Page 50 of Nemesis Mine
Now Balthazar stood at Cyrus’s door, frowning down at him. A bundle of fabric was tucked under one arm, and he held a metal plate and cup.
Cyrus looked at him critically, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall of the cell, his legs stretched in front of him and his bound arms held awkwardly to his chest. Sitting down had helped clear his head, which also meant he was swiftly reminded of every ache and sting from each bruise and cut on his body. Not pleasant, but he would take the pain over foggy thoughts and a sense of slipping control any day.
“I’m not in a position to come and take them from you, if that’s what you’re waiting for,” Cyrus drawled. “Somebody forgot to untie my wrists, see.”
Balthazar’s frown deepened. But he bent and placed his items on the ground, fishing out the key to unlock the door. Cyrus watched in silence as he scooped his items back up and brought them closer, trying not to look too interested. The bread and cheese he could take or leave, though he’d eat for strength. The water lapping at the metal rim of the cup had never looked so enticing.
Balthazar knelt beside Cyrus and looked at him, waiting. When Cyrus didn’t offer his wrists, Balthazar huffed and pulled his arms firmly down from his chest, his fingers making quick work of the knots.
“Ow,” said Cyrus. Balthazar ignored him.
The rush of blood as the rope came free hurt almost as much as the stab wound. Cyrus exhaled sharply, pulling his arms away from Balthazar and rubbing at them. His wound throbbed petulantly with each movement.
“Now for that,” Balthazar muttered, his eyes on the soaked bandages. Cyrus held reluctantly still as the bandages were unwound and his cloak eased from his shoulders. He couldn’t hold back a slight flinch as Balthazar picked up the ripped edges of his shirt and tore it further to expose the wound beneath.
He didn’t look. Looking made it feel worse, he’d learned that long ago. He wasn’t exactly riddled with scars from his days as a young wrongdoer, when he’d still been actively seeking champions to fight, but there had been a couple of close calls. The downside of avoiding champions with magic was that championswithoutmagic tended to take their weapons training more seriously.
But it had been a while. Years. Maybe even close to a decade. Cyrus had forgotten how much a wound could burn.
“Not too bad,” Balthazar said under his breath. His mouth pursed at Cyrus’s scoff. “I mean, it doesn’t look too serious. As long as it’s clean and the bleeding’s stopped, it should be fine. Which you should be pleased about, not offended by.”
Cyrus didn’t respond. He could choose his battles. Balthazar reached for the fabric he had brought—muslin cloth and fresh bandages—and from his waistcoat pocket withdrew three small glass vials. He flicked the stopper out of one with his thumb and used the liquid to wet the cloth. A vinegary scent rose from it, astringent and sharp.
The cloth was pressed to the wound, the sting intense and immediate. Cyrus gritted his teeth, blinking back traitorous tears. If Balthazar dared comment, Cyrus would let him mastermind an escape and then push him into the sea.
But Balthazar stayed silent. He cleaned the wound quickly, then tied fresh bandages around Cyrus’s waist with nimble fingers. An image sprang to mind: a younger Maximillian, smooth-faced and brash, fidgeting under Balthazar’s hands as his assistant patched him up following a fight. A younger Balthazar too, strange as the notion was. He would be quick, because Maximillian was impatient, but gentle; efficient but caring. Was that how it used to be between them?
Balthazar moved backwards. He wiped his fingers clean, then picked up the second glass vial, setting it on the plate. He pushed it closer to Cyrus.
“To help with the pain,” he said. “White willow bark and clove. It’s not poison.”
Cyrus knew it wasn’t. Balthazar wouldn’t disobey Maximillian like that. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous in his own way.
“You planned this,” he stated. He’d had time enough to piece that together, sitting down here with only his thoughts for company.
Balthazar glanced up, halfway through tidying the used bandages into a neat bundle. “You ending up in the gaol? It’s not mypreferredoutcome, but—”
“Fighting in Heliarth,” Cyrus interrupted. “Where he wouldn’t be able to hold back.”
Balthazar eyed him. There was a hint of wariness there, which should have been gratifying. He had schemed against Cyrus. He had tried to get himkilled. Cyrus had sought revenge for far less.
But, galling as it was, he needed Balthazar right now.
When Cyrus didn’t spit a deadly threat or attempt to throttle him with the bandages, Balthazar looked away. “You’re bad for him,” he said.
Maximillian’s mad-dog grin danced through Cyrus’s mind. The way he’d looked, exhilarated, with wine drenching his clothes and chaos reigning around him.
“Maybe he wasn’t entirely good in the first place.”
He expected protestation. Instead, Balthazar indicated the vial. “If you drink that we can get on with the plan,” he muttered.
Cyrus would tell himself that was a suggestion, not an order. He tipped the contents of the vial into his mouth, the sweet spice of cloves biting through the willow, before turning his attention to the food and drink. The water was fresh and cold, gone too swiftly, but it soothed his throat. When the cheese was eaten and the bread with it, Cyrus slanted his eyes to Balthazar.
“Now what?”
Balthazar glanced over his shoulder, but all was quiet. The gaoler was too far away to hear any conversation; luckyfor them that he didn’t want Cyrus anywhere near him. The cells close by were unoccupied. They were, for all intents and purposes, alone.
“Now, you escape,” said Balthazar. He didn’t sound too impressed by the idea.
