Star Wars: The Approaching Storm

by Alan Dean Foster

  “So they can be bought,” Anakin commented. Obi-Wan gave the Padawan a sharp look, but the younger man only shrugged, seeing nothing wrong with the question. His teacher should know by now that his Padawan was nothing if not direct.

  Certainly their host took no offense. “Any merchant can be bought, my large, furless young friend. That is the nature of business, is it not? To the Qulun, loyalty is just another commodity. For the moment, we are happy to see Ansion fully represented in the Republic. As to what tomorrow may bring, who am I to say?” Grunting with the effort, he leaned back against his pile of supporting cushions. Multiple tiny sensors and equally minuscule motors shifted mass within each cushion to provide the necessary response.

  “An honest response, anyway,” Luminara murmured to Barriss. “I suppose we can’t expect any better from such people. They’re only living according to their traditions.”

  “Tradition seems to mean everything on this planet.” Barriss sampled another of the numerous drinks that had been set before her. Like everything else she had tried, it was delicious. Movement off to her right made her turn. Her diminutive friend was ambling toward the doorway.

  “Tooqui, where are you going?”

  “Too much much light for Tooqui. Too much talk talk. Go for walk. Back later.”

  “Fine,” she told him, adding after a moment’s thought, “Don’t steal anything.”

  He responded with a gesture whose meaning she would have demanded to know had he not already disappeared. One of the guards stationed outside made a move to intercept him, but the Gwurran was too quick, vanishing into the night and the camp.

  Now that was a bit odd, Barriss thought. Why would they try to keep Tooqui from leaving? She relaxed and leaned back against the cushions. Probably worried about him running loose and getting into trouble. Knowing Tooqui, she could sympathize with their hosts.

  A stylishly clad and elaborately coiffured female brought forth an elegant rectangular case filled with delicate, tightly stoppered bottles. Each was unique, having been fashioned from a different natural gemstone. The server’s attire left her back completely uncovered in a sweeping open V, the better to show off her golden, black-striped mane all the way to her short stub of a tail. Glistening bows and light-emitting sparklies had been artfully woven into the exposed fur. At the chief’s direction, she bent to proffer the assortment to Luminara and Obi-Wan.

  “These are essences from the Dzavak Lakes district, far to the west of here.” Baiuntu spoke pridefully. “You will not find the like anywhere in Cuipernam. I would champion them in a contest of fine perfumes against any scents acquired anywhere in the Republic.” He waved a thick-fingered hand encouragingly. “Go on, go on! Try them. The paluruvu—that’s the violet-hued liquid in the bottle at the end of the display—is particularly flamboyant. A couple of drops of the pure essence blended with clear water will make a large flagon of expensive perfume.” He smiled broadly.

  “The Alwari may be prairie-dwelling nomads, but they are not uncivilized. Like the Qulun, they, too, enjoy the finer things. These essences are among our best sellers. After days spent traveling the open plains in the company of a great many reeking herd and draft animals, a well-off Alwari couple is grateful for the opportunity to moderate the natural bouquet within their home.”

  Tentatively, Luminara tried a whiff of several of the different extracts. All were outstanding, but true to Baiuntu’s word, the paluruvu was exceptional.

  “Wonderful,” she declared as she passed the tray to Obi-Wan. His sampling was more perfunctory than hers, but he, too, had to admit that the assortment was the equal of anything he had encountered on Coruscant or any other equally sophisticated world of the Republic.

  By the time Barriss and Anakin took their turn, the room was awash in a spectacular swirl of scents. These cloaked the atmosphere entirely, drowning out any hint of corralled animals or bustling clanfolk. As Luminara looked on, Baiuntu yawned hugely. Come to think of it, she was feeling quite weary herself. It had been a long day. Straightening, she prepared to excuse herself and her companions. That was the first inkling she had that something was wrong.

  She couldn’t straighten.

  In fact, she could not even sit up. Her taut, lean muscles seemed to have turned to mush, to have buckled into the cushions and pillows that supported them. Her head swam, and she felt like she was melting into the floor. Out of rapidly blurring eyes she saw Obi-Wan rise and attempt to draw his lightsaber. His fingers clutched futilely in its vicinity. Even if he had succeeded in drawing and activating the weapon, there was no one to fight. Their host was already wheezing away sonorously, his hands clasped across his most un-Ansionian belly. The eye-catching essence presenter was lying nearby, her lithe form sound asleep at his feet.

  “Something’s—Barriss!” Attempting to shout, Luminara produced only a loud whisper. Her Padawan did not hear her. Barriss lay sprawled on her own cushioning divan, head back, mouth open, and limbs akimbo. Not far away, Anakin Skywalker lay facedown a body-length or two from the entrance to the visitor’s house. A house, Luminara saw through thickening haze, whose doors had been surreptitiously shut tight. To keep them in, she wondered? Or to seal in the striking, swirling mélange of fragrances? It amounted, she realized, to the same thing.

  Paluruvu not only excited the sense of smell, she thought woozily. It also must contain the powerful sedative that was rendering her and her companions senseless. But if the result was intentional, why would Baiuntu subject himself and the female who had offered it up to the same sleep-inducing effects? Struggling to crawl forward toward the door, she tried to draw her own weapon. The effort was to no avail. Her brain no longer seemed capable of establishing contact with her fingers.

  Nearby, Obi-Wan dropped to his knees and looked over at her. His expression was blank drugged. As she stared, his eyes closed and he fell over on his side. On the far side of the room, Kyakhta and Bulgan snorted loudly in the familiar wheezing, hissing Ansionian manner. Exerting a tremendous effort, Anakin Skywalker rose to his feet and rushed at the shuttered entrance. Through the increasingly dense haze that was clogging her thoughts, she marveled at the attempt. The youth must have an enormous reservoir of willpower, she decided.

  Unfortunately, all of it was expended in reaching the door. By the time he struck it, Anakin's legs were barely able to hold him erect. The doors shuddered, but held firm. Retreating, he reached for his lightsaber, turned a slow, confused circle, and sat down. His eyes closed and he fell over onto his side. She was now the only one in the room who was still conscious.

  Of course Baiuntu would subject himself and the serving female to the effects of the immobilizing perfume, she found herself thinking. How better to put someone you wanted to poison at ease than by partaking of that same poison yourself? If nothing else, it suggested that the narcotizing procedure was not fatal. Baiuntu might be the type to join his intended victims in sleep, but not in death.

  She saw it all clearly now. They had been lured in and rendered helpless—but for what purpose, to what end? Soon other Qulun would doubtless open up the room, wait for the tranquilizing mist drifting within to dissipate, and then assist their chief and the unconscious female. As for the clan’s erstwhile “guests,” what was to be done with them remained a matter of some speculation. Speculation she could not track to a logical conclusion, because she was tired, so tired, and at the moment nothing could possibly feel any better, nothing could conceivably matter more, than a good night’s sleep.

  A part of her brain screamed at her to keep awake, to stay alert. Fighting the perfume’s effects, she managed to lift her head off the cushions. It was a last, defiant gesture. Even Jedi training could be overcome. Perhaps not by force of arms. But a lightsaber was useless against the delectable, all-pervasive, irresistible fragrance of essence of paluruvu…

  Chapter Thirteen

  “There’s the grotty little dyzat! Get him!”

  Tooqui didn't know why the two Qulun were chasing him, but
he didn’t hang around to find out. Both clan members were brandishing strange, foreign weapons, and even though he didn’t know what they were or what they could do, he decided right away that it would be better not to wait around to see.

  Something bad must have happened. If Master Barriss was all right, she wouldn’t stand for him being chased like this, by screaming, wild-eyed, angry Qulun. The last time he had seen her, she and her endlessly interesting friends were relaxing in the company of the Qulun chief. Everyone seemed to be getting along wonderfully well well. What had happened to change that?

  True, the traders were Qulun, not Alwari, but they were after all more trustworthy than a bunch of roving, slobbering Alwari, the dorgum-herding snigvolds.

  If that was the case, then Master Barriss too might for sure be in danger. She and her teachers were very powerful, but they were not gods. They were not as strong as Miywondl, the wind, or Kapchenaga, the thunder. They were only people. Bigger than the Gwurran, maybe a little smarter, but just people. They could be broken, and deaded. The Qulun were people, too. That meant they also knew of different ways of killing.

  But if there had been killing, surely he would have heard something. From what he had seen, Master Barriss and her companions were not the kind to go down without a fight. Had they been tricked somehow? Many were the tales told in the tribal canyons on dark nights of the tricks shrewd trader folk sometimes played on unsuspecting visitors.

  Something bright and hot singed the hair on the crest of his mane. He accelerated, running as hard and fast as he could. Though the Qulun people had longer legs, they were accustomed to riding and selling. If there was one thing the Gwurran knew how to do and did well, it was running. Faces peered out at him from the outlandish fold-up flat-sided dwellings. Alerted by all the commotion, a few of their occupants tried to catch him. He dodged them all, as if he were playing a game of blo-bi with his family-friendlies. No game this, though. The bright-hotness spat by him again. This time it missed him completely, momentarily illuminating the night sky above his head.

  Then he was clear of the camp, his legs pumping as he raced out onto the open prairie. The high grass slowed him down somewhat, but it would also help hide him. He thought he was safe—until he heard the clumping of sadain feet coming up fast behind him.

  “This way!” a Qulun shouted. “I saw the dyzat over this way!”

  I am not a dyzat! he wanted to turn and yell. However, he was also smart enough to know that the moment of foolish defiance might very well cost him his life. Frantically, he hunted for someplace to go to ground. But there were no familiar hills here, no friendly clefts or crevices down which to duck. The voices of the pursuing Qulun drew closer. Any moment now and they would be right on top of him. Lights lit the night in his wake. More mechanical magic, acquired from traders in the cities. He wondered if he would live long enough to set eyes on one of those people-filled, magical, mysterious places only a very few Gwurran had ever visited.

  That was when he saw the kholot burrow. The entrance was just big enough for him to squeeze into. Panting hard, he wriggled himself through the opening and started down the incline on his belly. Would the Qulun think to look for him under the ground, or just on top of it? The burrow widened slightly, allowing him to crawl faster. When it opened into an oval chamber three times his size, he knew he had reached the end. Muted by the intervening earth, the shots and cries of the patrolling Qulun sounded more distant than they were. It would have been a perfect hiding place, except for one complication.

  It was already occupied by a family of kholot.

  He froze. The kholot ate grasses and grains and leaves, not Gwurran. At least, he hoped so. Flat of face and covered in prickly olive-green fur, the two adults regarded him warily. Thankfully, there were no cubs in the burrow. If there had been, he probably wouldn’t have made it this far. Each adult was almost as big as he was. Their teeth, unfortunately, were much bigger: wide, heavy-duty incisors designed for slicing through large clumps of grass. If their blunt-snouted owners were so inclined, they could also slice right through his face.

  He held his breath as they approached, snuffling and grunting, and tried not to tremble too much as they sniffed him over and up and all around. Eyes shut tight, he tried to imagine himself a piece of dorgum dung that had accidentally rolled down into their burrow. The sounds of tromping sadains and their Qulun riders still reached him from above. He did not know how much longer he could remain motionless.

  With a last disdainful sniff that at another time the terrified Tooqui might have taken as an insult, the pair of kholot pushed past him and headed up the tunnel. Their reaction was more than passing strange. Surely he couldn’t smell bad enough to force them to vacate their burrow? Then he remembered the time spent in the Qulun’s visitors’ house, swathed in foreign smells and peculiar aromas. Evidently enough of that had adhered to his fur not only to drive the kholot out, but to keep them from biting him. Smell bad, taste bad, the two burrowing grazers had apparently decided.

  There was an excited yell from above, followed by a sharp crackling sound and a pained yowl from one of the kholot. Emerging from the burrow, it had been mistaken for his quarry by one of the patrolling Qulun. As soon as the unfortunate grazer had been identified, the other Qulun had a good laugh at their trigger-happy comrade’s expense. Turning himself around in the cramped chamber, Tooqui put his head partway up the tunnel and listened intently.

  “Enough of this. It’s late, and I’m tired. I don’t care what Baiuntu says.”

  “Same here,” declared another Qulun firmly, reining in his sadain. “Let’s tell him we caught and killed the runaway, and be done with it.”

  “It’s alone out here, without food or water supplies. The prairie will finish it off.”

  This confident exchange was followed by the sound of many sadain feet moving swiftly away. Even so, Tooqui remained hidden in the burrow until he was certain it was safe to emerge.

  When he finally did so, tired and dirty but alive, there was no sign of his pursuers. Finding a rock, he climbed just high enough to see over the tops of the windswept grass. The Qulun were breaking camp, and in the middle of the night at that. They must be very anxious about something to do that, he knew. As far as Tooqui knew, no nomads had ever been observed breaking camp in the middle of the night.

  Were Master Barriss and her friends still alive? And if they weren’t, what did it matter to him? He was alone, without food or weapons or water, several days’ run from the nearest hill country of the Gwurran. Hugging himself against the chill night wind, he took stock of his surroundings. The open plains were no place for a nervous little Gwurran! Every sound made him twitch, every hint of movement caused him to jump. What if there were shanhs out here, shadowing the traders’ caravan? If they picked up his scent, he wouldn’t last as long as a lace-winged birru in a windstorm.

  Even if he wanted to help, there was nothing he could do. The best thing for him would be to start back home right now. If he was lucky, if he found some water and some things to eat along the way, and if nothing ate him along the way, he might make it back to the country of the Gwurran in a few days. He would have an exciting, dramatic tale to tell. The young ones would gaze up at him with awe, while their sometimes condescending elders would be forced to acknowledge, however grudgingly, his considerable accomplishments. For the rest of his life, he would be a big big among his people.

  And yet—and yet, there was the matter of Master Barriss, who instead of shooting him as a thief, had befriended him, and had interceded on his behalf when he had expressed his longing to travel beyond the traditional Gwurran homeland. Wasn’t that what he was doing now? Of course, when he had made that request, he hadn’t envisioned anything like this happening. No one, not even the human Barriss, would blame him for heading home as fast as his long-toed feet could carry him.

  I have to know, he finally decided. He at least had to know. If Master Barriss and the others had been killed, then he could start for h
ome with a clear conscience. On the other hand, if they were still alive…

  If they were still alive, he suspected that his life was going to get even more complicated than it already was. He should be looking forward to that, he tried to tell himself. Hadn’t he said as much to the humans? That Tooqui was the bravest, the fiercest, the smartest, the most most of all the Gwurran? At the time, he’d wondered if any of them had believed him. Certainly those two miserable dim dim stucky-up clanless Alwari, Kyakhta and Bulgan, had not. Imagine to see their faces—if they were still alive, he reminded himself—when Tooqui, the very same Tooqui they had mocked and derided, showed up to rescue-save their sorry short-tailed ugly behinds! The image filled him, if not with courage, then at least with nerve.

  Tooqui would show them! Tooqui would show them all. Determined now, he prepared to track the roving Qulun clan. He would shadow them from afar, waiting to see what there was to see, waiting to learn whatever could be learned. It was just as he’d said. He was the boldest, the toughest, the most resourceful of all the Gwurran!

  Alone and weaponless against an entire Qulun clan, with only a debilitating feeling of helplessness for company, he knew he would have to be even more than that.

  She sensed that her head was still attached to her shoulders, but that was about the only good thing Luminara could be certain of when she finally regained consciousness. Her arms were tightly tied behind her, and her legs bound at thigh, calf, and ankle. Daylight was all she could detect through the soft, permeable hood that covered her head. She could breathe, but only through her nose, as the gag that had been expertly positioned in her mouth kept her from enunciating anything more eloquent than a grunt.

  Still, that was enough to provoke answering grunts from nearby. She thought she recognized Obi-Wan, and Barriss. Anakin she wasn’t certain about, but the muffled, high-pitched Ansionian noises most likely originated from Kyakhta and Bulgan. Evaluating different tones finally convinced her that Anakin, too, was among the imprisoned.