Someone shuffled down the hall. J'Quille waited in the doorway and
listened to the dry whisper of clothes. Instead of diminishing toward
the stairs to the main audience chamber, the steady shuffle grew louder.
A shadow materialized around the curve in the hall.
It passed an open door. A pale, round face with a twisted nose peered
warily into every shadow.
The same monk who had hidden in the recess outside the kitchen.
J'Quille eased into the room and waited for the monk to pass. The man's
loose robes swayed with each step. Light from the partially open door
illuminated the side of his face. His head and face were devoid of all
hair.
Anger surged through J'Quille. He narrowed his eyes, deepening the
shadows in the hall. His pulse throbbed in his claws as his chest
tightened around the beating of his heart.
J'Quille stepped into the hallway. The monk paused and turned, his
hands hidden in the folds of his robe, a robe ample enough to conceal a
blaster or a vibroblade.
"There you are," the monk said. His gaze flitted to the vibroblade.
"Let's go to the roof, friend, where we can speak freely."
The vibroblade trembled in J'Quille's hand. He tightened his grip.
"What do you want from me?"
The monk glanced nervously down the hall. "This is not a good place to
talk. It's too easy to be overheard.
Trust me."
"You were there when the kitchen boy was killed," J'Quille said,
unmoving. "I saw you."
"There was nothing I could do," the monk said. His hands shifted under
his robes.
Before the monk could free his hands, J'Quille slashed upward with his
vibroblade. The blade sliced through the robes and the man's chest. The
monk stared at J'Quille, a look of surprise on his face, then toppled
forward onto the floor.
The pressure in J'Quille's chest eased. At last he could breathe again.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the ripe, giddy scent of
fresh blood.
Sheathing his vibroblade, he knelt down and rolled the body over.
The monk gurgled. "Phlegmin . . .
black . . . mailer," he rasped, then shuddered and died.
Phlegmin? J'Quille frowned and leaned closer.
Something winked in the dim light.
An earring. J'Quille turned the monk's head to get a better look at the
chartreuse gemstone set in a single gold rihg. His blood went cold.
"You'll recognize what he's wearing," the cleaning droid had said.
The earring was Lady Valarian's.
J'Quille had given her the pair the day after their first night
together. She'd growled with delight and clipped the earrings on
immediately.
J'Quille unclipped the jewel from the monk's earlobe.
The monk had been working for Lady Valarian.
J'Quille flexed his claws around the earring. What was he going to tell
her?
A grunt filtered down the corridor. J'Quille grabbed the monk's robes
and dragged the body toward the nearest guest room. The monk's hands
fell free of the robes.
His right hand clutched a thermal detonator.
The one the bounty hunter had used to threaten Jabba?
J'Quille snatched it from the stiffening hand. Whatever he had done,
here was a chance to redeem himself.
Heavy footsteps accompanied another grunt.
J'Quille glanced over his shoulder. No one yet, but the person was
definitely headed his way. He looked around wildly. Where could he
hide the detonator?
His belt pouch seemed too small-J'Quille crammed the detonator into the
pouch anyway, praying he wouldn't trigger it. The pouch bulged,
refusing to close. J'Quille smoothed his fur over the pouch's gap, his
Or rather, squealed out. J'Quille turned slowly, forcing himself not to
smirk, and looked up into the face of a squat Gamorrean guard.
Stupidity on the hoof.
The guard carried Phlegmin's dead body over one shoulder. This must be
the same Gamorrean who had been talking to Ree-Yees in the kitchen.
The guard trudged up to him, wheezing and snorting.
He uttered a few more incomprehensible grunts, then looked at J'Quille
expectantly.
J'Quille's mind raced frantically. Just how stupid were these guards?
If this brute could believe Ree-Yees, he'd believe anything.
The Gamorrean grunted impatiently. One of the squeals sounded like
"dead."
J'Quille stood. "He's not dead, he's, uh, meditating.
Gone into a deep trance. Pondering the imponderables."
The guard bent over the monk. He wrinkled his nose at the blood and
snuffled a short, bewildered snort.
J'Quille wet his lips. "The blood? He wanted to see if he'd reached
the final stage of enlightenment. He decided to do a little testing on
his own to see if he was ready before asking his friends to put his
brain in ajar."
The guard's eyes narrowed. He grunted and pointed first at the monk's
head, then at his chest.
J'Quille shrugged. "That's where their brains are.
In their chests. It makes it easier to remove them."
The guard's brow puckered. He shuffled, then grunted something that
sounded like, "Can't meditate here," then bent down and hefted the body
of the monk onto his other shoulder.
J'Quille watched the Gamorrean shamble oft; then heaved a sigh of
relief. He touched the thermal detonator.
Slipping into the nearest guest room, he walked over to the window. He
held up the earring and admired the sunlight shining through the clear
stone, then set it on the windowsill. He opened his pouch.
J'Quille cradled the thermal detonator in his claws.
He knew just what to do with it. He'd been given a second chance to get
rid of Jabba--this time he wouldn't blow it. Sleight of Hand: The Tale
of Mara Jade
by Timothy Zahn
The dance ended, and the music was silenced. She stood as she had
finished: on single tiptoe, her opposite arm upstretched, reaching with
silent eloquence for the stars or the Empire or perhaps merely the
approval of her master. For a pair of heartbeats she held the pose.
Then, with a dramatic flourish, she collapsed again to the floor, arms
sweeping around and onto the floor in front of her like the wings of a
downed bird, legs shifting to curl half around her, one in front and one
behind, torso bent forward over her arms. Grace and beauty and style,
transformed in an instant to unworthiness and submission and humility.
The precise combination, or so she'd been told, that Jabba the Hutt
liked in his dancers.
As did, presumably, the fat, scar-headed man sprawled on the couch in
front of her. But the seconds dragged on and he just sat there, not
speaking, watching her. She held her pose, breathing quickly and
shallowly into cramped lungs and wondering if she should go ahead and
get tip without waiting for permission.
But the fat man had already demonstrated his enjoyment of giving orders,
particularly to helpless underlings.
If she wanted to become one of those underli
ngs, it would be best to
allow him that extra little bit of egotism.
So she waited for his orders, and after a few seconds more he was ready
to give them. "Rise," he said, his tone as indulgent as the rest of
him. "Come here."
lose he was even more repulsive, his vaguely greasy aroma approaching
suffocation level.
But Jabba himself, she knew, would be worse. Maybe this was part of the
test.
"You dance very well, Arica," he said, looking her up and down.
"Very well, indeed. Tell me, what else do you do well?"
"Whatever my masterJabba the Hutt would require of me," she said.
He smiled, his small eyes almost disappearing into folds of flesh.
"Very good," he said. "Not what I would require, but what Jabba your
master would require.
A wise answer; but perhaps not wise enough.
Tell me, would it surprise you to know that I once was Jabba the Hutt?"
She blinked, giving him her best stupid-helpless-lost look. "You
were--? I don't understand."
"I was Jabba the Hutt," he repeated smugly. "Not really, of course, but
for a time many on Tatooine thought so. I was the one, you see, whom
Jabba always sent outside the palace to meet with people.
Kept his anonymity that way. A good smuggler always keeps a few
secrets." His smug smile vanished. "You see now who exactly you're
dealing with here."
"Yes, I see," she said. She did, too. He was the expendable one, the
man Jabba had sent out to take whatever blaster shots his many enemies
might care to fire in his direction. The stupid one, moreover, too
dazzled by the pseudoglamour and pseudopower of the role to realize he
was little more than assassin bait.
But for all that, a man Jabba must have trusted at least enough to
finalize his deals and not flop the charade in the process. And who
thus had probably earned whatever microscopic gratitude the Hutt was
capable of.
Someone not to be crossed. At least, not openly.
"Good," the fat man said softly. "Well, then. You're hired.
You'll start on the midnight shift--you never know when Jabba might want
some entertainment."
He looked at the door and snapped his fingers. One of the Gamorrean
guards detached himself from the door and lumbered over.
"The guard will show you the way. I'll see you later, Arica."
"I will be honored," she said, bowing humbly as she backed away.
Groveling before him.
But that was all right. Let the petty man revel in his petty power over
her. Trusted underling of one of the most powerful crimelords in the
Empire, he was still nothing. She could crush him with a word; could
bring down Jabba's entire organization on a whim; could burn this
backwater planet to a core of glazed sand with a single order. And if
none of that happened, it was merely because she had more important
matters to attend to.
For she was Mara Jade, the Emperor's Hand. Here to await the arrival of
Luke Skywalker. And to kill him.
The Emperor's face seemed to hover in the air in front of Mara, his
yellow eyes glittering with satisfaction. So you are inside, his
thoughts said. Skywalker has not yet appeared ?
Not yet, she thought back at him. But Solo is still here.
When Skywalker comes, I'll be ready.
The eyes glittered again, and Mara felt the warmth of his approval fill
her mind. Excellent, his thoughts said. Such a threat must be
eliminated.
Mara permitted herself a small smile. He will be, she assured her
master. Jabba may even get to him first.
Abruptly, the warmth withdrew, leaving an icy chill behind. Do not
underestimate this opponent, the Emperor warned, his thoughts dark.
Remember Bespin.
Mara grimaced. Yes. Cloud City on Bespin, and the duel between
Skywalker and Darth Vader. Skywalker had acquitted himself well in that
battle--far better than either Vader or the Emperor had expected him to.
And in the midst of that battle, Vader had proposed that the two of them
form an alliance against the Emperor.
Vader had later denied it, of course, claiming that the offer had merely
been part of his lure to confuse Skywalker and entrap him to the dark
side. But the Emperor knew Vader's thoughts and feelings, and he knew
that was not the entire truth.
Which was why Mara was here, and why she had come alone. She was the
Emperor's Hand, with powers in the Force that had been trained,
nurtured, and strengthened by the Emperor himself . . . and one of
those powers was the ability to cloak her feelings from even so powerful
a Dark Jedi as Lord Darth Vader.
He might wonder afterward if the Emperor had had a role in Skywalker's
death, but he would never know for certain. And with Skywalker gone,
the matter would be over. Vader would never defy the Emperor alone.
I remember Bespin, Mara promised. Skywalker will die here.
The Emperor smiled . . . and then another face was there, superimposed
on Mara's vision. A young woman with dark hair, wearing a dark red
jumpsuit.
"Are you Arica?"
Mara blinked and the Emperor's face vanished, only the lingering sense
of his distant presence remaining.
"Yes," she said. "Sorry, I was just thinking."
The other woman gave her a knowing smile. "Sure you were." She waved a
hand around her. "I'll bet your first week's pay that you were thinking
you'd made a big mistake coming here."
Mara looked around. The Dancers' Pit, they called the prep room, and it
was fully deserving of the name.
"Oh, I don't know," she said diplomatically. "I've been in worse
places."
"Better than the rancor pit, anyway." The other shrugged. "Don't
worry, the money's a lot better than the facilities."
"I hope so," Mara said, wondering what a rancor pit was. "The implied
fringe benefits weren't all that enticing."
The woman laughed. "Ah, yes--the Fat Man. He gave you his Important
Person routine, did he?"
"Something like that."
"Well, don't worry, he's mostly harmless. I'll tell you later what
buttons to push to keep him off you.
I'm Melina Carniss, by the way. Former dancer, current dance designer,
sort of general runaround person.
Come on--let's go to the throne room and I'll present you to His
Exaltedness."
They headed down one of the dark tunnels that seemed to make up the bulk
of this place. Mara crinkled her nose at the odors, wishing the quick
briefing she'd had on Jabba and his palace had been more comprehensive.
Perhaps she should consider wangling herself a trip over to Bestine, see
if she could get some up-to-date information on Jabba and his entourage
from Governor Aryon's office.
Still, that might prove dangerous in the long run.
To access Imperial data files, she would have to identify herself as a
high Imperial agent . . . and truly capable governors were not assigned
to dustballs like Tatooine. Governor Aryon could be too lazy or
incompetent to keep Jabba's spies off her paylist, or could be on
Jabba's
paylist herself. Worse, even the slightest exposure here could
eventually find its way back to Lord Vader.
Besides, this was just a simple assassination: quick in, quick kill,
quick out. No, she would handle this one on her own.
"There's the throne room," Melina said, pointing ahead toward an archway
that opened into a well-furnished chamber. "Oh, and look we seem to
have a show going."
Mara caught her breath. The show was Luke Skywalker.
Or rather, a holo of him. A prerecorded message, projected by a squat
R2-D2 astromech droid with a C-3PO protocol droid hovering nervously
beside him.
Skywalker's droids, all right. The ones who'd played key roles in the
destruction of the Emperor's prized.
Death Star.
"--I present to you a gift: these two droids."
The protocol droid squawked. "I wonder who that is," Melina murmured.