Inferno (27 page)

Alema stopped at the edge of their game and watched them play. When the Bothan cursed and passed the bones to the Barabel, she cocked her hip and placed her good hand on it.

“Hello, boys. We know you’re busy, but maybe you can help a girl out.”

The Bothan and the human looked her up and down in a way that no male had since before Tenupe. Alema was so flattered that, when the Barabel took advantage of their distraction to roll the bones and turn one so that he had a set of matched suns, she used the Force to roll it back to its proper position.

The Barabel scowled up at her, while the Bothan bared his fangs in that predatory smile males often got when they realized they were being invited to make an advance.

“For a bent girl like you, maybe we can find some time,” he said. “What do you need?”

Alema returned his smile with one just as predatory. “Just an answer,” she said. “And maybe a map to your place.”

The human stood and stepped a little too close, considering how he smelled. “I’ve got answers, too.”

Alema cocked her brow. “We’ll bet you do.”

The Barabel hissed and slapped the knucklebones aside, then sank onto his haunches to wait for the game to resume.

Alema ignored him and asked, “So where do we find the Sith?”

The change in the Bothan’s expression was so subtle that Alema barely noticed, and the human did a credible job of looking confused. Their Force presences were another matter, becoming drawn and so frightened that Alema thought they might attack.

“You
don’t.
” The Bothan stood and motioned to the others. “Come on, you two. We’ve got work to—”

“What about our answer?” Alema’s tone was flirtatious, but the strength with which she Force-grabbed him was not. “We just
hate
being disappointed.”

The human crashed into his taskmaster’s back and appeared confused for a moment—then he heard the Bothan wheezing for breath and looked back to Alema in dread.

“The S-sith are d-dead. Have been for c-centuries.”

“Come now.” Alema put her hand under the man’s chin and drew his face close to hers. “You can’t
lie
to a Jedi.”

She crushed his jaw with a Force squeeze and sent him stumbling back into the port-master’s office, then returned her attention to the Bothan.

“We will ask nicely one more time. Where are the Sith?”

“Don’t make a difference
how
you ask,” the Bothan answered—rather bravely, Alema thought. “Whatever you do to us—”

“Usss?” the Barabel hissed. “Rak’k is not going to hide them. If OneTail wantz to die, it is fine with him.”

Alema turned to the Barabel. “
Thank
you. Where do I find the Sith?”

“Rak’k is risking a living death by telling you,” the Barabel replied. “He should be rewarded.”

Alema shook her head. “Sorry. We find scales so…disgusting.”

“Who cares about scales?” Rak’k asked, looking confused. “Rak’k is talking about your ship. When you don’t come back—”

“If,”
Alema corrected. “Why do people always underestimate us?”

The Barabel lowered his brow ridge. “How would Rak’k know? He just met you.”

“So you did.” Alema glanced back at Ship, trying to guess what it would do to any non-Force-user who tried to command it. “Do you think you can handle our ship?”

Rak’k nodded confidently. “The ship has not been built that Rak’k cannot pilot.”

Alema wasn’t entirely sure that Ship
had
been built, but Rak’k clearly thought he was sending her to
her
death, so it would probably serve the Balance to make the bargain. Besides, about two minutes after she left, her slippery Force presence was going to cause him and his companions to forget all about her—and the bargain. That would not stop them from trying to steal Ship, of course, but at least they would deserve whatever happened to them.

“Done,” Alema said. “Where do we find the Sith?”

The Bothan managed to crane his neck around to stare at the Barabel. “Rak’k, you can’t tell—”

“The Valley of the Dark Lordz,” Rak’k said.

Alema released her Force grasp on the Bothan and grabbed Rak’k instead, pulling him close. “We mean
living
Sith, Bonebrow.”

“So does Rak’k,” the Barabel said.

“Rak’k!” the Bothan snapped.

Rak’k ignored him and continued, “Go to the valley mouth. You will find their cloister.”

The Bothan groaned miserably. “Rak’k, if you didn’t just get us
all
killed, you’re fired.”

Rak’k shrugged. “He did not have good hunting here, anyway.” He turned back to Alema. “What are the access codes?”

“There aren’t any,” Alema said. “Just go to the door and let yourself in. After that, it flies itself.”

The Barabel glanced toward Ship, who was throbbing crimson with rage, and looked doubtful. “You are not lying?”

“Of course not.” Alema started to pat his cheek, but saw the curling scales again and drew back her hand. “Haven’t we always been honest with each other?”

The Barabel considered this a moment, then nodded. “You are going to need transport.” He glanced at the Bothan, then added, “Yas’tua has a working swoop.”

The Bothan’s eyes grew narrow and cold. “No need to fire you now,” he said. “If
they
don’t kill you, I will.”

Rak’k shrugged. “Rak’k does not think so.” He looked toward Ship and bared his fangs. “He will be leaving soon on his new starship.”

Alema forced Yas’tua to give her his swoop, and ten minutes later she was streaking toward a notched mountain that Rak’k had pointed to as her destination. The more she saw of Korriban’s parched terrain, the more she doubted that she had found the right place. Could
this
really be the source of the great Sith conspiracy that Lumiya had hinted at? And yet, the closer Alema drew to her destination, the murkier the light grew, and the harder she found it to continue on.

But continue on she did, for death meant less to her than the fleeting anguish that might accompany it. Her life mattered only if she used it to serve the Balance—to set matters right between her and Leia Solo. Alema could allow nothing to prevent her from getting the help she needed to save Jacen from himself.

At last, she came to a dark canyon cutting deep into the mountain at which Rak’k had pointed her. Until a few minutes earlier, the mountain had looked like nothing more than a high peak. But now she saw that it was an entire massif, a gigantic upthrusting of the planetary crust where the world itself seemed to have quaked with the coming of the Sith.

And standing at the mouth of this grim canyon was the ancient cloister Rak’k had promised, a complex of domed towers enclosed behind a high stone wall. Clinging to the wall exterior were remnants of a blue tile façade, each patch depicting an eye or claw or fang. At its base lay pieces of discarded machinery—portable deflector shields, depleted power core casings, antique laser cannon mountings. All in all, the place looked more like the ramshackle abode of a none-too-tidy hermit than the source of Lumiya’s power—but then the Sith
were
masters of concealment.

Alema stopped and dismounted, turning her back to the cloister so she could take the precaution of slipping a defensive dart into the palm of her crippled hand. Then she went to the gate—a four-meter slab of durasteel flaked with red scales of corrosion—and stood for nearly a minute without announcing herself. If there were Sith inside, they already knew she was here. If not, the inhabitants would pay later for making her wait.

Finally, the gate slowly squealed open to reveal a tall Togorian. His face had been shaved naked to display his tattoo striping, which ran along the top his thick snout, then flared into concentric circles around his dark eyes and upright ears. It was impossible to tell whether the rest of his body was shaved as well; it was concealed beneath dark armor and an even darker cloak.

Alema smiled and ran her eyes up and down his imposing, powerfully built form. “At last—just what we were looking for.”

The Togorian lashed out so fast that Alema barely realized his hand had moved, but she felt his claws sinking into the back of her good arm. Without speaking, he pulled her inside and dragged her through a murky archway. A dozen steps later, they entered a large courtyard surrounded by dark balconies and gloom-filled doorways, and he threw her down on a floor of black cobblestones.

“Tell how you found us, Jedi, and your death will be swift.” He was pinning her down with the Force, his strength so obvious and great that Alema didn’t even try to fight. “Hesitate, and your pain will amuse us every day for a year.”

“We did not come here for a swift death,” Alema said. “And we will amuse you however long you like.”

The Togorian’s lip curled.

Choosing to ignore the reaction—she had a vial of flesh-eating bacteria from Tenupe that she could use to right the Balance later—Alema smiled back at him. “But we will be happy to explain how we found you.”

“Then I will be happy to let you live until you have done so,” the Togorian replied. “After that, we shall see.”

“Fair enough,” Alema said. “We followed the navigation string on a datachip.”

“And where did you acquire this datachip?” the Togorian demanded.

“Not so fast,” Alema said. “We have questions, too.”

The Togorian placed a foot on her ribs and began to step down, squeezing her chest so ferociously that she could no longer breathe. She used the Force to bring up her crippled arm, driving the dart hidden in her hand into the unarmored flesh behind his knee.

The foot came off her chest immediately, and the Togorian leapt back. His lightsaber
snap-hiss
ed to life, but he did not make the mistake of releasing his Force grasp on Alema.

“What was that?” he demanded.

“A warning,” Alema replied.

This drew a hissing snicker from the courtyard balcony, and a raspy female voice said, “The skeeto has a bite. I hope you haven’t killed poor Morto. He was only following instructions.”

Alema glanced over at the Togorian, who—aside from the hateful glare he was casting her way—was showing no sign of the fiery pain that she knew must be burning up his leg.

“He will live,” she said. “
Provided
he lets me up.”

“Very well.” The woman must have nodded to the Togorian—Morto—because Alema found herself able to move. “I see no harm in trading questions, Jedi. You are
never
going to leave here alive.”

Alema breathed a sigh of relief and rose, then reached into a pocket and withdrew one of the vials she had brought back from Tenupe. She examined the code she had scratched onto the top to make sure it was the correct one, then tossed it to Morto.

“Rub that onto the wound,” she instructed. “
All
of it.”

A wave of relief rolled through the Force as Morto caught the vial, then he knelt and began to unbuckle his leg armor. Alema waited until he began to rub in the Tenupian bacteria, then smiled to herself.

Balance.

She turned toward the female voice and was surprised to discover a whole row of cloaked figures standing on the balcony. Save for variations in body size and structure, they all appeared similar to the figure she had seen on Lumiya’s datachip, wearing dark cloaks with the hoods pulled forward to conceal their faces.

“Your question?” The voice was low and harsh and masculine, and it came from a figure in the center of the rear balcony, one with pale white eyes barely visible beneath the hood. “And no tricks, Jedi. We Sith have never been known for our patience.”

Alema ran her gaze along the balcony railings. “How can you be all Sith?” she asked. “We were taught there are never more than two, a Master and an apprentice.”

“You were taught the old ways,” the voice said. “We are only
one
Sith now.”

Alema had counted more than thirty, but it did not serve her purpose to call the man on his obvious lie. Despite what she had told Morto, her purpose here was not to
learn
about the Sith Order—though that would obviously prove useful. She only needed to win its help for Jacen. She reached inside her cloak for Lumiya’s datachip—then lifted her brow when the gesture caused thirty lightsabers to ignite in the blink of an eye.

“Flattering, but we are not that dangerous.” She displayed the datachip she had taken from Lumiya’s habitat. “This is the datachip we—”

Before she could finish, the chip was torn from her hand and floated up to the Sith with the white eyes. He examined it without bothering to insert it into any sort of datareader, then nodded to the others.

“It’s the one.” He looked back to Alema. “Where did you find it?”

“The same place I came by my Sith ship,” Alema said, confident they already had someone in the spaceport watching Ship—if not actually flying it here. “I inherited it from my…master, Lumiya.”

The white eyes flared with suspicion. “You are very free with your answers. That is two for one question.”

Alema shrugged. “We have no reason to believe you will cheat us,” she said. “What would be the point, when you are going to kill us anyway?”

“Indeed,” said White Eyes. “
Your
question?”

“We cannot imagine you have a connection to the HoloNet in this hovel,” she said. “But we assume you are aware of Mara Skywalker’s death.”

“We have our avenues of information, yes,” White Eyes replied.

“I thought as much,” Alema said. “Are you aware that
I
killed her?”

No sound disturbed the courtyard’s silence, but the darkness rippled with equal parts surprise and disbelief.

“You?”
White Eyes finally asked.

Alema nodded. “Us.”

She could feel White Eyes and the others examining her Force aura, trying to determine whether she was being truthful. They would not detect a lie, because she was, in fact, responsible for Mara’s death. She had worked it all out, using the same logic that had once allowed the Dark Nest to control UnuThul. Since she had been in Hapan space when Mara died, Mara
could
have been following her instead of Lumiya, which meant that Alema
might
be the one truly responsible for Mara stumbling across Jacen, and
of course
that meant Alema was
certainly
the one who had gotten the hag killed. Simple.