In the silence, the officer tracked his gaze over Laurent, then over Damen. Then he looked at the wagon, taking in every dent, every fleck of dust, every sign of long-distance travel, in minute detail.
‘Well, Charls,’ he said, eventually. ‘It looks like you’ve got a broken axel.’
‘I don’t suppose your men could aid us in our repairs?’ said Laurent.
Damen stared at him. They were encircled by fifty mounted Akielon soldiers. Jokaste was inside that wagon.
The officer said, ‘We’re patrolling for Damianos of Akielos.’
‘Who’s Damianos of Akielos?’ said Laurent.
His face was utterly open, his blue eyes unblinking, upturned to the officer on his horse.
‘He’s the King’s son,’ Damen heard himself saying, ‘Kastor’s brother.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Lamen. Prince Damianos is dead,’ said Laurent. ‘He is hardly the man to whom this officer is referring.’ Then, to the officer: ‘I apologise for my assistant. He doesn’t keep up with Akielon affairs.’
‘On the contrary, it’s believed Damianos of Akielos is alive, and that he crossed into this province with his men six days ago.’ The officer gestured to his squadron, waving them forward. ‘Damianos is in Akielos.’
To Damen’s disbelief, he was waving them forward to mend the wagon. One of the soldiers asked Nikandros for a wooden block to brace the wheel. Nikandros passed it to him wordlessly. Nikandros had the slightly stupefied look that Damen remembered from several of his own adventures with Laurent.
‘When your wagon is r
epaired, we can ride with you to the inn,’ said the officer. ‘You’ll be quite safe. The rest of the garrison is stationed there.’
He used the same tone that Laurent had used when he had said, ‘Who’s Damianos?’
It was suddenly obvious that they were not free from suspicion. A provincial officer might not feel comfortable confronting a well-known merchant on the road and searching his wagons. But at an inn, he could set his men to investigate the wagons at his leisure. And why risk a fight with a dozen guards on the road, when you could simply escort them back to the waiting arms of your garrison?
‘Thank you, officer,’ said Laurent without hesitating. ‘Lead on.’
The officer’s name was Stavos, and when the wagon was fixed, he rode alongside Laurent, everyone trotting upright in their saddles towards the inn. Stavos’s air of confidence got stronger as they rode, which brought every sense Damen had of danger to life. Yet any reluctance was a sure mark of guilt. He could only ride onwards.
The inn was one the larger hostelries in Mellos, equipped for powerful guests, and its entrance was a set of great gates through which wagons and carriages could pass into a central courtyard that contained ample yards for plodding beasts of burden, and stalls for good horses.
Damen’s sense of danger grew as they passed through the gates and into the bumpy courtyard. There was a sizeable barracks, the inn obviously used as a waypoint for military in the region. It was a common enough arrangement in the provinces: merchants and travellers of good birth appreciated and even subsidised a military presence, which elevated an establishment over the usual public houses where not even a slave, if they possessed a shred of respectability, would risk eating. He counted a hundred soldiers.
‘Thank you, Stavos. We can take it from here.’
‘Not at all. Let me escort you inside.’
‘Very well.’ Laurent showed no sign of hesitation whatsoever. ‘Come, Lamen.’
Damen followed him in, acutely aware that he was being separated from his men. Laurent simply walked into the inn.
The inn had a high ceiling in the Akielon style, and a gigantic spitfire in the hearth, the spit briefly overwhelming the room with the scent of its roasting beef. There was only one other group of guests, half visible through an open walk-through, sitting around a table, in animated discussion. To the left, there was a stone staircase leading up to the second-floor sleeping rooms. Two Akielon soldiers had taken up position at the entry, another two were posted at the far door, and Stavos himself had brought a small escort of four soldiers in with him.
Damen thought, absurdly, that the unrailed stairs could be high ground in a fight—as if they could take on an entire garrison, just the two of them. Perhaps he could overwhelm Stavos. He could negotiate some kind of exchange, Stavos’s life for their freedom.
Stavos was introducing Laurent to the innkeeper.
‘This is Charls the renowned Veretian cloth merchant.’
‘That isn’t Charls the renowned Veretian cloth merchant.’ The innkeeper looked at Laurent.
‘I can assure you that I am.’
‘I can assure you. Charls the renowned merchant is already here.’