The Price of Business

The next day.

Peter Gershkovich wasn't a local. He had come from the distant Ross Empire to study advanced technology in Logris.

He spoke with almost no accent, only occasionally letting a few rolled syllables slip out. When he was nervous, for instance, or angry, or-as now-cornered downstairs first thing in the morning.

"Good morning, senior!" Gordon greeted him.

"What?" Peter tugged at his red-and-green scarf, his eyes like a bear's on discovering a shoddily made trap. "Want me to buy you breakfast? Forget it."

"No, this has nothing to do with breakfast."

"That's terrifying." Peter turned away. "At least I know what breakfast costs."

Gordon followed close on Peter's heels.

"I want to sell Deepclaw Demons. I know you're familiar with the Old Fish Market."

Peter froze. He turned to look Gordon over, his gaze moving from Gordon's face to his hands, then behind him, checking that there wasn't a dripping Deepclaw Demon being dragged along.

"You found some dead Aberrants? How many?"

"They're alive. Enough that, if they invaded our school, every student would have to fight four on average."

Peter was duly impressed.

"Did you start a war between the Deepclaw Demon empire and this country?" he asked.

"Buy me breakfast and I'll tell you."

Peter fell silent.

Then he spat out something in the language of the Ross Empire. Gordon couldn't understand it. But judging by those rolled consonants, brimming with the friendliness of its people, he probably wasn't wishing Gordon a long and happy life.

Ten minutes later, Gordon had successfully won himself an exceptionally lavish breakfast.

[Soft-boiled eggs. Remind you of your money: it existed, but slipped away.]

[Fried beans. No dreams, only calories.]

[Black pudding. Despite the name... it's actually pig's blood and oats.]

[Delicious coffee. A life without it is a life wasted.]

He ate with relish.

Peter glanced outside. Lundenim's weather was endlessly foggy, and even the grass was soaked. He couldn't stand it. He would rather have a few good, heavy snowfalls.

"All right. If you're stringing me along with one or two Deepclaw Demons, I'll kick your ass hard with my boot, then report you to Professor Winslow," Peter threatened.

"I just want to know how much Deepclaw Demons sell for."

Peter didn't answer immediately. He took out a little notebook he carried with him and quickly flipped through a few pages.

Gordon believed Peter's notebook held the secrets of the logistics system, including the prices of corpse materials, professors' temperaments, and students' unpaid fees. With some careful deduction, he might even figure out why the school collected so much money every year yet still refused to build everyone a decent dormitory.

"Depends on freshness. Fifty, a hundred-the price varies a lot." Peter turned to a page.

"Copper cents?" Gordon was a little disappointed.

"Silver pounds."

Gordon jumped.

"Whoa, they're worth that much?!" he said.

Now, when he thought of the Deepclaw Demons swimming around in the Blackwater River, they seemed like schools of great fish made of pure silver.

"Of course. Their cartilage can be used to make a basic underwater-breathing mixture, though drinking it makes you feel like you're swimming with someone squeezing your throat. Their eyeballs are useful too. You can make a night-vision mixture," Peter said.

"Night vision?"

"Sold to idiots," Peter said unhurriedly. "Then the idiots sell it to even bigger idiots. Water Monkey potions have a long history, and a long chain of people cashing in. If you ask me, it's one of the Old Fish Market's most reliable businesses."

Gordon listened intently. He liked reliability. Especially reliable money.

"What if I could get a steady supply of Deepclaw Demons in large numbers?"

"Nonsense," Peter said. "Deepclaw Demons are all solitary. Just like you and me."

"I'm serious," Gordon said. "I can get a dozen or so, maybe dozens. It depends."

Peter capped the pen in his hand and finally grew serious.

"Say that again?"

"What I mean is," Gordon said solemnly, "I really do have a way to reliably attract Deepclaw Demons."

"Impossible."

"If you're willing to come, you'll see... the impossible become possible."

Peter suddenly felt that Gordon wasn't lying.

"...Let's say I believe you. But why me?"

"You need to put me in touch with the Old Fish Market. I want a professional crew, with their own boat, who can travel up and down the Blackwater River and process the Aberrants cleanly."

"The people at the Old Fish Market are sharp," Peter said. "If they find out you're lying to them, they'll chop you up too, then sell you by the pound."

"That's why I need you to contact them," Gordon said. "If someone like me went there for the first time, they wouldn't even see me."

"Well, thank you so much." Peter leaned back and heaved a sigh.

Gordon had indeed come to the right person, which didn't make Peter particularly happy. Being needed generally meant having to do work.

"There's bound to be someone at the Old Fish Market willing to take a risk," Gordon said.

"Just as our biomedical department was bound to produce a Gordon Wick," Peter said.

"Let's get down to it. Who do you know?"

"A few people," Peter said. "But I'm not sure they'd be willing to come. The Blackgill Gang, for instance. They're something of a criminal outfit, and they buy aquatic Aberrants at the Old Fish Market year-round. Their boss is called Old Baz. With these Deepclaw Demons, it comes down to whether the supply is reliable. Ten turning up once in a while is weather. Ten turning up every time is business. And business is what gets people like Old Baz interested."

That was exactly what Gordon had been waiting to hear.

"Good. I'll sell them that business," Gordon said. "As long as you go and work out a deal, the Deepclaw Demons will become our income."

Our income. Those words had power. Much more useful than any fellowship between classmates. Gordon would take everyone's share into account, and that was an appealing quality.

Peter's fingers swiftly traced a few strokes on the table as he calculated the costs and returns.

He wasn't really expecting to get rich overnight, but he felt this business could work.

Unlike Gordon, whose head was always full of ideas, Peter had none. But Peter had one strength: as long as someone explained an idea clearly, he could carry it out with a hundred and twenty percent efficiency. That was also why Winslow had put him in charge of logistics.

"Fine, I'll go. I want a cut," Peter decided.

"Sure."

"Pay me the introduction fee first. I need to grease the palms of those fat guys at the market entrance. Give me five silver pounds to start."

"You'll have to front it yourself. If you don't believe in this business, keep those five silver pounds in your own pocket, nice and warm, and never take them out for the rest of your life!"

"You really are a pauper."

"Thanks for the endorsement. Here's to a happy partnership."

Later that day, at the Old Fish Market.

After hearing the news, Old Baz gave a single laugh.

An old scar ran from the corner of his left eye down to his chin. Someone had once tried to drown Old Baz, but hadn't been strong enough. So the Blackwater River had gained another corpse, while Old Baz had lived to see today.

"Some university student says he can lure in a whole pack of water monkeys?" He sat on an overturned fish crate, and several people beside him laughed along.

"Peter said so," a fat man added.

"Peter? That tall, skinny, pale guy who talks with a thick tongue?" Old Baz rubbed his chin.

Now that was interesting. Old Baz remembered that Peter wasn't the sort to spread crazy stories. His deadpan face was full of that distinctly Ross rigidity and honesty.

On his first visit to the Old Fish Market, Peter had argued with someone for five hours over a price difference of two copper cents. In the end, he had won-and then bought nothing.

When someone like that said something, even if it wasn't true, it generally wouldn't be entirely false.

"How many of us should go?" someone asked.

"Not many," Old Baz ordered. "Four. Bring harpoons and cages."

"What if it's a lie?" someone asked.

"What do you think I'm bringing the cages for?" Old Baz stood up.