Page 130 of Reaper Said Mine

“You were about to.”

“I was appreciating Narra’s accuracy.”

“I am wounded.”

“Politically useful scratch.”

Narra’s mouth pulls into a grin. “She bites. Good. He needs biting.”

“I keep hearing that,” I say.

“Because everyone knows it.”

Gnash looks up toward the ceiling with the patience of a man begging dead ancestors for restraint. “We are leaving now.”

Narra shoves a wrapped packet into my hand before he can move. “Stew bread. Eat it somewhere quiet unless you like being watched.”

The packet is warm through the cloth, and the smell of spiced meat and grain rises into my face. My stomach, which has been pretending to belong to someone disciplined, immediately betrays me with interest.

“Thank you,” I say.

She nods once. “Tell the truth about him.”

The words are not a request.

I look at the mess hall, at the crowded tables and the faces pretending not to listen. “I’m trying.”

Narra’s expression turns grave. “Try hard.”

We leave the hall through a side passage, and the noise fades behind us into a muffled roar. I unwrap the bread as we walk because I am not stupid enough to refuse food from a woman who negotiates heat exchangers with a ladle. The first bite is hot, salty, rich with fat and spice, and so good I make a small sound of surprise.

Gnash looks deeply satisfied.

“Not a word,” I say around the mouthful.

“I said nothing.”

“You are smiling with your entire terrifying skull.”

“I enjoy being right.”

“You were not right. Narra was right.”

“I approved her accuracy.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Eat.”

I do, because the bread is excellent and because my head still aches. We walk into a quieter district where the walls are lined with plaques made from salvaged metal. Names are etched into them by hand, hundreds of them, maybe thousands. Some have dates. Some have ship names. Some have only symbols I do not know. The air here is cooler and stiller, filtered with something herbal that smells faintly bitter. People lower their voices as they pass through, and even the children who come racing around the corner slow when they see the wall.

My steps slow too.

“What is this place?” I ask.

Gnash’s expression changes before he answers. “Memory corridor.”

The words settle carefully in the hush.