Star Wars_ Tales From Jabba's Palace - Kevin J. Anderson [13]
No, Malakili was alone on Tatooine. He alone loved the monster, and it was up to him to see that his pet was protected. He would find some way to help the rancor escape—and himself along with it.
Malakili continued to chew on his sandwich, swallowing in a dry throat as plans began to form in his mind. Jabba was a powerful crimelord, yes, but he was not the only power on Tatooine. Jabba had many enemies, and Malakili had much information.
Perhaps he could find some way to buy freedom for his pet.
In the Monster’s Lair
Near the center of the grubby city of Mos Eisley, a battered cargo hauler gathered dust. After landing one time too many, the Lucky Despot could no longer pass a single safety test, and so the hulk had remained where it sat, abandoned, until a group of misguided Arconan investors decided to convert it into a luxury hotel, hoping to take advantage of the extensive tourist trade on Tatooine.
Shortly after the entrepreneurs went bankrupt, the Lucky Despot hotel and casino was taken over by a new crimelord on Tatooine, an upstart rival to Jabba who had great dreams, modest capital, and a mean streak wider than her yawning, tooth-filled mouth.
The Lady Valarian lounged back in her contorted chair, relaxing in her plush office. She looked as suave as was possible for a horse-faced, tusk-mouthed, bristle-haired Whiphid female. As she spoke her smooth syllables, it seemed as if she were trying to purr—but to Malakili, it sounded like an overgorged gundark gargling with its own bodily fluids.
“I know you are from Jabba’s palace,” Lady Valarian said with a grunt deep in her throat. Her peglike tusks shoved forward from her underjaw as she leaned closer. She batted long eyelashes at him.
Malakili whiffed her heavy perfume that attempted to mask the rank, musky smell of Whiphid fur; he thought this was a worse odor than anything he had smelled in the cages at the Circus Horrificus.
“Yes, I am from Jabba’s palace,” Malakili said, stroking his black headdress, “but Jabba can’t always provide everything I need. So I’ve come to you, Lady Valarian.”
She hunched her shoulders and lifted her brutally ugly face. Her body trembled in what Malakili took to be an expression of mirth. “And how do you expect to pay for this favor you ask of me?”
“I know that Jabba is your enemy, Lady Valarian,” Malakili said. “I know that you might wish to have full schematics of the palace. The B’omarr monks who built it have kept the layout secret. You might wish to learn some of the hidden entrances to the lower levels. You might wish to know some of Jabba’s habits and weaknesses.”
Lady Valarian snorted. “Don’t you think I have my own operatives inside Jabba’s palace?”
Malakili showed no expression, although he was terrified. “I said nothing about your operatives. I merely offered my own services. If you intend to challenge Jabba the Hutt, you must be very careful, indeed.”
He hoped he had said the right words. He, who had spent seven seasons taming the wildest creatures in the Circus Horrificus, now felt completely out of his depth in a plush room with a perfumed female who could squash him with a snap of her fingers.
“I’m not saying that I have any personal interest in doing harm to Jabba,” she said. “In fact, he and I have a limited partnership. He owns a token percentage of the Lucky Despot. But, information is sometimes incalculably valuable, difficult to estimate its worth. It is unwise to dismiss an opportunity to increase one’s knowledge.” She raised a bristly eyebrow. “Would you care for a drink? Then you may tell me about this favor I can grant you.”
Malakili nodded dumbly as she brought him one of Tatooine’s most expensive beverages in a frosted glass: clear, chilled water with two ice cubes floating in it. Malakili sipped his drink, licked his lips as the cold liquid danced down his throat.