The road people stare at Cang in disbelief. The makings of a wry grin creep onto the woman’s face until she suppresses it.
“You’re mad,” the man says.
“Let him try,” says his wife.
“So, what,” Shyan says, following Cang’s gaze. “You climb down and we send the cookpot down after you?”
“Whereas of course you would prefer to wait here for those who destroyed the bridge? Permit them to freely empty our pockets?” With this, Cang stares daggers at the road people. Their son, still woozy from the rock he caught, cringes back.
From behind the wagon comes an unfamiliar, gravelly voice. “Too late.”