Page 43 of Nemesis Mine
“No. He’s sulking outside.”
Cyrus risked a glance up. He regretted it when he found Maximillian looking back at him.
They both averted their eyes at the same moment, Cyrus looking back down at the parchment laid out in front of him and Maximillian glancing towards the door as though he might see Balthazar standing there, hands planted on hips, expression accusing.
“See you next week, then,” Cyrus said, when the silence had stretched on a little too long.
“How about tomorrow?”
Surprised, Cyrus looked up. This time, Maximillian didn’t break his gaze.
“Tomorrow?”
“We haven’t finished planning,” Maximillian said.
They almost had. Cyrus hadn’t expected to need another session on the wedding. They were more used to each other now, the way they moved, the way they fought. Each altercation had turned into a variation of a familiar dance.
But... it was a complex event, he supposed. A lot of factors, a lot of eyes on them. It made sense to ensure every eventuality was accounted for. And if Maximillianwantedto spend more time on this, just to make sure they got it right, of course... well, Cyrus shouldn’t stand in his way.
“Tomorrow,” said Cyrus, and Maximillian smiled.
The wedding went well. Not for the bride and groom or any of the wedding guests. But for Cyrus and Maximillian, it was a job well done. Cyrus didn’t manage to explode out of the cake or push anyone into it, but he did steal the heart-shaped layer on top. He even saved a piece for Maximillian to try in a moment of unparalleled generosity, tucking it into Lysander’s saddlebag as he left. It didn’t mean anything. Just the spoils of the scheme.
“You’resucha dick,” Maximillian said, but Cyrus could hear the laughter he was trying to hold back.
Cyrus beamed. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he said seriously.
“Yeah, yeah. Come on, get the door open. I stink.”
That was true. The briny tang emanating off Maximillian’s sodden shirt was starting to make Cyrus regret his suggestion that the two of them should come back to his lair. He’d been trying to be practical, that was all.
And trying something new. In the wake of the wedding, they had decided to let another couple of weeks go by without incident, to see if the silence stirred up more apprehension towards their feud, or whether it lulled people into a sense of false security.
But Maximillian had made an offhand comment about how he had been invited to watch a theatrical performance on a barge sailing down the Roasham river, winding close by Ranragh. A chance for spontaneity, and a chance to secretly revenge himself for that dip into the river all those years ago. Who was Cyrus to resist?
It went wonderfully. Cyrus turned up unexpectedly, pushed most of the actors into the river, and threw some props at screaming audience members. Then he advanced on Maximillian.
Maximillian put up a decent fight, for someone who wasn’t expecting an ambush. He managed to clonk Cyrus around the head with a pair of tongs snatched from the buffet table, surprisingly hard. But he was sure he hadn’t imagined the way Maximillian’s eyes had lit up when Cyrus first pounced onto the boat—successfully, this time.
It wasn’t surprising. The play looked eye-wateringly dull from Cyrus’s observations, telling the tedious storyof the Federation’s beginnings nearly a hundred years ago (a saintly do-gooder drawing other do-gooders to her in the name of helping people and being kind to all—Cyrus’s least favourite things). Really, he’d done everyone a favour by interrupting it.
Said interruption really had gone so well. Maximillian wasn’t possibly to know that Cyrus kicking him headfirst into the water was an act of sweet vengeance, and Cyrus certainly wasn’t going to tell him. He just enjoyed the way Maximillian shrieked as he did it, and the sight of him emerging from the water at the shoreline: drenched to the bone, hair plastered flat to his skull, spitting out mouthfuls of murky river water.
Cyrus took a brief interlude to chase the other people on the boat into the water, and then he commandeered the boat’s small dinghy and rowed cheerfully over to meet Maximillian on the shore.
“You’re such a dick” was the first thing Maximillian said. It sounded very wet, almost like a gargle. Cyrus helpfully slammed him on the back until his insults were clearer.
Maximillian said it three more times on the way to Cyrus’s lair, twice in reference to the dunking and once when Cyrus wouldn’t let him borrow Soulripper to go and collect Lysander from further down the bank, instead making Maximillian squelch along on foot. Cyrus’s pride inflated with each utterance.
Now, stepping up to the door of his lair, Cyrus caught another whiff of river and wrinkled his nose. Even the best plans had a downside, apparently. Before he could get the door open, a couple of younger sprites—even tinier thantheir full-grown family members and still active despite the darkening sky—flitted over from his honeysuckle to land on his hand.
“I’ve told you before, get lost,” Cyrus muttered, shaking his hand to dislodge them. The bolder of the two chirped at him, clinging to his sleeve and riding it out. “Go on, go back to your tree, I know you’re the one that keeps trying to get in my cabbages—”
Behind him, Maximillian stifled a laugh. Before Cyrus could claw back his reputation by booting the sprites across his vegetable patch to demonstrate his worth as a wrongdoer, they noticed Maximillian’s presence and took to the air in a flurry of humming wings. The champion’s hand twitched with the urge to swat at them as they fluttered about his face. Cyrus couldn’t help but wonder at the restraint. He hoped it wasn’t because Maximillian thought he wasattachedto them or anything awful like that.
“What do they want?” Maximillian leaned back as the bolder sprite darted closer, its wings a blur as it hovered in front of him.
“How would I know?” Cyrus muttered.
