The next day for Iris began much as the one before it. She awoke in the morning a few hours after dawn and entered the common showers with the others. The water was warm at least, if not hot, and it cascaded from its fixed position in the ceiling. Every three paces there was another, and beneath each was a woman in line on one side, while on the right there were young men. All wore the same thing, a silver collar. All had the same basic supplies, a cap to keep their hair from being drenched, a rough stone for scrubbing, and a standard gray towel for drying off.

As always, there was gossip to be had, and Iris remained aloof to it. Stuck in her own head as she washed herself clean, she listened to the idle chatter, but added nothing of her own, the warmth of the water was the company she needed. But she listened.

“...He was a real pervert, fast with his hands, and he didn’t even tip well…”

“The one with the green lapels… yeah him…”

Gossip like that guided Iris away from the worst, and toward the best, and since she didn’t seek comfort with any of the others, nor did she try to make extra through prostitution, she was generally ignored. Speaking only when spoken to.

The echoing words and echoing water made the shower quarters a noisy place, one she normally left as quickly as possible, but during this morning, someone spoke to her.

“Iris… what happened with you upstairs, who was it?”

Iris turned to the one to speak to her, a redheaded young woman, new, naive. A wave of pity went over Iris when she looked at the fresh faced young woman, and she closed her eyes. “Someone you do not want to get mixed up with. Nothing bad happened up there, but nothing good can either. I’d rather not talk about it.”

The redhead gave a tiny frown, and it drew the attention of both sides of the common shower, men and women alike.

Iris felt their stares on her and thought carefully about what to say, ‘If I reveal it was Gottfried, word will spread to other customers and…’ She summoned all her acting skill for a sentence that required very little of it. “He’s one of the ones who ruined my life, and I had to entertain him. Please don’t ask me again, I don’t want to hear his name down here, even if it’s from my own lips.”

For several long seconds the sound of echoing water was the only one, and Iris chose that moment to leave, and add the sound of her wet footfalls on stone to the room. She entered her quarters and flung her bare back against the door. “Stupid… I shouldn’t have even suggested I didn’t mind seeing him again. No matter how much money he spends…”

Iris slid her body down to a crouching position and lowered her head to her knees, “He probably won’t come back anyway.”

That didn’t stop her from remaining there behind the pretend security of a flimsy, lockless door for several more minutes before she dressed in her maid dancer outfit and made her way upstairs with the expensive silk caressing her skin with every step.

The rest of her day was normal enough. Wiping down tables, chairs, dusting the glowstones, and listening to the players tune and prepare their instruments before their mistress arrived from her nearby home.

With ample practice in all their tasks, the collective staff was ready hours before the evening opening and so they had ample time to rest and prepare themselves with small plain meals of a white stew that had a little chicken, broth, and vegetables. The hot food was filling and nutritious enough at least. Iris held the wooden bowl to her lips from where she sat at the table and quickly drained it. She mopped up the remaining broth with a piece of dry bread, munched that down and swallowed without really tasting any of it.

Around the room she could see others doing the same. ‘Necessity, not pleasure.’ She thought and one by one they stacked up their bowls with a polite, “Thank you for feeding us, Mistress Lyrica.”

The blonde woman didn’t answer, she only waited patiently until the last bowl was placed, and the one to do so picked the stacked wooden bowls up in both hands to carry them away without being asked. How grateful the rest were, Iris could only guess. ‘We get actual meat… a lot of others don’t. It could be worse.’

The vision screens came on in their various positions around the White Stag, and the mystical eyes at the arena zoomed in on the great arena. ‘Experts working there offered opinions Iris didn’t care about.

“Gottfried Jabara is favored to win…”

Iris heard the speaker say, and to that she could only chortle, ‘And in other news, water is wet and sometimes falls from clouds. Does anybody actually care what those blowhards have to say about anything?’ She asked herself while she finished wiping down a table one more time out of sheer boredom.

The boredom didn’t last when the doors opened and the rich panoply of customers began to stream in, a younger crowd that evening. They wore white ruffles that protruded between their lapels and were bedecked with bright and flashy jewelry. They spoke in loud, bombastic, boastful voices and wore, among the other ‘new’ fashions, a brimmed hat that sloped slightly forward, and had their hair worn loose down to the neck.

Iris was careful about her timing when coming to take customers. She eyeballed each group, and she picked the set of four who had the hardest time with eye contact even when they spoke the loudest. She approached them and curtseyed with a bobbing of her knees. “Welcome to the White Stag, masters. Please, let me seat you.”

Their eyes raked over her, making her skin crawl with the naked appraisal before she spun gracefully on her toes and strode with purpose and confidence to a table close to the largest wall. “Are you here to watch the arena, good masters?” She asked with interest as she pushed each one into the table as they sat down.

“Yeah, going to make a bundle too. Maybe break the bank kind of bundle.” The four grinned with naked greed.

“I… see… well I wish you luck, but why don’t I start you off with drinks?” Speaking a little louder than she had to even over the cacophony of customers she said, “We have a wide array of drinks, but I suppose you men wouldn’t be interested in the weaker stuff, would you?”

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They puffed out their chests and cleared their throats, “Of course not.” Their evident ‘leader’ replied. “Your strongest, of course.”

“Of course… and I am required by law to inform you that the cost is exorbitant… three hundred gold, an exclusive house brand… but if you finish the bottle, we let the one who has the most, keep it as a trophy. Though nobody ever manages that.” She smiled down at them and waited for the inevitable.

The strings of their pride played like an instrument, all four bombastic voices said at once, “That!”

“At once, masters.” Iris bobbed at the knees again in subservience and sashayed away, well aware of their eyes on her as she walked. ‘Idiots. Prideful idiots. At least their hands will be busy.’ Iris thought as she went to place the order.

She had a large bright blue bottle placed at the center of the table before the opening exhibitions began. The sound of clashing swords and shields, the grunts of pain, Iris tried to tune the noise out. A grisly cry cut off as a gladiator either lost life or consciousness.

The four young patrons enjoyed it, and in unison they tipped their hats to the victor or the vanquished. Iris neither knew nor cared which, she kept her head down and poured the first shots.

She was about to leave the table when she felt the come around and squeeze her ass. “No, stay. Keep pouring.” Iris nodded in silent obedience, biting her lip, she poured another round of shots.

And another. The average matchup tended to be short. And though they seemed to enjoy the bloodshed, she listened while they talked excitedly, and the closer it got to the clash of champions, the more eager they became. Iris continued to pour unprompted until the hand on her fell away. Whether he couldn’t keep it up or realized she wasn’t leaving, she wasn’t sure.

Their own conversation was more enlightening, and true to her routine, she pointed to the next match. “I’ll bet you masters, that Xan of the spear defeats Melio of the trident.”

The four frowned at that. “Bet what? You’ve got nothing.”

Iris laughed, “You know better, this isn’t a brothel, but I have ‘options’, and if you win, you get to be one. If you don’t… fifty percent tip. I understand, that is too much…”

Their pride and lust tickled alike, they quickly accepted her bet. Iris remained where she stood and watched the clash unfold. The trident seemed to have the advantage at first, the warrior was lean, swift, and he used the triple tines to bind the spearhead and twist it, opening up the spearman to a close attack.

On the third attempt however, the spearman, rather than disentangling his spear, pushed harder, snatching his shaft with both hands, stepping in so that he was sideways, and thrusting with the full force of his body. The trident wielding Melio fell back, lost his grip on the trident… and a moment later he was pinned at the belly by the spear wielder, secured to the sands like a skewered fish, and screaming while the wound spurted blood that stained the white grains which blew about in the breeze.

“How did you know…?” The slender leader of the table asked.

Iris answered in a more professional tone and pointed to the spearman on the screen that the crowd was cheering over. “He’s stronger, and more experienced. Melio was faster but he relied too much on his weapon tricks. All other things being equal, the stronger win. And between experience and inexperience, the experienced usually win. He had Melio beaten in both.”

“Double or nothing on the next match.” He said immediately.

“As you wish, master.” She said and saw who was entering the arena. “The elf monk will beat the orc swordsman.”

Again she won the bet, and they looked up at her with suspicion. Iris felt her heart pound, “They’re not fixed, sirs, the orc came in arrogant. They always underestimate elves. Plus he’s a swordsman, he trains to use that weapon. The monk’s martial arts will harden his body, and he trains to take the weapons away. Plus…” She pointed to the screen where the elf thrust the sword into the orc’s guts, “he came in without arrogance. The arrogant fighter makes mistakes the humble one doesn’t.”

“Double or nothing!”

They said and she continued to pour shots for the four.

Each time they wagered, they lost, and Iris continued to rack up her ever greater promised gains… until Gottfried’s match was announced to be next.

“I’ll bet you… that Gottfried gets knocked down.” The leader of the pack said, “Even if it’s only down to one knee.”

Iris barely suppressed her frown. The bet was absurd on its surface. Their eyes were glassed over, all four were swaying in their seats, even a casual attempt at groping her was a failure without any preventative efforts of her own. ‘But it still seems insane.’ The elven champion was indeed impressive.

But the outcome was foreordained, ‘Even knocking him down, it seems… absurd.’ So absurd that she almost said yes for another easy win.

But the way their glazed eyes roamed over her and the second failed attempt at a grope, this one rising up toward her chest before his arm went limp on its own, it all gave her pause. They seemed to have absolute confidence.

A piece of advice came to mind, ‘If a man ever bets you a fortune that he can make a silver coin dance, sing, and spit in your eye, don’t take it, because you’ll get spit in your eye and lose a fortune.’

Iris felt their stares, hunger, and absolute confidence that they’d be able to have her. ‘Gottfried wore that expression before fighting the orc champion…’

She smiled and reached down to tossle his hair, “Let me go get some food for you first, so you can finish the bottle.”

It was a nonsense answer, but drunk as they were, they were unfit to tell the difference. Around the big room the patrons were in various stages of intoxication, some private booths had closed curtains where Iris assumed some private bargains were being struck or sealed. But most were focused on the large displays of the combatants.

Iris approached her mistress behind the counter and leaned forward, “Mistress, a moment in private?” Iris asked, and Lyrica leaned back, surprised at the request.

She nodded, took Iris’ hand, and led her out of the door, leaving the bar briefly staffed by only one slave.

“What is it?” Lyrica demanded, and realizing the significance of what she was going to say, Iris sank immediately to her knees.

“Mistress, I think something is wrong at the arena.” Iris spat out, and before Lyrica could ask, Iris went on and explained how the patrons lost every bet, but were utterly confident about this.

“He could be poisoned, or some spell or curse, or something with his opponent’s equipment… but nobody would make that bet without absolute knowledge.” Iris said with certainty, and Lyrica looked doubtfully toward the door.

“If I’m right and they’re caught, it’ll come back here, after all, they’re watching out there now, what if there is a plot and people think it was hatched under your watch… Mistress… please believe me… I was a noble once, I know what scheming looks like. I know what smug ‘I know something you don’t know’ faces look like, especially drunk. Reach out to the arena, at least try. If you fail, at least you did something.”

Lyrica gave a slow and unhappy nod. “Alright, slave, alright. I’ll try, I’m not sure if I should say you’d better be right, or not… and they probably won’t listen anyway, but I’ll try!”