With his hand on one arm, and Clarice’s on the other, she made it to the gate, there to face a dark-skinned sentry with bushy red hair poking out from under one of the wide Donovanian hats. The fellow looked like a holo-vid villain, an oversized rifle in his hands. She fixed on his dark eyes, read the amusement in his expression.

“Down the road. Take a left at the main avenue,” the man told her as she stormed through the gate. “Shig’ll point you to the cafeteria. Orientation’s there. And if the quetzals try the gate, the cafeteria will be our final refuge.”

“Quetzals will try the gate?” Falise asked, staggered by another gust of wind that blew down the graveled avenue and pelted her with grit. She got her first glance at the buildings. But for the junked equipment parked between them, she might have stepped back into the Middle Ages in Europe.

“Hope not.” The bushy-haired man gave her a grin that flashed large white teeth. “Steaks and leather if they do.”

Ednund and Clarice keeping her steady, Shoto hurrying behind, with Phredo and Fig bringing up the rear, Falise stumbled ahead. Asked, “When have I ever been this humiliated? And why are we walking? Don’t they know who we are?”

She avoided the gaze of another of the barbaric locals. Bearded, wide-brimmed hat pulled low on a mane of long blond hair, the rude fool had the kind of scar under his eye that hearkened to some barroom brawl. Something wasn’t right about his face. Too broad, the cheekbones flaring. He was dressed in scuffed quetzal leather, and the only thing elegant about him was the ornate hunting rifle he gripped by the barrel, the stock balanced over his shoulder as if it were a working tool.

A young woman, same misshapen face, daughter, perhaps? stood beside him, whispering what had to be unkind comments. Her weird blue eyes—must have been a genetic defect—tracked every movement Falise made. Like a predator’s gaze.

Suck vacuum, but if that girl, her bearded companion, and the handful of ruffians behind them were any indication, Falise figured she’d be better off back in that cramped cabin aboard Turalon.

“We’re not doing so badly, Lady.” Ednund shot a look behind them. “That freak of a woman is locked in one hell of an argument with Grunnel back on the other side of the gate. Cinque is watching from the rear, enjoying every moment of it.”

“If there’s a comeuppance for that insubordinate slit,” Clarice noted, “you may have to race Chad to beat him to it.”

“And Bartolome?” she asked, unwilling to take her gaze from the irregular gravel surface lest she trip and take a tumble on her high shoes. Bad Bart, if he saw her, would realize how distraught she was, and that was untenable.