Oh, now he's being good. Robin takes those last two articles of clothing--essentially long strips of fabric that transition slowly from white to grey--and pays by producing a spool of what looks like gold thread from his own pocket and handing it over to the shopkeeper.

"And I think I owe you a little extra on top," he says, covering for any inconvenience they may have caused, "I'll bring some tools my next week."

That should cover for whatever Phalanx is obviously still holding in his hands. She seems pleased by the arrangement, and wishes them both a good morning--which is their cue to head back out of the tent and into the morning market street once more.

Robin leads Phalanx maybe four tents away before he takes them aside, out of the road and out of earshot of the few stragglers wandering between stalls.

"All right," he asks, "What are you holding?"