Tales From Jabbas Palace (Kevin Anderson) Read Online Free PDF Page B

after removing his own white-wrapped sandwich from the top of the pile. The rancor used a hooked claw to sort through the lunch offerings until it selected a curved dewback rib studded with lumps of gristly meat.
    Malakili unwrapped his sandwich and hunkered down on the rancor’s bench-sized toe. Above him, the monster chewed on the long’ rib bone, gnawing and slurping. Malakili’s black headdress protected him from the splattering gobbets of dripping juices that fell from the rancor’s mouth, showering him and running down his own bare back.
    As he ate, munching absently on his delicious sandwich, Malakili thought about his possibilities, the options-and his future.
    It had been clear from the start that Jabba’s main goal was to challenge the rancor until some greater opponent killed it. Jabba cared nothing for the monster, and neither did any of the others. Even greasy-haired Gonar was terrified of the monster, wanting to be around the rancor only for the prestige and the power it offered. The other spectators who hung around the dungeons had no attachment to the beast either—not the hairy Whiphid guard who poked his tusks against the bars of the cage, watching the bestial power of the rancor as if it reminded him of something from his home planet; not Lorindan, the nozzle-nosed spy who had no motives other than to find information he might sell to someone else.
    No, Malakili was alone on Tatooine. He alone loved the monster, and it was up to him to see that his pet was protected. He would find some way to help the rancor escape—and himself along with it.
    Malakili continued to chew on his sandwich, swallowing in a dry throat as plans began to form in his mind. Jabba was a powerful crimelord, yes, but he was not the only power on Tatooine. Jabba had many enemies, and Malakili had much information.
    Perhaps he could find some way to buy freedom for his pet.
    !n the monster’s Lair
    Near the center of the grubby city of Mos Eisley, a battered cargo hauler gathered dust. After landing one time too many, the Lucky Despot could no longer pass a single safety test, and so the hulk had remained where it sat, abandoned, until a group of misguided Arconan investors decided to convert it into a luxury hotel, hoping to take advantage of the extensive tourist trade on Tatooine.
    Shortly after the entrepreneurs went bankrupt, the Lucky Despot hotel and casino was taken over by a new crimelord on Tatooine, an upstart rival to Jabba who had great dreams, modest capital, and a mean streak wider than her yawning, tooth-filled mouth.
    The Lady Valarian lounged back in her contorted chair, relaxing in her plush office. She looked as suave as was possible for a horse-faced, tusk-mouthed, bristle-haired Whiphid female. As she spoke her smooth syllables, it seemed as if she were trying to purr—but to Malakili, it sounded like an overgorged gun dark gargling with its own bodily fluids.
    “I know you are from Jabba’s palace,” Lady Valarian said with a grunt deep in her throat. Her peg-like tusks shoved forward from her underjaw as she leaned closer. She batted long eyelashes at him.
    Malakili whiffed her heavy perfume that attempted to mask the rank, musky smell of Whiphid fur; he thought this was a worse odor than anything he had smelled in the cages at the Circus Horrificus.
    “Yes, I am from Jabba’s palace,” Malakili said, stroking his black headdress, “but Jabba can’t always provide everything I need. So I’ve come to you, Lady Valarian.”
    She hunched her shoulders and lifted her brutally ugly face. Her body trembled in what Malakili took to be an expression of mirth. “And how do you expect to pay for this favor you ask of me?”
    “I know that Jabba is your enemy, Lady Valarian,” Malakili said.
    “I know that you might wish to have full schematics of the palace. The B’omarr monks who built it have kept the layout secret. You might wish to learn some of the hidden entrances to the lower levels. You might