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A wall brought an abrupt end to his retreat.

Growling, he shot to his feet, coufee in hand, and began to slash wildly at her, the lightsaber notwithstanding.

She leapt backward, out of reach, then deactivated the blade and encouraged him to charge. Her hands moved in a dexterous blur as she deflected his knife blows and got inside his frantic movements to slap and tap him in the chest or the jaw, never hard enough to stun him, let alone incapacitate him, but driving him backward with each smack. Ducking his increasingly desperate lunges and crosscuts, she swept his feet out from under him with a circling sidekick, then allowed him to come to his feet only long enough for her to cripple his knee with the toe of her right boot. He flung himself at her, but she sidestepped his headlong rush and sent him hurtling into a wall.

She continued to hurt him, telling herself: This is for Monor Two, where she had fallen victim to the coomb spores he had unleashed; and this is for the trouble you stirred up at Rhommamool.

Knocking the coufee from his grip, she thrust her stiffened fingers into his windpipe, then sent him reeling with an upper-cut. This is for founding the Peace Brigade; for your part in sending Elan to assassinate the Jedi with bo’tous; for your double dealings with the Hutts and Viqi Shesh; and for sabotaging the refugee settlements on Duro.

Making the most of her agility, she left deliberate openings in her defense, luring him into striking, only to set up combinations aimed at punishing his bald head; his flat-nosed face; his blue right eye, with its stripe of feline pupil. This is for the false appeals you made to Leia and Han at Bilbringi; for your disdainful appearance before the Senate; for whatever role you played in the deaths of Chewbacca and Anakin; for your attempt to deliver Jacen into the hands of Tsavong Lah; for your sabotage at Zonama Sekot …

Her blows were beginning to do damage. Deftly she moved inside his flailing arms, using her elbows and the backs of her clenched hands to bloody his scarred lips and swell his ears, ever mindful of that dangerous left eye of his, which she was certain he was saving as a last resort. She pivoted on her left foot and kicked him hard with her right, forcing the wind from him. He dropped to his knees, his right hand pressed to his chest.

He had trouble getting to his feet, but when he did, she sent him down again with a fist to the face. Dread shone in his real eye. He had spent too long among beings who cherished life, and he had come to cherish it himself. Unlike those fighting to the death in the streets and squares above, Nom Anor wanted desperately to live. Mara could read it in his wretched look; she could smell it coming off of him in waves. He backed away from her until his back was pressed to a wall, then he sank slowly to his knees.

Mara ignited her lightsaber and held it with the tip low and to her right. One upward swing and she could send his head five meters.

Nom Anor bent at the waist and pressed his face to the littered floor in a posture of servility.

“You’ve defeated me, Mara Jade Skywalker,” he said without lifting his head. “I beg for mercy.” When she made no immediate reply, he risked raising his face to her, and when he saw that she hadn’t moved forward he continued. “What would killing me accomplish now? Yes, it will satisfy you, but will it put an end to the war?”

“For the moment, I’ll content myself with satisfaction,” she told him.

He gulped, then found his voice. “I am a dissembler and a killer. I have brought woe to you and many others. But were you any less when you were in service to the Emperor? To Darth Vader? An executor, you did what you were trained to do. We all serve a master, Mara Skywalker. But I was given to believe that you now served the Force.”

As Mara stepped forward, his pleas became more frenzied.

“You’re a mother now! What if your son were watching you? Is this what you would want him to learn—the