Page 87 of Reaper Said Mine

“They also stop stabbing.”

“Most sources aren’t stabbing people.”

“This station has many exceptions.”

Ursa steps closer, lowering her voice enough that the nearby traders can pretend not to hear while absolutely hearing. “I understand the risk. I am not being reckless for sport.”

“No, you are being reckless for work. This distinction does not soothe me.”

Her mouth softens around the edges, and the bond between us pulls like a hand closing gently around my heart. I hate how quickly my anger changes shape when she looks at me with that steady green gaze. I hate how much of myself wants to step between her and every blade in the market. I hate most that she would be right to push me aside.

“I got three useful accounts in twenty minutes,” she says. “The kind no one gives in official interviews.”

“About what?”

“Refugee processing, dock tariffs, and your habit of quietly refunding medical cargo fees when ship captains are too poor to pay.”

I look at the Reaper woman.

She looks at her baby.

The Alzhon trader examines the buns as if they are sudden miracles of agricultural complexity.

Ursa sees the exchange and lifts her eyebrows. “Interesting. That part was true.”

I sigh. “It is not policy.”

“It has a ledger code.”

“Many things have ledger codes.”

“The code is Mercy Adjustment.”

“Vakka is going to lose a finger.”

“Please don’t maim your dockmaster over accurate bookkeeping.”

“She named the code to annoy me.”

“She succeeded.”

The Reaper woman finally speaks. “Lord, with respect, everyone knows the code.”

I open my eyes.

Ursa’s smile grows dangerous. “Everyone?”

The Alzhon trader’s tendrils flutter. “I certainly do not know it officially.”

“Unofficially?” she asks.

He glances at me, then gives up with the survival instincts of a man who understands journalists may be more frightening than warlords in the long run. “Unofficially, captains with sick passengers pray for Mercy Adjustment before docking.”

I stare at him until he discovers an urgent need to reorganize his baskets.

Ursa touches the edge of my sleeve, not gripping, merely reminding. The contact is small. It still travels through me like a flare in darkness.

“That matters,” she says quietly.