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"Let's do it," she said.

JEKRI GAZED AT HER REFLECTION IN THE MIRROR AND decided she did not like what she saw.

She was in full dress regalia, and the uniform hung limply on her slim frame. She had lost weight these past few weeks. She was not surprised. Her mind had been consumed with thoughts first of recovering Telek R'Mor and capturing Voyager, then with suspicions about the arrogant Shepherd ambassador. A further strain had been her need to hide the latter thoughts. She did not put anything past Lhiau. Murder was entirely possible if he thought Jekri Kaleh posed any kind of real threat.

Her face was pale, the cheeks hollow, the eyes encircled by darkness. She scowled and reached for a

seldom-used stash of cosmetics. She did not like to wear them; such vanities were for softer females, not for the chairman of the Tal Shiar. But it was important that she draw as little attention as possible, and her present haggard appearance would not pass unnoticed. After applying a base coloring to give some warmth to her sallow skin and some quick swipes of green to tint her cheeks, she scowled even further. She looked dreadful. This would attract more notice than her unadorned, tired-looking face. Jekri washed off the cosmetics and scrubbed her face clean. Better.

She ran a quick comb through her short, silky black hair, and she was ready.

Why a banquet? There was little enough to celebrate. Earlier, the Empress had demanded hourly reports from Jekri's team of scientists and spies. Jekri recalled the image of the weeping Empress and realized that even though she, Jekri, had not made the hourly reports from time to time, there was no contact from the royal household about the lapses.

The Empress hadn't noticed.

Jekri frowned at her image in the mirror. She had not gotten where she was without trusting her hunches, and now the prickling at the back of her neck was telling her that something either was very wrong or was about to go very wrong.

And whatever it was, it concerned the Empress.

The banquet was held at the palace. By the time Jekri arrived, proudly unescorted, most of the other guests were already present. She took a small goblet of blue Romulan ale from a server's tray. Sipping the

potent beverage carefully-Jekri never allowed herself to become intoxicated at formal gatherings-she surveyed the room with a silver-eyed gaze that missed nothing.

The magnificent entry hall was festooned with colors and decorations, all as fierce and proud and commanding as the Romulans themselves. No pretty ribbons or flowers here. No, there were shields and armor from ancient times and bold swathes of rich-hued fabrics. Music came from somewhere-live performers, a luxury only the rich could afford. It was soft and lovely, designed to soothe the guests and encourage them to eat, drink, and talk freely.

Jekri would do none of these.

She looked for any survivors of the disastrous attack on Voyager. If there were any, they would be hailed as heroes, despite the debacle. They would be honored, simply because there had once been so many and now were so few. Jekri saw none, and felt a twinge of grief. Either none had survived or they were too ill to attend. Whichever it was, it was sobering.

There were a few of the senators, chatting pleasantly, drinks and small appetizers in hand. Their faces were bland and fixed in polite expressions. Jekri wondered why they bothered. Everyone here tonight, even the lowest-ranking among them, was a key political figure in some way. Everyone had an agenda. No one was the bland, polite guest he or she so desperately wished to appear. At least she didn't bother with me pretense. She was the Little Dagger, and everyone knew daggers were sharp.

Verrak had not been invited. He was not of sufficiently high rank. For that, Jekri was sorry. She had come to rely upon him over the years they had spent working together, and trusted him as she trusted few people.

The Praetor caught her eye. He paused in midsentence and his