Star Wars_ Tales From Jabba's Palace - Kevin J. Anderson [154]
“So you never got to hunt a dragon?”
“That was one of the things Jabba wanted me to do. I have been out on many expeditions, hunting one ever since I came to the palace—but they are rare. I never even sighted one in all these months. Jabba …”—he shook his head slightly, ruefully—“was growing … impatient. It is well for me that he is no more.”
“So even if you had caught the dragon you would not have collected the bounty?”
“Correct,” he said. “But there were … other … reasons to hunt a dragon. Even if I had to kill it, I would have profited, I believe.”
Yarna’s curiosity was piqued. “How?”
“Krayt dragons reportedly have … intrinsic value,” he replied evasively.
Yarna had heard some of the bounty hunters and mercenaries talking about that. Some said that krayt dragons contained treasure, others that they, like dragons in ancient legend, guarded treasure. But most people dismissed that notion as being mere sensational rumor, if not outright folklore.
“What did your contract with Jabba say? Are you free now?” she asked.
“Yes, I am free,” he said. “And you?”
“Free,” she said, hearing the satisfaction in her own voice. “And once I get to Mos Eisley, my children will be, too.”
“Do you”—he paused, as if choosing his words carefully—“have a mate?”
“I did,” she said, opening the water flask and carefully smoothing a scant palmful of the liquid over her face. Then she allowed herself one long swallow. “But Jabba sent him to the rancor.”
He picked up his helmet and, not looking at her, said, “I am sorry, Mistress Gargan.”
“Please,” she said, “formality between us is no longer needed. I am Yarna.”
“Very well. Call me Doallyn.” He glanced down at the water flask she was carefully stoppering. “Why do you not drink more? We have plenty.”
“I don’t need any more,” she said honestly. “My people are desert herders, on a planet every bit as hot as this one.”
“What kind of animals do you herd?”
“Tomuons. Large, woolly, with long horns.” Her hands moved with a dancer’s flowing gestures, describing the creatures. “They give us milk, meat, and wool. This robe”—she held up a fold of her white desert robe—“was spun from their fleece.”
He touched the fold of cloth, and exclaimed over the finespun softness and beauty of the fabric. “It almost glistens,” he said.
“Yes, our fabric is highly prized. It is said that the Emperor’s ceremonial robes are made of Tomuon cloth.” She wrung a fold of the robe hard, then opened her hands and allowed it to fall into her lap, unmarred. “Our cloth is strong, and rarely wrinkles or stains. Askajian weaving techniques are prized secrets of our people. Nautag … my mate … was one of my world’s finest weavers …”
“And you,” he said, selecting a fresh cartridge of hydron-three and slipping it into the container on his mask, “were you a dancer before you came to Jabba’s palace?”
“I was,” she said. “My father was a chieftain, and I danced for the honor of our tribe in the largest competition.” She could not keep a note of pride out of her voice, but then, remembering the year in Jabba’s palace, she sighed. “I won that competition. And then … the slavers came. They took us … Nautag, me, our cublings. They … they killed one of our babies during the capture.” Her throat felt tight.
“And they brought you to Tatooine?” Doallyn asked, his tone almost gentle.
She nodded. “Jabba had asked them for an Askajian dancer. So they captured me … and I had to dance for the Hutt. Jabba promised me that he would not sell my children as long as I danced well for him. But you know the Bloated One could not be trusted … I was always afraid that he would allow me to work, to gain the money