'Hang on..!?' Oliver thought, looking for the sign, back to Pauline again. She'd spent nearly a silver just on fruit sticks for the three of them. It was an insane amount of money to spend just on a snack. The Beam that had lived in Solgrim might have feinted had he heard they were living so expensively in the centre of the country. Even Oliver as he currently was had a hard time processing that fact.
It did much to explain why they had looked down on his treasured chest of thirty golds, which he'd assumed had made him a very rich man indeed. But if they were spending that much on snacks, then what would actual everyday items be worth?
"Uhm, Ser Oliver, were you looking for something in particular today?" Pauline asked. Despite the noise of the crowd, their group was relatively silent. Blackthorn didn't speak, unless she was spoken directly to, and even then, it was one-word answers. She always seemed to be a completely different person when they were out in public.
"All of it, really," Oliver said. Initially, he would have beelined towards wherever the alchemists had set up their shop, so he could see what kind of prices they were asking for, but now he found the food stalls just as curious. The prices were so different to what he was used to. Even the students were different to what he was used to.
It was hardly like an Academy at all. It was like its own little town. They ran their stalls just as harshly as he'd seen from the merchants back in Solgrim – though they were considerably more well-spoken – and they haggled just as aggressively.
The air of professionalism was not the sort of thing he would have expected from students their age. Many of them seemed to be even younger than Oliver himself, yet they were selling pies, and steaming sausages, and all sorts of pastries, of a quality that Oliver had never seen in his life before.
Of course, it was quite possible that some of the older students had cooked them, and they were merely selling them, but something told Oliver that wasn't the case. There was a level of competence here that one wouldn't find anywhere else. Perhaps that was true of the sword as well.
On reflection, Oliver decided that it likely was. Compared to the rest of the children in the country their age, their skill with a blade was likely far superior. A harsh admission for him to make to himself, given that he was so inclined to look down on the students, when he compared how easy their lives were to the people back in Solgrim.
As the neared the end of the first street, Oliver caught his first glimpse of a men's clothing stall, as well as a hard pinch of his arm.
"You're cold," Blackthorn said when he turned to look for a reason behind the pinch.
"I'm not cold," Oliver said, though he was interested in the stall regardless, and so he went towards it.
"Cold," Blackthorn said triumphantly.
"Definitely cold," Amelia joined in. "Your hands are basically white."
Oliver's reply was bitten off, as a tall yellow shirt welcomed his approach from behind his stall. "Welcome, Ser! What are you looking for today?"
Well, at least that was an improvement over the Solgrim merchants. Those merchants in the village had always tried to guess what you wanted, and ten foisted on you something more expensive.
Oliver glanced behind the man, into his tent, at the different clothes and cloth piled up in there. Most of them were of the winter variety. Trousers, and long trench coats, and hats and gloves. This stall seemed to be expressly for men.
"Uhm, how much would a coat be?" Oliver asked.
The boy gave him a smile – a smile of the sort that was rare for a Patrick to receive within the walls of the Academy – and then gestured to a sign with all the prices clearly written out. "If we have one already stitched that fits you, they start at around 2 gold. If you require tailoring, then it begins at 3, though it tends to go more expensive depending on the material," the boy told him.
"I could make you a fine fur long coat, with a fashionable velvet lining for 5 golds, I can already see that it would well-compliment your fine figure."
Oliver nearly choked. 5 golds for a coat? That was insane. Unless it had some kind of spell cast on it that made him immune to arrows, he couldn't even dream of throwing that much money at a bit of fabric. He'd be quite fine wearing rags, what did he need fashion for?
"He'll buy it," Blackthorn said. Oliver's shoulder had already been half-turned to go. He'd already formulated his apology to the store owner in his head, but Blackthorn slid in and cut him off before he could. He'd never felt more betrayed in his life.
They'd learned of a particular battle, in the last lesson of Advanced Strategy. The King An, three hundred years ago, had staged a false retreat from an advancing Yarmdon army, leading the enemy towards where King An's brother lay in wait, ready for ambush. His brother, Vovick, had indeed been waiting, but it was not the Yarmdon that he attacked.
He slew his own brother, and took the throne from his hands. It was touted as the greatest betrayal in Stormfront history, even by King Vovick himself – he'd been proud of that fact.
He imagined then that he likely understood King An's emotions better than most. To be betrayed on the battlefield by one he thought to be an ally… and she was smiling too. The cruel smile of a betrayer who knew exactly what she was doing.
'But why...?' Oliver thought. He could almost feel the sword wound that disembowelled him. Weren't he and Blackthorn meant to be… comrades? It felt wrong to call them friends, but they still had an amicable relationship. He taught her, and she served as a shield against too many blatant public slanders. That short history together did nothing to deter the knife that she slid between his ribs.