The Adventures of Charls, the Veretian Cloth Merchant: A Captive Prince Short Story (Captive Prince Short Stories Book 3) by C. S. Pacat

Author:C. S. Pacat [Pacat, C. S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gatto
Published: 2017-05-02T22:00:00+00:00

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.

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