"Sire, you wished to see me?"

"Su didn't marry Rabadash!"

Hasan ibn Ghazi ibn Majid al-Achernar al-Faris, late of the deserts of northern Calormen, now sworn knight of Narnia, halted his entrance mid-step. The tent flap fell about his shoulders like a silken cape of red and gold.

"That's good news, Sire," he said cautiously. Despite over a decade in Narnia his voice still held the distinctive accent of his homeland.

Nonplussed but hiding it well, Hasan glanced about the High King's tent suspiciously but everything was in order. Braziers fought back the northern chill and colourful Narnian rugs covered the floor. The High King's sleeping pallet was partly hidden behind a partition. In the centre of the tent was a long table covered by a detailed map of the area. Markers dotted the surface, representing the forces on both sides of the conflict. A smaller table was to one side, for the king's personal use, and it was at this that Peter sat.

"But I doubt that's the matter you wished to see me about," Hasan stepped cautiously further into the tent. He'd long since abandoned the traditional head covering of his tribe but his dark clothing retained the flavour of his homeland, even if crafted by Narnian tailors.

Peter looked up in time to catch the man's expression and was forced to chuckle. "No, old friend," he said, "but that matter can wait while I celebrate the good news that Susan is safely single back in Cair Paravel. Please, sit." He gestured with a tiny roll of parchment to the collection of chairs positioned about the tent.

Hasan chose the chair closest to his king, settling his sabre of desert steel before he lifted his head thoughtfully.

"What else does Queen Lucy write?"

"How did you know it was from Lucy?" Peter asked, handing over the note.

Instead of reading it, Hasan lifted the missive to his nose and sniffed. "Your sisters scent their ink with their perfume. It's an old Seven Isles ladies' custom, though I believe it originated on the isle of Helia," he explained with a grin, white teeth flashing briefly against his swarthy face.

Peter leaned back in his chair with a touch of a caution. All fold up wooden chairs were inherently fragile; even if they belonged to a king. Peter refused to slow down his army by forcing them to bring real furniture on campaign.

"That explains how you know about it; your lady wife probably introduced them to the idea," Peter said as the other man read. The note was brief (Ed could be such a nut about word count) so Hasan went over it with extra care to glean every drop of meaning. "Speaking of the Lady Portia, where is she?" He might have been worried rather than merely curious if Hasan had not been so utterly unconcerned.

"The carpenters had some doubts about her planned alterations to the ballista," Hasan shook his head with amused resignation.

Enemies of such size were forcing them to revise their tactics but Hasan suspected Peter was actually enjoying the opportunity to be creative. Certainly the giants were not enjoying the results of that creativity.

Small enough for a crew of two and capable of firing arrows the size of spears, the ballista were playing a significant role against the giants. Not everyone could take down a giant in a straight fight the way Peter could.

Fortunately for the Narnians, Peter was not only a magnificent warrior, but he knew how to lead. More than just inspiring an army to follow him, the High King promoted the right people then listened to their advice.

This resulted in not only a superior army but also great personal amusement for Peter when his advisers were those like Hasan and Portia.

"Master Thumbkin wants every detail spelled out, while Portia dislikes explaining anything. She's had too much of her work stolen by patronising males to willingly give up her secrets. In short, Majesty," his eyes danced with mirth when he lifted them to his king, "it's the usual argument and she should be here shortly."

"Shortly? Are you sure? Dwarfs love a good argument." Peter had learnt that the hard way during the early years of his kingship.

It took no great feat of imagination to picture his stout red beared master carpenter (short even for a dwarf) facing off against his refined Helian engineer. It happened at least once a campaign. There was even a betting pool (which Peter was fairly certain Edmund had started…) riding on if Thumbkin would ever win.

Peter was about to ask if Hasan was exempt from the pool and if so, was he using someone else to place his bets, when the lady under discussion slipped gracefully into the tent.

"Please forgive my tardiness, your Majesty," Portia curtseyed demurely, black skirts puddling about her. Like her husband she was a stark contrast to the traditional bright Narnian colours that decorated the royal tent. "I was just-"

"Discussing matters with Master Thumbkin again," Peter finished for her. His expression was serious but his blue eyes were merry. "Tell me, who won this time?"

Portia rose from her curtsey with the sort of grace that spoke of training since childhood. The gleam of her understated silver jewellery was like slivers of moonlight in the night sky.

"Why both of us of course, Sire," she said, a mysterious little smile upon her pale face. "Master Thumbkin is able to work on something far more interesting and challenging than the usual army carpentry while I am able to make it to my meeting with your Majesty only a little late."

In truth her refusal to discuss details was due to impatience rather than paranoid secrecy. Dwarfs were master miners and craftsmen, no doubt about it; their weapons and armour were second to none. However, when it came to mechanical things, things like siege engines, which depended on a thorough knowledge of physics and a spark of creativity…they just didn't quite get it. They couldn't seem to keep all of the steps and interactions of the various parts straight in their heads.

Thumbkin wanted to understand how every invention worked, not just what it was made of, which Portia explained quite thoroughly (if not, how could he properly craft the pieces?). The ensuing 'discussions' were almost enough to make her scream. Almost.

Peter bit back a snicker. Sounded like the lady's winning streak was still intact. Hasan wasn't so restrained and laughed outright.

"Never change, O moon of my delight," he smiled up at his petite wife, a hint of adoration in his gaze.

"If I did, we'd lose the income from all those betting pools," Portia smiled, her own eyes unusually soft.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't just hear that," Peter interrupted, putting a mental tick beside the question of Hasan's involvement in the gambling. "Have a seat, Portia," his gesture was absent, yet still somehow inherently regal.

Portia was arranging her skirts about her chair when she smelt the faint scent of orange blossoms and put it together with the scrap of parchment in her husband's hand. "What news from Queen Lucy?"

Peter smiled, nodding when Hasan made to hand over the letter so Portia could read it herself. "I know all about the ink-scenting trick, Madam," he chided, pouring goblets of mulled wine for the three of them. He may be High King but he prided himself on being able to dress and feed himself. "You cannot impress me that easily."

Hasan and Portia shared an amused glance that left unspoken the works, well not anymore.

"I cannot say I'm surprised by the Calormene's behaviour," Portia said moments later, lowering the missive.

"Neither can I," Peter agreed, the serious expression of a High King settling upon his features. "It's not the first time one of Susan's suitors has taken rejection badly and it probably wont be the last. The Tisroc has been subtly testing our borders for years now. Remember the bandits Edmund and Lucy ran into? They still wont tell us the full story on that."

"I'd hoped it wouldn't come to outright battle against Calormen but you don't make plans based on hope; that's why I left so much of the army behind, in case Edmund needed them." He sighed and rubbed his jaw. "He says that it's fine down there now but how can I judge what the Tisroc will do when I've never met him face to face?"

"You're not missing much, Sire," Hasan assured him, leaning forward in his chair. "I would say that the Tisroc (may he fall into a cesspit and never be found) will take the path of least risk to himself; to his life or his pride. Sadly, without a clearer view of the current political situation I couldn't say which path that was," he finished, spreading his hands apologetically.

"I'll make sure Ed talks to you when he gets here; this isn't something I want to sit on. One thing I do know about Calormenes is that they're quick to take advantage of you."

"The Seven Isles have a proverb about Calormenes," Portia spoke, one corner of her mouth curled up into a sly smile as she continued, "There are only two types of Calormenes - those who give bribes and those who take them."

Peter choked on his wine at her words. Portia shrugged off his glare with a faint smile and calmly sipped from her own goblet.

"Having lived in Tashbaan I'm forced to admit it's true," Hasan wisely ignored the byplay.

"And which were you, dear?" Portia teased lightly.

Anyone else (including sovereigns) would have been treated to a lecture about him being a nomadic tribesman of the Great Desert, not a Calormene and just because he'd been raised in Tashbaan as a noble hostage for his tribe did not mean that he was one of those honourless, decadent, arrogant, meretricious wind-bags.

Instead, Hasan gave the question serious consideration before replying. "Both. It's the only way to survive in a vipers' nest like that."

"Speaking of vipers," Portia mused, "I wonder what happened to Rabadash. It sounds like he's still alive…"

"Well, O brightest star of my heavens, they say something about-"

"I know what they say," Portia interrupted her husband, gesturing with the note. "Two words that can't possibly mean what they seem to and if so, then how?"

"We will be able to hear the entire story from Ed and Lu when they arrive," Peter reminded them. "I hope they remember to bring enough gloves and socks among the supplies. It gets colder this far north. Susan usually remembers such details but I'm sure recent events could distract her…"

Hasan and Portia eyed him oddly.

"What is it?" Peter tried not to fidget under their stares. Why was it friends could be so much more nerve wracking than enemies?

"You were saying that Queen Lucy was coming," Hasan prompted.

"So the letter says."

"She's riding to war…" Hasan continued expectantly.

"Yes?" Now Peter was starting to give them weird looks, "your point?"

"We were merely marvelling over your Majesty's lack of reaction to her Majesty riding to war," Portia temporised. The High King usually had many things to say about his littlest sister anywhere near the front lines. Amusing as his rants could be, she wasn't in any hurry to listen to another one.

"I have long since given up trying to keep Lucy from battle," Peter said stoically, taking a sip of wine to hide the disgusted pull on his mouth at the very words. "She's a grown woman, a queen who can take care of herself – and others. She's been trained by the best and is a more sensible leader than most of the officers. I respect her abilities and I trust her."

Portia took a sip of her own wine to hide her growing smile. Hearing him trying (and failing) not to sound so put-upon reminded her of her numerous older brothers when she'd talked them into a corner.

Portia would put money on his entire speech being a regurgitation of every argument his siblings (and others) had brought to bear. Multiple times judging by how quickly he rattled them off.

Casually leaning back in his chair, Hasan's warm brown eyes twinkled madly as he shared a glance with his wife. How often had he used a similar tone with her; the 'yes dear' of husbands from the Lone Islands to Telmar?

Portia followed his thoughts and was forced to look away. Laughing in the face of a High King (even if he was a friend) would be bad manners.

Peter had the sneaking suspicion that not only was he not convincing his friends in the slightest, but they found his attempts horribly amusing. They were resolutely refusing to look at each other and he was pretty sure his tent furnishings weren't that interesting.

He knew – rationally – that Lucy was an asset in battle but unless it came down to defending the Cair, he didn't see why she should have to fight.

At least he'd won the fight on not taking the fire-flower cordial to every skirmish and hunting party. It was too precious to be wasted on anything short of fatal wounds and its presence had encouraged an alarming amount of Narnian soldiers to act recklessly in battle.

He could (and did) argue that his motivation was to preserve a resource and bolster discipline within the army.

The real reason was for Lucy.

His youngest sister would never have the heart to let someone in pain go without healing, even if it was as minor as a sprained ankle, even if she knew – rationally – that the cordial should be saved for more serious wounds. To save her from having to make that choice, he removed the very possibility.

Peter shook his gloomy thoughts from his mind and focused on his audience. "I admit that I would worry about her less if her position was similar to yours, Madam."

Portia lowered her wine goblet and gazed at him blandly.

"You would prefer if your baby sister constantly travelled with the army, excelled in a profession centred on clever ways to kill others and designed ingenious machines to deal death and destruction from a distance?"

Peter blinked. If she put it that way…

"Onto the business I called you here for," Peter coughed and straightened in his chair. "Oreius will be here shortly with the others and I wanted an update on our engines of war before that. You mentioned changing the design of the ballista, how exactly will this alter its capabilities?"

Portia looked at Hasan.

Hasan looked at Portia.

Using married-people-telepathy, they decided to bide their time. It would be far more entertaining to pursue this conversation when Lucy was in the room. For now they'd let it drop and at least try to act like professionals.


Authors note:

First, a big thank you to everyone who's reviewed. It's my first time writing Peter so I hope I did him justice. (He's known as magnificent, so that's asking a lot…)

Army engineers are awesome; in medieval times they could actually argue with the nobles in charge of the armies.

The proverb about Calormenes is actually a Russian proverb about the Chinese.

Anyone even slightly curious about how an excessively educated lady from the Seven Isles married a desert prince from Calormen and ended up serving in the Narnian army?

Or perhaps I should write a day in the life of the Narnian army and explain what's this obsession Peter has with socks…

Reviews will be treasured and adored.