Page 40 of Reaper Said Mine

"It is. Blood Feasts are unforgiving to fabric and illusions."

She walks away before I can ask anything else, leaving me with the taste of bitter tea still lingering at the back of my tongue and the sudden awareness that tomorrow night may be the first door Gnash cannot deny from a distance.

Across the room, Vesk stands near the entrance with two other security officers. He meets my eyes, and I can tell from his expression that he already knows.

CHAPTER 6

GNASH

The Blood Hall occupies one of Guyver Station’s oldest cargo vaults, a vast chamber of black girders, armored walls, suspended fire baskets, and long feast tables arranged beneath banners painted in Reaper glyphs. Workers crawl along the overhead rigging, adjusting chains and light arrays while the floor crews drag reinforced benches into position with the scrape and groan of metal against metal. At the far end of the chamber, my father’s old home-ship banner hangs beside the captured seal of the Helios Combine, one symbol faded and sacred, the other burned through the center and left ragged on purpose. Between them, the largest table waits for diplomats who will pretend they are not afraid of dinner while my people watch their faces for cracks.

The chamber is hot from the open cooking pits and humid from the steam rising off preparation tanks. Fresh blood lends the air a copper bite, layered beneath spice smoke, charred fat, fermented root mash, and the sharp brine of live shell-creatures snapping their claws inside holding basins. Reaper cooks move through the heat with heavy knives, hooked poles, restraint gloves, and the casual violence of professionals preparing a formal meal that may also try to escape. The sounds please me more than they should: chains rattling, blades striking boards, cooks bellowing insults, shell-creatures clacking, and my warriors laughing as they test whether the high table will bear the weight of both pride and stupidity.

Skahar stands beside me with a strip of dried meat in one hand and disgust on his face.

"This is too much," he says.

I look over the hall. "It is a diplomatic feast."

"It is a psychological assault with garnish."

"Yes. I said diplomatic."

He tears a piece of meat with his teeth and chews as if the food has personally disappointed him. "You have tripled the live courses."

"Theryki enjoys ceremony. Gobold enjoys toughness. Wilcox enjoys keeping both of them alive. I have decided to offer each guest something meaningful."

"You are offering Theryki an opportunity to hide revulsion, Gobold an opportunity to pretend he enjoys pain, and Wilcox an opportunity to regret every career decision that brought her here."

"I am a generous host."

"You are a menace with table settings."

I sneer. "You helped invent half these customs."

"I was younger and stupider."

"That must have been an extraordinary era."

He points the meat at me. "Do not think I am too old to hit you."

"Your cane cannot reach my head."

"I will aim lower."

One of the cooks approaches with a slate clutched in one bloody glove. Her name is Rikka, and she runs the feast kitchens with a tyranny I admire. She is broad even for a Reaper woman, with white skin, black hair braided close to her skull, and three missing spurs along her left forearm from a cooking accident she describes as a disagreement with dinner.

"Lord Gnash," she says, "the first course is ready for holding. Bite-eels are lively. Bone crabs are angry. Spine-larvae are fresh. The black-throat birds keep screaming whenever the Coalition aides walk past, which I take as a good omen."

"Excellent."

"The Grolgath ambassador requested clarification on whether the diplomatic menu contains anything poisonous to her species."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her everything is poisonous at sufficient volume."

Skahar makes a low approving sound. "Rikka should handle negotiations."