Star Wars_ Tales From Jabba's Palace - Kevin J. Anderson [148]
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