The Adventures of Charls, the Veretian Cloth Merchant Read online

  Charls felt himself flushing at the Prince’s kind words, despite the improper subject of the conversation. He raised his tin cup.

  ‘I hope we have many nights like this with our new Akielon friends,’ said Charls.

  ‘To the alliance,’ agreed Alexon, the words echoing back from those seated around the fire. To the alliance.

  Charls saw Lamen lift his cup and incline it towards the Prince, who echoed his gesture, the two of them smiling a little.

  Lamen, for some reason, grew more and more agitated as they drew closer to the fort. It had begun when Charls had briefly mentioned that there was a chance that they might meet the Kyros. He wished to make certain they each knew to behave towards him with the full respect due his rank.

  ‘You mean Heiron,’ said Lamen.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Charls.

  ‘I can’t meet Heiron,’ said Lamen.

  ‘It’s understandable to be nervous around great men like the Kyros, Lamen. But the Prince wouldn’t have you as an assistant if he didn’t believe in your abilities.’

  Lamen passed his hand over his face and had a look of distraught amusement. ‘Charls—’

  ‘Don’t worry, Lamen. Here it is not as it is with smaller houses. The Kyros is a great but remote figure. Most likely our dealings will be with the Keeper.’

  Lamen did not look in any way relieved by that assurance, but it was just as Charls had said: once refreshed in rooms in the town, they were called to the inner fort to meet with the Keeper of the Household.

  This was the meeting Charls had prepared for since first setting out, and he proudly laid out the best of his stock, the rich velvet from Barbin, the canteled damask, the silks and satins from Varenne, the fine white linens and ultrafine cottons that made for the best Akielon chitons. He looked out at his wares with a glad heart. It was an enormous honour to trade with a kyros.

  He also sent ahead a smaller case containing a rich gift—bands of embroidery from Isthima—to thank the Kyros for this audience. Opening negotiations with a gift was a Veretian custom that Charls had found also very much pleased Akielons.

  They set out in a small group, Charls and the Prince at the head, Guilliame following, Lamen hanging back among the four guards carrying their sample chests. Alexon, who had travelled north with them, looked quite respectable in his new cloak.

  Two servants in short chitons escorted them through the elegant simplicity of a series of Akielon courtyards to an airy chamber, where they were to wait for the Keeper.

  The chamber was classically Akielon in its proportions, and furnished with low couches with carved bases and rolled headrests. The arches were beautiful, but the silk draped over each of the low couches was the room’s only real decoration, along with each couch’s scattering of cushions.

  Reclining on the cushions was Makon, loosely robed, his posture relaxed, a wine cup in his hand.

  ‘Hello Charls,’ Makon said.

  Charls felt his stomach drop—of course while they had stopped to rid themselves of the dust of the road, Makon had come straight here, from a hot breakfast at a large and comfortable waystation.

  Before he could speak, the Keeper entered—a majestic presence accompanied by two servants—but all Charls could see was that one of the servants was carrying his hand-picked case of embroidery. His gift to the Kyros was being returned to him unopened.

  ‘We sent a runner to tell you not to come.’

  ‘Keeper, my apologies. We did not receive a runner.’

  ‘Or you ignored one. I am meeting with you so that there will be no misunderstanding. You are not welcome here.’

  Charls felt the same disorientation that he had felt at the home of Kaenas. The case of embroidery was dropped to the marble floor in front of him with a sound that made him jump.

  ‘Keeper, if there has been some charge against me, I hope I would at least have the chance to—’

  ‘Treason,’ said Makon. ‘The charge is treason. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Treason is for the King to decide. But you stand against the alliance. You had false dealings with our King. Kyros Heiron will not do business with you.’

  ‘You’re quite wrong,’ said a voice.

  Everyone turned.

  Charls gasped, and bowed deeply in the Veretian style. The Prince, Lamen and Guilliame did likewise, while behind them Alexon copied their Veretian movements awkwardly. On the other side of the room, the Keeper sank into a traditionally Akielon obeisance, as did Makon.

  Heiron, Kyros of Aegina entered, a slow stately walk in a chiton that swept the floor, and fell in folds, like heavy Veretian curtains.

  ‘My son tells a different story.’

  ‘Your son?’ said Charls.

  ‘Alexon,’ said Heiron, holding out his hand. ‘Come here.’

  As Charls stood amazed, Alexon drew himself up to his full height, pushing back the blue cloak.

  ‘It’s true. I am Alexon, son of Heiron,’ said Alexon. ‘I am not a humble sheep farmer as I claimed.’

  ‘But your insights about wool,’ said Charls.

  ‘I often travel anonymously through the province,’ said Alexon. ‘People show their true natures freely when they don’t know who I am.’

  He stepped forward to stand beside the Kyros of Aegina. The resemblance, in the cut of his jaw, the wide spaced eyes, and the thick brows, was unmistakable.

  ‘The son of a Kyros, travelling with us in disguise all this time!’ said Guilliame.

  ‘You thought me only a farmer,’ said Alexon, ‘yet you saved my life in the tavern, and shared what little you had with me on the road. When I learned who you were, I tested you, and found the rumours to be false. You believe in the alliance of Kings, as do I—as does my father.’

  Heiron came forward to greet Charls and his party formally. Lamen pushed his hat very low down on his forehead, and bowed even more deeply than was necessary.

  ‘I hope you will join us as this evening as a guest of my son’s,’ said Heiron.

  ‘Kyros, you do me great honour,’ said Charls.

  His bow turned into an exuberant hug from Guilliame and celebratory backslapping from Lamen when Heiron and the Keeper left, with the promise that they would begin trade talks that evening.

  ‘Enjoy your small victory.’ Makon’s eyes were black with anger. ‘I have bigger deals to supply.’

  ‘Bigger than trade with the Kyros?’ said the Prince.

  ‘Bigger than your tiny mind can grasp,’ said Makon. ‘Tomorrow I ride for Patras.’

  Dinner as Heiron’s guest was splendid, and it was a great pity that Lamen felt sick and could not attend. Eating tender lamb and chargrilled breads, Charls felt as though a terrible cloud had lifted. Makon was riding away to Patras, and with the patronage of the Kyros of Aegina, Charls’s reputation in this region was restored.

  ‘I believe every Kyros should have a working knowledge of wool, and of all tariff commodities,’ Alexon said, passing the stuffed mushrooms.

  ‘I have always thought that!’ said Charls.

  The conversation was excellent, the food was excellent, and the trade deal they had struck gave Charls exactly the revenue he needed to open the warehouses he dreamed of in Delpha. His mind wandered to the spot he had selected, a perfect location to expand his business, with the increasing demand the new capital at Delpha would have for high quality textiles—

  ‘Just think, Your Highness, if that rogue hadn’t spilled your wine in the tavern, none of this would have happened,’ said Charls.

  There was a brief pause in the sunlit room as they spoke the next morning, their effects half packed for travel.

  ‘You don’t drink wine,’ said Lamen, a shoulder leaned against the wall.

  ‘It was a special occasion,’ said the Prince.

  ‘Should I be glad you aren’t cornering a trade
empire?’ said Lamen.

  ‘We’ll make another kind of empire,’ said the Prince.

  It was a beautiful day for travelling, the sun rising high and bright with a charming breeze. They travelled west for several hours, until they drew up alongside a field of soft grass peppered with wild flowers, the light glinting on a winding stream, where the Prince called for a halt. Supplied with an excellent repast from the Kyros, they could eat well at this makeshift stop, and water the horses, even let them graze a little, wuffling the grass at the end of their ropes.

  But the Prince leapt down immediately and began shouting for their soldiers to throw open the wagons.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘We’re far enough. Open them up! Now!’

  There was really no need to check the inventory, Charls thought. They had sold most of what they had carried, and the money they had collected was riding safely in a chest beside Charls, protected by their mounted guard.

  It was Guilliame who let out the cry. ‘Charls! Charls!’

  Charls was clambering down immediately. Seeing the white look on Guilliame’s face, he remembered, suddenly, the poisoned horse, and rushed to Guilliame’s side.

  For a moment the surreality of it prevented him from feeling sick, and then the physical reaction hit, alongside a horror that seemed to rush through his body, and constrict his chest.

  There were people inside the wagons. Young men and women, at least two dozen in this wagon alone, cramped, roughly bound together, sick from some sort of drug—and underneath that, terrified.

  ‘Help them out of the wagons!’ Charls said. ‘Quickly!’

  Around him, soldiers were cutting bonds, helping unsteady youths onto the grass. Charls ordered water flasks and food to be given out, and found a few unsold bolts of cloth that could be used as wraps where needed.

  Naked or barely clothed, the youths drank the water gratefully, but did not ask for it, or for anything, or try to leave. Weak and hazy, they looked for approval, and did as they were told.

  ‘These aren’t our wagons,’ Guilliame was saying. ‘On the outside, they look the same, but they’re—’

  All thought had flown from Charls’s mind but the need to aid these people. He looked up at Guilliame, not understanding what he was saying.

  ‘The horses are ours,’ said Guilliame. ‘But we’ve switched wagons.’

  Charls said, ‘With who?’

  ‘Makon,’ said Lamen.

  There was no doubt or surprise in Lamen’s voice. He looked at Charls steadily, and Charls saw in his eyes that Lamen for a long time had known the truth.

  ‘Makon is trading in slaves,’ said Charls.

  He thought back then—past their steady pursuit of Makon, past their arrivals, timed to coincide. He thought back to the Prince, turning up to help him with five orange wagons.

  ‘Elite training gardens now teach the traditional skills for employment. But some still smuggle slaves to Patras, against the edict of the King,’ said Lamen. ‘Now that we’ve uncovered the trading route we can alert the royal forces and provide these young people with shelter. They will lead us back to the gardens.’

  The Prince’s face was expressionless as he arrived beside them, gazing out at the young men and women on the grass. ‘Our rendezvous will arrive soon.’

  ‘What about Makon? Shouldn’t we send the guard after him?’

  ‘No,’ said the Prince.

  He spoke with cold decision, just that one word. Charls looked instinctively to Lamen, whose expression, like the Prince’s, did not change.

  ‘Makon took money from slavers, then arrived with empty wagons. He’s dead.’

  Standing at the edge of the small garden at Devos, Charls looked out at the evening view. The last of the light lingered in dusk purples and blues. Beyond the colonnades where he walked, the landscape swelled and deepened in the mountains and valleys that characterised this region.

  The day felt like a sort of dream—the arrival of the royal guard, the ex-slaves brought to safety in Devos.

  Tomorrow, the Prince would depart, riding back to Marlas where he would tell everyone about his hunting trip to Acquitart. No one but Charls would know of his efforts to end Makon’s trade here.

  He stopped on the path where steps led down to a fountain and the quiet buds of some sort of night blossom.

  There was just enough light to make out the two figures there.

  Lamen stood before the Prince, their heads very close as they spoke softly. Charls saw Lamen tilt the Prince’s chin up.

  Then, with the simple confidence of long familiarity, Lamen leaned in, and kissed the Prince on the mouth.

  It was, in a sense, no surprise to Charls. On their ride last year through Mellos, Charls had watched them grow close. He had thought it was charming for the Prince to have found himself a young lover, and Lamen had shown an entirely appropriate level of devotion. Indeed, Lamen was a well-made young man glowing with good health—the easy-natured, virile type that might well attract royal attention.

  Now, of course, things between them must be different. Everyone knew that Prince Laurent was the lover of the Akielon King, Damianos. The Prince’s love affair with Lamen would be relegated to its proper place, a dalliance between royalty and the object of its brief attention.

  The Prince’s arms slid around Lamen’s neck, drawing him closer, and the kiss deepened, Lamen pulling their bodies together.

  When the Prince drew back, smiling and murmuring something to Lamen, Lamen’s head dropped to the Prince’s neck. They were both speaking with obvious affection.

  ‘Charls, you called for me?’ said Lamen, entering Charls’s room the next morning.

  Charls motioned Lamen over to the reclining couch, where they both sat, in the sunlight from the high window.

  ‘I am forty this year. It’s not so old, but it’s old enough to have seen my way around this world. I’ve seen the way you are with him.’

  A small, rueful smile as Lamen turned his warm eyes on Charls. ‘Is it so obvious?’

  ‘You’ve chosen a difficult path. He is the Prince of Vere, tied in alliance to the Akielon King.’

  ‘Charls,’ said Lamen, ‘I’d work my whole life to be worthy of him.’

  Looking into Lamen’s open, youthful face, Charls thought there were many things he might say to him. He might caution him about hanging his hopes on an affair with such a great difference in birth. He might advise him instead to turn away and learn a trade.

  ‘I am glad he’ll have you with him. He needs an unswerving companion. And . . . many great men in Vere stay loyal to their companions for a lifetime, when their feelings are true.’

  ‘In Akielos too,’ said Lamen.

  ‘Yes, think of the loyalty of Iphegenia. Or Theomedes, devoted to his mistress Hypermenestra, though she was too low in rank for him to marry.’

  ‘I’ll stay by Laurent for as long as he wants me,’ said Lamen.

  Charls looked at Lamen, and felt glad that his Prince would have a man like this at his side. ‘If you ever find yourself in need of help or a trade, I hope you will come to me. I think you would make a fine merchant’s assistant.’ Charls held out his hand.

  ‘Thank you, Charls. That is a real compliment,’ said Lamen, clasping his arm in farewell.

  ‘Long live the King! Long live King Laurent of Vere!’

  Charls sat happily on the rooftop of his wagon, while others climbed onto the wheels of his wagon, and the sideboards of his wagon, or just stood on the tips of their toes next to his wagon, and craned and jumped and waved. The streets were thronged; without a vantage, it was hard to see anything.

  Guilliame sat beside him, legs dangling. They had a splendid view all the way up the main street, where the new King—Laurent, sixth of his name—was a golden figure the size of his thumb, his cloth gold and his crown gold, and his horse’s panoply gol
d. He rode at the head of the royal procession, with its silk-clad standard bearers and horses with jewelled saddlery and guards in blue and gold livery and heralds with starburst banners and young boys and girls strewing blue and yellow flower petals, making its way through the town towards the fort.

  Marlas was overstuffed. But the Prince had insisted that his Ascension happen in Marlas and not at Arles, and so councillors and kyroi and nobility from Vere and Akielos and their households were crammed into the fort, and into every inn, and into every lodging the township could find. Charls himself had a room in the upper floor of a tailor’s house that he shared at an exorbitant price with a batch of minor nobles from Kesus.

  Unlike the nobles, he had an invitation to attend the King on the third night of celebrations. His swelling of pride felt fit to burst every time he thought of this honour, and of the King’s kindness in remembering a humble cloth merchant on the occasion of his Ascension.

  He wore his best jacket with straight sleeves of black velvet, rowed with seed pearls, and lined with Varennese satin. He made sure that it sat straight, and carefully placed his hat at the right angle and buffed his gold buckled shoes to a rich shine.

  As he walked the length of the throne room, past great women and men from two countries, he realised it was the first time that both Vere and Akielos had joined together to witness an Ascension. A true union, he thought. And then he reached the figure that was waiting for him.

  King Laurent was dressed in gold, his head crowned in gold, his clothes of ivory silk and gold, a young king resplendent, so bright that the eyes overbrimmed just to look at him.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Charls said, bowing low.

  ‘Charls,’ said his King. ‘There is someone I want you to meet.’

  As Charls rose from his bow, another very great figure was coming towards him, and Charls had the impression initial impression only of kingship: flowing Akielon robes, power, laurel-crowned.

  ‘Damianos of Akielos,’ said Laurent.

  Charls looked up—and up, and up—at the familiar face, warmly handsome, at the smile and the eyes that he knew so well.