The Adventures of Charls, the Veretian Cloth Merchant (Captive Prince #3.75)(3)

‘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 striking 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—’

‘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.