Victor laughs at some private joke when he sees the chess set. He stops a few people, and twice backs up into the tent to grab a box and give it out. Not much else happens.

Second channel time! They've gotten a cherry picker, the kind of raised platform one uses to work on power lines and the like, from somewhere and set it up with ten people standing on it just above the channel area. There's evidence of trying to build something, too, but whatever it was apparently did not make the cut for stability and has been flattened into the mud.

Before they get to the channel spot, a blonde haired guy with a pretty Splenderous face sticks close to his guide and guard (who make faces but don't actually stop him), and straightforwardly offers Blai 10000 dollars, succeed or fail, to try to remove his metabolic disease. And not ask any questions about, say, who he is or what disease he has. And not tell people he did this.

"After the channel," Blai says.

Channelwards they go. There's much more excitement in the air this time. The rich(?) guy hangs back away from the crowd.

"He might not want you to ask who he is but I'm annoyed at him so I'm telling you. He's Roland, he's a fixer and probably some kind of spy."

And then: Channel spot achieved. Last minute cramming done. Someone inadvisably climbs up the arm of the cherry picker to get in range.

Well, if they fall there's not going to be a third channel about it.

He is not particularly convinced that spies ought to have metabolic problems so he will go find Roland after. "I have patient confidentiality," he assures him. "This might not work."

"I'm not sure if it will either, head. But I'll pay you a whole lot to try it anyway, like I said, ten grand."

Nod nod. "Lesser Restoration."

Roland pauses for a bit. Did it work? Did it not? Or is he just putting on a show of consideration to obscure the matter? (Probably nobody cares, but he must put on the show.)

(As it turns out, it did work... Sort of. He'll be hours and hours sifting through the internal biomonitor data and doing followup treatments.)

"Huh. Well, I promised and I deliver, head."

(Ten grand is not worth burning his credibility here, mere money is rather fucking cheap, compared to the other things he's buying and selling.)

He hands Blai a steel briefcase, nods with a smile that does not quite reach the eyes, and turns to walk away.

...is it straightforward to open?

There's a digital keypad lock.

"He's so fucking dramatic. He told me the code-" She says it. "You just press the numbers in the right order. You probably want to change it, I can show you how. Actually, you might want to ditch the whole case in case he put trackers on it. Though it's up to you I suppose."

Poke poke poke. "It is not a secret where I put my church. Is there another thing to worry of?"

She looks over the case. "It could be listening to you. Hard to tell."

"Ah. I can't have that." He extracts the money and looks through it for scrying sensors.

The money is in rubber-banded stacks, in plastic bags, in black foam insets specifically sized for it; $5s, $10s, $20s, and one neat stack of fifty $100s. Clean and professional looking. The bills themselves don't have any suspicious objects hidden in the pile.

(His nurse-escort has turned away to answer someone's logistical question.)

In that case he will leave the briefcase on the ground, put the money in his bag, and wait for his ride home.

"Do you want a hand radio so we can talk if something comes up before tomorrow's pickup? It's sort of like a phone, except it sends and receives with every compatible device that's using the same frequency, instead of a specific other device. And when tomorrow should we pick you up?"

"I cannot have being listened," he points out. "It must be more than an hour after dawn."

"Well, I suppose you don't have any way to trust that the one I'd find you isn't tracked. You could leave it a hundred feet away in a box. But whatever, that works. It might be someone other than me doing the pickup. If so they will use the code phrase, uhhhh.... 'Distort White Canvas'... And thank you. Lotta people got better a lot faster than usual today."

Her truck is right there down the hill. Back in for another bouncy ride?

Gulp. (Yes, of course.)

"Fuck!" She swears after a particularly bad bounce makes a grinding noise.

After they get to Blai's spot, she peers under the truck for a bit.

"Yeah, it's gonna have to be somebody else. Or at least a different truck. This thing is not built for desert driving."

"How big is the broken part?"

She holds up her hands, about ten inches. "You have repair magic? It's still... Technically drivable. And it would be a big pain to get it out, this is fixable at a proper garage."

"I think if it can come out it does not have to in really come out." He will Light his holy symbol and have a look to see if it's in his Mending limit.

It's a metal bar attached to more metal bars attached to the wheels. It's snapped in two.

If it's thin enough it might be less than five pounds. He'll start chanting Mending to see if it'll go.

...If he insists.

(It does weigh under five pounds! It is up to the spell whether the two snapped bits, tied to separate metal pieces that are now not quite next to each other, will reconnect of their own accord when it completes.)