The rest demanded scales, obviously the currency of the region, and refused to listen further when Lindon said they didn’t have any. Lindon and Yerin had wandered for hours, trying to find another place that would take them for the night, but most were packed full. The sun had fallen long ago, and one lantern dangling from a nearby tree’s branch provided the only light. “Two scales each,” he said, not so much as glancing at either of them. He yawned as Lindon and Yerin approached. One young man sat at an uncovered table, chin in one hand. Like the rest of the Five Factions Alliance encampment, these facilities had clearly been tossed together. They were packed like grave markers in a cemetery, and customers emerging after their bath had to pick their way out through a maze of boxes. They looked more like outhouses than bathhouses, rickety sheds of wood only large enough for a single person. By moonlight, Lindon could barely make out the words painted on the board: “Bathhouses for rent.”
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