Dooku wished Darth Sidious would speak.

  It was Ventress's fault. The woman was impossible. She was talented, yes, but

  really, a battalion of droids was of more immediate practical use. At this rate,

  cheaper, too. He should terminate her.

  The remorseless hooded figure flickered like a ghost on the holoconsole.

  "I was not aware. Thank you for showing this to me. Needless to say, Ventress

  was acting on her own initiative." The arrogance—one might even say, the faint

  condescension—with which he had been thinking of his Master a few moments before

  had drained out of him like blood spilling from an open vein. "Nevertheless, the

  basic facts remain: Yoda is coming to me here, and here I will finish him, once

  and for all."

  "So I trust." Darth Sidious smiled. Once, early in Dooku's Jedi career, he

  had arrived on a distant planet too late to stop a massacre—a long hall of wood

  and grass, tribal enemies inside, the outside doused with kerosene and a match

  thrown in. The flames, dancing, had looked like his Master's smile. "Of course,

  Count, I leave you to manage Ventress as you see fit: but would you like to know

  what I do, when my servants show enough . . . initiative?"

  Dooku found his finger touching—just touching—the small red button on his

  desk. "Master?"

  "I crush them," Darth Sidious said.

  Jedi Council Chamber, Coruscant.

  "Master Windu!"

  "Chancellor."

  "I give you great joy on the day's glad news! Wherever help is most needed

  and least expected, Master Yoda appears to save the day! A wonderful boost for

  morale: one day he is reported dead—the next, rising up on the other side of the

  galaxy with a glorious victory! Whoever said the public had lost faith in the

  Jedi must be eating his words tonight."

  "We try, Chancellor."

  A pause.

  "You are grave."

  "We lost two Jedi Knights, sir, friends I have known since my childhood in

  the Temple , and operatives of exceptional value. Master Yoda is now traveling,

  his cover broken, into the heart of enemy territory, accompanied by two

  apprentices who are barely more than children."

  "Ah. Yes, I see. The politician is impressed with a victory on the

  battlefield of public relations; the military commander not so much. But I had

  anticipated you in this, at least somewhat. I tell you, Master Windu, I am not

  easy with Yoda's situation for precisely the reasons you describe. I should be

  happier if you were to replace the fallen with another detail. I'm not sure who,

  exactly . . . Well, why not Obi-Wan? Didn't I see in my last briefing that he

  had finished his last mission? Obi-Wan and young Skywalker. I would feel more

  comfortable if I knew they were on their way to Vjun. I think the world of

  Master Yoda, but he is very old, and perhaps not all that he once was. The idea

  of him facing Count Dooku alone, in the Count's stronghold . . . it makes my

  blood run cold. Yes, Obi-Wan and Skywalker would do very well."

  "Is that an order, Chancellor?"

  "Let's call it a request, Master Windu. A heartfelt request."

  "This transmission was some time in coming," Dooku said, a

  twenty-centimeter-high hologhost, bright mauve, on the transmission deck of the

  cutter Asajj had stolen from the Phindian Spaceport docks.

  "I've been a little busy, Count." Asajj tried to fix the console's color

  controls, wondering if the system was defective, or if the rig had been

  customized for some alien with ocular peculiarities that made mauve seem

  natural. Also, she was in no hurry to meet Dooku's eye. "I had to calculate a

  couple of hyperdrive jumps to shake Phindian security off my tail."

  "You lost the Call."

  "Yes. To Yoda."

  "No, to an actor, apparently."

  "What!"

  "Perhaps I have more recent information," Dooku said. His voice was very

  calm. Very considering.

  Asajj knew she was in bad trouble here. "The actor was doubling for Yoda. I

  caught him over Ithor."

  "It would have saved time and trouble to leave him in the debris field, don't

  you think?"

  Ventress's hands were getting clammy. She would a thousand times have

  preferred him ripping into her than this cool, surgical, distant voice. A fight

  would have been a dust-up between allies, between colleagues. This was more like

  a dissection.

  "If I left him in the debris field, his remains would have been identifiably

  not Yoda's. I could have pushed him out an air lock somewhere else, but . . ."

  "But what?"

  She shrugged. "I have chosen my friends and enemies. To kill randomly, to

  kill for no purpose but spite seems weak to me. Undisciplined."

  "If I had asked you to kill him?"

  "Of course I would have done so."

  "What about your scruples, then?"

  "My loyalty to you overcalls them."

  "But I did not ask you to kill him, did I?"

  "Did you even know he was aboard the Call?" Ventress said. She realized the

  trap he had let her walk into the instant the words were out of her mouth. "No,

  you didn't. Because I never gave you a chance. I didn't tell you. Perhaps I

  should have." She squared her shoulders.

  "I'll accept that responsibility. I was acting on my own initiative."

  Some emotion, hard to read, flickered across his mauve face at the word

  initiative.

  "Principles, scruples: this is somewhat the territory of the young. As one

  ages," the Count said, "one becomes more practical. I don't care so much about

  theoretical constructs of right and wrong. I care about timing, effect,

  precision. If I have a prisoner, or indeed an ally"—he looked mildly at

  her—"that is costing too much in resources, or introducing too many

  uncertainties into the scheme of things, I eliminate that person. Do you

  understand me?"

  Asajj swallowed.

  "I think," the Count continued blandly, "you had better convince me that you

  are a net gain to my efficiency, Asajj. You have lost two of my ships, one to

  Obi-Wan and the other to a second-rate actor from the Coruscant stage. Without

  consulting me, you broke in upon a chain of events I had put in motion to bring

  Yoda to my dungeons of his own free will. Instead of contemplating his head at

  this moment, I am watching a spike in Jedi popularity and a recovery of Republic

  morale that two days ago was nearing the breaking point. Right now, you are a

  very expensive ally, Asajj. Right now, you are costing me more than you're

  worth."

  The cold burn of his words hit her like a splash of liquid nitrogen. He

  wasn't merely angry. Unless she did something right here, right now, he was

  going to murder her. She didn't even bother thinking about escape. If Dooku

  wanted to end her, he would. He had not taught her all the Sith lore he

  possessed, but even the slender connection between them made her terribly

  vulnerable to his arts. Besides which, he might well be the most powerful being

  in the galaxy, with nearly unlimited resources at his disposal. An amount of

  money that wouldn't even register as a blip in Dooku's accounts would be enough

  to keep her on the run from assassins for the rest of her short
, miserable life,

  hiding out in jungles and living on womp rats, or passing herself through a

  series of chop shops, mutilating her features for the slim, desperate chance of

  disguise.

  No. In every fiber of her being Asajj knew that running, hiding, defending

  was always the wrong strategy. In every engagement, one had to seize the

  initiative. In every engagement, the key was to attack.

  "Kill your Master," she said.

  Dooku blinked. "What?"

  Well, at least he wasn't expecting it, Asajj thought, with a wild grin. She

  had made her gamble—nothing to do now but back it up. "Kill your Master now,

  with my help. Now while you can." She noted the tiniest flinch on the Count's

  face. "Sooner or later, every Sith apprentice tries to overthrow his Master. I

  know it. You know it. He knows it. Now is your time. You are an independent

  agent on a fortress planet. Armies are at your command. The wealth of worlds is

  at your feet. Now is your time."

  "I do admire the unexpected flair of your attack," Dooku murmured. "I have

  mentioned the benefits of age to you more than once, but it has its drawbacks,

  too. One gets settled in one's ways. But you . . . you still surprise me. You

  are still unexpected."

  "How do you think this war is going to go?" Ventress said, pressing her tiny

  moment of advantage. "What happens if you win? Will you return to Coruscant in

  triumph? Will you sit at the great man's hand when the fighting is done? I don't

  think so. How can he let you live—Dooku, the conquering general. Dooku the

  wealthy. Dooku the wise. You must stand too much in his sun, Count."

  "You are bluffing about things you do not know, Asajj. It is a brave show,

  but it will not do."

  His attempt at a condescending smile did not convince her. "He will use you

  up," she said. "He will put you on the front lines when he can. He will throw

  Yoda at you, and his sycophants: Kenobi, Windu, Skywalker."

  "With great ability comes great responsibility, Ventress. Not, clearly, one

  of your long suits."

  "Fine, fine, take your shots," she said impatiently. "You're just buying time

  now, because I'm right. Ask yourself one question—ask it from the dark side,

  look at it clear-eyed, Count. Right now, your Master uses you because he is

  beset by dangers. What happens when you are the most dangerous being left

  standing?"

  Through the comm channel, no sound but the faint static hiss of stars,

  burning and burning.

  "If I told you to kill yourself, would you do it?" Dooku asked.

  "No."

  "What if I told you to come here, back to Vjun."

  "I would come."

  "Would you be afraid?"

  "Terrified." Out here, in the deeps of space, she could hold him off. She

  could run away. But once she set foot in Château Malreaux, once she entered into

  the orbit of Dooku's power, she would never leave alive unless he willed it.

  "But you would come?"

  "If you order it."

  Dooku regarded her. "I do."

  So much for bluffing. "Will you have me killed, or will you listen to what I

  have to say?"

  "That is none of your business."

  "He's going to use you up, Count. He'll drain the blood from you and throw

  you aside. He'll pick someone younger, weaker, easier to influence."

  "Someone like you?"

  "I wish. No, when you go, I'll be swept aside," she said morosely. "I'm just

  one of your creatures, to him. Maybe to you, too. Loyalty runs stronger up than

  it does down, in case you hadn't noticed."

  "Usually true," the Count conceded. "Master Yoda, perhaps, is the exception.

  His loyalty to his students runs deeper than theirs to him, I think."

  "Admirable," Ventress said dryly. "But that doesn't do either of us any good,

  does it?"

  Asajj Ventress sat before the nav computer on her stolen ship for a long

  time, trying to decide what to do, cursing softly but steadily. Finally she

  entered coordinates for Vjun. At the end of the day, running and hiding wasn't

  her style. Her chances of convincing the Count that they should work together

  would be better face-to-face. He liked her fire and her passion, and—though his

  iron self-control never slipped—she knew he thought her lovely, and that didn't

  hurt, either.

  And if it went badly ... better to be cut down quickly in person, blades

  drawn, than live in skulking misery for the rest of her days, feeling every

  stray gleam of sun on her back like a sniper's targeting dot.

  All that being said, forcing her fingers to put in the Vjun coordinates felt

  like deliberately sticking them into a fire, and she was in a fairly filthy

  humor when the ship's comm console chirped. She ignored the signal. It wasn't,

  after all, her ship. But the hail kept repeating, over and over, until looking

  up with irritation she saw the call-up code for the Tac-Spec Footman droid, the

  one who had given her Yoda's location.

  Oh, great. "What do you want?"

  "I think you know," said the calm voice at the other end. "I want the rest of

  my money. We agreed on a certain price. Now I find only one-third of that sum

  has been credited to my account."

  "I didn't get the target."

  "My information was exact and correct, and that is what you paid for. Your

  inability to perform is no reason to penalize me."

  "Yeah, well, life's tough all over," Ventress snapped. "As you must know, I

  am out the price of a starship. I don't have the credits to give you—to tell you

  the truth, I threw in the children's lives as a favor to you. Consider it

  payment in kind."

  "They were not part of our agreement."

  "Spoken like a cold-blooded droid, all right. Or should that be cold-oiled?"

  Ventress hunted through the ship's computer system, looking for the repair and

  maintenance manual. A service light had started blinking in the middle of her

  last hyperspace jump, a little icon of a purple jellyfish-thing with what looked

  like spears running through it and a big red bar; she had no idea what it might

  signify. "You know, haggling over money is not my favorite activity at the best

  of times, and to be perfectly frank, haggling with a tin can—a traitorous tin

  can at that—interests me even less."

  "I may be a traitor," the droid said, "but I'm not a cut-rate one. I highly

  recommend you reconsider."

  Aha! Ventress thought, scanning through the ship's manual—she had it! The

  blinking light was the fluid ligature spindling indicator. She read rapidly

  through the help section:

  . . . when this light flashes, fluid ligatures may be in danger of spindling,

  or may already have spindled. Spindling may lead to excessive wear, loss of

  translight pressure, or weight gain due to instability in artificial gravity

  devices. Also, in rare cases, death.

  Occasionally, fluid ligature spindling indicator may flash for no reason.

  So here she was, heading back to Vjun in a stolen ship that might or might

  not have spindled fluid ligatures, in apparently imminent danger of a

  gray-induced weight gain, with the prospect of an interview with an angry Sith

  Lord waiting for her with execution on his mind.

&
nbsp; "Tin Man, I gotta tell you—right now, you're the least of my worries."

  Far away, in an anonymous comm booth, Solis, who had betrayed Yoda's secret

  and now was not even to be paid for it, stared at the CONNECTION CUT BY

  RECIPIENT message on the screen. "We'll see about that," he said.

  At the same instant that connection died, another sputtered to life between

  the Jedi Council Chamber and Anakin Skywalker's ship. "Hailing."

  "Master Windu!"

  "Obi-Wan? Why aren't you in your own ship?" Obi-Wan grimaced. "Repairs.

  Anakin agreed to give me a lift."

  "I see. Current location?"

  Obi-Wan rolled his eyes at Anakin, who grinned back at him. Mace Windu,

  supremely gifted in so many ways, was not much for small talk. "Inbound to

  Coruscant, flight plan as filed," Anakin said. "We're sublight for a day and a

  half for refueling and stores. Should be home in four days. According to local

  space news, reports of Master Yoda's death were greatly exaggerated."

  "True. The same can't be said for Maks Leem and Jai Maruk," Mace said grimly.

  "Oh." The Jedi looked at one another, their smiles fading. "We hadn't heard."

  "Master Yoda is on his way to—this channel is scrambled?"

  The comm protocols on Anakin's ship were permanently set for triple-encrypted

  hard code for any channel running to the Temple , but he double-checked. A gross

  malfunction in the ship's reactor drives could cost him and Obi-Wan their lives;

  much tinier slips in signal encryption could cost the lives of millions. "All

  secure," he said crisply. Mace Windu's grimness was catching.

  "Master Yoda is on the way to Vjun to negotiate secretly for the possible

  defection of a highly placed Confederacy figure. Very highly placed," Mace said

  significantly.

  "Master Yoda?" Anakin said, puzzled. "Surely there are more important things

  for him to be—"

  He trailed off as Obi-Wan gave him a long look. "Extremely highly placed, I'm

  guessing," the older man said.

  Half a second later, Anakin got it. "Dooku? He's going to negotiate with

  Dooku?—It's a trap. He must know it's a trap, right?"

  "A trap, yes ... but for whom?" Obi-Wan murmured.

  "At the moment, Master Yoda is traveling to Vjun on a very important

  mission," Mace continued. "We wanted to keep it quiet, but obviously the secret