"Very well," replied Pahro. "I will help you search." In the meantime, she decided to pretend that she was distracted enough to absentmindedly "forget" she was still holding the holocron of the Sith Lord. As she stepped over piles of rubble, both of the intentionally- and unintentionally-formed varieties, the "reporter" put on a very good show for the mysterious, previously-frozen Jedi woman. After all, it was not completely a charade. Pahro was smart enough to know that the best lies were half-truths. Any fool could spot a bald-faced falsehood, but it took skill (and luck) to call out a half-truth on its face. This one? She wouldn't catch it.
Meanwhile, Andirrul decided not to change coordinates for Jatalra. She would let Pahro deal with the more menial aspects of collecting intelligence on the Jedi. As for herself and her crew, they would refine their skills on Nar Shaddaa. It was a planet formed for secrecy, as the wet Jatalra had been.
Once they had landed, the first place the Dark Lady went was to the musty, dusty warehouse-court of Doja the Hutt. He was a distant descendant of the infamous Jabba, and he had his great-great-great-great-grandfather's shrewd instinct for bounty hunting. Did he have any slaves or prey in stock?
"This Jedi scum costs ten thousand credits," Doja drawled. "Total weakling."
He'll do, mused Andirrul. He's barely even a Padawan, but he'll do.