To her shock and deeper dismay, she saw that another group of bestial guards had broken into Otema’s private chamber and taken her captive as well. The old green priest stood rigid, her expression hard and stormy, but she did not squirm and thrash, seeing the futility of resistance.

Wrapping dignity around herself like a shawl, Otema glared at Bron’n. “I challenge what you are doing. If we are accused of some crime, name it. If we have been summoned to the Mage-Imperator, we will go willingly.”

Bron’n pressed close to the old woman. “I follow my Mage-Imperator’s orders.”

Otema looked at Nira, then back at Bron’n. “If you harm us, there will be dire diplomatic consequences. We are legitimate representatives of Theroc, invited here by the Prime Designate and your own Mage-Imperator. I demand—”

From his thick vest, Bron’n removed a jagged knife made of smoky gray glass. “Old woman, you are long past breeding age, and therefore of no use to us.”

Before Nira could even scream, the brutish guard struck down with the dagger, plunging it deep into Otema’s heart. He yanked the glass blade back, and her captors let the old woman fall to the floor. Each of the guards raised his spear. Each stabbed the already-dead ambassador. Then they stepped away from her bleeding body.

Bron’n gave a signal. Five scuttling servant kithmen hurried forward to clean up the mess, as the Mage-Imperator had commanded.

Sobbing with revulsion and horror, Nira sagged. Her knees buckled, and black specks swam in front of her eyes. She couldn’t believe what she had seen, prayed that it was some bizarre nightmare, but the guards grasped her and held her up. She felt the hard grip of their calloused hands, smelled their musky, violent scent.

Wrestling her arms behind her, exerting pain but careful not to break her wrists, they bound Nira tightly, strapped a gag across her mouth, and hustled her down dim and winding corridors deep within the Prism Palace.

They tossed her into a stiflingly hot chamber with thick curved walls of bloodred stained glass. The shadows here were darker, the blazers turned low, the air almost too thick to breathe. Bron’n stood blocking the doorway behind her. Nira fell to her knees, unable to move her arms because of the bindings.

Another man came forward. He grasped her chin and tilted her smooth head up toward him. The Dobro Designate glared at her with dull eyes, as if he saw nothing living or intelligent there, only a specimen for a collection. Nostrils flaring, he sniffed her, then released her chin and stepped back with a cruel but approving smile to Bron’n.

“Perfect material,” he said. “She is healthy and strong. I can smell the possibilities in her genes. Take her to my ship and be certain that all evidence is gone well before the Prime Designate returns from Theroc.”