Page 41 of Reaper Said Mine

"Rikka would eat the weaker diplomats by the second session."

Rikka shrugs. "Only if they are tender."

I gesture toward the high table. "Make certain the human utensils are available, but do not place them unless requested."

Skahar glances at me. "Thoughtful."

"It is not thoughtfulness. It is strategy. If outsiders ask for delicate tools, they admit discomfort before the room. If they do not ask, they struggle. Either way, I learn something."

Rikka’s teeth flash. "And the human reporter?"

The question strikes with irritating precision. Several nearby cooks pretend not to listen while listening with all their strength.

"What about the reporter?" I ask.

"She accepted Theryki’s invitation."

"I was informed."

"Vesk says she spent three days crawling through markets, clinics, shipyards, schools, and tariff offices like a determined little scavenger."

"Vesk talks too much."

"Vesk complained for twenty minutes, which means he approves of her." Rikka tucks the slate beneath one arm. "Should I place human utensils for her seat?"

"No."

Skahar studies me too closely. "Why?"

"Because she did not come here to be protected from the station."

Rikka laughs. "Good answer. I like her already."

"You have not met her."

"I like anyone who makes Vesk suffer politely."

She stomps away before I can dismiss her, shouting at two younger cooks who have allowed a basin of bite-eels to knot around one another. The younger cooks leap to obey. The eels strike at the glass with wet little thuds, and the nearest diplomatic aide from the Coalition turns a delicate shade of pale green before retreating through the side door.

Skahar watches the aide flee. "That one will not survive the second course."

"He is Theryki’s third assistant for treaty formatting. If he dies of anxiety, the agreement may become shorter."

"A tragedy civilization may yet endure."

A messenger approaches from the main entrance, escorted by two guards. He is human, narrow-faced, and sweating despite the chamber heat. His coat carries the discreet silver stitching of a Helios intermediary firm that insists it is neutral whenever neutrality becomes profitable. He bows too deeply.

"Lord Gnash. Mr. Zune sends his compliments and regrets that urgent commercial obligations prevent his attendance at the preliminary inspection."

"Zune has never regretted anything unless it lost money."

The messenger produces a sealed case. "He sends a gesture of goodwill."

Skahar sighs. "Here come the gifts."

I open the case with one claw. Inside rests a row of data keys, each one marked with Helios corporate security seals. A projection activates above them, listing fuel credits, shipyard components, medical stores, and routing permissions through three Combine-controlled commercial lanes. The offer is generous enough to insult me.

"Goodwill," I say. "How fragrant."