When the laundry’s complete and the gang’s looking more or less sparkling new — Fassn the obvious exception, having refused to let Montague touch his patchwork garments —fatigue washes across them like a tidal wave.
“Montague,” Shyan asks, still half-drunk and eyes half-closed. “Where’s a good inn, hm? We’ve got coins to spend, tell us.”
“Ah but of course, my friends, the Sleepy Gendarme, just across the street! Mattresses of straw or down, patron’s choice!” He grins seedily. “Be sure to tell them Montague sent you.”