Sacrifice

"Will that seeing require repairs afterward?"

Fett flicked a very large-denomination credit chip onto the desk.

"Keep the change in case it does. Where's Fraig?"

Credits talked. Blasters talked, too, but credits could whisper menacingly every bit as well.

"He's hosting a private sabacc game in his suite on the thirtieth floor, sir." The steward smiled valiantly and snapped his fingers at the hired help. "I'll let him know you're on the way up."

The nattily attired Trandoshan rushed to his summons, looking like he'd picked the wrong outfit for a costume party.

"Take . . . the . . . er . . . President of Mandalore up to Master Fraig's suite. All drinks on the house."

So they didn't quite grasp what being Mandalore meant. That was okay, because Fett didn't, either. Mirta stifled laughter, but only Fett heard it. He switched to the helmet comlink with a blink.

"So you do have shares here, Ba'buir," she said.

"Depending on how many guests Fraig's got, I might need your help.

Try not to kill them unless they ask for it."

"Yessir, Mister President!"

"I liked you better without a sense of humor."

He didn't dislike Mirta. She'd tried to kill him, but that was a couple of months ago, and things had moved on. She worked hard and she wasn't mired in fluffy trivia like fashion and holovids. She was strong in every sense. Beviin—and Fett listened to Beviin—said she was a real Mando'ad,