Stormcaster

by Cinda Williams Chima

  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.

  14

  BASTON BAY

  It had been two years since Evan lost Destin Karn, gained his first ship, and won control of the port of Tarvos. Two years during which he’d been in constant motion, building his fleet and his Stormborn crew in the ports along the Desert Coast and taking them across the Indio to the hunting grounds in the wetlands.

  He couldn’t afford to dawdle. As soon as Celestine realized who the new stormlord was, she’d hounded him mercilessly at sea until the loss of three ships forced her to respect his growing power. After that, she came at him mostly through trickery, bribery, and subterfuge.

  Most of his crew members came from among the empress’s bloodsworn. He’d taken Cloud Spirit back from Celestine a year ago, when he’d spotted her off Gryphon Point with a full hold and a light crew, including his former shipmates Brody Baines, Abhayi Arya, and Teza Von. Evan had hoped to find Tully aboard, but his luck didn’t extend that far.

  It wasn’t difficult to persuade them to drink the brew of allegiance. The empress, it seemed, was not an easy mistress, and they’d not gone willingly into her service.

  Evan was glad to be back among familiar faces, though it was difficult sometimes to navigate the change in their relationship. In the space of four years he’d gone from being a kind of shipboard mascot to being “Lord Strangward,” the central deity of a Stormborn cult. All around him, he felt the constant pressure of avid eyes. It was exhausting.

  Despite frequent visits to ports in the wetlands, it had taken Evan the better part of a year to track Destin down in the capital at Ardenscourt. But when he’d reached out to him, there had been no response. When he persisted, Destin had sent a brief, curt note telling Evan to let go and move on, that any continuing correspondence would put them both in danger.

  No matter what kind of shine Evan wanted to put on it, the message was clear—they had no future, as far as Destin was concerned. A romance on the beach—was that all it had been? It came down to one kiss and a lot of longing—on his part, anyway. It seemed that Destin had been seeking a business partner and nothing more.

  And so Evan had done his best to move on. There were other, less complicated lovers in the ports on both sides of the Indio, boys who offered sweet kisses and warm embraces. Still, none could surprise and delight and challenge him like the soldier. Unfortunately, it seemed that Evan preferred complicated and dangerous to simple and sweet.

  And then, out of the blue, a note from Destin, this urgent request for a meeting.

  Evan knew that it could be a trap. The empress might have discovered the connection between them and used it against him. Back home, he’d already turned away one would-be lover who’d been sent to lure him into Celestine’s arms.

  Then again, the empress might have nothing to do with it. Evan’s growing fleet had hammered shipping along the wetland coast, sometimes attacking the ports themselves. The price on his head increased with every taking under his stormcaster flag, whether he was personally involved or not. The capture of the stormlord might be the win that Destin needed to get ahead at the wetland court.

  There was no way to justify taking this risk, and yet Evan couldn’t stay away. His crew couldn’t understand it, and made it clear they disapproved.

  And so he found himself in the Ardenine port of Baston Bay in the shrinking days just before Solstice.

  The city rose from the ocean’s edge like a fine lady whose skirts drag in the muck at the hem. Up above were the mansions of merchants and sea captains, with their towers and widow’s walks. Farther down, a mingle of modest houses and shops. And finally, down at the waterfront, the clicket-houses and taverns and gritty maritime businesses that served the shipping trade.

  As the major deepwater port serving the Ardenine capital and the down-realms, the Bay seethed with commerce of all kinds, licit and illicit. Evan had been in the city a number of times over the past two years—though, more often, he’d lain offshore, waiting for some of that commerce to come his way. The richest cargoes and the prime ships came and went through Baston Bay.

  This time, though, Evan wasn’t thinking about cargo. He was thinking of a boy who liked to build things. A boy with a wellspring of pain hidden behind his stony face, his eyes the only window into a dark history.

  The meeting was to take place at the Barrister’s Inn, one of those places where the name promises more than the establishment delivers. Evan couldn’t imagine that any self-respecting barrister would be seen in this hangdog little dive on the Heartfang River, just west of the harbor itself. Maybe that was why Destin had suggested it.

  And now, here Evan was, dressed in his best leathers and linen, Destin’s amulet resting against his chest, Destin’s dog sprawled like a warm rug over his feet. Evan, as nervous as any untouched groom on his wedding day, was surrounded by an unlikely crew of pierced and tattooed chaperones. The only other people in the taproom were the bartender and a table of seamen deep in their cups.

  Evan had been watching all the comings and goings through the front door, so he was surprised when one of the seamen heaved himself out of his chair and strolled over to their table. “Lieutenant Rocheford has asked you to join him in the back room,” he said in Common.

  “Lieutenant . . . Rocheford?”

  “Aye,” the suddenly sober seaman said. “He says the two of you used to go salmon fishing together when you were young. He’d like to buy you a drink.”

  Only Destin would know that, which meant either the meeting was on the level, or Destin had betrayed him in great detail.

  He kept secrets when you were together. There’s every reason to think that he’s still at it.

  Across the table, Brody Baines scowled and shook his head. The message was clear: Don’t fall for it.

  “Ah,” Evan said. “Now I remember.” He stood, and the others pushed back their chai
rs, too.

  “He wants to meet with you alone,” the seaman said, stepping into their path. “He says you’ll understand once you hear what he has to say.”

  “No, Captain,” Teza Von said quickly, putting his bulk in the way of the seaman. He made an impressive wall. “If he wants to talk to you, he can do it out here.” The rest of the crew muttered agreement.

  That was when Breaker burst out from under the table, charged across the room, and began flinging himself at the back door, bouncing off, and doing it all over again.

  Evan’s heart all but stopped, and then it seemed like he couldn’t get his breath. It was true. Destin was—he must be—just on the other side of that door. Evan had to take this chance. He had to.

  “Wait here,” he said to his crew. “I’ll call you in if it goes wrong.”

  “But what if we’re too late?” Jorani cried. She was the newest addition to the crew, and the youngest.

  “Make sure you’re not,” Evan said. He crossed to the door, nudged Breaker to the side with his foot, and opened the door. As soon as it opened wide enough, the dog shot past him and into the back room.

  And, there, in a chair by the fire, was Destin Karn, fending off Breaker the demon dog, who was doing his best to lick him in the face. When Destin looked up at Evan, Breaker finally made contact and then, apparently satisfied, curled up in Destin’s lap.

  Evan turned, nodded reassurance to his crew, then stepped across the threshold, pulling the door shut behind him. “I brought your dog back,” he said, leaning against the door.

  “So I see,” Destin said, stroking Breaker’s head. His face was concealed, then revealed by the light from the flickering flames. He was dressed entirely in black—the colors of the Ardenine King’s Guard. Evan wondered if that was intentional—meant to maintain a distance between them. “It seems that you have acquired the ability to raise the dead.”

  “Some of the dead, some of the time,” Evan said. He paused. “Are you with the King’s Guard now?” He gestured toward the uniform.