Charls was stepping out into the inn courtyard, a wide space where there was not too much horse dung to bother those in Akielon sandals, when he saw the orange wagons.
He had just finished an excellent repast of cheese, cured meats, olives and flatbreads. It was mid-spring, and he had heard this very morning from a vintner that the weather would hold, growing hotter each day until summer. An auspicious beginning, as he embarked on a trade journey north into the Akielon province of Aegina.
A year ago, he would have been carrying fine linens or white cotton, but the joined court of the Akielon King and the Veretian Prince was creating a burgeoning market for new styles. In Vere, the addition of short capes pinned to the shoulder à la Achelos had meant a rise in demand for silks and heavy velvets. And while in Akielos there was still very little desire for sleeves, there was a new interest in patterned borders, coloured cloaks and techniques of Veretian dyeing.
Well supplied for these daring new fashions, Charls anticipated a very profitable trip, where he would sell to the Kyros of Aegina and arrive in Marlas in time for the Ascension.
Instead, he saw his assistant Guilliame wringing his hands as he did when he could not resolve a problem, and in the centre of the courtyard, five bright orange wagons, strident in the sun, crowding everyone else out.
They were big, flashy conveyances: a rich train riding out with a company of soldiers. Charls could see the soldiers, a full half dozen. Charls’s stomach sank at the prospect of a bright orange rival sharing his trade route. He could see the merchant sitting on the spring seat of the nearest wagon, wearing the latest Veretian brocade with weft patterning, and a wide brimmed hat with a feather that bobbed over his neat hair.
‘What do you think? I bargained for them myself,’ said the merchant, as Charls’s eyes went wide.
‘Your Highness!’ Quite overwhelmed, Charls began to bow. The merchant, who was not a merchant, was leaping down from the wagons. He cut off Charls’s bow with a gesture for discretion.
‘They are a most noble orange,’ said Charls.
‘They’re yours. I transferred your merchandise, along with your effects. Consider it my thanks for all you did for me in Mellos.’
‘Your Highness!’ Charls looked at the orange wagons. Twice in his life, he’d been afforded the great honour of meeting his Prince. To think that the Prince had remembered his humble contribution. ‘This is too generous. And to come personally! There was no need. There’s no debt between us. I would happily serve you. I am your subject.’
‘You helped me on the ride to Mellos,’ said the Prince. ‘I thought I might help you on your ride through Aegina. We have these wagons and soldiers for protection—what do you say?’
‘Help me!’ said Charls.
This astonishing prospect took a moment to grasp. To be entrusted again with the Prince’s company—it did not quite seem possible. And yet here he was: the same nobility of spirit; the same haughty mannerisms that could not be mistaken for anyone else.
His mind whirling, Charls tried to focus on practical matters: He told Guilliame not to fret. He explained his cousin’s return. He explained the change of wagons. He checked the stock, and was pleased to find it in meticulous order. He met the six soldiers, though he did not recognise any of those men he faintly remembered from the Prince’s Guard, Jazar or Dord.
But there was one happily familiar face, as a man stepped out from the last of the wagons, unfolding himself as he emerged from a space that was meant for much smaller men.
‘Lamen!’ said Charls.
The first time Charls had met Lamen, he had been pretending to be a merchant from Patras, not very successfully. Charls had noticed the holes in Lamen’s knowledge of silk right away. Now, Charls thought fondly, it was obvious why: Lamen was not a merchant. He was merely a merchant’s assistant.
‘I see you are once again assisting—’ Charls leaned in conspiratorially, ‘cousin Charls on his travels.’
‘Cousin Charls wants to keep his identity hidden. I hope you understand. The Veretian Council think he’s hunting at Acquitart.’
‘I am the soul of discretion,’ said Charls. ‘Although I wonder, that is, if I might ask . . .’
Across the inn courtyard, Cousin Charls’s bobbing hat feather was visible as he haggled with the innsman over the cost of a wagon-train’s lodging. There was one thought troubling him.
‘Is not the Ascension in five weeks?’ said Charls.
‘Four weeks,’ said Lamen.
He said it with a steady expression, standing in front of a very orange wagon.
‘It’s lucky King Damianos is at Delpha,’ said Charls, uncertainly. ‘There’s no need to worry that the Prince is away so close to the Ascension.’
‘Yes, this would be a terrible idea otherwise,’ said Lamen.
Their first stop in Aegina was part of Charls’s habitual trade route, the home of Kaenas, a minor member of the Aegean provincial nobility.
The region was famous for its hospitality and for its meat dishes. There was a slow roasted lamb shoulder that was simply seasoned with garlic and lemon that Charls was looking forward to particularly. As they trundled up to the villa’s outer walls of flat stone, Charls told the Prince of this province’s unspoiled customs; they would all soon enjoy the culinary charms of northern Akielos.
It was good that the Prince was keeping his identity hidden. Men puked in front of princes, tripped, dropped ceramics. If Guilliame had known the true identity of Cousin Charls, he would not have been able to concentrate on management of the inventory. Not everyone could have the blissful equanimity of Lamen, who seemed to pay the Prince no deference of rank, a piece of very good acting.
Charls had to keep pinching himself, just as he had had to a year ago on the ride through Mellos: the Prince of Vere was sitting on that orange wagon cushion. The person lifting those bolts of silk was the Prince of Vere. That was the Prince of Vere’s hat feather.
As for the Prince, he was obviously enjoying a freedom that prov
ided Charls with a few heart-stopping moments, such as when Guilliame threw him a saddle pack, or when he was served lunch second, after Charls received the best portion. But the Prince was not perturbed by these familiarities, which showed, thought Charls, his excellent character.
They were about to pass through the outer walls towards the lamb shoulder, when word came that they were being denied entry.
‘There must be some mistake,’ said Charls.
He told Guilliame to rectify it. He was not overly concerned. He traded here yearly. Kaenas had a preference for lighter linen and chitons in the overfold style, and he had several pieces of banded embroidery that she would find very handsome.
‘There’s no mistake,’ said the guard. ‘Charls the cloth merchant is not welcome here.’
The shock of this caught Charls without words. He struggled to think of why there might be some grievance, hotly aware that the misunderstanding was unfolding in front of his Prince.
‘Well, there’s your mistake,’ said an unmistakable voice. ‘You’re thinking of the wrong Charls. That’s Old Charls. I am Young Charls. You can tell by the orange wagons.’
The Prince gazed up at the guard from under his feather.
‘There are two Veretian cloth merchants named Charls,’ said the guard.