Page 90 of Reaper Said Mine

“Young fool,” he says, without greeting. “If you are finished standing near your jalshagar in public like a moon-struck dockhand, Theryki has sent a second request. Gobold is making noise. Zune’s people are sweating. Also, Vakka says the Mercy Adjustment code is vital accounting language and you can bite her.”

Ursa’s eyebrows climb.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You are on open channel.”

“Yes,” Skahar says. “I chose this.”

“I will kill you.”

“You have threatened that since you had milk teeth. Come to the negotiation annex before the ambassadors begin mating with their own schemes.”

The comm cuts.

Ursa presses her lips together, fighting laughter with more courage than most soldiers show under fire.

“Not a word,” I warn.

“I have several.”

“Bury them.”

“I don’t think journalism works that way.”

“It will today.”

“No promises.”

I signal the guards closer, then hold up a hand before Ursa can argue. “Not hovering. Not scaring sources. Two shadows at a respectful distance, rotating through plain market traffic instead of lurking behind soup like idiots.”

One guard looks wounded. The other wisely does not.

Ursa considers this compromise. “Respectful distance.”

“Yes.”

“No interrupting interviews.”

“Unless knives appear.”

“Visible knives or implied knives?”

“Do not become impossible.”

“I was born this way.”

The answer slips into me and stays there. I nod to the guards, then turn back toward the corridor leading to the negotiation annex. Duty waits there with clean clothes and filthy hands. Theryki will smile. Gobold will snarl. Wilcox will measure every breath. Zune will pretend absence means innocence. All of them will want something, and none of them will say the wanting plainly.

Ursa walks beside me for the first several paces, matching her shorter stride to mine without hurrying. The guards trail behind us at the agreed distance. Around us, the market resumes its rhythm now that the warlord’s attention has moved on. Bowls clatter. Vendors argue. A child shrieks with laughter. Somewhere, someone begins singing an old Reaper work chant under their breath, low enough that most outsiders would miss the grief braided through the tune.

“You know,” Ursa says, “Skahar approves.”

I glance down at her. “He insults what he approves.”

“That must make you his favorite person in the galaxy.”

“He once called me the finest disaster he had ever failed to prevent.”

“That is weirdly sweet.”