A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Oliver didn't let any sort of reaction show on his face. He glanced at the floor lightly and then stood with a straight back in front of General Skullic's desk, adopting some of the affections of respect that Lombard likely would have wished he'd shown back in Solgrim. "Good morning, General," he said.

"No, it's not," Skullic said plainly. He barely even glanced at Oliver as he sat, swinging on his chair, cradling his recently shaved jaw, deep in some sort of thought. Of what kind, it was hard to guess.

"There's sun in the sky, General. As far as winter mornings go, it's rather pleasant, is it not?" Oliver said.

That made Skullic look at him, but not without a degree of irritation. "So, it looks like I'm saddled with a Patrick… Gods be damned. Two sentences in and you're already contradicting me."

"Apologies," Oliver said.

"And just like your father, when you say that, you don't mean a word of it," Skullic said, shaking his head. "It is a poor morning as far as mornings go, Patrick. My room is a mess."

"So it is," Oliver agreed, though he knew that – beyond a shadow of a doubt – it was Skullic that had caused it. "Paperwork again, General?"

Skullic's eyebrow twitched. "Worse than paperwork. A damn commitment. What do you have to say for yourself, now that you've managed to bite into my already sparse amount of time?"

"Apologies," Oliver said again. "I didn't make the choice."

"No," Skullic agreed, "you didn't. If you had, it would have been an error in judgement. So, what do you know of me, Patrick?"

"Very little," Oliver admitted.

Skullic nodded. "Then it would seem in keeping with the rest of your education. Apart from the sword, I suppose."

Oliver was surprised to hear Skullic offer him even a begrudging compliment. Skullic quickly picked up on that. "Don't look so pleased at the slightest little praise. Act like a dog, and people will treat you like one. It is a fact that you are accomplished with the sword, we would not be talking if it were not. However."

He paused on that word, letting it hang for a while, as he raised a finger in the air, still maintaining immaculate balance on his leaned-back chair.

"I'm not a great believer in this Sword and General nonsense. A truly Great General, in my opinion, would always beat a sword," Skullic said. "I will hear no nonsense otherwise. Your father was impressive, without a doubt. Greatest in history in his field? I do believe it.

You will hear no arguments there from me. But I do not believe that a Sword is what this country needs. It needs Great Generals – those are the men that write the history books."
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"A mediocre General with my father amongst them, who could they crush?" Oliver asked, just out of curiosity.

"Most of everyone, I would expect," Skullic said easily. "But without that middling General and the army behind him, a Sword means little."

The General didn't seem to be particularly invested in the argument. In fact, Oliver was surprised with how easily the General gave ground, given how prickly he seemed – and prone to anger, what with the state of the room.

"That sounds about right," Oliver agreed, not knowing much better. He was more surprised to hear the power that Dominus could have added to even an average army, and even more surprised to find that he trusted Skullic's opinion on the matter.

"Oh," Skullic said, thrown off. "Good, I suppose. I'd thought you would argue with me about that, being a Sword yourself. But a little bird tells me that you've started meddling in things traditional outside the Patrick family domain," he brought his chair back to the floor with that, leaning across the desk, almost conspiratorial as he stared down at Oliver. "Is that true?"

"It is," Oliver said. "I have an interest in what it is you do. I told Lord Blackwell that I wanted to see what the path of a General had to offer. I intend to make good on those words."

"Blackwell?" Skullic murmured, digesting the name. "Well, I suppose that would explain him giving you that badge..." Skullic drummed his fingers on the desk, his mood seeming to be improving. Then he noticed the mess on the floor again, out of the corner of his eye, and he slammed his fist on his desk with more than enough force to crack it.

It was a testament to the strength of that desk that it held strong. The wood of its tabletop must have been several inches thick and an absolute nightmare for any removal men to set in place. But for all that, it survived, when lesser pieces of furniture – there were more than a few broken chairs – did not.

"MARRRRYYYYYYYYY!" He shouted, aiming his head towards the ceiling. His shout was as loud as one would expect from a young General. Oliver would not have been surprised if half of the Central Castle had heard that shout.

The door to the room was opening before the General had even finished his shout.

"Oh, Mary," Skullic said, cutting off abruptly, and returning to a more level tone of voice. Oliver glanced over his shoulder to see the new arrival.

"Again?" The woman murmured. She seemed to be a maid, from her dress… but Oliver was accustomed to maids carrying themselves with a certain meekness. This woman had none of that. She was shooting an annoyed glance at Tavar, even though he was certain to be her employer.

Oliver had to check again, to really be sure that he was what he assumed. That black dress, with the white apron over the top, that was right, wasn't it? That was what Lombard's maids had worn, and that was what he had seen several Academy-employed maids wearing, as they went about their duties in the hallway.

"It wasn't me," Skullic said defensively.

The woman eyed him, apparently not believing a word. Under her gaze, even the strongest men would have buckled, just as Skullic quickly did. "I mean… It wasn't me. Not me right now. A different me, perhaps…"

What followed was likely the longest sigh that Oliver had ever heard, as the woman marched past him – he was surprised by just how tall she was when she neared, she seemed almost a head taller than him – and strode towards Skullic's desk.