Soh gripped his hand as he helped her down the stairs. “And what of my son, Council Member? Is Kip safe?”

“Padawan Zettifar will protect him,” he assured her, offering a silent entreaty to the Force that Bell had survived the first strike.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The opera stage, fair park, Valo

Panic had taken hold. People were running away from the approaching marauders, the ships flying low, their laser cannons already spitting crimson fire.

“They’re heading for the lake,” Chancellor Soh realized. “There’s nowhere to go but the water!”

She stepped forward, waving her arms, trying to direct people back to the harborside, but Stellan knew they wouldn’t listen. Herd mentality had set in, feet, tentacles, and in some cases wheels determined to get away from the danger whatever the cost. A fleeing Echani barreled into Soh, knocking her from her feet. That was all it took for her already stressed targons to pounce, Matari leaping for the Echani who had barely noticed what he had done. He would notice a targon’s jaws closing around his head, that was certain. There was no time to try to create a bond with the animals. Instead Stellan raised his arms, using the Force to hold both beasts back. They writhed and twisted in his grasp as the Echani ran away as fast as he could. Good. The last thing they needed was innocent passersby getting mauled by the chancellor’s overprotective pets.

Soh jumped back up to her feet, facing the animals, her palms raised, telling them that everything was all right, that she was all right. The beasts relaxed, no longer fighting Stellan’s grip over them, and he released them, relieved when instead of attacking they surrounded their mistress, although their long teeth continued to flash menacingly at anyone who got near the chancellor.

Stellan looked up at the Nihil craft, which were gaining by the second. Bays opened in their bellies and bombs dropped, whistling down to the ground. Stellan leapt forward, putting himself in front of the chancellor and her animals, Captain Maramis doing the same for his queen. Stellan’s hands were raised again, ready to push back at the inevitable fireball, but the flames never came. Instead, each bomb detonated with a sharp crack, thick yellow smoke billowing out.

“What is that?” Madam Conserra cried out.

“A war-cloud,” Stellan replied, looking around for shelter. The Nihil’s gas meant only one thing—the pirates would be attacking on foot as well as in the air, protected from the noxious fumes by respirators. Why hadn’t he insisted that all Jedi carry breathers as standard? The answer, of course, gnawed at his belly. He’d believed their hubris, really believed an attack would never happen here.