Qui-Gon refused to open his eyes. It was morning, and the day had to be faced, but not yet. Not yet. Force, what had he done? He felt his throat closing with shame.

Obi-Wan was entangled with him, wrapped about him, knee between his Master's legs, chest half-over Qui-Gon's, fingers tangled in his hair. He could feel the weight of the padawan braid flung across his chest as though it were a lead-lined conduit. Obi-Wan's breath warmed his ear, and his lips nuzzled against his beard as he mumbled in his sleep. It sounded like his name, little though Qui-Gon deserved that.

It was not only that he'd had transgressed a strict point in the Jedi Code by having sex with his padawan learner; Obi-Wan had made it clear he wanted that from Qui-Gon, at least -- but the way it had happened was unacceptable to the Jedi Master. He'd released the animal inside himself, abandoned his control. It was a thing that rarely happened to him normally, but on this mission he had constantly felt himself riding that ragged edge as he was forced to cope with the expectations Riadan culture held for himself and for Obi-Wan. He had spent so long denying his feelings for his padawan that he was unable to cope with them when they surfaced. His feelings had jeopardized not only their training relationship, but also their mission ... and last night, he had let himself cross beyond the point of no return for both. Disaster.

His apprentice stirred a little more, waking, and Qui-Gon dropped into a subterfuge of slow and easy breathing, emptying his mind in order to fake sleep. He needed another few minutes to himself before he could face Obi-Wan and observe the effects of what he had done both to them and to their training bond.

Obi-Wan continued to awaken. It was a process that involved much sighing and nuzzling. As the last dregs of dreaming faded from his mind, Obi-Wan began sleepily running his fingers over Qui-Gon's chest, slowly mapping the terrain of smooth skin, fading scars, and rough hair he found there. His touch was light, soothing, and appreciative. It bore no residue of resentment, uncertainty, or malice in spite of what he'd been through in the past two days ... two days that seemed to Qui-Gon as though they had taken months to pass.

Obi-Wan's diffident fingers eventually trickled down his belly and, after a savoring pause, took him up softly and began to study him with loving pressure. Qui-Gon suffered the pleasurable examination guiltily, wondering if he would be allowed to continue in his pretense of sleep.

His body responded, of course, to Obi-Wan's manipulation, his penis coming erect slowly. Obi-Wan smiled against his skin, and moved to brush a kiss against Qui-Gon's cheek. "I love you, Master," Obi-Wan whispered huskily into what Qui-Gon knew he assumed was a sleeping ear.

In spite of their strong bond of respect and trust, those words had never been exchanged between them before this mission. They dropped into Qui-Gon like a stone into a pond, sinking to his core, spreading ripples of shame throughout his body. Obi-Wan had said them before, during the beating when Qui-Gon had been so preoccupied by his own anguish that he couldn't take the time to ponder them -- he'd had to ignore them, to keep his sanity -- but now ... to hear them spoken while lying abed, bodies entwined in the morning aftermath of rough, frenzied sex, Obi-Wan half-draped over his Master, unaware that Qui-Gon might be awake and listening ... they resounded with simple, poignant sincerity.

His apprentice loved him. Qui-Gon felt anguish spike his heart. He had badly failed Obi-Wan as a Master by permitting them to undertake this mission with his padawan so ill-prepared, by collaring him, by permitting his tender young body to be displayed and touched publicly, by forgetting to feed him. But even after all that, even after Qui-Gon himself had beaten Obi-Wan and taken him brutally, the only things Obi-Wan offered were his deep, abiding trust and self-effacing love, and the bright, scintillating gift of himself. How long had that been there, waiting, only to arise now when they had no leisure to come to terms with it, when the tension its demands exerted on Qui-Gon promised to destroy both their mission and their training bond?

His padawan was moving now, considerately half-levitating over Qui-Gon in order to leave the bed without waking him. He heard Obi-Wan pad into the 'fresher, heard the door click shut behind him.

He had several minutes to compose himself, to find the words that must be said to his padawan. To try to become again what he had given up his right to be the previous evening. To give Obi-wan the support he had to have to survive this intact ... or at least salvageable.

Obi-Wan stood quietly before the mirror in the small room, carefully examining his body, even turning his back to survey the fading welts from the lash that had been applied to him. Qui-Gon had been too concerned with Obi-Wan's pain; if there were no marks on him today, Corm would surely notice that something was amiss.

But Obi-Wan was marked, and not merely upon his back. Wondering fingers rose to his throat, traced the dark print of teeth that lay there. On his upper arm and his hip were ten wide-splayed bruises, the exact size and shape of Qui-Gon's broad fingers. His lips were swollen, and there were miscellaneous bites, bruises, and tender red and pale purple patches scattered over his skin that he could not quite remember receiving. He had not been taken so much as he had simply been ... devoured. Even his thighs and calves had not escaped the inadvertent prints of Qui-Gon's strong hands and mouth. And he was sore elsewhere also, though it did not show so readily as the other marks, his body stretched and tender from accommodating his Master's rough entry.

He could read his body now, like a book that detailed the intimate secrets of Qui-Gon's desire for him, Qui-Gon's pleasure in him. The marks on his flesh were a calligraphy of lust that Qui-Gon had carefully inscribed onto him, the only recorded evidence of what had happened between himself and his Master.

He found that he loved looking at the visible results of Qui-Gon's loving on his flesh, and he touched a bite mark with trembling fingers. Its slight pain was an echo of pleasure, an echo of possession. It was a reminder that he was needed, and had been taken. It proved, in some subtle and disturbing way, that Qui-Gon valued him sexually, that his Master had wanted him so much that he had thrown everything aside and simply let himself take what Obi-Wan offered.

Obi-Wan realized that he never wanted these marks to fade from his body. He wanted them, needed them, to prove that he was desired, to prove that he had pierced that stolid, aloof barrier that had almost always stood between himself and Qui-Gon Jinn, since the earliest days of his near-thwarted apprenticeship to the Jedi Master. It had been years before Obi-Wan understood that Qui-Gon actually did truly want Obi-Wan as his apprentice, that he was not training him merely out of some measure of expedience or pity. And that understanding, when it arrived, had been purely intellectual, not emotional.

This ... this was something else entirely, and while it was not precisely the sort of emotional bond Obi-Wan had hoped for, it made him realize how thirsty his spirit was for indisputable confirmation that a deep, mutual emotional connection of some kind existed between himself and Qui-Gon. And now that that evidence existed ... he felt almost inordinate pride in the proofs of their lust manifested on him.

Obi-Wan swallowed, caught suddenly by the incongruity of the vast, terrible craving to be loved that was revealed at the core of his soul. It was terrifying, alien, insatiable, and its passion and need was a complete contradiction to his training in independence and to the Jedi Code, which decreed that a Jedi should feel peace and serenity instead of passion. He suddenly needed anchoring in his own true identity, and he knew of only one place to turn in hopes of finding it.

"Master, I'm frightened." Obi-Wan emerged from the 'fresher cubicle still unwashed. Qui-Gon opened his eyes and looked at his student, sensing the unguarded truth and depth of the statement.

He chose his words with care, knowing Obi-Wan needed him badly, needed the reassurance he had not provided the previous night. Needed to know himself and Qui-Gon, needed to know that he had lost neither. "Obi-Wan ... my padawan. Our focus determines our reality," Qui-Gon said gently, with no hint of the reprimand that had so often accompanied such words. "Our focus is changing as we adapt to the demands of this culture, and we each feel it. But it does not eliminate the larger picture." He rose from the bed, wrapping a sheet about his loins, bringing one to drape around Obi-Wan's shoulders. His apprentice accepted it gratefully, catching it over his arms and folding them across his body.

"We must learn this world, come to know its ways," Qui-Gon continued. "We must live in the moment, accepting what we find there in others and ourselves, allowing the Force to guide us. It will guide us safely home again," Qui-Gon promised. "Trust the Force."

And don't trust me.

He could see that his unspoken words went unheard. Obi-Wan was relaxing, visibly immersing himself in the familiar comfort of Qui-Gon's calm teachings. "We were chosen for this because of the bond of trust that lies between us, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon spoke softly, switching briefly into the soft lilting language of his homeworld. "As Jedi, we are trained to survive adversity, and in surviving, be strengthened and deepened by it." Qui-Gon picked up Obi-Wan's padawan braid, running his fingers down its glossy length, drawing Obi-Wan's eyes to it as well, the visible reminder of the pledges and beliefs that united them. "We are Jedi."

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan agreed, confidence flowing into him visibly. "And we are also human beings."

Qui-Gon looked down at his student for a long moment. "Yes," he acquiesced at last, very softly. "And you are a very beautiful one, Obi-Wan Kenobi."

Obi-Wan's eyes went round with surprise, the words sinking deeply into him, his expression growing radiant as his fear subsided, transmuted to shy wonder. "Thank you, Master," he whispered, his smile lighting his face with a beauty that Qui-Gon found almost beyond his ability to bear.

After the intimacy they had shared, Qui-Gon could not resist Obi-Wan's joy. "My padawan, no matter what may happen on this mission, know that I --"

The door chimed and Qui-Gon cursed, the moment shattered beyond recall. The same girl who had delivered Corm's note the previous evening now brought breakfast. Oh, yes. She had fine timing. Qui-Gon sighed.

Obi-Wan was hurrying to accept the tray, trying to rush her out of the room, but she was not alone. Three other slaves, two male, flowed in through the open door behind her to clean and change the bed linens. Obi-Wan cast a single chagrined glance at Qui-Gon as he moved to help them with the heavy mattress.

Obi-Wan threw his back into the work, but his mind was entirely preoccupied. What had Qui-Gon begun to say to him? Would he continue his words when they were alone again? There was so much Obi-Wan needed to know, so many things that needed to be said between them, but were prevented by the surveillance -- reversion to another language was a dangerous gambit that could not often be repeated. Obi-Wan understood the necessity to be circumspect and embraced it, but not knowing what the slaves had interrupted was killing him. Qui-Gon's eyes had been so deep, his expression so gentle, his voice husky with unaccustomed emotion ... Obi-Wan followed his Master with his eyes as Qui-Gon sat down to breakfast and was dismayed to see the mantle of Jedi aloofness re-descending over Qui-Gon Jinn.

He could not help himself, but tried to recapture the lost moment anyway after the slaves finally bustled out laughing amongst themselves. "Master, you were speaking." Obi-Wan moved to Qui-Gon's side, taking up a piece of bread that Qui-Gon had set aside for part of his breakfast.

"Oh. Yes," Qui-Gon nodded, but the warmth in his eyes had retreated once again behind the walls of Jedi composure. "You should know," Qui-Gon paused, "that I will protect you, my padawan. Now, and always." He almost choked at his own evasion, but he could not. Could not let himself. The truth would only hurt Obi-Wan more, in the long run.

"Yes, Master. I am grateful." Obi-Wan bowed his head and finished his breakfast, pleased with Qui-Gon's veiled reassurance but still disappointed that he had not heard the words that welled originally from the apparent fullness of Qui-Gon's heart.

So many things there were that needed to be said, and heard, between them now ... he thought of the way Qui-Gon had touched him the previous night, his hand trailing unconsciously over the bite on his neck, the flicker of pain enhancing the moment of memory. Qui-Gon had wanted and taken him. Qui-Gon thought he was beautiful. He basked in that knowledge, letting the sheet slip from his shoulders, suddenly proud of his nude body, and more than willing to permit Qui-Gon to see it.

Qui-Gon wanted his beauty, and the demands of this mission had brought them to such a pass of emotional tension that he had claimed it -- and yet Obi-Wan was still his Master's padawan, he was still Jedi. Qui-Gon had reassured him of that, subtly but strongly. It would be there, waiting for them both, when they could withdraw themselves from the powerful influence of this culture and the roles thrust on them within it.

Perhaps this thing that was happening between them would open up their relationship as part of the strengthening and deepening process Qui-Gon had implied would occur after they returned to Coruscant.

The thought put happy energy into Obi-Wan's steps as he finished breakfast and prepared his Master's clothing for their arrival on Ria. When there was nothing left to be done, he bathed himself, singing idly, secure in himself once more, ready for anything that might come.

Emerging from the bathroom, he saw that Qui-Gon had received company while he was unaware. His Master held a roll of parchment that had been tied with a red silk scarf in one hand, and a mass of heavy golden chains trailed from the other, puddling on the floor. A slave girl stood by, admiring the older Jedi openly. Qui-Gon tossed Obi-Wan a look of concern. "Compliments of His Highness, Qal of Ria." Qui-Gon shook the chains slightly. "They are a gift for me, to be placed on you."

Obi-Wan nodded, stepping forward with an eagerness he could not deny. He longed for Qui-Gon's touch, hoping that the previous night's events had not merely been a regretted lapse of control, and that more lovemaking would occur between them again, preferably soon and frequently. He would take any touch that he could get, however, even one that was not sensual.

Qui-Gon shook out the musical mass of links, confused, and turned a questioning eye on the girl. She stepped forward at his small gesture, taking up the chains and separating them with quick skill. "It is a sirik," she explained, her voice sultry. "Decorative chains, for a favored dancer."

There were four manacles, two anklets and two wristlets, joined by a circle of chain and fastened to a golden collar upon which Qui-Gon's name had been inscribed. The uppermost chain ran through a loop in that collar, and two more lengths of chain fastened the loop to the anklets.

Qui-Gon's eyebrows rose. The chains, laid out on a flat surface, would have formed a top-heavy trapezoid with a manacle at each corner, the collar top and center, and an inverted V within. But on a body, they would drape gracefully, whispering with every motion, subtly shortening the strides of walking and also restricting the distance both arms could reach at once, though the slide of chain through the loop at the throat would allow either arm to be fully extended if the other followed it.

The chains were light but strong, fashioned of some alloy Qui-Gon didn't immediately recognize. He reached into his pocket for the metal key he carried and unlocked Obi-Wan's original collar, removing it. Obi-Wan rubbed his throat experimentally, wincing a little, and the slave girl brought a damp cloth for him to wash himself. Qui-Gon took it from her and did the job himself, giving Obi-Wan time to soothe his neck muscles. He also ensured that the key would open the lock before clasping the new bond onto his padawan. Then he picked up one of the wrist manacles and put it on Obi-Wan's arm, watching his student closely for signs of distress.

There were none. Instead, Qui-Gon observed the exact opposite. His padawan seemed to relax as the chains were locked onto his body, and Qui-Gon was startled at the growing eroticism in Obi-Wan's posture and expression. It was not merely Qui-Gon's perceptions changing as the chains were added; Obi-Wan's body actually moved. He held himself more sensually with the addition of each manacle until all four limbs were restrained.

Obi-Wan submitted, his eyes sultry, his head slightly tilted to one side. He stood with his weight on one foot, seeming poised to dance, feeling the weight of Qui-Gon's chains on him ... and quite obviously, enjoying the sensation.

"You wear your chains well," Qui-Gon told Obi-Wan, a thick lump in his throat. He stuffed the red silk scarf in his pocket. He had not missed the symbolism or the implicit taunt of Corm's portion of the gift, but he would not make use of it no matter how accurate it might be now. He wrapped the white scarf around Obi-Wan's new collar instead, to protect him from the touch of others.

Obi-Wan looked up at his Master through his thick red-gold lashes, the padawan's mouth curling in a truly wicked smile that set Qui-Gon's heart racing.

The moment did not make its demands solely of Obi-Wan.

Qui-Gon reached up, cradling Obi-Wan's jaw in his palm, sliding his thumb over his padawan's lips. Obi-Wan kissed at it gently, his eyes closing, and reached to catch his Master's arm, the metallic rustle of the chain offsetting his graceful motion. He nestled his face into Qui-Gon's palm, kissing it hotly, biting at Qui-Gon's long fingers. The Jedi Master exhaled a low sigh, feeling his desire stir, feeling the strength of his body's longing for the energy of another union with Obi-Wan.

"Master Jinn." The slave courier knelt, addressing Qui-Gon. "I was instructed to tell you that King Ahar requests your presence alone for the hour before landfall."

Tearing himself away by brute force with a mingling of relief and regret, Qui-Gon did not let himself pause for a regretful look back at his enslaved padawan.

Leaving Obi-Wan's presence was too difficult. He trusted his apprentice's abilities, but in this situation Obi-Wan was largely limited to mental domination as both a defensive and offensive strategy. It was not good to rely heavily upon such techniques, though Qui-Gon had often found himself forced to do so. They could all too often fail or be thwarted.

Worse, he hated leaving Obi-Wan knowing that he had not filled all the needs his padawan had for his support. He was desperately concerned that he had harmed Obi-Wan's training irrevocably by giving in to the madness of having him, leaving the lad no option but to give his body in the night, when they were alone together, when they should have been Jedi and padawan, not Master and slave. His fears had increased exponentially at the way Obi-Wan had stood this morning in sirik, aware of Qui-Gon's eyes on him, radiating pure, submissive sex .... Qui-Gon had indeed damaged his padawan, taken and twisted his innocence, made him a corrupt, wanton thing wanting only to be used.

Used by him.

Ahar was waiting for him in an anteroom near the feasting chamber, a silver goblet of wine in hand and another awaiting the Jedi Master on the table. "Ambassador Qui-Gon," he greeted, his tone amiable. "I hope you were pleased with my son's gift." For once, the curved pipe was not in his fist, though it lay well within reach.

"The sirik is a beautiful thing," Qui-Gon admitted. "I shall thank your son at my earliest opportunity."

Ahar looked at Qui-Gon, gauging the Jedi's sincerity. "Put it on your slave, Qui-Gon Jinn. Watch him in it. He will be happy, knowing that he wears your chains for you beautifully."

"As you say, your Majesty."

Ahar shifted, eyes wandering over the pipe restlessly. "My son would be best thanked by the gift of your slave for a night," he suggested. "You used one of his girls at the welcoming feast, and again last night. It is a courtesy among us to repay such favors in kind."

Qui-Gon blinked, his heart sinking. "I shall consider it carefully, Your Majesty." And I'll agree to it on the day I win the Miss Republic Pageant.

"The King is right about your slave, Ambassador Jinn." Of course, Corm strolled in, right on cue, not even bothering to hide that he had been eavesdropping. Qui-Gon's mouth tightened sourly.

"The happiness of a slave is a beautiful thing," Corm protested cordially. "A slave learns self-esteem through ownership, Qui-Gon. He, or she, is not merely a beast of burden, but a beautiful and beloved possession. Well-mastered, a slave learns to be fully free in sensuality. Your ... padawan ..." Corm used the unfamiliar word deliberately, "will be happier than you have ever known him, now that you have taken him."

As though anyone could be happy under the threat of the lash. Qui-Gon tried to stifle annoyance, forcing himself to nod. In a sense, Obi-Wan might be happy; certainly he had enjoyed the physical pleasures of intercourse. But Obi-Wan ... Obi-Wan was not a slave. Or rather, he should not become one ....

Corm continued, trampling Qui-Gon's thoughts. "Qal is indeed quite smitten with your slave -- your padawan, you call him? A lovely word for a beautiful boy." His smirk was positively smug.

Yet more insolence -- Qui-Gon had only used that word inside the confines of his quarters with Obi-Wan. He let his eyes narrow at Corm. He far preferred Qal's attentions to Obi-Wan to Corm's. At least Qal had demonstrated concern for the padawan's well-being and had respected his body.

Even as Qui-Gon thought it, the young Prince entered the room. Catching three sets of eyes swiveling toward him at once, he sensed that he had been the topic of conversation and flushed slightly.

"I trust your slave is recovering well." Qal spoke to Qui-Gon with dignity, assuming his position in the group.

"He is well." Qui-Gon nodded politely. "And we are most appreciative of your generosity, Your Highness."

"I hope soon to see him wear the sirik." Qal looked relieved. "It well befits his grace."

Qui-Gon gave a low bow, and Qal seemed to regain some confidence, reaching into his satchel and withdrawing a sheaf of papers left from their talks of the previous day. "There are a variety of welcoming ceremonies planned to greet you, Ambassador. I will read through them so that you may be prepared."

"That would be a kindness." Qui-Gon inclined his head and took a seat gracefully.

Qui-Gon was often tempted to curse Corm over the next few days. On Ria, Obi-Wan seemed to blossom with exuberant joy, as the Priest had predicted. Rather than keep his padawan kneeling at his side during interminable diplomatic events, talks, and feasts, Qui-Gon let him run at large to discover what he could of Riadan culture. His padawan swiftly became popular among the other slaves, and the fluttering bit of white at his throat, while no longer an accurate statement of his sexual condition, protected him more or less from the Masters. Qui-Gon continually reminded himself that Obi-Wan was as capable of destroying carnal desire with a thought as he was of inspiring it. He was fairly unlikely to suffer rape, and so Qui-Gon resigned himself to the time apart from his apprentice with reluctant grace, though he often chafed at the lengthy formal interactions and wished that he knew exactly where Obi-Wan might be.

As the days passed, Qui-Gon tried to relax without growing complacent. His padawan had begun to fit smoothly into palace life, and he watched as Obi-Wan gradually assumed more independent duties, coming to know the wide open-air marketplaces and narrow alleys of the city, the shortcuts and the merchants. He was entrusted to go out with his wrists bound, bearing coins in his mouth, to purchase bread and meats with the other slaves, returning them to Ahar's palace slung around his neck in a bag. Whether by day in iron collar or by night wearing the golden chains of Qal's sirik, Obi-Wan seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once, moving so agilely he seemed always to dance.

And so the days passed, rudimentary agreements beginning to fall into place against the hoped-for day when the Republic might decide to permit the Riadans their trading privileges. Qui-Gon was conscious of his own skill in working out the involved diplomatic language, the necessary trappings of political intercourse. He was gratified by his ability to pacify the delegates and factions, but it felt hollow without the knowledge that his hard work would certainly be useful in the future.

He watched out of the corner of his eye as his padawan helped serve Qal with infinite courtesy and grace, obviously basking in the sensation of the Prince's warm brown eyes upon him. Obi-Wan was the target of many such stares wherever he went, and he often seemed almost feline as he arched and preened under the unspoken praise nearly as unabashedly as the bred slaves that surrounded him. Qal spoke softly to Obi-Wan and was rewarded with a shy smile. The Prince reached out and stroked a finger lightly up the padawan's arm. Qui-Gon's teeth gritted; his padawan merely savored the attention, purring a little, almost catlike, aware of the attraction he held over the young Riadan man. He did not flinch away, as he had done from Corm. Instead, he preened.

Qui-Gon hooded his eyes, pretending to concentrate on his meal, although he could barely choke down another bite. Qal was a diplomat and an ally. By the standards of his culture, he had a right to Obi-Wan's company, and more. It was unreasonable that Qui-Gon could not stop his teeth from grinding.

He hadn't so much as kissed Obi-Wan since the night his lust had overtaken him, though he'd thought on more than one occasion that he might have to chain the lad to the ring at the bottom of his couch if he wanted to avoid his padawan's kisses and that which would inevitably follow them. He played a subtler game now to avoid Obi-Wan's persistent attempts at seduction, trying to ensure that his padawan would be utterly exhausted at the end of each day of duties, ready to fall into dreamless slumber as soon as his head touched the pillow.

Or failing that, Qui-Gon ensured that he was engaged late in the night, staying at endless receptions and feastings until even Obi-Wan's boundless energy faded. At the first sign of weariness, Qui-Gon would make his padawan drink a deep cup of strong wine and send him away to sleep, returning to their quarters perhaps an hour or two later and using all his stealth to slip into the single bed without waking the young man who slept there, nude, awaiting him.

It was the mornings that were worst. It was pure torment waking to feel Obi-Wan's sturdy erection nudging his backside, or worse, the young man's silky lips wandering worshipfully over his neck and back. Such things were almost more than Qui-Gon could bear. He would turn, making distance between them, and push Obi-Wan away with a single shake of his head and a finger on the boy's lips, commanding silence. Obi-Wan would press his lips forward and kiss that finger sadly. It was like ripping his own heart from his chest to leave the bed then, but Qui-Gon always did.

Padawan, not paramour, he would remind himself stubbornly, setting the shower in the 'fresher as many degrees below body temperature as he could stand it.

And when he emerged, Obi-Wan would be kneeling, awaiting his instructions for the day, waiting to be fed rather than eating himself, though Qui-Gon had given him permission to do so. Qui-Gon would endure the sweet torment of his padawan's lips and tongue, though he swore they grew hotter and more liquid every day, more like warm melted honey. He would endure, and he would eat, and then he would set Obi-Wan at liberty to do communal serving tasks as the Palace Slavemaster commanded, cautioning him always to behave well. And so Obi-Wan did. Up to a point.

To everyone but his own Master, Obi-Wan's conduct seemed flawless. But to Qui-Gon .... Obi-Wan's sultry looks and touches were to be expected, but Qui-Gon found himself grinding his teeth when Obi-Wan flirted or let his hips sway for the benefit of another, especially Qal.

Qui-Gon always called him to heel for it, but the effects of his sharp words lasted only minutes. The Jedi Master began to understand that more would be required, but he resisted, ignoring Obi-Wan as completely as possible, hoping his padawan would give up. But he knew that was not to be.

"I beg your favor, my Master." Qui-Gon blinked. Obi-Wan had materialized noiselessly to kneel before him.

"Yes?" Qui-Gon felt a pang of apprehension, but hid it behind smooth serenity.

"Master Qal requests the favor of my services for the evening." Obi-Wan raised a perfectly bland face to Qui-Gon.

Qui-Gon hesitated. He had hoped to avoid this confrontation, but Obi-Wan's flirting had pressed it to its crisis. He was vaguely aware of Corm's ears pricking up, and of Qal's silent, steady regard. Well. Obi-Wan could take care of himself, could he not? In private, his padawan could twist the Riadan's mind into knots if he wanted. He could easily make the man believe they had slept together when they had not, which was probably what he intended.

Wasn't it? Was this done for the sake of their mission ... or was it for his padawan's own pleasure?

Jealousy flared deep in Qui-Gon, and he saw Obi-Wan reading it in his eyes, sensed a flicker of triumph in his padawan's aura. He felt anger start to form, and crushed the flare of his own emotions to steely indifference. If Obi-Wan actually wanted to go with Qal, that was his own affair. He was not, after all, actually Qui-Gon's slave, the Jedi Master reasoned distantly. And more, what right did Qui-Gon have to deny Obi-Wan in his desire to join with another, when Qui-Gon would not accept the young man's advances himself?

"Of course he has them if he wishes." Qui-Gon flicked his fingers in irritable dismissal. "Go, and trouble me no more until the morning."

"Thank you, Master." Obi-Wan bowed and hurried back to Qal's side, eagerness apparent in his every motion.

The Jedi took a bitter sip of his wine, keeping his eyes hooded. A solemn promise to himself, broken that simply. His padawan was now publicly in the arms of another man. Qal had received him tenderly, stroking the ridge of his cheekbone as Qui-Gon longed to do himself. The Riadan bent to Obi-Wan's mouth gently, and his padawan returned the kiss, chained limbs rising gracefully into an embrace.

Qui-Gon felt himself harden at the spectacle -- with lust, and with fury. Abruptly he rose, and decorum be damned. "With your Majesty's kind indulgence, I shall retire," he announced, bowing before Ahar.

"Certainly, Ambassador Jinn," the King exhaled a long slow puff of smoke. "I trust you are well."

"Perfectly," Qui-Gon managed to sound polite. "The negotiations will begin early. It is best to be rested." He turned in a swirl of cloak and left the room, his peripheral vision seared by the vision of Qal's hand sliding slowly up Obi-Wan's smooth-muscled flank.

Obi-Wan was keenly conscious of Qui-Gon's eyes and of his rapid exit. He sighed a little. Perhaps it was best -- he was not fully sure his Master understood what he was up to, and there was no way to explain. Qal was fully absorbed in him, the Prince's hands and mouth gentle. When Qui-Gon had left, Obi-Wan let himself relax a little, accepting the kisses with more grace. They were not his Master's, but they were sweet and pleasant, and Qal was young and strong, well-built. Kind.

"Let us go to my rooms, Obi-Wan," Qal suggested. Obi-Wan nodded acquiescence and rose. He had noted that the Prince did not seem to care for the public orgies his father and Corm held so dear, and had more than half-expected to be led away as he now was.

The Prince smiled at him, reassuring, as they entered his quarters. They were smaller than Obi-Wan's and Qui-Gon's, the padawan noted. Qal surely stood low on the ladder of power.

"I know you are new to your slavery, Obi-Wan, and I do not want you to fear that I would hurt or force you," Qal said simply. "Have no fear. While you are at my command, no harm will come to you."

"I thank you, Master." Obi-Wan did not like to use the term with anyone but Qui-Gon, and it must have showed, because Qal smiled very faintly, his eyes a little sad.

"Qal for tonight, Obi-Wan." The Prince sighed. "Let there be trust between us."

"Yes, Qal." Obi-Wan remained obedient.

"You love your Master," Qal mused. "It shines in your eyes." Again, the Prince seemed rueful, and Obi-Wan bent his head.

"Yes, Qal." The young Jedi replied simply, the words heartfelt.

The Prince nodded, drawing a deep breath, obviously forcing himself to the point of resolve. "I asked you to come here not so that I might use you as a slave, though I would be pleased if you are willing, but so that I might apologize for the hard use you have endured while you have been among us," Qal explained. "I regret your treatment at the hands of the High Priest. If it were within my power as it should be, I would have intervened, spared you that pain. But I could not."

"I know you tried," Obi-Wan murmured. "I am grateful."

Qal crossed the room slowly, moving behind Obi-Wan to survey his back. "You heal quickly and well," he commented. A mirror across the room reflected his hand, hovering over the fading marks of Qui-Gon's mouth on Obi-Wan's throat. He withdrew it without touching Obi-Wan, though.

"Thank you, Qal," Obi-Wan spoke softly. He felt deep sympathy for the thwarted desire of the Riadan Prince. He had felt similar pangs himself very frequently in the past days.

"Did your Master see to it that you received medical care?" The Riadan Prince tried to make the question seem offhand, and failed.

"He cared for me with his own hands," Obi-Wan murmured. "He is a kind man, and a good Master."

The Riadan nodded, not fully convinced, but let the issue pass. He turned from Obi-Wan, moving over to a crowded workbench in the corner. Obi-Wan watched with interest, trying to identify the primitive components without much success. Qal sighed, picking up a handful of wires attached to a small metal box. "I begin to wonder if it was wise for me to build my transmitter to contact offworlders," he admitted. "Coruscant was quite different from what I had expected." He set the device aside, looking back to Obi-Wan. "They don't have slaves at all in the Republic, do they?"

Obi-Wan felt his nerves ratchet up a notch. "There are some," he said. "But it is not usual."

Qal nodded without surprise. "You are not a slave, then."

Obi-Wan lifted his chin, displaying his collar. "Qui-Gon Jinn owns me," he said firmly. "I am his, without reservation."

"I can see that." Qal's eyes were pained. "Would that you were mine, or that I had anyone, slave or free, who loved me so well."

"I am sorry," Obi-Wan breathed, sincerely regretting the Riadan's anguish.

Qal groaned, tortured by Obi-Wan's response. "What are you?" Qal breathed, stepping in front of Obi-Wan, his eyes tortured, lonely. "What are you, that you can do this to me, with only a look or word?"

The Prince leaned toward him, hesitant, his mouth trembling, and Obi-Wan mercifully leaned to meet him, letting his mouth fall open as their lips touched, gently guiding the Riadan toward the small, richly covered sleeping couch. He pressed Qal down, kneeling over him, breaking the sweetness of the kiss at last.

"Will you, Obi-Wan?" Qal's eyes shone.

The young padawan gathered the Force. "I already have." He passed his hand over the Riadan's eyes. "You gave me much pleasure." Qal mumbled the words, half-incoherently parroting Obi-Wan, and as always when he did this, the young Jedi felt a sharp pang of guilt. But the situation had been deteriorating; Qal had forced his hand. "And I have satisfied your desire." Obi-Wan finished the suggestion, releasing his hold on the Prince's mind.

Qal's tension immediately slackened, his eyes clouding and then warming to shine up at the padawan. "You have satisfied my desire," he sighed and shifted, lifting a hand to stroke Obi-Wan's cheek. "I thank you," he murmured huskily.

Obi-Wan leaned in and kissed him, then lay down at his side, spooning up against the confused Prince gently. "Talk to me, Qal," he requested softly. The last of his mind-touch had dissipated, but there was no need of more. "Tell me of Ria."

Qal sighed, snuggling his hips back into the crook of Obi-Wan's body. "My mother was a pleasure slave," he began, "but I was the only heir my father produced, so he claimed me and raised me as a noble. They were good days. Maru was still High Priest of the Riadan Temple, and all seemed well in Agus Ria. Until he died, when I was only sixteen."

Obi-Wan nodded, softly stroking a soothing design on Qal's chest with his fingertips. The Prince arched and sighed, snuggling a bit closer to Obi-Wan. "Corm is not a good man," he said suddenly. "Do not judge all Riadans by him, Obi-Wan Kenobi."

"I do not," Obi-Wan assured him softly. "But if I judged them by yourself, might I not be guilty of making a similar error on the side of goodness?"

Qal turned over, eyes locking to the young Jedi's. "You are too thoughtful for a slave, Obi-Wan." He reached and traced the padawan's lips with his fingertip, and Obi-Wan gently bit the seeking digit and released it.

"Tell me of your father, Qal," Obi-Wan murmured softly. Pillow talk. The Riadan would be much more open to his soft probes now, in the illusion of intimacy they shared.

The Prince sighed. "I never knew my mother," he admitted. "She was sold after my birth. I was raised and trained here, in the palace. Ahar was a strong King then ...." Again, pain in the fine voice. "As I hoped to be." Qal laughed bitterly. "Then I, like my mother, fell from favor. Unfortunately, my father could not sell me."

"I'm sure he didn't want to." Obi-Wan kissed Qal's forehead lightly.

"He wants to do anything Corm says," Qal laughed bitterly. "Ever since he started smoking Corm's special bitterroot ...." The Prince halted himself suddenly, sobered. "I should not have said that, Obi-Wan."

"'Let there be trust between us,'" Obi-Wan quoted him softly. "I shall not betray you to Corm."

Qal's eyes softened and he leaned in to claim a kiss, his arousal stirring once more in spite of Obi-Wan's earlier mind touch. The Jedi sighed with regret, directing the Prince's lips to his throat. That was an end to his pursuit of information. "Sleep, Qal," he murmured, and the Riadan's breath whispered against his throat as he sagged into slumber. Obi-Wan kissed the Prince's forehead again softly and lay awake for a long while, thinking.

Morning was a long time in coming.

The click and creak of the door to his quarters did not awaken Qui-Gon; he had lain without sleep for most of the night. It did not mend matters that the faint brush of personality against his own now was a slave girl's, and not his padawan's. The sleeping couch felt curiously cold and empty without Obi-Wan in it at his side.

Qui-Gon had little interest in breakfast, and he drank his juice automatically but left the fruit and bread untouched. Obi-Wan still made no appearance. At last it became clear that he would not have the furtive, guilty pleasure of feeding his padawan from his hand this morning. Obi-Wan was probably still abed. With Qal.

The Jedi Master tried to banish the image, but it was too late. Sourly he rose and disposed of the remains of his meal. There was a day's routine to be completed, with or without Obi-Wan at his side.

He dressed himself and combed his hair quickly, then stalked down the hall to the main audience chamber, where the morning of meetings was to begin.

Obi-Wan knelt there, at Qal's side. He had been given a loincloth to wear and a narrow mantle of long gold cloth, glittering with a carefully sewn pattern of jewels and seed pearls. He had wrapped it around his shoulders and arms, to protect himself from the morning's chill. The Prince fondled Qui-Gon's padawan absently as he wrote, his arm sliding over Obi-Wan's shoulders so that he could twine his fingers in the young man's long braid. Obi-Wan bent his head against the Prince's casually. There was no longer any real separation of personal space between them, as was to be expected of lovers.

Qui-Gon glided in silently, hiding his expression under his deep cowl. He took a seat as far from Qal as was diplomatically possible given the U-shaped table of sturdy marble. Obi-Wan was intently watching what the Riadan inscribed on the parchment, leaning close over the Prince's leg, lips slightly parted in concentration. The Prince was murmuring softly to Obi-Wan, but he fell silent as he felt the pressure of the Jedi Master's regard.

"Return to your Master, Obi-Wan," he directed softly, and the padawan flinched, startled that Qui-Gon had entered without him sensing it. Obi-Wan rose quickly, beginning to slide his shoulders from the richly decorated cloth, but Qal stopped him with a hand on his wrist. "Keep it, if he permits you." The Prince smiled and lifted Obi-Wan's hand, kissing the center of its palm gently.

Obi-Wan smiled his gratitude, leaning into a deep bow, and quickly turned, hurrying around the open bottom of the table to assume his place at Qui-Gon's side.

"Good morning, my Master," Obi-Wan murmured, sinking to his knees next to Qui-Gon's chair.

"I trust you had a pleasant night." Qui-Gon's words were wintry cold.

"Qal is very kind, Master." Obi-Wan's words were mild. "He was good to me."

And I am not? Rationally Qui-Gon knew his padawan meant no such thing, but the inescapable implication was that Obi-Wan had enjoyed his tumble in Qal's bed, something that Qui-Gon had vowed not to consent to do with his padawan again. He gritted his teeth, struggling with jealousy.

Obi-Wan felt the surge of his Master's anger, but he did not understand it. He'd only meant to assure Qui-Gon that he had not been harmed or forced, but the Jedi Master seemed determined to misinterpret his words, and so Obi-Wan fell silent, not offering more.

"Take off that wrap," Qui-Gon instructed sharply. "You are under my discipline again now."

"Yes, Master." Obi-Wan bent his head humbly. He was keenly aware of Qui-Gon's intense scrutiny as he slid the rich jeweled cloth from his arms, folding it carefully and placing it on the floor. "This as well, my Master?" His hands paused on the knot of the belt that held his loincloth.

"That as well." Qui-Gon brushed the question aside impatiently. Obi-Wan could feel his Master's eyes raking him, and suddenly he realized that Qui-Gon was examining him carefully for evidence of kisses or love bites. His Master, jealous?

Clearly it was so. Qui-Gon's eyes were hard, his expression closed. Obi-Wan felt a curious mix of guilt and exhilaration sweep through him. So. Qui-Gon was not as emotionally indifferent as he pretended to be. Obi-Wan felt himself shift slightly, his body responding to the sensual rush that accompanied the thought, his shoulders lifting, his posture becoming sultry, leaning sensually into Qui-Gon's thigh.

"You needn't try that with me, either," Qui-Gon hissed, leaning right into Obi-Wan's face, his voice pitched for his padawan's ears alone. He was no lonely, half-infatuated boy like Qal, to be won over effortlessly by Obi-Wan's sensuous, promiscuous wiles. "Do you think you are a cat in heat?" The Jedi Master's brows knit together thunderously.

"No, my Master," Obi-Wan whispered, flinching back. Jealousy? Perhaps, but he had not anticipated this uncharacteristic withering, cold anger. Gingerly he drew into himself, subtly folding his posture into an unassuming crouch. He was aware of Qal's startled, worried gaze, but did not dare to meet it.

The day did not improve after that. Qui-Gon's temper was short and his commands curt and frequent. Whether Obi-Wan was bringing paper and quills or serving his Master's meal, it seemed he could do nothing right. After five hours of constant rebuke, he had actually begun to stumble and cringe as he scampered to do his Master's bidding. Qal's eyes had grown bright and hard as he watched, and Corm's mellow humor had increased tenfold.

They adjourned at last for the evening feast, Obi-Wan cautiously heeling his Master, just out of his range of vision. The meal was no better than the earlier part of the day, and in fact, it grew worse.

"Go into the kitchen and fetch more fruit." Qui-Gon let a stern frown creep between his brows. Obi-Wan had been clumsy serving Qui-Gon's wine, pouring hastily, forgetting to perform the obeisance the pouring ritual required, though he had done it for the others he served -- including Qal. It was a breach of respect that no native Riadan Master would permit to go unpunished.

As Qui-Gon sat, trying to ponder the best way that he could take Obi-Wan's punishment a crucial step forward in order to convince the Riadans to believe he had adequately chastened Obi-Wan, but without actually harming him, he was distracted suddenly by a slave girl approaching him and kneeling at his feet. She brought the fruit for which he had asked, bowing her head deeply and offering it in upraised hands.

Qui-Gon noticed nothing unusual and reached to accept the fruit, but Corm nudged his arm. "Her hair, Jedi."

Qui-Gon looked. Her hair was long and dark, one piece separated and tied in a loose loop at her cheek. She was familiar to him; he realized she was the slave he had taken and set aside on the night he gave in to his desire for Obi-Wan.

"She wears the bondage knot for you." Corm's voice was gleeful, and he reached to lift the lock of hair. "A sign of her surrender. She fears to speak, but wishes to be taken in the furs. She offers herself to you, begging your mercy."

Qui-Gon gazed down at the girl with a sudden surge of pity, accepting a slice of fruit. He had served her ill, used her hard and left her without a word, and she sought him again?

She lifted her face to Qui-Gon, eyes shining with worship as she moved forward on her knees, her breasts bare, swaying gently. He swallowed. He was not immune to the charms of her beauty. Taking the tray from the slave girl, Qui-Gon set it aside. "Come here, my lovely one."

This, perhaps, would chasten Obi-Wan, give him the shock he needed to return to a more acceptable frame of mind. Qui-Gon did not let himself pause to consider the pettiness or the vengeance inherent in his act, justifying himself by remembering that he owed the girl an apology of sorts for his rough ways.

He gathered the slave into his lap, his hand sliding up to support her breast, his thumb stroking across her nipple, bringing it erect. She squirmed close, lifting her lush mouth to him, and he tasted it, feeling warmth begin to glow inside him. He'd been in a constant state of arousal, really, ever since permitting himself to taste the forbidden fruits of Obi-Wan's body. Now he could obtain release without guilt.

But he could sense the spike of his padawan's jealousy the moment Obi-Wan walked back into the room.

Obi-Wan approached, fairly shaking with anger. What was he here for, if not to play the role of the slave to his Master? He had been treated unfairly and harshly throughout the day; this intrusion was more than he could bear. Qui-Gon, after all, had commanded him to go with Qal, and Obi-Wan had barely let the Riadan touch him.

He set the tray aside, ignoring Corm's stare of intent interest. "I have brought what you asked, Master," Obi-Wan bit out, failing to sound either pleasant or obedient.

Qui-Gon lifted his head with deliberate, casual leisure and nodded. "Next time, see that you do not dally." Obi-Wan visibly swallowed his anger and bowed his head, then moved to Qui-Gon's shoulder.

He was ignored. He simmered for a moment, watching Qui-Gon stroke the girl from breast to hip, then he bent to his Master's neck, trying to distract him with teasing kisses.

Idly, Qui-Gon shoved him away, beginning to feel irritation of his own at his padawan's persistence. He began to feed the girl the fruit Obi-Wan had brought, and she licked his hands eagerly, snuggling close to his body.

Obi-Wan recovered his balance, crouching on fingertips and toes. His eyes narrowed. A cat in heat? What exactly did Qui-Gon think he had in his lap? Without thinking, he reached out, touched raw power, channeled it delicately.

Qui-Gon felt the stirring, felt the girl move, felt her surprise as she was levered away from his body. He set her aside carefully.

"That's enough, padawan." His voice was deadly.

Obi-Wan ignored him, instead making a miserable bid for his Master's now-empty lap, and received a lazy cuff that sent him sprawling. Raising himself to hands and knees, he began to return to Qui-Gon again, a stubborn light burning in his eyes that Qui-Gon knew all too well.

He would not give up.

Qui-Gon walled his conflicting emotions to steely silence, knowing what his role demanded. He rose and bound his apprentice, turning his face away, leaving him trussed tightly, ankles to wrists. Then using his superior power, he pushed Obi-Wan's mind, hard. "Don't interfere again."

Qui-Gon returned to the slave girl who awaited him. He picked her up, accepting the kiss she offered, and began to touch her gently.

"You learn." Corm's voice was rich with satisfaction.

Qui-Gon resisted the impulse to growl at the Riadan ambassador and addressed himself to the slave. But as his anger ebbed, he realized he was unable to enjoy the girl. His mind kept wandering to the knowledge that Obi-Wan lay bound by his hand only feet away, suffering. Finally, Qui-Gon pleasured the woman with his hands and then released her, sending her scampering happily away, his debt to her paid.

Corm had complimented him. Complimented him. Approved his savagery, his bitter anger, his abuse of his padawan. Qui-Gon shuddered. What had he become, to behave so? When had he ceased to be Jedi and become the petty, cruel, domineering slave Master to Obi-Wan? How had he allowed himself to become so angry? It was unworthy of a man, much less a Jedi Master.

He sat with his legs crossed for several minutes after, releasing his anger into the Force, quietly letting his eyes trace the curve of his padawan's spine. Remorse gnawed him viciously. Obi-Wan lay absolutely still, his breath only barely moving his ribs. He looked very small and thoroughly chastened lying as he was. Qui-Gon felt his heart dip and wrench as he remembered the day of cruelty. He rose quietly, kneeling next to his padawan and stroking his fingertips up the curved shell of the young man's vertebrae. Obi-Wan exhaled slowly, eyes closed.

Qui-Gon gently unfastened the bonds he had placed on his padawan and drew Obi-Wan up from the floor. Suffering blue eyes met his as thick lashes rose, and Qui-Gon felt his own shuddering groan ripple down his spine.

"You destroy me, padawan." The words were almost inaudible, exhaled on a sigh. "Come into my arms."

Obi-Wan obeyed like an arrow shot from a bow, lifting his mouth for kisses that Qui-Gon was obliged to give. Wanted to give. Needed to give.

Corm observed silently as the young fighter finally drew away from his Master's hungry mouth and moved downward gracefully. The Jedi Master's hands trembled indecisively for a long moment, then touched the smaller man's face, guiding him. The slave hardly needed it, moving unerringly for his target, burrowing into the complex tangle of thick-layered garments with the ease of long practice.

Corm swallowed thickly, riveted to the tableau before him. Jinn's serenity shattered, his breath hitching and sobbing in his chest as the young man found his objective. The slave's strong hand rested on the older man's thigh, and his sleek muscles worked rhythmically in the bare, beautiful shoulders and back, rising and falling. Dipping and cresting.

Beautiful, both of them, in the heat of their passionate emotion. The subtle, despairing guilt, jealousy, and lust of the elder. The desperate attempts of the younger to defeat that guilt and redeem his favored status through pure erotic ecstasy. Corm licked his lips. He could hardly decide what he desired most. To break the raw harshness and power of Jinn, to ravish the tender vulnerability of Obi-Wan ... watching them together, he could not decide. But he knew what was within his reach. What he could do, and what he could have.

The slave shifted slightly, and now Corm was treated to glimpses of the Master's shaft gleaming slick and wet as his slave rose and fell on it, Jinn's broad hand trembling as it moved to cup the back of the young man's skull, directing him gently. The slave's pink, wet tongue protruding over his lower lip, shielding his Master from his teeth. His bright blue eyes opening and carefully estimating the progress of his Master's pleasure. Jinn's bone-deep shudder, and the soft aching cry torn from his chest as the slave shifted and took his Master deep into his throat. Jinn thrusting helplessly into the welcoming mouth, fingers tangling in the slave's braid and twining in his short hair, holding him down as his hips jerked upward, his body curling around the young man helplessly, the strangled moan of his pleasure escaping against his will.

Corm smiled, stroking his hand over the hip of a blonde beauty who had begun to nuzzle against him. Obi-Wan carefully licked away every trace of his Master's orgasm, unaware that he was under the Riadan priest's eye, plainly relishing the moment, delicately savoring each warm, bitter droplet. It was time to put both man and boy to the test, and reveal the treachery he had suspected from the very beginning. Even if there was none to be found, his purposes would be served.

Obi-Wan trotted through the tiled hall of the west wing of the royal palace, bearing a heavy ewer of lamp oil to its destination in the scullery. Qui-Gon was in audience with Corm and Ahar again, working on hammering out a trade treaty with representatives of the western continent that his padawan strongly suspected would never be used. His experience with Qui-Gon's temporary rejection last night had led to sobering insight. As a love slave, his life and duties could be exceptionally pleasant. But what of those slaves who were not loved? Qal's sorrow when he spoke of his mother and his sober apology when he spoke of Corm indicated that there was such a thing.

It had come to him as he slept pillowed on Qui-Gon's broad chest that he had actually seen very little of the life of a typical slave, only of certain slave duties. By his count, there were easily twice as many pleasure slaves as free persons in the palace; not each of them could have a love-Master. And he had seen kitchen slaves, but did not know where they slept or ate. How were they housed? What and when were they fed? He knew already that a displeasing slave's punishment could be severe and inhumane. What were the extremes to which the work slaves and unwanted ones were subjected? He knew that everything had not yet been revealed to him, but he needed to know so that he could make an accurate report to the Council and the Senate.

Entering the scullery, he set the ewer in a row of nine others and straightened his back. The scullions were busy, preoccupied with a game of cards, barely glancing at him. Looking purposeful, Obi-Wan trotted back out as though on business for a Master.

Behind him, one of the scullions looked up sharply and gestured at a petite girl with chestnut hair. She quickly skipped out after Obi-Wan.

"Obi." A soft call accompanied the light patter of feet, and Obi-Wan turned automatically, not bowing. The name was what the other slaves had taken as his; they seemed to think "Obi-Wan" too dignified, too like the name of a free man.

"Yes?" His smile was equally automatic, but genuine, as the pretty slave approached him.

"I need someone strong to help me, and my Master's workslaves are all busy." She returned the smile seven-fold, an inviting expression even though he was not a Master. "Are you under orders, Obi?"

"Not at the moment." Obi-Wan turned fully to face her. "What do you need?"

She gestured back to the scullery. "I must feed and water the kennel slaves, and I cannot carry the water bags alone."

Obi-Wan nodded sympathetically, hiding a flare of excitement. Kennel slaves? That sounded like something he very much needed to see -- her asking him was an oversight in the careful assignation of duties. He followed her and shouldered two huge tied sacks of water, then fell in behind her. She towed a small sledge with more sacks atop it, presumably containing food.

Slipping through a door he had barely noticed before, she led him down a long spiraled ramp into cool darkness.

The first thing Obi-Wan noticed was the smell. A smell of waste and vermin, iron and old blood. He blinked uneasily. This might be worse than he'd feared.

It was.

They reached the bottom of the ramp, a small area centrally spaced between tier upon tier of narrow iron pens. Some were under the floor, hands grasping upward. Obi-Wan forced himself to maintain his serenity, trailing after the slave-girl and pouring water into pans, troughs, cupped hands, open mouths, while she did the same with meal and dried meat.

Rats scurried about boldly, hardly frightened of the people they wove between. Some of the slaves were even bound inside their tiny kennels, thin and haggard. Some were scarred from the lash, or from multiple brands or other mutilations -- lost ears, hands, noses.

Fighting slaves with missing eyes gave him sullen, hating looks with the one remaining. Slaves fought for the meager rations. Some were too terrified of their cellmates even to try; some of the women had been bound to the bars by their hair.

This, then, was true slavery on Ria. A broad strata of misery that supported the debauchery of a lucky few. These were the work slaves, the displeasing slaves, the unwanted and overworked miserable creatures that a pretense at piety and love in slave-owning could not rationalize away.

Obi-Wan tried not to retch. This was all he needed to know of Corm and Ahar. Somehow, he had to find out if this situation was general on the planet. The Council would have to know that before they could judge fairly.

He finished the task grimly, turning briefly to his companion. "I have to --" He turned, starting to leave, and halted, his stomach sinking like a stone. Six large guards stood at the foot of the ramp, staring out at him. Corm stood behind them, a sneer spreading across his wide, hard face.

"We have caught him in his spying," Corm stated with satisfaction. "Seize him."

"Your pardon, Masters," Obi-Wan spoke hastily. "I was asked to attend to this task."

"Outsiders are not permitted in the slave pens," Corm informed him coolly. "Only branded slaves may come here, without my special dispensation." His glee was barely disguised in his eyes. "You will be punished."

"Forgive me, Master. I did not know." Obi-Wan desperately gathered the force of his will and reached for Qui-Gon's mind even as he spoke the mild words, felt his Master's consternation at the sudden mind-touch, felt his reassurance and haste.

Corm smirked at him nastily, even as Obi-Wan knelt in supplication. "Brand him," he snapped to the guards, and they caught Obi-Wan, dragging him away.

The smithy was a smoking hell. Forges and bellows lined its edges, the stone walls fairly sizzling with heat. It took Obi-Wan's breath, but he struggled to project to Qui-Gon in spite of his distress. He had to be found. He had to be saved from this. Corm was rubbing his hands with pleasure, surveying the room.

"Fill a brazier with coals and prepare irons," he directed, and one of the smiths jumped to do his bidding. Obi-Wan gulped.

"What do you think you're doing to my slave?" The low, silky voice was so cold it nearly froze the room in spite of the searing heat. Qui-Gon Jinn stepped through the door, the hem of his cloak brushing the sooty floor.

"He has overstepped his bounds," Corm snapped. "Trespassed and spied in forbidden areas of the palace. I caught him in one myself. He will be punished, Jedi!" Corm lifted his lip, sneering. "I am within my rights. I am the High Priest of the Riadan Temple, Master of all slaves in Agus Ria, and acting steward to the regent of this palace."

Qui-Gon stared at Obi-Wan for a long moment. "Where was he found?"

"The slave lodgings. With a girl," Corm smirked.

Qui-Gon's eyelashes flickered very, very slightly at his padawan.

"She asked me to help her feed the other slaves, Master!" Obi-Wan injected hastily. "I carried the water ...."

"They were missing for quite a long time." Corm smiled evilly. "The girl is to be beaten."

Qui-Gon gazed up at Corm, refusing to take the bait. "The Republic will not regard this action kindly," he rumbled. "I advise you not to pursue it."

"Your Republic will respect my religious authority." Corm's smirk was wicked. He gestured at the guards, who pushed Obi-Wan to the floor.

"I shall suspend the talks and return to Coruscant!" Qui-Gon's anger broke through his voice, the volume rising to a near-bellow. Obi-Wan had never heard such wrath from his normally serene mentor. It warmed his heart, while simultaneously chilling him with fear.

"Then go, and take with you a worthless, branded slave!" Corm laughed in Qui-Gon's face. "I shall call you on charges before your Senate, expose all that you have done here! Your lies, your spying! The treachery of the Jedi!"

Obi-Wan winced. That could not happen. He had to salvage this ... and there was only one way to do so. Stunning emotion swept through him as he let himself consider, for the first time, what it might mean to bear the brand of a love slave. He remembered how he had felt, surveying himself, reading the marks of Qui-Gon's avid desire. The whip weals, the love bites -- all would fade. But Qui-Gon's brand on his body ....

Yes. Obi-Wan nearly groaned aloud, desire sweeping him with sudden, entirely unexpected force. To be fully owned by his Master. To be marked as Qui-Gon's. To wear the evidence of Qui-Gon's touch forever ... it was worth a moment of pain, and far more than worthwhile if it meant he could protect the reputation of the Jedi -- and of his Master.

Obi-Wan squirmed his way free, just enough to turn his head to Qui-Gon, catching his Master's anguished eye. "Brand me. I beg your favor, my Master!" He heard the lust in his own tones, the challenge. Obi-Wan winced at the shock in Qui-Gon's eyes. He'd known it would be this way, and yet he had no way to explain himself.

Brutal hands were on him, his face forced into the soot on the floor of the smithy, but to him it was as though Qui-Gon were the only other person present in the room. "As your slave, I beg that you honor me with your brand."

For a long moment, Qui-Gon's eyes bored into Obi-Wan, then flickered to Corm, and back again. Indecision and poised violence loomed large in him, duty warring against love and hate. The Dark Side beckoned. Obi-Wan swallowed hard, trying to make his eyes a lifeline to his Master. No. You are a Jedi. He could not be sure if his Master heard the desperate thought.

"I will not do this." Qui-Gon's jaw clenched until the muscles cramped, the darkness pulsing in him. His hair lifted in the hot breeze as a bellows blew blue flame from a brazier of coals nearby.

"Would you have me wear a mark given by another?" Obi-Wan's eyes were strong, clear blue, and Qui-Gon could hear the Jedi calm in his padawan's voice. "Would you trust another to wield the iron?"

"Remember Xanatos!" Qui-Gon growled, helpless to offer further excuses, hoping the memories conjured by that word would be enough.

"Xanatos wears a brand, a memory of you. At his choosing. Would you deny me the same?" Obi-Wan's voice rang with confidence and conviction, as it had so long ago on Bandomeer when he had planned to sacrifice himself to free Qui-Gon and save the mining colony above.

Qui-Gon was desperate, trapped, and his eyes darted about the room, searching for escape, searching to find a way out, as he had done so long ago. But this time, there wasn't one. It was Qui-Gon against an entire planet, even his own padawan. Even Obi-Wan, who somehow wanted this of him and had determined to get it.

"Would you, Master? Would you deny me the chance to wear your mark ... in love?" Obi-Wan's eyes were bright with unshed tears.

"Slaves have no rights." Qui-Gon felt the rage dissipating and his control along with it. He seized at the crumbling walls in desperation. "And you have no right to demand this of me."

"Obi-Wan Kenobi's rights do not exist. His wishes are immaterial here," Corm interrupted. He stepped close to Qui-Gon. "He is a slave. Master him." His whisper was low, thick with lust. "Master yourself."

Qui-Gon bowed his head, clutching at the cool of an anvil. "I will not do this thing."

"Then I will!" Corm snapped back at him, furious with impatience. "The slave will be branded, Jinn, by you ... or by me." Qui-Gon just shook his head, the fall of his silver-brown hair hiding his face from Obi-Wan's sight.

Trembling, the young Jedi padawan began to struggle. Corm signaled, and the men holding Obi-Wan lifted him. The young man writhed and two of them flew, one nearly striking the brazier before he fell to the floor. Two more shrank away, crying out in fear, unable to understand what had happened. The High Priest merely gloated, glad to receive confirmation of his guess that Obi-Wan possessed Jedi abilities. This entire setup had proved worthwhile indeed. Now his plans could proceed apace.

He stepped forward into the melee. "Hold him tightly!" Corm warned, adding his strength to the fray. Another man crashed into a wall of hanging tools, but four still clung to Obi-Wan, and together they fought to push him into the vise set nearby, a huge device for immobilizing squirming, resistant bodies under the iron.

"Master!" Obi-Wan pleaded, his voice choked as he writhed furiously and desperately to free himself without injuring his captors. "Let it be you. Please!"

"Let him go." Qui-Gon's voice was hoarse with anguish, and he raised his head, his face gaunt. The men hesitated, fearing Obi-Wan's abilities. "I said, let him GO!" This time, the invisible crush of pressure flung bodies everywhere throughout the forge, pinning them to its walls. Obi-Wan very nearly dropped as their hands were removed, but was caught in midair and lowered gently to his feet.

Corm, cold sweat rolling form his brow in spite of the heat of the forge fires, stared at Qui-Gon, awed by the extent of the Jedi Master's power to effortlessly dispatch seven strong men at once.

"You will not need the vise, Master," Obi-Wan spoke softly, walking demurely to take his accustomed place at Qui-Gon's left side, one pace back.

"I know." Qui-Gon's voice was hollow, broken. He reached, taking a set of tongs in unsteady hands.

"How is this done?" He turned haunted eyes on Corm, who froze for a moment under the rage in the Jedi's stare. "How is it DONE?" Qui-Gon roared, dropping the tongs and lunging for the priest, catching his tunic in both fists, hauling the startled man up to eye-level, leaving his booted toes dangling inches above the floor.

"Heat each piece of metal until it is almost ready to glow, take it in the tongs," Corm babbled hastily. "Tap it to his flesh for the barest instant. Build the pattern you want. It must be done with a steady hand, and firmly, with an equal pressure for each piece, or the brand will blur, or be badly formed --"

"My hand will be steady," Qui-Gon snarled, shaking Corm.

"You will have to lock him into the vise, immobilize him --"

No." Qui-Gon dropped the priest to the earthen floor with unceremonious contempt. "Watch and see a man, Corm. Watch my slave show you that he is a thousand times the man you are."

Obi-Wan was moving, covering three empty quenching barrels with their round lids so that they formed a raised platform for him to lie upon. He did so, palm moving low on the left side of his belly, inward and downward from the bone of his hip, but not too far. "Here, Master," he requested softly.

Qui-Gon nodded once, grimly, setting his teeth, and reached for the tongs. "What mark do you wish, Obi-Wan?" The words slurred between his closed teeth; Qui-Gon did not know if he could ever force his jaw to open again.

"As you like, Master." Obi-Wan's soft, calm voice would have soothed him if anything could.

Qui-Gon ran his fingers through the cold metal pieces in their wooden box on the anvil, extracting two inch-tall shapes, very similar ones. Set close together, they would form a stylized J. Very well. If Obi-Wan must be branded, then let it be a reinforcement of his identity. Let him be branded a Jedi.

Qui-Gon was aware of his padawan's eyes following him with interest as he took two pairs of tongs and set the tiny pieces in the coals. As he pumped the bellows, the orange and blue flames cast saturnine shadows on his features, scorching his hair and beard.

Obi-Wan's eyes locked on his as he turned, tongs in hand. Qui-Gon never let himself falter, stepping forward.

Corm watched in awe.

The slave -- the padawan Kenobi -- lay perfectly still, unbound, as the first iron touched his skin, darting in with the grace and speed of an adder, to kiss the smooth white flesh and flick away. Obi-Wan merely inhaled slightly, a faint hiss of pain, unmoving. His Master threw the tongs and iron down, face shuttered, as he lifted the second iron. Corm could not help himself, creeping closer, watching Obi-Wan's still, peaceful face and serene eyes. Again the viper struck and recoiled.

Qui-Gon flung the second pair of tongs from him and lunged to kick the brazier, spraying coals in a wide arc across the earthen floor. He would not look at the burns he had placed on his padawan.

Obi-Wan raised himself, examining the mark his Master had chosen to put on him. "Jinn," he whispered so softly that Qui-Gon was not sure Obi-Wan even knew he had spoken aloud. The low sound was filled with wonder and pleasure.

Qui-Gon wept.

The Jedi Master found no contentment in the afternoon's meal, despite the fact that Corm left him alone for once, contenting himself with sitting back and smirking at him. The negotiations were nearly at their end. Qui-Gon had no desire to continue them, even had Obi-Wan not found what they needed. But at what cost?

Qui-Gon could not bear to think on the many things he had done to his padawan during this mission. If only he had accepted and acted on his feelings for Obi-Wan before this damned fiasco began, they might never have come to this ... but he hadn't. And so Obi-Wan had wanted to be taken, craved Qui-Gon's abusive attention ... and finally, demanded Qui-Gon's own brand. The Jedi Master trusted his feelings, and they whispered incontrovertibly that his padawan had needed to be marked by him, his desire for evidence of his Master's possession hinting at an insecurity so vast that Qui-Gon could hardly comprehend how Obi-Wan might have hidden it so well.

And it had been unavoidable. Qui-Gon had been forced to save some of the shambles of their mission, to avoid the scandal of Corm's accusations against the Jedi. Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon had both known it. Unavoidable, like so many other things. Like Obi-Wan's firm insistence that they play these roles to the hilt ... like Qui-Gon's own deep weakness, his inability to resist his padawan's allure.

Corm and Obi-Wan had each played Qui-Gon like a stringed instrument; he was fully aware of that now. He tried unsuccessfully to quash his resentment for his padawan's part in the fiasco. Obi-Wan had done what he thought he must to complete the mission successfully, and he had done a far better job than his Master. Distracted by his emotions, Qui-Gon had only been an impediment to Obi-Wan, as clumsy and unskilled as a new padawan, stumbling over his own feet.

After the branding was done, they had walked back to Qui-Gon's quarters silently, Qui-Gon's cheeks slowly drying and tightening in the wind of their passage. Obi-Wan's normal fluid, swaying walk was unbalanced, stiffened with pain as he tried to immobilize the area of the searing burn. Inside their door, Qui-Gon had immediately reached to heal it, and been gently deflected. The gesture had nearly undone him again, as so many things already had on this cursed farce of a mission. Struggling for serenity and command of the situation, Qui-Gon had leveled a flat stare at Obi-Wan. "My mission is over," he commented dryly.

Obi-Wan met his eyes with a quiet, significant nod. "Yes, Master. It is." Qui-Gon suspected that meant Obi-Wan thought he had succeeded in learning what he needed to know for the Council's purposes. In any case, his padawan knew better than to contradict Qui-Gon in this decision. Simultaneously relieved and aching, Qui-Gon had taken his beloved student by the hand and chained the young man to the wall, a tacit command that he refrain from running further risks. Obi-Wan had accepted the unexpected action willingly, and Qui-Gon had left him there.

"High Priest, I believe I have done all that I can at this time to create the agreements your people will need if your society is accepted into the Republic." The Jedi Master knew his hostility was barely veiled. "I wish to return to Coruscant."

"The transport offplanet will be ready tomorrow morning." Corm broke his silent thoughts, the comment almost jovial. He was amused by watching the play of Qui-Gon's emotions. "However, we have already scheduled a group of councilmen and city leaders for an evening's meeting with the Republic's emissary. We would be honored if you met with them before you leave."

It was one thing Qui-Gon could still do. He nodded almost imperceptibly, rose, and accompanied the dignitaries to a conference chamber, to set their petitions for trade privileges aside tactfully. They would not be needed, not if he had anything to say about it.

Obi-Wan drifted out of his light healing trance and reached for a sense of his Master. He was reassured to know that Qui-Gon was not far away. He hated being left alone, trussed like this, even though he understood why Qui-Gon had done it -- Obi-Wan had forced his Master's hand badly in the smithy. Not only did Qui-Gon require assurance that his padawan was safe and sound, but he also needed to re-establish his control over Obi-Wan's movements and actions.

The young Jedi fidgeted, sighing a little as he sought a more comfortable position. If something happened to Qui-Gon and he never came back, Obi-Wan would be in the very uncomfortable predicament of having to choose between their cover story and his own physical well-being. Qui-Gon had bound him wordlessly, pocketing the key. It was his Master's best way of ensuring that no further trouble would arise from his padawan's wanderings.

Obi-Wan tested the chains that held him to the wall, glad that the stones were on a sunward exposure. At least he was comfortably warm. He sighed, relaxing in the chains, and time crept slowly by. Soon they would go, and resume the lives that they had left. The thought gave Obi-Wan both a pang of hope and one of regret and fear. Surely Qui-Gon could not pretend that they had not made love, could not deny the strength of the desire that had risen between them.

Could he?

The heavy wooden door creaked open, interrupting the young Jedi's worries. Having recently been immersed in the living Force to find Qui-Gon's presence and location, Obi-Wan knew it was not his Master entering the room. His eyes snapped open even as he forced himself to preserve his calm in case he needed to defend. But it was just a slave girl.

"Your Master sends wine to his favored slave." The girl set a pitcher and goblet down on the table, filled the goblet. It was a pale wine, and Obi-Wan's mouth watered. He could smell the acidic, acerbic crushed-grape flavor from where he lay flush to the warm stones. His mouth was bone dry, and the brand throbbed in spite of the healing he had done, the small mark flaming on his lower belly. His Master must have sensed the touch of his mind when Obi-Wan reached out to him earlier and thought to send his padawan a drink. He should have let Qui-Gon work a healing to ease his pain, but he had suspected that the older Jedi would elect to remove the mark altogether.

The girl approached Obi-Wan humbly, admiring his body, and set the pitcher aside, filling a deep goblet. Obi-Wan blinked as she performed the ritual of obeisance to him, touching the wine cup to her own lips before moving to loosen the gorget that held his head against the wall. He leaned forward to accept the liquid from her, and she stood on tiptoe to tilt it against his mouth. Obi-Wan drank thirstily.

The alcohol sent a burning rush through him immediately, the intoxicants acting quickly on his empty stomach. Obi-Wan carefully adjusted his metabolism to burn them away. Left alone as he was, he was too vulnerable to get drunk. He only needed the moisture.

The girl tipped the goblet too far, and a droplet of wine flowed down from his mouth, over his jaw, dripping onto his chest. The goblet fell away, empty, and the girl leaned forward. Her tongue was delicate on his sweat-soaked skin, sending a rush of desire through him. His head was swimming. Obi-Wan blinked fuzzily, and then it seemed that the ceiling descended on him with a crash, though some part of his mind whispered that it was only his eyelids. 'Tricked again ...' a mocking voice seemed to whisper as he drifted into black.

He awakened in a different room. His mouth tasted of sour wine and his stomach threatened to expel its contents. His entire body felt heavy and leaden, and his concentration was foggy, but the metabolic boost he had set in motion was still working, and the fog was lifting even as he lay there estimating his condition.

The wine had been drugged. Obviously it had not been sent by Qui-Gon at all, and Obi-Wan had clearly been a fool twice in one day, falling for a pretty slave's tricks in the house of a known enemy. He thanked the Force for having had the insight to alter his metabolism before the drug had time to work, but he didn't have time to waste on trifles. What mattered now was getting out of here, finding Qui-Gon. He reached for his Master's presence, but the fog was too thick and he subsided, saving his energy.

Who had taken him, and why? Corm, obviously, and probably to destroy him, so that Obi-Wan could not carry tales of the slave pens of the palace in Agus Ria back to the Senate. The padawan took a moment to study his surroundings. They were not pleasant. He was strapped to a rack that was like the one upon which he had once been whipped, only on this one there was a loose web of supporting straps, holding his body relatively immobile instead of letting it swing. Across the room was a wall of kennels, each holding a slave. Obi-Wan felt a renewed rush of nausea.

This was a different room than the one he had visited this morning -- different, and worse. Each kennel was recessed into the wall, barely large enough for the single tightly-curled body it held. Weary, defeated slaves lay or squatted within, eyes dull, waiting to be freed for their duties -- Obi-Wan could even sense the life signature of someone who had been stuffed into an amazingly small closed box, with airholes in its lid. Whimpers resounded throughout the room from the beaten ... and the tortured.

Around the room were ranged a variety of implements that could only be intended for savage punishment and torture. Whips, pincers, racks that could be extended by the turning of wheels, devices for piercing and crushing ... he shuddered with sympathy for the poor wretches in their cages. Nothing he had seen before on Ria had prepared him for this. Again he reached for his Master but was unable to penetrate the fog between them. He had to make sure Qui-Gon knew of this! But perhaps his Master had been drugged, as well.

Obi-Wan struggled against the straps for a moment, furious. The Force slid clumsily through his head; he could manage some crude control but not enough yet to work the fine catches in the clasps at his wrists. Even as Obi-Wan struggled to free himself, he heard the doors of the small dungeon opening and voices from the hall without. One he recognized. Corm.

Obi-Wan felt his lips draw back in a snarl. Very well. Obi-Wan would play along with the charade, regaining his clarity and control with every moment, husbanding his strength until he had to strike. He let his eyes shut and sagged in the straps.

"The slave drank all the wine?" Corm questioned sharply, and there was a frightened feminine assent. "Then he will be unconscious till the evening." Corm's voice was thick with gloating and with lust. "We'll give him a mild neural purgative and return him to Jinn, and neither of them will know the difference."

A second voice, an unfamiliar one. "Return him to Jinn? I thought we were to keep this one, use him to train the others."

"I had planned to do that, but it is too dangerous." Corm sounded faintly nervous for the first time. "The Jedi Knight would take the planet apart stone by stone to regain his love slave. Best to let him go. Perhaps the abilities manifest on their own. Or perhaps we could seek others who might be willing to train them, others with less delicate consciences ..."

Train them? Train whom? And in what? Abilities ... he must mean the Force. There could be Force-sensitives on Ria; who else might Obi-wan be expected to train? He listened sharply, hoping for more information. The steps of the unknown man receded, and Corm approached. His boots were loud on the stone floor, approaching Obi-Wan, and the young Jedi padawan could feel the caress coming and chose not to flinch away from it. For the moment. Perhaps Corm would yet reveal more of what he was up to.

"Beautiful boy," Corm sighed, as his hand traced the stretched muscles in Obi-Wan's chest. "I'll have him, and then we'll take our genetic sample. It can be used to inseminate many slaves. We'll soon learn if the Republic's citizens are compatible with our own."

Obi-Wan lay perfectly still, but he felt as though his ears had pricked to points, and his mind raced. Why would Corm need to do such a thing? Why would he need Obi-Wan for the breeding of slaves, when he had an entire population to choose from? Corm could already breed slaves to torture. If he wanted Obi-Wan's genetic material ... the padawan struggled against the lingering fogginess of the drug in his brain. The obvious conclusion was terribly clear. With Obi-Wan, with a Jedi, Corm could breed slaves who could be trained to use the Force, Force-enhanced bodyguards, field laborers, work servants, pleasure slaves -- all with extraordinary supernatural ability to enhance their performance. Sons and daughters of Obi-Wan's own, to be branded and tormented in slavery, only a very few at best finding the pampered life of a favored pleasure slave -- and even that would not be of their choosing.

Suffice it to say, Corm wouldn't obtain either the sex or the sample he was after. Not while Obi-Wan still lived. Better to die than to permit a child of his to be brought into such a life.

Even worse, Obi-Wan knew that he could expect it to be the same for countless other Republic citizens, citizens and children and especially failed Jedi candidates who might themselves be enticed to Ria somehow and fall slave, be captured by the Hutt and sold to the Riadans ... he released his rage into the Force, centering himself in serenity again. He would do all that one man could to prevent such things. Beyond that, there was only the will of the Force.

And Obi-Wan was not without power to influence some things. Corm thought he knew what he needed to proceed with his plans, but he was far from understanding the powers of the Jedi. Even half-drugged, bound, and incapacitated, Obi-Wan could do what he had to do to defend himself from simple sexual assault. None of his own children would be made slave, at the least.

Corm added a second hand to his caresses, and his thick wet lips touched Obi-Wan's skin. The young Jedi still waited, biding his time, hoping for more information, but none was forthcoming, only more of the loathsome caresses. Then Corm fumbled at his belt, and Obi-Wan knew the time had come.

He opened his eyes, staring into Corm's startled gaze, his stare the angry blue fire at the nimbus of a lightsaber blade.

Corm faltered slightly, swallowing. "Did he drink it all?" he stepped back, glancing for the girl he had brought.

"I did," Obi-Wan said, his voice crystal clear. "But I am a Jedi. Like my Master." He bared his teeth. The time for pretense was past.

Corm stepped back hastily, knocking the girl aside. Damn the boy's strength! He remembered the young man's control, had seen him take a branding, unbound, unmoving. He should have known this might happen. "Go!" Corm kicked at her with his boot in panic. "Fetch Raf! If we can't drug him, we'll have to dispose of him after all!"

Obi-Wan felt his lips stretch into a malicious smile. He reached for his Master again, inwardly damning the dregs of the intoxicant that still clung to him, preventing that contact.

Corm rushed to the side of the room, fumbling in an alcove, preparing more drugged wine, cursing. He'd wanted the boy so badly he'd miscalculated, forced his hand, rushed by Qui-Gon's decision to abandon negotiations and return to Coruscant.

Obi-Wan relaxed, watching, unafraid. Corm's hands were shaking wildly; he dropped several of the white pellets before he managed to get a few inside the wine cup and pour the liquor in with them. Rushing back to Obi-Wan, wine slopping, he cranked the rack over until Obi-Wan lay horizontal with the floor. Corm reached and clamped Obi-Wan's nose shut, planning to force him to take the wine.

Five minutes later, Obi-Wan's perfectly alert, serene eyes still watched Corm calmly with no hint of distress, the padawan's lips firmly shut.

Ten minutes later, the same.

At last Corm cursed desperately, flinging aside the drugged liquid and releasing Obi-Wan, who immediately resumed normal breathing.

"You Jedi aren't human!" The priest was badly shaken, his thick tongue slicking his lips with terror. Obi-Wan shrugged as well as he was able, tied as he was. The fog was still thinning, though he could not yet feel Qui-Gon's presence through it. Soon. Very soon.

Obi-Wan let his lips thin in an intimidating smile. He still couldn't reach Qui-Gon, but there was one thing he could do now that he couldn't earlier. The blood drained from Corm's face as the leather threaded through the buckles that held Obi-Wan's hands slowly began to slide free, untouched.

A clattering of boots down the corridor spurred Obi-Wan to extra haste, and his right wrist fell free. Corm's sword slid from its scabbard and flew to Obi-Wan's fist. The weapon was heavy and awkward, its balance entirely different from a lightsaber, and it felt wrong in Obi-Wan's hand, but as the remainder of the restraints fell away, he launched himself forward anyway.

His knees very nearly buckled, but Obi-Wan turned the stumble into a feint and slashed at Corm's legs. The Riadan had not lied. He was a warrior, jumping instantly to evade the rapid slash, buying enough time for his men to begin pouring into the room, dividing Obi-Wan's attention. Many of these men had seen Obi-Wan perform the Grand Dance; those respected him immediately. The ones who didn't swiftly learned to do so.

Obi-Wan danced with his sword, naked against armored men, and was untouched. He seemed to blur, leaping, whirling, parrying from all angles at once, but it was all he could do to block blows from so many opponents without launching any of his own.

Then more men flowed into the room, pressing him backward perforce, narrowing his field of motion. The stalemate shifted slightly; he could not maintain this pace forever. Soon he must kill or be killed.

He blinked, his concentration wavering, and nearly faltered in a parry. He quickly somersaulted backward, lighting in a crouch atop the topmost tier of kennels. He could not keep up a battle indefinitely against so many men, and he needed to summon total concentration to seek Qui-Gon's consciousness through the drug. He reached out again, desperate, searching for that familiar presence, but it was beyond him.

Still, there was nothing further to be gained by fighting; he could not win through an entire army. Even the corridor outside was crowded now, jammed with men. Obi-Wan dropped the sword.

"I surrender."

None wanted to be first to advance on Obi-Wan and drag him down from his perch, but one man kicked his sword away, and it disappeared under the feet of the press of armed soldiers and guards. Obi-Wan gracefully vaulted down and offered his arms for binding.

He would have to trust in himself.

"We'll run a full neural purge on him before his Master learns what I've done." Corm was sweating. "That one would be the death of us all!"

A man stood forth out of the mob, eyes terrified, tongue darting to slick his lips. Obi-Wan recognized him; he'd been one of the guards who had dragged the padawan to the smithy for branding. He was burly and dirty, with long curling black hair. He'd had courage then, withstanding Obi-Wan's use of the Force and refusing to cower from Qui-Gon even after the display of his mastery of the same power, but he had apparently reached the end of his rope this time.

"You are a fool, Corm of the Temple." Raf hissed the words fearfully. "Bringing this boy down here to rape, without first accounting for his Master! Are you mad? A thousand slaves are for rent in the city, each one prettier than the last, but you must have the preferred love-slave of the diplomatic liaison -- a Jedi Knight!"

Obi-Wan remained silent.

"I had him drugged!" Corm mustered an intimidating stare. "How was I to know the boy would shake it off so quickly?"

"You watched him branded this very day! I was there, Corm! You saw him send men flying with his mind, and you saw how much stronger his Master is! You saw this boy take the iron unbound, without even a whimper! Surely that might have taught you a lesson, enough to guess that there was unacceptable risk involved in kidnapping him!" Raf was shouting by the end of his tirade, glancing nervously about as though he expected Qui-Gon Jinn to materialize among them at any moment, as he had done at the smithy.

"I had to get the --" Corm halted, remembering Obi-Wan's presence. "Will none of you bind the slave?" he yelled to his men, spittle flying from his mouth.

Two men nervously stepped forward and put irons on the young padawan, who suffered it quietly, distracted by his continuing fruitless search for Qui-Gon's aura.

"The neural purge will take care of him. You'll have to knock him unconscious and inject it in him. The tranquilizer worked, for a time. How can he shake that off, when it works in less than a minute?" The priest hesitated, calming himself. "And pray to whatever gods you favor that it does work, or the Ambassador will cut your throats with your own swords."

"And your throat, Corm of the Temple?" Raf's eyes glittered. "If the purge fails, your throat will be first under the Ambassador's blade, I think."

Corm hesitated, fear waxing within him so strongly Obi-Wan could feel it leaking out and into the other men. "Very well. We will forego the sample for now, and use thrice the maximum dose in the purge. Then we'll sell him, keeping track of who makes the purchase. If he cannot be found, the Ambassador will have no proof against us! It has been clear for days that there is conflict between them. None of our people will hesitate to believe the boy has run away."

The Priest began to regain his confidence. "We will let Ahar answer any inquiries from the Republic. His mind is clear. Even if Jedi can see through the confusion of the bitterroot, they will find no guilt there."

"We should kill him." Raf's voice was flat. "There is too much risk in leaving him alive."

"Fool!" Corm lunged forward, catching Raf's tunic in his fist and flinging his subordinate against the wall. "If we kill him, there will be no way to complete our plans! Once the Ambassador has given up his search, once the Republic has forgotten him, we will know where he is, and we can retrieve him. Then I will be his Master." Corm's hot eyes grew crafty as he turned a triumphant stare on Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan could have laughed in the Riadan's face. Corm was playing into his hands; the Priest's greed had blinded him fatally. The padawan hid his triumph, stilling his face ... except for the faintest misleading quiver in his lip. The Riadan's smile widened into a leer, and he signaled Raf harshly. "Do not injure him seriously."

"NO!" Obi-Wan feigned despair, struggling. He flung men from him indiscriminately, squirming, fleeing until he was tripped and flung to his face. Eventually he let the crowd overwhelm him, pretending despair as he stumbled after Raf, twelve mercenary guardsmen hustling him from the room. The Riadan mercenary was cursing, nursing a split lip, and several of his men were limping. Obi-Wan found it difficult not to take satisfaction in the fact.

He had little enough fear of the mental purge -- another drug; if he did not get a chance to dominate Raf's mind and avoid the dosage, its effects could be retarded; at worst he could enter a trance and force it out of his system.

Feeling in control of the situation once more, Obi-Wan decided against contacting his Master just yet. It could actually be advantageous to their mission that he be sold, that he delay their return to Coruscant just long enough for further crucial research. There was no way he could discover the full extent of Riadan slavery while he nestled in the palace under Qui-Gon's protective wing. Anonymous in the public slave pens, alone on the block, forsaken in the house of an unknowing Riadan Master, Obi-Wan would discover whether or not the state of affairs he had glimpsed in Corm's private slave pens was an exception ... or the Riadan norm.

It was easy enough to sense the unannounced blow falling toward his skull, imitate the pillow of cushioning Force Qui-Gon had used to soften his whipping, and feign unconsciousness from the blow he had so subtly diverted. It was not much more difficult to isolate a tiny patch of tissue around the needle inserted into his arm, confining the drug and forcing it osmotically out of his body, where it could evaporate harmlessly from his skin.

Obi-Wan lolled, letting himself be dragged from the palace.

From the crenellated wall of the palace garden, hooded eyes watched, and as the guards turned a corner with their burden, a cloaked figure dropped outside the wall. The watcher melted into the streets, following them at a safe distance until he was sure of their destination. Then he turned aside. There was little more he could do, for the moment.

Qui-Gon finished with the last diplomatic liaison well after sunset, bowing politely, impatience screaming for release inside the serenity. Something itched at his nerves, a sense of things out of place, hidden wrongness. The sooner they were off this blasted planet, the better.

It took additional restraint to moderate his stride as he moved toward the suite of rooms he and Obi-Wan had been given. He tried to deny both his eagerness and his guilt as he opened the door and stepped within. Obi-Wan had been left chained for far longer than Qui-Gon had anticipated. He tossed aside his cloak quickly, moving for the antechamber where he had left his student.

"Are you ready for supper, pada--" Qui-Gon's gentle words died in his throat. The chains hung empty on the wall. Obi-Wan was gone.

He forced himself to stand still while his mind raced. Obi-Wan could have freed himself, or he could have been taken. Who would have taken him? If it were Corm, he would get no satisfactory answers from the man ... perhaps Qal would be of help.

Qui-Gon hurried out, and found himself unable to locate the Riadan Prince. Immediately, his suspicions began to grow. His padawan and Qal, both missing at once ... it was almost certain they were cooperating in some hare-brained, useless, dangerous scheme together. Qui-Gon felt his temper heating as he wondered what it might be. Had Obi-Wan decided to intervene between Corm and King Ahar at Qal's urging?

Casting about with the Force, he began to seek the Prince's life signature. Finding it, Qui-Gon swept through the corridors like an angel of wrath. Obi-Wan's signature was not present; the more cause for his growing concern and the building threat of sudden, overwhelming fury.

He rounded the corner, coming on Qal with a suddenness that clearly intimidated the young Prince, who instinctively stepped back until a wall halted his motion. The girl at his side cowered back more nervously, stepping well away from Qui-Gon.

"Your Highness." Qui-Gon reined in his tone and temper carefully. "Have you seen my Obi-Wan?"

"Not since earlier this afternoon." Qal's answer was a shade too careful.

"Indeed." Qui-Gon's tone was cool. "If you see him, I would ask your favor. Command him that he is to return to my side. Immediately." The final word was ice as it left his lips, and he fixed the Prince with a gaze of barely veiled threat.

Guilt and resentment, vibrating through the Force around him like a swamp-snake crawling through slime. Qui-Gon had already let that snake curl around him; it was difficult to pry it loose. He watched as Qal hurriedly turned and strode away. At last he tamed himself, but he could feel the wrath lingering, waiting to sink its fangs into him again.

He had to find Obi-Wan.

Silent, drawing the Force around him like a cloak of shadows, he fell in behind Qal. He was certain the Prince would lead him to his padawan.

The young Jedi was dragged through a maze of dusty streets, and eventually was tumbled to the filthy floor of a building. Slitting his eyelids, he watched the transaction: a receipt in exchange for his body, and the promise of the funds he brought ... minus, of course, the auction house's commission. A tag was wired onto his collar -- his lot number.

And then he was stuffed into one of the tiny kennels to wait until he regained consciousness. Obi-Wan drew into himself, glad that his body was limber. He could neither raise his head nor extend any part of his body fully. He sighed, settling into the Force. For what he must do now, he required a perfect trance, and this posture would make that difficult.

Obi-Wan sank away from himself, opening to the outer world, and to the people in it. Dozens, hundreds of slaves. Career slavers. A moving, gelatinous mass of humanity.

And of misery.

The flicker of the lash. The searing kiss of the iron. Torment under hot pincers. Verbal abuse. The separation of mothers and children. Hours of senseless labor, poor rations ... overlapping experiences cascaded over him mercilessly. He turned himself away from the unbearable cataract of pain, reaching to the slavers.

Cruelty, pleasure in the pain of others. Precious little love or caring, even for their fellow free men. A callous disregard of the slaves, who were merely animals. The only god they truly worshipped was the fulfillment of selfish pleasures and the pursuit of money.

Obi-Wan filtered out of his trance. He had his final proofs. Now he needed only to wait for his opportunity to escape.

That opportunity was slow in coming. Though he had expected to be sold quickly, several hours passed as he was carefully prepared for the auction block. At last, resigned, Obi-Wan permitted himself to relax and enjoy what was being done to him, a slow, careful process of maximizing his physical beauty.

Lazily he reached out with his senses. It was well after nightfall already -- and for the first time in hours, he could sense Qui-Gon. His Master was approaching rapidly; he must have learned Obi-Wan's whereabouts and come after him. And it was well -- Obi-Wan needed to learn no more.

Suddenly, all that he could think of was how he would look to Qui-Gon when he was displayed upon the block. There was no shame in him, no fear of the eyes of others. There was only his relief that Qui-Gon had come for him, and pleasure in imagining how his Master might see him. This might be his last chance to display himself so boldly for Qui-Gon's eyes, his last chance to melt his Master's determined reserve with the brazen beauty and paradoxical freedom his role had permitted him.

He would not waste it.

He was bathed thoroughly and dried by slave girls, who marveled both at his body and at its lack of response to them. Their clever fingers reworked and retied his braid, and Obi-Wan lay serene, accepting. Then his body was oiled with a dark musky oil that turned his skin to gold and highlighted his muscles. Obi-Wan enjoyed the sensation of its warmth being massaged onto his body, simply being in the moment.

He was rouged next, made up with subtle care, his nipples and penis darkened to rose-amber, the deep ash blond of his chest and pubic hair dusted subtly darker. Then his face was painted almost as though he were a girl, subtle highlights on cheek and jaw, kohl around his eyelids, more of the darkening dust on lashes and brows. His lips were rouged and oiled, accenting their narrow line with a touch of fullness, and more of the sweet musky oil was teased into his hair, making it appear as though he were fresh with the sweat of some pleasant erotic activity.

A perfumer touched him with another subtle musk and Obi-Wan could feel the pheromone base of the perfume melding with his own body chemistry. Anyone near him would experience it also.

His only moment of distress came when the collar bearing Qui-Gon's name was cut from him, hacksawed from his neck and replaced with an anonymous one, un-engraved. The loss of Qui-Gon's collar felt like he had lost his Master, somehow, and it forced him to reach again for Qui-Gon's reassuring presence. Finding it, he forced himself to relax as the lot number was wired onto him once more.

A constant shuffle began and he was moved through cage after cage, approaching the block. Heightening anticipation, a growing swell of excited noise. Finally Obi-Wan's eyes were retouched and his lashes were dusted dark once more, and he was ready to ascend the block. Not a moment too soon. He felt the chill of metal under his bare feet as he climbed into blazing glare. The room was circular, steeply slanted. He squinted, finding a half-circle of open floor packed with free persons, a tilted row of seating, and a tall tier of private boxes. Much like a small theater, then, and he was at center stage.

The auctioneer was a woman, and most of those in the crowd were women also. Obi-Wan glanced about, looking for a glimpse of Qui-Gon, but he could only see a mass of anonymous female faces.

There was a moment of expectant hush, and then a swelling shout greeted him as a spotlight fell on his upturned face, casting his body into sharp relief, but he was hardly aware of it, seeking Qui-Gon's reaction.

There was none.

Surprise, then irritation, flared in Obi-Wan at Qui-Gon's calm, injuring his vanity. Very well. He would make his Master react, then. He knew he could.

The auctioneer had begun to speak. "This young warrior, but recently fallen slave, is an offworlder. Note his muscular thighs." Her whip tapped at Obi-Wan's leg, and he moved, flexing the limb, conscious of a gush of sighed approval from the crowd. But not from Qui-Gon.

"Well-endowed, youthful, vigorous. A fine bedmate and a strong worker. Who will bid, ladies, on this handsome silk slave?"

An eager voice called from the crowd, and another. The numbers meant little to Obi-Wan, he knew nothing of Riadan currency, but the bidding was steady, and rising quickly, stimulating his pride.

"Or gentlemen? A battle every night to tame his spirit, to make him cry your name in chains." The auctioneer smiled, flicking her arm at Obi-Wan, pointing a path for him.

Obi-Wan lifted his chin defiantly, but obeyed the auctioneer's gesture, walking back and forth across the front of the block, displaying himself. He thought of Qui-Gon's eyes on him, following him from somewhere far in the back of the crowd, and let his hips begin to sway sensually. The bidding continued, creeping upward.

"Slave paces!" The auctioneer snapped as he passed her podium, flicking the whip lightly at him.

Obi-Wan did not know them, but he did not let that stop him.

Harnessing the tension in his body, the heady exhilaration of so much public admiration and his growing frustration with Qui-Gon's emotional silence, he fell into a pose, slightly out of range of the auctioneer's whip.

An Art of Grace, a meditative exercise. Many Masters did them, melding body, spirit, and mind. Each created his own, following the Force in his body. It was the most individual expression of harmony between the physical self and the Force. Padawans never did such, learning formal katas. A Knight might begin to create his, but it was never completed until he had mastered himself and the Force, and been granted the rank of that achievement.

Obi-Wan fell into the pose for the first move of Qui-Gon's own Art of Grace.

Qui-Gon stood, arms folded into the sleeves of his cloak, watching his student ascend the block. Obi-Wan was stunningly beautiful as the lights exploded onto him, and the women in the audience gasped, delighted.

Qui-Gon closed himself down immediately, refusing to participate in the hysteria that rose about him, and refusing also to participate in darker emotions. He had spied Qal waiting in the crowd almost as soon as he entered. Qal was clad in a gray cloak like any one of a hundred, his features covered and anonymous, but Qui-Gon knew his life-signature well from following it halfway across Agus Ria. The Prince was holding a bidder's paddle, preparing to make a purchase.

The Prince might be planning to buy Obi-Wan, he might be planning to drive the padawan's price as high as possible, to ensure that Obi-Wan would be bought by someone of wealth. Whatever the case, the two of them had clearly conspired, independent of the Jedi Master, to expand Obi-Wan's experience of slavery. Perhaps they had even conspired to use this as a ruse to torment Qui-Gon, to break his restraint, to force him to seek solace and peace in the relief of Obi-Wan's strong arms and welcoming body when his padawan was returned to him.

If that were their motive, they would be sorely disappointed.

Five hundred pairs of eyes or more were in that crowd, all devouring his Obi-Wan. All caressing the taut, oiled body of his padawan. The beauty that was his, Qui-Gon's by right, no one else's to see. No one else's to feel. His. He forced himself to numbness, battling back the temptation to succumb to his jealousy. Qui-Gon Jinn was not a Jedi Master for nothing. Ragged though it had been during the mission to date, at the moment, his control was honed and complete. This was, after all, far less terrible than setting heated iron to his padawan's flesh. The young man upon the block ceased to be Obi-Wan to him.

Qui-Gon watched, indifferent, as the young man was paraded across the stage. When the bidding ceased, then perhaps he would speak. Not before. There was little point in driving up the bids, and he was keenly curious to see what Qal might do.

Obi-Wan was tapped by a whip, and stepping aside, slid into a pose, freezing there for a moment. Qui-Gon's Force-enhanced senses let him hear the auctioneer's command. Slave paces. Obi-Wan knew no such things, and Qui-Gon felt an instant's worry that his padawan might be beaten for his lack of knowledge.

But the pose began to flow into a kata Qui-Gon did not recognize, and the auctioneer, though momentarily surprised, flourished her whip, recommending Obi-Wan's movements to the breathless audience.

Where had his padawan learned this thing? The motions were slow, measured, infinitely graceful. They harnessed, sublimated, and dispersed what seemed to be an infinite tension, transmuting it into an inevitable flow of motion. If he didn't know better, he'd think his padawan was doing an ... an ... Art of Grace. Yes.

But his padawan was not ready, and the Art escaped him; beautiful as it was, harmony was missing from the dance, and the motions Obi-Wan made did not perfectly connect him with the living Force. Qui-Gon could see that here the arc of a sweep should have been longer, the reach greater. There, a stride should have moved him a pace further left. That bow should have been deeper. The energy of the routine needed to be harder, stronger, more mature ....

Qui-Gon's control shuddered as he suddenly understood.

This was not Obi-Wan's own attempt at an Art. This was one he had seen and copied, one someone else had performed, a bigger man, and Obi-Wan was doing it himself, as he should not. This was his Art of Grace. Qui-Gon's. And it was on clumsy display in his padawan's body, before a roomful of slavering buyers, who even now were shouting higher and higher purchase prices at the stunned, delighted auctioneer. Any kata would have done as well, or better. That Obi-Wan had chosen this one was a message. A taunt. An arrogant demand that Qui-Gon admire and bid. Obi-Wan had taken a very private, quiet part of his Master's being and set it contemptuously, and poorly, on display.

The Jedi Master was too proud and angry to bid upon what he already rightfully owned.

The bids began to thin as the price rose. Qui-Gon watched in silent, growing anger as Qal handed his paddle to the slave girl he had brought, let her bid on Obi-Wan. It must be as he had suspected, then. This was a cruel ruse. The last bid was made, Qal's slave holding her paddle aloft in triumph, and the auctioneer acknowledged the sale.

Turning, he walked out into the night.

Qal frowned, watching Qui-Gon slide away. He'd recognized the Jedi partway through the sale, and had fully expected Jinn to buy his padawan. He could not understand why the man had held his silence, let Obi-Wan be bought by someone else ... did he no longer want his slave? Might Qal have him now?

"Pick up the slave and return him to the palace. Secretly." He hurriedly took leave of his girl. Hustling through the crowd rudely, he pursued Qui-Gon Jinn to the exit and beyond.

Obi-Wan moved, remembering his Master's form, striving for it, knowing it was beyond him. Qui-Gon's aura was still silent and uncommunicative. Obi-Wan continued the Art, hearing the cries of women, the rapidly escalating bids.

No male voice had yet spoken.

Perhaps Qui-Gon merely wanted to discover his padawan's value, see what Obi-Wan would sell for. Obi-Wan did not wish to disappoint him, so he threw himself into the routine, overreaching himself, straining muscle and sinew, trying to perfect what he knew he could not do.

Finishing, he was aware of sweat rolling down his body, and he let his eyes open. He stepped to the edge of the stage, standing above the shifting crowd and waiting, body drooping with exhaustion.

No bid came.

Shrieked shrill offers, feminine pandemonium, but none from Qui-Gon. Where was his Master? Obi-Wan reached for Qui-Gon's presence again, beginning to feel desperation -- and felt that presence receding from him, already far from the auction house where he stood.

The color drained from his face and his body seized with cramp and goosebumps from the chill rejection that emanated down their bond when his touch on it was recognized.

He could fight. He could fight, and die, in an attempt to escape, to follow his Master. But what was the point? He had been spurned.

Obi-Wan sank to his knees, and the auctioneer's fist closed, signaling acceptance of the final bid. A woman moved forward through the crowd, accepting a sale ticket. Numbly, the young Jedi let himself be led away.

In an anteroom, the auction lock-collar was removed from him, and bonds placed on him yet again. Obi-Wan, too crushed to resist, nevertheless hated them now, hated the feel of the obdurate metal on his body. He was carefully blindfolded and leashed, another collar locked onto his throat. Not his Master's. Obi-Wan had not even energy to weep or speak to his new Mistress.

He let himself be led through the streets of the city, every noise and sensation impacting his body like a blow.

He was led indoors at last, into a damp chilly room with a stone floor. Obi-Wan hardly cared. He was not sure what he had done to anger Qui-Gon so severely that his Master would leave him. He could escape this, of course, could and would ... but would he then be welcome to return to Qui-Gon?

"Kneel," the woman said, and Obi-Wan knelt miserably in the middle of the floor. He sensed fear as feminine fingers touched him, moving over his arms, loosening the bindings. It puzzled him. Would it not be obvious to anyone that he was beaten, that he had no defiance left in him?

She freed him of all but the tight blindfold. "Dance," she commanded. "The one from the block."

Obi-Wan hesitated. "I can't."

The woman hesitated. "You will," she told him, her voice determined. He felt her sudden nervousness and a flicker of pity formed in his heart. She did not know what she had stepped into.

"Ask any other dance of me," Obi-Wan begged.

"No. Do that one." She padded around him, her feet pattering on the floor. "I have a whip," she said, trailing its blades against his back. "I will use it."

Obi-Wan shrugged and half-heartedly moved himself into the opening position of Qui-Gon's Art. He would fake it, pretend to repeat it, but his limbs would never touch that form again. Never.

He began to move.

"That is not what you did before," she said after a moment.

Obi-Wan stopped, shoulders sinking. "I cannot," he said, his voice breaking with sincerity.

"Do it." She was relentless, and Obi-Wan despaired. He had already lost everything that mattered to him. He deserved the punishment it would be to put his body and mind through Qui-Gon's Art once more.

He found himself assuming the opening position again, reluctantly beginning to move into the second form. And then a booted foot kicked his ankles apart, widening his stance as the Art demanded.

"Continue," the woman spoke as Obi-Wan froze, confused. He had sensed no one else present in the room, but her voice came from the wrong place for her to have kicked him... and how would she have known...?

Obi-Wan automatically stretched his arm into the second arc, and his wrist was caught, dragged outward, his fingers curled by a huge rough palm, no woman's.

A cold lump froze in Obi-Wan's stomach, and he nearly fell.

The third stance, and hard angry hands clamped on his shoulders, demanding the stillness required by the pose. He could not stop trembling beneath those hands, but he tried to flow toward the fourth position, was seized and dragged back, his back bent further forward, his knee folded the slightest fraction more.

He tried again.

This time his arms fell into that grip of ice and iron, pulled outward until Obi-Wan cried out in pain in spite of himself, and the rotation was done for him, into the fifth pose.

Then the sixth, and the hand that curled around his neck, palm to nape, brought the tips of his toes effortlessly from the floor, attaining the height he could not reach. Obi-Wan gasped, tears coming to his eyes as his body screamed its inability to yield to the relentless pressure.

And so he was led, sinews straining, muscles shrieking, every error ruthlessly noted and corrected.

Vaguely, Obi-Wan heard the voice of the woman, weeping her pity for him, from a corner of the room where she watched.

At last the first Form of the Art was finished.

"Now." The voice, so harsh it seemed alien to itself, was before him. Qui-Gon reached, tangling his fingers in the thin leather leash, dragging his padawan forward once more into the first position of the Art of Grace even as Obi-Wan clutched desperately at his sleeve for balance. "Do it right."

And he did.

Obi-Wan reached for the Art, reached for the pain, embraced it. Became what he was not. The Force was his yet, though he might have lost his Master's love, and he used it, stretched himself into it, let it build and exaggerate his movements, let it augment him, providing a pillow of illusory reach and bodily strength.

Qui-Gon stood, eyes hooded and dark, not permitting himself to feel, watching for the slightest error.

There was none.

He gestured the girl forward when Obi-Wan finished and collapsed to the floor. She unlaced the knotted cloth Obi-Wan wore over his eyes, peeling it off him, and he raised his gaze slowly to Qui-Gon.

Obi-Wan took in his Master's dark heavy boots. His tailored trousers. The hem of the stola and the tunics. The broad belt with its small gold buckle. The narrowing gap of the dark brown cloak, the slight V of sturdy chest exposed above the layered tunics. The fringe of his silver-brown hair. His Master had never before seemed so tall. Never before had Obi-Wan felt himself so reluctant to let his eyes complete the upward journey to Qui-Gon's.

There was a large bundle of gray cloth crumpled in the corner -- a person, or a heap of rags? He could not be sure. Obi-Wan glanced nervously aside at it and at the woman who had bought him, and was startled to recognize her as one of Qal's favored slaves. Her eyes were red, her face swollen, and she flinched away, her fear warning Obi-Wan just as his head was seized and forced around and up, until ice-cold blue eyes bored into his own.

"You wanted a slave Master." Qui-Gon's voice was flat. "Now you have him."

Obi-Wan struggled to swallow against the dryness in his throat, near-crippling relief battling stark terror in him. Unable to help himself, he lifted his shaking fingers and caught his padawan braid, looping it and pulling the end loosely through the circle, making the bondage knot at his cheek, a silent plea.

A long silence, Qui-Gon's ice-cold eyes judging him minutely, and then the Master lifted Obi-Wan ungently and flung him over his shoulder, hauling him from the room with leisurely strides that nonetheless ate two steps at a time as they climbed, and Obi-Wan realized they were in the palace, began to understand they were heading for Qui-Gon's rooms.

Once there, Qui-Gon placed Obi-Wan on his feet and began jerking at his clothing, discarding it carelessly. Obi-Wan was irresistible. Perspiration had carried away most of the oil and makeup, but enough remained to render his padawan exotically beautiful. Kicking his boots away, Qui-Gon laid his broad fingertips on the boy's fresh brand, watched a shiver run through Obi-Wan involuntarily.

"You want this." Not just the brand, but all of it. His Master's fierceness, his relentless and complete frenzied possession ... wanted to be forced to surrender with total abandon, needed to leave all things Jedi behind both of them and simply belong to Qui-Gon. It was not a question but a truth, and the Master did not bother to listen for the answer he already knew.

The Master's mouth fell on his willing slave's lips, biting them, forcing them open. Obi-Wan tasted blood, and his arms rose of their own volition to twine around Qui-Gon's neck, locking him to the kiss in a stranglehold.

Qui-Gon crushed him to the floor, forcing his arms back. Obi-Wan felt the breath shoved out of his lungs, but he didn't care. Opening himself fully, unresisting, he surrendered everything he had to the ruthless half-stranger who lay atop him.

Obi-Wan was perfectly pliant, boneless. Qui-Gon growled, sinking his teeth into his padawan's neck, listening to the whimper that issued, but Obi-Wan's hips arched into his as the contact galvanized him. Qui-Gon moved his body away from his padawan's, continuing the series of punishing nips and bites, holding Obi-wan down fiercely, forbidding his attempts to touch. He could feel the skin bruising as Obi-Wan struggled against him, body struggling mindlessly to obtain what Qui-Gon withheld.

"Master, my Master!" Obi-Wan moaned, writhing wildly, his hips rising from the floor, back curving into a graceful arc.

"What do you want?" Qui-Gon caught Obi-Wan, held him there, aloft, hand cradled under his padawan's hips, one finger sinking into the seam, waiting there, poised.

"That ... ohhhh ...." Obi-Wan squirmed, trying to shift his hips, but Qui-Gon held him fast, the heel of his free hand pushing Obi-Wan's chin up, immobilizing him.

"What?" Qui-Gon's voice fell to a hoarse rasp.

"You inside me!" Obi-Wan choked.

"Inside you? Why?"

"Because ...." Obi-Wan's throat spasmed as Qui-Gon flicked his fingertip over the soft folded ring. "I need you to ...." He swallowed desperately, frozen where Qui-Gon held him. "Please, Master!"

The broad finger sank deep and Obi-Wan accepted it with a whimper of relief. Qui-Gon let his padawan's back and hips settle to the floor, sliding his hand out, and then thrust and lifted again, raising Obi-Wan's body. He resumed and held the cruel balance, shifting his hand, lightly and briefly grazing the elusive locus of pleasure inside his padawan's body.

"Please, Master!" Obi-Wan begged him immediately.

His padawan had never been a slow student, Qui-Gon reflected, savoring his perfect control, savoring the begging words. "Please what, padawan?" He hardly heard himself use the word, it seemed so synonymous with slavery in that moment between them.

"Please touch me there again." Obi-Wan's pink tongue snaked out to lick dry lips. "Please."

Qui-Gon rewarded him with a swift caress, loosening the pressure on his chin. "And what else do you want, Obi-Wan?"

"Whatever you wish." Obi-Wan used his newfound freedom to squirm against Qui-Gon's seeking fingers, his mouth falling slack, lips parted with pleasure.

Qui-Gon's mouth closed over the young man's nipple, a fierce bite. "What do you want, Obi-Wan?"

"You, Master!" Obi-Wan's voice broke. "Have me!"

"How?" Qui-Gon's voice was a deep growl.

Obi-Wan hesitated, seeing the flicker of growing irritation at the delay. "Like this," he whispered, and moved, rolling to his belly, letting his legs fall to the sides of Qui-Gon's thighs. "Like before, my Master."

A beautifully submissive position, one that would do admirably. Catching the slim, hard-muscled thighs, Qui-Gon drew the young man onto his lap, watching the spine arch, the shoulders shift, the small smooth scar on the skin below the left shoulderblade slide across muscle and bone.

"What do you want now?" he asked, voice tightly controlled, and Obi-Wan turned his head, palms braced flat on the floor, gazing back at Qui-Gon with disbelief, his breath coming harsh and shallow. Fire kindled in his eyes.

"Do it, Master," Obi-Wan breathed, his narrow mouth hard. "Take me. You know I want you. So do it."

It was what he needed to hear. Qui-Gon's hands seized Obi-Wan's shoulders and he dragged his padawan backward, onto his thickness. Obi-Wan moaned, a deep guttural sound, bracing himself on trembling arms, as Qui-Gon's strong hands forced his hips all the way down. Qui-Gon's hard hands circled his pelvis, and his Master rolled backward, leaving Obi-Wan kneeling atop him.

"Move," Qui-Gon commanded, sliding both palms under his padawan's hips.

Obi-Wan obeyed, letting the powerful hands direct him subtly, rising and falling, sweat bursting out all over his skin. He set the pace to please himself, but modified it under Qui-Gon's slight pressure, speeding and slowing, his hands braced on his Master's knees. He was hard, but dissatisfied, aching for the touch of skin and lip on his body.

"Please, Master," Obi-Wan moaned. "Your skin against me."

Qui-Gon raised himself on an elbow, catching his padawan's waist, drawing him back against his chest and then rolling over, burying the smaller man beneath him. Obi-Wan gave a faint cry, his hips tensing as Qui-Gon took over the smooth rhythm and speeded it. Qui-Gon tilted them, catching Obi-Wan's shoulder and bending to nip it fiercely. Obi-Wan gasped, struggling to lay his head back and feel Qui-Gon's hair on his face. The heat was building in him, devastating. He could not believe Qui-Gon had not yet seemed to feel it; the friction was unbearable but the pleasure was worse, rising without quite cresting, close but not close enough ....

"Let me come, Master!" Obi-Wan heard himself beg.

"No." Not yet. Oh, not yet. Something won and something lost, both in that sweet, desperate plea. He was humbling Obi-Wan, destroying his own pride and self-image, but he could not stop. Could. Not. Stop. Force, but he craved Obi-Wan more than air! Wanted him a thousand ways, and for an eternity of nights, but this was the last. It had to be.

And so Qui-Gon could not surrender it, not a moment or its fraction. Not when the future was already broken, and the present was all that remained to him.

He thrust hard, a last savage stab, and expelled himself deep in his padawan's body. Obi-Wan writhed and whimpered, still unsatisfied. Breathing hard, Qui-Gon pulled away, then cradled his student gently in his arms. He'd forgotten how strong he was in the heat of his passion, clearly. Obi-Wan was a mess of bruises and bites, some bleeding, especially the slanted bite across his lips. He'd have to heal them ... but no. No, he could not. The Temple Healers had to bear witness to his padawan's injuries. He could not run the risk that the Council might ignore the seriousness of what he had done ....

"This time is for you, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon's voice was hoarse with love and sorrow. Bending, hoping to repay some of the pain he had caused, Qui-Gon gently addressed himself to Obi-Wan's pleasure.

He made it last as long as possible, guiltily tasting and re-tasting his padawan, using lips, tongue, and teeth to tease him to the edge of climax again and again, ignoring Obi-Wan's wild, pleading cries until he felt himself trembling on the verge of exhaustion. Then, reaching deeply into his padawan's mind, he sank his mouth all the way down on the young man's erection and pulled up swiftly, stimulating Obi-Wan's pleasure centers hard. His Obi-Wan screamed in surrender, writhing, but Qui-Gon held him still, taking the bitter fluid in his mouth and savoring it, thinking of the pleasure it represented ... and the pain that was to follow.

He gathered Obi-Wan up in his arms. "Come, Obi-Wan," he whispered. "It is time to go home."

"Yes, my Master." Obi-Wan's eyes fluttered open, dazed but adoring, but then a shadow clouded them. "Master?"

"Yes, Obi-Wan?" Qui-Gon rose, found his clothes, and stepped into his leggings wearily. He tucked in his undershirt, found the first tunic.

"How did you know where to find me?" his padawan asked timidly.

Qui-Gon pressed down a flutter of renewed anger as he buckled his belt and stamped his feet into his boots.

"I followed Qal, of course." Impatience roughened his voice. "The two of you were fools. What possessed you to plan that wild charade? Having yourself sold!" Qui-Gon slapped his palm irritably against the wall, turning an accusing stare on the young man.

"Qal?" Obi-Wan remembered Qui-Gon's jealousy of the Prince and was suddenly deeply concerned. "I planned nothing with Qal, Master. Corm drugged me, would have taken me ... he wants to use me to breed Force-user slaves, but I threw off the drug, and he was frightened to return me to you given what I'd witnessed. He tried to purge my mind, and he shipped me off to be sold. He was going to tell you I must have run away ... I knew you wouldn't believe it, but I knew I could escape and win back to you on my own."

Qui-Gon had frozen in place, half into his dark overcloak, staring doubtfully at Obi-Wan, astonishment and anguish shading over his features as he processed the new information. "Then you did not plan for Qal to buy you?" His voice very nearly broke.

"Of course not, Master ... I have not spoken to Qal since ...." Obi-Wan trailed off with dawning fear, his agitation growing by leaps and bounds. "Where is Qal, Master?"

Qui-Gon jerked, startled. Clearly his thoughts had taken an entirely different path. "I left him with the girl, when I carried you here ...." Qui-Gon's lips pinched and he tilted his head, reaching out visibly for a sense of the young Prince. "He followed me from the auction. I was in no mood to hear his prattle; I made him sleep and hauled him back to the compound. He should be lying in the room where you were brought. I'm sure his slave will care for ...." Qui-Gon's forehead pinched into a sudden frown and he exploded into motion, snatching at pants and tunic.

"Master?" Obi-Wan's voice was sharp with alarm, and he struggled to his feet.

Qui-Gon paused only long enough to shove his other arm into his cloak and fling a single word over his shoulder, his hands diving into the chest that held their sabers, coming up with his own settled snugly in his palm. "Corm would have watched to see who bought you." He tossed his padawan's lightsaber across the room, not bothering to glance, knowing Obi-Wan would catch it. "Qal's life may be in danger."

The Jedi Master flew from the room, his padawan in close pursuit.

Qal woke to frantic patting on his cheeks. Blinking blearily, he gazed up into Ara's face, groggily surprised to see genuine worry on the slave girl's lovely features.

"My Master! You wouldn't wake up!" she gasped. "What did that wizard do to you?"

Qal couldn't remember.

He'd gone out to seek Qui-Gon in the aftermath of the auction, trotting to catch up to the taller man's long, ground-eating strides. Putting his hand on Qui-Gon's shoulder, he'd begun to demand why the Jedi Ambassador had abandoned Obi-Wan on the block ... and then, nothing.

"Where's Obi-Wan?" Qal shook his head, struggling to throw off black shrouds of sleep that threatened to enclose him once again.

"I ..." Ara shivered. "I couldn't stop him, Master. Master Jinn was waiting for us when we returned. He ... he made me ask Obi to do the dance from the block, but he wasn't pleased with him."

Ara turned her dark, haunted eyes outward into the room. "He was angry, my Master. He corrected Obi-Wan, made him do it again. Then Obi-Wan tied the bondage knot in his braid to beg mercy and plead love, and Master Jinn carried him away."

Qal's anger helped him muster adrenaline to push away the heavy, false weariness that dogged his heels.

"I found you lying here when they had gone. I've been trying to wake you for almost an hour." Ara buried her face against Qal, seeking comfort.

"I'm well now." Qal soothed the girl absently, taking stock of his body. Jinn's mind powers must extend to mental domination, then. An interesting ability he had not suspected. At least he'd been left undamaged. If the same was not true of Obi-Wan ....

Qal's teeth gritted, and he forced himself to stand in spite of the heaviness of his head. If the Ambassador had injured his innocent slave, there would be hell to pay.

Qal shifted his cloak and robes, settling them. Jinn had been confident, not even bothering to disarm him. He felt his hand clench around the hilt of his sword. That might prove to be a serious miscalculation.

"Ah." A low voice, and a light laugh. "So, Qal."

Corm. The Priest stood at the edge of the room, the stair he'd just descended rising up toward the heart of the palace. Corm's hand lay on the hilt of his sword, and his eyes glittered with triumphant contempt. Qal flickered his eyes at Corm. Apparently there was pressing business to attend before he could settle his grudge with Jinn. Very well.

"So, Corm." Qal declined to give the other man his honorific. "What brings you here?"

"My agents spied you at the auction." Corm bared his teeth. "You made a purchase, I hear. A rather ill-advised one."

Qal could hear the sleek whispering slide of metal as the priest drew his sword, and responded in kind. Ara quickly pulled his cloak from his shoulders so that it would not impede him.

Corm was the more experienced fighter, tough and seasoned. Qal, by contrast, was younger and quicker, but far less trained with the sword. Cautiously, he began to edge around the priest, wanting to get his own back to the corridor that led up into the palace.

"Are you sure you want to kill me, Corm? Who will you use to build and operate the technology you want, to contact the Republic again?" Qal thought fast. "When the Ambassador takes the transport, you'll be left with nothing!"

"I already have what I need. Or I would have, if not for you! Fool, you let the Ambassador follow you, let him retrieve his slave!" Corm's mouth worked silently, his expression twisting with anger. "I will kill you, Qal. Kill you and take your body to the ambassador. I gave the slave a neural purge; they will believe me when I say it was you who tried to steal and sell him."

Qal lunged, fury at Corm's taunt flooding him. Their blades clashed, striking sparks, and they began to circle, testing one another carefully at first, then harder and faster.

The ringing of blades could be heard long before the Jedi came in sight of the room. They found Qal limping on a slashed leg, blood streaming from another cut above his eye, being backed steadily into a corner by the larger warrior.

Obi-Wan gathered like a spring, preparing to fling himself into the room and intercede, but Qui-Gon acted faster.

"STOP!"

The Jedi's Force-enhanced bellow very nearly shook the walls, and dust sifted from the ceiling. Qal and Corm halted in mid-motion, then Qal danced back, out of the priest's range, gasping for breath, exhausted.

Qui-Gon stormed into the room with Obi-Wan hot on his heels.

"Corm of Ria, you have broken diplomatic custom. You have assaulted the Republic's ambassadorial liaison. You traffic in slaves for profit and take pleasure in cruelty!" Qui-Gon thundered. "You will accompany me to the Republic and stand trial for your crimes against my padawan."

"My crimes?" Corm's face was white with fear, but his lip curled with just a trace of genuine amusement. "You branded him. Perhaps that is a crime in your Republic." He laughed with keen amusement, then grounded the point of his sword between two stones in the floor, satisfied that his words had struck home. "I suggest you carefully reconsider, Ambassador."

Qal glared at Qui-Gon contemptuously and returned his stare to Corm. "You will not escape Riadan justice," he promised, raising the tip of his sword again. "For crimes against the state and against my father. I have known of the bitterroot for many years, Corm, I have seen you wind your way into my father's confidence and usurp his throne. You will pay; I shall see to that." He snapped a quick glare to Qui-Gon, who had begun to edge forward. "This is none of your affair, Ambassador!"

"He'll kill him." Obi-Wan's tense whisper prompted Qui-Gon to fling up an arm to hold his padawan back. "Master, we can't let --"

"We can't stop them, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon's voice was taut with regret. "Qal is right."

Corm laughed at Qui-Gon's words, lunging forward, blade ringing against Qal's once more. In spite of the brief respite, the Prince was exhausted and tiring as the priest beat on his blade, forcing him back, inflicting taunting wounds that slowed him even further. Qal scrubbed his sleeve across his face, wiping blood from his eye, and Qui-Gon could feel his padawan quivering with helpless anger behind the arm the Jedi Master had flung across his chest.

The battle surged back across the floor, Qal stumbling desperately to evade a savage slash, nearly falling over his slave. And suddenly Obi-Wan's eyes focused. Ara held one of the small oil lamps in her palms; before Obi-Wan could blink, she hurled it viciously at Corm.

It glanced off his chest, but shattered on contact with the floor, and the oil spilled. Flame flared, greedily devouring the slick flow, a hellish lake around the two men, tongues of fire rapidly twining up Corm's oil-spattered legs and tunic. He screamed, backpedaling and beating at the flames with his hands, dropping his blade.

Qal pursued, the soles of his boots aflame and curling, his tight leggings starting to singe. Even as Qui-Gon hastily flung up a hand and a deafening explosion of air rang through the room, the shockwave quenching the hungry flames, Qal's sword plunged into Corm's breast and emerged dripping from his back.

Obi-Wan nearly collapsed with relief. Freed of Qui-Gon's restraint, he ran forward, ignoring the smoking hot floor beneath his feet.

"Stop, Obi-Wan!" Qal jerked his sword free, indifferently dropping Corm to the floor. The priest's hands clenched feebly, trying to reach for his wound. "This is not yet finished." Qal's eyes burned over Obi-Wan's shoulder with determination, and he stepped forward proudly, bleeding and scorched.

"I challenge you, Ambassador Qui-Gon Jinn. I would duel you for the right to own your slave."

Obi-Wan's mouth fell open and he stared, shocked.

"There will be no challenge," Qui-Gon's mild, sad voice answered him.

Qal's lip curled with anger, and he lunged, crimson-stained blade leading. "You will fight!"

The snap-hiss of igniting lightsabers was simultaneous and instant. Obi-Wan flung himself forward between the two men, landing on one knee before his Master, blade flashing in a guard over his head, just as Qui-Gon's saber darted forward with a subtle twist. The beams tangled for the briefest instant, the blue nimbus of Obi-Wan's blade singeing the top of his hair at the jar of the impact.

Intercepted twice by the wicked energy blades, Qal's sword clattered to the floor in two pieces, leaving him to stare at the melted hilt in his hand.

"Obi-Wan is free." Qui-Gon powered down his saber, warily watching Qal as he reattached it to his belt. Obi-Wan took a moment more before rising from his protective crouch, his own saber hissing to silence.

Qui-Gon's strong hands came forward to settle on his padawan's neck, and the lock collar clicked, springing open under the pressure of Qui-Gon's single strong finger, the Force triggering its mechanism. He lifted the heavy metal away. "I renounce all ownership claims to the slave known as Obi-Wan Kenobi. I declare him a free citizen of the Republic." Qui-Gon handed the opened circlet of metal to his padawan.

"And I, Qal, Prince of Agus Ria, declare the slave known as Obi-Wan Kenobi free in all the demesnes of Ria," Qal responded immediately, surprised pleasure filling his voice. "Let him from this day be his own man."

Qui-Gon slipped his cloak from his shoulders and folded it around his padawan's slim, bare form. Obi-Wan glanced up at Qui-Gon, covering the broad hand on his shoulder with his own.

The Jedi Master did not return the young man's smile, still gazing at Qal sternly. "Who now will be Priest of the Riadan Temple, your Highness? And what consequences will you face for the deeds you have done here tonight?"

"Fewer than you fear." Qal smiled suddenly. "I am next in line for the priesthood, Ambassador. It would have been mine had I been of age when Corm's predecessor died. And the quarrel? A duel of honor. There will be no consequences from that. Corm's men will either come to my service or sell their swords elsewhere. And there will be no more tainted bitterroot for my father." Qal's face was fiercely triumphant.

"Indeed." Qui-Gon's voice was neutral. "So you will come into Corm's position, then. Will you also hold his chattels?"

Qal nodded curtly. "Chattels that will no longer be mistreated," he stated flatly. "And as High Priest, I will have the power to change the state of slavery on Ria, Ambassador."

"That is well." Qui-Gon nodded. "I fear that as things stand, the trade agreements you wish will not be granted by the Senate."

Qal sighed, deflating visibly. "I had hoped it would not be so."

"Perhaps it will not always be so." Obi-Wan tucked the heavy collar away in a pocket of Qui-Gon's robe and stepped forward, careful not to let the trailing fabric drag through oily ash. "When the changes you wish are made, contact the Jedi again, Qal of Ria. I shall come personally to carry a new report back to the Senate."

"I would be grateful for that, Obi-Wan Kenobi." Qal's eyes brightened.

Qui-Gon made an abortive attempt to speak his disagreement, then halted, drawing back into himself. By that time, Obi-Wan might well have passed his Knighthood trials. Even if he had not ... Qui-Gon Jinn still would have no say in what was done. He folded his arms, forcing his face to display only sheer, utter calm.

Qal placed his hands on Obi-Wan's shoulders and ritually kissed the padawan's cheeks. "It will take many years to change the minds and hearts of men."

"You have the strength and the will." The young Jedi smiled. "I'm sure of it."

Qal hugged him impulsively. "It is past dawn already. Will you stay for my investiture?"

"We cannot do that," Qui-Gon broke in soberly. "We must make our report to the Senate ... and I have other pressing matters to which I must attend."

Obi-Wan withdrew from Qal slightly, and the Prince understood the small motion. "Then you will go with him." Qal frowned slightly at Obi-Wan, worry puckering his brows. "You need not."

"It is what I choose, Qal. I am a Jedi." Obi-Wan shrugged apologetically, but without regret. "I belong with Qui-Gon Jinn. He is my teacher, and I will complete my training. When I return to Ria, I will be a Knight of the Order."

Qal smiled with pleasure. "Perhaps we will spar then, and you will tell me more of the Jedi way."

Obi-Wan returned the smile warmly. "I would be honored." He leaned back toward the Riadan Prince and returned the ceremonial kiss.

Qui-Gon cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Your Highness, I feel it best if we leave immediately. I would not care for the Jedi to be implicated in Corm's death."

"Of course." Qal bowed, regal in spite of his tattered condition, and ushered them from the room, Ara in tow.

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