Page 59 of Reaper Said Mine

Skahar’s staff shifts against the floor. He knows the phrase hit. Theryki knows too. Gobold leans forward, suddenly interested. Wilcox’s mouth tightens with the grim anticipation of someone watching a shuttle descend too fast.

I smile at Voss.

He does not understand what that means until the nearest Reaper captain stops laughing.

“Historical bitterness,” I say. “Is that what Helios calls slaughter when the victims remain inconveniently alive?”

Voss’s throat moves. “I meant no disrespect.”

“Of course not. Disrespect requires courage. You brought vocabulary instead.”

The Reapers answer with fists against the tables. Voss goes pale under the orange firelight. The moment should satisfy me more than it does. He is a messenger wrapped in cologne, not the hand I want around a throat. Striking him with words offers all the pleasure of biting smoke.

The feast rolls on, loud and hot and full of predictable weakness.

Coalition aides feign appreciation. Alliance staff overcompensate. Human reporters whisper dramatic observations into hidden mics while failing to notice when station residents laugh at them. A League envoy declares the third course “surprisingly approachable,” then learns she has been eating from the bowl meant for discarded shells. Reapers tell louder stories as the liquor works through them. Several young warriors begin wagering on which guest will excuse themselves first for a fake medical emergency.

I should be enjoying myself.

Instead, boredom gathers under my armor like an itch.

Every faction is doing exactly what I expected. Theryki measures. Gobold blusters. Wilcox mediates. Helios oozes. The press performs discomfort for imagined viewers. My captains perform savage delight because they know the room expects it and because they enjoy obliging when the truth happens to be entertaining. Even I am playing my role: warlord, host of blood and knives, monster educated enough to insult in proper diplomatic syntax.

Skahar notices because the old parasite notices everything.

“You look restless,” he says.

“I am listening to expensive fools chew.”

“A common burden of leadership.”

“I was promised diplomacy. This is theater with worse music.”

“The musicians can hear you.”

“They know I like worse music.”

He follows my gaze down the tables. “She is doing well.”

I do not ask who.

That would insult us both.

“I am observing all guests,” I say.

“Mm.”

“Do not mm at me.”

“I am too old to learn new weapons.”

Across the hall, a serving team carries out a set of covered cages for the next course. This is where the feast usually becomes educational. The cages contain redback skitterlings, fast little armored creatures with barbed legs and a tendency to leap toward movement. Reapers prize them because eating them requires timing. Outsiders despise them because dignity becomes difficult when dinner attacks a sleeve.

Rikka steps into the central aisle and raises both arms.

“Redback course!” she bellows. “Guests may request server assistance without shame if their hands are weak, their reflexes poor, or their ancestors failed to prepare them for dinner.”

The Reapers roar.