Star Wars_ Tales From Jabba's Palace - Kevin J. Anderson [45]
Climbing the stairs to the guest rooms, J’Quille passed the masked bounty hunter who had brought in the Wookiee and threatened to blow up the palace with a thermal detonator earlier that evening. J’Quille smiled. A fine, subtle display of huntlust. Truly admirable.
The bounty hunter nodded once, then continued down the stairs. No doubt on his way down to the dungeon to taunt the Wookiee. J’Quille’s nostrils twitched. Something about the bounty hunter smelled odd, out of place. There was no time to wonder about it now. J’Quille raced up the stairs.
He panted, his lungs aching with the still, hot air. Doors lined both sides of the curved guest wing, most open to reveal empty rooms. In the past they had served as individual sleeping and meditation chambers for the monks, but now the moldy breath of neglect filled the hallway. Jabba had few guests at any given time. Even two or three tended to nuture his pampered paranoia.
Glancing over his shoulder, J’Quille crept to an empty room near the stairwell leading up to the roof. He shut the door softly behind him.
J’Quille went to the window slit in the far wall. Peering out at the night sky, he flared his nostrils, sucking in the soothing breeze. The cool air smelled faintly of dust. A whiff of goatgrass clung to the breeze, no doubt rising from the kitchen. A delicious shiver traveled through him. Blood stained the wind tonight too.
He turned from the window and pried the cap from the pommel of his vibroblade. Sliding a holo-projection tube hidden in his vibroblade, he set it on the thick windowsill, making sure the tiny lens in the side faced him.
He pushed the transmit button and waited for Lady Valarian to respond. It shouldn’t take long. She didn’t go to bed until dawn, when the Lucky Despot closed for a short time to get ready for the next day’s customers.
A light flashed on the cylinder. Half a second later the lens projected a hologram of the entry hatch and bulkhead where Lady Valarian conducted business. Part of the Lucky Despot’s charm was that it had once been a cargo hauler. Lady Valarian had used the spaceship’s decor to create an atmosphere comfortable to spacers and exotic enough to lure planet-bound clientele. A low, wistful growl rumbled in J’Quille’s throat.
And into the middle of the holo stepped Lady Valarian, dazzling as always. Her curled mane, tinted a burnished red, spilled down the sides of her face. She had painted her tusks blue and wore a gold ring on the left one. Earrings glittered on her ears.
A wave of longing sped through J’Quille. His nostrils tingled with the remembered allure of her pheromone perfume, the softness of her fur against the flat of his nose, the way she snuffled in her sleep …
“J’Quille,” she said, waving one claw-polished hand. The blare of music and sabacc players from the Star Chamber Cafe tinkled in the background. “How wonderful to see you! Oh, my little Mastmot, how thin you are! You’ve been shedding again. Well, now that you’ve completed that little task you promised to do for me—”
“Not yet, my little ice tiger,” he said. He clucked his tongue. “There’s a problem. I need to talk to you.”
Lady Valarian’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of problem, dearest?”
The massive hand of a Whiphid male reached from the edge of the hologram and offered her a Sullustan gin ice blaster. J’Quille’s throat tightened. A male, in Lady Valarian’s chambers …
“J’Quille?” Lady Valarian said. “Darling?”
J’Quille cleared his throat. Probably just a servant. “I’m being blackmailed,” he said. “Someone knows the kitchen boy was poisoning the toads. He was killed minutes ago.”
Lady Valarian removed the siptube from her lips. “What are you trying to tell me, dearest? Does Jabba know you’re trying to poison him?”
“Not yet,” J’Quille said, wishing he could be that certain.
Lady Valarian sighed. “Then why are you calling, darling? Please get to the point. I have other business to attend to.”
J’Quille’s nose flaps flared.
Lady