Quatre let Trowa do the talking for once, since he didn't have a clue what he was supposed to be doing other than tagging along. They left after lunch and Trowa led the way over towards the richer side of town. The place was just a street over from what seemed to be the edge of the poorer district, and was right off the street which contained most of the city's bars and brothels. The establishments here were closer to gentleman's clubs, and Quatre nearly asked whether or not Trowa had the right place, but he trusted Trowa to know what he was doing. After all, this had ultimately been Trowa's decision; if he'd never brought it up, Quatre would either have had him sell the deed, or tried to find some other way to make money that wasn't quite so dangerous or illegal.

Unfortunately Trowa had had to leave his sword behind at the inn, since he would look strange carrying it around with him in that quarter and weapons weren't allowed in the fights, and it made Quatre feel uneasy. Being dressed as a regular person made him feel exposed, no longer safe from thieves or rabble-rousers, and not having a weapon between them made it worse. He hadn't realized how much protection his status and robes afforded him until they were gone.

Trowa had Quatre go in ahead of him, after pulling him aside for a moment to tell him what to say to get them inside; this way, they were making a statement about who was the master and who the slave. Although Quatre felt like trying to back out and argue with Trowa then and there about not doing this, he already knew he'd probably lose because he didn't have any alternatives to offer besides selling the deed. It would seem wishy-washy of him if he suddenly agreed that it was all right to sell it, after effectively agreeing to put Trowa in danger just so they could keep it a while longer - so he bit his lip and kept silent as they entered the building and went down the stairs.

It was a nice enough place, Quatre thought, though he'd never been inside any kind of bar before. This early in the day it was deserted, save for one lone man down at the end reading a paper and smoking a fat cigar who took no notice of them. The barkeep came over to them and gave them an odd look.

"What can I get you?"

Quatre hesitated, nervously, then asked for what Trowa had told him to say. "I... I'd like a private room. With a view. Please," he tacked onto the end hastily, almost as an afterthought.

"Down this hall here, last door on the right," the bartender said promptly, and pointed to a set of open doors.

"Thank you," Quatre exhaled quietly, and hurried towards them with Trowa following in his wake. He very much did not want to be there, and he still didn't know what to expect. Trowa seemed unconcerned.

The hallway seemed a little longer than the depth of the building as it had appeared from outside, but Quatre didn't pay it much mind. They went to the end of the hallway, to the last door on the right as they'd been told. Quatre hesitated, so Trowa reached forwards and opened it for him. There was nothing beyond but another hallway; Quatre let out his held breath. Silently, Trowa followed him. It seemed to stretch on forever, and Quatre was about to say something in complaint when suddenly they reached the end. To the left was a staircase, so they went up.

At the top was a closed door, but it had no handle. Quatre was ready to give up and turn around.

"Knock," Trowa suggested before Quatre could say anything about going back. With a troubled sigh, he did so.

The door was opened by a man, clearly a slave, who welcomed them silently and with head bowed and gestured for them to enter.

The room was duskily lit, with no windows, though the ceiling was a bit higher than the usual construction. Here and there were tables and chairs, and a few gentlemen strolling about - and, Quatre was shocked to see, ladies as well - and the great majority of them had slaves following them about, holding their drinks or being proudly shown off. Quatre felt completely out of place. Trowa, on the other hand, seemed at ease, or even a bit... excited.

He nudged Quatre over towards the far corner, where there were some empty tables and they could talk together without drawing attention.

"They haven't started yet," he told Quatre after he'd sat down; Trowa remained standing next to him. "When they're ready, everyone who wants to watch will move to the next room."

"Do you need to... register, or something?" Quatre asked.

"Yes. Give me the money," he affirmed.

"All of it? But..."

"As long as I win my rounds, we'll get all of it back even if no one else bets on me," he explained to Quatre. "It's conducted tournament-style, until only one is left. How many rounds depends on the number of fighters," he said, looking around the room.

"Do you have to be the last one?"

"Bets are placed per fight. I should lose and drop out around the middle of the tournaments the first few times."

"And that's why you said we might have to come here more than once? But why would you lose, if we want money?"

"To keep the odds low. Lower odds mean more money when I do make it to the top."

"I don't really understand, but... if you say so. I guess you know what you're doing more than I do. Try not to get hurt," Quatre said with a sigh, and handed him the very last of their funds.

Trowa nodded, took the money, and left Quatre sitting alone at the table, feeling very out of place and worrying about whether everything would turn out all right.