Darth Plagueis (10 page)

Damask remained on the rampart while the light waned and darkness crept over the forested landscape. In the grand courtyard below, the bonfire flames leapt higher and the odors of charred meat hung thickly in the air. Wines and other intoxicants flowed freely; Twi’lek and Theelin females entertained; and the crowd grew rowdy. Each hunting party was required to display and butcher its prizes; to get limbs and other appendages wet with blood. Not all beings were meat eaters, but even those who subsisted on grains and other crops were drawn into the
debauchery. At midnight the guiding principles of the Republic would be mocked in skits, and prominent Senators—save for those present—would be subjected to ridicule. That Sith ceremonies and symbols had been incorporated into the ceremonies and the architecture of the fortress was Damask’s secret alone.

Sensing the arrival of Larsh Hill and two other Muuns, he swung from the parapet view.

“The Hutt has been waiting since starfall,” Hill said.

“The price of meeting with me,” Damask said.

Hill gave him a long-suffering look. “If she didn’t know as much, she would be long gone.”

The Magister tailed the trio down a long flight of stone steps and into a yawning reception area warmed by colorful rugs, tapestries, and a grand fire. Gardulla Besadii the Elder, crime lord and notorious gambler, floated in on a palanquin appropriate to her great size, attended by an entourage that included her Rodian majordomo, bodyguards, and others. Damask’s own guards were quick to usher everyone but the Hutt back into the waiting room. Larsh Hill and the two other dark-cloaked Muuns remained at Damask’s side.

Curled upright on her powerful tail, Gardulla extended her bare, stubby arms toward the fire. “I’ve been admiring your entertainers, Magister,” she said. “Particularly the Theelin singers. Perhaps you could help me procure some.”

“We’ve a Twi’lek who supplies the females,” Damask said from his armchair. “You’ll have to speak with her.”

Gardulla noted the sharp tone in his voice. “On to business then.”

Damask offered a gesture of apology. “A busy schedule affords me scant time for pleasantries.”

Unaccustomed to straight talk, the Hutt frowned, then said, “I plan to make a grab for Tatooine, Magister, and I’ve come to solicit your support.”

“An arid world in the Arkanis sector of the Outer Rim,” Hill supplied quietly from behind the armchair.

“By
support
, I presume we are talking about credits,” Damask said.

Gardulla repositioned herself on the litter. “I’m aware that you disapprove of spice and slavery, but there are profits to be made on Tatooine by other means.”

“Not moisture farming, then.”

Gardulla glowered. “You mock me.”

Damask motioned negligently. “I tease you, Gardulla. I know little about Tatooine, other than that the planet was heir to an ecological catastrophe in the dim past, and that its vast deserts now support a population of ne’er-do-wells, scoundrels, and hapless spacers of all species. I’ve heard it said that nothing pans out on Tatooine, and that beings who reside there age prematurely.”

Damask knew, too, that the ancient Sith had once had an outpost on Tatooine, but he kept that to himself.

“Fortunately, longevity comes naturally to my species,” Gardulla said. “But I don’t want for enemies of a different sort, Magister. Enemies who would like nothing more than to see me in an early grave.”

“The Desilijic clan.”

“They are precisely the reason I wish to remove myself from Nal Hutta—and from the likes of Jabba Desilijic Tiure and the rest. With your financial assistance I can accomplish that. I know that you have befriended Hutts in your own planetary neighborhood.”

“It’s true that Drixo and Progga have done well for themselves on Comra,” Damask said, “but their successes came at a high cost. What are you offering in return for our investment?”

A light came into the Hutt’s dark, oblique eyes. “A Podrace course that will make those on Malastare and on your own Muunilinst seem like amateur runs. In addition, the renaissance of an annual Podrace event that will bring tens of thousands of gamblers to Tatooine and fill my coffers to overflowing.” She paused, then added: “And I’m willing to take you on as a partner.”

“A silent partner,” Damask amended.

She nodded. “As you wish.”

Damask steepled his long fingers and raised his hands to his jutting chin. “In addition to a percentage of the profits, I want you to arrange for Boss Cabra to operate freely on Nar Shaddaa.”

Gardulla adopted an incredulous look. “The Dug crime boss?”

“You know the one,” Hill said sharply.

The Hutt fretted. “I can’t make promises, Magister. Black Sun is deeply entrenched on Nar Shaddaa, and the Vigos are grooming Alexi
Garyn to assume control of the organization. They may not appreciate or permit—”

“Those are our terms, Gardulla,” Damask cut in. “Find some way to allow Cabra to reach an accommodation with Black Sun and we will support your takeover of Tatooine.” He gestured toward the fortress courtyard. “This very night I can arrange for you to meet with officials representing the Bank of Aargau, who will advance whatever amount of credits you need.”

After a long moment of silence, Gardulla nodded. “I accept your terms, Magister Damask. You will not be disappointed.”

When the Hutt had steered her antigrav litter from the room, members of the Sun Guard showed in a group of tall reptilian sentients who stood on two thick legs and whose broad snouts curved downward at the tip. Damask’s previous contact with the Yinchorri had been limited to holoprojector; now he leaned forward in keen interest as the spokes-member introduced himself in gruff Basic as Qayhuk—secretary of the Council of Elders—and launched immediately into a diatribe denouncing the Senate for refusing to admit Yinchorr to the Republic. With bellicose encouragement from his comrades, Qayhuk went on to say with fist-pounding emphasis that although their homeworld had been charted hundred of years earlier by the Republic, Yinchorr remained an underprivileged, backrocket planet deserving of far better treatment.

“Or someone will pay in blood for the ongoing injustice,” the secretary warned.

Larsh Hill waited until he was certain that Qayhuk was finished to remark under his breath, “I’m not sure even the Senate is ready for them.”

Holding Qayhuk’s baleful gaze and motioning with his hand, Damask said, “You have no interest in seeing Yinchorr seated in the Senate.”

Qayhuk took umbrage. “Why else would we have journeyed all this way?”

“You have no interest in seeing Yinchorr seated in the Senate,” Plagueis repeated.

Qayhuk glanced at his green-skinned brethren, then looked at Hill. “Is Magister Damask deaf or in ill health?”

Hill turned to Damask in concern but said nothing.

Damask concealed his astonishment. As rumored, the Yinchorri were apparently
resistant
to Force suggestion! But how was it possible that midi-chlorians in a being of relatively low intelligence could erect an impenetrable wall against the influence of a Sith? Was this some sort of survival mechanism—the midi-chlorians’ way of protecting the consciousness of their vessels by refusing to be manipulated? He would need to possess one of these beings to learn the secret.

“We might be willing to help you lobby for representation in the Senate,” he said at last, “but the process could require standard years or even decades, and I’m not convinced you have the patience for it.”

Qayhuk’s wide nostrils flared. “What’s a decade when we have been patient for a century? Are we not sentients? Or are we required to
embrace
the conditions along with accepting them?”

Damask shook his head. “No one is asking you to applaud the arrangement.”

Qayhuk’s expression softened somewhat. “Then we have an accord?”

“We will draw up a contract,” Damask said. “In the meantime, I want some assurance that I can call on you for a personal favor should the need arise.”

Qayhuk stared at him. “A personal favor? Of what sort?”

Damask showed the palms of his hands. “Of whatever sort I require, Secretary.”

The Yinchorri and his brethren traded uncertain glances, but Qayhuk ultimately nodded in agreement. “Done, Magister.”

“A favor?” Hill asked as the Yinchorri were being seen out.

“Nothing more than a test,” Damask told him.

Next to be admitted for audience were two Gran; the larger of the pair, a Republic Senator named Pax Teem, represented the Gran Protectorate. Teem had scarcely taken a seat when he said, “Promise me, Magister Damask, that you haven’t entered into a deal with Gardulla.”

“Our dealings with the Hutts,” Hill said, “are no less confidential than our dealings with you, Senator Teem.”

The Gran’s trio of stalked eyes twitched in anger. “Rumors abound of Gardulla’s plans to refurbish the Podrace course on Tatooine and enter into direct competition with Malastare.”

Damask regarded him blankly. “Surely you haven’t come all this way to hear me address rumors.”

Teem worked his big jaw. “Promises were made, Magister.”

“And fulfilled,” Damask said; then, in a calmer voice, he added, “As a means of offsetting losses in revenue derived from Podracing, the cost of Malastare’s fuel exports could be raised.”

The Gran ruminated. “That sounds more like a possibility than a guarantee.”

Damask shrugged. “We will take it up with the steerage committee. But for now, consider it a starting point for discussion.” Reclining in the chair, he appraised Teem before saying, “What else is troubling you, Senator?”

“The favoritism you show to the Trade Federation.”

“We merely helped them secure full representation in the Senate,” Hill answered.

Teem grew strident. “The directorate was doing perfectly well for itself without full representation. And in exchange for what—surrendering some of the shipping monopoly they enjoyed in the Outer Rim?”

“What’s fair is fair,” Hill said evenly.

Teem gave him a scathing glance. “Fairness has no part in it. You’re interested only in having the directorate do your bidding on Coruscant.” Abruptly, he got to his big feet and ground his square teeth. “Even a rate hike for Malastare’s fuel will profit Damask Holdings and the Trade Federation more than it will me!”

The Gran showed the Muuns his back and began to stamp toward the door, leaving his aide to stir in confusion for a moment, before he, too, rose and hurried out.

Hill’s mouth was open in surprise. “He can’t—”

“Let him go,” Damask said.

The elder Muun compressed already thin lips. “If we’re to benefit from the power they wield in the Senate, we’ll need to find some way to placate them, Hego.”

“I disagree,” Damask said. “We need to find a way to show Teem that he is expendable.”

By the time the guards had ushered in the quartet of Gossams who managed Subtext Mining, his ire had risen so high in his throat he could taste it. Typical of their diminutive species, the three saurians had reverse-articulated legs, fish-shaped heads, and long necks Damask
knew he could snap with two fingers—and perhaps would, for how they had double-crossed Tenebrous.

“We were stunned to receive your invitation, Magister,” Subtext’s chief operating officer said. “We had no idea we were even on your scanners.”

Damask smiled thinly. “We keep a close watch on galactic events. I trust you’ve been enjoying our food and entertainment?”

“More than you know, Magister,” the chief Gossam said with a meaningful laugh. “Or perhaps more than we care to admit.”

Damask forced a kindred laugh. “More than I know … That’s very funny indeed.” He broke off laughing to add, “Allow us to show you how we execute some of the inner workings of the Gathering.”

The Gossams looked at one another in surprise before their leader said, “We’d be honored.”

Damask stood and nodded to four of the Sun Guards, who fell in alongside the Gossams as he, Hill, and two other Muuns led them to a bank of ancient turbolift cars.

“All the real action takes place below,” Damask said, setting the car in motion with a wave of his hand.

In silence they descended two levels, and when the car’s doors parted, they filed into a cavernous underground hall. Central to the dimly lighted space were several large square platforms that could be raised by means of hydraulic poles, operated by separate teams of sweating, snuffling snub-nosed Ugnaughts. One platform, burdened with a slag heap of metal, was just descending, to sounds of raucous cheering and wild applause entering through an opening in the towering ceiling. Secured by manacles and chains on an adjacent platform writhed a hissing, snarling, fanged beast the size of a bantha.

“We’re directly beneath the central courtyard,” Damask explained as the beast-laden platform was elevating. “Each cargo symbolizes an abhorrent aspect of the Republic—practices we all wish to see overturned.”

By then the platform had been raised to the level of the courtyard. The crowd quieted for a moment, then, simultaneous with massive discharges of energy, erupted into ovation once more.

“Those discharges were the laser cannons doing their work,” Damask said loudly enough to be heard as the platform dropped back
into view, revealing that what had been the beast was now a smoking, foul-smelling husk of sinew and bone. He aimed a sinister smile at the Gossams. “It’s all theater, you understand. Merriment for the masses.”

“Obviously a real crowd-pleaser, Magister,” one of the Gossams said, swallowing some of his words.

Damask spread his thin arms wide. “Then you must join in.” Approaching, he nodded his chin toward one of the empty platforms, beside which the Sun Guards had positioned themselves. “Climb aboard.”

The saurians stared at him.

“Go ahead,” Damask said, without humor now. “Climb aboard.”

Two of the guards brandished blasters.

The chief Gossam looked from one Muun to the next, terror widening his eyes. “Have we done something to displease you, Magister?”

“A good question,” Damask said. “Have you?”

The chief Gossam didn’t speak until all four had clambered up onto the platform. “Precisely how did we come to your notice?”