“What do we do with the grain from Kesh?” said Masterson.
“We sell it to farmers for their stock, the army, whoever, as fodder. If we can merely break even on that grain, then the rest will make us wealthy beyond our ambition. Twenty-to-one, thirty-to-one—a hundred-to-one return on our investment.”
Masterson grabbed a pen and started scribbling. He worked in silence for nearly ten minutes. “Given what we’ve seen so far, we need at least another two hundred thousand sovereigns. Gentlemen, we need to attract more partners. See to it.”
Crowley and Hume hurriedly left the table and Masterson said, “Roo, I hope you’re correct.”
“What price do we need to reach to make this a can’t-fail proposition?”
Jerome Masterson laughed. “If the grain was free, I wouldn’t say it was ‘can’t fail.’ We need to store this grain, and if the shortage in the Free Cities doesn’t materialize, we may all be driving wagons for Jacoby and Sons before we’re done.”
“I’ll sail back to hell before that,” said Roo.
Masterson signaled a waiter and said, “Bring me my special cache of brandy and two glasses.” To Roo he said, “Now we wait.”
Roo drank the brandy, when it appeared and found it excellent.
Masterson looked at some of the pile of notes before him, and frowned.
“What is it?” asked Roo.
“This doesn’t make much sense. I think it’s a mistake. We’re being offered the same contract, basically, twice by the same group.” Then he nodded. “Ah, there it is. It’s easy to see why I made the mistake. It’s not the same group. It just looks like it.”
Roo turned his head, as if listening to something. “What did you just say?”
“I said this group looks like that group,” he said, pointing to the two notes.
“Why?”
“Because, save for one investor, they’re identical.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because they’re greedy?” suggested Masterson. He sighed. “Sometimes people offer contracts they have no intention of fulfilling, if they suspect the other party is going to go broke. If they take our money now, and we go under, they’ll just shrug when the contract is due. Whom do they deliver to? they’ll say.” He shrugged. “It may be word is spreading we’re in trouble.”
“Trouble,” repeated Roo. Then a thought occurred to him. After a while a plan formed in his mind. Suddenly he said, “Jerome, I have it!”
“What?” said Masterson.
“I know how we can not only turn this to our profit, but ruin those who are trying to ruin us.” He realized he was speaking over the top, and said, “Well, if not ruin them, certainly cause them pain.” Then he grinned. “But I do know how we’re going to make an obscene profit on this wheat business.” He looked Masterson in the eye. “Even if there is no shortage in the Free Cities.”
Masterson was suddenly very attentive. Roo said, “I guarantee it.”
14
Surprise
The rider reined in.
The farmers walking home from a long day tending their wheat were surprised as he turned his mount in their direction and approached. Without word they spread out and waited, for while it was peaceful times, the rider was obviously armed and one never knew what to expect of strangers.
The rider removed a large-brimmed hat, revealing himself to be a young man with curly brown hair. He smiled and it was also clear he was little more than a boy. “Greetings,” he called.
The farmers responded with salutations of their own, little more than grunts. They resumed walking, for these tired workingmen didn’t have time to spend in idle chatter with some bored noble’s son out for an evening ride.
“How goes the harvest?” asked the youth.
“Well,” answered one of the farmers.
“Have you set a price?” asked the rider.
At this all the farmers stopped walking again. The boy was talking about the two things that interested these men most in the world: wheat and money.
“Not yet,” said the farmer. “The brokers from Krondor and Ylith won’t be here for another two or three weeks.”
“How much do you want for your wheat?” asked the boy. Suddenly the farmers were silent, looking from one to another. Then one asked, “You look like no broker I’ve met. Are you a miller’s son?”
The young man laughed. “Hardly. My grandfather was a thief, if truth be told. My father . . . is in service to the Duke of Krondor.”
“What’s your interest?” asked another farmer.
“I represent a man who is seeking to buy wheat, but who is anxious to set a price now.”
That set the farmers to talking low among themselves. After a minute, the farmer who had first spoken said, “This is unusual. We’re not even sure of the yields yet.”
The boy looked from face to face. Finally he pointed to one man and said, “How long have you farmed this land?”
The man said, “My entire life. It was my father’s field before me.”