In the heart of crime-ridden Hutt Space, a Jedi Scholar searches for justice.   While trying to obtain the coordinates of a secret, peril-packed, but potentially beneficial trade route, a novice Jedi is killed—and the motive for his murder remains shrouded in mystery. Now his former Master, Jedi archivist Mander Zuma, wants answers, even as he fights to erase doubts about his own abilities as a Jedi. What Mander gets is immersion into the perilous underworld of the Hutts as he struggles to stay one step ahead in a game of smugglers, killers, and crime lords bent on total control. Jeff Grubb is an author and game designer. He is the co-creator (with Ed Greenwood) of the Forgotten Realms setting and one of the co-founders of the Dragonlance setting. He has written fifteen novels and thirty short stories set in such worlds as Forgotten Realms, Dragonlance, Starcraft, Warcraft, and Guild Wars. He has written and contributed to more than a hundred games and game support products, including the Star Wars RPG, the Star Wars miniatures game for Wizards of the Coast, and Star Wars Attacktix for Hasbro. He is also the creator of the Whappamanga VoxBox, a handy device that allows Wookiees and Gamorreans to be understood in Basic. He lives in Seattle with his wife and two cats, and currently builds worlds for ArenaNet, the makers of the Guild Wars game. PROLOGUE DEATH OF A JEDI   The Pantoran Jedi Toro Irana was angry. He had been waiting on this hellhole planet for weeks now, and as his former Master, Mander Zuma, was all too fond of telling him, Toro’s patience was never his most admirable trait. Meetings had been set up, canceled, rescheduled, moved to new locations, and canceled once again. And now, on top of everything else, his contact was keeping him waiting, in this rooftop restaurant, forty stories up and overlooking a planetary graveyard. By this time, Toro’s patience had worn thin.   Toro could feel his blue skin itch and his lips swell. He reached for the bottle of scentwine to pour himself another round.   Even at the best of times a late arrival, a delay from decision and action, would frustrate him. Now, on the world of Makem Te, it drove Toro to distraction. The air of this planet reeked of smelter dust and desiccated meat. The world itself was dominated by the Tract, a huge iron-shod necropolis that from space resembled an ice cap. The restaurant windows commanded a sweeping view of the crypts and mausoleums of the Tract, which to Toro resembled nothing less than rows of odd-shaped peg teeth rising from skeletal jaws. Even a setting sun, blue-green through the swirling dust, could do nothing to improve the view. And as for the planet’s inhabitants …   Toro suppressed a shudder and looked over at the Swokes Swokes milling around their dining troughs. His first opinion upon making planetfall was that they were huge lumps of malformed flesh, and increased familiarity did nothing to change that opinion. They looked more melted than crafted by any environment, their pale, sagging flesh spilling from their horned heads directly to their bodies, with no visible sign of a neck. Their teeth looked like the necropolis outside, except the Swokes Swokes spent less time maintaining them, and their incisors canted outward at all angles. Their faces were otherwise flat, with a random number of nostril holes and bland white eyes set into shallow black sockets. It would give them a comical look were the species not, to the last member, bullies and thugs.   In short, they were the perfect species for this backrocket planet, the perfect caretakers of this tombstone world. And right now, every last one of them was getting on his nerves. The restaurant for this meeting catered primarily to the lumpy natives, and the tables were dominated by long troughs, into which the host poured a noxious concoction of spice-leavened boiled meats mixed with what looked like shed shinga scales and live sandbugs. There were smaller, more traditional tables around the perimeter of the room, near the windows, but he and a couple of Nikto traders two booths over were the only customers who used them—and the only customers who didn’t look half melted. The temperature was set comfortable for the Swokes Swokes, which was too cold by half for Toro, and the sound of the creatures eating would frighten the old Emperor himself.   Toro downed the scentwine, since its aroma killed most of the rest of the smells in the room. He waved for the waiter, who shambled toward him.   “More of these beetle-things,” said Toro, pointing to the pile of now-empty black shells. “And some of the local swill as well.”   “Timasho payen,” burbled the waiter, and then shifted from Swoken to a slurred, sloppy Basic. “Pay now, blue-skin.”   “I’m waiting for someone,” said Toro. “Run me a tab.”   The Swokes Swokes burbled something else in Swoken, then provided a rough translation. “Going off my shift, blue-skin. Pay now.”   Toro swung in his