It was the drop in temperature that woke him, slight, but starting to fall towards night. He couldn’t see if the sun was gone completely or not, so he remained under the canvas, struggling anew with his options. Give himself up, or continue to try. What would they take from him if he did? What had he to lose? He didn’t know. Probably nothing. Nothing except the sun and sand that he was trying to save for his master. His dead master. 

He should have never agreed to what she asked. Never. He should have known that only grief would come of it.

Too late by far. 

And too late to find anyone leaving now. No point in walking away from shelter when you’d be stopping within the hour. Desert nights were dark. 

Curdle let the ache of lying on hard wood half the day get to him then, it would be the last time he told himself he was too old for anything. Too much trouble, trying to prove otherwise. No, he’d just walk away, give up without any more hiding, without any defense. He was done. 

Carefully, he began pushing the urn towards a corner, to tuck it in under another bag, apologising silently that it was the best he could do. If only he could believe that himself. 

He was not a man who let things go easily, but this time, Renna’s walls were too high. This was, he felt, his only chance. He would need to hide it well, so it would not be found before they left the gate. And then, he would need to find somewhere else to be found, so that this cart would not be searched. No, maybe he could go back to Fiira’s house. They would be waiting for him there. That woman Ynip, always stopping by in the morning that she might be the first to know if the Lady’s spirit had taken flight during the night. He scowled and cursed her under his breath as he rearranged items to more cleverly disguise the urn’s placement, an awkward maneuver while lying on his side and trying to keep himself under the canvas. She should have been in Assryn still for three days. She should have caused no problems. Her return had surely been aided by the South Wind’s malice. 

If it had not been for her! 

….

If it had not been for her, some other obstacle would surely have risen to trip him. With no plan and no idea where to start, what could have possibly gone right? It was over top of his renewed grumbling that a stranger’s voice interjected, reminding the jinni that canvas did not make him invisible, and certainly not inaudible. A woman’s voice, firm and surprisingly lenient if this was her cart. Yet, somehow familiar… He found the connection when she continued, it was that edge, determined, maybe a little angry, that gave her away. The woman from the market, selling tapestries. West Wind’s bitter laughter rolled through his mind as he shut his eyes regretfully. She was being kind to a stranger threatening her very livelihood, and for that kindness, he might well betray her. 

Curdle stayed hidden as he answered her, keeping his voice low, beneath hers, hoping there was no one else nearby. “Unfortunate, messi. I am sorry, but trouble I have already found.” 

The apology was genuine. For all he’d earlier been looking for someone to help him, he’d had no desire to involve anyone else in his problems. Now, especially, when there was nothing to gain and he had decided to leave off trying. “If there are guards nearby, messi, best it be that they not see you sharing words with me.” Even better that they not connect him with this cart. The urn needed to be outside the city, within reach of the winds when it was overturned. Not dumped in a street where countless feet would smudge through Fiira’s ashes. “I will leave if there are none to see.”

He would. Of course, she might think it dangerous to admit to a lack of protection on her part. She might lie. There was no way for him to find out without risk. Tradition, again, might save him. 

“Against the storm’s rage, messi, I set my word.” And the word of any jinni could not be broken once said aloud. Some did not believe such stories; even some jinn scorned the old tales. Curdle did not care. For him, his word was all he had. Even were it possible, and he doubted any rumours that excited more hopeful, or fearful, hearts, he would not have tainted it. “I will leave, and do nothing more.”

If he broke her trust now, he was sure, a sandstorm would swallow him whole. The flesh would be flayed from his bones. His blood would be drained from his body. His spirit trapped forever behind that leading edge of fury. To be torn apart. Literally or figuratively, it seemed an unappetising prospect. He had no desire to test the oath's bounds. What mattered now was whether or not she believed him.