She hadn’t been leaving. And he’d been caught flatfooted when the trader stormed away from the haggling guards in a huff. He didn’t have a plan for how to leave the city. He either would or he wouldn’t. With only two options, it had seemed like too much effort to believe he’d be successful, so when the woman and the guards left, he stood for a time, mulling over what to do next. 

He might buy some provisions, he supposed. Or the usual sweet dates Lady Gerun often wanted. An alibi no one would ask for. He didn’t really know what he was doing, yet he continued regardless. What else was he to do? One last desire to fulfill for his lady and then he would be free to go back to his home, as she hadn’t been. His home, maybe his family, and another contract, he supposed. He was too old for another life service, probably too old to be a guard again, too. Useless either way, but a moot point if he couldn’t even make it through Renna’s gates. 

It was as he turned away that a different stall caught his attention and dragged him back to a standstill. So far, he had followed tradition with a half-hearted care, favouring secrecy over exact rites. Preferring some chance at success over making everything just right. The dead would understand, and Fiira had never been witness to jinn death rituals before she died, even should she be watching now she wouldn’t know he did differently. And if she ever found out, he believed she might forgive him. But those woven cloths stood out as a point of reproach against his justifications. So bold as to make him wince. 

Very well, if fate set tradition in his path, he would not argue. 

He could, however, hesitate awhile. Unlike most jinn, he likely had money enough to pay for what he wanted without needing donations or loans. Fiira had always given him a little extra when she sent him to the market, with the expressed wish that he treat himself if he found something. Sometimes, he had returned the extra, other times, he had kept a little of it set aside. Enough that she would not think her generosity wasted, but not so much that the rest of her staff would be upset that she gave money to a Jinni already fed, clothed and housed at her expense. It was, however, his money, even if she had given it to him, and even from a distance he could see that the weavings were not incompetent, and the woman struck a hard bargain. He didn’t see what he wanted amongst her wares, but there was variety enough within the designs and styles that he thought she might carry something similar to what he wanted… Still, it pained him that he might have to part with his saved coin for an item no one would care about. 

Curdle was still struggling over this internal debate when he realised she’d noticed him, conspicuous as he’d become in the thinning crowd it would have been remiss of her not to, and he started when he brought his gaze up to see her dark eyes directed right at him. Quickly, he inclined his body in the beginnings of a bow, his stiff spine obvious, though his bones were thankful the old requirement of true bowing had been abolished when he was still young enough to think it meant something. “It is all lovely, messi.” He averted his gaze again, given the excuse of looking where her hands drew it, and decided that it would be her wares that finished the issue. If she had what he needed, he might buy it if he could. If she didn’t, he would not go looking. [i]And[/i] he would stop standing about like a statue.

“But I am looking only for mourning cloth.” His voice was lighter than might be expected of a man with his shoulder width, hesitant, though there was a faint promise of strength in the harder accent he gave to the words she needed to notice. It also, though he would hope no one realised, did not give away the danger of what he was admitting. He had no one else to mourn but the Lady Gerun, and any guards would know that, along with not a few stall owners. If they overheard the conversation, or noticed what he was trying to buy… Perhaps he could get away with saying it was for a friend, but he knew of no other jinni who’d lost someone recently. 

Maybe she would forgive his loitering with that answer, or she would send him quickly on his way. Mostly, what jinn needed, jinn made, particularly if it was not a shared commodity. He risked not only eavesdroppers, but insulting her if she took his answer to mean he thought she was likely to have any. Unless she did not mind, and that chance was almost half and half, these days, though he still did not think it likely she would have any. Similar, yes, made for the purpose, unlikely. 

What he was looking for was a piece of cloth at least large enough to hold the ashes he would pour onto it, but not too large to be carried easily. The design, however, was the challenge, requiring equal amounts of red and blue. Lazy weavers could make it easy on themselves by making two fat stripes. Trusted, and skilled, weavers could do almost anything they liked, including making scenery and adding other colours. Most remained contentedly somewhere in between and general consensus, as far as he had seen, kept to simple representations of wind and sand by curving the stripes in some manner or another. Variety was always acceptable, provided the cloth fell within those limits. He’d seen nothing on display that fit both.

“I am sorry to have taken your time, messi.” He gave his partial bow again, meeting her gaze this time on purpose, muddy grey eyes barely focused as he prepared to look somewhere else for a departing merchant. He should have paid more attention to the caravan schedules…