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"Huh?" He's been playing with the bird since you handed it over, though he's been careful not to wind it up all the way.
"I need you to go over there and ask that guy where those inspectors are right now. It's not going to do any good at all if we hit a place they've already looked at. Use your... booth cred, or whatever you have."
Gil looks between you and the guy in question (who's hawking shrine offerings — mirrors, tapers, discs of abalone). "My booth cred?"
"Well, you don't have any other kind, do you? You work at a booth. Just go talk to him as a— as a booth guy who has an honest question. You do have an honest question, so this is literally the easiest thing you could possibly—"
"Gods, alright!" He trudges off.
While Gil's hovering around the booth, looking for an opening, you are checking all around: to your right, your left, up, down, behind, even scuffing away the snow nearby. Still you catch nobody watching, except for a few who glance your way after you cuss and kick particularly hard— but they don't count. You don't know what counts, but they don't count.
After a little while, Gil comes back, toting a gilt-edged mirror the size of his face around. You raise an eyebrow, and he blanches on command. "Uh... the guy was really nice..."
"You're a sucker!"
"I'm not a— he was nice! And you never know when you need a... uh... you never know. And I asked him about what you wanted, so you can't—"
"I can. And?"
"Uh, he said that they came and went. They went through the whole Market, and they gave everyone a clean bill— he said they didn't seem that interested in the whole thing. Probably 'cause they're working on a holiday. He said they went off—" Gil waves the mirror back in the direction of the ice.
"Back <span class="mu-i">there?</span> You've gotta be—" You cross your arms. "Don't tell me they're inspecting the stupid fishing—"
"Uh... it didn't sound like it. I mean, he didn't know. But I think maybe they were going to the pageant? Later? Because there's that whole thing in the end that isn't that safe or healthy, uh, traditionally speaking, so they wanted to make sure nobody actually died..."
"They don't actually die," you say. "It'd be way <span class="mu-i">cooler</span> if they died, but—"
"Uh, I know. Well. There was a couple times where they actually... but anyhow, um, that's what the guy thought. They're off to the pageant. Are you sure you don't want this back?"
Gil holds up the bird. "Because I think it's actually expensive— like, it's custom-made— so if you don't want it, you could probably sell it to somebody— Claudia?"
"It's <span class="mu-i">C.R.,</span>" you hiss, and clutch at your earmuffs.
"Um, okay. C.R.? Are you... is everything okay?"
(2/3?)
