Evrart Claire

Evrart Claire runs the dockworkers' union, which means he holds the entire harbor in his meaty fist: cargo, strikes, transit passes, and the deliberate silence of the right people. His headquarters is modest enough. Inside a battered shipping container, a kettle constantly hums, fat manila folders pile high, and a chair groans under the immense bulk of its occupant, who is clad in a rumpled brown suit. From this cramped office, he dispenses patronage freely, like crackers from the tin on his desk—and keeps meticulous mental accounts of who owes him, and how much.

Everyone comes to him for help: ordinary dockers, merchants, city officials, and people who prefer to keep their faces out of the light. Evrart never raises his voice. He speaks in a slow, genial cadence, casually leading his visitor in circles until they lay everything out on a silver platter of their own accord. A wide, completely unreadable grin is plastered across his fleshy face, while sharp, beady eyes beneath heavy lids size up everyone who steps inside.

Meeting with Evrart is always an ordeal in patience. There will be scalding tea, a barrage of seemingly irrelevant personal questions, an unsettling knowledge of your private affairs, and a creeping realization that you have already been weighed, measured, and priced. Evrart values attentive listeners and shrewd bargaining. He cannot abide haste, idle threats, or arrogant upstarts.