Rimeport. With its glittering spires, festering slums and misty, icy streets, Rimeport is what London could have been if it had been in a terrible train accident on the Arctic Circle Line, smashed between the intercity express from Victorian 1870 and the ponderous coal train from 1948 Chicago. Here, the windows are double-glazed, with sodium yellow streetlights strafing in through dusty blinds. Roofs are steep and slick, doors and walls are braced against the weight of thick, damp snow. Boots are spiked as a matter of course. The nation of Linnadeigh rose as the early snows of the new ice age fell.