Which is probably why they’d been paired, she thought sourly. She shot a suspicious glance at Iron Hand. The Master met her eyes blandly and went on with her list.
The matches were open combat, no holds barred, with sparring to continue until one person surrendered by tapping the floor three times or took three burns from the training lightsabers, which were dialed to their lowest power settings. Even at low power a cut from a training lightsaber was no joke. The touch of the blade was shockingly painful, a searing kiss that made one’s muscles jerk and one’s nerves howl, and it left a red welt that took days to heal. Scout knew because every day for the last three weeks she had gone to a private spot in the unused kitchen gardens and touched herself on the flank or shoulder or leg with her own lightsaber at low power. Pain, as Master Iron Hand was fond of pointing out, was extremely distracting, and Scout, knowing she was likely to get hit, was determined not to let the pain make her lose focus.
She couldn’t afford to lose.
The first matches began. Scout tried to pay attention, watching for any obvious weaknesses in case she met the winner in a later round, but the cramping anxiety in her stomach made it hard to focus, and after a couple of bouts she joined the ranks of the Meditators, thinking only of her breath, of silence, of the deep calm of blood washing through her body like a hidden tide. She could feel the Force there, too, filling the room like a fat electric charge. Twice it jumped like a spark from one fighter to another, leaving the victor and the vanquished both blinking as if struck by lightning. Scout didn’t even try to open herself to it. The Force was not an ally she could trust, not when so much depended on this.
Her lips were dry and there was a bitter, metallic taste in her mouth. Get a grip, she told herself. Come on, Scout. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Suddenly it was time. Her palms were sweaty and her legs felt like jelly underneath her as she walked into the center of the chamber. Her lightsaber handle dangled from a loop on her tunic, bumping against a welt on her thigh. She went through the opening rituals, bowing to Master Xan and presenting her lightsaber for inspection. The Master checked the power settings and handed it back to her. Pax bowed deeply in his turn, then presented his weapon with a theatrical flourish. As Iron Hand looked it over, he shot a merry glance at Scout and tipped her the slightest wink. It was impossible not to smile. I’m glad it’s you, he mouthed.
They reclipped their weapons, parted, faced one another, and bowed. “May the Force be with you,” Pax said, and she knew he meant it.
The murmur of conversation in the chamber died away as Iron Hand held up a small red handkerchief. Now that the horrible waiting was over, Scout was calmer. She felt her attention relax and grow broad, seeping into the whole room. Her breathing slowed down, and she was aware of everyone in the room, even the ones standing behind her back. At the back of the room a door opened, and she felt the presence of Master Yoda, glowing like a lamp.
Master Xan let the red cloth slip between her fingers. Down it fell, fluttering, dipping, ever slower as time stretched out for Scout and Pax, until at last, gentle as a snowflake, the first edge touched the floor.
Two lightsabers blazed to life; clashed; whirled; clashed again; held motionless, humming and sizzling in the middle of the room. Pax laughed, and Scout could feel herself smiling back. She felt a little ashamed of all her scheming. It was hard not to wish Pax well.
I could let him win.
Scout blinked, turning over this new idea. She could throw the match. If she made it just obvious enough that she had “let” him win, it would imply that she could have beaten him, if she really wanted to. It wouldn’t be as if she’d actually lost.
I could let him win.
Relief flooded through her. Pax would advance to the next round, enjoying himself hugely, and for the first time in six weeks Scout would be able to stop worrying about this tournament and join in the celebration of his victory.
Pax cut a little flourish in the air with the humming green blade of his lightsaber. “Ready, Scout?” he said, and he let his tip drop just a little, as if inviting her in.
I should let him win.
The humming silence was broken by a small horking noise from the corner of the room: Master Yoda’s testy snuffle.
Scout blinked again, as if waking from a dream. “By the black stars,” she whispered. “You almost had me.”
Pax had been using the Force on her.
She shook her head to clear out the cobwebs. Pax was no sly manipulator—he probably wasn’t even aware of what he was doing. But make no mistake, he willed people to like him. Always had.
Scout laughed and made a mystical pass with her fingers. “This is not the victory you were seeking.” Pax looked at her, baffled. “Yeah, I’m ready,” she said. Then she attacked.
She ran in fast on a slant, testing his footwork. She got in with a bind that locked their blades together and let her use her size and weight to shove him hard. He stumbled backward, and she tried to drive home her advantage. He let his body go loose and tumbled backward, his blade slipping out of her bind and slashing up at her neck. She barely managed an awkward parry. It wrecked her balance and she pitched forward over his tumbling body. She somersaulted over him, hit the floor with a shoulder roll, and bounced to her feet, whipping her lightsaber around in a high parry that caught his blade in a shower of sparks.
Oh, boy. That was too close.
He fell back en garde, grinning hugely. Clearly this was the best fun he’d had in ages. It was only a game to him, of course. Nobody was ever going to send Pax Chizzik to the Agricultural Corps. No, twenty years from now they’d all be reading breathless accounts of his daring deeds as a Jedi Knight. Written by love-smitten journalists, no doubt.
It was enough to make her want to spit.
He attacked.
Usually they were evenly matched, but Pax was clearly feeling the Force today. His attack was long and fluid, a series of feints and cuts that came blindingly fast, each disguised as the other, so the real attacks melted in and out of the fake ones. Scout parried the first three with increasing difficulty, gave ground, felt herself becoming lost in the swirls of humming light, and finally broke back in full flight, using her speed to plain run away until she could escape the maze of humming green light he had almost trapped her in.
Another pause.
They stood five paces apart. Scout was breathing hard. Glancing down, she saw a char mark on her tunic where his blade had come too close. The smell of burned cloth tickled the back of her throat.
Pax looked down at his own saber, wide-eyed. “Did you recognize it, Scout?”
“What?”
“The Mrlssi half-hitch. The knot you taught me. I was feeling for you with the Force, you know, the way they teach us, and suddenly it was like I was making the Half-Hitch around you, but all in light.”
Murmurs throughout the room, and scattered clapping.
So much for trying to beat him straight up, Scout thought grimly. Time for Plan B.
Pax looked up at her in wonder. “I’ve never done anything like that before,” he said, delighted. And he stepped toward her with renewed confidence, eager to dissolve once more into the calm fury of the Force.
Scout dropped her lightsaber on the ground.
Pax stopped, puzzled. Scout held out her hands, palm up, and bowed.
Understanding dawned. Pax clipped his lightsaber to his belt and returned her bow respectfully. Now that the combat fire was draining from him, Scout could tell he was anxious that she not lose face. “Well fought,” he said. And then, taking a step nearer, he whispered, “This isn’t going to mean they send you to the corps, is it?”
Scout tried to smile reassuringly, and held out her hand to shake. “Don’t worry about me,” she said soothingly, as his hand entered hers. “I’ll be—”
In the middle of her sentence, as soon as his grasp was in hers, she flipped it over into a wrist lock. Pax blinked in surprise, then went quickly to
his knees as Scout upped the pressure.
“Oh, man,” he breathed. “You got me.” And with his other hand he tapped three times on the floor.
Scout instantly let him out of the wrist lock. “Sorry!” she said.
Hanna Ding, an Arkanian apprentice Scout’s age, shouldered past her to get to Pax. “That was ill bred,” she said. At the best of times, Hanna had more than her share of Arkanian hauteur, and now a single glance with her milky white eyes made it clear that, as little as she had ever expected from Scout, she had expected more than this.
Master Iron Hand approached Pax. “Are you all right, Chizzik?”
“My pride is a little bruised,” he said ruefully, shaking the tingles out of his right hand, “but otherwise I’m fine.”
“Of course you’ll disqualify Enwandung-Esterhazy,” Hanna said.
“With all due respect,” Scout ground out, forcing herself to meet Master Xan’s eye, “the conditions of the match were plainly laid out.”
“Combat to continue until one competitor surrenders, or receives three cuts,” Pax said. “It’s not Scout’s fault I was dumb enough to forget the rules. She tricked me fair and square.”
“I see no reason to overturn the result of the match,” Master Xan said, and she walked back to the center of the room.
Hanna Ding watched her go. “Well done, Scout. You proved you can beat up little boys, as long as you are allowed to cheat.” She turned her milky eyes on Scout. “How proud you must be.”
Somehow Scout wasn’t surprised to find she would be sparring with Hanna in the second round. It was so very much the Jedi style to throw the two of them together and see who would be able to retain her composure the best. Hanna’s proud, pale features took on an expression of distinct pleasure when she heard Scout’s name called after her own. “I am looking forward to this,” she said.
I bet you are, Scout thought grimly. Realistically, Hanna was much the better fighter. Physically, Scout gave herself a very slight advantage in speed and strength, thanks to her extra training. Technically they were comparable—Hanna possibly stronger with the lightsaber, while Scout was definitely ahead in the unarmed techniques that Master Iron Hand taught. But when the Force was added into the equation, the contest wasn’t even close. Hanna was fourteen, and her use of the Force was on an entirely different level from Pax Chizzik’s: polished, strong, and supple. Scout watched her warm up across the chamber, leaping ridiculous distances into the air and then drifting down, light as a snowflake falling.
“Good luck,” Lena murmured, watching Hanna warm up.
Scout grunted. “On the bright side, at least I’ll be fighting someone I really want to hit.”
It was time for their bout. They bowed to Master Xan, presented weapons, got them back, bowed to one another. Master Xan said, “Some of the apprentices were very vocal in lobbying for a tournament that was ‘more like real life.’” Was Scout imagining it, or did Master Xan look directly at her? “In real life, we rarely get optimal combat conditions. One might find oneself attacked in null gravity, for instance. Or by surprise, or by a droid or other creature whose physiology made certain techniques difficult or impossible. Of course, introducing a Gorax into the Temple is not practical. But there are some things we can do. For instance, in real life—” Scout would swear the Master’s eyes were lingering on her again. “—it is often dark.”
And the lights went out.
Oh, great, Scout thought. No problem. I don’t need to trust my eyes, after all.
I can trust the Force.
It was pitch black. In the darkness, Scout could just hear the audience breathing, and the sound of her own blood beating in her ears. A soft rustle of cloth from the direction Master Xan had been standing in. She would be lifting up the red handkerchief—and Scout had no way of telling when she was going to let it go.
Oh, boy.
She tried to use the Force, tried to let her awareness seep out into the dark room. She could feel the presence of the watching acolytes, Master Yoda back in the corner, Master Xan. But she couldn’t find the little scrap of red cloth. For that matter, she had only a vague idea of where Hanna was. It was as if the Arkanian were muddying the Force, the way a Quarren might squirt ink into the sea.
Well, there was nothing for it. She couldn’t draw before the handkerchief touched the ground, and she couldn’t tell when that was going to happen. She would just have to stay alert, ready to spring backward at the first instant Hanna made any move.
Scout stared into the darkness. Her eyes felt wide as saucers, and she was straining to hear every creak and whisper. The little hairs on her arms stood up, as if she could listen with her skin.
And then, a gift from the Force: the sudden electric knowledge that Hanna was going to lash out—
Now!
The Force told Scout when the attack was coming; her own hard work told her what it would be. Scout had watched Hanna fight many times in the last six weeks. She knew Hanna would start with a high, Force-aided leap, to get out of Scout’s plane of vision, hoping to drop down like a bird of prey from above. The Arkanian’s blade blazed to life, a stroke of green lightning crackling down from directly overhead: but Scout’s blade, a wand of cool blue flame, was there to meet it. The weapons clashed in a jarring burst of sparks, but Scout had the floor to brace against, and the force of her parry sent Hanna tumbling backward through the air. The Arkanian twisted into a perfect backflip and landed in a balanced fighting stance.
A scatter of applause drifted around the room.
Blue and green reflections hissed and spat in the milk-white surface of the Arkanian girl’s eyes. “Come now, Esterhazy. Aren’t you going to try one of your dirty tricks on me? You didn’t use them all up on poor little Pax, did you?”
Scout grinned. “Not even close.”
If Hanna had a weakness, it was that she was too in love with her lightsaber. There was something in her fastidious nature that made the sweaty grappling of hand-to-hand combat distasteful to her; she was really much happier standing two paces from her opponent and letting her blade do the fighting for her. “You know, Hanna, there’s one thing I’ve always wondered. How exactly do you manage—”
Scout exploded into a flying flèche in the middle of her sentence, hoping to catch the Arkanian off guard. Hanna snapped to parry, Scout disengaged, Hanna caught her blade triumphantly and slid it down to the side. Scout’s blue lightsaber passed harmlessly by as Hanna spun like a matador to let her go by, but that was all right, since Scout had only meant the swordplay to be a distraction, something for Hanna to feel superior about, right up to the moment Scout’s body was nearly past, when her whip kick knocked Hanna off her feet.
They both hit the mat hard.
Scout tried to push her advantage, but by the time she was back on her feet the Arkanian was flashing forward in a lunge of her own. Hanna had a humming, buzzing, circular style of swordplay, fast slashes that changed angle continuously. Only Scout’s little Force talent saved her, subtly prompting her to ignore the feints and parry the real blows.
Remember, you are the weapon, Scout told herself. Don’t get caught thinking about the lightsaber alone. Be the weapon.
Slash, parry, slash, parry, slash—and this time instead of making the expected parry high, Scout dived in low under the blade, trying to tackle Hanna around the knees. The Arkanian flipped up, sending Scout between her legs as she somersaulted in the air, twisted, and landed in a fighting stance. Scout tucked, turning her dive into a roll, and bounced up. They were both breathing hard now. Lightsabers buzzed, blue and green.
Hanna lunged again, but this time she used the Force as well, dragging on Scout’s sword arm so her parry came too late and she had to throw herself wildly backward out of the center circle of mats to evade the blow. Regaining her balance, she skipped in among the surprised spectators, who scrambled out of her way.
“Hey!” Hanna cried. “You can’t go in there!” She swung around to face Master Xan. “She can??
?t go in there. One of the bystanders could get hurt!”
Scout edged behind Lena Missa. “Bystanders get hurt sometimes,” she said with a shrug.
“Master Xan!”
Scout rather thought there was something like a smile tugging at the bottom of the Jedi Master’s mouth. “This is real, Master Xan.” Scout tapped Lena lightly on the shoulder. “This is the terrain.”
“Perhaps so,” Iron Hand said dryly. “But I think we’ll try to keep the mayhem at least a little contained today, Scout. Fighting in the central circle only.” She held up her hand even as Hanna’s mouth started to open. “That does not constitute reason for Enwandung-Esterhazy’s disqualification. I have made the ruling in flow, and she may recommence inside the boundaries at no penalty. You will both be satisfied.” It wasn’t a question.
“Of course,” Scout said immediately, with a low bow.
“Of course,” Hanna grated out.
Hanna stood aside. With all the composure she could muster, Scout walked back into the circle of mats.
“Begin.”
Hanna’s sword point dropped and she leapt forward, slashing for Scout’s head.
And Scout ran behind Master Xan.
Hanna’s lightsaber blade got to within a hand span of the Jedi Master’s face, froze, and snapped back like a child’s finger from a hot stove.
“Whoa there,” Scout said. “You nearly hurt an innocent bystander.”
Hanna’s mouth opened in something like a snarl. She lunged behind Iron Hand.
Scout scurried out in front.
“Stop!” Master Xan said.
“It’s not my fault,” Scout said. “You’re in the terrain.”
Hanna made furious gurgling noises.
Iron Hand was definitely trying not to smile. “True, Scout.” She walked to the edge of the circle of mats, with Scout and Hanna in orbit around her like two eccentric moons. “But sometimes, the terrain changes.”
“I was afraid you’d say that,” Scout sighed, leaping backward to avoid a slash as Master Xan left the ring.
Hanna stalked after her. “Any more cute ideas?”