Chapter VIII

It can scarcely be imagined that any of my illustrious readers will have frequented such disreputable drinking establishments as were commonly to be found in port cities such as Mos Eisley. Persons of such refinement and intelligence as to trouble themselves with this tale of long, long ago will have had no cause to enter such an unseemly place, and rightfully so. It falls then to the Author to present such details as will create a picture of the questionable establishment in which Luke and Sir Kenobi soon found themselves in a manner thorough enough as to excite the imagination and yet not so thorough as to cause the more delicate among my audience to swoon in revulsion. That being said, however, if you are of a particularly refined sensibility suited only to people and places of the highest quality and class, then you are advised with all sincerity to skip the section that follows and rejoin our tale when it takes up more noble environments.

Young Master Luke had never been to Mos Eisley nor, it need hardly be said, had he ever visited a drinking establishment of a similar character to that in which Sir Kenobi had directed them. It was packed full of men and women of unsavory character engaging in vices beyond description. They wore the grubby clothing of sailors and workmen, so utilitarian and ugly that young Luke found himself quite uncomfortable by the suddenly conspicuous nature of his gentleman’s attire. The patrons of the place seemed to be covered head to foot in dirt. Their hair was grimy and unwashed, and in almost every mouth Luke could see black and crooked teeth. The men drank and laughed raucously, without any sense of decorum, groping at the few ladies among them without shame. These ladies, if such they could even be called, drank and laughed as loudly as the men, and Luke even saw one of them break a tankard of ale over the head of a man who had somehow offended her. Young Luke would surely have turned and fled the place were it not for the calm and confident presence of Sir Benjamin. He was the good old knight’s squire now, he remembered, and he would not leave the man's side.

The owner of this tavern nodded respectfully to Sir Benjamin, as though he knew him, and filled up two mugs of the local ale for them both. The knight began a whispered conversation with the man, which Luke could not make out amongst the noise of the place. Besides the many men and women laughing, talking, and shouting, a small band of musicians was playing in the corner on fiddle and pipe. Luke could barely make out the tune amongst the cacophony – just enough to recognize that the song was repetitive and annoying. He felt out of place and uncomfortable, and found himself wishing that Arthur Detoo and Mr. Threepeo had joined them instead of waiting outside. Threepeo had taken one look at the place and refused to go any further, and Mr. Detoo, though not a stranger to such dens of ill repute, had volunteered to stay behind to keep an eye on the excitable and nervous man.

Luke took a sip of ale, a most unappetizing flavor and too strong by half for the inexperienced young man, and tried his best to look unassuming and inconspicuous. His efforts were not successful. Perhaps it was his fine clothing, his clean and shaved appearance, or even simply his youthful age that drew attention to him. Whatever the reason, he was suddenly surprised by an insistent tap on his shoulder, and he turned to see a very large and very hairy man leering down at him. He spoke in a rattled, quick language that Luke could not understand.

“Oy,” called another, smaller man nearby. “Lookee here! The Spaniard’s taken a liking to fancy boy here! He'll have the lad for breakfast, he will!” There was a round of laughter. The big man, the Spaniard, spoke again.

“Ah! He says he don’t like you, fancy boy!”

“If I have given offense, I apologize,” Luke stammered, turning back to his drink and hoping that would be the end of the matter.

The Spaniard, however, was not placated. He went off again in his native tongue, speaking louder and with far more of an edge to his voice.

“Oy, fancy boy,” the smaller man said, now at the Spaniard’s side, “Your fancy words ain’t going to earn you no favors here, boy. We don’t like your type comin’ round and stickin up your noses at us. We’re as good as men as any of you lordly types.”

“That’s right!” shouted somebody else.

“You tell ‘em!” added one of the fierce looking women in the crowd.

It had not been long before that Luke had faced the man Tusken and his bandits, and he knew how dangerous these poor and desperate men could be. His hand twitched towards his father’s sword, still hanging from his belt, but the Spaniard saw the movement and drew a dragger of his own. He spoke threateningly, and Luke needed no translation to understand his meaning.

“Oooooh, the fancy boy has a fancy blade, lads!” the smaller man hooted, and the others laughed and slapped their tables in merriment, “You better watch out, boy. Pondo here has killed more men than he can count! He’s a wanted criminal in most of the nations of Euorpe, he is!” The Spaniard Pondo twirled his dagger, a look of violence in his eyes that made Luke shudder. He did not doubt that the small man’s claim was true.

“Perhaps there has been a misunderstanding,” came the calm and certain voice of old Sir Kenobi, who had at last turned from his discussion with the barkeep to see the brewing danger. By now the whole tavern had grown silent, and every inhabitant of that place had their eye on the two rich intruders and the men who were challenging them, so the knight’s words carried easily even though he barely raised his voice at all. “Allow me to purchase a round of drinks for you gentlemen, and let us part friends.”

The Spaniard growled. The small man grinned wickedly. “We ain’t gentlemen, and we ain’t yer friends, old man. We don’t want yer charity!”

The Spaniard moved quickly then, brushing poor Luke to the side to thrust his dagger straight for old Sir Kenobi’s throat. But in a single instant, a single blink of Luke’s eyes, the old man was no longer there and the dagger met only empty air. The relative quiet of the tavern was suddenly filled with the scrap of metal on metal as Sir Kenobi’s saber lept from its scabbard and cut the air. The Spaniard cried out and fell to the ground, clutching one arm in pain and sobbing out prayers in his mother tongue. Sir Benjamin replaced his blade smoothly and expertly into its sheath, and regarded the room with singular intensity.

“Now,” the old knight said, quite as calm as before, “A round of drinks on me for my new friends.”

The smaller man and those who had been urging him on kept their heads down and said nothing, though Luke saw they readily accepted the tankards of ale that Sir Kenobi had purchased. The young man stood up and brushed himself off with as much dignity as he could muster. The Spaniard wobbled out of the tavern whimpering, leaving a trail of blood as he went.

“You saved my life again, dear Sir Benjamin,” Luke began, but the old man quickly interrupted him.

“Tush, tush,” the knight said, “Come, I believe I have found what we have sought. My friend here has directed me to a man who should serve our needs quite admirably. Now to see if he will help us, and at what price.”

Sir Kenobi led Luke to a table at the very back of the tavern where two men sat waiting. Of the two, one made for such an extraordinary sight that Luke could not take his eyes off of him to examine the other. The object of Luke’s stunned attention was a large man with skin as dark as night. He was tall as Luke was while seated, with shoulders as broad as a large door. His head was bare, and, most shockingly perhaps, his nose was pierced through with what looked to be the bone of some animal. He wore almost nothing save a vest and trousers made of the skin of some beast. His whole appearance was so exotic and bewildering to a sheltered youth such as Luke that it was several moments before the poor young gentleman realized he had been staring at the savage quite rudely.

“A good even to ya,” the other man said in thick Irish brogue, “Kindly have a seat, me good lad. Me friend may look a beast but you’ll find no danger in him, I tell you true.”

Luke noticed with a start that Sir Kenobi was already seated, and that they were all looking at him with expectation. He hastily sat, and tried to remember his manners. To keep his eyes off the exotic man with dark skin, he forced himself to study the other man, who was no less interesting in his own way.

“Captain Hanagan O’Solo, at yer service,” the man introduce himself. His hair, ruddy reddish brown, was long and pulled back into a tail. His face was handsome enough, Luke admitted, with a pleasant smile and glinting, mischievous eyes. His whole posture was relaxed and arrogant, but Luke sensed at once that this was a man to be reckoned with. “This be me constant companion, Choo-ee.” He slapped the darker man on the shoulder with brotherly familiarity.

“I take it Mr. Choo-ee is not an Englishman,” Sir Benjamin said with a wry smile.

“That he is not, good sir,” said O’Solo with a grin, “But then neither am I, come to that. No, sir, Mr. Choo-ee is a native of a country far away in the South Seas, where I had the pleasure to journey in me younger days. As it happened I was in need of a companion to help me sail homeward, and me friend here volunteered. He’s been like family to me ever since. Why, I would have married him to me sister if I could.”

“Did the lady object to the match?” Sir Kenobi asked with polite interest.

“Not at all, sir,” replied the captain, “It’s just that I haven’t got a sister.” He laughed, and even Choo-ee his savage companion roared with mirth. The dark man spoke in a strange, guttural language that made Luke’s mouth drop open.

“Aye, tis true, me friend, tis true,” O’Solo said in response to whatever his companion had said. “But enough of me jokes. You gentlemen have not come to see Captain Hanagan for salty tales of sea, I wager.”

“That’s true enough,” Sir Kenobi said. “We’re in need of a passage on a ship for four: myself, the lad, and two servants who will be no trouble to you. We require speed, safety, and above all, a certain lack of curiosity into the nature of our voyage.”

“Never a man was less curious than O’Solo,” the captain assured them, “I mind no business but me own, I swear to ya by me mother’s grave. But one question I must be askin' I’m afraid. A voyage be all well and good, and the reason for a man’s wanderings be he own, no doubt. But as I am the man who must steer the ship, I must ask – where, pray tell, be ye headed, old man?”

“Alderaan-upon-Avon,” the old man said at once, meeting the captain’s gaze without blinking. The savage grunted in surprise, but O’Solo did not flinch.

“A lovely port,” he said, “home to lovely women, honest men, fine taverns... and surrounded by a French blockade, as no doubt ye know.”

“If I thought such a blockade would prove an impediment to a man of your skills, Captain O’Solo, I would not have sought your aid,” the old knight said smoothly.

“Aye, and right you are at that, old man. A man of good sense ya are, that I can see,” he glanced at Choo-ee briefly then back to Sir Kenobi. “But it be a greater risk all the same, which means of course a greater fee, ya understand. Two hundred pounds, and we set sail at once.”

“Two hundred pounds?” Luke gasped indignantly, “Are you mad? Why, we could purchase a ship of our own with such a sum!”

“Luke, restrain yourself,” Sir Kenobi murmured, but O’Solo hooted with laughter.

“Aye, lad,” the captain said, “Ye could at that, but could ye also purchase salty old sea dogs like Choo-ee and yours truly to sail her? A ship’s no good to ya without a man with experience at the helm. Or did you plan to captain her yerself, me lad?” He chuckled.

Luke rankled at the man’s arrogance. “Perhaps I could at that!” he protested, “And anyway, what assurances do we have that your ship is even fast enough to outrun the French blockade?”

O’Solo gasped and brought his hand to forehead in feigned offense. “Oh lad, ye wound me. Have ye not heard of me famous ship, the celebrated Centennial Falcon?”

Sir Benjamin smiled at that. “I’m afraid we have not, Captain. Is there a reason we should?”

“Not heard of the Falcon! Impossible!” the Captain wrung his hands in false agony, “Why, she’s the terror the seas, lad! The bane of the French trade laws, the very ship which navigated the treacherous Kessel reefs in less than twelve leagues! That fast enough for ya, me lad?”

Luke sniffed disdainfully. “A league is a unit of distance, not of time,” he pointed out.

Captain Hanagan roared with laughter. “Right you are! Perhaps you be brighter than ya look, at that.”

Luke’s face burned with embarrassment, but he kept his mouth shut. Best to let old Sir Benjamin handled this impudent man, he thought.

“The offer stands,” the captain continued, “Two hundred, and not a farthing less.”

“We will pay you five hundred pounds,” Sir Kenobi said suddenly, and the table grew quiet. “Two hundred now,” the knight continued, “And three hundred upon our safe arrival. Your silence and cooperation will be well rewarded, captain.”

O’Solo’s face did not change in the slightest, but Luke saw his fingers twitch and knew that the man was excited by such a sum.

Yet still the Irishman made a show of a large sigh. “Ah, well, I suppose we must help ya after all. How could I refuse to help me fellow man what was in need, eh? We shall take our leave at once, if you have no objections? I’ll prepare the ship – you collect your servants and meet us there. You’ll find her tied up at dock ninety-four. She’s a real beauty, you can’t miss her.” Hanagan leaned forward and stared at them down the bridge of his nose. “Bring the money, or the ship’s going nowhere,” he said, “Business, ye understand. Nothing personal.”

“We understand,” Kenobi nodded, and he motioned for Luke to join him in taking their leave. Once they had left the tavern behind, O’Solo let out a loud laugh and leaned back in his chair.

“Lord ha’mercy!” the captain roared, “Five hundred quid! Bless me bleeding heart. Sweet lady luck has had me back all along, eh, Choo-ee?”

The islander grunted in response, speaking a few words in his guttural language.

“Aye, a bit o’ a risk, to be sure,” O’Solo said thoughtfully, “They’re in trouble with the French something fierce. Why, I bet they’d be worth quite a prize if we turned them in to the local authorities, you think, old friend?”

The dark man arched an eyebrow and asked a question.

“Why, Choo-ee, you offend me by the very idea! I’m a loyal Briton as well you know,” he smiled ironically at that. “Besides, I hate them Frenchies. It will be a cold day in hell before O’Solo accepts any sum of money from the likes of them. Quickly now, off to the ship with ya and get her ready to go.”

Choo-ee protested in his language, his hands moving dramatically along with his words.

“For the love of all that’s holy,” O’Solo breathed, “Forget the cursed goods! We’ll make three times as much in this little jaunt, and then we will be well in the clear of all our debts, you see? Time enough for smuggled goods on the next go round, brother mine. Off wit’ ya, now, I want to finish me drink!”

The islander nodded his assent and soon was gone, pressing through the gawking crowd of tavern patrons as he went. Captain O’Solo lingered a while more, sipping the last of his ale and admiring the wenches amidst the crowd. His eye happened to pass over the doorway in time to see a rather imposing figure enter. His dark face was covered in a thick black beard, and a red fez sat atop his head. O’Solo muttered curses to himself as the man approached.

“Captain O’Solo,” the man said in a strange accent.

“Why, I believe you’ve mistaken me, good man,” O’Solo said.

The man in the fez did not smile. “Very amusing. You do not know me, Captain, but I know you well enough. The Turk sends his regards.”

Hanagan sighed. “You can tell the Turk what he can do with his regards, my good man,” he snarled, “I’m on my way to pay him as we speak, as it happens.”

“So you have said before. The Turk will tolerate no such promises anymore. He is a man possessed with little patience.”

“I don’t see why,” O’Solo commented, “He’s possessed with so much of everything else. This time I actually have the money, as a rather interesting opportunity has recently fallen in me lap. So why don’t you run back to your master and tell him that good Captain O’Solo is on his way with his money now.”

“You do not understand. I am not here to collect the money. The Turk will not be mocked. It is your life he wants, O’Solo,” the man in the fez drew a small pistol from under his coat, “And it is your life he shall have!”

“Not bloody likely,” the captain murmured. His own pistol was already out, leveled at the other man under the table. There was an explosion and a puff of smoke, and once again the entire tavern grew still. When the smoke cleared, O’Solo was seen to be tossing back the last drop of ale from his mug while the man in the fez was slumped over the table, motionless.

“Oy!” called the tavern keeper, “Look at this mess you made!”

“Terribly sorry, me good man,” O’Solo said, tossing him another coin. “I’d appreciate if you could keep this to yerself for an hour or two? No need to bring the Frenchies in on this.”

The tavern keeper looked thoughtfully at the coin. “’Twere self-defense, wernnit? The man shot at you first and missed, like, and you had no choice but to shoot back!”

O’Solo froze and leveled an icy stare at the man while the crowd watched on. “I shot first,” he said.

“But, good sir, I’m quite certain I saw…”

“I don’t give a bleeding bejeezus what you thought you saw, my good man, or what any o’ the lot of ya thought ya saw. Captain Hanagan O’Solo bloody well fired the first shot, and any man who says otherwise will have me boot in his arse before he can blink, that’s what! Do I make myself clear?”

The crowd said nothing, but looked at their drinks with tight lips.

“That’s what I thought,” the captain murmured as he brushed he way through them and out into the streets of Mos Eisley.