Tales From Jabba's Palace
Page 13
you his name."
The rampart on top of the guest quarters. J'Quille had gone up there
more than once to escape the press of the walls and drink in the cool
night air.
"I have been instructed to wait for your response," the droid said.
J'Quille's hackles rose. A clever ruse by Jabba to lure him out?
If the message had been sent by a friend, why the secrecy? Why not just
give him the name of the blackmailer?
Obviously the person wanted something more from him . . . but what?
Money? Or to enlist him in another plot to kill Jabba? There were
certainly enough of those. J'Quille had only leaked a fraction of them
to Jabba. Only the least promising.
"How will I recognize him?" J'Quille asked.
"You won't," the droid said. "You'll recognize what he's wearing."
J'Quille exhaled sharply, tired of playing these games. If it turned
out to be a setup, he could always claim that he was just doing his job,
following up on a suspect. For Jabba.
J'Quille wet his lips. Yes, that was the way to handle it. A thrill
ran. through him, not unlike the one he got while tracking an Ice Puppy
or a Sea Hog back on Toola.
"I'll be there," J'Quille said.
He ducked into the hall and up the stairs to Jabba's main audience
chamber. Jabba and his minions dozed on the crimelord's dais. The band
played on, melodic jizz and dense smoke cavorting in a sinuous dance of
sound and smell. Frozen in carbonite, Han Solo stared at him from the
display alcove.
J'Quille eased past the bandstand, skirting the trap-door to the
rancor's pit. He caught a glimpse of Malakili through the grating,
still cleaning the pit while the rancor gnawed contentedly on a wet
bone.
The rancor belched. The band missed a beat but picked up quickly, as if
trying to drown out the disturbance.
Jabba opened one eye, then closed it again, clearly unconcerned.
His tail twitched, a sure sign that he was wide awake. Even the new
gold droid beside him stood alert, ready to translate the orders of its
master. Bib Fortuna slept on the floor, next to Salacious Crumb, who
was snoring loudly. Not even sleep could silence the little garbage
disposal.
J'Quille descended the steps to the kitchen. Someone watched from a
darkened recessmone of the B'omarr monks that still lurked in the
palace. The monk's broad, round face was moon-pale, his twisted nose
casting a craterish shadow along one cheek.
J'Quille scowled and picked up his pace.
He slowed near the kitchen door. The scent of bruised goatgrass wafted
from the darkened room. He crept closer. Dim light spread from one of
the inner rooms.
He pricked up his ears.
Two voices rose in argument: Ree-Yees's perpetual slur and the guttural
grunts of a Gamorrean guard.
Hiding behind the door frame, J'Quille peered into the room.
Goatgrass littered the kitchen like feathers from a fresh kill.
Even more unsteady than usual, Ree-Yees teetered over a body sprawled
beside a broken crate.
Ree-Yees's three eye stalks trembled as they tried to focus on the
Gamorrean. The guard glowered at Ree-Yees, then waddled forward and
bent to look at the corpse.
Ree-Yees shifted slightly, giving J'Quille a clear view.
Phlegmin, the kitchen boy.
J'Quille's foot claws curled reflexively, digging into the stone floor.
His heart hammered in his ears, blotting out the guard's piglike grunts
and Ree-Yees's drunken bleats. What had that goat-faced, three-eyed bar
rag done? Clenching and unclenching his claws, J'Quille. quelled the
urge to stomp forward and rip out the thieving Gran's throat.
J'Quille growled under his breath and drew back.
Better to wait. He could hunt the murdering drunk later. There wasn't
anything he could do now--not without arousing the guard's suspicion. He
swallowed, backing away from the kitchen.
He retreated the way he came. Hurrying past the darkened recess, he
stopped. The B'omarr monk was gone.
J'Quille's mind raced. Maybe Ree-Yees hadn't murdered the kitchen boy
after all. Maybe it was the monk. Phlegmin might have sent the droid
to J'Quille after discovering the monk's blackmail plot. The monk found
out and killed Phlegmin . . .
But why would a B'omarr monk blackmail J'Quille?
He suspected the monks wanted Jabba out of their citadel as much as
anyone, more. But ifJabba found a discontented B'omarr to work as a spy
for him . . .
hardly surprising. In fact, it would be more surprising if he hadn't.
But why not simply turn J'Quille over to Jabba?
J'Quille let out a breath and hurried up the stairs to the audience
chamber. Lady Valarian would know what to do. The last time he'd
contacted her, she'd told him not to call until Jabba was a chortling,
mindless slug.
But without Phlegmin that might take a while. Be sides, she needed to
know what was going on.
The band was packing it in when J'Quille eased past them. The rancor
snored in its pit, and even Jabba's tail had slowed its pensive rhythm.
J'Quille curled his claws to keep from touching the necklace of Mastmot
teeth. He averted his eyes from the tank of live toads.
Climbing the stairs to the guest rooms, J'Quille passed the masked
bounty hunter who had brought in the Wookiee and threatened to blow up
the palace with a thermal detonator earlier that evening. J'Quille
smiled. A fine, subtle display of huntlust. Truly admirable.
The bounty hunter nodded once, then continued down the stairs. No doubt
on his way down to the dungeon to taunt the Wookiee. J'Quille's
nostrils twitched. Something about the bounty hunter smelled odd, out
of place. There was no time to wonder about it now. J'Quille raced up
the stairs.
He panted, his lungs aching with the still, hot air.
Doors lined both sides of the curved guest wing, most open to reveal
empty rooms. In the past they had served as individual sleeping and
meditation chambers for the monks, but now the moldy breath of neglect
filled the hallway. Jabba had few guests at any given time.
Even two or three tended to nuture his pampered paranoia.
Glancing over his shoulder, J'Quille crept to an empty room near the
stairwell leading up to the roof.
He shut the door softly behind him.
J'Quille went to the window slit in the far wall. Peering out at the
night sky, he flared his nostrils, sucking in the soothing breeze.
The cool air smelled faintly of dust. A whiff of goatgrass clung to the
breeze, no doubt rising from the kitchen. A delicious shiver traveled
through him. Blood stained the wind tonight too.
He turned from the window and pried the cap from the pommel of his
vibroblade. Sliding a holoprojection tube hidden in his vibroblade, he
set it on the thick windowsill, making sure the tiny lens in the side
faced him.
He pushed the transmit button and waited for Lady Valarian to respond.
It shouldn't take long. She didn't go to bed until dawn, when the Lucky
Despot cl
osed for a short time to get ready for the next day's
customers.
A light flashed on the cylinder. Half a second later the lens projected
a hologram of the entry hatch and bulkhead where Lady Valarian conducted
business.
Part of the Lucky Despot's charm was that it had once been a cargo
hauler. Lady Valarian had used the spaceship's decor to create an
atmosphere comfortable to spacers and exotic enough to lure planet-bound
clientele. A low, wistful growl rumbled in J'Quille's throat.
And into the middle of the holo stepped Lady Valarian, dazzling as
always. Her curled mane, tinted a burnished red, spilled down the sides
of her face. She had painted her tusks blue and wore a gold ring on the
left one. Earrings glittered on her ears.
A wave of longing sped through J'Quille. His nostrils tingled with the
remembered allure of her pher-omone perfume, the softness of her fur
against the flat of his nose, the way she snuffled in her sleep . . .
"J'Quille," she said, waving one claw-polished hand.
The blare of music and sabacc players from the Star Chamber Cafe tinkled
in the background. "How wonderful to see you! Oh, my little Mastmot,
how thin you are! You've been shedding again. Well, now that you've
completed that little task you promised to do for me--"
"Not yet, my little ice tiger," he said. He clucked his tongue.
"There's a problem. I need to talk to you."
Lady Valarian's eyes narrowed. "What kind of problem, dearest?"
The massive hand of a Whiphid male reached from the edge of the hologram
and offered her a Sullustan gin ice blaster. J'Quille's throat
tightened. A male, in Lady Valarian's chambers . . .
"J'Quille?" Lady Valarian said. "Darling?"
J'Quille cleared his throat. Probably just a servant.
"I'm being blackmailed," he said. "Someone knows the kitchen boy was
poisoning the toads. He was killed minutes ago."
Lady Valarian removed the siptube from her lips.
"What are you trying to tell me, dearest? Does Jabba know you're trying
to poison him?"
"Not yet," J'Quille said, wishing he could be that certain.
Lady Valarian sighed. "Then why are you calling, darling? Please get
to the point. I have other business to attend to."
J'Quille's nose flaps flared.
Lady Valarian's eyes teared under her worried brow.
"And this is much too dangerous. If someone caught you, my precious . .
."
J'Quille leaned toward the holo. "I need help. I need to find out who
killed the scullion. Do you have any idea who killed him or who might
be blackmailing me?"
"There's a B'omarr monk--" A deep laugh rumbled through the palace walls
below, drowning the words.
Jabba.
J'Quille stiffened. The fur on his spine prickled with a rush of fear.
Lady Valarian's eyes widened. "J'Quille--"
"I won't fail," J'Quille said, reaching for the projection tube as
another laugh reverberated through the walls. He severed the uplink and
slammed the tube into the grip of his vibroblade.
Muscles taut, J'Quille held his vibroblade ready in front of him.
He listened for even the slightest sound the scraping of feet on stone
or the rattle of weapons.
Silence.
Were the guards waiting for him in the hall? Better to face death
head-on. He opened the door, expecting a blaster shot or the slash of a
vibro-ax.
Nothing.
The corridor was empty. J'Quille dashed toward the far stairs.
Distant voices, human voices, drifted from Jabba's audience chamber,
punctuated by the unmistakable cackle of Salacious Crumb.
J'Quille took the steps two at a time. Just before he reached the
bottom step something caught his eye. He drew back.
The carbonite slab.
Empty.
J'Quille's tail twitched. The human pleading with Jabba must be Han
Solo. But that was impossible. A person stood a better chance stepping
out of the heart of a Toolan iceberg than breaking free of carbonite's
freezing grip-Another round of laughter filled the audience chamber. A
cacophony of voices joined Jabba's bass chuckle. Hugging the wall,
J'Quille peeked into the room.
The bounty hunter, a human female, stood helmet-less beside Solo facing
Jabba. J'Quille hissed in surprise.
A human! That's what the smell had been!
Solo's head bobbed and wobbled, his eyes unfocused and not quite fixed
on Jabba. "I'll pay triple," he said as the Gamorrean guards dragged
him off.
"You're throwing away a fortune here. Don't be a fool!"
Jabba smiled, then turned to leer at the human female with the same
cruel lechery he had gazed on the Twi'lek dancer. His slimy lips
gleamed with spittle.
J'Quille slid back into the shadows and quietly sheathed his vibroblade.
It wouldn't look good if a guard stumbled across him lurking in the
stairwell with his weapon drawn. He took a deep breath and let it out
slowly.
The Crumb's hysterical screech covered J'Quille's retreat up the stairs.
There was still time. As much time as Jabba remained preoccupied with
the human female.
J'Quille trotted down the corridor to the guest room. That would be
safer than his own quarters if Jabba suspected him. He closed the door
and sat on the floor facing the window slit, his vibroblade lying across
his legs. Framed by the slit, the night sky had faded from black to
deep blue. It would be dawn soon.
He stared at the stone wall opposite him. Jabba had to know. Why else
would Phlegmin be dead? The blackmailer, the monk Lady Valarian warned
him about, had told Jabba about the poisoned toads then killed the
kitchen boy to prove his loyalty. J'Quille grimaced.
Jabba was always demanding proof of loyalty.
J'Quille had been forced to hunt and "kill" his own servant in a display
of fidelity. Fortunately that great sack of nearsighted slug gel
couldn't tell a Whiphid tusk from a greater Mastmot tooth.
Footsteps tramped heavily down the hall. J'Quille leaped to his feet,
drawing his vibroblade. The thick, swinish grunts of several Gamorrean
guards echoed in the corridor. Holding his breath, J'Quille stepped
behind the door.
The guards lumbered past.
J'Quille listened till their footsteps faded, then sank down onto the
floor again. He slid the vibroblade in its sheath. Lady Valarian had
given him the weapon.
Lady Valarian. For whom he risked his tusks daily.
And who had a strange male in her chamber. Just a servant? Or a rival?
J'Quille's mane bristled. Perhaps this blackmailer had more to do with
Lady Valarian and less to do with Jabba.
Perhaps Lady Valarian had tired of waiting for him to act and decided to
rid herself of the potential embarrassment of an inept spy in Jabba's
palace. She had always despised foolish, weak males. Look at D'Wopp,
her first husband. The fool had been too stupid to turn down a bounty
offer by Jabba during their wedding reception. Lady Valarian had
shipped him back to Toola in a box.
J'Quille was no fool and he was
not weak. The slow poison had been Lady
Valarian's idea. "Let's not be too obvious, my sweet," she'd crooned.
J'Quille stared at the vibroblade. Beautifully crafted, the finest
weapon credits could buy. Was he jumping to conclusions?
Still, she knew about the monk . . .
Slamming and banging echoed from the direction of the hangar.
J'Quille listened at the door, then stalked to the window slit. In the
gray light people were scurrying about, preparing Jabba's Ubrickkian
sail barge. Evidently Jabba was planning a trip to the Great Pit of
Carkoon sometime in the near future, probably to feed Han Solo and the
Wookiee to the Sarlacc.
Was J'Quille on the menu, too?
He shivered, then peered across the sands at the welt of brightness
along the horizon. One of Tatooine's two suns was rising.
The light spread slowly like water, dousing the glitter of stars. He
had better head up to the roof to meet the informant. J'Quille
unsheathed his vibroblade and opened the door.