A small, deeply stooped creature whose shape is nearly swallowed by a tower of strapped packs, nested sacks, and buckled cases that rises to almost five times his height. The load rocks when he walks, yet he moves with the sure-footed ease of a dock cat, never bracing or leaning against its weight. His skin has the matte, fine-grained look of old brown leather warmed by a brazier; his long fingers are glossy at the joints, as if repeatedly dipped in sealing wax. He waits with his weight balanced on the balls of his feet, head tilted toward the sound of whoever is speaking. A pale, neatly folded paper bird is tucked behind one ear, an unexpectedly careful keepsake on so bustling a trader. He leaves the impression of a harmless peddler until the packs creak, one by one, like doors opening somewhere far underground.

Jori is shrewd enough to price a person's desperation and compassionate enough to lower the price when he sees it. He enjoys a clever haggle, yet grows impatient with anyone who treats bargaining as a game while others suffer. In a crowd he performs as a quick-witted peddler; alone with an old friend, he becomes cautious and almost awkward. When frightened, he speaks in crisp clauses and counts obligations on his fingers.

Jori arrived in Tharsult long before its present harbor walls, when he was still a junior factor in a far larger infernal concern. He learned the city's trade routes by following the smell of tar, cardamom, and fish smoke through its lanes. During a famine season, a dockside child named Hessa gave him half a date cake without asking for a price. Jori, who had never received a gift without a clause, spent the next three nights arranging grain shipments that kept her neighborhood alive. The effort cost him his standing with his superiors and taught him that generosity could be more binding than a contract. He now sells uncanny wares from his impossible pack, usually at prices low enough to tempt desperate people. The catch may be a curse, a troublesome condition, or an obligation hidden in the item's use. He maintains a wary correspondence with Hessa, now a respected harbor mediator, and quietly buys damaged goods from a traveling caravan called the Ninth Survey. Lately, an old infernal auditor has begun asking merchants whether Jori still honors the terms of his original appointment. Jori keeps trading, but the pack has started to whisper names he thought he had forgotten.