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Dyon nodded. “It’s never a good idea to let the enemy choose the battlefield.”

Luke moved off toward the camp’s center of activity: the competition ground where Kaminne and Tasander would now be officiating a new event. “Let’s talk to someone about moving the camp.”

Tasander, who, like many noble Hapan males, came from a family line with a tradition of piracy, and Kaminne, who had kept her clan together and alive across ten hard years, didn’t require much convincing. The problem was simply one of logistics.

“A full packing-up and moving-out can’t take less than an hour.” Kaminne thought about it. “Though we could announce it as a run to safety. Five minutes to get to your camp and grab what is most important to you, five more minutes to muster, and then move out, leaving behind everything not absolutely crucial. But where do we go? Add marching time, and there’s only so far we can get before night falls and we’re vulnerable.”

Tasander glanced to the northeast. “There’s a hill a few kilometers that way. It’s off the trade paths. Very ugly, unpromising hill. Steep-sided, rocky, and barren. But there’s nothing up there to burn and it’s very, very defensible.”

Kaminne nodded. “Water?”

“Nothing to drink up there, unfortunately.”

“We’ll have to fill up every waterskin and other container before we move out. More time, unfortunately. And whose is the standard?”

“Huh?” Tasander seemed stumped by that one.

Luke was, too. “The standard?”

Tasander gestured around. “This is not one campsite. It’s two. Broken Columns distinctly over here, Raining Leaves distinctly over there, each under its own standard, or clan symbol. Oh, three camps now, with you offworlders right in the middle. But that hilltop, small and irregular as it is, can’t be partitioned off as easily. So it will be a Broken Columns camp or a Raining Leaves camp, but not both. One clan will be there at the sufferance of the other … and won’t like it, which undercuts our morale and chain of command. So, which is the hosting clan? Whose standard do we fly?”

Luke let a little durasteel creep into his voice. “Jedi. It’s a Jedi camp. Dyon, I need you to make a standard. Quickly.”

Dyon nodded. “Done.”

Kaminne glanced at Tasander, then looked at Luke again. “Raining Leaves agree.”

“So do Broken Columns.” Tasander scratched his chin, so obviously and theatrically an I’m thinking now gesture that it was difficult not to laugh. “We still need one member from each clan to accompany the Jedi to claim the site and plant the standard.”

Though Kaminne was opening her mouth to answer, Ben interrupted her. “Halliava and Drola.”

Kaminne gave him a curious look. “Why?”

“They’re both young and popular, they’ve both won several matches. They’re both unmarried. Gives people something to speculate about.”

Kaminne shrugged. “Good enough. Halliava and Drola, then.”

“But don’t tell them what this is all about. Let’s confine information as much as possible.” Ben kept his tone light, as though this were a reasonable request but not a critical one.

“As you wish.” She glanced at her fiancé. “Let us begin.”

“Let’s.”

Together they trotted off toward the current competition, unarmed combat between those with no Arts.

Luke gave Ben a look he tried, and failed, to make an admonishing one. “You’re getting very sneaky, Ben.”

“I get that from Mom. And maybe from the Skywalkers, too—Leia’s your sister. Sneakiness just skipped you.”

Dyon shook his head, confused. “I don’t get it. What was sneaky?”

Ben gave him an innocent look. “It’s a teenage thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

Not too surprisingly, Dyon had on his datapad some information on the Jedi and the Galactic Alliance. Using familiar symbols on the ’pad as a frame of reference, he quickly worked up a flag that would serve as the Jedi standard for this mission. On a large square of tan cloth, he painted in black the bird-like symbol that had served as the basis for much New Republic and Galactic Alliance heraldry. Over that