Dubiously, and without getting any closer than was absolutely necessary, the majordomo scrutinized the shiftless pair. Closer inspection did not produce encouragement. “At the risk of insulting your judgment, if not them, O Bossban, I would say that they appear to be slightly felek. Mentally deranged. Addled.”
“Indeed they are. Just enough.” Looking hugely pleased with himself, as well as more than usually huge, Soergg leaned back on his tail. “In the course of carrying out research for my many business interests, I have discovered that even a minor mental illness is sometimes sufficient to confuse perception of the Force in those who are capable of it. Psychosis acts like a fogged piece of transparisteel, distorting but not completely hiding what lies beyond.” He gestured at his new hirelings. Bulgan smiled vacantly in response. “These two are indeed slightly mad. In their madness lies the secret of our success.”
Enlightened, Ogomoor eyed the pair with fresh interest, if not increased respect. “I’ve been trying to place their garb. While they’re obviously Alwari, I have to admit I don’t recognize their clans.”
“That is hardly surprising,” Soergg grunted, “since they have no clans. Because of their physical and mental infirmities, they have been cast out. Sent to live in the hated cities, where they eke out a living doing whatever work comes their way.” He beamed as much as a Hutt could beam. “With what I have agreed to pay them, they will do anything I ask. Anything! Even attempt to capture a Jedi Padawan.” He snorted derisively. “Like so many, credits mean more to them than morals”
Including a people called the Hutts, Ogomoor thought.
“That’s so, it is,” declared Bulgan, speaking for the first time. His words were somewhat difficult to understand as he still had one finger up his nose.
“We’ll do it.” The elocution of his one-armed companion Kyakhta was somewhat better, being uninfracted by the kind of digital nasal blockage that was presently afflicting his companion. “We can do it.” As Kyakhta spoke, Bulgan blinked his one good eye; the thick, opaque Ansionian lid flashing meaningfully from left to right.
“The Jedi will not be able to sense their approach.” Soergg was visibly reveling in the inimitability of his plan.
“Not via the Force, perhaps, Bossban. But the humans still have eyes, and reactions more sharply honed than those of most sentients.”
The Hutt nodded patiently, having thought it all out in advance. “Our friends here will flatch the snatch late in the day. Even Jedi require the occasional break from their duties. The four who trouble us have been observed taking in the sights of Cuipernam. As they do, sometimes they separate. Jedi they may be, but they are still of two different genders. The females often seek out different things than the males. If a younger Padawan can be caught out a distance away from its Master, the abduction may be accomplished. Most Jedi, so it is said, rely on their senses to warn them when danger approaches. Sensing no danger in these two idiots, they will ignore them as they continue with their sight-seeing.” With an imperious wave of one hand, he dismissed the two addled but willing kidnappers.
“Go now! You know where the visitors stay.” He smiled unpleasantly. “Everyone knows, as they are official guests of the Unity delegation and the city council of Cuipernam. If you succeed, take the Padawan to the chosen place and wait there for my further orders.”
Kyakhta turned and bowed. When Bulgan did not, his companion smacked the other clanless one on the back of his bald skull. Bulgan then turned and, being already bent, did not have to bow. But he did at least remove his finger from his nose. Together, they backed out of the room through the door that had granted them admittance. Ogomoor was still dubious—but a flicker of anticipation had begun to burn within him.
“An audacious plan, to be sure, Bossban. But risky.”
“What risk!” Lumbering to his right, Soergg shoved a fist into a bowl filled with turgid liquid and fished out something the sight of which made Ogomoor blanch. Unrepentant, the Hutt tilted back his head, dropped the noisome contents of his closed hand into his cavernous maw of a mouth, and swallowed noisily, smacking his lips by way of appreciation. “The risk falls entirely on those two cretins. If they fail, the Jedi will surely kill them.”
“And if they do not, but only wound and capture them? Artless as they are, they will surely tell the Jedi who hired them to attempt such a task.”
Soergg’s great belly heaved as he laughed. “Once they commence the operation, they are to report personally to me at prescribed intervals via a closed-band comlink. Two nights ago, while they slept the sleep of the simple, I had my own physician install a small device in the neck of each. Should they fail to report”—he tapped one finger into an open, greasy palm—“I will remotely activate the devices. Before they can give away any incriminating information, the very compact explosive charges contained within will separate their heads from their shoulders. Rather messily, I’m afraid.”
“What then, Great One?” Ogomoor was curious to know.
Soergg shrugged, fleshy ripples running in descending waves down his entire flaccid length. “Clanless imbeciles are cheap, even in Cuipernam. If these two fail, we will try again with another pair.”
Kyakhta swirled the lightweight, waterproof robes more tightly around him, the better to hide his face. They were the robes of a member of the Pangay Ous. That was not his clan. He and Bulgan were Tasbir, of the Southern Hatagai. But it felt good to be back in clan gear even if it was not his own, even if it had not been earned.
The robes were necessary to allow them to blend in with the crowds that filled the bustling marketplace. Remembering the small device clipped to his wristband beneath the robes, he fingered if briefly, as per the instructions of their master the Hutt. Soergg had been most insistent that they call in regularly. After all, he had informed them, explaining how the explosive devices implanted in their necks worked, if they failed to check in at the appointed time, they would not live long enough to collect their pay. Kyakhta and Bulgan had been deeply touched by this intimate expression of the Hutt’s concern for their welfare.
There were larger marketplaces on Ansion than Cuipernam’s. In these days of modern intragalactic commerce, the majority of transactions involved little more than an exchange of numbers and symbols. But on many worlds, the old-style, traditional marketplace still retained a warm spot in the hearts of the local inhabitants. Trading by machine might be more efficient, and allow for an infinitely greater variety and volume of goods to be bartered, but there was no joy in it. The delight of doing business face to face remained one of life’s small pleasures in an increasingly automated galactic civilization.
Besides, what did a local specialist vendor of marthan fruit need with the expense and complications of an electronic trading nexus? And how many visitors and gawkers and tourists would a portable information shifter draw to a community’s downtown? Not to mention that face-to-face business provided a way to avoid many taxes. Among those inhabitants of Ansion who were heartily in favor of secession could be counted many notable merchants. It wasn’t so much the taxes themselves that had caused them to distance themselves from the Republic—it was the endless and ever-growing list of rules and regulations. Though these concerns were shared throughout the Republic and had been passed on to the Senate by citizen representatives, like so much else, they seemed never to be acted upon. Isolated and coddled on distant Coruscant, the galactic government had grown ever more divorced from the needs and aspirations of the people it purported to govern.
Kyakhta and Bulgan moved easily through the crowds, though Kyakhta had to keep a close eye on his companion as they wended their way past one stall and shop after another. Innocent that he was, the bent-backed Bulgan had a disconcerting tendency to sample assorted wares without remembering that it was necessary to pay for them. They had no time for such nonsense today. They were on an important mission! Not as important as herding, or racing, or celebrating with one’s clan, perhaps. But for two clanless ones such as themselves, impo
rtant enough.
“There they are!” he whispered tersely as Bulgan bumped up behind him. The other strained to see out of his one good eye, straightening as much as he was able. Bulgan sniffed as he stared.
“Got no guards,” he noted observantly. Bulgan was simple, but not quite so stupid as his outward appearance and attitude might suggest.
Kyakhta withheld the majority of his contempt. “Of course they got no guards, dimwit! What need do Jedi have for guards? It is they who guard others.”
Bulgan frowned, looked around in confusion. “What others?”
Not bothering to reply and keeping his face hidden as much as possible, Kyakhta saw that the visitors were unaccompanied by a local guide. In keeping with their unassuming demeanor, he knew they would prefer to travel without even a small entourage. Nor would they wish to attract a crowd. That was good. For the work they intended to do, he and Bulgan wanted as few complications, and witnesses, as possible. His upper right arm was throbbing above the prosthetic, as it always did when he was nervous.
“Which one we take?” Bulgan had to move his head from side to side in order to see around eddying pedestrians who were not so much taller than he as straighter.
“I don’t know. It’s easy enough to tell the Padawans from their Jedi. They’re much younger. I don’t remember if there is a strength difference between human genders.” He did not bother to ask if Bulgan recalled such a thing. Bulgan had trouble remembering what day it was, and sometimes his own name.
What did the Hutt Soergg want with a Jedi Padawan anyway, he wondered. Well, that was no business of his. He and Bulgan had only to carry out their task. Besides, thinking on more than one subject at a time hurt his head.
“Let’s follow them,” the bent one suggested. This was so obvious and sensible a notion that Kyakhta could hardly countenance its origin.
The Jedi visitors acted like any group of tourists, listening to the spoken explanations of their guide as they strolled through the marketplace, dutifully admiring the sights while occasionally pausing to taste samples of the local cuisine. Occasionally, one or two of them would pause to admire a handicraft or artwork, a neatly turned bracelet or glistening singing plant from the equatorial regions. They did not buy anything, Kyakhta noted. What use did a Jedi have for personal possessions when their council kept them always on the move? But their roving lifestyle did not prevent them from looking and appreciating.
One of the Padawans stopped outside a shop that featured sanwiwood sculptures from the Niruu Plateau. The Niruu Alwari were famed for their woodwork. It was the young female, Kyakhta noted. The modestly windowed shop was one of many that fronted on the central marketplace itself, and therefore was more substantial than the temporary stalls and carts that filled the central square.
Go inside, he heard himself thinking urgently at the preoccupied Padawan. Go on, go in. Admire the lovely pretties. Next to him, Bulgan had gone silent, sensing that the moment might be near. In the midst of watching and waiting, Kyakhta did remember to finger the homing device at his waist.
After exchanging a few words with her equally youthful counterpart, the female Padawan entered. Her male colleague turned away and moved off, trailing the two older Jedi. The latter were locked in animated conversation. They appeared not to have noticed the momentary detour taken by one of their young apprentices.
“Now, quickly!” Forcing himself not to break into an eye-attracting lope, Kyakhta hurried forward.
The Winds of Whorh were with them. There was no one else in the shop: only the proprietor, a wizened old city dweller who looked nearly as well worn as some of her antique woodcarvings. No other customers. Keeping their robes as tight about their faces as possible, the two newcomers pretended to examine a ritual high-backed Nazay seat from Delgerhan. The Padawan was slim and did not appear to be especially muscular. But then, Kyakhta knew, Jedi did not depend on brute physical strength for their protection.
Gesturing to Bulgan, he waited while his friend carefully unfolded the polus net from beneath his robe. When Bulgan was ready, Kyakhta stepped up to the counter. Smiling patiently, the proprietress shuffled toward him. A last, quick glance in the direction of the marketplace showed that the entryway remained clear. There was no sign of the other visitors through the single large, transparent pane.
“Welcome to my modest place of doings, sir.” Eyeing his robes, she added, “I see that you are Pangay Ous. You are a long way from your stretch of prairie, sir.” A hint of uncertainty crept into her voice. “Yet you do not have the look about you of one who is of the Northern Bands. I see no identifying tattoo on your forehead, and your mane is—“
“But my body fragrance is of the Pangay Ous,” he declared, interrupting her. “See?” Pulling the compact atomizer from beneath his robe, he shoved it forward and sprayed her right in the face, before she could object. She inhaled reflexively, her eyes rolled back, and she slumped to the floor, her chin banging against the counter as she dropped. So fast did the spray work that she did not even have time to look surprised.
“Haja!” he exclaimed, stepping back from the counter. “the poor lady has collapsed! It must be her hearts!”
“Here, let me have a look.” Alerted to a possible emergency and wishing to be helpful, Barriss pushed forward. “I’m not that familiar with Ansionian physiology, but there are certain bipedal circulatory and respiratory constants that…”
Kyakhta moved aside, not listening to her incomprehensible medical jargon. He wouldn’t have understood any of it anyway. Bulgan was already in motion. Another glance outside showed that the street was still devoid of Jedi. The Padawan had stepped behind the counter and was kneeling beside the fallen proprietress.
“Her vitals appear sound.” She sounded a note of puzzlement. “ I don’t think it’s serious. Perhaps only a fainting spell.” She started to rise. “A little cool water on her face, I think. I wonder what could have caused her to go down like that, so sudden and silently?”
“Maybe this?” Thrusting the sprayer forward, Kyakhta caught the female with a full burst right in the face. If anything, having two nostrils instead of the normal one, she absorbed more of the mist than would an Ansionian. Her eyes flickered but did not roll back, and she started to reach for her lightsaber slung at her waist. Startled and beginning to panic, Kyakhta squirted her again, and then a third time, before she finally went down. In a testament to her training, she’d absorbed enough vapor to put out a whole squad of mounted warriors.
“Hurry, hurry!” Trying to divide his attention between the entrance and the now unconscious Padawan, he struggled with Bulgan to stuff the human female into the unbreakable sack they had brought with them. Finally lifting their bagged burden, which proved surprisingly heavy, they hurried toward the back of the establishment. As was typical with such better-off shops, it boasted a second, rear entrance. Uldas was with them—the dirty service alley was deserted. Remembering to finger the signaling device at his side, he led the way toward Jaaruls Street, the shielded and secure apartment waiting there, and safety. Excitement rose within him. They’d done it!
Now all they had to do was hold on to their captive, keep her alive and well, and await further instructions from Soergg. Compared to the abduction they had just carried out, such talk-work struck Kyakhta as not work at all.
No one questioned the contents of the lumpy sack the two Alwari lugged down alleys and back streets. Business was business, and a nomad’s business was none but his own.
Luminara put down the beautifully enameled little mirror that had been cut from a single reflective mineral surface and looked around, frowning. Something didn’t feel right. Something didn’t feel normal. It took her a moment of searching, with both eyes and mind, both within and without, to realize what it was. She had not seen Barriss in some time.
Where had the Padawan gone? It wasn’t liker her to stray. A free-roaming Padawan had autonomy, but no access to greater knowledge. Kenobi took notice of her concern and moved to sta
nd next to his colleague.
“Something amiss, Luminara?”
“I don’t see Barriss, Obi-Wan. She usually hangs on my every word, as well as on those of whomever I happen to be with at the time.”
He smiled reassuringly. “Then it’s not surprising she’s off somewhere. We’ve both been pretty quiet here these last few moments.”
“Last time I saw her,” Anakin put in, “she was looking at woodcarvings in a shop.” Though he did not reach for his weapon, his natural protective instinct was instantly aroused.
Luminara’s deep blue eyes met his. “Which shop?” she demanded.
“Not to worry, Master,” Anakin told her. “I’ve kept an eye on the entryway ever since she stepped inside. She hasn’t come out.”
“Hasn’t come out this way, you mean. It’s probably nothing, and she dislikes it when I act more like a mother than a teacher, but Barriss absorbs and files sights very quickly. It’s not like her to linger.” Her eyes bored into the Padawan's. “Which shop?” she reiterated.
Sensing the seriousness in her manner, Anakin put aside any remaining vestige of flippancy, raised a hand, and pointed. “That one, over there.” He followed close behind the two Jedi as they walked rapidly toward the establishment he’d identified.
The door was propped open, which was not surprising. No one acknowledged their entrance, which was.
“Barriss?” Luminara's anxiety rose as she moved rapidly through the shop, searching among the larger woodcarvings that crowded the back. A shout redirected her exploration.
“Luminara!” It was Obi-Wan. That in itself was alarming, because she had already noted that he hardly ever raised his voice. “Over here!”
He was cradling the head of the elderly Ansionian female against his right leg. Anakin looked on, his usual buoyancy gone, his expression stricken. “Water,” Obi-Wan called tersely. Hunting hurriedly through a rear room, Anakin found a cooler half full of small polymer receptacles. Bringing one containing cold water forward, he handed it to his Master and watched while Obi-Wan lightly sprinkled the contents on the oldster’s face. Her large eyes, the color of fine claret, blinked open moments later.
Star Wars: The Approaching Storm Page 6