“Well we can’t stay here,” Shyan says. “The blasted innkeeper is probably talking with the watch as we speak.”
Abia withdraws her final copper penny, begins flipping it idly, catching it in the air.
Fassn uses his gauzy, deterioriating wings to cover his eyes. He grimaces. “Old Ajralan has had his fill of that place,” he says. “Plus I’m hungover.”
“Come on, Fassn,” Shyan says. She touches a wing. It’s airy, scarcely palpable at all. “Don’t you want to refresh these things?”
He sniffles. “All they’re good for is stares.”
Cang suppresses a chuckle. “Well I, for one, have no intention of sitting in this dank stable, awaiting my arrest, with nary a purse to bribe the watch.” He gestures at the four stabled horses, who by no means belong to him. “Shall we away?”