The bartender at the Wayfarer’s Cantina was, indeed, Malvan. However, he was not Drogen’s Malvan.
Drogen frowned.
The bar was full of a motley assortment of beings. Again, there were very few he recognized. A small green female with moth wings stood on her barstool, leaning out to catch the bartender’s attention. The Malvan bartender seemed content to ignore her.
A gelatinous tentacled being sloshed across the floor, slurping up what Drogen could only assume were spilt drinks. It might be the only way to get service here, he thought, watching the moth-winged girl resort to actually climbing up on the bar.
There were a few patrons who had drinks, and they sat contentedly watching the moth-winged girl, sipping out of their various fluted glasses, bowls, and pipes. “She needs to be more aggressive than that,” a voice observed from behind him, “if she actually wants Trebonaire to serve her a drink.”
Drogen turned. “I thought you were the bartender.”
“I?” Tateklys asked in dismay. “Oh, not in ages. The novelty of it wore off after a mere month or so. And truly, it was mostly the court’s confusion that made it so entertaining for so long. No, no.” He bowed elaborately to Drogen, “I am the proprietor of this establishment, but never the labor.”
“Your labor seems a little surly,” Drogen said.
“Oh, indeed. He’s a Malvan. We are an inherently lazy people, you know. I pay him to stand around being Malvan. It’s why we’re so popular,” he nodded towards the few satisfied patrons with their drinks. “These gentle-beings can return to their ships boasting of having won service from a Malvan. Very few can do that.”
“I can’t see how that makes you very much money.”
“It doesn’t have to. I make enough money in my other endeavors.” Tateklys reached out a slender hand and slipped the contract sheet out of Drogen’s grasp. “Hmm.” He pursed his lips, tapping one finger against them. “Not a favorable contract for you, is it?”
“They’ll give me training,” Drogen found himself defending the terms, even though he’d been thinking that himself.
“Oh, yes. They’ll train you to sweep floors and wash kitchens. They say nothing here about the quality of your training, which means it will be for the least position. No mention of navigational training, or com systems, or anything else worthy of much respect, really.” Tateklys handed him back the contract, signaling to the bartender. “Please, let us sit and discuss your true worth.”
“Which,” Drogen said, sitting, “I’m sure you know.”
“That is my business,” Tateklys smiled, peering over those violet lenses of his. “You, my dear boy, are a clear candidate for the Gladiatorial Arena. How, you might well ask, could I know this? Can I predict your fighting skill? Do I have a mystical eye to read the future? No, sadly I do not. However, I do have an eye for novelty. You are a Dorvalan.”
“I had noticed that myself,” Drogen said.
“You see, your intelligence speaks for you!” Tateklys crowed.
Just then the bartender actually came up to their table with two glasses full of some white frothy liquid. He placed them carefully on the table; clearly this was a task he hadn’t completed often enough to learn any grace.
“As a Dorvalan,” Tateklys continued, “you will be quite the novelty within the Arena. I am quite likely the only Malvan who has ever travelled to Dorvala. The others will never have seen you, will not know your language, and will believe anything we tell them about your species. We can say that you can only fight with a choir of virgins singing your praises. We can declare that you must drink the blood of your slain enemies to maintain your strength. You can yell imprecations at the crowd, tell them in Dorvalan that they look the bottom of a dead pond lizard. It won’t matter. You will be a novelty.”
Drogen shook his head. “Are your people truly that shallow?”
Tateklys met his eyes. “Yes.”
“So you would throw me into the Gladiatorial Arena with no experience, no training, and no knowledge of my ability to fight?”
“Yes.”
“And how is this a better deal than taking service on a ship and indenturing myself to the Service Hall for two years?”
Tateklys smiled slightly, then. “In the Arena, you will earn more wealth than even a captain of one of these trading vessels could dream. You will be adored by millions, at least for a brief while. And you will be a respected warrior. And all Dorvalans want to be respected, don’t they?”
“I’m not a standard Dorvalan,” Drogen told him.
“No, that’s true. You are somewhat taller. But in this, I believe I judge correctly. You practically ooze with nobility and honor.” He leaned back. “If you have no interest in the Arena, you know your other best option. If, on the other hand, you care to try your luck. Well. If you have any fighting skill at all, you can make quite a fortune at it.”
Drogen picked up the white frothy drink, stalling. The safe move, the wise move, would be the Service Hall. He could at least predict what they’d want. And if what they wanted was a janitor, well, he was servant caste wasn’t he? On the other hand… He wasn’t on Dorvala anymore. The Malvans wouldn’t care what his caste was. They would never know. He laughed. This Malvan was already offering him the Gladiatorial Arena, without knowing a thing about the alloy or what it meant. Just because he was Dorvalan. And big.
“And what will you get out of it?” he asked Tateklys.
“Oh, I’ll make quite a lot of money off you. And it will probably be entertaining.”
Sufficient reason? Drogen eyed the Malvan. Probably.
“Are the battles to the death?”
“Generally not. Accidents do happen, but we prefer to watch fighters over the course of their careers. It makes for so much more drama,” Tateklys answered.
“And you’ll pay whatever entry fee I need, and buy me gear?”
“Dear boy, I will buy you whatever you need.”
“And you’ll give me a contract swearing to that? One that will hold up in even a Malvan court of law?” Drogen wasn’t taking any risks here.
“Indeed. And I’ll even pay you three times as much for your ship as the Service Hall was offering. It’s only worth twice their offer, but I like you,” Tateklys smiled and took a sip of his drink.
“What’s the catch?”
“The catch, my Dorvalan friend, is that I cannot simply make you a gladiator. I can give you all the resources you need, but you must issue challenge and fight a glorious battle before you can be accepted. I will want to assess your skills first. And we shall want to pit you against the best fighter you are capable of facing. That will determine your status within the Arena.”
Drogen nodded. None of that seemed beyond the bounds of reason.
“Of course, if you fail, as a non-gladiator, you are likely to be killed,” Tateklys added.
That would certainly be a problem. Of course, if he died, that problem would no longer be his. Three Ladies, what would you have me do? Live safely, or take the risk? They were gods of adventure and the unbounded starry sky. Adventure, no doubt, would be their choice. He nodded.
“I accept you offer,” he told Tateklys, then raised his glass and drank. It felt like fire, ice, and something just faintly sweet ran over his tongue and down his throat. “What is this?!” he gasped once he’d recovered his breath.
“It’s called Mother’s Milk. But I leave it to your imagination which species of mother it might be.” Tateklys rose and slapped him cheerfully on the shoulder. “Come now, my future Gladiator. Time to get you kitted out!”
To be continued…
