Read Tales from Jabba's Palace for Free Online

transport?”
    “A live animal,” Malakili said. “And myself. I intend to take Jabba’s pet rancor with me. I need to find a deserted world, preferably lush, a jungle moon perhaps or a backwater forested planet where a resourceful person could eke out a living, and where a large creature could have his freedom and enough prey to hunt to his own satisfaction.”
    Lady Valarian growled in stuttering low bursts, which Malakili interpreted as delighted laughter. “You want to steal Jabba’s rancor? That would be hilarious! Oh, this is too good to miss. Yes, yes, I will provide the ship you need. We can set the time and the date.”
    “As soon as possible,” Malakili said.
    Calmly, Lady Valarian waved a clawed hand across the glowing sheen of her antique desktop. “Yes, yes, as soon as possible. The most important thing, I think, will be to install a tiny spycam in Jabba’s throne room—just so I can watch the expression on his bloated face when he finds out what’s happened!”
    Valarian tapped some unseen marker on her desk, and a melodious chime rang out. The door whisked open, and two heavily polished protocol droids marched in. “Yes, Lady Valarian?” they said in unison.
    She directed one of the droids to take Malakili to another room where he would provide “certain information.” The other she instructed to arrange for a ship, to find a suitable world according to Malakili’s specifications, and to arrange all the details of the passage.
    “My gratitude, Lady Valarian,” Malakili said, stumbling over his words, still unable to believe that he had stepped down the irrevocable path.
    Valarian chortled again as Malakili got up to follow the protocol droid into the corridor. “No, thank you, ” she said. “This is worth any number of investments.” The door closed behind her while she was still chuckling.
    Bad Timing
    Malakili tried to remain calm and behave normally as he counted the days to the appointed hour of his rescue.
    He watched with furtive eyes, suspecting spies in every shadow—but Jabba and his followers above in the throne room seemed oblivious to Malakili’s actions. Jabba was caught up in the troublesome details of running his new cantina, and he also boasted that his bounty hunters would shortly bring him a kraytdragon—which meant that the Hutt limited the violent challenges upon the rancor, not wishing the monster to be injured before its titanic battle. The most recent fresh and kicking meal the rancor had devoured was a mere Twi’lek dancing girl, which the rancor savored, consuming her in three delicate bites rather than the customary one large gulp.
    Malakili tried to relax, hoping that perhaps his plan would come off smoothly after all. But, as he was wheeling the meat-laden cart of the rancor’s lunch to the cell gate, pallid-faced Gonar stepped out of the shadows with an idiotic, devilish grin.
    “I know about you, Malakili!” Gonar said in a hushed, hoarse whisper. “I know about you and the Lady Valarian.”
    Malakili stopped the cart and turned slowly, trying to keep from showing his shock—but he had never been good at hiding his emotions. “And just what do you know about me and Valarian?” he asked.
    “I know you’re spying for her. You were traced going into Mos Eisley, into the Lucky Despot. I know you saw her in her private chambers. I don’t know what your game is, but I know that Jabba won’t like it.”
    Malakili couldn’t hide. His eyes flitted from side to side. Inside the cage the rancor sensed his keeper’s alarm and let out a low growl. “What do you want?” Malakili said.
    Gonar heaved a relieved sigh, as if pleased that he wasn’t going to have to argue any more. He swiped a greasy strand of hair out of his eyes. “ I want to take care of the rancor,” he said. “I’ve been around him as much as you have. He should be my pet.”
    Gonar flicked his eyes toward the cage. “Either you flee now and leave me to take care of the monster,”