Chapter 3: Dance

From his vantage point at the bar, a few things became readily apparent about the newcomers: they had no idea what to do with themselves after The Hat had disappeared. After greenie'd gone to her room, the tall man she had introduced as Casavir offered to help Duncan with the last bits of charred furnishings. A paladin or I'm a blind mute. Neeshka rolled her eyes as the two men began pushing brooms across the floor, and seated herself at the far end of the bar. Noted, thought Bishop.

The gnome, unlike the tall human, was quite talkative, and seemed at first oblivious to the way others received him. Khelgar appeared to be humoring him, "Is that so?" or "You don't say?" interspersed with long pulls from a flask. Once emptied, Khelgar cast around for a tankard, but Sal was busy serving Neeshka, and Bishop wasn't about to lend a hand.

The druid kept to herself. Typical.

Duncan, after finally finishing with the cleaning, ordered Qara to put a kettle on, and boil some bath water. "Boil it yourself, you lazy drunk!" was heard from the kitchen, followed by some muffled arguments.

All told, his best bet was to look to the tiefling. Elbows on the bar top, she stared down into her drink, using her hands like blinders.

"Paladin got you down?" he crept up next to her.

She startled a little bit, but recovered herself. "He makes my skin itch-- and he has this holier-than-thou aura that bleeds off him like a-- a-- did I say bleeds? No, it explodes off of him like one of Qara's spells!"

"Where'd you pick him up?"

"Ugh. In the mountains up by Old Owl Well. The orcs called him some kind of katal-something. I'd call him a royal pain. I don't know how she plans on getting anything done with him around."

Paydirt. "Well, she could always leave him here like she has with Her Highness the Arson. But then, you see what that lead to."

Neeshka snorted. "What'd she do? Get into some tinder twigs or something?"

"Nothing so creative. Though I don't feel bad for the sot who tried to get too friendly with her."

The tiefling brightened. "I guess she's not all that bad, then. So what brings you out of the woodwork, Mr. Corner Lurker?"

"Oh, the usual. Hoping to get a piece of tiefling ass," he lied.

"I liked it better when you were lurking," Neeshka grimaced, turning away, and Bishop, satisfied with the tidbit he'd finally managed to pry from one of Livetta's motley band, sat back down in front of his accustomed wall to further ruminate.

Getting things done? Moire and her lot for certain then, and likely involved with other affairs less than legal. Girl's got class. Bishop peered into his ale and frowned. A paladin, though? I could see the tiefling, and I understand a dwarven meat-shield... the elf's a little odd. But a paladin and a gnomish bard? He took a slow sip. I could take the direct approach... after all, she does think this a game.

He waited a patient half hour. The gnome showed no sign of tiring, but he watched as one by one, Neeshka, Elanee, and finally Casavir took to their rooms. Khelgar continued to nurse a brew, but seemed so intent on ignoring Grobnar that Bishop doubted he'd notice if a lich appeared in the middle of the common room and demanded that they all find it fifty young virgins. With this in mind, Bishop padded over to the kitchen. Looking in, Qara was sulking in the corner, no Duncan was to be found, and there was no evidence of boiling water. He strode in, and picked up the kettle.

"What do you want?" Qara glowered.

"Three half-elven whores and a bottle of wine," Bishop walked over to the pump. "But I don't think I'll find them in here. You'll have to do."

"You're disgusting! But you're asking for it-- you saw what I did to that fat-bellied toad when he tried to--"

Bishop's knife cut her off. In an instant, he was next to her, his blade's point pressed against her throat; more intimidation than anything else. She swallowed. "If I wanted that from you, I'd have let you know it long ago. I'm busy right now, and I don't have time for one of your displays," he hissed in her ear.

She nodded when he withdrew. When his back was turned, she spat, "You're not even supposed to be in here."

"Look who sounds like her academy instructors. Why do you care?" Bishop shot back.

As he filled the kettle, he heard her sniff in that uppity way of hers, but she didn't reply, and she didn't interfere again. When the water was hot, Bishop took a rag, wrapped the handle, and carried it out of the room.

Khelgar had fallen asleep at the bar and Grobnar seemed to be in his own little world, composing or some such. Bishop didn't see Duncan, which was just as well. If the barkeep was off getting drunk, so much the better. The others, having already retired, were nowhere in sight.

Silent as a cat, Bishop stalked down the hallway, porting the over-sized kettle, past closed doors and the sound of snoring, until he came to the hall's end and the suite which Duncan had set aside for his "niece." He paused, formulating how he'd ask what he wanted to know. Then he knocked.

"Qara?" came the reply. "Just set the pot outside the door. I'll get it myself, thanks."

He knocked again. There was the sound of rustling fabric, "Hells," and bare feet moving toward the door. It opened abruptly.

"Qara, I--" the annoyance on her face dissolved. "Bishop?"

"You were expecting Lord Nasher instead?"

"No, I was expecting the Princess of the Sunken Flagon," she didn't miss a beat, despite standing there in only a tunic she had thrown on like an improvised shift before answering his knock.

"Your bath water. The Princess was too put out by your request to deign to comply," he took a step into her room and held out the pot.

Livetta took a step back, and accepted the proffered kettle. Her face had settled into that unreadable blankness that rankled him so. But her body gave her away-- the way she turned abruptly, her brusque motions, and the way she tried to hide the weight of the kettle, to handle the awkward thing gracefully as she poured its contents out into the basin resting on the wash stand.

"The water's cooling, and I'd like to bathe," she met his gaze expectantly.

"I'm sure you would. I've got some questions for you this time."

"Can they wait?" her voice was flat.

"Can your bath?"

She sighed. There was no defeat in it-- it was pure exasperation by the tone. Bishop swaggered into the center of the room, and sat down on the foot of her bed. "And you wanted to know?" she asked, turning away from him.

"You head off to Old Owl Well on some kind of errand-- I'm guessing for Moire-- and you come back with a paladin?"

She dipped her wash cloth into the steaming bowl and wrung it out before answering. "He knew the mountains, and could get us where we needed to go. It was mostly a matter of convenience."

"Convenience, eh? And how do you plan on keeping up your current operations with him around, hmm?" Bishop knew he was taking vague stabs, but if he could goad her into telling him more...

She stripped off her tunic instead, and proceeded to soap her wash cloth. She scrubbed with a no-nonsense vigor, letting the conversation hang. Head games. She's playing for shock. He hated to admit it, but even though he'd recognized the tactic for what it was, he was a little put-off.

"Are you done yet?" he snapped, as she rinsed the wash cloth.

"I said I wanted my bath, and I wasn't about to let hot water go to waste. Toss me that towel, would you?" she calmly rejoined.

He all but flung it at her. She turned to catch it, then unashamedly began toweling off.

"Do you put on this kind of show for every man who comes to your door?" he groped for a means to turn the tables.

"Most men know better than to come to my door in the first place, and honestly, if you think that's a show, you must have been deprived for a very long time. Makes me wonder if you've ever seen a naked woman."

"I suppose you'll have to ask the local doxies to find that out," he countered. "But my questions stand-- how much use is that paladin going to be here inside Neverwinter's walls, and do you really think Moire will stand for your new company?"

"Toss me those clothes up at the head of the bed?" She caught them. "Thanks. The paladin I'm sure will have his uses, if I keep him in the dark about half the things I do. And Moire? She's small fish. I wouldn't worry about her too much." Fully dressed now, she pulled a chair from the corner of the room, turned it around so that the seat faced away from him, and she slumped into it, arms crossed over the chair back.

"And who is bigger fish than Moire?" Bishop smirked, baiting her.

"Look around, Bishop. She's a half-rate thug with as much charm and finesse as an ogre. There's always been bigger fish than her." She didn't rise to it. "Is there anything else?"

"Yeah."

"Ask away."

One more stab in the dark. "So this shard you have--that's the real reason for all this running around?" He didn't expect a verbal reply to that one. He watched her body and her face.

She stood up, expression blank, and replied, "I'm calling it a night, Bishop. Out." Her voice was sharp around the edges.

"Good night then, Hat. Don't get too comfy."

"I won't. But then, you shouldn't either."

He smiled wolfishly, feigned a bow, then left, bits of the story finally fitting together. He'd hit on something with that last question. He could ply the gnome or the tiefling for more information in the morning, but for now, he had some of the answers he'd wanted.