Page 37 of Nemesis Mine
The quiet itched at his nerves as he stepped back from Soulripper and turned away. Maximillian was still stroking her. He didn’t appear to be in any rush to get down to business—and shouldn’t that be the focus here? It wasn’t a social visit; he wasn’t in the habit of meeting champions in secluded glades for fun. Somehow Maximillian always seemed to find a way to throw him off-balance, to unearth a crack in Cyrus’s armour that he could crawl into. Cyrus wasn’t supposed to have cracks in his armour in the first place. He was abruptly tired of it, annoyed with himself and with Maximillian.
“So. The wine tasting,” Cyrus said flatly, without turning round. “Our fight.”
He heard Maximillian come closer. “Should be good. I looked at the plans—there’s an upstairs workshop where the tastings are held, and there’s a large party booked in for that day. Mostly city officials. I’m guest of honour.” If only they knew. “And there’s a storeroom below in the cellar, so there’s lots of space for us to cause some chaos.”
He sounded like he expected Cyrus to grin with himat that. Cyrus just nodded. That was why he was here: to arrange their fight, nothing more. He hadn’t come to make nice with Maximillian, to play at being anything other than natural enemies who happened, temporarily, to have the same cause.
Maximillian was looking at him, he could feel it. A moment passed, no sound but the hum of insects and the distant murmur of the river beyond the trees. Then Maximillian stepped closer, his elbow lightly jostling Cyrus. He was very warm.
“Bal’s been droning on about the value of the bottles stored at the winery, about how some of them date back to the beginnings of the Federation.” Maximillian pitched his voice to imitate Balthazar, unflatteringly nasal. “It would be dreadful if they were to be damaged—so do be careful, won’t you, I can’t imagine the outcry if this goes wrong. They’ll think it reflects poorly onyou.”
Despite himself, Cyrus’s lip twitched. He could imagine Balthazar’s fussing, almost as well as he could imagine Maximillian’s unimpressed side-eye.
“And wouldn’t that be terrible,” he said.
Maximillian laughed quietly. “The worst possible outcome, according to Bal. Other than the two of us working together in the first place, of course. I’m sure he’s still having nightmares about that.”
That was a nice thought. Cyrus could allow it to cheer him up, just a little. “I hope so,” he said, finally lifting his eyes. He found Maximillian studying him, more closely than he had anticipated, though when Cyrus looked at him the champion averted his gaze.
“Come on,” Maximillian said after a beat. “We should get this fight sorted.” He stepped back, loosening the knot at his throat and shrugging off his cloak. His shirtsleeves were rolled up beneath, tanned skin prickling in the night air. He linked his hands behind his back and rolled his shoulders until they cracked, screwing up his face with a quiet noise of pleasure. It was Cyrus’s turn to look away, quickly busying himself with removing his own cloak. Despite the chill, his cheeks felt oddly warm.
“I was thinking,” Maximillian was saying, “if we start in the workshop, we can be sure of a good audience—captive audience too, you can block the main entrance. But they’ll be close, so—”
“It needs to look real, I know.”
Maximillian nodded. “Can’t look like we’re swinging to miss. Which... probably won’t be a problem for you.” The glance he threw Cyrus was dry. “A couple of times back in Cepha I wondered whether you were really aiming to miss at all.”
Was he teasing? It sounded like he was. Cyrus unsheathed his daggers, glad of their familiar weight in his hands. Maximillian might throw him off-balance, but he could find ways to centre himself. “Just keeping you on your toes,” he said casually.
Maximillian scoffed, but Cyrus could see the smile he was trying to hide. “So if you come in from the entrance—wait, let’s make sure we get this right—”
He was in Cyrus’s space suddenly, both hands planted on Cyrus’s arms, guiding him to the position he wanted. Cyrus tensed up automatically, but Maximillian either didn’t noticeor didn’t care. He was concentrating, a tiny furrow between his brows. This close, Cyrus could see so many details. There was a stray hair that refused to stay in place falling across his forehead. He’d trimmed his beard recently and there was a small nick at the curve of his jaw. His eyes looked darker in the shadows of the night. Navy, like his cloak.
“From the plans, the entrance ishere—yeah, that’s about right—”
Maximillian positioned himself too, a few steps away. Then he muttered a curse, fetched his sword, and returned to the same spot. “Okay, so if you come at me from the door like that—”
Cyrus lunged. His right dagger was at Maximillian’s jugular in a heartbeat, the left pricking the curve where his shoulder met his neck. No escape.
Maximillian jumped. Cyrus smirked.
“Yeah, all right, I wasn’t ready—”
“Oh, you weren’tready,” Cyrus mocked. “The armed wrongdoer a couple of paces away not enough of a warning for you?”
Maximillian batted the dagger at his throat aside. Cyrus resisted for a moment, then let him, though he kept the other in place.
“We said it has to look real, not that you have to leap in and instantly kill me in front of everyone,” Maximillian groused. “How do you expect me to get out of that without actually hurting you?”
“I don’t think I’m the one in danger of—”
Maximillian ducked out from under the dagger, bringing up his sword and slashing towards Cyrus’s other hand.Cyrus tried to yank his fingers away but he wasn’t quick enough, hissing as the blade sliced a stinging line along the pads of three fingertips, the dagger quickly dropped. Maximillian followed it up with a shoulder to Cyrus’s chest, hard, knocking the air out of his lungs and sending him staggering back.
It was a move designed to topple him. But Cyrus wasn’t going down alone. He grabbed Maximillian with both hands and dragged him down too, savouring the yelp that burst from the champion’s mouth.
Maximillian landed on top of him, hard. Fortunately, his sword landed a short distance away, rather than skewering either or both. Less fortunately, his forehead clonked into Cyrus’s hard enough to send stars whirling behind his eyelids, and an elbow sought to rearrange his organs. Cyrus made a noise like a sprite being stepped on.
“You’re fucking heavy,” he croaked, once he’d managed to reinflate his lungs.
