Curse of Kings. Alex Barclay

as he buried himself under the canvas.

      There was just one route from Decresian into Dallen, and it was carved through the vast forest that separated them. A group of border guards was stationed in a small wooden building at the official border, but every traveller knew that there were guards hidden everywhere in the trees.

      As the horse slowed, Arthur whispered to Oland. “It’s Terrence Dyer from Garnish,” he said. “A merchant of misery, the greyest of men. Hard to believe he’s the son of Gaudy Dyer.”

      Arthur brought the horse and cart to a stop.

      “The Tailor Rynish,” said Terrence grimly. “Welcome, again, welcome.”

      “Thank you, Terrence,” said Arthur. “How are you?”

      “In the throes of life,” said Terrence.

      “How’s your father?” said Arthur. “It must be thirteen years since he left Garnish.”

      “Was forced to leave,” said Terrence. “And not one day has passed without lament. The mines in Galenore are no place for an old man. Word has come in recent days that the smelting fires on the hills won’t take, so there is much concern about the supplies of galena. Without lead, many territories will suffer.”

      “Let’s hope for a change in the winds,” said Arthur.

      Terrence looked up at the sky. “The clouds are moving in strange ways. They have darkened and thickened. Look where they have blurred in places.”

      “There’s a madman in Derrington who says The Great Rains are upon us,” said Arthur. There was a smile in his voice.

      “Great Rains, indeed,” said Terrence. “Though my father himself would have me believe it.” He slapped the side of Arthur Rynish’s cart. “You must be keen to carry on your journey, but, as I am bound by law, I must inspect your papers, and your load.”

      “Of course,” said Arthur. Oland could hear the rustle of papers as they were passed between them.

      “All is in order,” said Terrence. “And now…”

      Oland heard more footsteps, fast-moving, crunching across the ground towards them. He guessed that there were at least four men, and they quickly surrounded the cart.

      “Your load,” said one of the guards.

      Oland could sense the cold air as Arthur reached around and pulled back the canvas that covered the cloths, and then him.

      “Wools and linens,” announced the guard.

      “Look,” said another guard. “In the corner of the cart. Something is moving.”

      Oland’s heart started to pound.

      “A rat!” said another guard.

      “It’s bigger than a rat!” said the first guard. Oland could feel someone rummaging above his head. “There’s a sack here,” said the guard. He cried out. “It’s… it’s a monkey!”

      Oland felt a surge of panic.

      “A monkey?” shouted Arthur. “In the folds of my fabric?”

      Malben let out a pained cry. Oland could sense movement again, and the smell of warm fur. “My linens!” shouted Arthur. “My linens will be destroyed! Out! Out! Get out!”

      “It’s illegal to bring monkeys across the border,” said another guard.

      Arthur erupted. “The notion! Is it not clear I had no idea he was there? Take him! Kill him for all I care, just get him away from my work.”

      “He’s running for the hut!” said one of the guards.

      The guards’ footsteps moved away in pursuit of the shrieking Malben. Oland felt a sharp tug at his leg.

      “Go,” said Arthur, yanking Oland towards him, grabbing him roughly under the arm as he staggered down from the back of the cart. He handed him a small roll of tarred canvas. “For shelter, now run. Run, Oland.”

      Oland quickly gained his footing, then locked eyes briefly with Arthur. In that one moment, he felt the full force of his encouragement. He whispered his thanks to him, then sprinted for the bushes. He knew he should keep moving, but instead, he waited, unable to leave without knowing that Arthur and Malben were safe. He crouched behind a tree and watched as one of the guards broke away from the others to return to Arthur.

      “What is your business in Dallen?” he said.

      “What was my business, you mean,” said Arthur. “My business, now, is to return to Decresian; my fabric has been spoiled by a pest, and I have important work to take care of at Castle Derrington.”

      “Ah, yes,” said the guard. “Of course. After all, you are the personal tailor to Villius Ren. His loyal and faithful servant…”