Very quickly they found out two things about Pebble. He knew his way around here with such familiarity it was like he was following a sixth sense—and he wouldn’t shut up. He seemed an excitable sort, and utterly oblivious to the fact that neither Dorian nor Kaya was much in the mood for talking. Kaya especially. Her face was dark as a midnight storm.

“So you’re from the Outside!” He gushed, eyes shining. He turned around, started sizing them up, and kept walking backwards at the same speed, just as confident. He swerved around passersby like he had eyes on the back of his head. “It’s been ages since I saw an Outsider. Is it true? Do you really feed off human flesh?”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “…No.”

Pebble cocked his head. “Oh, oh! You’re brother and sister, aren’t you? Are you married?”

At that Kaya choked. A tinge of color rushed to her cheeks. “What?!”

“Isn’t that what you do?” said the boy innocently, his big dark eyes blinking. “Since there’s not enough folk to go around, you hafta—well, that’s what I hear, leastways.”

“Say,” said Dorian hastily. “Who is this King fellow? What does he want from us? Why’s he helping us?”

They slipped onto a narrow street, curving street, and followed it between a set of food-stalls selling still-bloodied racks of meet. The stench wafting off them nearly overwhelmed the stench of the street. “The King?” Said the boy. “Oh, yes! The King. Yes. The Rat-King—he’s the King of the Mischief.”

“That’s your gang.”

“Precisely!” Pebble beamed. “For a man with half a brain, you’re rather quick.” He frowned. “That’s what they do, isn’t it? My grandma says they scoop it out with a spoon and drink it when you turn thirteen! Did it hurt?”

He blinked up at Dorian hopefully. “Does it rattle around in your head when you jump up and down?”

“Wha—no,“ started Dorian. This is what he’s on about? He’s so smiley it’s almost like his brethren didn’t try to force themselves on us. He thought for a second. Or maybe it’s so common out here it’s simply a part of life. Not even worth mentioning. He paused. Or maybe the boy’s just an idiot. “Never mind all that. What’s this Rat-King got to do with us?”

“He doesn’t, not really,” said Pebble. Dorian caught a glimpse of the wall rising up at the mouth of the alley. It was close—just a few hundred paces away. Then they turned, and it was lost once more behind a wall of cut-up beast-skins.

“He’s struck a deal with the Oasis Lord. He’s not to touch the Tournament competitors—the ones from the Outside, leastways, who’re stuck on the Outskirts with the rest of us. He’s to give ‘em lodging.”

Pebble threw him some side-eye. “You two wouldn’t last a day out here without a mark. Too smooth and clean and pretty. If it weren’t us catching you, it’d be the Sand-Devils.” Pebble shuddered. “They’re a good deal worse, tell you what. Longfoot and his crew would’ve had some fun with you and let you be. But the Devils don’t like their playthings talking after.”

On that happy note, they broke into a section of clear air. There was now a section without tents, nor grime, nor anyone before them—a moat of nothing between the walls and the Outskirts.

Pebble pattered along the edge of this demarcation, humming to himself. They stopped at a patch of land a boat-length away from a massive, gaping archway. Four very serious-looking guards, armored head-to-toe, manned the gate. Each emanated an aura at the Profound Realm.

“Here we are! Yay!” said Pebble cheerily. They arrived at the edge of a vast slum; all around, Outskirt natives milled in and out of teepees and tents, heads down. Stretched before them in a crescent was a familiar cluster of smaller, cleaner tents, set a few paces apart from the rest of the Outskirts—but not far away to spare them the rancid smell. Each of these tents had a flag tied to them. Dorian recognized them from the Festival. He saw a throng of Narong tents at a far edge; some Yalta cropped up near the middle. The rest of the sixteen qualifiers were spread out in this manner.

“Your home for the next month.” Pebble beamed. Dorian took stock of the grounds and the waste-lands surrounding them. Not twenty paces from their grounds he saw a woman dumping a barrel of pitch-black waste-water. Living here was one of the least appealing things he’d considered since their arrival, which was saying quite a lot. Behind him, Kaya made a gagging sound.

“It’s been a pleasure, sirs!” said Pebble. He bowed again, and looked again like an alien trying to imitate human bowing. “Good day—“

“Hold on,” said Dorian. “We’re not housed inside the Oasis? Why?”

“Oh, dear Heavens!” Pebble blinked. “Only full citizens have such an honor! You’ll be allowed in for the Tournament. Maybe a few short trips. Otherwise, no, no. It wouldn’t be right. Anyhow, I’d better—“

“Don’t be in such a hurry.” Dorian looked to the walls, then to Pebble, his mind whirring. “How does a man gain citizenship?”

“Citizenship!” cried Pebble. “Don’t think on it! It’s nearly impossible.”

“How so?”

“Well. You’d need to prove your worth to the Oasis. You’d need to be a Tiered man of some kind, like a Tier 1 Alchemist. Or Warrior. Or—ah, I shouldn’t even mention it——artificer. That last one’s but a fantasy.”

He glanced around furtively. “Don’t meet those marks before you’re 18—and Vigor, of course, that goes without saying—and you’re of no use to them. They boot you out. You end up here. That’s the end of you, if you’re lucky.” He gulped. “Really, I should be going. My pa’s expecting me—“

Dorian tapped his Interspatial Ring, and a big golden twenty-five Lira coin materialized in his fingers. Sunlight gleamed playfully off its surface. Pebble trailed off, swallowing, captivated.

“You seem a knowledgeable sort, Pebble,” said Dorian. “Entertain a few more of my questions.” He hunched over, looking the boy square in the eyes. “Tell me more about these Tiers. How many are they? Who awards them? How does one go about attaining them?”

“Tiers…” said Pebble slowly, still hooked by the coin-light. “There’s six of ‘em. Six per job, yes, and the highest one’s given the rank Grandmaster. The Tiers are given out by the most honorable guilds, they are! And they’re a stringent lot. Strict. Don’t take kindly to Outsiders. Best forget about it, sir.”

He made a grab for the coin. Dorian pulled it away, tutting.

“Not so fast. One more thing.” He leaned in with a smile. “Guilds, huh? Where can I find the guild of Artificers?”

“That…” Pebble swallowed, eyes widening. “It’s hard to say outright…the route’s very complex, you see, very complex…easier shown than told, really…”

“It’s barely noon. I’ve got time,” said Dorian, drawing out another gold coin. “Show me.”

***

Dorian helped Kaya set up camp: a nicer hide-bound teepee he’d bought off a merchant at the Festival. She went about it mechanically; a light had gone out of her. She looked troubled, shaken. She chewed on her lip, lost deep in thought.

“I’m off, then,” said Dorian, leaning against the doorway. “You sure you don’t want to come?”

She grunted, plopped down on a pillow, and huddled up under a feathered blanket. Back to pouty Kaya it was. He stepped outside with a shrug.

“Ready?” Pebble’s smile was about twice as wide now that he’d been promised a solid helping of gold. Dorian was worried his face might split clean open.

“Lead the way,” he grinned. Off they went in a beeline for the Oasis gate. As they neared the soldiers flanking a set of thick metal doors, Pebble waved happily. “Xiu! Shang! Good day, good sirs!”

The soldiers looked considerably less happy to see him. “Got a permit?”

“Yup, yup.” He held up his golden cross-token. The nearest soldier squinted at it, then grunted, satisfied. A tall, fit one waved to Dorian. “And you?”

“He’s a Tournament qualifier! He gets full access to the Oasis’ resources for the month.” said Pebble, looping an arm around Dorian’s like they were old chums. “Plus, he’s with me. Now—”

“Not so fast, runt,” said the soldier near the gate. He had a face like weathered sandstone.

Pebble drooped. “Aww, come now, Shang…”

“Corporal Shang to you,” said the man, eyes narrowed. He frowned at Dorian. “Where’s your IT?”

“What’s that?”

“IT. Iden-ti-fi-ca-tion To-ken.” Shang spoke it slowly and loudly, like Dorian was hard of hearing or stupid. “Or do they not have them where you’ve crawled from?” Dorian resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Pictures of decency, these Oasis types, truly. Either degenerates or snobs.

“I see,” said Dorian. He tapped his Interspatial Ring and fished out the token the late Official Zhang had given him. “Will this suffice?”

Shang inspected it for a moment, his eyes thinned to slits. At last he stepped back with a grunt. He jerked his head to the soldier nearest the gate.

“Let ‘em through.”

The soldier pulled hard on a lever. A few seconds later the door groaned slowly open, its hinges croaking with effort; qi-lights hummed across its rusted bronze surface. It took fifteen seconds to swing in fully, admitting Pebble and Dorian to the street beyond.

If the Outskirts had struck him with smell, the Oasis struck him with noise. Hisses of steam, clatters of metal on metal, high-pitched squeals of qi blasted him as the door opened. Before them was a massive, tidy street—wide enough to march a parade through, and it ran straight as an arrow as far as Dorian could see. Flanked on either side, rising like canyon walls, were massive towers of stone which housed a colorful splash of stores and homes. It reminded Dorian of cities far-more advanced in technology—cities which fitted skyscrapers and towers. Crawling up each shop was the source of the noise: artifacts, puffing and steaming and whirring every which way. He couldn’t tell from a glance what most of them did. They certainly made for a spectacle, at least—a cyborg city.

The population density here must’ve been the highest in all the desert. The people which filled the street were the opposite of those outside: they stood with puffed-up chests; each looked like they were very much sure of their place in the world. Their faces were clean, their skin soft and several shades lighter than that of the Outskirters. Their clothes were billowing bombardments of pastels, utterly unlike the drab grays and brows which made up the world outside. He was struck by a scent like fresh flowers, a whiff of the sea.

“Weird, aren’t they?” muttered Pebble. “It’s like they’re from another plane. Some of ‘em never fight a day in their lives, can you imagine? Look at their faces! It’s like they’re porcelain dolls!”

He tugged at Dorian’s elbow. “Alright!” he said. “Enough dallying!” They’d hardly stood there ten seconds. “Day’s bleeding out! Move, move!”

As they pattered along the street, the Oasis residents gave them a wide berth; a few curled their lips distastefully as Pebble barreled along, a cannonball of filth. He jabbed out at all manner of buildings as they went, quivering with hyperactive energy.

“There’s Shen’Hou Plaza… there’s the mercer’s guild…. that sorry ol’ heap is where the old fishery used to be…”

“Mhm.”

“Oh!” Pebble paused for a second before a cathedral-like building, a huddle of towering gold-plated spires. In a wealth of proud buildings, this was the proudest he’d seen so far.

“Is this it?”

“Naw—this is Gryphon Academy. See the bust?” He jabbed at the life-sized bronze gryphon on a marble plinth before the entrance. Its jaw was wide open, one paw outstretched. “It’s one of the three Great Academies of the Oasis—where all the best and the brightest go! My pa tried sending me to Serpent Academy, but the old people with the big hats—the ones who tested me—thought I was too dumb, I guess.” He looked sad for all of half a second. Then his smile burst back on his face, genuine as ever. “Then he lost his Tier-license and we got booted out. Err. That’s by the by! Life goes on!”

Pebble shot him a sly glance. “Anyhow, It’s where most of your fellow Tournament fighters come from. Forty-five of the forty-eight from Azcan are Academy pupils—including all the top seeds! But I guess you needn’t worry about that.”

Dorian raised a brow. “Pray tell—why not?”

“Cause… erm…” Pebble scratched his fluffy brown hair. “Well, you’ll get knocked out way before then, yea? I, ah, don’t mean offense, sir, none at all, but the top seeds come from distinguished families with all the best elixirs and gear and tutoring…it’s hardly something a person who drinks Wyrm-piss for meals can compete with…”

Alarmed, Pebble threw up his hands. “Ah, of course it’s not my place to judge, good sir! It’s cultural, yes, simply the way of the Tribes… there’s something natural about it, really—noble, even…”

Dorian snorted. “Why are we here? Is the Artificer’s guild housed inside?”

“Oh, no. I just forgot where I was going! You either turn left or right here…. can’t recall which….” Pebble’s brows scrunched together. “I only went to the guild twice before—ever! They’re a rare bunch, those artificers…real haughty too…” He paused.

“Say,” said Pebble, side-eyeing him. “Why are you seeking out the Artificer’s guild, anyhow?”

“Hmm.” Dorian tapped his chin. To join. To ascend the ranks. To introduce innovations which will rock the field of Artificing on this plane. To sell my creations and amass wealth. To gather influence over the city’s affairs. To leverage my status to access to the highest of the Oasis’ high places; its coffers, its vaults, its high councils. To drain this place of all its worth before Nijo’s merry band arrives to steamroll it.

“I think artifice may be my calling,” said Dorian with a shrug.