“Padawan Silas,” said Master Adampo, of the Council. “We are glad to have reached you.”

He could think of only one reason the Jedi Council would want to talk. “Have I been assigned to a new master?” As much as it hurt to think of replacing Master Jora, there was nothing else for him to do. Unless, maybe, the many problems on their mission had led the Council to decide that Reath had no business training to become a Jedi at all.…

“Not yet. We’ll discuss this with you soon.”

“Then—”

“Communications packets from Starlight Beacon have arrived,” said Master Adampo. “They include new and potentially critical information about the sector. As one of the few Jedi to have returned from that sector, your insights may be significant.”

“Send me the location and I’ll be right there, master,” he said. “Thank you.”

Surely Master Cohmac would be more useful in the briefing, not to mention Orla Jareni—but then Reath realized that they would soon be busy with the idols. A shiver went through him as he imagined those things in the very heart of the Temple. Although he’d helped set up the Force containment, it made perfect sense that more experienced Jedi would handle the rest.

Just reporting on what they’d encountered over there, still parsecs away from Starlight Beacon, on the far side of the sector? Sure, Reath could handle that, even if it came down to saying “Mostly we saw a bunch of plants.” It would keep him busy, and that was all he wanted.

As big and confusing as Coruscant was—very, and very—spaceports were spaceports everywhere. Affie Hollow hurried through the Central Senatorial Hangar, counting off all the similarities with a huge grin.

Droids directing huge cargo loads? Check. Pilots wearing their flashiest jackets and talking smack at each other? Check. Some ancient freighter that hardly seemed like it could remain in one piece, much less fly into space? Check. A huddled group of travelers hauling too many bags and trying to figure out which was their transport? Check. (In this case, a group of Trandoshans, growling in their confusion.)

At least one huge, top-of-the-line freighter, gleaming as though it had just been polished?

That wasn’t something you could find in any old spacedock. But Affie had just located Byne Guild number one-seventy-one, the Spiderspun.

She ran up the ramp, long braid streaming behind her. A couple of the crew droids chirped or called to her as she went, but she couldn’t stop. Not yet. She just waved and kept running.

The Spiderspun was too new for Affie to have many fond memories of it, or very many memories at all. Yet already it felt like Scover’s ship: clean down to the tiniest rivet, precisely calibrated, smelling of cleanser rather than grease. Affie was probably tracking in grime. But she knew Scover wouldn’t mind.