The Adventures of Charls, the Veretian Cloth Merchant (Captive Prince Short Stories 3)

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.