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Jaina made a noise like a strangled Ewok. “How about playing politics so that you don’t get even more people pointing blasters your way?”

Suddenly feeling very weary, Jag slumped. “Playing politics. I’m not all that good at it, Jaina. Truth isn’t enough, being fair isn’t enough, picking and choosing among sensible precedents isn’t enough. You also have to play politics, which is like piloting an unarmored shuttle through the worst meteor shower in history, and just as productive. I think sometimes that the only reason I’m not as unhinged as Daala is because I’m younger.”

“My mother isn’t unhinged.”

“No, but she left the Chief of State’s office and took up a profession where she could cut people in half when she got annoyed.”

“Point.”

“I have a couple more points to make.” He reached over and dragged her into his lap. She made a perfunctory noise of protest before settling into place.

He continued, “First, I must point out the unfairness of the situation. When I decide against the Jedi, you’re angry with me. And when I speak out in favor of the Jedi, you’re angry at me.”

“Of course. You’re a man, so you’re always wrong.”

He ignored that. “Second, you’re missing the bigger picture. It’s clear to me that you knew about the Jedi plan to oust Daala from early on, and didn’t even give me a hint about it … and I’m not angry. You did what you had to do. In telling the public that the Jedi did the right thing, I did what I had to do. Don’t give me grief for it.”

She sighed. “I’m giving you grief because I can’t be here to give you support, to keep an eye out for you. I have an assignment.”

“Where?”

“Can’t say.”

He laughed, then wrapped her up in his arms. “Stang. When do you leave?”

“Tonight.”

“Dinner first?”

“Dinner first.”

NINTH HALL OF JUSTICE, CORUSCANT

“Guilty.” Each time the judge began a question, “On the charge of …” and ended it with “how do you find the defendant,” that was the word spoken by the jury spokesperson, an imposing Mon Calamari male with a forbidding stare … a stare directed at Tahiri.

Toward the end of the list of charges, a few elicited a “not guilty” verdict. But the most important one—premeditated murder—was on the wrong side of that dividing line.

Tahiri felt numb. She knew the blood must have drained from her face, leaving her pale and lifeless in appearance.

It was not so much that she had lost, that she would soon be sentenced, that she would suffer some horrible punishment. It was that in the eyes of that spokesperson, the jury, the judge, the spectators and press—and in moments, by transmission of the recordings of that verdict, all of Coruscant, all of the Galactic Alliance—she was now something she did not consider herself to be: a criminal. A murderer.

Others had always defined Tahiri. Tusken Raiders. Jedi. Yuuzhan Vong. Darth Caedus. And now a gallery of jurors who had never spoken with her. She had never, ever had control over who or what she was.

There were other words buzzing around her head. “Held over for sentencing.” “Thank you for your service.” She could no more latch onto those words than she could catch oxygen molecules with a pair of tweezers.

Suddenly everyone else was standing, too. The judge departed. There was a muted murmur of voices from the press and audience—muted because there were so few of them to witness Tahiri’s defeat. Not even Jaina had been in the gallery this morning.

Eramuth Bwua’tu gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You mustn’t think of this as a defeat, my dear. It is a setback. We have sentencing to go through. Then the appeals process. I intend to demonstrate that the ousting of Chief Daala colored the opinions of the jurors. We will prevail.”

“The sentence. It’ll be death, won’t it?”

He seemed reluctant to answer. “It does not matter what words are spoken at the sentencing, Tahiri. What matters is what actions ultimately are taken. In this case, the actions will be your freedom.”

“It’ll be death because I took a life. They don’t care