Tales From Jabba's Palace

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Tales From Jabba's Palace Page 14

by Kevin J. Anderson


  Someone shuffled down the hall. J'Quille waited in the doorway and

  listened to the dry whisper of clothes. Instead of diminishing toward

  the stairs to the main audience chamber, the steady shuffle grew louder.

  A shadow materialized around the curve in the hall.

  It passed an open door. A pale, round face with a twisted nose peered

  warily into every shadow.

  The same monk who had hidden in the recess outside the kitchen.

  J'Quille eased into the room and waited for the monk to pass. The man's

  loose robes swayed with each step. Light from the partially open door

  illuminated the side of his face. His head and face were devoid of all

  hair.

  Anger surged through J'Quille. He narrowed his eyes, deepening the

  shadows in the hall. His pulse throbbed in his claws as his chest

  tightened around the beating of his heart.

  J'Quille stepped into the hallway. The monk paused and turned, his

  hands hidden in the folds of his robe, a robe ample enough to conceal a

  blaster or a vibroblade.

  "There you are," the monk said. His gaze flitted to the vibroblade.

  "Let's go to the roof, friend, where we can speak freely."

  The vibroblade trembled in J'Quille's hand. He tightened his grip.

  "What do you want from me?"

  The monk glanced nervously down the hall. "This is not a good place to

  talk. It's too easy to be overheard.

  Trust me."

  "You were there when the kitchen boy was killed," J'Quille said,

  unmoving. "I saw you."

  "There was nothing I could do," the monk said. His hands shifted under

  his robes.

  Before the monk could free his hands, J'Quille slashed upward with his

  vibroblade. The blade sliced through the robes and the man's chest. The

  monk stared at J'Quille, a look of surprise on his face, then toppled

  forward onto the floor.

  The pressure in J'Quille's chest eased. At last he could breathe again.

  He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the ripe, giddy scent of

  fresh blood.

  Sheathing his vibroblade, he knelt down and rolled the body over.

  The monk gurgled. "Phlegmin . . .

  black . . . mailer," he rasped, then shuddered and died.

  Phlegmin? J'Quille frowned and leaned closer.

  Something winked in the dim light.

  An earring. J'Quille turned the monk's head to get a better look at the

  chartreuse gemstone set in a single gold rihg. His blood went cold.

  "You'll recognize what he's wearing," the cleaning droid had said.

  The earring was Lady Valarian's.

  J'Quille had given her the pair the day after their first night

  together. She'd growled with delight and clipped the earrings on

  immediately.

  J'Quille unclipped the jewel from the monk's earlobe.

  The monk had been working for Lady Valarian.

  J'Quille flexed his claws around the earring. What was he going to tell

  her?

  A grunt filtered down the corridor. J'Quille grabbed the monk's robes

  and dragged the body toward the nearest guest room. The monk's hands

  fell free of the robes.

  His right hand clutched a thermal detonator.

  The one the bounty hunter had used to threaten Jabba?

  J'Quille snatched it from the stiffening hand. Whatever he had done,

  here was a chance to redeem himself.

  Heavy footsteps accompanied another grunt.

  J'Quille glanced over his shoulder. No one yet, but the person was

  definitely headed his way. He looked around wildly. Where could he

  hide the detonator?

  His belt pouch seemed too small-J'Quille crammed the detonator into the

  pouch anyway, praying he wouldn't trigger it. The pouch bulged,

  refusing to close. J'Quille smoothed his fur over the pouch's gap, his

  shoulders rising as the approaching stranger called out.

  Or rather, squealed out. J'Quille turned slowly, forcing himself not to

  smirk, and looked up into the face of a squat Gamorrean guard.

  Stupidity on the hoof.

  The guard carried Phlegmin's dead body over one shoulder. This must be

  the same Gamorrean who had been talking to Ree-Yees in the kitchen.

  The guard trudged up to him, wheezing and snorting.

  He uttered a few more incomprehensible grunts, then looked at J'Quille

  expectantly.

  J'Quille's mind raced frantically. Just how stupid were these guards?

  If this brute could believe Ree-Yees, he'd believe anything.

  The Gamorrean grunted impatiently. One of the squeals sounded like

  "dead."

  J'Quille stood. "He's not dead, he's, uh, meditating.

  Gone into a deep trance. Pondering the imponderables."

  The guard bent over the monk. He wrinkled his nose at the blood and

  snuffled a short, bewildered snort.

  J'Quille wet his lips. "The blood? He wanted to see if he'd reached

  the final stage of enlightenment. He decided to do a little testing on

  his own to see if he was ready before asking his friends to put his

  brain in ajar."

  The guard's eyes narrowed. He grunted and pointed first at the monk's

  head, then at his chest.

  J'Quille shrugged. "That's where their brains are.

  In their chests. It makes it easier to remove them."

  The guard's brow puckered. He shuffled, then grunted something that

  sounded like, "Can't meditate here," then bent down and hefted the body

  of the monk onto his other shoulder.

  J'Quille watched the Gamorrean shamble oft; then heaved a sigh of

  relief. He touched the thermal detonator.

  Slipping into the nearest guest room, he walked over to the window. He

  held up the earring and admired the sunlight shining through the clear

  stone, then set it on the windowsill. He opened his pouch.

  J'Quille cradled the thermal detonator in his claws.

  He knew just what to do with it. He'd been given a second chance to get

  rid of Jabba--this time he wouldn't blow it. Sleight of Hand: The Tale

  of Mara Jade

  by Timothy Zahn

  The dance ended, and the music was silenced. She stood as she had

  finished: on single tiptoe, her opposite arm upstretched, reaching with

  silent eloquence for the stars or the Empire or perhaps merely the

  approval of her master. For a pair of heartbeats she held the pose.

  Then, with a dramatic flourish, she collapsed again to the floor, arms

  sweeping around and onto the floor in front of her like the wings of a

  downed bird, legs shifting to curl half around her, one in front and one

  behind, torso bent forward over her arms. Grace and beauty and style,

  transformed in an instant to unworthiness and submission and humility.

  The precise combination, or so she'd been told, that Jabba the Hutt

  liked in his dancers.

  As did, presumably, the fat, scar-headed man sprawled on the couch in

  front of her. But the seconds dragged on and he just sat there, not

  speaking, watching her. She held her pose, breathing quickly and

  shallowly into cramped lungs and wondering if she should go ahead and

  get tip without waiting for permission.

  But the fat man had already demonstrated his enjoyment of giving orders,

  particularly to helpless underlings.

  If she wanted to become one of those underli
ngs, it would be best to

  allow him that extra little bit of egotism.

  So she waited for his orders, and after a few seconds more he was ready

  to give them. "Rise," he said, his tone as indulgent as the rest of

  him. "Come here."

  lose he was even more repulsive, his vaguely greasy aroma approaching

  suffocation level.

  But Jabba himself, she knew, would be worse. Maybe this was part of the

  test.

  "You dance very well, Arica," he said, looking her up and down.

  "Very well, indeed. Tell me, what else do you do well?"

  "Whatever my masterJabba the Hutt would require of me," she said.

  He smiled, his small eyes almost disappearing into folds of flesh.

  "Very good," he said. "Not what I would require, but what Jabba your

  master would require.

  A wise answer; but perhaps not wise enough.

  Tell me, would it surprise you to know that I once was Jabba the Hutt?"

  She blinked, giving him her best stupid-helpless-lost look. "You

  were--? I don't understand."

  "I was Jabba the Hutt," he repeated smugly. "Not really, of course, but

  for a time many on Tatooine thought so. I was the one, you see, whom

  Jabba always sent outside the palace to meet with people.

  Kept his anonymity that way. A good smuggler always keeps a few

  secrets." His smug smile vanished. "You see now who exactly you're

  dealing with here."

  "Yes, I see," she said. She did, too. He was the expendable one, the

  man Jabba had sent out to take whatever blaster shots his many enemies

  might care to fire in his direction. The stupid one, moreover, too

  dazzled by the pseudoglamour and pseudopower of the role to realize he

  was little more than assassin bait.

  But for all that, a man Jabba must have trusted at least enough to

  finalize his deals and not flop the charade in the process. And who

  thus had probably earned whatever microscopic gratitude the Hutt was

  capable of.

  Someone not to be crossed. At least, not openly.

  "Good," the fat man said softly. "Well, then. You're hired.

  You'll start on the midnight shift--you never know when Jabba might want

  some entertainment."

  He looked at the door and snapped his fingers. One of the Gamorrean

  guards detached himself from the door and lumbered over.

  "The guard will show you the way. I'll see you later, Arica."

  "I will be honored," she said, bowing humbly as she backed away.

  Groveling before him.

  But that was all right. Let the petty man revel in his petty power over

  her. Trusted underling of one of the most powerful crimelords in the

  Empire, he was still nothing. She could crush him with a word; could

  bring down Jabba's entire organization on a whim; could burn this

  backwater planet to a core of glazed sand with a single order. And if

  none of that happened, it was merely because she had more important

  matters to attend to.

  For she was Mara Jade, the Emperor's Hand. Here to await the arrival of

  Luke Skywalker. And to kill him.

  The Emperor's face seemed to hover in the air in front of Mara, his

  yellow eyes glittering with satisfaction. So you are inside, his

  thoughts said. Skywalker has not yet appeared ?

  Not yet, she thought back at him. But Solo is still here.

  When Skywalker comes, I'll be ready.

  The eyes glittered again, and Mara felt the warmth of his approval fill

  her mind. Excellent, his thoughts said. Such a threat must be

  eliminated.

  Mara permitted herself a small smile. He will be, she assured her

  master. Jabba may even get to him first.

  Abruptly, the warmth withdrew, leaving an icy chill behind. Do not

  underestimate this opponent, the Emperor warned, his thoughts dark.

  Remember Bespin.

  Mara grimaced. Yes. Cloud City on Bespin, and the duel between

  Skywalker and Darth Vader. Skywalker had acquitted himself well in that

  battle--far better than either Vader or the Emperor had expected him to.

  And in the midst of that battle, Vader had proposed that the two of them

  form an alliance against the Emperor.

  Vader had later denied it, of course, claiming that the offer had merely

  been part of his lure to confuse Skywalker and entrap him to the dark

  side. But the Emperor knew Vader's thoughts and feelings, and he knew

  that was not the entire truth.

  Which was why Mara was here, and why she had come alone. She was the

  Emperor's Hand, with powers in the Force that had been trained,

  nurtured, and strengthened by the Emperor himself . . . and one of

  those powers was the ability to cloak her feelings from even so powerful

  a Dark Jedi as Lord Darth Vader.

  He might wonder afterward if the Emperor had had a role in Skywalker's

  death, but he would never know for certain. And with Skywalker gone,

  the matter would be over. Vader would never defy the Emperor alone.

  I remember Bespin, Mara promised. Skywalker will die here.

  The Emperor smiled . . . and then another face was there, superimposed

  on Mara's vision. A young woman with dark hair, wearing a dark red

  jumpsuit.

  "Are you Arica?"

  Mara blinked and the Emperor's face vanished, only the lingering sense

  of his distant presence remaining.

  "Yes," she said. "Sorry, I was just thinking."

  The other woman gave her a knowing smile. "Sure you were." She waved a

  hand around her. "I'll bet your first week's pay that you were thinking

  you'd made a big mistake coming here."

  Mara looked around. The Dancers' Pit, they called the prep room, and it

  was fully deserving of the name.

  "Oh, I don't know," she said diplomatically. "I've been in worse

  places."

  "Better than the rancor pit, anyway." The other shrugged. "Don't

  worry, the money's a lot better than the facilities."

  "I hope so," Mara said, wondering what a rancor pit was. "The implied

  fringe benefits weren't all that enticing."

  The woman laughed. "Ah, yes--the Fat Man. He gave you his Important

  Person routine, did he?"

  "Something like that."

  "Well, don't worry, he's mostly harmless. I'll tell you later what

  buttons to push to keep him off you.

  I'm Melina Carniss, by the way. Former dancer, current dance designer,

  sort of general runaround person.

  Come on--let's go to the throne room and I'll present you to His

  Exaltedness."

  They headed down one of the dark tunnels that seemed to make up the bulk

  of this place. Mara crinkled her nose at the odors, wishing the quick

  briefing she'd had on Jabba and his palace had been more comprehensive.

  Perhaps she should consider wangling herself a trip over to Bestine, see

  if she could get some up-to-date information on Jabba and his entourage

  from Governor Aryon's office.

  Still, that might prove dangerous in the long run.

  To access Imperial data files, she would have to identify herself as a

  high Imperial agent . . . and truly capable governors were not assigned

  to dustballs like Tatooine. Governor Aryon could be too lazy or

  incompetent to keep Jabba's spies off her paylist, or could be on

  Jabba's
paylist herself. Worse, even the slightest exposure here could

  eventually find its way back to Lord Vader.

  Besides, this was just a simple assassination: quick in, quick kill,

  quick out. No, she would handle this one on her own.

  "There's the throne room," Melina said, pointing ahead toward an archway

  that opened into a well-furnished chamber. "Oh, and look we seem to

  have a show going."

  Mara caught her breath. The show was Luke Skywalker.

  Or rather, a holo of him. A prerecorded message, projected by a squat

  R2-D2 astromech droid with a C-3PO protocol droid hovering nervously

  beside him.

  Skywalker's droids, all right. The ones who'd played key roles in the

  destruction of the Emperor's prized.

  Death Star.

  "--I present to you a gift: these two droids."

  The protocol droid squawked. "I wonder who that is," Melina murmured.

 

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