"I'll bear that in mind."

"Any objections to Orade?"

"Mirta's well over thirteen. She can make her own choices."

"He's a good lad."

"I know." Fett's own inability to cope with partners was no reason for him to have any opinion on his granddaughter's life. But he meant it about breaking Orade's legs. It was a paternal reflex that came out of nowhere. "I did a deal with the Verpine government today. We now have a nonaggression pact with Roche provided they share tech with us."

Vevut stopped rasping sharp edges. "Hey, I didn't even hear us fire any shots . . ."

"They heard the word beskar."

"I do believe good times are on their way again, Mand'alor."

"If you feel like sitting in when we talk weapons with them, your views would be useful."

"Okay. I'll leave my bug spray at home as a mark of respect."

"I'd better tell the clans. In case anyone's thinking of signing up for Kem Stor Ai. The Verpine would be upset about that."

It was a good relaxed way to run a nation. Fett sent word out via his datapad and waited for objections, not expecting any. Apart from questions like the discounts that might now be available on custom Verpine weapons, the chieftains took the news in their stride.

It was as if Mandalorians saved all their passions for two things: their families and their wars. Fett returned to Beviin's farm via the river and paused to look at the vast mass grave again.

Most species found the words unmarked mass grave the stuff of horror, the worst possible end to life. And yet Mandalorians chose it.

Fett, on the cusp between Mando and aruetii despite his title, tried to see his people as the aruetiise saw them, to fully understand the fear just a few million of them could cause simply by existing. Detached, he saw an invading army wiping out whole species, fighting galactic wars, destroying everything in its path; and he saw mercenaries and bounty hunters, unemotional masked dealers in death. The image burned into the collective galactic psyche was one of violent savages, thieves, and looters, whose temporary loyalty to anyone but their own could be bought but never guaranteed.

It happened to be almost completely true—except the bit about loyalty. Most people didn't understand the nature of a contract.

And they never got close enough to see Mandalorians at peace. Come to that, not many Mandalorians did, either. It was a restless galaxy.

Fett resigned himself to existing in no-man's-land—too Mando for the outsider but not Mando enough for some of the clans—and made his way back to Slave I, which was still the haven in which he preferred to sleep. He hoped Beviin wasn't offended. Worrying about someone else's feelings was a novelty, and Fett knew what Beviin would say about the psychology of sleeping in a spacecraft when a perfectly comfortable home—any number of homes-—was available.

When Fett reached the ship and unlocked the hatch by remote, he found a message waiting for him. It could have been relayed straight to his HUD, but Jaing Skirata did things his own idiosyncratic way.

I SEE YOU DID RIGHT BY MANDALORE. I'LL DO RIGHT BY YOU.

Fett hadn't judged wrong, then. He dropped his dose of capsules into his palm and washed them down with a mix of water and the cocktail of liquid drugs that Beluine had prescribed. It was just slowing down his decline, not stopping it.

Jaing hadn't said he'd succeeded.

Death's a motivator, not a threat. You've still got things to achieve before you become fertilizer. You'll just have to do them sooner rather than later.

Fett switched on the monitor in his cramped quarters and sat back with a pack of dry rations to watch the news as Corellia went into meltdown, and the Verpine government of Roche announced talks with Mandalore to agree to a mutual aid and trade treaty.

Then he took out the black book his father had left him. He'd listened to every message recorded in it more than a hundred times, and studied his father's image in it. When he was afraid he was beginning to forget what Jango Fett once looked like, he'd take it out and run the messages again.

He hadn't forgotten: not a pore, not a hair, not a line. But he ran it again

JEDI COUNCIL CHAMBER, CORUSCANT: EMERGENCY MEETING

"This one," said Master Saba Sebatyne, "would like to be assured that the Alliance had nothing to do with Gejjen'z death. It was unnezzzezary."

Luke couldn't blame her for jumping to conclusions. It was his first thought, too, and his second was that the GA's agents—or even Jacen—had a hand in it. But the assassin had, it seemed, sealed himself in his ship and blown it up, a Corellian-registered ship scattering solidly Corellian evidence. Luke had seen crazier things than that. It was a zealot's act, and all too common.

"There are plenty of Corellians with reasons to want Gejjen dead,"

he said. Where had Mara got to? He half expected her to stride through the doors of the chamber carrying Lumiya's head in triumph. "But I'll conduct my own investigations."

Corran Horn looked up from his clasped hands, which he'd been studying with unnatural concentration. It couldn't have been easy watching his homeworld plunge into recrimination and finger-pointing.

"It's less about who actually did it than who the various factions think did it, and that won't be influenced by anything as irrelevant as hard facts."

"Well, I need to know, and I don't want HNE telling me," Luke said.

"Kyp, can you monitor the headlines while we're meeting?"

"Time was," said Kyp Durron, "when the government of the day used to keep the Jedi Council informed, and we didn't have to rely on the media."

Yes, Luke had noticed that the Council was no longer kept in the loop. He returned to the main issue. "So what if it is us?" So far everyone had managed to avoid mentioning Jacen.

Kyle Katarn joined in. "Is assassinating heads of state legal?"

"In a war, I believe it is."

"Fine time for Omas to be away," said Katarn. "If I were the paranoid type, I'd say it was spooky that he was out of town, location undisclosed, at the same time that Gejjen was shot. Better test him for ballistic residues when he gets back to the office."

"This isn't a joking matter," said Kyp.

"Okay, sorry. But it's lousy timing."

Luke thought Niathal had done a commendable job of looking calm and reassuring for the media. It had been a few hours since the news had broken, and the news channels had wheeled out every analyst, politician, and air taxi pilot who had ever held an opinion on Dur Gejjen. Niathal, quite splendid in her white uniform, was impressive. She looked as if being Chief of State was just another job she did when everyone else was too busy. She'd scored a lot of points.

And Luke hadn't had a chance to call Han or Leia. That was his next task, as soon as he got out of this meeting. They'd know what was really happening—if anyone did.

Come on, Mara. Where are you?

"So how does this change things?" Kyle asked. "Who's going to be leading the Confederation now? Is it going to stay a Corellian thing?"

"If it's the Bothans," said Corran, "Force preserve us."

Luke was still waiting for word from Niathal. The Jedi Council wasn't part of government, and while Omas was away it wasn't getting instant answers. Luke realized how fragile and informal the relationship between government and Council could be when different people were holding the reins.

"Just to spice up the mix, the Mandalorians are joining forces with the Verpine." Kyp seemed to be listening to the news via an earpiece, judging by the glazed and defocused look in his eyes. "What does that sound like to you?"