Boba picked his way carefully through the crowded space. He paused to look into a cage holding a Gallion tripion. The immense scorpionlike creature clashed its claws. Its poison-tipped tail clattered against the bars of its cage as a guard poked his sword through the slats.
“You’ll be fed soon enough!” he sneered as his comrades laughed.
One of them looked at Boba. “Another newcomer?” His face creased in a leering smile. “That’ll be the third bounty hunter this month that Jabba’s set after Gilramos!”
“Gilramos?” asked Boba.
“That’s right! A regular thorn in Jabba’s tail, that one is. And a hard thorn to dislodge. He killed the last two bounty hunters who came looking for him.”
The guard looked Boba up and down. He laughed derisively. “Looks like you’ll make it three,” he said, and turned back to tormenting the tripion.
“Third time’s the charm,” Boba muttered. He crossed over to the wall, trying to keep his balance. The air barge moved swiftly - they would reach the palace by morning, he’d heard someone say.
But the air yacht didn’t always move smoothly. Sometimes it would fall with a sickening jerk. Other times it would abruptly soar straight up, hundreds of meters into the air. When this happened, Boba was glad he couldn’t see outside. He was also glad he hadn’t eaten much. He would hate to get airsick!
“So you’re another bounty hunter,” someone announced. “Jabba must really be getting desperate.”
A wizened old man approached Boba, who was not much shorter than he was. The old man wore a flowing green robe, covered with a long, stained apron. His sparse white hair was almost hidden beneath a white cap. His face was brown and wrinkled as a dried gorapple, but his blue eyes were kind.
“Ye-es,” said Boba. He stared at the man distrustfully. “I was sent here by Jango Fett.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Jango Fett? I would keep that information private, if I were you. Durge will not be happy to hear it!”
Boba’s stomach fell. “Durge?”
The man shook his head. “No more chatter - first things first. Who are you?”
Boba stiffened. He said nothing. After a moment the man extended his hand. He pointed to an alcove where a narrow berth had been carved into the wall.
“Come,” he said kindly. “It is a long journey to Jabba’s fortress. Not everyone in Jabba’s employ is as unpleasant as these individuals - “
He gestured at the Gamorreans, now busy playing a game with knives.
“Most, perhaps,” the old man added, “but not all. For example, me. My name is Gab’borah Hise. I am the dessert chef assigned to this sail barge.”
Boba grinned. “There are others?”
“Oh, yes - many. Dozens of dessert chefs alone! Jabba may dine upon those disgusting white worms, but his guests and his legion of gangsters have varied appetites. Their taste has become as depraved as Jabba’s own, however. I must constantly think of new ways of tempting them with food.”
Boba followed him to the alcove and sat down. Gab’borah sighed, smoothing the front of his apron.
“I did not always work for Jabba. Once, I was the head cook at a cantina in Mos Eisley. I was very successful. Too successful. Jabba heard how good I was. He made me an offer I could not refuse.”
Boba smiled. “I understand. You had no choice but to come here.”
“I had no choice,” agreed the old man. “Once I cooked for smugglers and merchants. Now I cook for smugglers and gangsters. Earlier this evening I was preparing a most elegant confection. Stewed, flaming collypods with tangerette cream and figs. Absolutely delicious! Unfortunately, I served a sample to Bib Fortuna. One of the collypods, though in flames, was not quite dead. It burned his sleeve. Fortunately, I was able to put the flames out. Then I bribed Fortuna with a month’s worth of wealth. I also gave him a Ziziibbon truffle, freshly made this morning. Bib Fortuna is quite fond of them.”
Gab’borah shrugged. “So he did not throw me into a Sarlacc pit, as he would surely have done otherwise. But that is how I have come to be sent down here, in disgrace.”
He slid a wrinkled hand into the pocket of his robe and withdrew a small, round object. It was bright green, threaded with red and yellow.
“Here.” He held it out to Boba. “I saved this one. Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned,” he said, and to prove it, took a little bite. “See? Try it. Tell me what you think.”
Boba looked at it warily. Then he turned aside, lifting his helmet a scant inch so that he could pop the truffle into his mouth.
It smelled delicious.