“I do,” Dabry said. “Here is my certification.” He indicated his front pocket with a gesture but did not move toward it.

The first woman did, removing the chip from its place and sliding it into the reader she held. Her eyebrows rose as she surveyed the results. “Yep, Chef Class One,” she said.

The tiger man refused to believe. “Chef Class One,” he told the room, “is the level that serves rulers. Emperors and leaders.”

“It is,” Dabry said genially. “She’s one too.” He pointed at Niko.

Atlanta, listening as the pain ebbed and tasting copper as her tongue explored the newly hollow socket, bit her lip. They might have forged papers, but what were the odds that they could pull off such an impersonation? Still, she thought, it was a good ploy. Someone who collected rare things would see the appeal of a highly skilled being, and there was nothing higher in all the Known Universe than Class 1.

“I am,” Niko said with a matching cordial smile. “Perhaps you kind folk will let us ply our craft for all of you? My companion has enough spices and adulterants to create a feast worthy of such a company.”

The tiger man snorted. “Let a new prisoner cook for all of us,” he snorted. “Think we’re clones just out of the vat? Put another leg on it and call it good.”

Niko spread her shoulders and rolled them in a shrug. “Just a thought. How else can we prove that what we say is truth and not just a ploy intended to raise our value and keep us safer than if you held us of lesser value?”

“We’ll have that one cook, perhaps,” the tiger man said, pointing at Dabry. “But that is up to our master. He likes rare things. A Class One chef might qualify.”

“And his name?”

The ivory fangs flashed in an amused smile. “He says you will know it already, Nicolette Larsen. He said to tell you greetings from Tubal Last.” He looked around. “Names and skills, anything of interest I should know for the rest of you? Let’s start with you, Squid.”

“Skidoo Skiddleskat, is being personal servant.”

“You, the Nteti.”

“Milly Alullia Dologaridofineda, Class Three pastry chef.”

As she tried to gather herself again, the last caught Atlanta’s attention. All of Niko’s folk were retired soldiers, and surely soldiering was a skill. But they were hiding that. Which meant Niko, despite her apparent compliance, had some plan to get herself and the others out of here.

When it came her turn, she said, tears still flowing down her face, “Atlanta Ogome. Tourist.”

“What?” Niko snapped. “No. She’s more than that. Why would she have finger weaponry if she were just a tourist?”