Chapter 71: The Strange Kid.

Chapter 71: Chapter 71: The Strange Kid.

Rogard looks worse.

Which is --and Montrel can’t stress this enough -- unheard of . Rogard Spidra does not do worse . He is never worse. He never looks worse. He’s the kind of guy that makes men queston whether they want him or want to be him. Nowadays, at least. Montrel sometimes feels like he’s one of the only soldiers who still remembers a time when Rogard Spidra was a snot-nosed brat who hung onto the prince’s every word like a particularly devoted and high spirited dog.

He’s not that kid anymore,that’s for sure.

These days there’s never a hair out of place. His father’s raised him like he shits gold,and maybe he does --he sure dresses like it. Not that Montrel has much to do with him these days --he’s just a soldier, after all --but from what he can gather, Rogard Spidra is the kind of guy who is used to always being the most charming, best looking, and most talented in the room. He’s not the kind of person who comes off second best.

Not until Khobi Frost, apparently.

And no one --not even Rogard, with all his wealth and dashing good looks --can make that much mud look good.

"Why doesn’t he just quit?" Montrel wonders out loud, shaking his head incredulously as Rogard thunders past in Khobi’s wake, grimacing as mud comes flying at him from under Khobi’s heels. "He obviously hates it."

"He can’t," Jaga tells him, as they stop, one by one, to watch them go. "Khobi’s got him trapped."

"He got him good," Gandy agrees. He sounds almost sorry for him.

"If he quits now," Jaga explains patiently, taking pity on Montrel when he sees that he isn’t following, "It’s as good as admitting he can’t win. Imagine what that would do to his image."

" --And his father’s," Gandy points out, and Jaga sends him a sharp look to remind him to watch his tongue. He’s right, though. Any weakness that Rogard Spidra showed reflected directly (and poorly) on that of his father. Usually that wasn’t a problem, because as far as the castle was concerned, Rogard Spidra was a man of few weaknesses.

It was a problem now. Not because he was weak --there was no doubt in any man’s mind that he wasn’t --but because he had gone and underestimated Khobi Frost.

And by the looks of things, he’s gotten a whole lot more than he’d bargained for.

He probably also hadn’t counted on Drogger.

Fuck running laps in this.

They were lucky it hadn’t kept raining.

The next time Khobi runs past he’s coated with a fresh layer of mud and Rogard is gaining on him.

"Having fun?" Montrel hollers at him as he squelches by, the deepening mud limiting the pair of them to a stiff and awkward jog. And he laughs, as openly as he would ever dare laugh at Rogard, and some of the men with him laugh too, because for grown-ass men, they look pretty silly.

"Fuck you." The response is textbook, but it lacks heat, and through the mud, it almost looks like he’s trying not to grin.

Montrel doesn’t quite get it. And when, some few hours later --after Khobi’s gone six rounds with him, and almost gotten himself knocked out by Jaga twice , he’s still grinning, well, Montrel doesn’t quite get that either.

He’s trying to pretend it’s a grimace, but Montrel can tell.

"Drogger hasn’t killed you yet, huh?" he teases, later that day, as they loiter in the barracks while servants scurry around between them trying to deliver fresh clothing. The mud’s been a nightmare for more than just the soldiers --the ones who had escaped training early had trekked so much in with them that Vector himself had come down to the training grounds to see that no one else would do the same.

There wasn’t a fleck of dirt on him, but the guy looked like he’d just stepped in something particularly unpleasant just by being there.

When he’d seen Khobi, he’d raised an eyebrow.

When he’d seen Rogard , he’d raised the other. And the state he was in, well, of course he hadn’t been able to let that slide.

"I thought you’d grown out of playing in the dirt," he’d said to him, and Rogard had unconsciously scrubbed at a smudge on his face, for all the good it would do.

"Vector," he’d said, and hadn’t sounded pleased, "I didn’t expect to see you here." And Vogrid had looked him up and down, taking in the mud caked to his boots and his clothes and how it had turned his hair a drab shade of brown, and judging it all in one smooth glance.

"Likewise."

Rogard had just looked away, usual snobbish bravado nowhere to be seen, and Montrel had actually felt kinda bad for the kid. He’s pretty sure the two of them had been friends, once.

Or something like friends, he supposed. Even as a kid --one of the kids Montrel had been left babysitting, in fact, for far more of his youth than he’d liked --Vogrid hadn’t been the type for that sort of thing.

He’d merely tolerated the other castle children --or rather, they tolerated him and his strange manner. He was bookish, and proper --the opposite of the other castle boys --and the other kids (and a lot of adults) didn’t like the tone he took when he spoke.

Only one little servant boy hadn’t seemed to care.

" Watcha readin ’?" the kid had asked, one day --in autumn, Montrel thinks. He remembers it was cold, because the fucking brat of a prince had slipped his minder ( him ) and gotten himself in trouble at the kitchens.

Loac had stolen some honey cakes for his sick cousin and cried because they’d gotten cold before she could eat them. Montrel had found him outside the princess’ room with red eyes and his basket of stolen goods, inconsolable.

" Xena’s got a bad cough ," he sniffled, wiping snot away from his nose with an arm. It’s gross, but he’s just a kid so Montrel lets it slide. " Honey cakes are her favourite. "

He doesn’t like to let the kids know, because they wouldn’t be scared of him if they did, but he’s not actually heartless.

Prince Loac is a brat, and a slippery one at that, but his heart’s in the right place, even if his head isn’t always. And Montrel really doesn’t know how to handle tears --especially ones from the nightmare of a kid who’s usually pulling faces at him from somewhere he shouldn’t be, or dropping horse dung down the back of his shirt --probably also from somewhere he shouldn’t be.

So he crouches down next to the young prince and pats him on the head. He remembers, because it’s the only time he’d ever done it.

" How about we go down to the kitchens and ask them to make her some honey cakes ?" he says, gentler than he usually does.

" For real ?" he asks, big eyes so blue and wide and innocent that Montrel forgets for a moment what a nuisance he is.

" For real ," he promises, hefting up the stolen cakes. Only one is missing. The little prince hops up, dusts off the seat of his pants and knocks on his cousin’s door excitedly.

" I’m gonna go get some honey cakes for you, Xena! " he calls out, and the little princess coughs weakly from beyond the door.

" Thanks, Loac," Montrel hears her whisper, and when the little brat, Loac turns to look at him the tears are gone and he’s grinning.

They walk back to the kitchens together, and Montrel makes him apologise for stealing and explain why he’d done it.

Of course, the cooks aren’t actually cross. They’ve got a soft spot for their mischievous prince and his innocent, ’forgive me’ smile.

They give him a fresh set of honey cakes, and send them on their way, and on their trek back to the princess’ room, Montrel spots a kid sitting in the courtyard, reading by himself. It’s cold out, but the kid’s so absorbed in his book that he doesn’t seem to notice.

He’s no scholar himself but it’s refreshing to see a kid who’d rather be stuck into a book than say, stuck up in a tree.

(Which has happened. And Montrel had nearly broken his own damn leg getting him down.)

He finds himself stopping, and Loac, a cake in his hand and his hand sticky with a second, looks over the balcony with interest that declines when he sees who it is.

" He’s weird ," he declares, mouth full. Montrel privately agrees. The kid --the young and only son of Lord and Lady Vogrid, has a real bad habit of talking to you like you’re beneath him.

Which is a pretty bad habit for a nine year old. The other kids have noticed, too --most of the ones he’s used to have their little circles, but this one doesn’t seem to fit anywhere.

He’s always sort of off on his own. He doesn’t seem like he altogether minds not being included, but it’s still a bit sad.

At his age, Montrel was off climbing in barns and tying guards’ shoelaces together, and well, generally doing all the things that these days it was his job to try and stop Loac from doing.

" Watcha readin’ ?" a high, bright voice asks, and a tiny dark haired servant boy dumps himself down on the bench next to the kid, looking over his shoulder at the book.

The little Vogrid boy looks positively scandalised at being approached, but answers, in that way of his. The servant doesn’t seem offended, just... curious.

Montrel doesn’t really know much more about that exchange, only that that was the last time he saw Vogrid Vector sitting alone.

Well, for a time, at least.

That Binny was a character all right. With him at his side, Vogrid had almost become tolerable.

...

"Not yet," Khobi says, snapping him back to the present day and the current, rather pressing issue of the state they were in.

Come autumn, the barracks would be well stocked with fresh clothes, but it was obvious the rain had taken even the servants by surprise. "I think he’s trying, though."

"Nah," one of the other soldiers drawls from nearby, kicking off his dirty boots and letting a servant dust off some of the dried mud from his tunic.

"If Drogger was trying to kill you, you’d know about it."

" --Or you’d be dead," another pipes up, and a chuckle of agreement runs through the room. There are a lot of soldiers to inspect but the servants are efficient and seem a little more frenzied than usual.

Khobi isn’t surprised to find a familiar face or two in amongst them, dishing out clothes and collecting boots and carting off dirty laundry.

"Why am I not surprised?" Binny says, by way of greeting, when he finds him.

Finds probably isn’t the right word --he’s certain Binny spotted him the moment he entered.

He’s sweating, and his smile is a little more strained than usual, but he still shakes his head and tuts as loud as he dares with all these soldiers around like he can’t believe the mess Khobi’s managed to get himself into this time.

"You really don’t do anything by halves, do you, Khobi?"

"...No?" Khobi frowns, not sure if he was meant to answer. It makes Binny laugh, and Montrel next to him, snorts.

"Do you always give this guy a hard time?" Montrel asks, directing his question to the servant.

"Always," Khobi says dryly, at the same time Binny diligently replies, "Of course not."

Montrel grins.

"Keep at it."

Much to Khobi’s dismay, Binny dutifully salutes him.