Basysus, 27, 1278: Arth Prayogar. Finding a rat where you least expect it…

I scrambled up the ramp to the front door, mad as a wet demon hen. My friends raced off along the paved sandstone for the next likely escape route.

“Mikasi and I have the back!” Kiyosi snapped as he raced off.

He vanished down a side alley by the inn, leading toward a manicured garden, thick with fig trees. Mikasi and Nicodemus were a step behind him.

I shoved the inn’s double doors open, then charged inside, shoulder bag slapping my hip. Skarri slithered at my heels, freeing the saber at her waist. Sunlight gleamed off the metal of her blade, casting the form-fitting leather armor and leather war-kilt in a chestnut glow.

Sounds of hushed conversation filled the air. Scents of lemon and vanilla washed over me like a soft wave at the doorway.

Inside, a few people milled about the room. Casual conversations were shattered by my sudden arrival. Rough canvas curtains shuffled lazily while I ran by, dodging humans, centaurs, and more.

“Gangway!” I shouted, barreling through, or around, the gawkers.

Skarri was close behind me, but far more polite.

“Pardon us, if you will. It’s an emergency. So sorry to disrupt you.”

Still, people got out of our way. I think Skarri having drawn her copper-trimmed saber helped curb possible arguments.

The exception was the owner, Arolio Fireall. He was a broad-chested, older, bearded centaur, dressed in a tunic and robes of cream and blue.

“What’s the meaning of this?”

“Don’t know. Finding out,” I snapped as I ran by. “Probably bad life choices!”

Skarri coiled to a quick stop by the innkeeper.

“Innkeeper? If you please, I can explain…”

She did, and Arolio backed off. Though I suspect her holding a drawn saber while talking helped, too. If the innkeeper said anything else, I missed it. I was too busy running up the ramp on the far side of the room.

On the second floor, I snatched a dagger from under my canvas vest, charging for the door to my room.

“Tela!” Skarri hissed as she reached the top of the ramp.

She was crouched low, prepared to ease forward. It was that whole cautious thing I wasn’t in a mind to do.

I stabbed a frantic finger at the room next to mine. Mikasi’s or Kiyosi’s? I wasn’t sure.

“Go there! The other balcony, in case they run!” I hissed back.

Skarri let out a long sigh, then hurried for the door.

I skidded to a stop on the red-gold mosaic carpet in front of my room. The door was slightly ajar, no wider than a finger. I fought to get my breath under control, heart hammering at my ribs. Quietly, I crouched for a moment to listen, wincing as my boot leather creaked a bit.

Inside, there was a rustle of fabric, papers, then the thump of what could have been my pack.

“Oh, no you don’t,” I murmured.

I shoved open the door, dagger in hand, ready to give someone the worst afternoon of their life.

“Hey! Who said…”

My words fell apart the moment I saw the uninvited guest by my bed, rummaging through my backpack.

It was Garrik “the Rat” Perlana, dressed in his usual tan and brown clothes, complete with worn leather boots. Today, he had a loose, tawny-colored hooded cloak on. Probably to try to blend in with the crowds.

My wide-eyed surprise melted into volcanic irritation.

“Oh no,” he sighed bitterly.

“You! I left you in Osidore! Let go of my pack!” I snapped at the elven thief.

“Certainly!” he replied with a dark smirk.

Garrik tossed my stained canvas pack at me, then ran for the open balcony doors, Rathalla Vasam’s logbook tucked under his arm. I slapped the pack aside, then charged after him with a snarl.

“Hell and high tides!” I swore. “Get back here!”

“Lose something?” he sneered over his shoulder.

I hurled a dagger at him. He side-stepped. I missed. The dagger shivered in place where it stabbed the golden-hued wooden doorframe.

“Damn it!” I snapped.

Garrik darted between the drapes with a mock salute. I ran over, yanked my dagger from the doorframe, then dashed after him.

I charged onto the balcony, but the elven thief had already scrambled over the sandstone railing. He leaped for the adjacent balcony.

The instant he landed, Skarri lunged through the curtains and tried to grab him. While she was snake-fast, Garrik was a hair faster. He ducked under her grasp, then raced on, heading for the next balcony in line.

One that sat next to a ramp that connected ground to roof.

“Oh, not again,” I grumbled.

Without a second thought, I leaped over to where Skarri was. I patted her on the arm and then pointed overhead.

“Roof! He’ll head for the roof!”

Skarri blinked at me in surprise, then gave the roof a confused look.

“Why? He could run to the market?”

I waved a hand at the objection while I chased after Garrik.

“Crowd’s too thick! He’ll go for an alley a building over. Warn the others!”

Then I scrambled onto the railing, jumping for the next balcony. By the time I arrived, Garrik had already leaped for the ramp. Sure enough, he gave the market crowds a sour look, then darted up the ramp for the roof. I leaped after him.

By the time I reached the top, Garrik was halfway to the other edge.

“Saint’s tide, who hired you?” I muttered angrily. “We’ve not nearly ticked off Herd Tolvana enough yet for this nonsense.”

I kept running.

Past Garrik, there was a patchwork sea of sandstone, adobe rooftops spread out along the edge of Market Street under the early spring, chilly blue sky. Rainbow-hued sun-glass glittered from a hundred windows, while a chilly wind ruffled my hair and whipped past my face.

In the far distance, the curved bronze roof of the Prayogar Council Chamber gleamed under the early afternoon sun. A clatter of centaur hooves and rumble of conversations echoed dully from the street below.

Any other time? That would’ve taken my breath away. I made a note to come stare at it later.

Garrik suddenly turned east away from the government district and toward Old Quarter, the rundown district of Arth Prayogar. I cut right after him, slowly closing the gap.

Then, on the next roof over, Kiyosi raced into view. He gasped for breath, scowling at Garrik, almost daring the man to jump across.

“No fair bringing help, Tela!” Garrik shouted at me. “That’s cheating!”

“Give me back the damn logbook!” I snapped back.

He just gave me a jaunty wave and ran faster.

The thief then turned right, obviously aiming for a side alley adjacent to Market Street and the Lemongrass Inn. I tore off after him, trying to cut Garrik off before he reached the edge.

Dry bits of sunbaked adobe kicked up behind my boots as I ran, shoulder bag slamming at my hip. At one point, I grabbed for my whip but changed my mind. If I’d tried to stop and use it, I just knew Garrik would be out of reach.

I glanced ahead. The gap between the buildings didn’t look that wide. Just wide enough. The wind caught at my vest while I ran, palms a little sweaty.

The Rat was four paces ahead by the time he reached the roof’s edge. He jumped for the next building. I leaped at him. Kiyosi yelled out something I missed from the other rooftop.

My breath caught in my throat as I leaped out over the alley. Was Garrik too far out? Would I miss? Suddenly, the opening between buildings yawned wide like a canyon.

I slammed into Garrik like a hammer, knocking him off course.

We hovered in the air for a split-second. One moment, we were suspended between a world of rooftops and the stone-paved street below. In the next, we crashed onto a sloped blue canvas sunshade. That bounced us out and down to the other side of the alley.

“You’re insane!” Garrik shrieked, wide-eyed at me.

Time held its breath for an instant as we learned to fly. Well, maybe I did. Garrik flailed like a scarecrow in a windstorm.

Suddenly, there was an apocalyptic eruption of fruit as a merchant’s booth gave its life to cushion our fall. Smashed oranges, battered dates, and ripe passion fruit exploded in a cloud of sticky syrup and fresh rinds. Startled parrots shrieked at the interruption, flying off.

Garrik had landed first, getting a face full of fruit. I landed against him, my vision nothing but sticky pulp and fury. Garrik shoved at me with a hot snarl.

“Get away…”

A quick knee to his gut pumped the air out of him when he tried to stand. Garrik gasped, then ducked when the fruit merchant, a lean and angry human man now splattered in his own wares, lunged for him. I lunged too, just not for Garrik.

“Give me the book!” I snapped at Garrik.

I grabbed at the logbook, but Garrik was a second faster. He turned and bolted out the back of the abused stall, into the next one. A sharp crash of a broken teacup later, he sailed back into the fruit merchant’s booth next to me like he’d been thrown.

A shadow appeared between the booths, looming with barely restrained rage.

“Hyu owes me jasmine tea!”

I froze in mid-grab for the logbook, staring at a mash of squished oranges.

That voice. I knew that voice.

The fruit merchant took one look at the newcomer, then made a hasty retreat. Blurry dots of color danced over my vision, which suggested I might’ve been hit on the head again. But right then? There were bigger things to worry about.

I slowly glanced over my shoulder.

“Atha?”

The massive minotaur mercenary clomped forward, hooves hammering stone. An angry gleam of retribution for his lost tea glistened in his brown-black eyes. A dark stain of said jasmine tea was splattered haphazardly over his green linen shirt, brown cotton vest, and even a bit of his trousers.

Garrik wiped sticky, ruined oranges from his face and then squeaked at the sight of Atha. Fear of rapid pummeling crossed his expression.

“Ah, now. Tea? Well,” he stammered like a babbling brook. Garrik slapped my hands away from the logbook. “Once I…”

Atha Zildoreth grabbed Garrik by the front of his shirt, hauling him to his feet. That was when Atha noticed me crouched near Garrik as I reached for the logbook again.

“Tela? Tela Kioni?” Atha frowned. “This one belongs to hyu? He owes me fresh tea! Maybe clean shirt!”

Atha gestured to his damp shirt for emphasis with his thick, scarred hand. I shook my head.

“No, not mine. Just need to take back what he swiped. He’s all yours,” I said cheerily.

Garrik squeaked again like a squeezed mouse, mouth trying to form words.

I snagged the now lightly yellow-orange logbook from Garrik’s hands and got to my feet. As I stepped back, pulling spattered passion fruit from my hair, I saw Skarri and the others hurrying my way. Nicodemus trotted in the lead.

An uneasy itch crawled down the back of my neck as I wiped splattered passion fruit off the book. I spun around, hand on a dagger, with my shoulders hunched, ready for a fight.

A crowd of merchants and locals had gathered around us for the sudden drama. The fruit merchant whose stall we’d invaded was already shouting down the alley for a Trade-Warden. None of that was what bothered me, but I still felt the threat was there.

My eyes scanned the crowd until I saw an average-height, human-shaped figure in red cloaked robes with black trim. They had turned away from the commotion and retreated through the crowd in a big hurry. Something about the way they moved made my skin crawl. It was too smooth, too graceful.

“Why do you look so familiar?” I murmured, narrowing my eyes.

Then I smelled a faint odor of charred sandalwood incense.

I pushed forward, trying to get a look at their face. But by the time I got past the onlookers, the person in the robes had vanished.

“Shit!”

I punched the nearest wicker basket, which earned me a glare from the basket weaver. She muttered several choice words at me as I turned back to the ruined fruit stand.

Atha was now in the process of lightly shaking Garrik, who thrashed like a wild limp noodle. The minotaur glared death-by-pummeling promises at the thief.

I narrowed my eyes at the scene, glanced one last time over my shoulder, then joined the drama.

“Atha? Don’t bend him yet, please,” I said with a frustrated sigh.

“Why not?” Atha demanded in a full-on mad.

I batted the last of the sticky fruit remains from the logbook and my hair.

“Because if you drag his sorry soul to the inn, I’ll buy you two fresh cups of tea. The Rat here owes me a little explanation.”