When Serpents Bargain

Mini Contos dos Reinos de Ferro — NQ 71

Konesta, late 610 AR

Bosun Balasar Grogspar chomped on his pipe and looked glumly out across the railing and past the docks to the riot of colors and activity that was Konesta, trading port of Zu. His oversized hands clenched the wooden rail so tightly it seemed it might break like a twig beneath his fingers. Captain Shae stepped alongside him, folded his arms, and silently waited, knowing whatever troubled the trollkin would either be brought up or not regardless of prompting.

The bosun took the corncob pipe from his mouth and jabbed the mouthpiece toward the city. “Shoulda sent a few seadogs with him,” he said. “Or gone myself.”

“You worried about Rockbottom?” Shae asked. “He can take care of himself. This city is his kind of place. Everywhere you turn, someone is trying to take your gold and give you something you didn’t want for it.”

“Still,” Grogspar grumped, “this land is filled with savages. Who knows what’s happening to him? He’s probably getting cooked alive in a pot or something.”

Lord Joln Rockbottom sat perched precariously on an elevated stool at a small table outside a low-domed, circular building of baked clay. They were in Torozon Square, where the more affluent traders made their deals. With two fingers he carefully pinched the small handle of a delicate porcelain cup and lifted the steaming black liquid to his lips. He sought to control his expression as he tossed it back with a swallow. He drank it like he would the cheapest and harshest of Five Finger’s uiske, scalding the back of his throat in the process.

“Delicious,” he choked out. The bitter flavor was growing on him, and he had come to enjoy the pleasant tingle it caused afterward in his fingertips and scalp. They brewed intense coffee here in Konesta, concentrating it down to an oily liquid that bore little resemblance to how the imported beverage was prepared back home, including how it came out of the galley on the Talion. They used a lot more water, for one thing. He had recently decided the only proper way to drink coffee was to add a generous dose of rum. Of course, rum helped everything. “Is this from the batch of roasted beans you’re selling me?”

The Zuese man across from him was a master trader named Hamidi. He clearly preferred to sip his beverage. He said, “Oh, no, Lord Rockbottom. The beans I set aside for our arrangement are from the finest crop in the last few years. It comes from far to the south, brought here at great expense. There were three fatalities to get it here. We reserve those beans for export only. What we are drinking is from a closer tribe. It is . . . adequate. That said, I don’t believe we have come to an agreement on my selling any beans to you, high quality or otherwise.”

Rockbottom grunted. “Fair enough.” He recalled something and pulled a silver pocket watch from his belt, placing it on the table between them. “A gift for you, Nokarr Hamidi: a device that marks the time, to honor this trade.” He slid it across, and Hamidi bowed his head in thanks. Rockbottom continued. “The terms are more than fair. I offer an opportunity to surpass your competitors. I offer an alternative method for you to secure Khadoran and Ordic goods that would otherwise come at a much higher premium.”

Hamidi was a large and wide man. His girth suggested a life of comfort, though he carried his weight in a way that suggested more strength than softness, with a stout barrel chest and thick arms. Everything else about his demeanor gave the impression of someone harmless and meek. His face was cherubic in its roundness, and his default expression was an innocent but knowing smile. His garments were all of colorful pastels, a loose-fitting robe seemingly assembled of lengths of silken cloth tied in a complex arrangement. His skin was a darker brown than the majority of Konesta’s people, who were generally olive skinned, though there was a startling variety to the humanity evident here. It was one of the reasons men like Hamidi were so important. It was they who brokered the deals between all manner of Zuese merchants and foreigners like Rockbottom.

Hamidi had been silent for a time, staring placidly back at the dwarf. Then he said, “I find it strange that the Khadorans and Ordsmen would risk other agreements by diverting their goods through you. Or is what you offer me — how do they say — boxes that ‘dropped off a boat’ before landing in your cargo hold?”

Rockbottom gave him an offended look. “You wound me,” he said. Hamidi’s serene expression didn’t change. The dwarf added, “I will admit our ability to acquire unusual and unclaimed cargo from a wide variety of origins is one of the advantages of working with the Talion. However, in this case the transaction is entirely above board. Legitimate.” He added the last as he had learned not every idiom worked with the Zuese. Then again, Hamidi was more fluent than most and seemed to be versed in a staggering number of languages.

The large man poured himself another tiny cup of oily coffee. “So, I will not find unfriendly fellows bearing unusual foreign weapons on my doorstep seeking purloined wealth? Because I tell you, it would put a severe strain on our friendship, which is of great value to me.”

He waved dismissively. “Nothing like that, no.” Rockbottom accepted a refill, though he had to wonder if there was any peril to his health to keep drinking it. He said, “It is a mutually

beneficial exchange. I also want you to consider this a first step in a broader arrangement. I have friends in Rhul, my homeland, who are eager to trade with Zu, and who have yet to establish a presence here. There are as-yet untapped markets you and I could break open.”

Hamidi’s eyebrows raised noticeably for the first time as he considered this. Rockbottom kept his own expression guarded as he began to discuss the details of what he offered and what he hoped to gain. He hoped the sweat on his brow would be taken as a genuine discomfort with the heat and humidity in Konesta and not an attack of nerves.

He vividly recalled his less friendly meeting several days before at the Mateu Merchant House compound. His contact there had made menacing suggestions about what might happen to him if his deals fell through. Rockbottom was able to assure them quite honestly that he would go to the ends of Caen to avoid that. From House Mateu, he had negotiated for a shipment of simple alchemical substances created by the Order of the Golden Crucible that were highly valued here, though technically their trade was forbidden. He was also acquiring specialized munitions, which he pretended were for his own use. In truth, those were slated to go to the Khadorans.

Next, he had an even less pleasant conversation with a Kossite lackey of the kayazy-run Oligovich & Kovář Kontinental Trade. The man’s bratya bodyguards had not bothered to disguise their threats, promising to do creative things with his innards if he double-crossed them. Rockbottom’s relationship with this group was tenuous and new. He had yet to earn their trust, and for some baffling reason they didn’t trust his reputation. From the Khadorans, he sought a mixed shipment of rare northern furs and ambergris.

For a moment, he had thought the weasel-like Kossite would take him captive instead of agreeing to his terms. Both his Ordic and Khadoran contacts had enjoyed reminding him of the sizable bounty on his head and how their respective governments would expect his arrest. In the end, the promise of greater gains won out. Rockbottom knew he was digging a deep hole for himself, particularly as he had yet to inform Captain Shae of what he was doing.

For his part, Hamidi had been involved in his own delicate arrangements prior to the meeting in the Central District of Konesta. The trade between the Immorese and the peoples of Zu required patience and time. It was up to individuals like Hamidi to ensure the pieces came together. Outside of a few stable contracts for staple trade goods, any new deal required a complex dance as the buyers put in their requests and suppliers were wooed and persuaded. This dance was Hamidi’s life’s work.

A week ago, Hamidi had been escorted in proper style by Konesta guardsmen on a two-day march south through the jungle hills. The jungles were filled with hazards, but fortune was with him, and he arrived without incident to his rendezvous with a wizened woman of the Klaymaru tribe named Yuisa. Both he and Yuisa had been carried in boxlike divans by porters. They sat comfortably within their respective conveyances, sitting on cushions, the openings curtained by colorful silks so they could be brought close together and speak without actually seeing one-another directly, as was the Klaymaru custom.

After formal greetings in Memaloose, Yuisa said, “Do I understand you are dealing with a twisted dwarf?” At his noise of assent, she added, “I am surprised you are willing to endure the company of such a being. Is it true he is missing a leg?” Her voice conveyed her revulsion.

“It is true,” he confirmed. “I know not whether he was born disfigured or lost the leg in adulthood. No matter. One -legged and stunted as he is, I know he will pay well.” He also felt disgust at the thought of Rockbottom’s impairment. Those maimed in this way would be relegated to begging in Konesta and in other parts of Zu might have been killed or exiled from their tribes. There were some tribes, such as the eastern Lovani, who kept and cared for such people. But even they would never have put such a man to the public indignity of negotiating in Konesta. “Outlanders will be outlandish,” he said, a common aphorism.

“Well, you’re in luck,” Yuisa said. “We had a bad year. The crop was terrible; we lost a third of our plants to disease. Those left are struggling, and we had to roast the beans black. We would dispose of them if not for the appetites of your outlanders, who cannot taste the difference.”

“Not all of them are clueless, but I believe this one will be none the wiser. Coffee is not his usual trade. His ignorance is our gain.” Another of his favorite sayings.

“So be it. We will trade,” Yuisa said.

Hamidi drew his curtain aside and bowed low, letting her see him but allowing her the courtesy of avoiding his eyes. She extended a single hand palm-upward through the opening in hers. A vow.

On his way back to Konesta, Hamidi thought of the dwarf, the odd creature who called himself Joln Rockbottom. He had at least honored their customs and followed the proper steps to conduct trade. Hamidi had worked with him several times before and had found him to be a cunning and reliable outsider. He was also a pirate — a thief and murderer on the seas, a man despised by his own people. There were risks in dealing with such individuals. But to Hamidi, this was no concern. All Immorese were untrustworthy. All were criminals of one stripe or another — thieves, liars, killers. They were reprehensible, but they had valuable goods.

It was inevitable that additional stipulations would arise at their meeting. The Immorese felt compelled to hold back, even when it hurt their leverage. They were a nest of poisonous vipers. Dealing with such serpents had made Hamidi wealthy. He had heard the dwarves were the most honorable of Immorese, which seemed unbelievable, if Rockbottom was their exemplar.

Hamidi was currently highest among the nokarr of the Upalar dynasty, those honored and feared master traders who had brought respect to their ancestors through shrewd negotiation. It fell to him and his counterparts among the other five surviving Komaran dynasties to expose themselves to the perils of Immorese customs for the betterment of Zu. Hamidi took on more peril than most — he had reached his position by being willing to take risks.

It was his responsibility to protect the privacy of Zu’s interior peoples, especially the elders and prophets of the Yonar and Wyrgu tribal alliances, who staunchly refused contact with outlanders. These insular groups required multiple layers of

intermediaries, seeing even the Upalar and other Komarans and Konestans as irredeemably compromised. To them, Hamidi’s people were tainted by lortoxis — literally “unthinkable words,” ideas and thoughts that imperiled the soul. By those beliefs, any who were tainted and died without extensive cleansing rites might arise again as a cursed thing that hunts the living. Hamidi’s people did not share these beliefs but humored their clients and conducted the cleansing rites periodically, happy to serve as the face of their lands and peoples. Among the Upalar, trade was a vital aspect of faith, and each deal was a sacrament with Jolhuna, the water-mother. The greater the profit, the more the goddess smiled on them.

So it came to pass that Hamidi sat across from Rockbottom, and each drank his coffee. Despite Hamidi’s words to the contrary, the refined liquid they drank here was far superior to what the dwarf was purchasing. Hamidi shuddered to imagine the flavor of the brewed swill he was giving to them. The Immorese would swallow it, as they did everything else.

Hamidi looked down at the strange silver item he had been given as a trade-gift. He touched it and could feel something moving rhythmically inside. He had to restrain the impulse to jerk his hand away. The Immorese were skilled metalworkers, and he had no doubt this item was a fine product of their craft. A worthy gift, but also deeply profane, a bedeviled machine. It would be difficult to find a market for it, though there was a small southern tribe known for its fondness of exotic items and a special reverence for finely worked silver. There was also the Sy-quetra, “the counting ones,” a mysterious cult who dwelled underground and spent their time unraveling mathematical puzzles and creating their intricate calendars. They had no fear of machines, though Hamidi found them off-putting.

He looked across to Rockbottom, quashing his loathing. The dwarf was dressed ridiculously, wearing heavy layers of stifling garments through which he was already sweating. Stains were evident under his arms, and his face was damp. At least his peg-leg could not be seen from here, obscured by the table. Hamidi asked, “What else? Other than coffee and these crafted goods, what else did you want? Come on, there must be more.”

The dwarf frowned and tilted his head, as if trying to recall if he had forgotten anything. He said slowly, “That covers the bulk of it, though I expect the gold bullion you demand places me at a loss. The market for coffee is currently weak. A small disparity, but one I cannot afford if I am to meet my margins. It should be trivial to correct the balance. Can you provide one ton of cast-off lead and flawed quartz from your mines? I recall you said you had this in abundance.”

Hamidi did not allow his expression to change but felt a start of surprise. What the dwarf asked for was essentially heavy and useless refuse, an inevitable byproduct of copper mining. He had taken a sample last time, explaining it as a “scientific curiosity.” There were some limited uses for the lead, though it was difficult and dangerous to refine. His instincts told him something larger was at play. “What do the Immorese want with it?” He did not expect an honest answer, but even lies could be useful. If there was a market in these minerals, he had to know.

The dwarf shrugged and said, “You’ll recall I brought some back after my last visit. An alchemist in Mercir wanted to test the sample’s properties. She asked for more. Such scientists will sometimes pay for what others would deem trash. I think I can make a modest profit. This will translate into gains for you as well.”

“Could this become an ongoing exchange, at higher volume?” Hamidi asked. “I can secure a greater supply. I can give you two tons instead of the one you requested today, at no added cost.” He dangled this last offer as a test.

The one-legged pirate frowned and adjusted his wide-brimmed headgear. He said, “That’s more than I need, but perhaps I can find a use for it. I’ll check with my alchemist. It may well be this is a niche market you and I can exploit. There are other alchemists, in other cities. The return on this trade is probably very limited. Don’t get your hopes up.”

Rockbottom’s heart was beating quickly, and he hoped his face was not flushed, though if so the heat might cover it. He should have refused the added ton, but he had found it impossible to say the words. Hopefully his reluctance had covered his eagerness. There was a gleam in Hamidi’s eye that suggested he knew Rockbottom was downplaying his need.

The placid Zuese said, “Even a limited return can be a profit. Perhaps it would be good for me to secure access to this waste, just in case.”

Rockbottom sighed and shrugged. “If you wish, though I cannot promise it will be worth your time. I don’t suppose there is anything to lose by doing so, in case there emerges a broader interest.” He mentally chewed on whether he should say anything else that would betray his interest, weighing risks versus reward.

The notion of securing a virtual monopoly excited him, and he knew Hamidi also lived for such opportunities. He still felt it was vital he not reveal just how important these minerals truly were. There would be ample buyers who could outbid him. He had no illusions that he could maintain control for long, even in the best of circumstances. The Ordic merchants would likely figure it out first, but the Khadorans would not be far behind. The fact was the mines from which Konesta derived its abundant copper were also rich in the rare minerals required for steamjack cortex manufacture. There appeared to be no native use for these metals and crystals, other than as decorative fixtures that did not carry much value. It was a find the Khadorans would certainly kill for. Even a temporary monopoly could reap tremendous wealth before they lost control of the market. The fact was Rockbottom had rather staggering debts to repay. He had set many plates to spinning, all about to come crashing down on his head.

“I will make the move to secure the supply, just in case,” Hamidi said with his usual smile.

Rockbottom had to risk it. He said, “The margin on this trade, if one even exists, will be very narrow. It will be vital, if we are to bother at all, to control the price. Toward this end, can I secure right of first refusal? Not that I think anyone else will even be interested, but just in case. If you and I serve as the only point of contact, I can ensure it remains profitable.”

“Maybe,” Hamidi said, his smile vanishing. One of his thick fingers traced a pattern on the tabletop. He looked up and said, “There is something else you can help me with in exchange. A simple request.”

“Oh?” Rockbottom asked. Perhaps he had revealed his hand too soon.

“There is a personage, an old family friend, who desires to see Immoren. I have told him I might be able to make this dream a reality. He is in his twilight years and has an unsavory interest in exotic experiences. I do not judge, as others might. But as you know, this is an unusual request. It would need to be handled discreetly. His family would be shamed if they knew his plans. An excuse has been arranged for an extended absence, and I can arrange for him to reach your ship unseen.”

“And where would I be taking him? I’m not a guide. Our ship can’t afford to sail around the coast sightseeing.”

“Nothing like that. He has a specific destination in mind. He intends to be brought to — what is the city, the name that sounds like a hand?”

“Five Fingers?” Rockbottom asked, provoking a happy nod. “Who is this passenger?”

Hamidi leaned closer and said, “His name is Golosh Torozon. I tell you this as a courtesy, as we are old friends. If you agree to do this, our deal is set. I will gladly include the right to first refusal on the mining refuse supply. I will deal only through you for now. We can determine a time frame after your next visit. The Torozon family is important, as I suspect you know, and so is Golosh’s safety. It is vital he reach his destination and that no word of this reaches other ears, especially agents of the Mercarian League or House Mateu.”

It was an unprecedented request. There was no reason to suspect anyone in Immoren would mind the arrival of someone from Zu. Indeed, he would probably become a celebrity, given the high general curiosity about the southern continent. But Rockbottom knew the Zuese could not bear the idea of leaving their lands, and he had never heard one express an interest in going to Immoren. His family name was indeed known — this very square was named after the Torozon clan. Rockbottom knew little about them, except they were important and wealthy. Surnames like this were only adopted by the direct lineage of a ruling family. If he were asked to predict what this all meant, he would have wagered on some sort of secret arrangement between Konestan leadership and King Baird Cathor II of Ord.

This made smuggling Golosh Torozon a very dangerous proposition. Rockbottom felt exposed and found himself looking around them at the nearest faces, wondering if any might be spies. Any Immorese like himself would have stood out, but that didn’t mean House Mateu or the League might not have local agents. He had to put his faith in Hamidi, who must have taken some measures to secure their meeting.

He realized he was biting a thumbnail and stopped. Looking up at Hamidi’s broad face, he nodded once. “Agreed. The contract is sealed.” He extended his hand, all the while wondering how he would explain any of this to Captain Shae. He put his faith in the hope that if the Mercarian League didn’t want it to happen, that might make it worth doing, so far as they were concerned.

Hamidi took his hand lightly in his own. It was not a Zuese custom, but one they had learned to emulate. He said, “A pleasure dealing with you, as always.” His smile did not touch his eyes. In that moment, Rockbottom had no idea which of them had gotten the better end of this deal. He couldn’t escape the feeling that he had just put his head in a noose.