Tales From Jabbas Palace (Kevin Anderson) (44 page)

But now, with him dead…”

Yarna studied him speculatively, arms folded across her topmost set of breasts. Did he have any money?

Could she make him pay for the information? She considered demanding credits in return for the location, but something inside her balked at the idea. By Askaj’s Moon Lady, Doallyn would die—and he wasn’t one of the ones who had tormented and oppressed her, he was just another being who’d been in thrall to Jabba.

Besides, she’d need help to reach her cache. Another shrill scream echoed through the palace followed by the grunting and squealing laughter of a Gamorrean. With every passing second the sounds of tipsy revelry and riot grew louder. Although there were worse things stalking the corridors of Jabba’s palace than mere drunken Gamorreans, they were bad enough…

Yarna nodded brusquely at Doallyn. “I know where he kept them.”

So strange to have to refer to Jabba in the past tense. The Askajian found that she had trouble imagining the Hutt as dead. Jabba had been foul, disgusting, perverted, and greedy—but he had been strongly, vitally alive. “Come with me, guard me, while I get some things, and then I’ll show you where they are. Fair enough?”

Doallyn nodded.

The Askajian headed for her goal, moving rapidly through the palace with Doallyn following. As she passed each darkened doorway, she tensed, wondering if he was waiting within. But their journey was unhindered.

When they reached the servant’s quarters, Yarna made straight for the closet that held the sonic brooms and other cleaning supplies.

“Keep your weapon handy,” she instructed her escort, as she knelt and opened a panel in one of the automatic floor-cleaners.

“I don’t want to be surprised.”

She reached past the power cell to retrieve the little bag she’d hidden inside the cleaning unit. Doallyn cocked his helmeted head, and Yarna fancied she heard amusement in his mechanical tones. “What do you have in there, Mistress?”

Yarna bounced the bag on her palm, feeling its weight. Her lips curved upward in the first genuine smile she’d smiled in a year. “My children’s freedom,” she said, slowly.

“Your children?”

“They aren’t here,” Yarna said. “Jabba ordered them kept in his town house in Mos Eisley. I have three cublings still left… the slavers killed my fourth during our capture. I have to get to Mos Eisley before the officials sell off Jabba’s assets. They’ll sell my babies—I have to get there in time to buy them!”

Somehow she knew he was staring at her from behind his helmet.

“Mos Eisley? You’re going to Mos Eisley?”

“I have to,” Yarna said, urgency filling her voice.

“And quickly.”

“Across the Dune Sea? You must be mad.”

Yarna heaved herself to her feet, her breasts bouncing heavily within their leather restraints. “Probably,” she admitted. “But I would far sooner die out there” - - she waved a hand in the direction of Mos Eisley—”than I Would trapped in here, waiting to become the killer’s next victim.”

“The unknown killer…” Doallyn said. “Yes, that is a thought. I don’t fancy becoming the next victim, either.”

“If I stay,” Yarna said and began stuffing the bag into the space between her bottommost set of breasts, tying it securely so it would not fall out, “I will be the next victim, I know it.” She glanced up at him and shivered. “I… I’ve seen his face. He won’t let me live.”

“You’ve seen him?” Doallyn’s voice was tinged with urgency. He grasped her arm, pulling her toward him, and reflexively glanced over his shoulder. There was no one there. “Who is it?” he whispered.

Yarna’s voice shook. “I don’t know his name,” she muttered hoarsely.

“He’s the tall, slender humanoid, the one with the dandified clothes… and the pouches on either side of his face.” She drew her fingers down her own cheeks in illustration.

“That’s Jerriko you’re describing,” Doallyn said.

“Dannik Jerriko. He was working for Jabba. Are you sure? How do you know? “

“Because he tried to kill me yesterday.” Yarna’s voice was flat, but her whole massive body quivered.

“He has… things that come out of his face. Beside his nose… and they kill you.”

“Things?” Doallyn echoed blankly. “What kind of things?”

“Like… tendrils. They uncoil. He…” She nearly gagged at’ the memory. “He sticks them up, inside your nose… he did it to the kitchen boy.”

“How did you get away?”

“Just as his tendrils touched me, one of the Gamorreans came in.

He… the creature… let me go.”

“ButJerriko is no match for you.” Doallyn’s fingers tightened on her upper arm, testing the solid muscle beneath the outer flesh.

“You’re twice his size.”

“When he lays his hands on you, and looks into your eyes… you can’t move,” Yarna whispered, feeling her gorge rise. “When you see those tendrils uncoil, you know what’s happening, because he wants you to know. But you can’t move. It’s… horrible.”

She gagged, put her hand over her mouth, and fought for control.

Moments later, she looked back up at him.

“If you swear on whatever belief system you follow that you’ll escort me to the motor pool afterward, I’ll take you to find those gas cartridges now,” Yarna promised. How could she trust someone whose features she couldn’t see? But she had little choice…

Doallyn touched the breast of his uniform with two fingers and a thumb in what looked like (and probably was) a ritual gesture. “I swear by the Sky Seraphs that I will take you to the motor pool.”

Yarna nodded. “Let’s go, then.”

The two ventured out into the corridor, and headed purposefully toward the other side of the building, with Yarna in the lead. She walked quickly, surely, only too aware of the occasional screams and crashes that emanated from other portions of the palace. Just a few more minutes and I’ll be out of here, she told herself, her strides coming faster and faster. She was nearly running. Just a few more minutes…

Her luck gave out when she rounded the next corner, with Doallyn a dozen paces behind her. Two of Jabba’s erstwhile guards were waiting to pounce. The dancer recognized them—the human was named Tornik, and the Gamorrean was Warlug. Both were reeling drunk. As she tried to beat a hasty retreat, they greeted her with grunts of inebriated delight and grabbed her.

“Ugly One!” roared Tornik. “Love of my life!

Come here and have a drink with me!” As Yarna tried to pull away, he yanked her arm viciously. “Dance for me, then we’ll have some fun!”

The Askajian glanced back over her shoulder, but there was no sign of Doallyn, Had he run off and left her? But what about his breathing cartridges?

“No!” squealed the Gamorrean, trying to drag her away from his compatriot. “I saw her first! I get the Ugly One first!”

“Stop.it!” Yarna ordered, trying to stay calm despite the racing of her twin hearts. “Let me go. I’m…

I’m on an errand for Master Fortuna.”

“Ha! He can’t have you!” Tornik declared. “Warlug is right! We saw you first! He’ll have to stand in line!”

The Gamorrean reached for the fastening between her topmost breasts.

“Mine! I go fi—” He broke off at a sudden flash and sizzle, to stare unbelievingly at the scorched hole that had suddenly blossomed in his side. Letting go of Yarna, he staggered back, panting, then squealing in pain as he hit the wall and slid down it.

“Let her go,” Doallyn said, stepping around the corner, his blaster still leveled.

“But we saw her first—” the guard protested, eyes narrowing.

“You can have her when we’re done.”

“I said, let her go.” Doallyn’s voice was still level, but the muzzle of his weapon moved up, steadied until it was aimed at the man’s face.

“Or I’ll make you let her go. Your choice.”

Cursing, Tornik dropped Yarna’s arm and stumbled backward. Warlug squealed frantically for help, and the human grabbed his arm, hoisted the injured being to his feet, then the two of them staggered away.

Yarna sagged against the wall as her knees threatened to buckle.

“Oh, Sergeant, they… thank you, thank you… they were—”

“No time for that,” Doallyn said briskly. “The breathing cartridges.

You promised.”

“Yes…” muttered Yarna, collecting her scattered wits.

“This way…”

Within minutes they were in the Hutt’s personal chamber. There had already been looters there—the place was stripped, and someone had flung a shovelful of dried rancor dung into the middle of the sleeping dais.

A message had been scrawled in huge letters across the wall: “Freeze, Jabba, in the Ninth Circle of Damnation!”

The words were already half covered by other, less creative admonitions and obscenities.

Quickly, Yarna led the way to an intricately carved panel, and pressed the tail of a fanciful creature. A small door swung open.

“How did you know about this panel?” Doallyn demanded as he began stuffing the cartridges into a bag, after sliding several into his pocket. Yarna methodically scooped up several credit disks that lay on the bottommost shelf.

“I was Jabba’s favorite dancer,” Yarna said. “He would send for me sometimes when he couldn’t sleep, and I would dance the sand-wave ballet for him. He said it helped him relax after a busy day. One time Jabba fell asleep, and I was dozing over there”—she pointed at the sleeping dais—”when Bib Fortuna entered.

He didn’t know I was awake, and he opened the panel.”

“I’m surprised Jabba trusted him with the secret of his hiding place,” Doallyn said, as they cautiously left the chamber with the guard in the lead, blaster at the ready.

Yarna smiled mirthlessly. “Jabba didn’t trust anyone.

He—” She broke off in alarm as they rounded a corner and she recognized a familiar shape silhouetted in the dark corridor. Long, lean, shrouded in shadow…

Dannik Jerriko! The dancer gasped and shrank back, as Doallyn, with commendable composure, raised his weapon. “Don’t move, Jerriko!”

The vampire turned his head, and his features came into view.

Yarna whimpered with terror. No demon spewed up out of Askaj’s Nethermost Abyss could have looked more evil. Fury contorted Jerriko’s features, and the pouches on either side of his face writhed as if with a life of their own. His mouth opened in a soundless snarl of rage.

The Askajian clapped both hands over her mouth to hold back a shriek.

Doallyn’s finger must have tightened involuntarily on the trigger of his weapon, for an energy bolt suddenly erupted in a white flash.

The shadowy figure melted into a doorway up ahead.

Yarna had to admire Doallyn’s courage, even as she questioned his sanity. He charged after the alien, and the dancer, against her better judgment, followed.

But when they reached the doorway of the chamber, and Doallyn keyed the illumination on, the room was empty of life. No other doors, no windows… but still, it was empty. “He couldn’t just vanish,” the guard muttered, sounding shaken. “Is there a secret passage, or hidden door?”

Yarna shook her head. “Not that I know of. But the palace has many secrets. There are passages beneath it, you know. Part of this place is still a B’omarr monastery.”

Doallyn’s breath whistled exasperatedly, then he shut the door, and locked it behind him. Yarna heard him cursing softly in what sounded like his native tongue. “He saw me,” he said finally, reverting to universal Basic. “Now he’ll be looking for me, too. I’m going with you.”

“But—” Yarna hesitated. She couldn’t leave anyone to face the death that had so nearly claimed her. “All right,” she said.

Their next stop was the kitchen. “Porcellus is a friend of mine… he kept things here for me,” Yarna said, as she ventured into the pantry. “I hope he managed to get away. safely…”

In the distant recesses of the pantry the Askajian had cached several blankets, some water flasks, and a couple of old, thick jackets she’d purloined from the guard barracks over the months. Hanging above them on a hook was a white bundle that could have been a voluminous apron—but was not. Yarna shook out the gauzy, faintly shining material, and it was revealed to be a long, loose robe with an attached, cowllike hood.

“My desert robe,” she said, noting Doallyn’s glance.

“We’ll have to find something for you.”

He nodded and held a bag as she briskly selected containers of preserved food from the shelves. “Now water,” she said, as he fastened the container and slung it over his shoulder. Going over to the sink, she indicated the desert flasks to Doallyn. “Fill these up, please.”

While he obeyed, Yarna herself filled a large container of water and drank it down without stopping, then filled and emptied a second.

Stripping off her elaborate dancer’s headdress, she ran her fingers through her long hair with a sigh of pleasure. She’d never realized how heavy the thing was until she knew she wouldn’t have to put it on again.

Splashing water onto her face, she removed most of the large, warty “beauty patches” that jabba had thought attractive.

“I didn’t realize those were makeup,” Doallyn commented, as she did so.

“Jabba liked them. He told me they reminded him of his mother.”

Doallyn’s helmeted head moved in a slow shake.

“Jabba had a mother?”

Yarna smiled at him. “My reaction exactly.”

Filling the water container again, the dancer slowly poured the cool liquid over her head and body, letting the fluid trickle over her skin.

When she finished, she found Doallyn watching her intently. His mechanical tones sounded surprised.

“You’re… bigger,” he said, his helmeted head moving as he surveyed her from head to toe. “Your skin… it’s so tight.”

“Askaj is a desert world.” Yarna answered his unspoken question matter-of-factly. “My people’s bodies absorb and hoard water most efficiently.”

He nodded. “Can you live on a nondesert world?”

“Certainly,” she replied. “But when we don’t need to hoard the water, we don’t.”

“How would you look on a nondesert world?” He sounded genuinely curious.

“Thinner,” Yarna said briskly, shaking out the folds of her desert robe.

She pulled it over her head, then snatched up the blankets, the old jackets, and one of the water flasks. Doallyn caught up the food and the rest of the water.