A Year Without the Sun


Veshielle ignored the tattooed Twi’lek schutta who had clumsily almost banged into her–undoubtedly drunk– and narrowed her green eyes as she closed the distance between herself and the Jedi.

She noted with grim satisfaction the look of recognition that played across his countenance as she approached. He appeared anxious, even fearful. Good, thought Veshielle.

“Master Piron,” she said silkily as she reached the Rodian’s table, “We meet again at last.”


Trixy spun around. Did that woman just call Piron ‘Master’? As in Jedi Master? She looked from Piron to the woman and back again. Surely she had misunderstood. The nervous Rodian could no more be a Jedi than she was. Could he?

Korr was still standing next to the table, having risen to bid Trixy farewell. She looked at him incredulously. His expression was neutral except for a small vertical line that had appeared between his brows. It seemed to Trixy that he was more than a little concerned by either the appearance of the stunning redhead or the exposure of his companion’s affiliation with the Order. Both, Trixy decided.

Piron’s face, tense in the best of circumstances as far as Trixy could tell, was stretched into a knot of acute distress, his beady eyes locked with those of the self-assured newcomer. For a long moment, no one spoke and the drama was tangible. Trixy had to push back a smile that was threatening to break. This Rodian nerve burner–a Jedi? And who was the woman who had turned up at this disreputable slugtank to confront him? Korr looked as if he were carbonized in place; for once in his life he was speechless. Trixy lost the battle to suppress her smile.

Oh, this was pure sabaac.


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