A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"Good evening, Captain," the guards on duty said, as they reached the second floor. "Lord Blackwell is expecting you. Just down the corridors, Sers."

"Very well," Lombard said, though from the way his feet had already been turned in that direction, Oliver had a feeling that Lombard knew exactly where he was meant to go, without even having asked.

He took a second to compose himself, as they drew up outside of a thick wooden door, like a miniature castle gate. He gave Oliver a stern look, but said nothing. Whatever that look meant, Oliver wasn't sure, but he had a feeling it was another warning that he ought to be on his best behaviour.

Then, with all the composure in the world, Lombard gave the door two swift knocks, neither too hard, nor too soft. He announced himself with firm politeness.

The murmurings of conversation inside drifted to a quiet halt, and then a stern reply acknowledged them. "Come in," came Lord Blackwell's booming voice.

With a twist of the heavy iron ringlet, and a shoulder to the heavy door, Lombard made his way inside, and Oliver followed after him, suddenly feeling rather lost.

The room was bigger than he expected. In the interval that the door took to swing open, Oliver hurried to gather his bearings. He'd thought that this would be a meeting between just the three of them, but there was a good deal more men present. Ten was the number Oliver arrived at after a brief scanning of the room.

All of them were men of standing. After having spent so long around nobles now, Oliver could differentiate them at a glance. He'd noticed the particular swagger that Lords tended to carry themselves with. There would be an almost lazy elegance to the way they lounged, and the way they pulled their faces.

Against the benches and tables in the broad stone room, and against the walls around the fireplace, men adopted that particular lean. There were swords at their hips, and helmets were never far from their hands. They regarded the intrusion of Lombard with warm looks, which soon turned to curiosity when they spied Oliver behind him.

"How are the men settling in?" Blackwell asked, speaking to Lombard.

"As one would expect," Lombard replied. "There have been minor disputes over campgrounds, but that seems to be more nerves than true animosity. I do not anticipate that there will be any real problems amongst them."

"And the relations between the Karstly troops and the Broadstone troops?" Blackwell asked, busy himself with stuffing a pipe, only sparing Lombard half an eye as he spoke to them.

"There haven't been true instances of interaction between them, but I do not anticipate problems there either. Half the Asabelian forces that Karstly has brought are Blackthorn soldiers. I doubt any of our own lot will be foolish enough to provoke them," Lombard said.

Blackwell held his pipe out, as one of his officers offered him a splint in which to light it. After a few gentle puffs, he got it smoking away. "They will not be stationed together for long, regardless," Blackwell said, turning to look properly at Lombard for the first time. "You look tired, Captain. Has the march been hard on you? Forgive me.

It is a young man's role to travel distances, but I could not yet rely on our younglings to carry out your duties."

"I do not loathe it, General," Lombard said. "Tolsey will see to it in time, I am sure, but I am in agreement that he lacks what is necessary to make these meetings go as smoothly as they ought to. He still has the skittishness of youth."

"Well put," Blackwell said.

"Indeed, well put," another man chipped in. "For all his beard, Tolsey seems a young man yet. Is he not going on thirty? How the years wear different men so differently."

"Thirty, indeed Ser," Lombard replied. "He's aged more in the last three years, I think, than he did in the ten before that. I have high hopes for him."

"Speaking of such high hopes," Blackwell said, looking down towards Oliver. "Young Patrick. I thank you for joining us. Come, close the door behind you. These Verna castles are nice to look at, but they can't hold heat worth a damn. We've had this fire burning all day, and the cold still hasn't been driven away from the stones."

Oliver did as he was told, and he set the door closed with as much decorum as he could muster, well aware that he was the subject of many curious gazes, as Blackwell's men looked him up and down.

"You declared yourself for campaign, I am told," said the same man that had spoken to Lombard earlier. He had that cat-like Lordish laziness down to a fine art. He lounged with his back against a table, and his feet crossed over a bench, so relaxed, and yet so refined. There seemed to be a permanent smile on his lips.

"It seemed a good idea at the time, though I have been scolded for it," Oliver said., choosing a milder response than he could have otherwise.

The man let loose a laugh at that, his whole face bouncing with the motion. "Haha! Old Lombard gave you a stern talking to, did he? Lombard, old boy, you ought to remember what it is like to be a youth – give him some more of the rein, won't you? You'll wear the boy out, keeping him on such a short lead."

"Believe me, Ser, the lead that I give Ser Patrick is far more than I would dare give another youth, but if I do not hold the reins tightly, it will be I, and us, that gets into trouble when he races on ahead of orders," Lombard said.

"Oh! A characterful fellow, is he?" The man said, smiling that same lazy smile, his thin mousy blonde hair playing on top of his forehead. "Indeed, that certainly fits the reports. Ever amusing, they are. There always seems to be some sort of event with your name attached, Ser Patrick. I wonder if you've got advice on that?

My wife accuses me of being a dreadful bore, now that we've spent two decades conjoined. What I would give to be able to surprise her!"