A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1465 - 1465: A Struggling Heart - Part 4

He only wished that the feeling of pride that swelled in his chest, was not such a subordinate emotion. He wished he could have taken what he'd done for himself, and presented it to his father, and shown him the degree of competence he was able to muster, so the man might finally break out of their permanent frown of his, and offer his son some sincere praise. But Ferdinand could not do that without embarrassment.

He recognized in himself the loyal industriousness of a man that was a subordinate. He found, in his head, that he was doing this on Oliver Patrick's behalf. And the honour of doing that, motivated him far more than if he'd done it for himself or his father. It made him want to cut at his skin whenever he recognized how he was behaving and how he was thinking. He wished it was any other way, but no matter how he tried, it was not.

It wasn't only the food stalls that he'd brought in. There was entertainment for nobles as well, and clothiers, and armourers. The very armourer in the form of Harmon that Oliver had fought to steal from Ernest had made his way here as well. He had his shop both in the heart of Solgrim and here, in a large tent, given to him by Ferdinand himself.

On display were pieces of such richness, that it was hard for Ferdinand to believe it was the same man making them. There was a flourish of engraving in even the most minor of places – in the fingers between gauntlets, on the guard of a neck. Places that the ordinary many wouldn't often see, only the owner. It was a credit to the meticulousness of a smith. And he was a smith that Ferdinand had quite contentedly had making arms for regular soldiers, because it was a requirement. Once more, he thought he had been unable to see what Oliver Patrick had. He'd been wasting potential.

He told himself that, and waited for the inevitable disgust to kick in, but he didn't. There was simply a nod, and a degree of reassurance. Of course, there was no chance that he'd measure up to the likes of Oliver Patrick, he knew that much. He was almost content in proving himself right. An emotion of the strangest degree. Recognizing it again made him want to bash his head against the solid pine table that Harmon was standing behind, talking with practised confidence to a noble customer with a feather in his hat.

Ferdinand had to quicken his pace to speed up the impulse. Every step that he took saw more mud flicked from his boots, freed by the wood chips that he walked on. Here, in this little town that they'd built, one could likely call where they stood the commercial district. It was a marvel to Ferdinand that they could genuinely do as they had – to have created what was ostensibly a town all of a sudden, with all the profits that were required to keep a town well in operation.

Naturally, the opinion there was the same – such unnaturalness could not have come about without a supernatural being. It was an impossibility. Ferdinand tried to imagine in his head whether his Lord father could have pulled it off, on his name alone, and he was certain that it would have been impossible. It would have lacked the magic that this current arrangement had. Town it might have been, with guards patrolling the many walkways between tents, and order being enforced continually, there was still a sense of freedom.

With that man that was in charge being the Patrick youth, there was that extra hint of magic to the whole affair. It was as if the people there, even if they did not think it consciously, realized just how odd it was. The air was rife with expectancy. As if they didn't think it could possibly have existed by itself for much longer. Ferdinand was of a similar such opinion. He had expected, each day, for something to happen – something that would attack the existence of the tournament that they had created, and he had found nothing yet.

Still, he patrolled, partly to see the profits that they had secured, and partly to check on that hunch of his. He was determined that if anyone should find a problem, it ought to be him, and he ought to find it long before it could have any proper effect on the tournament itself. He was determined that it should all proceed without a hitch.

Naturally, that led to him studying the men about him more severely than he ought to – for this was a job he should simply have left to his retainer. He saw an ill-dressed man, right in the heart of the noble quarter as he marched through, and naturally, he drew the eye. The shrouded nature of his dress did not help. The fact that he had a hooded and patchy cloak draped over his shoulders. The hood was not above his head quite yet, but it threatened to be, should the moment arise.

The two locked eyes. The man returned Ferdinand's look with a surprising amount of confidence. Long enough for Ferdinand to properly examine the deep purple scar that ran across the width of his face. Then the man remembered his place, and dipped his head, before slipping past Ferdinand's party. Ferdinand paused to watch him go. His retainers naturally paused with curiosity behind him.

"He ought not to have been here," Thomas noted. "A thief, do you think?"

"I saw no evidence of anything large being lifted, at the very least," Ferdinand said, though he would not have been surprised if the man's pockets had been rife with jewellery.

"There's been a few of those kicking about. Do you suppose we need to increase the guards here, my Lord? You've been worried about the potential increases in crime," Thomas said.

Ferdinand considered it for a second, before shaking his head. "No, extra guards here will only lead to there being holes in our watchfulness elsewhere. We've only a limited number of men that we can use. They're positioned as best we can. We shall leave it be."