To her left, Dore perched attentively, her eyes focusing on the merchant’s words. She occasionally tapped out simple codes to tell Shalisa what she saw in that droning voice. It was hard to believe that he conveyed any emotion at all, but the Bodor was able to distinguish his minor worries and lies from his major ones.

To her right, Thuram rocked almost imperceptibly with impatience and distaste. He had learned to mask his moods quite well in the six years she had known him. The old Thuram would have been shouting by now, if not drawing his blade.

Shalisa shared his impatience. They were learning nothing further from the man’s prattle.

She cut him off: "Enough. I believe you have amply explained the intricacies of this situation. My associates were obviously correct in identifying you as the individual with whom to speak regarding refreshment vending for the tournament." She kept her voice subdued and sincere.

A giggle from her childhood attempted to surface. This whole affair was absurd, more so even than the rest of her life. Her pause allowed her to study the Zandir’s gesticulations; he had a skilled zodar face, but the way he twisted the quaga ring around his thumb told her that her blatant flattery had been successful. She had marked that habit early in the meeting, with Dore’s aid.

She continued, casually: "I would be willing to grant you the distribution rights to our wares at a 90/10 cut."

"Madam Allaspira, surely you misspeak. I would be imprudent if I were not to insist upon thirty percent at the least." He haggled with an obvious love for the sport.

A subtle smile, a hint of flirtation in her inflection: "Ostabalon, noblesire, cleric’s cowl is in extraordinarily short supply this year. I could not offer more than fifteen, and I would have to insist upon fine seats indeed at the Clash."

He preened like a Sawila: "You will sit in my own box, three levels below the Sultan himself. And I will humbly accept twenty-five percent, if you would be so gracious as to accompany me to the Palace gala at seventh’s end."

Innocent: "My associates and I would be honored to attend the opening festivities as your guests. I trust we can agree on upon twenty percent. It is your own food, after all, that may create the demand for purges and antidotes."

The merchant’s face blanched pink, and Shalisa caught the corner of a smile flash across Thuram’s own cinnabar face. He was more attractive in violet, she thought idly, waiting for Ostabalon’s reply.

That evening, in their suite at the Manse of the Sublime Mysteries, Dore succumbed to recurrent fits of laughter: "The colors in his voice," she choked out amidst the second bout, "He couldn’t have been more confused if he was looking at his own corpse."

She could have predicted Thuram’s response: "You may find chance to compare, before this farce is through."

I didn't mean to let things go this long; sorry

PCs: Shalisa/Allaspira
Dore
Thuram

NPC:
Ostabalon (Zandir merchant)
(try not to kill him off, though)

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