"It's never that easy, is it?"

"We'll see." Fett strode down the tree-lined boulevard that led to the foot of the falls and forked around it. Only the stupidly wealthy had the time to gamble this early. It said a lot for Fraig's business acumen.

"There's no reason for him to get upset. Just check that your jet pack's primed."

"We might be leaving rapidly, then . . . ," Mirta said, keeping up with him without apparent effort, a reminder that he was slowing down.

"Will they make a fuss about letting us in dressed like this?"

"It's all about making an entrance." Fett wiped the windborne spray from his visor. "People usually find my dress acceptable. Sooner or later."

He walked straight across the bridge at the wall of roaring water and churning white foam. The falls parted like a curtain to create a wide portal. Behind, the casino was a vividly lit—and completely dry—haven.

"Very impressive," said Mirta.

It was a nice trick played by automated force fields triggered by a motion

sensor. But it was, as he often thought, all about presentation. A little theater. It always helped.

"Keep up," he said.

The lobby of the casino was a study in opulence, as if someone had taken a bet on how many credits they could spend on each square meter. It was everything Fett didn't care for: flocked wall coverings, gilding, mirrors, and low-level lighting, all the trappings of illusion, and hard to clean, too. The lobby parted into two sections, one leading to the restaurant and the other to the gaming tables. Fett consulted his investment portfolio via his HUD. He noted TIRUAL CONSTRUCTION HOLDINGS.

"Let's not do too much damage," he said. "I think I have shares in this place."

There was a steward at the front desk and a few very large assistants —humans, Trandoshans, and Gran—walking in slow, considered circles around the thick purple carpet that dragged at Fett's boots like tar. He'd never seen a Trandoshan in a formal suit before, and wondered what poor old Bossk would have made of that. It was also unusual to see a Gran in this line of work. It was clear none of them was there to help diners make informed choices from the wine list.

The steward was scanning a screen in his desk, probably matching Fett's image to the database of guests he needed to recognize for one reason or another. Judging by his sudden flinch, he'd found FETT.

"Do you have proof of identity, sir?"

Fett touched his blaster. "This used to do nicely."

The steward—human, male, utterly ugly—was doing a very good job of not wetting his pants. Fett had to hand it to him. "Ah . . . haven't seen you here in a long time, sir."

"I've come to visit someone." Fett indicated Mirta with a thumb gesture. "With my associate."

"Will that seeing require repairs afterward?"

Fett flicked a very large-denomination credit chip onto the desk.

"Keep the change in case it does. Where's Fraig?"

Credits talked. Blasters talked, too, but credits could whisper menacingly every bit as well.

"He's hosting a private sabacc game in his suite on the thirtieth floor, sir." The steward smiled valiantly and snapped his fingers at the hired help. "I'll let him know you're on the way up."

The nattily attired Trandoshan rushed to his summons, looking like he'd picked the wrong outfit for a costume party.

"Take . . . the . . . er . . . President of Mandalore up to Master Fraig's suite. All drinks on the house."

So they didn't quite grasp what being Mandalore meant. That was okay, because Fett didn't, either. Mirta stifled laughter, but only Fett heard it. He switched to the helmet comlink with a blink.

"So you do have shares here, Ba'buir," she said.

"Depending on how many guests Fraig's got, I might need your help.

Try not to kill them unless they ask for it."

"Yessir, Mister President!"

"I liked you better without a sense of humor."

He didn't dislike Mirta. She'd tried to kill him, but that was a couple of months ago, and things had moved on. She worked hard and she wasn't mired in fluffy trivia like fashion and holovids. She was strong in every sense. Beviin—and Fett listened to Beviin—said she was a real Mando'ad,

a solid Mandalorian woman, because she could shoot straight, cook passably well, and had the shoulders of an armor-smith. Mando'ade valued the frontier kind of female, not decorative trophies who couldn't even dig a defensive entrenchment.

She's just like Sintas. Not as pretty, but she's so much like her.

He hadn't known Ailyn long enough to tell if Mirta took after her mother. Sin. I used to call her Sin, and she called me Bo. Did Mirta have a nickname? What had Sintas told Ailyn about him, and what had Ailyn told Mirta, to breed such hatred toward him?

Fett pulled his attention back to the present and followed the Trandoshan, aware of a full 360-degree vista around him, the dulled pain in his guts, and the fact that the closer he got to death, the more he thought about people who hadn't been on his mind in a long, long time.

The turbolift doors opened onto a floor of the same thick purple carpet as the lobby, with small salons leading off it. Gaming tables rattled, clicked, and flashed with lives ruined and fortunes lost. Even through his helmet's filter, he could smell the cloying amalgam of a hundred different perfumes distilled from plants facing extinction and parts of animals he didn't even want to think about.

The Trandoshan led them along a corridor to an imposing set of gilded doors, then beat a lumbering retreat. The doors parted and Fett found himself visor-to-nose with a Hamadryas who didn't seem to know how to blink. Behind him, a group of six splendidly dressed gamblers—three human males, two females, and a Weequay—sat around a gilt-framed sabacc table with Fraig. There were two more heavies standing by the kitchen doors, probably on drinks patrol.

"Master Fett," said Fraig, not looking up from the table. "How good to meet you."

Fraig had a great hand. Fett could see it embedded in the table's display as he loomed over him. It was a pity to interrupt. His guests were trying to

concentrate on the sabacc game, but it was hard to give the cards full attention when there were two bounty hunters paying an unexpected visit. They all found reasons to go to the kitchen to top up their drinks while the Hamadryas watched silently, one hand now on his holster.

"Got a few questions for you," Fett said. "About your predecessor."

"Depends on what you want to know." Fraig was as well spoken as his hair was coiffed. His gangster dad must have sent him to a very exclusive school. But he hadn't been tutored in the subtle art of putting his hand under the table to check his hold-out blaster discreetly. Fett hoped he didn't have to shoot the man before he got some answers. "I do hope you haven't been sent by Cherit's associates to express their displeasure."

"I'm not going to kill you," Fett said. "If I did that, then you wouldn't be able to tell me things. And I want you to tell me things. I'm a curious man."

The Hamadryas on the door already had his blaster visible on his belt, but Mirta had him covered. Fett could see from their HUD corn-link connection that she was watching him, the helmet sensors responding to her eye movements.

Fraig shrugged. "What exactly do you want me to tell you?"

"The Mandalorian who killed Cherit. I need to find him."

Fraig had the kind of smile that spread like a crack in ice. "I've been asked some subtle questions, but that's a good one. I assure you I didn't order Cherit's death."