Lost Tribe of the Sith: Purgatory by John Jackson Miller Page B

her by her first name—but only because he was human, not because he was Sith. Jelph owed fealty and service to the Sith, should they want it, but only Ori had ever prevailed upon him directly for anything.
    Such a waste
, she thought, admiring both worker and workmanship. “You know, my mother’s a High Lord.”
    “You’ve mentioned it.”
    “She’s powerful, but the traditions are so strong,” she said. “It’s a shame there isn’t some kind of path for you to get back in.”
    “I never
was
in,” he said. “And what would I do in Tahv? I’d hardly fit with your beautiful people.” Looking up at her, he winked. In the sunlight, she could see the long, ruddy scar running from his right cheek down his neck. She’d sometimes imagined it as being from some great battle, rather than some farm accident, years ago. But he was right. Even if he had his name, his disfigurement would make him an ill fit for the Tribe.
    Jelph stood abruptly.
    “You
are
going to roll those up,” she said, eyes darting between him and the flowers.
    “Actually, I have something for you,” he said, pointing a thumb behind him. “In honor of your Day of Dispossession.”
    “That’s ‘Dispossessed.’ ”
    “Begging your pardon.” He led her farther into the farm than she’d been before, past the mounds to a structure she’d seen only from the sky. Situated near the riverbank, the hut was larger than his dwelling and twice the height.
    Ori blanched. “What’s back there? It stinks!”
    “Manure usually does. Uvak are pretty rank,” he said, approaching the barred door. Once a stable for a previous occupant who could own uvak, now it provided him a wind-free place to store the loads of dung he needed for mixing his soil. “You don’t want to be around when I have that stuff carted in.” He opened the door.
    “Surely
this
isn’t your gift to me,” she said, squinting and covering her nose.
    “Surely not.” He reached inside the doorway toretrieve a strange-looking yoke. “It’s something I was working on. I lengthened some waterskins and attached them to part of an uvak harness.” Balancing the center straps on his hands, he showed her how the long pouches hung to either side. “You’ve always had to fly the dalsas back in a moist cloth. With these, you can carry them straight—and you won’t be soaked when you get home.”
    Ori opened her eyes wide, even as he shut the door to the rancid place. “You made that for me?”
    Jelph looked around. “Hmm. I don’t see the Grand Lord here today, so … sure. I guess it’s for you.”
    They walked back along the riverside, past the little flatboat tied at the bank. Returning from its grazing, Shyn, Ori’s uvak, flew in from above and settled in a clearing. Jelph strode assuredly toward the animal and lifted the yoke over its leathery frame. A perfect fit. Shyn, who took to no one, nodded passively.
    This is why I come here
, Ori thought. Life at court was cutthroat—this month, more than most times. But so many were motivated not by lust for power, but by fear of losing what power they had. This man had nothing and feared nothing.
    Her mother had given it a name: the Confidence of the Dead End.
    Jelph partially filled the skins with water and then deposited the clippings inside. Shyn looked like a parade animal now, festooned with flowers. That might be an idea for sometime, Ori thought—but not for tomorrow. She watched as he fastened the tops to protect the blossoms.
    “There. Fit for the Grand Lord.” He helped her aboard the uvak.
    “Jelph,” she said, looking down. “With what you can do, you really ought to be teaching the Keshiri how to grow things. Not selling them dirt.”
    “Careful,” he said, gesturing toward the composting barn. “My life’s in that dirt.” He patted Shyn’s long face and turned toward his flatboat, bobbing in the water. “And I may not be of the Tribe, but at least
I’ve
got a ship.” He laughed. “Such as it