Star Wars_ Tales From Jabba's Palace - Kevin J. Anderson [145]
Sitting in the Slave II, a faint smile hidden beneath a Mandalorian helmet, Boba Fett said, You don’t eat a barve like that all at once.
I see … I suppose I shall see you again, then.
You can count on it, said Boba Fett. His hands danced across the instrument panels.
The thrusters caught fire; light washed once more over the Great Pit of Carkoon—
A dark spirit arose into the night.
Skin Deep: The Fat Dancer’s Tale
by A. C. Crispin
Thud … thud … thud.
The rhythmic pounding echoed faintly in the cavernous audience chamber of Jabba’s palace. The bulky figure dozing cross-legged on the empty dais sat bolt upright and stared apprehensively at the arched doorway leading upstairs to the main entrance. The knocking came again.
Why would someone be out there, hammering on the blast doors? Yarna d’al’ Gargan wondered. Heaving herself up, the multibreasted dancer cautiously ventured to the archway and stood peering up the stairs toward the front entrance. Jabba’s frog-dog, Bubo, who was tethered at the top of the steps, looked down at her and croaked plaintively, begging for scraps. For once, Yarna ignored it. Straining her sensitive hearing, the dancer picked up a faint shout.
Thud … thud … thud.
The Askajian female glanced around and swallowed nervously. She wasn’t going up there alone. Death stalked the corridors and chambers of Jabba’s palace; they’d discovered another body, that of an unfortunate scullion named Phlegmin. Earlier, Yarna herself had been attacked and had barely escaped unscathed.
“J’Quille?” she called softly into the dimness. It was his turn to be on guard.
No reply.
Where was that stupid Whiphid? Hugging her arms across the pendulous mounds of her topmost pair of breasts, Yarna shivered. It was after sunsdown outside the palace, and nothing should be out there at this hour.
It was true that Master Jabba had gone off in his sail barge to witness the executions of the ill-fated Han Solo and his friends. The Hutt was hours overdue, and none of them had heard a word since the sail barge had departed … but that couldn’t be Master Jabba’s entourage outside. He wouldn’t knock on the front entrance. The master would enter the palace through the big rear doors. After being in the Hutt’s “employ” for nearly a year, Yarna knew the routine only too well.
So who was out there?
And what should she do?
THUD … THUD … THUD.
The hammering redoubled in intensity, and the shouting grew louder, more desperate. Everyone with the authority to tell her what to do—Master Fortuna, Tessek, Barada—was gone. Even the head Gamorrean, Ortugg, was nowhere to be seen.
Running her tongue over suddenly dry lips, she turned and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Guards!” she bellowed across the chamber. “Guards! Is everyone deaf? There’s someone at the main entrance!”
Other denizens of the Hutt lord’s motley “court” who had been sleeping in the far reaches of the audience chamber stirred, glancing around furtively … but none of them joined the Askajian at the foot of the stairs. In Jabba’s palace, calling attention to oneself could prove dangerous.
Yarna heard running footsteps, then an armed humanoid raced through the opposite portal. The guard in the battered dark armor was familiar, though he always kept to himself and she didn’t know his name. He’d been the one the Wookiee Chewbacca had knocked silly, smashing him into the wall with one swipe of a long, furred arm.
“What’s going on?” A mechanical-sounding voice emanated from inside the helmet that masked his features, and Yarna realized he spoke through a breathing filter. “Where is Master Jabba?”
“Hasn’t returned yet,” Yarna said, feeling her hearts pound in her belly. “Who are you?”
“Sergeant Doallyn, at your service,” the guard said, automatically straightening to attention. More knocks at the entrance made him glance up the stairs. “Who is at the door, Mistress Gargan?”
“I don’t know,” she said, appreciating