At the bar, an aproned bartender with a cleft chin and dark eyes came over to take their orders. Han was immediately suspicious of the fellow’s athletic build and clean-shaven face, but if he was a Hapan agent, he was a well-prepared one. He fixed Leia’s Fogblaster and even Nashtah’s Red Cloud without having to consult the datapad behind the bar for a drink recipe.
He placed the two drinks on the counter, along with a Gizer ale for Han, then said, “Thirty credits.”
“Thirty credits?” Han objected. “I see why they call this a pirate station.”
The bartender merely pointed at Nashtah’s Red Cloud. “Blood ain’t cheap.”
“Blood?” Han made a sour face, but removed a pair of credit chips from his pocket and laid them on the counter. “At that price, I hope it’s yours.”
They took a seat in the nearest corner, at a rust-stained table that looked as if it hadn’t been wiped down in a month. Leia refused to set her glass down, and even Han refrained from resting his elbows on the surface. If Nashtah noticed the filth, she didn’t show it, simply dropping onto the bench opposite the Solos with her back against the wall, then resting one arm along the table.
Han took a sip of Gizer and frowned at how flat it was. “I hope we don’t have to wait long.” He glanced around the cantina casually, trying to decide whether Nashtah’s contact was the guy in the new utilities or that classy-looking brunette in the syntex vest. “I can’t bring myself to drink two of these. It was brewed back when Ta’a Chume was Queen Mother.”
Nashtah shrugged. “It may take awhile-you are unexpected companions, so my contact will be careful.” She took a long sip of her Red Cloud, then raised it toward Han. “But you can always try one of these. They’re fresh.”
Han made a sour face. “No, thanks. I’d rather drink water.”
“From here?” Leia glanced at the filthy table. “Don’t you dare.”
They sat for a time, waiting for a contact that probably did not exist to approach. Han and Leia only sipped at their drinks-Han because his Gizer barely tasted like ale, and Leia because she hated Fogblasters and only ordered them when she wanted to nurse a drink without having to think about it. But Nashtah drank more steadily, draining half her glass within the first quarter hour.
After another couple of minutes, she leaned across the table to Leia. “Someone is watching you.”
“Yes, I have that feeling, too,” Leia said.
“Probably a Hapan surveillance team,” Han said wryly. “Maybe we should get out of here before the backup arrives.”
Nashtah shook her head. “He doesn’t look Hapan. And you may know him. He’s trying very hard to keep out of your sight line.”
Han turned toward Leia, straddling the bench as though he were going to face her … and sneaking a glance toward the corner where Nashtah was looking. He glimpsed a square-shouldered man with a thick beard and a mop of dark hair hanging in his eyes. The fellow quickly turned toward the wall to hide his face, but failed to change his upright posture … or the military precision of his movements.
“You know, something does look kind of familiar about him,” Han said. “He’s trying to hide it, but that guy is a soldier-and I have this crazy feeling we do know him.”
“We should,” Leia said. She was still looking across the table toward Nashtah, but Han could tell by her unfocused gaze that her concentration was on the Force. “I think he almost married our daughter.”
“What?” Han spoke loudly enough that, despite the raucous buzz of scrak music, he drew glances from several nearby tables. He lowered his voice and leaned closer to Leia. “Come on. You can’t be telling me that’s who I think you mean.”
“I don’t understand, either,” Leia said. “But his presence feels very familiar.”
“You know him?” Nashtah asked. “Then we must go say hello.”
Before Han could stop her, Nashtah rose and started across the cantina, weaving just enough to suggest it was not an act.
“Uh-oh,” Leia said. “This looks like trouble.”
The Solos rose and started after her. Han was surprised at Nashtah’s condition. Whatever else she was, she was clearly a top-notch assassin, and top-knotch assassins did not let themselves get intoxicated on a job-and probably not many other times, either.
They arrived at the bearded man’s table just as Nashtah sat on the bench opposite him. “… me why you are following my friends,” she was saying, “and your death will be a painless one.”