“In fact they give you dreams so bad that shadows rise from them to throttle you,” Fassn says. He’s still munching on his fingernails, yet he manages to give his words an ominous tone all the same.
“Ridiculous,” says Cang, adding in an undertone, “All the more so when one attempts to sell something of value.”
“Well our client don’t care about no bad dreams,” says the flutist.
“Don’t think he dreams at all,” the drummer adds.
Abia’s dark eyes flash at this. “No?” she asks casually.
“Stays up all night admiring his riches, you know.” The flutist’s eyes take in the gang’s bedraggled appearance. “Maybe you don’t know.”
“Maybe we would if we could get this deal done,” Shyan says impatiently. Most of the taverngoers have filed out, drunk, to disperse in the night. The barkeeper and his staff begin putting up chairs. “So we doing this?”