Tales from Jabba's Palace by Kevin J. Anderson Read Free Book Online Page B

contents had been used to top yesterday’s chocolate ladybabies.
    The Twi’lek’s small eyes narrowed still further; in the kitchen’s mephitic light they had the appearance of dirty glass. “You know how solicitous our master is about his health.”
    Neither of them was going to speak the word “poison,” of course.
    “Absolutely,” groveled Porcellus, reflecting that between Jabba’s wholesale consumption of triglycerides, cholesterol, and alcohol—never mind substances less identifiable—and indescribable sexual practices, the Hutt would scarcely need poison. Porcellus was still trying to deal with the concept that a Hutt could be poisoned. “I scarcely need to assure you that throughout my term of service here I’ve accepted nothing but the finest, the most healthful, the tastiest ingredients to lay before His Excellency’s discriminating palate. I am at a loss to understand this most distressing development.”
    Arms folded, Fortuna drummed his long nails gently on his own biceps. “Should the situation continue,” he said in his soft voice, “explanations for it could be devised.”
    “Here!” Porcellus whirled, lashed out indignantly with the dishtowel in his hand. “That’s the master’s!”
    Ak-Buz, commander of Jabba’s sail barge, backed quickly away from the little electric fence around the beignets, dropping the pair of long-nosed nonconductive machinist’s pliers he’d used to poke through the current. A snarl contorted his leathery face—the only expression, as far as Porcellus had ever been able to ascertain, of which Weequays were capable—and he ran out of the kitchen into the hot sunlight of the receiving bay, shoving the stolen beignet into his lipless mouth as he went.
    “They seem to think this place is a charity kitchen.” Porcellus mopped nervously at the last traces of spilled sugar.
    “Shall I suggest to Jabba that the Weequay be punished?” Fortuna’s voice was a dangerous purr. “Thrown to the rancor? A little quick, perhaps, though Jabba is fond of the spectacle … Lowered into the pit of the brachno-jags, perhaps? They’re small in themselves, but a hundred can strip a being’s bones in, oh, five or six hours. One alone—if that being is tied up quite firmly—can take four or five days.” He smiled evilly. “Would that be a fitting punishment for one who tampers with His Excellency’s food?”
    “Er …” said Porcellus. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
    To his own great distress, his words turned out to be prophetic, as he discovered some hours later when he tripped over the barge captain’s dead body in the corridor leading to the lower regions of the servants’ quarters …
    Panic had had its effect. After searching the kitchen for another half hour, dogged by the sullen Phlegmin (“How come you let Ak-Buz take a beignet and not me? There’s nuthin’ in that box … What you lookin’ for, anyway, boss?”), Porcellus had discovered,to his horror, that though the time was approaching to begin preparing that night’s feast, he hadn’t the smallest inspiration about what to prepare. Poached icefish imported from Ediorung on a bed of Ramorean capanata? What if Jabba should choke on a bone? A ragout of Besnian sausage with orange-Madeira sauce? If the spices should disagree with his already irritated digestion, what would his immediate assumption be? Vegetable broth , thought Porcellus, vegetable broth and unspiced rice pudding  … He reflected upon the crimelord’s probable reaction to such a menu, and the images conjured to mind were not pleasant ones.
    In quest of inspiration for the first time in his life, he retreated to his room to consult his cookbooks, take a nap in the relative cool, and relax … he had to relax …
    And there was Ak-Buz’s body, sprawled in the corridor halfway to his room, arms outflung and eyes glaring fixedly in the sunken stare of death.
    Porcellus knelt beside the corpse. Still warm. Shreds of