The Adventures of Charls, the Veretian Cloth Merchant (Captive Prince #3.75)(8)
‘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.