Books.
Verity stopped, her attention caught. The shelves held perhaps two dozen volumes, their spines worn with use.
"You seem surprised," Targesh said from behind her.
"You have books."
"I can read."
"I didn't mean—" She turned, found him closer than she had expected, and lost her train of thought. "I only meant that I didn't know you were a collector."
"I am not." He moved past her toward the table. "I keep what I read. Some things are worth returning to."
He pulled out a chair and looked at her expectantly.
Verity sat. The chair was orc-sized, which meant her feet dangled slightly above the floor. Targesh took the seat across from her, and even seated, he loomed.
"Your report," he said.
Right. The report. The official reason she was here, in his private quarters, with dinner laid between them and the fire crackling and the closed door to his sleeping chamber lurking at the edge of her vision.
Verity set the parchment on the table and launched into her prepared summary.
She spoke of the archives. Of Varresh's system, its complexity and intelligence. Of the connections she had begun to map, the patterns emerging from apparent chaos. She described her methodology, her timeline, her preliminary conclusions about the scope and significance of the collection.
Targesh listened without interrupting. His eyes never left her face, but his expression remained neutral. A warchief receiving a report from a scholar under his authority. Nothing more.
When she finished, he nodded once.
"Your work is good," he said. "Thorough. You see things others would miss."
"Thank you."
"You may continue as you have been. Weekly reports, delivered in person."
"In person," she repeated. "Here?"
"Unless you object."
She should. Private dinners in a warchief's quarters were not appropriate venues for scholarly reports, regardless of what agreements had been struck.
"I don't object," she said instead.
He held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Then he reached for the covered dishes and began to serve.
The food was excellent. Roasted meat in a sauce she didn't recognize, root vegetables glazed with honey, bread still warm from the ovens. Kira's work, clearly, though the portions were more reasonable than the cook's usual campaign of aggressive nourishment.
They ate in silence at first. She lifted her cup too carefully. Tore the bread in pieces too small. Drew her knife across the plate and flinched at the scrape of metal on ceramic.
"I expect you have more questions," Targesh said eventually. "Ask them."
Verity set down her fork. "What did Durgan mean this morning? About—" She gestured vaguely at herself. "Abundance."
He cocked his head, his brow drawing together, the lines around his eyes deepening.
"Durgan sees as orcs see," he said carefully. "Your body is valued. Among my people."
"Valued how?"
