Star Wars_ The Approaching Storm - Alan Dean Foster [30]
As time passed, she waited for her guard to grow tired, or to leave. He did neither. Nor was she able, try as she might, to influence his mind. That could be, she reflected, because according to every indication there was not much mind there to influence. That might explain why neither she nor her Master had sensed its hostile intentions.
They had used the unconscious shopkeeper to distract her attention. Upset with herself at falling for the diversion, she repressed the growing irritation. Anger was another kind of distraction, one she could not presently afford.
“Maybe bossban give Kyakhta and Bulgan bonus,” her watcher observed aloud. “Jedi lightsaber would be nice. Then Bulgan go home, show to clan. They let Bulgan back in. And those who object,” he made a swinging motion with one heavy hand, “Bulgan cut off their heads!”
“You speak fondly of your bossban.” She made a conscious effort to appear and sound as helpless and resigned as possible. “Who might that imposing individual be?”
A slow smile spread across her guard’s face. “Padawan try fool Bulgan. No Jedi tricks here. Bulgan and Kyakhta little slow, maybe. But that not mean we stupid.” Rising and lumbering forward, he loomed over her seated form; a broad-chested, bald-pated, threatening mass of muscle and bone, unusually massive for an Ansionian. “You think Bulgan stupid?”
“I did not say that, nor did I mean it,” she responded soothingly. The Alwari backed off. “But I do see something else about you that I am sure of.”
The hulking native’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “What that? Careful be, Padawan human. Bulgan not afraid of you.”
“I can see that. What I also see, and can sense in ways you cannot imagine, is that both you and your accomplice are in pain—and probably have been so for a long time.”
Bulgan’s brown, gold-flecked Ansionian eye bulged even wider than usual. “How—how you know that?”
“In addition to the usual Jedi training, many of us have our own specialties. Areas of learning that we are especially drawn toward. Myself, I am a practicing healer.”
“But you human. Not Ansion.”
“I know.” Her tone was tender, reassuring—compelling. “And I can’t fix your poor back, or give you a prosthetic to replace your missing eye. But the pain in your mind is akin to the pain nearly all warm-blood sentients experience. It arises from certain kinds of neural breakdowns and malfunctions. It’s as if someone was trying to wire a very complex computer and all the necessary materials and components were laid out before her, but she wasn’t quite sure how to link everything together. So she did a job that was a little too hasty. Do you understand anything of what I’m saying, Bulgan?”
The Alwari nodded slowly. “Bulgan not dumb. Bulgan understand. Haja, that just how Bulgan feel most of the time. Not wired right.” Tilting his head slightly to one side, he stared at her hard out of his one good eye. “Padawan can fix that?”
“I can’t make any promises. But I can try.”
“Fix pain in head.” Her captor was clearly exerting a considerable mental effort. “No more pain here.” He rubbed his forehead with his open palm. “That be a big thing. Bigger even, maybe, than credits.” The effort at extended cogitation having exhausted his limited intellectual resources, he glared at her again. “How know Bulgan can trust you?”
“I give you my word as a Padawan, as a student of the Jedi arts, as one who has dedicated her life to their high ideals—and to mastering the skills of a healer.”
Obviously torn, her captor took a deep breath, glanced circumspectly at the door, and then turned back to her. “You try fix Bulgan. But if you try trick, I—”
“I’ve given you my word,” she interrupted him, forestalling his threat. “Besides, where could I go? The door is locked and barricaded from the outside. Or haven’t you realized that you’re locked in here with me?” She did not smile. “Your friend is taking no chances.