The Adventures of Charls, the Veretian Cloth Merchant (Captive Prince #3.75)(2)

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 provided 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.’