Cyrene had very pointedly approached the ranger Lothern and, apparently after ensuring that Harathes was aware of it, had gone off with him to some sort of alcove or booth. The big warrior began drinking considerable quantities of beer, after which he stormed out himself.

Lief sighed. “You see, this is precisely why I don’t get involved with people I work with. Unprofessional, I call it. Another?”

Nth understood that this meant more beer. To his surprise, his mouth opened and words came out. “I like beer.”

Lief’s expression lit up. “Good for you.”

“I like you, too. You make beer happen.” The words came out in fits and starts, and not very clearly, and Nth was not entirely sure why he was saying them, but they were just welling up inside him without much volition. If this was a human thing, it was not something Penthos had prepared him for.

“Well, maybe we better slow down on the beer a bit. Savor it, you know?”

Nth didn’t know, but he felt that nodding was important. A moment later he felt that it had been unwise.

They sat in companionable quiet for a short time, while around them the babble of flapping human tongues built up again, filling the silence left by the exit of Harathes and Cyrene. Shortly thereafter, Lief jogged Nth’s elbow, indicating Lothern, who was returning to the taproom and not looking happy. Some encounter had left a striking bruise across half his face, and his nose was crooked and bloodied. Weaving slightly, he stumbled away and left the inn entirely.

Cyrene reentered too, a moment later, a particularly belligerent expression on her face. She approached the barkeep, and then caught sight of Lief and Nth staring at her.

“Funny, is it?” she demanded.

“Somewhat,” Lief said. “Have a drink.”

“If I won’t ‘have a drink’ with Harathes and I won’t ‘have a drink’ with Lothern, what makes you think you’re any better?” she snarled.

“Because I actually just meant—” Lief started, but she spoke over him.

“Is it too much to ask?” she snapped. “Is it too much, just to… have some company, a conversation, without…”—she slammed her fist down on the top of the bar—“being someone’s fucking… or having to…?”

“Look, just have a drink. It’s not always about you,” Lief told her, without much sympathy.

“And you’re different, are you?” she demanded.

“Love, you’re not my type.” The thief shrugged. “Personally I like them domestic, pleasant natured, and not bugnuts crazy, none of which locks you have the key for.”