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Keeping an eye on her when he could, Ben looked at Faskus. The man was unconscious—odd, since Ben didn’t think he’d hit him that hard. But that would help. Ben returned his lightsaber to his belt, then patted Faskus down.

The blaster in Faskus’s belt holster was real. So were the smaller ones in his boot and in the small holster under his right sleeve. So was the vibroblade in the sheath in his left sleeve. Ben appropriated all the weapons, then looked around.

There was a coil of yellow cord in one corner of the tent. Ben snatched it up. Then he rolled Faskus over, discovering, and appropriating, another blaster in a holster at the base of his spine, and got to work tying his hands.

The fork hit him in the cheek, stuck for a moment, then fell free. “You’re hurting him!”

Ben rubbed his cheek. His fingers came away with a smear of blood on them. “No, I’m not. I’m just tying him up.”

“He’s already hurt, you’re making it worse.”

Ben finished with Faskus’s hands and got to work on the man’s feet. “Where?”

“His stomach.”

Ben rolled Faskus over again and pulled up the man’s gray tunic.

He whistled. An improvised bandage—thick layers of shirt cloth held on by bindings made from torn cloth strips—covered the lower left portion of Faskus’s stomach. It was soaked with blood.

Carefully, Ben untied the strips and lifted the bandage free. A look at the blood-washed skin beneath showed him that Faskus had suffered a penetrating wound at least seven centimeters long. More blood welled from it as the bandage came away. Faskus groaned but did not wake up.

Ben replaced and retied the cloth. He’d received training in first aid from both his Jedi teachers and the Guard, but more than first aid was called for here.

He put his hands on Faskus’s chest and brow and sought what knowledge and feelings he could through the Force. He didn’t know much about Force healing, but Master Cilghal and his father had taught him a few things, bare necessities.

Faskus was not strong in the Force, not strongly here. He was like a flickering candle compared with his daughter. There was turbulence from the wound. As Ben peered deeper, he sensed blood flowing where it should not. He sensed life ebbing.

He didn’t know much about stomach wounds. Other Jedi had told him they sometimes didn’t bleed much, but that they usually hurt a lot.

Faskus should be dead now, and it was clear that only willpower and a desire to protect his daughter were keeping him alive. And even they wouldn’t be enough for long. Ben hesitated, wondering how to tell the girl. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Kiara. Are you going to make him better?”

“I can’t.”

Faskus’s eyes opened. They were glassy. He tried to roll to one side and failed. His vision cleared a bit, and he looked at Ben. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Ben Skywalker. Galactic Alliance Guard.”

“Any relation to Luke Skywalker?”

“I’m his son.”

“Good.” Faskus lay back and closed his eyes for a moment. Ben thought the man might die then and there, but this was only a gesture of relief, and Faskus opened his eyes to look at his daughter. “Guardsman Skywalker will take care of you from now on.”

“No, Daddy.” Kiara hurled herself onto her father’s chest. “He hurt you.”

“He just knocked me down. I was already hurt. The starfighter hurt me.”

Uncomfortable with the exchange, with what was coming, Ben interrupted. “Why did you steal the Amulet of Kalara?”

Faskus looked at him, confused. “I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. From an office building on Drewwa.”

“Drewwa is where they gave it to me, yes. That’s where I live and work.”

“I thought you were from Ziost.”

Faskus shook his head, not an energetic move. “I’m from Almania. I’m a courier.”

“Who gave the amulet to you?”

“A Bothan. Named Dyur. He told me to bring it here. To land at specific coordinates and carry the amulet to a nearby cave. To come alone.” He laughed, one short bark that ended in a gasp of pain. “I’m sorry, Kiara. I wish I had. I’m so sorry.”

“And you were strafed?” Ben asked.

Faskus nodded. “I was partway to the cave when I heard the engine roar.