Pebble chose a direction. It was the wrong direction.

Half an hour and much scampering later, they came to a stop before a gold-domed basilica, easily the most impressive structure in its block.

It was a behemoth of metal and spinning cogs; its pieces were in constant motion. There were the nodes on the roof, cackling with qi like oversized light-bulbs. There was the massive regal clock, nestled against domed roof and whose wind-up tick-tick-ticking set a metronome heard for miles. Every inch of its silvery walls was inscribed with runes which glowed a faint blue, like tiny rivers running down the building’s sides. Doors opened out of them at ground level, admitting brown-robed acolytes with hisses and click-clacks.

The main entrance was a bronze archway with its doors wide open. In front of it was a statue of a woman so old her face was entirely wrinkles; she was the owner of an impressive set of jowls. Jani Zhang — Mother of Artifice, it read. Even this was an automaton: its eyes swiveled to passersby; it flitted between ludicrous show-poses.

“Here we are!” said Pebble. “The Artificer’s Guild, or the Right Honorable Artificer’s Guild. That’s the proper name.”

It looked like a church, albeit one that’d grown very fond of cogs and flashing lights. Then again... Dorian glanced around and saw a wagon steam slowly by—a very primitive vehicle, powered entirely by qi. Around here, it does resemble a religion… Pebble perked up. “Ooh! Has the Heaven-Defying Mountain-Mover caught your fancy? It’s the newest gimmick outta the guild, forged by the High Masters themselves! Only the Noble families can afford one of them. Those artificers are weird folk, but their widgets sure are a sight…”

A sore sight, to be sure. And perhaps the least catchy name I’ve ever heard. That boulder on wheels did the job of a mule at a hundred times the material- and qi- cost. It was at best pointless. There’s much work to be done here, clearly! Dorian cracked his knuckles. Let’s get to it, then.

He glanced at the sun’s position. A little past noon.

“I suppose I can’t stay the night in the city limits?” he mused.

“No, sir,” said Pebble with a hearty shake of his head. “The Oasis locks up for the night at sunset. If you’re not out before then, the curfew officer’ll sniff you out…” He shook his head so fast his hair looked like a spun pellet-drum. “That’s no good—none at all! Last time I went visiting my ma’s grave—it’s by the Sinkhole, see—I lost track of time and didn’t make it out. Those bastard officers beat me so bad I coughed blood for two weeks! Heh.”

Dorian quirked a brow. “…Noted. In and out before sunset it is.”

He flipped another gold coin from his Ring and held it out. “Good work, Pebble. Your job here’s done. Scamper off.”

“Woah…” Pebble leaned up so close to it that the reflection of the coin took up all his eyes. Then he snatched it up with a toothy grin. “It’s been a pleasure, sir!”

He bowed a third time very, very low. His head banged against he ground. He came up with an “Ow!”, grinned again, and went off whistling.

“Oh!” He turned back around before he’d taken three steps, frowning. Dorian suppressed a sigh. “Yes?”

“Sir, you don’t mean to try to become an artificer, do you? I must tell you—I never heard of them accepting anyone who weren’t an Academy brat, say nothing of an outsider…” He scratched his little head. “All I mean is—them artificers, they’re a proud, nasty bunch. Very stingy with their time. And they have big ol’ nail-guns. And fire. Lotsa fire. Best not to stir up anything silly, yea?”

Dorian slid on variant nine of his ‘Who, me?’ innocent-smile expressions package. “Don’t you worry. I’ve got absolutely no silly business in mind,” he lied. “I’ve merely come to take a look. I’ll be out in a whiff.”

Pebble breathed out. “That’s a right relief to hear, sir. I got a old friend in the Mischief—name’s Squash-nose; he's got a nose squashed flat as a crater, he’s famous for it! You should see ‘im, sir!” He giggled. “Anyhow—ten years ago, Squash-nose was an acolyte of a lesser academy, one of them back-alley ones. He really wanted to be an Alchemist, see. Went in full of hot air and insisted they let him in.”

Dorian slid on variant four of his ‘Rapt Look’ pretend-to-be-interested expressions package. “What happened?”

“Well…before he went, his name was Bulb-nose.”

“Ah.”

“That’s my piece. I’ll be off.” Pebble gave him a hopeful grin. “Good day! Next time we meet, I hope you still have all your bits stuck on!”

***

Dorian was stopped at the entrance by two burly armor-clad guards. Both wore great red-velvet sashes across their chests, marked with the insignia of the Guild. One of them frowned down at Dorian’s still grimy-clothes the instant he came up. Nobody was a fan of simple tunics out here, it seemed.

“IT?” said one, frowning down at Dorian behind a bushy beard.

Dorian held up the Tournament Token. The man squinted. He pulled his fellow guard aside. They whispered to each other. Dorian caught flecks of the conversation—

“—let in—Outskirts—? Impossible!”

“Had the token….can’t…”

“exception…IT?”

They frowned at each other.

“Tournament…trials…?”

Moments later, the big bearded one came back, grinding his teeth.

“Alright. You can head in,” he said. He had the same half-constipated look as a baby being force-fed its least favorite vegetable. “Don’t try anything funny, you hear?

“Nothing funny,” said Dorian smoothly. Up went Innocent-Smile again. “Of course. Wouldn’t dream of it!”

He was through.

The lobby was a vast cylindrical foyer under a domed roof which admitted a single shaft of sunlight at the very top of the dome. Suspended in the middle of the dome, high-up, was a mess of massive gears, pulleys, and pipes, feeding in all directions. He suspected a cluster near the top was what powered the giant clock. The walls were carved with the same glowing runes he’d seen outside. Stone doors were cut into the walls in a semicircle, each etched with a different symbol—triangle, circle, square, book, lock; they were arrayed in two rows. Little marble staircases led up to the higher ones. It was an elegant, clockwork design. The flooring was simple sandstone, polished to a smooth shine.

There weren’t many present in the lobby. Men and women in mottled brown robes streamed out of a few doors; they seemed to mark their status. The robes were dull, the sort the eyes slid right over—servants, Dorian guessed. He saw a scant few—less than a handful in total—who wore gold-trimmed white robes. These robes were peculiar, not at all like the garb an Alchemist wore; they weren’t flowing. Instead they were puffy, sealed at the ends and made of a glossy material. Durable. The sort that’d ward off an explosion, which must’ve happened a lot around here.

At the center of the room was a big receptionist’s desk. It was two big black slabs of stone stacked atop one another, and looked very imposing. The man behind it was thin, balding, with a few sad spurts of gray spouting from his wrinkled head. He looked comically small sitting behind it, looking all serious in his silver-gray robes.

When he saw Dorian, the same frown the guards had worn came over his face. Dorian rolled his eyes. It’s the clothes and the grime again, isn’t it? Before he left he resolved to visit a tailor. And a bath, if they had public ones here. He likely didn't smell very good either.

Dorian walked up to him, grinning. His boots, still muddied, left dark tracks over the floor. Time for a little fun.

“Yes?” said the receptionist. One quick, clipped syllable. He regarded Dorian coolly.

“I’d like to become an artificer,” said Dorian pleasantly. “How might I do that?”

The receptionist groaned. He looked unimpressed, almost bored—like he’d seen Dorian’s type a thousand times before. He looked down at Dorian over his long, thin nose as he pulled out a ledger from under the desk.

“You wish to take the Tier-1 exam, then,” he said. “Proctored by a resident Artificer. Any Tier-1 artifact will suffice…”

Dorian nodded. Then the receptionist squinted, suspicious. “Which lineage do you hail from, precisely?”

“Lineage?” Dorian cocked his head. “Don’t have one!”

“…Pardon?” The receptionist’s brows shot up.

“Don’t have one,” repeated Dorian with a grin. “Is it important?”

The receptionist bent down. He flipped a few pages. “…Very well,” he said, a thin black line across his temple. His tone made it sound like things were not very well at all. “Which master, then? Which Academy?”

Dorian shrugged. “I don’t have those either, but I’m sure eager to learn!” Admittedly his artificing knowledge was a bit hazy; this mind was neither fast nor wide enough to store it all. He’d need a few cues to jog his memory.

“You—what?” The receptionist’s head jerked up.

“Truth be told, I haven’t done any artificing before”—the receptionist’s eyes popped—“but it seems like a fun job! I’d like a crack at it.”

All honest truths—at least, for his time on this plane. He rubbed his hands together. “It’s all about welding metal and qi, right? Doesn’t seem too bad. Can’t take more than an afternoon to pick up, surely.” A vein bulged on the receptionist’s forehead. He looked at Dorian like Dorian had grown three heads.

“So. When do we start?”

The receptionist boggled at him. His head tilted, his mouth dropped to a long oval ‘o’. His nose was scrunched up, incredulous, like he was about to sneeze. Then he threw down the ledger.

“Start?” The receptionist barked a laugh; bits of spittle flew everywhere. “Start?” He leaned over the desk’s surface. “Who do you think you are, exactly?”

“Name’s Io, of the Tribes!” Dorian stuck out a hand with a smile. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Ha!” The receptionist snorted. “Io, of the Tribes!” By now he was attracting quite a few eyes; a few of the brown-robed servants had stopped to stare.

“Oh, me. The pleasure is yours, I’m sure.” He settled back into his seat, breathing heavy and pushed up his wireframe glasses. Then his face hardened.

“Have you come to waste my time, Io, of the Tribes?”

“Not at all,” said Dorian innocently. “I’m simply here to learn. Is that so wrong?”

“…Learn?” the man’s sneer took up half his face. Dorian could tell what he was thinking. What Dorian was doing was akin to striding into a university, asking to learn the alphabet, and declaring he’d walk out with a degree by day’s end.

“Yup! I want to pick up artificing, as I said. I’m very keen on it.” He brightened. “A quick scan of your libraries should be enough! I won’t be long.”

“You think you’ll learn the noble art of artificing from—from memorizing books?” The receptionist couldn’t restrain his incredulity. Then the full implication of Dorian’s words hit him. “You—you want access to our vaults?!” His face reddened by the word. “You impudent little!—“

He took a deep, heaving breath. When he spoke again, he managed to restrain his voice.

“I’ve manned this desk for ten years. Do you know how many fools I’ve seen come and go, begging to join? At least they had the decency to come prepared—a backing, blood, Academy tutelage, years of study!” Dorian watched the man’s spittle fly more and more with each passing word. A curious observation: the madder he got, the more spittle he let loose with each word. It was especially bad when he hit consonants. By the time he got to the end, there was enough to mist the air. “It is not something some unlettered savage can simply pick up! Through perusing some tomes! The very thought—it’s unhinged!”

A streak of sunlight caught the spittle-mist, forming a rainbow. Dorian giggled.

“This is funny to you, is it, you crude little weedlet?” spat the receptionist. He was working himself into a righteous fury. “Do you know how many years, nay, decades of bloody hard work it takes to become a full-fledged Artificer? This is an insult—an insult to the guild’s honor! Never in a thousand years could you, nor one of your dirty tribespawn kind, touch the hems of a Tiered Artificer!”

A small, loose crowd had gathered to watch the spectacle. One of the side-doors had opened; out poured a posse of chattering youths in lavish Artificer’s uniform, laughing and chattering. They paused to take in the sight. Upon hearing the receptionist’s words, a few of the young men looked baffled; a few of the girls giggled.

“How dare you desecrate the guild with this nonsense? How were you let past the guards?!” The receptionist frowned. “GUARDS!”

The two guards stumbled in. “Yes?” croaked the bearded one. He blinked at Dorian, blinked at the crowd, at the receptionist’s puffing face, and put two and two and two together.

“You. Outsider!” He marched forward with a deep frown. “You told me you wouldn’t try anything funny!”

Dorian pretended to look baffled. “I’m not being funny. I’m serious. I would like to learn artificing, really! Then I’d like to take this test of yours.” He glanced up at the clock. “I’m on a bit of a tight schedule; I’d like to get it all done today, please. We still have the afternoon—

“Carry this fool out, Jai,” snapped the receptionist. He sneered. “And rough him up for good measure. The guild’s time is not so cheap as to be wasted by any passing low-life!”

The big man hesitated. “But—senior, he’s got a token of—“

“I don’t care if he’s the Rat-King’s nephew! Take him!”

A ripple of laughter rose over the youths; they pointed as though at a circus attraction. By their dress and looks Dorian guessed these were talents—young masters risen fast to become guild members. Likely each came from a storied family lineage with top-tier education.

The receptionist turned to them with a bowed head, grimacing. “I’m very sorry you’ve had to witness this farce, honored sirs. It shall be dealt with posthaste.”

Dorian stretched his arms. He’d admit it: he liked needling silly folk a little too much. Even now he wore a shit-eating grin. In his defense, all he did was ask questions like any ignorant Tribesman! He didn’t ask for this receptionist fellow to get all huffy.

But Dorian never provoked without a plan. He tapped his Interspatial Ring and the Tournament token sank into his palm. Pebble had said it gave him full access to the Oasis’ resources, didn’t he? Tournament qualifiers got certain privileges. It was time to test just how true that was.

But before he could act, a second door cracked open. Out poured another gaggle of youths, mostly women. At their front was the sort of girl that wiped coherent thought out of the minds any red-blooded young man who saw her. She was short and lithe, her supple figure straining against a silky sea-blue dress. She was also strikingly pretty; silky dark locks framed a set of entrancing dark-brown eyes. They took in the scene before her: the receptionist, the crowd, Dorian, the advancing guards—and widened. She cried out—

“Wait!”

Strange how for some, gifts seldom came in ones or twos; the heavens pile their favorites full of them. Even her voice was clear and melodic and velvet-smooth. Arresting. The guards froze mid-stride.

Her lips pinched in perfect displeasure. She stomped over, spots of red on her cheeks.

“What’s the meaning of this?”

“Young mistress!” groveled the receptionist. He inclined his head. There was a bead of sweat on his brow. “This one is honored to meet you. I’m simply escorting out a vagrant, miss—it is nothing of concern to you.”

A quick intake of breath from the spectators. The receptionist paled; even he seemed to know he’d overstepped. She threw the receptionist a dirty look. “‘Nothing of concern, Tao?’”

She folded her arms; the action seemed to bring a mountain’s weight on the receptionist’s shoulders. He gasped, folding into himself.

“The Guild’s image is of no concern to me?” she said.

Tao’s face had gone very white. “O-of course not, miss! That wasn’t what I meant, not at all—

“Is this how we at the Artificer’s Guild treat our guests?”

Dorian looked between the girl and the receptionist, amused. The receptionist looked like he wanted to unexist. His face was slowly inverting. “I…I see I’ve failed you, miss—truly. I—“

“If I’m to inherit my father’s guild, I won’t inherit its biases. This sort of narrow thinking is what’s gotten us our snobbish reputation in the first place.” Her voice was smooth and totally firm. “The guild isn’t merely for the rich or the powerful. My venerable grandmother, Jani Zhang, founded this guild to serve all of the Oasis—including the Outskirts. Or have you forgotten?”

“I was wrong,” whispered the receptionist, dabbing at his trembling face.

“Her cardinal value was to live our lives for others. What sort of guild are we if we don’t help those most in need?” She tutted. Dorian cackled internally. Get him, girl!

Then she looked to Dorian with soft eyes—like she was looking at a stray cat bleeding out on the side of the road. Dorian looked down at himself. He was grimy, bedraggled, and smelled. He certainly looked like a stray. How very strange. What to do? For a second, he felt the absurd urge to meow.

Oh, what the hells? “Th-thank you, miss,” he murmured softly, hunching over. He did his best to look as pathetic as possible. He’d gotten taller, but he was still of average-height for Vigor fighters; his build was strong but sinewy. His Bloodline had made sure his skin, though dirty, was eggshell smooth. Once he hit Vigor, his features had turned lovely—one of the many perks of thorough cleansing and a high-Tier Bloodline. He could be plenty cute when he tried.

He looked up at her with big doe-eyes, fluttering his lashes. If it meant a shortcut, he was decidedly not against being adopted by some rich Guild lady. Grand-daughter of the Guild Founder, to boot?

He clutched his arm and bit his lip cutely. “I’m in your debt.”

She nearly cooed.

“Look how you’ve frightened him!” She said with a tsk. Tao looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole. He glared at Dorian, and Dorian got the odd feeling he was envisioning Dorian’s head on a pike.

“With all due respect, miss,” he bit. “Generosity is a core value of the Guild, of course—but this…this miscreant has come with naught but mischief in mind! He’s hardly the sort that deserves—“

“Not another word out of you,” she snapped, and the last vestige of life left Tao’s face. At that, she softened.

“Oh, Tao. I’ve been too harsh. You’re simply trying to do your job well—I appreciate your spirit. You mean well; you’ve got a good heart.” The receptionist’s face jerked up with hope. “But leave this to me, alright?”

“Yes, mistress!” said Tao, flushing.

Then she turned to Dorian and smiled. A master painter could’ve studied that smile for a lifetime and still failed to capture the fullness of its charm. Even Dorian felt it, though not nearly as much as some spectators; he saw half the men and a quarter of the women fall in love at once.

“What’s your name?”