The evening air clung to Kaelan's skin like a damp cloth as he made his way back from the harbor. The salty breeze carried the mingled scents of spices, tar, and rotting fish—the perfume of prosperity in a port city. Three weeks had passed since his first meeting with Mallarawan, and that encounter still troubled him during quiet moments.
He had been careless.
In his eagerness to impress the merchant, he'd revealed too much about his methods. No ordinary person could have deduced that the gardener had buried the bracelet simply by examining soil beneath fingernails. No normal investigator would have found a buried trinket so quickly in an extensive garden.
Kaelan paused at a street corner, pretending to adjust his sandal while secretly directing a cloud of tiny midges to spiral outward. The insects confirmed what his instincts had been screaming for days—he was being followed. A figure lingered in the shadows of an alleyway some fifty paces behind, maintaining a careful distance.
"Shit," he muttered under his breath.
It wasn't the first time he'd detected surveillance. For the past week, different watchers had taken turns observing him from a distance. Sometimes it was a weathered man with the calloused hands of a sailor. Other times, a slender youth with unnaturally quiet footsteps. Today, it was a woman with Dothraki features poorly concealed beneath Qartheen dress.
Whoever had ordered this surveillance was professional enough to rotate their agents. But none of them, no matter how skilled, could hide from Kaelan's insect scouts.
The question wasn't whether he was being watched—it was who had ordered it, and why.
Mallarawan was a possibility. The merchant might be curious about Kaelan's methods. The Warlocks of Qarth were another contender; they took interest in anything that smacked of the supernatural. Or perhaps it was his business competitors, trying to uncover the secret behind his vermin-free warehouses.
Whatever the reason, it was a reminder that he needed to be more cautious. More deliberate in his explanations. More plausible in his methods.
He continued walking, his mind turning to more immediate concerns. His warehouse business had exploded beyond his most optimistic projections. What had begun as a desperate gamble with a single dilapidated building had transformed into the talk of the port district.
"Bug-free storage, guaranteed!" The phrase had become something of a local sensation. Initially, merchants had been skeptical, lured primarily by his half-price introductory offer. But when their goods emerged untouched by pests after weeks of storage, word spread rapidly through Qarth's tight-knit trading community.
Now, three weeks later, his first warehouse was filled to capacity, with merchants clamoring for more space. The Tyroshi dye merchant, Lazos, had returned just yesterday, marveling at the pristine condition of his silks.
"Not a single moth hole," the man had exclaimed, his blue-forked beard quivering with excitement. "In twenty years of trade, I've never seen such results." He'd immediately reserved space for three more shipments, paying a premium for priority storage.
The Pentoshi spice trader had been similarly impressed, spreading word among his extensive network of associates. By the end of the first week, Kaelan had been forced to create a waiting list.
It was a good problem to have, but a problem nonetheless. He needed to expand, and quickly.
The harbormaster had grudgingly granted him a second warehouse—one in better condition than his first—but even that had filled almost immediately. Kaelan desperately needed more space and more hands to manage the growing operation.
As he rounded the corner onto the street where his residence stood, he noticed a figure waiting by his door. His insects had already identified the man: Mykos, the old warrior he'd hired to oversee his warehouse operations.
Kaelan had found Mykos three days earlier in a dockside tavern, after interviewing a parade of unsavory characters for the position. Something about the old man had immediately set him apart—perhaps the quiet dignity in his weathered face, or the way his alert eyes constantly scanned his surroundings, missing nothing.
He reminded Kaelan powerfully of a character from his previous life—a fictional enforcer named Mike Ehrmantraut from a television show about a chemistry teacher turned criminal. The resemblance was uncanny: the same balding pate, the same economy of movement, the same air of competent menace barely contained beneath a veneer of weary professionalism.
"Mykos," Kaelan greeted as he approached. "Everything alright at the warehouses?"
The old man straightened from where he'd been leaning against the wall. His movements were deliberate, efficient—nothing wasted, nothing for show.
"Need to talk," he replied, his Qartheen accent thick but understandable. "Not here."
Kaelan nodded, unlocking his door and gesturing for Mykos to enter. The old warrior stepped inside, his eyes methodically sweeping the room before he relaxed marginally.
"We're being watched," Mykos said without preamble once the door was shut.
"I know," Kaelan replied, pouring two cups of watered wine. "Been aware of it for several days now. Do you know who's behind it?"
Mykos accepted the cup but didn't drink. "Could be the Spicers Guild. Word is they don't like how you're changing warehouse prices in the district." He shrugged. "Could be Thirteen. They notice anyone who rises too quickly."
Kaelan sat on a low cushion, gesturing for Mykos to do the same. "Troubling, but not why you came, I think."
"No." The old man finally took a small sip of wine. "Came about expansion. You need more space—that's clear. But more space means more vulnerability."
"The harbormaster has offered me another warehouse," Kaelan said. "In decent condition, but costly."
"Take it," Mykos said bluntly. "And negotiate for two of the damaged ones on the north pier."
Kaelan raised an eyebrow. "The damaged ones? They'd require significant repairs."
"Worth it for the location. North pier connects directly to merchant district. Shorter distance for high-value goods." Mykos set down his cup. "But you'll need more than just space. Need proper staff. Need security."
"I've been thinking about that," Kaelan admitted. "You've been an excellent hire, but you're right—we need more hands."
"Not just hands. Need trustworthy hands." Mykos fixed him with a penetrating stare. "You're hiding something, boy. Don't know what it is, don't care. But whatever lets you keep those warehouses clean... others will want it."
Kaelan didn't respond immediately. The old warrior was sharper than he'd anticipated.
"You have recommendations?" he asked finally.
"Few men I know. Veterans like me. Not pretty, not charming, but reliable." Mykos rose to his feet with that same deliberate economy of motion. "Will send them tomorrow. You interview, you decide."
"Thank you, Mykos."
The old man nodded curtly. "One more thing. You need to show strength soon. Someone tests you, you must answer. Qarth respects only two things—coin and power."
With that cryptic warning, Mykos departed, leaving Kaelan alone with his thoughts.
—
The next morning found Kaelan at the harbormaster's office, negotiating for additional warehouse space. The official seemed both impressed and suspicious of Kaelan's rapid success.
"Three more warehouses?" The harbormaster's bushy eyebrows rose toward his receding hairline. "Ambitious for a young man who, until recently, was running errands for his father."
"The market demands what it demands," Kaelan replied smoothly. "I simply provide a service that others cannot."
"So it would seem." The harbormaster shuffled through a stack of parchments. "I can grant you the one we discussed yesterday. As for the damaged warehouses on the north pier..." He frowned thoughtfully. "Those haven't been used in over a year. The roofs leak, and the foundations may be compromised."
"All the better for my purposes. I'll pay half the usual rate and assume responsibility for all repairs."
The harbormaster considered this, then slowly nodded. "Agreed. But I warn you—expansion at this pace attracts attention. Not all of it welcome." He glanced up, his expression suddenly serious. "The Thirteen and the Ancient Guild of Spicers have controlled Qartheen shipping for generations. They don't appreciate disruption."
"I'm just a simple businessman providing a humble service," Kaelan said, affecting an innocent expression.
"Indeed," the harbormaster replied, clearly unconvinced. "Three hundred honors for the good warehouse, one hundred each for the damaged ones. Monthly, payable in advance."
Kaelan handed over the coins without haggling..
As he left the harbormaster's office, contract scrolls tucked securely in his tunic, Kaelan expanded his awareness, searching for his watchers. They were there, as expected—today it was a pair of them, a man and a woman, pretending to be merchants examining goods at a nearby stall.
Instead of attempting to evade them, Kaelan walked purposefully toward the docks, where preparations were already underway at his original warehouses. Workers—all recently hired on Mykos's recommendation—were loading and unloading goods under the old warrior's watchful eye.
"Good news," Kaelan announced as he approached. "We have three more warehouses. One ready for immediate use, two requiring renovation."
Mykos nodded, unsurprised. "Already sent men to inspect them. North pier buildings need new roofs, new doors. Two weeks' work, maybe three."
"Begin immediately. Hire whatever laborers you need." Kaelan glanced around at the bustling activity. "How are the new men working out?"
"Competent," Mykos replied with a shrug, which from him constituted high praise. "Need more, though. Especially if we're expanding."
Before Kaelan could respond, a cry went up from further down the pier. He turned to see smoke rising from the direction of his second warehouse—thick, black smoke that spoke of more than just a cooking fire gone awry.
"Fire!" The shout echoed across the docks as dockhands and merchants began running toward the source.
Kaelan and Mykos exchanged a brief glance before sprinting toward the warehouse. Through his insect network, Kaelan already had a partial picture of the situation—flames had erupted near the rear of the building, where a shipment of Dornish olive oil had been stored just yesterday.
By the time they reached the warehouse, the fire had spread to engulf nearly a quarter of the structure. Workers were forming a bucket chain from the harbor, passing water hand to hand in a desperate attempt to contain the blaze.
"Anyone inside?" Kaelan asked urgently, directing his insects to search for human presence within the smoke-filled building.
"Don't think so," Mykos replied, his eyes narrowed as he surveyed the scene. "Morning inventory was completed an hour ago. But there's fifty thousand honors' worth of goods in there."
Kaelan grimaced. This particular warehouse hadn't been as full as his primary one, but it still contained valuable merchandise—spices, textiles, and olive oil, primarily. All flammable. All expensive to replace if his guarantee was invoked.
"We need to save what we can," he decided, moving toward the entrance.
Mykos caught his arm, surprisingly strong for his age. "Too dangerous. Building could collapse."
"But the goods—"
"Are not worth your life." Mykos's grip tightened. "Let it burn. Insurance is cheaper than a funeral."
Kaelan hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. Much as it pained him to watch the warehouse burn, Mykos was right—the structure itself was old, and with the fire spreading rapidly, entering would be suicidal.
Instead, he focused on his insects, using them to determine the fire's origin. What he discovered troubled him deeply. The blaze hadn't started near any lamps or cooking areas. Instead, it had begun in a corner where his swarm detected traces of oil and what seemed to be fragments of a clay container—a deliberate fire-starter, almost certainly.
"This was no accident," he murmured, too quietly for anyone but Mykos to hear.
The old warrior's expression didn't change, but his eyes hardened. "No," he agreed softly. "I will make inquiries."