Kalamos—the guard waved them through without hesitation. They rode through an approach of shaded laurel trees that opened up into an outer courtyard, where wagons disembarked and riders dismounted.
For a moment, Charls thought that he was seeing double.
A contingent of five orange wagons had pulled up in the courtyard opposite them. They appeared identical to his own wagons in every way. His wagons were orange. These wagons were orange. His wagons had spring seats. These wagons had spring seats. The same shape, the same style, the same fittings . . . had the Prince bought him five more wagons?
But then Charls saw the merchant dressed in a heavy chiton of imported cotton, an ankle-length garment with ostentatious vermillion bordering.
It was Makon. Charls knew it at once, with a flicker of nerves. This was Makon’s wagon train. They had not outpaced Makon, but had arrived at precisely the same time.
‘Two visiting merchants.’ Eugenos, Keeper of the Household, greeted them with the traditional gesture.
‘Healthy competition.’ Makon smiled.
They were led in to the villa together, to rooms where they could refresh themselves after their journey. Charls and Makon walked abreast, with the Prince at Charls’s left elbow, and their assistants behind them.
Up close, Makon was much as the Prince had described him: a man with a handsome face, a close-cut beard of the kind that was popular in Patras, and strik
ing dark eyes, which his smile never quite reached.
‘So, you are Charls,’ said Makon.
The walk had the pace of a pleasant stroll. Makon’s words were pleasant too, but Charls felt his pulse speed up as if in response to a threat.
‘That’s right,’ said a voice, before Charls could speak.
Makon turned his gaze to the youth at Charls’s elbow. He took in the clothing—the Veretian lacing, the obvious expense of the brocade. He took in the feather.
‘You’re younger than I expected.’
‘I’ll be of age in four weeks.’
Blue eyes gazed at Makon from under the feather. Makon regarded the Prince in turn, as though assessing every sol of his value.
‘You don’t seem like the man I’ve heard so much about.’
‘You mean the man you’ve talked so much about.’
Makon smiled again. ‘Come now, Charls. As I said. A little healthy competition.’
Withdrawing to ready themselves in rooms that had been prepared for them, the two merchants returned cleaned of the dust of the road, with their assistants and various samples to show the Keeper.
Nestor of Kalamos liked to wear reds that inched as close to the Akielon royal red as those of lower rank were allowed. Charls selected samples that showcased his best red dyes—the russet from Ver-Tan, the carmine extracted from crushed kermes in Lamark—and arranged them for the viewing. Winning a contract here would help him build a trade line that he could extend north to the fort of the Kyros.
The Prince handled the opening address rather well, even if Charls had to murmur sotto voce a few things here and there.
‘And the six-thread—’
‘Weave,’ murmured Charls.
‘Makes for a very fine—’
‘Under layer,’ murmured Charls.
‘Excellent work, Your Highness,’ Charls murmured quietly but rather proudly, when the Keeper turned to Makon. ‘A strong beginning.’
The gasps came when Makon’s assistant unspooled with a flourish a bolt of vermillion Kemptian silk in pristine condition, unstained, free from dust of the road. It was beautiful.
‘Kemptian silk,’ said Makon. ‘Brought from the west. One hundred silver lei.’