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“A skilled host can manage up to four bo’tous exhalations. But in a sealed environment, there is no defense—even for the host. Do you understand?”

“I understand that a host runs the risk of dying with his victims.”

“The toxic effect of the exhalation is very brief,” Nom Anor added. “A host must be in close proximity to her target.”

“Her target,” Elan said.

Harrar held her in his gaze. “We would like to arrange for you to be captured by New Republic forces. Commander Tla—while not entirely enthusiastic—has even agreed to afford them a victory in the process. Once in their custody you would ask for political asylum.”

Elan looked skeptical. “Why would they accept me?”

“Because we would convince them that you are a worthy prize,” Nom Anor answered.

Harrar confirmed it with a nod. “You would provide them with valuable information. Information regarding why we have come to their galaxy and what we have left in our wake. You would also tell them of dissension among our ranks—of disputes that prompted your flight—as well as information of some strategic merit.”

“Does Commander Tla know of all this?” Raff interjected uncertainly.

“Most of it,” Harrar replied.

“Then I must protest, Eminence. I fear this will become too costly an enterprise.”

“I will accept responsibility,” Harrar said. “Let us not have genuine dissension, tactician.”

Tactician Raff stood his ground. “Eminence, has not Executor Nom Anor just informed us that a Jedi Knight survived an earlier attempt at poisoning? Why, then, should bo’tous prove effective against any one of them, let alone a cadre of Jedi?” He glanced at Elan. “Notwithstanding the obvious sophistication of your designated delivery system.”

Momentary doubt clouded Harrar’s expression. “You do justice to your station, tactician. Your suggestions?”

Raff considered it. “At the very least, your infiltrator should be provided with accessory weapons—whatever Executor Nom Anor deems necessary to ensure success, should the bo’tous prove ineffectual.”

Harrar looked at Nom Anor, who motioned in dismissal. “Unnecessary. But easily accomplished. There is a species of amphistaff that can be modified and implanted in the body for just such a purpose.”

Satisfied, Harrar nodded. “Continue, Executor.”

Nom Anor placed himself in Elan’s view. “Unfortunately, I know of no accessories that will guarantee your success with New Republic Intelligence. That would depend on you. You would begin by claiming to have information regarding the coomb spores I introduced. You would, however, insist on delivering that information only to the Jedi. But be warned: the Jedi possess a kind of divining ability. They would be quick to discover deception—even in one trained since youth to beguile and mislead. Thus the need for a quick-acting toxin, carried by a quick-thinking host.”

Harrar extended the pinched creature to Elan. “Quickly, Elan, take it in your palm and clench your hand around it.”

Elan stared at him. “Should I do so, I am committed.”

Harrar gazed back at her. “I will not command you to accept this charge, Elan. The choice is yours.”

Elan looked to Vergere. “How would you counsel me?”

Vergere’s oblique eyes clouded over with sadness. “I would counsel you to refuse, Mistress. And yet you have long desired to be tested. To be given a mission worthy of your talents. Sadly, I know of no more unswerving path to escalation.”

Harrar glanced at the priestess’s exotic pet. “Take her along if it pleases you, Elan. She may even prove to be of assistance.”

Elan looked at Vergere once more. “You would accompany me?”

“When have I not?”

Elan took the minuscule creature into her hand and closed her long fingers around it. When she relaxed her hand, the thing had been absorbed.

“It will migrate to your lungs and there mature,” Nom Anor said, smiling. “You will know when the toxin has reached maximum potency. Then you will loose your four breaths against as many Jedi as you can arrange to be gathered in one place.”

Elan looked at Harrar. “What then, Eminence?”

“What’s to become of you, you mean?”