A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

One, was evidently the letter that he'd been waiting to receive from Princess Asabel. It bore the seal of the Pendragon's on it, after all, and only they would have used such a richly decorated bit of paper as an envelope.

The other letter, by contrast, was as plain as could possibly be. On it, sprawled in a hand that was far from neat, "Ser Oliver Patrick". It addressed him, but something about the size of the 'ser' suggested that it was hastily written on after his name had already been written. Something about the writing reminded him of his own in its awkwardness.

Thoughtfully, he tapped his finger on it, guessing who it was before he opened it. "Greeves..?" He murmured. Who else could it have been? Though, if it was Greeves, he would have expected that he would have had one of those servant girls that he had under him write it. He recalled that Loriel had used to write all his letters before… That was a certain memory that dug at the heart.

He shook off the sombre feelings, and retreated back into the doorway of his room, ignoring the glances that students were sending his way as they went on with their lessons. He tore the letter open from the top, using his finger in place of a knife. It did the job just well enough.

From the inside, he retrieved an ink-splodged bit of paper, wrinkled as though it had been left out in the rain, and smelling of the purple mountain grass that Greeves often smoked. Oliver's eyebrow twitched at the presentation. It couldn't really have been done any more poorly than this. Had he been a noble of any sort of standing, he would have tossed the letter in the fire by now.

"Why didn't you just send a bird, you damn fool…" Oliver murmured to himself. If Greeves had sent a crow, he could have scribbled whatever update he'd wanted on the tiny letter roll, and no one would have minded about the presentation.

But for some reason, he'd elected to do a letter – perhaps because there was enough information to write that it warranted a letter – and he'd thoroughly bungled the job.

Before he even read it, he glanced to the bottom, confirming the sender. "Sincerely, Greeves Golfingle," it was signed, ever so politely, as if he hadn't had a violent ink fight with the rest of the page.

Then he read from the top. "The business with the wall – it's concluded. I received the raven from your Idris man. His investment will make the whole deal a lot easier. The local merchants are in. Everyone's paid their fair share – I have as well, before you ask, you little shit – and it seems like we'll have more than enough to get the job done."

"Now, the issue there was finding some bastard mad enough to want to get to work on it in the middle of winter, when the ground's frozen, and there's nearly a foot of snow in the way of any work. Well, that's what Ernest is for, I suppose – desperate bastards that are looking for work even in the freezing cold. I've brought in the construction workers.

They're not complaining too heartily about the job, given that the materials are basically on-site, with the forest right there."

Oliver nodded as he read it, approving. If anyone was to find a team of people mad enough to do their work even in the heart of winter, it would have been Greeves.

"Now, whether it'll be done come spring is another matter… They've said it'll be at least a month – and they've brought twenty men with them – but they expect it could stretch as far as two, at which point, spring will already be here, and the Yarmdon raiders will be eyeing our half constructed wall."

That was true enough. A wall with a gap in it wouldn't be that useful, or at least, it wouldn't be as useful as the fully constructed thing. The Yarmdon might even decide to attack it because of that half-completed wall, knowing that they could take it, but also that they would have something to defend if they decided to stay there for a few days.

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"The good news is, as far as setting the thing on fire, they've come prepared. The merchants had concerns about that, given it's going to be made out of wood, but these fellas seem to know what they're doing.

They reckon they've done military encampments before, and they've treated the wood heavily so a flame isn't going to spread, not unless the whole thing is drenched in oil and it burns for a couple of hours."

That was another item off the list that they needed to check on. Had their wooden wall been so easy to set fire to, it would just have easily been used against them, to trap the villagers inside.

"As for our… other business, I've been in touch with a slaver and I've been looking at his stock. There's some big men there. Giants, even. I'm thinking this was the right choice. Half of them have murder behind their eyes, and if you train them properly, they'll be more useful than your regular skinny spearman. I've also been putting out word that Oliver Patrick is looking to recruit peasants.

You wouldn't fuckin' believe how many have turned up or sent word that they were interested. A good few Solgrim men have been asking too. I'll keep you updated," the letter said. "Let me know if you want me to pull the trigger and get them bought. It would be best to time their buying with a visit of yours."

There the letter concluded. It was the same matters that they'd discussed the previous week, but already Greeves was putting in the work needed to make those ideals a reality. Oliver clenched his fist reading it, feeling the building of anticipation. It had seemed half a dream before he'd spoken of those ideas, but now they were shaping up to become a reality.

Men of his own, a good number of them, and a garrison to house them in. Months ago, he could never have asked for a position as strong as the one he now had.