Page 62 of Reaper Said Mine

“I’m choosing to accept two-thirds of that as a compliment.”

The warriors around us laugh again, and the sound rolls outward in a way that still makes my instincts want to duck. I do not duck. I sit straight, keep my hands visible, and remind myself that Professor Lorr, Vesk, and every piece of footage I studied agreed on one crucial point: laughter here is not always ridicule. Sometimes it is testing the strength of what it lands on.

Cal Renner sits two seats down with his face arranged into professional disdain, though his eyes keep darting to the remains of his own untouched skitterling. “Congratulations, Ramone. You’ve managed to impress the dinner.”

I turn my head toward him slowly. “You’re still losing an argument with yours.”

A Reaper woman near him barks a laugh so loud Cal flinches.

Niva Stane, who has spent the last ten minutes pretending her sleeve stain is less horrifying than everyone else’s, leans away from the table. “Some of us have standards.”

Rikka looks at her. “Your standards appear hungry.”

“My standards do not involve murdering my meal at the table.”

“You already murdered your dignity,” the gray-bearded warrior says. “The meal would have been easier.”

The table erupts.

Niva’s face goes crimson. Cal mutters something into his hidden recorder, probably framing all of this as evidence of my reckless cultural pandering, but he has broth on his collar and fear in his hands, which weakens his authority somewhat. I look away from them before the satisfaction becomes too obvious.

A serving youth places a new dish in front of me. He is Reaper, adolescent by the look of his still-growing spurs, and his silver hair has been braided back from a face trying very hard to appear solemn. The dish is a shallow black bowl containing strips of dark meat, root mash, and a glistening red sauce with seeds floating in it.

He gives me a measuring look. “Third bitter.”

I remember Vesk’s correction from the market alcove. Third bitter is not a course name. It is a warning that the sauce has three different heat profiles and one of them arrives late enough to make arrogant people regret confidence.

“Thank you,” I say. “Is the meat already dead?”

The youth’s solemn expression cracks. “Yes.”

“Excellent. We’re making progress.”

The nearby warriors laugh again, and the youth nearly beams before remembering he is supposed to be dignified. He moves down the table with the exaggerated severity of someone who has just discovered adulthood and intends to perform it aggressively.

I take a small bite.

For two seconds, I think I have handled it.

Then the sauce blooms across my tongue like a small controlled explosion. Heat fills my mouth, followed by bitterness, smoke, and an unexpected sweetness that vanishes almost immediately. My eyes water. My nose burns. The gray-bearded warrior watches me with naked delight.

“Breathe through it,” he advises.

“I am breathing.”

“You are negotiating with breathing.”

“That seems accurate.”

“Do not drink water.”

“I know.”

He raises his brows. “You know?”

“Fermented root liquor cuts the oil better.”

His smile turns genuinely approving. “Who taught you?”