Page 39 of Reaper Said Mine

"I am still reporting."

"You are building something."

"So are you."

She inclines her head. "True. I wonder what shape your construction will take."

"I wonder the same about yours."

For a moment, we look at each other with mutual professional appreciation and absolutely no trust.

Theryki turns slightly, allowing us both to watch the room. Gobold is not present. Wilcox speaks with two IHC trade aides near the far wall, her posture relaxed in a way her eyes are not. Coalition clerks cluster near the refreshments. A Helios consultant whose name has changed twice since I arrived laughs too loudly at something no one finds funny.

"Lord Gnash hosts a Blood Feast tomorrow night," Theryki says.

I keep my face still. "I heard rumors."

"Most visitors do. Then they invent illnesses, religious restrictions, or urgent transmission conflicts."

"Reaper formal dining has a reputation."

"Reputation is such a polite word for panic." She takes a sip from a crystal glass. "The feast is nominally cultural, though in practice it is a test. Reapers enjoy watching powerful people discover the limits of their dignity."

"Will Gnash attend?"

"Of course."

That is the first time all day someone has attached certainty to his presence.

I turn toward her. "Are you inviting me?"

"I am."

"Why?"

"Because you want access. Because I enjoy watching rooms become less predictable. Because Lord Gnash has ignored every formal request you have made, and I am curious whether proximity will irritate him more effectively than paperwork."

"You want to use me."

"My dear Ms. Ramone, everyone on this station wants to use everyone else. I am merely courteous enough to make my invitation attractive."

"What do you get out of it?"

Theryki’s eyes gleam. "Perhaps nothing. Perhaps I discover whether the famous survivor of Horus IV is willing to look a Reaper warlord in the face when the room smells of blood and every civilized diplomat is trying not to gag."

I think of Salla on the clinic cot. Mara’s route maps. Vesk catching Griv by the vest. The cruiser in its cradle, hungry to fly. The station moving around a man who refuses to speak to me and somehow leaves fingerprints on every story I touch.

I should be cautious.

I am cautious.

I am also not leaving Guyver Station without seeing him in the world he built.

"I accept," I say.

Theryki’s smile deepens. "Wear something you do not mind ruining."

"That sounds like practical advice."