"Why?" he asked again.
"Go to hell," Marguerre snarled.
"We do not that belief hold," Joste said calmly. "And if either of us to such a place going is, it will you be. I have never a female to her death sent."
"And I have. So? Nobody forced them to join the Marines, or apply for Special Forces. They knew what they were getting into. Every last one of them's a volunteer."
Joste growled in disgust. The human must think him a fool, to expect him to believe such nonsense! The only time a female fought was in last-ditch defense of the clan, something that hadn't happened since the clan wars almost four thousand years ago. "You lie, human."
Marguerre shrugged, awkwardly because of his bound hands, but said no more. He'd already said more than he should have; he knew the best way to avoid giving anything away by accident was to remain silent except for the required identification information.
"Enough of that," Joste said. He'd not discuss females more with this perverted filth. "Now you will me truth give. Why came you here?"
It was almost dark, and Joste was becoming discouraged. The man, except for sounds of pain, had remained silent. He was sprawled on the floor now, naked except for his own blood, his hands no longer bound because he no longer had hands to bind.
Yet he was trying to rise, had actually made it to his knees with his wrists pressed against his chest and his head bowed to hide empty eye sockets, in a sickening parody of one paying homage to the Lords.