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Dengar studied Boba Fett. He was a careful man, a dangerous man who was deserving of his reputation. And Dengar was low on funds. He nodded slightly. “Partners, I suspect. Tell me more about the deal.” Dengar leaned forward as if interested in speaking with Boba Fett, but he was really watching down toward the lighted area before Jabba’s throne.

Manaroo had just come out from behind a curtain, and now she stood blinking, trying to let her eyes adjust to the brightness of the stage after days in the dungeon. Her heart hammered with fear as the musicians began to strike another tune, and she went to their leader, begged him to wait a moment.

“Agreed,” Boba Fett said. “Let’s wet our tongues as we discuss our plans. I’ve a vintage here that I think will surprise you. It should have warmed enough by now.” He opened the green container and poured the liquor into two glasses. For a moment, Dengar dared hope that he would finally get to see what lay hidden behind Boba Fett’s visor, but the warrior simply pulled a long feeding straw out from beneath the visor and stuck it into the glass, then began sipping.

At the sight of that, Dengar began to wonder if all the rumors about Boba Fett’s paranoia might not be true. If so, then in the past his sickness had served him well. People paid Boba Fett to be paranoid. Working with him would be interesting.

Only when Dengar saw that Boba Fett had safely drunk the liquor, did he also take a drink. It was a dry drink, with a piquant bouquet and a slightly sweet nose. Dengar found it quite appealing.

Down by the throne, the musicians struck up a dancing tune. Dengar found that his hands were shaking as he shared Manaroo’s fear, and he knew he needed to steady his nerves in case he had to open fire on Jabba. He swallowed half a glass.

“Watch out there,” Boba Fett said, “not so fast. This is more potent than you imagine.”

Dengar nodded absently. Down on the dance floor, Manaroo swirled across the room, playing a golden flute as she leapt, and Jabba leaned forward and studied her hungrily, as if she were one of the squirming insects on his food tray. The Hutt opened his mouth, just barely, and licked his lips with his horrible tongue.

Dengar leaned closer, his heart pounding. On the dance floor, Manaroo was swirling, playing her pipe in deliberate frenzy, and Dengar felt the room begin to spin around him. He put both hands on the table to keep from toppling forward, and found that his eyelids felt enormously heavy. He strained to keep his eyes open, and each time they closed, he saw the room as Manaroo did, spinning around, the leering faces studying her.

“Are you all right?” Boba Fett asked, his voice sounding distant and tinny.

“Got … to get Manaroo out,” Dengar muttered, and he tried to stand. His legs felt as if they were tied to the chair, and he wondered how he could feel so weak. “Liquor … poison …?” He reached for his blaster. His eyelids closed by themselves, and he saw the room spinning, heard the pipe shrilling unnaturally as Manaroo played.

When he opened his eyes, Boba Fett was there at his side, holding Dengar upright, helping him pull the blaster from his holster. Dengar’s hands felt too heavy, too big and uncoordinated for such a delicate task, and he was grateful for Boba Fett’s help getting the blaster free from its holster.

“Not poison,” Boba Fett said, and Dengar had to concentrate to hear him above the noise of the great hall, the shrilling of the pipe. “Just drugged—on the rim of your glass. Jabba has something special in mind for you. You are to feel the Teeth of Tatooine.” Dengar lurched up, knocking his own table over. Around the throne room, the music stopped, and everyone turned to watch him. Jabba himself laughed merrily, his eyes gleaming as Dengar struggled forward, hoping to strike one blow at the monster.

Someone stuck a foot out to trip Dengar, and he landed on the floor, rolled to his back. There was a shout and applause, and one of Jabba’s henchmen