Page 39 of Nemesis Mine
The next morning there was a write-up of the attack in the news. Someone had clearly described the scene to the journalists when they arrived, because there was a sketch of Maximillian soaked in what looked like blood. It was a good likeness, except for his expression. The depictedMaximillian was looking around with sorrow and despair. It didn’t suit him as much as that half-mad grin.
Cyrus ripped the picture out of the parchment and tucked it into a little box for safekeeping. It was a fitting keepsake of a fine evening of chaos, and he liked to scrapbook from time to time.
Ten days later Maximillian was set to judge the annual pie-making contest in a village just north of Cepha, which saw butchers and bakers from surrounding towns flocking to one-up each other. Cyrus elected to ambush a clean-ish peasant on the way so that he could steal his clothes and blend in whilst he looked around and got the lay of the land. His own clothes he tucked safely into Soulripper’s saddlebag so he could change into them before their planned showdown. He wasn’t going to let anyone recognise him dressed as a commoner, and he certainly wasn’t going to lend his own fine garments to the naked peasant he left blubbing on the mountainside.
News of the champion’s upcoming arrival had set the place buzzing with anticipation. A platform had been built for the judging ceremony and tables dragged onto a field for the purposes of the competition, each laden with food. Most were trying to drum up support by offering free tasters. Cyrus had arrived early and foregone breakfast for this very purpose. Dressed as a commoner, he could wander among the tables sampling to his heart’s content whilst he waited for Maximillian to arrive.
When Maximillian did show up, he was greeted by rapturous cheering. Cyrus glanced up halfway through sampling a particularly good apple pie decorated with pastry leaves, like the offerings people used to leave out in the hopes of a bountiful autumn. When they’d planned this, he’d agreed to interrupt the opening speech, but he was too far away from the stage to make the leap. And he was still dressed in the peasant’s clothes. And he was enjoying the pie; it wasn’t as perfect as his own recipe (a bite of homegrown ginger was the trick) but it was good. There would be other opportunities.
Cyrus turned back to his food, keeping an eye on Maximillian. He looked well, hair a little more tousled than usual, wearing a blue shirt that brought out his eyes. He was doing a good job of pretending that he wasn’t waiting for something, but Cyrus was beginning to know him well enough to recognise his tells. There was a certain tension in the way his head kept turning from left to right, trying to work out where Cyrus might be coming from, why he was leaving it so late. Although he was keeping up his calm smile, Cyrus could tell it was forced.
He turned away from the platform and helped himself to another sample. The baker tried to slap his hand away. Cyrus growled and slapped her hand right back, harder.
Another round of cheers, more eager applause. Maximillian stepped down from the platform and allowed himself to be ushered from stand to stand. Cyrus left him to it for a while. Then, when he wanted an opening, he gave a well-placed kick to a neighbouring table leg in passing, sidestepping smartly when the table groaned and buckled.Cherry pies hit the ground with a hefty splat. He paused to enjoy the wails of the baker and the juice splattered everywhere like blood, then took advantage of the distraction to sidle up to Maximillian’s side, close enough for their arms to jostle. Maximillian’s head turned, the encouraging smile he usually gifted to nervous peasants already forming. It relaxed into something more honest when he recognised Cyrus, only to be quickly replaced with a scowl.
“This one should win,” Cyrus said in an undertone, indicating the apple pie he’d tried earlier.
“Where have you been?” Maximillian groused.
“It’s a pie-making contest. I’ve been eating pie.”
“You were supposed to—”
“Yeah,” said Cyrus, unconcerned. “I was supposed to. Was busy.”
Maximillian’s glare bored into the side of Cyrus’s head. Cyrus pretended to be oblivious. He also pretended that it didn’t give him a weird little thrill.
He was expecting (hoping) that Maximillian would keep up his pissy act, because annoying him was fun, but instead Maximillian squinted at him, then looked him up and down.
“What are you wearing?”
Damn it. Cyrus’s vague plan had involved him being dressed in his usual finery by the time Maximillian saw him. Still, if anyone could pull off peasant chic, it was him.
“Borrowed some clothes,” he said.
An eyebrow arched. “Borrowed.”
“Mm. Indefinitely, I suppose. I’m changing back into my stuff before we do our little—” Cyrus mimed a swordfight with two fingers, sniggering when Maximillian swiped at his hands.
“Stop it, people will see.” Maximillian caught Cyrus’s hands in his, pushing them down. He didn’t move his own hands away immediately, leaving them loosely atop Cyrus’s. Cyrus looked down, distracted. Maximillian’s hands were warm, and larger than his own, almost obscuring them from view.
Maximillian seemed distracted too. A beat passed. Cyrus wriggled his fingers. The champion blinked, then quickly let go.
“Nobody will see. Nobody here’s smart enough to notice,” said Cyrus, as though there had been no interruption. Far be it from him to rescue Maximillian from an awkward moment, but he wasn’t about to risk the situation getting awkward forhim. “And anyway, people would just see you talking to a villager. A particularly handsome one, but—”
Maximillian frowned. “If you’re wearing someone else’s clothes, but you’ve got your clothes to change into, what did you leave them with?”
“It’s not that cold,” Cyrus defended. Actually, itwasa little chilly. The peasant he’d robbed was probably turning blue by now.
“Winter’s tits, you’re impossible,” Maximillian muttered. Cyrus beamed at the crack in the perfect veneer. Rolling his eyes, the champion changed tack. “Get up there and interrupt me now, seeing as you missed your chance earlier. I’m bored, let’s get this over with.”
Cyrus baulked. “I need to get changed into my—”
But Maximillian, unfortunately, had a sudden glint inhis eye; one that Cyrus was starting to recognise all too well. For a champion, he certainly enjoyed a spot of tormenting. He strode away to help the unfortunate baker trying to scoop his wares off the ground, putting some distance between them. Then he looked up, locked eyes with Cyrus, and gasped. Theatrical bastard.
“WRONGDOER!” he roared. “This is your mischief!”
As one, every head swivelled to look at Cyrus. Cyrus froze in place, suddenly deeply aware that his trousers were several inches too short.
