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He was deeply conscious of not being stared at. In a strange way, it felt like coming home and taking his shoes off at the end of a long day. Freeing. The party, noisy and garish, was lightyears away from the clean lines he’d laid down for the world around him. It reminded him of his early years as a senator attending decadent soirees hosted by corrupt officials. The masks – an eccentricity demanded by their host (and the only reason why Sidious was attending) – and the wine had both done their work well. He clearly wasn’t the only one in the embassy ballroom with a renewed sense of freedom. The Kuati ambassador was a shrewd fellow. And, while liberty wasn’t a quality that generally met with the Emperor’s approval in his subjects, a taste of that forbidden luxury could be useful on other beings’ lips.
His own face for the evening was a blue and smiling tooka with pearlescent teeth. The effect was brightly disconcerting but, in the crush of elaborate costumes, rather forgettable. The mask’s ears made him look taller as he edged around the dance floor in robes that hinted at only modest wealth by Coruscanti standards, playing the Mid-Rim provincial out of his depth. The outfit even had a wired tail which swayed from side to side as he walked. It was charmingly playful and very much not the sort of thing one might expect a Sith Lord to wear to a masquerade. He adjusted his gloves self-consciously. Those few who suspected that he might break his seclusion to attend tonight’s festivities were, he was sure, seeking out the richly clad beings who had disguised themselves as grand deities or historical rulers. The humble tooka, with its toothy grin, gave no indication of the man within.
However, unlike those around him, he had other senses to call upon to identify the figures behind the vast array of costumes. Those he knew well he could sense outright. Mas Amedda, unimaginative as usual, was wearing the armour of an ancient Champali warrior and Sly Moore had dressed as an iridescent lunar goddess. Ars Dangor had come as a wookie and appeared to be enjoying the offence his costume was generating in certain quarters. His vizier, meanwhile, was magnificently got up as the first emperor of the Tapani Expanse and had garnered a great deal of attention by those who assumed him to be Sidious.
His eye was caught by a human woman dressed as a bird. Wings sprouted from the back of her elegantly asymmetrical white dress and she wore a feathered half-mask that hooked out into a glittering beak. Her smile was so fixed it might as well have been part of her costume.
“The implications of the Public Order Resentencing Directive,” she was explaining to a man dressed as a sparkling glitterfish, “may be even more far reaching than this new raft of security legislation.”
“I doubt it,” the fish sniffed. “I voted against the latest Imperial Emergency Act – for all the good it did me – but I fail to see why I should exert myself on behalf of criminals.”
“People understand the logic in limiting the powers of the ISB,” a being dressed a Rakatan priest commented with a sigh, “but many beings in my sector are in favour of harsher sentencing laws. Voting against it could cost me my seat.”
“To my mind,” Sidious began, unable to resist joining the conversation, “the question is a philosophical one.” He softened his voice, pitching it a little higher than usual in an effort to disguise his famous baritone.
“What do you mean?” the priest asked, tilting his head thoughtfully.
“Well,” he continued, “the Public Order Resentencing Directive asks us to form an opinion on what prisons are for.” He smiled behind his mask. “The Emperor, in proposing harsher sentencing laws, seems to believe that their function should be subjugation rather than reformation.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to explain,” the bird agreed, delicately sipping from a flute of sparkling green wine. “This harsher sentencing is not only inhumane, but it means that people will be more and more afraid to speak out against what’s happening all over the galaxy.”
“That’s undoubtedly a factor,” Sidious acknowledged, “but, as I said, it’s a question of what prisons are for.”
The glitterfish, bored by this apparent sophistry, wandered off to get himself another drink. But the priest and the bird both stepped closer to Sidious, obviously interested in what he had to say.
“Do you mean there’s something else behind this ghastly directive?” the woman asked, her smile faltering.
“I should have thought it was obvious,” he replied smoothly.
“I think I see what he’s getting at,” the priest said with a nod. “If the Emperor gets his way, prisons won’t be about rehabilitating beings but… exploiting them.”
At that moment, someone waved to the priest and he made his excuses, leaving Sidious with the woman. “Are you a senator?” she asked curiously.
“I was,” he said, “but not anymore… so if you’re after my vote, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”
“It was worth a try.” She shrugged, a graceful movement that made her wings catch as though about to take flight, and smiled at him in a way that seemed almost genuine. “Care to dance?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
She took his hand and they found a space in which to sway. Her perfume was crisp, with a faint floral note he didn’t recognise, and her hands rested lightly on his shoulders. “So,” she murmured after several genteel revolutions of the dance floor, “can I steal that line about subjugation rather than reformation?”
“If you like.”
“I was about to ask if you were a philosopher,” she said, “but – knowing this place – you’re probably an analyst.”
“I’ve always seen the two as intrinsically linked,” he replied softly. “Knowledge is never neutral.”
She snorted. “Well then, great oracle, what will be the long-term consequences on the Public Order Resentencing Directive?”
“A sizable increase in the resources of the imperial military.”
“Of course.” She stilled in his arms, her eyes wide behind her white mask. “I’m such a fool. This debate about harsher punishments is just a distraction. It’s all economic, isn’t it?” She sighed and he could feel her pulse beating faster, as though she really were a bird caught in his embrace. “But that’s Palpatine for you, as practical as ever. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess this whole Aldhani business was just another piece of political theatre.”
If I didn’t know better. There was something there, Sidious felt, some kernel of repressed emotion. What does she know?
“You flatter him,” he replied softly.
“Anything but,” she scoffed. “I underestimated him when I was younger, but now I know better. You don’t get far in this circus without a healthy respect for the ringmaster.”
“What a fascinating metaphor.” The music changed and they altered their steps accordingly. He adjusted his grip on her waist. Formal rather than intimate. He had her measure now. A white bird with clipped wings. Oh yes. “And so… what’s your place in the show?”
“I’m a high wire act.” She laughed lightly. “No anti-grav, no net… no one to catch me if I fall.”
“Hence,” he murmured in her ear, “milady’s need for wings.”
She shivered. The mode of address was a cultural marker, he knew, but surely it wasn’t enough to give him away? Perhaps it was just the toothiness of his mask, and her ignorance of who was behind it, that gave her pause. “What about you?”
“My work is largely behind the scenes these days. I don’t, ah… court the spotlight like I used to.”
That provoked a genuine smile. “Lucky you.”
“I think,” he said slowly, surprising himself, “we should make masks the new rule. Mandatory disguises. It would be so much more honest.”
“But how would we know who to vote for?”
“We wouldn’t. That’s the point. Strip the entire thing down to policy.”
“You should petition the Emperor,” she teased. “These days, he’d probably be receptive to the idea of wearing a mask.”
“He lost his true face long before the Jedi coup.” He didn’t know why he said it and to this woman of all beings. It was disconcerting to realise that he was far from immune to the intoxication of anonymity. “It’s refreshing to wear a mask that goes over one’s skin rather than under it.” He glanced over at the man they’d been conversing with earlier. “Coruscant is a glitterfish bowl. An artificial environment that produces artificial things. We eat ourselves alive and spit out politicians.”
“You’re not wrong.” She looked away, glancing over at the clique feting Sidious’ vizier near the buffet, and stiffened – her body abruptly rigid in his arms – while her feet carried on dancing as if nothing had happened. “Sire.”
“Senator Mothma,” he replied peaceably, both pleased by her acuity and disappointed the charade was done. “What gave me away?”
“I’m old enough to remember,” she said, her voice calmly conversational, “your habit of dissecting a situation without ever taking a position. You implied you were sympathetic to my views, but not once in our discussion did you agree with anything I said.”
“I agreed to dance.”
“I suppose that’s true.” She laughed. This time it came out a little unhinged. “Why?”
“Am I not allowed to be charmed by a beautiful and articulate senator?”
“I’d be happier,” she countered dryly, “if you were charmed by my speeches in the Senate.”
“It’s your colleagues you must sway not I.”
“Please.” The elegant Chandrilan actually snorted. “Spare me.”
The music finished.
“No.” Sidious stepped back and smiled behind his mask. “It’s only riveting because there’s no anti-gravity field to catch you when you fall.”
“I suppose I must be a great joke to you.”
“Not at all,” he told her softly, “sometimes I see myself in you.”
“Really?” She shuddered with what a less astute man would have taken for revulsion, but her smile did not falter. “I’m flattered.”
“You should be. It’s why I have you watched.” He pressed his masked face to her gloved hand. “Goodnight, senator.”