It takes him an entire week of after-dinner sessions to finish the elegant scrollwork on Rhea's back. The tattoo begins at her shoulder blades and traces down her spine. It's elegant and sparse so as not to overwhelm her small frame. But it marks her for a daughter of Dathomir all the same. No one can see it beneath her clothes. Only he gets to view it, and he likes it that way.
Tattoos are a handicraft his people learned young. Savage was very good at it, and his brother helped him touchup his own markings after his rescue from Lotho Minor. It was a point of pride among the Nightbrothers never to let their ink become faded or distorted. And so, as he works, Maul can't help but reminisce about the past. But enough time has passed that talking about Savage feels good. Painful still, but good.
"He played the tough guy role. Mother transformed him into an imposing figure. Taller and broader than any Nightbrother before him." Maul shakes his head as he recalls, "Savage might have looked like a brute and had the name of a brute, but he wasn't a brute. He was Dark, but he was never truly Sith. He was far too loyal."
He repositions himself to get a better angle for Rhea's left shoulder. She's lying face down on his bed as inks her. Those pretty lekku are swept forward and her chin is propped on her hands.
"So . . . you and your brother were both Sith Apprentices . . ."
He takes exception to the comparison of their experience. "Savage was more like a sadist's whipping boy. Dooku treated him terribly and taught him very little. The relationship was nothing like Father and me. Nothing," he says emphatically. It's important that she know that.
Rhea just remarks softly, "I can tell how much you miss him."
"I do," he admits. "Savage saved my life more than once."
He will always be grateful for his fearsome, yet big hearted little brother who was loyal to the end. Savage died a warrior's death, and that is something both his people and the Sith tradition would respect. There is no shame in being slain with a sword in your hand by the Sith Emperor Darth Sidious.
"I would have liked to have met him. I'm sorry he's not here," Rhea laments.
"Me too, little one . . . me too."
Rhea was the youngest in her family. She played the Savage role, looking up to her elder sister as the example to emulate. She speaks of her dead sister now with a plodding wistfulness he can relate to. He nods along, listening as he works. This is good for her, he can tell. Like speaking of Savage is good for him.
"Do you ever wonder what would have happened if your brother had lived and not you?" she asks.
"That was never really a possible outcome. Father would have killed us both. I was surprised at the time that he showed me mercy," he recalls.
"If Thetis had lived and I had died, I think she would have made better choices than I did. She was always so confident and sure of herself. Like you are. She would never have ended up in Crimson Dawn."
Maul hears behind Rhea's words the shameful recognition that she let people down. Not just her dead family, but herself. It's a lament he knows all too well.
"All of us can be lost from time to time," he offers quietly.
This is his opening to confess the truth of Lotho Minor. Should he go there? He does. "Savage found me after I lost to Kenobi. I was marooned . . . and not right."
"You were terribly injured," she cheerleads loyally.
"It was more than that. I was a wreck both physically and mentally." There. He said it . . . sort of. Somehow, it's easier than he imagined. Maybe because he's talking to Rhea and he can tell her anything. It probably helps that he's focused on inking a straight line right now and there is that to focus on as well.
"It must have been a lot to handle," she commiserates.
He admits, "It was more than I could handle." And now, he unloads the whole unhappy truth. "When Savage found me, I didn't recognize him. I didn't even know my own name. All I knew was my hatred for Kenobi." His obsession with revenge kept him alive for years. He was a wild, desperate thing half reconstructed with spider legs built from spare parts. Malnourished, in constant pain, and completely insane from the unending hopelessness of it all. He was Dark, so Dark, too Dark. All these years later, it still makes him uncomfortable to remember it. It's a part of his past he locks away deep.
"You poor thing," Rhea sighs in sympathy.
"I was weak in body . . . and in mind." Is she getting this? Or does he have to spell it out?
"I understand. After I was hurt, I was a bit lost," she confides. "I had always been someone's daughter or someone's sister. But my family was gone. Everything was gone. Even my face."
"You're beautiful still."
"Not really. But thank you for saying so." She casts a quick smile at him over her shoulder.
He grunts and turns back to his task. "Beauty is more than a face." Much more.
"Maybe so, but a big part of a woman's beauty is her face. After my injury, I had to adjust to how people react to me now. I didn't realize how much beauty is a privilege until I lost it." Rhea is glumly philosophical about her predicament. "It was humbling in a way, I guess. I didn't realize how much of my self-identity was wrapped up in being the pretty girl."
He can relate. "My whole self was being the Apprentice. For a long time afterwards, I thought there was nothing left of me without Father and his plans for the future."
"You didn't want to go back home to Dathomir? To be a Nightbrother again?"
"Savage took me home to Mother. She healed me with the Force. She brought me back with her mother's love and her strong magic."
"You can do that?"
"Oh yes. The Jedi had very skilled healers. Supposedly, they worked miracles."
"And the Sith?"
"They do not heal. Dark power sustained me when I was cut in two. But it would not heal me. Only the Light Side heals."
"And your mother knew this Jedi knowledge?"
He states it differently. "Mother did not acknowledge the distinction of Light and Dark. She thought power was power, and her old ways did not limit how or when to use power." He muses, "I guess you could say her magic could be both Dark and Light. But she would just call it the Force." Mother was a threatening enigma to the prevailing Jedi and Sith religions because she rejected both of their orthodoxies. In the good guy/bad guy, Dark-versus-Light dichotomy, she was something that defied categorization. In the end, it meant she was an enemy to everybody.
"Mother healed my body as best she could. Most importantly, she healed my mind." He puts his tools down now and sits up as he plainly admits, "I was insane. Rhea, I was a raving lunatic. Darkness had consumed me," he confesses in a shameful whisper.
Rhea sits up now and reaches for his hand. She's always reaching out to him. "How miserable you must have been . . ."
"Yes . . . I was weak and distraught. Savage and Mother helped me when I needed it most. Now they are gone and Father is all who remains."
"No. You have me," Rhea squeezes his hand as she smiles at him. It's everything he needs to hear in the moment and it's why she wears his markings on her back.
But he feels compelled to warn her. "I have you for now." He meets her gaze steadily as he soberly reminds her, "Everyone who has ever been close to me has died at Father's hand. Little one, if Father ever learns of you, you could be in great danger."
"Because of my role in the rebellion?"
"Because of who you are to me." This is one of many fears he has for how the future could play out. "He might try to use you against me. He might even demand that I kill you to prove that you are not a weakness. Father delights in little tests of obedience."
"O-Oh."
"He can be petty like that. Always wanting you to demonstrate your loyalty and sacrifice for him. Father could be very overbearing." That's an understatement. Father was consistently controlling. It's part of why he felt so lost without a Master. As capable and well-trained as he was, Maul had never been allowed to make his own decisions before Naboo. It contributed to his crisis in self-worth after his loss to Kenobi. He didn't begin to know how to pick up the pieces of his life and move on by himself.
"I worry we won't end well," he suddenly confesses. "All along, I have warned you. I'm warning you again," he blurts out.
"Too late." She is brave as she promises, "I'm not leaving you." Young, naive Rhea has no idea what it means to cross his Master.
He tells the selfish truth. "I won't let you leave me. But neither will I sacrifice you to Father's whims." If he can't have her, he refuses to kill her. With a heavy sigh, Maul admits something no self-respecting Sith would ever divulge: "Already I have sacrificed too many people I Iove for power and glory." He won't add Rhea to the list.
"It won't come to that."
"It might." He gulps back his anxiety at that outcome. He doesn't want to think about that outcome. Because if ever he is forced to choose between Rhea and his father, he doesn't know what he will do. Well, that's not precisely true . . . Deep down, he knows what he would do.
Making a face, he now rasps, "If ever I send you away, know that it will be for your own good. Promise me you will accept it. Promise me you will obey."
She digs in. "I'm not leaving you."
He knows she means it, and he loves her for it. But it could be her undoing. When faced with the very real possibility of the rebels kicking him out, all he wanted was back in the game. But now that he's received his wish, all the permutations that could come to pass are back on the table. Maul is keenly aware that he could be end up being a big loser . . . and he might take Rhea down with him. But there are scenarios in which he could end up being a big winner . . . and still lose her one way or another.
"You're my family now. Rhea, I refuse to lose any more of my family to Father's rage."
She does not argue further with him. She just changes the topic, like she always does when they have a conflict. As she lays back down for him to continue his work, Rhea asks, "Who was Sister Ventress? I've been meaning to ask you. I think you and that Togruta spoke of her."
"Did we?" He forgets. "That's a name from the past . . . "
"Who was she?"
"Ventress was a Nightsister who Dooku took on as an assassin. Asaj Ventress was one of the few to grow up outside the coven. Like me, it meant she had very mixed loyalties."
"But she came home like you did?"
"Mmmm, yes . . . eventually. Mother took her back into the coven. She always welcomed a Sister or Brother home from the outside. Mother felt strongly that the coven should be a refuge even for those who chose to leave it."
"So she's dead now?"
"I assume so." He really doesn't know. "Ventress wanted the Apprentice role but was denied it."
Rhea shoots him a wry look over her shoulder. "Everyone wants to be a Sith Apprentice?"
"Everyone wants power," he confirms. "Now, hold still, little one. You'll make me smear."
Pair bonding like he and Rhea was never a tradition of his people. On Dathomir, men and women did not live together or mate for life. But that didn't mean that the witches were cold or distant. The coven had a deep commitment to community. Kinship bonds ran deep. Siblings often spent their whole lives working side by side, looking out for one another. Mothers and aunts mentored daughters and fathers and uncles guided sons. 'I am my Brother's keeper' was a maxim all little boys learned young in the village. It was more than mere words, it was a lifestyle for a Nightbrother.
He left all that behind when he went to live with Father. That's when he was first exposed to concepts of marriage and the nuclear family. Conventional humanoid romance has a script of boy meets girl, boy chases girl, boy gets the girl, and then they seal the commitment with a lifelong exclusive pledge. Sex roles were also very different outside the coven. Matrilineal societies and female leaders existed elsewhere in the galaxy, but they were not the prevailing norm. As a young boy, he remembers marveling at the exoticism of the patriarchy. It was years until he realized that the witches were the exotic ones. The Nightsisters achieved a level of equality and respect not found in other cultures.
But you can't live amid a dominant culture without some of it rubbing off. And so, he now finds himself in a romantic attachment that his native people would find peculiar. Maybe it's just his Sith tendencies to possession and obsession showing. But he likes to think that he and Rhea are the best of both worlds. That their commitment combines the steadfast forever support the coven gave its members with the personal pledge of a romantic marriage. It feels good. She's happy and so is he.
But their contentment does not erase the many problems of life. He's still overworked and increasingly Rhea is as well. Her time spent on the rebellion crowds out other tasks. Soon, he thinks, Rhea will need to devote herself fulltime to managing his burgeoning army. He's suggested it a few times, but she keeps putting him off. She likes tending to his compound, Rhea tells him. Is there more to it? He wonders.
But the next day as he looks up from his desk during a midmorning break, he catches Rhea standing outside at the edge of the compound garden near the landing pad. It brings an automatic smile to his face. This is how he first got to know his little Twi'lek housemaid—from her habit of brooding over the battle wreckage that surrounds his estate. She hasn't done it in a long time. She's probably been too busy. But here she is at it again today. Even at this distance, the Force tells him that she's pensive. That gets him a little worried. Concerned, he goes out to investigate.
"I hate war," she speaks as he walks up. Rhea knows he's coming thanks to his metal legs that tap on the pavement. "War is . . . war is . . ." She doesn't finish. She just leaves the sentence hanging, uncertain how to conclude it.
He joins her leaning on the fence railing facing away from the compound. When she stays glumly silent, he offers, "The Sith teach that conflict is inevitable. That you should use it for your own gain. Peace is a lie, they say."
She looks to him. "Do you believe that?"
"I'm not sure." He doesn't know what he believes anymore.
"War is change," he muses as he considers the issue. "And change begets change. So when hostilities come out into the open, other grievances surface too. Suddenly, politics and society move at lightspeed. It's why nothing is the same after a war ends, no matter who the winner is. It's why history is often measured by wars. Wars are inflection points that start and end entire eras."
Rhea concurs. "Wars matter."
She's right. After the Republic fell, everything was different. From the fashions of the day, to the public lexicon, to the ordinary life of average citizens, the war left its imprint galaxywide far beyond just the prevailing form of government. It's like the pace of the culture sped up to embrace new ideas and new priorities. Maul knows life passed many people by in the process. Years later, many citizens still seem befuddled on how to respond to the Empire.
He suspects that part of what people mean when they say they miss the old Republic is nostalgia for the past. When you step outside the ranks of the power players involved, it's less longing for democratic elections and the Jedi Order than it is longing for a time before all that change. It's the desire to return to a time when institutions were revered instead of feared. When public figures wielded words instead of weapons. When things were more predictable and secure. When people trusted.
That was Father's big pitch all along—install him as Emperor and he'll give you a safe and secure society. After years of civil war, many gladly made that compromise. But now, years in, they are starting to question that bargain. Because the images of slaughter in places like Mimban beg the question if the galaxy is either safe or secure. People gave up a lot for the Empire and now there are rumblings afoot that they want better in return. If the rebels handle the messaging right, they could tap into that latent discontent and exploit it.
"I hate war," Rhea says again. "All those deaths over who was a Separatist and who was a Republic loyalist and none of that matters now. The war didn't settle anything. It just paved the way for the Empire."
"Right." It was all according to Father's plan.
In hindsight, the divisions between the Confederacy and the Republic systems now seem woefully inadequate to the cost of the war. Had the Senate been less highhanded about the situation, incremental reforms might have resolved the whole dispute. But that was never an option with a secret Sith lord in the Republic Chancellor's office.
"People need to know the truth," he decides. "They need to know that the war was a waste and everyone lost in the end. The villains weren't the Separatists, they were the Sith. But I can't be the one to say that," he sighs.
"Because you were one of them?"
"Yes. It also sounds preposterous since supposedly the Sith were defeated a thousand generations ago." Maul shakes his head. "It's more like some crackpot conspiracy theory paranoid extremists post on the holonet than the truth."
"You're right," she concedes. "Few would believe it."
This is the true dilemma of the rebel political movement: how much does the truth help you? How much does the truth hurt you? Does going public with the story of Darth Sidious win you public support or ridicule? So far, Mothma and Organa have decided the latter. They make speeches about civil rights and self-determination, but they never utter the words Light or Dark, Jedi or Sith. The secret subtext of the coming conflict is never publicly alluded to.
"Do you think it is okay to hate war and still be a rebel?" Rhea now gives voice to what's really troubling her.
"Well, Father isn't just going to give up power," he rationalizes. "There will be no change without war."
"You're saying it is a necessary evil?" she asks hopefully.
"Yes. That's certainly the answer a Sith would give you." Ends always justify the means on the side of the Shadow Force.
"And a Nightbrother?" she asks. "What would a Nightbrother say?"
He thinks a moment. "The Brothers mostly kept to themselves, but they would fight if need be. We were warriors who would accept a challenge." He shrugs. "Even the Jedi fought wars. What the Light Side calls justice, the Dark Side calls revenge. But the distinction can be hard to locate sometimes." More and more lately, the bright lines between Light and Dark seem to blur.
"I just want to know that what we're doing is right," Rhea worries aloud. "That this is a just war. A good war, if there is such a thing . . ."
He responds with the bitter truth: "It will only be right—we will only be just—if we win."
She nods. "If we lose, we're terrorists."
"Yes."
"And you're sure that Plagueis is better than your dad?"
"Let's hope so."
"Because I don't want to exchange one tyrant Sith overlord for another," she explains.
"Neither do I."
"I wish you could be the Emperor," Rhea grumbles.
He smiles over at her for the vote of confidence. But they both know that the best he can hope for is to be the Apprentice.
"No one is doing what they are supposed to do, are they?" she harrumphs. "The Sith are now saving Jedi and trying to bring back the Republic."
"True," he concedes to the bizarre irony of the rebellion. But then, he puts the Dark Side spin on it: "We're also getting revenge and killing the reigning Sith Master."
"That Togruta Jedi was ready to kill you on Organa's ship. She's no peacekeeper," Rhea observes tartly. "She's not playing to type either."
"She would say that she was bringing me to justice."
"I think that Jedi is more Sith than you are," Rhea grouses.
He doesn't take offense. Rhea is right that the traditional roles of the Jedi and the Sith have fallen by the wayside. But maybe that is a natural consequence of the destruction of the Jedi Order and the Sith finally toppling the Republic. What does it mean to be Sith now that they lack a goal and an enemy? He, Plagueis, and Father plot against each other by default. The conflicts are as personal as they are political, too. And Vader? Well, Vader's a wildcard. Who knows what that guy's agenda is?
It's very unsettling really, these post-Republic, post-Jedi times. On some level, the universe skews hard to Darkness with four Sith lords in the mix of power. But then again, he and Plagueis are championing the institutions of the Light—for their own purposes, of course. Are they positioning the Light Side for a big comeback? Is that balance? He isn't sure. Nothing makes much sense any longer. It's like all the conventional wisdom has been thrown out the window.
Why is the Force allowing this situation? And where is it all heading? Even Rhea senses it. She's very Light in mindset, even if she's trapped in the Dark world of his gang. And here she is today, worried about staying in the Light. She's no student of the Force, so she wouldn't phrase it that way. But the fact remains that she wants to do the right thing for the right reasons. It's what bedevils her now.
She's not alone in her misgivings. He can't shake the nagging suspicion that Plagueis might be on to something with his balance ideas. But that would make Father wrong and it would pit him against the will of the Force. That's disaster in the making.
His comlink sounds now. It's his compound security wanting to know if he will grant permission for a ship to land. He does.
"Plagueis?" Listening Rhea guesses even before the shadow of the big, showy yacht looms into view.
"Speak of the devil and he arrives," he confirms peevishly.
"Should you go inside?"
"No." He's perfectly comfortable hanging out here at the corner of his landing pad slumped against the fence with one leg propped up. He feels no compulsion to roll out the red carpet for his shifty co-conspirator. In fact, Maul pointedly ignores the fancy cruiser that settles down behind them, belching out exhaust gases as the whine of six ion engines decrescendos. He keeps himself turned away, determinedly looking out at the battle scarred Dathomir prairie like it's fascinating.
Plagueis is here to debrief on the drama of his big Sith reveal, of course. But that doesn't mean Maul has to make him feel welcome. He's more than a little annoyed with the Muun who declined to speak on his behalf to the rebels.
He's passive aggressive about it, too. "Why are you here?" he barks at his uninvited guest without bothering to turn around.
Plagueis drags his tall carcass up beside them. He too faces the field of wreckage. "What are we looking at?" he demands, sounding like some grumpy grandpa. He peers at the unsightly vista and complains, "Are you ever going to clean that mess up?"
"No. I like it."
Plagueis grunts. "You would. I forget you called a junkyard world home for a bit. Does this bring back memories? Or are you keeping all this rusty scrap for spare leg parts?"
Maul shoots him a resentful look. "You had to go there, didn't you?"
"Actually, I wish I could have seen those spider legs."
Wait a minute. He whirls. "How did you know—"
"Spider legs?" Rhea looks to him questioningly. She's alarmed.
He fumes at the Muun. Because telling Rhea he had a period of instability is one thing, but outlining the depths of his mental break is something different altogether. She doesn't need to know he ate rats and skittered around on insect like appendages.
But, naturally, sly Plagueis can't resist the juicy tale of his humiliation. "Oh, yes. Spider legs," he assures Rhea. "Hasn't he told you? They were a bit flamboyant by his current standards," the Muun assesses. "That was creepy and bizarre of you, Lord Arachnid. But the chicken legs?" The towering Muun feigns horror. "Whatever were you thinking? Terrible choice."
"Chicken legs?" Rhea looks to him with more concern.
Plagueis takes that as his cue to mock him some more in a foreboding baritone. "Listen and I will tell you the tale of Darth Poultry, Dark Lord most fowl—"
"Stop," he growls. He means it.
The zombie Sith is undeterred. "Darth Capon? The Rooster Sith of Dathomir? You know, those horns kind of work for a rooster comb."
"Stop," he growls again. He really means it this time.
"I could keep going, you know—"
"Leave him alone." This time it's Rhea growling.
"Standing by your man? It must be true love," the very irritating Muun coos.
"Leave him alone," Rhea growls again. She sounds like she means it too.
Darth Plagueis the Wise is tickled as he leers, "So fierce for one so harmless."
"Those chicken legs were fast," Maul comments just to show he's nonplussed by the razzing. "They were faster than these ones. And they weren't chicken legs. They were raptor legs."
"Well, then I stand corrected, Darth Dinosaur. Did Dooku know that you were the first Lord Tyrannosaurus?"
"He was Darth Tyranus."
"Ah, yes, my mistake," Plagueis smirks. "You know, I always wondered if Sheev dubbed Dooku Tyranus because he was such a creaky old fossil. What was he—eighty standard years?"
"He was a transitional figure and everyone knew it, probably him included."
"Uhmm yes," Plagueis agrees. "He was a means to an end."
"Like me?" Maul challenges as his resentment surfaces anew.
"Hardly." Plagueis fixes him with a reproachful look. "Sheev invested years in you. Poor Tyranus got a red sword and a title and then Sheev sent him on his way under the guise that he was a Jedi Master and needed no training. But what he really meant was why bother training the guy you're going to set up to kill?"
Next to him Rhea shifts uncomfortably at this plain speaking. The Muun notices. "We are a tough bunch, my dear, or haven't you heard? Danger stalks the Sith."
"Stop scaring her," Maul shoots the Muun a quelling glance. He turns to Rhea and suggests, "Why don't you go inside? Take refuge from his bad jokes."
"Of course," she immediately defers like he knew she would.
"My lady," Muun executes a formal bow to honor her retreat like she's an Empress, not his housemaid. There's nothing ironic or mocking about it, either. The giant zombie Muun is a smooth lady's man, like always.
"My lord," Rhea whispers softly as she takes her leave. And is it his imagination or does Rhea have the ghost of a smile about her lips like she's charmed?
That damned Muun watches her leave too. Ogling his skinny girl's meager backside that barely shows through her work uniform dress. "Lovely girl," he comments with sincerity. "Such an unforgettable face."
"Like yours," Maul sneers.
Plagueis has been here all of five minutes and already Maul has had enough of him. It's irritating how the Muun always seems to be having a grand time. Smirking and chuckling like the Dark Side is a hoot and it's no big deal that his Apprentice stole his Empire and put a permanent hole in his head. Where's the angst? Where's the aggrieved animus? Where's the obsession with revenge? Instead, Plagueis seems to have taken his defeat in stride. He treats this latest war like it's a fun project that he dabbles in during his spare time between buying art, hoodwinking Jedi fugitives, and seducing women.
Look at him—he's hideous and he doesn't seem the least bit diminished by it. He flits around the galaxy like some bored mogul in retirement. If he's worried Father will show up for round two, the Muun sure doesn't show it. The guy is entirely too relaxed. And that's all wrong—as a rule, the Sith are intense. Plagueis should be raging and fretting like he is. Worried that his comeback will fail and he will be consigned to obscurity forever. Terrified that he will let down the awesome legacy of his Father-Master Darth Sidious and his formidable Mother Witch mama. That he will amount to nothing despite all his training and potential.
Where is Plagueis' self-doubt? Where are his regrets? Maul's resentment at the Muun is fueled in large part by his jealousy. He wishes he could be as suave and casual, but it's not in his nature to be either of those things. Plagueis is the billionaire dilettante Sith—the fun one. And Father is the smooth-talking politician Sith—the respectable one. And him? Well, he's the brooding, skulking underworld Sith. The failure who Father didn't bother to kill since he judged him not to be a threat. He's a loser. And that rankles. Father always said a Sith should have a life of significance.
Maul shifts feral yellow eyes over to his guest as he hisses, "Why are you here again?"
"To gloat over your narrowly averted disaster," Plagueis answers evenly.
"What disaster? There was no disaster. You overestimate the situation."
The Muun smiles slow and wide. "Bet you were here for days quaking in those metal boots of yours. Wondering if now that your cover is blown, will the rebels toss you out on your ear—"
"I hold their entire army," he sniffs.
"My army."
"Our army."
"Claiming sweat equity, are you?"
"Possession is nine-tenths of—"
"Whatever." Plagueis cuts him off with an impatient wave. "I can afford to buy another one," he brags.
And now, Plagueis starts in on the conversation he came for. "Bail told me all about it. That Togruta was on the table all dramatic denunciations while you stood there steadfast with her sword tip to your throat. Well done, well done," he commends. "When you bluff, you must commit to it."
"I wasn't bluffing," he grumbles.
"And Maul, you sly dog, why didn't you tell me this was a rematch? That you and that angry Togruta have history?"
He crosses his arms. "There was no rematch. I never even pulled my sword."
"I had to hear from Bail a thirdhand account of how years ago you attempted to recruit her to your side."
"It didn't work."
"But you still tried, eh? My boy, when a Sith attempts to seduce a Jedi—"
"At the time, she wasn't a Jedi and I was no longer a Sith."
"—that's momentous. You never forget your first, you know. Luring the Light is a big day in a Sith's life." The Muun beams down at him with approval.
It makes him uncomfortable. He disavows, "I am no longer Sith."
"Renounced us, have you? Lord Maul, the rebels might believe that line, but it won't work on me."
He looks away. "Father renounced me long ago."
Plagueis grunts. "Once a Sith, always a Sith. It's like being a little bit pregnant. You are, or you aren't," he declares. "Darkness marks a man forever."
"You're not Sith either. Not really. Not with your balance ideas," he shoots back. Somewhere in the Force, dead Darth Bane is horrified at this heretic. Bane, Vitiate, Exar Kune, Marka Ragnos, Malgus, and all the rest of the pantheon of storied Dark heroes are probably cursing this iconoclast Muun for his newfangled ideas that profane the religion they fought and died for.
Does Plagueis see his skepticism? He must. For he proclaims, "I am a new Sith for a new age of enlightenment and acceptance. Maul, we must change with the times. We must let the Force lead us, even if it's to places we fear to tread."
Maul slants him some side eye. "You sound like you actually believe that."
"I do. Moreover, you do too. Casting overtures to the Light as far back as the end of the war and now again for our rebellion. An alliance between Light and Dark has power—no, don't deny it!" Darth Plagueis is very pleased. "It was your instinct back then even as it is now. That, Lord Maul, is the Force at work."
"I tried that line on Skywalker's Padawan. It didn't work," he grumbles.
"You lost the battle but won the war. Always you must listen to your instincts. Let the Force guide you," the Muun teaches. And now, he brings more praise. "Sheev taught you well, Lord Maul. You have hoodwinked the rebels very effectively. There was never any real risk that your past sins would not be forgiven. Moreover, you impressed Organa with your cool head against the threatening Jedi."
"She's good with those swords," he remarks offhand. "She's a skilled combatant. Lady Tano will be a formidable ally."
"No, she won't," the elder Sith counters. "When the opportunity presents itself, I want you to kill her."
Maul's eyes narrow. He says nothing.
"Set her up for the Empire or do it yourself," the Muun gives him carte blanche on the method. "I care not how it's done," he instructs breezily. "Just get rid of her when convenient."
"She's very good."
Plagueis shrugs. "We don't need her. We have you."
"She could be an excellent lure for Vader," he persists.
"Leave Vader to me."
"To you? Are you coming out of retirement? Better strengthen your sword arm, old man. But I call dibs. I've already told the rebels I'm going to kill Vader."
"Leave Vader to me."
"Don't think I'm up to it?" he bristles.
"Your destiny lies along a different path," Plagueis responds. "We don't need that Togruta to get to Vader. He will come to us. I have an ace up my sleeve."
Maul is intrigued. "Care to share?"
"When the time is right," the Muun puts him off. Father always did complain that his Master kept too many secrets.
"Who better than Ahsoka Tano to manipulate Vader?" he argues back. Maybe it's ridiculous for two Sith to be bickering over killing a Jedi. Well, two sort-of Sith. But the point is that killing Jedi is what Sith do. Or what they are supposed to do. Well, maybe not any more. It's a testament to how bizarre things have become now that a Sith Master learns the Light even as he plots to unseat his upstart Apprentice. Things are very confused with the Force currently. The old orthodoxies twist over on themselves. The Dark Side has become Lighter, and the Light Side seems to be trending Darker these days if Lady Tano is any example. The bright line distinctions now fade. Everything is in flux. Change is coming.
But Maul still thinks killing the Tano woman is the wrong strategic decision. He contends, "Vader was her Master. The Jedi had no family. Their Padawans filled those emotional roles. We should use her first before we kill her."
"She's not going to kill Vader."
He raises an eyebrow. "Are you sure about that? She was ready to kill me."
"She's more likely to try and turn her old Master back to the Light."
Maul snorts. "Good luck with that. They don't call him the Jedi Killer for nothing."
"Just kill her. We don't need her and she might become a disruption."
"Worried that if Vader turns, the Jedi will reemerge? Because I give both those events a very remote probability. She's more likely to turn Dark than he is Light."
The Muun now probes, "Is this about Kenobi? Because she won't lead you to Kenobi. Keeping her alive won't help your revenge quest."
"You don't know that."
"Actually, I do. Lord Maul, kill her and let's move on." Plagueis is getting impatient. Or is it defensive?
He digs in. "I'll kill her but only after I get the Fulcrum program up and running."
"Fine. But don't take too long."
Maul can't help but wonder whether the day will come when Plagueis will order his own execution. This crafty Muun has got a much grander plan than he reveals, Maul is certain. Father always said Plagueis was a master at deception. He played the long game with multiple outcomes he would refine or discard along the way as things developed. Old Plagueis tended to his plots like a garden, Father once remarked. Pruning and weeding along the way.
How he wishes he had the Muun's skills and confidence. Hell, his immortal status basically makes Plagueis the default winner in the long run. Maul can't compete with that. But it doesn't mean he can't still find a way to matter. Being the Master was never the goal anyway. He's always been fine to be the Apprentice. In the Rule of Two, he'll gladly be number two. And actually, that ought to make him the ideal choice for the role. He hopes Plagueis recognizes that.
But he challenges, "How does this help your balance agenda? I thought you liked the Jedi now. Wait—maybe Ahsoka Tano could be your Jedi Master since you're a Padawan," he jeers.
Darth Plagueis the Wise is not amused. "Just kill her."
"Very well, my lord," he agrees.