Plagueis leaned back in his chair.
“We tried, but the information he furnished regarding his practice and place of residence was fraudulent.”
“So he may not have been a physician.”
The Ithorian’s head bobbed on his curving neck. “Sadly. The Bith may have been an accomplice, of sorts.”
“Do you have any idea where Naat Lare may have disappeared to?”
“Assuming he left Bedlam on his own, the possibilities are limited, given the dearth of starships that serve us. His first stop would have to have been either Felucia, Caluula, or Abraxin. We notified the authorities on those worlds. Unfortunately, we lack the budget to undertake an extensive search.”
Plagueis cast 11-4D a meaningful glance and rose from the chair. “Your cooperation is greatly appreciated, Superintendent.”
“We’re confident that the Jedi will locate him, in any case,” the Ithorian added as Plagueis and the droid were about to exit the office.
Plagueis swung back around. “The Jedi?”
“Because of Naat Lare’s peculiar gifts, we felt obliged to contact the Order as soon as he was discovered to be missing. They graciously consented to assist us in the search.” The Ithorian paused. “I could contact you if I learn something …”
Plagueis smiled. “I’ll leave my contact information with your assistant.”
He and 11-4D returned to the ship in silence. While the boarding ramp was lowering, Plagueis said, “Beings like Naat Lare don’t remain hidden for long. Search the HoloNet and other sources for news of recent events on the three worlds the superintendent named, and apprise me of any accounts that capture your interest.”
The ship had scarcely left Bedlam’s atmosphere when 11-4D reported to the cockpit.
“A morsel from Abraxin, Magister,” the droid began. “Buried among stories of intriguing or bizarre occurrences. Reports of the recent killings of dozens of marsh haunts in the swamps surrounding a Barabel settlement on the southern continent.”
Large, nonsentient bipedal creatures, marsh haunts hunted in packs and were known to use the Force to flush their prey into the open.
“The superstitious among the Barabels believe that the Blight of Barabel is responsible for the rash of killings.”
Plagueis slapped the palms of his hands on his thighs. “Our Nautolan has moved on from torturing household pets to murdering Forceful creatures. And I’m certain that the Jedi will reach the same conclusion.”
“If they haven’t already, sir.”
Plagueis caressed his chin in thought. “This one has more than a hint of the dark side. It’s no wonder Venamis was visiting him. Have the navicomputer plot a course for Abraxin, FourDee. We’re returning to the Tion Cluster.”
A standard day later they had made planetfall close to the area where the marsh haunt killings had been occurring. By design, the Barabel settlement was remote from any of the planet’s spaceports, at the dubious edge of an extensive swamp, the twisting shorelines of which were palisaded by dense stands of water-rooted trees. On a finger of high ground a few pre-form buildings rose among clusters of stilted, thatched-roof homes linked to one another by paths that weaved through the dry-season grasses. The scaled, reptilian natives wore just enough clothing to be modest, and a sickly sweet smell of rotting vegetation hung in the motionless air. Abraxin had been strong in the dark side during Bane’s lifetime, when it had been aligned with Lord Kaan’s Brotherhood of Darkness, but Plagueis could sense that the power had waned significantly in the intervening centuries.
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.”
