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“The same, ma’am. And as everyone here knows, you are the famous Roki Kem.”

She ducked her head slightly. “I prefer to simply be Senator. I assure you, I am famous only because Fate chose me to be the liberator of my people. I do not hunger after it.”

And suddenly he knew, without knowing, that that was a lie. But her people didn’t lie, if he recalled correctly. They gave too much emphasis to the power of words.

As he gazed into her green eyes, he saw something there that everyone else must have missed. He saw a coldness, a calculation. Her smile deepened. “Please, a word with you, if I may? You have done so fine a job in so short a time, I think I may learn from you.”

“Certainly,” he said, nodding to his cronies. They meandered off a discreet distance. They were effectively alone. Regulations forbade any recording devices in this room, and Workan knew those rules were enforced. He himself had been almost indecently analyzed for any such devices. Whatever she had to say, he knew it would be for his ears alone. He continued to smile pleasantly. “How can I be of service to you, Senator?”

“By staying out of my way,” came the unexpected response. She, too, kept a smile on her face, but her eyes were hard as jade.

He made a sight clucking sound of reprimand. “That certainly doesn’t sound like the Rokari Kem the galaxy has come to know and love.”

“She does not exist,” said Kem. “Certainly you know a thing or two about fabricating a persona.”

What did she mean by that? Was it nothing more than a jab at the perceived deceptive nature of politicians? Or was it something else? What exactly did she know?

“Oh, I do,” he said. “Hard to get elected otherwise.” He chuckled and sipped his drink.

“Hard to accomplish other goals, as well.” She playfully clinked her glass against his. Watching eyes would see only two beings enjoying a conversation.

“Such as?” Workan asked.

“Stay out of my way,” Roki said, “and perhaps you will live long enough to find out.”

“Come now,” chided Workan, “I think you have learned about Coruscant by watching too many holodramas. You posture and threaten too clumsily, Senator.”

“I do neither,” she said, and there was an iciness to her voice that chilled even him, a Sith High Lord. “I know more than you think I do. I have more power and better connections than you think I have. Please, do continue to underestimate me and rattle your saber. It will make things much easier.”

She smiled and gave him a gracious nod, then moved over to another cluster of Senators, smiling that enchanting smile and radiating kindness.

Workan drained his glass and gestured to the serving droid for a refill. Rattle your saber? He knew that it was a dismissive phrase for someone who loudly promised a fight. But did it also mean Roki Kem knew who and what he was?

Did she know about the Lost Tribe?

It was a most unpleasant thought. He would have to do something about this lovely, intelligent and—he had to give her credit—amazingly deceitful woman sooner than he had expected.

Three hours later, Workan returned to his apartments. He unbuttoned his overtunic and tossed it into a chair. The day had progressed from one disaster to another, and he was not looking forward to what he had to do now. He debated putting it off. Roki Kem had certainly proved to him today that her image of a benevolent, gentle being was as much a façade as his own posing as a Senator. He could use that to bring her down.

But if she knew the Sith were here on Coruscant—

No. If something happened and his Master found that Workan had not warned him, Workan would not live long enough to draw breath to apologize. It had to be now.

He went to the room that served him as both office and meditation chamber. Glass sculptures were present here, too, his longtime favorites. A mat lay spread out in front of a single candle on one side of the room, a desk with a holoprojector on the other. Workan glanced longingly at the mat. When he was finished with the conversation, no doubt a lengthy meditation session would be in order.

He tapped in a code. An