Razavan stared at Beffir’s granddaughter like she was an executione. Beautiful, available, and the appropriate age. The worst combination. His heart sped up in his chest and he gave the surroundings an instinctive scan for exits.

He was only briefly confused that she was a Catfolk. Most of the major races had difficulties interbreeding, but Hessirans were fairly compatible with all of them, and very with Felinar. There were those who would oppose such a thing, but most of them weren’t in Takara. Hessirans were liked, and marriages between them and Felinar were only mildly surprising. Beffir himself, or one of his children, had obviously paired with a Dostemi. It didn’t really matter.

What did was that the old man had probably deduced that Razavan was, at least, a wealthy young bachelor. Anyone who knew his family name would be able to figure out that much. While he was pretty certain the arrival of Beffir’s granddaughter was serendipitous, not arranged, it was assuredly an opportunity the old man would take advantage of. Raz had been introduced to so many available daughters of varying merit that he couldn’t imagine otherwise.

It was half the reason he’d spent his time in the poor districts running around with the Blues.

Raz had watched the consequences of marrying based on money his whole life, and he had no interest in any relationship with that as the motivation. The numerous women, some considerably older than him, who had tried to convince him otherwise had only solidified his position. At that point, his prepared response was to jump out a window if he spotted a pursuer before they spotted him. He had landed hard in a few bushes, but it had been worth it. This time, however, there was no window handy so social propriety demanded that he grin and bear the niceties.

He met Shiaile’s gaze and saw her looking back with open curiosity. Her green eyes had more of the impassive interest of the scientist than the hunger of the huntress… almost like she was trying to catalog him for entry into a specimen collection. That, and the fact that she really was very pretty, threw him.

Very pretty.

Hessirans, like the Elves they were lumped in with, had a beauty trait. Raz was pretty certain she had inherited that same trait from her Hessiran forebears. Her fur gleamed, her hair fell just right down around her shoulders, she didn’t have an ounce of fat anywhere it didn’t make her look good.

In other circumstances he would have been paying her to pose for his sketchbook.

Here it just made it harder for him to stay focused on escape. Part of him said that getting caught wouldn’t be so bad when the hunter looked like this.

“Shiaile is studying to be a seeker,” Beffir said. “She has already written papers for the Conservatory gathering everything our clan knows about Hanaweh and comparing it to what the Conservatory has in their records. I know what my father taught me, but she already knows far more.”

Shiaile hissed under her breath. “I only know what they have in the Takaran libraries, Granfa. And it’s still barely anything.” She gave Raz a short bow. “My grandfather oversells me, Mister Issistran. I know a few things more than he does, but all we have are a few traditions, and the Conservatory has some books analyzing the scraps they’ve collected over the centuries. I would be happy to share all of that with you, but right now, my Granfa really must come home and eat.”

Razavan braced himself for the inevitable dinner invitation.

“Ahhh, she is right. You should come too, Mister Issistran! Shiale can show you one of her papers while my daughter feeds us. I doubt you’ve had many meals as good as you’ll find in our home!”

There it was. The fact that at least some of the people cooking would be Hessirans made it very tempting, but he knew that the food was not worth the price of having every older woman in the home do everything they could to push their unmarried daughter at him. He began shuffling polite responses in his head. The fact that he already had other business made the core, even if it was something he could put off ‘til later. He opened his mouth to insist he had to be elsewhere.

“Granfa,” Shiaile said, “Mister Issistran does not need yet another old man pushing a prospective wife at him.”

What?

Shiaile eyed him and a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Rich as his family is it probably happens to him all the time. I can see him panicking right now, thinking, ‘Oh no, not again!’”

Ohh… that… was new.

Wait! He wasn’t panicking!

“I… no… I mean… I… have…” His prepared answers scattered and he almost slipped on them and fell down.

Beffir started grumbling unintelligibly and his granddaughter put her hands on his shoulders and gently guided him past Raz and toward the alley.

“Yes, Granfa. I’m sure I’ll be an old maid to the day I die, surrounded by loveless books and research papers.” When the old man was moving Shiaile turned to Raz and gave him another short bow. “I apologize for my grandfather. He worries. We would not mind having you to supper, but I am sure you already have other plans for the evening. I would enjoy answering any questions you have about Hanaweh when there is more time. I am at the Conservatory most work days studying. If you ask for me there, someone can direct you to me.”

With that she turned and followed her grandfather as he hobbled down the alley. Raz was left staring after her, trying to figure out what had happened.

Had she snubbed him?

Did he care?

Reflexively he pulled out a small hand mirror and checked himself. No, still handsome. He had managed to comb his hair back into good order when he was at the mansion, and it hadn’t gotten mussed again. He put the mirror away and shook his head, whipping his ears through the air.

That had honestly been a first for him. Previously it was only worker girls who had no idea who he was who had snubbed him.

And even that was rare.

Oh well.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

He had a street rat to beat.

<00>

Raz made his way across the city toward the Northern Wall, close to the main inflow for the Faroven River. The last of the sun was gone before he was halfway there and he was navigating the wide stone streets by the warm glow of the stored sunlight filtering from the trap-crystals on the streetlamps. As he drew closer to the noise and pollution of the heavy industrial districts, the neighborhoods became significantly poorer. Fewer streetlights, more trash in the alleys, buildings lower, leaner, and less well kept. The people out and about were still mostly working class folks headed to the late shift or enjoying their evening, but unsavory sorts were visible in the darker spots.

When he reached the Harfain bridge he ducked into an alley next to a busy restaurant and switched his nice clothes out for a set much more suited to a street urchin. Well kept, with some bright colors, but all a bit worn and mismatched. He could have done it right in the street, the outfit feature of his storage space blurred him when he changed clothes, but just like his nice clothing, it was a sign of wealth. When the sun went down those invited trouble he didn’t want.

He also put away his dueling dagger, with the Ississtran family crest stamped on the pommel, for the same reason. In the better districts it would warn a mugger that he would be trouble, but here its defensive value would be far outweighed by the declaration of wealth it made. He also didn’t want anyone spotting it on him and asking questions. He replaced it with nothing, as everyone in the poor districts knew that a street urchin always had a knife. At the least.

From there he continued over the Harfain bridge into the last mesas before the industrial districts began with a smooth, rolling gait. Most of the buildings on this side of the Harfain bridge could probably be classed as slums, even if the city engineers insisted they held them to standards. Rather than walking out in the bright center of the street, he slipped along just in front of the buildings, sticking to the shadows when available. Not skulking so much as avoiding attention just like those raised in the district would do if they had to be out late. Soon he reached the edge of the Worker’s Ring and the bridge over to the Firgin Industrial Mesa. Rather than crossing it he slipped around the side and slid down a steel ladder attached to the face of the cliff. His feet hit the boarded walkway attached two stories down, and he set off along it, catching a rope bridge across to the industrial mesa, sliding down another ladder, across another walkway, then into a tunnel, out another, up a ladder, and over to the neighboring Emperharn Mesa.

There were a series of abandoned warehouses carved into the mesa, only wide double doors and rusted scaffolding marking their presence. Within were more warehouses connected by tunnels, as well as the sewers, chemical tanks, and mechanical rooms that allowed the factories to run. It was all connected in a web of three dimensions that could only really be mapped in one’s head unless one had some kind of mapping enhancement. He’d tried looking at the official engineering maps for the mesa once and it had left him crosseyed.

He ducked through the doors of the warehouse, giving a nod to the scruffy old Ogre sitting in a heavy wooden chair just inside to the left. He grunted in reply and ignored Raz after that. The smells of hundreds of people living in close quarters hit his nose, bitter and offensive, sweat and body odor made worse by rotting trash, burned food, and stale cooking oil. There were some pleasant odors, such as the lightly charred ribs cooking over an open grill in the middle of a circle of tents, but they were few and not enough.

This was Undercliff, a shanty town formed of those who were too poor to rent a proper apartment and unwilling to live in Demon Town. It was also the primary haunt of the Blue Street Gang, though they kept their stuff in a smaller warehouse off a cliffside loading dock a few levels further down.

Raz moved through, tossing out a few greetings to people he knew, and ducked into one of the tunnels that would get him there. The other went past where Duggen Oltart and his boys ran a small gambling den, and the crowd that collected there was not polite.

Down two flights of stairs, using a small mana powered light gem to see the way, through a room of well oiled wheels and gears, currently still, that could have pulled Raz in when running and never noticed, and up to the smooth wooden door that guarded the entrance to the hideout. Raz gave the knock, and growled when he got no answer. This was not the first time they had forgotten to man the door. He turned his ears to the door and listened, hearing voices in the room beyond, some of them loud.

One of them was Avvin.

He tried the door, but it was barred from the other side. Raz pulled out a small, thin dagger that had an aura-channeling enchantment, simple but effective, and slipped the blade through the crack til the tip touched the wood of the bar. Taking a breath he extended his aura through the blade and pressed it against the bar. Anti-tampering enchantments in the bar fought him, but they were old and weak and he wormed his way into the chunk of wood without much trouble. A few twists with his thaumaturgy and he live-cast some inertia into the bar.

It slid to the side with a thunk and Raz pulled open the door.

The voices continued as Raz strolled into the warehouse beyond, keeping his steps soft. It sounded like three people talking about the day. Two yelling, one other trying to calm them down, really. Avvin and Ordale where the yellers, and Chep was the peacekeeper. That made sense.

“It was your idea, Avvin! Yours! That bike punched a hole in an apartment building! There’s no way the Lawkeepers don’t follow up on it!”

Ordale, so nervous you’d never believe he was an Orc unless you looked at his teeth.

“Look, Or, I’ll say it again. I didn’t know tha bike was gonna fall outta the sky. What the Rot! We still got away clean, no one to point at us, so they can look all they want, they aren’t gonna find us.”

Avvin, one of the scruffiest Dostemi Raz had even seen, somehow looking like he never brushed his red-brown coat even when that was the direct opposite of the truth.

“We gotta move, Avvin. It don’t matter if we got away clean if they got Raz.”

“Get outta my face, Or.”

“Calm down. Please! Guys, we don’t need a fight.” Chep, a small Pescayn Catfolk who would have been on a boat somewhere catching fish if his family hadn’t bought it in the mouth of an Oceanmaw looking for a snack. The Blue Street boys were about all he had, and he hated it when they fought. Try as he might, though, no one listened to his high pitched voice.

“Shuttup, Chep. Avvin’s gotta answer.”

“I said step back, Or,” Avvin growled.

“We gotta move.” From the sound of Or’s voice Raz imagined he was looming over Avvin. That was definitely the tone of someone doing some quality looming. “There wasn’t a body at the crash. That means they got him.”

“That don’t mean nothin’,” Avvin bit off. “He woulda tried somethin’. Not anyway he lived, he can’t fly, but he wouldn’t ride the bike down like some crazy.”

“Haven’t heard anything about a body. Not anywhere. They got him.” Under the fear and the fake anger that covered it, Ordale sounded genuinely angry. Raz wondered what Avvin had said before Raz had gotten there.

“Or. Av. Please stop,” Chep said in a pleading tone that made his high voice worse. When was it going to crack and give him a tone approaching male? “Even if they caught him, Raz wouldn’t squeal. Av’s probably right, but even if he isn’t, Raz wouldn’t squeal Or.”

“Don’t change the fact that it’s too much heat. We gotta move.”

“Raz is dead, and no one’s bringing anyone here. Now… Step. Back.” Ooh, that was Avvin’s ‘about to lose it’ tone.

Raz shook his head from where he was waiting in the hallway that lead past the manager’s office and into the main warehouse. It was time for him to get in there. With a shrug and a shake he strolled out into the weak mana light bathing the trio where they clustered before the glimmering eyes of the other boys scattered around the room and struck a pose.

All eyes snapped to him.

“Tsk tsk tsk,” Raz said. “So little faith in your old friend Razavan. I’m hurt Avvin. Truly hurt.”

He twirled his hand above his head and a big steel hunter’s knife, the kind with a sharp curve in the spine at the tip for skinning, materialized and spun around his fingers. He continued to spin it for a moment, the shiny steel blade flashing in the dim light, before catching the hilt in his palm with a slap.

“But not as hurt as you’ll be.”