Star Wars: Scoundrels (25 page)

“This isn’t the Covv’ter estate,” the man reminded Dayja patiently. “South ’fresher’s about a hundred fifty meters that direction.”

“You’d better get there before she gives up and finds someone else to enjoy the Honoring with,” the second man added.

“Oh, no,” Dayja breathed, letting his eyes go wide. “No. She wouldn’t—oh, blast it all. Excuse me.”

He turned and hurried away toward the crowd and the refresher stations, making sure to use the most inept shambling trot in his repertoire. A carefully controlled stumble gave him the chance to glance behind and see if they were following.

They weren’t. They weren’t interested in Dayja. They were interested in that door.

And whatever the reason for that interest, he suspected Eanjer’s team wasn’t going to like it.

A couple of security types had chased a lone visitor away from the area around the otherwise deserted garden area by the southwest door, but aside from that there hadn’t been any activity south of the twist fountains since Lando and Zerba had gone into the mansion twenty minutes ago. Readjusting the electrobinoculars pressed against her face, Winter refocused on the nearest of the building’s skylights—where there was nothing to be seen—shifted her view to the massive crowd watching the Grand Tempest—where there was way too much to be seen—and then returned to the door.

“Did you spot Bink?” Tavia asked, coming up to the window beside her.

“Sorry—I lost her in the crowd,” Winter apologized. “But she seemed fine half an hour ago when Sheqoa left her for the meeting with Lando and Zerba.”

“You’re sure?” Tavia asked. “You remember her distress signals, right?”

“Yes,” Winter assured her, passing up the obvious reminder that she would carry that list of subtle hand signals to her grave. “There were no signals. In fact, as near as I could tell from the body language, they seemed to be getting along quite well together.”

“Of course they were,” Tavia said with a sigh. “Another of Bink’s many talents is getting people to do what she wants.”

Including you?
“It’s a useful skill in your line of work,” Winter said instead.

“I know,” Tavia said. “And I don’t mean to be prickly. I’m just … people say you can get used to anything. But I’ve never gotten used to this. I don’t think I ever will.”

“Maybe this is the last time you’ll have to,” Winter suggested. “The credits from this job should let you quit the business for good.”

“It should,” Tavia said tiredly. “But it won’t. Bink’s promised a hundred times to quit, practically every time she thinks she’s looking at the big score. But somehow the credits are never as good as they looked going in, or the fence steals them, or we have to abandon most of the take, or there are other complications. There are always complications.”

“Sometimes life itself seems to be nothing more than a series of interlinked complications,” Winter agreed, forcing her mind away from the horrible complications that Palpatine and his Empire had forced on her and Leia and so many, many others. “All of them doing their best to get in the way of what you expected or wanted.” She lowered the electrobinoculars, giving her eyes a moment to rest. “What were you expecting to get out of life, Tavia?”

“To be honest, just more of the same,” Tavia said. “More poverty, more living hand to mouth, more of the two of us running and fighting the universe and trying to make it through one more day. What I
wanted
 …” She smiled suddenly. “Remember I said that Bink liked what she does because she’s good at it? That’s what it is for me and electronics work.”

“You can make a good living that way,” Winter murmured.

“And I’ve tried,” Tavia said, her smile fading. “I’ve tried, and tried, and tried. But every time I get a foothold somewhere, Bink manages to find something wrong with the job. Either it doesn’t pay like it should, or the boss is rude, or the jobs I’m getting are menial or insulting, or my co-workers drink their soup too loudly. There’s always something.”

“Life’s also sometimes a series of compromises.”

“And I’m willing,” Tavia said. “I try to tell Bink it’ll be all right, that I can work through the problem. But you know Bink. Before I know it, we’re back out on the street and she’s breaking into someone’s private office looking for that next big score.”

Winter nodded ruefully. She knew people like that, many of them, men and women who could feel alive only when they were risking everything and defying the odds.

They had their place, certainly. In fact, without them the Rebellion would probably have come to a screeching, bloody halt long ago. But at the same time, she couldn’t help but feel intensely sorry for them.

One day this war would be over. Maybe one day all wars would end. Distantly, she wondered what such people would do then.

“But at least we don’t have to live one day at a time anymore,” Tavia continued with a touch of wry humor. “Now it’s more like month to month. Definitely an improvement. Maybe after this it’ll be decade to decade.”

“We can only hope,” Winter agreed, turning back to the window and raising the electrobinoculars back to her eyes. Still nothing.

She could also only hope that, whatever was going on in there, Lando was on top of it.

There were times, Lando reflected, when you were outnumbered, outgunned, with all exits blocked, and holding a losing hand. In situations like that, there was only one option.

Bluff.

“Interesting,” he said calmly. “Are you sure?”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Villachor demanded.

“Am I?” Lando countered, putting an edge on his voice. He was a high-ranking member of a shadowy criminal organization, after all. Men like that didn’t intimidate easily. “I saw that card, Master Villachor. I don’t remember seeing any letters on it.”

“They’re not on the card itself,” Villachor said. “And you’re stalling.”

“Then what makes you think this card has anything to do with those letters?”

“Master Villachor is asking the questions,” Sheqoa growled.

“Master Villachor is angling for a second free sample,” Lando said bluntly. “First of all, there’s no reason for Prince Xizor to organize his blackmail files according to such an obvious system. In fact, I can think of a dozen reasons for him
not
to do so. An unauthorized person searching for a specific file could search until Imperial Center goes dark without finding it.”

He let his face harden. “And second, I happen to know that one of the Falleen slang terms for Hutt is
slivki
. Which starts with the letter
senth
, which
does
fall in the
osk
to
usk
range.”

Villachor’s eyes flicked to Zerba, back to Lando. There was still suspicion in his eyes, but there was also a growing uncertainty. “
Slivki
,” he repeated. “You’re certain of that?”

“Quite certain,” Lando said frostily. “I was there when a Falleen called a Hutt that to his face. It took the owner of the place three days to clear out the wreckage.” He gestured toward the door. “Go ahead and look it up if you want. I’ll wait.”

Villachor looked at Zerba again. “Perhaps later,” he said. “Morg Nar, you say.”

“Yes,” Lando said. “And that’s
all
I’ll say. You’ve had the sample I promised. You’re welcome to check that out as well. But the moment of decision has come.”

For another moment Villachor gazed at him, his face expressionless. It seemed to be the man’s favorite pose, probably designed to keep the recipient off-balance while he thought something through. “One decision, at least, is at hand,” he amended. He lifted his finger, and once again the three blasters were lowered toward the floor. “I’m no longer ready to kill you where you stand.”

“I think that’s a decision we can all get behind,” Lando agreed.

“But the decision of whether or not to deal further with you is still in the future,” Villachor continued. “Before I take any such step, I need to know more about your operation and how I would fit into it.” His eyes narrowed. “For one thing, I need to know what
you
get out of any such deal.”

“I’m what you might call a talent scout,” Lando said with an off-handed wave. “I study the field and find those I think could do better elsewhere. If I’m right and the person joins the group, I’m paid a small fee.”

“That fee being dependent on the value of the client?”

“Something like that,” Lando said.

“And that value would be enhanced if the client brought valuable objects or knowledge to your superiors?”

“Most likely.”

“Good,” Villachor said briskly. “Then you won’t mind if I speak directly to your superior. After all, who can better define the value of these files?”

Lando suppressed a grimace. Han had warned him that the conversation would probably end up here. “My superior usually doesn’t like to make direct contact this early in the negotiations,” he said. “I assure you that I have full authority to answer any questions and make any deals.”

“I’m sure you do,” Villachor said. “You’ll nevertheless bring him to me.”

Lando pretended to consider, then gave a little shrug. “Very well. I’ll contact him tonight with your request and bring you his answer tomorrow.”

“That answer had better be yes.”

“I’ll bring you his answer tomorrow,” Lando repeated.

Villachor’s lip twitched. “Not tomorrow,” he said. “Bring the answer in two days, during the Festival of Moving Water. Your visit will be less conspicuous that way.”

“Again, whatever you want,” Lando said, inclining his head in a bow. So Villachor wanted Lando’s visits to get lost in the Festival crowds, did he? Maybe he was genuinely starting to consider defecting from Black Sun.

Or else he was just trying to make Lando think that. Mind games, unfortunately, were a multidirectional spacelane. “One last question, if I may,” he said. “Simply for my own curiosity. If the data card wasn’t marked, how did you know which one it was?”

“It came from that slot in the file box,” Villachor said.

“Ah,” Lando said, nodding. And a spread of seven letters per card also implied there were five of them, just as Eanjer’s contact had said. So far, this mysterious informer had been dead-on with everything he’d said. “Again, that makes perfect sense. Your other invited visitors presumably see the card as their rather bleak futures are being read to them, and you don’t want them knowing how the information is organized. Speaking of which …” He half turned and held out his hand. “Bib?”

Obediently, Zerba pulled out the data card and stepped forward. He handed the card to Lando, then immediately backed up again and carefully lowered the cryodex back into its case. “Your property, Master Villachor,” Lando said formally, offering Villachor the card.

Silently, Villachor took it, the bulk of his attention on Zerba as he manipulated the booby-rigged case. “You call him Bib?” he asked.

Lando shrugged. “A small joke. Recognizable only to those who are already familiar with Jabba’s history.”

“Yes,” Villachor said. “Kwerve and Bib, together again.”

“Indeed,” Lando said. Bib Fortuna and Bidlo Kwerve had been two of Jabba’s highest-ranking servants, always jockeying for power and position until Kwerve’s death and Fortuna’s subsequent promotion to majordomo. Han had suggested that bringing Hutt history into their aliases would add an extra layer to Lando’s story that Villachor might find intriguing. From the expression on Villachor’s face, it looked like Han had been right. “I’m glad you appreciate it.”

“I do,” Villachor said. “Two days, Master Kwerve.”

“Two days,” Lando promised, giving another small bow.

Ninety seconds later they were once again out in the clean air, with the rumbling of the Festival crowd refreshingly welcome after the dangerously tense silence of the vault anteroom. “Well?” he asked quietly.

“Well what?” Zerba answered. “Did I switch the cards, or have the data come through yet?”

“The first,” Lando growled, annoyed in spite of himself at the other’s flippancy. Zerba’s neck had been as much on the line in there as Lando’s had, after all.

Or maybe not. It was possible that the extra senses Balosars claimed to have had given Zerba some insight into that face-off that Lando hadn’t picked up on. Could Villachor’s threat have been pure bluff, nothing more than a probe to see if Lando would bend under unexpected pressure?

“Yes, I switched the card,” Zerba said calmly. “Actually, the answer to the other one is yes, too. Whether Bink and Rachele will be able to get anything useful out of it is a different question.”

Lando shrugged. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

“So is
slivki
really an insulting term for Hutt?”

“Not that I know of,” Lando said. “But that’s the great thing about slang. There are so many versions and varieties—in
anyone’s
language—that you can never be sure you’ve gotten all of it. Villachor can search the archives for the rest of the month without ever being able to prove I was bluffing.”

“Nice,” Zerba said. “I’ll have to remember that one. Ready to head back?”

Lando nodded. “Let’s go.”

“I think not,” a deep voice muttered in his ear as a set of strong fingers locked unexpectedly around Lando’s right arm. “Nice and quiet.”

Lando twisted his head around and found himself looking up at a pock-marked human face half a head above his own, a floppy-brim hat pulled down almost to the eyebrows. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What in the—”

“He said
quiet
,” another voice cut him off.

Lando turned in the other direction, to see that a second man had similarly taken hold of Zerba’s arm. “Whoever you are, I suggest you let go of us immediately,” Lando said coldly. “We’re special guests of Master Villachor himself. One shout from me to any of the security men roaming the grounds—”

“Oh, you wouldn’t want to do that,” the first man admonished. “My little friend hates loud noises.”

Lando winced as the hard muzzle of a blaster pressed into his ribs beneath his right arm. “I suppose we should try to keep him happy,” he murmured.

“That’s the spirit,” the first man said encouragingly. “We’ll be heading around the south end of the house and going out the southeastern service entrance. Much quieter over that way. Folx, be a good man and relieve your friend of that heavy-looking case, will you?”