'Gardens' a word that brings forth visions of rolling green, flowers and water, from the Western mind. Not so here, for Urgup sits in the great Anatolian desert. When the sun's great unblinking gaze settles on this place, temperatures soar so high that you do not have time to feel your own sweat. No, this garden is not one of rolling green. Instead a wide plaza of stone tiles rests here, curled into the shade of tall cyprus trees. Its voice is a babbling fountain, the center of this small town. Clear water, cool water, free for all to wash away the desert dust.
     At the southern border of the garden rises a rock outcropping, this land being far from flat, that provides both shade and wall for a cafe. Small square tables scatter around it, like bread crumbs tossed to the pigeons, each with a trio or more of rattan chairs. The other sides of the park, lined with cyprus trees, lead out onto cobble roads that wend through the town amongst low red-tile roofed buildings. A couple small stone benches find themselves placed into areas of perpetual shade.
     Heat settles over the squat whitewashed buildings like a funeral shroud, muting the dusty reds of the roof tiles. Here and there a spark of dark green, a cyprus tree, stands sentinel in the great expanse of beige and reddish dirt. The buildings themselves gather together like clusters of mushrooms, growing between the slug-trails of the cobbled roadway. Clattering along this roadway come donkey drawn carts, rickety automobiles and the occasional camel. As they move through the street, the kick up a film of dust into the air, that settles across windows, trees and anything else that stays in place for too long.
     To the south a line of Cyprus trees marks the northern edge of the town's garden, where the communal fountain spills with clear water. Along the road to the south-west the sounds of the bus station reach up, along with the scent of diesel. Following the road along eastward eventually leads to the town Mosque. Interspersed through all of this are shops. Shops selling Silver jewelry. Brass. Onyx. Shops for rugs. Furniture and candybars.

     The streets of Urgrup Turkey are filled with life and activity. If Mesopotamia was the cradle of civiliazation, Turkey would perhaps be the armpit? In any event, among them wonders a man of indertimnant age. From the looks of him, a mercenary. Mercenaries are not unheard of in this part of the world. There is plenty of work to be found not far from Turkey. Few people would know that he has been sent here on a mission... a Mission from God. Well, of a sort. He was even given the ability to hone in on his target. Of course, once he got a trail, said ability was taken away, so he's had to take notes and do the best he can.
     Jonathan weaves through the masses of people, unbothered by the leary looks. In fact, he could blend in pretty well were it not for his military poise and the fact that he is packing. Still even so, Jonathan focuses mostly on on the notepad in his hand. Every so often he looks up as if trying to find someone. Even as one daring soul bumps into him and takes the opprotuinty to slip the shotgun from its holster and level it at him. "Your money and valueables!" the desperate man says.
     The street starts to clear and people take cover, but as quickly as it begins the conflict reaches its (anti) climax. With a quick movment of his arm, the quiver gun is snatched from the offenders hand, "Shoo." is all Jonathan says before resumming his search, growing nearer to this carpet shop. For some reason.

     Soldekai stares. He chuckles at Jonathan, but goes on with camera in hand. The tall redhead peers through the focus, pointing the lens in some direction, viewing some slice of mundane existence.
     But there is such intensity about it all. The vibrant colors. The people, moving through their lives with such vibrancy and vigor. They are well within their lot in life, struggling with the coil of human existence.
     The man in khaki and white captures it all.
     Here and there, he twists to watch some scene. Someone purchasing fruits from a vendor. Someone drinking. Someone buying a scarf and beans. The out-of-place photographer strides through it all, weaving as people come between him and his companions.
     "Think it could get any hotter?" he asks, something of the Midwest in his voice. When he comes upright and drops the camera to dangle around his neck, there's much to see. He's a well-built photographer, someone who spends time in gymnasiums.

     Sakir. He stands at the corner of two meandering cobble roads. Heat ripples up from the cobblestones, warmed by the desert sun. Yet it seems the heat affects him as much as it might a house wall. No beads of sweat adorn his untanned brow. Turn his head to one side he nods a greeting to a passerby, an acquaintance of some sort. Sakir is from here, and his strange appearance illicits no reaction from the locals.
     "Oh, thank heavens." A tourist in acid bright colours trundles up to the man, "Can you point me to a McDonald's?"
     "Pardon?" Surprised, he snaps his head around to pay attention to the speaker. "Oh! Right. There is no such establishment here. I suggest the Pension, though, its kitchens make a fine meal." His accent is British, strongly so.
     "What am I supposed to eat then?" the tourist whines, as they walk away. Their voice wilts in the heat, fading into the ripples in the air. Then they are gone. And quite forgotten.

     You are fortunate that he did not first go to Venice...
     With all of its baubles and glass...
     Its masks, its riddles...
     Its labyrinthine waterways...
     You may have been searching for weeks... months...
     But he did not first go to Venice. He did not first go to Prague. Or to any of the cities whispered to him on his way out of heaven. No, though he shall find himself going in the direction that heaven ultimately leads, this week is for him.
     Steps that were lost when he was arrested in India were retaken and followed until reaching this village of the fountain and the many caves. It is this... womb of the world. The Mesopotamian basin. He has returned to where it once all began.
     Perhaps he can retrace his steps all the way back to God's Favor...
     A hand moves over the hip of the carpet shop, the corner of a wall. And he's gone dark with the constant sunlight -- or so it seems. And dark curls are caught by the slight breeze of his own motion. And whatever wind that moves through the Valley of A Thousand Churches. And then he looks to the carpets. Grey eyes drinking in their designs and colors from outside the shop. And he stands there, the athletic but lean young man, dressed in light colors, in light fabrics, in sandals, wearing the clothes of the citizens of Urgrup.

     Well ok.. perhaps Jonathan doesn't feel so bad... Sure he stands out a touch but he doesn't look like a tourist. Of course he does look like someone that local law enforcement would watch to see if he causes trouble. At the question about heat he looks up and blinks. You know.... he's never gonna get used to that. "Oh probably... I'd imagine we're past the brightest part of the day though." Says Jonathan has the tall red-headed man with the camera is approached.
     "You know.... Michael did say there was a great little bath house in this city." The thought is dismissed quickly as his eyes take in the scene again. It's not as if he snubbs the red-headed man... he just has a bit of single-mindedness of purpouse just now. And of course, Seeing Sol, he know's he's close to his eventually Target. And it makes matter's easier that his target is wearing the last Vessel he saw him in.
     "Kit correct?" He asks as he approaches the fair skinned, hopefully not to serverly sunburned man. When he comes to a stop and puts away his note pad in a hip pocket he stands directly infront of the Carpet Shop...

     For some reason, the redhead suddenly looks about. Easy to do, as he towers over most of the locals. Above their heads, he scans, then looks back at the man approaching him.
     "Bathhouse," Soldekai says, brilliant as he is. He looks at the carpet shop, figuring it might prove an interesting study.
     No, he is not from here.
     But it's unlikely anyone would desire to take a chance and see exactly how foreign he is.
     "Actually," now that he thinks about it, "...that might not be so bad." He looks down at the Hasselblad, deciding to futz with something on the base.

     A sigh. A liquid stream of harsh sounding syllables. Turkish. Not so polite comments about Tourists. Sakir turns from the corner, and walks slowly down the road. It is passed midday. Time for him to share tea with Azad.
     Old Azad. His sons largely run the shop now, since their father's cataracts make the dark interior of the store difficult. But Sakir does not care for the brothers, they do not have the eloquence of words that their father possesses. Old Azad, who can read the stories woven into carpets and weave imagination like thread.

     Not half so fair. He was red once, very red. Then it became copper and eventually browned. And then red again, and then bronze-brown. Every day, he burns a little less. It helps that he has listened to the villagers' stories.
     He was a ghost when he came here, so they said. But now he is a dark as a date...
     We should be sitting in the shade of a cave on a rug, sipping at water from small cups of pottery...or to this shop, perhaps they have tea...
     Grey eyes lift from the reds and browns and golds and blues of the carpet and pivots to the sound of his name. Surprise is there. And then not so.
     He who is dressed so like those who live here, taking lessons from the lives he has felt and heard and dreamed all around him, he halfway blends in. But the silver-grey eyes give him away. And his voice. When he speaks, there is a dance to his words. No one here can tell the sound of Ireland upon it. "Yes. Kit... Kit Marlowe..." Eyes narrow. "You must be the one I am to... have accompany me... when I return to Europe..."
     So long, ladies and gents, my guard has arrived...
     A hand reaches up and scritches at curly black hair. And then he looks to the red-head. A smile half-tilts his lips. "Is this the one where I soaked the fire out of my skin...?" Or was I hallucinating that bit...

     "Hmm?" Soldekai murmurs, brows furrowing as he looks up. "Um, don't know," he says idly, looking at Jonathan, then to the nearby buildings. "Hey...let's go inside a minute. I need to...fix something." And space would be nice.
     Lost in thought, Soldekai does not wait on his friends, expecting them to follow. He turns towards the carpet shop, deciding it's as good a place as any...

     And the young man, the athletic and lean man. The man not near as tall as the red-headed photographer, he is near the door to Azad's. A glance to the carpet against the windows, and Kit turns toward the door.
     Within... the carpets and the colors...
     Yes, this will be better...
     It is a more comfortable space, in a place of interwoven threads and colors...

     Linen robes whispers with Sakir's movements, hands concealed in their folds. He smiles, greeting those people who live here, while patently ignoring the garish tourists. He doesn't even seem to see them, now. Rude and crass do not exist in this city, his world.
     Hand flicks out, from under folds of cloth, to run along the white wash of the buildings. He falters slightly, seeing ahead of him the others who move towards the carpet store. A frown. This will bring the brothers out, to talk and babble like pimps whoring their girls. Carpets are stories, they are not sales.

     "That's what they are paying me for...." He says his words slightly accented. Of course they aren't paying him but jack and shit... but it sounds good where people might be listening. He starts to offer a hand to shake but then see's that Sol is already heading into to the Shoppe. He has a feeling that this is giong to be a common thing.
     He does look to Sakir and smiles a touch at his grumbles about the Tourists inquiring for directions. "Next time.." he says in quite fluent Turkish, "Tell them to find the first uniformed officer they can find and to ask them this....." the phrase the follows can be best translated along the lines of Is your daughter eighteen? I have money. And with that said he turns to follow Sol and Kit into the carpet store. This is going to be an interesting assignment.

Eyes flick upwards at Jonathon's words. He makes no comment. His expression speaks for itself: This is my home, foreigner, do not tell me how to act.
With silent frown, he slips passed those on the street, and moves into the darkness of the rug shop regardless the fact that others -- unwelcome others -- will share this space with him.
Perhaps the brothers will be too preoccupied with these new individuals, rather than bother him about his travels.
Pale hand pushes the door open, the bells chime, and soft rugs crush beneath his feet. With simple moves his sandals are removed, set beside the door, so he walks across the wool without tracking grit and stones in.
A brief pause of sunlight lances the room, as someone opens the door to glance inside. Before the silver chime has even stopped ringing, however, the door is closed and darkness returns.

     Dark and cool, regardless the time of day, it presses in and around like water. Palpable. Comfortable. The darkness is lit, here and there, by softly glowing oil lamps with tall, delicate hurricane shrouds. The glow settles into the center of the room, like a cloud, leaving the corners and folds hidden in cloying mystery. Folds? Folds of carpets. The floor is piled with them, no-where is free from their covering. To keep them clean, customers remove their shoes at the door, and tread barefoot across soft wool that crushes under foot and tickles. The walls, themselves, hang with the rugs from floor to ceiling. They waver slightly, as if perhaps the room were bigger and the rugs were being used to define the walls. Perhaps by pushing through one might find other rooms beyond.
     A store, yes, this is also a place for the village to socialize. A place to meet during morning, to share the news and exchange gifts over scented jasmine tea or fruity sodas. But afternoon must be filled with slow haggling that fills the long hours with soft discussion and more tea or soda. Evening itself is for the sale, when customer and merchant share a meal over the purchase to seal the occasion: Now fast friends, sharing not only a meal but the labours of a family... the carpet.

     There is a soft word of Turkish. It is roughly translated pardon me in English. It is more poetic in Turkish. There are more words for what he uses. As the dark haired young man removes his sandals just within the doorway. It is a common courtesy among those in the more Eastern lands. And a custom -- one of many -- to which he adheres.
     There is a look to those who accompany him and Kit motions to their shoes. "I will come out of here with a carpet. That much is assured. But... the entertainment comes in which and for what story... and for what price..." a whisper.
     A kind of game...
     Kit smiles to his comrades, but he is already drifting within the space. His eyes already captured by the colors. The craftmanship. It is how I will fill my own tower one day. With such rugs... I shall sleep upon a pillow, drink honey in my milk, and I will sing to the glory of The One Who's Name May Not Be Uttered.

     The carpets here are exquisite. Untouched by machine or artificial chemical, each knot and thread is placed by adept human hands and dyed using the knowledge of desert plants. The wives, daughters and sisters of those that own the store, or perhaps of some nearby local tribe. Carpets tell a story, to those that can read them, of travels across the desert. Of strange beasts. Of building a home. Carpets are the books of the nomadic people. Carpets can, with the right prayer to Alah, carry you away in shades of blue, red and browns.

     For some reason, Soldekai's feet are already bare. Shoes rest conveniently near a low table, and he heads that direction after giving greetings to those in the room.
     In an Indic language, no less.
     Eyes adjust, and Soldekai bends, setting bag and camera next to the pillows that rest by the table.
     "A story? Actually," he concedes, "...something to refresh both body and soul would be nice." Soldekai finally returning to the moment. He smiles and gives attention to the front room of the carpet shop. While his appearance counters the feel of this place, he yet seems very comfortable. He must specialize in this region of the world. Gaze wanders then, eventually landing where the fruity sodas are prepared.

     He has found his customary place, seated upon one of the rugs intended for sitting. Not for sale. Dusty green trousers, and linen shirt show beneath the robe now. Some sort of dust robe, against the ever present red that floats in the desert winds.
     And he waits.
     Patient as stone.
     Azad will come. Then a younger son will be sent to fetch tea. They will speak of Turkey from before the fall of the Sultanate. Before the Republic. When Islam ruled here.
     A brief pause of sunlight lances the room, as someone opens the door to glance inside. Before the silver chime has even stopped ringing, however, the door is closed and darkness returns.

     And of course the dusky skin, mercerary seeming man would have to be wearing boots. He kneels down and starts to unlace them. It would probably be considered polite to disarm as well. And so once the boots are off his knife and shotgun are drawn. The breech is popped open and each are set on one of the brothers Trays. Standing again he moves to join his comrades on the rug.
     "Personally.. I would recommend the rug that is the easiest to clean stains out of." Of course he would be hopelessly pragmatic about this game. Joining hte other two on the carpet the dusky skinned man settles to the ground.

     Walking softly across the rugs, a black cat slips like a shadow to the far side of the room.

     The redhead has nothing but quietly polite smiles. Perhaps one that does not say much. He looks over to the sodas again, getting the attention of a man already in the process of preparing several glasses.
     "Maybe I should buy a house," Soldekai murmurs, opening the back of the camera to do what he intended. "Then...I could add rugs as these, reminders of all the tales of what happened while I was over here on this tour of duty." The photographer's bane...forever wandering place to place. "I believe I got some good shots, however," he says quietly, not breaking the wall of politeness between this group and the other patron.

     Carpet wall shifts. Sepia tone skin, tanned from decades in sunlight and from heritage. Azad. Old. Eyes milky from cataracts, yet still strong. Vital.
     A flow of Turkish words, from where Sakir sits. "Azad, friend. Please, sit with me." The rug where he sits is directly in line of where Azad emerged. Tradition perhaps.
     The old man rests blind eyes upon the seated man, then the others. He leans back behind curtains of carpets to call to his sons. There are customers.
     Then sure steps lead across soft wool, towards Sakir, to sit and speak in low tones. To laugh and regale.
     A babble of quiet voices slips in from the road, fluttering about the room for a moment, then sinking drowsily into the rugs.

     When he laughs, there is something... right about it...
     Something that rights the universe for a brief instant. Or rather... his place within it. For a moment, there is harmony. The laughter falls with the right notes, an amused cadence.
     Arms fold against his chest, and the airy clothing is gathered up. There are light linen trousers beneath the linen robe. A linen shirt as well. All in whites and light earth tones. Kit twists about, a look to the mercenary, a cocking up of one eyebrow. "I will hear it when it speaks to me," arms unfold so hands can gesture as he speaks, "the one I am supposed to have." And then to the photographer. "I think you are right," the laughter has become a smile. "My friend, a light drink... a tale. I am in need of this. It has been a long trip..." A pause. "From India..."
     From India, near on to hell, to heaven and back...
     Kit looks around the shop and heads to a bit of carpet. "I think I should have good dreams and good luck with the right find. And," the smile slants a touch to Soldekai. "... you know I think you should. I will visit often..." And he laughs again, quietly, politely, but warmly.

     "Oh, really?" Soldekai smirks, looking up from the open camera at his lap. Hazel-tinted eyes, much like the sun in its autumn course, spy the two men and their heartfelt greeting. He exhales at that, then returns to his friends, looking to the one with lace problems. "Aren't you done yet?" he asks, giving him a bit of a tease.
     But back to this. "India seems ages away," he observes. Another day, another assignment. "But if we manage to find the Valley quickly enough, I bet it will take your mind off India. I can get a few shots, and then we can rest as if this was the real holiday it was supposed to be."
     Operative word being supposed.
     "Ah, there," the redhead breathes, closing the back of the camera and lifting it. Seems fine. It is set aside, in time enough to receive the tall sodas from the arriving young man. "And what in the world would I do with a house, eh?" Seriously now, he looks at the robed Kit, giving a wink. I had only been talking randomly in that piece of folly.

     You know... he doesn't remember Kit being this cryptic.... poor guy must be really out of sorts... "I'm sticking by my initial recommendation...." It is then when Sol mentions finding the valley. and he looks between the red and dark-haired men with a raised brow, "Valley? What valley? Why are we going to a valley?"
     Of course he could ask why we're shopping for talking rugs as well, but Jonathan does suspect that just maybe he was taking that part a touch too literal.

     Golden eyes opening in darkness, then a toothy yawn, announces one of the black mousers that live here.

     "Southern?" The words drift in english, surprised. Sakir is exploring the fibers of a carpet with his fingers. Then back to Turkish. "Two, maybe three hundred?"
     The old man's head bobs in agreement, then he smiles. "Yes, Sakir, Southern, but older. We think it is four hundred. Beautiful is it not?"
     "Silk. The knotwork is excellent for that era."
     "Ahead of their time."
     "Rare?"
     "I know of only ten others, my friend."
     "Impressive."
     "Marriage song." The old man says quietly. Immediately Sakir's touch becomes lighter. Reverential. He is wordless, though, starring off and through the carpet. Eyes flickering along patterns and pictures.

     "Let me loiter in it..."
     And he sits with a sigh. His skin is warm, and in the cooler darkness, he seems all the darker himself. And he radiates the heat he has borne in his skin for the last several days. Folds and folds of light clothing covers his physique. Indicates a general shape, but reveals nothing.
     Truth of strength or vitality... this lies in his eyes...
     Folding his legs beneath him, Kit leans forward as one of Azad's sons or nephews perhaps has brought a drink. And in quiet Turkish, he asks for a jasmine tea. A slight incline of his head follows the request and a word or two of gratitude. Grey eyes then play between those beside him, "I want to see a few of the secret wonders of the world before I must ... pay my debt," he decides to call it. And his eyes drift to the man sitting with old Azad. He cannot help but look there...
     There is a story there...

     There is nod from Jonathan.... he has this strange feeling that his window of opprotunity to visit that Bathhouse is gonna close on him. But c'est la vie, He just got himself back on the road of true recover. He's not about to blow this mission and undo all he's recently strived for. "Ok.. so tell me about this valley we're going to go look for?"
     Even as he asks this quesiton his eyes float to Sakir as he talkes with the brothers about what Carpet he might by (or which one they will impress upon him). He looks at some of the works presented, curiously. I mean they all look fine to him. He doesn't understand what makes one better than another.

     "Churches," Soldekai says, "...a thousand. Well, I don't know if a thousand are there, but that is what its called. _Photo_ is having a competition and I heard about the place...thought it might be an interesting story."
     There's that word again.
     Soldekai's hands curl around the cool drink, sapping whatever chill there is from it. "I actually don't know much about it, just what I've heard from locals," he explains. "Who knows, it might be a bum trip."
The oil lamps flicker, setting the light to chase the shadows about the room like a dog chasing desert birds.

     Silver platter. Clinking porcelain cups. Chilled tea. Born along by small hands, a grandchild presumeably. The whole is placed quietly down, between Sakir and Azad.
     "I cannot recall their name." Sakir begins. "It does not come to me, though I am sure I know it?" That last is certainly a question. He asks this, as if Azad would have the answer.
     "Not a name I am aware of." The old man shakes his head. "The carpets are all that remain of them. Islam destroyed them."
     "The Ottomans, you mean?"
     Another shake of his head. "No. All I know is they refused to follow the teachings of Mohammad."
     This seems a surprise to Sakir, but he asks no further. "I am sure I recognize this. I should check my library." The tone suggests he already knows, but the carpet merchant misses this. "If I find the name, I will open the books to you."

     It is beyond impolite to cross bounds into the other conversation. This Soldekai knows. But as his hands coil about his drink, he cannot help but look at and listen to the other men not so far away.

     Jasmine tea...
     There is a sweetness to it and a headiness to it. It lingers on the air like the ghost of climbing vines, in the flavor of the tea that makes his way to him.
     "Is there such a thing, my..." He almost says Chamberlain. He almost says one of the handful of names he has given Soldekai, much as his own Master of Dreams, but his tongue holds itself a moment, "... friend as a 'bum trip'? I do not think it will be wasted," Kit says, taking the tea as it is presented to him, "even if we find nothing...for we will have found something. Either the truth of a legend or the whisper of a villager's joke..."
     His voice is light and his eyes move between those he most closely accompanies. But his eyes, and his attention, wander to the old man and his associate. And the story of the carpet.
     "What shall I call you," he asks suddenly of the mercenary. This, a new form. The soul within...
     Is it recognizable?

     Funny you might Mention the Ottomans..... Jonathan could just favor one a bit..... In any eventy he looks to Kit. "Jonathan......" Ok with a name like that maybe he's got some Eastern Orthodox in him too. "Most people will call me Jack though." A hand is extended. He is not the same discordant soul he was when you last saw him.. but you have meet in the past.
     Looking back to Soldekai then the mercenary nods his head, "A thousand churches huh? Well that does sound like it'd be worth seeing..."

     The two lapse into silence. Comfortable silence. Old friends. Even if Sakir does not look that old.
     Occasionally one or the other of them will take a sip of tea.
     Or flip the corner of a nearby rug, running fingertips along the backs of the knots.
     Or they watch the occasional cat move along between the carpets, hunting mice.

     The idea of being... guarded...
     Babysat...
     Watched...
     These things did not sit well with him. He, who was so accustomed to coming and going as he will so long as God was served by it. As long as Dreams and Aspirations were served by it. It seemed as if the world was to be a prison without bars.
     But the name brings some relief. Relaxation. Silverish eyes shift to Soldekai then. Is this some work of yours? To have it be done by an associate, known to us both?
     Kit looks to Jonathan and extends his hand. "Alright then," a green and misty island rides high upon his voice, "...Jack it is. The question is now: when do we make our way?" That said to them both.
     Even as his eyes lift to the carpets, a sweep around the shop.

     "Hmm?" Soldekai murps, blinking as he looks to the friends nearby instead of the two men at the other table. "Oh, um...whenever. We need to figure out what to take out there. Don't know whether there's accommodations or we need a guide. Terrain," he shrugs, "...the usuals. So, some recon is in order. I doubt we can camp. So...it might be a guide-only zone..."

     Jasmine tea is lifted, sipped. And the world of dust peels suddenly away. Kit closes his eyes. Another sip is taken. The cool tea soothing body, soothing soul. "Perhaps one of these gentlement may know..."
     A leading question...
     One grey eye opens, a dark brow lifting. What do you think? Should we ask them?

     "How is your daughter? Is she enjoying Ankara?" The country's capital city. Not Istanbul, despite what foreigners may think. It is Sakir speaking.
     Long moments pass again.
     Tea is lifted. Sipped.
     "It is difficult for her."
     Sakir nods silently. The old man speaks his worry and concerns through glances, not words.
     "I will be down that way near the end of the month. I could, perhaps, take a letter from you?" An offer to check in on her. To see if she is alright.
     A smile, slight nod. And then silence once more. Sipping tea.

     Ok.. now roughing it... Jack can handle that. Sure the terrain is pretty treacherous, but the challenge will be worth it. "Ok then.... I know this land pretty well... but I haven't clue one where this valley might be.. so finding a guide would probably be the best place to start."
     More importantly.. finding a guide will take time. He might get to visit that Bathhouse Michael reccomended after all.

     There's a blink at Kit...and then a glance at the men.
     That might not be such a bad idea.
     Soldekai sips his soda and then nods at Kit, figuring he means to find out the information himself. Besides, he looks more the native. Sol shrugs at Jonathan, then looks to Kit's next action.

     But the timing must be right, or offense will get us nothing...
     And so the tea is sipped. Sweetly, lightly. The cup will be finished and perhaps even the business of buying a carpet shall proceed before the question is asked. To interrupt them now...
     Kit looks between his comrades. "I have been thinking..."
     Oh no...

     Clink. Porcelain teacup placed on platter. Sakir runs a hand along the first mentioned rug. Something more to his touch. Azad, of course, does not notice. Cannot notice.
     Smile tugs at the corners of far-away expression.
     Then long fingers outreach, pick a piece of paper from the platter and scribble something upon it. A number. The haggling begins.

Posted by rowan at May 14, 2003 10:17 PM