Sacrifice

was still good for the Alliance, she thought, but he was far more the politician than the soldier lately. His language had changed—less direct, more circumspect. She longed for plain talking.

But she wasn't doing any in front of Jacen now.

"My sources tell me the Corellians failed to recruit the Mandalorians fairly early on," she said. "For some obscure reason, they appear to be staying neutral. Unless they've had some collective lobotomy, I call that interesting."

Omas looked at Jacen pointedly, hands in pockets. "Have we approached them? Have any of your shadowy little operatives signed some of them up? They were pretty handy during the last war, as I recall."

Jacen looked serene—except for his pupils. "No, and I suspect we wouldn't receive a positive response."

"Why? Don't tell me they've discovered pacifism after millennia of pillaging and destroying. They're congenital thugs. Any excuse for a fight that they can get paid for."

You think I don't know what you did, Jacen. Niathal feigned mild interest. But word gets around. Let's see if you play this straight.

Jacen was completely still except for the fact that he meshed his fingers in his lap. It looked like a meditation pose, utterly at odds with his black Galactic Alliance Guard coveralls.

"There's the small matter of the fact that I . . . lost Boba Fett's daughter during an interrogation," he said.

Aha.

"Lost." Omas blinked a few times. "What exactly is lost?"

"She died while I was interrogating her. I had no idea who she was at the time."