1.Silver port

In the annals of history, a man named Dio Bard penned his musings on a day marked by the calendar as May 21, 1518. It was a tale of a man standing on a dilapidated wooden platform, his fervor palpable as he spoke to a crowd, seeking those worthy to join him in a venture of great fortune, a journey around the globe. Alas, in an era where deceit often dons the mask of innovation, his cries on the streets were met with skepticism, a silent prayer for the heavens to mete out justice, or at the very least, to avoid the entanglements of earthly troubles.

Fast forward to the year 1716, in the heart of the Caribbean, where the waves roared with the vigor of a tempest, and the salty sea breeze made landfall on the eastern shores of Jamaica. There, in the bustling port city of Silver Port, under the oppressive heat of the summer, the city bore witness to the sweat and toil of its inhabitants. The locals, accustomed to the equatorial humidity, and the European colonizers, paying the price of their conquests with the discomfort of the sweltering heat and the aches of their joints.

The name Silver Port was a subtle irony, for though the New World was rich in silver, this city bore none. The grand feudal rulers had bestowed upon it a name of precious metal, yet absence is as definitive as presence. Yet, in the wake of the devastation of Port Royal, the British sought another trade nexus in Jamaica, and with whispers of Kingston infiltrated by the Jacobites, the merchants settled for the next best thing, investing in Silver Port.

The population, a standard mix of colonizers—politicians, soldiers, laborers, and slaves—constructed a stage of opportunity and absurdity with their homes, fortresses, and factories. Three years had passed since the Treaty of Utrecht, yet peace was as elusive as ever. The governor's disrespect for the new king attracted rebels, and piracy thrived, making the Caribbean more chaotic and perilous than ever.

Yet, Silver Port pulsed with life, welcoming the rich and the entrepreneurial to its upper district of luxurious red-brick homes, while craftsmen and their apprentices built wooden houses in the lower district. The poor and the smuggled lived a hardscrabble existence by the docks and marketplaces, working as day laborers in the docks and plantations, ever vigilant against the threat of being kidnapped and pressed into service on a merchant ship, a fate that promised a grim end.

The governor, concerned with the city's image, ordered the navy to disperse the beggars, who under the scorching sun, offered blessings to the charitable, praying for their health and longevity. The soldiers, sweltering in their uniforms, chased the indolent few who did not flee, leading them to farms or manors for a bounty.

Yet, despite its conviviality, Silver Port was a place of clear standing, akin to the relationship between a courtesan and her client—civility masked disdain for its licentiousness. The city had cast aside the mature, the ceremonial, the common sense, embracing a raw, unrefined reality. It was too pragmatic, lacking in refinement and integrity. Like Kingston's rebellious spirit, Silver Port was a bastion of skepticism—perhaps more unsettling than treason—where the tangible gods of pounds, guineas, and Spanish silver coins held more sway than the church's deity.

For Klaw, a member of the Silver Port Brotherhood, it was a livable place. At twenty-four, he was far from the aches of old age; a scoundrel by nature, he would not be subjugated by the cunning plantation owners and factory bosses. Clever and resourceful, he managed to scrape by, adept in deception, thievery, and evasion. His attire, if one could call it that—tattered shirt, dirty trousers, and broken sandals—was the norm, and if this was the standard, then Klaw lived without want. The only issue was his red hair, a source of conflict for the superstitious and the racist.

Now, he had a job—a profession's sanctity knew no class, even for scoundrels. Whistling a tune, he meandered leisurely towards the upper district. It was a "big deal," an elderly British gentleman was looking to purchase property in the upper district, yet he hadn't set foot in the formal exchange to understand the situation. He chose to trust the "insiders" with signs at the dock. This used to be a harmless affair, but in recent years, these part-time sign bearers, mostly destitute, inevitably engaged in shady dealings, such as selling clients' intentions and whereabouts to others.

In any case, after a convoluted process—which also involved the exchange of pounds and guineas and the interpretation of Spanish in different contexts—Klaw had finally mastered the old gentleman's whereabouts. He had notified his acquaintances at the exchange and had hurried to the target mansion, introducing himself to the long-awaited client.

The old gentleman, leaning on a cane, was trying his best to shrink into the shade in front of the mansion's door, his face beaded with sweat. Yet, even in such heat, the old gentleman was still dressed with care. He wore a wig and a cravat, a high collar, and a double-breasted coat, with a pair of glasses on a golden chain exuding an air of value... Was this the demeanor of nobility? But perhaps the old gentleman just didn't like the ethos of Silver Port's residents, which is why he used his tight attire to keep the barbarism at bay, relying solely on faith and demeanor to dispel the heat.

He took just one look at Klaw, without complaint, without scrutiny, without suspicion, and impatiently pointed his cane towards the mansion's door, the meaning self-evident.

Some might have wondered why an educated man would trust a ragged beggar and scoundrel to be a real estate agent, such a poor disguise, as laughable as confusing a wild boar with a domestic pig. But that's how it was, Silver Port's wild growth encompassed both notoriety and business opportunities. In such a place, spending time preparing neat attire or using resin from a century-old South American tree to fix one's hair was meaningless, even foolish, and could hand opportunities to others on a silver platter. Therefore, Klaw's attire had become the norm for Silver Port's service industry, and even the diligent, regular staff at the exchange were not much better dressed than Klaw. Rather, it could be said that Klaw had an advantage over the formal staff;His eloquence has the taste of bread and beef, could offer a dreamlike experience of deception, making them involuntarily empty every last coin from their pockets.

First and foremost, Klaw had approached the elderly gentleman with an apology and trotted out his well-rehearsed excuse of being a "dockworker part-timer," but the gentleman cut him short.

"Enough, sir, let's go see the house first. I'm not interested in trivialities!"

"Ah, a haughty customer," Klaw thought to himself with a secret delight, yet he feigned hesitation, as if he had reservations.

"What are you doing? I said hurry up and... Never mind, just name your price. I'm quite busy here," the old gentleman urged impatiently.

Klaw sighed, of course, he was relieved by the ease of this business. Generally, customers looking to buy a house wouldn't be so impatient. Even if they were eager to close the deal, they would play hard to get, pretending to be indifferent to lower the price. He had seen many shrewd buyers who could use their emotions as a powerful weapon, making sellers who wanted to raise the price feel guilty. But the old gentleman was clearly not such a person. Deceiving a self-righteous person could bring a sense of achievement, but deceiving a straightforward old man was less interesting. Klaw decided he needed to take some time tonight to weigh his conscience.

"I said, are you going to name a price or not? If not, I'll look for another house!" The old gentleman was getting angry, repeatedly hitting the cobblestones with his cane.

This threat was not bad, but Klaw had already known the old gentleman's intention and knew that he was determined to get this mansion.

"Why are you in such a hurry, sir?"

"It goes without saying, this house—I mean, this type of mansion, if delayed for a moment, will be bought by someone else first. I've encountered this in London and Plymouth! A house is like a capricious princess, ready to fall in love with someone else at any time. This is the rule of the industry!"

"So it is, so it is!" Klaw pretended to suddenly realize and apologized with a smile. "But please forgive me for not explaining clearly, sir, the sales rights of this house are only mine, unless the company receives a confirmation letter signed by me, otherwise no one can buy it. This is a rule set by the Silver Port Exchange to eliminate malicious competition among intermediaries, please rest assured."

"Is that so, that's considerate for customers." The old gentleman's expression eased a bit.

Klaw nodded and began to introduce the condition of the house seriously.

"Sir, your vision is really experienced. This house is the most popular style of the moment: well-ventilated on both sides, warm in winter and cool in summer, with three floors plus an attic and a basement, a total of eighteen rooms, all with tile floors. Among them, the spacious hall on the first floor is large enough to hold a grand banquet. The exterior wall of the house is painted with Indian red material, and Silver Port has plenty of sunlight, which can make this red look very beautiful. There is also an exquisite garden at the back, even the most picky lady will be fascinated by it."

"Hmm, hmm!" The old gentleman nodded as he listened, the house obviously met every pore of his body's expectations.

"Well, sir, if you are satisfied, you can first give me a deposit of ten pounds, so that I can go back and handle the documents, lock it under your name, and settle the rest later."

The deposit, a sum not traditionally part of the transaction process, was in essence a tip from the client to the intermediary. Ten pounds was the industry's accepted rate for the sale of a luxury residence, to be evenly distributed among all parties involved in the deal. However, this time, the deposit was to be pocketed by a scoundrel. This was Klaw's aim; he harbored no grand ambitions, nor would he foolishly concoct an earth-shattering scheme—that would only prompt the authorities to sever their livelihoods entirely. Wisdom lay in a steady flow, and from the outset, Klaw had been after that ten pounds.

"Before that, I'd like to take a look inside," the elderly gentleman said, gazing at the house with infatuation, completely oblivious to the treachery that could lurk in men's hearts.

"Of course, but not at the moment, sir. As you're aware, we have a comprehensive system in place to ensure everyone has a distinct role, which allows us to..."

"To take more tips, right?" the old gentleman interrupted impatiently, then sternly glared at Klaw. "You know, young man, you can't fool me with this talk of a deposit; it's just a form of expenditure! Do you think I've never conducted business before? I may be advanced in age, but my mind is still sharp!"

Despite his words, he ultimately produced ten pounds and handed it to Klaw. His irritation was not with the peculiar industry rule of "deposit," but with the fact that it marginalized him, treating him like a novice.

"Thank you, sir!" Klaw beamed with joy, letting the old gentleman think he was clever on his own. Such individuals often rush to assert themselves when they have but a superficial understanding, to project an image of strength and expertise. Unfortunately for him, this time he was dealing with a seasoned player.

"Sir, my colleague should be arriving shortly with the keys and will open the door for you right away, while I must hurry back to complete the application for the property's ownership."

"Alright, alright, be on your way," the old gentleman waved his hand in dismissal.

Klaw bowed deeply, retreated several steps, then turned and left with a composed gait. He encountered the exchange clerk, sweating profusely, at the corner and greeted him.

His business was successfully concluded. The clerk would guide the old gentleman onto the formal track. If luck was on his side, he would not realize he had been deceived, at most scold the "insatiably greedy" clerk, or perhaps magnanimously offer another ten pounds as a tip. But in the end, the old gentleman would acquire the property he desired, and compared to its value, a mere ten or a hundred pounds were of little consequence. Klaw thought contentedly that he had just been like a mosquito, silently drawing the blood of the wealthy and quietly departing, as if he had never been. Now, he would become the Robin Hood of the Caribbean, planning to feast in the tavern today, treating his companions to the fruits of his labor.