“What can I do for you?” The voice was familiar, but Kadar couldn’t place where he’d heard it before.
“You should be asking what I can do for you,” Kadar said, meaning to seize control of the negotiation.
“It’s your meeting,” the trader said, shrugging, as if not particularly interested in what Kadar had to say.
“I understand that you’re buying up property here at the waterfront,” Kadar said. “Clearly you’re a man who sees what others overlook—an opportunity.”
“What I see is cheap property to be had on favorable terms,” the trader said. “Given current conditions here at the harbor, it’s a risk, but one that I am in a position to take.”
Who had taught this stripling the language of commerce? Something about his manner of speech reminded Kadar of the scurrilous Denis Rocheford.
“You are fortunate, then, because I happen to have some waterfront property I’m willing to offer up at the right price,” Kadar said. “I . . . ah . . . mean to diversify my portfolio.”
“Ah,” the trader said. “Unfortunately, you are late to the table. I have as much exposure here as I can afford.”
Kadar licked his lips. This wasn’t going as planned. “I believe that when you see what I have to offer, you will realize that it represents an opportunity rather than a risk.”
“The only way that it would be an opportunity is if it were available at a rock-bottom price,” the trader said, throwing down the gauntlet. “This port is dying. These warehouses, the pier, the shops and taverns—they all rely on shipping, and there is no shipping.”
“It may be slow right now,” Kadar said, “but no doubt—”
“It is not slow, it is stopped,” the trader said. “Not only that, the empress continues to expand southward along the coast. Why should I invest in a place that might be overrun next year?”
Why, indeed?
“So,” Kadar said, his anger rising, “it seems that we cannot—”
“Show me what you have,” the trader said, “and I’ll determine whether I can make an offer or not.”
At the end of an hour, Kadar had sold off all of his holdings in Tarvos, including the berth owned by Denis Rocheford, for pennies on the dollar. Whenever Kadar tried to negotiate, the trader glanced up at a clock on the shelf on the wall, drummed his fingers on the table, and looked toward the door.
At least I’ll come away with something, Kadar kept telling himself. Something is better than nothing, and at least the trader has money in hand. The deal was sweetened by the thought that this arrogant boy stood to lose every penny in the end.
When everything was signed off on, and the money stowed away in Kadar’s money belt, the trader sat back in his chair, templing his fingers together. “I’m curious about the last mooring, the one occupied by the two-masted ketch. According to the records I have, that berth is owned by someone named . . . Rocheford?”
Kadar cursed silently. How could he have known that this trader had researched these waterfront titles? And if he had, why then had he proceeded with the purchase?
Because he got it for next to nothing, that’s why. And a disputed title is worth more than no title at all.
“That’s right, it did belong to a merchant named Rocheford,” Kadar said smoothly, “but he’s gone. Some wetlanders came looking for him. Some kind of family trouble.”
“You spoke to them?” There was an edge to the trader’s voice that hadn’t been there before.
“Yes,” Kadar said. “The wetlanders were offering a reward for information about a man matching Rocheford’s description.”
The trader went very still, his expression invisible within the shadow of the hood. “Then what happened?”
Why so much interest in a story that was over?
“He agreed to go back with them for good. Before he left, he sold the wharf and the ship to me.” He paused. “Don’t worry—he won’t be coming back.”
“I see,” the trader said. “What are your plans?”
“I own a coastal trader, the New Moon,” Kadar said. “Once you’ve dredged out the passage, I intend to travel north, buying up property elsewhere.”
“Why would you assume that I’ll open the passage?” the trader said.
“You own this port now,” Kadar said, with a smug smile, figuring it was safe to show his hand now that the deals were done. “If you can’t figure out a way to keep the straits open, you’ll lose everything.”
“That’s true,” the trader admitted. He stood. “We’re finished here, I think.”
The man’s calm unnerved Kadar. Was there something he’d overlooked?
No. Couldn’t be. He’d made the best deal possible given the circumstances. He was lucky to get out now.
Two days later, another storm blew in. This one drove high seas through the straits, then ended in a riptide that cleared the harbor mouth of the silt and sand that had made it impassable. One by one, the ships still trapped in the harbor set sail for the open sea. Before they left, the man who called himself “the Stormcaster” met with each of the ship’s masters, informing them that he was the new harbormaster and guaranteeing them a deep, clear channel, reasonable dockage fees, and a willing dockside crew.
He also met with the idled longshoremen who had not yet departed for more prosperous ports. He persuaded them to stay with promises of future work and a small retainer in the meantime.
Omari Kadar watched all this with dismay, and the growing conviction that he’d been had.
But that was impossible. How could the trader have known that the blockage would clear?
Unless he’d had a hand in it. Could it be that “stormcaster” was more than a brag and a pirate title? Should Kadar have seen this coming?
In the past, the Carthian stormlords had ruled the seas along the Desert Coast. Literally. But the last stormlord had been ineffective, to say the least, the proof being that the empress had killed him and taken his ship.
Kadar resolved to ask questions as he traveled from harbor to harbor. Maybe someone had heard of this stormcaster before.
He’d hoped
