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Teroenza raised one of his small, almost dainty forearms, and used his fingers to smooth a soothing oil into his leathery skin. He rubbed gently around his bulbous eyes. The sun on Ylesia was frequently sheathed in clouds, but it had enough strength to cause his skin to dry out unless he took care of it. Frequent mud baths helped, as did this expensive emollient. He began rubbing the oil into his horn, remembering the last time he’d been home, on Nal Hutta. He’d attracted a mate, Tilenna, and they’d spent hours together, rubbing each other with oils …

The High Priest sighed. Doing his duty to his homeworld and the clan of Hutts his family served called for sacrifices. One of them was that only male priests were needed on Ylesia, to provide the Exultation, so no female t’landa Til were here. No mates, no potential mates …

“Harder, Ganar Tos,” Teroenza murmured, in his own language. “I have been working too hard these days. Too much work, too much stress. I must learn to slow down, relax more …”

Teroenza glanced longingly at the huge door in his apartments that led next door, to his treasure collection. The High Priest was an avid collector of the rare, the unusual, the beautiful. He bought and “acquired” rarities and art objects from all over the galaxy. His collection was his one pleasure on this steamy, backwater world that was populated mostly by slaves and inferiors.

It had taken him nearly four years to restore the collection after that vile, despicable excuse for a sentient, Vykk Draygo, had ransacked the place and stolen many of the rarest and most valuable pieces. Several days ago Teroenza had discovered that “Vykk Draygo” was still alive. A check of the Devaronian Port Authority records had shown that the Corellian scoundrel’s real name was “Han Solo.”

Remembering the terrible night when his collection had been violated, Teroenza’s small hands clenched involuntarily into fists, and his head lowered with the longing to impale a victim on his horn. Ganar Tos’s fingers dug into suddenly taut clumps of muscle, causing the t’landa Til to wince and curse in his own language. Solo had fired blasters in the treasure room, causing irreparable damage to some of Teroenza’s finest pieces. The white jade fountain had been repaired by the best sculptor in the galaxy, but it would never be the same …

Teroenza was distracted from his memories when the front door to his apartments opened, and Kibbick the Hutt undulated in. The young Hutt was far from being old or corpulent enough to require an anti-grav sled—he got around fine under his own power, propelling himself forward in a series of glides by contracting his powerful lower body and tail muscles.

Teroenza knew he should rise from his lounge-sling, and greet his nominal master with deference, but he didn’t. Kibbick was a young Hutt, barely past the age of full Hutt accountability, and he didn’t want to be here on Ylesia. He was the nephew of the dead Zavval, Teroenza’s former Hutt overseer. Zavval’s sibling, the powerful Hutt clan leader, Lord Aruk, was his uncle.

The High Priest raised a hand and nodded politely enough, though. He certainly didn’t want to alienate Kibbick. “Greetings, Your Excellency. How are you today?”

The young Hutt glided up to the High Priest and then stopped. He was still young enough to be a uniform light tan in color, lacking the greenish pigmentation on the spine and down the tail that older, nonmobile Hutts frequently acquired. Since he was not fat, as Hutts went, Kibbick’s eyes were not hidden in leathery folds of skin, but instead protruded slightly, giving him a rather pop-eyed, inquisitive air. Teroenza had good reason to know, however, that that wide-eyed, curious stare was misleading.

“The nala-tree frogs you promised me,” Kibbick began in Huttese. Lacking the huge chest of older Hutts, his words were deep, but not particularly resonant. “The shipment hasn’t arrived, Teroenza! I was particularly looking forward to a repast of nala-tree frogs tonight.” He gave a theatrical