A server brings another round of tankards brimming with spicy amber liquid. Fassn drinks from his without lifting it, just glues his lips to the rim on the table and makes loud slurping noises as he vacuums the booze to his mouth.
“At this rate,” Shyan says, enjoying a swig herself, her eyes beginning to glaze, “at this rate a pittance is all we’re gonna have.”
“Then I suppose the barber Montague will have to make do,” Cang says. “For certainly we could never skip town with wealth in our pockets, no. That would surely be unethical.”