They might have asked the same question—what the fuck are you doing here?—of this young Ivyn. Judging from his clothes—five-year-old fashions from Chainhattan customized with bits of fur, bone, and animal skin—he was an Indigen with commercial links to Qayaq. Maybe the smartest kid in his RIZ, the child of eccentric Ivyn dreamers, looking for things to do with his brain. He’d been hanging out at the bar with some Dinan chums, but all of them had seemed more embarrassed than stimulated by the nude dancers.