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“How do you guys do that thing you do with the pilgrims each night at the devotion? What they call the Exultation? It sure packs a wallop, whatever it is.”

“The Exultation?” Veratil chuckled, a low, booming sound. “That moment of rapture the pilgrims regard as a Divine Gift?”

“Right,” Han said. “I’ve never been able to experience it,” he admitted. Because I’ve fought it as hard as I can, he added silently. Because the last thing I want is some critter as ugly as you giving me jolts in my pleasure neurons …

“That is because you are a strong-minded individual, Pilot Draygo,” Veratil said. “Our pilgrims come to us because they are not strong-minded, they are weak, and looking for guidance. And their diets are designed to make them even more … malleable.”

Teroenza spoke up, “The Exultation is a refinement of a ability we males of the t’landa Til use to attract the females of our species during mating season. We create a frequency resonance within the recipient’s brain that stimulates the pleasure centers. The humming vibration is produced by air flowing over the cilia in our neck pouches when we inflate them. Our females find it irresistible.”

“We males also have a low-grade empathic projection ability,” Veratil said. “By concentrating on feeling good, we can project those feelings at the crowd of pilgrims. Both effects, taken together, produce the Exultation.”

“Neat trick!” Han said admiringly. “Is it difficult?”

“Not at all,” Teroenza said. “What we find difficult is having to lead the pilgrims in those endless services and prayers. At times, I’ve been so bored that I nearly fell asleep, waiting for my turn to lead the devotions.”

“Last year, one of the Sacredots did fall asleep,” Veratil said, booming with his species’s version of laughter. “Palazidar fell right over. The pilgrims were most upset.”

Both priests enjoyed the memory. Han laughed, too, but inside he was simmering with anger, thinking of the pilgrims staggering down the path, religious faith and devotion shining in their eyes. This place makes any of Garris Shrike’s scams look like nothing, he thought disgustedly. Someone should shut these greedy vermin down …

For a moment he wished he could be the one to do it. Then Han reminded himself that sticking one’s neck out for others was a good way to get one’s head and shoulders permanently separated. So why are you doing all this for Bria? his treacherous mind asked sarcastically.

Because, his heart answered, Bria’s safety has become as important to me as my own. I can’t help it, it’s just the way things are …

Now that he’d accomplished what he’d come here to do, Han began to think about how to gracefully (metaphorically speaking) extract himself from the mud and the company of the priests.

He was rescued by the arrival of a Hutt, who came gliding over the mudflat on his repulsorlift sled. A small squad of guards trotted vigorously alongside, panting in the humid heat as they struggled to keep up.

“Zavval!” Teroenza hailed his Hutt overlord, standing respectfully. Feeling like a fool, Han did likewise.

This was the Corellian’s first close-up encounter with a Hutt, and he tried not to stare at the creature’s huge, recumbent form, the enormous, pouchy eyes amid the leathery tan skin, and the green slime that oozed from the corners of the being’s mouth. Ugh … they’re even uglier than Teroenza and his crew, Han thought. He reminded himself that Hutts had been civilized for probably longer than his own species—but he still couldn’t quite eliminate the revulsion their appearance caused.

Or maybe it was just the knowledge that it was the Hutts who’d dreamed up the idea of running a religion on Ylesia as a cheap way to enslave innocent sapients that repulsed him.

The Hutt leaned toward Teroenza and said in Huttese, “I’ve received a message from home. Jabba and Jiliac deny everything, and we have no proof. The clan council has refused to …” Han couldn’t catch the word, “so we have no other way to …” and he finished with a phrase that Han couldn’t translate.

“Regrettable,” replied Teroenza in