"Now you've said it," he said, flushing in embarrassment. "And here I said I didn't want to be caught going about in my braies and instead I'm in a state fit for a whore. You're right of course, I need clothes--" he hedged, suddenly flummoxed with all the accompanying discomfort of a proud, albeit poor, man. He did say his purse had been stolen and so could only hope Cuthbert Allgood would remember the fact he was without coin. But not pressing his luck until it was necessary, they moved again and each step jolted the wound in his leg, reminding him painfully of the day not even a fortnight ago when he'd been left on the damnable goat path by Boreas. He was on the mend, but the wound served its stupid purpose of slowing him considerably.
He was about to step off into the street--cursing the stupid step as he did so--when he was saved by the halting command of Cuthbert, and an arm as a blockage. He stumbled back a step in wariness and swiveled around to look at the boy, brow raised in silent question.
His eyes followed the direction he was pointed in, remembering the boy's instruction. Wait for the lights and a signal. "What signal are we meant to wait for?" he asked, praying to the heavens it wasn't something written. Symbols he could determine, easy as picking a flower from the roadside, but the words? There wasn't a high chance in Magrog's hell that Valen could read it. "What other rules am I missing, sir? I've no thoughts on how to survive in big cities in Navronne, let alone one such as this." He strayed closer to Cuthbert.