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their support for the new monarch. Parth, Ixba, Taas, Stik, Nelo, Amm, and Ubatha were at the very front of the column, all wearing formal robes or uniforms. Ubatha’s consisted of a red pillbox hat, gold epaulettes, his medals, a pleated kilt, and a chromed pistol. His sword hung crosswise across his back.
    To be there, to be on the receiving end no matter how indirectly of such enthusiastic applause, was heady stuff. And the War Ubatha felt a profound sense of pride as the Queen neared a contingent of soldiers from the Death Hammer Regiment, and they crashed to attention. Yet even as he took it all in, Nira’s teachings haunted him. Because, according to the mystic, the warrior’s true enemies were ego, possessions, and relationships. Such thoughts were sobering, and he gave thanks for them as a group of rarely seen Skrum prostrated themselves on the pavement.
    Having successfully shuffled up the steep ramp that was symbolic of all the resistance the new Queen would have to overcome, it was time for her to confront the mythical monster. According to legend, the Kathong was the only thing that could destroy the royal house. The richly imagined statue was located in the middle of a traffic circle, where it was usually little more than a well-executed curiosity. But thanks to hundreds of years of tradition, the Kathong took on additional significance whenever a coronation was under way.
    In some respects the beast looked a great deal like any Ramanthian, except that it had four tool arms rather than two, and a tail that was brandishing a trident. In keeping with tradition, the Queen stopped in front of the huge statue as if daring the Kathong to bar her way. The idea was that, if the beast disapproved of the Queen, it would suddenly come to life and devour her. It hadn’t happened, of course, and never would, but Ubatha knew that news commentators would be talking about it nevertheless.
    Having confronted the Kathong without being eaten, the royal continued on her way as thousands clacked their pincers—and she led the processional into the hall of images. The double rows of full-length mirrors were cautionary in nature, symbolizing all of the different ways in which truth could be expressed and the danger of falling victim to the sort of royal narcissism that some of her predecessors had been subject to.
    From there it was a short distance to the royal dwelling, where the final ceremony would take place and the young female would become Queen. The only problem was that she wouldn’t be the real Queen until such time as Ubatha could find the missing royal and kill her.
     
    A full day had passed since the coronation. As the ground car stopped in front of the upscale dwelling, the War Ubatha steeled himself against what was to come. Two members of the military police were riding on a platform to the rear. He waited for one of them to step down and open his door. Slowly, and with a feeling of reluctance, he got out of the vehicle. It was a test of sorts. He forced himself to look at the familiar facade and monitor his emotions as he did so. Was he happy? Or sad? No. Home was no longer a physical place but something he carried inside him. “Sir?” the noncom named Nenk inquired. “Should we accompany you?”
    “Yes,” Ubatha answered evenly. “And bring the satchel. We might need it.”
    Ubatha followed a short but scrupulously clean path to the front door. A single pair of sandals had been laid out in front of it. His. Because Chancellor Ubatha was dead. Or supposed to be. The War Ubatha entered a number into the key pad and waited for the door to move aside. Then, with two soldiers at his back, he entered what had once been his home.
    He could smell the incense in the air, the faint odor of newly baked wafers, and what? A whiff of the Egg Orno’s perfume? Ubatha felt a pang of regret, hurried to repress it, and made his way forward. First came the carefully arranged rock garden, followed by a hallway with heirloom