"What's the first rule of warfare?"
On seats, on benches, leaning in alcoves, or just standing with arms folded, the leaders of Mandalorian society-or as many as could get to Keldabe-watched him carefully. Even the head of MandalMotors, Jir Yomaget, wore traditional armor. Most had taken off their helmets, but some hadn't. That was okay by Fett. He kept his on, too.
"What's in it for us," said a thickset human man leaning back in a chair that seemed to have been cobbled together from crates. "Second rule is how much is in it for us."
"I'm with the Mand'alor on this," said a hoarse male voice at the back of the assembly. Fett recognized that one: Neth Bralor. "We lost nearly a million and a half people fighting the vongese. That might be small change for Coruscant, but it's a disaster for us. No more-not until we get Manda'yaim in order. We'll eat bas neral if we have to."
"No," said another voice, thick with a northern Concordian accent. "Coruscant won't be asking us to disarm anytime soon. They might need us if they get another vongese war."
Mandalore has no position on the current war, and there'll be no divisions over it. Anyone who wants to sell their services individually to either side—that's your business. But not in Mandalore's name.
"That's okay, then," said a cheerful, white-haired man sitting a few paces from him. Baltan Carid, that was his name. "That's all we needed to know. That there's no ban on mercenary work."
"What is he?" Mirta asked.
"You asking me or Lord Mirdalan?" Jaing held his gloved fingers up in front of the animal's face, some land of signal that produced instant attention and made it lie flat on the deck. Jaing got to his feet. "He's an it. Strills are hermaphrodites. I promised Mird's last owner I'd look after it when he passed to the manda. Strills live a lot longer than we do."
"Get your shebs back to Mandalore, listen to Kad'ika's advice, and build a strong, united, stable state. Prove you're even half the man that Jaster Mereel and Fenn Shysa were. All you want to do is emulate your old man, Boba. But you're too scared to exceed him, aren't you? You can't be better than Jango. That would never do."
***Medrit wyjaśniający Bobie szczegóły na temat beskaru.
"It's not just the ore," Medrit said, drawing an imaginary graph in midair with a nuna drumstick. "It's the processing. Part of the strength of the metal is in what's added during smelting and how it's worked. What you saw was just a test batch."
"Have we got the facilities to do that anymore?" Fett wasn't used to eating in front of anyone else. Dinua's son and daughter, Shalk and Briila-seven and five, he estimated-stared at him, unimpressed, across the table. The scrutiny of small children was unnerving.
Dinua, orphaned on the battlefield like Fett, was a savagely smart woman. Beviin had adopted her the moment her mother was killed, but Fett found that ability to turn strangers into family-that central part of Mandalorian culture-was beyond him. Even Medrit-impatient, critical, short-tempered—had accepted the unexpected addition to their household without a murmur. Adoption was what Mandalorians did, and always had.
"You think anyone's stupid enough to try invading like the Empire did?" Beviin said. "After we kicked Vong shebs like that?"
"Ba'buir's cussing," said Shalk gravely. "Can I say shebs, too?"
"No, you can't." Dinua clicked her teeth in annoyance. "Buir, please, not in front of the kids.
