Eli frowned. Gubudalu? What in the world was that one? Quickly, he ran the Sy Bisti root and modifiers—
Ah. “Usurpation,” he said.
“Thank you,” Thrawn said. “Could he be driven by the theft or usurpation of some personal or family mining interests?”
“Interesting thought,” Yularen said. “Your typical smugglers, pirates, and thieves don’t like to draw attention to themselves. But Nightswan slaps his name all over the place.” He pursed his lips. “Could be he’s planning some major operation and wants to get everyone looking somewhere else. I remember a group of arms smugglers during the Clone Wars who liked to set fires on one side of a city to draw the police and firefighters there, then hit a weapons depot on the other side.”
“Indeed,” Thrawn said. “What about Coruscant? Is there unrest here?”
“You must be joking,” Yularen said with a snort. “Go down two thousand levels and you’ll find all the unrest you could ever want. Go down four thousand and you might as well be in Wild Space.”
“So this would be a fertile ground for anti-Imperial protests?”
“It would,” Yularen agreed. “Except that all the centers of power are up here, and we’ve got the best police, military, and private defense forces anywhere in the galaxy. Hell, we’ve got combat dojos that do nothing but train Senate and ministry bodyguards. Nightswan could agitate from here until Ascension Week without making a single dent in anything that matters.”
“One would think Nubia equally immune to such threats.” Thrawn indicated an entry on his datapad. “Yet this protest at the Circle Bay mayor’s office seems to have been quite effective.”
“That was a unique case,” Yularen growled. “The perpetrators managed to get the entire kitchen staff fired, then infiltrated the new staff with their own people. Once you’ve got someone on the inside, you can pull off almost anything.”
“Exactly,” Thrawn said. “You said there were dojos that specifically work with Senate bodyguards?”
“Yes,” Yularen murmured, frowning with sudden interest. “Yes, I see where you’re going. But most of the bodyguards who train at those places are already employed. I doubt a senator would go to one of the dojos to hire replacements or extra staff. He or she would probably get those from an accredited agency.”
Yularen stood up. “Still, it’s been a long time since ISB looked at any of those places. Might be worth taking a tour of the Federal District’s combat subculture. Either of you care to join us?”
—
“Welcome to the Yinchom Dojo.” The boy seated cross-legged on the floor to the right of the door rises to his feet. His voice has the clearness of youth, with cheerfulness beneath the solemnity. He bows at the waist toward Colonel Yularen, then repeats the gesture to each of the other four of the group. “Abandon the tedium and cares of life, all who enter, and prepare your minds and bodies for the rigors and joys of combat.”
“We will,” Yularen said. His voice is calm and official, but there is a hint of humor beneath it, as well as appreciation for the boy’s performance. “I’m Colonel Yularen. I wish to speak to the owner of this place. Can you go and bring her to us?”
“I can,” the boy acknowledged. He bows again to Yularen. “Please; come inside.”
The group filed into the dojo. The boy waited until all five were standing against the wall, then headed off around the edge of the training room.
“Not nearly as impressive as the last one, sir,” Vanto murmured.
“No,” Thrawn agreed.
“A little small, and a little too far from sunlight to be considered top-line,” Yularen agreed. He looks slowly across the training area, his eyes flicking back and forth, taking in the details. A sparring duo works in each of the central mat’s corners: one duo empty hand, the second empty hand against blade, the third and fourth stick against stick. A young human female circles the center of the mat, calling occasional instructions and corrections to each of the pairs.
“On the other hand, thirty senators have sent one or more of their bodyguards here for updated training or sparring over the past five years,” Yularen continued, “so the place must have something going for it. Owner’s a Togorian named H’sishi.”
The boy, continuing around the room, passes a woman seated on a bench against the wall.
“Sir?” Vanto said suddenly. He nods toward the woman. “That woman. We’ve seen her someplace before.”
The boy passes the woman, and she stands and makes her way around the edge of the mat. An overly wide round kick comes near. She leans gracefully out of its path. An indication of moderate proficiency and skill. She reaches the Imperials and inclines her head. “Welcome to the Yinchom Dojo, Captain Thrawn,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the clash of combat sticks. “I’m Arihnda Pryce. You probably won’t remember, but we met once at an Ascension Week reception in the Alisandre Hotel, back when you were a senior lieutenant.”
“Certainly I remember you, Ms. Pryce,” Thrawn said. “You are an aide to Senator Domus Renking.”
“You have a remarkable memory, Captain,” Pryce said. “I’m no longer with Senator Renking’s office, though. I work now for an advocacy group.”
“I see,” Thrawn said. “May I reintroduce my companions, Colonel Yularen and Ensign Vanto.”
“I remember you both,” Pryce said. She nods a greeting to each of them. Her eyes shift briefly to the two ISB agents standing silent watch behind them. “How may I assist you?”
“We wish to speak to the owner,” Yularen said. “The boy’s gone to get her.”
“Who is the woman overseeing the sparring?” Thrawn asked.
“That’s Juahir Madras, one of the instructors,” Pryce said.
“Are you here for a class?” Yularen asked.
“No,” Pryce said. “My boss thought I might be able to establish a few contacts with some of the high-level bodyguards who train here, so I’ve been hanging around for the past few days chatting with people. Ah—here’s H’sishi now.”
A large, feline being appears in one of the doorways leading from the side of the main room. She is covered in short brown-white fur and dressed in a combination kilt and bandolier. Her yellow eyes focus on each of the visitors in turn. She looks at each of the sparring duos, then at Instructor Madras. “Cease!” she called.
Instantly the sparring halted. In the silence, H’sishi strode across the mat, moving with grace on her back-jointed legs. She passed Instructor Madras without a glance and came to a halt beside Pryce. “Good day to you, officers of the Empire,” she said. Her voice is sibilant but clear. “I am H’sishi, master of the Yinchom Dojo. How may I serve you?”
The sparring duos stand facing the visitors, their facial heat intense from heavy exercise. Instructor Madras’s expression and stance show uneasiness. Her gaze is on Yularen’s chest, not his face.
“I’m Colonel Yularen,” Yularen said. “This is Captain Thrawn; Ensign Vanto; Officers Roenton and Brook. We’re doing a routine spot-check of the dojos in the Federal District, with particular interest in government contracts and bodyguard training. I presume you have full records of both?”
“Of course,” H’sishi said. “I will get them for you.”
“Before you do,” Thrawn said, “we are also interested in trainers for a possible new urban combat unit. Do you teach advanced stick fighting?”
“We do,” H’sishi confirmed. “Have you had training in that art?”
“I have had the basics,” Thrawn said. “I would like to observe your best technique firsthand.”
“Certainly,” H’sishi said. “Instructor Madras and I will offer you a demonstration.”
“There is no need to involve any others,” Thrawn said. “Instructor Madras, please bring the sticks. Instructor H’sishi and I will spar.”
“Sir?” Vanto asked. His voice is surprised and wary. But there is no understanding in it. He doesn’t see the patterns; nor has he woven together the facts and possibilities.