James Luceno - Darth Plagueis

He and 11-4D hadn’t walked a kilometer from the ship when they came upon a group of Barabels hauling a quartet of slaughtered marsh haunts from the legume-soup-colored water. The foul-smelling, bipedal carcasses had been slashed and stabbed, and had lost their red eyes to the delicate work of a vibroblade. On first glance one might have thought that the creatures had been decapitated, as well, what with their small heads set low between hunched shoulders. Plagueis found the Barabels to be no more pleasant smelling than the butchered haunts, but they knew enough Basic to answer his questions about the recent spate of killings.

“Memberz of the same hunt pack, these four,” one of the reptilians explained, “and done in only last night.”

Another, whose shedded tail was just beginning to regrow, added: “It’z the Blight.” His clawed paw indicated the black eye sockets of one of the limp haunts. “This one believes that only the Blight would take the eyes.”

Continuing on the shaded path that led into the settlement, Plagueis shrugged out of his cloak and folded it over his right forearm. A turn in the path revealed that he wasn’t the only visitor improperly dressed for the climate. Up ahead two Jedi layered in the Order’s traditional brown robes were haggling with a Barabel over the rental price for a water skimmer. Plagueis anchored himself in the material realm as the younger of the two Jedi — a Zabrak — swung slowly around to watch him and 11-4D as they passed.

Responding to the Jedi’s look with a nod of his head, Plagueis kept walking, deviating from the path only when they had reached a small market building, from which the pair of Jedi and the Barabel skimmer pilot could still be observed. Familiar with Barabel, Plagueis eavesdropped on conversations among the merchants, who sat behind trays of dead fish, birds, and insects the swamp had provided. The marsh haunt killings were on everyone’s mind, as were superstitions about the Blight. But the arrival of the Jedi was viewed as a good omen, in that the Order was venerated for having helped settle a clan dispute on Barab I almost a millennium earlier.

Plagueis drew 11-4D to the market entrance and instructed him to sharpen his photoreceptors on the Jedi, who were in the midst of concluding their business with the skimmer pilot. He then allowed himself to call deeply on the Force.

“Both of them reacted,” the droid said. “The Cerean directed a gaze at the market, but didn’t focus on you.”

“Only because he has his feelers out for a Nautolan rather than a Muun.”

A short time later, while Plagueis and 11-4D were wandering through the settlement, someone called out in Core-accented Basic: “We appear to be the only strangers in town.”

The voice belonged to the rangy Cerean, who had emerged from an eatery bearing a flagon of liquid. Following him outside, the Zabrak set two mugs on a table that enjoyed a pool of shade.

“Join us, please,” the Cerean said, nodding his tall conical head toward the table’s spare chair.

Plagueis stepped toward the table but declined the chair.

“A locally produced beer,” the Zabrak said, pouring from the flagon. “But I saw a bottle of Abraxin Brandy inside, if that’s more to your liking.”

“Thank you, but neither at the moment,” Plagueis said. “Perhaps after working hours.”

The Cerean motioned to himself. “I am Master Ni-Cada. And this is Padawan Lo Bukk. What brings you to Abraxin, citizen—”

“Micro-loans,” Plagueis cut in before having to provide a name. “The Banking Clan is considering opening a branch of the Bank of Aargau here as a means of shoring up the local economy.”

The Jedi traded enigmatic looks over the rims of the mugs.

“And what brings the Jedi to Abraxin, Master Ni-Cada? Not the shellfish, I take it.”

“We’re investigating the recent killings of marsh haunts,” the Zabrak said, perhaps before his Master could prevent him.

“Ah, of course. My droid and I saw the bodies of four of the pitiful creatures when we entered the settlement.”

The Cerean nodded gravely. “This so-called Blight will be over by tomorrow.”

Plagueis adopted a look of pleasant surprise. “Wonderful news. There’s nothing worse than superstition to cripple an economy. Enjoy your drinks, citizens.”

OneOne-FourDee waited until he and Plagueis were well out of earshot of the Jedi to say: “Are we departing Abraxin, Magister?”

Plagueis shook his head. “Not before I find the Nautolan. I’ve no choice but to attempt to draw him out of hiding.”

“But should you call on the Force, you’re likely to attract the Jedi, as well.”

“The risk may prove worthwhile.”

They spent the afternoon eavesdropping on conversations about the locations of the killings, and determined that Naat Lare, whether he realized it or not, had been following a pattern. In the darkness at the edge of the settlement, at a spot along the bloodsucker-plagued shore of the dark swamp, some six kilometers from the market, Plagueis peeled out of his leggings, tunic, and bonnet, and slipped naked into the murky water. With an aquata breather clamped between his teeth, he propelled himself to the bottom. There, squatting in the muck, he opened himself fully to the Force and summoned the Nautolan, whose Force and olfactory senses might suggest that the mother of all marsh haunts was at hand for killing. A tattooed female Nautolan named Dossa had once been deemed suitable to serve Sith Lord Exar Kun; who knew what gifts Naat Lare might possess?

Surfacing to the riotous stridulations of insects, Plagueis leapt to the muddy shore, dressed, and perched himself in starlight on the slippery roots of a leafy tree. Shortly, he sensed an echo in the Force and saw ripples in the water some distance away. In the dim light, a blue-green nest of head-tresses broke the surface, followed by a pair of lidless maroon eyes. Then the amphibious sentient from Glee Anselm appeared, pulling himself ashore like some devolved beast and fixing his attention on Plagueis.

At the same time, Plagueis heard the sound of a water skimmer approaching rapidly from deeper in the swamp, and sensed the presence of the two Jedi.

“You’re not Venamis,” Naat Lare said in Basic, one hand on the hilt of a vibroblade strapped to his muscular thigh.

“He helped you escape Bedlam and sent you here as part of your training.”

Naat Lare’s hand closed on the hilt. “Who are you?”

Plagueis stood to his full height. “I am Venamis’s Master.”

The Nautolan looked confused, but only momentarily. Then he genuflected in the mud. “Lord,” he said, lowering his head.

The sound of the skimmer was closer now, just around a bend in the swamp. “Two Jedi have tracked you.”

Naat Lare’s tresseled head swung to the sound of the skimmer.

Plagueis began to retreat into the shadows, and into mundane nature. “Prove yourself worthy to me and Venamis by killing them.”

“Yes, my lord.” The Nautolan sprang to his feet and dived into the slime-covered water.

Deep in the leafy trees Plagueis waited. The skimmer’s motor went silent; then water surged and shouts of alarm and sudden flashes of light erupted in the night.

“Master!”

A harsh guttural sound rang out, followed by a scream of pain.

“Stand aside, Padawan.”

“Master, it’s—”

Another scream, higher in pitch.

“Don’t! Don’t!”

The thrum of an angered lightsaber, a howl of pain, and something heavy struck the water.

“Is he alive? Is he alive?”

Someone moaned.

“Wait …”

Waves broke on the rooted shore close to where Plagueis had concealed himself.

“Master?”

“It’s done. He’s dead.”