Chapter Text
The delegation from Stewjon came in full regalia, which in their case looked rather like being prepared for war. It was as much a show of strength as a display of fortune, for their fortune was a hard-won, rugged type, defended at the cost of much blood spilled. The Stewjoni were an uneasy ally, suspicious of all their neighbours, but these days it was far more practical to band together against the growing influence of Serenno than it was to stand alone.
The people of Asmeru were difficult to alarm, of course; and this was a wedding procession. Somewhere behind the protective blades and wraps and covered carts full of gifts and offerings, rode the new Consort to the Lord of Asmeru. As the procession wound its way through the city, some of the onlookers even made a game of guessing which carriage the Consort was in. Few had ever seen the Stewjoni, not even the delegates King Ele-Wan had sent last year. But that was bound to change soon, surely. After all, everyone knew the Jinn family by sight.
Qui-Gon awaited the procession at the fortress gates. The day had a sense of unreality to it: pale sunlight filtered through a thin cloud cover, and a cool wind blew in from the Stewjoni plains, as if bringing the Kenobi clan with it.
The Kenobi clan, and Qui-Gon’s future consort.
Qui-Gon had known Obi-Wan for years, albeit in the politely distant, social manner of most high-ranked envoys of neighbouring kingdoms. Of Ele-Wan’s sons, Obi-Wan was the youngest and most promising—a fact that his elder brothers could not forgive him. Obi-Wan had been honed into a fine warrior, one of Stewjon’s best. That praise was not unwarranted: Qui-Gon had seen him sparring and playing in the battle games. Young though he was, the lad had a grasp of military strategy that knew no equal.
But where Obi-Wan truly shone was at the feasts and suppers, sparkling among nobles of other kingdoms. His brothers were clumsy in conversation, undiplomatic, unobservant of verbal traps. They were keenly aware of their ineptitude, too, suspicious and defensive as a result. Obi-Wan, by contrast, was cunning and sharp as the blade he wielded, exceptional intelligence wrapped up in charm. Qui-Gon had always enjoyed their conversations; Obi-Wan’s humour and brilliant mind had often made those feasts bearable when nothing else could.
Qui-Gon had never imagined that he might receive a marriage offer from Stewjon, much less one that named Obi-Wan Kenobi as the would-be spouse. He’d never once thought that the lad might be an omega. Stewjoni traditions were notoriously limiting when it came to an omega’s fate. For Obi-Wan to have been trained as a warrior, placed on equal footing with his brothers—Qui-Gon suspected he’d been thought an alpha until the very moment of his presentation.
Twenty was very late, for an omega.
And Qui-Gon strongly suspected that Ele-Wan had sent the marriage offer the very moment Obi-Wan presented. It could take anywhere up to six months for an omega’s heats to settle; the Kenobi clan Elders had, for some reason, insisted on a wedding date almost as distant.
Qui-Gon had accepted without a second thought. It was an auspicious match. Asmeru and Stewjon were in a position to oppose Serenno, both in trade and on the battlefield, in a way no other kingdom was. It made sense to reinforce their diplomatic relations with a marriage.
And perhaps a small part of him dared to think that he was Obi-Wan’s best, kindest option. That was probably conceited of him, and it may have been the subconscious attempt to justify the way his heart had leapt at the very idea of marrying the lad. In a world where they could have chosen each other, Qui-Gon certainly would have wanted Obi-Wan Kenobi for his mate. He just didn’t know if the feeling was mutual.
The procession was finally close enough for Qui-Gon to see that Ele-Wan rode at its head, flanked by his two elder sons—both alphas. Obi-Wan was hidden away from view, no doubt in one of the covered wagons.
Qui-Gon waited for the head of the procession to enter the courtyard before the gate, watching Ele-Wan and his elder sons come to a stop in the center of it.
“Welcome to Asmeru,” Qui-Gon said, with the shallow bow of one ruler to another. “Our gates and minds are open to you. Go freely in my city as its citizens do.”
“We are honoured by your hospitality,” Ele-Wan replied solemnly, and dismounted. The brothers followed suit, along with a handful of guards.
Further on down the train there was a slight commotion, the muted sound of some confusion and disorder. Ele-Wan stared straight ahead, as if daring Qui-Gon to make anything of it.
At last a figure was brought forward, wrapped in furs and the red-dyed, fine-woven wool of a bride-to-be. Qui-Gon wondered what it had cost them to wrap Obi-Wan in those fabrics. The fact that the lad was flanked by guards who seemed to be holding him, as well as the clan elders who had come to present him to his future husband, spoke volumes.
“Welcome,” he said, far more gently.
Obi-Wan stilled, and finally Qui-Gon caught a glimpse of his face as the lad looked up. The quick flicker of relief struck deep, leaving an ache in Qui-Gon’s chest.
Then Obi-Wan straightened, and shook off the hands on his elbows. The flash of defiance in his eye gave his guards pause, and he moved forward on his own, to take his place just behind and to the left of his father. Even under the many layers of a traditional Stewjoni wedding garb, the confident steps and proud bearing of a warrior were evident in every line of his figure.
Ele-Wan gave away nothing. His two sons didn’t bother to hide their contempt, turning away from their brother with set expressions. Some of the Kenobi Clan Elders behind him were similarly offended by the omega’s brazen manner, muttering and shooting disapproving stares at his back as though Qui-Gon could not see it.
But for Qui-Gon, that poise and strength of will called to instincts buried deep under layers of control and training and stirred them awake: beautiful, perfect omega, he thought.
He’d always been fond of deadly things.
Qui-Gon invited the delegation through the gate, as was the custom: the Lord of the castle leading his guests through the barbican. Then, before any of the Kenobi Clan could manhandle Obi-Wan again, he stepped forward and offered his arm to the lad himself.
The Stewjoni delegation had not expected Qui-Gon to step among them. The ripple of concern was louder now than when Obi-Wan had shaken himself free.
But Obi-Wan, for his part, betrayed no surprise. There was the slightest hesitation—a mere fraction of a second in which Qui-Gon felt himself pierced with a calculating gaze. Then Obi-Wan stepped forward, taking his arm and leaning into Qui-Gon’s shoulder.
Qui-Gon felt a warm flicker of satisfaction at that, then quickly tamped it down. After all, Obi-Wan had few allies at his back. Perhaps he did trust Qui-Gon; or perhaps it was the absence of any other ally that had pushed him into accepting Qui-Gon’s offer of support.
They made it a few steps before Obi-Wan squeezed Qui-Gon’s arm slightly, as if to get his attention. “Deviating from the script already?” he murmured. “Stepping into their lines like that. You’ve made them nervous.”
“They were nervous when they entered Asmeru,” Qui-Gon replied, just as quietly. “And it’s not an uncommon variation on the traditional greeting.”
Obi-Wan’s grip on his arm went tight, and he hissed, “then you’ve just declared your intent to accept this engagement for all to see.”
“Would you rather I refuse?”
Qui-Gon kept his voice as low and neutral as he could, but his stomach twisted in on itself at the very thought.
There was a moment of charged silence. Qui-Gon barely even dared to breathe. With every step towards the Keep his feet felt heavier and heavier, and his throat tightened.
“I—no,” Obi-Wan said at last. “No. I didn’t mean that.”
Qui-Gon laid his hand over the thin fingers resting in the crook of his elbow and squeezed them gently. Obi-Wan’s skin was cold to the touch; Qui-Gon couldn’t bear to let him go. When Obi-Wan didn’t flinch or pull away, or even tighten his grip on Qui-Gon’s arm, Qui-Gon slid his fingers around Obi-Wan’s, taking the lad’s hand in his and rubbing gently. “You’re freezing…”
Obi-Wan made a quiet, dismissive noise, which Qui-Gon ignored. He led the delegation up the steps of the Keep, where he stopped to make certain introductions.
“This is our Seneschal, Dexter Jettster,” Qui-Gon said. “Dex will see to it that you are all housed and provided for.”
Dex straightened proudly to his full, impressive, barrel-chested height. “Welcome to Asmeru,” he said, with the deep voice of an alpha and a genial grin—utterly undaunted by his stone-faced, unreceptive guests.
Obi-Wan, as future consort, was greeted with an even warmer expression, complete with a proper bow. He hardly seemed to know what to do with such a respectful gesture.
Then followed the introduction of the marshal, T’ra Saa, fraymaster Cin Drallig, and representatives from a handful of the more important of Asmeru’s families. Several clan leaders stood with their omegas, and Qui-Gon noted the sour sideways glances the Stewjoni delegation bent their way. His own arm tightened unconsciously, drawing Obi-Wan closer to his side.
It was only a moment later when he felt Obi-Wan turn into him just that little bit closer, that he recognised his lapse in attention. Small mercies, he thought: at least Obi-Wan didn't seem to mind.
Once the guests were settled, the higher-ranked nobles reconvened in the Great Hall, around the high table. Qui-Gon made certain that Kenobi was seated beside him—just as he’d made certain to see that Obi-Wan was comfortably situated in his quarters. For the first few days of the wedding ceremony, Obi-Wan was to be accompanied everywhere by an attendant. Historically, it was a way to prevent the alpha and omega from mating before the wedding night.
Qui-Gon thought it would be more accurate to say that Obi-Wan was under guard. The attendant, an alpha guard—Nield—was tenacious, and he eyed Obi-Wan like he didn't trust the lad. Qui-Gon didn't particularly trust Nield. Maybe it was an alpha’s possessiveness instinctively rearing its head, but Qui-Gon found he did not like the idea of someone watching Obi-Wan so intently. He placed himself between Obi-Wan and the guard at every opportunity.
“Do they think you’ll run off into the forest?” Qui-Gon muttered, not really expecting a response.
“Before my father sent out marriage offers, he welcomed a handful of unmated alphas from the allied clans into our home,” Obi-Wan replied quietly. “One attempted to take certain—liberties.”
Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow, incredulous. “From allied clans? But they must have known—”
“They were glad to break a wildling bitch that had gotten too high above its station,” Obi-Wan hissed with uncharacteristic viciousness. Then, with impeccable calm, he folded his hands primly in his lap. “The others were sent back to their homes, along with an apology and a sizable bribe for their silence.”
“And the first?” Qui-Gon asked, more out of morbid amusement than any real need to hear the answer.
Obi-Wan was still for a long moment, watching the other alphas and elders settle into their seats at the long table. “It’s a peculiar thing, being raised and trained an alpha all your life, then waking up one morning and finding it all taken from you. Your name, your title, your right to live without looking over your shoulder—all gone, because of something you could not control.” Obi-Wan glanced down at his hands, as if examining his perfectly polished nails. “I thought he could benefit from a change in perspective.”
Qui-Gon hid a grim smile behind his cup. “Well done.”
“I don’t think you’re meant to be encouraging that sort of behaviour in an omega,” Obi-Wan said, a shade of a grin lurking in the barely-upturned corner of his mouth.
Qui-Gon raised his eyebrows at his drink. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The dull roar of the alphas crowded around the table and along the benches ebbed at last, and Dex’s booming voice carried over the last of it, inviting the guest clans to speak as they would.
Ele-Wan did not speak: one of the Stewjoni clan Elders took on that role, instead.
Lord Palpatine had all the appearance of a kindly old uncle, a harmless beta still quite hale for his advancing years. Qui-Gon found he didn’t trust that demeanor in the least. If Palpatine was meant to be a Seneschal for Lord Kenobi, or at least of some equivalent title, he bore no mark of his office. He was not in armour, though the Stewjoni seemed unconcerned with that lack. His attire was simple enough, but the cloth was of excellent quality—better than most of the Stewjoni clan leaders and allies seemed able to afford, for all it was an understated wealth.
Qui-Gon glanced sideways towards Obi-Wan. It seemed telling to him that the lad had fixed his eyes once more on his hands, folded tidily in his lap. Qui-Gon sat back, and tapped twice against the stem of his cup, a measured beat. Beside him, Dex shifted with a thoughtful hum.
Qui-Gon had expected to be coached on procedure, of course. He hadn’t quite expected any demands to be made at this stage, given that the details of the ceremony and marriage contract had been agreed upon months ago. The priests had done so almost at the same time as the astrologers had agreed upon an auspicious date.
Thus it surprised him when Palpatine pronounced, almost as an afterthought, “We require that our Lords be allowed to be present for the public consummation.”
Qui-Gon sensed it when Obi-Wan’s body went tense as a bowstring beside him. His own courtiers seemed a little surprised by the demand, and a mild flutter went through their gathering.
Ele-Wan watched placidly.
“That’s… rather old-fashioned,” Qui-Gon said, as diplomatically as possible. “The tradition of First Night has not been commonly observed in Asmeru for many years.”
“Non-negotiable, I’m afraid,” Palpatine said, expression folded into a mock-regretful moue. “The heir will have the blood of a Kenobi. We must see to the creation of our kingdom’s legacy.”
Qui-Gon cast a quick sideways glance at Obi-Wan, taking in the way his lips were pale and pressed thin. His knuckles were white, hands clenched in the folds of his robe. Qui-Gon laid a hand over one of his, the motion hidden under the table, and felt the cool, dry skin against his palm.
It almost surprised him when Obi-Wan turned his hand palm up and twined his cold, thin fingers with Qui-Gon’s. Obi-Wan squeezed gently, and gave him an almost imperceptible nod.
“Accepted,” Qui-Gon said, before any of his back-footed courtiers or fuming elders could put a protest together. “On the condition that you limit your party to three.”
“Lord Jinn,” the Elder began with what was no doubt meant to be a conciliatory tone, though it was every inch condescending, “there are at least twelve heads of family—”
“No more than three.” Qui-Gon’s voice fell across the table with finality, but he softened slightly as he bowed his head towards the Stewjoni king. “I understand the need to see to it that your son is not ill-treated. The duty to protect Obi-Wan falls to me now, and I will honour your request. But I will not have so many strangers’ scents confusing my omega at this most sacred moment of our joining.”
“We are not strangers to young Kenobi,” someone muttered from the Stewjoni circle, prompting a ripple of laughter.
Qui-Gon would have liked to find the bastard and tear his throat out for him, or possibly something else a bit more personal. Instead he coolly raised an eyebrow and said, “all the more reason for you to be barred from the wedding chamber.”
The amusement dried up almost at once. Only Ele-Wan’s lips twitched faintly in the wake of it. “Of course,” he said at last. “We will honour your request. But it must be more than three.”
The glib tone set Qui-Gon’s teeth on edge, but he pushed down his disgust. “Then as you have come here with new demands, perhaps it would serve us to re-examine the terms of our agreement.”
“As is only fair,” Palpatine agreed, raising his fingertips from the table in a casual, easy gesture. Ele-Wan had tensed minutely; at that little motion he settled again. Qui-Gon observed their byplay with interest.
“Shall we discuss the trade tax again?” Palpatine inquired politely.
He was the type to inquire, Qui-Gon thought, not ask —nothing so low and vulgar as that. All the manners of good breeding and noble bloodstock, and possessed of scruples to match, which was to say none at all.
“Actually,” Qui-Gon said, sitting back comfortably in his chair, “we should discuss the matter of provisioning your troops for the duration of their training with Asmeru’s ranks.”
The negotiations were heavy and unpleasant. Obi-Wan watched with quiet interest through it all, but said nothing. Even the Stewjoni elders who’d clearly been clearly displeased with his presence at the table had eventually forgotten that he was there, turning all their attention to the debate.
The impromptu session was forced to break apart as various aides and servants appeared, lighting torches and stoking fireplaces, setting up the tables and benches in preparation for the banquet. Many of the guests either took their leave to prepare for supper, or rose and drifted off to discuss their own affairs in smaller parties. Qui-Gon remained in his seat.
Obi-Wan didn't seem inclined to move either. “I take it the First Night tradition took you by surprise,” he murmured.
In the end, the councils had settled on five representatives from Stewjon, which Qui-Gon still thought was far too many.
“We agreed upon arrangements for the wedding ceremony months ago,” Qui-Gon said, eyes sharp on Nield’s post only a handful of steps away. He wouldn’t put it past the young guard to be listening and reporting every word he could hear back to Ele-Wan. “First Night was not a part of it.”
Ele-Wan and Palpatine had withdrawn to the edge of the room, where they stood with a handful of elders. Dex had herded a number of Qui-Gon’s advisors away to the opposite corner of the hall. The sound of twenty different conversations filled the air and echoed, blending into a low, unintelligible din. It was as near to privacy as they could expect, at least until after the wedding. Or, Qui-Gon supposed, until after their First Night.
Beside him, Obi-Wan was a quivering line of tension—he was wound so tight that Qui-Gon could sense it without even looking. When he did look, the sight had his heart twisting in on itself.
He’d never seen the lad so pale or defeated, and the longer Qui-Gon studied him, the more details leapt into view. Obi-Wan looked thin, much thinner than Qui-Gon remembered from when they’d last met—and that less than a year ago. The dark circles under Obi-Wan’s eyes, the bony hands, the way his clothes hung loosely on his frame—all of it whispered of things Qui-Gon wished he couldn’t hear. It clawed at something inside him, and he ached to wrap the omega up in his arms, fold him to his chest and rock him gently.
“Obi-Wan,” he said, voice as soft as if he was speaking to a frightened animal. “Let me assure you that you will never be forced into something that you do not wish, so long as you are under my roof. You have my word.”
Obi-Wan laughed—a breathy, ragged sound. “Qui-Gon. I appreciate the sentiment, but I have a duty to my clan and my people.”
Qui-Gon buried a wince. It was a harsh reminder of the reality: whatever Qui-Gon’s feelings for the lad, for Obi-Wan this marriage was simply a duty to fulfill, and nothing more. He hadn’t wanted it, hadn’t wanted Qui-Gon, and there was nothing Qui-Gon could do to prevent him being forced into a mating with someone he did not love. At least they’d known each other for some years; that acquaintance could prove enough of a foundation for a friendship between them, in time.
Even so, there was one promise Qui-Gon could keep: “Duty is all well and good, but humiliation is not something I will be party to.”
Obi-Wan’s eyes snapped up to stare at him, wide and shocked. “You can’t. Whatever their motives, you can’t just—the ceremony must go without a hitch. Anything else will serve as a pretext for a rift between kingdoms.”
Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow. “It would not benefit them to damage this alliance any more than it would benefit me.”
“Yes, well,” Obi-Wan said, “my father is not nearly as practical as you are. The Kenobi Clan is proud; they would rather face Serenno on their own.”
There was a deep vein of bitterness to the words. Qui-Gon sympathised.
He sighed. “What am I to do with you?”
Obi-Wan shrugged, resigned. “Breed me, I suppose.”
Qui-Gon didn’t flinch at the uncharacteristically crass reply, but it was a close-run thing. “At least allow me not to compound the harm already done to you,” he murmured.
The words melted into the roar of the hall, yet hovered uncertainly in the quiet space between them. They had been imbued with far more feeling than Qui-Gon had ever intended to reveal. He dreaded stifling Obi-Wan with his attention, or frightening the lad away. But much to his relief Obi-Wan only smiled, wan though it was, and nodded his thanks.
“I am grateful to you for thinking of my comfort where others will not. And… to tell the truth, I was relieved to see it was you, at the gate.”
Qui-Gon sighed, unsurprised. “No one told you.”
It wasn’t really a question, but Obi-Wan nodded all the same.
“I’d realised soon enough that we were heading for Asmeru, but it could’ve been any of the higher ranked families.” Obi-Wan suddenly blushed, looking endearingly shy. “I… I’m—glad it was you.”
Qui-Gon smiled, and almost answered, but Dex appeared beside him and gestured towards one of the servants’ passageways. “Mistress Tahl,” Dex said quietly.
Qui-Gon excused himself, but subtly tipped his head towards Obi-Wan as he did so. Dex had never needed clarification: he settled agreeably beside the omega and drew him into a conversation on the city’s daily supply needs at once, without even needing so much as a pause for thought. Qui-Gon cast a final glance back over his shoulder and had the pleasure of seeing Obi-Wan utterly engrossed, with a frown of concentration and that little furrow in his brow.
“Whatever happens between Asmeru and Stewjon now, he’s better off here with us,” someone said, coming up behind him.
Qui-Gon turned and raised an eyebrow at Tahl. “That does not sound reassuring in the least.”
Tahl nodded once. “It’s good that you’ve asked me about this Palpatine person. He’s a peculiar character. Not native to Stewjon—I believe he is of Naboo, actually.”
Qui-Gon frowned. “Naboo is not allied to Stewjon.”
“Nor are they allied with us, but they do keep an open line of trade with Serenno.” Tahl shrugged. “It means little. They are naturally isolationist and want nothing to do with anyone. Dooku has not tried his luck with them yet—they do not take kindly to outsiders meddling in their business.”
“Naturally.”
“Palpatine is of Naboo, but House Palpatine is not welcome there. Historically this has more to do with his father’s politics than his own, but it seems he’s done little to rehabilitate the name. Of course, he hasn’t had to—House Palpatine very nearly holds a monopoly on all of Naboo’s trade relations as it is. Still, certain former partners of his do seem to think it best that he never show his face in the Naboo court again.”
“And they gave no reason?” Qui-Gon asked, faintly surprised.
“Something terribly vague about poisoning King Veruna. There is no proof of his involvement, but everyone seems very preoccupied by the lack of any evidence to the contrary.”
“That’s quite a reputation.” Qui-Gon glanced back at the table, especially at Obi-Wan. Thankfully Dex had taken Qui-Gon’s request very seriously, and was wholly monopolising Obi-Wan’s attention. “And how does Ele-Wan feel, with a regicide as his councilor?”
Tahl shrugged again, this time looking faintly amused. “Ele-Wan seems to think he has nothing to fear from the man—that he will strike first before Palpatine ever has the chance to hurt him. Perhaps he will, at that. But Ele-Wan has never been one for complicated maneuvers.”
“No indeed,” Qui-Gon murmured. “But throwing Stewjon’s single royal unbonded omega my way to secure an agreement of military partnership with Asmeru… omegas are too precious a commodity in his lands, far too important to waste on a single alpha, or a single alliance for that matter.”
“Or perhaps the lad proved to be more trouble than he was worth,” his spymaster suggested. Her voice dropped even lower, just audible under the din of the bustling hall. “Several months ago, Ele-Wan invited a handful of unmated alphas from loosely allied tribes to attend him in Stewjon Hold, promising them a night with a newly-presented, unspoiled omega. The omega disagreed, violently so. Ele-Wan did try to bribe his guests to ensure their silence on the matter, but Obi-Wan inflicted considerable damage.”
Tahl was a true alpha of Asmeru, a hunter who prized a warrior’s ruthlessness and skill regardless of what form it came in—alpha, beta, omega, or anything else. The look she darted towards Obi-Wan Kenobi was appreciative and very nearly proud, as if Asmeru’s King could not have found a better consort.
Qui-Gon hid a tiny smile of his own. “Do we know who the unlucky fool was?”
Tahl folded her arms across her chest, looking oddly smug now. “The eldest son of the Chieftain of the Karkaris has not been seen in months. He hasn’t been out in public since his visit to the Kenobi stronghold—recovering from some complicated injury sustained while hunting, or so they say. Healers and nurses have a slightly different tale to tell, and the Chieftain is rather sensitive about heirs suddenly. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer knothead.”
Qui-Gon huffed out a quiet laugh. He’d had the misfortune of meeting the Karkari Chieftain’s son, and his greatest satisfaction from that meeting had been the opportunity to lay the alpha out flat in the tourney. He remembered that Obi-Wan had done the same only days later—a humiliating defeat for the older and larger fighter.
Of course, that was before he would have known that Obi-Wan Kenobi was an omega in truth.
Glad to break a wildling bitch that had gotten too high above its station, Obi-Wan had said. Qui-Gon felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in an involuntary response, and fought down the beginnings of a snarl. He had the sense he knew exactly where those words had come from.
“There are still those who would try for the omega without regard to the risks,” Qui-Gon said.
Tahl raised a very pointed eyebrow at him, which Qui-Gon ignored grandly.
“I should see to my guests,” Qui-Gon said. “Thank you. If you find anything else on Palpatine—”
“You’ll know it when I do,” Tahl agreed, and withdrew with a bow.
Obi-Wan had been watching him, darting expectant looks over Dex’s shoulder. Qui-Gon found it terribly endearing. He made his way back side-stepping the usual polite conversation. Whatever his councilors wanted to discuss, it could certainly wait until dinner was over.
Qui-Gon came up to Obi-Wan’s seat and laid a hand across the back of it, leaning in over the lad’s shoulder. “Everything all right?” Qui-Gon asked him softly.
“Dex was just telling me how many wagon-loads of eggs the Vandrin district consumes in a day,” Obi-Wan said, looking faintly bemused.
“Vandrin has some of the finest eateries in the city,” Qui-Gon explained, “which makes it Dex’s beloved district.”
“You can take a Besalisk out of the kitchen,” Dex agreed smugly. “I’d best make the rounds and see that our guests have been properly settled.”
Obi-Wan blinked at Qui-Gon. “A Besalisk,” he uttered. “They’re legendary warriors from the far western mountain passes.”
Qui-Gon nodded, and took his seat again. “Dex would certainly have been in charge of military provisions. But his true talent is in the making of the food.”
“But—Besalisk lands are several weeks’ ride,” Obi-Wan said. “How did he come to be here?”
Qui-Gon shrugged. “Asmeru is home to folk from many lands. It’s become home to a number of sell-swords. Asmeru’s soldiers are better paid than most.”
Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow at him. “It doesn’t concern you that your soldiers’ loyalty can be bought.”
“Well, anyone’s loyalty can be bought, for the right price.” Qui-Gon stroked over his beard thoughtfully. “But it seems that few can afford to match what I offer.”
“Oh?” Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. “What is it that you offer?”
“Asmeru is loyal to those who have been loyal to her,” Qui-Gon said. “We provide for those injured in battle, and for their families. Payment for lost limb, compensation for healers’ care. Dex needed starting capital to open his own tavern—it was given to him without question, and we assisted with repairs of the space he chose.”
“And yet, he is not currently minding his tavern.”
“Dex didn’t stop at a tavern. He opened a number of dining halls, workhouses, and hostels throughout the city.”
Obi-Wan shook his head, stunned. “The city is… so different from my home. I’ve always wanted to see such places.”
Qui-Gon smiled. “You’ve only seen it from the wagon. I’ll show it to you properly, sometime. After the wedding, I suppose, when you’re free of your minder.”
Obi-Wan snorted, but looked down at his hands with a pleased blush warming his cheeks. “Thank you.”
Supper was a lengthy affair, but for once Qui-Gon didn’t mind all the pomp and ceremony. Rather, he found himself cheerfully recalling the old courtship and engagement traditions he’d been taught as a young lad, and happily leaned into them, slipping extra portions onto Obi-Wan’s plate and filling Obi-Wan’s cup himself.