Page 58 of Reaper Said Mine

Vesk’s mouth moves by the smallest degree.

Approval.

I look away before interest becomes visible.

The first courses arrive with ceremony and deliberate cruelty.

A line of cooks carry platters of charred meat, marrow slabs, root mash blackened with spice, and bowls of small snapping shell-creatures served alive in hot broth. The shell-creatures are popular because they are harmless unless someone panics. Their claws pinch hard enough to teach attention but not maim, which makes them ideal for diplomats. Reapers crack them with fingers or blade hilts, eat the meat, and suck the broth from the shells. Outsiders mostly stare.

Theryki selects one with narrow tongs, presses it down with graceful efficiency, and uses a small knife to open the shell. Her aide beside her looks at his bowl as if it contains a legal accusation.

Gobold grabs one, gets pinched, bellows with laughter, and bites through it with unnecessary force. Broth sprays onto the table. Wilcox moves her cup out of range without looking, which tells me she anticipated him.

“You Alliance people teach table manners at war college?” I ask.

Wilcox wipes one dot of broth from her sleeve. “Only how to defend against them.”

Gobold points the remains of his shell-creature at me. “This is good.”

Rikka appears behind him as if summoned by arrogance. “That was decorative garnish.”

He looks at the mangled creature in his hand.

The nearest Reapers explode with laughter. Gobold stares at Rikka for three seconds, then laughs louder than anyone, because there are moments when even an old hammer knows better than to resent the anvil.

Skahar murmurs, “I hate that I almost like him.”

“Do not worry. He will speak again soon.”

The courses continue. Musicians move between tables, their instruments made from pipe, bone, and stretched membrane, producing melodies that scrape, mourn, and then suddenly surge into rhythms that set Reaper claws tapping against the floor. Between dishes, young warriors perform strength displays in the central aisle. One lifts a section of hull beam overhead while another strikes it with an iron bar until sparks leap from the impact. A third allows three children to climb him like scaffolding while he recites the names of ships lost in the Badlands. The outsiders do not know whether to laugh, applaud, or worry for the children. The Reapers know the answer is all three.

The diplomats perform too, each in their own tedious costume.

Theryki praises the depth of Reaper tradition while steering every compliment toward Coalition recognition. Gobold praises Reaper toughness while warning loudly against Ataxian entanglement. Wilcox tries to keep the conversation from turning into a public exchange of threats, which is like trying to mop a flood while the sea mocks your bucket. Zune is absent, sending a Helios commercial proxy in his place, a polished man named Cale Voss who smiles too often and eats too little.

Voss raises his cup toward me after the third course. “Lord Gnash, Helios observers appreciate the sophistication of tonight’s proceedings.”

A Reaper captain near the middle table mutters, “He means we used plates.”

Several warriors laugh.

Voss pretends not to hear. “It is always encouraging to see emerging authorities embrace diplomatic norms.”

I lean back in my chair. “Emerging authorities.”

He smiles wider. “All political legitimacy must begin somewhere.”

“Helios legitimacy begins in contracts written over graves.”

His smile strains. “That is a colorful accusation.”

“It is a restrained one. I am eating.”

Gobold rumbles approval from down the table. Theryki watches Voss with the satisfaction of a rival seeing another rival step onto thin ice. Wilcox gives me a warning look that I consider and decline.

Voss lowers his cup. “Mr. Zune believes mutual commercial understanding remains possible, despite unfortunate historical bitterness.”

The words historical bitterness move through me like a hook dragged along bone.