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“Wes, she’s Iella Wessiri.”

Janson’s eyes widened. “What?”

Iella Wessiri was a New Republic Intelligence agent, a former partner and long-time friend of Rogue Squadron member Corran Horn. She had been very helpful to the Rogues during the taking of the world Coruscant from the Empire. Her husband Diric, an unwilling traitor brainwashed by Imperial Intelligence head Ysanne Isard, had died during those events. Corran and Wedge had both helped her through the trying times to follow, and Wedge had eventually grown interested in her himself, until things had conspired to separate them for good. His career. Hers. Ultimately, his relationship with Qwi Xux. After that began, he’d almost never run into Iella.

“If it’s really her,” Wedge continued, “she’s probably here on an Intelligence assignment. Don’t do anything to blow her cover—just be your usual obnoxious self and let her shoot you down.”

“I resent the implication that she would. That any woman would.”

“But suggest to her that your commander finds her interesting and would like to see her at some time. I’d like to know what she’s up to. Whether she’s here to support us. Whether we can help her. That sort of thing.”

Janson nodded. “Understood. And if it’s not actually Iella?”

“You’re on your own.”

Janson’s grin returned.

• • •

Wedge spoke to Cheriss, and she spoke to some sort of functionary, and moments later that man drew a blastsword. He thumbed it on and waved it in a circle over his head. Wherever the tip moved through the air, it traced a glowing yellow line, so his motion created a shining circle above him. As soon as he ceased his motion, it began to fade.

This attracted the attention of the crowd and conversation quelled. “We have a non-title ground challenge,” he said. “Lord Pilot Depird ke Fanax challenges Cartann Ground Champion Cheriss ke Hanadi, vengeance for her defeat of Jeapird ke Fanax at the last championship.”

There was applause from the crowd, which withdrew from the speaker, forming an open circle in the middle of the chamber.

Wedge turned to Tomer. “Wait, wait. I thought she was going to put on some sort of show or demonstration.”

Tomer’s expression was serious. “She is. To entertain you, she offered to accept a combat challenge. As the ground champion, she receives a lot of them. And you told her to go ahead.”

“I didn’t know that’s what she meant. I’m putting a stop to this.” Wedge took a step forward, but Tomer’s hand fell on his shoulder and restrained him.

“Don’t,” Tomer said. His voice was a plea. “It’s too late. The challenge was accepted. You’re out of the loop. All you can do now is embarrass Cheriss and look like an idiot—you’ll be demonstrating weakness.”

Wedge glared, then fell back. “You could have told me.”

“You spoke with such confidence. I thought you understood.”

Cheriss took off her belt, handing it to the man who’d made the announcement, and drew her blastsword and knife. She held the latter in a reverse grip, the blade laid back along her forearm, and took an experimental thrust or two with the blastsword. It was not powered up and left no glowing lines behind. Her smile was no longer cheerful; hers was the delight of a predator that had run its prey to ground.

Into the circle stepped a young man. He was perhaps a year or two older than Cheriss, lean and graceful, his clothing all in blacks and yellows, his mustache stylishly trim. He whipped his hip cloak from his shoulders and threw it into the crowd, then reached to the belt held by someone at the edge of the crowd and drew a blastsword and knife. He held his knife in a more conventional grip than Cheriss did. “I am here to correct the results of an accident,” he said, his voice light and unconcerned, “and to demonstrate what we all know—that wherever a ground-pounder can merely achieve, a flier can excel.”

There was applause at his words. He thumbed on the power of the blastsword and twirled it before him, leaving a figure-eight pattern that glowed redly