The night wore on, the flickering firelight casting long, dancing shadows across the inn's walls. Sheng had finished his confession, recounting every agonizing detail of Orthox's failure—the table-shouting, the public rejection by Sylvia, the warnings from Richard, and the "taboo" that had turned him into a pariah.
Arthor and Elvric were silent, processing the sheer absurdity of the situation. They had faced dragons and dark sorcerers, but they had never faced a "social catastrophe" of this magnitude.
Bob, however, had been the most attentive listener. He hadn't touched his soup. He had watched Sheng's face with a look of deep, furrowed concentration, his head tilting to the side every few minutes as if he were trying to solve a complex mathematical equation.
"So," Bob said, breaking the silence. His voice was calm, earnest, and completely devoid of irony. "Let me see if I have this correct, Sheng. Because I want to make sure I understand the burden you are carrying."
Sheng looked up, hopeful. Perhaps the Priest had some ancient wisdom or a blessing that could wash away the shame. "Yes, Bob? Please."
"You asked a dwarf to go to a mountain," Bob began, counting off on his fingers. "The dwarf climbed onto a table because he is short. He shouted your name because he was proud of you. And the lady elf said 'No' because... well, perhaps she was busy?"
Elvric let out a small, muffled snort into his sleeve. Arthor cleared his throat, staring intently at a knot in the wood of the table.
"And now," Bob continued, his eyes wide with innocence, "you are sad because people are talking? But people always talk, Sheng. They talked when you killed the three kings, too. I don't see the difference. Why does the table matter?"
Sheng stared at him. "Bob... it's the context. It's the reputation. It's the fact that I broke a taboo and became a laughingstock!"
Bob shook his head slowly, a small, pained smile on his face. "I'm sorry, Sheng. I really am. But I've been listening for an hour, and I just don't quite get it. Why did the dwarf have to stand on the table? Was the floor dirty?"
A sudden, sharp silence fell over the table.
Arthor's shoulders began to quake. He buried his face in his hands, a sound like a leaking steam valve escaping from between his fingers.
Elvric wasn't even trying to hide it anymore. He bit his lip, his eyes watering behind his spectacles. "The floor... was it... was it dirty, Sheng?"
The two broke into uncontrollable laughter.
Sheng looked from the confused Priest to his two laughing friends. The horror of the last three days—the dread, the flight from Belvart, the fear of his ruined career—all of it suddenly slammed into the wall of Bob's pure, unadulterated ignorance.
"Bob," Sheng said, his voice trembling, "the floor wasn't dirty. He's a dwarf."
"I know he's a dwarf," Bob said, sounding slightly offended. "But surely they have chairs? Why the table? It seems very impolite to the innkeeper."
That was the breaking point.
Arthor let out a booming, chest-shaking roar of laughter that knocked a spoon off the table. Elvric followed suit, doubling over and howling so loudly that the merchants in the corner turned to stare. Even the innkeeper looked over and cracked a smile.
Sheng looked at them, his mouth open to protest. He wanted to explain the social nuances. He wanted to talk about the Elven Houses. He wanted to defend his professional dignity.
But then, he saw Arthor's face—red with joy, the first time the Knight had truly laughed since the war ended. He saw Elvric wiping tears from his eyes, gasping for air.
A small, traitorous chuckle escaped Sheng's throat. Then another.
"The table..." Sheng wheezed, the weight on his chest finally snapping. "He really did... he really stood right in the middle of their lunch..."
Within seconds, the three heroes of the War were leaning on each other, laughing so hard they couldn't breathe. The "Assasin's Task" had failed. His reputation was likely in tatters. He was probably the most famous "creep" in the North.
But as Bob sat there, still looking confused and asking if they wanted more bread, Sheng realized that as long as these three idiots were with him, he could handle being a punchline.