“What do you mean, Master Windu?” asked Yoda.
“Have the Jedi really explored every option? Could we have ended this war sooner? Could we, in fact, end it right now?”
Something prickled at the back of Kenobi’s neck. “Speak plainly,” he said.
Windu glanced at his fellows. He seemed to be weighing his words. Finally, he spoke.
“Master Kenobi’s right—Dooku couldn’t have done this completely alone. Billions follow him. But I also stand by my observation—that this war is Dooku’s creation. Those who follow him, follow him. Every player is controlled by the count; every conspiracy has been traced back to him.”
Anakin’s brow furrowed. “You’re not saying anything we don’t already know, Master.”
Windu continued. “Without Dooku, the Separatist movement would collapse. There would no longer be a single, seemingly invincible figurehead to rally around. Those who were left would consume themselves in a frenzy to take his place. If every river is a branch of a single mighty one…then let us dam the flow. Cut off the head, and the body will fall.”
“But that’s what we’ve been—oh.” Anakin’s blue eyes widened with sudden comprehension.
No, Kenobi thought, surely Mace isn’t suggesting—
Yoda’s ears unfurled as he sat up straighter. “Assassination, mean you?”
“No.” Kenobi spoke before he realized he was going to, and his voice was strong and certain. “Some things simply aren’t within the realm of possibility. Not,” he added sharply, looking at Mace, “for Jedi.”
“Speaks the truth, Master Kenobi does,” Yoda said. “To the dark side, such actions lead.”
Mace held up his hands in a calming gesture. “No one here wishes to behave like a Sith Lord.”
“Few do, at first. A small step, the one that determines destiny often is.”
Windu looked from Yoda to Kenobi, then his brown-eyed gaze lingered on Kenobi. “Answer me this. How often has this Council sat, shaking our heads, saying, Everything leads back to Dooku? A few dozen times? A few hundred?”
Kenobi didn’t reply. Beside him, Anakin shifted his weight. The younger Jedi didn’t look at Kenobi or Windu, and his lips were pressed together in a thin, unhappy line.
“A definitive blow must be struck,” Mace said. He rose from his chair and closed the distance between himself and Kenobi. Mace had the height advantage, but Kenobi got to his feet calmly and met Windu’s gaze.
“Dooku is going to keep doing exactly what he has been,” Windu continued quietly. “He’s not going to change. And if we don’t change, either, then the war will keep raging until this tortured galaxy is nothing but space debris and dead worlds. We—the Jedi and the clones we command—are the only ones who can stop it!”
“Master Windu is right,” said Anakin. “I think it’s about time to open the floor to ideas that before we would have never considered.”
“Anakin,” Kenobi warned.
“With respect, Master Kenobi,” Anakin barreled on. “Mahranee’s fall is terrible. But it’s only the most recent crime Dooku has committed against a world and a people.”
Mace added, “The Mahran who died today already have more than enough company. Do we want to increase those numbers? One man’s life must be weighed against those of potentially millions of innocents. Isn’t protecting the innocent the very definition of what it means to be a Jedi? We are failing the Republic and its citizens. We must stop this—now.”
Kenobi turned to Yoda. The ancient Jedi Master peered at all those present, be it physically or holographically: Saesee Tiin, an Iktotchi Master; the Togruta Shaak Ti, her expression calm but sorrowful; the images of Kit Fisto, Oppo Rancisis, and Depa Billaba. Kenobi was surprised to see sorrow and resignation settle over Yoda’s wrinkled green face. The diminutive Jedi closed his huge eyes for a moment, then opened them.
“Greatly heavy, my heart is, that come to this, matters have,” he said. Using his cane, he rose and walked to the window. All eyes followed him. Below, Coruscant unfolded, and myriad small, personal vessels sped past, and the sun gazed down at it all as clouds drifted languidly by.
Yoda extended a three-fingered hand, indicating the view. “Each life, a flame in the Force is. Beautiful. Unique. Glowing and precious, it stands, to bravely cast its own small light against the darkness that would consume it.” Yoda lifted his cane, pointing at a cloud that was grayer and larger than most of its fellows. “But grows, this darkness does, with each minute that Dooku continues his attacks.” Yoda fell silent. No one interrupted as the cloud continued on its path, moving to hide the face of the sun. Its shadow leeched away the vibrancy of the city beneath it, turning its gleam to dullness, its bright colors to a muted, somber palette. It was nothing more than the sun and a shadow, but nonetheless, Kenobi felt his heart lurch within his chest.
“Stop him, we must,” Yoda said solemnly. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. The moment hung heavy, and it seemed everyone was loath to break it.
Finally Mace spoke. “The question before us now is—who will strike the killing blow?”
Kenobi sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I, ah…may have a suggestion…”
Things were going very well for Koorivar merchant Sheb Valaad. Very well indeed. He had come to Otor’s Hub—the place to be if one dealt in certain merchandise—a standard year before the war had broken out. While others busied themselves with choosing sides, Sheb had made himself a “powerful friend” to both. Everybody liked trinkets: jewels, paintings, statues, fancy hookah pipes made of exotic materials and studded with gems from far distant worlds. And if the makers of such exquisite items happened to have met with unpleasant fates, well, that simply caused what they had created to become even more valuable. Most times, Sheb waited for the unpleasant fates to occur and positioned himself to benefit. Sometimes, he took a more…direct approach.
Oh, not he himself, no, no. His hands were made for handling money and stroking valuable items. There were plenty of others willing to take his credits to do the ugly business of increasing the value of certain objects. He settled back in his chair and took a pull on his hookah, absently reaching a hand to finger the ornate carvings on the horn that jutted from his skull.
A Koorivar’s horn is a Koorivar’s pride, his father had told him. It told the world everything it needed to know about the individual sporting it. Sheb’s horn was large, twisting, and lavishly decorated. Great—late—artisans had carved their work upon it, and jewels caught the dim lighting in the smoky back room of his “shop.”
He availed himself of one of the delicate pastries that were the specialty of his private chef, then gestured to the blue-plated protocol droid who stood at attention beside the door. Someone else stood at attention, too—the ever-reliable Thurg, a burly Gamorrean.
“Show our guest in, Blue,” Sheb said.
“Of course, my most glorious master.” Sheb had sprung for a customized version of the current protocol unit. Blue came equipped with two specialized programs: “Adul-8” and “B-Little.” The former soothed Sheb, and the latter had proven vastly entertaining.
Blue stepped through the curtained door into the waiting room that lay beyond while Thurg, looking slightly bored, picked at his large, yellowed teeth. Sheb hoped Blue would catch him at it. The dressing-down the droid would give Thurg was sure to be a delight. Though Blue probably should be grateful it was only the Gamorrean’s teeth that were being picked, not the bodyguard’s porcine nostrils.
“Master Tal?” said the droid in his precise, clipped voice. “The most honorable, reputable, and extremely fair merchant of high-quality valuables and artifacts, Sheb Valaad, has graciously agreed to grant your request for an audience.”
“Whoa, there,” came Tal’s cheerful voice. Sheb took another pastry, smiling, and poured tea for his customer. Over these last couple of months, Tal had become a regular patron, and Sheb wondered what Tal’s glib tongue had in store for poor Blue today. “I see you’re set on verbal overload, Blue. And I’ve told you
, don’t call me master.”
“Today’s program setting will not permit me to override the designation, I fear, Master Tal.” The droid strode through the curtain, politely holding it to the side so that Tal could enter easily.
Tal Khar was a tall, well-muscled Kiffar specimen who moved with an easy grace. As always, his eyes sparkled with good humor above the narrow yellow tattoo that ran the width of his face. Thurg blocked his way with a grunt and stood expectantly.
Tal rolled his eyes. “Sheb, call off your bantha. I’ve never brought a weapon in yet.” The Gamorrean hesitated, looking back at his master, confused.
“Thurg, you know the rules.”
Tal grinned at Thurg. “Go ahead. But you know I don’t have any weapons.”
“I know you no have weapons,” Thurg said in guttural Basic, patting Tal down then stepping back. “He unarmed.”
“You may now enter the radiant presence of my magnificent master,” said Blue, sweeping his arm for good measure.
“Hey, Blue,” Tal said, “how many synonyms for your name are there?”
“In Basic, there are—”
Tal waved a hand. “No, no, in all your languages. And can you tell me what they are?”
A slightly choked sound emanated from the droid, and he visibly slumped. Then: “Blue: My data banks register forty billion, eleven million, seven hundred forty-two thousand, nine hundred and eighty-three accepted synonyms for the color blue. Beginning with Basic, they are, in alphabetical order, ao, aqua, azure—”
“You don’t have to obey that instruction, Blue,” Sheb said.
“Oh, thank you, my most marvelous master, I am exceedingly grateful.”
Sheb indicated the platter of pastries. “Tal, Tal,” he said with a sigh. “Are you trying to short out my droid?”
“…Maybe?” said Tal, his mouth full.
“Well, if you ever succeed, I shall expect to be compensated for repairs,” the merchant said. “Now wipe your hands; I’ve something quite remarkable for you today.”
Tal obliged with the enthusiasm of a child awaiting a gift, looking expectantly at Sheb. Sheb waved one of his assistants over. The Twi’lek female carried a tray, atop which sat something covered by a piece of cloth. With a flourish, Sheb unveiled the latest treasure.
Tal gasped quite satisfactorily, which did not surprise Sheb in the least. The item on the tray was millennia old but looked as if it had left the artist’s studio but a few moments past. It was a small statuette of an aquatic creature, all memory of its species now forgotten, that had once frolicked—presumably it had frolicked, if the playful motion captured by the stone carving was to be trusted—in the oceans of a world that had been likewise lost to time. Small gems served it for eyes, and its tail curved beneath its four-flippered body to merge with a base that looked like a cresting wave.
Tal reached out to it, then paused, raising his eyebrows in question. Feeling like a benevolent deity, Sheb nodded his permission to pick up the precious artifact. Tal did so, with great care.
“Boss? This scum say he need see you.” Thurg forced his way through the curtains. His huge hands were clamped down on the furry arms of a Mahran, who didn’t struggle at all. He looked around in appreciation.
“Nice, very nice,” he said. His gaze fell on Tal.
Tal stared at him for a moment, then heaved a sigh. “Desh. What are you doing here?”
“Came to get you.”
“Well, I’m busy.”
Still held by the mammoth Gamorrean, the Mahran—who, apparently, knew Tal, and whose name was, apparently, Desh—actually managed a shrug. “Sorry.”
“What…” Sheb struggled for words, trying to make sense of the absurd situation. “Tal, do you know this…this—”
“I do, from way back. He’s not supposed to be here yet. Well, I guess what’s done is done.” Shaking his long black dreadlocked hair, Tal gently put the figurine on the table, sliding it a little bit away from him. He rose. “Too bad. I liked the pastries.”
He extended a hand in Sheb’s direction, then jerked it upward. The merchant let out a treble yelp of astonishment as he found himself squirming in midair. At the same instant the Mahran twisted and brought his arms up, breaking Thurg’s grip as if it were nothing at all, then grabbed the Gamorrean’s arm and flipped him over.
“Oh, I say,” squeaked a panicked Blue, heading for the door with his arms raised, “help! Help—”
Four armed bodyguards charged in. The Rodian, huge black eyes fixed on Tal, slammed into the hapless droid. Blue went clattering into a corner, and the Rodian began firing at the interlopers.
“No, no blasters!” Sheb shouted, thinking of the irreplaceable items on display in the room, but they ignored him. Red blasterfire screamed through the room, and Sheb, still dangling in the air, screamed along with it, first in pain at seeing his beautiful merchandise obliterated, and then again when a bolt seared through his flapping robes dangerously close to his torso.
There were two other lights flashing about, as well, about a meter long, one green, one blue, that Tal and the interloper wielded like swords. Lightsabers! That meant—
Tal kept one hand extended, holding Sheb aloft, and with the other batted back the red bolts with an almost casual ease. Was the man…humming?
“Ahhh!” cried the Koorivar as a blast singed his thigh.
Tal winced. “Sorry,” he said, smiling sheepishly up at Sheb, even as he executed a backward flip ending in a sharp, perfectly placed kick to the midsection of a bodyguard. The Gamorrean stumbled, then toppled as Tal slammed the butt of the lightsaber into his temple.
“I wasn’t done yet,” Tal said, directing his attention to Desh. The smaller, more slender Jedi—for such Sheb realized they both had to be—was on the table now. He splayed a four-fingered hand and lifted the Rodian into the air. For an insane second, he and his employer hovered eye-to-eye, the Rodian’s tubular muzzle undulating with protests, and then the green-skinned bodyguard was slammed against the wall.
“Well, don’t blame the messenger,” the Mahran said. He wasn’t even breathing hard. “I was told you’re to be reassigned.”
“Two more weeks and I would have gotten the whole operation,” Tal grumbled. He, too, was speaking as calmly as if the entire exchange were occurring in his own home over friendly drinks. “The Council couldn’t wait that long?”
“It would seem not.” Desh somersaulted from the table to the floor, grabbing two chairs in the process and hurling them at the four-eyed, arachnoid Aqualish firing steadily, though fruitlessly, at Tal. The furniture struck the bodyguard perfectly and he went sprawling to the floor, limbs entangled in the chair’s back and legs at painful-looking angles. His blaster flew out of his hands.
The Mahran caught it effortlessly. He whistled as he examined it. “Nice.”
“Oh, no, you don’t, Blue,” said Tal. The protocol droid had hastened over to one of the fallen bodyguards and clutched a comlink in his hand. Still keeping one hand turned toward Sheb, the Jedi leapt toward the droid and severed Blue’s hand from his wrist. The droid gave a high-pitched shriek. “Oh, come on, that can be fixed,” Tal said. “Don’t be a baby.”
“So, did I ruin the whole mission?” asked Desh. He thumbed his lightsaber, and with a snap-hiss the blade deactivated.
“Not the whole mission. Just the really satisfying wrap-up part of it.” Miraculously, the statue of the oceanic creature had survived intact. Tal picked it up, smiling. “But this will do. I got a lot of useful information on a lot of very nasty sorts from this one.”
“That touchy-feely stuff you do with things does come in handy.”
“It’s called psychometry, thank you very much.”
Listening, Sheb realized why Tal—which, of course, wasn’t this Jedi’s name at all—had always been so eager to touch everything before purchasing it. Come to think of it, he hadn’t purchased much, but he had certainly handled…Sheb whimpered.
“You know everything,” he said, his
voice taut.
“Well, not everything,” said Tal-not-Tal. “I mean, I don’t know every synonym for blue, for example. Blue, how about it?”
“Oh, dear,” squeaked the droid.
“And as for you, Sheb, it’s been a pleasure doing business with you. This might hurt a bit, but I’m sure the Jedi who will be here momentarily will take care of you.”
Tal lifted his hand. And as the miserable protocol droid began to list the billions of synonyms for his name, Sheb almost thought he would welcome the unconsciousness that was about to claim him as Tal, looking apologetic, drew back his hand to send the black-market merchant hurtling into the wall.
It was not his birthplace, exactly, but the Jedi Temple was where Quinlan Vos had grown up. He’d raced through its corridors, hidden behind its massive pillars, found peace in its meditation hall, ended—and started—fights in rooms intended for striking blows and some that weren’t, and sneaked naps in its library. All Jedi came here, at some point in their lives; for Quinlan, it always felt like coming home when he ran lightly up the stairs and entered the massive building as he did now.
He had enjoyed taking down Sheb’s black-market operation back-to-back with his old friend, but that pleasure had been mitigated almost at once when they returned to Desh’s ship. On their way back to Coruscant, Desh, whose formal name was Akar-Deshu, had soberly briefed him on Dooku’s devastating attack on Mahranee. Vos didn’t know what to say to offer comfort. The planet was now controlled by the Separatists, and they had made it clear that all Mahran were to be regarded as extremely hostile and killed on sight. A world and its people had fallen in the space of a few hours.
Obi-Wan Kenobi’s normally modulated voice had had a slight edge of urgency to it when Vos and Desh had reported in, and it was that more than the cryptic words that made Vos decide to forgo anything resembling formal attire. Well, anything resembling appropriate attire, if he was being honest. After the refreshing scuffle, both his clothes and he could have used a good washing, but he figured there would be a chance to clean up once he’d pinned down Obi-Wan and found out what the hell was going on.
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