Fassn rummages the crates. His wings have become translucent and wilty, like a snake’s shed skin. “Anything in here to improve these things?”
“Eric will know,” the alchemist says. “Please, let’s just get moving, okay? He hates when I’m late.”
“And where does he live?” Shyan asks. Cang rummages his bag for a scrap of vellum and a quill. Withdrawing them, he looks up at the alchemist expectantly, waiting to take notes.
“He, uh, lives in the treetops,” the alchemist replies. “He’s got this wooden fortress of branches and brambles.” The scratching of Cang’s quill underscores her words.
“And he wants these crates because…?”
The alchemist steals a nervous glance at Abianarin, still in gentle communication with the beasts of burden pulling the wagon. “They’re valuable, you see. Expensive!”
Shyan barks at Fassn. “Worry about your wings later. Find our silver, first.” She threatens the alchemist with her pommel as Fassn searches her layered robes for their purses.