There was a weaver there, sitting cross-legged in the packed dirt of
the street, who composed carpets of the metal gold.  Passing, my
hesitence prompted by curiousity, gave him rise to extend his work to
me as if he wanted me to touch it.  A broad, almost dumb grin creased
his ageless face beneath his turban.  I extended my hand, but noticed
the fringe, while of exquisite beauty, was no different from fine
spikes.  And his eyes, despite the ignorance professed by his smile,
betold hidden malice, whether of his own volition or otherwise
controlled.  Were the spikes poison?  I don't know, but in that place
I did not doubt it.  I withdrew my hand to a subtle scowl.