Star Wars_ Tales From Jabba's Palace - Kevin J. Anderson [42]
No doubt the kind of reminder Jabba intended when he gave J’Quille quarters this close to the pit. If Jabba suspected J’Quille still worked for her …
Owner of the Lucky Despot, Lady Valarian was Jabba’s most powerful rival. Not only was her nightclub the most successful in Mos Eisley—on the entire planet of Tatooine—she siphoned business from Jabba as easily as she sipped Sullustan gin.
As easily as the rancor would sip the marrow from J’Quille’s bones if he was discovered.
J’Quille snorted. All he had to do was keep his tusks clean for a few more days. Then the rancor and his devoted keeper, Malakili, would be gone, free of Jabba. J’Quille had helped arrange their escape with Lady Valarian. One of the few good things he’d been able to do behind Jabba’s back.
That, and bribing the kitchen boy, Phlegmin, to lace Jabba’s snack tank of freckled toads with slow-acting poison. A little too slow by the look of things.
Another bone snapped.
J’Quille’s claws tensed. He smoothed the fur bristling around his neck, raised by the scent of the Twi’lek’s blood and the huntlust surging through him. But was he hunter or prey? Or both?
He stopped pacing and glanced at the room, barren except for his sleeping pallet. Built by the B’omarr monks, the room’s stark ascetic reminded him of the rock-and-bone shelters of his homeworld, Toola. Two ceremonial trophies hung on opposite walls: a necklace of Mastmot teeth, dipped in poison; and the skull of a young bantha he had brought down one night with his bare claws. He was a hunter, not some weak Ice Puppy that sat back and waited for death to come.
He jerked open the door and slipped into the hallway. A pain-filled moan issued from one of the rank cells. A Gamorrean guard grunted as he pushed past J’Quille, bleary with sleep or too much Sullustan gin.
J’Quille stroked the spiky hairs along his lower lip. Lady Valarian liked gin. If only he were back at the Lucky Despot! Two days ago, when it looked like everything was going according to plan, it had seemed a possibility. His “falling out” with Lady Valarian would end and they could finally stop pretending.
That was before the note. Someone knew he was bribing Phlegmin. He had already paid a hefty ten thousand credits to keep the blackmailer silent. But it was only a matter of time before Jabba found out.
How much time? That was the question.
The crunch and snap of bones stopped. Blast. Sweat beaded J’Quille’s forehead and long, broad snout. When was the last time he’d been cool? He wiped his face with the back of his paw. Strands of fur clung to the sweat. He grimaced. Shedding again. Tatooine’s dry, sweltering heat sucked the energy out of him. What he wouldn’t give for a couple of minutes in one of the Lucky Despot’s ice saunas.
Something scuttled past him—one of those spiderlike droids enlightened B’omarr monks used to ferry around their pickled brains. The glass jar winked in the dim light, then droid and brain disappeared around the corner.
J’Quille snarled in disgust and hurried on, stopping outside the rancor’s pit. The inner gate stood slightly open, as he’d known it would. Malakili was cleaning the outer cage.
The scent of blood was stronger here. J’Quille closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The intoxicating scent soothed his taut nerves, taking the edge off his repressed frustration. If he could just track down the blackmailer and kill him …
A foot scraped on the stone floor near him. His eyes snapped open. One hand jerked up, claws extended, while the other reached for his vibroblade.
“Hey, it’s just me,” Malakili said softly, stepping out of the cage’s shadows. Sweat glazed his bare chest and heavy arms. He patted J’Quille’s shoulder with a black-gloved hand. “Easy. You’re stiffer than an Imperial stormtrooper.”
“Been a bad night,” J’Quille said, letting go of his vibroblade.
“Tell me about it,” Malakili said, adjusting his black headband. His eyes narrowed in his thick,