“Twenty-one thousand. But I may have more by the end of the week.”
Masterson raised an eyebrow. “Very well. So far that means fifty-one thousand.” He drummed his fingers on the table a moment. “I have heard this morning of some cautious inquiries about grain shipments to the Free Cities, so I’m beginning to think our young friend is on to something. I will occupy a position that will take the syndicate to one hundred thousand golden sovereigns.” He looked at his three partners. “If any of you would care to underwrite more, I will surrender up to a third of my position for a premium, depending on the price of wheat at the time.”
Lender said, “Gentlemen, your letters of credit?”
The three men reached into their coats and withdrew letters. Roo looked confused. “I’m having the gold brought here. It will arrive in a few minutes.”
The three men laughed. “Mr. Avery,” said Lender, “it is usual to keep one’s gold in an account at one of the countinghouses in the city, and to draw upon the funds with letters of credit.” He lowered his voice. “You’ll discover that here at Barret’s we deal in sums that would require several wagons of gold to carry if we were to require the gold actually to be present.”
Roo looked unsure but said, “I have no such account.”
Lender said, “I will help you establish one at one of the more reputable moneylending firms in the city. I will note that you intend to participate to the amount of twenty-one thousand golden sovereigns.”
Roo nodded. “Though if more arrives later this week, I may wish to purchase some of Mr. Masterson’s . . . position.”
Lender nodded and noted that.
“Then we are ready?” said Masterson.
Roo sat back. He had witnessed what was to come next on several occasions as he waited tables, not quite certain about the details of what was occurring, but never before had he had such a keen interest in what was happening.
Lender stood and walked to the rail overlooking the center floor and raised his voice. “Gentlemen, we have a request for an option on wheat. A new syndicate has formed, the Krondor Grain Traders Association. We close our books at the end of the week, best price position to a sum of one hundred thousand sovereigns, subject to revision.”
There was a slight buzz at the price, but then the noise in the room returned to normal. The five men sat, and after a half hour passed, a waiter arrived bearing a note. He handed it to Lender, who handed it to Masterson, who read it. He said, “We have an offer of fifty thousand bushels at two silvers per bushel delivered to the docks of Krondor in sixty days.”
Roo did the calculations in his head. That was ten thousand gold pieces. Hume asked, “What position?”
“Fifteen percent.”
Crowley laughed. “Let me guess. That was from Amested.”
Masterson laughed in return. “Yes.”
“He’s fishing,” said Crowley. “He thinks we’re onto something and wants to know what it is.”
He took the paper from Masterson and scribbled a note on it. “I’m telling him we’ll pay three percent for fifty thousand at four coppers per bushel, with a five-percent-per-week penalty for late delivery after sixty days.”
Masterson almost snorted his coffee. He laughed. “You’re going to make him very curious.”
“Let him wonder.”
Hume looked at Roo. “You’ll meet Amested and the others below in time. He’s always trying to find out who is doing what, without taking risks himself. If he thinks there’s a killing, he’ll try to buy the wheat now, at what we call future prices, and then hold it for us at an inflated price, after we’ve exhausted our options. He offered us a price he knew we’d say no to, and we just made a counteroffer that we know he’ll say no to.”
Roo said, “But why not offer him a price he’ll say yes to?”
Masterson said, “Your meaning?”
“I mean his coins are gold, as much as any man’s, and we don’t care if he makes or loses money in this as long as we make ours. If we can use this man to set a price and he comments upon it, and the word gets out . . .” Roo shrugged.
Crowley’ s leathery old face split in a wide grin. “You’re a shrewd young one, aren’t you, Avery?”
Masterson held out his hand, and Crowley handed back the note. Masterson balled it up and threw it away and indicated the young waiter should bring him new parchment and pen. When that was delivered, he wrote a note. “I’m telling him what we’ll pay, straight out. Ten percent against a price of one silver per bushel delivered at the docks in sixty days. We guarantee up to one million gold sovereigns with a security of one hundred thousand.”