As soon as the letter appeared in his inventory, the aura vanished. Raz almost collapsed, drawing in a deep shuddering breath. For a moment he considered sitting down at the table and taking a bite of his food, but he was pretty certain he had to open the letter right away, and he didn’t want to risk dropping his food a second time. Even sitting unopened in his inventory he could feel that the letter was enchanted, and he doubted it was going to be filled with polite language and happy feelings.

He held out one hand and called the letter into it. A red envelope popped into existence, surprisingly heavy for a piece of paper. He stared at it for a long moment, flicking his ears and rolling his shoulders to work out some of the tension. With a sigh he worked a magic claw under the flap and worked the glue apart. He lifted it up halfway, then paused again. The sound of thousands of people moving through the streets around him covered the sound of his heartbeat, but he could still feel it.

It was just Nissaya. Just the Patron of Wisdom. Not a big deal.

Just the Lady of Victory, who had brought down empires with her plans, and was now giving him her personal attention. Without him asking.

He opened the letter the rest of the way and withdrew the perfectly ordinary looking piece of paper folded within. As he flipped it open he noted the heavy feel of very good vellum parchment.

The paper turned black in an instant and handwritten words blazed with eyeburning fire. He found he couldn’t look away as he started reading, and a woman’s voice filled his head narrating it all. A soft, deep mezzo-soprano with a faint twang to her accent. Actually quite lovely.

If she hadn’t been yelling at him.

“Do you have any idea how many people would lose their livelihoods if one of the HEIRS of the Issistrans got caught stealing skybikes!?! Do you KNOW how many of your family’s connections would pull back for the next decade while the shame hung around? There are two I could name who would cut ties completely!”

Razavan cringed. His only consolation was the fact that no one around him could hear what he was, at least, it appeared they couldn’t. He didn’t know why she was so mad. It wouldn’t have been the first time some rich son got caught slumming…

“Not the Cats! The Dwarves! You’re ten times smarter than you’re acting! Your family gets all their steel from Dwarven suppliers who don’t deal with untrustworthy business partners. How will your father look if one of his sons gets caught stealing?”

Raz had a sinking feeling in his gut.

The Dwarves. The Batagern clan in Takara and the Mefkaerin clan in Gidring jointly supplied the Issistran Family with all of the steel they used for building and products, as well as most of the brass for buttons, buckles, eyelets and other such things. Pocketwatches, too. Oh, and the gold and silver for their jewelry workshops. And the gems.

He had forgotten about all that. Dwarves tended to look at how a man ran his own house when deciding whether to trust him. A father who let his teenage son run around robbing people would not be someone they wanted to do business with. To them it would mean he wasn’t even competent enough to keep his own children from misbehaving. How could such a man be a good business partner?

“Exactly.”

It was very disturbing how the letter was responding to his internal thoughts without changing. He could see that the words weren’t changing. She had just predicted his thoughts that well.

“You are NOT some nobody streetrat who can run around freely and do whatever he wants. Your actions could potentially hurt far more people than just you and the people you stole from. Since you obviously aren’t in the habit of considering your actions before you take them, I’m giving you another blessing. This is not negotiable. I am also locking up Comparative Wisdom until you prove to me that you can do the math on your actions yourself. Vennir challenged you to figure out WHO tried to kill you. I challenge you to figure out WHY. Why did Suffiya try to kill you?

I expect a ten page paper on her reasoning, complete with citations from business records. Until you drop it off at the local Conservatory, your Comparative Wisdom blessing will remain locked. A complex answer, please. Simple motives are few and far between.

I also expect you to restore what you stole in the next six months, or I’m taking it away completely. I don’t care if you confess, but you will put value back where you took it from.

I have my eye on you now, Razavan Issistran. Your new master is not the only one who will be educating you.”

The voice ended and Raz read the last thing on the letter, which was simply Nissaya’s signature. He shuddered and almost vomited. Only half of it was because of being screamed at. He already had an inkling of why Suffiya might have decided to get rid of him, and it was more than the Dwarves.

He felt Nissaya’s aura again as her magic sizzled through his own.

Nissaya has given you the blessing Basic Sense. This blessing takes one slot, but is given freely.

Nissaya has locked the blessing Comparative Wisdom. You cannot use it until she unlocks it.

You have received a quest from Nissaya: Restitution. Time limit: Six months. More details available.

Raz groaned. Nissaya’s Sense. If there was a blessing more opposed to having fun on all of Agona, he didn’t know what it was. A moment later he felt another pulse in his inventory and a book settled into it. He pulled it out, putting the letter away, and stared at a copy of The Search for Wisdom. He recognized it as the basic primer for disciples of Nissaya. He had a copy somewhere. Held to the cover by a piece of string was a note that said, “READ IT!”.

He only realized he had been staring at it for several minutes when Hipki cleared his throat and Raz snapped his head around to look at the portly, four-foot tall chef.

“Get on someone’s bad side?” the Hillkin man asked.

Stolen novel; please report.

Raz nodded.

“Nissaya? Felt like her.”

Raz nodded again.

Hipki grunted. “Mmm. That bad.” He shuffled under the counter and brought out a large twist of fried sweetdough to set on Raz’s tray. “No charge,” he said.

“Thanks,” Raz said.

“Eat up,” Hipki said before returning to his griddle.

Raz sat down and tucked back into his food, letting the delicious flavors push away the ordeal he had just gone through. Internally, he amended his thoughts on Hillkin. No one might trust their honesty, but their hospitality was tops.

<00>

The sun was hovering just above the distant Western Wall when Raz made it to the altar of Hanaweh. The rickshaw biker he had flagged down had actually known of it and been able to get him to the right district, taking him to the Dorotil mesa out in the eastern side of the workers’ ring. The front two-thirds of the mesa was devoted to Oberton, a well-kept workers district built up with three-to-five story townhouses and apartment buildings. Oberton was almost entirely populated with Bright Fae, mostly Bronegs on the lower floors and Pixrans and Naidasi on the upper floors, with a few Noble Fae in the finest buildings. There weren’t any up in the bright sun, but he knew there were Knakkars living down in the mesa itself, just like the Dwarves in several of the other mesas.

Like New Kefrinna, the face of the mesa sported carved balconies all the way down to the water line, just as intricate, but with a more flowing style compared to the geometric decoration preferred by the Dwarves. Unlike New Kefrinna, most of the cliff-face homes appeared to have more Pixran and Naidasi living in them, instead of the Knakkars who had done the carving. Raz had seen the small Bright Fae flying in and out from the balconies on their glimmering wings. Knakkars really didn’t like sunlight much.

He knew for a fact that the homes down by the waterline hosted one of the largest Merra communities in Takara. Merfolk always wanted to be close to water, and that was as close as it got. It was a Merra pearl farmer who had snuck him back into the city through one of their own smuggler’s tunnels for a painful amount of money.

He walked the short distance from the entrance of the district to a Broneg street vendor selling smoked meat on skewers, got a skewer of tender beef and final directions to the altar from him, and walked down the stone streets, admiring the rich decoration worked into the faces of every building as he tore into his latest treat. He knew was making himself a target for some mugger as he stared, but he had never been to Oberton before, and the Fae who had built it had made the whole place a demonstration of their extra art affinities. There wasn’t a single handspan of building face that didn’t have a bas relief, a carving, a mural, or a mosaic on it. The only faces that were at all bland were the alleys, and most of those walls had impressive graffiti all over them. The worker districts with a high percentage of Catfolk in them were similar on that front, but the Fae seemed to take an empty space as a challenge.

The air throughout the district swirled with the scent of flowers and incense blends. The noise of industry was largely absent, replaced by various people singing as they trimmed gardens or went about their business, and in one case a group of musicians of various Fae races, as well as a few elves, circled up in a small public park playing a concert piece. Most of the windows had flower boxes hanging from them and the roofs had planters all around the edges. Most of the streetfood was simple fare cooked by Broneg stallowners and some outsiders, but his one sample was well seasoned and satisfying. He wouldn’t cross the city for it, but he didn’t have any complaints.

Without any sudden shift, Oberton transformed to Little Siramal. Broneg, Pixran, and Naidasi became fewer and fewer, and Short Ear and Clearface Hessirans began appearing in greater and greater numbers. The smell of simple smoked meats, fried bread, and grilled vegetables was replaced by so many delicious scents he couldn’t pull them apart. There was good food everywhere, that was all he knew. He had heard of the restaurants in Little Siramal, but had never found an occasion to go there. Just like full Elves and Smallfolk, all Rabbitfolk had an affinity for cooking, and the folk of Little Siramal looked to be putting it to good use. After seeing the menus listed out front of the first four he passed he knew he would be making multiple visits in the future.

As he reached the heart of the district Rabbitfolk were everywhere he turned, mixed in with members of all the other races in the city, likely visiting for the food. A Clearface woman, pale face bare of fur and stunningly beautiful under her long honey-brown hair and high chocolate-brown rabbit ears, caught his eye and told him he needed one of her honeycakes to go with the meat skewer he was almost finished with. He looked at the cakes, the rich golden-brown of toasted egg-bread, glistening with a fresh honey glaze, and had to agree with her. A few copper claws poorer, he continued on his way stuffing fresh baked honey cake in his face. He was finally beginning to feel recovered from his day of no food and pure stress.

The alley the Broneg stallowner had told him about came into sight and he turned in, polishing off the last of the honeycake as he looked around at the shadows for any trouble.

None showed itself. The wide alley between two stone-faced buildings was well swept and clean, and if not bright, still had enough light that nothing would be hiding in the shadows. He continued to scan with his eyes and ears as he walked down it, but the only person he saw was an old Short Ear woman sitting on her walled-in streetlevel porch and reading a book. She ignored him and he ignored her. As he went on, his feet told him he was going uphill. Not much, but it was there.

The alley reached an end where it split against the face of another stone building. To the left was a short run to another building, to the right was a path that cut uphill considerably more. Razavan went to the right. A minute later he came out to a walled courtyard that had a view of the eastern wall on one side, and a good enough view to the west-southwest that he could see the last third of the sun as it went behind the western wall. Its light painted the surrounding buildings red-gold and cast the courtyard in an enchanting glow, wrapping warmth around the long wooden prayer benches, the stone altar, and the brass strapped offering box placed next to it. It also did the same for the little old Long-Ear man attending it all, but he didn’t look like he needed any help appearing warm.

Raz scanned it all, pausing on the offering box which looked to be made of magewood, despite its simple construction. An inspection told him it was heavily enchanted to prevent any kind of theft. Deciding that he was the only one there besides the old man, he gathered himself and crossed the courtyard.

The old man smiled at him and stood up, teeth bright and healthy in his silver-furred face. Raz noticed the slightly pronounced front incisors and lack of any discernible canines, much different from the smiles he was used to from other Catfolk. The bone-white thatch of hair on the man’s head was the main indicator of his age, but as he rose the hunch to his stance provided another. Knowing Hessirans that meant he didn’t have many years left. They kept their youth longer than any other race, but when it went, it went fast.

“Grandfather,” Raz said with a respectful head bow. “Good evening to you.”

The old man gave a short head bob in return that made his proud ears, each as long as one of Raz’s forearms, sway down and hide his eyes for a moment. Raz continued to approach and the old man hobbled up to him, meeting him in front of the stone altar.

“And a good evening to you too, young man. A very lovely evening as well, don’t you think?”

Raz nodded. The beauty of the light was undeniable, and the light breeze that came in off the inner sea to the west was as cool and refreshed as could be. He took a deep breath and relaxed, basking in it and letting the worries of the day float away for a brief moment. He was a Carcali, and one thing every Catfolk knew how to do was enjoy some good weather.

“Yes grandfather. It is very pleasant.”

The old man smiled at him again. “I am Beffir Marpelten. They call me a priest of Hanaweh, but it’s not an official thing. Aganod won’t give anyone the title, no matter how much folks have asked. But I watch the altar, and offer up prayers for people, and share the little knowledge we have. I haven’t seen you here before. Might I have your name?”

“Razavan Issistran.”

“Ahhh. Issistran. A name I’ve heard.” The old man gave him another nod and tipped his long ears. “You certainly appear to be where you intended, so tell me, young Mister Issistran, what business have you with the Master of the East Wind?”