Page 29 of Nemesis Mine
Cyrus leaned forward. “You know, Maximillian sought me out, not the other way round,” he said softly.
Balthazar’s eyes flashed to Cyrus’s. No surprise there; just a deep distrust. “He shouldn’t have.”
Cyrus smiled knowingly. “Oh, but he did. Thought he could—how shall we say—add some spark to his boring little life.” He gave Balthazar a cursory look up and down. “I suppose it makes sense, really...”
Balthazar was grinding his teeth; Cyrus could tell by the way his jaw clenched. Seconds stretched taut betweenthem. Then Balthazar sniffed and looked away. The tension in the air sagged, deflated with the knowledge of Balthazar’s submission.
“I don’t have to sit and listen to you jabbering on,” Balthazar said decisively, which was, honestly, a little offensive. Cyrus hadn’t beenjabbering. He had been murmuring threateningly, and very effective it was too. “Maximillian wanted me to fill you in on the ceremony, that’s all.”
Cyrus leaned back. “Go on, then.” He got what he wanted in the end.
“He has ninety seconds to deliver the speech,” Balthazar said in a low voice as he herded Cyrus through the crowds with the ease of someone who had mapped out a route ahead of time and practised to ensure it worked. He’d rebuilt his confidence in the time it had taken him to explain the precise location of the ceremony, along with all possible exit strategies. Organisation was his comfort zone, clearly.
Now, squeezing through the maze of streets, he droned on about the origins of the ceremony itself, as though Cyrus cared one bit for the Federation’s pomp. He stopped listening, taking in his surroundings instead. Cepha was best known for its trade in fine wool and for the specific breed of goats its citizens kept. Those citizens, it seemed, were doing their best to make “goat” their entire personality. Cyrus passed stalls selling soaps, yoghurts, ice creams, and fudges, all made from goat’s milk, and a particularly pungent little place overspilling with goat’s cheese. The peoplethemselves even looked a bit goatlike, he thought, which was impressive dedication: starey eyes, vacant expressions. He would have shared this reflection, but he caught Maximillian’s name among Balthazar’s boring spiel and forced himself to listen.
“Maximillian’s handshake with the governor should be happening around that ninety-second mark.” Balthazar grabbed his elbow and tugged him out of the way of a throng of youngsters. Cyrus stiffened at his touch, then narrowed his eyes as a straggler attempted to push past him to join their friends. It would be unfortunate if a tree branch just so happened to—
“Donotstart anything here,” Balthazar hissed. Cyrus’s head swivelled to stare at him. Was that an order? Was he trying to give Cyrusorders? He was so taken aback that he forgot to react fittingly, his mouth falling open. Balthazar didn’t seem aware of his close call, eyeing Cyrus in distaste. “Have a little self-restraint.”
“Wasn’t starting anything,” Cyrus muttered. The very picture of tolerance, he didn’t even stick his leg out as the straggler passed by.
Balthazar shook his head. He started to plough through the crowd again, keeping his hand on Cyrus’s elbow. Cyrus valiantly allowed it, finding that he had to jog to keep up despite the fact that his legs were significantly longer than Balthazar’s. The man had the uncanny ability to squeeze through unseen spaces in the crowd.
Balthazar kept up a disgruntled mutter as they went; Cyrus would have assumed he was talking to himself if not for the baleful glances he kept throwing in his direction. “The timings have been specifically worked out, so you need to make sure you enter at the right moment. If you go in too early, you’ll spoil the whole thing and you’ll throw Maximillian off course. If you time it too late, it’ll seem more like you’re targeting the governor.”
Cyrus made a noncommittal noise. Throwing Maximillian off course didn’t sound like such a bad thing.
They came to a standstill, the crowd splitting in two directions and weaving down mirroring paths that zigzagged to the bottom of an amphitheatre, carved by nature and honed by human hand. Moss had grown over the rows etched all around the sides, lending a layer of cushioning to the seating areas. The amphitheatre resembled a large green bowl with a natural stage built into the bottom, and the stage had been extended for the ceremony, jutting out further into the audience with scaffolding forming an archway above. Swathes of black fabric, draped over the scaffolding, provided a sleek backdrop. Cyrus was glad to see it. He would be able to climb up the scaffolding to launch himself onto the stage, and the heavy drapes would prevent anyone from seeing him until it was too late.
He took another moment to look around. The amphitheatre was vast, capable of seating hundreds of people, maybe even a thousand. Three sides of it were in use today and they were all filling fast. Anticipation was tangible in the air, thickened by the rumble of excited chatter. Such was the draw of Maximillian, apparently. The jittery sensation stirred, roused to life by the mass of people.
It wasn’t nerves. It was just... this had to go well. Maximillian’s words kept drifting through his head.Youput on such a good show.He had to make sure he lived up to that expectation.
“Come on,” Balthazar said in a resigned tone. He gave Cyrus a little push—brave—and the two of them rejoined the crowds as they snaked down towards the stage area. At the bottom, Balthazar led him to a quieter corner by the edge of the scaffolding. He glanced around, then ducked under the fabric, emerging within the scaffolding itself.
Cyrus followed him. As the drapes fell back into place behind him, obscuring them from any watchful eyes, Balthazar carefully parted another swathe of fabric from the side facing the stage to give them a little light. Satisfied, he turned to face Cyrus.
“I’ve given you all there is to know about the ceremony,” he said, pitching his voice low. “If there’s anything else you need to know to ensure that this runs smoothly and everything happens as we want it to, then ask now.”
Cyrus pushed his hood back and aimed a smirk at Balthazar.
“Aswewant,” he said pointedly. “I’m so glad you’re buying in to the dream team.”
“Keep your voice down. And I’m notbuying into anything,” Balthazar said sharply. “I’m doing my job, which is to make sureyoudo a good job, because it will please Maximillian.”
“Sweet,” said Cyrus. “It’s nice to know you’re rooting for me.”
“Please believe me when I say I have never rooted for anyone less on a personal level.”
“Oh, I do. But a professional level?”
Balthazar sniffed. “On a professional level, I hope Maximillian gets everything he wants out of this pretence.”
“Of course. Anything for Maximillian,” Cyrus said lightly. Balthazar got that pinched look again, like Cyrus had pressed on a bruise.
A flurry of noise from the stage distracted them both. They turned to look, stepping closer to the small gap in the fabric to peer out. Balthazar had the better vantage point. Cyrus elbowed him in the ribs to take it, ignoring the resulting wheeze.
Maximillian’s arrival was marked by applause so thunderous that the entire amphitheatre trembled, the ground beneath Cyrus’s feet vibrating as though he truly was the Earthshaker they feared. He craned his neck to see past the stage, to the people gathered beyond. Rows of eager faces turned towards Maximillian like he was the sun. Most were sat around the edges of the bowl, but some had been allowed onto the ground level. They pressed up against the edges of the heightened stage and gazed at the champion with apt adoration as he stepped out beside Cepha’s governor.
