaster stuck out farther than the hem of that "clothing." So the joke was simple and about as subtle as a vibroknife.

The girl had a point: Tatooine was hot. But because of her choice of clothing, Arvik had already been forced to shoot three idiots who'd gotten a little too eager to get their hands on her, and Koit had skewered another on his spear.

"Go fuck yourself, Mando. Better put a bucket on your head—you've scared off all the clients with that face of yours," the girl snorted, smacking the laughing Gungan on the shoulder.

"Oh, a Jedi!" Koit exclaimed. He was sitting facing the entrance, and his shout drew the attention of both his companions and a couple of nearby groups. After getting a good look at the two who had entered the cantina, Arvik grimaced.

"Damn, he really does look like one. Bantha poodoo," he grumbled, pulling on his helmet. The Mando didn't like Jedi. And it wasn't even because of the history between Mandalorians and lightsaber-wielders. He'd crossed paths with members of the Order a couple of times before. Some people called his fellow Mandos crazy, but in the man's opinion, the quirks of certain Mandalorians were nothing compared to how completely unhinged the "peacekeepers" he'd met could be.

One of the newcomers was a tall human in robes, with red eyes. He looked pleased with himself, an unpleasant, anticipatory smile playing across his face. The second was a little shorter, and his species was impossible to determine for certain: the presumed Jedi's companion was clad in armor and wore a fully enclosed helmet with a scarlet-orange visor.

About a minute before the two of them entered, the musicians had taken a short break, so everyone could hear one of the lowlifes sitting near the entrance toss an insult at the robed man.

To the surprise of Arvik's whole group—and, really, everyone else in the cantina—the red-eyed man burst out laughing along with the men who had mocked him, merrily if somewhat unpleasantly, then gave his companion a reassuring pat on the shoulder when the latter reached for his blaster.

"Leave it, Ron! That was a good one," the man said with an unpleasant grin, studying the would-be comedian. "Ah, so young... almost a shame."

The red-eyed man's face fell into an exaggeratedly mournful expression, but then he shook his head, slung an arm around the armored man's shoulders, and headed toward the bar. Laughter from the local riffraff followed them, while Arvik read the Jedi's lips as he said to his companion, "Easy, Rob. You'll get your chance."

"Disgusting to watch," Romri snorted contemptuously and spat on the dirty floor. "And that's supposed to be a Jedi."

At that, the red-eyed man looked straight at her, gave her a slow once-over from head to toe, shook his head in admiration, and winked, flashing another of those smiles that, judging by her involuntary movement, made the girl want to cover every inch of exposed skin.

"Look over there," Koit said, nodding toward the table where the petty criminals were sitting. The joker was clearly not doing well. He was breathing heavily and gripping the tabletop so hard his fingers had gone rigid. "Looks like he's taken a turn for the worse."

"Greetings, wise barkeep," the strange pair reached the bar in the meantime. "Something tasty and nonalcoholic for me. Ros, order whatever you want, don't be shy! I'm paying! Oh, and one more thing. Send a bottle of the vilest booze you've got to that table. The boys need something to drink to the departed."

As if he'd been waiting for those words, the bandit dropped to all fours and started vomiting. First came everything he'd drunk and eaten, then blood and... what looked like chunks of flesh? The Mando watched the unpleasant spectacle with disgust.

"That's definitely not a Jedi," he said quietly, but loud enough for his companions to hear. He flinched slightly when the red-eyed man looked straight at him and flashed a cheerful grin. By then, the joker had already gone still.

"I'll remember him as a joker and a merry fellow," the "Jedi" said mournfully, but loudly enough for everyone to hear.

"Corpse removal costs one turgut," the Toydarian bartender said impassively, his wings beating rapidly as he sent a bottle of truly shitty yardle* over with a droid.

"Fair enough," the human said with a shrug, sniffing the mug that had been set in front of him. "You have to pay for entertainment."

"Hey, you!" one of the local lowlifes roared—a big man with two blasters on his belt. Under his helmet, the Mandalorian grimaced. Complete idiot. The red-eyed man smiled at the bartender and slapped two turguts onto the counter.

"Yes?" the "Jedi" asked with a delighted smile as he turned toward him, while his companion removed his helmet and, paying no attention to what was happening, began choosing a drink.

"You killed Scotty!" the big man growled.

"Yeah. So?" The Mando actually chuckled—the bandit's face twisted into such a ridiculous expression.

"You! You—" the big man started working himself up, while the entire cantina went still in anticipation of some entertainment. Everyone except the bartender, who was pouring some kind of alcohol into a glass for the red-eyed man's companion while calmly watching the scene unfold, the armored man himself, and the "Jedi," who cut the bandit off with a smile.

"Now, don't get worked up. I'll fix everything in a moment."

He made a finger gun, pointed it at the bandit, and said, "Pew."

At the same instant, a red bolt of energy shot from his fingertip and, with a quiet psssshhh, struck the criminal square in the head, leaving a neat little hole in his forehead.

"There. Now you and Scotty are together again. No need to thank me, nameless dumbass."

After that, his laughter filled the room. Genuine—and more than a little unsettling. But when the dead criminals' companions started rising from their seats with threatening looks and reaching for their blasters, the laughter cut off.

Now the whole group found themselves staring down two finger guns, backed by a very serious look from the red-eyed man.

"Think very carefully, kids. These little beauties have enough plasma for all of you, and I'd really rather not pay to have that many bodies hauled out."

For several seconds, the riffraff visibly tried to think things through. Then one of them—probably the brightest of the bunch—finally said, "Come on, guys. You'll regret this."

And the whole group filed toward the exit under the aim of the so-called Jedi's so-called guns.

"Seriously, do they get their lines from holomovies or something?" the "Jedi" muttered, scratching the back of his head. Then he waved it off, snorted, and reached for his drink.

"Sir, have I mentioned that your laugh is terrifying?"

"More than once! You're far too gloomy, Ron. Life is wonderful, and we're many parsecs closer to our vacation! We'll wrap up this last bit of business, buy the parts we need, tune up the Turtle, and then we're off to see some exotic dancers!"

"My name is Ras, sir."

"That's exactly what I'm talking about, kid," the red-eyed man said, shaking his head sadly. "You're too serious! When you work, give it everything you've got. When it's time to rest, enjoy it. A human life is short—you have to get the most out of it."

"You scared off my customers," the bartender grumbled.

"And how much could you have made off them?" the red-eyed man asked.

"Maybe a peggat."

"That's way too much for a bunch of ragged lowlifes like that, sir," the armored man immediately chimed in.

"You asked how much I could make, and I told you," the Toydarian said. At the same time, the human pulled a peggat from the folds of his robe and set it on the counter, though he kept his hand on it, pinning the money in place.

"I'll compensate you for the inconvenience, good barkeep," he said to the winged wheeler-dealer, who was eyeing the Hutt currency with interest. "But in return, you'll recommend two to four good mercenaries for a short-term contract."

And then the Mando smiled faintly beneath his helmet, because Scipi the bartender's gaze immediately shifted toward the three of them. That turgut Arvik had slipped him for occasions like this clearly hadn't gone to waste.

"No problem. See those three over there? They've been looking for a decent employer for two weeks now. The big guy in armor is a Mandalorian. The long-eared one is good with a spear and knows his way around a blaster too. Don't know much about the girl, haven't heard anything about her, but she carries a blaster on her belt. They're solid, reasonable types. Don't let the long wait fool you—their group's small, and they don't want to work for a kajidic. They've just had bad luck so far."

"Well, looks like their bad luck just ran out," the red-eyed man said with a broad smile as he watched his money disappear into the bartender's pocket. "Thank you, wise barkeep."

The whole group watched the man approach. The Gungan and Arvik simply looked interested, while the Togruta wore a pleased smile. The girl loved money, and the ease with which the red-eyed man parted with his was downright inspiring.

Though that smile of his put all of them on edge. Even now, the team remained somewhat tense.

"Greetings, warriors. Mind if I sit down?" The man standing beside their table was no longer smiling, but he asked politely, and his voice sounded friendly.

Arvik quietly exhaled beneath his helmet, and the Togruta and Gungan relaxed as well. Without that off-putting smile, the man could even be called handsome.

The Mandalorian simply gestured toward one of the empty chairs at their table.

"Thank you." The red-eyed man nodded as he sat down. "My name is Siith, and no, I'm not a Sith—the names just happen to sound similar. As you've probably heard, I'm looking for a small team of mercenaries to serve as bodyguards. Short-term contract, two or three months, and after that we'll see. I pay two thousand Republic credits a month, though I can pay in Hutt currency at the current exchange rate if you prefer. Food and lodging are on me. Any loot you personally take is yours. Interested?"

The group exchanged glances. Arvik hesitated. On the one hand, this "not a Sith" looked an awful lot like a Sith. On the other hand, the pay was decent, assuming there wasn't a serious bounty on the client's head.

"How long's the line for your heads?"

"We haven't really stepped on anyone's toes yet. Put down about a dozen thugs here on Tatooine, but they were absolute trash. Already had two attempted robberies," the red-eyed man said with a shrug. "And then those two idiots. I suspect we'll keep running into morons like that."

"Hmm... and where are you headed, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Figure we'll spend another two or three days wandering around Tatooine, then head to Ryloth, and after that we'll see. I'm on vacation—I'm just going wherever my left heel tells me."

"Just bodyguard work, without any... exotic conditions?" the Togruta asked.

The red-eyed man gave her an amused look and snorted softly.

"Just bodyguard work, Red. Though if we come to an agreement, I will ask you to dress a little more modestly. The view is certainly delightful, but I... well, never mind me—everyone's going to be distracted by you."

"It's really hot here," Romri grumbled, sounding both pleased and a little offended at the same time. The Gungan only gave a quiet snort.

"Hmm..." The man thought for a second, then reached inside his robe.

First, he set a small furry creature on the table. Rising onto its hind legs, it began sniffing comically at the Togruta's plate, which held a scattering of nuts. While the girl smiled fondly and offered the little beast one of them, the red-eyed man pulled out a jumble of assorted rings, chains, and dangling trinkets. After rummaging through the pile, he picked out a neat little ring of silvery metal, its entire surface covered in microscopic patterns.

"Here, try this on," he said, holding it out to the girl. "Don't look at me like that—I'm not proposing. Just put it on and tell me if it feels any cooler."

Romri gave Arvik a doubtful look, but he only shrugged.

"I think I'll pass," the Togruta said with a faint smile, casting a quick glance at the two corpses a pair of droids were dragging somewhere deeper into the cantina.

"Your choice, but I sincerely approve of a healthy dose of distrust. Quartermaster, get over here, fat-ass. Stop eating the girl's food." Scooping up the little beast along with the pile of trinkets, he looked at the Mandalorian. "So, what do you say?"

---

Good, I thought as I headed toward the less-than-stellar "hotel" to pick up our new bodyguards' things. Ras, by the way, got properly hammered once he heard we'd reached an agreement with the mercenaries. Looks like the guy had finally decided to let himself unwind. Serious fellow. Back in the day, I'd literally had to put him back together piece by piece: one of the pirate raids had hit the Nimbus pretty hard. Alto had already acquired a fleet by then, but the crews were still training with their ships outside our system.

The kid had been saved by a stasis amulet and an old acquaintance of mine—the sergeant from the squad that had taken me to Alto's mansion. At the time, I was up to my ears in work creating a prototype magical equivalent of an ore-processing line, so I patched the guy up almost on autopilot while thinking through the peculiarities of turning local ores into ingots. By the next day, I didn't even remember him or the sergeant. I only found out that she'd taken it upon herself to bring the guy to me the next time Cordelia came by.

Back then, I'd just waved it off. I was stuck on the project anyway, so at least I'd done something useful. Later, when I started looking for a pilot, Ras volunteered to work for me himself. I paid for his pilot training, Alto seconded the lad to me, and that was pretty much the whole story.

As for the mercenaries—they were an amusing bunch. I'd never met either a Gungan or a Togruta before, so I was thinking more about how to get them into a diagnostic and analysis circle than about their combat skills.

Arvik the Mandalorian actually chided me for that after we shook on the deal. Said I hadn't learned nearly enough about them before deciding to hire them. On Tatooine, after all, it was easy enough to run into sentients who weren't exactly honest.

No point telling him that if they tried to cheat me, they'd be joining the dozen or so souls currently stored in the miniature soul vault in my pocket. For me, it was a no-lose situation. Either I got competent mercenaries, or I got three more souls and the chance to study the bodies of two new species.

Why do I even need guards? If nothing else, to learn more about the world around me. Archive records, the HoloNet, stories from Jabiimites... not enough. Some of the latter already knew less about the galaxy than I did. Mercenaries, on the other hand, had personally been to plenty of planets, had seen things, heard things, and often liked to while away the evenings spinning tales for an appreciative audience.

In my world, at least.

There was plenty of lying and boasting too, of course, but that was a minor detail.

The bodyguards could also do some weapon-rattling for me. Keeping the soul vault stocked was useful, sure, but paving my road with corpses would be overdoing it. You never knew who might start taking an interest.

One armored man bristling with guns and his two nonhuman companions made for a good group to scare off small fry, and even anyone more serious would think twice.

"Boss," the Mandalorian walking beside me spoke up, catching my attention. "You sure you didn't have any Sith among your ancestors?"

"Absolutely sure," I snorted. "I lost my family name only after I'd learned the names and brief biographies of every notable member of the line, all the way back to its founder. No guys with red glowing sticks and faces like they'd been constipated for a month. Though some of them did have some truly spectacular mugs, heh-heh. Why do you ask?"

"Mm... the robes are like what Force-sensitives wear, and the sorcery's strange. Or were those some kind of concealed blasters?"

"Oh, listen, how about I tell you later? It's a pretty long story, and I just can't be bothered to talk that much right now. But there were no Sith or your Jeddies in my family. I'm a sorcerer—different school, different tradition, basically. None of that high-minded spiritual nonsense."

"Sir, the parts," the pilot reminded me, pointing at the sign above one of the shops. Good man! He'd been drinking, but he still remembered the job.

"Right. Might as well go in."

---

"I'm starting to get the feeling this isn't a Hutt planet at all, but a Toydarian one," Ras grumbled on the way back to our "Turtle." "Bartenders, shopkeepers, spaceport bureaucrats—one winged, money-grubbing bastard after another, all after our money."

"Well, Watto seems like a decent enough sentient," the slave woman walking with us toward the ship said in defense of her owner. We'd managed to bargain for both the parts and their installation in one deal. Ras had taken accelerated pilot training, but when it came to mechanics, he was frankly weak. And I, to be honest, had only skimmed the surface myself—there was simply too much of it to learn.

"Toydarians are fine, really. There are greedier races out there," I said with a dismissive wave, remembering the gnomes.

"Yeah," the Togruta agreed. "Like the Neimoidians. Those guys would strangle themselves over a wupiupi. Or strangle someone else."

Arvik snorted under his helmet, while the Gungan burst out laughing. At my surprised look, the Mandalorian only shook his helmet, but the spearman decided to elaborate.

"Romri doesn't like Neimoidians because they love money even more than she does, Boss-sa. Our last employer was a Neimoidian, and after the job the two of them yelled at each other over every last credit so loudly that— Ow, crazy woman!" The Gungan jumped aside from the Togruta's kick. "Can't get mad at the truth. Boss-sa should know what a greedy mercenary he's hired."

"You say that like you two love money any less than I do," the Togruta said, folding her arms beneath her breasts.

"Yes."

"Of course," both of her companions replied in unison, and I burst out laughing. I like sentients with a sense of humor. Even Watto's slave, Shmi Skywalker, was smiling, though she was trying not to make it too obvious.

Meanwhile, we reached our ship's berth, and Ras gave the command to lower the ramp.

"Make yourselves at home, troops," I said, waving toward the gangway. "We'll take care of some minor repairs in the meantime. Shmi, you're in charge! I'll help."

At the young woman's surprised look and the mercenaries' puzzled ones, I only shrugged.

"I like learning new things. Maybe I'll pick up a thing or two while we work."

---

Author's note:

Peggat (gold peggat) = 4 turguts = 64 wupiupi. 1 turgut = 16 wupiupi. Hutt currency. Exchange rate around the time of Episode I: 1 peggat = 40 credits. (Once again, many thanks to the Elven Tanker channel on YouTube and VK.)

Kajidic* — a Hutt criminal clan.

Yardle* — a popular strong alcoholic drink on Tatooine.

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

The Force of Magic is getting dangerously close to catching up with the original (On Patreon)

Which means I'll soon need another story to translate while we wait for inspiration to ambush the author again.

So—you get to choose the next one.

Four stories. Four very different protagonists. One unfortunate translator.

And don't worry — voting is completely free. It costs you nothing, and it genuinely helps me figure out what you'd actually like to read next.

The poll is up now — come cast your vote!

 

[Boroda Orka]

Shmi spent three hours tinkering with the "minor problem." Within the first twenty minutes, I'd pestered her with so many questions that she started narrating what she was doing just to get ahead of me. Incidentally, the woman was downright adorable when she lost her temper during repairs. Childish little curses like "stupid thing," "nasty terminal," and "may whoever thought of putting a bolt in there hiccup for three years" had me chuckling under my breath, and at that last one I burst out laughing.

Shmi, blushing slightly, explained that her young son used to live with her and was very interested in machinery. So she'd gotten into the habit of swearing in ways that wouldn't teach the boy any bad words. One thing led to another, and we got talking while we worked, as well as during the short breaks I practically had to force the woman to take. It turned out her little one was studying at the Jedi Temple now, while she had stayed here with Watto. You don't need to live six hundred years to notice how hard it was for her to talk about it. She desperately missed her son while at the same time being happy that the boy was no longer a slave. "But hey, at least he's in a cult," I snorted to myself.

After spending the whole repair chatting with her, I picked up a bit of useful knowledge and learned that, besides being good with children and having fairly extensive technical skills, she could cook too. I gave it some thought, then offered her a job with me. The daycare on Jabiim was going to expand, and having someone specifically responsible for looking after the children wouldn't hurt. It wasn't that we couldn't find a Jabiimite woman for the job; I just liked the way Shmi talked about kids, and I felt a little sorry for her. The Jedi practiced something close to monastic upbringing, taking children away from their families, and caring for little mage brats might help ease the ache in a mother's heart.

Well, there were two other factors. One minor, and one very important. The minor one was the prospect of having a grateful Jeddie who might voluntarily agree to be put through tests and analysis rituals. Minor, because I'd probably be able to find a Force-sensitive like that sooner anyway. If I hadn't been willing to kidnap members of the Order back home, then a couple of Jedi going missing somewhere far from Jabiim shouldn't compromise me too badly. Especially if they turned up later alive and perfectly healthy, just with a week-long gap in their memories.

And the important factor was having a cook on the ship!!! The food kept in stasis by dear, wonderful, charming Maria—beloved by everyone in the mansion—would run out soon, and I had no intention of choking down field rations! I doubted Shmi could cook on the same level, but anything was better than those high-calorie, vitamin-fortified army bricks!

So I offered Shmi a position as the ship's mechanic and cook for the duration of my vacation. Once we reached Jabiim, she'd switch to working with the children, and naturally, I'd pay her fairly for her labor. After buying her from Watto, we'd sign a ten-year contract, during which she'd repay the purchase price through small deductions spread across the entire term of employment. Once the contract expired, she could either keep working for me or take whatever she'd saved and go wherever she pleased. Naturally, that would be after swearing an oath before Hecate not to reveal anything she had seen or heard while in my service.

I got the impression that the deciding factor in her agreement wasn't the favorable terms for a slave, but the mention that Jabiim had no deserts at all. None. And that it rained all year round. When the woman agreed, she had such a dreamy look on her face that I didn't have the heart to disappoint her by saying that rain could get old too. Though... who knows? Maybe after long years of living on Tatooine, she'd never get tired of Jabiim's climate.

Long story short, Shmi, Arvik, and I went to see Watto, and after a bit of haggling I bought her for four protective amulets and three climate-control artifacts. All of them had automatic recharging modules, though the recharge cycle was fairly slow. The Toydarian was so thrilled by getting his hands on something exclusive—something that existed nowhere else in the galaxy except with me and, now, him—that he gave Shmi permission to take anything she needed from her shack. The only thing Watto wrung out of me was a promise not to sell anything similar on Tatooine for the next week.

What I regretted most when I asked the Mandalorian to shoot me was that he had a helmet on. It took me about two minutes to talk him into it, and then, after some three dozen pew-pews from his blaster, I got to watch a very, very pleased Toydarian who wasn't merely flying around his shop anymore—he was practically fluttering. He even wished us luck and invited us to drop by for caf if we were ever in Mos Espa again. I also asked him that if Shmi's son ever showed up, he should tell the boy that she was on Jabiim now.

Then came the matter of moving the former slave's few personal belongings. She explained that slaves having personal possessions—and even a little income of their own—was very rare. So she generally spoke well of Watto. Besides, the winged fellow had never been cruel, and neither she nor her son had ever been physically punished while they were his slaves. Any punishment had always been verbal, and even then he never went too far.

While transporting the young woman's few belongings on a small repulsor cart, we came across a grisly sight: a group of corpses sprawled together in the middle of one of the streets. The state of the bodies suggested asphyxiation. They had already been stripped of most of their clothes and all their gear—unclaimed belongings didn't stay lying around in plain sight for long in this town.

"Boss, aren't those the idiots from the cantina?" Arvik asked after getting a look at a few of the faces.

"They are. What a terrible tragedy, Arvik. Tatooine is clearly a very dangerous place."

"Indeed," came a chuckle from beneath the helmet. "All kinds of things happen around here."

We spent another day converting one of the cabins into a proper, if rather small, galley. To my surprise, the Mandalorian threw himself into the work with enthusiasm. His explanation—"I like good food"—only reinforced my impression that I'd found a decent bunch. By the way, I gave each of them a protective amulet like the ones I'd traded to Watto, and promised that if I was satisfied with their work, they could keep them at the end of the contract. Arvik, having seen the "personal shield" in action, was very impressed and, in a private conversation with the Togruta, strongly advised her not to refuse if I offered her another "climate-control" ring.

The Gungan overheard that conversation. Simple guy, by the way, but with his own brand of Gungan wisdom. Suffering badly in Tatooine's climate, he came up to me and, without any fuss or beating around the bush, simply asked for an amulet "to make it cooler." And I, just as simply, gave him one. I showed him how to set the temperature and adjust the humidity, and ten minutes later the long-eared fellow, grinning sincerely and almost with tears in his eyes, was telling his companions that "this red-eyed Boss-sa is the best employer and a great sorcerer," and, "Arvik, we definitely need to give Boss-sa our contact details so he can easily find us next time."

The Togruta took one look at the blissful Koit, asked to try the amulet on, walked around the ship, and after returning the trinket with an almost audible grinding of teeth, went off to get one for herself.

Either the girl was embarrassed because she'd turned down the ring earlier, or she was simply too proud to come right out and ask... Whatever the reason, she decided to take a different route and deploy the ultimate weapon: feminine magic.

So for the next two hours, I watched her in that outrageously revealing outfit doing everything she could to demonstrate just how unbearably hot she was. Honestly, if she hadn't managed to make the whole performance so damn erotic, I'd have handed over an amulet right away. But Great Hecate! I'm a man, aren't I?

So I spent two hours enjoying the sight of her languishing before finally, when she looked about ready to give up on her brilliant plan, I handed her the same ring I'd offered in the first place. I had amulets too, of course, but the combination of a captivating exotic beauty and a ring simply appealed to me more.

One way or another, by the third day after buying Shmi, we were ready to leave, had a proper galley, and had gotten a chance to judge the former slave's cooking. I'll be honest: Maria cooks better, but not by much. And I, being an experienced man, would never in my life say that to a woman. Especially since Shmi was a good cook, something Ras and the mercenaries clearly appreciated too. It was especially obvious from Arvik's grateful looks—he stared at Shmi the way a man in the desert looks at a spring. We were just about ready to take off when we discovered that Quartermaster was missing.

Romri was the one who noticed. She'd spent her days feeding the little bastard nuts, cuddling him, and scratching his belly. My hamster's personal slave immediately raised the alarm, but after checking his location, I told everyone to wait for the pet to come back on his own. The thing was, my fat-assed furry companion was several kilometers away from us. When Romri asked whether we should go after him, I just waved her off. We were on vacation. If Quartermaster wanted to go have some fun, then let him enjoy himself. If he wasn't back by tomorrow, we'd go looking. Until then, let the little bastard have his fun.

I was already busily planning a visit to the local casino, while Ras was just as busily trying to talk me out of it, when I felt the little beast start moving in our direction—slowly, but steadily. Yes, I could sense him; in fact, I can feel him from a very long distance away. The fact that I hadn't noticed he was gone... well, I'm absent-minded, what can you do... So I told everyone to get ready for departure, while I flopped down with a datapad to read.

By the way, about flying. Romri, according to her—and confirmed by the other mercenaries—turned out to be an experienced pilot. So I made a deal with her: for an extra two hundred credits, she'd serve as our copilot, and for another five hundred a month, she'd drill the hell out of Ras on his piloting. After all, crash courses don't exactly turn out ace pilots, and back on Jabiim we were desperately short on good flyers.

In the end, we finally took off half an hour later. Quartermaster, having apparently gorged himself half to death somewhere, practically rolled up to the ramp, and I scooped him up and carried him back to my cabin. Ahead of us was the flight to Ryloth—a relatively short one, but I don't like hyperspace. Space in general makes me uneasy, and traveling through hyperspace triggers some kind of subconscious fear in me. Purely psychological, probably, since I hadn't noticed any actual negative effects.

Jabba Desilijic Tiure

Jabba was in mourning today: someone had killed Pateesa, his beloved and only pet rancor. The slave who looked after the monster said that something had eaten the beast's brain. There was a hole where one of its eyes had been, and its skull was completely empty. The distraught Hutt had even dismissed his entire entourage and sunk into depression. What kind of horrifying creature could have done something like that to one of the greatest predators in the galaxy?

Aboard the Great Turtle shuttle as it flew through hyperspace, the hamster-chimera known as Quartermaster let out a satisfied belch. It had been a long time since he'd eaten that well...

Jedi Council

Today, the Jedi Council reached a decision regarding the newly emerged group of Force-sensitives. The Jabiimite Mages had appeared suddenly, but the investigation concluded that they posed no threat and were, in fact, beneficial to the world they lived on. The Jedi were even relieved to learn that the mages did not live in an isolated enclave, but simply reintegrated into society after completing their training.

There wasn't much information, but the agents had failed to uncover anything dangerous. So, by majority vote, the Council decided not to interfere with the fledgling organization, to keep observing it, and, where possible, to establish contact and good relations.

"Master Tholme and Padawan Secura are on Ryloth right now. As soon as they return from their mission, I suggest we hand the matter over to them," Master Windu proposed.

"Support this, I do," Yoda said calmly, closing his eyes to signal his agreement. "Familiar faces they are, and good relations with them they already have. Well of that sorcerer, Master Tholme spoke. His jokes, however, he did not approve of."

"I thought it was rather funny," the serpentine Master Rancisis said with a smile. "'You want to learn my secrets, but you won't even agree to a little vivisection,' ha-ha-ha. If relations with these mages work out, I'd be quite happy to have a conversation with this Siith."

Master Yaddle merely snorted at his words. Her former Padawan had... a unique sense of humor.

Ryloth. Fenn Family Citadel. Aayla Secura.

She was "home" again. Ryloth... stirred conflicting feelings in her. The homeland she had left as a little girl. Memories of the underground cities, of her own people... A planet where slavery flourished and women had no voice. Her former home, where her own family had planned to sell her to the Hutts because she would be safer with them.

The girl banished the ghost of anger from her heart before it could gather strength, fed by the memories. Her home was the Temple. Her family was the Jedi. She wanted nothing to do with those who had tried time and again to make her a slave, those who had drugged her, those because of whom she had nearly fallen to the dark side. She didn't want them in her life, and she never would.

There were two men in the room with her. The master of the house, Ro Fenn, and his "friend," Vilmarh Grahrk—a Devaronian who called himself Villie. The latter was a gambler, liar, cheat, womanizer, and smuggler. Everyone else present in the room was a slave woman: some setting the table, others entertaining the host and his guest with dances, and Aayla herself, refilling their drinks.

Fenn had been a member of the ruling five, which included Pol. When the latter died, Fenn contacted the Devaronian, having no desire to leave for the Bright Lands—the half of Ryloth that was always turned toward the sun, a barren desert where sentients faced death either from heat storms or from the claws and fangs of predators. It was an ancient tradition of her people: when one of the rulers died, all the others immediately relinquished their positions and went to their deaths in the sun-scorched lands. In this way, her people ensured a regular turnover of power, with the older generation making way for the younger, while also preventing rivalry between the leaders of the clan's families. Instead of struggling against one another for power, they worked closely together and protected each other from outside threats.

But there was a way to extend the old rulers' time in office: if the younger generation was not yet ready to take up the reins of power, regents could be appointed in their place, and those regents were often drawn from the previous ruling council. That was exactly the option Ro Fenn wanted to use, but negotiations with Lon Secura, one of the members of the future government, were going nothing like he had planned. Lon had managed to win the support of a Jedi—Master Tholme.

"The situation is becoming impossible, Grahrk! Lon Secura brought a Jedi to the negotiations! A JEDI!" The gray-skinned, overweight Twi'lek's chins quivered in panic, beads of sweat gleaming on his face. "I'm doomed to go to the Bright Lands!"

"What a terrible moral dilemma," Vilmarh said with a toothy grin, sprawling across the cushions while Aayla topped up his glass. "Honor tradition and die like some pathetic slug under the sun, or make a deal with good friends—friends like Villie—and stay alive! What dreadful alternatives."

"I'm not a fool, Devaronian." Irritation flashed in Fenn's eyes and voice. "I know who can be trusted... and it certainly isn't you!"

The Twi'lek hauled his heavy body up from the cushions and began pacing around the chamber.

"The problem is that Jedi. Tholme. I don't like Jedi. Their supernatural abilities drive me mad. If only Tholme were dead..."

"Bad idea." The Devaronian rose after Ro Fenn. Without looking at Aayla, he set his empty glass on her tray and walked over to the gray-skinned Twi'lek. "Kill one Jedi, dozens more show up. Villie knows. Very bad luck, killing a Jedi. If you want to get the situation under control, you need Lon Secura."

Vilmarh flashed a cheerful grin and loomed over his so-called friend.

"Kill Secura?!" Fenn shook his head firmly. "That's an even worse idea than killing the Jedi. There'd be a massive scandal, and since the whole city knows about our feud, I'd be blamed for everything."

"Lon isn't our target, my friend." The horned Devaronian slipped an arm around the heavy Twi'lek and steered him out of the room. "Worm-head Lon's heir is Nat. His only son, first in line to succeed him. First in line—first target! Consider it handled. Trust Villie. My boys are already on it."

The pieces clicked into place in Aayla's mind. Of course: kidnap Nat and use him to influence Lon's decisions. Lon wouldn't be able to ignore Ro Fenn's demands if Fenn had leverage in the form of his only and beloved son.

Hurrying out onto the balcony where the other slaves wouldn't see her, the girl contacted her master over the comlink.

"Master, Vilmarh Grahrk is here. They didn't recognize me. Secura's heir is in danger. Right now, Master! The Devaronian said they're already moving to abduct him—right now! What should I do?"

"Get here as quickly as you can. I'll protect the boy," her master's voice replied, and the connection cut off.

---

Author's note:

The Ryloth storyline is based on the comic Star Wars: Republic — Rite of Passage 01.

A very brief note on Ryloth (shamelessly stolen from Wookieepedia): The planet had no day-night cycle, since its rotation on its axis was synchronized with its orbit around the sun. One side of the planet permanently faced the star, while the other remained in darkness (the illuminated side was known as the "Bright Lands"). It was a world of deserts and mountain ranges, with vanishingly little surface water apart from the ice cap on the night side. Along the equator, between the day and night sides, lay a narrow habitable band—a twilight realm between the two extremes.

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

---

I hope you haven't decided I'm a heartless bitch for distracting you with silly polls when I know perfectly well how badly you're waiting for the next chapter.

Guys, seriously. I may be a bitch, but I do have limits.

So here's a chapter as compensation.

Love you.

 

[Boroda Orka]

Tholme hurried toward the spaceport. He had nearly managed to stop the kidnappers from abducting Lon Secura's heir.

Almost.

The damned Devaronian had somehow managed to dig up two Morgukai and bring them in on the kidnapping. The brief fight ended with one opponent knocking Tholme's lightsaber from his hand with a blaster bolt, while the other struck him with a cortosis-coated staff. And it wasn't just a simple blow—the Morgukai hit the Jedi with the end fitted with an electrical generator, and the discharge knocked Tholme unconscious for a good ten seconds.* Though... he could hardly complain. A strike from the other end, the one with the energy blade, might have been fatal.

Those two Nikto** had also managed to slaughter the guards Lon Secura had sent to help Tholme. The Jedi came to with his face in Twi'lek blood, hearing the final moments of the fight.

Lon Secura burst into his son's bedchamber just as the Jedi was getting back to his feet and the kidnappers disappeared over the balcony. After outlining the situation in a couple of quick sentences and telling him to have his Padawan sent to the spaceport, Tholme jumped from the balcony and raced after the abductors.

Among the parked ships, the Jedi heard several blaster shots followed by a wild, gut-wrenching howl of pain that lasted for several seconds. With a chill, Tholme thought the Morgukai had killed someone else and ran toward the scream, but the sight that met him was... surprising, to put it mildly.

He froze behind a stack of crates, watching the new players on the scene.

Standing over the motionless bodies of the two Nikto** was a colorful assortment: a Togruta, a Gungan, a Mandalorian, and an unknown figure in robes with his hood pulled up.

"This one's dead, Boss-sa," the Gungan said, giving one of the Morgukai a kick. "Got him in the back of the head with my spear. Lucky hit, though."

"That's because he was dodging fire from Arvik and me and got distracted by the one who started screaming," the Togruta grumbled. "Koit, you cheater."

"Dunno what you're talking about," the Gungan said, shaking his head vigorously. His long ears flopped comically from side to side. "I killed this... uh... what is it?"

"A Morgukai. Nikto species," the Mandalorian rumbled from beneath his helmet. "You really did get lucky, Koit. They're tough opponents."

"Hey, I served under Captain Roos Tarpals himself, and he didn't tolerate incompetents," the Gungan objected. "That was a precise, calculated strike, though. Admit it and I'll split the loot three ways."

"You are a great warrior of a great people. Never have I seen such an elegant use of a spear, my friend," the Togruta declared with heartfelt solemnity, even pressing a hand to her chest. The Mandalorian merely shook his helmeted head at her instant change of heart. "So why was that one screaming like that? Boss, was that you? And what's in the bundle?"

"It's moving..."

"Of course it's moving, Koit. Guys, untie the child already," the hooded figure cut in. The male voice sounded familiar to Tholme. "Master Tholme, perhaps you've been hiding long enough? I hope these weren't friends of yours that we... uh... neutralized?"

The whole group began looking around for whoever their mysterious Boss was addressing. Not only had he detected the Jedi, he actually knew him. Another Jedi? But then who were all these sentients with him?

"Romri, please untie the little Twi'lek. Our ugly mugs are definitely going to scare him," the hooded man said, distracting the Togruta from tracking the approaching Tholme over the barrel of her blaster. "And lower your weapons, guys. He's a Jedi, and we know each other."

At the same time, the man threw back his hood, and the Jedi Master recognized the sorcerer from the eternally rain-soaked world of Jabiim—Siith. The sclera of his eyes were still vivid red, his coal-black irises fixed on the Jedi. An unpleasant smile played across his face, though most likely the sorcerer was trying to make it look friendly and welcoming.

"Master Siith." Tholme nodded to him and caught a momentary flicker of confusion on the sorcerer's face. That drew a faint smile from the Jedi. "I'm glad to see you on Ryloth, and thank you for stopping these Morgukai. I was pursuing them myself."

"Boss, the kid's all right, but we should still take him to our autodoc. He took a pretty nasty hit when that idiot threw him aside," the Togruta spoke up.

"You don't mind, Master?" the sorcerer asked, glancing at Tholme. After receiving a nod from the Jedi, he turned toward the second body. "Arvik, take the boy, please. Quartermaster, get out of there. Stop eating!"

The second Morgukai's corpse began to twitch faintly, and a few seconds later a bulge started forming between his collarbones, just above the edge of his armor. A second later the skin split, and the sorcerer's blood-covered little beast crawled out of the Nikto's body. It froze for a couple of heartbeats, sniffed the air, darted its beady eyes around, then began making strange little motions with its forepaws while sticking straight up out of the corpse like a tiny soldier at attention. As it did so, the animal squeaked and kept opening its little mouth wide, almost as if it were making faces.

"Yeah, yeah, you're very scary," the sorcerer snorted, while everyone else stood around in stunned silence. "You've gotten yourself filthy, though. Fine, you can ride like that, you furry bruiser."

Both bodies rose into the air along with their staffs. At Tholme's shocked stare—he had once again felt no movement in the Force—Siith merely shrugged and said, "Spoils of war, you know."

And so they went: the Mandalorian carrying the child, the colorful assortment of exotics, the sorcerer, and the Jedi.

"Boss-sa," the Gungan began cautiously, "how did your beast get inside him?"

"Remember when he screamed?" the sorcerer said, nodding toward the body with the little creature sticking out of it and darting its eyes around. "That was the exact moment my hamster was... ahem... making his way inside. By the way, from this corpse I'm only taking the staff for study. The rest is yours."

***

We made good time on the way back, but no one spoke. My fighters were in high spirits over the loot, Tholme was deep in thought, and I was frantically wondering whether I should use magic in front of the Jedi this time. I'd lifted those two with aura manipulation, without actually casting any spells.

The only thing I'd allowed myself to do to the Jedi back on Jabiim was tag Tholme and Secura with my markers. The markers themselves were the simplest of charms, aside from several layers of safeguards hiding them from detection. A marker like that "stuck" to the aura and simply remained there until the mana in its reservoir ran out. Its entire function was to produce a faint response on the physical plane, one the artifact array built into my robes could read. That was exactly how I'd found the Jedi Master.

I'd prepared the spells in advance, well away from the two Jedi, and when we met at the library opening, I "stuck" them on with aura tendrils.

My artifacts were shielded by the robe, but any newly forming construct would be outside the concealment field and could therefore be detected. Another option was to enter a meditative state and try to get a read on the Jedi that way, but that came with its own set of difficulties...

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an approaching speeder and the marker on Master Tholme's Padawan entering range. We were already near the Great Turtle, so we simply waited for the little blue Twi'lek.

I was actually glad to see her, especially considering what she was wearing. Some kind of gold-colored metal bikini, a whole bunch of dangling ornaments, and mesh on her arms and legs that hid absolutely nothing.

Yeeaah... Twi'leks really knew a thing or two about dressing beautiful girls.

It was amusing to watch her first reaction to us. Secura quickened her pace toward her master at first, then stopped short when she recognized me and spent a few moments studying my face—which, I'm sure, looked thoroughly delighted at the sight of her. Then she gave the faintest sly smile and continued toward her master with considerable grace.

Yeah... I thought, admiring the exotic beauty's captivating figure and smooth, fluid movements. That was sexuality crystallized.

And she wasn't embarrassed in the slightest...

"Boss..." Arvik quietly got my attention, and I looked over at the Mandalorian. "You picked the right place for a vacation."

"Pff," the Togruta snorted after hearing our heavily armored fighter's comment, while I allowed myself a faint smile, hiding it by scratching my beard. Our red-skinned beauty was used to collecting all the male attention herself, and it looked like she was a little jealous.

Maybe even subconsciously.

"Master Tholme?" Aayla managed to put so much question into her teacher's name that the all-encompassing "what the hell is going on here?" was practically audible.

"Hmm. Romri, take the kid to the autodoc. Guys, keep watch around us while we have a little chat." I gave my people their instructions. The Togruta nodded and went up the ramp after taking the boy from the Mandalorian, while the others spread out, giving us room to talk.

Tholme considered it for a few seconds, gave me a doubtful look, then nodded and told me what had happened to him. It turned out that almost as soon as I arrived, I'd managed to get myself mixed up in the local power struggle...

Not great, on the one hand. On the other, I seemed to have done Tholme and one of the local future rulers a small favor.

I told them what had happened on our end. Basically, it had been a simple misunderstanding. Two guys came charging out, one of them with a suspicious-looking bundle over his shoulder. They shouted something aggressive, and Romri and Arvik opened fire on one of them. The Gungan pulled off a neat little pirouette, got behind him, and jabbed his spear into the unarmored back of his head. As for the second one, I sicced Quartermaster on him. In partial combat mode, the chimera stopped being a cute, chubby lump and shot toward its target, instantly gnawing its way inside the enemy's torso and setting about destroying his internal organs. So in the end, we had two corpses and one bruised little Twi'lek boy.

By the time we finished talking, Romri appeared on the ramp with the dejected-looking boy beside her. According to her, nothing serious had happened: a couple of minor bruises, one nasty hematoma on his side, and a bruised left buttock.

"The fighter will live," the Togruta said, baring her sharp little teeth in a grin. Then, after casting an unfriendly glance at the Padawan, she straightened slightly so that her assets looked a little more impressive.

"Thank you, Romri," the Jedi said with a smile, then turned his gaze to me. "And thank you, Master Siith. Are you staying on Ryloth long?"

"You're welcome," I said with a shrug. "It all just sort of happened on its own. As for how long we'll be staying on the planet, I don't know yet. I'm on vacation, and I want to see the local sights..." My gaze somehow drifted back to the Twi'lek girl's outfit, earning a faint smile from her. "Ahem... Anyway, I haven't decided yet. But we'll definitely be here for at least a week."

"All right," Tholme nodded. "Then, if you don't mind, I'll contact you sometime in the next few days. I think Lon Secura will want to thank you in person."

"No problem. Uh... Secura?" I looked questioningly at the blue-skinned Twi'lek, whose expression had darkened slightly. "Same last name?"

"He's my uncle," the girl said stiffly, with a trace of dislike, then added after a second of silence, "Was."

At that, little Nat stared at her in surprise.

"I see. Family business," I drawled, shifting my gaze to her master. "Then..."

"Aayla, go to Lon Secura and take your cousin to him." The girl nodded and took the child by the hand, giving him an encouraging smile. "I still need to find a certain Devaronian and ask him a few questions. Until next time, Master Siith, gentlemen."

"See you, and good luck." I nodded to the Jedi, then turned to the others. "Well then, ladies and gentlemen, are you going to strip the corpses? Keep in mind, the dead bodies and one staff are mine. I've never gutted a Nikto before."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Aayla Secura give a little shudder. Well, aren't we sensitive. Chopping up sentients with glowing sticks is perfectly fine, but when a pathologist does his job it's suddenly "ew, how horrible."

Hypocritical blue ass.

A pretty one, though...

***

The guys were quite pleased with their new gear. The armor and staffs were coated with cortosis. For one thing, the metal was extremely expensive, and for another, it stood up remarkably well to blows from glowing sticks.

There wasn't much of it on the chestplates, but I promised to strip off the cortosis when I had the time and outfit the guys with pieces of gear coated in it. They weren't planning on fighting Jedi, of course, but mercenaries always accounted for the "well, what if?" scenario.

I tossed my staff into the cabin, and Koit did the same. "Gotta get used to it, though," the Gungan commented on his decision. We reassured Ras and Shmi, who had been surprised by our return, and since we were back anyway, had a mug of caf each. I attached a couple of stasis artifacts to the Morgukai corpses—expensive things, and difficult to make. In effect, they slowed the flow of time for the target to a crawl. And the larger and bulkier the target, the greater the mana cost. A Nikto body, for example, required artifacts with three soul traps apiece as power sources. My adaptive-protection amulet, by comparison, used only one. And the "fuel" consumption was enormous: the batteries would run dry in a week to a week and a half, so I'd have to deal with the corpses sooner rather than later.

That was precisely why each Nimbus unit was issued only one of those things. They simply cost too many pirates to make. Alto had even joked once that he'd never imagined there would come a day when he'd look forward to raids and be glad to see slavers. Heh. He'd discovered why the sorcerous fraternity was always so eager to take part in operations to wipe out bandit bases, and why some of them would drop whatever they were doing just to fight a little war for some prince or other. Experienced spellcasters, naturally: youngsters weren't much use on a battlefield, and they probably didn't know how to collect souls properly either. Except perhaps by the simplest method—personally killing someone at close range.

Anyway, once we'd taken care of everything, we headed off as planned—to the cantina by the spaceport. The people of Ryloth weren't exactly an open bunch, so outsiders only had access to the spaceport, the tourist zones, and a handful of designated tour routes. Maybe I could talk this Lon Secura into letting me see how the locals actually lived, at least within territory controlled by his family?

***

"Grahrk got away," were Tholme's first words as he entered the room where Aayla stood staring thoughtfully out the window.

"The Devaronian is... very slippery," the girl said with a hint of indifference. Her heart felt heavy.

Her cousin Nat reminded her of her own story in some ways. The younger, unloved son, feeling the weight of his father's irrational reproach. From what the boy had said, he felt that Lon Secura wished it had been him who died, not his elder son—the beloved heir into whose upbringing so much time and effort had gone.

The one who had always lived in the shadows. His own child, yet unwanted. A son for whom there was never enough time, and on whom his father had never cared to spend any parental attention.

The girl remembered how, many years ago, she had been just as unwanted. Even though she had been only two years old, her lekku gave her an excellent memory, while Jedi mental techniques allowed her to remember it all as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. A daughter no one wanted. A child of an influential family, sold to the Hutts because "she would be safer there." Damned hypocrites. She had always been gifted, and alongside the Force she had always possessed another gift—empathy. Empathy that told her that, of all her relatives, only her mother truly loved her. A mother who was just as powerless and voiceless a slave as hundreds of thousands, millions of Twi'lek women.

The girl had never told anyone, but she was grateful to the enraged wampa the Hutt had bought from a smuggler. Bought it just as he had bought her from her own family, no matter what her uncle—Pol Secura, still alive at the time—might have claimed. The threat of death and her scream through the Force had allowed the little girl to draw the attention of the sentient being dearest to her in the entire universe. Back then, of course, he had been nothing more than a Jedi Padawan—Quinlan Vos, who saved the girl. Saved her and took her away from Ryloth, far from that breeding ground of slavery sheltered beneath the Republic's wing.

As an adult, Secura understood why things on her homeworld were the way they were. She understood, but she could not accept it. Her next visit to Ryloth, together with Quinlan Vos, who had become her master, ended with her fall to the Dark Side—her own uncle, Pol, damn him, kept her drugged so heavily that she forgot who she was and became nothing more than a dancer in his palace. And once again Quinlan came for her, once again pulling her out of yet another nightmare. Her master, who, just like her, had lost himself, had conquered the darkness in his own mind and saved her... Unfortunately, because the two of them had come dangerously close to the edge, the Council decided to separate them. Her new master was John Tholme, and as Quinlan had joked sadly, "My old master will be your master now. Try to fray his nerves a little less than I did back in the day."

And now, Ryloth again. "Family" again. The girl remembered with disgust what Lon had said when she asked where Master Tholme was: "None of your concern, slave. Get back to your duties, woman."

Only after she showed him her lightsaber and explained that Tholme was her master did the head of House Secura tell her that he was at the spaceport. How satisfying it had been to toss over her shoulder as she left, "Thank you, Uncle," and then, at his bewilderment, explain, "I'm Aayla. Once, I was your niece."

The Jedi taught that one should keep one's emotions in check, but at that moment the girl had been unable to suppress a triumphant smile. A small pleasure she would never tell anyone about.

"Aayla..." Tholme sat down across from her and looked at the girl with concern. He was a very good man—not as daring or reckless as Quinlan, but caring and perceptive. The Twi'lek girl smiled at him.

"I'm all right, Master Tholme. Just unpleasant memories. After the mission, I'll need to..."

"Have a good long meditation," her master finished the joke for her, smiling warmly and sympathetically. The thing was, the active and emotional girl was no great fan of meditation, though she did acknowledge its benefits. "I'm glad you're coping."

"I'm a Jedi," Aayla said proudly, straightening up. "How could it be otherwise?"

"Pride..."

"A path to the Dark Side it is. I know, Master," she finished for him, her smile bright and cheerful now. Master Yoda's sayings, besides containing wisdom, also had a way of lifting one's spirits, though no one in the Order openly talked about that...

"Then get some sleep, Padawan. It's been a hard day. Tomorrow Ro Fenn will leave for the Bright Lands. After that, we'll speak with the Jabiim sorcerer, say goodbye to Lon Secura, and return to the Temple."

"That sorcerer..."

"Did you sense anything from him?" her master asked. He knew about Aayla's gift for empathy. It had often been their trump card during investigations.

"Nothing like that, Master. He isn't hostile toward us—rather the opposite. He was glad to see me. I felt his admiration for me, but it was... clean. He admired me the same way I admire a beautiful landscape or the beauty of space. To be honest, it was even... kind of insulting?"

Her master allowed himself a quiet chuckle and continued looking at her expectantly.

"The Mandalorian doesn't like us, but there's no hatred. The long-eared one..."

"Gungan," Tholme supplied.

"The Gungan didn't care. He was proud of himself. The Togruta, Romri, was jealous... of everyone paying attention to me?"

"She's the only girl on the ship," her master said with an amused squint. "Maybe she's simply not used to sharing her companions' attention? Though I could sense there were other sentients aboard the shuttle."

"Maybe," the girl said, running a hand over her lekku. "But taken as a whole, just like last time, I don't sense any dislike or threat. Just..."

"Just..."

"He reminds me of Master Yoda, this Siith. That constant faint condescension, the harmless teasing, the gentle goodwill. And the curiosity! Those jokes of his about autopsies, combined with that curiosity—just like that girl on Jabiim—genuinely scare me, Master!"

Tholme chuckled quietly. Siith really did come across as slightly unhinged. And with that perpetually unsettling little smile of his, he looked downright like a maniac. But who in their right mind would make themselves look that suspicious so openly? The sentient simply had the same sort of sense of humor as Master Rancisis.

They talked a little longer, then Tholme went to his own room, and about ten minutes later Aayla drifted into a deep sleep.

A couple of hours passed with the girl sleeping soundly. Ryloth's "night" was quiet, soft light seeping through the windows. And in that silence, a shadow began to grow in the window. A beast unknown on this planet, comically twitching its nose, crept into the girl's room. For several seconds it wandered around the chamber, then headed purposefully for the small drawer where she kept her underwear.

*** Ship Inferno. Open Space. Vilmarh Grahrk. ***

"Boss, the job went bad. The Morgukai are dead, the kid's gone. Villie barely managed to get away."

"Damn it," Kh'aris Fenn's angry voice came over the comm. "Are you sure they're dead?"

"Yes, Boss. My droid recorded everything in detail, but only the fight. I decided that hanging around on a planet with Jedi any longer was a luxury I couldn't afford."

"You made the right call," the voice of the Fenn family exile softened slightly. "Send me everything you have on the job, including the droid's recording. You're free for now. I'll contact you."

The connection cut off, and Villie snorted into the empty air. This Fenn was just like every other pompous moneybag—arrogant and overflowing with self-importance.

Now Villie, on the other hand... The Devaronian glanced at himself in a small mirror. Handsome devil, wasn't he? No matter. He'd done everything he could. The employers had been let down by the very people they themselves had hired, and now he could relax a little and get some rest. No one had any complaints about him, right? So he could reward himself. Where were the best whores in the galaxy again?

Anywhere but Ryloth, Vilmarh snorted. Better not show his face there for a couple of months.

***

"Count, the plan failed," the gray-skinned Twi'lek said, turning to his patron.

"It's no disaster, Kh'aris," the former Jedi replied with a smile. "As long as you're alive, there will always be another chance. So don't despair. If not this time, then the next, Ryloth will have you as its leader."

"And we'll finally cast aside those moss-grown traditions," the young man said, clenching his fists and giving the tip of one lekku an angry twitch. "It's only a small delay. My people have endured for thousands of years. I hope they can endure a little longer."

"You're looking at the situation the right way, my friend. A little patience. You've paid too high a price to rush into battle without beskar-clad certainty of victory."

"My father sacrificed me for power. And I sacrificed my name, my homeland, my honor, and my dignity. But everything I've lost isn't worth a single tear from my mother."

The gray-skinned Twi'lek with orange eyes turned sharply on his heel and left the room.

Dooku merely watched him go with sympathy. For several seconds he remained motionless, then the Count of Serenno pressed his lips into a thin line.

The Republic... How many more lives must it destroy, how many more fates must this tumor on the body of the galaxy shatter before it finally devours itself?

"The Counts of Serenno do not complain, and they do not cry. We are born to care for others. We do not expect others to care for us," the aging man whispered.***

Author's Note:

The Morgukai are a highly secretive order, most often composed of members of the Nikto species, though there have been cases of other sentients being accepted as well. They did not use the Force the way the Jedi or Sith did, but they possessed techniques that allowed them to resist mind tricks. (A trained mind.) They were also known as hunters of Jedi and Sith.

*Tholme wasn't finished off because another Morgukai interfered in his duel with the first. By their traditions, the victory would no longer have been "clean" and wouldn't have earned them any "respecc."

**Nikto is the name of a species from a galaxy far, far away. It really jars me when translating from Russian, since nikto (никто) means "nobody."

***Count Dooku is a very complex character, and the author of the original work will make every effort to portray him as more than just some bearded villain, but as a man with motivations of his own. If anyone is interested, feel free to read up on him. He was a deeply ambiguous man, but he never sought power merely for power's sake. I know the champions of All That Is Good and enemies of All That Is Bad will now start furiously composing angry odes, but the author has decided to make his position clear from the outset. ;-)

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

There were plenty of cantinas around the spaceport, catering to every budget and every purpose. We picked a respectable place where we could get something to eat and drink while watching pretty girls dance. There was even a warning posted by the entrance: the dancers were there to be looked at, not touched.

That was precisely why we'd come in. I wanted to satisfy an aesthetic hunger, not lust. And the prospect of watching civilized sentients lose their minds to base instincts didn't exactly fill me with enthusiasm.

The place was a little noisy, to be honest. Sentients of all sorts of species sat at the tables. Some were eating, others were simply drinking and watching the stage, where three Twi'lek girls were proving to the universe that when it came to erotic appeal and grace of movement, they were second to none.

I rented us a private booth with a personal dancer. She also doubled as our drink-pourer and waitress. That little luxury cost me a whole hundred credits!!! And let me tell you, that was a very, very substantial sum. And that was before food and drinks.

At first, there was a minor misunderstanding. I sat down at the table on the little couch, while my guys spread out into the corners. For a few seconds I stared at the mercenaries in confusion, until it finally dawned on me that they were doing their jobs as bodyguards.

Then came a long round of persuading the fighters to join me at the table. I'd simply feel awkward eating while three pairs of hungry eyes stared at me. I seriously doubted I could relax and enjoy myself like that. Somehow, I managed to convince the stubborn Mando to have two of them alternate guard duty: one fighter by the door, two at the table. We even drew straws to decide which of the three could drink alcohol. A very pleased Romri won—she was getting a proper night off today.

While we discussed how the late dinner was going to work, the Twi'lek girl waited patiently off to the side with her eyes lowered. But the moment we finally settled around the table—except for the Gungan, who took up position by the door—and decided to order, she was instantly all attention.

---

What can I say? Exquisite. Absolutely sublime. No, I'm not talking about the food—it was decent enough, but Shmi cooks better. But our Twi'lek's dance... that was something else. Grace bordering on the divine. Sexuality off the charts. Fluidity right at the limit of what should be possible for a mortal body. The girl wasn't merely dancing: she flowed from one pose into the next, graceful, wholly committed, and clearly reveling in what she was doing. And it wasn't only her body that danced. All of her did—even her glances and facial expressions were part of the dance. Coy flashes of smoldering, passionate eyes from beneath her brows, a lightly bitten lip, a teasing smile—and then, in the next moment, fear, shyness, innocence, modesty, all of it melting into searing flirtation.

By the ten-minute mark, we looked downright hilarious. The Gungan had clearly discovered the world of xenophilia and was somehow both on guard duty and in a trance at the same time. The Togruta, judging by the twitching tips of her fingers, her glassy stare, and the way her face occasionally turned an even deeper shade of red, had wandered into the happy realm of same-sex love. As for Arvik and me... we'd melted into puddles on the couches and were simply enjoying ourselves, wearing matching idiot grins. And what else were we supposed to do? Touching her wasn't merely forbidden—it was frightening. Genuinely frightening. You might actually destroy the beauty the artist on that little stage was creating. She was making Art with a capital A, and reaching your grubby paws toward her would only vulgarize her genius.

At some point, the girl stepped down from the stage. With an alluring, irresistible gait, she circled behind me. I felt her breath on one shoulder, while delicate fingers settled on the other, sending a whole stampede of goosebumps racing down my back...

"Would sir like... anything else to drink?" a beautiful young voice asked, her fresh breath brushing against me.

A few seconds of silence—and all four of us simultaneously croaked out a hoarse "YES"!!!

The girl left the room, and we started exchanging looks. Even I felt a little embarrassed, while Romri had gone bright scarlet. The Gungan was looking anywhere but at us, and only Arvik wore the smug expression of a seasoned tomcat who'd kicked the asses of every rival in the neighborhood, fucked the prettiest kitty around, and polished off an entire tub of sour cream.

"I've watched Twi'leks dance plenty of times, and I still can't get used to it," he said, running a hand over the short bristles of his fair hair. "Don't get flustered, Red. Everyone reacts like that the first time. Twi'lek girls know how to... ahem... yeah. They know how."

"Hey!" the Togruta flared up at once, then immediately faltered. "I... yeah, Hutt damn it, that was genuinely incredible. Thanks, Boss."

"You're welcome," I said with a shrug, feeling how dry my throat had gotten. While watching the dance, we'd drained the entire pitcher of juice, and Romri had emptied her cocktail glass. "I'm not going to make you close your eyes just because I'm greedy."

"Uh, no," the Togruta said, shaking her head and making her lekku* sway. "Our last employer wouldn't have treated us to any of this, and he'd have sent us to stand outside, too."

"By rights, that's exactly what we should've done," Arvik grumbled. "Two outside, one inside. Boss, did you hire bodyguards or drinking buddies?"

"Mmm..." I drawled with a grin, blatantly looking the Togruta up and down. She stared at me in surprise for a second, then scowled threateningly. Arvik gave a quiet chuckle at the sight.

"See, Romri? I told you your skimpy outfit would land us an employer," the warrior said, easily dodging the nut she threw at his forehead and grinning.

"But seriously," I said, winking at the fuming Togruta before turning to the Mandalorian, "just imagine it: I've spent my entire life in this universe on Jabiim. In case you don't know, that's a world of endless rain. The locals see the sun once every few months."

"Good planet, though," Koit cut in, nodding sagely. "Climate suits me. But sun once every few months... that is little-little too much, maybe."

"And along with that weather," I continued, "you get powerful ion storms that completely cut off HoloNet communications. We keep in touch with the outside world through cargo ships that make use of rare breaks in the storm clouds."

The Twi'lek girl entered our room carrying another pitcher of juice and a fresh cocktail for Romri on a tray.

"Of course I'm interested in everything, Arvik. It's all new to me, understand? I hired you in part because I wanted to talk to sentients who've already traveled around the galaxy. Frankly, I was counting on you having plenty of interesting stories—for example, about your homeworlds, why you chose the free-blaster life, and all sorts of interesting twists and turns that happened in your lives. So, what about you, Red? Want to tell me about yourself? Whatever you can and whatever you want. If there's anything you'd rather not talk about, I'm not demanding it..."

"I get it," the girl said, baring her teeth in a grin as she took a sip from her fresh drink. "There's nothing especially terrible in my past. I can share. So listen up, and don't say nobody told you! The story of a brilliant pilot, a crack shot, and simply charming Togruta—Romri Tano!"

Though the Togruta had hammed it up at first, she quickly got into the story. She told us about her homeworld of Shili, located in the Expansion Region. About the beauty of its wilderness, its dangerous predators, and the life of the Togruta—not the easiest life, but hardly a terrible one. Romri realized early on that home felt too confining for her, and when her younger sister was taken away by a Jedi—an order she actually regarded quite favorably—she took off to wander the stars.

"Little Ahsoka showed me the road to the stars! Sure, I'm not Force-sensitive, but I've got nimble hands and a decent head on my shoulders," the slightly flushed girl said with a smile. "So I finished pilot training, spent some time flying freighters, and even worked for a small express-delivery company for a year before the Trade Federation swallowed it up. I didn't go work for them afterward—the people there are suuuuch skinflints..."

Romri was really getting into it, and she told the story wonderfully. With just the right amount of swearing, she cheerfully described the things that had happened in her life: the first time pirates boarded her ship, how the crew had somehow managed to fight them off, and her switch to mercenary work. She told us how she'd spent six months grinding through a private bodyguard course and taught herself programming on her own. She poked fun at the sentients she'd met along the way with a light touch that never felt mean, and she didn't spare herself either. I even pointed the Twi'lek girl toward the couch so she could sit down for a while and give her legs a rest. The dancer was clearly awkward about it at first, but after some time she was openly smiling at yet another funny story from the Togruta.

"And that was where, on the smugglers' moon, I met these two. Some guy there was hiring everyone hanging around the cantinas waiting for work. He was putting together an anti-boarding team for a single run. We got talking along the way, and the guys seemed decent enough, even despite this buckethead's tediousness and the long-eared one's constant 'though.' We've been knocking around together ever since, and without any false modesty I'll say this: if it weren't for me, these two would've definitely ended up as space bums."

"That hurt, though," the Gungan said with a cheerful grin. He had switched places with Arvik and took a sip of juice, while a quiet snort came from beneath the Mando's helmet by the door.

"That's how she justifies being greedy," the Mandalorian explained, amused. "But to be fair, yeah, she's the best of us when it comes to negotiating money."

"And why didn't you haggle with me?" I asked in surprise, glancing at the already tipsy Romri.

"Why bother? You offered decent credits, Boss," the girl said, waving her glass and spilling a little. "And you're very generous with loot. I'll tell you straight from the heart now, just don't take offense, okay? You actually overpaid by a fair bit. For Fett or Bane, of course, our combined six grand a month would be wupiupi money, but for ordinary bodyguard work you could've offered thirty or forty percent less. So, basically, you're a fine-looking man, generous—the way I like them—but inexperienced. Um..." The Togruta suddenly looked flustered, blushed a little deeper, and added, "Financially, I mean."

"You know..." I drawled, while Arvik covered his helmet visor with one hand. "That's the first time anyone's called me a sucker, even if only indirectly."

"Uh..." The girl's eyes darted around, then dropped to her glass. Apparently she remembered that I was paying for the table too, and she clearly became upset. "Sorry, Boss, that's not what I meant... I mean..."

"I get it, Romri. Relax," I snorted, scratching my beard. "I'm not going to take offense over something that trivial. I only crawled out of a deep hole fairly recently; I don't know the prices, and everything around me is new and unusual. You'll help me out, won't you? Be my Mentor, so to speak?"

I moved closer to the girl, who was staring down at the table, and gently took her hand in mine, trying to catch her eye.

"Of course, Bo—" the girl started, then froze as she realized just how close our faces were. The Togruta's cheeks rapidly deepened in color. "I'll help?" she almost whispered, somehow making it sound like a question.

"Thank you, Romri." I lifted the corners of my mouth, trying for a light, kind smile rather than my usual frightening grimace. I gave her hand a gentle squeeze, then returned to my seat under the girl's surprised gaze.

"What was that just now?" the Togruta asked after several seconds of silence, addressing the question somewhere into the air.

"You just volunteered to work as a financial consultant for free," Arvik snorted, then gave me a thumbs-up. "Beautiful work, Boss."

"I what?" The Togruta's eyes widened in astonishment, and she turned a stunned look on me. A couple of moments later, an accusing finger was pointed my way. "How could you, Boss? I'm supposed to be the greediest sentient in this room!"

"Boss-sa got you good," the Gungan said, saluting me with his glass of juice before turning his eyestalks toward the Twi'lek girl. "You have schools on Ryloth where they teach dancing like that?"

To be honest, all four of us, along with the dancer, stared at Koit in surprise. He took in our reaction and bared his teeth in a cheerful grin.

"Me? Nah. But when I find wife, I want her to learn little-little here. If my woman dances like that..." The long-eared Gungan made some gesture with his hands. I had no idea what it meant, but his expression was so eloquent that I'd bet good money it was something very, very obscene. "We make lots of little ones together, though..."

"Pervert," Romri snorted, finally getting back to normal. She did push the alcoholic cocktail away, though, and I made a mental note that simple fellow Koit had a surprisingly fine sense for the mood in a room.

After that, we talked about everything and nothing. The Gungan told us how he'd taken part in the war against the machines on Naboo, and how he'd left the army afterward.

"Naboo humans, I hate 'em," Koit said, waving his arms angrily. "Cowards and liars, all of them, though. Before Trade Federation brought their big doughnut with all those machines, they kept hiring mercenaries to fight us. But soon as their own asses caught fire—straight to Boss Nass they came running. Bowing, swearing eternal peace. Me, I don't believe them, though! I still went to fight. I'm no coward. But when we beat the machines, I went to Captain and told him straight: 'Captain Tarpals, I'm leaving! Mercenaries killed my father and grandfather! My brother lost an eye and an ear! I won't fight for Naboo humans, only for Gungans!' Roos Tarpals, he's proper officer. Clapped me on shoulder and says, 'I understand you, Koit. Go if you can't stomach it. At least you won't have to see that idiot Binks.'"

"Binks?" I'd read something about him, but hadn't thought it important.

"Ay." Koit waved both hands dismissively. "Shame of my race. Queen Annoydala's pet Gungan! I mean Amidala. Now she drags him everywhere with her: 'Lookit me, how civilized I am! Brought animal into Senate and everything.' Pah! Makes me sick, watching him shame my people!!!"

"Well, to be fair, the Naboo are helping the Gungans now, from what I've heard," the Togruta said cautiously, clearly afraid of offending him.

"Ay, Romri. Me, I don't believe it, though. They act honest little-little while, then start fooling us again! Gungans are like Boss-sa. We live by ourselves; big galaxy, we don't know. Anyone can come, lie however they like. We trust everyone—and shouldn't, though. Naboo is our planet. Plasma is our plasma. I don't believe Naboo humans pay fair!"

Our Gungan was pretty upset by then, so together we asked our Twi'lek girl to dance some more. By the way, she had grown quite comfortable around us and would occasionally add a comment of her own. Tentatively at first, then without nearly as much hesitation. Even so, she remained unfailingly respectful. A very pleasant little green girl.

This time she danced something cheerful and energetic. The Twi'lek's movements were every bit as graceful as before, and her figure just as lovely, but this dance stirred joy somewhere deep inside, put smiles on our faces, and sent energy bubbling through the body. It made you want to jump up and try something yourself. The only thing stopping me was the certainty that next to her I'd look like a drunken sailor who'd just been beaten senseless by a pack of wild martial-arts monks from the eastern continent of my world.

After the dance, the girl looked at me questioningly, flicked her eyes toward the couch where she had been sitting before, and, after receiving my nod, carefully sat down. Arvik even poured her some juice and pushed the glass toward her, which made the girl pale slightly and shrink back in alarm. Fortunately, she recovered quickly and, after shyly thanking the Mandalorian, took a small sip. She firmly refused any food because "it would get in the way of dancing," the beauty cooed with a sweet smile.

All in all, we had a great time. I definitely liked the guys. They were cheerful and clearly fond of one another as comrades. Arvik was a little pedantic, a commander who took his duties seriously. Koit was easygoing and simple, yet wise in his own way—able to smooth things over with a couple of words and take almost everything in stride, except Naboo humans and "that idiot Binks." Romri... Romri was very sweet. A volcano of positivity mixed fifty-fifty with a black hole of greed, which, incidentally, didn't spoil her in the slightest. The girl would never miss a chance to get what was hers, but you couldn't call her shameless about it either.

Before we left, I asked our Twi'lek girl to perform something really special. Unfortunately, she misunderstood me. I was even a little taken aback when her lips began to tremble pitifully and so much hurt and disappointment appeared in her eyes...

For the first time in many, many years, I found myself stumbling over my words as I explained that I hadn't meant anything like that—I'd simply wanted her to perform something that would make us go, "Whoa, that was awesome." I suspect I'll be dreaming about the relieved smile that appeared on her face for the next couple of days.

Then she actually apologized, which only made me feel even more awkward, while Romri looked at me as though I'd just decided to enslave every Twi'lek in the galaxy at once. Even the Mandalorian's helmet somehow seemed to be staring at me reproachfully through its visor.

And the Twi'lek gave us a farewell dance. First she fastened a collar around her neck with a long chain attached to it—light, slender, but strong. She threaded the chain through a ring on the stage, then wrapped the free end once around her palm and gripped it in her hand.

The chain lay slack across the floor as the girl began to move. At first the dance was free and carefree: broad, fluid motions, eagerness on her face, a bright, happy smile, and eyes shining with joy. But every few seconds, without breaking the rhythm, she wound the chain once more around her hand. One loop at a time. And then, in the middle of another movement light as air, the taut chain brought her up short. The jerk looked so violent, and we were so absorbed in the dance, that all of us flinched—and the Togruta even cried out.

At that moment, the rhythm of the dance changed. Her movements became jerky, bringing to mind a bird caught in a snare. The girl seemed to struggle for freedom, but the chain kept growing shorter and shorter. There was no joy or lightness left in the dance now, only frantic attempts to break free. Panic filled her face, fear showed in her eyes, and her lips parted in a silent scream. More and more often, notes of pleading crept into her movements, a wordless plea for help. But with every moment, she had less and less freedom left.

The chain kept winding around her palm, and the Twi'lek sank lower and lower. Those same beautiful movements now portrayed her attempts to rise from her knees, but it ended with the dancer frozen in a kneeling pose. A pose of absolute submission.

And her eyes—hope had vanished from them, giving way to a slave's resignation and a grief blacker than the darkness of space.

It was so powerful that I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. The Mandalorian by the door was gripping his blaster in his right hand, his helmet tucked into the crook of his left arm. The muscles in his cheeks were working, betraying the anger he felt—not at the girl, but at whoever had taken away her spirit and freedom. A sniff from Romri drew my attention. She was sitting turned away from everyone, wiping something from her face. Even Koit looked lost...

"Just don't tell anyone I danced that for you," the Twi'lek suddenly said as she unfastened the collar. "We're not allowed to show it to guests."

For several seconds I simply looked at her in silence, then nodded and asked only, "What is it called?" Once again, a veil of sadness passed over the girl's eyes, and a sorrowful smile touched her lips.

"Free Ryloth. This dance is called Free Ryloth, sir."

---

Author's Note:

*Togruta have lekku and montrals on their heads. Montrals grow upward; lekku grow downward. (Short version, without going into detail.)

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

We returned to the ship in less than stellar spirits. A recording of today's Senate session, where Alto had spoken, cheered us up a little. The leader of the rainy planet presented the venerable assembly of bribe-takers and embezzlers with a report on Jabiim's use of humanitarian aid, which caused some surprise among the politicians in attendance: apparently, such a thing simply wasn't done. He also took a rather painful swipe at the former Chancellor, who—quote—"didn't give a damn about planets beyond the Inner Rim, much like some of those present here," he added, glaring angrily at those who had protested most loudly when the decision to send aid to Jabiim was being made. When part of the chamber responded with an indignant murmur, he published detailed statistics on Jabiim's problems. Almost the same material I had shown the Jedi, only in a much more detailed form.

While the important senatorial asses studied the information, Stratus offered genuinely heartfelt thanks to Chancellor Palpatine and those who had supported his initiative: "For perhaps the first time in the three thousand years we have been part of the Republic, it has a leader who pays attention to the problems of outlying worlds. On behalf of all my people, I thank you, Supreme Chancellor—you and those who stand with you."

Alto and I had once talked about that pleasant-looking gentleman. We both understood that Palpatine was no kindly, naive old uncle. I'd once known a man who wore the same sort of pleasant smile while gutting lizardfolk without anesthesia. Generous do-gooders don't climb to the top of politics.

His personal oversight of the aid to our planet wasn't just a good deed—it was also a widely publicized display of concern for the people of the Republic, one that earned him points in the eyes of ordinary citizens.

Right now, Stratus was doing something simple: keeping the public's attention focused on the Chancellor's noble act by expressing his gratitude, while at the same time keeping the spotlight on our planet's problems.

And judging by the fact that his speech had aired on one of the highest-rated news channels, and there were reports that the Chancellor had met with Alto personally after the Senate session, the commander's plan had worked. The man really was a powerful speaker, capable of kindling a spark in people's hearts, and Jabiim always came first for him. I wondered how Sheev Palpatine would react to hints about installing turbolasers on our planetary-defense squadron. More importantly, could we afford the possible kickbacks?

"If it improves the situation, I'm ready to marry a Devaronian woman, so saying a few flattering words about the Chancellor is nothing," the commander had snorted once when the three of us—he, his cousin, and I—were sitting in the library again. He'd become quite a rare visitor by then, since the leader of a planet had practically no free time.

We also received news from Cordelia and Karina. First, Stratus's administration and the Jabiim Mages' Guild (JMG) now had a permanent HoloNet connection. It had been Karina's personal project—I'd helped her a little when she first started it—and she had successfully completed it by equipping a pair of transceivers with signal stabilizers.

Second, magical ore-refining technology had been launched in test mode. The metallurgists judged the output excellent, and Jabiim had begun construction of a planetary-scale ore-refining plant. Stratus had also sent in a request for specialist mages who could keep the entire production chain running and, if necessary, create the required artifacts themselves.

At that, I could only heave a weary sigh. I had built the test line myself, while Karina and Karray had handled its calibration after my departure. They wouldn't be able to create the whole thing from scratch, nor could they train the narrow specialists, as I'd started calling such graduates. So once I got back, I'd have to take up teaching again. Fortunately, my girls could give them the necessary foundation, as well as the methods for calibration and setup.

In general, the Academy project was still being developed, but Stratus was leaning toward exactly that approach: instead of spending decades training generalist mages, we'd produce specialists in a couple of years who would work within their assigned field. A sort of vocational school.

Later, once everything being set up on Jabiim could be maintained by the citizens themselves, we could start thinking about an institution of higher learning—one capable of graduating mages who could do more than simply work from established templates, but who also possessed a deep understanding of magic. The kind who could eventually advance magical science on their own.

I was distracted from drafting my reply by a suspicious gathering of my mercenaries in the Gungan's cabin. It wasn't as if they never got together like that, but it was already pretty late, and they'd been sitting in a row on Koit's bunk for quite a while, discussing something.

No, I wasn't indulging in voyeurism. I hadn't even peeked at the Togruta while she was changing. But three armed sentients left unsupervised... The guys seemed decent enough, but we hadn't known one another long enough for blind trust, so I tapped into the surveillance spell and started listening in.

And no, I wasn't ashamed of it.

"Have you thought about where she'd live?" I heard the Mandalorian's tired voice. "We roam around the galaxy and risk our lives. We don't have a home where a dancer who can't do anything except dance—beautifully, sure—would be of much use. And if we get shot, what happens to her then? Think about the places we travel to, too. At the place where she dances now, customers aren't allowed to cross the line. Now imagine we get a job on Nar Shaddaa or Tatooine. Romri, we'd come back and find she'd already been kidnapped, drugged, and sold to the nearest brothel."

I cut off the eavesdropping and smiled sadly. A commander teaching his subordinate that sometimes helping someone can only do more harm. I felt sorry for the Twi'lek girl, of course. I could, for example, shove her onto Jabiim—but what would she do there? Dance for me during my rare moments of leisure? Shmi, at least, was an experienced mother, and I planned to put her to work raising and caring for the orphanage kids. But what was I supposed to do with a dancer? It wasn't as if I could teach her magic...

"Wait, why not?" I scratched the back of my head thoughtfully. "How would Twi'leks learn magic? Hmm... Hmm... Actually, I'm thinking about this all wrong. Give me a sentient, and I'll find a use for them! If I feel sorry for the girl, why not take her for myself? A hamster is all well and good, but having a personal dancer comes with its own advantages. Tits, for example! Heh-heh-heh. All right, enough of that. I'll finish the letter tomorrow. For now, before bed, I think I'll go run a raid."

During the flight from Tatooine to Ryloth, thanks to Romri, I discovered the world of electronic games. Quite an amusing thing. Right now I was role-playing a paladin of some god of light, battling a dark empire of demonic lackeys who were... sorcerers!

The game devoured time, of course, but I was on vacation!!! So come here, you bastards who sold your souls to demons! The time has come for purification by the Light!

Mwah-ha-ha-ha!

---

I love it when the day starts with caf. Unfortunately, the next one started with a Jedi. And very early, at that. I'm not surprised not everyone likes those glow-stick wielders. When your comlink starts screaming at the crack of dawn, you're hardly going to wish the caller health, happiness, and all the best.

So I first let loose with a thorough string of curses in my native language, and only then bothered to find out who it was.

It was Tholme calling. Without so much as apologizing, the Jedi wished me a good morning—which nearly made me tell him to go fuck himself again, this time in Basic—and informed me that I had a rendezvous with the local bigwig, Lon Secura, in an hour. Muttering something halfway between "got it" and "drop dead," I headed for the galley to make myself some caf. I didn't wake Shmi. I'm not some Jedi asshole, after all—I'm a considerate sorcerer.

With two mugs of caf in hand, I trudged into the shuttle's cockpit, where Arvik was sitting with Emthree. The lack of a shower was getting on my nerves. It wasn't as if I couldn't clean myself with magic; I simply liked freshening up under running water in the morning. And in the evenings, I enjoyed soaking in a bath while reading something about this universe.

"Morning, Boss," the thoughtful Mandalorian grunted, gratefully accepting one of the mugs of hot caf from me. Now there was a man with brains. He took one look at my sour expression and wisely decided not to say anything about a "good" morning or some other nonsense.

"Greetings, Master. Did you sleep well?"

"Morning, Arvik. And greetings to you too, Emthree. Slept well, just not enough. Anything new happen?"

"No, nothing much. The local guards make their rounds every now and then, your droid's been driving me nuts, and Romri's mad at everyone. So don't be surprised if she's... quiet."

"Hmm? What did you guys do to upset our Red?" I didn't care about the guards, and I already knew Emthree could annoy the dead.

"She wanted to go free that girl. Suti. The dancer. Serious shit, Boss—she even suggested we all chip in and buy her freedom. But don't worry. She won't do anything stupid. She'll sulk for a while and calm down."

"Wow, it really got to her," I said, surprised. Our Togruta was an emotional, vivid sort of girl, but I'd never imagined that dance would hit her that hard. Romri, willing to part with money...

"Yeah. My own heart's been aching since yesterday, and I'm not exactly a soft-hearted sentient," the man sighed. "But we've got no home, no place of our own. Suppose we buy her freedom—then what? Where's the girl supposed to go with no useful skills?"

"Sound thinking, Mando," I snorted. "Honestly, what surprises me is that dancer's reaction, Arvik. I didn't come here on a whim—I read quite a lot about Twi'leks and Ryloth beforehand. It's strange to see that kind of reaction from a member of a species that's spent thousands of years raising its own children to be slaves. Without the slave trade, they'd probably have starved to death long ago. So why was she that frightened, and why so much sadness?"

"As for this world, I'd argue that point, Boss. They could've come up with a solution that wasn't such a bastard one. As for Suti, it's simple," the Mandalorian said, shaking his head and taking a sip from his mug. "If you do something to her, the worst they'll do is kick you off the planet—and more likely, they'll just slap you with a fine. And she's no longer an 'innocent flower.' Her current owner could easily make her service clients with more than just dancing, or sell her to a brothel while she's still nice and juicy."

"Hmm... I hadn't really thought about that. But then the sadness..."

"The Twi'lek girl really doesn't want to end up as a whore. It's one thing if some reasonably wealthy sentient buys you. Not to unload cargo, but to dance, to please the eye. As a status possession—something that gets looked after, fed well, and kept in decent conditions. And years later, when your... marketable appearance starts to fade, you can become useful instead of merely beautiful. Help look after the owner's children or grandchildren, for example. Besides, when a loyal servant stays with the same master for many years, people grow attached. They start to value them."

I listened to Arvik with interest, taking the occasional sip from my mug. As for alternative solutions for Ryloth... that was something I'd have to think about in my spare time.

"Maybe he'll fuck her now and then, sure, but it's one thing when she has only one man—her master. Or whoever he gives her to. It's a completely different thing to end up in a brothel, where any dockside trash with enough credits for a quick fuck can have her. Twi'lek girls raised from childhood as pleasure slaves and dancers take it more calmly, but even so—they're sentient beings, and it's not like they enjoy it," the man said, grimacing slightly. "The worst part is that port whores don't often get long, happy lives. Getting your throat cut by some spice-addled freak, losing a lekku to some perverted bastard, or being bought for a pirate ship and raped day after day until you die—that's a shitty prospect."

"So at that place you're not allowed to touch them, but yeah, all it takes is one unlucky day," I muttered.

"True. And sooner or later there'll be girls who are juicier, younger, more flexible. Then they'll sell her out of this club—which, by the way, is practically an elite establishment—and maybe into an elite brothel. And there, once all the guys who used to jerk off over her after her performances have had their chance to sate their lust on her, the merchandise will lose its freshness, the girl will get worn down... Well, you get the idea, Boss. Then comes the next sale. And so on, until she ends up at the very bottom."

"Yeah..." I drawled. "That sounds..."

The man nodded, staring gloomily out across the spaceport through the cockpit canopy.

"I've seen Twi'lek girls dance before, Boss. Suti was giving it everything she had. Maybe she was hoping to impress you and change her future. You rent a private booth with three bodyguards, spend freely, treat us mercenaries to food and drinks. And you treat her like a hu—like a living sentient, not some mute piece of property: you give her a place at a free man's table, let her speak, offer to let her eat with you. And all that without trying to fuck her or even grope her. Most likely, that last dance was meant to make you like her too. To a Twi'lek slave girl, you look like a very good master."

We sat there in gloomy silence for a while, finished our caf, and I told the Mandalorian to get ready to head out. Only the two of us would be going to talk to Secura—I saw no point in dragging everyone along.

---

The Jedi met me alone and handed Quartermaster back. Honestly, I was a little surprised when I realized that the little beast and the Jedi's marker were in the same place. His Padawan hadn't come along, and when I asked about her, Tholme said the girl had some urgent shopping to do.

"She seemed kind of nervous this morning," the blue Twi'lek's master said with a shrug.

The local slaveowner didn't inspire any particular feelings in me. Honestly, Lon Secura was... bland. Polite, but without sincerity. Grateful, but without any spark. We talked for no more than ten minutes, and when he asked what I wanted in return for helping save his son, I asked for Suti.

The lekku-wearing dignitary agreed easily enough and, after contacting the club's administration, ordered them to send the girl over, promising to settle the financial side of things later.

Well, thanks for that much. The little one had struck me as pleasant enough that I felt like helping her somehow, and if you have both the desire and the means—why not?

The Jedi's reaction to all this surprised me, by the way. Me, fine—I have no particular prejudice against slavery. In my life I'd seen slaveowners who treated their living property far better than some parents treated their own children. But Tholme didn't so much as bat an eyelid when I asked to be given a sentient being as a reward. Damn it, I don't know... that attitude just doesn't fit with their claim to be "defenders of the Republic." Seems like a rather selective kind of protection. Smells a bit like hypocrisy, doesn't it?

On the other hand, those space monks don't interfere in Ryloth's way of life. I mean, they don't meddle in its laws, don't impose their own views, and all that. Most likely, with such an enormous variety of sentients and traditions across the galaxy, that makes sense.

In short, like always in life, nothing is black and white: the advantages are obvious, and you're waist-deep in drawbacks.

Tholme, Arvik, and I waited only twenty minutes for a small landspeeder, which brought the girl to us. Then came a brief farewell to the Jedi Master and the trip back to our little ship, which now had no free cabins left.

---

We stayed on Ryloth for another two weeks. I rented a few rooms in a cheap but perfectly decent hotel, wandered through cantinas, saw the sights tourists were allowed to visit, and followed a couple of tour routes. Then I got bored. There really wasn't all that much of interest here. Underground cities, tunnels sealed off by airlock gates against predators from the Bright Lands and heat storms that could reach temperatures of up to three hundred degrees, the gardens of floating rocks... And that was about it, really. I never did get a proper look at how the locals actually lived, but our new companion told me quite a lot about it.

Suti was a rather amusing tangle of emotions. She was simultaneously afraid that she might start being mistreated and glad to have left her previous place behind. According to her, the local owners sold slave girls to brothels by the age of twenty-two at the latest. Usually earlier. That was the club's gimmick: only young virgins entertained the patrons. The ones with real talent for dancing lasted the longest. And she was already twenty-one, so for the past few months she had greeted every morning with fear.

She became our best source of information about the Twi'leks' homeworld. And honestly, it didn't impress me much. The situation was actually somewhat similar to Jabiim. The rich and influential families lived fat, while ordinary people got by in less-than-ideal conditions. Food wasn't exactly scarce, but there was very little variety, and jobs were hard to come by because the planet had almost no industry to speak of.

Mushroom farms and the breeding of local animals—which also had to be fed—were the biggest players in the job market. Everything else was small-scale: repair shops, public utilities, the service sector. And in many places, "free" Twi'leks worked and actually envied the slaves, because the latter often lived under better conditions than the former.

By the way, Ryloth doesn't trade only in erotic dancers and sex specialists. There are servants of every kind, sometimes combined with those first two professions. Everything from ordinary maids to secretaries. Plenty of wealthy sentients prefer having flesh-and-blood beings around them rather than metal idiots.

The first time I tried to talk things over with the dancer, I ended up having to calm her down with a soothing brew. The girl greeted the words "I don't really need a dancer" with a mild hysterical fit. I had to put on a stern face and warn her that before dropping to her knees, she should listen to the whole thought first.

Basically, I offered her a chance to move up in the world. I had no need to drag a dancing slave around with me, but a secretary-assistant who could help with business, give a massage, and dance when needed—that was actually useful. And I could teach her some magic as an experiment. At least the basics.

The Twi'lek girl blinked at me, thought it over for all of five seconds, and agreed categorically. After that, the conversation became much more practical, with the focused and enthusiastic green-skinned beauty eagerly nodding along to every point of my plan for improving her qualifications.

The girl's delight was understandable: increasing her value would strengthen her position and improve her prospects in later life. So I tasked Emthree with selecting the disciplines the Twi'lek would need, and gave the go-ahead to purchase basic courses on the HoloNet, including holorecordings of lectures and master classes by secretaries of her species. Twi'leks had been in that business for a long time and knew exactly how to turn an ordinary body into a useful assistant for its master.

---

Two weeks later, we began our journey along the Corellian Trade Route. I had planned several stops on the way to the Republic's capital, after which I intended to head home.

And immediately after our visit to Mon Gazza, pirates attacked us.

I was sprawled out in my cabin, tweaking some of the schematics for the portal project, when suddenly, the moment we dropped out of hyperspace, the alarm started blaring. I was in the cockpit almost immediately.

"What's happening?"

"Pirates, Boss," Romri growled angrily, while Ras merely jerked his head toward the bulk of a starship hanging nearby. "The moment we dropped out of hyperspace, they caught us with tractor-beam projectors."

"I didn't know any of those were still operational," the Mandalorian said in surprise as he came in right behind me. "That thing's ancient—a Hammerhead-class cruiser."

"Ancient or not, we're screwed," the Togruta said gloomily. "There are too many people aboard. Even your protection won't save us, Boss."

Quartermaster poked his head out of my vest pocket and stared intently at the pirate ship, which really did look like a hammer. Then he gave a questioning little squeak while rubbing his paws together.

"Exactly, furball. Romri, how much does one of those things cost?"

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

The pirates preparing to cut the shuttle open to get inside were somewhat surprised when, immediately after landing, the small vessel's ramp began to lower. Some of the boarding party even laughed delightedly—the shuttle's crew had apparently decided to surrender in hopes of making their fate easier. And when four sentients began descending from the ship onto the deck of the Hammerhead's relatively small hangar, some of them even started whistling mockingly: among the passengers, besides a Gungan, a human, and a Mandalorian, there was a Togruta who was very, very easy on the eyes.

Only the boarding party's commander, a Dug named Saruba, kept frowning. One of the four could cause a lot of trouble. The Mandalorian. There wasn't much to say about him except that, like any Mando, he was encased in armor and loaded down with lethal toys. The Togruta and the Gungan were armed as well: the former with two blasters, the latter with a spear in his hands and a gun in his holster. All three were tense, while the fourth member of the group—a man in robes—raised a few questions and was downright irritating with how pleased he looked. The tall human wore a nasty smile as he surveyed the hangar like he owned the place. His smile grew even wider when he spotted their recently acquired, if badly battered, T-6 shuttle and seven assorted small craft*. Another Jedi? Troublesome, but they'd dealt with those before. There were forty of them here—should be more than enough.

"For something three or four thousand years old, it looks far too good," the Dug heard the robed man say.

"Someone probably took decent care of it," the Togruta replied. "Though we still don't know what shape its internals are in."

"Well, to be fair," the Mandalorian joined in, "some old tubs get upgraded so heavily that the only thing left of the original design is the hull."

"Hey, you lot," Saruba cut into the strange group's conversation, stepping forward and gesturing with his blaster. "Drop your weapons on the floor, raise your hands, and nobody gets hurt."

The red-eyed man turned his gaze on him, studied him for a few seconds, then let out a nasty little chuckle.

"I know it's wrong to laugh at racial characteristics, but when a sentient whose hands literally grow out of his ass points a weapon at you, I just can't help myself," the freak explained his sudden fit of amusement. "No offense, but you're the physical embodiment of what my Mentor used to call me during the early years of my apprenticeship."

"Correction," the Dug snarled threateningly, grinding his teeth. His men, who knew just how badly their boss took jokes like that, broke into bloodthirsty grins. "Now it doesn't matter what you do with your guns. Somebody's getting hurt for sure."

"Great truth in your words, I hear," the red-eyed man said with a nod.

With those words, the man raised his empty hands, showing that he held nothing in them. Or at least that was what Saruba and some of his grinning fighters thought. They kept thinking it right up until branching green lightning erupted from his open palms toward the nearest pirates. With the distinctive crack of a powerful electrical arc, it struck the two closest fighters, then instantly jumped from them to the next, then the next, and so on until every pirate except the Dug was linked by green arcs. Barely two seconds later, his entire boarding party collapsed to the deck. Thin wisps of smoke rose from the bodies, and the hangar began to fill with the smell of burned flesh.

Several shots, including plasma bolts from the Dug's blaster, struck the red-eyed man, only to burst into harmless sparks that showered down onto the hangar deck. Somehow spared by the lightning, the leg-armed Dug bolted for the nearest stack of crates, trying to keep firing and contact the others at the same time, but something invisible yanked him by the neck, tore the weapon from his hand, ripped away the belt of thermal detonators he had completely forgotten about, knocked the comlink to the floor, and left him hanging a meter above the deck. A Jedi after all?! flashed through his mind, but the man's gaze, coupled with that cheerful yet repulsive smile, made him realize his guess was wrong. Saruba had never been an idiot, and he knew history fairly well—compared to his fighters, at least...

"Sith!!!" the Dug rasped in horror. The invisible force held him tightly, making it hard to breathe without cutting off his air completely.

"Siith," the red-eyed man corrected him, adding another vowel to the word. A stupid thought popped into the Dug's head: Rebranding or something? He dismissed it at once because of the Sith's... Siith's next question. "Am I right in thinking you're the commander of these guys?"

"Y... khh... YES!"

"Excellent," the man said with a smile that made the pirate's tailbone start sweating. "Wait here a couple of minutes. And don't go anywhere."

The strange sentient stood motionless for nearly a minute, staring off into empty space. His companions remained a little behind him, warily looking around. Saruba prayed to every god he knew that the lookouts weren't slacking off and would hurry up and send reinforcements.

"All right, that's enough resting," the man addressed the pirates lying on the hangar deck... and they began to stir, making the Dug feel a few seconds of relief. Right up until one of the men getting to his feet looked at him.

Animal terror seized the bandit as he stared into eyes that were completely white, without iris or pupil. Their absence did nothing to keep the Dug from realizing that his former—yes, former—comrade was looking straight at him. A second later, the face of the man he knew so well, a man he had shared plenty of good booze and bad with, a man he had fought shoulder to shoulder beside, twisted with pure, crystallized hatred. Never in his life had the boarding commander seen an emotion so utterly pure, unmixed with anything else. The Dug couldn't even imagine what someone would have to do to be hated that much.

"Relax, guys, everything's under control," the red-eyed man's calm voice distracted him from the waking nightmare. He was speaking to his companions, who had bunched together and were aiming at the pirates getting up from the deck. "Yes, I know their faces look scary, but I'm controlling them. I warned you it was going to be creepy, so why are you so tense? Just simple, lesser undead."

"Boss," the Togruta's voice trembled, and the Dug actually felt sorry for the girl, so strong was the sense of solidarity in his soul. "This is f... fucked up, Boss, wh... why the fuck is it so scary?!"

"Romri, my aurodium darling," tender, caring notes entered the terrifying man's voice. "Please believe me, they won't hurt you under any circumstances. And the horror you're feeling—that's death looking through their eyes. Don't worry, we'll soon... feed it."

There was so much anticipation and impatience in the Sith's... Siith's last word that all three of his companions shuddered and looked at him. The Dug was no exception. The pirate's eyes stared at the monster in horror. A character from some terrifying children's tale come to life—the kind used to scare little kids...

Strangely enough, while he was looking at the red-eyed man, the terror seemed to fade. Sure, the faces were horrifying, but... Saruba glanced again at one of the creatures standing motionless nearby and immediately looked back at the robed man. Wild, bottomless fear began rising in his soul again from the mere sight of the monster that had once been his comrade. With the kind of gallows humor better suited to a condemned man, the Dug noted that the person he had regarded only seconds ago as evil incarnate was now beginning to inspire feelings of safety and hope. This is completely surreal, the pirate thought bleakly as he dangled in midair, struggling with all his strength to breathe.

"Just don't look them in the eyes. I told you," the man snorted. "These guys are supposed to inspire terror. You could say"—all the creatures turned away from the living at once and began walking unhurriedly toward the hangar door leading deeper into the ship—"you could say that's their primary weapon."

"Couldn't you have done that from the start?" There was genuine relief in the Mandalorian's voice, and the others nodded along. Even the Dug bobbed his head up and down, wholeheartedly agreeing with the armored fighter.

"Better to get acquainted with the effect now than in the middle of a fight," the man who had called himself a Siith said with a shrug. "Don't worry about it. The overwhelming majority ignore the first warning and start staring at the undead anyway, so naturally they end up meeting their eyes. Even I didn't listen to my Mentor back in the day."

The three exchanged looks, and the red-eyed man turned his attention back to the Dug.

"And now, my dear friend, you're going to show us the shortest route to the bridge," the man said, heading toward the group of undead and dragging the suspended Saruba along with him. "I'll warn you right away—and make you a promise. One way or another, I will get the information I need. But if you don't give it willingly, the process will be much more painful for you and a little longer for me. If you cooperate, on the other hand, I promise that, first, you'll live, and second, you'll get an escape pod once you promise to keep your mouth shut. So, what's it going to be?"

"I'll... khh... show you! Let me breathe!" the Dug begged. Live! Live, live, live!!! At once, the noose around his neck loosened, and air began filling his lungs without effort. What a... pleasure it was, simply breathing without having to fight for every breath.

"Excellent decision," the man said, and Saruba could hear the smile in his voice.

---

Romri was still trembling from what had happened. No, she'd been scared plenty of times in her life, and in some cases you could even say terrified. But this was the first time she could remember nearly pissing herself from fear. She could admit to herself that the only reason nothing had run down her pant legs was because she'd relieved herself not long before. "Might as well make use of the time—I'll give you a demonstration," the sorcerer had said while they were being pulled into the cruiser's hangar. "The main thing is, don't panic. It'll be a little scary. Just don't look the dead in the eyes," he had added for no apparent reason before they went out. It hadn't made sense then. Now it was perfectly clear.

"Boss, are you absolutely sure there weren't any Sith in your family?" Arvik asked, his voice calm again. Yeah, that buckethead was damn near impossible to rattle.

"Absolutely, absolutely!" the sorcerer snorted. "I swear by Hec— uh... I swear by my beard!"

After those words, Siith quickly glanced around and let out a relieved sigh.

"All right, guys. Now I'll show you how spellcasters fight in my homeland. Stay behind me and shoot anyone who tries to get too close. Once we've captured the cruiser, I'll explain everything in more detail, but for now I'll just give you the general idea. As we go, so to speak."

"Got it, Boss," the Mando said with a nod, taking his place in formation and readying his blaster rifle. The Togruta and Koit followed their commander's example, remaining silent. "No pointless chatter in a fight" was a rule the Mandalorian had laid down right at the start of their working together.

Right in front of the cluster of... zombies, probably? Anyway, the door opened, and more pirates began pouring out straight toward the dead.

At that same moment, Siith raised a hand and shouted:

"Chain Lightning!" The zombies standing directly in front of the mage dropped to one knee. Another green electrical arc lashed into the pirates, flying over the heads of the horrifying creatures. The spell killed a dozen enemy fighters. "Forward," the sorcerer finished. The corpses were still hitting the deck while the undead were already rising from their knees and advancing.

Their employer stared intently at the fresh corpses, while the first batch of zombies picked up speed and charged down the open corridor at the pirates who were still firing at them—the ones the spell hadn't hit.

"If you're positioned in front of a spellcaster during a fight, he'll always call out his spells," the man explained as a new batch of undead began getting to their feet. "When he shouts the name of a construct, it means you're supposed to take a specific action. In this case—get out of the line of fire."

Screams of terror began echoing from the corridor, and the shooting turned wild and erratic. It seemed the pirates had completely lost their heads in fear... Romri even felt a tiny bit sorry for the bandits. Then, a moment later, the Togruta imagined what would happen to her if they ever took her prisoner, and the sympathy vanished.

"The word 'forward,' in this case, means it's safe to get back on your feet without worrying about a present flying into the back of your head in the form of a fire spear or ball lightning. A well-coordinated unit knows all the spells its spellcaster uses and the corresponding actions to take when they're cast," Boss calmly continued lecturing them as he walked after the second group of not-quite-dead pirates. "The verbal cue and gesture are also necessary for young and inexperienced spellcasters even in ordinary life; I'll explain why later. But with me, for now, just remember this: if we're in a fight and I shout something that means nothing to you, drop to one knee or hit the floor. Afterward, when we have some free time, we'll drill most of my arsenal, and I'll make you special shields like the ones used by fighters in units equipped with spellcasters."

They moved through the ship's corridors to the accompaniment of blaster fire, shouted orders, screams of terror, and Boss's calm voice, while ahead of their small group an ever-growing army of the dead was steadily wiping out the Hammerhead's crew.

"Me, I actually like this, Boss-sa," the Gungan said in a surprisingly pleased voice. "Spellcasters—good thing, though!"

"That they are, Koit, that they are. Mind you, they're very good when they're on your side. But if the enemy has them too, then things get dangerous for you, and a lot harder for your mage or sorcerer."

---

"Of course, I could've skipped raising the undead altogether and simply blasted everyone with magic from long range. But I needed to demonstrate how you're supposed to operate alongside spellcasters. Next time we'll try some other approaches where you'll have a more active role. Sooner or later, this situation where everyone is completely defenseless against magic will come to an end, so you need to start getting used to these kinds of... manifested effects," I sighed, standing in front of the sealed door to the captain's bridge. Behind us stood a crowd of "survivors" from the undead assault. "Besides, it's been a long time since I've had any proper practice."

I really had gotten far too relaxed, directly affecting sentients with magical constructs. Karina already knew the simplest ways to destabilize direct-action spells, like the ones I'd used to knock out those lizards when I first encountered the Trandoshans on Jabiim. Any halfway competent mage who left our rainy planet would sooner or later start selling charms and amulets that protected against that sort of thing. So it was time I broke myself of the habit of taking everyone down without breaking a sweat.

All right, down to business. I'd opened most of the doors remotely, but it would be better to take the bridge without a fight. I didn't want anything in there getting broken in the process.

"I'll open the way. We go in, talk first, and then we'll see how it goes," I said, winking at the guys. "But don't shoot unless I give the order."

A simple spell, and I could see the door mechanism. I destroyed the wires carrying the open-and-close commands to it, then fed power directly into the opening mechanism. A brief hiss as the door slid open—the way was clear.

They weren't exactly happy to see us. Around two dozen sentients had crammed themselves into the not particularly large compartment and were bristling with weapons aimed our way. Their faces were... frightened. Nobody opened fire, having drawn the correct conclusions from what they'd seen through the cameras.

"Greetings, gentlemen," I said with a smile, but after spotting one female sentient among them, I added, "And ladies. Who's in charge of this ship?"

"I am," said a fairly tall Zabrak with a scar-covered face, glaring at me.

I looked at him and, with a crunch, twisted the horned man's head around a full hundred and eighty degrees. Auric tendrils were a useful thing at close range. The others watched their former captain's body fall with wide eyes, but when I spoke again, they turned their attention back to me.

"And now?" I smiled politely, though the pirates clearly failed to appreciate my efforts to create a friendly, welcoming atmosphere. One of them even fired, but it accomplished nothing, and the shooter ended up looking behind himself just like his commander had. After that, every weapon was ripped from the bandits' hands and flung to our feet.

"You, Captain!" the only woman on the bridge said with a sycophantic smile. I couldn't tell whether there was more fear or obsequiousness in it, but one thing was certain: there was a catastrophic shortage of teeth.

"Nice to meet someone sensible around here," I said with a nod to the woman. "And whom do I have the honor of addressing?"

"Lyra Hook, sir!" She snapped into something resembling attention under the stares of her comrades. They looked at her in different ways. Some with anger, others with the sort of respect that said, She figured things out fast.

"Any objections?" I swept my gaze over the unarmed group. In response came a ragged chorus expressing agreement with the change in the chain of command.

"Good," I snorted. Settling into the captain's chair, I pulled out Quartermaster, crossed one leg over the other, and introduced myself while stroking my pet. "Call me Siith. Captain Siith."

---

Author's Note:

*Small craft—fighters, bombers, that sort of thing.

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

"All right, flying Dug, go join your friends," I said, lowering my little "balloon" to the deck. He promptly took his place among the small group of his "colleagues." "Lady Hook, be so kind as to tell the rest of the crew to stop resisting. Explain that the new captain guarantees that anyone who lays down their weapons will live." I didn't bother specifying for how long. "Who's the navigator?"

"I'm the navigator, sir," a yellow-skinned Gran said hesitantly, raising one hand with obvious caution while the woman briskly headed for the appropriate controls.

"Excellent." I smiled, and the Gran turned a little greenish. "Make a jump toward Falleen. Then take the ship somewhere it won't be hanging out in plain sight. Everyone needed at their stations for that—get to them. Romri, keep an eye on things. If anything happens, shoot them in the chest and report to me immediately. Fresh corpses make intelligent undead that can keep doing their jobs for a couple of weeks. It's a nontrivial task, of course, but I'll do my best."

"Got it, Boss." The girl smiled at the three-eyed alien and gestured with her blaster toward one of the control panels. The poor Gran turned completely green. Was it just me, or had the Togruta tried to imitate my little smile? Awww. Imitation... Now that's flattering. Very flattering! I should give her a bonus. Everyone should get one, actually! They'd done great. Took their introduction to the undead like hereditary necromancers. I'm never, ever telling anyone about my own "first time."

"Next..." I shifted my gaze to Arvik and Koit and handed the latter the hamster. "Guys, take Quartermaster and a couple dozen ghouls—they'll follow you on their own—and start clearing the ship of anyone who objects to the new captain. Disarm the rest. The zombies will obey voice commands; the shadow of life in them is still strong, but don't give them anything too complicated. I didn't put much effort into making them, so they came out a bit dumb. Find some kind of cart; I suspect there's plenty of weaponry on this ship. Everything we confiscate goes into the armory, assuming there is one. If you run out of dead men, come back and I'll raise some more."

The meaningful look I shot at the woman, who was muttering something into the shipwide comm system, clearly made her more eloquent.

"We'll handle it, Boss," the Mandalorian said with a nod and headed for the exit.

"Good." I watched him go before turning back to the herd of pirate jackasses. "So, gentlemen brigands. What good news can you give me about this ancient tub and its contents? Any aurodium ingots? No? Shame..."

"Sir," one of the bunch spoke up. He was... unpleasant. You know the type: not exactly ugly, built proportionally enough, nothing particularly wrong with his face—and yet somehow revolting. He was one of those. Nasty. Nothing like me—a charismatic handsome devil! "We've got a Jedi locked up on the prison deck."

I sighed and rubbed my face. Unexpected. Had Tholme and Secura really managed to get themselves captured?

"One Jedi?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you have a hologram?"

"Yes, just a moment..."

No, definitely not Tholme—the captive Jedi was far too female to be him. And not his cute little Twi'lek Padawan either; the prisoner was far too Zabrak for that. Just some unfamiliar, young—very young—Jedi woman. Quite attractive, even with those little Zabrak horns. I've really been "lucky" with these robed fellows lately. There aren't all that many of them on a galactic scale, yet this was already the second time I'd run into some during my vacation. Hmm... Actually, she might be able to help me!

Questioning revealed that the Jedi had been caught the same way we were. The T-6 shuttle in the hangar was hers. She was in relatively good shape, just "a little banged up," and was sitting in a cell. I took possession of her lightsaber and, after thinking it over for a moment, decided to let her sit there a little longer. First I needed to put my new property in order.

---

Jedi Knight Bol Chatak felt uneasy. Something was happening aboard the cruiser where she had been held prisoner for nearly a week. It had all begun with a surge in the Force. A very... unusual surge. The Zabrak was struck by how structured it felt. It was probably the first time she had ever associated an effect in the Force with a mathematical formula or an orderly set of geometric figures, accompanied by the taste of ozone after a thunderstorm. The Knight possessed a deep sensitivity to the Force and perceived it through a prism of associations.

A few moments later came the sensation of sentients dying. The instantaneous deaths of a large number of living beings. Then came another surge. This time, besides that same "taste of mathematics," the Force felt cold and... hungry? Very strange, unfamiliar sensations. Most importantly, she sensed no shades of either the Light or the Dark Side. And then more deaths followed.

Someone was storming the starship, and Force-sensitives were involved. At first, the Jedi Knight thought it might be someone from the Order. Master Windu, for example. He wouldn't stand on ceremony with criminals. But the longer it went on, the more the young woman realized that whoever had come aboard the Hammerhead, they weren't Jedi. An atmosphere of terror and despair was wrapping itself ever more thickly around the ship. Something terrible was happening, and the only thing that let her look to the future with even a little hope was the fact that the Force surges remained neutral. Whoever it was, she sensed neither the serenity of the Light Side nor the fury and delight in suffering of the Dark Side. The Force remained impersonal and somehow dispassionate—almost lifeless.

Perhaps some minor order of Force-sensitives, with its own particular way of working with the Force? There were quite a few of those scattered across the galaxy...

In any case, after some time the active phase of the takeover came to an end. Lives stopped being cut short, and amid the fear that had engulfed the old cruiser, flickers of hope began to appear. The Zabrak felt the ship enter hyperspace and sank deeper into meditation. Whatever had happened here, if Force-sensitives had prevailed, she would probably find out soon enough.

By the girl's reckoning, no more than an hour had passed when someone came for her. A man in Mandalorian armor stopped in front of the force field sealing the entrance to her cell.

"Jedi." There was a note of dislike in the warrior's voice, but the girl sensed no hatred directed at her. "I'm going to shut off the force field now. Don't do anything stupid. Boss wants to talk to you. We're on decent terms with the Jedi—don't ruin it."

Knight Chatak rose from the hard metal bunk, which had no bedding whatsoever, and approached the orange-crimson energy barrier. The Mandalorian stood motionless for several seconds. It almost seemed as though his visor was regarding the girl with doubt. Then, with a light touch of an access card to the sensor, the man deactivated the barrier.

The girl was relieved that he wasn't aiming a weapon at her. In fact, the armored man's hands were completely empty.

"I'll escort you. Follow me," came the muffled voice from beneath the helmet, and the Mandalorian turned and started forward, motioning for her to come along.

The Jedi followed behind him. The thought of stunning him with the Force crossed her mind, but she dismissed it. Someone had clearly taken over the cruiser, and the man walking ahead of her was part of that group. Dislike of Jedi... that was nothing unusual, even if such attitudes hardly pleased her. But she was no youngling anymore. Even as a Padawan, traveling with her Master, she had understood why some sentients disliked the Jedi. Her teacher had never lied to her and had told her about the Order's failures as readily as its successes. "Everything is relative, Bol. On one planet, we may be considered heroes, while on another we're characters in frightening stories. One of your duties as a Jedi is to make sure there are more of the former and fewer of the latter."

The Zabrak had great respect for her teacher. The wise and calm Jedi had taught her that the best fight was the one you managed to prevent. And in the present situation, the young Knight saw a chance to avoid fighting altogether. "We're on decent terms with the Jedi," combined with the fact that she had been summoned for a conversation and no one had even pointed a weapon at her, gave her hope that the matter could be resolved peacefully.

Along the way, she could sense concentrations of the Force. Behind many of the cabin and compartment doors they passed, there was something mathematically ordered, cold, and hungry. And even though there was no darkness in it, the girl could feel the bases of her horns itching nervously.

Their path ended at one of the doors. Slightly larger than all the others.

"Just don't do anything stupid, Jedi," the Mandalorian warned her in parting, and to her surprise she caught a faint note of concern for her in his voice. The door opened to let her inside, and Bol took several steps into the captain's cabin.

"Welcome aboard my new cruiser," a voice greeted her. Seated behind a fairly broad desk was a man she initially took for a Jedi. Standing behind him was an M-3PO military protocol droid. The man's calm, composed face and neatly trimmed beard gave an impression of serenity, but the red sclera of his eyes, with black irises and pupils, lent his appearance an unsettling edge. Though was he even human? The galaxy was home to plenty of species that resembled humans—her own people among them—so there was little point in getting nervous every time someone's face didn't match the standard Coruscanti look. Her lightsaber lay on the desk beside him.

The girl allowed herself a little time to take in the cabin's interior. The desk behind which the stranger who had greeted her was sitting, a small padded chair for visitors, a wide double bed, quite a lot of open space, a pair of narrow doors leading into adjoining rooms, and a green-skinned Twi'lek girl. The latter, dressed very modestly by the standards of her species, stood a little to one side of the captain's desk, meekly staring at the floor. Beside her, on a low table near the bed, stood a tray with two cups and a tall caf pot.

"Please, have a seat," the man said, gesturing toward the visitor's chair.

"Hello. Thank you," Chatak replied with a nod as she sat down in the offered seat. She winced slightly: the bruises she had picked up during her introduction to the locals' hospitality were still aching, though not nearly as badly as they had the day after she got them.

"My name"—the stranger emphasized the last word—"is Siith, and I have absolutely nothing to do with the Sith you almost certainly just thought of. I'm from Jabiim, and I represent the Jabiim Mages' Guild—a new, young organization of magic users on our planet."

The red-eyed man studied her face for a second—her doubts had probably shown—then sighed, muttered, "I hope I don't regret this," and slid the lightsaber hilt toward her.

"You wouldn't believe it." The man's face remained impassive, though his eyes were laughing as she cautiously took back her weapon. "But I'm already tired of explaining that I have nothing to do with your enemies' order. Master Tholme and Padawan Secura tensed up when we first met too."

The girl relaxed slightly at the mention of Master Tholme. The Jedi Master was well known and respected. Still, she couldn't afford to let her guard down. The Zabrak regarded the red-eyed man with doubt. On the one hand, returning her lightsaber was a sign of trust. On the other...

"Bol Chatak," she introduced herself with measured dignity, imitating the unhurried gravitas of her teacher. The effect was somewhat undermined by the awareness that she hadn't bathed in a week. "Jedi Knight. I was returning from a mission when my shuttle was intercepted. I've been here for a week now, on the prison deck."

"Knight Chatak, since you've decided not to wave that glowing stick around..." The man turned to the Twi'lek girl. "Suti, please." Mugs of caf were set down in front of both him and Bol. "As you've already realized, we captured this ship. Right now it's heading somewhere quieter, where I intend to get rid of the surplus portion of the surviving crew, contact my homeworld, and, if you need it, the Jedi Order as well." The girl nodded gratefully at that and took a blissful sip of the truly aromatic drink. "Originally, we were heading for Coruscant along the Corellian Trade Route, but this cruiser's pirates tried to capture us, and it turned into a spontaneous boarding action. I don't want to abandon the prize. The Hammerhead may be a rather ancient tub, but it could still be useful to Jabiim's planetary-defense forces. Or I'll sell it to someone else."

The man calling himself Siith took a long drink as well, narrowed his eyes in pleasure, and, after giving the green-skinned girl a grateful nod, continued.

"That brings me to a couple of pieces of news and a couple of requests. So... First, your shuttle isn't operational. The locals did a pretty thorough job of gutting its internals, but don't worry—we'll get you to Coruscant. Second, this ship belonged to pirates, and I need to have it legally transferred into my name. Until that happens, I'd appreciate it if the Order's representative currently aboard could confirm that we're not criminals. And, if possible, maybe help with the transfer paperwork as well. What do you think?"

"Thank you." The girl smiled gratefully and let out a relieved breath. It looked like not only would there be no problems, the situation might actually turn out for the better. "As for transferring ownership, you'll need to discuss that with senior representatives of the Order. But confirming that you're not pirates—that won't be a problem at all. Of course I'll help you."

"Excellent! Suti, dear," the red-eyed man said to the Twi'lek girl as he got to his feet and took his mug with him. The Zabrak tensed a little, but her host simply headed for the exit. "Please give Knight Chatak some underwear and clothes from your own supply, and make sure her things get cleaned."

Bol flushed bright red. Jedi or not, the situation was embarrassing.

"Knight," the man said, looking at her as he paused in the doorway. "Get yourself cleaned up, wash away a week of imprisonment, and rest in a proper bed while they prepare a cabin of your own. Suti will help you with everything, but keep an eye on her—the girl is practically defenseless, and the previous crew is still aboard. As for me, I'm off. There's still plenty to do, and there aren't many of us here."

Then the Zabrak felt more deaths. Five lives were snuffed out almost simultaneously, but whoever had killed them hadn't used the Force. Siith froze for a second and muttered several clipped, guttural words—curses, by the sound of it. Then he looked at her, and she could see the weariness in his eyes.

"Fucking idiots. I'd kill every last one of them, but for now I still need a living crew."

The red-eyed man scratched the back of his head, looked up at the ceiling, and with a heavy sigh left the room. The droid followed him out.

---

Oh, the nerves that trip to Coruscant cost me. I have no words for how thoroughly fed up I got with those degenerates who came bundled with the ancient cruiser.

We got rid of most of them after landing on one of the practically uninhabited planets. I left with an easy mind: those half-dead bastards wouldn't tell anyone anything or cause the locals any trouble. A delayed curse would kill them in a couple of days. The only pity was that I wouldn't be able to collect their souls—we'd be too far away, and I didn't want to stage a massacre in front of a Jedi who, as it turned out, could sense deaths. Besides, my mercenaries probably wouldn't have been thrilled by mass executions either. Killing in battle was one thing; watching an assembly line for slaughtering the defenseless, even if they were assholes, was another. Unfortunately, governments had monopolized the punishment of crimes.

During the flight to the capital, there were two assassination attempts and one attempted mutiny. So forty-one pirates made it there. Nine... didn't. On the bright side, I added a few more souls to the soul vault. Pure profit, if they hadn't been such a pain in the ass.

Alto had no objection to acquiring another cruiser, old as it was, for next to nothing. In fact, I could've sworn there was a hint of envy in our gallant commander's eyes when I told him how we'd boarded and captured the cruiser. It seemed Stratus had started missing the smell of tibanna after spending so long behind a desk.

The bandits left aboard would bring the incoming Jabiim crew up to speed on the quirks of operating the Hammerhead, and whatever happened to them afterward was a matter for the Jabiim authorities. There were no problems with registering my new property either. Stratus started the necessary bureaucratic procedures, and the Jedi Order promised to help make sure no one put obstacles in our way.

I also happened to meet one of the members of the Jedi Council—Mace Windu. A pretty serious Korun Jedi. We didn't talk for long over voice comms, right after his conversation with Knight Bol Chatak, but the man struck me as a perfectly reasonable sort. Maybe he overdid the sternness a little. So he Sternly thanked me for helping Tholme and Secura, Sternly thanked me for freeing the Zabrak, and Sternly invited me to visit the Jedi Temple when I arrived on Coruscant. I agreed with an impassive face, but once the connection ended, I chuckled a little.

The Korun reminded me of spellcasters who were no longer young, but not yet truly grown-up. A hundred or two hundred years old. They looked down indulgently on the youngsters and regarded the old-timers with bafflement. The latter were very often "a bunch of daft old fools" as far as they were concerned. But another century or two would pass, and those same fellows would join the daft old fraternity themselves. Or go to Hecate, having grown tired of life.

Clever little Knight Chatak showed me her saber and even explained what it meant to the Jedi. She refused to take it apart, though, or let me see the crystal. Greedy little thing. Still, what I managed to pick up was more than enough to start building them myself. The saber itself was an extraordinarily dangerous tool, honestly. The fact that Jedi manage not to cut anything off themselves while using one says a lot about their skill—I'd definitely lop off a couple—maybe eight—of my protruding bits. Though, in my defense, I'm no swordsman worth a damn.

She also showed me how she used the Force. Or rather, she was simply using it while she and Shmi were tinkering with her shuttle, while I stood nearby, brazenly slipped into meditation, and shamelessly studied how the Zabrak manipulated objects with telekinesis... Let's just say I was fucking floored, thoroughly impressed, and came away with even more respect for those people—and an even stronger desire to catch a couple of them and study them properly.

At the moment, we were entering the planet's atmosphere aboard the shuttle. The cruiser was hanging in a parking orbit, with order aboard maintained by our three mercenaries and thirty zombies assigned to reinforce them. Once the crew from Jabiim arrived, the mercenaries would hand the ship over and join me planetside. As for the Hammerhead's undead, they'd be dumped into space once the cruiser was far enough away from Coruscant.

I just hoped no one would find them before the mana in their reservoirs ran out. I wouldn't want someone to stumble across space undead. Actually, scratch that—I'd regret it for the rest of my life if I missed the look on someone's face when they thawed out a corpse that was one hundred percent dead and it started moving.

Demons, I hadn't thought that through. The undead would be dormant and frozen, so their mana consumption would be microscopic. They could hang out there for a hundred years.

On the other hand... who in their right mind goes around collecting corpses in space? And space is huge—the odds of one of my dead men being found by exactly the sort of idiot who collects corpses are tiny.

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

I could say, "We entered the atmosphere and landed," but...

Coruscant... It amazed me. Sure, there were less printable ways to put it, but I was so impressed I didn't even bother coming up with any. A city-planet. But Dozdronogul take it, not merely a city-planet—which was already staggering enough in scale—but a planet-sized, multilevel city. An ecumenopolis! A trillion inhabitants! That... honestly, that was simply impossible to comprehend! Just looking through the shuttle cockpit windows at a conglomeration of artificial structures stretching from horizon to horizon was incredible!

Somewhere in the background, I could practically hear all the elves of my world howling in grief, lamenting Coruscant's dead nature. And right next to them, the dwarves were roaring their approval and raising mugs of beer, because the inhabitants of this planet had turned their own home into a wonder of their own making: an insanely complex and beautiful masterpiece!

Our little ship descended lower, and I began to make out more detail: buildings and streets, and gaping chasms in the body of the city that looked like deep wounds, plunging down to colossal depths. The veins and arteries crisscrossing that colossus became visible as well: pedestrian streets where sentients seemed to stroll unhurriedly about their business, and high-speed thoroughfares for every kind of air traffic, carrying those tiny figures wherever they were headed.

For a moment, I even smiled at the comparison—sentients really were the blood of this gigantic, monstrous organism. Living and synthetic alike, they carried everything it needed to survive. They maintained it, repaired it. Vast numbers of living sentients and droids worked day and night to keep this colossal machine alive and prevent it from collapsing under its own weight, turning its multilevel residential districts into a graveyard of unimaginable proportions.

"First time on Coruscant?" the Jedi Knight's calm voice sounded beside me. I glanced at her and caught a faint shadow of understanding in her eyes, along with a touch of indulgent amusement. In fact, I was becoming more and more convinced that the words "calm," "a little," and "just the slightest bit" described this girl remarkably well.

Bol was calm in the deepest sense of the word. She almost never lost her composure. Even during our first conversation, though she was ready for a fight, she kept herself perfectly under control. The only time I saw her truly flustered was during the massage Suti gave her after her shower. No, the Twi'lek girl didn't allow herself anything improper; I don't think the thought even crossed her mind. It was just that no matter how she gave a massage, it always came out erotic, and the Jedi had no idea. So for a while I enjoyed the sight of two beautiful girls—and watched one of them turn redder by the second.

It's not like I was deliberately peeping. I just tapped into the concealed surveillance spell and happened to catch such a delightfully compromising moment. I watched for barely a minute and disconnected. Though I certainly didn't deny myself the pleasure of teasing the Zabrak about it afterward. A couple of times I offered to send Suti over to give her another massage, and each time I was rewarded with an embarrassed Jedi and a slightly flustered refusal. Amusing. Shame that by the second time, there was barely any reaction left...

"I think that's pretty obvious," I snorted with a broad grin. "But the view really is impressive."

"Good thing I'll reach the Temple before you do," the Zabrak sighed with a slight shudder. She'd already stopped putting a hand on the hilt of her glow-stick whenever I smiled, but she still hadn't quite gotten used to it.

Our Romri was another matter entirely—she was already baring her teeth at pirates right alongside me. Wonderful girl. And the way she wrung money and hidden-stash locations out of those bandits... All I had to do was tell her that ten percent of everything she honestly beat out of them would go to the aid fund for a certain Togruta named Tano, and she started terrifying them with her grin almost as well as I did. Give her another fifty or hundred years and I think she'll surpass me. Meanwhile, I ended up two hundred thousand credits richer, and our little Red called me the team's lucky star and the best employer ever when she thought I couldn't hear her.

"Prepare your brothers and sisters in the Order for my arrival, you will, hmm?" I couldn't resist, once again laughing to myself as I watched the girl's face fall. For some reason, Jedi reacted very amusingly to that manner of speech. I'd noticed it with Tholme and Secura too. The main thing was not to overdo it, or they'd get used to it.

Chatak recovered quickly, though, and gave a quiet snort as she turned her gaze back to the views of Coruscant.

"Exactly, Master Siith."

That made me grimace slightly. Somehow... Hmm... It just didn't sound natural. "Boss" from the mercenaries felt right, "sir" from Suti was sincere, and so was "Master" from Emthree. But this particular "Master" grated on my ears. A faint, slightly mocking smile was visible on the Zabrak's face.

"And teasing old men doesn't lead to the Dark Side?" I raised an eyebrow, watching the girl with ironic amusement.

"Definitely not," the Knight replied with perfect composure. "My Master told me so."

** Hammerhead Bridge **

"What do you think?" Arvik was sprawled in the captain's chair on the Hammerhead's bridge. The ship had the boring name Valiant. And really, it would be hard to come up with a less fitting name for a pirate vessel. Maybe only something like Merciful or Honest would be worse.

"What do you mean?" the Togruta asked, raising her eyebrows as she munched on something from the galley stores in the pilot's chair.

"Arvik, he talking about Boss-sa, though," the Gungan explained. He had dragged a mattress in from somewhere and was shamelessly sprawled out right on the floor. All the pirates were confined to their cabins, with a pair of dead men stationed outside each one under orders to eat anyone who tried to come out, so the mercenaries quite literally had nothing to do.

"What's wrong with him?" asked the girl, who had done quite nicely for herself financially. "He's a generous employer. Promised us a bonus for the prize, feeds us well, takes us to cantinas, gives us useful magical gadgets, talks to us with respect."

"Yeeees," Koit drawled. "'Romri, my aurodium darling,' 'my beautiful little Togruta,' 'dear Lady.' Boss-sa knows plenty about respect, though."

The Gungan laughed merrily when he saw the girl turn an even brighter shade and puff up in indignation. The Naboo spearman knew his companions well enough to see that she actually liked the sorcerer's words.

But he could also see that their Boss treated the Togruta much the same way his uncle had treated his little niece. Admired her, stroked her ears, carried her around in his arms. Little Mirla had adored her uncle, but Romri was no little girl and took the sorcerer's compliments... somewhat differently. And combined with the man's generosity... someone might just end up developing a crush on her employer. Their beauty was already bristling at Suti. After all, it was their friend who had "helped" the Twi'lek pick out her wardrobe. And by some strange coincidence, the clothes Boss's slave wore now could only be described as "far too modest."

"He's powerful," the thoughtful Mandalorian said, not sharing in the amusement. "Powerful enough that he doesn't need us. Not every Jedi could capture a cruiser single-handedly. I think even if we hadn't been here, it would only have made things slightly more difficult for him. He could've turned the entire crew into obedient undead; he'd just have had to spend more time on the navigators and pilots. I don't understand why he needs us. And I'm worried about what happens when our contract runs out."

His companions looked at the Mando. Koit wore a slightly uncertain smile. The Gungan had already been thinking along similar lines, though he was more interested in whether he might be able to sign on with the sorcerer permanently. The pay was good, the work relatively easy, and they were even getting unique gear out of it. The spearman respected commanders who looked after their people. The Togruta thoughtfully rubbed a finger along her right montral.

"You think Siith won't want us talking about some of his abilities and methods?"

"Oh, that's for damn sure. He hid those dead men of his from the Jedi girl and told all of us not to say a word to her about them. He outright threatened the pirates: 'Anyone who talks too much will stop talking forever—and there won't be anyone around to talk to anyway. I'll leave you hanging in space for eternity.' When he gave that little speech, even I got chills down my spine."

"Well... if I were in his place, I wouldn't want people talking about it either. But remember, he did say that sooner or later all those tricks of his would become known anyway, right?" Koit nodded in agreement with the Togruta's words, half-closing his eyes.

"And another thing, Arvik: he was planning to drill us together as the fighters in his spellcaster support group. Me, I think Boss-sa is training us little-little. Telling us about himself, about his sorcery, though. And Romri was right—he's generous. Too generous even, you understand, Mando? I see two possibilities: either he does us in when the contract ends, or he asks us to stay with him."

"Do we even want that? The second option, I mean," the Mandalorian clarified with a crooked grin.

"And why not, though?" the Gungan said, narrowing his eyes with a pleased smile. "Boss-sa big shot back home. Talked with big Boss of Jabiim like friend. Called him by name, joked with him. And this Alto, he treats Boss-sa well too—not like soldier, more like fellow officer. Me, I know. Spent plenty time waving spear in army. You know too—you Mandos, almost all like that."

The Togruta puffed up, a little offended at not being included among the veteran-soldier crowd, but after a moment's thought she let it go. Romri really had only taken up the blaster as a way to make a living relatively recently. Koit, meanwhile, kept talking.

"And if he big shot, means he can set his people up too, you understand, though? You said yourself: we got no home, no place of our own. What so bad about having one? We could start families, have somewhere to come back to. For you, makes no difference anyway—Mandalore, Coruscant, Jabiim. Mandalorian home is where his clan is, where his family is. You were the one cursing those idiots from Death Watch, hmm?"

"You've already been thinking about this, haven't you?" Arvik smiled faintly. Their friend had seemed like a funny fool when they first met, but his manner of speech was actually misleading. The Gungan was smart, quick to fight, and just ruthless enough. And his comical appearance only made those who didn't know him lower their guard.

"Me, I thought about it little-little, yeah," he said, shaking his head and making his ears flap comically. "And read about Jabiim. Lots of water there, though. Climate good too. Gungan do just fine there. And me, if I go back to Naboo, easy to gather friends who don't like this friendship with Naboo humans. We get together and move. Plenty of water—Gungans can be useful lots of places, though."

Koit closed his eyes and smacked his lips dreamily.

"I'll find me a woman. Pretty one, with big ears, beautiful eyes, little mouth, thin lips. Ask Suti teach her dancing little-little. And when kids come, I send one to train as mage. Boss-sa, when I asked, said better to start teaching from childhood."

"Did Boss pay you to advertise for him or something?" the Togruta giggled, looking cheerfully at the Gungan sprawled out like a starfish.

"Tch, nah. Why pay? Me, I thought of it myself. You got talent for money, though, and me, I think good about home and family. A man should think little-little about family, find good place where woman be safe, where kids live well. Boss-sa, course, doesn't believe in Oma-Oma*, but he got good goddess too. She respects knowledge. And if people back home believe in her, education there gonna be good. Logic, though."

All three fell silent for a while. The Mandalorian rubbed a finger over a small dent in his helmet. Once, it had been a hit from a powerful stationary blaster that had only grazed him. Now, whenever he got lost in thought, he would take the helmet off and rub that dent—a habit, and a reminder. The Togruta finished chewing her snack, staring intently at the control panel, while the Gungan simply lay there with his eyes closed. It seemed Koit was already somewhere on Jabiim in his imagination, in the new home of his future family.

"I wouldn't mind steady work either," the Togruta said suddenly. "We'll see what happens next, of course. But so far, I like everything. I get to fly ships, I get to shoot things. And overall, Boss is all right. At first those smiles of his were pretty unnerving, but I've kind of gotten used to them."

"You bare your teeth just like him now," the Mandalorian snorted. "Last time you did it, I actually started wondering whether I owed you money!"

Koit laughed in agreement and slapped his flat belly; he'd noticed that distinctive grin on the Togruta too. In response, the girl gave both of them an obscene hand gesture and popped the last piece of food into her mouth.

"All right," Arvik exhaled. "Honestly, I wouldn't mind either, as long as nothing... like that comes to light. Like, I don't know, if he starts cutting up babies with a rusty knife... I don't feel sorry for those dead pirates we dropped off on that planet. I hope nobody thinks they're still alive down there?"

Both the Gungan and the Togruta merely snorted at their commander's question. Arvik had told them about the bunch of jokers from Tatooine who had died the very same day they decided to laugh at Boss. Nobody doubted that the pirates who knew too much had either suffocated by now or puked themselves to death.

"Well then, Romri, closer to the end of the contract, if we haven't changed our minds, you'll be the one to talk to Boss," the Mandalorian concluded.

"Hey, why am I the one who has to talk to him?!"

"You got talent for money, woman," the Gungan snorted. "And besides, you 'Romri, my aurodium darling.' Heh-heh-heh... Ow! Crazy Togruta, though!!!"

Romri bared her teeth in Siith's style as she stared at the cursing Gungan, wondering how she was going to get her boot back after using it as a projectile.

Arvik, meanwhile, put his helmet on and fell into thought. Come to think of it, he really was the last one left of what had once been a large clan. Maybe it was time to start thinking about raising a new generation of Mandalorians? Jabiim was a backwater, sure, but if children were going to grow up and learn to wield weapons, they needed a safe haven. And having a "big shot" for an employer could provide exactly that...

---

"Thank you very much, Chancellor. You've been a great help," the hologram of the Korun said, giving Palpatine a respectful nod. "We wouldn't have bothered you over such a minor matter, but this sentient has already helped members of the Order twice."

"It was nothing, Master Windu," the dignified-looking man said with a dismissive wave and a smile that immediately brightened his face, making it warm and approachable. "The Jedi do a great deal for the Republic, and merely hurrying our bureaucratic quagmire along was no great difficulty for me. Though I must admit, I was somewhat surprised that this Force-sensitive of yours managed to capture an entire cruiser, even if it is a rather old one."

"He used the Force," the Jedi Council member explained impassively. "Besides, he had mercenaries fighting alongside him, including a Mandalorian. We also don't yet know the finer points of how representatives of their guild work with the Force, but so far we've observed nothing threatening. Knight Chatak sensed no presence of the Dark Side. And this... Siith, on the contrary, seems quite well disposed toward the Order and, as I already mentioned, has helped us twice. Master Yoda intends to speak with him."

"Forgive me, what did you say his name was?" the Chancellor asked in surprise, raising his eyebrows.

"Siith. Two i's. We ourselves were"—the Korun allowed himself a faint smile—"a little puzzled at first, but the galaxy is vast and there are many languages. Stranger coincidences have happened."

"Well then, I should get back to work. I still need to see if I can free up this weekend..." Palpatine hesitated for a moment, rubbed his chin, and looked up at the Jedi. "Master Windu, what would you say to joining me at the opera this weekend? You could invite that mage as well. To be frank, I'm curious to meet him."

"Sorcerer," the Jedi corrected the Chancellor.

"Excuse me?"

"He insists that he's a sorcerer, but we don't have the details yet. As for the opera—I don't mind, but I need to speak with our guest first."

"Oh, of course. Just contact me once you have an answer." The Supreme Chancellor smiled amiably and, after receiving a nod from the Jedi, ended the call.

Leaning back in his chair, the man frowned. An outside observer might have marveled at how quickly the genial expression vanished from his face. Now, seated in the chair of the head of the Republic Senate, was a ruler who was no longer young but not yet old, his face shadowed by serious thought.

"Siith," he said aloud. "A Force-sensitive named Siith... Coincidences... No, sometimes I truly do not understand these Jedi... I wonder, if I burst into their Council chamber with an ignited lightsaber glowing scarlet, will they start asking me where I found it?!"

---

Author's Note:

*Oma-Oma—the deity who created Gungan life.

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

By evening, I was already itching to go looking for adven— uh... to get acquainted with this planet!

Knight Chatak had kindly warned me not to poke around the capital's middle levels, and especially not the lower ones—supposedly, they were crawling with criminal scum. I desperately wanted to ignore her advice. In a place this densely populated and, more importantly, this diverse, you could find almost every race and species imaginable! And to hell with vivisection. Just by scattering diagnostic and analysis spells around, I could gather enough data to keep me busy for years!

Of course, I'd already gathered plenty of data on Tatooine, and along the way I'd occasionally cast diagnostic spells on interesting life-forms, but there was simply too much unusual stuff around me here. And going down for a little "night hunting" to yank the souls out of assorted scum sounded like a fine and worthwhile use of time too. While I was at it, I could clean out the nest eggs of a gang or two. The pirates had already shown me that crooks and bandits tended to have credits tucked away, and I was planning to buy myself a bigger ship someday. I'd grown very fond of having my own cabin, complete with a shower and a bed big enough to sleep sprawled out like a starfish.

And I will go! I'll just wait for my fighters, then off I go. Not that I'm scared or anything, but suppose some thugs decide to start something and it turns into a brawl. Who knows what might happen in the process? I've seen more than one mass sacrifice begin exactly that way. Then come all the unnecessary questions and investigations: "Why did you brutally kill three hundred sentients? So what if they had blasters? The fact that you were wearing nothing but parachute-sized briefs doesn't mean anything," and all that nonsense. A planned operation is another matter entirely—one where I'm the one starting it, fully prepared. And I can put the guys through their paces at the same time.

By sheer accident, I'd managed to get on fairly good terms with the Jed-eyes here, so why ruin perfectly decent relations with some high-profile incident? But with Arvik sealed up in armor and Koit and Romri armed to the teeth, we could probably scare off most of the local lowlifes without much trouble. Although... Romri, I think, would have the opposite effect and attract them. Young as she was, the girl was gorgeous—no two ways about it. Ah, where are my three hundred years...

As for the ones with me now... Ras is just as much of a barbarian as I am—he doesn't know his way around Coruscant either. Emthree is a droid and a bore. Shmi and Suti are former slaves. By the way, Skywalker gave me a letter for her son. I'll try to pass it along officially—through Windu, for example. The Jedi may practice the harsh school of child-rearing by tearing kids away from their mother's teat, but inner peace matters to them.

Let the boy know that his mother isn't still enslaved somewhere on a planet where you could slap a "wanted by the authorities" notice under the portraits of ninety percent of the population, but instead has a perfectly respectable job—even if it is out in the sticks—and gets paid for it. That should definitely give him a little more peace of mind. So I think I can talk the Korun into it. And passing back whatever they tell me about her son can't possibly interfere with Jedi business, can it? Maybe I'll even talk to the boy's teacher and take a look at the kid himself. My employee's peace of mind matters to me too.

There is one downside to Coruscant, though: everything is very, very expensive! I rented a small apartment—only seven bedrooms—but the price... I will never tell Romri how much it cost. She'd eat me alive purely out of love for money! I understand that Coruscant is the capital, but the building is only ranked five hundredth. For comparison, my mansion—the one Alto transferred into my name and finally had demined—is fourth! And, as it turned out, I pay laughably little for it! But here? Not in the top ten, not even in the top hundred! The Republic Five Hundred. I even asked whether they had anything better, but they looked at me like I was an idiot. Well, fair enough—some barbarian from godsforsaken Jabiim, and he's already aiming higher.*

The neighbors, though... pretentious beyond words. Well, I'd seen plenty of their kind in imperial capitals. They come in from some backwater of their own and then go out of their way to show everyone around them just how civilized they are. I even found myself wishing I'd rented somewhere in the thousandth-ranked building, where more or less normal working people without airs settled down. At least you could have a proper conversation with them. Instead, I met this one human here.

He seemed normal enough at first, even had a beard almost like mine, but when I introduced Suti to him, the face he made... In short, I didn't like that Alderaanian. I read up on his world afterward—prosperous, relatively wealthy. That explained a lot. He had no problem talking to me, a free Jabiimite, but started turning up his nose at Suti. When we got back from a short walk around the building, I even had to calm the girl down. I sat with her for a while and told her a couple of stories. Then I took a look at one of her study assignments; as it happened, it was about keeping your composure. We worked through it together, and I even got into it myself.

The girl, by the way, is doing great. She makes a point of dressing modestly and doesn't act provocatively—quite the opposite. She's my constant companion, my secretary. The little Twi'lek is busting her ass. Frankly, she works harder than most people know how to. That's why I'm trying not to load her down too much for now. Mostly just representative duties, so she can watch, absorb things, and gain experience. Her courses alone take up five hours a day in lectures, and then there are assignments she has to complete and turn in.

Suti had also gotten quite good at handling Emthree. Honestly, I'd already been thinking about replacing him: the droid was incredibly tedious, incredibly clumsy, and painfully slow. But he knew a great many languages, and his memory held an enormous amount of information on military technology, including the Hammerhead, which had helped us quite a bit in dealing with the ancient cruiser. The pirates still weren't people we could trust completely... When I started thinking aloud about Emthree's future, the Twi'lek cautiously pointed out how useful the droid was to her studies, and that settled the metal idiot's fate. He was under her command now.

Shmi had taken over the kitchen, marveling at the quality of the ingredients and cookware. Her cooking had improved too, by the way. Still not Maria's level, but getting close. The woman had blossomed after being bought out of slavery and escaping Tatooine's scorching sun. I helped a little, of course: made a couple of creams, put her through the diagnostic seal, fixed a few minor defects in her body. So now Shmi looks about five years younger than her actual age and acts far more lively as well. She and Suti get along well too. They often talk whenever they both have some free time.

My thoughts were interrupted by a call on the comlink. It was that same Korun from the Jedi Council. We didn't talk for long: we discussed my visit to the Temple tomorrow and an invitation to the opera. The Supreme Chancellor himself had invited me to attend with Windu. Of course, I agreed. Better not to refuse gentlemen of that rank, especially over something so trivial. Besides, I rather liked Palpatine. Judging by his actions—at least as far as I could tell without knowing much about the Republic's inner workings—he seemed like a proper politician. He kept corruption within reasonable limits and pushed through fairly sensible reforms. He probably skimmed some for himself, of course, but show me an honest politician and I'll show you either an idealist like Alto or a blessed fool.

I spent the rest of the day scratching my research itch by making a small gift for the Jedi Order from the JMG. Yes, yes, I want to butter up the local paladins a little—why not? I'd accidentally made connections at the very top; I'd have to be an idiot not to take advantage of the opportunity to strengthen those ties. If only so that, should trouble arise, I could contact that same Master Windu and ask him for help directly, as an acquaintance.

By the waaay. There's also the Chancellor. I should give him something like that too. Though why overthink it? He's our anti-corruption crusader and reformer. People like that have an unfortunate habit of getting assassinated from time to time. So I'll make him an amulet. A good one, almost like my own. No surprises, either. Sooner or later our mages are going to spread out across the galaxy, some artifact-making specialist will take a look at it and find a listening construct woven into the thing—or some other little feature dreamed up by my brilliant mind. Better not. That would get awkward afterward, and I'd be putting Alto in a bad position too. Besides, Palpatine has an appreciation for culture, so I'll also give him two or three of my favorite novels, with the explanatory notes I adapted for our libraries.

---

I showed up alone for my meeting with the Jedi in a rented airspeeder. Ras, acting as my pilot, stayed with the vehicle and had already buried himself in a datapad, settling in for a long wait.

At the entrance to the Temple grounds, the familiar bald Korun was waiting for me, accompanied by two female Jedi—an adult and a teenager.

"Master Windu, I'm glad we can finally meet in person," I said. By now, I'd developed the habit of trying not to smile when meeting someone for the first time.

"Master Siith, how are you finding Coruscant?" The Jedi, like me, showed no sign of a smile. Maybe he had the same problem? That would explain the sternness.

"Impressive. Astonishing, even."

"I sense the Force," the man said, nodding toward the small wooden case in my hands and giving me a suspicious look. The handmade case held the gifts, which I had deliberately left unshielded so the Jedi could sense the residual mana charge within them.

"Gifts. I was always taught not to visit someone empty-handed, but I don't drink alcohol myself, and I've heard the Jedi don't exactly approve of it either. So I decided to bring something useful instead."

"That wasn't necessary."

"If you don't like them, throw them away," I said with a shrug. The dark-skinned man studied me in doubtful silence for a couple of seconds, then finally introduced his companions.

"Master Luminara Unduli," the Korun said, gesturing toward a pleasant young green-skinned woman in somewhat unusual attire that reminded me of the followers of one of the goddesses from my world.

She had deep blue eyes, almost black lips, and several diamond-shaped tattoos beneath her lower lip. In my opinion, the tattoos spoiled her looks a little; the slightly broad nose, though, was simply a matter of taste.

"And her Padawan, Barriss Offee." She was a rather cute girl of about fourteen or fifteen, the same species as her Master. The older woman carried herself calmly, greeting me with an unhurried nod and a faint smile, while the girl was visibly tense, watching me warily and giving a short, abrupt nod.

"A pleasure to meet you, lovely ladies." I gave them a shallow but respectful bow. Then I glanced at the youngster, who was still eyeing me warily, and winked at her with a perfectly straight face. "Don't be afraid, Padawan. I only look scary."

The girl merely lowered her eyes in embarrassment, giving me a sudden rush of fondness. You'd never think such a cute, shy little thing could actually be a genuine brain-eating monster. And I'm convinced that all children over twelve are exactly that. Though this one really was kind of adorable... probably. I had to remember that some of them were very good at disguising it!

"We're pleased to meet you as well, Master Siith. Barriss is a little shy."

"Sweet child," I said, unable to keep from smiling; the way the girl's cheeks darkened was simply too endearing. My smile clearly made all three of them tense, though, and Unduli even rested a hand on the hilt of her lightsaber. I continued with a heavy, resigned sigh. "I have a younger ward back home. Though modesty is hardly a word anyone would use for young Karray. We've spoiled her."

"You have an apprentice?" the Korun asked impassively, pretending nothing had happened. He gestured for us to continue toward the Temple. He walked on my right, while Master Unduli fell into step on my left, her Padawan beside her.

"I have apprentices too. But Karray is my personal ward. I started teaching her when she was five—an excellent age to begin learning the sorcerous arts. Young children are more receptive, and it's easier to teach them the right way to perceive magic. Adults, unfortunately, have a harder time believing in miracles. Though I took her from an orphanage. The girl had been starved for attention, and she desperately dreamed of having a mother and father..." I smiled warmly at the memory. Imagine that, I already missed the little whirlwind. My companions tensed again, though not as much this time—they were getting used to me. "So she got far too attached to me. Even calls me Daddy."

"How many apprentices do you have?" Master Unduli asked.

"There were five mages. Now only one remains; the other four have gone out into the world. Karina, the one who stayed, is currently teaching the basics to a new batch of young spellcasters. And then there's Karray—my ward and a sorceress."

"Master Siith, I'm a little confused by the variety of terms. Mage, spellcaster, sorcerer? Could you clarify the distinction?"

"Of course, Master Windu. Spellcaster is the general term for anyone who works magic. A mage is a sentient being capable of casting spells. A sorcerer is essentially the same thing, except that a sorcerer can sense magic and generate it personally. That means sorcerers can cast spells even in areas with no ambient magical field, and they also learn considerably faster than mages. Then there's wizard. Strictly speaking, it's just a common folk term for spellcasters, but less educated commoners tend to use it to mean some sort of miracle-worker: blows on something, spits, waves his hands around—and whatever he wanted gets magicked into existence."

I chuckled, remembering just how much study it took before you could start building magical weaves on your own instead of relying on memorized patterns.

Meanwhile, we reached the entrance: an enormous gateway set into an equally enormous building. Masked Jedi stood on either side, and the doors themselves were slightly ajar. Well, "slightly." The four of us could have walked through that "little gap" shoulder to shoulder.

At that point, I stopped and heaved a weary sigh. I had no idea what this Great Force of theirs actually was—some kind of deity or not—but common courtesy was still common courtesy. I had no desire to have my head blown apart by some offended something-or-other. I unclipped the sheathed knife and bowed my head respectfully.

"Beneath this Temple's shelter I enter, a guest by invitation, bearing no ill intent. Unarmed I come, and armor I lay aside," I intoned, deactivating the mechanisms in my robe and medallion before holding out my own weapon—mostly ceremonial, perhaps, but still very real—to the Korun.

For several seconds, Windu stared at me in surprise, then shifted his gaze to the knife in my palm, nodded solemnly, and took it in his right hand. Well, at least it wasn't his left. Properly speaking, he should have taken it with both hands, but how was he supposed to know that?

"You can clip it to your belt. The mount is universal," I murmured to the dark-skinned man as if sharing a secret, giving him a conspiratorial wink. The corners of his mouth lifted in a faint, appreciative smile, and he fastened the dagger to his belt.

"Tradition?" the Master asked with undisguised warmth.

"Yep. I've had a couple of incidents involving Temples, so now I try to observe proper protocol. As for your customs, frankly, I couldn't find anything particularly definite, so I went with a middle-of-the-road version from my homeland. Without the kneeling."

"Yes, we don't practice anything like that," Master Unduli said with an open smile. "You feel strange. There's a very high concentration of the Force around you, but it has no coloration at all, and it feels... yes, almost as though there's a hint of mathematics to it."

The woman allowed herself a quiet, good-natured chuckle, while her Padawan stared at me wide-eyed.

"Master, how..." The girl apparently couldn't quite put the question into words and merely turned her piercing blue eyes toward the woman in confusion.

"Something like Force Concealment, only it feels different," the green-skinned woman said, her voice brimming with warmth toward her Padawan. Not motherly care, but... hmm... sisterly concern? Something along those lines. The girl, meanwhile, looked at her mentor with genuine respect, nodding in understanding.

I merely sighed. I'm not particularly good at teaching. Or so I think... My belt making the acquaintance of a student's backside is a fairly common way of getting my point across. Or a sharp zap to the backside, if the student has no intention of taking the punishment with dignity and decides to make a run for it.

"You look a little down all of a sudden," Luminara said, noticing my sour expression. "Is something wrong?"

"Envy, Master," I admitted honestly, meeting her eyes. "I'm not a very good teacher, unfortunately."

"And yet you've trained more students than some Masters," the woman replied with a neutral smile as we finally stepped inside the Temple.

And then I realized that the Jedi and I had at least one thing in common: we liked our space. A vast hall with soaring ceilings! Beyond it, I could see corridors that were just as roomy, nothing like the cramped little passageways you found on most ships. Everything was furnished modestly, but with taste—no gaudy excess, yet without sliding into dreary austerity either.

"Impressive," I said with genuine admiration, looking around. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught something almost unbelievable: stern Master Windu was smiling—and genuinely, at that. Both Jedi women were smiling too. Well, of course. It's always nice to hear someone praise your home.

"But a Jedi can only have one Padawan," the girl finally spoke up. It seemed her fear had eased a little, even despite my smiles, but the question of apprentices clearly still bothered her.

"Everyone has their own traditions," I said with a shrug. "I'd like to have only one apprentice too. Truth be told, even that feels like more than enough. As the ancient sorcerer Rung once wrote of young spellcasters: 'Children are the flowers of life. On the graves of Mentors.'"

A faintly sibilant laugh sounded nearby. One of the three sentients heading our way had clearly caught my last words and appreciated the wisdom of the ancient sorcerer. The one laughing looked almost like a naga, except his face was downright terrifying and, for some reason, completely covered in hair. Completely. The only bare patches were around his mouth, nose, and eyes. First time in my life I'd ever seen a hairy naga
. Tell anyone back home and they'd never believe me.

"Very apt words, this Rung spoke," commented the little old goblin, leaning on his gnarled cane.

"One Padawan I remember. A thorn under his tail he had, longer than the tail itself," another goblin woman chimed in, backing up the old fellow—only she was young. At a glance, I would have put her at around twenty. Practically the prime of life for their short-lived species.

"Padawans..." the pair sighed in unison, while the naga merely snorted and gave his tail a small twitch.

"Master Siith, welcome to the Temple. Yoda I am. Yaddle and Oppo Rancisis, these are. Masters, we are."

For a few seconds, I was genuinely taken aback. Were these green ones actually trying to mess with me? Hmm, hmm... A game for two, this can be. Three, rather, I think.

"A pleasure to meet you, Masters," I said, inclining my head with a faint smile—more of a deep nod than a bow. To the credit of both goblins, neither so much as twitched an ear, though their whole species seemed to grin like that anyway. The naga took the introduction just as calmly, merely raising his brows; with all that hair, though, the entire upper half of his hairdo rose with them. "Allow me to admire your home. The Temple is, without question, as wondrous as the faces of the fair maidens who dwell within it."

The maidens, incidentally, seemed to appreciate it. Unduli's lips curled up ever so slightly, while a faint flush darkened Barriss's cheeks. Yaddle, on the other hand, smiled openly and brightly, then shot Yoda a distinctly triumphant look. The naga let out a short, quiet hiss that sounded remarkably like a snort. Only Master Windu remained a monument to Stern Impassivity.

It was Windu who suggested we move out onto the terrace, where we could talk in peace, but not before sending Padawan Offee off to "meditate." I still couldn't quite figure out why they'd brought her along in the first place. Maybe to let her get a look at a representative of another organization of gifted individuals, or maybe to put me at ease—something along the lines of, "We've got a child with us, so we're not going to attack you on sight." Hmm... That would also explain the girl's wariness, especially if they'd warned her there might be trouble.

---

Author's Note:

500 Republica is one of the most luxurious residential buildings on Coruscant, the kind of place where the galaxy's big shots rent apartments—Palpatine, Amidala, and so on. Siith still hasn't bothered to look into the peculiarities of address numbering in this world; to him, it simply isn't important enough to care about. Back home, a residence number tells you more than just the street address—it also reflects the prestige of the place. As for how Siith managed to get an apartment there, that was thanks to the documents Alto provided, which made it quite clear that he was no ordinary Jabiimite.

---

Today is Turkmenistan's Independence Day—the country the original author and I call home. And in honor of the occasion, I've decided to be incredibly generous and spoil you with a whole chapter.))

Enjoy the chapter! We're off to plant our butts on freshly mowed grass, eat pizza with red caviar, wash it down with kvass, and watch the fireworks.

Happy Independence Day to us!

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

The Temple was beautiful. Not merely for its architecture, its vastness, or the elegance of its interiors, but for the lightness and tranquility that seemed to suffuse the entire place. Serenity lingered in the air, soaked into the very walls of the majestic structure; everything around me seemed to breathe it. What I had glimpsed and felt during meditation—in Chatak's workings with the Force, and even in the Zabrak herself—was everywhere here, effortless and all-encompassing.

It was... like the elves' Great Forest. Unhurried, measured, peaceful—and yet majestic and monumental all the same. There was power here. Not aggressive, but impressive in its sheer strength and, strangely enough, its wisdom.

The sentients accompanying me, and those we passed along the way, seemed to carry something of their surroundings within them, to one degree or another. Adult Jedi, little clusters of younglings, Padawans. They were all different: some watched me with suspicion, some with curiosity, a few with caution, but every one of them seemed to possess some measure of that same... wise, powerful calm. That didn't mean they all looked like venerable old sages—not at all. Children were still children, adults were still adults. It was simply that being Jedi left its mark.

I badly wanted to slip into meditation and see what the ocean of magic looked like here. I figured that if our conversation went well, they probably wouldn't deny me something as minor as sitting perfectly still for ten minutes or so in a place set aside for exactly that purpose.

I was so absorbed in the sensations around me that I didn't immediately notice the Jedi escorting me had fallen silent. Yoda answered the question I hadn't yet voiced.

"Getting to know the Temple, you are. Disturb you, we wished not to," the goblin said with a faint, knowing smile, taking his amusing little steps and leaning on his cane as he walked. "An unforgettable experience, a first visit to our home always is. For the gifted, especially."

"Thank you," I said, giving the short sentient a grateful nod. In response, he merely closed his eyes for a moment.

"Was there nothing like this where you studied?" Master Windu asked. I snorted at the question.

"No. It was dreary and dusty. The Burnt Lands, where my mentor lived, were a dull little place—rather like Tatooine, only with less sand. Scorched earth, in places fused into glass, hardly any sources of water. There were no generations of sorcerers living there, either. A large outpost, and maybe two or three spellcasters over several thousand years. No more than that," I said, scratching the back of my head uncertainly. Truth be told, I knew next to nothing about the old sorcerer's family. "You need a very particular sense of beauty to choose a place like that as your permanent home."

---

Calling the place they brought me to a terrace was something of a stretch. It was more like a gazebo inside a conservatory, with an enormous transparent window looking out over the city and offering a breathtaking view of the Republic's capital.

Masters, masters everywhere. Hmm... Quite a few of them had turned up. Once I stopped paying so much attention to the sensations around me, I started dredging up what I'd read about the Order back when I first got access to public information. Windu I'd looked up again just yesterday: he was more or less the Jedi Order's public face to the outside world. Spent plenty of time in the Senate, represented the Order, that sort of thing. The rest of the Council, though, I'd last read about three years ago, and only in passing at that. Back then, I'd been much more interested in the Jedi as an organization than in the individual people running it.

I dug through my memory and eventually put names to the other three Masters—and that was enough to impress me. Rancisis and Yaddle I only knew as members of the Jedi Council. Yoda, though, was the Grand Master. The biggest fish in the pond, so to speak. Which was a rather funny way to think of him, given his size. Luminara Unduli, on the other hand, I'd never heard of. Probably not anyone especially important, yet for some reason they'd brought her along.

And calling the local goblins "short-lived" clearly didn't fit either. I seriously doubted you could master Force techniques, learn swordsmanship, and build enough authority to end up running an organization like this in forty or fifty years. And if you could, I was going to develop one hell of an inferiority complex. Damn, I really should have read whatever biography was publicly available. My screwup, though.

So now we were seated around a round table. Yoda, the little big-eared head Jedi, sat directly across from me, with Yaddle on one side of him and Windu on the other; Luminara and Oppo sat between them and me. I'd drifted off into thought for a moment, so I actually flinched when Yoda spoke.

"Grateful for your help to the Jedi, I am."

"Nothing it is," I said with a dismissive wave, unconsciously slipping back into my old manner of speech. "Just got lucky twice in a row."

"Coincidence, I think not. Destiny, perhaps?"

"Destiny does not exist," I said with my usual dismissive wave, smiling mockingly. "Only a tale for the weak, it is."

"Of true prophecies, have you never heard?" Yaddle asked, looking into my eyes with curiosity.

"Prophecies are all merely pushes, urging people to act. Through an endless maze of choices they steer you toward an outcome that benefits the one who made the prediction. One way or another. Often, without the prophecy, the very outcome it warned of would never have come to pass—the fear it caused was what drove people to act in the first place." I shook my head and met Yaddle's gaze.

"And believe this, you do..." the Master prompted, watching me with curiosity.

"Life is a million roads leading to a million different ends. Only you have the right to choose where to turn, what goal to set, what decisions to make. Think it, I do not. Know it, I do. Believe it."

"Hmm..." Yaddle murmured, nodding in approval. Yoda, meanwhile, smiled kindly and made a vague gesture with one hand.

"We Jedi... a complicated relationship with destiny have. Yet truth there is in your words. A path of one's own, everyone has. False visions of the Force there have been as well—and to disaster, they have led. With caution, into the future we look, when a glimpse of it we are given."

"True," I agreed, returning the goblin's smile. "A truth of their own, everyone has. Games with the future, I want no part in. But neither have I the right to forbid them or pass judgment."

So Yoda and I got to talking, and Yaddle soon joined in as well. Interesting sentients, the two of them—and their sense of humor was... subtle. The others, though, looked a little... odd. For the first few minutes, Unduli kept shifting a puzzled look from me to the goblins and back again. The naga occasionally let out a quiet, hissing chuckle, glancing between her and the three of us. Only Windu remained Stern and Impassive throughout, apart from a slight lift of one eyebrow near the very beginning of the conversation.

Our conversation was interrupted by a droid—some model of protocol unit—which set a small, elongated metal box on the table in front of me.

"I wanted to ask whether one of your apprentices might have lost this," the Grand Master said, nodding toward the box.

What was this? Had one of the youngsters already broken loose into the wider galaxy? Couldn't our little speed demons sit still for once? Those were the thoughts running through my head as I opened the box... and stared in confusion at a piece of some kind of cylinder. From the look of it, part of the thing had been cut away.

"Uh... a lightsaber? And a broken one at that? Honestly, I can't say for certain. But when I left Jabiim, no one there was fooling around with anything like this," I said, scratching the back of my head thoughtfully before looking up at Yoda. "A hologram of the one you mean, do you have?"

The goblin merely nodded, and a hologram appeared in the center of the table.

"No," I said at once, shaking my head as soon as I got a good look at the sentient. "The first Zabrak I ever got to know even remotely well was aboard the Hammerhead. Knight Bol Chatak, she was. This one, I do not know." I looked at the hologram again and added, "A face like that, I would remember. Terrible constipation, this Zabrak suffers from. Twisted him up something awful, yes."

"Suffers no longer, he does," the green one said with a snort, prompting a quiet chuckle from Rancisis. "Dead, he is. Forgive me, Master Siith. Testing you, we were."

"Yeah, I figured that out already," I said with a snort of my own. "May I ask what exactly you were trying to find out?"

"Your name sounds much like that of our ancient enemies. The Sith. The Force, you wield, though sorcery you call it—and they wielded it as well. A piece of a slain Sith's lightsaber we showed you, and his hologram too. A sign of recognition, we were looking for."

"Ah... But they're... gone, aren't they? For about a thousand years now?"

"Alive, they still are," Yoda said with a sorrowful sigh. "Two there are. Master and apprentice. Which one died, we do not know—the apprentice, or the Sith Lord. But that a Padawan could defeat the elder of the two, doubt it I do."

"Sith Lord..." Something clicked into place. I noted it for later consideration and set it aside for now. "That isn't in any public source."

Master Windu then Sternly informed me that the information wasn't exactly classified, but the Jedi would rather it didn't spread beyond the "club of the gifted." I took the hint, thanked them for the trust, and remembered my little gifts.

The small wooden case, once opened, revealed six plain metal rings to the Jedi gathered around the table: five set with red stones, and one with a green stone.

"Adjust itself to the wearer's finger, the ring will. The stone's color shows the charge level. Clear means empty. Then green, yellow, orange, red, black. Black means overcharged—best not let it get that far, or the artifact will fail. Once worn, detectable it no longer is; only its owner can sense it. Charged to red, eight hours it will work. To activate it, turn the stone. A demonstration."

I took the ring with the green stone, stepped a short distance away from the others, slipped it onto my finger, and turned the stone ninety degrees clockwise. The full concealment spell complex activated at once. I could no longer be detected in any spectrum except the visible one, and even there I was reduced to a blurred silhouette.

For several seconds, I stood there in silence, watching the Jedi's reactions. Then I deactivated the ring.

"Only the naked eye can spot you. It conceals every emission the body gives off: heat, life, magic, thought. Everything I know how to detect. As you saw, it also blurs the wearer's outline. And there's one additional function available to anyone carrying a lightsaber. Any volunteers?"

Oppo Rancisis volunteered. The naga slipped the ring on without difficulty, and it adjusted itself to fit his finger. The blurred figure asked what to do next, and I told him to activate his saber. With a low hum, two hazy lightsaber blades sprang to life, running parallel to each other.

"Ooh..." came a quiet exclamation. "Useful. A feint."

The saber's blurred outlines lunged forward, smeared, then seemed to shift sideways. A few more swings distorted the visible image at random, making it impossible to tell exactly where the Jedi's weapon really was.

"Exactly, Master. A false blade, the artifact creates, while in the visible spectrum it slightly shifts the apparent position of the real one," I explained for the others. "And recharge the ring, a Jedi can. Direct the Force into it until the stone turns red."

"This is..." Master Unduli began.

"Quite a valuable gift..." Yaddle continued.

"Accept it, we cannot," Yoda finished.

"A gift, you called it. A tradition. The customs of other peoples, we respect. But too valuable, your gift is."

I returned to my seat and met the Grand Master's eyes with a faintly mocking look.

"This isn't a gift from one sentient to another. The Jabiim Mages' Guild is giving these artifacts to the Jedi Order. It's promotion, Master Yoda. A gift and an advertisement."

---

"Listening to them has given me a headache," the Korun grumbled, turning one of the rings over in his hand after yet another sparring bout with Oppo. The Thisspiasian beside him merely gave an amused snort. Yoda and their strange guest had gone off to wander the Temple about an hour ago, leaving Rancisis and the Korun behind to test the rings.

"After all my years as Master Yaddle's apprentice, used to speaking that way I became," Oppo said, then laughed when Windu grimaced. "Oh, come now. On the Council—"

"There are two of them on the Council already. Today there were three, and then they got Siith doing it too. Ugh..." the dark-skinned man sighed. "Too much Yoda."

"My name, I heard just now," came a sudden voice from right beside the Korun, making him flinch. A small blurred shape had crept up on them unnoticed.

"Ahem..." Windu cleared his throat and looked down at the Grand Master. "Testing our new acquaintance's gifts?"

"Remarkable things, the sorcerer has created," Yoda said with a nod as he came back into focus. "Great benefit, cooperation with the Guild could bring the Order. But great danger as well."

"In the hands of criminals..." Windu agreed with a nod.

"Or the Sith," Rancisis added, his expression turning serious.

"Yes. Master Siith... Young, their Guild is. When I asked about its charter, greatly surprised the sorcerer was. Almost no restrictions do their spellcasters have, beyond their own conscience, he said. Reassuring, at least, that things like this"—the Grand Master held up the ring—"difficult to make are, expensive, and require extensive knowledge, according to him."

"Where is he even from? I don't believe Jabiim has had specialists like that all this time," Oppo said, running a hand over the thick hair covering his face before looking questioningly at Yoda.

"A traveler, he is. Settled on Jabiim—'a good place,' he said. Born on a planet called Turtle, but where it is, even he does not know. A blind hyperspace jump, I suspect, though no details did he give. The Unknown Regions, perhaps. Of the Republic, the Jedi, and the Sith, nothing he knew until he met the Jabiimites."

"By the way, where is the sorcerer himself?" Windu asked.

"Left him in the Archives with Yaddle, I did. Asking Jocasta Nu to marry him, the sorcerer is," Yoda said, then gave a cheerful chuckle at his fellow Jedi's stunned expressions. "The Archives as her dowry, he wants. A fabulous bride-price, he promises. When asked whether the Sith holocrons should be thrown in as well, said no—'the Archives alone should keep me busy for a long time.'"

"Kha... kha..." the Thisspiasian broke into a coughing fit. "I'm going to the Archives. My old Master may suddenly need some help."

The Korun could have sworn he heard a muttered, "Why did I have to miss that?" from the retreating figure. But Yoda's smile told him he hadn't been the only one to catch Rancisis's words.

"What do you think about the letters for Skywalker and Tano?"

"A letter from her sister, youngling Ahsoka does not need. But young Anakin would benefit from one, I think. His fear for his mother has not left him. Nothing in the letter itself would interfere with Padawan Skywalker's training under Knight Kenobi. I hope that knowing his only family is safe will bring peace to the boy's mind."

"And what about the JMG?"

"Think on it, we must, Master Windu. Think. Darkness, I do not see in Master Siith. But Light, neither do I see. How things will unfold in the future, I do not know. Allies, will we become? Friends? Suppliers of Force artifacts to the Order, will they be? Or work with the Sith, will they choose to do? Many questions there are, but no answers have I. Perhaps a pair of Jedi on Jabiim, we should keep? The sorcerer said that any sentient can learn his magic. Wondering, I am... whether a Master or a Knight we should send there to learn."

---

The lovely Lady Jocasta Nu granted me access to some of the Order's archival material. Nothing classified, but there was still plenty of interesting stuff in there—if nothing else, a much more detailed account of Jedi history. So I spent the time eagerly scrolling through text files, quietly recording the visual information into the library in my collarbone while pretending merely to skim. I couldn't copy much that way, but a thirsty man drinks from every spring. I'd find time to go through it properly later.

I wasn't worried about any magical disturbances. The pseudo-living artifact was shielded, and the amount of magic I was using on my brain was negligible. I could always claim it was a technique for improving memory. Especially since, to some extent, that would even be true.

Getting into a conflict with the Jedi was definitely a bad idea. They didn't seem nearly as terrible as Alto made them out to be. The grandiose titles they'd given themselves were a bit much, of course—they clearly weren't up to keeping peace throughout the entire galaxy. Not completely, at least. But based on what I'd seen so far, calling them deranged cultists would be unfair too. And there were a lot of them. Picking a fight with a whole horde of sentients armed with glowing sticks, especially such... unconventional practitioners of magic, held very little appeal.

So I think I handled things the right way. Brought gifts, talked with them, cracked a few jokes. All in all, I showed them I was someone they could do business with... I hoped.

I handed Yoda the letters from Shmi to her son and from Romri to her sister. Both envelopes had been left unsealed to make things easier for the Jedi censors. I'd strongly advised both women to emphasize how proud they were of the youngsters, reassure them that everything was fine back home, and avoid anything likely to trigger too strong a bout of homesickness.

Deeper in the Archives, Master Unduli and the archivist were speaking quietly. Yaddle had taken Oppo Rancisis off somewhere. I let out a heavy sigh... Time to take my leave. They clearly weren't going to leave me here alone, and I felt a little guilty about taking up more of the green-skinned Jedi's time, so...

With that thought, I called Ras, told him I'd be out soon, and headed over to Luminara. I could say goodbye to Lady Nu at the same time. I'd invited her to visit our Guild library, by the way, and warned her straight away that only practicing mages were allowed into the sections containing magical literature. Still, we had plenty of material related to magic that didn't fall under those restrictions. I'd considered giving her something about Hecate, but decided not to rush that just yet.

I figured a woman who loved her sanctuary of knowledge would find the time to visit Jabiim and take a look at some truly unique material. Especially since I had no objection to people copying books from the unrestricted sections—quite the opposite, really. And once she was on our planet of endless rain, I could arrange a little accident for Lady Nu involving a ritual that went wrong and mercilessly shaved a few decades off her age. No, I had no intention of marrying her—that had only been a joke, and she'd understood it well enough to laugh. It was just... I had a soft spot for sentients who loved repositories of knowledge. Professional solidarity, let's call it that.

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

I liked the opera. I liked the Supreme Chancellor as well. A warm, personable sort of man—or at least that was how he presented himself. He came across as an engaging conversationalist who knew a great deal about the galaxy, and he spoke without the slightest trace of arrogance or condescension.

We talked about all sorts of things: interesting species and peoples, their customs, their physiology—in broad strokes, of course. We also touched briefly on democracy as a form of government. I tried not to criticize it too harshly, but Dozdronogul take me! Democracy is wonderful, of course. Just like any other form of government. From communism to tyranny. Every last one of them can work beautifully—provided the sentients at the top are actually interested in the welfare of their state and its people.

I genuinely liked Sheev Palpatine. The reforms he had set in motion were grinding forward with difficulty, mostly because of resistance from certain blocs in the Senate, but I believed they would prove beneficial in the long run. I had prepared carefully for this meeting, going through both the material Alto's headquarters had sent me from Jabiim and a good deal of what was publicly available on the HoloNet.

So, once he got past the less-than-stellar first impression caused by my "good-natured" smile, I did my best to make my attitude clear.

Of course, I didn't go overboard with the groveling either. No point in making myself look like some court sycophant. But on behalf of the JMG, for as long as I remained its leader, I promised full support. At the very least, we could outfit the entire Senate Guard with some decent "gear," as they call it in the game I often waste my free time on. And it didn't matter if the guards already had technological equivalents. We could supply the cheaper versions of our adaptive-protection amulets at practically cost price.

Not on the same level as the one I'd made for the Chancellor, of course—that one used a fragment of Crystal Dragon bone as its reservoir—but genuinely high-quality amulets were well within our means. Nimbus was already being equipped with them, along with the boarding and counter-boarding teams of our small fleet.

We could have given them away for free, of course, but there were too few of us, and working at a loss while the Guild was still in its infancy... not exactly a brilliant idea. Besides, an offer like that would look far too much like a bribe—and look like I was trying to kiss their ass so hard I might as well crawl right up it.

I also gave him a couple of books by Emperor Vivec the First. And the only one, yep. The dark elf has been successfully ruling a small continent closer to the center of the shell for several thousand years now. A fairly wise pointy-ear and a good ruler, practically worshipped by his subjects. And really, what else are you supposed to give a politician? A collection of fairy tales about insane golden-eyed spellcasters?

There was just one thing... something about the Supreme Chancellor felt off. I wasn't about to brazenly scan him with Master Windu standing right there, and besides, who knew what sort of security measures the ruler of this world employed? None of my business. Even so, a faint sense that something didn't quite add up kept nagging at me the entire time I was around Palpatine. Hopefully my puzzled glances hadn't spoiled the impression I made.

As for the opera itself... Well, what can I say? If Twi'leks are magnificent dancers, then this place had gathered the aurodium voices of the galaxy. More than once, I became so absorbed in listening that I lost touch with reality for tens of minutes at a stretch. I was even a little disappointed when I realized the performance would be ending soon. Very, very impressive. Next time I'm on Coruscant, I'll make a point of coming back.

By the way, I spotted that same Alderaanian there—the one who'd pulled a face at Suti—and gave him a broad smile without the slightest embarrassment. Even gave him a little wave. Heh. The way his face twisted at that was absolutely priceless.

---

Sheev Palpatine loved the opera. In fact, it was one of the few places where he could truly relax and, for a little while at least, escape the burdens of his work—both public and otherwise. And today, his rare respite had been thoroughly spoiled. Ironically enough, he had no one to blame but himself.

The Supreme Chancellor's secret alter ego preferred not to think of himself as a spider or a puppeteer. He liked the idea of a conductor far better. A flick of the baton, and the musicians followed his will. Their talents were extraordinary, undeniably vital to the performance—but only he, the conductor, kept the beautiful music from dissolving into cacophony. Each performer played their own part, yet only the Sith Lord could see the whole composition, guiding it with light, effortless motions and conducting the exquisite symphony of democracy's decay.

Innocent hints that forged alliances. Words that seemed meaningless at first glance, yet shattered friendships that had endured for millennia. Speeches that made even the staunchest supporters of the Republic begin to doubt, while those already wavering cast aside their hesitation and crossed over to his side. Promises that, once fulfilled, benefited no one but him, leaving those who thought they had won the game looking like fools.

Alongside those delicate strokes of masterful finesse came slaughter, bloody clashes between corporations and minor factions, acts of genocide, slave trading, narcotics in all their varieties, contract killings, and, from time to time, more personal... outings.

And all of it hidden behind a façade of democracy and equality. The screams of rage, the groans of agony, the dying shrieks—all drowned out by the background music of the Senate, a score composed of hypocritical talk of peace and lies about love, honesty, and the common good. A "thousand years of peace" that was, in truth, filled with hundreds of conflicts—some smoldering, others raging in earnest—feeding rivers of blood into the grinding machinery that was tearing down both the state itself and the reputation of its supposed protector: the Jedi Order.

The Republic was a festering, stinking tumor on the body of the galaxy. A polity created as a panacea for all the ills of sentient life, only to become a plague in its own right. And the Jedi, having willingly surrendered the reins of the state, had spent the past millennium turning themselves into little more than the Senate's mutts.

He would have liked to take credit for it, but that would not have been true, and lying to oneself was a straight road to the grave. One could take endless pride in one's own accomplishments, but never allow that pride to obscure the reality of the situation. In a game with stakes this high, blindness was utterly unacceptable.

The Republic had become what it was thanks to a thousand years of work by those who came before him. Yes, Sidious was the one tasked with bringing the final stage of that long plan to fruition, but without the Baneite Sith who preceded him—his Master, his Master's Master, and all the way back to Darth Bane himself—the current Sith Lord would have had far fewer opportunities and far less room to maneuver.

But even that was not the whole truth. The Sith's greatest ally had been democracy itself. Rule by the people. A wonderful form of government. Pure, proper, rational... provided that those who ruled in the name of that very people remembered to think about them once in a while.

And the Jedi... the Order had simply gone soft. A thousand years of supposed peace had given them exactly what they had wanted: calm, stability, serenity. In the process, they had buried themselves in traditions and rules. Sheev had read old records of the wars that once tore through the galaxy—conflicts so bloody that the Jedi Knights of those eras sounded less like peacekeepers and more like monsters bred for war. Guardians of peace who had once carried the Light Side at the tips of their lightsabers, showing no mercy when none was called for, had become rigid traditionalists. Even during the ancient wars against the Sith, the Chancellor had thought them too constrained by their own rules. Now they were worse by far.

To be honest, Palpatine was convinced that even without the Sith, events would ultimately have followed much the same course. Without those like him to hasten the process, it would simply have taken longer to reach the same end. His only real doubt was whether the Republic could have weathered the coming crisis and survived in some altered form—or whether it would instead have broken apart into hundreds, perhaps thousands, of fragments.

The orchestra was playing the music of the Republic's twilight, but today the Chancellor had been reminded that there was more to the performance than orchestra and conductor. There was an audience as well—watching from the galleries, following every movement, weighing what they saw, and passing judgment on the performance as it unfolded.

It was no revelation to the Sith Lord that remnants of old Sith organizations still lingered across the galaxy. All manner of sects, secret orders and not-so-secret ones, societies, clans, and assorted little circles of like-minded enthusiasts.

One representative of just such a "little circle" was sitting beside him now. This red-eyed piece of rancor shit had ignored every rule of decorum, barged into his private box with all the grace of a drunken bantha, and ruined the Chancellor's rare night off with a mocking smile on his face. Never mind that Palpatine himself had wanted this meeting with... Siith.

At first, Palpatine had doubted it. Surely the Jedi could not be such complete imbeciles that they would look at a sentient practically screaming his connection to the Sith and decide he was something else entirely.

As it turned out... they could.

They really were that stupid.

While concealing himself in the Force, Sidious found it difficult to tell exactly what he was dealing with. But everything—absolutely everything—pointed to the same conclusion. No, screamed it.

They were introducing him to a Dark Side Force-user.

And the most astonishing part was that it was the Jedi doing the introducing. Not just any Jedi, either, but one of the Order's own Masters—Mace Windu himself.

This was no opera. The Sith Lord felt as though he had been dragged into some absurd stage comedy—a ridiculous play directed by an idiot.

"The name is merely similar, Supreme Chancellor. The Council is confident that Master Siith has no connection to the Sith."

And all the while, the sorcerer in question stood there wearing that vile smile of his. Red eyes, black irises and pupils, watching Palpatine with an odd mixture of mocking good humor and some puzzling doubt, while that jeering grin seemed to say, Just look at them, colleague. What a pack of idiots.

He had even apologized for the smile.

"Can't help it, Chancellor. It just sort of happens."

Deep down, beneath Sheev's carefully cultivated curiosity and warmth, two emotions were fighting for dominance: fury and admiration.

The sheer audacity of it. No—that wasn't enough.

THE ABSOLUTE FUCKING AUDACITY.

Mockery of the highest order. His fellow servant of the Dark Side was practically laughing in the Jedi's faces, all while casting the Baneite*—playing the part of the benevolent democrat—a look of mild surprise.

And then this "Master Siith" handed him his little "gifts." As the sorcerer described the capabilities of the "adaptive-protection amulet," the Chancellor had to make a tremendous effort to stay in character. A treasure. An artifact of power. An extraordinarily potent tool. Or an exquisitely crafted trap. According to the sorcerer, the rather substantial amulet—some ten centimeters across, with a blood-red stone set at its center—was the equivalent of a battleship's armor and shields combined. For a short while, admittedly...

According to Siith, the amulet could be "recharged" by Jedi, and Master Windu confirmed it, adding that the charging process itself might take several days. The sorcerer gave a mournful sigh at that, and when the dark-skinned man gave him a questioning look, offered the rather cryptic explanation, "Still, that's fast. I'm jealous."

But it was the two books that made the deepest impression of all—and finally hardened the Sith Lord's suspicions about the sorcerer's true nature into certainty. Even now, with the voices of his favorite opera singers washing past him almost unheard, Sidious found his thoughts returning to them again and again.

The titles alone made him want to growl and laugh at the same time: The Eternal Empire: The First Millennium of Rule Is the Hardest and The Means of Attaining Power as the Means of Achieving One's Goal. The author's name—there was only one—meant nothing to the Sith, but those titles... How did this Siith know? An acquaintance of his Master's? But Plagueis had never once mentioned anyone like that.

And then there were the conversations. "I'm very glad to meet you, Supreme Chancellor! At last the Republic has a leader who actually thinks about the outlying systems. Know that Jabiim stands with you. So does the Guild. So do I, and so does our Commander-in-Chief, Stratus." Those words had eased some of Palpatine's anger and confusion. What followed, however, was another matter entirely.

The suspiciously well-informed Force-user was making it perfectly clear that he was no enemy of the Sith Lord, and the words, "If you ever need the Guild's help, don't hesitate. For you, we'll charge the absolute minimum," suggested that this unknown sect was open to cooperation. But... that only infuriated Palpatine. The absolute minimum? The sheer insolence of it. Even allowing for Jedi Master Windu's presence during the conversation, it was an astonishing lack of deference. Not we will support you with everything we have, but a straightforward business arrangement.

Now the Supreme Chancellor, pretending to be absorbed in the performance on the opera stage, was trying to work out who this sorcerer really was—and why he behaved with such... yes. Such incredible AUDACITY. Who stood behind Siith? Who? Palpatine was almost certain the sorcerer was merely a front, just as Dooku was for him. So who was the mysterious sentient conducting the sorcerer from behind the scenes?

The most improbable possibilities flashed through the Sith Lord's mind. Orn Free Taa, the senator from Ryloth? The red-eyed sorcerer had visited his world not long ago. Jabba Desilijic Tiure? The sorcerer had recently been on Tatooine, where that Hutt's kajidic held sway, and had bought the Chosen One's mother out of slavery. Gardulla Besadii the Elder? Another Hutt, one who shared power on Tatooine? The idea of those slugs as Force-sensitives would have been laughable if Palpatine hadn't known that, throughout history, there had been Hutts among both the Jedi and the Sith. And not weak ones, either.

Who else? Bail Prestor Organa of Alderaan, whom the red-eyed sorcerer had briefly met—an encounter that left Organa spitting about "the Jabiimite slaveholder they let onto Coruscant"? He seemed the least likely possibility of all... Although... no. Mon Mothma of Chandrila was even less likely! But that last thought was already bordering on outright absurdity.

What power stood behind Siith? How much stronger was his Guild than they claimed? How much did they know? What were they planning? And what, exactly, was Palpatine supposed to do about it? Why did they need Anakin Skywalker's mother? On the one hand, it was clear enough that these "Jabiimite mages" supported his plans. On the other, they had no intention whatsoever of bending the knee.

And that, too, had been stated almost outright. "I kneel only before the Goddess," the sorcerer had declared when Palpatine had touched in passing on the rules governing suzerain-vassal relations on one of the Outer Rim worlds. The Jabiim Mages' Guild—or JMG, as "Master Siith" called it—had no intention of becoming his subjects. At least, not on conventional terms.

So there he was, left to wonder. Was the sorcerer waiting for him to gain greater power, or did he want a partnership of equals?... Grinding him into dust was certainly an option. But was it really? That amulet. If Siith was willing to give away an artifact that valuable, what did he keep for himself? And personal protection was hardly the only way to safeguard oneself. Information bombs waiting to go off? Trusted agents? How much did he actually know about Palpatine's affairs? If he died, would another "sorcerer" appear—one far less favorably disposed toward the Chancellor? And whoever stood behind all this had played it beautifully. They had drawn attention to Siith, maneuvered him into a meeting with Palpatine... all without pressing the issue, begging for an audience, or appearing to seek one at all.

Their puppet, Stratus, had casually let slip a few remarks about how things on Jabiim were no longer quite so dire. Then came reports of some Jabiimite sorcerer helping the Jedi, killing Morgukai, capturing a cruiser with a crew of more than three hundred with a party of just four, establishing contact with the Republic's guardians... and calmly walking out of the Jedi Temple practically as a "friend of the Order." And all of this not over decades, but within the span of a single year!

And meanwhile, the red-eyed asshole in Sith robes was practically laughing at everyone around him without even pretending otherwise. "The difference between humans and nonhumans? An autopsy will tell." And Master Windu answered that with a strained smile and, "Master, save your sense of humor for Master Rancisis." Rancors up everyone's asses, was this some kind of joke? These were the Jedi—the self-proclaimed guardians of peace, champions of restraint, morality, all that sanctimonious crap—and one of their Masters was smiling while a sorcerer joked about cutting sentients open. Jedi?!! Fucking Jedi! The man was all but announcing that he intended to dissect people, and your response was to indulge his sense of humor? What in the ever-loving hell was wrong with you people?

And now the bastard was baring his teeth at Bail Organa too. Though... Organa irritated Sidious as well, so by all means, let the red-eyed freak wave at him. Just look at the Alderaanian's jaw working. Petty, perhaps, but satisfying. Still, Palpatine doubted the senator had anything to do with this. If Organa and Siith were on the same side, surely the sorcerer wouldn't be stupid enough to draw attention to him so openly.

Would he?

---

Author's Note:

Baneite* — a follower of Darth Bane's teachings; that is, a Sith belonging to the Rule of Two lineage: one Master and one apprentice.

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

Once my mercenaries joined us, the Hammerhead left Coruscant for Corellia for scheduled maintenance and upgrades, six hundred thousand credits landed in my account, and preparations for our next adventure began.

Arvik spent a couple of days prowling the shittier cantinas of the lower levels, collecting rumors and sifting through them for the few scraps actually worth a damn. Then we started drawing up a list of potential benefactors. You know—the generous sort of sentients willing to make a completely voluntary contribution to the poor-orphan relief fund. Specifically, their souls. And whatever astronomical—or merely respectable—sums happened to be lying around. The orphan in question being me, naturally.

One interesting development during that time was Arvik discovering that he was being followed—which was about as surprising as rain on Jabiim. This was the capital, after all. We'd met with the Chancellor, made contact with the Jedi... Naturally, everyone with even the slightest reason to care had taken an interest in us: the Chancellor himself, the Order, Senate Security, the Chancellor's opponents, and assorted political factions besides.

I think we might actually have missed the surveillance if there hadn't been so damn much of it—and if everyone involved hadn't been working from completely different levels of paranoia, from "send someone to have a look at those Jabiimites" all the way up to "put those suspicious bastards under constant observation." But... Hecate is wise. After Arvik's first outing, the four of us were laughing like lunatics. Surveillance droids. Hired organics. Even a pair of Jedi Padawans—the last two only appeared once, admittedly, so that might genuinely have been a coincidence... The whole thing was turning into a farce. The spies were tripping over one another, and when half the clientele of yet another cantina seemed to arrive right behind the Mando, subtlety had clearly packed its bags and gone home. I'm sure there were competent professionals in the mix somewhere. The amateurs simply announced everyone's interest on their behalf.

All of that initially made me consider calling off our plans to rob the robbers, but after a little thought, I decided the entertainment could still go ahead—just under full concealment.

The thing was, our shuttle had gone from the Great Turtle to the Cramped Dorm, and I was not a fan. So I decided it was time to change ships. From the listings on Coruscant itself, I picked out three options: a cheap Gozanti-class light cruiser, a mid-priced Consular-class cruiser, and an expensive cruiser-transport. That last one confused me even after our Togruta tried to explain it—the Diamond class.

The Gozanti was pretty tempting for the price, even allowing for the upgrades it would need. But... forty-odd meters long. A bit cramped, if you ask me. Especially since, during the trip, I'd come up with a few ideas for magical modifications—and mana-pump seals need room.

The Consular was better. Over a hundred meters long, with spacious cabins, private showers, a lounge, and a dining area. Naturally, there was a lot more room to work with as well—though still not quite enough for everything I had in mind.

Both ships could manage just fine with a crew of two, but in an actual space battle there simply wouldn't be enough hands. After scratching one of her montrals, Romri suggested buying droids instead—cheap ones, perfectly capable of replacing organics for the job. I had no desire to take on more people, especially since I had no idea when I'd be flying again after this little vacation. Sure, synthetics wouldn't be as good as an experienced living crew, but they had one very convenient advantage: when I was done with them, I could simply switch them off and stick them in a corner until next time instead of paying a crew to sit around doing nothing.

But the Diamond class... now that flying cheburek* with engines, I liked! Two hundred by five hundred meters! Vast stretches of unused space in the cargo holds, and enormous potential to turn the thing—if not into a proper flying home, then at the very least into a mobile country estate. I could build genuinely spacious cabins, fit in a hangar, set up a library! But... expensive. Dozdrogodul take it! Nearly three million for a used one, and that was before modernization or rebuilding. Even a droid crew would cost somewhere around a hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand, and once the upgrades were factored in, we'd be looking at five million credits easily. Maybe six—the price of a brand-new ship.

Then there was another major downside besides the purchase price: the cost of keeping the thing running. A droid crew would save me a fortune in wages, sure, but repairs and maintenance bills weren't going anywhere. Magical upgrades could extend the lifespan of the hull and some of the mechanical systems, but they'd also make shipyard maintenance a much bigger headache. And Jabiim didn't even have a shipyard.

I wasn't exactly thrilled by the prospect of rumors spreading that some sorcerer could reinforce armor, strengthen materials, and create alternatives to conventional starship shields—especially since I intended to do all of that to my permanent flying residence. Sure, I could probably get clever and find ways around the problem, but I had no desire to make life more complicated than it needed to be. Nor did I particularly want to spend my time fending off shipyard owners showering me with offers—or trying to kidnap me...

Personal protective gear was one thing. Ship-scale systems were something else entirely. We were already going to have a steady stream of interested parties showing up—some to buy from us and fatten the Guild's coffers, others to try and lure our mages away. Though I suspected that second problem would mostly solve itself once the JMG started offering paid training to anyone willing to sign up.

Come to think of it... I'd have to talk to Alto about that. I wonder how much Kuat would be willing to pay us to train a mage in something as basic as reinforcement enchantments? It would take a year at most: a bare minimum of theory, the design for a simple mana-pump artifact, and a durability enchantment powered by it. Interesting idea. Still, there might be pitfalls I wasn't seeing. Who knew what might occur to the corporate magnates once they realized they could potentially secure a monopoly on modifications like these?

Still, inspecting the Diamond-class cruiser was the main reason we chose to relocate to practically the other side of the planet for a few days—well away from both the Jedi Temple and the Senate building. According to Arvik, there were even more criminals down there in the lower levels, and far fewer Force-sensitives. Once we'd looked the ship over and made a final decision on our new ride, we could always go sightseeing among the local "attractions."

So, in the end, all of us went—everyone except the droids. Oh, right. We've got two metal bores now... Shmi had another 3PO-series droid tucked away in her luggage, though hers was a civilian model. Her son had built it for her and given it to her before he left. Something had broken on Tatooine, and Skywalker never got around to fixing it—then we showed up, bought her out of slavery, and after that came the cramped shuttle. But on Coruscant, she finally managed to buy the part she needed and bring her son's gift back to life.

Threepio, as Shmi called the droid, hit it off with our other metal bore almost immediately, doubling the amount of eye-rolling from the rest of us. I am never buying a droid from that series. Ever. Suti thought they were adorable, admittedly, but those electronic idiots drove me up the wall. And when the two of them started talking to each other... Brrr.

---

"Sir, may I?" An armored man poked his head into the office of the LCP** sector chief.

"Yes? What is it?" The broad-shouldered, mustached man behind the desk looked up at his subordinate with tired eyes. Gray was beginning to show in his hair, and his helmet sat off to one side.

"Another massacre, sir. Level 3012. Seventy bodies."

"Fuck!" swore the solidly built, middle-aged man who had spent nearly three decades with the Lower Coruscant Police. "Who was it this time?"

"They shot up a bunch of dealers. I wouldn't have bothered you, but the spice was left untouched. Nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything, and the whole 'clinic' was wiped out."

"You move the spice?"

"Yes, sir. I called in the old hands. They handled it cleanly."

"Right." The chief rubbed a hand over his tired face. "Bring me everything you've got. Tell our people to keep their mouths shut for now. If this pans out, the boys get a bonus. And if anyone starts asking too many questions, you can quietly let it slip—off the record—that the fucking hospital got hit. Everyone inside was killed, the place was cleaned out, and we're working the case."

"Yes, sir!" The subordinate snapped off a salute, a note of satisfaction creeping into his voice. The old hand knew exactly how to handle things. And just as importantly, he never forgot to look after his own.

Left alone, the officer let out a heavy sigh. Dancing with a drunk bantha again. Risky, but profitable. The scheme itself was nothing new. Every now and then, the "medication" from one of these "clinics"—which were really just spice supermarkets with a medical sign out front—ended up in police custody. And from there... well. "The medicine needs to be returned to a medical facility." "Do your best, officer." That sort of thing.

Back when the mustached officer was younger, the whole business with spice had been enough to make his teeth grind. The upper levels were tolerable, at least. The lower ones were another matter entirely. Places like these "clinics" sold narcotics almost openly, feeding addicts everything from comparatively harmless relaxants to vicious chemical cocktails that could burn a body out in a matter of years.

And there was nothing anyone could do about it. Places like these were too well protected, and officers with an inconvenient excess of conscience had a curious habit of either changing their tune—or disappearing altogether.

It would have been funny if it weren't so damn depressing, but down in the lower levels, the CSF** even provided places like these... "medical facilities" with protection from the more lawless gangs whenever their own muscle wasn't enough for the job.

And he would return the spice to its owners—for a modest token of gratitude, of course. Chak Korl, one of his fellow officers, had needed a new arm prosthetic for a long time now, so the boys could certainly use the "bonus." The same went for the money set aside for informants—the kind who knew when to keep quiet about certain things, so long as the police kept slipping them little "gifts" in return for favors that were not entirely legal. All he had to do was wait for the next gang shootout. Then his people would just happen to "discover" the missing spice at the scene.

For the past three days, what was presumably yet another vigilante crew had been operating in the officer's district. This time, though, they seemed to know exactly what they were doing—wiping out gangs and drug dens with surgical precision and barely making a sound in the process.

The man allowed himself a thin, mean smile. Keep it up, boys. Don't worry about the cops—we're looking for you so hard we've just about worn grooves into the cantina seats. As for the reports going upstairs, he could hold those back for another two or three days without anyone getting too suspicious. The old cop was trying to handle it in-house, didn't want to bother his superiors until he had something solid—all the usual bullshit. A reprimand was a fair enough price for letting someone clear a little trash out of his district.

---

"Buckethead, why the hell haven't we been doing this ourselves?" Romri was sprawled across one of the beds in the guys' room, lovingly polishing the credit chip that held her bonus for the job.

"Take your boots off," the Mandalorian grumbled from his chair at the table. Romri was keeping her feet off the bed, but apparently that still wasn't good enough for Arvik. With a long-suffering sigh, the Togruta started tugging off her boots, muttering under her breath about her commander. "Without the sorcerer covering for us, you'd have lost your lekku and had your montrals snapped off by the second or third run. And he already said this is the first and last time we're doing anything like this."

"That's what I don't understand," Romri muttered, sounding genuinely baffled. "Sure, Coruscant is Coruscant. But it's not like this is the only planet drowning in criminals."

"Once coincidence turns into a pattern, that starts looking suspicious, though," Koit chimed in, tinkering with the electronics inside his spear. "This time we came to Coruscant, went sightseeing, disappeared from view, and then... gangsters and spice dealers started dying while their accounts and secret stashes mysteriously emptied out. First time, folks just look at us funny. Second time, they start digging. Third time, they come hunting. Black Sun or the Pyke Syndicate would put two and two together real quick and start chasing that aurodium ass of yours. And that's not even getting into Security or the Jedi..."

"Exactly," the Mandalorian said with a nod. "And our employer doesn't need that kind of headache. He's busy saving up for his 'floating castle.'"

"Mmm..." Romri drawled. "Fine, then. I'll just call it a one-off side gig. A very profitable one."

The Togruta looked down at the chip again and let out a heavy sigh. The thought that their little "fat bantha hunts" would soon be coming to an end saddened her more than she cared to admit. The sorcerer had said, "Nothing motivates like a cut of the profits," and he faithfully handed each of his mercenaries a share of every haul. Romri, though, preferred to call what they were doing "good deeds." Criminals down, credits up—look at it any way you liked, it was good all around.

"Oh, yeeeah," the Gungan said with a grin. "Made a nice pile of credits, though. I already had Boss-sa help me find a plot on the coast, not far from the city where he lives. Gonna build myself a little place on the surface—and another one down below."

"I thought you wanted me to talk to him?" the Togruta asked, surprised.

"Eh, what's it matter? I only told him I was looking for someplace to settle down. Never said nothing about signing on. Our sorcerer looked pretty pleased when he heard I was interested, though. Me thinks that's a good sign."

"Yeah, pretty much," the Mandalorian said with a grin. "Call it reconnaissance done. You gonna finish fiddling with that thing anytime soon? We're heading out in an hour..."

"Yeah, yeah," the Gungan said, snapping out of his thoughts and getting back to work on the spear. "Ten minutes, tops. Gonna have to swap the batteries soon, though. Another couple jobs and they'll be done for, me thinks."

---

"My friend, you don't have many options," I told yet another leader of yet another gang with a pleasant smile. "Either you transfer every credit you have to the accounts I give you, nice and painlessly, and we walk away... or you make this difficult and spend the last few minutes of your life helping me move the money anyway. Surely you can see how incredibly generous the first offer is. Especially if you take a good, long look at what happened to your friends."

The local gang boss stared in horror as his recently deceased bodyguard tore into a man who was still very much alive—the same man he used to call his right hand. The victim couldn't move his arms or legs. He was sobbing in pain and screaming himself hoarse. Not that any sound came out. Then the walking corpse glanced his way. The gang leader went white, then green, and a moment later began to smell distinctly unpleasant.

"Boss," the Togruta beside me said with a downright creepy grin. Hmm... seven out of ten. She was improving. "Why don't we just go with option two? Saves us wasting time trying to talk him into anything."

"Well, you've got a point, my little aurodium treasure. Why make things complicated?" I gave the clever girl an approving grin and started raising a hand toward the criminal, who was drenched in cold sweat.

And that was pretty much it. The big guy started stammering out promises that he'd do everything we asked, just please, no option two. Then, in the most ingratiating tone he could manage, he asked whether we really were going to leave afterward and whether we really wouldn't kill him. I answered quite honestly that we wouldn't do anything else to him and that we would indeed leave. Why bother doing anything to a man who already had a death curse hanging over him—one that would trigger the moment he got more than ten meters away from me?

So ten minutes later, I had chips worth three hundred thousand credits in my pocket, and a little over a million more had landed in an anonymous account.

I thanked the gangster from the bottom of my heart, laid the zombie to rest now that it had finished mauling its accomplice to death, and we left the hospitable establishment behind. That was our last job. The local gang might have been the richest around, but it still answered directly to the Syndicate, and those were serious people. You could poke that kind of crowd in the ass with a fork, sure—but carefully. And preferably only once.

---

Jango stood in the office of a small-time gang leader, studying the man with some surprise. The gangster was clearly living out his final minutes. The Mandalorian had almost arrived too late: by the time he slipped into the gang's territory, every last gunman was already dead. Fortunately, the boss was still alive.

The bounty hunter put a plasma bolt through the target's head. Whatever had happened here didn't matter. What mattered was that the "client" had ultimately died by a Mando's hand. No one was going to ask him for a detailed report.

The job itself had been easy enough. Hiring Jango was more about making a statement than the difficulty of the work. Some local idiot had decided to defy the Pyke Syndicate, practically spitting in the faces of his patrons, and he'd done it publicly. So they sent Fett himself after the man's head—a reminder that punishment was inevitable.

Lately, the Mandalorian had been trying to stick to jobs like this—low-risk ones. It didn't always work out; his line of work wasn't exactly known for being safe, but he did what he could. The last of Clan Fett was raising a son now: Boba. The boy was growing up on Kamino, where the bounty hunter's main contract kept him. Dull work, for the most part, but it paid well enough. All for the clan. All for its rebirth. Jango had no intention of dying as the last Fett.

There was a world of difference between an entire clan falling in battle and meeting its end with honor, and being the last one left alive, forced to shoulder the burden of a choice: rebuild the clan or let it die with you. Jango had chosen the first. It would have been ridiculous to think that a warrior born of warriors would shy away from the hardships of restoring his clan. But... now he had to be far more careful. He needed to raise Boba, train him, and teach him what it truly meant to be a Mando. Ideally, he would raise another couple of children as well—even adopted ones would do—and live long enough to help with the children they would one day have in turn.

The bounty hunter sighed, once again feeling the weight of all the responsibilities waiting for him—responsibilities that had nothing to do with combat, the one place where he felt completely at home.

There was movement outside now, which was actually a good thing. Jango fired up his jetpack, made sure a couple of police officers caught a glimpse of him, and headed for the hidden transport he'd arranged for extraction. Yes, they would recognize the armor, but they wouldn't be able to prove a thing. For all they knew, someone had simply decided to dress up as the galaxy's top bounty hunter. The client, on the other hand, would know that the Mando had been there. All in all, things had gone pretty well. And the fact that the job had turned out easier than Jango expected was a bonus. It meant he could get back to Kamino—and to his son—that much sooner.

---

Obi-Wan Kenobi found himself thinking about his Padawan. Anakin was his first apprentice, and the circumstances that had placed the boy in his care had been... unconventional, to say the least. Right after Obi-Wan had been knighted, no less.

If he was being honest with himself, the newly minted Knight hadn't planned on taking an apprentice anytime soon. A Padawan was meant to learn under a wise, experienced mentor—as Obi-Wan himself had under Qui-Gon. Knighthood, especially in those first few years, was supposed to be a time of learning to stand on one's own.

The young Jedi had heard the same reasoning many times from older Knights, and he had always seen the wisdom in it. Taking a few knocks, making mistakes of his own, finding ways to make amends for them... those were things best gone through alone, perhaps with another Knight at his side, but not in front of a student for whom his Master was supposed to be an example.

And with Skywalker... yes, the boy was growing into a good young man, and the two of them got along remarkably well. But theirs was difficult to call a true Master-and-Padawan relationship. They felt more like two comrades, one simply older and more experienced than the other. Not that there was anything inherently wrong with that, but Obi-Wan often found himself aware of a certain lack of authority. Nothing serious, nothing critical—and yet the feeling lingered that, as a teacher, he was always falling just a little short. Just a fraction. The tiniest bit.

Now, though... his Padawan's emotions were in turmoil as he read his mother's letter over and over again. The first time through, the boy had actually burst into tears, though he'd tried to hide it from his Master.

Kenobi understood the boy. Jedi were not emotionless dolls, no matter what some people seemed to think. They felt joy and grief, and everything else that came with being alive. What mattered was that those emotions remain balanced—without violent surges, sudden peaks, or sharp swings. Self-control was one of the most important skills a member of the Order could possess, and calm, inner peace was the state they were expected to strive toward.

He and Master Yoda had discussed the letter. The teacher of teachers had left the final decision to Obi-Wan as Anakin's Master, but advised that, if he chose to give it to the boy, he should allow him some time alone afterward. Anakin needed to come to terms with the fact that his mother was no longer a slave—that the fear which had been gnawing at him could finally be let go.

The Knight felt a little ashamed before the Grand Master over Skywalker's emotions—or rather, over his own failure as a teacher to help his Padawan overcome them. But Yoda, reading him like an open book, merely gave him a kindly smile. "Your fault, the boy's worry for his mother is not. Know this, I do. And know it, you do as well. Ashamed, you need not be. Late to the Order, your Padawan came."

In the end, Obi-Wan gave Skywalker the letter—but only after word came that the sorcerer who had hired his mother had left Coruscant. It wasn't that the Jedi feared his Padawan would do something foolish. He simply saw no reason to put temptation in the boy's path.

"Thank you, Master," Anakin's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "Thank you for giving me her letter."

Kenobi merely sighed as he looked into the teenager's happy eyes.

"You're welcome, Anakin. But I can't take all the credit. Master Yoda gave the letter to me, and Master Siith gave it to him. He's the one who bought your mother out of slavery, freed her, and gave her a job."

"You've met him?" Hope lit up the boy's eyes.

"No, I haven't. The Masters spoke with him, though, and he didn't leave a bad impression." Obi-Wan decided that Master Rancisis's description of Siith as "a rather cheerful sentient" was probably not something worth sharing with the boy. Still, there was nothing truly alarming about the man... Ahem. Well, aside from the unsettling smile, the way his speech occasionally slipped into something reminiscent of Masters Yoda and Yaddle, the jokes about autopsies, the Mandalorian company he kept, and the pet that killed by eating its victims from the inside out... Force, why did all of that sound so insane when put together? "He is rather unconventional, though. Then again, so are many gifted individuals."

---

Author's Note:

Cheburek* — Crimean or Caucasian meat pie.

CSF** — Coruscant Security Force. The Lower Coruscant Police (LCP) operated as part of the CSF.

---

Today, I decided to bribe the original author with chebureks to get him to finally start working on the continuation of this story.

He promised it'll be soon.

Do we believe him?

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

A couple of minor incidents occurred before our departure. Arvik ran into another Mandalorian and took the evening off. He came back late—and unusually thoughtful.

Meanwhile, that same evening, while our jet-powered armored infantryman was off bonding with a fellow adherent of the Resol'nare*, I had the honor of receiving a visit from the Supreme Chancellor himself.

To be honest, I was genuinely surprised when Suti informed me that we had some rather distinguished visitors. Palpatine himself had come to my apartments, accompanied by only one other sentient.

"Chancellor. My lady." I gestured toward the armchairs arranged around a small table in the sitting room, inviting them to take a seat. "Unexpected, but a pleasant surprise. I'm glad to see you."

I kept my mug of a face respectful and friendly, trying to limit myself to the slightest smile. Seemed to be working: the Chancellor's smile remained as warm and disarming as ever, while his pale companion gave a small flinch. I suppose Palpatine had already gotten somewhat used to my attempts at looking approachable back at the opera.

"Likewise, Master Siith. Allow me to introduce one of my closest aides—and, I daresay, a friend. Sly Moore."

"A pleasure to meet you." I inclined my head in a slight bow. The woman looked strikingly unusual: white skin, white eyes, and not a hair on her head. She was also dressed in something white and distinctly furry. "Allow me to thank you for the work you do. Anything that makes the Chancellor's job easier and benefits the citizens of the Republic deserves recognition."

"Thank you for the kind words. I'm pleased to meet you as well." The Umbaran gave the faintest smile, just at the corners of her lips. Her voice was quite beautiful, low and rich, though there was little actual pleasure in it. Most likely, she was simply here to accompany the Chancellor.

"Forgive the unexpected visit," the Chancellor said with an apologetic smile as he settled into one of the offered armchairs. His pale-skinned companion followed his lead. "We found ourselves with a couple of free hours, and I'll admit I took a small liberty with my position to find out whether you were home. I thought I might drop by—neighbor to neighbor. I hope we haven't pulled you away from anything important."

Palpatine's gaze drifted to the half-finished mug of herbal tea beside me, then to the datapad projecting a three-dimensional model of the interface I was developing for direct interaction with a starship's control systems.

"Nothing important, Chancellor. Just a little personal project." I waved it off, saved my work, and sat down across from him. "Neighbor to neighbor? You mean you..."

"Rent an apartment in this building too," the man finished with a smile.

"Now that is unexpected," I said, shaking my head. "Suti, would you mind bringing our guests... caf, herbal tea, juice, or perhaps something stronger?" I looked questioningly at the Chancellor and his aide.

"The same as you're having," Palpatine said with an easy nod. The Umbaran merely lowered her eyelids in agreement.

The little Twi'lek gave a polite bow and silently left the sitting room, moving with her usual light, graceful step.

"How are you finding Coruscant, Master Siith?" the Chancellor asked once Suti had disappeared from view.

"Chancellor," I said with a slight grimace, "could I ask you not to call me 'Master'? Just Siith. No titles. The Jedi came up with that one for me, but all this Master-this and Grand-Master-that stuff really isn't my thing."

"Agreed," the man said with a chuckle. "Then call me Sheev when we're alone. Sometimes I'm starting to think 'Chancellor' is my first name and 'Supreme' is my surname."

Palpatine laughed softly, and I joined him. Even Moore contributed a polite smile.

"And Coruscant is impressive, yes. Honestly, it's staggering. The very idea of a city-world was completely new to me. I'd read about the capital, of course, and watched holovids, but seeing it in person..."

"In person, it's something else entirely," the Chancellor said with an understanding smile.

A few minutes later, Suti returned with the herbal tea. Knowing my tastes, she also set out a selection of light but sweet snacks and a large teapot, from which she began pouring the drink into delicate little cups. The whole set, incidentally, was something I'd made myself—and an artifact to boot, capable of detecting substances harmful to whoever happened to be holding the cup. I explained as much when my guests began examining the faint green glow of the tableware with obvious curiosity.

"Not to boast, but I'm a fairly competent chimerologist and artificer, so putting together a set like this wasn't particularly difficult. It's no cure-all, of course. Compound poisons that are introduced into the body in separate doses would slip right past it, and a more advanced version needs too much room for the spellwork to fit into a tea set... I suppose I could add a table to the whole arrangement. But carrying a tea set around is one thing. Hauling furniture with it feels a bit excessive."

The conversation flowed easily and pleasantly. Sheev was an excellent conversationalist—someone genuinely enjoyable to talk to. Courteous, quick-witted, completely free of pomposity, intelligent, and never at a loss for words.

He shared a few stories from his life, and I returned the favor. As it turned out, we had quite a lot in common. He was every bit as healthily obsessed as I was—only while I was "sick" with magic and a hunger for knowledge, he was "sick" with politics and the "well-being of the people." We had both been orphaned, and both came from noble families. I may have lost my family name, but the Chancellor showed not even the slightest hint of contempt for it.

I was so comfortable that I didn't even notice when I started telling them about the fifty-year war I'd fought in.

"And there we were, all of Rorschach's Thunder Boys, pushing into the attack! Two dozen heavy infantry out front, as usual, with their shield reservoirs under my responsibility. Rorschach himself was hammering the enemy with chain lightning every five seconds, while Jarl, our goblin shaman, sat on his shoulders and held off every spell the enemy mages threw at us."

The little table became a battlefield map, with cups, dishes, and assorted odds and ends from the shelves standing in for the units deployed in that battle. The Chancellor listened with obvious enthusiasm and genuine interest, and so did his companion.

"So we finally reached their line. The heavies slammed into the lizard formation, their shields started melting like butter in the sun, I'm pouring mana into them, and the reservoirs are still draining faster than I can fill them. I'm already thinking, 'Well, that's it. We're fucked.' And then four massive orcs—breach troops with two-handed swords the size of small trees—launch themselves a good three meters straight over the front rank of those scaly bastards. Two of them got skewered on spears in midair. Good thing they were all wearing stasis amulets. The other two landed right behind the formation and went straight into what the easterners poetically call the 'Ascent of the Crimson Whirlwind.'"

"The orcs had a simpler name for the technique—spinning in place with a greatsword, cutting upward as you turn."

"They called it the 'meat fountain.'"

I took a quick swallow of herbal tea to wet my throat.

"Chunks of meat flying everywhere, severed limbs, the warriors kicking up an actual mist of blood with their techniques—and with one simultaneous charge deeper into the lizards' lines, they practically ground their shaman and a couple of spellcasters into paste. The destabilization dome collapsed when the rest of the mages in the chain lost concentration, and that was when Rorschach unleashed his signature 'Thunderous Fuck-You.' Suicidal spell, Dozdrogodul damn him! A genuine downpour of lightning hammered the enemy positions—and ours right along with them! If it hadn't been for Drunk Jarl, we'd have been completely screwed. That little goblin was an absolute master of defensive magic, and on top of that, he had a pact with a storm spirit."

"Why 'Drunk'?" Sly Moore asked, sounding genuinely puzzled.

"Because he never went into battle with Rorschach sober. They also called him Jarl Iron Liver. Some people used to joke that he wouldn't die in battle at all—he'd die of a hangover."

"And how did the battle end?" the Chancellor asked, casting his aide a mildly surprised glance before turning his attention back to me.

"That's it. That was the end of it," I laughed, nodding toward the mess I'd made of the table. "Suti, dear, would you mind cleaning this disaster up? Anyway, back to the battle: the spell left a hundred-meter stretch of ground scorched by lightning, a heap of roasted lizard meat, and a gaping hole in their right flank. That was where the orc boys hit them, tearing the lizardmen's pathetic attempts to plug the breach to pieces. Rorschach went down with an overstrained core, of course, and Jarl collapsed from the backlash of his pact with the spirit. The lads and I had to drag both of them off the front line, along with our thoroughly roasted breach fighters. We lost one of them for good, unfortunately. Good orc. Fine fellow. But the lightning hit him square in the top of the head. Still, I imagine Gork and Mork welcomed him onto the fields of endless war with open arms. He died exactly the way his faith said an orc ought to—in one hell of a fight, as the greenskins would put it."

"Siith, all these orcs and goblins have made me curious—what do your own people call themselves?" Palpatine asked, taking a small sip of his tea.

"I'm human. If you mean my nationality, we're called Tailfolk, because we live on the Continent-at-the-Tail," I said with a shrug. "I checked when I first met the Jabiimites."

"And the eyes?" the man asked, pointing to his own.

"Oh, that's a funny story—and an important lesson in manners for me." I stroked my beard a little sheepishly. "A divine miracle, you might say. When I was younger, I failed to keep a sarcastic remark to myself about the priests of a certain god, and this was the warning I got for it. Nothing fatal. My face was hardly a masterpiece to begin with, and you and Lady Moore have already had a chance to appreciate the smile, so the Lightbringer merely added one more finishing touch to the overall look."

All in all, we had a very pleasant conversation. At Sheev's request, I told him a little about Vivec, the Immortal Emperor of the dark elves. I had to explain some peculiarities of their race, since a few of the ash-skinned folk's traditions came as something of a shock to the Nabooan. In particular, their "institution of betrayal," the doctrine of the "perfect stab in the back," and the rather bloody relationships between teacher and student, ruler and heir. Vivec himself had once said, "A teacher who dies by a student's hand was a poor teacher. A student who dies in the course of training was a poor student. Neither deserves mourning, any more than we mourn the waste leaving our bodies." Or, "If, in your pursuit of personal power, you kill your ruler and weaken your House in the process, then you are lower than the dirt beneath your feet. Empty ash has more worth than a fool whose lust for power brings ruin upon his own bloodline."

When Palpatine asked why I had given him such morally questionable books, I answered honestly that I considered democracy far too soft a form of government and thought it could use a little sensible cruelty. Still, I added with a shrug, it was all in the Supreme Chancellor's hands, and the books could just as easily be read as the life story of a rather unconventional sentient living in an equally unusual society. When I added, "Though if you do go with cruelty, the important thing is not to overdo it," Sly Moore suddenly choked hard on her tea. I even got a little worried, but thank Hecate, she was fine.

The Chancellor and his aide stayed for nearly three hours before finally getting ready to leave. Honestly, I couldn't remember the last time I'd talked that much. Palpatine really was a wonderful conversationalist, and his charisma was downright disarming. I even let him in on a little secret: in the near future, the JMG planned to start training people from outside Jabiim. I offered the Chancellor first pick of the available places—and naturally, training his people would be completely free of charge.

"We've already got the dormitory nearly finished, and the food will be good—I'll be keeping an eye on that myself. If any of the candidates are particular about comfort, there's a town not too far away where they can rent decent housing, hire servants, and either rent or buy reasonably priced airspeeders adapted for our weather. I doubt they'll get the very first houses built, but something in the teens or twenties should still be available. Just don't send them in whole companies, please." I snorted, imagining a neat formation of the Chancellor's supporters made up of secretaries, relatives, and bodyguards. "We're still short on teachers, so the first intakes will only be a couple dozen sentients at a time. At first, the curriculum will be limited to artifact-making, the theory of sorcery, defensive magic, the basics of combat sorcery, and introductory chimerology."

At that, Sheev and Lady Moore stopped getting ready to leave, and the Chancellor began questioning me in detail about the subjects and fields of study. Fine by me. It wasn't as though explaining it cost me anything, so I walked them through each discipline in a little more depth than I planned to put into the eventual advertisements.

"If you'll allow me a bit of advice..." I gave Sheev a questioning look, and he nodded with a pleasant smile. "I'd recommend sending your people to study defensive magic and artifact-making. Perfect for anyone serving a suzerain whose work tends to put him in harm's way. I'll personally put your people through their paces on defensive magic. They'll learn to make amulets almost like the one I gave you—minus the healing module, but otherwise with the full package: protection against blasters, kinetic impacts, thermal damage, mental intrusion, even an air-filtering bubble that shields the wearer from sudden pressure changes. Fantastic for people with high blood pressure, by the way. Back home, older folks used to snap those things up like hotcakes. Well, the ones who couldn't afford to have a good healer fix the problem properly."

"Mental protection?" the Chancellor asked, surprised.

"Well, yes." I nodded, grimacing slightly. "Against mind-readers, compulsions, that sort of thing. Someone with a well-trained mind can resist a lot of it on their own, but back home we had creatures that could drive you insane with a direct mental strike. I haven't run into anything quite like that here yet, though I've heard the Jedi can muddle people's minds. Then again, whether I've encountered it or not..." I flicked a fingernail against my amulet. "I wear protection at all times. 'Constant Vigilance,' as... a friend of mine used to say."

"A very sensible precaution," the Chancellor agreed, smiling toward his aide. Lady Moore gave a brief smile of her own and nodded in agreement with her patron. "Aren't you concerned that the Jedi Order might come to see you as competition?"

Palpatine looked doubtful, and there was even a trace of genuine concern in his expression at the thought.

"Not really. Why would I?" I asked, genuinely surprised. "The JMG's interests don't really overlap with the Jedi's at all. In fact, I'm almost certain that sooner or later they'll start sending members of the Order to train with us. Knights, I'd imagine, if not Masters—so the different teaching methods don't end up confusing the upbringing of younglings or Padawans. We're not an order devoted to spiritual guidance or anything like that. We're closer to craftsmen and scholars, and frankly, I don't see any problem with Force-sensitive members of the Order studying our tradition."

I scratched at my beard, then gave a quiet snort. At the Chancellor's questioning look, I explained:

"If the Jedi decide, for whatever reason, to turn their backs on sorcery, sooner or later they'll fall behind their enemies—the Sith. From what I've been able to gather from public sources, those people are definitely not the sort to pass up a chance to make themselves stronger."

The Chancellor raised his brows in surprise and shot his companion an odd look.

"And the JMG would simply accept those... creatures?"

"Oh, honestly, I doubt any Dark Side Force-user is going to walk up to me and say, 'We're Sith. Teach us sorcery.' I'm almost certain they'd simply enroll without drawing attention to themselves, pay their tuition like everyone else, keep their Sith traditions to themselves, and generally stay well below the radar. Their Order managed to remain hidden in the galaxy for a thousand years, after all. And most likely, anyone coming to Jabiim to study would arrive wearing one of our protective amulets, hidden from everyone's notice."

I scratched the back of my head, looking doubtfully from the Chancellor to the Umbaran.

"I'm not going to put every applicant through analysis rituals, am I? Maybe we could get away with it for the first intake, but once the students realized we'd practically been looking straight through them... Sure, nobody cares much about commoners, but I doubt anyone with real power would appreciate us doing that to their protégés or heirs. You, for example. Or Master Yoda. Or some corporate executive, banker, magnate... No, I don't need that kind of trouble, and neither does Alto. We're interested in seeing Jabiim prosper, and if we ever resort to something like that, it'll be in exceptional circumstances only. The JMG is perfectly happy doing honest business without any prospect of getting dragged into religious or ideological wars. I saw more than enough of that back home. That's why I founded a Guild, not some brotherhood or cult. Every spellcaster has the right to decide for themselves how to live their life. And let's be honest—if Jabiim decided not to 'share,' how long do you think it would be before certain interested parties started leaning on us?"

Palpatine frowned slightly at that last remark, but a couple of seconds later he let out a quiet sigh—sad, perhaps, but understanding—and nodded. And with that, the Chancellor and I said our goodbyes, exchanging knowing smiles. We wished each other well, and Sheev shook my hand with what seemed like genuine warmth; I returned the gesture in kind. Then I exchanged bows with the white-eyed woman, who by the end of the conversation had thawed somewhat and even allowed herself a rather pleasant, genuinely warm smile.

In the end, I invited both of them to visit Jabiim, very carefully hinting that I could take care of any health problems they might have and telling them about our "wonderful hot baths with exclusive treatments that practically give you your youth back." In short, I was charm itself, sincerely doing my best to leave a good impression on these pleasant, powerful sentients.

Hopefully, I succeeded.

---

Author's Note:

Resol'nare* — the "Six Actions" when translated from Mando'a into Galactic Basic. They were the core principles that governed the life of every Mandalorian: wear the armor; speak the language; raise and educate children as new Mandalorians; defend yourself and your family; support your clan; and answer the first call of the leader of all the clans—the Mand'alor.

(Shamelessly stolen from Wookieepedia.)

---

Original Russian story

You can find more chapters on my Patreon.

The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.