Chapter 37: Familiar Face

Chapter 37: Chapter 37: Familiar Face

It wasn’t that Albi didn’t appreciate a change of pace as much as any man –especially considering the chaos that seemed to be plaguing the castle in times of late –but this was certainly bordering on ridiculous.

Where half the soldiers in the city seemed stricken with an almost feverish work ethic –funny what kind of madness little whispers could incite –the two men lounging at their post before him seemed thoroughly unconcerned.

He would have admired their level-headedness in the face of bedlam had they been anyone but who they were. And, seeing as they were who they were, he wondered if he should be concerned.

Montrel was, after all, sitting barefoot at the base of the Sky Tower stairwell with a whetstone and his blade –boots lying haphazardly some feet away, and Hasbar appeared to be trying to catch peanuts in his mouth.

"Ahem."

There was a blessed twenty seconds where the pair of guards at least had the decency to look like children caught out of bed after lights out. But that was all he got before the sheepishness fell away and they were back to...whatever it was they were doing.

Anything seemed to pass as ’guard duty’ these days.

"Good to see that you two are taking your job seriously," he remarked flatly, when it grew apparent that neither of them seemed to think there was anything wrong with the present scene.

They looked up at being addressed and seemed to quickly understand that he meant quite the opposite.

"He started it," Hasbar shrugged, mouth full of peanuts and his feet up on the table that Albi could not deny having played a few games of card at to waste away the hours.

"haha, real mature, Hasbar" Montrel shot back from the floor. Hasbar threw a peanut at him.

"Oh good, you’re being adults, too," he wondered dryly, folding his arms and glaring at Hasbar until he at least took his damn boots off the table.

With weary eyes he glanced over at Montrel’s discarded boots and shook his head as though he was beyond saving, "The Second Captain’s gonna kill you."

" –Second Captain’s not here," Hasbar pointed out, spitting enough peanut crumbs everywhere to earn himself a dead look.

"Yet," Albi reminded him sternly, "But I assume you’ve heard the whispers?"

"Yeah, yeah, relax, Albi," Montrel placated, sheathing his sword in a swift movement and rising to his feet with a wince, "Rumour has it he’s finally coming back from out west, right?"

"That’s what the rumours always say," Hasbar snorted dismissively, "And look, what’s it been, a year?"

"Closer to two," Albi corrected flatly, "And it looks like the rumours might actually be true this time."

"That’d explain why the training grounds have been so fuckin’ busy," Montrel remarked, stretching out wide and letting his joints crack back into place, "I sure hope those kids can keep it up. He’s gonna kill anyone he thinks has been slacking while he’s been away."

Albi didn’t bother to disguise the pointed look he sent in Montrel’s direction at that.

"Oi, don’t look at me like that," he snapped back crossly, "I do my time down at the ring just like everyone else."

He jabbed a finger down at his feet to draw attention to the way they were cut and blistering from said penance –probably the reason he wasn’t wearing his boots in the first place.

"’Course, it’s not gonna be enough for the Captain," he added morosely, weakly scrubbing his hand through his hair at the very thought of what the future held, "You know he’s gonna double our drills."

"If not triple," Hasbar piped up, sounding unduly upbeat considering their impending demise. He shoved a handful of peanuts into his mouth and shrugged as though there was no point resisting, "...He reckons Bongo’s too soft on us."

"Hey, hey," Albi frowned warningly, "He knows what he’s doing, and he works himself just as hard." Neither of his comrades could argue with that, at least, "Harder, even.

There’s a reason he made Second Captain, after all. Any other kingdom and he’d be First, and you know it."

And they did know it. They were also right about one thing, so he conceded, "But there is every possibility that he’ll run us into the ground. And it won’t be pretty."

"People are gonna cry," Montrel agreed.

"I puked so much last time he came back from the field," Hasbar chipped in, and the three of them shared a grim chuckle at the thought of their impending demise.

And although they laughed, war flashbacks raged across their irises, too raw, and uncomfortably close to what their futures held.

It was hard not to grimace, but Montrel at least made an attempt to bring the life back into his expression when he realised that while they’d been discussing their untimely fates, a servant had snuck into their midst.

"Oh, hey," Montrel greeted cordially, sinking down into a nearby chair with a grateful groan and directing a lazy wave at the servant, who frankly looked confused at being spoken to directly.

He probably would have stretched his feet out on the table if Albi hadn’t sent him a glare daring him to do just that, so settled with leaning back in his chair and casually addressing the servant, "Back again?"

"....Lunch time does come around every day," the servant tittered immediately, the jibe rolling easily off his tongue.

But from his own startled expression it seemed like the words weren’t meant to have left his mouth in the first place, and the "...Sir," he tacked on to save face was just a little too shy of mocking to be respectful.

A peanut fell from between Hasbar’s teeth, and his brow fell into a low scowl. The servant’s mouth clicked shut and he ducked his head apologetically for running his mouth.

"Hey, who do you think you are, talking to us like that?" Hasbar remarked, the playful edge his voice often took turning sharp. "Servants shouldn’t be just –"

"My apologies," the servant muttered hurriedly. And some would have taken his hastiness for fear. To Albi though, it just sounded like he just wanted to get the words over with. "I forgot myself."

"Well, you better remember yourself," Hasbar advised haughtily, straightening up, "Or someone might think to remind you –"

"Hasbar, that’s enough," Albi scolded, bringing his hand down on the younger man’s head heavily, to remind him to keep himself in check, "Actually, go stand in the hall. You’re getting crumbs everywhere.

" He turned his nose up at the mess the soldier was making on the floor, what with his scattered peanut fragments strewn everywhere, and Hasbar, bless him, saw fit not to argue. At least until he was out of arm’s reach.

"Go on up," Albi advised the servant, waving him on up the stairs, "And pay Hasbar no mind. He’s harmless."

"Albi, my father –" Hasbar interrupted from the corridor he’d been banished to.

"Shut your noise hole, Hasbar, or I’ll shut it for you!" Montrel snarled back irritably, and didn’t intend to take it back, because if he had to hear one more time about Hasbar’s rich daddy, he would not be held accountable for his actions.

And he could’ve sworn on his life that the servant snickered, but when he looked into the man’s face it was as unreadable as that damn attendant of Gurdet’s.

Unreadable, but oddly familiar –which was strange, because in this castle, servants flitted around like shadows –constantly flickering and changing forms. But there was something about this particular servant’s face that had him feeling like he’d seen an awful lot of him –and not just in days of late.

It was a weird feeling that he’d been sitting on for a while now –unsure of what it meant or how to approach it.

He didn’t often cross paths with servants, and despite inhabiting the same castle as a great many of them, he probably only knew a handful by sight, but for some reason he felt like he should be able to place this one.

"Hey," he called out, frowning slightly. The servant stopped midstride and half-turned to face him; tense and no doubt expecting be scolded. Probably for how flippantly he’d addressed castle guards.

But Montrel couldn’t care less about that. It was a little refreshing to see a servant who didn’t bow their heads and scuttle off like a little mouse. If anything, he was curious.

"...You’ve been coming here an awful lot, haven’t you?"

"...Just doing my job....sir," the young man replied innocently. Montrel’s frown deepened, knowing that the servant had purposely misheard, what with the looseness of his tongue a few moments before.

But after a long moment the servant wet his lips and conceded, jerking his head towards the stairs and adding, "...He...Khobii...makes the other servants..." He mulled over the word for a moment before deciding, with a small grin, "Nervous."

"Nervous?" Montrel snorted, letting out a bark of laughter and leaning back in his chair, because if that wasn’t the understatement of the century, "You mean he scares them?"

"Hmm...You could say that," the servant hummed back lightly.

"But not you?" he inquired, cocking his head and searching the servant’s face. And as the servant shook his head in response, the strangest thing happened.

Grey eyes, brighter than fresh steel –brighter and sharper than any servant’s had any right to be –glinted out at him from under dark bangs, so piercing Montrel felt they could see straight through him.

"Not me," he parroted back, grey eyes meeting his gaze without fear, and a sly lilt to his voice that was unlike any servant he’d encountered before, "I’ve seen his type before." And then, as an afterthought, and with a pleasant smile, "...Sir."

"Have you, now?" Montrel mused, his brow furrowing suspiciously.

" –Best not to let the nobles catch you calling him a type," Albi advised in flat tone, "They can’t seem to make their minds up on whether or not he’s a Lord."

"...He doesn’t like being called that," came the immediate response from not just one voice, but two, and Montrel glanced in surprise over at the servant who it seemed, hadn’t been able to stop himself from speaking, yet again.

"So you’ve heard, too?" Montrel chuckled casually, and found it a little refreshing to see the servant snicker along with him. "...He talk to you much?"

"Sometimes," he replied with a small shrug, the movement jostling the bundle he was carrying like his firstborn child and a flash of tell-tale pink dropping into view. "...Usually he just throws things at me.

" Now, normally that would have been quite the hilarious mental image, but far more interesting was what was concealed in that little bundle of his. Montrel’s eyebrow gave the faintest twitch and his eyes narrowed as he searched the servant’s face.

The man looked the picture of innocence –a picture that he was certain he’d seen before –one he remembered being fooled by more than once when he was nothing but a wannabe soldier stuck babysitting the castle brats.

"I know your face," he declared with certainty, getting to his feet and wincing as his blisters smarted.

"...Had it my whole life, sir," the servant replied without missing a beat, taking a step back as Montrel moved forward, and subtly tucking his burden under his arm a little tighter.

The guard raised an eyebrow rather sceptically, eyeing it in a way that told the poor servant that he knew exactly what it contained.

But the guy didn’t look in the least bit concerned that he’d been caught red-handed, smile still set in place like he hadn’t the foggiest what the soldier was getting at.

"What’s your name?" Montrel inquired gruffly, conscious that Albi was glaring a hole in his back to remind him to behave or be sent to stand in the corridor like Hasbar.

"Binny," the servant replied, after a moment of hesitation –his name making Montrel’s eyes widen in disbelief. "Binny Sun. Sir."

Gods above.

For a moment there, it was all Montrel could do to stare at the servant’s face incredulously, the name rattling around the back of his mind like an old itch as the man before him flickered against a dusty memory from what might as well have been a previous life.

Past blurred into present, and then he let out a bark of laughter that seemed to startle everyone present.

"Is that right?" he snorted abruptly, slapping a hand to his thigh and then peering into confused grey eyes.

And if his own eyes were particularly warm, and creased at the corners, well, he wasn’t to know. "Binny? As in the same little Binny I used to catch stealing cakes from the kitchen when you were just a brat?"

Binny bristled, and in a most un-servantly manner, stuck his nose in the air, something that made Montrel recall his twelve year old self –skinny and croaky-voiced and still growing into his limbs –trying to scold a bright-eyed little imp wearing that same face.

"I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Oh, right," he snickered theatrically, unable to grin a little, "You never knew anything about those missing cakes, did you?" He had to physically push away the instinct to reach over and give the servant’s cheek a pinch. "Even when I caught you all with jammy hands and sticky faces, am I right?"

"That was a long time ago, sir –"

"Oh, would you quit it with your sirs?" Montrel snorted, shaking his head helplessly, because wasn’t this a blast from the past? How long had it been? Years and years, probably.

He could barely remember the last time he’d caught those little brats sneaking treats from the kitchen –he himself couldn’t have been much more than a youth, eager to please, old enough to babysit, young enough for the older soldiers to boss around. "So, you’re a servant now?"

"Always been one," Binny reminded him, though that was rather glaringly obvious, and his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, " ’Born a servant, always a servant’ ...and all that. You wouldn’t have seen me around, much."

"Right," Montrel muttered flatly, remembering what they said about servants but still feeling a little guilty for not having recognised the guy sooner.

Sure, it was a big castle and there were a lot of servants, and he didn’t really cross paths with them often enough to put names to faces or anything, but he thought he would’ve recognised the man that such a sneaky wee tyke had become.