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city. One moment he was in a street that hadn’t changed in the best part of a thousand years, all time-twisted wooden frames and ancient plaster, and the next he was in the shadow of a stark industrial warehouse or a polished granite tower. Keldabe was an anarchic fortress of a city on a granite outcrop on the bend in the Kelita River, almost completely surrounded by the Kelita River, a natural moat that changed from picturesque calm to a torrent within a kilometer. Jusik loved the place. It captured everything about Mandalore for him, and he washappy that intelligence gathering would bring him down here more often.
    The clones had to keep their helmets on, of course. No Mandalorian cared if his neighbor was a deserter from the Grand Army, but the Imperials were around, and the last thing anyone needed was a clone stormtrooper coming face-to-face with a man who looked exactly like himself.
    The stormies, as everyone now called them, hadn’t come into town yet. They probably wouldn’t venture into the
Oyu’baat
anyway. It was the oldest cantina on the planet, open for business when the Mandalorians fought against the Old Republic, which was also the last time anyone seemed to have changed the menu.
    The place was clean but somehow enticingly
seedy
. The smells that wafted out when Jusik opened the doors were an adventure in themselves. He felt the thrill of ages, because everything happened here; as a Force-sensitive, the echoes called to him as vividly as if he’d been present when the events took place. If Mandalore had a government of any kind, then its business was done in the
Oyu’baat
’s booths and at its long counter as chieftains of the clans debated, reached agreements, and struck deals.
    So the
Oyu’baat
was the obvious place to hear gossip about the Imperial garrison. Mandos tended not to keep secrets among themselves, and it saved a lot of high-risk observation time just to sit and listen—and enjoy an ale.
    Jusik took off his helmet and bought a mug of
ne’tra gal
. He didn’t look much like his wanted poster behind the counter—all bounties were posted there, for the benefit of patrons who were in the hunting business—but nobody would have turned him in anyway. Jusik was a Mandalorian now, just another adult taken into the fold like so many others, whose past no longer mattered and wasn’t discussed. But maybe they left him alone because anyone who knew his past also knew that he was under the protection of Kal Skirata. Jusik remained wary.
    Ordo kept his helmet on and settled in a booth. Jusikordered a bottle of ale for Ordo to take away. The barkeep gave Jusik a sympathetic look.
    “Clone on the run, eh,
ner vod?”
Locals knew why some men kept their helmets on. He held the glass mug of
ne’tra gal
at arm’s length until the foam settled. “Don’t worry. Imperials don’t come in here. Made sure of it.”
    The barkeep didn’t say how he’d achieved that, and Jusik didn’t ask. He could hear a group of men convulsing with laughter. The word
kyrbes
—mythosaur skull, the
Mand’alor
’s traditional crown—jumped out at him.
    Well, they thought the thing was funny, too. Jusik decided to gather a little intel.
    “Vode
, what’s going on with that skull?” he asked. “Why are the Imperials moving in?”
    One of the group, a thickset man in his fifties with deep brown armor and knuckles tattooed with
Mando’a
runes, was laughing so hard that he started coughing. He tried to answer. But every time he almost got a word out, the guffaws overtook him and he bent over with his hands braced on his knees. His friends were in the same state. One of them could only manage a wheezing
hurr-hurr-hurr
sound. The whole cantina was watching now.
    “You don’t know what that is?” the man said eventually. He wiped tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. “Really?”
    “Really. We don’t usually go south of the river, so we’ve never seen it before today.”
    “Go on, Jarkyc, tell