32 ii) “‘Course we have,” Shyan says. “Not like we’d trade this for a bath and a haircut,”

“‘Course we have,” Shyan says. “Not like we’d trade this for a bath and a haircut,” she adds, showing off a glimpse of the precious metal.

The musicians take in the gang’s collective appearance. They do appear groomed, with scrubbed faces and short, trimmed hair. “You actually don’t clean up so badly,” says the flutist, who wears a stylish doublet and feathered cap.

“Too true, now can we meet your client already?” Shyan asks. “We’d like to get paid, and, you know, eat something.”

“Something besides apples,” Fassn says, one finger in his mouth. He flicks a seed from his teeth.

The drummer abruptly slams his fist on the table. “None of that,” he says in a growling voice, holding Fassn’s startled gaze. “Not in front of the dragon.”

30 v) Montague snips away at Fassn’s hair

Montague snips away at Fassn’s hair until the bushy mass has something of a shaped and styled look to it. He even puts a few braids into Fassn’s beard, conditioning the dry, wiry hair until it has a sheen like the twinkle in Fassn’s eye.

He luxuriates in a tub while the others, one by one, move through the barbery chair. Cang is quickest, but he’s never felt his bald head so smooth and supple as now. Shyan has her mess of hair trimmed to clean lines, and Abia’s dreadlocks are renewed with sweet-smelling beeswax.

When all is complete, Monsier Montague says, “It is customary to tip, yes? But I know you are penniless, despite your noble appearance. Thus I eagerly anticipate your return!” And with that, he turns to sweeping as the sun crests its zenith outside.

30 iv) “Please, sir, I am not trying to remove your digits,”

“Please, sir, I am not trying to remove your digits,” Montague says, his voice chiding, as he angles his scissors are Fassn’s filthy, probing fingers.

“Can I keep the parts that fall off?” Fassn asks, watching the grey curls flutter to the floor.

“Er, but of course,” says Montague, thinking hard about the money this fiasco will bring in. “You may have to act fast, though, lest your hair be mixed with that of your friends.”

“More’s merrier, says Old Ajralan,” Fassn says.

Meanwhile, across the room, Abia, Cang and Shyan relax in the tubs. Fassn pipes up to continue speaking, but Cang raises a hand from the water, and, eyes closed, quite in repose, says, “Quiet, please.”

30 iii) The little glowing sphere, heretofore hiding its presence from Montague

The little glowing sphere, heretofore hiding its presence from Montague, suddenly lobs into the water, splashing like a stone. It pops back up as though to beckon the gang along.

“Your tiny friend enjoys the water, hm?” says Montague, spritzing Fassn’s bushy hair with something foul smelling from a bottle. “For glowing ball? No extra charge.”

“Well I have not come here for nothing,” says Cang. He gets undressed and chooses the same tub the sphere’s playing in. “Move aside,” he grumbles.

“Don’t make me bald as Cang,” Fassn says as Montague begins snipping. “I like the feel too much,” he continues, running his fingers through his hair even as Montague attempts to cut it.

30 ii) “Er, right,” Montague says delicately

“Er, right,” Montague says delicately, still tugging at the comb in Fassn’s hair. “Perhaps I get you all started,” he says, moving to a handful of bath tubs along one wall. He approaches each in turn, and adjusts a metal mechanism, shaped like an iron nose. After each squeaks its protest, it begins issuing forth water that spills into the tubs.

Shyan starts at this, peers into the water-spewing thing. “Magic?” she asks Abia.

Abia just smiles enigmatically, says, “Maybe.” She touches the water and cannot hide her surprise when she finds that it’s hot.

30 i) Fassn throws his hand into the air, bounces on his toes

Fassn throws his hand into the air, bounces on his toes. “Me, me, me!” he says.

Monsieur Montague another elaborate bow and shows him to the central barbery chair. “This is where the magic happens,” he says, beaming. “We will trim and groom, yes? Then you may relax for a soak.”

Fassn hops into the barbery chair, still grinning. Montague prepares his shears while the others lean against the tubs’ edges to watch.

“Er,” says Monsieur Montague as he begins combing the tangled grey tumbleweed that is Fassn’s head. The comb snags again and again, but Fassn doesn’t seem to notice. Montague shoots a placating look at the gang, who stare stone-faced back at him.