Page 36 of Nemesis Mine
Maximillian just shook his head. The toss of his hair reminded Cyrus of Soulripper in a particularly imperious mood.
Balthazar sighed and went back to scanning the list. “Visits to a number of schools, and a petting zoo...”
Cyrus perked up, but Maximillian got in there first. “No. No, definitely not.”
Balthazar was quiet for a handful of seconds. Then: “The wine tasting at Dorre?”
It was Maximillian’s turn to perk up. He moved a bit closer, twisting so that he could read the list over his assistant’s shoulder. Cyrus didn’t miss the way Balthazar’s gaze flickered towards Maximillian, nor the faint, unguarded inhale as he caught a trace of that cologne. He wondered whether Balthazar still nursed a crush, or whether it was something older and more tired; something that had dimmed over time into quiet resignation.
Balthazar, sensing observing eyes upon him, looked up. A blotchy flush coloured his face as Cyrus gave him a slow, knowing smile.
Oblivious, Maximillian started to read aloud. “Midday, meet and greet, drinks reception—”
“Sounds like my kind of ambush,” said Cyrus. Maximillian glanced up at him, a flash of incisor showing as he grinned.
Cyrus expected Maximillian to come to his lair again to plan out their next fight, but instead he received a raven with a date, a time, and a short note.
Straight past The Prancing Pixie on the other side of the river. We’ll have more room there. M
Cyrus wasn’t sure how he felt about meeting outdoors, but Maximillian had to be confident that they would go undetected. He would be the one scrabbling to defend himself if the Federation found out about his alliance with Cyrus. The Guild would probably send Cyrus a basket of muffins if they thought he’d dragged the champion off his pedestal.
The air bore a faint chill as Cyrus mounted Soulripper and nudged her into motion down the mountain path. The Prancing Pixie wasn’t far, tucked into the forest bordering Ranragh to the south.
The sun was setting as Cyrus reached the edge of the forest, hovering around the horizon line as though reluctant to descend into slumber. Its glow barely penetrated the density of the woodland. Wildlife chittered and scurried across the brittle ground, Soulripper’s hooves thudding out a dull tempo. Cyrus listened out until he heard the burble of the Roasham river and turned Soulripper to follow alongside.
The river flowed like blank ink, already leached of its colour by evening shadows and split by the bite of jutting rocks and tangled grasses. After a while The Prancing Pixie came into view on the river’s opposite bank, warm candlelight spilling from the windows and illuminating the worn path leading to the tavern’s door. The rickety old sign, featuring a cavorting creature with spindly limbs and a shockof green hair, emitted a mournful creak. It was quiet, with only a meagre scattering of passing travellers and the odd antisocial local avoiding town crowds. They were all inside, their chatter a muted hum as Cyrus passed by.
He kept going as the river turned, leaving him behind. Cyrus soon saw why Maximillian had chosen this as a meeting place. The trees grew thicker here, more foreboding, and nature had taken back much of the track. Bracken swallowed a long-abandoned shrine, a flat stone set with the warped remains of three pale candles, stooped over a bubbled puddle of wax: a plea for a kind winter. It didn’t look old enough to date back to the days when religion still gripped Athaca tight, but people still had their superstitions.
He slipped from Soulripper’s back, leading her through the shadowy undergrowth. He found no pixies prancing but he did startle a drowsing family of sprites tucked into the hollow of a gnarled old oak. Magic hummed through him, the wildness of the woodland drawing his power too close to the surface. Any branches that might have snagged against his hair or clothes leaned subtly away from him with no conscious effort until Cyrus wrestled it back under control. Moving on with leaves and twigs cracking underfoot, he emerged in a circular clearing well lit by moonlight and banked by dense trees on all sides.
Maximillian was already there, alone, sitting at the foot of a beech with his sword beside him. His horse was tethered to a low-hanging branch. The stallion lifted its head to watch Soulripper approach. Maximillian looked up too. The moonlight picked out his pleased expression.
“You found it.”
“Wasn’t hard,” Cyrus muttered. For some reason, he felt a little flustered. He covered it up by looking around, plastering on an unimpressed expression. “Spend a lot of time lurking in forests, do you?”
Maximillian stood up and stretched. “Sounds more like your hobby than mine.” He didn’t seem bothered. “Actually, I used to come here whenever I was in the area.”
“Lurking,” Cyrus reiterated.
Maximillian shrugged. “Just to get away for a bit,” he said, then paused, as though realising that those words carried more honesty than he’d intended. “It’s a good place to come and practise when I don’t want people watching,” he amended, gesturing towards his sword, still lying under the tree.
Cyrus was pretty sure Maximillian had access to plenty of private spaces specifically designed for swordsmanship practice, and wanting “to get away for a bit” seemed unlikely for a man who had built a career based on the worship of others. Yes, he’d rolled his eyes at his busy schedule. It didn’t mean he’d ever actually give it up.
Soulripper shifted beside him, impatient. Cyrus pulled his eyes away from Maximillian, stepping forward to secure her reins a short distance from the stallion. Lysander, Cyrus had learned. Maximillian did not have his own creative flair for names.
Maximillian drifted after him. Out of the corner of his eye, Cyrus saw him hold out a hand to Soulripper.
“Careful,” said Cyrus without thinking. He cleared his throat. Whoops. Hadn’t meant to let a warning slipout. But he’d done it now. “She’s vicious, hates everyone. Bites.”
Maximillian didn’t respond, keeping his hand outstretched. He murmured something to her. Soulripper sniffed at him, then harumphed quietly and pushed her nose into his fingers.
Cyrus blinked, then glared. Soulripper ignored him, too busy accepting chin scratches from Maximillian. She didn’t even bother to show off her teeth.
“She’s lovely,” said Maximillian.
Cyrus grunted. She was a dirty traitor.
