In the top-floor reception room of the Golden Sail Merchant Guild Headquarters.
The mingled scent of sea salt and spices was sealed inside by heavy velvet curtains.
On the long table, the ice in the crystal glasses had long since melted, leaving only a few beads of condensation sliding slowly down their sides.
Beside one crystal glass sat half a plate of something roasted golden and crisp.
Caroline Channing tapped her fingertips lightly against the mirror-polished ebony tabletop, producing a steady, oppressive rhythm.
Across from her, three representatives from different port cities all wore strained expressions.
"Madam Vice President, forgive my bluntness, but your terms are far too harsh."
One of them, a portly nobleman with gemstones adorning all ten fingers, wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. "However high the yield of sea-salt potatoes may be, they are still just... potatoes. The exclusive trading rights and port tax exemptions you demand are practically tantamount to placing our cities' food supply in the Golden Sail Merchant Guild's hands."
Caroline stopped tapping.
She leaned forward slightly. There was not a trace of warmth in her emerald eyes, only coldness.
"Mr. Martin, you seem to have misunderstood something."
"I am not negotiating prices with you. I am telling you the only way to obtain sea-salt potato seeds."
Her voice was soft, yet it seemed to lower the room's temperature by several degrees.
"You may refuse, then continue paying three times the price for moldy rye from those inland nobles to feed the dockworkers who might riot from hunger at any moment."
"Or," she said, surveying the three with a mocking curl of her lips, "you may pin your hopes on your alchemists and mages breaking the 'curse' that prevents sea-salt potatoes from producing viable seed within three or five years."