The man’s eyes moved from Koldin to Defort, taking in the uniforms, the sidearm, the empty submachine gun, and whatever opportunities they represented.
 
“I probably know what this is about. Please, come in.”

He stood aside. Koldin entered first, taking off his hat and stuffing into a shoulder strap.

The interior was cooler by perhaps one degree and darker by several. The living room occupied most of the shack’s front half. Two stiff wooden chairs had been placed against one wall beneath framed pictures. A third stood in the corner beside a low table supporting a televox screen.

The set was large, polished, and conspicuously new compared with everything around it. A braided electrical cord ran from its back to an outlet whose faceplate had cracked and been held together with resin. The televox was switched off. Its dark screen reflected Koldin and Defort as two diminished figures standing inside the room of someone who wished visitors to know he owned a televox.

“Sit, sit,” the old man said. “I will be one moment.”

He disappeared through a doorway covered by a faded curtain.

Koldin chose one of the chairs. It creaked beneath him despite his weight. Defort sat beside him and immediately began testing the floorboards with one heel until Koldin looked over.

Defort stopped.

The room was decorated with cheap paintings in elaborate frames. One showed a cluster of leaftailed trilopoids in a desert with loud and bright colors. The animals had been given large sentimental eyes and arranged around a pool of blue water in an oasis while rays of gold light descended from the sky. Koldin had seen trilopoids in the Heart. They were known for being temperamental and had a nasty stinger hidden in their tail, but if you had an domesticated one as a pet, they were partial to piggybacking on you. 

Another portrait showed a Tilmuhlan historical figure in a black coat with one hand resting upon a map. The man’s expression suggested that history had already explained itself to him. Koldin did not recognize him.

Defort leaned closer.

“Who’s that?”

“No idea.”

“Looks important.”

“That may be what zhe frame means.”

A small fan turned on a shelf near the ceiling. It circulated air heavy with boiled water, pipe smoke, dust, and something sweet stored in the rear rooms. From behind the curtain came the sound of glass bottles touching one another, then the scrape of furniture.

The proprietor returned carrying nothing.

He took the chair from the corner, reversed it, and placed it before them. He sat astride it with his forearms resting across the back.

“So,” he said. “I assume this is about the complaints I’ve gotten.”

“Yes,” Koldin said.

“Ah. Yes. Of course.”

The man’s cheerfulness briefly expanded, as though the matter had been easier than expected.

“I don’t know if you have heard. Perhaps no one has told you. A bottling plant up-country was bombed two nights ago.”

“By who?” Defort asked.

“Radicals.”

“What kind?”

The man raised both hands.

“The radical kind.”

Defort looked at Koldin. Koldin looked at the proprietor.

The old man continued.

“A bad business. Very bad. Broken pumps. Storage tanks sabotaged. Two loading vehicles burned. Perhaps dead men. I've heard different accounts. The road is unsafe and the next shipment may not come for another week. Perhaps two. Naturally I have had to raise my prices to make up the difference.”

Koldin thought of the chalk figures outside.

“How much water do you have?”

“Enough for several days.”

“At zhe old rate?”

The man’s smile became more professional.

“At the old rate I would have enough money for less than several days.”

“That’s not what he asked,” Defort said.

“It is related.”

The proprietor stood and went to a cabinet. From it he produced a folded paper bearing several stamps and returned with it held open.

“Look. Transport notice. Delayed cargo. Additional freight charge. Road hazard fee.”

Defort accepted the paper. He read for a moment, then turned it upside down.

“It was the other way,” the proprietor said.

“I know.”

He turned it back.

Koldin watched the man’s face while Defort examined the document. The cheerfulness remained but had developed edges.

The bombing might have happened. The delays might be real. The freight charge could be genuine. All three things could be true while the new price still included an amount devoted exclusively to opportunity.

Koldin had never operated a business. He understood that goods cost money and that missing goods cost more. Everything beyond this entered a fog of overhead, scarcity, anticipated scarcity, and the private arithmetic by which one person’s misfortune became another person’s margin.

Defort handed the paper back.

“Looks official.”

“It is official.”

“I said it looks official.”

The proprietor folded it.

Koldin asked, “Did you notify zhe district office before changing zhe price?”

The old man’s expression remained pleasant.

“I notified everyone who buys from me.”

“That’s not zhe district office.”

“They do not buy from me.”

Defort coughed into one fist to conceal what might have been laughter.

Koldin continued looking at the proprietor.

The old man sighed and allowed a portion of his charm to rest.