There was a pause.
Damen found himself looking at Laurent as at the man stepping to the mark in a spear-throwing competition after the last competitor has thrown a perfect bullseye.
‘That is impossible. Call him out here.’
‘Yes, call him out here,’ said Stavos, and everyone waited while a serving boy retreated to the party of guests in the next room. A moment later, Damen heard a familiar voice.
‘Who is this impostor claiming to be m—’
They came face to face with Charls the Veretian cloth merchant.
Charls had changed very little in the months since they had seen one another, his expression merchant-serious, like his clothing, a heavy, expensive-looking brocade. He was a man in his late thirties, with an eager nature tempered by the kind of presence that developed over years of trading.
Charls took one look at the unmistakable blue eyes and blond hair of his Prince, who he had last seen in Damen’s lap dressed as a pet in a tavern at Nesson. His eyes widened. Then, with a truly heroic effort:
‘Charls!’ said Charls.
‘If he is Charls, then who are you?’ said the officer to Charls.
‘I,’ said Charls, ‘am—’
‘He is Charls, I have known him these eight years,’ said the innkeeper.
‘That’s right. He is Charls. I am Charls. We are cousins,’ said Charls, gamely, ‘named after our grandfather. Charls.’
‘Thank you, Charls, this man believes I am the King of Akielos,’ said Laurent.
‘I simply meant that you might be an agent of the King,’ said Stavos irritably.
‘An agent of the King when he has raised taxes and threatens to bankrupt the entire cloth industry?’ said Laurent.
Damen put his eyes somewhere where they wouldn’t meet Laurent’s, while everyone else stared at him—at his blond face, with its pale, arched brows, spreading his hands, a Veretian gesture to go with his Veretian accent.
‘I think we can all agree he isn’t the King of Akielos,’ said the innkeeper. ‘If Charls vouches for his cousin, that must satisfy the garrison.’
‘I certainly do vouch for him,’ said Charls.
After a moment, Stavos made a stiff bow. ‘My apologies, Charls. We are taking every precaution on the roads.’
‘There is no need to apologise, Stavos. Your vigilance does you credit.’ Laurent gave a stiff little bow of his own.
Then he drew off his riding cloak and passed it to Damen to carry.
‘In disguise again!’ Charls said sotto voce as he drew Laurent over to his table by the fire. ‘What is it this time? A mission for the Crown? A secret rendezvous? No fear, Your Highness—it’s my honour to keep your secret.’
Charls introduced Laurent to the six men at the table and they each expressed their surprise and delight at meeting Charls’s young cousin in Akielos.
‘This is my assistant Guilliame.’
‘This is my assistant Lamen,’ said Laurent.
That was how Damen found himself at a table full of Veretian merchants in an inn in Akielos, discussing cloth. There were six men in Charls’s party in total, all merchants. Laurent found a seat close to Charls and the silk merchant Mathelin. Lamen was relegated to a small three-legged stool at the table end.
Servants brought out flatbreads dipped in oil, olives, and meats shaved from the spit. Red wine was decanted into mixing bowls and drunk with shallow cups. It was decent wine and there were no flutists or dancing boys, which was the best one could hope for at a public inn, Damen thought.
Guilliame came to talk to him, since they were the same rank.
‘Lamen. That’s an unusual name.’