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“Thank you, my dear,” Eramuth said, putting a hand to his heart and bowing ever so slightly before pulling out a chair for himself. With anyone else, Tahiri would have thought it a calculated, over-the-top gesture. But with him, it seemed completely natural. There was a grace to him, not just of mannerisms or clothing, but somehow simply emanating from who he was.

Hope started gnawing on her like a mynock on a power cable. She pushed it down, ruthlessly.

“Are you related to Admiral Nek Bwua’tu?”

He gave her another quick smile, focusing the full force of his attention on her. “Indeed I am. He’s my nephew. He’s done the family proud. Unlike his notoriously eccentric uncle.”

He was still smiling, but Tahiri’s slightly giddy feeling of hope suddenly turned cold. “Eccentric uncle?” It would be just her luck, she thought, to have landed a madman for an attorney.

“Only in Bothan circles,” Eramuth said. “Are you familiar with our culture, my dear?”

Normally, the endearment would have annoyed her, but she sensed only kindness. “Well, I don’t want to stereotype, but your people are known for political … um … maneuvering.”

He chuckled. It was a warm, rich, happy sound, and Tahiri instantly wanted to hear it again. “You’ve the makings of a diplomat.”

“Oh, trust me, not really.”

“Let me put it this way. Sometimes certain clans want certain outcomes in trials. Sometimes that means a verdict of not guilty for my client … which, of course, I desire as well, providing I believe that said client is, in truth, not guilty. I’ve never taken on a case where I don’t believe, with my whole heart, that that being is truly innocent. And I can assure you I never shall.”

His voice rose with the passion of his beliefs, and his face went from pleasant to intense and righteous. Tahiri stared at him. She felt a strange catch in her throat and the hairs at the back of her neck rose.

“I am, however, enough of a son of Bothawui to want to be on the winning side.” He gave her a somewhat abashed smile. “I do not take on cases I believe I cannot win. And most certainly, I would not come out of retirement and leave my comfortable professorial position for one.”

“That’s … very comforting to know.”

He beamed at her for a moment, reached across the table and patted her hand, then turned to business. He pulled off his gloves with quick, precise movements, opened the case and pulled out—

“Flimsi?”

“Of course.” He reached into the bag and pulled out a datapad. “I do have datapads, my dear. Never fear, I’m not entirely out of date. I simply prefer to have the feel of something a little more permanent in my hands. Data can be erased. Ink … is a little harder.”

He handed her one of the datapads. “All the information on your case is there. I have the same documents here,” and he indicated the flimsi, “all written down in that ink I so love. We can go through it together.” Eramuth shuffled through the papers, carefully setting aside a blank piece and a writing instrument.

“Now, my dear,” he said, looking at her kindly. “Tell me everything.”

OFFICES OF THE CHIEF OF STATE, CORUSCANT

“TAHIRI VEILA HAS ACCEPTED AN ATTORNEY FOR HER DEFENSE,” WYNN Dorvan was saying. He sat across the desk from Chief of State Natasi Daala at their daily morning briefing and politely refused a cup of caf she offered him. His pet chitlik, Pocket, was curled up in the part of his jacket for which she was named. The room was tidy and gleamed in black-and-white, evocative of the old Empire of which Daala had once been a part and for which she obviously still harbored nostalgic fondness.

“Good,” Daala said. “She’ll need one since she forced our hand.”

Dorvan suppressed a sigh of irritation. He had not approved of Daala’s initial plan to deal with Tahiri. The GA had brought charges of treason and murder against the former Jedi, an accusation which, if she were convicted, could mean the death sentence. Daala had sent in a negotiator to speak with Tahiri’s attorney and offered her a quiet under-the-table deal. If Tahiri were to spy on her fellow