“I want a bigger share,” Cang says, wiping blood off his knife.
“A bigger share of the mushrooms?” Fassn asks. He’s sitting atop the ugobok’s neck, as though riding the motionless creature.
“Indeed. Once they have been transmogrified to gold.”
Shyan hefts the tear duct. It’s goopy, amorphous, and stains her breastplate with vile juices. “Is the mushroom man really going to need all of this?”
“There are many mushrooms to change,” Cang says. His eyes glint.
“What if he’s gone?” Shyan struggles with the duct. It’s still cold from Abia’s fading magic. “What if we get back there, and find only mushrooms?”
“Mr. Jashenzizok wouldn’t dare,” Fassn says. He adds, “My mouth hurts,” and rubs his jaw.
“Our crates,” Abia says. She runs a hand gently down one of the ugobok’s lifeless fangs.
“Worthless, compared to all that gold. Come on,” Cang says, hopping to grab Fassn’s pant leg and drag him down. “Let us move. Mr. Jashenzizok awaits with our prize.”