The deputy prefect bled fear and resentment into the Force as she led her two guests into the heart of Torque Highport. At her word, the myriad layers of internal defenses—gray-uniformed guards and fully armored troopers, checkpoints and security doors—all parted like curtains before them. For the entire trip, whether they were traversing a corridor or being carried by a turbolift, none of the three spoke.

Exteriorly, Atris was entirely composed and played her part adequately; at least, she was satisfied with the puzzlement and dread that colored the thoughts of passersby. Her spirit, however, was far from being at ease.

Before leaving Krylon, she and Atton had spent hours laboriously and minutely planning their infiltration, discussing contingencies and alternatives, even practicing the characters they would be playing. They had understood, they had agreed that some petty display of Force power might be necessary to enhance their deception.

To say it was one thing. But to do it or even merely permit it left Atris feeling sullied, all the more so because it certainly hadn't been necessary.

And as for Atton...

From the Ruurian criminal's stores he had acquired a light combat suit—black, of course—as well as a hooded tunic which concealed the stealth field generator at his waist. The Arkanian stabilizer mask had been standard-issue, until he used a fine-point laser cutter to engrave an elaborate, haphazard design which he claimed was only "to make it look spookier"—though it bore a disquieting resemblance to the Sith glyphs that Atris had spent so many years studying.

Seconds before donning that mask and opening the star courier's hatch, Atton had looked at her with a roguish, playful grin that might have smitten her heart, were she fifty years younger, and said, Showtime.

Now he marched beside her with heavy footfalls, and his thoughts savored so richly of violence and self-satisfaction that there was no hint that he was anyone other than a Sith apprentice named Morius. Most of the time Atton's thoughts were clouded and obscure, but now they were opaque.

Atris was no naïve Jedi youngling, ignorant of the evil in beings' hearts. From the beginning when they had forged their strange alliance on Belsavis, she had known what sort of man Atton Rand was and what sort of marks were on his soul.

Vaguely.

Generally.

Intellectually.

But this was the first time she had seen that part of him for herself. For the first time she saw him as dangerous. And it was not the mere danger of a soldier or even a warrior, but what so many Sith were pleased to have at their command: a murderer.

Quite abruptly, Atris realized what a relief it was that Kaevee distrusted Atton so much.

They came to a wide antechamber where a Human secretary took shelter behind a desk. The double-door past him had no keypad or any other visible interface.

"Here we are, Lady Crysenthia," Vasma Brand said, all but straining every word through her teeth. "Please make yourselves comfortable. Prefect Olligard will be joining you as soon as his shuttle arrives."

Atris did not look at her. "We shall keep ourselves amused in the meantime. You may return to your duties, Deputy Prefect."

"With pleasure, m'lady."

As the woman left, Atton planted his hands on his hips and took in the room with a slow, brooding turn of his head, from the fidgeting secretary's station to the conform loungers along the opposite wall, and loudly harrumphed in disdain.

His masked gaze found Atris's, and in unison they nodded. They had not counted on the prefect's absence for any length of time, but they had discussed the possibility, and there was nothing to be gained from waiting for him.

Atris turned to the secretary and pushed with the Force into his mind. "You will allow my apprentice into the prefect's office. He is authorized."

The man's eyes glazed over as he repeated the command and tapped a code into his desk console. As soon as Atton crept in through the door, the secretary reengaged its lock and conveniently forgot about having ever seen him.

Turning away from the desk, Atris eyed one of the conform loungers for a moment. Deciding against it, she instead paced aimlessly about the room, her cane tapping against the floor, and steeled herself for an appointment with a Sith Lord.