Star Wars_ Tales From Jabba's Palace - Kevin J. Anderson [71]
“Now hurry on back,” Tessek said smoothly. “Some new bounty hunter has come for the reward on the Wookiee and you won’t want to miss the fun.”
Snuffling, Ree-Yees hurried off to the audience chamber.
That night, Jabba ordered a hidden watch set on the audience hall and an alarm for his prized wall possession, the carbonite-frozen Corellian smuggler. What a bother, Ree-Yees thought, but something had aroused Jabba’s suspicions even more than usual. At last Ree-Yees was able to slip away, refill his gin tankard, and make his way along the darkened corridor to the kitchen.
Ree-Yees paused beneath the ancient wooden beams of the doorway and peered in, but saw no sign that anyone was present.
Phlegmin, that odious little wart of a scullion, had been more than happy to take his winnings in exchange for setting aside the marked shipments of goatgrass, never dreaming what lay hidden within them. He probably thought Ree-Yees was indulging in nostalgic gluttony. It was just the sort of thing Phlegmin himself would do when he wasn’t complaining how badly treated he was or bragging how famous he’d be once he got off this dustball planet. Ree-Yees guessed that Phlegmin did more than divert a few crates of vegetables; once he’d spied the kitchen boy adding something to the tank of Jabba’s favorite live appetizers. Ree-Yees watched him even more closely when the box of goatgrass containing the bomb casing had gone missing. Luckily, no alarm followed, only a particularly successful casserole, which seemed to temporarily allay Jabba’s suspicions of the chef.
“Phlegmin?” Ree-Yees called. “Old mucus-face?”
The faint scuffle of footsteps answered him, then a muffled cry. Scorch the two-eyes then, he’d find the shipment on his own. He hurried into the receiving area. Here the walls were lined with boxes of pickled meats, crates of dried fruits and beetles, casks of wine, jars of preserved tortoise dung, honeyed oil, caviar, and radioactive potassium salts—all the delicacies the Hutt’s appetite required. He began looking around, lifting the lids of packing crates, peering down aisles of stacked cartons and around giant barrels.
Ree-Yees called out once more, but once again there was no response.
Suddenly he spotted a box of about the right size, lying on its side behind a vat of fermented sandmaggot eggs. On second glance, he saw that it was splintered open, its silvery green contents spilled across the stone floor. Phlegmin was sprawled on the floor beside the box. In his years at Jabba’s palace, Ree-Yees had seen enough dead bodies to know one instantly, even if it were human. No mere sleep could produce such a graceless tangle.
Porcellus the cook was hunched over the body, wringing his hands. His head jerked up, his eyes bulged, and his hair—what there was of it—stood out in all directions.
“I had nothing to do with it!” he yelped.
Ignoring the hysterical screams of the cook, Ree-Yees threw himself down beside the box and raked his fingers through the silky goatgrass. He picked up the shattered box and shook it upside down, but it was no use.
The vital detonation link, the last component, was not there.
Ree-Yees bleated in terror. Whoever killed that pathetic excuse for a scullion must have taken the detonation link—knew what it was—
But wait! He couldn’t know the target was Jabba’s sail barge—or who had the rest of the bomb—
All was not lost, if he could act quickly. Once the body was discovered, Jabba would launch an investigation, no matter that this Phlegmin had been an insignificant and easily replaceable midge-brain. No one was allowed to die within the palace except those the Hutt himself ordered killed. But of late there had been strange goings-on in the back passageways—
“Urghh!” came a bellow from the doorway, even less articulate than usual for a Gamorrean.