Leia peered over the heads of the leading Bimms. There, obviously, was the Tower of Law. And next to it … “Threepio, ask what that thing is beside it,” she instructed the droid. “That building that looks like a three-level dome with the sides and most of the roof cut away.”
The droid sang, and the Bimm replied. “It’s the city’s main marketplace,” Threepio told her. “He says they prefer the open air whenever possible.”
“That roof probably stretches to cover more of the dome framework when the weather’s bad,” Han added from behind her. “I’ve seen that design in a few other places.”
“He says that perhaps you can be given a tour of the facility before you leave,” Threepio added.
“Sounds great,” Han said. “Wonderful place to pick up souvenirs.”
“Quiet,” Leia warned. “Or you can wait in the Falcon with Chewie.”
The Bimmisaari Tower of Law was fairly modest, as planetary council meeting places went, topping the three-level marketplace beside it by only a couple of floors. Inside, they were led to a large room on the ground floor where, framed by huge tapestries covering the walls, another group of Bimms waited. Three of them stood and sang as Leia entered.
“They add their greetings to those given you at the landing area, Princess Leia,” Threepio translated. “They apologize, however, for the fact that the talks will not be able to begin quite yet. It appears that their chief negotiator became ill just moments ago.”
“Oh,” Leia said, taken slightly aback. “Please express our sympathies, and ask if there’s anything we can do to help.”
“They thank you,” Threepio said after another exchange of songs. “But they assure you that will not be necessary. There is no danger to him, merely inconvenience.” The droid hesitated. “I really don’t think you should inquire further, Your Highness,” he added, a bit delicately. “The complaint appears to be of a rather personal nature.”
“I understand,” Leia said gravely, suppressing a smile at the prim tone of the droid’s voice. “Well, in that case, I suppose we might as well return to the Falcon until he feels ready to continue.”
The droid translated, and one of their escort stepped forward and sang something in reply. “He offers an alternative, Your Highness: that he would be eager to conduct you on a tour of the marketplace while you wait.”
Leia glanced at Han and Luke. “Any objections?”
The Bimm sang something else. “He further suggests that Master Luke and Captain Solo might find something to interest them in the Tower’s upper chambers,” Threepio said. “Apparently, there are relics there dating from the middle era of the Old Republic.”
A quiet alarm went off in the back of Leia’s mind. Were the Bimms trying to split them up? “Luke and Han might like the market, too,” she said cautiously.
There was another exchange of arias. “He says they would find it excessively dull,” Threepio told her. “Frankly, if it’s anything like marketplaces I’ve seen—”
“I like marketplaces,” Han cut him off brusquely, his voice dark with suspicion. “I like ’em a lot.”2
Leia looked at her brother. “What do you think?”
Luke’s eyes swept the Bimms; measuring them, she knew, with all of his Jedi insight. “I don’t see what danger they could be,” he said slowly. “I don’t sense any real duplicity in them. Nothing beyond that of normal politics, anyway.”
Leia nodded, her tension easing a little. Normal politics—yes, that was probably all it was. The Bimm probably just wanted the chance to privately bend her ear on behalf of his particular viewpoint before the talks got started in earnest. “In that case,” she said, inclining her head to the Bimm, “we accept.”
“The marketplace has been in this same spot for over two hundred years,” Threepio translated as Han and Leia followed their host up the gentle ramp between the second and third levels of the open dome structure. “Though not in this exact form, of course. The Tower of Law, in fact, was built here precisely because it was already a common crossroads.”
“Hasn’t changed much, has it?” Han commented, pressing close to Leia to keep them from getting run down by a particularly determined batch of shoppers. He’d seen a lot of marketplaces on a lot of different planets, but seldom one so crowded.
Crowded with more than just locals, too. Scattered throughout the sea of yellow-clad Bimms—don’t they ever wear any other color?—he could see several other humans, a pair of Baradas, an Ishi Tib, a group of Yuzzumi, and something that looked vaguely like a Paonnid.3
“You can see why this place is worth getting into the New Republic,” Leia murmured to him.
“I guess so,” Han conceded, stepping to one of the booths and looking at the metalware displayed there. The owner/operator sang something toward him, gesturing to a set of carving knives. “No, thanks,” Han told him, moving back. The Bimm continued to jabber at him, his gestures becoming sharper—“Threepio, will you have our host tell him that we’re not interested?” he called to the droid.
There was no response. “Threepio?” he repeated, looking around.
Threepio was staring off into the crowd. “Hey, Goldenrod,” he snapped. “I’m talking to you.”
Threepio spun back. “I’m terribly sorry, Captain Solo,” he apologized. “But our host seems to have disappeared.”
“What do you mean, disappeared?” Han demanded, looking around. Their particular Bimm, he remembered, had worn a set of shiny pins on his shoulders.
Pins that were nowhere to be seen. “How could he just disappear?”
Beside him, Leia gripped his hand. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” she said tightly. “Let’s get back to the Tower.”
“Yeah,” Han agreed. “Come on, Threepio. Don’t get lost.” Shifting his grip on Leia’s hand, he turned—
And froze. A few meters away, islands in the churning sea of yellow, three aliens stood facing them. Short aliens, not much taller than the Bimms, with steel-gray skin, large dark eyes, and protruding jaws.
And, held ready in their hands, stokhli sticks.
“We’ve got trouble,” he murmured to Leia, turning his head slowly to look around, hoping desperately that those three were all there were.
They weren’t. There were at least eight more, arrayed in a rough circle ten meters across. A circle with Han, Leia, and Threepio at its center.
“Han!” Leia said urgently.
“I see them,” he muttered. “We’re in trouble, sweetheart.”
He sensed her glance behind them. “Who are they?” she breathed.
“I don’t know—never seen anything like them before. But they’re not kidding around. Those things are called stokhli sticks—shoot a spraynet mist two hundred meters, with enough shockstun juice to take down a good-sized Gundark.” Abruptly, Han noticed that he and Leia had moved, instinctively backing away from the nearest part of the aliens’ circle. He glanced over his shoulder—“They’re herding us toward the down ramp,” he told her. “Must be trying to take us without stirring up the crowd.”
“We’re doomed,” Threepio moaned.
Leia gripped Han’s hand. “What are we going to do?”
“Let’s see how closely they’re paying attention.” Trying to watch all the aliens at once, Han casually reached his free hand toward the comlink attached to his collar.
The nearest alien lifted his stokhli stick warningly. Han froze, slowly lowered the hand again. “So much for that idea,” he muttered. “I think it’s time to pull in the welcome mat. Better give Luke a shout.”
“He can’t help us.”
Han glanced down at her; at her glazed eyes and pinched face. “Why not?” he demanded, stomach tightening.
She sighed, just audibly. “They’ve got him, too.”
C H A P T E R 7