Star Wars_ Tales From Jabba's Palace - Kevin J. Anderson [161]
The gasps changed, grew recognizable. Doallyn was trying to speak. Yarna leaned close. “Sorry …” she made out. “Save yourself … leave me …”
“Not while I live,” she replied fiercely. “Be quiet … save your breath. It can’t be far now …”
He clutched at the front of her desert robe, babbling urgently. Some nonsense about a treasure. Yarna ignored him. It took all her strength, all her concentration, to get him settled across her shoulder again.
Slap, slap … slap, slap …
She plodded along, forcing herself to move as quickly as possible, knowing that every second might be Doallyn’s last. Head down, concentrating on moving as quickly as possible, she was actually walking down one of the streets in Mos Eisley before she realized she’d reached the town.
Yarna’s head jerked up at the cry of a water-seller. I’ve made it! Now to find a vendor who sells breathing gear!
Stumbling, she forced her legs into a rough approximation of a trot. Was Doallyn still breathing? She couldn’t be sure … she could no longer hear him. Was that because of the blood rushing past her ears, as she tried to run?
Ahead of her, a bigger street. Vendors with stalls and carts, crying their wares. Yarna’s desert-hazed eyes fastened on one—an Ortolan like Max Rebo. Poor little Max … he’d gone on the sail barge, hadn’t he? Yarna thought foggily, as she jogged across the street toward her quarry.
Reaching the stall, she unceremoniously dropped Doallyn to the dusty ground and gasped out her request. “A cartridge of hydron-three, please!”
The Ortolan whuffled down his trunk at her. “Certainly, madame. It distresses me to inform you, though, that hydron-three is currently rather expensive. There hasn’t been a shipment since … well, it’s been quite a while.”
“I don’t care,” Yarna snapped, digging beneath her robe for the precious little sack she’d carried out of Jabba’s palace so long ago—was it only four days? It seemed as though half of eternity had passed. “I can pay. Give me five days’ supply.”
“Certainly, madame,” the Ortolan said. “May I see your currency, please?”
Yarna’s hands shook as she took out two small semiprecious gems and the stolen credit disks—all she could afford to spare. “Here you are.”
The Ortolan shook his head mournfully, his huge dark eyes very sad. “I’m dreadfully sorry, madame, but I’ll need twice that for two days’ supply.”
Yarna glared at him so balefully that he shrank back into the dimness of his stall. “Robber! I don’t have time to bargain! Give me two days’ supply, then!”
The vendor was firm. “I’m sorry, madame, but I must insist on the price I named. I’m barely breaking even as it is.”
“I have a man dying here! He needs that hydron-three!” Yarna said, her hearts racing. If she gave the vendor what he demanded, she would only be able to buy two of her children’s freedom. No mother could possibly make such a choice!
And yet … Doallyn had saved her life … several times.
“I’ll give it to you at cost, madame,” the vendor said. “Two more of those jewels, for three days’ supply”
Which still wouldn’t leave her with enough to buy all three children free. But Yarna found that she couldn’t turn her back on the hunter. “All right,” she snarled, slapping the requisite amount onto the counter. “Give me those cartridges!”
With the precious little container in her hand, she bent over Doallyn, wondering if he’d died while she bargained. That would be a final, searing irony …
But no … he still breathed, if slowly. Slipping the cartridge into his helmet, she triggered it and saw that it was working. Only then did the Askajian stuff her bag back into its place of concealment.
She managed to drag Doallyn off to the side of the shop, into the shade, then sank down beside him. For a long, nearly comatose time she simply existed, not thinking, not feeling … simply breathing in and out.
Yarna was jerked out of her half-trance when Doallyn stirred, then sat up with a groan. His helmeted head turned back and forth, as though he could