The Adventures of Charls, the Veretian Cloth Merchant (Captive Prince #3.75)(9)

Naked or barely clothed, the youths drank the water gratefully, but did not ask for it, or for anything, or try to leave. Weak and hazy, they looked for approval, and did as they were told.

‘These aren’t our wagons,’ Guilliame was saying. ‘On the outside, they look the same, but they’re—’

All thought had flown from Charls’s mind but the need to aid these people. He looked up at Guilliame, not understanding what he was saying.

‘The horses are ours,’ said Guilliame. ‘But we’ve switched wagons.’

Charls said, ‘With who?’

‘Makon,’ said Lamen.

There was no doubt or surprise in Lamen’s voice. He looked at Charls steadily, and Charls saw in his eyes that Lamen for a long time had known the truth.

‘Makon is trading in slaves,’ said Charls.

He thought back then—past their steady pursuit of Makon, past their arrivals, timed to coincide. He thought back to the Prince, turning up to help him with five orange wagons.

‘Elite training gardens now teach the traditional skills for employment. But some still smuggle slaves to Patras, against the edict of the King,’ said Lamen. ‘Now that we’ve uncovered the trading route we can alert the royal forces and provide these young people with shelter. They will lead us back to the gardens.’

The Prince’s face was expressionless as he arrived beside them, gazing out at the young men and women on the grass. ‘Our rendezvous will arrive soon.’

‘What about Makon? Shouldn’t we send the guard after him?’

‘No,’ said the Prince.

He spoke with cold decision, just that one word. Charls looked instinctively to Lamen, whose expression, like the Prince’s, did not change.

‘Makon took money from slavers, then arrived with empty wagons. He’s dead.’



Standing at the edge of the small garden at Devos, Charls looked out at the evening view. The last of the light lingered in dusk purples and blues. Beyond the colonnades where he walked, the landscape swelled and deepened in the mountains and valleys that characterised this region.

The day felt like a sort of dream—the arrival of the royal guard, the ex-slaves brought to safety in Devos.

Tomorrow, the Prince would depart, riding back to Marlas where he would tell everyone about his hunting trip to Acquitart. No one but Charls would know of his efforts to end Makon’s trade here.

He stopped on the path where steps led down to a fountain and the quiet buds of some sort of night blossom.

There was just enough light to make out the two figures there.

Lamen stood before the Prince, their heads very close as they spoke softly. Charls saw Lamen tilt the Prince’s chin up.

Then, with the simple confidence of long familiarity, Lamen leaned in, and kissed the Prince on the mouth.

It was, in a sense, no surprise to Charls. On their ride last year through Mellos, Charls had watched them grow close. He had thought it was charming for the Prince to have found himself a young lover, and Lamen had shown an entirely appropriate level of devotion. Indeed, Lamen was a well-made young man glowing with good health—the easy-natured, virile type that might well attract royal attention.

Now, of course, things between them must be different. Everyone knew that Prince Laurent was the lover of the Akielon King, Damianos. The Prince’s love affair with Lamen would be relegated to its proper place, a dalliance between royalty and the object of its brief attention.

The Prince’s arms slid around Lamen’s neck, drawing him closer, and the kiss deepened, Lamen pulling their bodies together.

When the Prince drew back, smiling and murmuring something to Lamen, Lamen’s head dropped to the Prince’s neck. They were both speaking with obvious affection.

‘Charls, you called for me?’ said Lamen, entering Charls’s room the next morning.

Charls motioned Lamen over to the reclining couch, where they both sat, in the sunlight from the high window.

‘I am forty this year. It’s not so old, but it’s old enough to have seen my way around this world. I’ve seen the way you are with him.’

A small, rueful smile as Lamen turned his warm eyes on Charls. ‘Is it so obvious?’

‘You’ve chosen a difficult path. He is the Prince of Vere, tied in alliance to the Akielon King.’

‘Charls,’ said Lamen, ‘I’d work my whole life to be worthy of him.’

Looking into Lamen’s open, youthful face, Charls thought there were many things he might say to him. He might caution him about hanging his hopes on an affair with such a great difference in birth. He might advise him instead to turn away and learn a trade.

‘I am glad he’ll have you with him. He needs an unswerving companion. And . . . many great men in Vere stay loyal to their companions for a lifetime, when their feelings are true.’

‘In Akielos too,’ said Lamen.

‘Yes, think of the loyalty of Iphegenia. Or Theomedes, devoted to his mistress Hypermenestra, though she was too low in rank for him to marry.’

‘I’ll stay by Laurent for as long as he wants me,’ said Lamen.

Charls looked at Lamen, and felt glad that his Prince would have a man like this at his side. ‘If you ever find yourself in need of help or a trade, I hope you will come to me. I think you would make a fine merchant’s assistant.’ Charls held out his hand.