Sunlight was the enemy of festival-goers.

Qas Burus was busy on any day of the year except this one. The day after Mahragan no one in their right minds was out and about. Loud music, violent drinking, and more than one arrest. In all truth he should have been working yesterday. That was a problem the teeth handled more often than not. The violent drinking and the subduing of persons. He hadn't felt like working in any case. So there he was, half-splayed onto the floor, face pressed against a damp pillow. It took Sharaf more than a moment to realize that he'd been drooling into the down-and-cotton business which supported his head. A longer moment to realize it was well after ten, if the position of the sun could be believed. He was not looking too closely. Right in front of his eyes was a folded paper, with ink bleeding into the pillow. His face ached. Hardly looking at the big picture. It was his body that ached, and rightly so, given how hard that fellow had punched.

( Winning was an exercise in luck. )

Sharaf eyed the steps leading to this more-than-modest home with the intense scrutiny that everything received, upon being seen for the first time with these humble eyes. The steps were cut from stone, and accurately. Must have cost a good deal of money. There was even a porch. Not much of one. Stone bricks built in behind the stair held this platform of heavy wood aloft. Heavy vibrant cloth was hanging from hooks above the door; it seemed to sway in the wind no matter which way the breeze flowed. This was a time of wild winds, at Mahragan. Blues and pinks and yellows and greens and whites and golds flowed in interesting but meaningless patterns upon the cloth. And though the heavy door, with its fanciful archway, stood open... he hesitated. Inside there was the sound of laughter. No doubt Sal had set the table with every glittering bauble that she and his father could locate.

( He said he'd come, but... )