Stormcaster (Shattered Realms #3)(31)

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. He hoped that he wasn’t wasting his time.

“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.”