Free Star Wars: Knight Errant by John Jackson Miller Page A

and have a look.
    Narsk did. And never returned.
    He’d found a wondrously complicated political scene. A patchwork of dominions and dependencies, ruled by despots with secret connections and histories of betrayal. It could keep an industrious Bothan busy for a lifetime.
    For Narsk, it had. And now, it was all over—because he wasn’t on the lookout.
    The Jedi was a wild card, but he should’ve known she was there. He’d been on Darkknell a month, assessing the potential hazards. Even if only one person on Darkknell knew she was there, he should have been the one.
    He noted, ironically, that he probably had been the first to know she was there. But that information had come too late to be useful. And now that Daiman had, through him, become the second to know, Narsk wondered why he was still alive.
    He’d remained on the slab for days without food, tasting water when a torture session involved it. Daiman knew now that Narsk was an agent for Odion. Once Narsk realized that secret was gone, he’d relaxed his defenses, allowing the Sith Lord to see everything in his memories since his arrival on Darkknell. The assumption of the cover identity, the scouting of the testing center, the many forays inside. That was a tactic he’d been taught, too. Once a secret lost its value as a secret, it could be used to shield other truths. He’d flooded Daiman with details that didn’t matter anymore.
    It seemed to have worked. Apparently satisfied, Daimanhad left him alone. Several times the young Sith had sensed the importance of a female human in Narsk’s memories—but from his remarks, Daiman had always assumed it was the Jedi. Daiman was no better than the sentries, Narsk thought. They only see what they’re looking for .
    Now, though, Narsk saw only imminent death. He had nothing more to give—nothing he would give, anyway. His execution was at hand. Four Correctors entered the room, releasing him from the table and shifting his limp, half-clothed body to a circular metal frame. His feet and ankles were fastened to its perimeter, splaying his body across its width. The Correctors tipped the device on its side, wheeling Narsk down one of the narrow darkened hallways.
    With nothing to support his neck, Narsk’s head hung backward as the frame rolled. Dizzily, he saw a blur of light ahead. His eyes adjusting, Narsk realized it was a wide indoor area with a skylight above. With a bump, the Correctors rolled his circular rack onto a small platform built to lift something in antigrav suspension.
    Lofted into the air by an unseen force, Narsk saw the people in attendance and realized that his aunt had been right. He’d guessed wrong. It was not an execution. And there were things worse than death.
    He had become a stage prop.

CHAPTER FIVE
     
    The young lord shimmered, resplendent in his plumage. Daiman’s preference for shining attire was well known—but today’s coppery cape had something extra going for it. Every time the Sith Lord stepped between his viewers and the skylight above, small prisms in the great folds of the garment refracted the noon sun, throwing brilliant-colored light all around the Adytum.
    And here, in this enormous heptagonal shrine within the Sanctum Celestial, everyone was beneath Daiman. Seven crystal catwalks led to a suspended platform in the center, directly beneath the skylight. Each of the seven midair entrances sat in the middle of an alabaster column, curling upward toward the ceiling and forming, with the skylight, a replica of Daiman’s sun-and-tentacles emblem. The walls between bore ornate relief carvings of Daiman throughout history and prehistory. So did the floor, where those waiting attendance alternately looked up at their lord and down at their feet, to keep from tripping on the uneven surface.
    Only Narsk was close to Daiman’s level, but the Bothan didn’t feel very honored. After the Correctors had used the antigrav generator to lift his circular prison several meters in the