“Is there anything you do not wish to smell?” Cang asks.
Fassn cocks his head thoughtfully, then shakes it. “Nope. I wanna smell it all. If they’re coming now, I might get my chance.”
“They’re always coming,” Shyan says. “Master Davit was feared and beloved. I’ve put a price on my head — a price to be paid in honour and blood.” She seems to be speaking mostly to herself. “A day will come soon when it’s spilled.”
Just then, from outside the circle of the gang’s meagre camp fire, the crack of a twig underfoot.