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Vestara glanced first at Luke, then at Ben. Ben shrugged slightly.

“Thank you,” Gavar Khai said again. “That is most kind of you. Our chitchat about Vestara’s mother and servants and the state of the household would likely not interest you anyway.”

“I doubt very much that it would,” Luke said. Both men smiled. Both knew that if any mention of mother, servants, and the state of the household did indeed occur, it would be only in passing. Between Sith, there were other matters to discuss.

Luke indicated his cabin, and the two Khais entered. The door slid shut, and Luke and Ben made their way back to the cockpit.

“How come you did that?” Ben asked. “I thought you were against a private visit.”

“I said they could have a chat. I never said that it would be private.”

“I see. But it’s not going to do us any good. I mean—Khai’s acting all polite, but he’s not going to speak Basic just so we can eavesdrop more efficiently.”

“No. They’ll speak the other language we’ve heard from Vestara before.” Luke flicked a switch. Gavar Khai’s voice was heard, speaking in a lilting tongue. Then Vestara’s, light and musical.

“It’s pretty,” Ben said, and Luke wasn’t sure if he meant the language or Vestara’s voice. “But what’s the point? We’ve got no reference in the databanks. There’s no way we can translate this.”

Luke gave him a grin. “We can’t. But I know someone who can.”

“They will be recording everything we say,” Vestara said.

“Of course they will. It is what I would do. But they have never heard Keshiri before. I doubt they will be able to translate it swiftly enough for our conversation to be useful to them.”

Vestara nodded. “This is not a diplomat’s vessel,” she agreed.

“You have been given free rein of it?” Khai said, reaching into his robes and producing a piece of flimsi and a writing instrument. When Vestara nodded, he said, “Good. Draw it for me while we speak.”

At once Vestara obeyed, laying the flimsi down on a flat piece of furniture and beginning to sketch. She heard a slight rustling and turned, curious. Her father was reaching inside his robes, searching for something, and a moment later his hand emerged.

He held out a shikkar.

Vestara smiled. Of course. The sensors would detect no weapon, as the shikkar was made entirely of glass. She recognized this one as one from her father’s personal collection. It was a piece crafted by one of the most famous shikkar glassmakers, Tura Sanga. Sanga’s work was distinctive, and this was no exception. The shikkar was narrow and elegant, stark black-and-white, the hilt slender and long, the blade barely the width of a finger. Its fragility was deceptive. The only weak spot was where the blade joined the hilt—a quick snap would separate the two. Vestara wondered who she would use it on. Ben? The great Luke Skywalker himself? Perhaps, if she was lucky. After all, she had already cut him once. She could do so again, should the opportunity arise. She accepted the noble weapon with a humble nod of thanks, and stashed it carefully in her own robes.

“How is Mother?” she asked.

“She is well. Missing you, but proud of what you are doing.”

Vestara smiled a little. “I am glad. I strive to make you proud.” And to become a Saber like you … or even soar higher than you. She did not attempt to shield her emotions from her father; he encouraged her ambition and would not take offense.

“You did fine work on Dathomir,” Gavar continued. “And even though your Master is dead, you are still to be granted the rank of apprentice. We will find a new Master for you when this business with Abeloth and the Skywalkers is complete. I am sure many will be eager to teach you.”

Vestara straightened slightly, basking in the phrase. “The so called Nightsister prisoners we took are being sorted out according to their abilities and Force-strengths,” her father continued.

“They go willingly?” Vestara was surprised.

“Some do, most do not.” Gavar shrugged his broad shoulders. “It matters not. They will go and do what we tell them, or they will suffer. And a little suffering often