I woke up to the sound of knuckle-rapping against the wooden doorway arch, and bleary-eyed spied the shock of dark fur and worn-out old monkey face of Brekis. I yawned my thanks and he slunk off to wake Alator.

I stood and stretched fresh before slouching over, intensely embarrassed at myself. To think I’d considered voicing how I was feeling to Alator! I wonder if he’d have tried to rip my depression out of me with his bare hands.

Out of the room and down the narrow spiral stairs with the Bronze Spear of Blinding at my side, I found the bar in much the similar way as I’d left it: barring a sliver of dawn-light trickling through the hinged double doors, it was still lit by the same dim oil-lamps and had more-or-less the same amount of patrons, though they were eating breakfast instead of drinking (most of them).

Amongst the sea of short, furry jungle-folk, my tall, muscled companion stood out like a spotlight. Alator was already sitting at a table in front of an untouched spread of fresh crusty bread and thin-sliced cured meat. I sat and dived in, and only once I’d swallowed the first bite did Alator join in.

“We’ll make first for the salon joint outside the barracks, then see what we make of the city,” I breathed through massive mouthfuls.

“Still no more guidance from your System?”

“Unfortunately not, just get stronger, I suppose.”

Alator tore the crust off a loaf and set it aside, then spooned at least a half-inch of butter on the soft sourdough bread and chowed down.

“Better to do that in the wilds,” he said after swallowing.

“We’ll see. . . . Not eating your crusts?”

“Why would I eat the burnt bit?”

Raka was waiting outside the long cabin under the large grey-green badge of the wardens. He wore his leather jerkin but had unclipped his own badge; off-duty. He quickly finished the dregs of his drink and waved us over.

“Good to see you! Worried I’d have to use the full force of de Ith-Korr Wardship to track ya down for my half of da bounty!”

“Of course not, we’re eager to do right by the people of this city,” I said, and handed over the fifteen small copper coins.

“Pleasure,” Raka said, taking them with a bristly-furred, rough-skinned hand, and slipped it into his pouch with a twitching glance around. “All right, if it’s all da same to you swell folk, Mista Talbot, Mista Alator,” he nodded to us both in turn. “I’m going to go home to bed, dat was a half-day shift and I’m SPENT!”

As he started to hobble away on his short, slightly bowed legs, I called after him:

“Before you go, we’re after armour, and any place we might be able to put our skills to the test.”

He looked us up and down, quickly gleaning the meaning through his stagger.

“Ah, well for armour ya’ll want de Craftship, dat’s one tier up, ya’ll find a ladder in dat direction,” he pointed around the corner. “For somewhere to test yahselves . . . dere are always bounties to be collected; back at de Warden Barracks ya can ask Kima, dat’s de secretary, she keeps a good register. Otherwise, dere’s really no better place for your type of folk dan de Horizon Arena, right up at de top — bouts run all day, dere’s no barrier to entry, it’s good money if you don’t mind a few bruises, or broken bones, or concussions, or —”

“Thank you, Mister Raka,” I said, mimicking his politeness.

Becoming a bounty hunter is DEFINITELY on the cards, I thought, but I was feeling giddy for another reason. An ARENA, a bloody real-life coliseum!

Sure enough we found a swaying rope ladder leading twenty yards up to the next tier, and made the climb. We came up onto a new shelf of the city that was all painted gold. In the swift morning light of the suns and the dew of the great trees it was lit all sparkling and grand. There were two dozen or so large signs, all written in their language with a translation below that I could read, pointing in different directions with walking times to different -ships; Herbship, Thriftship, Tendership, even a Shipship — I supposed they built boats or maintained the harbour on the Boiling Sea — but we made for the Craftship to the right.

Stolen story; please report.

We passed through slim alleys and over open courtyards of the same broad planks. The air was warming and growing more humid in the sun and cover of the massive canopy. Every now and then a shock of hot, salty air was blown in from the Sea to the east, but so high up the winds were for the most part cool and welcome. All about us were the softly-glowing green vines, pulled taut and curling at random points with enough strength to shift us about as we walked.

Following the multiple signs on the way we came to the Craftship, our senses were instantly assaulted by the loud humming of hammering, sawing and clinking, and the stink of molten metal, cured leather and strange herbs. It was a bustling, vibrant, vast area filled with craftsmen of all shapes and sizes, peddling wares from seeming every corner of Barbican. Of the cities on the Boiling Sea, however, all war paraphernalia — as I remembered the merchant in Zhai-Khul saying — was monopolised or sanctioned by Ith-Korr.

We passed a stall of gleaming scorpion chitin armour, manned by a wrapped-up, blue-skinned desert-folk, and another piled high with intricately woven padded white-bristled jerkins from somewhere much colder. I passed by to find a large black-and-grey Vyneshi trader, a little like a miniature gorilla, standing proud beside her wares.

Burn scars mottled her forearms, revealing blackened skin beneath the fur, and a clicking voice like crackling embers greeted us:

“Welcome, natai, niraki! Looking for something that’ll last? You won’t find anything cheap here, not cheaply made nor cheaply bestowed,” she smirked, “But quality? Oh, that we’ve got!”

“How much for a Linothorax? Dyed blue, if you have it.”

“Of course!” she ducked under a low beam into the back, leaving us only for a moment, then came back with two sets of stiff linen armour under her arm. She presented them like they were delicate family heirlooms, held them up and ran her hand over them in turn.

I touched the Analysis Card quickly before she started her spiel, but only basic information popped up.

Damn, no enchantments on either.

“Fine work — even if I do say so myself, many painstaking interwoven layers glued with birch sap. Sized for the taller niraki that come through here, so will fit you like a glove — and woad-blue, just like the tundra-folk wear!”

“Enough of your peddling,” Alator said, his face red and fingers twitching.

“By Jove, calm down, she’s just proud of her work.”

Her smile didn’t break for a moment, her eyes still fixed on me; clearly the easier mark.

“Proud, I am, of course, but also confident: this’d stop a Stranglethorn rush. You might be thrown five yards and have the wind kicked out of you, but this craftsmanship will endure!”

“The one on the right looks perfect, how much would it cost me?”

For the briefest moment, her eyes looked me up and down, wondering if my outward appearance (off-white, torn sleeveless tunic, sandals stained gold and black from soil) belied some great wealth, and settled on a price by intuition:

“Thirty.”

“We’ll find somewhere else, thank you.”

A strong hand shot out and caught my tunic before I turned. “Just playing a joke on the newcomer drifters, Mista, that’s all — let’s settle at eighteen.”

“Let’s,” I said. We made our way to the ridged orange trunk of one of the great trees and Alator helped me properly slip on the Linothorax, a somewhat awkward process of tying and stretching out the linen, until I felt it properly secured. I tested my movement in it, made a few quick turns and a spinning leap and threw my spear around.

That feels better.

“I’m also missing a shield — haven’t had a chance to buy one since the orchard-folk stole mine, but I think at these prices I can do without for now. Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

“In my experience, arms and armour only slow you.”

I believed him — as far as his experience went. But as far as we mortals go . . .

“Raka said the arena was on the highest tier, I think we’ve a couple more to go.”

Up another ladder, the next tier, sign-posted as the Dwellship (where someone had carved out the ‘d’ and ‘w’ and replaced them with a painted ‘h’), was residential; a chaotic tangle of squat, windowless wooden dwellings haphazardly stacked on top of one another like crude, makeshift towers, reaching the ceiling planks above. The higher of these were connected to others without walkways — a complex web of thick, knotted vine ropes hung between each. The jungle-folk here — skittering effortlessly along the ropes between the houses like children in a vast jungle gym — wore mismatched clothing and had ragged fur, and dangled down by their hands or the crooks of their knees and stared as we passed beneath.

I nodded to a few that caught my eye, but mostly they just snorted and scurried away, the ropes creaking. A couple dropped down to us, inspected and sniffed us for a minute, then scampered off with a shuffle of nimble feet and a scowl or a forced scoff.

“Seems the wardens have their work cut out for them,” I remarked, seeing more than once the glint of bronze from inside the dark houses. Making the short journey to the next ladder, we were entirely exposed, but despite the pressure and tension of the area, I didn’t really feel unsafe. Alator rolled his shoulders and puffed up his chest as we walked, and I made sure to tap the butt of my spear on the creaking platforms underfoot.