“No such luck.” Reath gestured vaguely at the back of his head. In olden days, the braid had been mandatory, at least among apprentices from species that grew hair on their heads. These days, not every master required them; Cohmac had no intention of doing so, if he ever took another Padawan. Master Jora Malli clearly felt otherwise.

Cohmac intended to absent himself, but before he drew away, Reath turned to him. “Excuse me, Master Vitus? May I ask how you go about discovering and recording new legends? As a folklorist, I mean. Just find the local wisewoman, ask for a story?”

“Sometimes.” Cohmac gazed out of one of the Vessel’s very few, small windows at the brilliant, eerie blue of hyperspace. “Often it is more complicated. There are always the stories a people want to tell about themselves…and then there are the other stories. The secret ones, the dark ones, the ones whose meanings are more difficult to comprehend. Those aren’t the ones they offer to outsiders. Of course, those are generally the most important of all.”

They were the stories that would have done the most good, between Eiram and E’ronoh.

Dez grinned as he set about restrapping his boots. “How do you get them to open up about those?”

“It varies,” Cohmac said. “There are species who respect outsiders who push them hard, demand the facts. There are also species who eat outsiders like that. It’s best not to pry until you know which kind of culture you’re dealing with. While you’re waiting”—he shrugged—“you study their art. Paintings, tapestries, literature. Symbolism and allegory can reveal a lot. Then you ask about the art, and the legends come up naturally.”

“Crafty,” said Reath. “But also ingenious.”

“Thank you.” Cohmac inclined his head.

Dez said, “That’s got to be a challenge for you, doing something so completely new. To go off the map.”

“Literally,” Reath joked.

Cohmac could’ve said that he’d been to that area of space before. Specifically, to the lost moon between the twin planets that served as hosts for the new Starlight Beacon.

But there was no need to speak of it, and Cohmac had learned to limit his words. It was far too easy to say too much.

In the cockpit of the Vessel, Leox Gyasi chewed on a spice stick and considered the navicomputer readings.

(The spice stick was legal in Republic space. For now. Mostly because they hadn’t had time to get around to outlawing everything yet. Maybe the sticks would make the cut and remain legal. But maybe not. Leox had laid away a stash just in case.)

Oughta see signs of other traffic, he mused. Clearer signs than this. Are the readouts blurry? If so, why?

“Geode, buddy,” Leox said, “you seeing what I’m seeing?”