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Daala breathed a long sigh. “Do you have any good news for me? Public reaction to the raid on the Jedi Temple?”

“Still hostile. The Jedi are now being looked at as trying very hard to take care of their own problems, such as the Solos taking the mad Jedi off to be cured, and we look stupid for not being able to stop them.”

“You mean I look stupid.”

“Using the Mandos is being interpreted by the armed forces as a sign that you don’t have confidence in their abilities. Special forces are especially offended.”

Daala rolled her eyes skyward, as if seeking aid from a Super Star Destroyer parked in low planetary orbit. “Is there some force I’m not aware of? Some massive conspiracy devoted to the destruction of the career of Natasi Daala?”

“Every politician I’ve ever met has asked the same question about his or her career at some time. The answer is usually no.” Dorvan looked thoughtful. “Which means, of course, that it’s sometimes yes.”

Daala returned her attention to him. “All right. I’ll remain in my offices and deal with any of thirty lesser crises. But I need something to divert public attention from me. Just for a day, or a week. Build a fire under the prosecutor’s office and get them hopping on the Tahiri Veila case. Make sure every development is well covered by the press.”

“I’ll do that.”

“And make sure everyone knows that she’s an assassin, yes? That, unlike me, she actually killed an admiral? That she’s not a sweet young orphan who sells baked goods door-to-door?”

“I’ll try to remember that part.” Dorvan spun and headed for the exit.

From the chilly safety of her gleaming white office, Daala watched Admiral Niathal’s funeral events on her monitor.

Niathal was laid out in a transparisteel display casket mounted atop a repulsorlift-based flat-topped vehicle that moved at a serene pace from its starting position at the Mon Calamari embassy grounds toward the distant Plaza of the Founders, the great circular public gathering place erected in the wake of the Yuuzhan Vong War. The procession was, of course, aerial—a marching event would have to take place down in the dark, dank surface levels or along winding, narrow elevated pedwalks high in the air, neither of which promoted a sense of somber elegance—and so all participants rode speeders of various types, mostly fully enclosed dark vehicles suited to politicians.

Immediately before and after the casket craft were large barges carrying units of the Galactic Alliance Navy Drum Corps. As the procession moved along Coruscant’s permacrete canyons, they played a martial percussive rhythm that echoed off the skytowers. It was a stirring performance suited to Niathal’s career and temperament. It sounded like distant thunder organized into music.

After the drum corps craft came the dark airspeeders of the attending ambassadors, officers, and other important beings who had regularly dealt with Niathal in life. It was a long train of vehicles.

The procession cruised at one of the standard traffic altitudes, a height where civilian pedwalks were common, and the walkways along the entire procession route were thick with citizens. Daala saw not just faces but also signs in that throng, some of them hand-printed placards, some flashing diodes on thin sheets of flexiplast. One read GA OUT OF MON CALAMARI. Another flashed THE GREAT CURRENT WELCOMES YOU. A third, its lettering black and blocky, read DAALA, MURDERESS.

As the procession continued, the velvety tones of holocaster Javis Tyrr floated out from the monitor, describing the action. “… passing Medway Avenue. The drum corps has begun, I believe it’s a percussion arrangement of ‘Tialga Hath Fallen,’ a traditional Alderaanian air about a warrior-queen who makes a stand against impossible odds so her children can reach safe haven. Yes, that’s it indeed, and you can hear the polyphonic tones of the sequential bells substituting for Alderaanian flutes in this arrangement. Just passing under the midlevel Medway Avenue pedwalk, which