TWO

A yellow cloud of windborne sand howled through the streets of Mos Espa, etching goggle lenses with microscopic scratch marks and transforming the city into a warren of dome-shaped silhouettes. The squall was the dying remnant of the same sandstorm that had concealed the Falcon from Pellaeon’s TIEs, so Leia should not have been surprised to see two stormtroopers standing in the haze ahead … but she was.

After all, Han had spent half the night bumping the Falcon blindly through two thousand kilometers of storm-filled canyons so Pellaeon would not know whether the “Regina Galas” had survived its plunge into the sandstorm. They had hidden the ship in one of Han’s former haunts, a huge but little-known smuggler’s cave thirty kilometers out in the desert. They had strung an antenna and spent the morning eavesdropping on local comm channels, listening for anything that might suggest an Imperial search. Only then, after hearing no hint of unusual activity, had Han broken his speeder bike out of the Falcon’s hold and gone into Mos Espa to arrange ground transport for everyone else.

Leia should have known better. Pellaeon was an old-school officer, too careful and competent to make simple mistakes. Most Star Destroyer captains were, even in these days of strangled budgets and green crews.

Han took her arm and guided her forward. “It’s okay to hesitate. They expect that.” A small synthesizer hidden inside his mouth gave his speech a raspy Devaronian quality. It also altered his vocal profile so it would be unidentifiable by anyone using voiceprint technology to search for Han Solo. “But don’t gawk.”

She looped a hand through Han’s elbow and did her best to fawn up at him as they approached the armored silhouettes. Though both she and Han were well hidden beneath the cowled cloaks and face coverings necessary to travel anywhere in even a mild sand squall, Leia felt as though she was parading past the Imperials in full Alderaanian Princess regalia. She and Han were two of the most famous faces in the New Republic, and she had no doubt that capturing—or killing—either of them would mean a hefty promotion for all those involved.

If Han was nervous, she did not sense it. He strode straight for the troopers, his goggled gaze rising to the flashing sign over the door behind them.

“Mawbo’s Performance Hall,” he said. “This is it.”

“A dance house?” Leia gushed. “You take me to the nicest places.”

Han looked at the stormtroopers pointedly. They returned his glare impassively from behind their dark lenses, then finally stepped aside. One even pulled the door open. Leia did not thank him.

They found themselves in a large sand-grimed foyer where a single Weequay guarded the entrance to a dingy cloakroom. His face was typical for his species, oval-eyed and so gnarled it resembled a mask of wrinkled leather. From the back of his head hung a long fan of two dozen seclusion braids, one for each year he had been away from his home planet. He was dressed—absurdly and obviously uncomfortably—in a new shimmersilk cape and undersized tunic purchased, no doubt, for today’s event. Though he carried no visible weapons, Leia assumed by the way he kept his back to the wall that he had a large blaster pistol tucked beneath the cape—perhaps two. He was a Weequay, after all.

“Here for the art inspection?” he asked.

“That’s right.” Han pulled up his goggles, and Leia thought she saw a glimmer of alarm as he met the Weequay’s eyes. “Killik Twilight?”

The Weequay shrugged. “Mawbo’s got lots of stuff to auction in there.” He extended a knobby-fingered hand for their cloaks. “Leave your covers here. She don’t want sand in the back.”

Leia and Han stuffed their goggles and face coverings into their pockets and passed their cloaks over. With her skin dyed pale blue and a pair of prosthetic lekku squirming down her back, Leia made a reasonably convincing Twi’lek consort to Han’s bald, behorned, sinister-looking, and very red Devaronian. Both disguises were courtesy of New Republic Intelligence, complete with retina-concealing contact lenses and false prints affixed to the pads of their fingers. So when the Weequay sniffed the cloaks, then grinned and reached out to Han with his free hand, Leia was astounded.

“Thought I recognized that jet juice you call cologne, Solo,” the Weequay said.

“Jaxal,” Han quickly added. “Solo Jaxal, remember?”

A cold lump began to form in Leia’s stomach. Weequays used scent to communicate with members of their own clan, so they were especially good at remembering smells. Obviously, the Solos’ disguise designer had not anticipated that Han would meet a Weequay he knew in a Mos Espa “performance hall.” Neither had Leia.

But the Weequay seemed to have no intention of betraying them. He merely nodded and tossed their cloaks on the pile behind him, then said, “Jaxal, that’s right. Sorry I forgot.”

“Not a problem,” Han said. “Good to see you again, Grunts. I didn’t think you’d still be working Tatooine dives.”

Grunts shrugged. “Where am I going? Just ’cause Mawbo frees you don’t mean she pays passage home. Got to earn that.” He glanced in Leia’s direction, clearly waiting for an introduction. When it did not come, he added, “I smell you’re still with that furball partner of yours. Where is he?”

“He’s around,” Han said. Chewbacca and C-3PO were waiting at a local inn, in a rented room. “Funny place to hold an art auction.”

Grunts nodded. “Mawbo’s doing a favor for the guy who came up with the big painting. He’s one of her old lovers.”

“Isn’t everybody?”

“Now that you mention it.” Grunts waved a hand toward a weapons locker at the back of the cloakroom. “You’re supposed to check your weapons.”

“Already did,” Han replied with a straight face. “They’re working fine.”

Grunts chuckled, then said, “Just keep them out of sight. Mawbo would whip me if she thought I’d missed them, and you know how she enjoys that.”

He turned to open the door, but Leia asked, “What are those stormtroopers doing out there, Grunts?” She suspected she already knew the answer—looking for the crew of the Regina Galas—but Leia wanted to hear what cover story the Imperials were using. “Did Mawbo hire extra security?”

The Weequay looked vaguely insulted. “They’re here with two officers. I made the stormtroopers wait outside.”

Grunts glanced at Han with a look that seemed to suggest he teach his Twi’lek some manners.

Leia ignored the look and asked, “Officers? What are they doing here?”

“Same as everybody else, I guess.” Grunts pulled the door open. “They want to be sure the stuff is real before the auction starts.”

He waved them into a droning chamber that could be called a performance hall only in the sense that it had a stage—half a dozen stages, in fact. These platforms were scattered across the cavernous space, each one now supporting a small beverage or snack stand that did not seem to be drawing much attention from the rather sparse crowd. Here and there, the much-spilled-upon floor showed circles of cleanliness where the customary tables had been removed to make milling space. In the center of the chamber was a large main stage, and along the walls were dozens of private booths where the sellers were displaying the pieces they would offer at auction that afternoon. Judging by appearances, the few buyers were offworld art lovers attracted by the prospect of owning—or at least viewing—the famous Killik Twilight, while most sellers were local residents chasing a windfall by offering whatever they could find that might be worth something.

As Leia studied the crowd, she leaned close to Han. “Where do you know Grunts from?”

“Long story, but he can be trusted.”

“With you, everything’s a long story,” Leia said. “How about the short version? I need to be persuaded.”

Han sighed and started toward the nearest stage, where a statuesque Codru-Ji female with four arms, pointed ears, and a lissome build was serving drinks. Though she was discreetly dressed in a shimmersilk blouse and mood-color vest—currently scarlet—she looked as uncomfortable in her new clothes as had Grunts, and the smile she flashed as they approached made Leia wonder how well she knew Han’s smell. He ordered a pair of cometdusters, then, as the clamorous impassioning machine excited the molecules, leaned close to Leia’s ear.

“I know because I used to own him.”

“What?” Leia was beginning to wonder whether eight years fighting and working at Han’s side had really been enough before agreeing to marry him. “You owned a slave? How could you?”

“I won him from Lady Valarian in a sabacc game,” Han said, as though that excused it. “I set him free.”

“After how long?” Leia demanded.

“As soon as we left the Lucky Despot,” Han said defensively. “I wanted to hire him to help with cargo, but he and Chewie took a big dislike to each other. Something about odors. He lost himself to Mawbo trying to win passage home, and you heard the rest.”

The drinks came, and the Codru-Ji accepted payment with a slow wink. Han’s answering grin was truly lecherous, though in fairness that may have been due more to his Devaronian disguise than what was going through his mind.

Leia waited until the Codru-Ji was gone, then asked, “So, when did you own her?”

“Her?” Han began making his way across the floor toward the back wall, where a couple of dozen buyers were lined up outside a well-guarded booth, waiting to inspect Killik Twilight. “What makes you think I ever owned Celia?”

Leia knew Han was baiting her. She was doing her best not to ask how he knew Celia’s name when she noticed two Imperials near the end of the line. One was dressed in the white utilities of an Imperial technician, but the other wore the gray tunic and rank bar of a full bridge commander. The man was probably a direct subordinate to Pellaeon, and his presence told Leia all she needed to know about the Imperial mission on Tatooine. They would not have sent such a high-ranking officer to track down a group of smugglers. They had come for Killik Twilight.

Leia angled toward the front of the chamber, pulling Han toward a flamboyant display of Tatooine glitter-glass. “You saw?”

“You don’t overlook that insignia, not if you were at the Imperial Academy,” Han whispered. “And those stormtroopers outside are just for show. No one sends a Star Destroyer watch commander into a place like this without plenty of protection.”

They circled a satellite stage where an Elomin female was offering stems connected to a hookah reeking of stale water. Leia said, “They know. They must.”

Han did not contradict her.

“I don’t understand how they found out,” Leia continued. “Only three of us knew, and the other two were on Alderaan when the Death Star destroyed the planet.”

“Your boss knows. Maybe she—”

“No. If anyone understands the importance of keeping a secret, it’s her.” Leia paused, then said, “I’m sorry. If I had known this was going to get so complicated—”

“You’d have come anyway. And so would I. You know I wouldn’t let you do something like this without me.”

Leia squeezed his arm, silently thanking him for not belaboring her omission.

“Still, I wish you’d told me.”

They reached the booth with the glitterglass and pretended to examine several garish panes in a flowing, organic style. A small signscreen claimed they had come from the palace of the famous Hutt crime lord, Jabba. The panes were not even close to Jabba’s taste, at least what Leia had observed of it before she had used her slave chains to choke him to death; he preferred representational art, the lewder the better.

A solitary Gran stepped toward the front of the booth, his three eyes gliding over Han’s ostentatious robe, the mouth at the end of his long muzzle puckering into an eager grin. Leia pulled Han away, and they nearly tripped over the sellers running the next booth, a pair of furry waist-high bipeds with short muzzles and long tufted ears.

“Hey, Redhorns!” the first one said, taking Han’s wrist. “You look like a being who knows quality. Come see the real prize at this junk sale.”

The second grabbed Leia’s hand. “This way.” It pulled her toward their booth, where a third member of their group stood in front of a one-way mirrfield. “Just two credits. You miss out on this, and you’ll be sorry.”

The third member reached into the booth and adjusted the mirrfield opacity, allowing Leia to glimpse a disparate collection of local handicrafts, twisted columns of plasteel, and what looked like the insipid planetscapes usually found in the corridors of tourist-class nebula cruisers.

Han stopped. “Two credits, just to look?” He pulled loose, then reached over and freed Leia as well. “You’ve been spending too much time in the suns.”

The little creatures blinked up at him with long-lashed eyes so brown and deep that Leia felt instantly drawn to them.

“If such a small amount concerns you, think of it as a deposit,” the first one said. “It’s fully refundable when you bid on one of our items.”

“We won’t be bidding on your stuff, okay?” Han pushed between the creatures and, drawing Leia after him, grumbled, “Squibs. They’ll sell you a bucket of air if you let them, and keep the bucket.”

They came to a booth filled with exquisitely colored bowls made of some material so delicate Leia could see the shelf through the bottoms. A signscreen posted by the Barabel seller claimed they were alasl bowls, recovered from deposits deep in the Jundland Wastes and hand-carved by Tusken Raiders. She would have liked to stay and study the vessels with an eye toward bidding, but the press of prospective buyers made it a poor observation post, and they needed to locate the watch commander’s guards. When something went wrong, Han would want to know whom to blast.

They eased past the Barabel’s booth and continued toward the back of the chamber, mentally tracing sight lines away from the Imperial officers and searching for someone attempting to keep them open.

“There’s one.” Han nodded toward a hulking, short-haired human feigning interest in a worthless lump of blaster-fused sandglass. “Not too subtle, are they?”

“For the Empire, that is subtle,” Leia said.

They quickly found two more guards, a male-female team masquerading as a Kuati aristocrat and her telbun paramour.

Then they stopped at a booth containing several pieces of refined sculpture and half a dozen imagist gleaminks depicting Tatooine landscapes. Leia was particularly taken with a depiction of an approaching sand squall and an empty sandrock basin titled The Last Lake. Then she came to a single, oversized holocube.

The image was of a sandy-haired boy of perhaps nine or ten, standing in front of an old Podracer cockpit with a pair of goggles down around his neck and both arms raised high over his head. The joy in his grin was as contagious as it was innocent—he was clearly pretending he had just won a big race—but that was not what captured Leia’s attention.

There was something about those eyes that compelled her to stand there and stare, to forget the presence of Han and the vendor and simply look. They were Luke’s eyes, Leia realized. They were the same radiant blue, they had the same depth and softness as her brother’s, and—most of all—they had a quiet intensity that burned as brightly as the twin suns themselves.

Leia saw again the white orbs that had taken the place of Luke’s eyes in her dream aboard the Falcon, and she began to experience an eerie sense of connection to the boy. But this was not Luke; this boy’s cheeks were too broad, his nose too small.

It was only a dream.

And dreams were not the future, Leia reminded herself. They were viewports into a person’s private wisdom, hints of the truths kept trapped in the mind’s forgotten recesses by the twin vornskrs of fear and desire. Those eyes aboard the Falcon, Tatooine’s two suns, the Tatooine boy, they were trying to tell her something. But what?

For now, the explanation would have to remain a mystery, as would the reason the boy’s image brought the dream so forcefully to mind. A slender, swarthy man of around fifty was approaching, his dark eyes fixed not on Leia’s face, but on her hands. They were clasped just below her waist in a manner she often used when speaking in public. Her personal assistant, Winter, had gone so far as to call the gesture distinctive—and to caution her against using it when she wished to remain anonymous.

Cursing herself for falling into old habits, Leia quickly unclasped her hands and draped one over Han’s shoulder. The man, apparently the owner of the holocube, raised his gaze and pretended not to notice. With black hair and dark skin, he had an air of reserve about him that suggested good breeding or—more likely on Tatooine—offworld training. He looked Leia directly in the eye and flashed an easy smile that seemed as sincere as it was bright.

“It doesn’t surprise me that you find this holo so fascinating,” the man said.

Leia felt Han bristle at the vendor’s knowing tone. She squeezed his shoulder to caution restraint, then put on her best Twi’lek doxy attitude.

“Sure, I love little kids.” She glanced around the booth for a signscreen identifying the holocube and found it on the floor, smashed and unreadable. “Especially human kids.”

The vendor smiled shrewdly. “Of course. But the boy in this ’cube is no longer a child. It was taken when he won the Boonta Eve Classic, more than forty years ago.”

“Won it?” Han scoffed. “Look, don’t think you’re talking to a pair of nerf herders here. Even when Podracing was legal, humans didn’t have the reflexes to survive it—much less win, and especially not as kids.”

The vendor ignored Han. “I don’t want to part with it. He was my best friend, but times are hard. Still, if you’d care to strike a bargain before the auction, I’d be willing to offer it to you now.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you would.” Han pulled Leia away. “Come on, Tails.”

As soon as they were out of the man’s earshot, Han asked, “So who’s the kid?”

“How should I know?”

“You were sure staring at him,” Han said. “I didn’t think you were such a fan of holography.”

“I’m not. His eyes reminded me of someone—and we have other things to worry about. That vendor might have recognized me.” Leia told him about the hands.

“Winter says I do that all the time in holocasts, and she’s right. He might have been asking for a bribe.”

“Or he might be an Imperial plant trying to draw you out,” Han said. “I don’t like this, and it’s definitely not a good idea to draw attention to ourselves by starting a bidding war against the Empire.”

He turned toward the Squibs’ booth.

“Han, you can’t be serious. What do a bunch of overgrown pack rats know about art?”

“Nothing.” He pulled four credits from his robe. “But they know auctions.”

The two Squibs in front of the mirrfield gave up on the Togorians they were harassing and watched with condescending smirks as Leia and Han approached. Han held out the hand with the credits.

“One word and we leave,” he said. “Just show us the stuff.”

The leader—at least Leia thought it was the leader—looked as though he was thinking of asking for more. Han put the credits back in his pocket, and the Squib surprised Leia by shrugging and turning to look for another customer.

Han sighed, and when he pulled his hand from his pocket, it was holding six credits. “We don’t have all day.”

The Squib’s eyes brightened, and he held up ten fingers.

“Seven,” Han said. “And it’s not worth that much.”

The Squib lowered one finger. Han pulled two more credits from his pocket, so now he was holding eight. Even then, they almost had to leave before the Squib finally raised his palm and motioned for the money.

The Squib rubbed the credits against his furred cheek, then nodded and passed them to his fellow, who did the same thing and passed them through the mirrfield. Only after the third Squib had inspected and approved the coins did they allow the Solos into the booth.

It was filled with the same collection of used handicrafts, twisted plasteel—labeled by a signscreen FOUND SCULPTURE—and mawkish planetscapes Leia had glimpsed earlier. The Squibs immediately began to offer items for inspection, carefully rubbing each object against their furred cheeks before attempting to press it into Han and Leia’s hands. And, mindful of the threat with which Han had opened negotiations, they did it all without speaking a word.

Han pushed a smashed cooling unit aside and said, “Stop! I told you before, we’re not interested in your stuff. That’s not why we’re here.”

The leader was so shocked he nearly dropped a chipped boneglass bowl. “You’re not?”

This drew a pair of stern shushes from his fellows.

“Don’t worry,” Leia said. “We want to talk. We just needed to be someplace private first.”

“Talk’s not cheap,” the second Squib warned.

“Time is money,” the third chimed in.

Han turned to Leia and rolled his eyes. “You had to say it.”

“Listen,” Leia said. “We need you to do a job for us.”

The booth fell silent, and the leader turned his head aside, glaring at her out of one eye.

“We don’t do jobs. We’re not hirelings.”

“We want to strike a bargain,” Han corrected.

“A bargain?” The leader clasped his small hands together. “What wares?”

“Killik Twilight,” Leia said. “We want you to buy it for us.”

“We supply the funds,” Han said quickly. “You have the fun.”

The Squibs looked at each other, nodded, and the leader said, “Deal.”

“But you have to buy all our stock,” the second Squib added.

“We don’t need your stock,” Leia said. “We don’t have anyplace to put it.”

“Not our problem,” the third said.

“We can get you a magnetic freight compartment.”

“Won’t even scratch your yacht.”

It was growing difficult to keep track of which one was speaking.

“Only a thousand extra.”

“How about we just pay you for your stock?” Leia asked. “And you can still sell it at the auction.”

“Can’t do that.”

“You’re buying it at auction. That’s the deal.”

“Look, we don’t want your stuff,” Han said.

“Then why are you taking the freight compartment?”

“We’re not,” Leia said.

“And we’re not buying at auction,” Han said. “We’re not agreeing to that. We’re not dumb enough to let you have someone run up the bidding.”

“So how dumb are you?”

“Maybe just one—”

“No!” Han shouted. The Squibs fell silent and blinked up at him in shock. Finally he rolled his eyes and asked, “Okay, how much stock do you have?”

And they were off, the Squibs offering and Han and Leia counter-offering, pulling one element out of the deal and throwing two more in, the negotiation moving at the speed of sound and almost instantly growing as complex as anything Leia had seen as a New Republic diplomat. By the time they were finished, it was agreed that Han and Leia or their designated agent would bid on three items of their own choosing from each category, the maximum price to be determined by a complex formula based on bid increments, with each side being allowed one sleeper among the attendees.

“And we get the painting after you buy it,” Leia said. “I just want to be sure of that.”

All three nodded. “That’s right,” the leader said. “As long as you hold up your end of the bargain, a deal is a deal.”

“Good. I’m Limba.” Leia extended her hand. “It’s been an education doing business with you. Jaxal is right—you guys are good.”

The Squibs puffed out their chests visibly.

“You did all right,” the leader said. He rubbed his cheek across Leia’s palm, then across Han’s, then jerked a thumb at his chest. “I’m Grees. That’s Sligh.”

Grees indicated the second Squib, who stepped forward and rubbed his cheek over the hands of both Han and Leia.

“And I’m Emala.” The third Squib pressed her cheek to Leia’s hand. “I’ve seen worse from a Twi’lek.”

“Thank you,” Leia said. “I think.”

Han waited for Emala to nuzzle his hand, then asked, “Which one’s coming to see the painting? I want to be sure you know what you’re bidding on.”

Emala and Grees turned to Sligh expectantly.

Sligh let out a heavy sigh. “I’ll go.” He shook his head in disgust. “But when I come back, I’m out front.”

They emerged from behind the mirrfield to find the Imperial officers, having already completed their inspection, leaving the dance house. A tangible sense of relief filled the air, and the polite murmur intensified to an electric drone. More prospective purchasers appeared out of dark corners and the backs of the booths, and the beverage bars on the satellite stages began to do a brisk business. Leia, Han, and Sligh took their place at the back of the line and had to wait nearly an hour before their turn came to go through the mirrfield.

Instead of the painting, inside the trio found half a dozen of Mawbo’s thugs in nylar tunics and shimmersilk capes, all holding blaster rifles trained on their prospective purchasers.

“Don’t worry,” a Rodian said. His cone-shaped snout twitched toward the dark corner to Leia’s right, and someone came up from behind and blindfolded her. “Just a security precaution.”

“How much security do you need?” Han grumbled. “You have a Weequay sniffer checking for blasters.”

“You want to see the moss or not?”

Han fell silent. They were led through the back of the booth, down a long hallway, then up a liftglide into a quiet area reeking of acrid thaq smoke. Their blindfolds were removed. The trio found themselves standing in a dark chamber before a section of wall illuminated by an overhead glow panel and flanked by two Gamorrean guards. In the middle of the wall hung the velvety rectangle of a sublimely colored Alderaanian moss-painting, its moisture-control apparatus artfully concealed within an internal frame. It was smaller than Leia remembered, no more than fifty centimeters across, but even more beautiful and moving.

“Killik Twilight,” a harsh female voice croaked behind her. “You got two minutes.”

Leia wanted to protest that two minutes was not nearly enough, not after a decade of trying to keep its bold composition and subtle hues locked in her mind. She had thought it a treasure forever lost to her—and to future generations of Alderaanian descendants. And now here it was, hanging in front of her close enough to touch, with its stormy sky sweeping over of a city of Killik pinnacles and, in the foreground, its line of enigmatic insectoid figures—the vanished species who had inhabited Alderaan before humans—turning to look back at the approaching darkness. She could never look upon it without marveling at the artist’s prescience, wondering how Ob Khaddor could have seen so clearly what Palpatine’s rise meant for the galaxy … and how he could have expressed his sorrow so beautifully and completely in such a small space.

“You need to verify it, go ahead,” the harsh voice said. “But brush sampling only. No clipping.”

Sligh instantly stepped forward, already turning his furry cheek toward the painting.

Leia barely caught the Squib in time. “No!”

“Who’s going to be buying this thing, you or us?” Sligh demanded, the lip of his muzzle lifted in an irritated snarl. “We have to check the merchandise.”

“It’s the real thing.” Leia pulled the Squib away. “I don’t need a test kit to tell me that.”

She glanced over to find Han staring at the painting, his gaze fixed and his jaw slack with wonder.

After eight years together, it was good to know Han could still surprise her.