Chapter 7: The Merchant’s Detour

Silk nudged the common brown gelding forward, moving silently out of the small, enclosed courtyard where Javelin had tethered it. The horse’s hooves made little sound on the packed dirt, which was precisely why Javelin chose this particular breed, a quiet, sturdy trail mount. He guided the animal toward the alley exit Javelin had designated, watching the slow, deliberate transition from the concealed enclosure to the pale wash of the early morning street.

The general early morning traffic of Vamidor was still thin, mostly delivery carts and market vendors starting their day. This helped Silk blend into the background, avoiding the direct scrutiny an empty street would force upon a single rider. He had already mentally adjusted the set of his features, letting the calculating, slightly acquisitive look of the merchant Silk settle into his expression. That particular shade of perpetual mild annoyance regarding potential lost profits effectively disguised the acute observational focus of Prince Kheldar.

He turned the gelding onto a minor street, sticking close to the shadows of the taller warehouses, then quickly executed a sharp turn down an unpaved, narrow track that immediately led into a dense growth of scrub oak and pine. This track constituted the exact start of the secret, contingency path Javelin had shown him on the map only minutes earlier.

The gelding moved easily onto the unmarked trail. Silk reached up a hand, touching the reinforced seam beneath his left armpit, confirming the solid presence of the document package sewn into the lining of the merchant vest. It felt bulky, a small, square weight pressing gently against his ribs with every movement of the horse. The documents meant everything right now; their security was absolute priority, and the vest provided both concealment and a physical shield against immediate loss.

The transition from the rough city outskirts to the wilderness path was jarring, forcing Silk to re-evaluate the speed of his travel. Javelin had stressed the need for an absolute balance between speed and concealment, and here, concealment required caution. The path was narrow, barely wide enough for the horse and rider, marked only by faint indentations and the occasional snapped branch too high for game animals. He was traveling beneath a thick canopy of ancient trees from the start, a dense, natural roof that immediately dimmed the morning light, ensuring visibility was low and the chance of being spotted from above was almost nil. These were the ancient, largely forgotten logging trails, preserved by the Crown for exactly this type of emergency movement.

Silk pulled the gelding back to a slow, controlled walk. The condition of the path demanded it. It was clearly rarely used, the surface uneven, with loose stones and deep ruts obscured by fallen pine needles and moss. Traveling at any speed higher than a cautious walk risked a stumble, which would be disastrous. A lame horse meant a massive loss of time, and likely exposure. He consciously adopted the pace of a traveler focused on endurance and minimal risk, perfectly fitting the persona of a merchant concerned about protecting his valuable merchandise and his only mode of transport.

He traveled for nearly an hour at this slow, deliberate pace, absorbing the landscape. The trail twisted and turned, following the contours of a minor stream and then climbing steadily into a heavily forested ridge. It was arduous travel, physically demanding on both him and the horse, yet immensely secure. The very difficulty of the route provided the protection Javelin intended. No organized pursuit team would choose this terrain if they wanted speed; they would stick to the main military roads.

The thought of 'no organized pursuit' offered a moment of false calm. Silk analyzed the sheer difficulty of the route, recognizing the tactical genius of the King’s plan. This route was designed to foil any large-scale search, relying on the element of surprise and the complexity of the topography. It was a guarantee of minimal contact, and a guarantee of necessary slow pace.

He felt the continuous pull between the urgency of the mission and the limitations imposed by the terrain. Every minute risked Merineth consolidating his position, yet rushing this path meant certainty of error and exposure. Silk mentally prioritized, placing uncompromised delivery above all else. Slow movement was the price of remaining unseen.

He noted the necessary slow pace meant he would be lucky to cover twenty miles by midday, which was unacceptable given the intelligence he knew Javelin was already coordinating. Javelin would be moving heaven and earth to slow Merineth’s network in Vamidor, but that bought only a finite amount of time. Silk had to outpace the political decay.

Just as the urgency began to prick at his control, the complex trail opened unexpectedly onto a small, cleared area. This clearing served as a tiny junction point where three equally obscured logging trails converged, an illogical spot for any permanent establishment. However, right in the center of the clearing, positioned across the only clear path moving due south-east, was a small, well-maintained log barrier, slightly higher than the horse’s chest.

Behind the barrier, Silk registered the presence of a clearly identifiable Drasnian military border patrol unit. It was a small group, perhaps four men, but their setup suggested static operations, not temporary movements. They had erected a surprisingly well-ordered camp, complete with a small, smoking cooking fire, a military-issue canvas tent, and a neatly stacked pile of wood for the evening. Two men sat on crates, playing cards, while a third stood near the barrier, leaning on his spear, observing the empty trails with visible boredom.

Silk felt an immediate, internal tension spike. Javelin had absolutely promised this route was excluded from all official patrol reports and military checkpoints. The presence of this outpost was an anomaly, a potentially devastating failure of Javelin’s intelligence, or a sign of unexpected operational creep in border security.

The patrolman closest to the barrier noticed the movement of the gelding breaking cover from the dark tree line. He immediately straightened, lifting his spear horizontally and resting it on the top log to indicate a full stop.

Silk recognized the uniform insignia. This was a specialized unit assigned to the local military governor, tasked with secondary border integrity inspections, not even the Royal Watch. They were remote, low-priority, and probably just ensuring no contraband slipped through the minor trails.

This moment demanded absolute, immediate activation of the Silk persona. Prince Kheldar would have been silent, demanding explanations. The merchant Silk was open, slightly loud, and immediately focused on the perceived inconvenience caused by military bureaucracy.

Silk raised a hand in a gesture of frustrated acknowledgment, simultaneously slowing the gelding to a formal, measured walk appropriate for approaching authority. He let out a loud, slightly theatrical sigh of exasperation that carried easily across the clearing.

“Well, this is magnificent,” Silk called out, ensuring his voice carried a tone of professional irritation, edged with the distinct cadence of a well-to-do urban merchant who tolerated no delays. He pulled the horse to a halt directly in front of the log barrier, leaning slightly forward in the saddle to convey a sense of harried business.

The patrolman, a young man who looked deeply invested in his duty, approached the horse’s flank. “Identify yourself, citizen, and state your business in this restricted region.”

“Identify myself?” Silk repeated, as if the request was inherently ridiculous considering his obvious state of travel. He fished in the small pouch attached to his saddle, not with haste, but with the focused movement of a man looking for the one document he guaranteed the soldier would find boring. He produced a set of documents, bound neatly with a thick, official-looking red ribbon, and passed them down to the patrolman.

“The name is Silk, independent merchant, Vamidor registry,” he stated, modulating his voice to sound perfectly unremarkable. “My business is simple and entirely commercial: I am seeking an advantageous trading agreement regarding fine Silks, specifically the rare cobalt weaves from the Northern Territories, and certain specialized Eastern spices. I am traveling to the estates of Baron Verrod near the Cherek border. This,” he gestured dismissively toward the forest they were in, “is a wholly unauthorized, exceedingly tiresome detour forced upon me by incompetent road surveyors.”

The patrolman took the documents, looking slightly overwhelmed by the sheer volume of paper and the impressive red ribbon. The man with the spear, clearly the patrol leader, walked over, sensing the encounter was escalating beyond a simple identification check. The leader was older, heavier, and looked deeply skeptical.

“Baron Verrod’s estates are far off the standard trading route, Master Silk,” the leader stated, his voice flat and professionally cautious. “And this… this is not a trading route at all. This is a restricted, military-zoned forestry access track.”

Silk immediately adopted a posture of respectful but firm commercial entitlement. He pulled a fresh, crisp linen handkerchief from his sleeve—a small, unnecessary flourish that spoke of disposable income—and dabbed his forehead, despite the morning being cool.

“Ah, but Captain,” Silk said, focusing the conversation entirely on the complex nuances of profit margins and tariffs. “That is the entire point, is it not? The standard routes are subject to the Crown’s exorbitant border tariffs—entirely necessary, of course, for the military budgets—but they utterly devastate the profitability of high-volume, low-margin goods like the cobalt weave. I use the term ‘low-margin’ deceptively, do understand. We are discussing a potential volume of six hundred bolts and thirty quintals of black pepper.”

Silk leaned down conspiratorially, lowering his voice just enough to force the Captain to lean in, thereby capturing his full attention. “Baron Verrod, bless his fiscally conservative heart, operates under a specialized, centuries-old mandate, allowing for a substantial reduction in duty for materials traveling directly through his designated valley approach. If I can shave just three percent off the tariff burden, Captain, the entire venture becomes entirely worthwhile. If I have to use the official border crossing, the King might as well take sixty percent of my efforts right here and now.”

He produced another, completely separate document—a falsified letter of credit from a minor Vamidor banking concern, which looked highly official and contained a bewildering amount of small, dense script detailing complex collateral obligations. He ensured the Captain caught sight of the large, impressive number at the bottom.

“This required a highly specialized letter of credit,” Silk explained, talking quickly, forcing the Captain to process commercial statistics instead of his itinerary. “If I am delayed even two more days, the letter expires, the collateral shifts, and I lose everything, Captain. Everything. I am a merchant, sir. My war is with the tariffs, and my clock is unforgiving.”

The flood of dense commercial detail had the desired effect, essentially causing the Captain’s mental defenses to glaze over. Military men rarely understood, or cared for, the precise mathematics of large-scale trade negotiation, finding it immensely tedious. The Captain thumbed through the documents, registering the impressive seals and the even more impressive numbers, concluding that Silk was precisely what he claimed: an overly aggressive, commercially focused individual obsessed with maximizing profit at all cost.

“This route is highly inconvenient, as you say,” the Captain commented, handing the documents back with noticeable relief, clearly deciding Silk represented far too much paperwork for so small an outpost. “But it is also entirely unsupervised, Master Silk. What if you encounter bandits, carrying this much… pepper?”

Silk chuckled, a quick, sharp, professional sound that conveyed a complete lack of worry. “Captain, I carry letters of credit; the pepper is merely the excuse. The true inventory is elsewhere, believe me. And concerning bandits, I am a very poor investment for them. I am all volume and no coin until the deal is closed. They would be wasting their time.”

The Captain looked at the other men, then back at Silk and the nondescript brown gelding, clearly judging the absurdity of a fine-silk merchant traversing this overgrown trail. The uniform was the only guarantee of authority here, and Silk was leaning heavily on the sheer arrogance of commercial success to deflect scrutiny.

“Very well, Master Silk,” the Captain said, gesturing to one of the card players. “Patrolman, drop the barrier for the independent merchant and his low-margin, high-volume pepper.”

The patrolman unlatched the log barrier, pulling it aside enough for the horse to pass.

Just as Silk prepared to nod neutrally and move the gelding through, the Captain added a casual, almost irrelevant footnote to the conversation.

“You won’t be quite the first through today, Master Silk, though you are certainly the most talkative civilian we’ve had this week,” the Captain mentioned, stepping forward to re-secure the barrier. “We had another group through about three hours ago, heading the same way, though they were moving at a completely different speed.”

Silk’s focus instantly narrowed, the merchant's mild irritation evaporating completely beneath the icy calculation of the spy. He maintained the carefully crafted expression, a slight upturn of the lip that suggested he found the Captain’s observation trivial.

“Oh?” Silk asked, his tone still light, purely conversational, interested only in the potential for market intelligence. “Rival traders attempting to secure the Verrod contract ahead of me, I imagine? How many of them? Were they riding well?”

“Rival traders?” The Captain scoffed, securing the lock on the log. “No, they were too professional for traders. This was official business. Four riders, all in the deep indigo of the Royal Watch, but with silver braiding, not the standard issue. They were moving like the ground beneath them was lit with fire. Very disciplined pace, no unnecessary movement. They barely stopped, just showed their seals and kept moving south-east, following the old creek bed. They looked like they were trying to catch someone important.”

Silk maintained the merchant facade, offering a shrug of feigned disinterest. The movement of the gelding was slow, starting again.

“The King’s business is the King’s business, Captain,” Silk chirped, pulling the reins and moving the horse into the newly opened path. “If they are after the Verrod contract, they will find that the Baron prefers a solid letter of credit over a silver braid. Have a profitable day, Captain.”

He exited the clearing and immediately re-entered the thick forest canopy on the other side. Within seconds, the patrol post was invisible again, obscured by the dense trees and the sharp bend in the trail.

Once he was sure they were completely out of sight and earshot, Silk allowed the facade to drop, releasing the breath he had unconsciously held.

The new information was devastating. Four riders in the deep indigo of the Royal Watch, distinguished by silver braiding. That indicated a specialized, high-priority arrest or retrieval team, clearly operating under orders that bypassed the standard chain of command—which was exactly what Merineth needed to legitimize an unsanctioned pursuit.

Merineth was not merely sitting in Vamidor trying to track down a rogue Prince. Merineth was actively deploying a counter measure, utilizing the knowledge he had about the King’s movements and the general Royal vector. The Royal Watch, compromised at the command level, was now actively pursuing the King under false pretenses of protection or arrest.

Silk immediately calculated the time difference. The Watch riders passed through three hours ago. They were traveling at a “disciplined pace,” the Captain said, which meant a high average speed, maintained over rough terrain with professionally managed mounts. The gelding Silk rode was sturdy and reliable, designed for endurance, but it was not optimized for high, sustained speed, and Silk had been forced into an agonizingly slow, concealed walk on the contingency path.

In those three hours, the Watch team would have easily put a distance of twenty-five to thirty miles between them and Silk’s current position. And their destination was clear: they were following the King’s known general trajectory toward the Royal Preserve on the Cherek border.

The problem, Silk realized with a sharp, cold clarity, was that the Watch team was following the general vector of the Royal Hunt, whereas Silk was following the hyper-specific contingency route designed for absolute secure movement. Javelin had stressed that the contingency path intersected the main public hunting track only much later, a good two days’ ride from Vamidor. Merineth’s men were already moving to intercept the King before the political window closed.

The entire principle of the contingency path—absolute security, zero exposure, and necessary slow movement—was now instantly invalidated by the presence of a professional pursuit force using the general hunting vector. The slow pace was no longer a virtue; it was a guaranteed failure. Continuing on this concealed trail meant effectively placing himself too far behind the threat to make any difference. Merineth's men would find the King first.

Silk shifted in the saddle, pulling the gelding to a halt. He surveyed the narrow path, now seeing the thick trees and uneven ground not as protection, but as an obstruction. This path was designed for exfiltration, guaranteed survival, not interception.

He had to drastically increase his travel speed. He had to assume the pursuit team was still ahead of the King, operating under the assumption that the King's small, nominal escort would be easily subdued or diverted.

The immediate requirement was simple: move faster. Much faster.

He pulled out the topographical map Javelin had given him, studying the intersecting lines. The King’s contingency path followed the narrow creek bed for another six hours of travel, twisting through the deepest part of the forest, before merging abruptly with the official King’s Road—the main hunting path—near the foothills of the Grentian range.

The King’s Road, contrastingly, was a wide, well-maintained arterial track, built specifically for high-speed travel of hunting parties and royal retinues. It bypassed all the immediate topographical hazards and offered speed and stability, but it lacked any natural cover. It was also, clearly, the route the Watch agents had been using.

Silk made the internal decision instantly, recognizing the extreme risk involved. He had to abandon the secure path and pivot onto the faster, riskier route. Security was useless if he arrived too late.

He looked around, tracing the dense tree line. He needed a shortcut, not the planned route transition. He needed to find the nearest point where this complex spiderweb of trails came close to the King’s Road.

Familiarity with the map's nuances, ingrained by Javelin, served him well. About five miles due north-west of his current position, according to the topography, there was a sharp, upward cut through a relatively new logging strip. That cut path was short, dangerous due to recent tree felling, but it would drop him directly onto the King’s Road, shaving at least two hours off the travel time.

“We are changing the plan, old friend,” Silk murmured to the sturdy gelding, rubbing the horse’s neck firmly. The gelding shifted its weight, seemingly unconcerned.

Silk turned the horse sharply, forcing it through a thicket of overgrown bushes and onto one of the adjacent minor paths that branched off the main contingency route. This side track was even less maintained, challenging the horse with deep, hidden depressions and heavy undergrowth that scraped against the horse’s flanks.

He rode hard for the next twenty minutes, pushing the gelding to a rapid pace that bordered on recklessness for this terrain. He was relying on the animal’s innate balance and the sheer luck of the path not holding any broken branches capable of instant injury. The urgency to close the distance on the pursuing Watch agents motivated the action.

The terrain became steeper, indicating the approach to the logging strip. He dismounted, leading the gelding through the heavy brush where the path ended entirely, forcing them into a steep, muddy ascent. It was slow, frustrating work, hauling the horse through the deep, slippery soil, maintaining a watchful eye against falling timber or unstable ground. Sweat slicked his back beneath the merchant vest.

After a grueling ten minutes of climbing, the trees finally thinned. He led the horse out onto a long, wide scar cut across the hillside—the recently cleared logging strip. The ground here was uneven, littered with wood chips and stumps, but it offered a clear, if hazardous, downhill path.

Silk quickly mounted again. He had to be cautious of the momentum on this slope, but he could utilize the straight-line descent to cover ground rapidly. He guided the horse down the strip, keeping a light but firm hand on the reins, allowing the gelding to pick its best footing without checking its speed unnecessarily.

The smell of freshly cut pine was sharp around them. He could hear the sound of their descent clearly, the gelding’s hooves churning the dirt and chips. The noise was a liability Silk had to accept; speed now outweighed all pretense of absolute silence.

He calculated how he would manage the change in persona and explanation if he were seen. Prince Kheldar was gone. Only Silk remained, the focused, aggressive merchant who would brook no interference with his transaction. If anyone saw him emerging from this unlikely direction, he would explain it with a convoluted tale of avoiding a minor local feud or managing a secret delivery to an isolated lumber outpost, citing incredible logistical complexity to avoid detection. The key was to make the explanation so dense with commercial minutiae that the listener would retreat from sheer boredom.

The descent was quick, and the logging strip ended abruptly on a flat, wide surface of expertly laid crushed stone and packed earth. The surface was smooth, well-drained, and clearly maintained with military precision. This was the King’s Road—the official hunting path.

Silk pulled the gelding to a stop, taking a moment to scan the environment immediately. The King’s Road ran straight through the forest here, flanked on both sides by tall, mature pine and oak. The canopy was still thick, but the road itself received ample light. The air felt cleaner, and the surface felt solid and trustworthy beneath the gelding’s hooves.

He turned the gelding south-east, the direction he knew the Royal party, and subsequently the Watch agents, were headed. He was still operating under a significant time deficit, but he had managed to close it slightly.

The primary requirement now was to present an entirely plausible reason for a merchant like Silk to be traveling at high speed on a royal hunting road typically used only by high-ranking officials and military personnel. The aggression of the merchant persona would have to cover the aggressive speed of the travel.

Silk reached behind him, pulling the worn, dark wool travel blanket off the role he carried behind the saddle. He deliberately draped it over the merchant vest, ensuring it covered the slightly bulky location of the document package. It looked like any other traveling merchant securing his coat against the road dust.

He had to risk everything on the superior speed of the main road. The gelding, designed for endurance, would need to be pushed hard, right up to the edge of strain, but not beyond. He needed to sustain this pace for hours.

Silk shifted his weight, leaned slightly forward into the gelding’s movement, and spurred the horse into an immediate, high canter. The change from the narrow, obstacle-ridden path to the smooth road surface was immense; the gelding stretched out its stride, clearly enjoying the stability and freedom of movement.

The speed increased rapidly, pushing the horse toward a controlled gallop. The rhythmic pounding of the hooves on the packed earth vibrated through Silk’s entire body, a stark contrast to the slow, cautious movement of the last few hours. The wind whipped past his tunic, immediately cooling his damp skin.

As the trees began to blur slightly at the edges of his vision, Silk settled into the ride, focusing entirely on the three metrics crucial for the next several hours: the gelding’s breathing, the continued integrity of the road ahead, and a constant, paranoid scrutiny of the rearview for any sign of pursuit, or the front view for any sign of the Watch agents.

He was now exposed, riding on a main corridor, and entirely outside the constraints of conventional intelligence tradecraft. He was merely Silk, the determined merchant, rushing toward a deal, and every straining muscle of the horse was dedicated to a single, critical objective: delivery.