The Adventures of Charls, the Veretian Cloth Merchant (Captive Prince #3.75)(10)
‘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 gold. 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.
‘Lamen,’ said Charls, in a shocked voice. ‘Why are you dressed up like the King?’