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As Sy Snootles moved forward, she gazed around in wonder. The ride out to the enormous citadel on the edge of the Dune Sea had been long and desolate, and she’d expected Jabba’s palace to be a small, dusty tent city. Instead, it was a huge complex that bustled like an Imperial trading depot. She spotted Gamorreans, Jawas, Twi’leks, humans, countless droids, and even a Whiphid. She could tell someone rich and incredibly powerful lived here. All these people meant there had to be a lot going on.

She looked back once to make sure Max and Droopy were following—they were—before hurrying after Cuthas.

Doors to either side opened onto storerooms, offices, and all manner of workrooms. She wrinkled her nose. It smelled bad up ahead—mostly of spilled intoxicants and sweaty body armor, but of other, less pleasant things as well.

They rounded several corners—the stink growing steadily worse—and abruptly came to a huge room with a low dais. The immense, hairless, sluglike creature sitting there had to be Jabba the Hutt, she thought. Around Jabba were crowds of guards and henchmen, dancers and bounty hunters, humans and Jawas and Weequays and Arcona.

“This is Jabba’s presence chamber,” Cuthas said with a grand gesture. He led them around the crowds to a little bandstand set into the wall opposite Jabba’s dais. “Your equipment will be here momentarily. When Jabba wants music, he will gesture to you. Play like your lives depend on it—they probably do.”

Sy swallowed. This wasn’t what she had expected. She turned to tell Max they were leaving, but he was already scooping up hors d’oeuvres from a little R4 droid carrying a tray.

“Be careful what you say to Jabba,” Cuthas told them all in a low voice. “If he likes you, you’re all set. If he doesn’t, you may come to regret it. I strongly suggest you make him like you.”

“Right,” Max said. “Is there anything else to eat?”

“Help yourself from any of the server droids. Ah! Here comes your equipment now.”

More droids were carrying in crated instruments. One by one they set them down. Sy went over to supervise. No telling what droids would do with a box full of slugs in a stasis field … and no telling if Jabba considered slugs his distant cousins. It was best not to take chances.

Max stuffed himself while the droids set up the instruments. Every passing droid carried a platter different and more delicious than the last. By the time the instruments were powered up, he had a full belly, a goblet of warm, spiced ale, and enough snacks hidden away behind his organ to last the night. Sipping his ale, he checked the amps and preamps, double-checked the tone resonators, and ran through a soft low-power scale, from short wavelength sounds to the highest supersonics imaginable.

The immense Hutt shifted on his throne. Huge reddish-brown eyes peered at Max suspiciously for a second, then Jabba barked a low sound.

“My master bids you to play,” a silver translator droid said.

“This is it,” Max said to Sy and Droopy. He felt really, really good. So good he didn’t even mind when Sy called out the first song—“Lapti Nek”—instead of him.

He ran through the intro in double time, hit the first notes, Sy came in on cue, followed by Droopy, and they were blasting away as if they had nothing in the world but their music. The woodwinds arced and fluttered, the organ ground smoothly, and Sy hit the high warbles as if she were playing for the Emperor himself. He felt the thrumming vibration on high notes through his ears and the subtle, almost dainty counterpoint melody in the tympanic organs in his snout. It was beautiful, Max thought, the best they’d ever played. It was almost as good as dinner had been earlier that evening, and it went on and on as they chased riffs and melodies through a dozen variations on the opening chorus.

When they finally came up for air, there was perfect silence for a long moment. Max looked around. Hadn’t their performance been good? Why wasn’t anyone clapping?

Everyone seemed to be looking at Jabba. Max