Star Wars_ Fate of the Jedi 05_ Allies - Christie Golden [64]
“Enjoy this last story while you can, Javis Tyrr,” Dorvan said quietly, and permitted himself the tiniest smile of satisfaction at the thought.
UMALOR, VINSOTH
IT WAS A DRINKING HOLE WITH THE IGNOMINIOUS NAME OF THE Drunken Ootak, and from the interior it could have been a drinking hole anywhere in the galaxy. It just happened to be on Vinsoth.
The Drunken Ootak, named for an indigenous primate that was known for searching out fermented fruit and proceeding to gorge until intoxicated, was crowded and noisy and smelly, and a complex variety of beings were laying bets and shouting. Smoke hazed the air, and laughter punctuated it.
The bets and the shouting and the laughter revolved around the activities occurring at a center table. Seated in a far-too-large high-backed chair at one end of the table was a slender, delicately built humanoid female. Her clothing was simple: travel-worn boots, trousers, shirt, and a vest with several pockets. She had long ears, pink skin, a wispy, tousled mop of white hair, and bright eyes. Those eyes were currently blinking very slowly, and her head was nodding. Standing at her side was a human male with graying blond hair, blue eyes, and a rather worried look on his face.
On the other end of the table sat a Chevin male. He was thinner than most, his enormous face seeming harsh and angular. The smoke-hazed light glinted on a gold ring pierced through one nostril. His robes, purple and blue shot through with gold thread in pleasant geometrical designs, proclaimed him as a being of some wealth. Currently, however, the distinctive reek of alcohol wafted from the robes from where more than one glass had been spilled over the course of the evening. There was a little crowd gathered behind him. Some of them appeared to be personal friends or servants, others were simply angling for a good view. Two Chevs, a male and a female, stood slightly behind him.
The Chevin and the pink-skinned female each had eleven small glasses upended in front of them. Between them was a bottle of Twi’lek liquor—a beverage known for its potency.
Brukal, the Chevin owner of The Drunken Ootak, poured them each another shot of the green fluid, then recorked the bottle. It had been unopened not so long ago; now it was nearly empty.
The shot was passed to the female. She started, as if waking herself, and then reached out for the glass with unsteady hands. She brought the glass to her lips, then paused. She took a deep breath. There was muttering and credits changed hands.
“Don’t be so hasty,” she said, in a voice that slurred only slightly. “I c’n handle this …”
She brought the glass to her lips, licked them, and then knocked back the shot with a quick flick of her wrist. There was scattered applause, and credits changed hands again.
“Hey, Guumak,” Brukal said, his expression twisting slightly in annoyance. “You gotta pay up. We bet each round. Or you too drunk to remember that?”
The other Chevin looked distressed. His snout wrinkled in agitation. He frowned at the female, clearly unable to understand how it was that one so small could be threatening to drink him under the table. But he waved for another shot.
“Money first,” Brukal said, waving his fingers impatiently.
Guumak turned and spoke to the two Chevs who stood behind him. The female, clad in an attractive robe of subdued colors with black hair held back by a jeweled band, held a small sack. Looking as distressed as the Chevin, she said something in her native tongue and indicated the sack, which was obviously empty.
Guumak grunted, reached out a hand and grabbed the wrist of the male Chevin. With a firm tug, the Chevin was yanked forward, stumbling a little.
“Put Shohta up.” He gestured. The Chev, presumably Shohta, looked stunned.
“Master?” He glanced uncertainly from the drunken Chevin to the delicate-seeming female with whom his master was competing. This time, Guumak stared at the glass for