A thought kept surfacing in his mind, despite his efforts to keep it buried. Brody had said that the empress was a blood mage, that she forced people to drink her blood and they became her slaves. What did that mean? It was like Breaker had come back to life after he bit Evan on the arm. Was it possible that the dog had swallowed some blood? Was it possible that there was something about Evan’s blood that . . . had a healing quality? Or even . . . raised the dead? Or the nearly dead?
No. That was revolting. That was just . . . wrong.
Maybe it only works on the dying or newly dead, he thought. Maybe it only works on dogs. Maybe you’ve lost your mind.
Maybe this whole thing is a nightmare, Evan thought, with a flicker of hope. Maybe I’ll wake up and have my life back. It didn’t help that he was getting a little woozy from loss of blood. He wanted nothing more than to lie back down on the bed and sleep.
No. He needed to leave this place, and soon. He didn’t want to be found here, in this blood-spattered place, with a glowing dead dog.
It took just a few minutes more to finish wrapping his arm and pack up the rest of his belongings. Breaker watched him, following him from room to room, looking alert and well and years younger. In a way, it was horrible, but in another way, it was reassuring. At least he’d managed to save somebody. When he finally walked out the door, Breaker went with him.
One day, Evan swore, he would return Destin’s dog to his rightful owner.
13
A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER
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.