“How’d you do,” said Ilsa uncertainly.
Jorn was short and broad-shouldered, with lumpy features set into a wide face. His skin was medium brown, but with a cold, blue undertone. Like every Oracle Ilsa had met, he looked like he needed a jug of cream. His gunmetal hair was fine, and thinning on top, but his eyebrows were unconcerned, cutting across his face like unkempt hedgerows in the throes of spring.
He was dressed in a burnt orange robe of a luscious material, and he repeatedly pushed up the sleeves as he crossed the room and scooped Ilsa’s hands into his. She sucked in a breath but didn’t pull away, even as Fyfe’s lips tightened.
“How lovely you are, Miss Ravenswood,” Jorn purred, his white eyes roaming over her. “Truly the fairest young lady I have met in a long while. It would be a crying shame to deliver your head to the blessed Seer.”
Ilsa snatched her hands back, her every muscle tensing, ready to shift. Fyfe warily drew her behind him, but the action only made Jorn laugh.
“I jest, Master Whitleaf. We both know you wouldn’t be here if I concerned myself with the petty interests of the factions.” He crossed to one of the silk-upholstered chairs, spread out in it like a cat, and sighed theatrically. “I cannot abide all this pretence. It makes me weary. So let’s not pretend my people’s fictitious quarrel with you is anything but.”
“Why?” said Ilsa before she could think. “Why’re they pretending we kidnapped someone when they know it ain’t true?”
“Because you do nothing for them and need nothing from them. In this city, fairest, that makes you their enemy. Please.” He gestured to the chairs, and Ilsa and Fyfe sat. “How may I be of service?”
“It’s a rather delicate matter,” said Fyfe.
“Boy, breathing is a delicate matter in this starsforsaken city.”
“I’m finding that,” muttered Ilsa.
“We’d like to know what you can tell us about the missing Seer’s apprentice Cogna.”
A slow smile spread over Jorn’s face. “That’s not cheap information,” he said, greed flashing even in the emptiness of his gaze.
Fyfe frowned. “We’re not asking for your divination. We hoped, as a fellow Oracle of influence, you would know them, or about them at least.”
Jorn’s expression hardened. He jerked his chin at Ilsa. “You’re new to this city,” he said to her. “Your friend does you a disservice by not leading by example; by trying to grift me. So take it from me instead, fairest. Learn the value of everything, and do not give it away if it can be sold.”
He spoke the last to Fyfe, who narrowed his eyes right back at the Oracle. “I should have known,” he said.
“We din’t bring no money,” said Ilsa.
“Coin is cheap,” Jorn replied scornfully. “Tell me, fairest… who is your most powerful friend?”
“I ain’t sure I know that.”
Jorn laughed again. It was a grumbling, spiteful sound. “It is dangerous to spend too much time with Whisperers,” he said, leaning so far towards her that Ilsa was sure he would fall from his chair. “They’ll tell you all knowledge is theirs for the taking because they can peer inside your weak little mind. It flatters them and it flatters you. Your very own history is vaster than what you’re keeping up here.” He tapped his temple. “It lives after you die. It survives your children’s children’s children and everyone who knew them. And I can See it all. If I want to know who your most powerful friend is, I will search your life and the lives woven with yours, and I’ll decide the truth for myself. You only need to give me your hand.”
If this was the price to be paid, Ilsa wasn’t fooled; it was more costly than Jorn was letting on. His power was formidable, if his own assessment was to be believed. What else might he See while riffling through Ilsa’s history, and her future too, if he chose? Was it dangerous to give so much away? Ilsa’s instincts told her yes, and her past agreed unequivocally. This wasn’t a questions and answers game – it was a piece of herself in exchange for a chance to find her brother. She cast a glance at Fyfe, who shrugged non-committally. It was Ilsa’s call.
“If coin’s so cheap, what’s the information worth to you?” Ilsa looked pointedly around the room. “You din’t do this place up so nice with secrets.”
Jorn gave her an assessing look that dragged on for an age. “You’d never hear an Oracle ask such a question. What is information worth,” he scoffed. “What is knowledge worth. You have no idea how little you understand, girl. You want to know what I will earn from your information? Something to pay for my silk and tobacco? For all my heart’s desires? Lovely” – he spread his hands wide – “knowledge is what I desire. It’s the most valuable thing on this earth, and here I am, giving it away for free.”
“So you ain’t gonna tell nobody what you learn from me?”
Jorn sat still as a cat, and he smiled. “I make no such promises.” Ilsa let out a sigh of exasperation, which Jorn dismissed with a hand. “I’ve given you my terms. And I’m very close to concluding that you’re here to waste my time. So what’ll it be?”
Ilsa was less sure than ever, and yet she knew what she would do. She had known it before Jorn set his terms; before she stepped through the door. Jorn was calling her bluff, because nobody needed an Oracle’s Sight to see how she was growing desperate to catch up with her brother.
“Alright.”
Jorn took her offered hand and bowed his head in concentration. There was silence as he pried through her life; a silence in which Ilsa and Fyfe tried
