The Adventures of Charls, the Veretian Cloth Merchant

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  C.S. Pacat is the author of the best-selling Captive Prince trilogy. Born in Australia and educated at the University of Melbourne, she has since lived in a number of cities, including Tokyo and Perugia. She currently resides and writes in Melbourne.

  Follow C.S. Pacat on Twitter at cspacat, or on her website at cspacat.com.

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  ALSO BY C.S. PACAT

  THE CAPTIVE PRINCE TRILOGY

  Captive Prince

  Prince’s Gambit

  Kings Rising

  CAPTIVE PRINCE SHORT STORIES

  Green but for a Season

  The Summer Palace

  Text copyright © C.S. Pacat, 2017.

  The right of C.S. Pacat to be identified as the sole author of this work has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.

  Cover design © C.S. Pacat

  ISBN 978-0-9876223-1-0

  The Adventures of Charls, the Veretian Cloth Merchant is a Captive Prince short story set after the events of The Summer Palace.

  THE adventures of charls, the veretian cloth merchant

  Charls was stepping out into the inn courtyard, a wide space where there was not too much horse dung to bother those in Akielon sandals, when he saw the orange wagons.

  He had just finished an excellent repast of cheese, cured meats, olives and flatbreads. It was mid-spring, and he had heard this very morning from a vintner that the weather would hold, growing hotter each day until summer. An auspicious beginning, as he embarked on a trade journey north into the Akielon province of Aegina.

  A year ago, he would have been carrying fine linens or white cotton, but the joined court of the Akielon King and the Veretian Prince was creating a burgeoning market for new styles. In Vere, the addition of short capes pinned to the shoulder à la Achelos had meant a rise in demand for silks and heavy velvets. And while in Akielos there was still very little desire for sleeves, there was a new interest in patterned borders, coloured cloaks and techniques of Veretian dyeing.

  Well supplied for these daring new fashions, Charls anticipated a very profitable trip, where he would sell to the Kyros of Aegina and arrive in Marlas in time for the Ascension.

  Instead, he saw his assistant Guilliame wringing his hands as he did when he could not resolve a problem, and in the centre of the courtyard, five bright orange wagons, strident in the sun, crowding everyone else out.

  They were big, flashy conveyances: a rich train riding out with a company of soldiers. Charls could see the soldiers, a full half dozen. Charls’s stomach sank at the prospect of a bright orange rival sharing his trade route. He could see the merchant sitting on the spring seat of the nearest wagon, wearing the latest Veretian brocade with weft patterning, and a wide brimmed hat with a feather that bobbed over his neat hair.

  ‘What do you think? I bargained for them myself,’ said the merchant, as Charls’s eyes went wide.

  ‘Your Highness!’ Quite overwhelmed, Charls began to bow. The merchant, who was not a merchant, was leaping down from the wagons. He cut off Charls’s bow with a gesture for discretion.

  ‘They are a most noble orange,’ said Charls.

  ‘They’re yours. I transferred your merchandise, along with your effects. Consider it my thanks for all you did for me in Mellos.’

  ‘Your Highness!’ Charls looked at the orange wagons. Twice in his life, he’d been afforded the great honour of meeting his Prince. To think that the Prince had remembered his humble contribution. ‘This is too generous. And to come personally! There was no need. There’s no debt between us. I would happily serve you. I am your subject.’

  ‘You helped me on the ride to Mellos,’ said the Prince. ‘I thought I might help you on your ride through Aegina. We have these wagons and soldiers for protection—what do you say?’

  ‘Help me!’ said Charls.

  This astonishing prospect took a moment to grasp. To be entrusted again with the Prince’s company—it did not quite seem possible. And yet here he was: the same nobility of spirit; the same haughty mannerisms that could not be mistaken for anyone else.

  His mind whirling, Charls tried to focus on practical matters: He told Guilliame not to fret. He explained his cousin’s return. He explained the change of wagons. He checked the stock, and was pleased to find it in meticulous order. He met the six soldiers, though he did not recognise any of those men he faintly remembered from the Prince’s Guard, Jazar or Dord.

  But there was one happily familiar face, as a man stepped out from the last of the wagons, unfolding himself as he emerged from a space that was meant for much smaller men.

  ‘Lamen!’ said Charls.

  The first time Charls had met Lamen, he had been pretending to be a merchant from Patras, not very successfully. Charls had noticed the holes in Lamen’s knowledge of silk right away. Now, Charls thought fondly, it was obvious why: Lamen was not a merchant. He was merely a merchant’s assistant.

  ‘I see you are once again assisting—’ Charls leaned in conspiratorially, ‘cousin Charls on his travels.’

  ‘Cousin Charls wants to keep his identity hidden. I hope you understand. The Veretian Council think he’s hunting at Acquitart.’

  ‘I am the soul of discretion,’ said Charls. ‘Although I wonder, that is, if I might ask . . .’

  Across the inn courtyard, Cousin Charls’s bobbing hat feather was visible as he haggled with the innsman over the cost of a wagon-train’s lodging. There was one thought troubling him.

  ‘Is not the Ascension in five weeks?’ said Charls.

  ‘Four weeks,’ said Lamen.

  He said it with a steady expression, standing in front of a very orange wagon.

  ‘It’s lucky King Damianos is at Delpha,’ said Charls, uncertainly. ‘There’s no need to worry that the Prince is away so close to the Ascension.’

  ‘Yes, this would be a terrible idea otherwise,’ said Lamen.

  Their first stop in Aegina was part of Charls’s habitual trade route, the home of Kaenas, a minor member of the Aegean provincial nobility.

  The region was famous for its hospitality and for its meat dishes. There was a slow roasted lamb shoulder that was simply seasoned with garlic and lemon that Charls was looking forward to particularly. As they trundled up to the villa’s outer walls of flat stone, Charls told the Prince of this province’s unspoiled customs; they would all soon enjoy the culinary charms of northern Akielos.

  It was good that the Prince was keeping his identity hidden. Men puked in front of princes, tripped, dropped ceramics. If Guilliame had known the true identity of Cousin Charls, he would not have been able to concentrate on management of the inventory. Not everyone could have the blissful equanimity of Lamen, who seemed to pay the Prince no deference of rank, a piece of very good acting.

  Charls had to keep pinching himself, just as he had had to a year ago on the ride through Mellos: the Prince of Vere was sitting on that orange wagon cushion. The person lifting those bolts of silk was the Prince of Vere. That was the Prince of Vere’s hat feather.

  As for the Prince, he was obviously enjoying a freedom that prov
ided Charls with a few heart-stopping moments, such as when Guilliame threw him a saddle pack, or when he was served lunch second, after Charls received the best portion. But the Prince was not perturbed by these familiarities, which showed, thought Charls, his excellent character.

  They were about to pass through the outer walls towards the lamb shoulder, when word came that they were being denied entry.

  ‘There must be some mistake,’ said Charls.

  He told Guilliame to rectify it. He was not overly concerned. He traded here yearly. Kaenas had a preference for lighter linen and chitons in the overfold style, and he had several pieces of banded embroidery that she would find very handsome.

  ‘There’s no mistake,’ said the guard. ‘Charls the cloth merchant is not welcome here.’

  The shock of this caught Charls without words. He struggled to think of why there might be some grievance, hotly aware that the misunderstanding was unfolding in front of his Prince.

  ‘Well, there’s your mistake,’ said an unmistakable voice. ‘You’re thinking of the wrong Charls. That’s Old Charls. I am Young Charls. You can tell by the orange wagons.’

  The Prince gazed up at the guard from under his feather.

  ‘There are two Veretian cloth merchants named Charls,’ said the guard.

  ‘It’s a common name in Vere,’ said Young Charls.

  ‘More common with every day,’ said Lamen.

  The guard turned towards the Akielon voice, and Lamen smiled at him, an easy smile full of his good nature, his tousled curls, and the relaxed temperament of his southern Akielon birth. He had a dimple in his left cheek. Charls watched the guard unwinch a fraction.

  They had to wait while a runner was sent to the house, and wait longer for him to return (panting). The guard waved them through. The call went up, whips flicked, the wagons trundled. Young Charls was welcome.

  Old Charls was feeling very low. But of course they must have somewhere to stay. He felt a hand clasp his forearm, and he looked up in surprise as the Prince said, ‘Let’s get to the bottom of this, shall we?’

  Kaenas was delighted to entertain a young merchant with stories of the Veretian court, and she had arranged exactly the sort of evening under awnings in the gardens that Charls had envisaged, except that Charls was not invited. Charls took a smaller repast in the servant quarters.

  It struck him that he too was now pretending to be of a lower station, eating humbly with Lamen. If the Prince could maintain this fiction, so could Charls, he thought. Certainly he did not want Lamen to think he was too self-important to eat with an assistant. In fact he often shared meals with Guilliame on the road. Besides, the simple food was tasty, and Lamen though of modest origins was a thoughtful young man who spoke Veretian very well, even if his knowledge of cloth was lacking.

  ‘I thought highborn Veretian men weren’t allowed to be alone with women,’ said Lamen, with a slight frown, when their meal was crumbs and the Prince had not yet returned.

  ‘This is Akielos,’ said Charls.

  ‘I thought that—’

  ‘Kaenas’s household is present,’ said Charls, reassuringly and with some approval. Lamen’s concern for the Prince was very proper. ‘It counts as a chaperone.’

  A soft knock came at their door, followed by a face looking in, an older woman, with brown, thinning hair. ‘Doris?’ said Charls in surprise.

  ‘It is you,’ Doris took a step inside the room, which was small to hold three people. ‘Charls . . . I want you to know, I don’t believe a word of what they’re saying about you.’

  Charls felt the cold touch of concern. ‘What are they saying?’

  He had met Doris two years ago. She was a seamstress and he had complimented her on the quality of her work. They had had several stimulating conversations since then, including a wonderful talk on the qualities of Isthima linen. Now her face was concerned.

  ‘A merchant stopped here, three days back. He said you were here because you weren’t welcome in the capital. He said you tricked the King of Akielos with a bad trade.’

  ‘No, he didn’t,’ said Lamen, standing.

  Charls was moved by Lamen’s belief in him. ‘That is good of you to say, Lamen,’ said Charls. ‘But your word sadly counts for very little against that of a renowned merchant.’

  He could hear the worry in his own voice, and he made a conscious effort to relax. It would do no good to concern the others with his troubles. ‘Thank you for coming, Doris. I’m sure it’s just a simple misunderstanding.’

  ‘Take care on the road, Charls,’ said Doris. ‘Aegina is a rough province, and no one knows much about this trader.’

  ‘His name is Makon,’ said the Prince, padding in from the dinner several hours later. He had an enervated look that subtly relaxed his posture, and a glitter in his eyes from an evening of entertainments. ‘He’s an Akielon trying to establish trade routes through to Patras. Born in Isthima. Heir to a reputable trading company. A brunet. Nice eyes. Not as nice as mine. He’s thirty five and handsome and unmarried, and I’m afraid he’s had terribly unflattering things to say about you, Charls.’

  ‘You do have nice eyes,’ said Lamen.

  ‘Did you miss me? I brought you something.’ The Prince tossed a sweetmeat to Lamen, who caught it with a hint of amusement.

  ‘It seems you have a rival in trade. And he has three days on you.’

  ‘Your Highness, I am deeply sorry to have caused you this inconvenience. I will happily accompany you back to Acquitart.’ Charls bowed low.

  Reputation was everything to a merchant, and his position was already precarious as a Veretian in northern Akielos. Charls thought of rumours planted, relationships soured, doors closed. But most of all he thought how much he had disappointed his Prince, who ought to ride only in the best company.

  The Prince leaned his shoulder against the thick stone of the wall. ‘What’s your next trade stop?’

  ‘It’s north east, to Semea,’ said Charls.

  ‘Then we go north, to Kalamos,’ said the Prince. ‘And get ahead of him.’

  Trade was often a race: first to cross the mountains in spring, first to reach a port, a household, a patron. The orange wagons were not built for a sprint, but Lamen had an excellent work ethic and the sort of physique that was very good at rearranging heavy bolts of cloth. He also had a startling effect on the six hire-guards, coupled with a knowledge of terrain that had them making good time on the country roads.

  Kalamos—the guard waved them through without hesitation. They rode through an approach of shaded laurel trees that opened up into an outer courtyard, where wagons disembarked and riders dismounted.

  For a moment, Charls thought that he was seeing double.

  A contingent of five orange wagons had pulled up in the courtyard opposite them. They appeared identical to his own wagons in every way. His wagons were orange. These wagons were orange. His wagons had spring seats. These wagons had spring seats. The same shape, the same style, the same fittings . . . had the Prince bought him five more wagons?

  But then Charls saw the merchant dressed in a heavy chiton of imported cotton, an ankle-length garment with ostentatious vermillion bordering.

  It was Makon. Charls knew it at once, with a flicker of nerves. This was Makon’s wagon train. They had not outpaced Makon, but had arrived at precisely the same time.

  ‘Two visiting merchants.’ Eugenos, Keeper of the Household, greeted them with the traditional gesture.

  ‘Healthy competition.’ Makon smiled.

  They were led in to the villa together, to rooms where they could refresh themselves after their journey. Charls and Makon walked abreast, with the Prince at Charls’s left elbow, and their assistants behind them.

  Up close, Makon was much as the Prince had described him: a man with a handsome face, a close-cut beard of the kind that was popular in Patras, and strik
ing dark eyes, which his smile never quite reached.

  ‘So, you are Charls,’ said Makon.

  The walk had the pace of a pleasant stroll. Makon’s words were pleasant too, but Charls felt his pulse speed up as if in response to a threat.

  ‘That’s right,’ said a voice, before Charls could speak.

  Makon turned his gaze to the youth at Charls’s elbow. He took in the clothing—the Veretian lacing, the obvious expense of the brocade. He took in the feather.

  ‘You’re younger than I expected.’

  ‘I’ll be of age in four weeks.’

  Blue eyes gazed at Makon from under the feather. Makon regarded the Prince in turn, as though assessing every sol of his value.

  ‘You don’t seem like the man I’ve heard so much about.’

  ‘You mean the man you’ve talked so much about.’

  Makon smiled again. ‘Come now, Charls. As I said. A little healthy competition.’

  Withdrawing to ready themselves in rooms that had been prepared for them, the two merchants returned cleaned of the dust of the road, with their assistants and various samples to show the Keeper.

  Nestor of Kalamos liked to wear reds that inched as close to the Akielon royal red as those of lower rank were allowed. Charls selected samples that showcased his best red dyes—the russet from Ver-Tan, the carmine extracted from crushed kermes in Lamark—and arranged them for the viewing. Winning a contract here would help him build a trade line that he could extend north to the fort of the Kyros.

  The Prince handled the opening address rather well, even if Charls had to murmur sotto voce a few things here and there.

  ‘And the six-thread—’

  ‘Weave,’ murmured Charls.

  ‘Makes for a very fine—’