As Evan probed with his fingers, Breaker reached up and licked the blood from his arm. Then he leapt onto the bed and settled in next to Evan like he was his best friend in the world. He kept twisting around, trying to get at Evan’s arm.
To tell the truth, Breaker looked better than he had in a long time. It was like he had a glow about him. A familiar glow.
A shudder ran through Evan. Now he knew what it reminded him of—the way the crew on the empress’s ship had glowed. Only Celestine’s crew looked almost . . . purplish, and Breaker had a reddish glow.
A thought kept surfacing in his mind, despite his efforts to keep it buried. Brody had said that the empress was a blood mage, that she forced people to drink her blood and they became her slaves. What did that mean? It was like Breaker had come back to life after he bit Evan on the arm. Was it possible that the dog had swallowed some blood? Was it possible that there was something about Evan’s blood that . . . had a healing quality? Or even . . . raised the dead? Or the nearly dead?
No. That was revolting. That was just . . . wrong.
Maybe it only works on the dying or newly dead, he thought. Maybe it only works on dogs. Maybe you’ve lost your mind.
Maybe this whole thing is a nightmare, Evan thought, with a flicker of hope. Maybe I’ll wake up and have my life back. It didn’t help that he was getting a little woozy from loss of blood. He wanted nothing more than to lie back down on the bed and sleep.
No. He needed to leave this place, and soon. He didn’t want to be found here, in this blood-spattered place, with a glowing dead dog.
It took just a few minutes more to finish wrapping his arm and pack up the rest of his belongings. Breaker watched him, following him from room to room, looking alert and well and years younger. In a way, it was horrible, but in another way, it was reassuring. At least he’d managed to save somebody. When he finally walked out the door, Breaker went with him.
One day, Evan swore, he would return Destin’s dog to his rightful owner.
13A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER
It seemed that Omari Kadar, streetlord of the Tarvos waterfront, had been abandoned by the gods. First, an unusually fierce storm roared ashore at Tarvos, lashing the shoreline with wind and waves and tides higher and stronger than ever before. By the time it was over, the narrow passage between the Guardians was completely blocked with silt and sand, so that no ship could pass in or out. At great personal expense, Kadar sent a flotilla of small boats and barges out to open the passage. But right after they’d finished, another storm blew in and filled it again. Again, he cleared it, and again, it filled.
Ship’s masters began to avoid putting in at Tarvos, since they never knew when they might get out again. Kadar’s warehouses sat empty, his longshoremen idling away the time in his harborside taverns until they ran out of money. Then the taverns sat empty, too. The once-thriving harbor withered on the vine. Sailing ships peppered the bay like skeletons, their sails stowed, their masts clawing at the sky.
Maybe it was time to cut his losses. There seemed to have been a change in the weather, and the tides, and the currents that had rendered Tarvos useless as a port. Kadar could not afford to dredge the passage with every new moon. It would destroy his margin completely.
Finally, he heard some good news. An agent for a company called Blue Water Trading had been buying up buildings, dockage, and ships from the few, other than Kadar, who owned property at the port. If this company was foolish enough to throw good money after bad, Kadar would accommodate it. He sent word to the trader, requesting a meeting.
The meeting was set for after dark at one of Blue Water’s newly acquired warehouses—the one closest to the dock owned by the late Denis Rocheford. At least, Kadar assumed that Rocheford was dead. Neither he nor the pilot Lucky Faris had been seen since the wetlanders carried them off. Their fancy ketch remained moored at Rocheford’s pier, and he’d seen no sign of activity around the cottage they’d occupied.
He’d rid himself of a potential rival and claimed Rocheford’s dockage and ship at the same time. He’d made himself a tidy reward—enough money to rebuild the charred New Moon. If there had been a way to retain the talents of Lucky Faris, it would have been perfect.
Now, the recent storms had made his holdings nearly valueless. He’d have to salvage what he could and move on.
The guards at the warehouse door insisted that Kadar leave his personal guard outside. Kadar told himself that it didn’t matter. They were men of business, after all, and Kadar was the sole predator in the port of Tarvos.
The trader sat at a desk in a dark corner of the warehouse, the light behind him so that his face was obscured in shadow. He wore a loose, hooded garment similar to those worn by desert horselords. On his forefinger, he wore a heavy gold ring.
“I’m Omari Kadar,” Kadar said.
“I know.” The trader didn’t offer tay, didn’t adhere to any of the usual niceties, didn’t even offer his name.
“What shall I call you?” Kadar said, shifting his weight.
“My crew calls me the Stormcaster,” the trader said.
“Stormcaster?” Kadar tilted his head, unsuccessfully trying to get a glimpse of the trader’s face. “That’s a pirate name,” he said, fishing for more information.
“Trader, smuggler, pirate, dock boss—what’s the difference?” The trader motioned Kadar to the single visitor chair. The voice seemed younger than it should have been for the business that Kadar hoped to do, and the claim of the stormcaster title was pretentious.
