Page 50 of Reaper Said Mine

“With Gnash presiding?”

“That is the plan.”

Her eyes narrow. “The Warlord of Guyver Station is not merely hosting dinner. He is staging a room. Every seat will mean something. Every dish will mean something. Every moment of discomfort will be useful to him.”

“To intimidate guests?”

“To sort them,” Lorr says. “Intimidation is crude. Sorting is political.”

I set my stylus down slowly. “Explain.”

“A leader like Gnash needs to know who masks fear with contempt, who masks fear with anger, who masks ambition with praise, and who watches instead of performing. Reapers respect appetite, but they also respect control. Outsiders often assume the loudest Reaper in the room has the highest status, but that is not always so. Sometimes the one who laughs loudest has permission. Sometimes the one who sits quietly owns the room.”

That lands somewhere useful.

The little hairs along my arms lift.

“Professor,” I say, “if a guest wanted to show respect without pretending to be Reaper, what would you advise?”

“For most guests, I would advise humility, observation, and accepting small portions of whatever is offered without theatrical disgust. For a reporter with your history, I would advise honesty.”

“My history?”

“You did not become famous for smiling at horror, Ms. Ramone. You became famous for naming it accurately while everyone else tried to make it abstract. Do not become theatrical now. Reapers know theater. They live inside other people’s nightmares. Respect the ritual, but do not perform courage like a child borrowing armor.”

The words settle into the cramped room with more weight than I expect.

I look at the frozen image of the feast again, at the guests trying not to shake, at the Reapers watching them with feral joy and sharp intelligence. “What if I fail?”

“Then fail without contempt. It is surprisingly rare.”

The call ends fifteen minutes later, after Lorr sends me two restricted articles, a glossary of dining gestures, and one message that reads: If you die, I am not answering questions from your network.

By station midmorning, I take my research out of the lodging unit because the walls have started to feel too close. The market ring is already awake, lit by shop signs, welding flashes from open repair stalls, and sunlight-colored lamps strung over breakfast vendors. I buy a skewer of roasted fungus and something the vendor insists is safe for humans if humans have “reasonable courage and no legal complaints.” It tastes smoky, peppery, and faintly floral, with a texture like meat pretending to be a vegetable for tax purposes. I eat it while reviewing Lorr’s notes and trying not to imagine what the Blood Feast menu might do to my dignity.

Vesk appears at my side before I reach the fountain.

“You are reading while walking,” he says.

“I am capable of doing two things at once.”

“Yesterday a merchant walked into a support pillar while reading tariff updates.”

“Was he injured?”

“Only his pride. The pillar survived.”

“I’ll try to honor its sacrifice.”

Vesk glances at the article headings floating above my compad. “Reaper dining customs?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I was invited to a Blood Feast, and I prefer not to walk in ignorant.”

His expression changes by increments, suspicion giving way to something that is not quite approval. “Most outsiders ask whether they can bring private food.”