Chapter Text
Lord Palpatine wanted to pinch his nose. The olfactory miasma over the harbor town of Mos Eisley was as offensive as he remembered it: a noxious base cloud of stale fish, piss and sweat, and over it, stray wafts of cinnamon and turmeric that managed, on occasion, to snake through, like hot pokers in the hands of a drunk gaoler.
He hated the stench as he hated the place itself, with cold and detached efficiency. He kept his trips to this continent infrequent and brief, but this particular visit was unplanned, and not one to be avoided. Raw and unbending, his premonition raked its claws on the back of his head as it had done for weeks. A locus in the Force had pulled him here, on this day, to this armpit of a harbor town, and his temples pulsed from its sheer gravity.
Perhaps a mass death event was about to transpire. Or had it happened already? Various possibilities flickered in his mind like dancing strands, one offering more promising rewards than the other, and he unraveled each one meticulously, searching for clues. He knew one truth: whatever event the underlying current wrought, it would turn out in his favor. His sweet triumph sinewed through the Force like a budding jasmine flower, only waiting for nightfall to bloom.
The Eclipse docked and passed through the rudimentary inspections performed pro forma by the so-called local authorities. His crew moved around deliberately but swiftly, eager to disembark. Lord Palpatine gave his last orders, ending with a request to keep the ship ready to take off at a finger-snap notice, then strode down the ramp. At last, he allowed himself to pinch his nose and breathe through his mouth, to avoid the worst of the stench at the docks.
The sun already slanted towards the barren hills in the west, and the heat radiated from the stone buildings in waves. Lord Palpatine’s manservant rushed ahead to the Severed Hand — the single reputable inn in Mos Eisley. Instead of following him to retire in the dubious comfort of these accommodations, the nobleman summoned two of his personal guards, and veered off to look around town.
He walked to the main street market, located, as most markets were, in the center of the settlement. Nothing but the usual sights greeted him: animated merchants sold their pungent wares from brightly painted stalls, while all around them swelled the bustle of horses, donkeys, and the occasional camel, loaded with colorful bundles and pulled through the sweaty crowds by their irritable owners like trickles of ants between soiled sugar granules. And on the periphery of this commotion, in the corners of the dusty streets, skulked the usual riff-raff: beggars and peddlers and grimy children hunkered close to their ragged mothers, wailing at anyone who may deign to toss them a coin.
Annoyed, Lord Palpatine was about to turn back, when an affiche board caught the corner of his eye. In three sets of bold paragraphs, one of which thankfully written in Common Tongue, the affiche announced the capture of a coven of witches. And not just any coven, but the Witches of White Sun — Tatooine’s prominent “reformist” movement. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He knew very well of Tatooine’s attitudes towards magic users, and he had to remind himself to keep vigilant here.
The announcement ended with the declaration of the coven’s public execution, scheduled for tomorrow at sundown. Lord Palpatine’s premonition snapped with a twang at the back of his mind. Deep in thought but alert, he headed back to the Severed Hand, his right hand shaking slightly as he hooked it on the side of his belt buckle.
After he entered the inn and inevitably drew the attention of the crowd inside with his foreign appearance, he took the extraordinary step of sitting down at the bar. His guards inconspicuously positioned themselves at the far corners of the room, with eyes on all entrances.
The innkeeper, a balding, round man with paper-thin lips and very thick eyebrows, greeted him with no small amount of curiosity. As he evaluated the quality of his clothing, his expression turned covetous.
“I will have a bottle of wine. Your finest.” Lord Palpatine ordered, despite his hopes of getting anything “fine” in this establishment being quite dim. The barman issued a quick bow, and with a heavily accented “yes milord”, ran off to a room in the back. He soon re-emerged with a glint in his eyes, and, most surprisingly, a dusty bottle of Cipriano Corundo in his hands. A leather signet affixed with red wax rested beneath the cork, and on it, embossed stylishly, the image of Lady Winama Naberrie stared at Lord Palpatine, stalwart and mocking under the innkeeper’s clueless grin. Palpatine furrowed his brows and queried in the tone of voice he usually reserved for sentencing the occasional poacher on his lands to death.
“Is this the best you can do?”
“Ain’t it from your country, milord?” the man-made a simpering bow as he gestured to the label on the bottle.
“No, it is not.” Palpatine’s ire rose as he re-examined the wine offering, the innkeeper suddenly shrinking under his icy glare. He reminded himself that he was here to seek information from this man, so he took a deep breath and shrugged benevolently, “But alas, it will have to do.”
He made up his mind to inquire with the Spinnaker Trade Guild as to why, after asking for the finest wine, he was offered a Theedian variety four times in a row on this voyage. Rolling a few stale heads in that department might do wonders to improve the Guild’s outreach initiative.
The innkeeper popped the cork and poured a good amount into the wrong type of glass for this type of wine, evidently oblivious to the concept of decanting altogether. The sight if his arch-rival head-of-state, glaring at him shrewdly from her famous wine label, continued to irk him. As if, regardless of the blessings of good fortune about to rain down on his person, the Naberrie problem would persist unabated, like a pernicious sediment in a precious wine barrel.
Lord Palpatine sighed and lifted the glass towards the dubious light trickling through the smoky windows. A vibrant color. He lowered the glass, swirled the ruby liquid three times, and inhaled a deep whiff. There was enough in the complex bouquet to remind him of the Cipriano produced in Spinnaker, yet it hammered its distinction with accents of ripe edelberries and softer tannins that could only grace the senses by virtue of Theed’s warmer climate. A fine wine indeed. He had to give it that much. He placed the glass back on the counter to let it breathe.
“Would you care for som’thin’ else, milord?” The innkeeper, who’d observed his actions without blinking, grinned eagerly.
“Not at the present.” Lord Palpatine pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. The innkeeper’s eyebrows drew up to his receding hairline.
“Is that a clock, milord?” he exclaimed. “I ain’t seen one so small!”
“It is the latest from Spinnaker,” Palpatine stated with pride. “Here, you can have a look.”
He handed the shiny disk to the innkeeper, who took it reverently. Come to think of it, it probably cost more than this entire establishment. The man turned the watch over and over with a spark of marvel in his eyes.
“So tell me, what’s new in town?” Palpatine asked, while the innkeeper was still preoccupied with the precious object in his hands, now examining the likely unfamiliar numeric system on the dial. He lifted his face quickly.
“Well, you might’ve heard, but we caught them Beggar’s Canyon witches, at last. That’s what everyone here’s talking about.” Just as Palpatine’s interest spiked, the innkeeper turned around to call someone in the back: “Iweld, come see this, m’dear!”
A sturdy woman emerged from the kitchen, sporting a strangely tidy apron behind the greasy towel in her hand. The innkeeper extended the pocket watch to her: “Have you seen anything like this? M’lord here got it from Spinnaker.”
“Spinnaker, eh?” The cook leaned closer so she can examine the ticking wonder. “My hands are dirty, hold it still.” The innkeeper laid the watch flat on the counter, and Iweld leaned in to inspect it. “Ah, it’s a true beauty, that is. Them Spinnakerians were always a crafty folk.”
“Perhaps the term you are searching for is ‘talented engineers’,” Lord Palpatine interjected, then met her giggle with a level glare. Upon reminding himself of his purpose once again, he forced his features to relax into something not unlike a smile. “Since I am a foreigner here, I find local stories just as fascinating as you find stories from my country. Your… partner, he was just telling me about… witches, was it? Perhaps you can indulge my curiosity a tad further.”
The smile vanished from Iweld’s face, and she suddenly busied herself wiping the counter with the greasy towel, leaving a respectful berth around his watch, and his glass.
“There ain’t much to tell, m’lord. Witchcraft is a dark art, forbidden. Them White Sun witches finally got themselves caught. They’ll all be offed tomorrow. I hear there’s a child with them, too — sad business.” She sighed, and, perhaps worried she had said too much, darted her eyes to scan around the room.
“Terrible business, indeed,” Palpatine sought to reassure her, just to keep her talking. “And these witches have been brought into town already?”
“Yea, m’lord. In fact, the Cleansing Hand will be escorting them on their walk of penance at sundown, an’ lock’em up in the Gallowsink to wait for tomorrow.”
For their execution, Palpatine remembered, and took his first sip from the Theedian wine. He had to concede once more, begrudgingly, that it was a splendid vintage.
“I see,” his attention returned to Iweld, “And where is this fateful procession to take place?”
The innkeeper looked at him askance, while his partner muttered under her breath: “On Market Street, m’lord. From the Inner Fort’s West Gate all the way to Gallowsink. I don’t think…” she halted herself, startled by an obvious nudge behind the counter from her partner, and clutched her towel with both hands. “Well. Let me know if m’lord will want som’thin’ with Galactian flavors for dinner. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Galactian flavors” was as vague of a concept as it was vast, but Lord Palpatine simply nodded, “Very well.” The woman could be useful later.
He had planned to retire to his room and take a much-needed bath. Instead, he checked the time again, and his gaze settled through the windows on the busy streets outside, as a new plan took shape in his mind. He would have to see this procession for himself.
He tossed a few gold coins to the innkeeper - more than enough to cover the wine, and with a secret hand gesture, summoned his guards to follow him discreetly.
“Should I set this aside for you, m’lord?” The innkeeper called after him, just before Lord Palpatine was about to set foot outside. He’d left his glass full, and the entire bottle behind.
“I do not care for it.”
He didn’t bother turning around, and waved his hand dismissively as he left the inn. He sensed the man’s astonished look follow him all the way until he disappeared among the street crowd.
He was about to pay a visit to an old acquaintance. The visit was long overdue, but more importantly, this individual conducted business from a tower that just so happened to have an excellent vantage point over Market Street.
The dull pressure in his temples was turning into a headache, getting worse by the minute. He veered off into a dusty alleyway to avoid the noise from the crowds, and used the extra time this roundabout route would cost him to focus. The quarry of his trip was near. He could feel it as surely as he felt the pain pulsating behind his forehead.
He cast a shield to protect his identity, then stretched his sense of insight over the entire settlement. A sudden pain blinded him: it seared around his neck, and wrists, and ankles. He withdrew from that Force current immediately and gasped, his hand reaching instinctively for his throat, the other leaning on the nearest wall for support. His guards flanked him in seconds. The commander asked if he was alright, and handed him his water flask. Lord Palpatine straightened up, took a large swig, and chuckled. His purpose here had finally revealed itself with perfect clarity.
With two hours left before sundown, the crowds were already swarming Market Street, vying to get good viewing spots for the procession. Predictable. Like wasps, following a trail of honey to its sticky source.
Palpatine approached the familiar tower at a leisurely pace, and stopped casually by the front door, giving the appearance of a man who was too important to be in any sort of hurry.
The guards posted by the entrance did not move or make an effort to greet him. As his own men filed in behind him and stretched to their full height, he pulled out his amber tablet and waved its silk tassel before the tower guard he deemed more senior.
“Inform Despot Tuire that Lord Palpatine wishes to speak with him.”
The guard beheld the chimaera crest, intricately carved on the tablet over the name “Sheev, VIIIth Lord Palpatine”. He may not have been able to read the name, but he recognized the image, bowed deeply, and motioned for him to follow inside. Despot Tiure’s manservant, a man with hollow cheeks and perpetually bowed back, who went by the name of Bib Fortuna, greeted him in the entrance hall. A few flights of stairs later, they found Tiure at the narrow end of a long table. A lavish selection of food and drink covered every centimeter of the surface. The centerpiece, a massive baked snake artfully coiled around a carved japor spindle, stared at Lord Palpatine like an angry god chained in his own desecrated temple.
Bib Fortuna approached Jabba to formally announce his visit, while Palpatine kept to the shadows by the entry. The Hutt Lord erupted in a series of exclamations, then urged him closer with an obsequious tone. He owed House Palpatine a few favors and a lot of money. And the current Lord liked to keep matters just as they were.
“Lord Palpatine! An unexpected honor! Come, come — sit at our table. We have a great deal to catch up on since we last met.” The Despot had gained a few stones of weight and added at least six rings to his fleshy fingers since Palpatine had seen him last.
“Jabba, I am delighted that I found some time to drop by, and you were here.”
He took the seat immediately to the right of the Hutt. A servant, or perhaps a slave, rushed in with a glass of water, eyes kept lowered to the floor. It was a customary gesture on Tatooine, for a host to offer water to their guest as soon as they sat on his table. Just in case, he artfully cast a poison ward over it. His first sip tasted cold and sweet.
“How have you been, friend?” He set the half-empty glass on the table and directed a level stare at the Hutt Lord. Jabba observed him keenly, and Palpatine could feel the gears in his mind turning, trying to decipher the reason for this unannounced visit.
“Ah, business as usual, my lord. The witches are howling in the desert, the sands are eating more and more of our land, and my slaves are dying as if they have figured out a way to age faster just to vex me.”
With no official laws to regulate slavery on Tatooine, the local trade guilds and the Corellian slavers had built a solid enterprise. Evidently, Despot Tiure dabbled in the affair as well.
“Well, from what I hear, there will be fewer witches howling in the desert rather soon.”
“Ah, yes, yes - you’ve received the news, no doubt. What a victory for Cleansing Hand - to capture not just the coven, but the leader of the witch Rebellion herself!” Jabba paused to pour a greenish liquid over a sugar cube set on a slotted spoon, and Palpatine observed the liquid louche with a smoky effect.
“The leader?” He prompted.
“Yes. Skywalker is her name, given by them witches. She was a slave, but escaped years ago and hid in the desert.” He paused, as if trying to recall more. “Shmi, that’s what they called her before.”
Jabba swirled the foggy green liquid in his glass and raised it at Lord Palpatine. “Care for some?”
“No, water is fine.”
The name “Skywalker” reverberated through the Force, so alive, that he could almost see it take shape in the room, like a halo of someone from legend.
Jabba shrugged and took a large gulp from his absinth, for Palpatine recognized the drink by its smell now too. This local beverage reeked of anise and certainly shocked with its bright color. Rumors had it, it was hallucinogenic. Lord Palpatine made a note to himself to take a few crates with him back to Spinnaker for further study.
“The Cleansing Hand must be very pleased then.”
“Yes, yes, they are - they have geared up for a grand celebration today. In fact, you are in luck, my lord - I have the best view over Market Street from here, and if you are so inclined, you are more than welcome to join me for the spectacle.”
Palpatine shrugged and kept his voice perfectly neutral. “I suppose it will help pass the time.” He looked at the water in his cup casually and took a small sip.
“Ah, but of course. In fact, I will have my cook prepare for us something special for this event!”
In less than an hour, Lord Palpatine and his host were sitting comfortably on the balcony, high above the crowd, shielded from the sun by a deep red awning. The heat from the day was still thick in the sluggish air, so Jabba had four of his slaves bring out rather clever contraptions: wooden boxes filled with ice, with rattan fans affixed on top, operated with a rotary handle. Palpatine made a note to ask for the design before he left, studying the devices as the slaves worked hard at keeping the fans in motion to direct cool air towards him, and their master. A very welcome relief.
A rush of excitement through the crowd drew his attention. Palpatine’s mouth was suddenly dry, as he waited, still as a stone, for the procession to come into view. Jabba’s terrace was at a great vantage point indeed: he could see the Market Street for long distances on each end. He heard the warning calls of the Cleansing Hand before he saw their uniformed members. Sternly, they beckoned the crowd to keep to the sides of the street, and warned them against throwing heavy objects. Evidently, they didn’t want to risk any of the captives getting out of execution by a lucky head blow from a rock. The crowd listened and roared, in unpredictable bursts, then stilled.
The beating of a drum poured into the street and echoed over the rooftops, followed by the deep, droning voice of a man, chanting the same verse in the local language over and over.
“What is he saying?” Palpatine turned to Jabba.
“A verse from The Cleansing Hand’s scriptures:
‘Behold the witch sinners,
who revile the Order of God,
for their lands shall be salted,
and their bones ground to dust.’”
“Lands?”
“Ah, they haven’t had lands for many years. Just bones for the grinding, now.” Jabba popped a frog leg in his mouth and grinned. “Executions always get my blood going — isn’t that a thing?”
Palpatine didn’t respond and leaned just a touch over the terrace, to get a better look of the approaching “witches”. His pulse thundered in his throat. Tatooine was a cruel land for Force users, and if a hint of his abilities was to slip here… Diplomatic immunity only went so far before an angry mob.
He covertly re-cast the spell to hide his Force presence, and gripped the balustrade tightly. His headache was quickly sliding into a full-blown migraine now, and he strained his eyes in anticipation. The person at the epicenter of it all was a powerful one indeed.
The hollow clank of chains announced the approach of the “witches”. The crowd reacted to their appearance with heated whispers and angry jeers, as fear often compels a crowd to behave, when the source of said fear suddenly appears bound and incapacitated before them.
The Cleansing Hand had the condemned chained together by their iron collars in two columns, and marched them side by side. It was a diverse group, Lord Palpatine noticed — young and old, women and men, from all corners of the world — the majority probably sold on Tatooine in slavery. Not taking any chances, the guards had manacled them at the wrists and ankles as well. Their steps were uneven and dragged, leaving bloody trails in the dust. Two Cleansing Hand brothers pulled the chains around the necks of the witches at the front of the columns.
The onlookers sneered, taunted, and threw offal and dead rats at the prisoners. Lord Palpatine found the spectacle tedious, but his attention suddenly snagged towards the middle of the procession, as if trapped by a powerful net. Taken back, he spotted a woman trying to ward off garbage from a small boy whose own chains linked to her collar. He hadn’t spotted the child before! The Force roared, then sang for Lord Palpatine. His attention sharpened and rose to a painful point, and after, as if he’d dared raise eyes at the highest deity of the vicious sun in this land, it got smashed as if by a sledgehammer. He gasped and brought a hand to the bridge of his nose. His eyes never left the boy. Jabba turned to check on him, but he dismissed his concern with a wave of his free hand.
Something dead and rotting hit the boy’s shoulder. The woman — his mother? — attempted to pick him up. A guard barked an insult, swung his arm, and cracked a whip over her hand. The boy cried out and reached for her, but the next lash from the whip caught him across the chest and sent him back sprawling. He hit the ground and squinted his eyes, dazed and beyond tears, a silent, tiny figure, tossed like a tattered doll in the dust. The crowd quieted — apparently, whipping a child made some of them uncomfortable.
The ragged woman was allowed to pull him up, but only as far as to allow the procession to continue. Palpatine wished he could hear the words she whispered in his ear. Everything unfolded in slow motion, his eye caught on something odd, and he leaned even further out from the balcony to make sure he was seeing correctly: the boy’s manacles, too large for his small wrists, emitted a faint glow. Palpatine’s eyes widened: were these chains truly made from embersteel? His mother’s, too, he noted as an afterthought. She had to be the famed leader to be given such “preferential” treatment. Skywalker. He turned the name in his head as if evaluating the flavor of a new dish. Mother and son had to be exerting a lot of energy to keep this alloy from burning their limbs as they went.
The chanting man, dressed in the pure white garments of The Cleansing Hand, continued his droning, holding up his gonfalon with their red and black fiery fist emblem. The procession dragged on, soon passing right under Lord Palpatine’s terrace.
As she trudged by, the woman lifted her gaze directly at him. Her silent plea clearly intruded past his mental shields. The shock rocked him, his headache reaching a crescendo, and it took considerable effort not to lash out at her in retaliation. He glared back like a pillar of stone, not letting the smallest reaction escape. He had to be smart about this. She broke eye contact as she was forced to march forward. The boy limped next to her with a Force presence Lord Palpatine now carefully ventured to examine: a power he’d never felt the likes of before, rippling through space and time like molten steel, each tendril a howling, raging, yet dead-silent reminder of injustice. The procession moved away. He stared after them for a while, lost in thought, until Jabba’s words finally cut through his consternation.
“My Lord, did you hear me?”
“What?” His voice came out too loud, and he grimaced.
“If you liked the procession, wait ’til you see the execution. The Cleansing Hand has something special planned. And I heard they may offer the child up for sale.”
“Who would buy a witch for a slave?”
“For parts, milord. Them witch parts are used for talismans and cures across the land, especially children’s parts. Hair and bone and blood and most organs too, but you didn’t hear it from me.”
“Fascinating,” Lord Palpatine murmured, and leveled his gaze at his host. “You have connections all throughout Mos Eisley, don’t you, friend?”
Jabba grinned. He had added a few bejeweled teeth to his mouth, and they reflected the light just as jovially as his eyes flashed with greed at that moment.
“Do you need something, Lord Palpatine?”
“Let’s say I have some interest in meeting this Shmi Skywalker witch, and her… son. As a preview of the goods, so to speak.”
Jabba stroked his sparse beard. “Usually, I try to steer away from the Cleansing Hand’s notice, but for you, my lord, I’ll see what I can do.”
“I should like very much for you to get this done, yes.”
Lord Palpatine needed something for that headache before his skull split in two. He accepted Jabba’s invitation to stay for dinner — a good move to set the rest of his plan in motion. The smell of sweat, rot, and blood lingered on the terrace long after the witches had disappeared from sight. He scrunched his nose and hoped that his host’s lauded poppy seed elixir was as effective as he claimed.