Star Wars_ Coruscant Nights II Streets of Shadows - Michael Reaves [17]
Dejah was looking from Jax to Laranth as she spoke. “I’ve heard that you aid people who want to leave Coruscant. Is this true? I can pay you.”
Considering that those last four words made up one of Den’s favorite sentences, he felt impelled to speak up. “You heard right,” he proclaimed briskly. “For the right price we can get you off this overpopulated rock and into a new life offworld that’ll—”
Laranth silenced him with a look that stopped just short of singeing his eyebrows. Alternately mortified and irate, Den subsided.
“Payment isn’t necessary. Tell us what you have in mind,” Jax said. “How many people would be going?”
“Just two—my business partner, Ves Volette, and myself.”
I-Five spoke up. “Your pardon, but would that be the famous Caamasi light sculptor of the same name?”
She looked startled. “Yes. He is—was—quite well known—on his homeworld.” She was suddenly upset, so much so that she could hardly finish the sentence. It didn’t take a brain the size of a planet to understand why. Even if Jax and Laranth had not just been front and center, metaphysically speaking, for the event, Caamas’s shocking destruction had lately been the talk of the general media.
“You fear for his future,” Laranth said, “and for your own, by association.”
This was, as far as Den was concerned, an entirely reasonable concern. If the Emperor had gone to the trouble of destroying the Caamasi homeworld, for whatever reason, then it followed that he would take care to keep tabs on any survivors who might keep the issue alive by asking awkward questions. Already the general media was seeking them out. A small but vocal and active minority was an inconvenience someone like Palpatine would surely rather do without. Which no doubt meant anyone aiding such survivors would also come in for increased Imperial scrutiny. Den swallowed, running his finger around a suddenly too-tight collar. His initial enthusiasm for taking on this particular new client was fading fast.
“Yes, I do,” the Zeltron said in belated response to Laranth’s query. She gave Jax an imploring look. “Please help us. Ves isn’t a coward, but like many artists he has little sense of the way galactic society works. I’m afraid he might do something reckless and vengeful, like producing a work deliberately insulting to the Emperor. That could get us both killed.”
Her skin flushed an ever-so-slightly darker shade of red as she spoke. Den knew his eyes were probably the only ones in the room sharp enough to notice it, outside I-Five’s photoreceptors. He had seen the Falleen Prince Xizor’s skin darken the same way, and he suspected it was for similar reasons. This Duare person was in all likelihood pumping out some industrial-strength pheromones in an attempt to chemically sway Jax, and probably Laranth, too, to her side.
He was not sure if Twi’leks were immune to Zeltron pheromones. He recalled that the Paladin had been affected by Xizor’s mesmerizing sweat, but that meant nothing here, of course. Duare was of a different species.
He realized that Duare was speaking again, and he listened intently. “I help Ves with his work,” she was telling her audience. “You probably know that my kind are telempathic. It’s an ability that comes in handy helping Ves get in the mood to do his best work.”
I-Five must have seen Den’s blank look. “Zeltrons can project and sense emotional states,” the droid told him. “Think of it as telepathy with feelings instead of words.” He addressed this explanation to his friend via a directional sonic pulse so that no one else could overhear it. Den was grateful for the information. He hadn’t been aware of this last factoid. Makes the whole pheromone thing seem kinda superfluous, he mused.
He glanced again at Jax. The Jedi still seemed in complete control of