Sidious loosed an elaborate sigh. “Partners don’t strangle each other, Viceroy. I would prefer to earn your trust. Are you agreeable to that?”
“I might be.”
“Then here is my first gift to you: the Trade Federation is going to be betrayed. By Naboo, by the Republic, by the members of the directorate. Only you can provide the leadership that will be needed to keep the Federation from splintering. But first we must see to it that you are promoted to the directorate.”
“The current directorate would never welcome a Neimoidian.”
“Tell me what it would take—” Sidious started, then cut himself off. “No. Never mind. Let me surprise you by arranging a promotion.”
“You would do that and ask nothing in return?”
“For the time being. If and when I’ve earned your full trust, I will expect you to take my suggestions to heart.”
“I will. Darth Sidious.”
“Then we will speak again soon.”
Sidious deactivated the holoprojector and sat in silence.
“There is a world in the Videnda sector called Dorvalla,” he said to Maul a long moment later. “You will not have heard of it, but it is a source of lommite ore, which is essential to the production of transparisteel. Two companies — Lommite Limited and InterGalactic Ore — currently control the mining and shipping operations. But for some time the Trade Federation has had its sights on overseeing Dorvalla.”
“What is thy bidding, Master?” Maul asked.
“For now, only that you acquaint yourself with Dorvalla, for it may prove the key to ensnaring Gunray in our grasp.”
25: THE DISCREET CHARM OF THE MERITOCRACY
A more outlandish quartet hadn’t set foot, belly, claw, and jaw on Sojourn in twenty years. A half-breed Theelin female, her Hutt master, his Twi’lek majordomo, and his Chevin chief of security crossed the fort’s leaf- litterd courtyard and entered Plagueis’s reception room. With the exception of the Theelin, they looked as if they might have wandered in from the greel forests to consort with the creatures that had constructed nests and burrows in the fort’s dank corridors and lofty turrets.
Plagueis and 11-4D were waiting just inside the gaping entrance.
“Welcome, Jabba Desilijic Tiure,” Plagueis said through his transpirator mask.
Droids had restored some semblance of order to the room and installed tables and chairs. Morning light streamed through square openings high in the wall, and a fire crackled in the stone hearth.
“A pleasure to see you again after so many years, Magister Damask,” Jabba said in coarse Basic. The ageless criminal lolled his huge tongue and maneuvered his great slug body onto a low platform the droids had erected. Gazing around, he added, “You and your droid must visit my little place on Tatooine in the Western Dune Sea.”
“Someday soon,” Plagueis said as he lowered himself into an armchair across from the platform.
Like Toydarians and Yinchorri, Hutts were immune to Force suggestions. Had Jabba known how many of his species Plagueis had experimented on over the decades, he might not have been as sociable, but then the Hutt’s own penchant for ruthlessness and torture were legendary. As a tattoo on his arm attested, he cared only for members of his clan. He didn’t bother to introduce his subordinates by name, but as was often the case with many of the thugs and ne’er-do-wells with whom he surrounded himself, two of them had reputations that preceded them. The pink-complexioned Twi’lek was Bib Fortuna, a former spice smuggler whose own species had turned its back on him. Tall and red-eyed, he had sharp little teeth and thick, shiny lekku growing from a hairless cranium that looked as if it had been inexpertly stuffed with rocks. The Chevin — a two-meter-high snout that had sprouted arms, legs, and tail — was Ephant Mon. Celebrated as a warrior among his own kind — and mildly Force-sensitive — he wore a blanket someone might have thrown over him to hide his ugliness. Plagueis knew from contacts in the Trade Federation that Mon was involved in a smuggling operation on technophobic Cerea, supplying swoops to a gang of young upstarts.
The Theelin was unknown to Plagueis. Pale and shapely, she had lustrous orange hair and purple beauty marks that ran down her face and neck to disappear beneath a revealing costume.
“Diva Shaliqua,” Jabba said when he realized that Plagueis was studying her. “A singer in the band.”
“As her name suggests.”
“A gift from Ingoda, in place of credits owed to me.” Jabba’s big eyes settled on the Theelin. “She and Diva Funquita came as a pair, but I made Funquita a present to Gardulla in the hope of smoothing over our lingering rivalry.” He grunted. “My first mistake. The second: introducing Shaliqua to Romeo Treblanc, who would move worlds to possess her.”
Notorious for his gambling, Treblanc owned the Galaxies Opera House on Coruscant. Why Jabba chose to associate with gamblers and other lowlifes was a mystery to Plagueis. In some ways the Hutt’s illicit empire was the inverse of Hego Damask’s, where, if nothing else, the criminals were at least politicians, corporate honchos, and financiers. His coming to Sojourn was both uncharacteristic and unexpected.
“Are you here to talk about Treblanc or Gardulla?” Plagueis asked.
Jabba reacted in annoyance. “As always, straight to the heart of the matter. But I can appreciate the fact that you’re a busy Muun.” He wriggled to adjust his position on the platform. “I know you were instrumental thirty years ago in giving Gardulla the run of Tatooine, as a base for her slavery operations and Podracing events. I’ve come this far to inform you that Tatooine will soon have a new overseer.” He gestured to himself. “Me.”
Plagueis said nothing for a long moment. “I was under the impression that Tatooine was already as much yours as Gardulla’s.”
“Appearances can be deceiving,” Jabba said. “I’ve tried to undermine her influence by fomenting distrust among the so-called Sand People — the Tusken Raiders — but success at chasing her offworld continues to elude me.”
Plagueis made an adjustment to the breath mask. “How can I help?”
Jabba appraised him. “I happen to know that Gardulla hasn’t been able to make good on the loans you extended. What she earns from events like the Boonta Eve Classic, she loses to gamblers.”
“That much is true,” Plagueis said. “But what of it?”
“I want you to stop funding her, so I can starve her out.”
Plagueis shrugged. “Your information is incomplete, Jabba. I haven’t funded her enterprises in a decade.”
Jabba balled his hands in anger. “You have influence over members of the Banking Clan and the Trade Federation who are funding her.”
Plagueis lifted his head, as if in revelation. “I see. And what can I expect in exchange?”
“To start with, a better percentage of the profits from the races and other enterprises.”
Plagueis frowned in disappointment. “You must know that I’ve no need of credits, Jabba. And you wouldn’t have come
Jabba wriggled, restraining his anger. “In return for your help, I will weaken Black Sun’s influence with the Trade Federation Directorate—”
“I need no assistance.” Plagueis leaned forward in the armchair. “What do you know that I may not know?”
Jabba inflated his body, then allowed the air to escape him in a protracted, mirthless laugh. “I know something you may not yet know about the Bando Gora.”
Plagueis raised himself somewhat in the chair. Hideously masked Bando Gora assassins had become a growing concern in the Outer Rim, posing a problem to the leadership of some of the cartels Plagueis backed. “Now you have my interest, Jabba.”
“The cult has a new leader,” Jabba went on, happy to have the high ground. “A human female, she has
