Fell pretended to struggle against the two Weequays grabbing his arms. They dragged him before the Hutt. One was larger than the other—flat-nosed, broad-shouldered, and wearing three ponytails instead of the typical two. One of them kicked Fell behind the knee and forced him to kneel.
The palace was in tumult all around them, and Durgulla the Hutt was looking for anyone to blame. Fell had been separated from HK-47 in the chaos. Now, he was left alone in front of the throne, and it was he alone who drew the Hutt's ire. Fell could not even determine if HK-47's rifle was among the blaster fire raging around the palace. He hoped no ill had befallen the droid.
The Fat Minister let drool and spittle dribble down his array of chins as he stared Fell down. His own droid was inactive, and with HK-47 gone, Fell could not understand a single one of the words the slug spat at him. This is not a form of Huttese I have ever heard. He should have noticed it before, when they had made the bargain. Another one of her lessons I didn't understand until it was too late. The gibberish words were mixed with slime and scraps of food. The smell was rancid, as if it had fermented in the Hutt's mouth, but Fell did not let it get to him.
The plan was so simple that it was doomed to failure from the start. He blamed himself readily; the key points had been his ideas, though Cinder had done little to stop it. Another test.Present Bestia to the Hutt as a slave. He'd be sure to accept. It was a consolation that they hoped would buy them some time.
The assumption was they'd present Bestia's lightsaber and Mandalore's head to the Fat Minister, the same as the bargain that was made. But when they opened the storage closet after landing, all that remained was the body. It seemed their little stowaway had made off with the Mandalore's helmet, and though Cinder told him it was a facsimile, Fell knew it was what the Fat Minister wanted all the same. The scorch marks in the supply room made mynocks look like mild-mannered dinner guests. On top of that, the mess of hacked wires and the dainty hole that had been cut through the ship's underbelly almost sent Cinder into a rage. She and the droid patched up the mess before they made their way to the palace. The plan was put together en route.
The Fat Minister's screaming snapped Fell back to the present. The big Weequay smacked him upside the head. Then, Fell heard a blaster bolt scream past and the other guard slumped to the ground. It had to have been a stray. Right?
The carnage was immeasurable. Guests trampled over one another, stumbling into blaster fire. Some were stabbed. The fatter ones seemed to leak the contents of their bellies all over the floor as the knives opened them side to side. The assailants were hairless, cat-eyed, and lithe. Cinder would've known what they were, but she had gone after Bestia into the pit that still hung wide open between Fell and the dais. All he knew was they worked for the Hutts, even without seeing the banners they had draped around their backs. Each seemed to wear a different sigil; he counted four in total.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Pantoran slave master waddle up to the Fat Minister. Huttese words coated in frost slid from his mouth as limpid sweat trickled from his blue egg of a head. The Hutt was evidently none too pleased. He turned his ire from Fell to the slaver, screaming so hard his eyes threatened to bulge from his fat head and almost choking himself. Fell reached out with the Force – he dared not move his hands lest they see – and felt his lightsaber still at his side.
The big Weequay groped Fell by the arm, but the other was already reaching for his lightsaber. The hilt sprung into his hand and the blade whirred to life. The guard's head went rolling into the pit below.
The Fat Minister turned to face Fell at the sound of the commotion. Behind the Hutt, Fell saw a teal-skinned Nautolan move, but from down here he couldn't tell much about what she was doing. The two slaves at the Hutt's tail shifted though. The Twi'lek looked ready to vomit, her red skin dappled with a sickly green tinge. The other was a Devaronian—he could tell from the vestigial horns—though her red skin had been powdered white with ash. Fell thought he made out another lurking behind the Hutt. white as snow with a shock of hair black as pitch. The Fat Minister started screaming again, and as his body moved, the woman slipped out of Fell's view.
The fat Sullustan majordomo that had greeted Fell and Cinder when they first came to the palace stepped beside his lord. He spoke in clumsy, choppy Basic that would've been expected from a toddler, much less a court steward. "Weapons! Put them down!" He threw up his arms in dismay. "You lead enemies here, to Lord Durgulla. You kill us all!"
Fell pointed his lightsaber towards the Sullustan. He was mindful of where he stepped. One errant movement, and he would be heading down the pit after Cinder. "No, the Hutt ships were already in orbit when we arrived. This is not our doing."
The Fat Minister thundered something incoherent and slapped the Sullustan aside. He stumbled and stopped himself short of a nasty tumble into the pit below. He pouted and sulked off to the other side of the dais.
The Hutt pulled on the chain that bound his slaves. He wants them to come closer. He pulled again. Then again. Then again, harder. The chain link snapped and he was pulling half of it towards him. He dropped it and his body quivered as he roiled.
"Durgulla."
Fell looked over his shoulder, resting his saber at his side. There was a Hutt sitting on a floating dais, surrounded by a legion of those hairless soldiers. The Fat Minister dwarfed all other Hutts, but this was one had lived long enough to become venerable. His skin was grey and purple, with marbled splotches of black that traced his arms and forehead. Yellow painted tattoos made swirls around both his deep amber eyes. A deep gash ran vertical through the rightmost side of his mouth. It was an ancient scar turned colorless from age.
"Nem," said the Hutt. Unlike Durgulla, this Hutt spoke with a quiet voice soft as silk. Nem was a Lethan Twi'lek like the girl at Durgulla's side, and he stepped out behind his master. He had a fighter's build, though he wore the marks of middle-age. His claws were painted black. The gloss shone in the palace lights. He wore a suit of battle armor; black plates over a blue undersuit, wrapped with all manner of belts and pouches. Baragwin made, Fell could tell from an etching on one of the belts. And nigh-impenetrable by anything short of a lightsaber.
"Greetings, Durgulla," Nem spoke in roughly accented Basic. "You do not know me, but I am Ootono'nemura, majordomo and second to Urga Masidii the Elder, who stands before you. I must assume you know why we are here?"
The Fat Minister spat. With a fat arm, he reached into his chuba pot and picked up a handful of squirming meat, then tossed them at Urga.
The Pantoran slaver spoke up. "My lords, shouldn't you speak between yourselves? In private?"
Urga lifted an eye and gave Nem a nod. In less than a second, the Twi'lek loosed a shot from a pistol that never even seemed to leave its holster, and the Pantoran slumped over, a smoking hole through his chest.
"Too far above his station, that one," Nem said dryly. "Again, Durgulla, I ask you, do you know why we stand before you?"
The Fat Minister grumbled and muttered something low, practically under his breath.
"If you will not speak loud enough, I shall tell the court myself." Nem took a look at the ruins of the palace all around. "Well, whoever is left to hear it, anyway. The cartel is returning to its rightful demesne." Then, his cool demeanor slipped and he raised his voice. "And I have come to fetch my daughter." He spat some curses that Fell could not understand.
Durgulla just looked at him as if he were stupid. The Sullustan was retching up wine off the side of the dais. The Nautolan woman approached and shoved him forward. He stumbled until he was teetering off the dais, but this time he could not stop himself from falling. The Fat Minister paid the sordid affair no mind. He kept his eyes on Urga the Hutt.
The Nautolan woman took the Sullustan's place at the frontmost edge of the dais. A tightly-laced bodice was strung up around her muscled chest, and a pleated skirt covered her at the waist. "Your daughter, you say?" She sneered when she spoke, though her voice was sweet as honey water. She turned back to the Fat Minister. "You hear that, Durgulla? Your brother's second wants his daughter back. Best hand the girl over."
"Schutta," the Fat Minister said with a snarl. Fell knew that word well enough. If there was one thing the shipwright on Ord Mantell loved more than ships, it was the brothel just down the way from the shop. He minced out curses in his mangled dialect of Huttese, each one more venomous than the last.
Urga spoke something softly in Huttese. Fell turned around and saw the Hutt and his attendant were both looking directly at him.
"Forgive the stares, boy," Nem said. His hand rested on the grip of his gun. "My liege has never seen a Jedi in person before, and is curious as to how one came to be in his brother's depraved court."
Fell fought the urge to point his lightsaber at the other Hutt. He didn't trust his Force-attuned reflexes to save him from Nem's deadeye aim. "No Jedi here. There are three of us Sith, and we have no part in this charade."
Durgulla shouted pointed barbs towards Fell.
"He says you deceived him," Nem said with a chuckle, taking the liberty of translating. "Stand aside, Sith, so that we may show him deceit." He whistled. "Twyla, keepuna."
The Twi'lek slave retched a green glob of chuba all over Durgulla's face. The Nautolan woman tossed something black her way. The Devaronian was too slothful to do much of anything, so she crawled out of the way. The pale woman Fell saw before came from around the Fat Minister's other side, a length of chain in hand. She was little more than skin and bones, and her blanched skin made her look even more skeletal.
The Nautolan helped her with her end of the chain. Fell saw the black object glint in Twyla's hand. A shiv. She rammed it deep into Durgulla's eye. The Hutt cried out in anguish, but did nothing to fight off his assailants. Suddenly, the pale woman beset him with twin daggers of her own, each shaped in likes Fell had never seen, making ribbons of his mouth. The Nautolan was wrapping the chain around Durgulla's massive throat. The other two let off their assault but for a moment to assist. When it was done, Twyla stood at Durgulla's right and the Nautolan at his left. The pale woman rested a hand against the bloody carvings on the Hutt's mouth.
Then, the women at the Hutt's sides pulled. Durgulla fought against the chain, the whole of him gibbering and roiling. His tongue wormed from his gullet and flailed madly. It missed the pale woman by a hair's length. She cut it free. The fleshy mass flopped to the dais with a wet squelch. Durgulla frothed up green blood as he gasped for air. His skin went a pale shade of blue. Then, they stopped pulling.
The Fat Minister breathed his last and the chain rattled to his sides.
"Sith." It was Urga the Hutt who said that, in that cold drawl of his. His expression twisted, and he said something to Nem.
"The Exalted Urga the Elder thanks you for letting him deal with his brother," Nem said. "We have no quarrel with Jedi nor Sith." He waved his hand. He had no fear, for good reason. "Now tell us this. We thought your kind were dead. You have no home to go to, but it's still half a galaxy away. What brings you to Narsh?"
"Picking up an old friend." He'd never known Marcus Kregg until they met in the Viridian Slug, but he needed to get him out all the same.
"There are no friends to be found in the court of the Hutts." Nem's expression stayed blank. He traced a finger down his lekku, which was draped around his neck. "Curious. Who is this 'friend'?"
"'Tis me." Marcus Kregg's Fondorian accent was a relief to hear. If we had lost the smuggler, I'd be dead. "I'll be taking my leave with this one, if you don't mind, lords." As he made his way to Fell, he kept his hands on the blaster at his belt.
"Very well," Nem said. "Such a pity the assassin of the beloved Fat Minster escaped, never to be seen again or brought to justice." He made a mocking half-smile. "Such a pity indeed."
"Just one favor," Kregg said as he stood next to Fell. "Let me take Xira with me."
Nem and the Hutt exchanged words. Nodding, he turned back to Kregg. "Be grateful of your chosen company, smuggler. Xira Morr's debt is served, by order of Urga Masidii the Elder. I hereby transfer ownership of her to Marcus Kregg of Fondor, who-"
"Restores her freedom henceforth," Kregg finished.
Nem scowled. "Get out of my sight, Core slime."
Fell leaned against an agate pillar outside one of the alcoves. Bodies were slumped all around, broken, bloodied, and scorched. He was tossing his saber hilt back and forth between his hands. Cinder would have my head if she caught me like this, his brain nagged him. But she still wasn't here. If she died in the pit... No, he would not suffer to think about it. She would return soon enough.
Kregg was over on the dais with the pale woman. He twirled her around and gave her a passionate kiss. They stood there like that for a while. Strange bedfellows. They exchanged words with the Nautolan for a while.
Fell knew it was pointless, but he wondered what consequences this coup would pose for Nar Shaddaa. The Fat Minister was not a hated figure by many, least of all the peasantry. What will it take for the Hutts to scrub this taint from Nar Shaddaa's history? Will the people even care?
Nem and Twyla were sealing the pit in front of the throne. Urga loomed on his hovering throne behind them, like a shadow. Whatever Urga's intentions were, he kept them hidden behind closed eyes. Fell found himself wondering when the other Hutts would arrive. Before he could ponder much more, Kregg was tapping on his shoulder.
"Time to go," the smuggler said, pointing towards the front door. It was still smashed open, and hordes of soldiers were still filing in. "The others will be here soon, after all the Evocii finish marching in. We need to get a move on before they look for a reason to keep us here."
The woman, Xira, stood beside him. She was of a height with Kregg. Fell had thought her Rattataki at first, but her thick mane of hair and the light-devouring whiteness of her skin said otherwise. Whatever species she was, it was one Fell had never seen before.
"I'm still waiting for my master," Fell said as he looked over them both. "She'd be furious if we stole her ship."
"I think the woman's as good as dead," said Xira. Her words came out her solid black lips in an accent Fell had never before heard, with each vowel sharply emphasized. "We must go."
"Well, darling, he does have a point," Kregg said. "She's the one to whom I owe my freedom, and, well, she's also the only one who can direct us to the target."
"No one goes down into the menagerie and comes back up alive," Xira said. Her tone indicated she spoke from experience. "If she lives, she'll find her own way back to her ship." She turned to Fell. "Lead on, boy."
There's only one person who can get away with calling me that. "Don't call me that," he said, pointing a finger at her. "My name's Fell, and I expect to be called by it."
"That's a silly name." She giggled. Suddenly, he felt his finger curl back against his palm like the rest. He saw her own pointer finger move back into place. There's no way in hell that she moved faster than me.
Fell chuckled. "Sure it is." He straightened his robes and walked ahead, against the surging tide of soldiers, and bid his new companions follow.