A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1433 - 1433: Muddy Greatness - Part 2

"Q-quite right. Indeed. Indeed. That does make sense," Gorne said, dipping his head hurriedly. "W-well, I ought to take my leave then. I do think. Yes, yes. I'll be leaving."

He slipped, and very nearly tripped into the mud as he went on his way.

"I see you're as disagreeable as ever," Professor Yoreholder noted. "You could have humoured him, and made a friend."

"I do not need his kind of friendship," Oliver replied sharply.

The Professor cracked just the barest hint of a smile. "It is good to see that your principles have not changed. My husband will be glad to hear it. He was proud to hear of what you achieved in the east, though I had told him that he ought to tell you such things himself."

"He honours me," Oliver replied.

Yoreholder snorted. "You still have no patience for ceremony either. Would you be offended, if I supposed you to be one of the most endearing of my students?"

"I'd be alarmed," Oliver said. "I don't know what I've ever done that's endearing."

"Do you not find a cat endearing when it hisses?" Yoreholder said.

Oliver was taken aback. It was a different attitude to the one the Professor had shown him at the academy. The playful smile on her face seemed a dangerous thing. She didn't leave him with a moment to gather himself.

"I'd heard that you have found yourself a Lady," Yoreholder said. "In your letter, you seemed rather proud to show her off to me. As adorable as I found that to be, I still have not yet caught sight of her."

"Well… That's… I'm sure you'll see her soon enough," Oliver said awkwardly.

Yoreholder smiled her amusement. "She will be competing in your archery tournament, yes? I look forward to seeing how she performs. You had always talked about her skill with a particular enthusiasm. It does not surprise me that such enthusiasm blossomed into romance."

"Her skill is strong enough to be talked about with that kind of enthusiasm, romance or not," Oliver said. "I think you'll be impressed by her."

"As you no doubt seem to be," Yoreholder said, not at all hiding the fact that she was teasing him, from the broad smile on her face. "When you have a moment, do introduce us. That is half the reason that I travelled here."

"I shall make sure to…" Oliver said, barely managing to finish his sentence, before the Professor began to stride away.

The matter with the drunk noble, and the matter with Yoreholder's teasing was hardly a blip in the grand scheme of the problems that Oliver had to wade through that morning. Ferdinand had found him, when Judas and Firyr were busy attending to other matters, to inform him of an incident, in their shared governance the event.

"A peasant is calling for you, Patrick," Ferdinand says. "He's half-mad, by the looks of it, but we have no to get rid of him yet. He has yet to commit a crime, but he is a nuisance, and a loud one at that. If you have the time, I would ask that you attend to him, before he gets too out of hand."

"Where is he?" Oliver asked.

"The empty melee arena, to the right," Ferdinand replied. "There's a sword on his hip, despite his obvious birth. The men are wary. If you don't hurry, I would assume that it'll end with bloodshed."

He said all that dispassionately, and business-like, as if he didn't have the time to stand around and share any more words than the message that he was delivering. He was surrounded by a guard of five well-dressed nights, all of noble birth themselves, and all of them seemingly in the same hurry as their master.

"How goes the markets, before you disappear?" Oliver said.

That, at least, managed to provoke a small smile from Ferdinand, which told Oliver more of their success than any words could. "Adequately. You will see for yourself, when we tally the numbers at the end of the day."

"You need not trouble yourself with such incidents, my Lord," Verdant told Oliver, as Ferdinand passed them, and continued on his rounds. "If you force yourself to attend to every such scene, you'll never have a moment to stand still. Let me go on your behalf. Firyr can adequately see you guarded in my absence."

"No. Firyr is needed in the arena," Oliver said. Few seemed to be as effective as Firyr at enforcing the rules, though Karesh was starting to follow his example, and was executing them just as harshly, with Kaya having to hold him back whenever he went too far, as he often did. "We can't drag them away. We're busy enough as is. I'll go, and do my duty."

The dispute was still happening by the time they made their way towards it. Louds shouts could be heard from a distance, enough that they could be easily heard over the crowd and the noise they were already loudly making.

From the looks of it, it was only a single man that was causing such a degree of commotion. He jabbed with his finger aggressively at any of the soldiers – by now a mixture of Blackwell and Patrick men – that tried to come near to subdue him. By all appearances, he seemed quite inconsolable, and furious, for a reason that Oliver could still not understand.

"BRING ME OLIVER PATRICK!" He shouted. "IT'S MY RIGHT! YOU BRING HIM!"

"…Madness, my Lord," Verdant said. "It would seem he smells of it."

Verdant found the right label for the man even from a distance away. Indeed, the closer they drew, the more Oliver found himself to be in agreement. There was a man who had lost himself. His clothes were far more ragged than the average peasants. It was even worse than Oliver's had been, when he'd born the name Beam. He was caked in fresh mud that made him look older than he was. He had a small amount of stubble around his chin, but from his face, it seemed he could not have been much older than twenty.