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. 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.”
“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 to confront the owner of Blue Water Trading before he sailed, but men who’d until recently worked for him now guarded the stormcaster’s holdings and the stormcaster’s time.
On the day of sailing, Kadar stowed his belongings and strongboxes in the hold of the New Moon. The waterfront seethed with activity. Two more ships were moored in the harbor and another at the dock. Longshoremen were unloading cargo and stowing it in the warehouses that had once belonged to him. With deep bitterness, Kadar cast off and threaded his little smuggler through the near-shore moorings. When he’d emerged from the crowd, he raised the jib and made for the straits.
As he neared the Guardians, he could see someone standing atop one of them, high above the water, arms folded, the wind ripping at his cloak. Kadar recognized him as the stormcaster. Was he up there gloating as the New Moon sailed by? Or was he using some kind of magery to keep the passage open?
As the New Moon entered the straits, the stormlord’s hood fell back and sunlight glinted on his fair hair. Kadar blinked, looked again, squinting against the sunlight reflecting from stone.
It was Lucky Faris, very much alive, looking down at him. As their eyes met, Faris waved farewell. He wasn’t smiling. In fact, his expression could have been described as ruthless.
New Moon bucked, quivering under Kadar’s feet, forcing his attention forward. Ahead, the air rippled and swam as energy crackled between the Guardians. The sea churned as if some giant beast circled just beneath the surface. Kadar gripped the rail to keep from being pitched into the sea. New Moon was spinning, spinning as the water rose all around, pouring over the gunwales, sucking the ship down. Kadar spat out salt water and cursed the gods of sea and storm as he and his ship plunged beneath the surface.