Star Wars_ Coruscant Nights 01_ Jedi Twilight - Michael Reaves [29]
The threads of the Force that surrounded him were a grim, durasteel gray. His eyes were like hammered metal. Rostu could have never, by any standard, been called even mildly overweight, but the last few months seemed to have purged every gram of fat from his frame. He was as lean as a Tusken Raider just back from a long walkabout. This man could be downright dangerous, Jax knew—but not here, and not now.
“Nice scar,” he said, more to fill the sudden silence than anything else.
Rostu grinned and touched his left cheekbone. “Isn’t it?” he said. “Souvenir of a Mangler’s vibroblade. Don’t worry; his is a lot worse.”
The Manglers were lords of the Southern Underground and reputed to be one of the toughest gangs on the planet; supposedly even the Red Guards would think twice before tangling with them. If Rostu was telling the truth—and Jax saw no indication in the Force that he was doing otherwise—it was yet more proof that he was someone to be reckoned with.
He was also in a position to help Jax. Nick Rostu was one of the partisans who could arrange for Jax to be on the next transport offworld. And Jax was more than ready to go.
“We need to talk,” Rostu said as they reached his skimmer.
“I know a place,” Jax replied.
ten
Gort’s was a dark and moody hole-in-the-wall Mon Calamari restaurant on the fiftieth level. Quarren music, mostly atonal quetarra études, played softly from hidden speakers. The clientele was varied: a Verpine sat at the sulyet bar, as did a couple of humans, a Toydarian, and a Sakiyan. Jax and Rostu were also seated at the bar, where they could see both front and rear entrances. They’d taken a roundabout route, and Jax felt reasonably confident that they hadn’t been followed.
It was evident that Rostu had never tried Quarren cuisine. He eyed with considerable mistrust the tasteful arrangement of sulyet on the platter that the chef had just set before him. “It’s still moving.”
“That means it’s fresh.” Jax picked up a small oblong bar of tikit grain. It had a tiny sliver of purple coral worm arranged on it, which writhed slowly. He put it in his mouth and chewed, savoring the tang of sweet and tart.
Rostu gingerly picked up a grain ball with a nudi-branch embedded in it. A tiny eye on a stalk opened and peered at him, and he put it down again hastily. “And I thought ready rations were hard to choke down.”
“Not so loud,” Jax said. “You’ll insult the chef.”
“And he’ll do what? Force-feed me more of this purple sourwort garnish?”
“No, but he might make a slight mistake in preparing that nexufish he’s working on. Nexufish are deadly poison if not served exactly right.”
“Any particular reason you picked a restaurant where seafood is a deadly weapon, or are you just misanthropic in general?”
Down the bar, the Sakiyan accepted a large order of nexufish sulyet from the chef and began devouring it. Jax poured a cup of grain wine from the carafe.
“So,” he said, “to what do I owe the pleasure of this rescue?”
Rostu’s expression turned grim. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you,” he said. “Even Piell was your mentor, wasn’t he?”
Jax felt his skin chill. “How did it happen?”
Nick nodded. “Felt it already, huh?”
“Yes.” Jax sighed. “I didn’t know for sure that it was him, but there aren’t a lot left to choose from.”
“News travels fast through the Force.” Nick hesitated, then told him how Even Piell had met his fate.
Jax gazed into the ceramic wine cup. More than anyone else, Master Piell had been his guide along the Jedi path. The Lannik had been small in physical stature, but to Jax he’d been a giant—as much a father as a teacher. Under Master Piell’s instruction he’d made his first, fumbling forays into the mysteries of the Force, had fashioned his lightsaber, had learned the intricacies of combat. Because of the Jedi Master’s careful and thorough instruction, Jax had passed his trials with flying colors. However much of a Jedi he was—however much of a man he was—that