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Perhaps Lady Valarian had tired of waiting for him to act and decided to rid herself of the potential embarrassment of an inept spy in Jabba’s palace. She had always despised foolish, weak males. Look at D’Wopp, her first husband. The fool had been too stupid to turn down a bounty offer by Jabba during their wedding reception. Lady Valarian had shipped him back to Toola in a box.

J’Quille was no fool and he was not weak. The slow poison had been Lady Valarian’s idea. “Let’s not be too obvious, my sweet,” she’d crooned.

J’Quille stared at the vibroblade. Beautifully crafted, the finest weapon credits could buy. Was he jumping to conclusions? Still, she knew about the monk …

Slamming and banging echoed from the direction of the hangar. J’Quille listened at the door, then stalked to the window slit. In the gray light people were scurrying about, preparing Jabba’s Ubrickkian sail barge. Evidently Jabba was planning a trip to the Great Pit of Carkoon sometime in the near future, probably to feed Han Solo and the Wookiee to the Sarlacc.

Was J’Quille on the menu, too?

He shivered, then peered across the sands at the welt of brightness along the horizon. One of Tatooine’s two suns was rising. The light spread slowly like water, dousing the glitter of stars. He had better head up to the roof to meet the informant. J’Quille unsheathed his vibroblade and opened the door.

Someone shuffled down the hall. J’Quille waited in the doorway and listened to the dry whisper of clothes. Instead of diminishing toward the stairs to the main audience chamber, the steady shuffle grew louder.

A shadow materialized around the curve in the hall. It passed an open door. A pale, round face with a twisted nose peered warily into every shadow.

The same monk who had hidden in the recess outside the kitchen.

J’Quille eased into the room and waited for the monk to pass. The man’s loose robes swayed with each step. Light from the partially open door illuminated the side of his face. His head and face were devoid of all hair.

Anger surged through J’Quille. He narrowed his eyes, deepening the shadows in the hall. His pulse throbbed in his claws as his chest tightened around the beating of his heart.

J’Quille stepped into the hallway. The monk paused and turned, his hands hidden in the folds of his robe, a robe ample enough to conceal a blaster or a vibroblade.

“There you are,” the monk said. His gaze flitted to the vibroblade. “Let’s go to the roof, friend, where we can speak freely.”

The vibroblade trembled in J’Quille’s hand. He tightened his grip. “What do you want from me?”

The monk glanced nervously down the hall. “This is not a good place to talk. It’s too easy to be overheard. Trust me.”

“You were there when the kitchen boy was killed,” J’Quille said, unmoving. “I saw you.”

“There was nothing I could do,” the monk said. His hands shifted under his robes.

Before the monk could free his hands, J’Quille slashed upward with his vibroblade. The blade sliced through the robes and the man’s chest. The monk stared at J’Quille, a look of surprise on his face, then toppled forward onto the floor.

The pressure in J’Quille’s chest eased. At last he could breathe again. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the ripe, giddy scent of fresh blood.

Sheathing his vibroblade, he knelt down and rolled the body over. The monk gurgled. “Phlegmin … black … mailer,” he rasped, then shuddered and died.

Phlegmin? J’Quille frowned and leaned closer.

Something winked in the dim light.

An earring. J’Quille turned the monk’s head to get a better look at the chartreuse gemstone set in a single gold ring. His blood went cold. “You’ll recognize what he’s wearing,” the cleaning droid had said.

The earring was Lady Valarian’s.

J’Quille had given her the pair the day after their first night together. She’d growled with delight and clipped the earrings on immediately.

J’Quille unclipped the jewel from the monk’s ear-lobe.

The monk had been working for Lady Valarian. J’Quille flexed his claws around the earring. What was he going to tell