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Nom Anor inclined his head. “I exist but to serve, High Prefect.”

“Precisely. Which is why I command you to root out this coalition of Shamed Ones, and either talk some sense into them or have them killed. I would prefer the former, since I suspect that additional killings at this point will only incite them further. But know that I plan to hold you personally responsible for any interference at the sacrifice, just as Shimrra will me. Do you trust that I speak from the heart, or do I need to bolster my words with threats of what will befall you should you fail me?”

“I will do my best, High Prefect.”

“Your tricks bear watching, Nom Anor. This has always been so.”

“I trick no one but myself, High Prefect, by imagining myself more than I am.”

Nom Anor had had his consuls arrange for a saddled bissop to carry him back to the spacious residence that came with his new status. But for all that he had received, he had earned the envy, anger, and distrust of many, as was frequently the case with those escalated because of actions that needed to remain secret and undisclosed. Others in Shimrra’s close company suffered similar indignities, in part because Shimrra was fickle and full of contradictions, as if jerked this way and that by his emotions or what passed for revelations from the gods.

Even mighty Nas Choka was not immune to petty jealousies, which is why he had tripled his complement of bodyguards—something Nom Anor had considered doing, but ultimately rejected. There was small advantage in announcing one’s apprehensions to one’s adversaries.

But how to keep those apprehensions concealed from the heretics …

He had mistakenly believed that the abrupt disappearance of Yu’shaa, the Prophet, would have weakened the movement. Instead, Nom Anor had only provided his gullible audience with a martyr, more so because many believed that Yu’shaa had been put to death on orders of Shimrra.

Tucked away in his residence was the original ooglith cloaker Nom Anor had worn when exhorting his followers to rise up against the system that had doomed them to become outsiders; a system that perpetuated a belief in gods who would deliberately shun their creations. It would be a different matter if every Shamed One was guilty of overreaching or pride, but in fact no one could explain—the shapers least of all—why implants were rejected. As a result, however, countless individuals were left wondering for the rest of their miserable lives where they had erred, when they had displayed pride or if they were paying for the transgressions of other crèche or domain members. The elite pretended sympathy, when in fact they fairly luxuriated in witnessing their competitors fall from grace. How grievous what befell Consul Shal Tor at the last escalation—but how happy I am that it wasn’t me.

Only a short time ago—before his life-turning decision on Zonama Sekot—Nom Anor, sufficiently inflamed by the inequity, had wished to see his entire culture tumbled down; to see Shimrra shaken from his polyp throne by the debased members of Yuuzhan Vong society. And he had very nearly succeeded. What might have come from that was unclear. If the war were lost, what would it mean for Nom Anor, since—save for the Jedi—the inhabitants of the galaxy the Yuuzhan Vong had invaded were not above barbarity?

Flight, imprisonment, execution … he couldn’t take the chance.

Now the very movement born of rumors escaped from distant Yavin, and given order and embellishment by Nom Anor himself, threatened to deprive him of all that he had achieved by opting to foil Zonama Sekot, and thereby reinstate himself in Shimrra’s good graces.

The thought weighed on him as his living transport lumbered past the Place of Sacrifice, where priests and savants, adepts and initiates were busy preparing for the coming ceremony; past the shell-like shops of workers; and past solitary Shamed Ones, in their threadbare garments, begging for alms.

Before Nas Choka had been escalated, he had had occasion