Page 57 of Reaper Said Mine

The Reapers pound fists, claws, and knife handles against the tables, producing a thunderous rhythm that rattles cups and sends several Coalition aides nearly out of their seats.

Skahar leans closer. “Subtle as ever.”

“They came for culture.”

“They got you.”

“Same thing.”

Rikka steps into the central aisle carrying the first ceremonial blade. She has braided her black hair with silver wire and wears a blood-red apron so heavily reinforced it could stop a pistol round. Two cooks follow her with a massive covered basin suspended between them on hooks. The thing inside shifts hard enough to make the lid bang once.

A human aide near Wilcox whispers, “Precursors preserve us.”

Rikka hears it. Naturally, Rikka hears everything that might be useful.

She looks at him and smiles. “They may be busy.”

The hall roars with laughter.

The first ceremony begins with the Bone Cup. It is simple enough for outsiders to survive, which is why most of them still manage to make it difficult. A cup carved from old ship-bone passes from host to honored guests. Each drinks a bitter fermented root liquor strong enough to strip fear down to its components. Reapers drink deep. Outsiders are permitted smaller portions. The wise accept the burn without comment.

Theryki takes the cup with both hands. She inhales once, drinks, and lowers it with only the faintest tightening around her eyes.

A fine performance.

Gobold drinks next and takes too much because old soldiers would rather poison themselves than look delicate. His throat works. His eyes water. He slams the cup down with a grin that shows blunt Vakutan teeth.

“Finally,” he says, voice roughened by the liquor. “Something honest in this room.”

My captains howl approval.

Wilcox takes a modest drink, coughs once into her fist, and says, “That is vile.”

Rikka nods. “Correct.”

“Was I supposed to say something else?”

“No.”

“Excellent.”

Even Skahar laughs at that.

The media table does worse. Cal Renner from LeagueWire sniffs the cup before drinking and looks as if he has swallowed heated regret. Niva Stane barely wets her lips, then announces that her species has delicate metabolic limitations despite being born on a human colony where the strongest local beverage is fermented melon and bad judgment. Rikka marks something on her slate, which means Niva has made a poor choice without understanding how carefully it has been recorded.

I notice Vesk standing near the far side of the hall, formal armor black against the wall. His expression is disciplined. His attention is not.

Only then do I allow my gaze to follow the line of his watchfulness.

Ursa Ramone sits far down the left table among lower-ranking envoys, press, and station officials. Rikka placed her exactly where I ordered, near enough to observe the high table and far enough that any attention she earns must travel. Her red hair is pulled back tightly, and she wears dark practical clothing rather than an ornamental costume pretending to be respect. She watches the Bone Cup approach with the focus of someone studying a weapon before deciding how to hold it.

The cup reaches her row.

Cal says something to her. I cannot hear it over the hall noise, but his expression carries enough smugness to make translation unnecessary. Ursa does not look at him. She watches the guest before her, a merchant captain with cybernetic fingers, accept the cup, drink, and return it to the server with the carved side facing outward.

Good. She is observing sequence.

When the cup reaches Ursa, she accepts it with both hands. She does not sniff it. She does not smile for anyone. She drinks less than a Reaper would, more than most humans have dared, and the liquor strikes her a moment later. Her shoulders remain steady, but color rises along her throat. She lowers the cup, turns the carved side outward, and passes it correctly to the next guest.