“Standard or enhanced negotiations?” Raspberry said, swinging the lechuza’s head on a foxgrape line while he walked.

“Standard. I don’t do this for personal gain,” Thornsong said.

“That’s not quite true,” said Raspberry.

“Anyhow, the lake tribe just lost three children to a monster. How’s it going to look if we stroll into the clearing together?”

“I’m a monster to you?” Raspberry stopped and pulled an exaggerated look of surprise.

Thornsong smiled.

“Not to me. But you have to admit - there aren’t many of you left. And you’re a bit intimidating. It would be an easy mistake to make.”

“If one of us is a monster, I’d say it’s you,” Raspberry said, walking on.

Thornsong didn’t disagree. His lips settled into a white, flat line, and he followed along behind.

“Changing the subject, if you don’t mind?” he said.

“Not at all,” said Raspberry, hacking a wad of phlegm at a squirrel bitching at the pair along the trail.

“How long have we been on the warpath together?”

“Four winters?”

“And in all that time - how have we not gotten you a decent weapon?”

“I didn’t plan to spend one winter following you around, let alone four,” Raspberry said.

“Following me around - interesting way of putting it. But the question stands - if we’re going to continue on this way, we have to do better for you than rotten logs and small boulders.”

“They are traditional,” he said.

“They are limited,” Thornsong said. “And I didn’t think tradition meant much to you anymore.”

“That is true,” Raspberry said. “What are you proposing?”

“Let me think on it,” he said. “The village is just ahead. Pass me the head - I’ll try to fill our packs quickly and then we’ll be off.”

Thornsong took the head and stepped into the clear, raising his hand in greeting. Raspberry caught a glimpse of the lake tribe - skinny, pathetic things, striped in grey mud - coming out of their reed huts to meet him.

He turned away and retreated into the trees.

Raspberry settled with his back against a gnarled old oak. He began plucking acorns off the ground, flicking the caps off, and popping them into his mouth.

For an eight-foot ape, he could make himself pretty inconspicuous if he wanted, Raspberry thought. His hair blended neatly with the tree bark, the leaves on the ground, the rich loam under the tree built up over hundreds of years.

I love sitting on the earth, he thought. He imagined roots stretching out of his hips and plunging into the ground, anchoring him to the spot. He imagined drawing water and food directly out of the soil, and turning his face to the sun to catch its light.

“Trees have it good,” he murmured. Through the trees, he could see the villagers gesticulating wildly at Thornsong and at the lechuza’s head, which he’d apparently tossed to the ground. Raspberry couldn’t make out what they were saying - it wasn’t even a given that they and Thornsong spoke the same language - but it looked suspiciously like a negotiation.

That was bad news, he thought. Folks overflowing with gratitude for your monster-slaying typically didn’t negotiate.

And Thornsong won’t press the issue, he thought. His conscience won’t let him.

He picked up another handful of acorns and shelled them one at a time.

Best eat now, he thought. I don’t think we’re filling our packs today.

“Feast or famine?” said Raspberry when Thornsong left the clearing.

Thornsong grimaced.

“They were grateful. Profoundly grateful. Three of their children are dead, after all. But it was a nasty winter and food is already short.”

“They have three fewer mouths now,” Raspberry said.

“That’s a little barbaric,” Thornsong said.

Raspberry shrugged.

“So, where to?”

“They gave me a lead,” he said. “Another opportunity.”

“I’ve never really understood why you call them that. It’s a job, or a quest, or maybe even an apology. But opportunity…?”

“We can debate that on the way. It’s going to be a long walk.”

“Where?”

“North. Skirt the edge of the lake, they said, and you’ll find an outflow that turns into a bog. Cross the bog-”

“You say that like it’s as easy as stepping over a log.”

“Cross the bog, they say, and the land will start to rise. The deciduous trees will thin. Keep going up till they turn to conifers. And then keep going up till the trees disappear entirely.”

“Sounds lovely. More cold. More snow.”

“We’ll turn south soon - but this is an opportunity I have to take.”

Raspberry picked an acorn shell out of his teeth and tossed it to the ground.

“And what do they say is way up there? What’s the opportunity worth more nights shivering in the snow?”

“An exile from their village, they say. Over the winter, his hut burned down. They found half of his wife. Still crusted with salt. He fled north.”

“He ate her?”

“The villagers said they assumed she’d fled the fire, too, until they smelled cooked meat. No one in the village had been able to get anything larger than a hare in weeks. And there was no bottom half.”

It was Raspberry’s turn to grimace.

“Humans are disgusting animals,” he said. “Never - not even during the worst Beringian winters - did we hear of an almas tribe turning to cannibalism.”

Thornsong drew his pack strings tight around his shoulders and smiled.

“Your people, the almas - they sound like saints.”

“They were proud,” Raspberry said. “Honorable.”

“Is that why they chased you out?”

Raspberry didn’t respond. He picked up his chin instinctively and squared off with Thornsong.

Thornsong dropped his chin and put his hands in the air.

“I’m joking, Razz. I’m sorry - that was too much.”

“You know that’s not what happened.”

“I know.”

“Let’s go.”

“Let’s.”