The Conjurer's Crane did not welcome them. It exhaled on them.
As they crossed the border from the Wasty Sade into the territory of the Crane, the air changed. The dry, cracking dust was replaced by something heavy and damp. The sky here was perpetually bruised, swirling with low clouds that trapped the heat and moisture close to the ground.
Everything was red.
The stone of the canyon walls was a deep, rusted ochre. The water that dripped from the aqueducts above was tinged with iron, running in thin rivulets down the streets. The moss that clung to the buildings was a dark, arterial crimson.
It was a place of industry and sweat. The heat came from below—geothermal vents that the founders of the Conjurer's Den had tapped into centuries ago. It made the air thick, tasting of metal and sulphur.
Watabei pulled her collar up over her nose. Even the puppet healer, trailing behind them with her dead, unblinking stare, seemed to absorb the redness, the blood on her clothes drying into a dark crust that matched the environment.
"Stay close," Watabei murmured. "This place isn't friendly to wanderers."
They walked through the winding streets. The buildings were stacked on top of each other, clinging to the canyon walls like barnacles. Bridges of rope and iron connected them, swaying gently in the humid breeze.
Goburo kept his head down. His single eye scanned the ground, looking for the root-lines Kenji had described. He felt the pulse of the earth here—shallow, suffocated by the massive stone structures, but present.
They reached the central plaza. A massive iron crane, the namesake of the district, loomed overhead, used for lowering cargo into the deeper levels of the city.
"There," Watabei said, pointing to a building on the left.
It was an inn, or what passed for one. A heavy wooden door, scarred by use, and a faded sign swinging in the damp wind: *The Rusty Spigot*.
"Let's try here," she said. "We need to clean up. And... we need to plan."
Goburo nodded.
They approached the door. Goburo reached for the handle.
He stopped.
He looked at the puppet.
"Stay," he commanded.
The healer stopped. She stood motionless on the street corner, a statue of blood and rags. The citizens passing by gave her a wide berth, their eyes widening in superstitious fear, but they didn't intervene.
Goburo and Watabei entered the inn.
The inside was dim, lit by oil lamps that sputtered in the thick air. The smell was a mix of stale beer, unwashed bodies, and the metallic tang of the red water. A few patrons sat at tables, nursing drinks, their faces obscured by shadow.
They walked up to the counter.
The innkeeper was a large man, bald, with a beard that looked like it had been stained by rust. He was wiping a tankard with a rag that was arguably dirtier than the cup.
He looked up.
His eyes slid over Watabei. Then they landed on Goburo.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
The innkeeper stared at the bandage on Goburo's face. He stared at his green skin. He stared at the ragged, dusty clothes.
His lip curled. It wasn't a look of fear. It was a look of profound, guttural distaste. The look a man gives a cockroach that has crawled onto his dinner plate.
"Help you?" the innkeeper grunted. His voice was low, hostile.
"We need a room," Watabei said, stepping forward. "Two beds. Or one large one. It doesn't matter."
The innkeeper didn't look at her. He kept his eyes fixed on Goburo.
"No rooms left," he said flatly.
Watabei blinked. She looked around. The common room was half empty. There were keys hanging on hooks behind the man's head.
"But... the hooks," she started.
"I said," the innkeeper slammed the tankard down on the counter, "no rooms. We're full."
He leaned over the counter, glaring at Goburo.
"We don't serve rats here. Understand?"
Goburo didn't react. He felt the archive trying to engage, trying to analyse the threat level, but the wall in his mind was still there. He just felt a cold, detached annoyance.
Watabei turned to Goburo, her expression confused.
"Have you been here before?" she whispered. "Did you do something?"
"No," Goburo said quietly. "I have never been here."
"Then why is he..."
"Because of what I am," Goburo said. He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to.
"Come on," Watabei said, her voice hardening. "Let's go."
They turned and walked out.
The heat of the street hit them like a wall.
They tried the *Iron Stable* next. The stableboy took one look at Goburo and claimed the stalls were infected with a contagious rot. He refused to let them near the horses.
They tried a boarding house near the aqueduct. The old woman at the door simply slammed it in their faces before Watabei could even finish her sentence.
They stood in the middle of the red-stained street. The puppet healer was still standing where they had left her, a silent sentinel in the shifting crowd.
"This is ridiculous," Watabei hissed, kicking a loose stone. "It's a city. A big city. How can there be no space?"
"It's not space," Goburo said. "It's species."
He looked at Watabei.
"They don't like goblins here. Or... maybe they just don't like things that look like they've crawled out of a grave." He gestured to his bandage.
Watabei looked at him, frustration warring with guilt.
"So what do we do? Sleep in the gutter?"
Goburo thought for a moment.
The root-line in his mind pulsed. It was faint, but it was there. Kenji was guiding him, not to a room, but to a direction.
"No," Goburo said. "We separate."
Watabei frowned.
"What?"
"You go alone," Goburo said. "Go back to the Rusty Spigot. Or the boarding house. Without me, you're just a human traveler. They'll give you a room."
"I'm not leaving you out here," Watabei said instantly. "It's not safe. And... and what about the contact? The person you're supposed to meet?"
"I'll find you," Goburo said. "I have a connection. I can find you anywhere in this city now."
He looked at her, his single eye earnest.
"Watabei. You need a bed. You need to wash. You need to meet your contact. If you're with me, you'll be sleeping on the street."
Watabei hesitated. She looked at her dirty hands. At her torn clothes. She was exhausted. Her body ached from the torture, from the running, from the sheer weight of the last two days.
"Okay," she said finally. "Okay. But if you get into trouble..."
"I'll scream," Goburo deadpanned. "Very loudly."
Watabei let out a short, exhausted laugh.
"Fine."
She turned and walked back towards the Rusty Spigot.
Goburo watched her go. He leaned against the rough stone wall of a nearby building, crossing his arms. The puppet healer moved to stand beside him, a silent shadow.
Watabei reached the inn door. She paused, checking her coin purse, and then pushed inside.
Goburo waited.
A few minutes later, the door opened again.
It wasn't Watabei.
It was the innkeeper.
He stepped out onto the porch. He lit a thin, rolled cigarette, the smoke curling up into the red air. He saw Goburo standing there.
He walked over.
He stopped a few feet away. He blew smoke in Goburo's direction.
"Well," the innkeeper said, his voice a low rumble. "You only."
He pointed a thick finger at Goburo.
"He can't join you."
Goburo stared at him.
"Who?"
"Your friend. The girl. She's checked in. Room four. But if I see your green face in my hallway, I'll have the guards skin you for a rug. Understand?"
Goburo didn't blink.
"I understand."
The innkeeper grunted. He flicked ash onto Goburo's boots.
"Move along, rat."
He turned and went back inside, slamming the door.
The door opened again almost immediately.
Watabei came out. She looked relieved.
"Room four," she said quietly. "It's small, but it has a bath. I... I tried to ask for a double, but he said..."
"I know," Goburo said. "He told me."
Watabei bit her lip.
"Goburo, come on. We can find a back window. Or..."
"No," Goburo cut her off. "Go in."
"Goburo..."
"Go in," he repeated. "Don't worry about me. I'll find somewhere."
He looked at the darkening street.
"I prefer the outside anyway. It's... quieter."
Watabei looked at him. She saw the resolve in his face. She knew she couldn't force him. And truthfully, she was desperate for a locked door and a moment of peace.
"Okay," she whispered. "But if you need anything... just... shout?"
"I will," Goburo lied.
Watabei hesitated one last second. Then she turned and slipped back into the inn. The door clicked shut behind her.
Goburo stood alone on the street.
The red moisture began to fall—a fine, misting rain that clung to his skin like blood.
He looked at the puppet.
"Come on," he said.
He turned his back on the inn. He turned his back on the warmth and the light.
He walked into the labyrinth of the Conjurer's Crane.
He walked in the direction the roots whispered.
He didn't know where he would sleep. He didn't know if he would sleep. He just knew that he couldn't stay where he wasn't wanted.
And somewhere, deep in the earth, the Reintelligence state watched through his eyes, cataloguing the geometry of the city, calculating the angles of the buildings, and filing away the face of the innkeeper for future reference.
TO BE CONTINUED...