The Force of Magic [Star Wars SI]

[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.

 

[Hadrian.Caeser]

I look forward to Nu regaining her youth and going crazy again

 

[Vyraco]

Whoopsie, deaged you by 40 years with a ritual other people have to pay through the nose for... ehh, you can just be advertisement!

 

[FTR2017]

I discovered this story recently, and it has been quite a treat to enjoy and binge.

Kudos to both you the translator and the writer for sharing this very enjoyable piece of fanfiction, it is memorable and full of personality for every character given the spotlight.

I wonder, if I burst into their Council chamber with an ignited lightsaber glowing scarlet, will they start asking me where I found it?!"

Click to shrink...

Yes, considering their competency.

Besides, they'd take away the lightsaber and deal with you like one would a baby wielding a knife, for added involuntary insult.

 

[readsalot]

could arrange a little accident for Lady Nu involving a ritual that went wrong and mercilessly shaved a few decades off her age.

Click to shrink...

Heh a certain Sith Lord will hear about this, and become very interested, possibly spending a Space Yacht worth of credits to get some youth back

 

[Razorfloss]

Just found the story and man this is fascnating. It feels just like something that could actually be possible in setting in the background while the main story happens. Thanks for translating it.

 

[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.

 

[LastNomai]

Palpy falling into the trap of "I am a scheming schemer so everyone else must be as well!"

 

[Cosmic Dream]

Nothing to send a schemer into a tailspin like a powerful man with genuinely nothing to hide.

 

[0Whatever0]

I genuinely enjoyed this it's probably my favorite star wars story can't say for certain because there's alot of them out there thanks for translation.

 

[readsalot]

What in the ever-loving hell was wrong with you people?

Click to shrink...

Omg this is better than I imagined XD Palpy is thinking this is some 20 dimensional chess move and that there's a hidden Master behind Siith, while thinking the Jedi are morons for not seeing through this "deception"
Too funny

 

[Vyraco]

Yeah, "He knows, I know, he knows, I know." Harm set, harm get. Even honest help can be a poisoned fruit.

Did no one tell Bail they aren't slaves anymore?

 

[lopsigon]

This chapter had me laughing and slapping my leg! Aah, Thanks for the much-needed humor. God, Papapalps, you are a riot when you meet someone outside your calculations.

 

[FTR2017]

Palpy's indignation and admiration for the sheer balls it must've taken this 'sith' to just show up, make friends with the Jedi Order, then act all buddy-buddy with him was the best thing I've ever read!

My sides!

 

[LandWhale172]

Bro's practically going bug-eyed lmao, amazing!

 

[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.

 

[Vyraco]

Man, I just wanted to make myself a sandwich, now I'm going to have to invest some actual work, to make something tasty... good job, you motivated me even through the internet, now the author doesn't have a chocie, he has to write more

Does he have some extra use for all those souls, or are they still just for current and future energy needs?

 

[readsalot]

He is rather unconventional, though. Then again, so are many gifted individuals."

---

Author's Note:

Cheburek* — Crimean or Caucasian meat pie.

Click to shrink...

Unconventional is a word that can be used XD
Oooh Meat Pie , delicious
That image made me hungry, going to grab a bite

 

[Poimenikos]

Cheburek

Click to shrink...

Cheburek, burek, mpourek, μπουρεκ. Μπουρεκακια.
Oh friend how i missed you. Even in Greece our grandmas keep feeling you up with all the good stuff and frying or baking you. With some yogurt or tzatziki....
Brb i have to eat guys

 

[FTR2017]

Gotta love an enterprising sorcerer convincing his generous patrons about donating money for the poor and needy.

With said enterprising sorcerer being the poor and needy in question.

 

[GorMartsen]

Damn. As I read I was sure I read it before, and then "Original..." Yeah. this is great story.