Razavan Issistran was at thirty-thousand feet on a stolen skybike when his day abruptly got interesting.

Of course, the thirty-thousand feet and the stolen skybike were not the interesting things. Nor was the Takara Airpatrol cutter far below, circling beneath the clouds. This was not the first time Raz’s life had involved any or all three of these things. Takara, the wild city far below sprawling across, into, and in between the broken mesas of the Berektan Peninsula where they made a stony delta for the Faroven river, was always interesting, but not exceptionally so on this day. And Raz had grown up there, so it was nothing new.

What was new was how the skybike heated up between his legs, right where most of the enchanted plates and crystals that made it go were housed, then spat out smoke and stopped. As far as Raz knew, this was not common. In fact, he was quite certain he had heard that selling someone a faulty skybike could be punished by death in extreme circumstances, so it just wasn’t done.

Fortunately, skybikes had failsafes which would let them down safely to the earth if their main lift magic failed.

Failsafes which appeared to not be working as the skybike keeled over backward, nosed down, and began to plummet.

Yes. Interesting.

As Raz stared at a fluffy white cloud bank that was quickly growing larger, time stretched out, making the terrifying rush an agonizing eternity. This, again, was not uncommon. Many Catfolk had split-second reflexes and/or a negotiable relation with time perception. Raz had both. In slow motion, air rushed over the tan fur of his face where it wasn’t covered by goggles and breathing mask. The wind tugged with increasing insistence at his short dark hair and large black-tufted ears, but he was not inclined to listen to whatever it wanted to say, because it probably had something to do with his death and he had much more important business to get on with.

Instead he checked over the bike for any kind of manual failsafe, which he did not find, then for a parachute in the saddlebags, but the merchant he had stolen it from only had a few changes of clothes, nothing with which to rig more than a vaguely amusing attempt at an air drag. Finding that the bike was heating up and was also denser than he was and making him go faster, he kicked loose with a powerful jump that sent the bright red skybike tumbling down into the clouds, gaining an extra second or so to think with.

That second was wasted on the rather pointless realization that someone had probably been trying to kill the owner of the skybike. Raz had never heard of a skybike catastrophically destructing in a way that caused it to just fall, and he was certainly in a position to get such juicy news. That meant this was rare. A rare event with fatal consequences for a particular person was usually planned.

That knowledge was not going to help him live.

Nor was the frustrated thought that of course, OF COURSE, he would steal the skybike of the most hated merchant in the whole city.

Examining his situation and deciding that he needed more time was useful, and was in keeping with the teachings of his logic tutor, that old grumbling dwarf. The way to gain time was to slow his fall, a solution for which he, sadly, lacked any particular powers. He could have checked his character sheet to see if maybe something applied, but he already knew the answer. In another few months it would have been different, once he unlocked his second points of air and gravity affinity and gained access to the related elemental powers received from his mother’s legacy. But that was not today.

Today, he had a level 19 subclass as a tinker. Combined with the extensive sewing skills he had inherited in that legacy, this meant he could sew a modest parachute with the fabric in his storage if he had four hours and a place to sit.

He also had a level 21 subclass as a scribe, which meant he could easily do all the research on how to properly make a parachute, given a few days.

Further, he had a level 25 subclass as a battlemage. That could have done quite a bit, if he hadn’t specialized in illusion. He could, if he so wished, project a rather nice illusion of a parachute, but that would be, for obvious reasons, utterly useless.

Really, he didn’t know any air magic. None. He had been grinding air and gravity affinity entirely with the Irrepressible Leap ability he had received from his Carcali mother at birth. At the time it had seemed like a great way to spend more time on the famously difficult illusion magic.

It did not seem like such a great idea now.

Finally, and not really worth mentioning, he had a level 27 primary class as an elemental dancer. Yes. Dancer. The elemental part brought with it some wonderful abilities that would have greatly changed his prospects for the future. However, he did not have access to those abilities. Not yet.

Such a strange word, yet. Usually it seemed so tiny, just a few skips into the future, but today it was somehow the largest word in existence. An insurmountable wall. If he could just climb over it, everything he needed was on the other side…

A few more affinity points and he could control wind and gravity.

A few more levels and he could armor himself against harm and turn magic into motion.

So close…

Where was he?

Dancer. Yes.

The rest of that class was completely worthless. It was dancer. What hot blooded teenage male wanted to be a dancer? If scrapping his mother’s main class into raw arete hadn’t been the height of disrespect for his deceased parent, he would have done it the moment he integrated her legacy and switched his main straight to battlemage.

Honestly, what had held him back was only the fact that he would have sacrificed half the total value of her legacy, half the elemental powers, and much of the perfectly useful scribe class. Instead he had kept the main, folded her seamster subclass into the tinker subclass he already had, and added “battle” to her level 20 mage class and begun to pay it up. A good plan that would have allowed him to swap battlemage to primary in another year or so while keeping dancer as a subclass, with minimal loss.

Elemental battlemage. Ahhh. There was a class that could deal with this problem. Just drift down from the heavens light as a feather and invisible to boot, then walk away to meditate on where he had picked up such bad luck.

But that was not today.

Today, he was a rock with a host of interesting things he could do that would not keep him from going splat.

What could someone with nothing do? Considering how to fall more slowly was a task that really required a much quieter environment and more time, but he quickly associated his own position, feet down and arms out, with that of an arrow descending on a battlefield. The arrow fell point down because that was the fastest way for it to fall. Something about drag from the feathers.

Hence, he did not want to have the form of the arrow.

But what other form could he adopt?

Hmmmmm.

Pondering things that moved through the air and did not fall, yet which were not birds, airships, people with wings, or mages with powers, he thought of cliff squirrels. He had watched them from his father’s palace on the edge of the Kutuga mesa as they sailed through the air, not using the least bit of magic as far as he knew. Their position was a sprawl, arms and legs wide. He had no flap of skin to spread like they did, but…

He unbuckled his sturdy sky coat, leaving the top three buckles fast, shoved his hands deep in the hip pockets, and spread his arms.

The wind caught the unfolding fabric and whipped his arms wide. Sky and cloud swapped places again and again and he reeled in a roar of sound.

Only for a moment.

Instinct took over and he spread his legs wide as well, twisting and turning,trying to push the flapping fabric out taut with his arms at the same time. His spin steadied and the world slowed. Moments later he was looking at the clouds again, just in time to feel the first caress of cool moisture wash into his fur as he dropped into the fog.

One thing Catfolk knew was how to orient themselves in space.

Now, plunging through gray moisture at a slightly slower pace, he felt he had a little more luxury to consider other measures. Such as asking for help.

Divine intervention, though dependent on someone else, could certainly fix his situation. The likelihood was low that one of the Powers would just make the whole thing go away for free, but at that moment he was willing to offer up a significant amount of value in exchange for something that would increase his odds of survival. He was the son of a merchant, and had no illusions about getting something for nothing. Unless it was stolen, which, in retrospect, had costs of its own.

Half of the Twelve Powers were likely to completely ignore him. Ahvgoran, Tantho, Gozukol, Daraff, Hibimora, Loruma: at best one of them might laugh at him. Johadon, King of the Gods, he also dismissed, as Nissaya claimed to have killed him and he hadn’t spoken up in thirty-some years to say differently. After a brief thought, he threw out Erreniya too. The Patron of Family and Agriculture was known to be softhearted, if any of the Powers were, but her particular domain did not include thieves falling from the sky. She was unlikely to do more than hold his hand.

Tislora, Patron of Art, Intuition, and Magic, went too. sShe could pass him a spell without too much trouble, and she was famously chatty, but she didn’t hand out anything unless a person interested her. He was not so proud as to think he would be such a one. His mother, the dancer, yes. She had been wonderful at her discipline, and his grandmother before her.

Tislora would not help.

Now Iskua…

Iskua made a habit of getting disreputable sorts out of trouble. She was the Dark Goddess of Evil and All Things Done in the Dark, so helping thieves and such escape the consequences of their actions went with that. And, as one of the two Primes, she had a wide dominion that let her weigh in on all kinds of situations. However, Raz really, really, really did not want to sign a dark pact with her. Such a thing was punishable by death on its own. He had done the whole thieving thing as an amusement, with no violence or confrontation. He had no wish to plunge into the corrupt horrors that she demanded.

So she went. Perhaps it was a wrong decision seeing as his life was on the line, but being a slave of Iskua was not a life he wanted to live.

That left Nissaya and Vennir. And Hanaweh, he supposed, but the Creator was not one of the Powers and he had never directly spoken to anyone as far as Raz knew. Still, a prayer that way wouldn’t hurt. Also one to Aganod, the Great Overseer of the Game, who, though he did not openly interfere, had been known to put a finger on the scale when he felt like it.

So, Nissaya or Vennir.

He already had a blessing from each of them, for which he paid each a 5% tithe of his arete. For that, they would likely answer without further expense. Nissaya, the Patron of Wisdom, from whom he received the Comparative Wisdom blessing, was not very fond of thieves, but had quite the reputation for helping people willing to reform. Which he definitely could be, if it meant living. Her dominion was somewhat limited for engaging in direct interference, but she was well known for getting around that.

Of course, that whole “reform” part would probably mean a public confession–shaming his family–and possible jail time. At the least, a considerable amount of debt that would take him quite a while to pay off. Not the best outcome.

On the other hand, Vennir, the Patron of Wit, from whom he had the minor but currently appreciated blessing of Quick Wits, had a bit of an understanding with thieves. Thieves, not robbers. Also merchants, which meant there was considerable tension between two of his largest groups of followers. But the important thing was, Vennir didn’t look down on thieves, at least not those who lived by their wits rather than violence. He didn’t have quite the same reputation as Nissaya for successive wins, but he was no slouch when it came to solving problems. At the least, he would know how Raz might go about surviving.

Of course, he would charge for it. Patron of merchants, after all.

And Raz was in a very bad position. He did not have time for haggling, a fact Vennir would certainly take advantage of.

But, what Vennir would most likely not demand was that Raz come clean. If he could walk away from his landing AND not go to jail or cause a wild loss of face for his family, he preferred that option.

Raz decided on Vennir just as the cool fog stopped hitting his face and Takara, the great walled City of Cats, all twenty square miles of it, came into view. It was much closer than he liked. Still, the beauty of it filled his eyes for a brief moment, despite the fact that he had seen it from this height before. Perhaps because it might be the last time he saw it from this height.

The Three-Pillared Bazaar dominated the center, spread out across three hundred-foot-high mesas joined in the middle by a triangular bridge so large it served as a plaza. The streets of the bazaar spiraled out from that plaza, so filled with colorful fabric booths, illusionary advertisements, and piles of merchandise they gave the impression of a great rainbow pinwheel. The shifting colors flowing along the lines of that pinwheel were the people, going to and fro on a multitude of tasks.

Just outside the bazaar the mesas of the clans were hollowed out and built up, towers and mansions above and tunnels below. He spotted the Kutuga mesa immediately. The pale granite walls of the Issistran family estate formed a tiny green-gray square around three blue rectangles – the three main mansions – and the soft tan triangle of the shared courtyard. Countless other mansions and clan estates covered those mesas, with stone and tile colors almost as varied as the fabrics of the bazaar.

Outside the mesas of the clans were the mesas of foreigners and workers, some of them tidy with pristine apartments, others not so much, a few so crowded the buildings grew up like clusters of mushrooms. The roofs and buildings there had mostly red, brown, black, and green tile roofs with dark gray granite or concrete walls. But even from this height he could see the color from billboards, murals, laundry lines, and street vendors’ tents.

Outside that ring were the industrial mesas, covered and filled with hulking square factories on the inland side and rows of warehouses on the sea side, all coated in the graffiti of countless workers, a traditional outlet that the owners allowed. Many of the factories were centered with a cloth-sailed windmill, turning slowly in the constant southwest ocean breeze. A few had the stacks of a goblin-made steam plant poking up and belching gray smoke.

Surrounding that ring of mesas was the city wall, a great curtain of smooth stone made by dwarven mages and stonecutters that melded with the outer mesas. Three stories above the stone plateaus, its parapets were topped by mage-turrets and harpoons. At the bottom of the river in the canyons below, its bars and magic kept out the larger monsters that lived in the water while allowing the river to flow freely through beneath the mesas.

On the sea-side outside the wall were the docks, a floating kingdom of wood on the bright blue waters of the Inner Ocean populated by every kind of ship, from massive Canian barques covered in Sea Dogs sliding up and down the lines, to agile Fisher Cat sloops darting between them, to chuffing Seakin steamsails rolling up their cloth and showing off how their expensive gnome-built engines could bring them the rest of the way into port. Though the most common colors among foreign ships were white and brown, all the ships owned by Catfolk boasted a riot of color above and below, and they were many.

Just inside the wall from the great docks was the guild district, filled with the towers of the guilds and great merchant companies, some rising as high as sixteen stories. Most boasted facings of rare stone and wood, and all had large sparkling windows of imported plate glass and numerous balconies for looking down at the commerce going on below. At the forefront, twisting gently in the wind like a great spire of color, was the Spindle of the Weavers' Guild, there to show all who approached by sea that this was indeed the city with the finest fabrics in all the world. Numerous billboards on either side of it, many great rectangles of moving illusion, showed products and other advertisements to those coming from afar.

Finally, curving down to the west of the guild district and the docks and jutting off the wall itself like it was grown out of it, was the pointed mesa called the Fang. It guarded the docks from southwestern storms and served as the central fortress for Takara military forces. Where the cliffs of all the other mesas were natural, with cracks and crevices that all kinds of plants and animals took advantage of, the face of the Fang was glistening and smooth, magically polished to make it resistant to the infiltration means favored by exactly the kind of people who owned the city.

Raz took all this in at a glance and lingered on the Issistran mansion. He also noted that the Airpatrol cutter was nowhere near his path of fall, not that they would have cared if they were, and instead appeared to be heading back to its post at the airship docks built into the walls to the west of the guild district. At least they wouldn’t be there to arrest him if he somehow survived.

He gathered his magic and mentally selected Vennir from among the Powers, willing a connection. He made sure that his intent was filled with every bit of urgency he could give it.

A shadow filled his mind, dark and flowing and walking on four paws that made no sound. At the same time, a subtle aura wrapped around him, intensely powerful, yet barely felt. He recognized it from the times he had been in the Great Tower of Vennir, a fourteen-story edifice stuffed in among the other towers in the guild district. The shadow firmed and a bright white smile opened in his mind, wide and punctuated with pointed fangs.

“Raz!” The bright, cheery male voice sounded clear in his ears despite the wind blasting by him, as if the voice was speaking just inside his skull. “What have you gotten yourself into this time?” He heard the words at normal speed, despite time flowing by at a crawl, which meant that Vennir was speaking very quickly. Vennir had also taken a familiar tone, even though Raz had never spoken to him before, but Powers could do what they liked.

Oh great Lord Vennir, Raz thought back, not trusting himself to speak as quickly as he needed to, The Creator has me in disfavor and I appear to have stuck my neck into a noose meant for someone else.

“Oh? Indeed?” Vennir chuckled. “And what makes you think that?”

Something about the way Vennir chuckled, the way he asked the question, made Raz pause. It was the chuckle of someone who knew something. In this case, something that Raz did not know. The chuckle was a hint, certainly intentional, that there was more than Raz had realized.

What had Raz said?

Not about the Creator. Certainly not the greeting. Ah, a noose meant for someone else.

No. No, no, no.

He ran back through the events that had brought him to where he was…and distinctly remembered Avvin pointing him at the bike that had brought him to his present situation. There had been five, all lined up, various colors and patterns, and this had been the only red one.

He liked red. Avvin had not had to work hard to sell him on the choice.

But the plan to steal the skybikes parked on the Felhwe Trading Company’s Skypad had come from the whole gang. Everyone had contributed. Raz himself had scouted the defenses and found a way through the wards. No… He remembered Avvin bringing up the bikes first. Casually. Just a mention of seeing them all sitting out there day after day, just one good hop from the roof of a food warehouse.

No. Avvin couldn’t possibly have…

Someone had paid him, of course.

Isk-sucking street rat!

Vennir’s smile widened.

I am wrong, great Lord Vennir, Raz thought. As you say, I have stuck my neck into a noose meant for me. If I may be so bold, I would be grateful if you would help me get my neck back out before the noose goes tight.

“Oh, well put, well put,” said Vennir. “And I can, indeed, do something to help you out. You’ll have to do the work, but I’m confident you can manage.”

What’s your offer?

”One point of a skill you need right now, and one piece of sound advice for landing safely, for twenty-five years of service.”

Raz almost gagged, despite the fact that he had been expecting something hideous. The only thing that kept him from rejecting the offer out of hand was the feeling of the air blasting over his face so fast it was almost stripping the fur off. Vennir would not offer the point of skill and the advice if he didn’t believe it gave Raz a chance, and even twenty-five years of service was better than meeting the mesas at terminal velocity.

Still…

Twenty-five years is far too much for so little, even if you have me at a disadvantage. Lady Nissaya won’t make a contract for more than ten years, and that is for raising a seeker five levels.

”Ahhh, but you are not speaking to Nissaya, are you?” Vennir gave him a conspiratorial grin. “We both know why, don’t we?”

It was hard to glare at a face you only saw in your head, but Raz tried. The Patron of merchants had him in a place where he had nothing to bargain with and he knew it. The injustice of it was almost enough to make him switch to Nissaya right there. She would almost certainly give him a better deal.

Except for the whole confession thing.

Hmmm.

I know that in lands using Nissaya’s laws, fifteen years is the limit for a service contract. I can still go to her, and knowing what you’re offering me I’m certain she will give me a much better deal. If you insist on twenty-five years, I will do so, despite what her other demands will be.

Raz carefully squashed how reluctant he was to take that option, hoping to keep Vennir from picking up on those emotions. He would do it if he had to, and he held onto that fact.

The cat smiled wider. “Smart. Always have another option. Fifteen years for the skill and the advice, then.”

The offer still burned. Raz was running out of time, slow as it seemed to be moving, but he wanted better. The next fifteen years of his life was something he had hoped to have for himself.

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Five points of the skill, two pieces of advice, and five levels once I survive. Raz knew that the Powers were reluctant to give truly mighty aid in the exact moment it was needed. Something about it taking more of their power the higher the immediate stakes. So he pushed the levels to after, as five levels to his primary would unlock a very helpful elemental skill, which Vennir certainly knew, and if he had been willing to pay the cost for certain survival in exchange for the rest of Raz’s life, he would have said so. One point is barely helpful, just theory. For five you have a much better chance of gaining a servant. And five levels ensures I will be a useful servant. You wouldn’t want a tier two nobody shaming your organization. And I can still go to Nissaya. I am certain she will give some levels to one of her servants.

Tier two was hardly nothing, especially considering level 27 put him in the upper end of it, but he was haggling. One emphasized. And tier three was much more useful.

A flight of birds whipped past his head and Raz winced. He REALLY did not have time for this. But, he was the son of a merchant. He had to get at least a decent deal.

“Ah,” Vennir said. “You ask for so much. But you do have a few points. I will give you three points of skill – that’s all you can take in right now – and two pieces of advice, all of it what you need. The levels, however… No. Impress me, though, and I’ll put you up to tier three and take care of your little class problem.”

How do I impress you?

“Figure out who arranged this for you before you land. You have the clues.”

Raz’s mind almost ran off after the question of who had set him up, but he quashed it and focused on the deal. He didn’t think he was going to get a better one. Also, he was really on the edge of when he could have any hope of contacting Nissaya and screaming at her that he’d do whatever she wanted.

It was very little, but it wasn’t nothing, and Vennir seemed confident he held the keys Raz needed.

“I accept,” Raz said aoud. Vennir’s smile stretched even further into a toothy crescent moon and Raz felt the bite of a divine grade contract latching onto him.

You have received 3 points in the skill SKYDIVING. Integrating.

The System message popped up in his vision. His awareness slowed to a stop for one instant as the knowledge of how to direct himself through the air solely with the positioning of his body exploded in his mind. He also felt a faint sense of the practical execution of that knowledge, as if he’d done it once before and there was a distant memory he could follow.

“I am very glad to do business with you,” Vennir said. “And, your two pieces of advice: One, you must hit the water, but it should not be the first thing you hit. And two…honor your mother.”

With that, Vennir’s presence vanished from his mind, leaving him staring at a city that was now far closer. His head reeled from trying to apply the two pieces of advice requisite to his survival. Of course, the first sounded ridiculously simple, while the second was absurd.

Really?

Fifteen years for this?

But Vennir had given him what he needed. The first piece narrowed his focus. He had to hit the water, either the river or the ocean, and before that, he had to find something to grab to slow his fall, as hitting water was only moderately more survivable than hitting rock. That kept him from wasting time trying to come up with a plan that didn’t involve those two key variables.

He looked for something to catch onto while he let the second piece of advice rattle around in his brain. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, but he was certain it would make sense when he figured out what to grab.

Hmmm.

He wouldn’t just be able to grab something. Anything he caught with his hands would rip his arms off, if he could even latch on. There were places where laundry cords stretched across the canyons over the river: those wouldn’t break him completely if he hit them… probably. But it was still a long way from those to the water, and he would again be going too fast by the time he got there.

So, not grab.

What else could he do then?

Well, there was one power that all Catfolk had: claws. Magical, kinetic claws. They weren’t as powerful or impressive or long as the elemental claws that demons could summon, but they were sharp and strong. With his claws he could latch onto something without stopping, as long as it was soft, and use it to slow himself down gradually. It would have to be long or the effect would be minimal, but it would work.

He began searching for something appropriate. Plenty of options. Takara was, after all, more than just the City of Cats.

It was also the City of Cloth.

Searching around the water he first thought of a sail, as there were plenty of those and many were very high. But, all the ones he could see were still uncomfortably short. It would be hard to catch one and not impact a yardarm or even the deck of the ship.

That would end poorly.

There were a few fabric-sail windmills that faced out over the canyons. Maybe he could catch one of those and then some clotheslines?

No. Still too high.

Oh.

Oh, they would kill him if they caught him.

His eyes fixed on the great Spindle of the Weavers' Guild, itself a windmill, though one with an unusual vertical design and far more sails than it needed. It was at least fourteen stories high, which, combined with its base which was built into the outer wall, made it the highest structure in the city. Fourteen stories of sails, all good strong cloth in a shimmering explosion of colors. It had numerous arms, but… if he could make it down using that, without hitting any of the arms, he would be going much slower. And, on the outer walls, above the docks, there were long banners of fabric advertising the great merchant houses of the city. They still ended too high, but they would get him close to the water, and if he then caught a sail…

He would have to dive and sneak back into the city. The Weavers' Guild would not forgive the insult if they had any hope of catching him.

But his skill said he could reach it, even with the gentle southwest wind that would try to push him a little inland. He hadn’t been very far from the Spindle to begin with.

Another bird whipped past, letting out a surprised squawk, and he decided on the plan before him. He wasn’t sure how he was going to get down the Spindle, but that was what it would have to be. He had no more time.

“Aganod, keeper of fairness, please put a finger on the scale for me,” Raz whispered the prayer into the wind, trusting the overseer of the System to hear him if he cared. “Hidden Creator, magnificent lord of the sky, have mercy on this foolish boy and grant me the favor to live another day.”

Both prayers said, Raz moved his arms back a bit further and straightened his form, arrowing toward the great spinning spire of color. With the new skill, a faint shadow in the back of his mind, guiding his form, he actually began to close on it. The air continued to roar in his ears, filling his mind with white noise, but he held his focus on his goal and pulled on the second piece of advice.

Honor your mother.

What could that possibly mean?

His mother had died six years before, when he was only ten. She had been his father’s sixth wife, and clearly his favorite out of all his wives and concubines.

Mira Sefrivayni, famed elemental dancer, loved throughout the City of Cats and many others. There were dancers with greater legacies and more exciting shows, but few, Raz had been told, with greater grace.

He had not known how the world saw her. He had only known that she loved to dance, and that his father loved her.

But what was love in a merchant prince’s harem?

Mira may have been there for his father, but all of the other women, though beautiful, desired place and name and wealth for their children before anything else. And the beautiful sixth wife who held their husband’s eye had disrupted that.

It was not the fact that Mira had been poisoned that had broken his father, not truly. It was the fact that the doctors had discovered three different poisons in her system when she died. One that had been strong and fast and killed her quite quickly, and two others that would have taken years to end her life, doing so in a much subtler fashion that would have escaped notice.

One woman had been hasty, and her haste had exposed two others who were doing the same thing, but with more care.

Those three were found and cast out to the efficient hands of the Lawkeepers for execution, but Raz’s father had stopped visiting the harem after that. Raz remained the youngest of his father’s sons, if not of his children. As far as he knew, none of the wives or concubines had been able to capture his father’s attention since that day.

His father knew what Raz knew as well: They were all vipers.

Which did give Raz a very good idea who might have arranged for his death—well, narrowed the field—but did not tell him what Vennir had meant by honoring his mother. It was truly a confusing order.

He watched the spindle draw nearer as he shot down, holding himself on course as chill wind swept over his body. As the spindle turned in the wind far below, slowly coming closer and closer, a memory began to turn in his mind.

His mother, dressed in loose silks of green and yellow and red, spinning in time to a rhythm his father was playing on a hand drum. It had been just him and his father watching, Raz’s mother dancing just for them. Her arms and silk flowed as one, cutting lines of color through the air as she added to the rhythm with the bell-covered bracelets on her wrists. Around and around she had spun, leaping into the air and coming down again, as light as a wind-blown leaf falling from a tree.

He had not thought of that in years.

Nor of how he had danced with her, as she drew him up from beside his father and led him into the same spinning dance with her. He had been good once.

He had been… very angry when she died. Angry that she hadn’t, somehow, seen it coming. Angry that she had left him with a father who could no longer bear to look at him. Not that he had been unkind, but he had become distant. It had taken Raz years to figure out that his father saw Mira whenever he looked at Raz, and so could not bear to look at him for long.

Raz had never lacked anything after her death. His father had even bought him an expensive health enhancement that kept him in perfect shape and made him nearly immune to poisons, but none of it had been enough. The empty hole was what had led him out onto the streets to find excitement with the gangs.

Led him here, as it were.

He studied the memory, even as his eyes tracked the Spindle, and let it unfold. Felt the familiar longing for someone he could never get back, but also a little of the joy of that day dancing with his mother.

In the rhythm of her motion he saw the rhythm of the Spindle, and the two merged.

Honor his mother.

The great dancer.

To descend the Spindle without breaking himself he would need perfect timing, perfect motion. He would need to move to its rhythm, sliding and leaping from cloth to cloth. He would need to come off it just right so he caught one of the banners on the wall, instead of catching the wall itself, and he would need to continue down those banners, three levels, to reach the waters between the docks. He would still be too high, but… while he had no spells that could slow his fall he did have one that could break the water’s surface.

It would be a dance. A dance down the fabric with his claws slowing him down, ending in a perfect dive into the deep waters of the bay. The timing required would be incredible, nearly impossible for anyone else, anyone who wasn’t…

A dancer.

He let out a choked, bitter laugh filled with a miasma of confused emotions and silently thanked his mother for leaving him a class that he hated, as if somehow it had been intended for just this day. Then, he let that distant day when he had danced with her out completely, and remembered what it was to love to dance.

The spindle approached faster, the colors filling his vision. With both pieces of advice unraveled and his course clear, his thoughts went wild in the back of his mind, riding on the powerful emotions that had followed the memory out. One thing remained unknown, its answer a challenge that Vennir had laid before him, and Raz followed it through the back roads of his mind even as he realized he was going to contact the Spindle at a speed that was unhealthy.

Who had arranged this?

Who in the harem, because it had to be one of them. One of the mothers or one of their sons.

He flared his arms and changed his orientation to bleed momentum and adjust his course. Saw the rhythm that the wind had set for him in the turning of the spindle. He had to catch one of the sails moving away from him. Hitting one coming toward him would take all his breath.

He returned to the form of the falling arrow, to drop instead of glide, trying to match the speed of the sail he was approaching.

Had to catch the cloth. The wide, blindingly orange cloth.

Had it been Jayleth? Jayleth hated him.

He banished his jacket, sending it into personal storage with a thought, as his vision filled with orange. The sail was already taut in the wind. It would be almost hard to the touch. The skydiving skill included understanding of how to take a hard impact and Razavan went with it, relaxing his body and opening his mouth. He moved hands and legs a little forward so they would hit first, cushioning his body. He filled his mind with the next move. A push and a spin. He had to make it…

SLAP!

It felt like being thrown against a wall. His breath exploded out. Sparks of light filled his vision. Pain flashed through his core. Fabric slid under his hands, burning his palms.

No time. No time. He had to make the…

A leap and a turn and a drift. Silk swirling through the air.

Raz pushed off the sail and spun. Saw purple approaching. Just above it a wood yard arm that would break him if he hit it. As disaster approached he had the clear thought that his fifth brother Jayleth was an idiot. His mother was worse, and neither could have planned this.

He was still falling. He hit the fabric just beneath the arm. Slipped down the cloth.

Claws!

Raz called his kinetic claws and ten blades sliced into the sail. Fabric screamed and the note sang in his fingers as he slid down the remaining fifteen feet of purple in the blink of an eye.

Leap!

He kicked off hard just before he hit the lower arm of the sail. Did another spin as he descended – Kodrek maybe? Too weak. His second brother would never risk the consequences. His mother maybe? – Caught blue. Fabric tore in front of his face, blue splitting into lines of light. He was slowing, he could feel it.

Kick. Spin. Green this time.

For all that Yaslena was annoying, she did not have the feel of a devious planner about her. She was one of the most straightforward of all the women. Straightforward in despising people, but still straightforward. This was far too subtle for her.

His claws transferred more speed into the cloth. He could feel his mana burning away but his mother's legacy had been built with endurance in mind, and he had only added to the mana pool. He gave the green sail its full share of momentum.

The next bottom arm approached, and below it an opposite, the next sail.

Red.

Twenty feet of bold, blazing red.

“What’s your favorite color, Raz?”

Raz pushed too hard as the memory of his brother Valen’s question distracted him. Far too hard. He almost hit the arm at the top of the red sail, but managed to angle himself so he missed completely, going over. He fell fifteen feet before he reached a sail below that one and latched onto a wide yellow fabric. The slap wasn’t as bad as the first time, but it still hurt. Fifteen feet of free fall had piled speed back onto him. He couldn’t take another misstep like that.

He sliced down the yellow sail, Valen’s words ringing in his mind.

His third brother was the only one he actually trusted.

Also the only one his father really trusted.

No.

No no no no NO!

He almost missed the leap. Almost slammed both feet into the bottom arm of the sail and broke both legs. Almost tumbled to his death.

At the last instant he saw the approaching wood, pushed all thoughts from his mind, and launched off the fabric, fixing his eyes on the green and red striped sail he needed to reach.

Oh it was hideous! So bold it was offensive! And so close to the other red one too. Almost directly below it. Who had made that decision? This was the City of Cats! There were standards!

He slashed into it with furious claws as the possibility of his brother’s treachery wrestled its way back into his mind. It couldn’t be Valen. Yes, Valen had asked him for his favorite color months ago. Yes, Raz had told him red. But Valen would not do this. Valen was the only brother who had stood up for him when the others wanted to beat him up.

Valen didn’t even want to be the Ississtran family partriarch when their father retired!

Raz narrowly held onto his focus and pushed and spun to the next sail. It was almost worse than the striped one. A yellow and red plaid with all the other colors thrown in. It hurt to look at. He latched onto the fabric and made replacing it a certainty.

As he slid down the garish fabric the memory of Valen’s question unfolded further.

“Red, of course,” Raz had said. “Bit of an odd question from you, Vay.”

“My mother is arranging new winter clothes for the household,” Valen had said. “She has me finding out favorite colors.”

Suffiya.

Valen was wonderful, but his mother had snake fangs hidden in her mouth.

The next sail was the last. He was falling much more slowly. He shot a glance to the stone wall below, eyeing the distance to reach one of the lines of banners that was over water. Then pushed off and spun to the final sail.

Oh. A lovely floral. He was pretty certain his family produced one just like this in one of their mills. Theirs wasn’t printed on sailcloth, of course, but this could be their own pattern.

His claws sank into it and carved it to shreds.

Suffiya definitely could have done it. She wasn’t his father’s firstwife, but she ran procurement for the house. She had a mind for business and hundreds of contacts. No one in the harem crossed her. Or in the entire family, for that matter.

She also did want Valen to be the patriarch. He was certain of it.

Though that didn’t mean it was her. Old Dogan would never have allowed Raz to get away with a conclusion that flimsy.

He neared the bottom arm and looked out along the wall. A frightening distance to the first banner over water. The wall was a good 130 feet high, and the banners would take him down seventy feet of it. By then he would be moving at a much better pace. Sixty feet to the water was not good, but not terrible. The harbor was deep. As long as he went in right, he would survive.

Okay.

PUSH and spin and fall, almost but not quite into the wall. He felt the motion of the Spindle turning away from him as he pushed, adjusted his strength just enough, and flew through the air, arcing toward the blue banner of the Aprental family. He caught it just right with his claws and they sang again as they sliced through the fabric, moving more easily through it than the sails. Twenty feet, down through the list of the Aprental family’s products. So many enemies he was making today.

Was it Suffiya?

He had established motive. And a possible connection.

Did she have means?

Oh yes. Her birth family was almost as big as the Ississtran family and had even more connections and influence. In fact… Long lists flashed through his mind of the business assets of his own family and those of his allies, which he had been forced to memorize and understand.

Yes. The Kesestrals had ties to a skybike manufacturer.

He sliced through the bottom of the banner and immediately caught the next one. Green. It looked like it advertised the Evraytik clan. They would make even worse enemies than the Aprentals. He was halfway through the banner when he realized that the one below it was missing.

Eighty feet was not as good as sixty. He would have to move.

He looked left, eyed the next banner over, and launched himself over with a kick and a push.

A sudden gust of wind from the East whipped around him, carrying him past the banner he was aiming for.

He shrieked and barely caught the bottom of the far banner. His claws tore through it in an instant and he latched into the banner below. In a moment he was sliding down the fabric same as before, just one to the left of his intended path, but the burst of wind had been terrifying. His heart slammed in his ears, something he had avoided up to that point by remaining focused on the problem in front of him.

He pushed the terror down and stared at the banner ripping in front of him. Let the wind go. The banner was about to end and he had sixty feet to fall in the right position.

Motive, means, and character. He was pretty confident it had been Suffiya, but… but she knew how Valen felt about him. Would she do that? Would she kill family? Would she kill her son’s favorite brother?

The last bit of banner sang past his fingertips as he pushed slightly to avoid the rod that secured it at the bottom. He was in freefall. A shove gave him a little distance from the wall and he looked down. Dark waters approached far too fast from too far below. He called a kinetic bolt into his hand from his short list of stored spells, a simple spell designed to launch a loose object and allow for a quick getaway. It wouldn’t work on a person, but overcharged, it could easily tip a cart or scatter several barrels. He poured as much power in as the spell matrix would take and pointed his hand down.

At the same time he tucked his tail between his legs, pressed his legs together, pointed his feet straight down, and tightened his buttocks. He had heard that all of this was important when falling into water from high up.

Would she have done that?

Really?

“Are you still trying to unlock your mother’s air powers, boy?” Suffiya’s harsh voice rang in his mind, the memory of something she had asked just a month before. One of the rare times she had spoken to him. He had growled a response, barely acknowledging that she was right.

The look that had flashed across her face was one he only now recognized as pleasure. “You should have learned to honor your mother a long time ago. She, at least, was a good entertainer. You are just another angry young man. The City of Cats has enough of those, and won’t miss you should you fall.”

The final evidence clicked into place and it was so obvious. She would, and had done that.

“SUFFIYA, YOU ….!”

His curses vanished into the crashing splash of water as he fired his spell. The bolt of energy left his hand. The black surface shattered and fountained up. He crossed his arms over his chest and plunged into the cold depths, the heavy wet weight of the ocean embracing him as he went down and down and down. Water pressed in against his breath mask and goggles, but the enchantments that allowed them to seal against his face despite his fur held. He had not cheaped out on his real sky gear, and his lungs and eyes both stayed dry.

The sealed goggles allowed him to see the forest of broken rigging, masts, timbers, and other sharp and shattered wood pointing up toward the surface just to his right. He didn’t know where it had all come from, but it was gathered into the corner where the stone pier met the stone of the cliff. Perhaps wreckage from a ship broken in one of the fiercer winter storms that got around the shelter of the Fang. It was directly below the banner he had been trying to grab when the wind caught him. One particularly long, straight mast held his attention, a fragment of one yard still hanging across it. He could easily imagine himself impaled there, but for a gust of wind.

A shiver passed through him as he hung in the water, safe at last and looking at the death that had almost been his.

“Thank you, Aganod,” he whispered into his mask.

Rare accomplishment: Not this time, gravity! (Rank 1)

You managed to survive an unplanned terminal fall you weren’t prepared for with nothing but your wits and some things that were never intended to accomplish the task.

Good work!

Reward:

Rank 1: +1 point of gravity affinity. +10% Air skill affinity. +50 Arete.

Rare accomplishment: Dance is my life (Rank 1)

Some people say it, but for you it’s actually true. You used your dancing skills to directly avert your own demise. Quite the show.

Reward:

Rank 1: +25% Dance skill affinity. +50 Arete.

And that wasn’t me.

Razavan stared at the last part of the System message for a long moment, not even distracted by the brief realization that he now had enough gravity affinity to access a power that would have made the whole fall trivial if he’d possessed it moments before.

Aganod was not the one who had sent the wind. And Vennir did not work like that at all. In fact, it didn’t seem like the mode of any of the Powers that even would have considered such a thing.

A deeper shiver passed through him. Then his body demanded air and he pushed the thought away, kicking for the surface.

<00>

Smoke filled the women’s lounge of the Ississtran Patriarch’s House. It wasn’t thick or cloying, but light and scented of apple and spicebark. Underneath ran the faint musk of brightleaf, not unpleasant, but distinctive once one knew it. The source of the smoke was a large hookah with a base of clear glass and a worked brass stem rising to a faintly smoking bowl at the top. It was set on a low, round stone table clearly made to hold it. Four flexible fabric hoses, rubberized on the inside and with nozzles attached to the ends, stretched from the hookah to four women lounging on a semicircular couch surrounding the stone table. They took long, slow pulls from the hookah between bites from several plates of finger-sized baked goods, dried fruit, and honey-glazed nuts.

All of the women were Catfolk, slender with long hair, large mobile ears that perked up from the sides of their heads, and a fine coat of fur where most other races had smooth skin. One had a barred pattern that an Earthling had once called “tabby”, dark gray and black, except for her hair which was an auburn that contrasted with her dark fur. Another was cream and tan, her ears orange, her hair gold and caramel. Both were of the race known as Dostemi, their traits associated with those of the common house cat. The third had the gray and cloudy mottled pattern of the Bibratai, who drew their traits from the wildcats that terrified farmers’ chickens if not the farmers themselves. Her neck-length black hair matched the sharp black marks all over her face that made her every expression a little intimidating. The last, who sat center, despite the fact that math said that was not possible, was a little larger than the others and had orange-gold fur, as orange-gold as her eyes, marked with dotted black circles very familiar to the people of the tropical jungles far to the south. Her rich brown hair was coiffed, and her mouth was set in a smile. While the expression was quite fetching on her, most people who knew the reputation of Jarogas would have found it intimidating.

All the women were dressed in a fury of colors, iridescent silks which matched their own patterns and tone. They said little, having already discussed all the best marriage opportunities they had seen lately for their daughters and sons, the current options for better fabrics, a war in Krevigna which would probably see a few tens of thousands of orcs slain, and the likelihood that the son of Ikirik the baker could be persuaded to get into some trouble. He was very handsome. With the help of the brightleaf they were now content to simply sit and soak in the luxury all around them, provided by a family that had been near the top of Takara’s traders for generations.

The sound of stomping drew their eyes to a carved wood door, nearly hidden between two intricate tapestries that depicted one one side the holdings of the Issistran family – factories, trade ships, plantations – and on the other a map of the Great Ring of the World, all eight major continents mashed around the great Inner Ocean with the ninth, smaller continent in the middle.

The woman in the center perked her ears in curiosity, then narrowed her eyes as the odd sound of moisture on hard flooring joined the drum of steps. As the last few steps brought the sounds to the door, she was certain that she heard the schluck of water-filled leather boots.

The door slammed open and a skinny young Carcali man walked in, water dripping off his clothes onto the hardwood floor. His golden-tan furred face was settled in a scowl, long black-tufted ears laid back and short dark hair a wet mess. He scanned the lounge, spotted the woman on the center of the couch, and snapped his right arm forward at her, finger pointed like an arrow.

“Suffiya Kesestral, you fat barbed cock!” he yelled. “Because of you I have to serve the Lord Vennir for fifteen years! The next time you try to kill me I will NOT be as forgiving!”

He stood there for a moment, every inch of his body declaiming his outrage, water audibly dripping from his stiff tan tail onto the floor. Then he turned and walked out the door, slamming it behind him.

The women sat in silence. Wet steps left the door from the other side. Then wet steps came back, and the door opened again. The young man half-stepped back in and pointed again. “Also, I expect you to deliver on those winter clothes! A new coat is the least you can do!”

He slammed the door again, and did not return.