The Adventures of Charls, the Veretian Cloth Merchant

  ‘Under layer,’ murmured Charls.

  ‘Excellent work, Your Highness,’ Charls murmured quietly but rather proudly, when the Keeper turned to Makon. ‘A strong beginning.’

  The gasps came when Makon’s assistant unspooled with a flourish a bolt of vermillion Kemptian silk in pristine condition, unstained, free from dust of the road. It was beautiful.

  ‘Kemptian silk,’ said Makon. ‘Brought from the west. One hundred silver lei.’

  ‘From us, fifty,’ said the Prince, immediately. ‘My mother is Kemptian.’

  ‘Cousin Charls!’ said Charls. But before he could object—

  ‘Can you outmatch fifty lei?’ The Keeper looked back at Makon.

  ‘Forty five’ said Makon.

  ‘Forty,’ said the Prince.

  ‘Thirty five,’ said Makon. Charls felt faint. This was far below cost. Whoever won the contract would take an enormous loss, and if it was him—

  Everyone in the chamber looked at the Prince, expectantly. He had paled a little. ‘I’m afraid we cannot go any lower, even for Nestor of Kalamos.’

  That was all it took—the Keeper gestured, and the silks were being re-wrapped and the samples cleared, as quickly and efficiently as market stalls closing at the first hint of rain.

  ‘You have our contract,’ said the Keeper to Makon. ‘And a seat next to Nestor at the feast tonight, in acknowledgement of your new position.’

  ‘Keeper,’ said Makon, inclining his head in regard, as the Keeper and his servants withdrew from the chamber.

  ‘You must want to establish a trade line here very much,’ said the Prince to Makon. They stood beside each other.

  ‘Dear Charls. Whatever will you do with your own Kemptian silk? It will spoil on the road.’

  ‘We aren’t carrying any Kemptian silk,’ said the Prince.

  It took a moment for those words to be understood, and then Makon’s expression changed.

  ‘Oh, did you think we were? I’m afraid you undercut yourself for no reason.’ A look of fury had appeared on Makon’s face. The Prince said, ‘A little healthy competition.’

  Dinner was glorious. The seating arrangements did not detract at all from the delicious smoked pork and leek, the caramelised onions and the full flavoured regional wine. Each story that Cousin Charls told seemed to cast Charls in a subtly favourable light. And when Nestor leaned in and complimented Cousin Charls on the colour of his red brocade, Charls only had to mention that they carried similar stock, and the deal was made—a contract!

  Charls slept blissfully on the narrow bed, and woke buoyed by good spirits, optimistic about his northern expedition, until he came down to the stables, dark in the pre-dawn, and saw the activity there.

  Guilliame was holding a torch, the flames illuminating the interior of the stall. The Prince was on his knees in the straw with his hand on the neck of one of the draught horses, the piebald with the huge feathered hooves. It was lying on its side, its breathing laboured. It was dying. Meat for the hunting dogs, the stablehand said. The Prince said without rising that he didn’t think that was a good idea.

  Guilliame said in a low voice, ‘It was poison. It was in the feed. Lamen noticed a dead field mouse near the grain stores. If not for that warning, we’d have lost all the horses. Not just this one.’

  The Prince stayed with the horse while Lamen touched him on the shoulder, then arranged for a horsemaster to put the horse down. The Prince only rose when the horse was dead.

  The sun was very bright when they all emerged from the stables into the courtyard, where Makon’s five glaring wagons were assembled ready to leave.

  Makon himself was dressed in a stately white chiton, his eyes dropping to the Prince’s ruined silk, the patches of dirt and straw on his knees.

  ‘Horse trouble?’ Makon’s voice was mild.

  ‘These things happen in trade,’ Charls told the Prince, as they readied their own wagons, much later.

  ‘I taunted him,’ said the Prince, his voice level, like his acetous blue gaze when he turned it on Charls. ‘I was enjoying it.’

  With only a single draught horse pulling a two-horse wagon, they had to travel more slowly, and stop often. There was no chance of outpacing Makon now; he was well ahead of them. Wherever they went, he would arrive first, to snatch up their trade and foment rumours.

  Yet if not for the Prince, Charls would already have a name synonymous with treason in this region. If not for Lamen, he’d have ten dead horses rotting in the stables instead of one.

  He didn’t say any of that, as they trundled slowly onward. He thought of the Prince on his knees in the stables, and the piebald, lying on its side, blowing air through its nose in the straw.

  It was very late when they arrived at the inn, and two dozen sets of hostile eyes watched them walk in.

  The village of Halki was small and the inn was smaller, a rectangular wooden building with outside seats underneath hanging grape vines, and an interior with a dirt floor where locals—and sometimes their livestock—took repast or shelter for the night.

  The Prince had suggested it. ‘We can’t stay at the same wayhouses as Makon, it isn’t safe.’ He was quite right: sabotage was even more likely on the road. And so they had come to this small local inn, with its narrow interior and single leg of lamb over the fire. Outside, their horses stood with nosebags still hitched to the wagons; the barn was occupied, full of their soldiers shaking out sleeping rolls for the night.

  Inside, the men (it was all men) were seated in two haphazard groups of about eight, with an additional fellow sitting alone in a poorly-dyed blue woollen cloak with an uneven weave pattern, two others drinking wine alongside a penned gaggle of geese in the corner.

  Charls thought with a pang about the braised beef with melting onions at the larger waystation that he knew well. It was immediately obvious that this inn did not cater to the merchant class. It probably did not cater to outsiders from a different village.

  ‘Veretian,’ was the first word spoken as they passed, and the tone was unpleasant enough that Charls would have left if the Prince hadn’t already found his way to a table. Charls sat across from him, uncomfortably close to the man in the blue cloak, which on closer inspection was of untreated wool, obviously home woven. They had now been brought very low, Charls thought.

  ‘Lamb’s edible,’ said the man in the blue cloak.

  ‘Thank you, stranger,’ said Charls, his Veretian accent ringing out awkwardly, too loud.

  There was in fact a smell of roasting lamb that filled the tavern, but it did not quite give it a comfortable feel, considering the hostility of the men and the presence of the geese in the corner.

  ‘You’re not going to sit in my lap this time?’ Lamen settled comfortably on the bench.

  The Prince said, ‘Charls will faint.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s quite the mode for a young cloth merchant,’ said Charls.

  ‘Are you sure the lamb’s edible?’ said Guilliame to the man in the blue cloak.

  Charls sniffed the wine. It was double strength, he learned, coughing. At least it was wine and not one of the fermented spirits of the northern regions. He tried to appreciate the rustic charm of dining here, even as he was aware that these hostile men were all drinking double strength wine as well.

  Still, there was always a bright side: it was only necessary to drink half the wine, and perhaps this man in the blue cloak would have some colourful local knowledge. He opened his mouth to speak.

  Charls didn’t see how it happened. He heard an Akielon in a wool chiton say, ‘Watch it,’ and suddenly Prince was soaking wet. The contents of the Prince’s cup had been dumped into the Prince’s lap.

  Double strength wine soaked into silk of exquisitely uniform warp, staining it forever, then dripping down the bench onto the floor.

  ‘Too many Veretians in here
,’ said the man, and spat near the wine puddle.

  Lamen was rising calmly from his chair, a process that the man didn’t notice until he found himself looking up.

  ‘The Veretian Prince is about to be crowned.’ Lamen’s voice was friendly enough. ‘You should talk about his subjects with respect.’

  ‘I’ll show you respect,’ said the man, and turned away—only to turn back and swing a punch at Lamen’s jaw.

  ‘Lamen, the Prince’s dinner!’ said Charls, his incautious words unheard as Lamen shifted, evading the punch, so that the man staggered into their table, upsetting everything. Lamen then took the man by the scruff of his chiton and flung him back out into the tavern.

  With a crash, the man landed in the middle of a seated group of men several steps away, sending wine cups and cut meats flying. All of the seated men leapt to their feet.

  ‘This is all a misunderstanding,’ said Charls, faced with eight dripping Akielons. ‘We’re not here looking for any trouble. We’re just—’

  He ducked as a metal stake to which was tied a freshly-hunted brace of rabbits was thrown with worrying accuracy at his head.

  ‘Look out!’ The Prince dragged the man in the poorly-dyed wool cloak to the floor to avoid it. At the same time, shaking off his fall and pieces of food and wine from the table, the original harasser made it to his feet, and launched himself at Lamen.

  The resulting explosion of violence turned the tavern into a roiling mess of fighting. A group of Akielons swarmed Lamen. A group of Akielons swarmed each other. ‘Blame me for the doings of a Veretian?’ progressed quickly too, ‘You’ve been grazing your cows on my land, Stavos, and don’t you deny it!’ The goose pen was broken open and geese streamed out at knee-level, hissing and pecking.

  The Prince pulled the man in the blue cloak to safety behind the biggest overturned table. From that vantage, the Prince started throwing olives. They plinged off the heads of the struggling Akielons and caused no real harm, but contributed to the general confusion.

  Charls pressed himself to the wall and tried to keep out of the fray, and then he saw Guilliame in the remains of the goose pen, with one of the Akielons advancing on him.

  ‘Guilliame!’ Charls leapt over a stool, picked up a pitcher of wine and smashed it over the attacker’s head, wincing at the cost of the broken ceramic. He hurried Guilliame to safety behind the overturned table, where the man in the blue cloak crouched alongside the Prince.

  ‘Charls,’ he introduced himself.

  ‘Alexon,’ said the man.

  There was a crash and the sound of wood splintering, followed by a powerful roar.

  ‘I think Lamen is holding his own,’ said the Prince, peering over the top of the table.

  A sudden loud clanging caused a worried expression to fly onto Alexon’s face. ‘That bell summons the garrison.’

  ‘Come with us,’ said the Prince to Alexon. And then, ‘Lamen, to me!’ and the five of them made their way out the door, with the fight still thundering behind them.

  It was swift work to unhook the nosebags from the horses and clamber into the wagons, thankful the horses were still in harness. They did not have to wake their small guard; the bell had done that. Their men hurriedly pulled on pants and shirts and swung up into saddles. Travelling at night was not preferred on these provincial tracks, but they cut a breakneck pace (for wagons) and were away. Not a moment too soon: the local garrison’s arrival could be heard distinctly behind them.

  Only when Lamen judged they were not being followed did they slow and begin to look for a cutting or a gap in the trees where they could stop and camp for the night.

  Guilliame said, ‘It’s a pity you didn’t punch him after dinner. We can make a fire, but there’s nothing to eat.’

  The Prince held up a parcel wrapped in cloth.

  ‘The lamb!’ said Alexon, who had leapt down from wagon.

  ‘I hit an Akielon with it,’ said the Prince, ‘but aside from that I think it’s no more the worse for wear.’

  ‘We’ll have wine too, if you squeeze out your jacket,’ said Lamen. He held up the brace of rabbits.

  ‘Quick thinking, Lamen,’ said Alexon, admiringly.

  Their six mounted guards settled the horses. Guilliame went in search of firewood. Charls, who had a scrupulous sense of fair trade, consoled himself that they had paid for the lamb and the rabbits had been thrown at him, which might count as a gift. Then he saw the Prince and Lamen, and all thoughts flew from his mind. The Prince was holding one of the rabbits by the ears with an outstretched arm, looking at it.

  ‘It can’t be that hard,’ the Prince was saying.

  Charls saw in horror that he was talking about skinning the rabbit. Charls took Lamen firmly by the arm. ‘Excuse us, Cousin Charls.’ He was steering Lamen to the side of the wagons.

  ‘Lamen,’ he said, when they were a few steps away. ‘Is the Prince of Vere holding a dead rabbit?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘He is a prince. That is a rabbit. Do you think he has ever skinned a rabbit in his life?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘No. A Prince’s hands are instruments of refinement. A Prince’s hands are not made to touch a dead rabbit. You have to do it!’

  ‘But Charls—’

  Charls pushed him firmly in the back. ‘Go!’

  This heart-stopping breach of etiquette averted, Charls returned to the camp as the soldiers were digging a pit for the fire. He collected blankets for them to sit on, and only when the spit was set up and the fire burning well did he go in search of the rabbits.

  Lamen and the Prince were together at the tree edge. The rabbits were on the ground, except for the one that Lamen was holding by the leg, gingerly. The Prince was wiping his eyes, laughing.

  ‘If we just knew which end to start with,’ Lamen said.

  It was suddenly obvious that Lamen had no idea what to do. With a clear moment of insight, Charls saw that Lamen was not a cloth merchant’s assistant. He was the prince’s private companion, and had no real skills whatsoever.

  ‘Guilliame, please teach Lamen to cook a rabbit,’ said Charls. The throbbing in his temple was threatening to become a headache.

  Thankfully, they did not have to squeeze out the Prince’s jacket: they uncovered wine in the wagons, along with tin cups, and it made for a merry party around the campfire. The wine was warming and the meat (Guilliame did a fine job) was well cooked. Alexon, they learned, was the son of a sheep farmer, and he and Charls had an engrossing conversation about the rise in regional wool prices. Charls thought Alexon an upstanding young man, and made a mental note to supply him with a new cloak.

  ‘Tell me where you each hail from,’ said Alexon.

  ‘I was born in Varenne,’ said Charls. ‘A rich trading province, with an excellent trade tariff system. I have always found the revenue management very good there.’

  ‘Arles,’ said the Prince. ‘The viper pit.’

  ‘Ios.’ Lamen stretched out, looking relaxed, his limbs warm in the firelight. ‘But I was brought to Arles, where we met.’

  ‘I thought you were Patran,’ said Guilliame.

  ‘No, I was born in the capital.’

  He said no more than that. Charls supposed that he and Guilliame were two of the few who knew the truth of Lamen’s origins—that under that long Veretian sleeve there was a golden cuff, and that Lamen had once been a palace slave. He did not know how Lamen had come by his freedom, though he could see how Lamen had caught the Prince’s eye. Lamen was a young man in peak physical condition, good natured and loyal. Any unmarried nobleman would notice him.

  ‘And how is it you now fight for Veretians?’ said Alexon.

  Charls found himself curious to hear his answer, but Lamen said only, ‘I came to know one of them.’

  The firelight seemed to change the mood, warming it. T
he wagons were visible in the flame glow, a rosy orange.

  ‘Around here, people don’t think much of the new alliance,’ said Alexon.

  ‘Damianos is a great king,’ said Charls. ‘You should trust in him, as we trust in our Prince.’

  ‘Do you think they’re doing it?’ said Alexon.

  Charls coughed on his wine. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The King and Prince Laurent. Do you think they’re doing it?’

  ‘Well, it’s not for me to say.’ Charls avoided looked at the Prince.

  ‘I think they are,’ volunteered Guilliame. ‘Charls met the Prince of Vere once. He said he was so beautiful that if he were a pet he’d spark a bidding war the likes of which no one had ever seen.’

  ‘I meant, in an honourable way,’ Charls said, quickly.

  ‘And everyone in Akielos speaks of the virility of Damianos,’ continued Guilliame.

  ‘I don’t think it should follow that—’ Charls began.

  ‘My cousin told me,’ said Alexon, proudly, ‘he met a man who had once been a famous gladiator from Isthima. He lasted only minutes in the arena with Damianos. But afterwards Damianos had him in his chambers for six hours.’

  ‘You see? How could a man like that resist a beauty like the Prince?’ Guilliame sat back triumphantly.

  ‘Seven hours,’ said Lamen, frowning slightly.

  ‘Here in Aegina, they say Damianos takes the Prince every night, but that it’s not seemly for a king to renounce his slaves and limit his appetites, denying himself all but one person.’

  ‘I think it’s romantic,’ said Guilliame.

  ‘Oh?’ said Alexon.

  ‘I heard Damianos disguised himself as a slave to uncover the secret of his brother’s treachery, and the Prince of Vere fell in love with him not knowing who he was.’

  ‘I heard that they allied themselves in secret months before,’ said Alexon. ‘And that the Prince hid Damianos from Kastor, pretending he was a slave, while they courted privately.’

  ‘What do you think, Charls?’ said Guilliame to the Prince.

  ‘I think they had help,’ said the Prince, ‘along the way, from those who were loyal.’