The dock wardens hasten their pace at Keldar's calls, and they arrive in time to hear Tarag's mild chastisement. They stand at the side of the fat man, silently assessing the situation, waiting for Tarag to say his piece.
The fat man turns beet red at Tarag's mention of commission money. "I! Er, I wouldn't- Ah, yes, you- Of course. Of course there's always a commission fee, it's, ah, simply the way business is conducted. Due course. And all that. You knew that, surely. Ah..." The guards look suspiciously at the man. He slaps one on the back with a meaty hand. "We're fine here, gentlemen, absolutely splendid, just a minor miscommunication. Nothing to worry about, you can return to your patrol, thank you, thank you." Wiping his forehead again, he pushes the guards away, then turns to receive Keldar's bow, avoiding Tarag's gaze.
"But of course, your items are in the dock shed, this way, right this way." He turns around rather too quickly and stumbles a bit on the uneven wood of the dock, shuffling his way towards the shed.
There, indeed, are your belongings, stored among rope, wood, dinghies, and other maritime gear. "Here you are, as promised. I do hope your day is most fine, gentlemen. It was a pleasure doing business with you." He bows as much has his great waist will allow him, still refusing to meet eyes with Tarag.