Source: Commerce Under The Black Market

Oloron sits disconsolate in the window, looking down at the slow movement of pedestrians in the summer heat. But then the door opens and he looks up - Lan enters, and Oloron's face lights with a smile.

"So, are we on?"

Lan looks up from his introspection in the shadows cast from the window frames. He hesitates for a moment, as if drawing thought back into his mind. "Yes. Yes, we're set."

The door to the sandbag maze bangs in the wind. Lan's head twists quickly, as it has five times in the past half hour - but it is nothing and he turns back to the wooden case, now three quarters full of ammunition marked with the sandbag logo Oloron had designed. Cloaked in a hot, heavy armor, he shifts the small cylinders from their separate rows on the table and places them carefully on the padding in the box. The sweat trickles slowly down his cheek.

Two men, laborers, walking slowly along the dock, packs slung over their shoulders. Nondescript, no different than the others who walk, or carry packages, or who drive laboring steam vehicles that hoot with poorly managed pressure. But one is a blond, lightly bearded, and the other is a tall young strong man, with a mustache and a strangely hollow face.

They stop at the tall wooden door into a warehouse. Lan slaps the door with the back of his hand. A small gap appears, and they slip through into darkness.

The captain eyes the odd shaped weapon dubiously. He pushes his beret back from his forehead. "How's this going to work for sea duty?"

"The ammunition is wax coated against salt and moisture. The propellants will last for a year or more. The weapon itself is a special alloy, resistant to the corrosion that keeps affecting your cast pieces." Lan smiles. Then he lifts the gun, slaps a triad of loads onto it, and suddenly swings the gun over his forearm. Quickly sighting as he had practiced, he coldly fires three nearly silent shots at the plywood target, which disintegrates into a shattered frame and large twisted splinters that fly into the air.

Lan smiles at the look of shock on the captain's face. "Spin stabilized. They're accurate to over six hundred feet. The next pirates who think you're an easy mark are going to get a real surprise. And at a distance that works for you, not for them."

The darkness is thick, with the stars wrapped behind a layer of clouds. A steam wagon wheezes down the poorly lit alley to the docks, wheels rattling on the ragged paving. It pulls onto the dock and stops just beside a light cone at the water's edge, below the bulk of a cargo ship.

From a booth, an inspector appears, slightly unshaven, a lazy coil of smoke following his progress toward the wagon. The driver steps down from the cab and hands over his papers. The inspector opens the folder, and his eyes widen at the sight of a bearer ration nested inside. His eyes come up to the tall figure of the driver and he smiles. "Have a nice night." He hands back the papers, minus the card. Oloron tips his cap backward and watches the inspector depart.

As the sailors carry the small boxes up the stair to the deck, the driver and his shorter partner oppose the flow, bags slung over their shoulders as they descend. At the base of the stair, the captain stands in shadow. He touches their arms each in turn as they pass, and gives them a silent emphasis in his look. Lan nods, and ducks his head aside, then walks on.

The back room of the store is dim and dusty. A hot wedge of humid sunlight streams past the partly open door from the alley outside. Lan lays out the objects on the table, eyes flicking to the manager, and then to the other door that leads into the storefront. So strange, he thinks, that these objects should be so dangerous.

A stack of small hand mirrors.

Five packages of men's underwear.

Three tins of cold lozenges.

He can see the store manager's lust. These items would never make it to the public shelves. They would be held in a back room, or under the counter, for "special customers". For special trades.

Like this one.

"Well?" Lan asks.

The shop owner nods. "I'll make the arrangements. Here's the key, and the address. What do you want this stuff for, anyway?"

Lan smiles. "Trade."

The shed is deep in the industrial district, a fiberglass cone with a shabby door, disclocked at the top and the bottom, shadowed in the long sunset light from a nearby factory. Lan inserts the key into each lock, and the shed door swings free with a prolonged creaking. Beyond, ranked and glistening in the dim light are the bottles of liquids, and the bags of dry chemicals. Oloron squates beside them and looks over the handwritten invoice, checking the labels. Lan leans in the doorframe, blocking some of the light, but unobstrusively watching for interest, hand near the weapon under his coat. Oloron looks up and nods, then takes the pack from Lan, and begins loading bottles and sacks.

The stars are bright above them. The power failure leaves the clouds dark, and the air is unusually cool. Oloron unlocks the Sandbag door and steps through, flashlight waving across the mazed floor. He lowers the pack to the chemistry table with a clanking of glass bottles, and then shines the light around the room in a normal ritual.

Lan closes the door behind them.