“How can that be?” breathed Maxine. “They’re . . . they’ve . . . got all that land.”

“Word from who?” Doyle made it an accusation.

“Plenty of evidence at the Souk,” Daniel replied evenly. “For a while now. Prices rising for staples such as flour, oil or sugar, any sort of meat or produce. Daily restocking running out sooner. Even the cheapest factory goods are more expensive and harder to come by.”

“It’s true about the rising cost,” said Jake. “And people are buying in bulk, way past their needs, when they can afford to.”

Daniel nodded. “Hoarding.”

“You could call it replenishing reserves,” put in R.J.

Doyle’s glower deepened. “So, what’s the why? Mainland’s cutting us off on purpose?”

“There’ve always been cutbacks after a major storm, but now I think Uptown’s grabbing a bigger share of what does come in,” Daniel said. “The supply drones to the enclaves are less frequent. With so much cropland and factories either burning up or going under water, there’s no returning to normal production levels, and why would they send us what they need themselves?”

Katja shoved back the loose sleeves of her tunic to peck at her tablet. “I’ll see what our own buyers’ records say.”

I yawned, then couldn’t stop yawning. Maybe some good news would keep me awake?

“Why are we just finding this out?” Maxine complained. “Why weren’t we warned?”

Spunk, silent for unusually long, barked a laugh. “Who the fuck’s gonna warn us?”

Jake said, “Uptowners don’t care what happens to the dens, Max.”

“Some of us do,” said Daniel.

Uptowner. He was. Kept forgetting that. Did it matter?

Empire Will studied him, rating his credibility on some private graph. “Have the merchants made any effort to locate . . . y’know . . . alternate sources?”

“Pirates?” Daniel laughed, then took in Will’s hopeful expression. “Sure, any port in a storm. I deal with a few myself. But you can’t steal it if it isn’t being shipped. So far, only small quantities to the richest customers who can pay in cash.”

“Y’know, Will,” snarked Doyle. “People like you.”

“Ease up, Tom . . .” said Rousseau.

Rubio murmured to me, “Those two have been sniping at each other all day.”

“What’s their history?”

“Damned if I know. Jake might. He and Doyle used to hang. Irish mafia, y’know?”

I didn’t, but I let it pass.

“Me, I sell books,” Daniel went on wearily. “Most of which have been on the Island since publication and are never in huge demand till we figure out how to eat them. So, I’m out of the loop about shipments from Europe or the far east, electronics and the like. But they’ve got the same problems we do and all the same needs. Even if global productivity wasn’t failing, between weather and fuel shortages, it’s hard getting anything anywhere.”