Star Wars_ Tales From Jabba's Palace - Kevin J. Anderson [44]
J’Quille exhaled sharply, tired of playing these games. If it turned out to be a setup, he could always claim that he was just doing his job, following up on a suspect. For Jabba.
J’Quille wet his lips. Yes, that was the way to handle it. A thrill ran through him, not unlike the one he got while tracking an Ice Puppy or a Sea Hog back on Toola.
“I’ll be there,” J’Quille said.
He ducked into the hall and up the stairs to Jabba’s main audience chamber. Jabba and his minions dozed on the crimelord’s dais. The band played on, melodic jizz and dense smoke cavorting in a sinuous dance of sound and smell. Frozen in carbonite, Han Solo stared at him from the display alcove.
J’Quille eased past the bandstand, skirting the trapdoor to the rancor’s pit. He caught a glimpse of Malakili through the grating, still cleaning the pit while the rancor gnawed contentedly on a wet bone.
The rancor belched. The band missed a beat but picked up quickly, as if trying to drown out the disturbance.
Jabba opened one eye, then closed it again, clearly unconcerned. His tail twitched, a sure sign that he was wide awake. Even the new gold droid beside him stood alert, ready to translate the orders of its master. Bib Fortuna slept on the floor, next to Salacious Crumb, who was snoring loudly. Not even sleep could silence the little garbage disposal.
J’Quille descended the steps to the kitchen. Someone watched from a darkened recess—one of the B’omarr monks that still lurked in the palace. The monk’s broad, round face was moon-pale, his twisted nose casting a craterish shadow along one cheek.
J’Quille scowled and picked up his pace.
He slowed near the kitchen door. The scent of bruised goatgrass wafted from the darkened room. He crept closer. Dim light spread from one of the inner rooms.
He pricked up his ears.
Two voices rose in argument: Ree-Yees’s perpetual slur and the guttural grunts of a Gamorrean guard. Hiding behind the door frame, J’Quille peered into the room.
Goatgrass littered the kitchen like feathers from a fresh kill. Even more unsteady than usual, Ree-Yees teetered over a body sprawled beside a broken crate. Ree-Yees’s three eye stalks trembled as they tried to focus on the Gamorrean. The guard glowered at Ree-Yees, then waddled forward and bent to look at the corpse.
Ree-Yees shifted slightly, giving J’Quille a clear view.
Phlegmin, the kitchen boy.
J’Quille’s foot claws curled reflexively, digging into the stone floor. His heart hammered in his ears, blotting out the guard’s piglike grunts and Ree-Yees’s drunken bleats. What had that goat-faced, three-eyed bar rag done? Clenching and unclenching his claws, J’Quille quelled the urge to stomp forward and rip out the thieving Gran’s throat.
J’Quille growled under his breath and drew back. Better to wait. He could hunt the murdering drunk later. There wasn’t anything he could do now—not without arousing the guard’s suspicion. He swallowed, backing away from the kitchen.
He retreated the way he came. Hurrying past the darkened recess, he stopped. The B’omarr monk was gone.
J’Quille’s mind raced. Maybe Ree-Yees hadn’t murdered the kitchen boy after all. Maybe it was the monk. Phlegmin might have sent the droid to J’Quille after discovering the monk’s blackmail plot. The monk found out and killed Phlegmin …
But why would a B’omarr monk blackmail J’Quille? He suspected the monks wanted Jabba out of their citadel as much as anyone, more. But if Jabba found a discontented B’omarr to work as a spy for him … hardly surprising. In fact, it would be more surprising if he hadn’t.
But why not simply turn J’Quille over to Jabba?
J’Quille let out a breath and hurried up the stairs to the audience chamber. Lady Valarian would know what to do. The last time he’d contacted her, she’d told him not to call until Jabba was a chortling, mindless slug.
But without Phlegmin that might take a while. Besides, she needed to know what was going on.
The band was packing it in when J’Quille eased past them. The rancor snored in its pit, and even Jabba’s tail had slowed its pensive rhythm. J’Quille