The Adventures of Charls, the Veretian Cloth Merchant (Captive Prince #3.75)(5)

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.