It had taken Atris a bit of time to realize it, but she had learned much over the years about the art of deception. She had employed it to considerable effect on the daughters of Yusanis, her fellow Jedi, and most of all herself. The only real difference with Korlen Olligard was that she also needed to muddle her Force presence. This was no great labor, for it was one of many techniques elucidated in the holocrons she had studied on Telos; she could don the darkness of the Sith as easily as a cloak.
Beyond these things, beyond merely appearing to be Lady Crysenthia, Mistress of the Sith Arts, the charade took no effort to speak of. The real work was being done by Olligard himself. Vasma Brand had told him that a Sith Lord was unexpectedly visiting, and because he trusted her, and because Atris looked the part, he was disregarding any hints that something was amiss. In fact, what Atris actually said to him mattered least of all.
Having done her best to delay their arrival, Atris manufactured a final puff of exertion as she limped after Korlen and into his office, which the secretary obligingly unlocked for the second time that day.
Midway through the room sat a square table large enough for eight beings. Toward the back, twin aquariums slanted out on either side of a sprawling desk, each of them hosting a throng of fish just as diverse in kind as they were restless; at a glance, Atris recognized none of the species. Transparisteel cases of holobooks and datatapes hid most of the walls. Off to the right beside a food processor unit stood an archaic-looking protocol droid with bulky frame hunched over and photoreceptors dark.
In a far corner, half-hidden beside one of the holobook cases, Atris took note of a door that had not been in the schematics supplied by the Intelligence agents.
Despite being no stranger to austerity, she briefly felt a vague disappointment as she took in the room. With the sole exception of the aquariums, everything that met her eye was a tool, device, or appliance suited to the duties of a high-ranking bureaucrat; works of art, ornaments, knickknacks, and mementos were nowhere to be seen.
But more importantly, Atton was nowhere to be seen, nor did the Force give the slightest murmur as to his whereabouts.
If it comes to an actual fight, just stay out of my way, he had told her.
Leading her toward the desk, Korlen spoke again, his impatience obvious even with the linguivocoder smoothing out his tone of voice. "Now that we're finally here, I hope you will feel free to speak unimpeded, Lady Crysenthia. So tell me, are you here on behalf of Lady Hoctu?"
Atris did not answer. The name of Drevveka Hoctu—Jedi Master and traitor—was odious to her. She was not prepared to hear it again after so many years.
"My lady, are you well?" Korlen had stopped and was peering over his shoulder at her.
"She has nothing to do with this," Atris managed.
The way that the Quarren turned to face her and narrowed his eyes told that this was not the correct answer. "You act in defiance of her instructions?"
"I do not understand what you speak of." Even as Atris recovered her haughty tone, she felt her Force-mask beginning to slip. This was the point at which success or failure for the mission no longer depended on her efforts. Stalling and obfuscating was one thing, but now that the prefect was ready to get down to business, there was no keeping him fooled for long.
"I'm given to understand that all Sith were summoned to Thule, and that no one may depart unless explicitly permitted by Lady Hoctu. In light of my duties as prefect, I was dispensed."
Again Atris said nothing. She could feel the Force shuddering about her, dark energies pressing in from all sides. A bevy of responses flashed through her mind—bluffs, retorts, non sequiturs, and more—but she let them lie. The deception was at its end; all that remained was to see what fate had in store.
Looming over her now, Korlen brought up a hand to tug at one of his fangs as he said, "Either you were dispensed as well, or..."
Atris felt his Force perception boring into her, grasping at her thoughts, at what she was and what she knew. Calling protection to herself, she felt her fingers spasm as they tried to dig into the head of her cane.
Something strange drew her gaze away from the prefect: meters past him, a portion of his desk suddenly warped as though it had changed to a gaseous substance.
Or as if, between it and the prefect, a stealth field was being disrupted by sudden movement on the part of its user.
And then Atton was there, snarling through his faux-Sith mask as he grappled with the prefect from behind. The hand that Korlen had unwittingly raised mere seconds before was now wrapped around Atton's wrist; the gently humming blade of a vibroknife shuddered manically, having stopped just millimeters short of passing through Korlen's spasming face-tendrils and chopping into his throat.
The prefect pushed the knife away and spun, throwing his hand up in a wild swing. From behind the whirling black tide of his cloak came a heavy crack as his claws met Atton's stabilizer mask.
In the course of these two or three seconds, Atris did little more than jerk back a step, no less surprised than the prefect. Dropping the last vestige of her Force camouflage, she called upon all the power she could muster—
Just in time for the prefect to throw both arms wide, releasing a telekinetic shockwave that threw both her and Atton off their feet. The pilot went tumbling across the face of the central table, scattering chairs and landing in a heap on the floor beyond. Most of the energy Atris had gathered spent itself in easing her flight; she skidded across the floor in the direction of the exit, coming to a stop right before she would have cracked her skull against the door.
As she lay there dazed, groping about the floor for her cane, she heard a muffled curse, followed by the snap-hisses of two lightsabers igniting.
