Star Wars_ Tales From Jabba's Palace - Kevin J. Anderson [43]
“This place is a tomb,” J’Quille said. “Even the living are dead inside these walls. Might as well stuff our brains in jars.”
“Yeah, but the monk’s brains aren’t dead.” Malakili leaned closer to him. “Listen, I heard something I think you should know.”
J’Quille tensed. “What?”
“This afternoon Bib Fortuna tried to get Jabba to throw you into the pit. Thinks it would be an interesting contest.”
J’Quille peered at Malakili. “What did Jabba say?”
“I tried to talk him out of it. You’d inflict too much damage before my friend killed you. But Jabba wasn’t convinced. He said he’d give it some thought.”
“So I have a little time,” J’Quille said.
Malakili nodded. “A little. With luck, we’ll both be out of here soon.”
“Alive, I hope,” J’Quille said, curling the corners of his lips back around his tusks in a smile.
Malakili smiled. “I’ll let you know if I hear more.”
“Thanks,” J’Quille said.
Gnashing his tusks, J’Quille hurried back to his room. Things were moving much too fast, forcing his hand. Jabba’s increasing coolness, the blackmailer … and now Bib Fortuna’s plotting. Time to get Phlegmin to increase the dosage of slow poison. The sooner Jabba was reduced to a vat of gibbering slug jelly, the sooner J’Quille could return to Lady Valarian. He’d wanted to increase the dosage earlier, but he’d been afraid someone would notice a sudden change in Jabba.
Now he could no longer afford the luxury of caution.
J’Quille slipped into his room and went to the string of Mastmot teeth hanging on the wall. Lifting the necklace from its peg, he slipped it over his head. Luckily most people, including Jabba, considered him a mindless brute with a taste for crude jewelry. No one suspected the teeth had been dipped in poison.
J’Quille started at a low mechanical warble outside his door. His nostrils flared, crinkling at the acrid stench of oil and metal.
A droid.
The claws of J’Quille’s right hand curled involuntarily around the grip of his vibroblade, then slowly relaxed. An assassin droid wouldn’t announce its presence.
The warble repeated. J’Quille yanked open the door.
The maintenance droid, a blue U2C1 housekeeping model, chirped and took a step back. Both of its flex-tube arms quivered. With a whine, it sucked in air through the stiff brush at the end of its left arm and the upholstery attachment on its right.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” it said tinnily. “I’ve been instructed to clean this room.”
J’Quille stepped aside, allowing the droid to enter. Another calculated nuisance on the part of Jabba or one of his servants—most likely Salacious Crumb. That drool-lapping Kowakian lizard-monkey probably scavenged the droid’s waste tank for between-meal snacks. J’Quille sneered. He’d love to program the cleaning droid to suck up that cackling little rubbish heap.
“Please close the door,” the droid said. “This won’t take long.”
J’Quille grumbled.
The droid’s right arm snaked out to sweep the floor. The loud whine grated on J’Quille’s nerves. He reached for the doorknob.
“I have a message,” the droid said.
J’Quille hesitated. “A message?”
“From a friend.” The droid paused, but left its vacuum running. “ ‘I know who’s blackmailing you. Meet me on the citadel roof at sunrise and I’ll give you his name.’ ”
The rampart on top of the guest quarters. J’Quille had gone up there more than once to escape the press of the walls and drink in the cool night air.
“I have been instructed to wait for your response,” the droid said.
J’Quille’s hackles rose. A clever ruse by Jabba to lure him out? If the message had been sent by a friend, why the secrecy? Why not just give him the name of the blackmailer?
Obviously the person wanted something more from him … but what?
Money? Or to enlist him in another plot to kill Jabba? There were certainly enough of those. J’Quille had only leaked a fraction of them to Jabba. Only the least promising.
“How will I recognize him?” J’Quille asked.
“You won’t,” the droid said. “You’ll recognize what he’s wearing.”