Star Wars_ The Approaching Storm - Alan Dean Foster [88]
Unfortunately, all of it was expended in reaching the door. By the time he struck it, Anakin’s legs were barely able to hold him erect. The doors shuddered, but held firm. Retreating, he reached for his lightsaber, turned a slow, confused circle, and sat down. His eyes closed and he fell over onto his side. She was now the only one in the room who was still conscious.
Of course Baiuntu would subject himself and the serving female to the effects of the immobilizing perfume, she found herself thinking. How better to put someone you wanted to poison at ease than by partaking of that same poison yourself? If nothing else, it suggested that the narcotizing procedure was not fatal. Baiuntu might be the type to join his intended victims in sleep, but not in death.
She saw it all clearly now. They had been lured in and rendered helpless—but for what purpose, to what end? Soon other Qulun would doubtless open up the room, wait for the tranquilizing mist drifting within to dissipate, and then assist their chief and the unconscious female. As for the clan’s erstwhile “guests,” what was to be done with them remained a matter of some speculation. Speculation she could not track to a logical conclusion, because she was tired, so tired, and at the moment nothing could possibly feel any better, nothing could conceivably matter more, than a good night’s sleep.
A part of her brain screamed at her to keep awake, to stay alert. Fighting the perfume’s effects, she managed to lift her head off the cushions. It was a last, defiant gesture. Even Jedi training could be overcome. Perhaps not by force of arms. But a lightsaber was useless against the delectable, all-pervasive, irresistible fragrance of essence of paluruvu …
“There’s the grotty little dyzat! Get him!”
Tooqui didn’t know why the two Qulun were chasing him, but he didn’t hang around to find out. Both clan members were brandishing strange, foreign weapons, and even though he didn’t know what they were or what they could do, he decided right away that it would be better not to wait around to see.
Something bad must have happened. If Master Barriss was all right, she wouldn’t stand for him being chased like this, by screaming, wild-eyed, angry Qulun. The last time he had seen her, she and her endlessly interesting friends were relaxing in the company of the Qulun chief. Everyone seemed to be getting along wonderfully well well. What had happened to change that?
True, the traders were Qulun, not Alwari. But they were still people of the plains, not the hills. Perhaps they were after all no more trustworthy than a bunch of roving, slobbering Alwari, the dorgum-herding snigvolds.
If that was the case, then Master Barriss too might for sure be in danger. She and her teachers were very powerful, but they were not gods. They were not as strong as Miywondl, the wind, or Kapchenaga, the thunder. They were only people. Bigger than the Gwurran, maybe a little smarter, but just people. They could be broken, and deaded. The Qulun were people, too. That meant they also knew of different ways of killing.
But if there had been killing, surely he would have heard something. From what he had seen, Master Barriss and her companions were not the kind to go down without a fight. Had they been tricked somehow? Many were the tales told in the tribal canyons on dark nights of the tricks shrewd trader folk sometimes played on unsuspecting visitors.
Something bright and hot singed the hair on the crest of his mane. He accelerated, running as hard and fast as he could. Though the Qulun people had longer legs, they were accustomed to riding and selling. If there was one thing the Gwurran knew how to do and did well,