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prints on both walls and a formal reception room. The Egg Ubatha bowed as he arrived. Her click speech was both precise and elegant. “I’m sorry . . . I had no idea you were coming. I would have met you at the door.”
    “The fault was mine for not letting you know,” the War Ubatha replied. “I suggest that we retire to the sitting area.”
    The Egg Ubatha made no move to obey. It was both literally and figuratively her house. “And your soldiers?”
    “They are with me.”
    Bringing soldiers, especially enlisted soldiers, into the most intimate recesses of the house was unprecedented, and subtle changes in the Egg Ubatha’s posture signaled her disapproval. “And your weapons?”
    “They are part of me,” the War Ubatha replied. He normally left his sidearm and sword on an antique rack designed for that purpose.
    There was a good ten seconds of silence as she studied him. Then, having reached some internal decision, she turned and shuffled away. That was intentionally rude. But anger, like love, was something that Ubatha had forsworn. He followed.
    The chamber beyond was large enough to seat twenty. Something the space had often been called upon to do back during the days when the Chancellor had been in residence. Saddle seats surrounded a tiled area that was empty at the moment but could be configured in a number of different ways. The Egg Ubatha stopped in the middle of it and turned. She was beautiful, or had been back when the soldier had been captive to such things. “Now what?” she said defiantly.
    “Now you will tell me the truth,” the War Ubatha replied coldly. “The Chancellor is still alive. Where is he?”
    “How strange,” she replied. “The government notified me of his death. Yet you believe he’s alive. Why? ”
    The War Ubatha took three steps forward, brought his right pincer back over his left shoulder, and struck the side of her head. The Egg Ubatha fell and slid across the tiles. “Pick her up,” the warrior ordered. “And hold her.”
    The troopers hurried to obey. The War Ubatha saw that the blow had pulped his mate’s right eye. That hadn’t been his intention. But what was, was. Perhaps it was for the best. She would take his questions seriously now. Blobs of viscous goo dripped down onto her otherwise-pristine gown. “I’m going to ask the question again,” Ubatha said harshly, as his mate sobbed. “Where is the Chancellor? He would never leave Hive without telling you where he’s going. Speak or suffer some more.”
    The Egg Ubatha was half-blind. But somehow, in spite of the intense pain, she managed to raise her head. “So this is what you have come to . . . I am to be dishonored by common filth.”
    “No,” the War Ubatha replied. “You are to answer my questions. Turn her around.”
    The troopers, who were none too pleased by the way they had been described, wrestled her into position. The War Ubatha ripped the gown away. That exposed the Egg Ubatha’s wings and the shiny chitin of her back. With that accomplished, he shuffled over to the satchel, rummaged around inside, and removed a pair of clippers.
    Then it was back to where his mate was being held. The War Ubatha raised the tool so she could see it with her remaining eye. “Unless you answer my questions I am going to remove your right wing. Where is the Chancellor?”
    She continued to sob but made no answer. The Egg Ubatha was defying him. And the War Ubatha couldn’t help but admire her. Because deep down he knew that what she was doing for the Chancellor she would do for him . And her strength, as well as moral clarity, was worthy of a warrior. But to show pity was to violate the way. The War Ubatha took hold of a wing, cut it off, and felt a pang of regret when he heard her high-pitched scream. “Look,” he said, as he held the appendage up for her to see. “Where is the Chancellor?”
    The Egg Ubatha sobbed and said something unintelligible.
    The warrior came closer. “Say it again.”
    She