Page 64 of Reaper Said Mine

“Most outsiders listen to the object.”

“The object mattered because he did.”

Her eyes narrow, and for one uncomfortable second I wonder whether I have overstepped. Then she strikes the table once with the flat of her hand. It is not loud enough to startle the whole hall, but every Reaper within ten seats hears it and looks over.

“Good,” she says.

That single word carries more force than all of Dawson’s ratings praise ever did.

The next challenge comes in the form of a shared blade and a slab of meat so tough it looks less cooked than defeated. The elder across from me offers the blade handle first. I accept with the angle Vesk drilled into me, keeping my grip low, edge turned away from my neighbors. The gray-bearded warrior watches closely enough that I can feel the assessment.

“Cut along the grain,” he says.

“That feels wrong.”

“For human meat, perhaps.”

“For meat humans eat, definitely.”

He makes a thoughtful rumble. “This animal fought storms by locking its fibers. Across the grain, you tear. Along the grain, you persuade.”

“Your food has political metaphors.”

“All food has political metaphors. Most species are too cowardly to admit it.”

The blade is heavier than I expect, the handle warm from the elder’s hand. I place it and cut along the line he indicates. The meat resists, then gives. The motion is awkward but clean enough that no one groans. I pass the blade correctly to the next guest, handle first, and do not relax until it leaves my fingers.

The elder tears a piece from the section I cut and places it on my plate.

“You take first from your work,” he says.

I eat.

The meat is dense, smoky, and rich with fat that coats my tongue. It tastes of salt, iron, and char. My jaw aches by the time I swallow, but I manage it without disgracing myself, which is rapidly becoming my definition of success.

The gray-bearded warrior lifts his cup. “To the small scholar.”

My table answers with raised cups, table strikes, and rough calls of approval. Someone farther down repeats the title. Then someone else takes it up. The phrase travels badly through the hall, changing shape through dialect and liquor until I hear three different versions at once, but the meaning is clear enough.

Small scholar.

My cheeks heat more than the third bitter managed.

“I have a name,” I mutter.

Rikka hears me. “Earned names arrive when they wish.”

“I didn’t apply for one.”

“Good. Names hate begging.”

Cal looks as if he may choke on envy and broth. “This is absurd.”

I lean toward him just enough to keep my voice conversational. “You could still try respecting the room.”

“I don’t need performance advice from you.”

“Clearly.”