A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1473 - 1473: A Passing Breeze - Part 4

"Very well," Verdant said. "You two had better hurry off then, I expect."

Jorah gave a brisk nod, and a salute. "We will be seeing you then, my Lord," he said. Karesh hurried to follow suit, and soon enough, the two of them were sprinting away together.

"What orders do you have for us, then, Lord Patrick?" Came a voice laced with scorn.

"None," Oliver told the man. "From what Blackwell has seen in you, I can expect to find no use amongst your kind."

The retainer Thomas bristled at that. "You watch yourself, Patrick," he said, pointing a finger at him. "My Lord would not wish for you to have anything to do with the solving of his murder. He despised you. You're dishonouring a dead man."

"You dishonoured the living man," Verdant said back, the pale blue of his eyes sparkling with rage. "Why did it take you so long to notice your Lord's disappearance, mm? Or did you simply not care to look?"

"W-what are you implying?" Thomas said. "We were given orders to deal with the fire! And we moved to deal with it!"

"Ah, so an order is all it takes for you to forget your oath?" Verdant said. "I look at you, Ser, and I see a self-centred man. A creature that was concerned with the protection of his Lord would not allow his flesh to grow as soft as you have. You are a disgrace, I do declare it."

"Enough, Verdant," Oliver said. "We gain nothing from interacting with them. They have no information. Further conversation will only hinder our efforts."

"Blackwell told us to follow your orders!" Thomas said, reaching a hand out to stop him before he could go.

The blade of a rapier stopped him before his hand could get close. "Careful," Blackthorn warned. "I would hate to see that hand removed."

It was only Thomas who stiffened at the sudden act of violence, the rest of Ferdinand's retainers were bolt upright as well. Some of the knights found themselves fumbling for their swords, whilst others still stood stock-still, their mouths agape.

Verdant shook his head. "You were not fit for your task, gentlemen. A shame, I do declare it. It should not be a matter of surprise that a retainer should see her Lord well defended. Perhaps you ought reflect on that."

This time, when they moved to go, the group did not attempt to stop them. It had become quite apparent, in a single exchange, that there was a difference in psychology between the two parties. When Blackthorn had drawn her sword, all had been able to recognize in an instant that she would have had no qualms in using it. In her doll-like face, her eyes alone had betrayed a distinct purpose.

Oliver moved at a jog, and his two retainers kept pace with him. It was Ingolsol he turned to now, as he ran through the rows of tents, getting a sense for the place, feeling the chaos, and the malevolence in the air – of which, there was plenty. The whole area stank of intrigue. He found himself wishing to check each and every tent individually, to confirm what Karstly had told him, and beyond it, but he kept racing ahead regardless.

"You seem to be searching for something, my Lord," Verdant observed as they ran. "Do you think we will be able to pick the killer out as we run?"

Oliver shook his head. "I do not have that level of optimism. But it has not been long since this show began. I can not believe it to be over. They were acting on a plan, someone else's machinations. Would it stop at a fire and a handful of murders? Do we assume them to be acting with the intention of seeing the tournament completely upended? If so, they surely had more that they wished to show us."

"Do we assume the name of the man who holds the strings?" Verdant asked.

"…You mean our King?" Oliver said. "It certainly seems like the most likely explanation. But this seems a bit too bold, even for him."

"He sent an army of disguised Yarmdon men marching on Solgrim, my Lord. Bold does not seem to be something that he has a problem with," Verdant pointed out.

"True enough. But I would like to withhold conclusions now regardless. Until we are certain of all the pieces," Oliver said. "We can only see more added to the pile for now, so that we might get a better sense of the picture."

"Tent," Blackthorn said, with all her usual talkativeness. Just that word was enough to bring them all to a skidding halt. Her gloved finger pointed towards a doorway that was inconspicuous at first glance. There seemed nothing wrong with the flap – it was fastened properly. It took Oliver a second of searching to see what had made Blackthorn pause. A single, barely pressed bloody handprint, towards the bottom of the pole.

Verdant Idris crouched to inspect it.

"Well?" Oliver prodded.

"It does not paint a pretty picture," Verdant said. "The first thing that jumps to mind, is that our victim – if indeed, they have been entirely victimized – tried to crawl away under the tent flap, only to be dragged back in. Given that they were bleeding enough to leave a handprint like this, I do fear for what we will find inside."

"Unfortunately, fear would only slow us down, Verdant," Oliver said, drawing his sword, and slicing the tent flap up the middle. "We must move swiftly."

He gave an extra slash with his sword, and brought the tent flaps falling to the ground entirely, leaving the doorway wide open.

The scene inside was as barbaric as they had feared that it would be, if not worse. The fire that had burned in the centre of the room had been kicked in all directions away from its pit. It was a wonder that the still-smoldering longs hadn't caused further fires yet.

The white interior had made a canvas for the red blood that was spilt wherever it could find a place. It seemed like the battling – or the torment – had taken place all over the tent's interior. It was a cruel crime, to put it mildly.