Ember sat down on the tree root, folding one leg delicately over the other as if making up for her unceremonious collapse. She feared that appearing this way in front of Orthus—shivering, with dirtied skin and an uncooperative body—had already lost her all credibility as a client. Yet, she could think of no words to reassert herself, so her mouth remained clamped shut.
“Hold on,” Orthus said, setting down his bag and disappearing between the trees. He reappeared only a moment later with an armful of branches, which he dumped on the forest floor between them.
The only noise was the hum of the forest as he struck a match and held it to the wood. It was a dry night, and the fire caught quickly, licking first at the needles and then at the larger branches.
In the firelight, Ember had her first real look at Orthus. He was surprisingly striking, with a strong nose and dark-brown hair that turned up around the nape of his neck. His black clothes concealed the loose, color-changing skin that had covered him like a cloak during their first meeting. As he held his hands to the fire, his sleeves fell back to reveal a smattering of suckers on his thin wrists. He looked up at Ember, his gaze aloof but not unkind. “Are you thirsty?”
Her head nodded of its own accord. Meticulously, he reached into the front pocket of his bag, pulling out two palm-sized wooden cups, a canteen, and a vial of leaves. As Ember watched, he shook a pinch of leaves from the vial into each cup, poured a stream of water over them, and then set the cups on a stone near the fire. “Camellia sinensis,” he explained. “Black tea. It will warm your hands, at least.”
Ember stared at him. Something about his manner reminded her of Corax, though he was more volatile. She thought of how his expression had changed when they had first met in the lake from potent contempt to something softer. Even now, he was helping her in a way that seemed against his character. “I was-” she began to say, but he held up a hand, and she fell silent again.
For five long minutes, she sat perfectly still, watching as the flames flickered over the wood. Finally, Orthus retrieved the cups, reaching across the fire to place one into her hands. She sniffed it, letting him take a sip before she decided that it was safe to drink. It smelled of earth, and it tasted strong and bitter.
“I heard about your triumph,” he said. “Against the rogue and in the academic rankings.”
She looked up, surprised, then remembered that he dealt in information. “What of it?”
He shrugged. “It’s my business to know who is doing what, when.”
Once again, she could think of nothing to say, so she raised the cup slowly and sipped the tea. “You were looking for me,” Orthus prompted. “Why?”
She smiled ruefully. How pitiful she must look, shivering and hunched over with both hands wrapped around the cup. “It was an unwise plan,” she admitted. “I need a way to contact my father, who is in Ciradyl, and I could think of no one else to ask.”
For a split second, his gaze on her sharpened. “Your father lives?”
His reaction surprised her, and a question rose in her throat, but she didn’t give it voice. “I have no reason to believe otherwise.”
He steepled his fingers, pausing to think. “In that case, I can think of only one way to contact him.”
Ember tried to conceal her eagerness. “Yes?”
His reply came quickly. “Surely, you know that I don’t give away information for free.”
“Of course. What is your price?”
He reached over the fire again, and she had to stop herself from flinching away. With one long, thin finger, he poked her on the forehead. “That scale.”
“Excuse me?”
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Wordlessly, he passed her an inch-long switchblade by the handle. She took it gingerly, letting it sit in her palm. The thought of refusing flashed through her mind, but only briefly; it was a small price for what he promised in return. With cold fingers, she felt for the scale, pressing the blade of the knife against its rim. Then, quickly, she forced it from her skin.
It came free with minimal resistance, and she pinched it between her thumb and forefinger. A tiny chunk of bloody skin remained affixed to one side. She placed it and the knife in Orthus’s outstretched hand, watching with morbid curiosity as he folded it into a handkerchief and slipped it into his bag.
He cleaned his hands with a splash of water, offering no elucidation for his bizarre request. “There is an acquaintance of mine,” he began, “a dove, who has the unusual ability even among Linnaeans to commune with her source species. Her flock does surveillance and delivers messages on the mainland in exchange for her tutelage. They have a homing sense that allows them to return even over thousands of miles. ”
Finally, a straight answer. “What will it cost?”
He grimaced. “Unfortunately, she has a very Linnaean way of doing things. Her older sister, Freya, is a ranker. If you best her, you’ll gain an audience.”
“What’s the sister’s species?”
“She’s a harpy eagle.”
Shit. Ember pressed a sleeve to the spot of raw skin on her forehead, recalling the sickening crack when Roland had dropped the mantis shrimp on the hard-packed sand. As a snake, an eagle would be her natural predator. “That’s… not ideal. I’m not particularly talented on the battlefield.”
Orthus shrugged. “Then give up.”
Ember looked at him. His smirk told her that they both knew that giving up had never been—and would never be—an option. “There’s no other way?”
“There may be, but I don’t know it.”
“That’s the same as saying no.”
He leaned back and laughed. “You catch on quickly.”
Ember frowned. “But will the ranker accept my challenge? She has much to lose in a battle with an unrecognized fighter.”
“It’s possible. The fights are held in the utmost secrecy. Not many people know about her sister’s abilities, so when Freya is challenged, she typically accepts in order to meet her opponent.” He paused, seeing her skeptical expression. “Listen. She owes me a favor. I will mention your name to her, but it’s no guarantee.”
“Thank you so much,” Ember said, inclining her head. She stood up, handing him the cup.
He nodded. “Wait, I’ll call you a mount.”
She didn’t argue as he reached into his bag, pulling out a thin, bone-colored whistle. He blew into one end and it rang out like a bell, cutting through the surrounding forest. “She will come soon,” he said.
Ember watched Orthus out of the corner of her eye. As always, he was calm and composed, and his face betrayed nothing. Still, something pushed her to risk a question. “Orthus, my friend told me that you are very selective with your clients. I don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, but if I may know, why are you helping me?”
“Ah,” he ran a hand over his face, and Ember detected a glimmer of uncertainty.
I was right, it’s more than just kindness. She folded her arms, wracking her brain for a reason, but came up empty. “Have we met before?”
He shook his head. “It’s nothing like that. Let’s just say that you remind me very much of someone I knew when I was younger.”
He turned his head to look at a spot on the forest floor, and his expression did not yield itself to further questions. He took his canteen from his bag, shaking the remaining water over the fire. Smoke rose into the air as the embers sizzled, and Orthus kicked dust over them. Instantly, the air grew colder.
Only a moment passed in silence before fallen leaves crackled nearby, signaling the arrival of the mount. She emerged at Orthus’s side, partially obscured by the darkness. She was taller and lanker than the deer that Ember had seen before, and she held herself almost regally, with her short, fuzzy-looking antlers pointed toward the sky. She nuzzled Orthus as he petted her flank.
Ember approached cautiously. “She’s beautiful. I thought only the males had antlers.”
“Not reindeer,” he said. “Her name is Aria.”
Wordlessly, he kneeled, offering Ember his knee to stand on. She placed her foot carefully, swinging her other leg over the reindeer’s back. The white-tufted fur was softer and denser than she would have guessed, and she pushed her fingers deeper for warmth.
Orthus stood up, dusting off his pants. “Tell her where you want to go in simple terms, and she will understand.”
Ember looked at him. Their conversation had been anomalous, somewhere on the boundary between companionable and transactional. “Thank you,” she said, “I mean it.”
He waved her words off, but the corners of his thin lips quirked upward. He leaned forward, whispering something to the reindeer, and she started toward the trail at a leisurely pace.
“Don’t go swimming next time you need me,” he added from behind them.