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Whythistle's Mart Street starts big, wends a little before becoming a square, then parts three ways.
Since it's evening, the three ways are quiet. The daytime businesses of Mart Square have mostly been given over to vending eats and drinks.
You want to try some of everything, but Seafood keeps pointing you forward, so you leave be for now. You're not real hungry, just greedy.
The middle branching way after the Square is the widest and longest: most of the Humie and Dorfy stores are here; chandlers and outway goods.
The righty way is wrights and turners; big crafts at the front, services the midst and the end.
The lefty way's shortest, looks like fine living: curers and bakers at the front, vinters and confections at the end.
You take the middle by Seafood's leading, leaving the cookfires and happy chatter of the Square behind. No one's open, of course. Maybe a few stores doing a late stock-count or packing. Everyone wants to finish up and hurry off to dinner.
Except the umbrella maker. Waxpaper or proofed canvas umbrellas in erronwood still on display at the shopfront; inside, rainhides for persons and wagons; parafine wax, mulberry paper and branches, sneezy smallcures. It doesn't <span class="mu-i">smell</span> like it has thieves in it: no burnt leather, rust powder, iron, mineral oil with soot in. The place smells like it... makes brollies: waxpaper, paint, stripped wood and glue. And the noseclot of peppermint, from the smallcures.
Seafood leaves you by the door to drool, goes in by himself. The tillkeeper is a half-old middleaged Rhea male, bottle-end glasses, beard, sharp eyes under a bored look. He spares one glance at you, focuses on Seafood.
Seafood picks, in order: a glass tub of brown smallcure, brown safflower tun, the smallest roll of mulberry paper.
"Do you have cane," he asks the tillkeep.
"Making an umbrella." says the tillkeep. Not ask, <span class="mu-i">says</span>. You gently paw your crotch, staring at the wall, listen.
"Making a kite. For when the rain stops."
"Need string."
"No. Just cane. Contsie or batarba, if you have it."
"Heavy for a kite."
"It's a big one."
"Got some catlock to clear; half price."
"No. For contsie I'll pay full." So saying Seafood lays out some Grain coin, one with a melted side.
The tillkeep paperbags the goods, Seafood takes it, not a second glance, comes out.
>dafugg dat about
But you don't ask. He takes your hand and leads you.
While you're in an alleyway cutting into the lefty branch he starts rummaging the paperbag. There's something extra wrapped in paper that he didn't buy: a dark wooden coin. looks heavy, maybe lead-bedded. There's a ( ⁜ ) on one side, a ( ÷ ) on the other.
"Well done, Tudi. You are in your element, acting the dullard. Keep it up."
>nerr
>fanks?
>I guess?
The wrapping paper has something short written on. He reads it, crumoles it. The paper wrap crinkles black in his hands, which he wipes on your shoulder.
>h-HEY!
>dis wuz clean!
"Come. We are close."