“No sign of Derek, Lady,” Ednund noted. “You’d think he’d make himself present at your arrival. He is your brother.”

“Is he, Ednund? Look at this hovel. He’s been living in this squalor for how long? I’d say it’s rotted his brain. Turned him into one of these rudimentary dirt crawlers. My bet? He’s drunk and enjoying the wares in the local brothel. Probably so inebriated, he’s unaware of our arrival, let alone the day of the week.”

Somehow she made it to the end of the avenue, was waved to the left down a broader street, past what looked like businesses housed in a variety of domes and crude stone-and-timber edifices. At the doorway to a weathered duraplast dome, a short man—of Indian ancestry if Falise was to guess—met her with a smile.

“Welcome to Port Authority. I am Shig Mosadek. If you would be so kind as to step inside, as soon as we have you all here, we’ll begin our orientation. Again, welcome, and we hope your stay here will be enjoyable.”

Falise bit off her response. Don’t even say it. If this deluded Cretan thinks there’s enjoyment to be found here, he’s either drugged or mentally deficient.

“Thank you,” Ednund told Mosadek, knowing full well the measure of Falise’s rage and embarrassment.

The mutant-faced wretches from the gate had drifted along behind them—as if Falise and her entourage were the finest entertainment they’d seen in years. The way they moved, the powerful grace, just added to her fluster.

Clarice artfully steered her through the doors and into the dome. Shabby as it was, the place looked more like a repurposed warehouse. But at least the floor was level, and she wasn’t wobbling on her feet.

“If I have to move heaven and earth,” Falise vowed, “If I have to sell my body and condemn my soul, I will see the day when a Board order ensures that this hive of scum and vulgarity is scorched down to bedrock! I am a Taglioni!”

“Shhh,” Ednund urged as they encountered a tall silver-blonde woman. Thin of build, she was wearing what looked like a crudely made stroud-fabric shift rustically embroidered with flowers and weird creatures. She had a long face and what Falise interpreted as weary green eyes.

“Welcome.” The woman fixed on Falise’s glowing-orange dress, stared, and couldn’t suppress the twist of a disbelieving smile. Another common-born wretch to add to Falise’s list to break, humiliate, and destroy.

“If you’d take a seat up at the table up front and to the left, we’ll begin the introduction as soon as all the others have arrived.”

Again, it was Ednund and Clarice who flanked Falise, got her to the indicated table. “This has to be a joke,” Falise hissed. “They expect me to sit . . . in one of those?”