“We stink like ripe bodies that’ve been on the road too long,” Shyan says.
Fassn takes a whiff of his own underarm. “Oh, yeah.”
“And if our buyer’s as big a snob as those musicians say he is, we’d better get cleaned up.”
And just like that, as the mythic seas, the busy crowd of city dwellers parts to reveal a hand-painted sign featuring a wash basin and a pair of shears. The building it hangs from is relatively shabby, but so too is the gang.
“Ask and ye shall receive,” Fassn says with a grin.
“We don’t have any money, Fassn,” Shyan says. Fassn’s grin fades in an instant.
“Perhaps not,” says Cang, watching the many loose belt pouches passing by just below his eye level. “But perhaps we might earn some,” he continues, letting the sentence trail off ominously.