The merchant evidently spotted him, and took brisk steps over, exclaiming all the time rather too enthusiastically, "Tiago, Tiago, my friend Tiago, what brings you here?"

"Tiago" did not hurry to match the merchant, and for a while appeared to have not heard him. Then, without taking his eyes off the toy, he replied lazily, "you know, usual."

He finally put the toy down.

"The council has seen it fit to increase patrol rates."

He picked another one up.

"Because people, like you, complain. Because there're too many thieves. Because people, like you, let the thieves off."

The merchant grimaced apologetically.

"Well.. was a young un you kno-"

"Young uns grow up. They become big uns. But guess what?" And with mock enthusiasm he continued, "I have a present for you."

"Oh?" Quizzical looks exchanged with his wife.

"Knife. Issued from the council. The prisons can't be bothered anymore."

"Wha- wha- what am I supposed to do with this?" Blubbering from the merchant.

"You'll get the hang of it soon enough." With that, Tiago started off in the opposite direction.

"But, but-"

An exasperated sigh, a look up at the sky. "Amateurs."

A large, square piece of cloth, blue in color - blue, like the reflection of the sky in a pool already blue: and so, doubly blue - lazily draping from the merchant's pole. The desert around sighed, his warmth almost lulling himself to sleep; his sleepy breath hugging the cloth and her sisters.

But look upon her other side, and look upon the flood of people - a great, roaring river, voices babbling - nay, more so a field of wild flowers, what with the bobbing heads of varied hues: colors! colors of very shade and tint, swirling into a psychedelic potpourri of red green blue yellow. At the fruit stall a lady stood, hesitating over the produces; an intensely white silhouette against a backdrop of red apples, green apples, blue berries, yellow bananas - for Sparkle was the center of the World, and through its gates passed goods of all manner, goods from all places. The cloth she wrapped herself in - from the Orient, no doubt: soft as a down pillow, light as a down feather; the henna ribbons caressing her peachy hand - from the artist at the nextdoor booth, who, judging by his pitchy complexion, came from down South; the extravagant Phrygian hat that sat upon her pretty head - from Asia Minor perhaps?

But the colors them all, dazzling as they were, caught not his eye, as he waited for the moment. Strolling along the bustling street he glanced up casually, noting that the sun was still too high: two hours past noon, at most. So, having time to burn, he sauntered over to woodcraft stall, where the merchant was rather busy beating a boy up with aid of one of his works.

"Stealing huh. And right under my -thwack- nose!"

"What's this, hon?"

"One of em thieving rascals again. No worries, just one of them young uns.

You're lucky you're -thwack- that stupid, any smarter and -thwack- I won't take the risk. Get lost!"

The boy scrambled off, but not before throwing a face. And with that, the show was over, so having nothing more to distract himself with, he picked up a little wooden horse and twirled it deftly with his fingers, smirking.

"Amateurs."