ABOUT

THE AUTHOR



C.S. Pacat is the author of the best-selling Captive Prince trilogy. Born in
Australia and educated at the University of Melbourne, she has since lived in a
number of cities, including Tokyo and Perugia. She currently resides and writes
in Melbourne.

Follow C.S. Pacat on Twitter at cspacat, or on her website at cspacat.com.

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ALSO BY C.S. PACAT

THE CAPTIVE PRINCE TRILOGY

Captive Prince

Prince’s Gambit

Kings Rising

CAPTIVE PRINCE SHORT STORIES

Green but for a Season

The Summer Palace

Text copyright © C.S. Pacat, 2017.

The right of C.S. Pacat to be identified as the sole author of this work has been asserted.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission
of the copyright holder.

Cover design © C.S. Pacat

ISBN 978-0-9876223-1-0








The Adventures of Charls, the Veretian Cloth Merchant is a Captive Prince short
story set after the events of The Summer Palace.



THE ADVENTURES OF CHARLS, THE VERETIAN
CLOTH MERCHANT





C harls 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 provided 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.
‘It’s a common name in Vere,’ said Young Charls.
‘More common with every day,’ said Lamen.
The guard turned towards the Akielon voice, and Lamen smiled at him, an easy
smile full of his good nature, his tousled curls, and the relaxed temperament of
his southern Akielon birth. He had a dimple in his left cheek. Charls watched the
guard unwinch a fraction.
They had to wait while a runner was sent to the house, and wait longer for him
to return (panting). The guard waved them through. The call went up, whips
flicked, the wagons trundled. Young Charls was welcome.
Old Charls was feeling very low. But of course they must have somewhere to
stay. He felt a hand clasp his forearm, and he looked up in surprise as the Prince
said, ‘Let’s get to the bottom of this, shall we?’
Kaenas was delighted to entertain a young merchant with stories of the
Veretian court, and she had arranged exactly the sort of evening under awnings
in the gardens that Charls had envisaged, except that Charls was not invited.
Charls took a smaller repast in the servant quarters.
It struck him that he too was now pretending to be of a lower station, eating
humbly with Lamen. If the Prince could maintain this fiction, so could Charls, he
thought. Certainly he did not want Lamen to think he was too self-important to
eat with an assistant. In fact he often shared meals with Guilliame on the road.
Besides, the simple food was tasty, and Lamen though of modest origins was a
thoughtful young man who spoke Veretian very well, even if his knowledge of
cloth was lacking.
‘I thought highborn Veretian men weren’t allowed to be alone with women,’
said Lamen, with a slight frown, when their meal was crumbs and the Prince had
not yet returned.
‘This is Akielos,’ said Charls.
‘I thought that—’
‘Kaenas’s household is present,’ said Charls, reassuringly and with some
approval. Lamen’s concern for the Prince was very proper. ‘It counts as a
chaperone.’
A soft knock came at their door, followed by a face looking in, an older
woman, with brown, thinning hair. ‘Doris?’ said Charls in surprise.
‘It is you,’ Doris took a step inside the room, which was small to hold three
people. ‘Charls . . . I want you to know, I don’t believe a word of what they’re
saying about you.’
Charls felt the cold touch of concern. ‘What are they saying?’
He had met Doris two years ago. She was a seamstress and he had
complimented her on the quality of her work. They had had several stimulating
conversations since then, including a wonderful talk on the qualities of Isthima
linen. Now her face was concerned.
‘A merchant stopped here, three days back. He said you were here because you
weren’t welcome in the capital. He said you tricked the King of Akielos with a
bad trade.’
‘No, he didn’t,’ said Lamen, standing.
Charls was moved by Lamen’s belief in him. ‘That is good of you to say,
Lamen,’ said Charls. ‘But your word sadly counts for very little against that of a
renowned merchant.’
He could hear the worry in his own voice, and he made a conscious effort to
relax. It would do no good to concern the others with his troubles. ‘Thank you
for coming, Doris. I’m sure it’s just a simple misunderstanding.’
‘Take care on the road, Charls,’ said Doris. ‘Aegina is a rough province, and no
one knows much about this trader.’
‘His name is Makon,’ said the Prince, padding in from the dinner several hours
later. He had an enervated look that subtly relaxed his posture, and a glitter in his
eyes from an evening of entertainments. ‘He’s an Akielon trying to establish
trade routes through to Patras. Born in Isthima. Heir to a reputable trading
company. A brunet. Nice eyes. Not as nice as mine. He’s thirty five and
handsome and unmarried, and I’m afraid he’s had terribly unflattering things to
say about you, Charls.’
‘You do have nice eyes,’ said Lamen.
‘Did you miss me? I brought you something.’ The Prince tossed a sweetmeat to
Lamen, who caught it with a hint of amusement.
‘It seems you have a rival in trade. And he has three days on you.’
‘Your Highness, I am deeply sorry to have caused you this inconvenience. I
will happily accompany you back to Acquitart.’ Charls bowed low.
Reputation was everything to a merchant, and his position was already
precarious as a Veretian in northern Akielos. Charls thought of rumours planted,
relationships soured, doors closed. But most of all he thought how much he had
disappointed his Prince, who ought to ride only in the best company.
The Prince leaned his shoulder against the thick stone of the wall. ‘What’s your
next trade stop?’
‘It’s north east, to Semea,’ said Charls.
‘Then we go north, to Kalamos,’ said the Prince. ‘And get ahead of him.’

Trade was often a race: first to cross the mountains in spring, first to reach a port,
a household, a patron. The orange wagons were not built for a sprint, but Lamen
had an excellent work ethic and the sort of physique that was very good at
rearranging heavy bolts of cloth. He also had a startling effect on the six hire-
guards, coupled with a knowledge of terrain that had them making good time on
the country roads.
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
striking 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.’
‘From us, fifty,’ said the Prince, immediately. ‘My mother is Kemptian.’
‘Cousin Charls!’ said Charls. But before he could object—
‘Can you outmatch fifty lei?’ The Keeper looked back at Makon.
‘Forty five’ said Makon.
‘Forty,’ said the Prince.
‘Thirty five,’ said Makon. Charls felt faint. This was far below cost. Whoever
won the contract would take an enormous loss, and if it was him—
Everyone in the chamber looked at the Prince, expectantly. He had paled a
little. ‘I’m afraid we cannot go any lower, even for Nestor of Kalamos.’
That was all it took—the Keeper gestured, and the silks were being re-wrapped
and the samples cleared, as quickly and efficiently as market stalls closing at the
first hint of rain.
‘You have our contract,’ said the Keeper to Makon. ‘And a seat next to Nestor
at the feast tonight, in acknowledgement of your new position.’
‘Keeper,’ said Makon, inclining his head in regard, as the Keeper and his
servants withdrew from the chamber.
‘You must want to establish a trade line here very much,’ said the Prince to
Makon. They stood beside each other.
‘Dear Charls. Whatever will you do with your own Kemptian silk? It will spoil
on the road.’
‘We aren’t carrying any Kemptian silk,’ said the Prince.
It took a moment for those words to be understood, and then Makon’s
expression changed.
‘Oh, did you think we were? I’m afraid you undercut yourself for no reason.’ A
look of fury had appeared on Makon’s face. The Prince said, ‘A little healthy
competition.’
Dinner was glorious. The seating arrangements did not detract at all from the
delicious smoked pork and leek, the caramelised onions and the full flavoured
regional wine. Each story that Cousin Charls told seemed to cast Charls in a
subtly favourable light. And when Nestor leaned in and complimented Cousin
Charls on the colour of his red brocade, Charls only had to mention that they
carried similar stock, and the deal was made—a contract!
Charls slept blissfully on the narrow bed, and woke buoyed by good spirits,
optimistic about his northern expedition, until he came down to the stables, dark
in the pre-dawn, and saw the activity there.
Guilliame was holding a torch, the flames illuminating the interior of the stall.
The Prince was on his knees in the straw with his hand on the neck of one of the
draught horses, the piebald with the huge feathered hooves. It was lying on its
side, its breathing laboured. It was dying. Meat for the hunting dogs, the
stablehand said. The Prince said without rising that he didn’t think that was a
good idea.
Guilliame said in a low voice, ‘It was poison. It was in the feed. Lamen noticed
a dead field mouse near the grain stores. If not for that warning, we’d have lost
all the horses. Not just this one.’
The Prince stayed with the horse while Lamen touched him on the shoulder,
then arranged for a horsemaster to put the horse down. The Prince only rose
when the horse was dead.
The sun was very bright when they all emerged from the stables into the
courtyard, where Makon’s five glaring wagons were assembled ready to leave.
Makon himself was dressed in a stately white chiton, his eyes dropping to the
Prince’s ruined silk, the patches of dirt and straw on his knees.
‘Horse trouble?’ Makon’s voice was mild.
‘These things happen in trade,’ Charls told the Prince, as they readied their
own wagons, much later.
‘I taunted him,’ said the Prince, his voice level, like his acetous blue gaze when
he turned it on Charls. ‘I was enjoying it.’
With only a single draught horse pulling a two-horse wagon, they had to travel
more slowly, and stop often. There was no chance of outpacing Makon now; he
was well ahead of them. Wherever they went, he would arrive first, to snatch up
their trade and foment rumours.
Yet if not for the Prince, Charls would already have a name synonymous with
treason in this region. If not for Lamen, he’d have ten dead horses rotting in the
stables instead of one.
He didn’t say any of that, as they trundled slowly onward. He thought of the
Prince on his knees in the stables, and the piebald, lying on its side, blowing air
through its nose in the straw.

It was very late when they arrived at the inn, and two dozen sets of hostile eyes
watched them walk in.
The village of Halki was small and the inn was smaller, a rectangular wooden
building with outside seats underneath hanging grape vines, and an interior with
a dirt floor where locals—and sometimes their livestock—took repast or shelter
for the night.
The Prince had suggested it. ‘We can’t stay at the same wayhouses as Makon,
it isn’t safe.’ He was quite right: sabotage was even more likely on the road. And
so they had come to this small local inn, with its narrow interior and single leg of
lamb over the fire. Outside, their horses stood with nosebags still hitched to the
wagons; the barn was occupied, full of their soldiers shaking out sleeping rolls
for the night.
Inside, the men (it was all men) were seated in two haphazard groups of about
eight, with an additional fellow sitting alone in a poorly-dyed blue woollen cloak
with an uneven weave pattern, two others drinking wine alongside a penned
gaggle of geese in the corner.
Charls thought with a pang about the braised beef with melting onions at the
larger waystation that he knew well. It was immediately obvious that this inn did
not cater to the merchant class. It probably did not cater to outsiders from a
different village.
‘Veretian,’ was the first word spoken as they passed, and the tone was
unpleasant enough that Charls would have left if the Prince hadn’t already found
his way to a table. Charls sat across from him, uncomfortably close to the man in
the blue cloak, which on closer inspection was of untreated wool, obviously
home woven. They had now been brought very low, Charls thought.
‘Lamb’s edible,’ said the man in the blue cloak.
‘Thank you, stranger,’ said Charls, his Veretian accent ringing out awkwardly,
too loud.
There was in fact a smell of roasting lamb that filled the tavern, but it did not
quite give it a comfortable feel, considering the hostility of the men and the
presence of the geese in the corner.
‘You’re not going to sit in my lap this time?’ Lamen settled comfortably on the
bench.
The Prince said, ‘Charls will faint.’
‘I don’t think it’s quite the mode for a young cloth merchant,’ said Charls.
 ‘Are you sure the lamb’s edible?’ said Guilliame to the man in the blue cloak.
Charls sniffed the wine. It was double strength, he learned, coughing. At least
it was wine and not one of the fermented spirits of the northern regions. He tried
to appreciate the rustic charm of dining here, even as he was aware that these
hostile men were all drinking double strength wine as well.
Still, there was always a bright side: it was only necessary to drink half the
wine, and perhaps this man in the blue cloak would have some colourful local
knowledge. He opened his mouth to speak.
Charls didn’t see how it happened. He heard an Akielon in a wool chiton say,
‘Watch it,’ and suddenly Prince was soaking wet. The contents of the Prince’s
cup had been dumped into the Prince’s lap.
Double strength wine soaked into silk of exquisitely uniform warp, staining it
forever, then dripping down the bench onto the floor.
‘Too many Veretians in here,’ said the man, and spat near the wine puddle.
Lamen was rising calmly from his chair, a process that the man didn’t notice
until he found himself looking up.
‘The Veretian Prince is about to be crowned.’ Lamen’s voice was friendly
enough. ‘You should talk about his subjects with respect.’
‘I’ll show you respect,’ said the man, and turned away—only to turn back and
swing a punch at Lamen’s jaw.
‘Lamen, the Prince’s dinner!’ said Charls, his incautious words unheard as
Lamen shifted, evading the punch, so that the man staggered into their table,
upsetting everything. Lamen then took the man by the scruff of his chiton and
flung him back out into the tavern.
With a crash, the man landed in the middle of a seated group of men several
steps away, sending wine cups and cut meats flying. All of the seated men leapt
to their feet.
‘This is all a misunderstanding,’ said Charls, faced with eight dripping
Akielons. ‘We’re not here looking for any trouble. We’re just—’
He ducked as a metal stake to which was tied a freshly-hunted brace of rabbits
was thrown with worrying accuracy at his head.
‘Look out!’ The Prince dragged the man in the poorly-dyed wool cloak to the
floor to avoid it. At the same time, shaking off his fall and pieces of food and
wine from the table, the original harasser made it to his feet, and launched
himself at Lamen.
The resulting explosion of violence turned the tavern into a roiling mess of
fighting. A group of Akielons swarmed Lamen. A group of Akielons swarmed
each other. ‘Blame me for the doings of a Veretian?’ progressed quickly too,
‘You’ve been grazing your cows on my land, Stavos, and don’t you deny it!’ The
goose pen was broken open and geese streamed out at knee-level, hissing and
pecking.
The Prince pulled the man in the blue cloak to safety behind the biggest
overturned table. From that vantage, the Prince started throwing olives. They
plinged off the heads of the struggling Akielons and caused no real harm, but
contributed to the general confusion.
Charls pressed himself to the wall and tried to keep out of the fray, and then he
saw Guilliame in the remains of the goose pen, with one of the Akielons
advancing on him.
‘Guilliame!’ Charls leapt over a stool, picked up a pitcher of wine and smashed
it over the attacker’s head, wincing at the cost of the broken ceramic. He hurried
Guilliame to safety behind the overturned table, where the man in the blue cloak
crouched alongside the Prince.
‘Charls,’ he introduced himself.
‘Alexon,’ said the man.
There was a crash and the sound of wood splintering, followed by a powerful
roar.
‘I think Lamen is holding his own,’ said the Prince, peering over the top of the
table.
A sudden loud clanging caused a worried expression to fly onto Alexon’s face.
‘That bell summons the garrison.’
‘Come with us,’ said the Prince to Alexon. And then, ‘Lamen, to me!’ and the
five of them made their way out the door, with the fight still thundering behind
them.
It was swift work to unhook the nosebags from the horses and clamber into the
wagons, thankful the horses were still in harness. They did not have to wake
their small guard; the bell had done that. Their men hurriedly pulled on pants
and shirts and swung up into saddles. Travelling at night was not preferred on
these provincial tracks, but they cut a breakneck pace (for wagons) and were
away. Not a moment too soon: the local garrison’s arrival could be heard
distinctly behind them.
Only when Lamen judged they were not being followed did they slow and
begin to look for a cutting or a gap in the trees where they could stop and camp
for the night.
Guilliame said, ‘It’s a pity you didn’t punch him after dinner. We can make a
fire, but there’s nothing to eat.’
The Prince held up a parcel wrapped in cloth.
‘The lamb!’ said Alexon, who had leapt down from wagon.
‘I hit an Akielon with it,’ said the Prince, ‘but aside from that I think it’s no
more the worse for wear.’
‘We’ll have wine too, if you squeeze out your jacket,’ said Lamen. He held up
the brace of rabbits.
‘Quick thinking, Lamen,’ said Alexon, admiringly.
Their six mounted guards settled the horses. Guilliame went in search of
firewood. Charls, who had a scrupulous sense of fair trade, consoled himself that
they had paid for the lamb and the rabbits had been thrown at him, which might
count as a gift. Then he saw the Prince and Lamen, and all thoughts flew from
his mind. The Prince was holding one of the rabbits by the ears with an
outstretched arm, looking at it.
‘It can’t be that hard,’ the Prince was saying.
Charls saw in horror that he was talking about skinning the rabbit. Charls took
Lamen firmly by the arm. ‘Excuse us, Cousin Charls.’ He was steering Lamen to
the side of the wagons.
‘Lamen,’ he said, when they were a few steps away. ‘Is the Prince of Vere
holding a dead rabbit?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘He is a prince. That is a rabbit. Do you think he has ever skinned a rabbit in
his life?’
‘No, but—’
‘No. A Prince’s hands are instruments of refinement. A Prince’s hands are not
made to touch a dead rabbit. You have to do it!’
‘But Charls—’
Charls pushed him firmly in the back. ‘Go!’
This heart-stopping breach of etiquette averted, Charls returned to the camp as
the soldiers were digging a pit for the fire. He collected blankets for them to sit
on, and only when the spit was set up and the fire burning well did he go in
search of the rabbits.
Lamen and the Prince were together at the tree edge. The rabbits were on the
ground, except for the one that Lamen was holding by the leg, gingerly. The
Prince was wiping his eyes, laughing.
‘If we just knew which end to start with,’ Lamen said.
It was suddenly obvious that Lamen had no idea what to do. With a clear
moment of insight, Charls saw that Lamen was not a cloth merchant’s assistant.
He was the prince’s private companion, and had no real skills whatsoever.
‘Guilliame, please teach Lamen to cook a rabbit,’ said Charls. The throbbing in
his temple was threatening to become a headache.
Thankfully, they did not have to squeeze out the Prince’s jacket: they
uncovered wine in the wagons, along with tin cups, and it made for a merry
party around the campfire. The wine was warming and the meat (Guilliame did a
fine job) was well cooked. Alexon, they learned, was the son of a sheep farmer,
and he and Charls had an engrossing conversation about the rise in regional wool
prices. Charls thought Alexon an upstanding young man, and made a mental
note to supply him with a new cloak.
‘Tell me where you each hail from,’ said Alexon.
‘I was born in Varenne,’ said Charls. ‘A rich trading province, with an excellent
trade tariff system. I have always found the revenue management very good
there.’
‘Arles,’ said the Prince. ‘The viper pit.’
‘Ios.’ Lamen stretched out, looking relaxed, his limbs warm in the firelight.
‘But I was brought to Arles, where we met.’
‘I thought you were Patran,’ said Guilliame.
‘No, I was born in the capital.’
He said no more than that. Charls supposed that he and Guilliame were two of
the few who knew the truth of Lamen’s origins—that under that long Veretian
sleeve there was a golden cuff, and that Lamen had once been a palace slave. He
did not know how Lamen had come by his freedom, though he could see how
Lamen had caught the Prince’s eye. Lamen was a young man in peak physical
condition, good natured and loyal. Any unmarried nobleman would notice him.
‘And how is it you now fight for Veretians?’ said Alexon.
Charls found himself curious to hear his answer, but Lamen said only, ‘I came
to know one of them.’
The firelight seemed to change the mood, warming it. The wagons were visible
in the flame glow, a rosy orange.
‘Around here, people don’t think much of the new alliance,’ said Alexon.
‘Damianos is a great king,’ said Charls. ‘You should trust in him, as we trust in
our Prince.’
‘Do you think they’re doing it?’ said Alexon.
Charls coughed on his wine. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The King and Prince Laurent. Do you think they’re doing it?’
 ‘Well, it’s not for me to say.’ Charls avoided looked at the Prince.
‘I think they are,’ volunteered Guilliame. ‘Charls met the Prince of Vere once.
He said he was so beautiful that if he were a pet he’d spark a bidding war the
likes of which no one had ever seen.’
‘I meant, in an honourable way,’ Charls said, quickly.
‘And everyone in Akielos speaks of the virility of Damianos,’ continued
Guilliame.
‘I don’t think it should follow that—’ Charls began.
‘My cousin told me,’ said Alexon, proudly, ‘he met a man who had once been a
famous gladiator from Isthima. He lasted only minutes in the arena with
Damianos. But afterwards Damianos had him in his chambers for six hours.’
‘You see? How could a man like that resist a beauty like the Prince?’ Guilliame
sat back triumphantly.
‘Seven hours,’ said Lamen, frowning slightly.
‘Here in Aegina, they say Damianos takes the Prince every night, but that it’s
not seemly for a king to renounce his slaves and limit his appetites, denying
himself all but one person.’
‘I think it’s romantic,’ said Guilliame.
‘Oh?’ said Alexon.
‘I heard Damianos disguised himself as a slave to uncover the secret of his
brother’s treachery, and the Prince of Vere fell in love with him not knowing
who he was.’
‘I heard that they allied themselves in secret months before,’ said Alexon. ‘And
that the Prince hid Damianos from Kastor, pretending he was a slave, while they
courted privately.’
‘What do you think, Charls?’ said Guilliame to the Prince.
‘I think they had help,’ said the Prince, ‘along the way, from those who were
loyal.’
Charls felt himself flushing at the Prince’s kind words, despite the improper
subject of the conversation. He raised his tin cup.
‘I hope we have many nights like this with our new Akielon friends,’ said
Charls.
‘To the alliance,’ agreed Alexon, the words echoing back from those seated
around the fire. To the alliance.
Charls saw Lamen lift his cup and incline it towards the Prince, who echoed
his gesture, the two of them smiling a little.

Lamen, for some reason, grew more and more agitated as they drew closer to the
fort. It had begun when Charls had briefly mentioned that there was a chance
that they might meet the Kyros. He wished to make certain they each knew to
behave towards him with the full respect due his rank.
‘You mean Heiron,’ said Lamen.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Charls.
‘I can’t meet Heiron,’ said Lamen.
‘It’s understandable to be nervous around great men like the Kyros, Lamen.
But the Prince wouldn’t have you as an assistant if he didn’t believe in your
abilities.’
Lamen passed his hand over his face and had a look of distraught amusement.
‘Charls—’
‘Don’t worry, Lamen. Here it is not as it is with smaller houses. The Kyros is a
great but remote figure. Most likely our dealings will be with the Keeper.’
Lamen did not look in any way relieved by that assurance, but it was just as
Charls had said: once refreshed in rooms in the town, they were called to the
inner fort to meet with the Keeper of the Household.
This was the meeting Charls had prepared for since first setting out, and he
proudly laid out the best of his stock, the rich velvet from Barbin, the canteled
damask, the silks and satins from Varenne, the fine white linens and ultrafine
cottons that made for the best Akielon chitons. He looked out at his wares with a
glad heart. It was an enormous honour to trade with a kyros.
He also sent ahead a smaller case containing a rich gift—bands of embroidery
from Isthima—to thank the Kyros for this audience. Opening negotiations with a
gift was a Veretian custom that Charls had found also very much pleased
Akielons.
They set out in a small group, Charls and the Prince at the head, Guilliame
following, Lamen hanging back among the four guards carrying their sample
chests. Alexon, who had travelled north with them, looked quite respectable in
his new cloak.
Two servants in short chitons escorted them through the elegant simplicity of a
series of Akielon courtyards to an airy chamber, where they were to wait for the
Keeper.
The chamber was classically Akielon in its proportions, and furnished with low
couches with carved bases and rolled headrests. The arches were beautiful, but
the silk draped over each of the low couches was the room’s only real
decoration, along with each couch’s scattering of cushions.
 Reclining on the cushions was Makon, loosely robed, his posture relaxed, a
wine cup in his hand.
‘Hello Charls,’ Makon said.
Charls felt his stomach drop—of course while they had stopped to rid
themselves of the dust of the road, Makon had come straight here, from a hot
breakfast at a large and comfortable waystation.
Before he could speak, the Keeper entered—a majestic presence accompanied
by two servants—but all Charls could see was that one of the servants was
carrying his hand-picked case of embroidery. His gift to the Kyros was being
returned to him unopened.
‘We sent a runner to tell you not to come.’
‘Keeper, my apologies. We did not receive a runner.’
‘Or you ignored one. I am meeting with you so that there will be no
misunderstanding. You are not welcome here.’
Charls felt the same disorientation that he had felt at the home of Kaenas. The
case of embroidery was dropped to the marble floor in front of him with a sound
that made him jump.
‘Keeper, if there has been some charge against me, I hope I would at least have
the chance to—’
‘Treason,’ said Makon. ‘The charge is treason. Isn’t it?’
‘Treason is for the King to decide. But you stand against the alliance. You had
false dealings with our King. Kyros Heiron will not do business with you.’
‘You’re quite wrong,’ said a voice.
Everyone turned.
Charls gasped, and bowed deeply in the Veretian style. The Prince, Lamen and
Guilliame did likewise, while behind them Alexon copied their Veretian
movements awkwardly. On the other side of the room, the Keeper sank into a
traditionally Akielon obeisance, as did Makon.
Heiron, Kyros of Aegina entered, a slow stately walk in a chiton that swept the
floor, and fell in folds, like heavy Veretian curtains.
‘My son tells a different story.’
‘Your son?’ said Charls.
‘Alexon,’ said Heiron, holding out his hand. ‘Come here.’
As Charls stood amazed, Alexon drew himself up to his full height, pushing
back the blue cloak.
‘It’s true. I am Alexon, son of Heiron,’ said Alexon. ‘I am not a humble sheep
farmer as I claimed.’
 ‘But your insights about wool,’ said Charls.
‘I often travel anonymously through the province,’ said Alexon. ‘People show
their true natures freely when they don’t know who I am.’
He stepped forward to stand beside the Kyros of Aegina. The resemblance, in
the cut of his jaw, the wide spaced eyes, and the thick brows, was unmistakable.
‘The son of a Kyros, travelling with us in disguise all this time!’ said
Guilliame.
‘You thought me only a farmer,’ said Alexon, ‘yet you saved my life in the
tavern, and shared what little you had with me on the road. When I learned who
you were, I tested you, and found the rumours to be false. You believe in the
alliance of Kings, as do I—as does my father.’
Heiron came forward to greet Charls and his party formally. Lamen pushed his
hat very low down on his forehead, and bowed even more deeply than was
necessary.
‘I hope you will join us as this evening as a guest of my son’s,’ said Heiron.
‘Kyros, you do me great honour,’ said Charls.
His bow turned into an exuberant hug from Guilliame and celebratory
backslapping from Lamen when Heiron and the Keeper left, with the promise
that they would begin trade talks that evening.
‘Enjoy your small victory.’ Makon’s eyes were black with anger. ‘I have bigger
deals to supply.’
‘Bigger than trade with the Kyros?’ said the Prince.
‘Bigger than your tiny mind can grasp,’ said Makon. ‘Tomorrow I ride for
Patras.’
Dinner as Heiron’s guest was splendid, and it was a great pity that Lamen felt
sick and could not attend. Eating tender lamb and chargrilled breads, Charls felt
as though a terrible cloud had lifted. Makon was riding away to Patras, and with
the patronage of the Kyros of Aegina, Charls’s reputation in this region was
restored.
‘I believe every Kyros should have a working knowledge of wool, and of all
tariff commodities,’ Alexon said, passing the stuffed mushrooms.
‘I have always thought that!’ said Charls.
The conversation was excellent, the food was excellent, and the trade deal they
had struck gave Charls exactly the revenue he needed to open the warehouses he
dreamed of in Delpha. His mind wandered to the spot he had selected, a perfect
location to expand his business, with the increasing demand the new capital at
Delpha would have for high quality textiles—
 ‘Just think, Your Highness, if that rogue hadn’t spilled your wine in the tavern,
none of this would have happened,’ said Charls.
There was a brief pause in the sunlit room as they spoke the next morning,
their effects half packed for travel.
‘You don’t drink wine,’ said Lamen, a shoulder leaned against the wall.
‘It was a special occasion,’ said the Prince.
‘Should I be glad you aren’t cornering a trade empire?’ said Lamen.
‘We’ll make another kind of empire,’ said the Prince.
It was a beautiful day for travelling, the sun rising high and bright with a
charming breeze. They travelled west for several hours, until they drew up
alongside a field of soft grass peppered with wild flowers, the light glinting on a
winding stream, where the Prince called for a halt. Supplied with an excellent
repast from the Kyros, they could eat well at this makeshift stop, and water the
horses, even let them graze a little, wuffling the grass at the end of their ropes.
But the Prince leapt down immediately and began shouting for their soldiers to
throw open the wagons.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘We’re far enough. Open them up! Now!’
There was really no need to check the inventory, Charls thought. They had sold
most of what they had carried, and the money they had collected was riding
safely in a chest beside Charls, protected by their mounted guard.
It was Guilliame who let out the cry. ‘Charls! Charls!’
Charls was clambering down immediately. Seeing the white look on
Guilliame’s face, he remembered, suddenly, the poisoned horse, and rushed to
Guilliame’s side.
For a moment the surreality of it prevented him from feeling sick, and then the
physical reaction hit, alongside a horror that seemed to rush through his body,
and constrict his chest.
There were people inside the wagons. Young men and women, at least two
dozen in this wagon alone, cramped, roughly bound together, sick from some
sort of drug—and underneath that, terrified.
‘Help them out of the wagons!’ Charls said. ‘Quickly!’
Around him, soldiers were cutting bonds, helping unsteady youths onto the
grass. Charls ordered water flasks and food to be given out, and found a few
unsold bolts of cloth that could be used as wraps where needed.
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.
‘Thank you, Charls. That is a real compliment,’ said Lamen, clasping his arm
in farewell.

‘Long live the King! Long live King Laurent of Vere!’
Charls sat happily on the rooftop of his wagon, while others climbed onto the
wheels of his wagon, and the sideboards of his wagon, or just stood on the tips of
their toes next to his wagon, and craned and jumped and waved. The streets were
thronged; without a vantage, it was hard to see anything.
Guilliame sat beside him, legs dangling. They had a splendid view all the way
up the main street, where the new King—Laurent, sixth of his name—was a
golden figure the size of his thumb, his cloth gold and his crown gold, and his
horse’s panoply gold. He rode at the head of the royal procession, with its silk-
clad standard bearers and horses with jewelled saddlery and guards in blue and
gold livery and heralds with starburst banners and young boys and girls strewing
blue and yellow flower petals, making its way through the town towards the fort.
Marlas was overstuffed. But the Prince had insisted that his Ascension happen
in Marlas and not at Arles, and so councillors and kyroi and nobility from Vere
and Akielos and their households were crammed into the fort, and into every inn,
and into every lodging the township could find. Charls himself had a room in the
upper floor of a tailor’s house that he shared at an exorbitant price with a batch
of minor nobles from Kesus.
Unlike the nobles, he had an invitation to attend the King on the third night of
celebrations. His swelling of pride felt fit to burst every time he thought of this
honour, and of the King’s kindness in remembering a humble cloth merchant on
the occasion of his Ascension.
He wore his best jacket with straight sleeves of black velvet, rowed with seed
pearls, and lined with Varennese satin. He made sure that it sat straight, and
carefully placed his hat at the right angle and buffed his gold buckled shoes to a
rich shine.
 As he walked the length of the throne room, past great women and men from
two countries, he realised it was the first time that both Vere and Akielos had
joined together to witness an Ascension. A true union, he thought. And then he
reached the figure that was waiting for him.
King Laurent was dressed in gold, his head crowned in gold, his clothes of
ivory silk and gold, a young king resplendent, so bright that the eyes
overbrimmed just to look at him.
‘Your Majesty,’ Charls said, bowing low.
‘Charls,’ said his King. ‘There is someone I want you to meet.’
As Charls rose from his bow, another very great figure was coming towards
him, and Charls had the impression initial impression only of kingship: flowing
Akielon robes, power, laurel-crowned.
‘Damianos of Akielos,’ said Laurent.
Charls looked up—and up, and up—at the familiar face, warmly handsome, at
the smile and the eyes that he knew so well.
‘Lamen,’ said Charls, in a shocked voice. ‘Why are you dressed up like the
King?’

NEWSLETTER


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ALSO BY C.S. PACAT

THE CAPTIVE PRINCE TRILOGY

Captive Prince

Prince’s Gambit

Kings Rising

CAPTIVE PRINCE SHORT STORIES

Green but for a Season

The Summer Palace