Page 53 of Nemesis Mine
“Dick,” said Cyrus.
Maximillian opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked wrong-footed. Good. “Yeah. I’ll take that one.”
“Fucking dick,” Cyrus muttered, for extra emphasis.
The look of remorse that had been spreading acrossMaximillian’s features halted. The dimple (stupid dimple, Cyrus reminded himself; it was a stupid dimple) twitched in the face of Cyrus’s unexpected reaction.
Maximillian reached for him. Annoyed, Cyrus pulled back. He bit back a curse as the motion jarred his injury again. The almost-smile dropped immediately from Maximillian’s face, replaced by concern. His hand wavered in the space between them, uncharacteristically hesitant.
“I’ll help you inside, at least.”
Cyrus shrugged, then swiftly regretted it. He couldn’t hide his wince, and he let his head thump back against the tree as he breathed through the wave of pain. Maximillian’s frown became more pronounced, his hand extending again and settling on Cyrus’s elbow with a gentleness that made him grind his teeth.
“Let me help,” Maximillian said softly.
Seconds dragged by. Then Cyrus lifted his head and climbed slowly to his feet. Maximillian’s hand moved, fingers ghosting over the small of his back. Cyrus did not push him away, though he was intensely aware of the warmth of the champion’s touch.
Maximillian guided him through the large wooden gate to a gravel path passing through sculpted gardens. A pond gurgled in one corner beneath an ancient oak. Flower beds and borders split the garden into segments, but they had been neglected of late, weeds and wildflowers taking over with their usual determination. Usually, Cyrus would recognise them through instinct alone. But his magic sulked in his bones, unreachable.
They passed through an entrance hall, chilly from disusedespite the warm sun outside. Pale marble glinted underfoot, and an ornate mahogany staircase spiralled to the higher floors. He caught glimpses of stylishly dressed rooms swathed in luxurious green silks and dotted with antiques that looked like they cost more than the entire town of Ranragh put together, delicate vases and wooden chests with gleaming golden handles and enormous paintings of sunny sea views with bright blue skies.
On the first floor Maximillian opened a door to a large, light-filled room with a balcony taking up almost an entire wall and floaty muslin drapes stirring in the breeze. He helped Cyrus inside with a care that bordered on irritating. Cyrus told himself he should snap, bare his teeth in aggression until Maximillian backed off. He didn’t need anyone’s help; he never had.
“Sit down. Just here.”
The bed Cyrus sat upon, gingerly, was the biggest he’d ever seen, piled high with plush green goose-feather cushions. A writing desk of polished black wood sat in one corner, the wall behind taken up by an elaborate display of daggers too delicate for any proper use. Maximillian disappeared into an enormous walk-in wardrobe, but he was back before Cyrus had time to do anything more than squint at the sea just visible through the translucent drapes.
“Your turn to wear my clothes,” Maximillian said, in a tone of slightly forced cheer. He set the clothes on the bed and sat beside them: a cream shirt, long sleeved, and linen trousers in a muted stone. So he did wear something other than formfitting leather, when he wasn’t showing off to the crowds. Cyrus let the fine fabric of the shirt fall throughhis fingers, noting the label. Jaim was a designer from Durov best known for hand-stitching everything himself and for throwing lavish parties for Athaca’s high society with weird themes like “the bosom of our lady Spring” and “high sprite fashion,” where everyone snorted pixie dust and ended up in the gossip section ofAthaca News.
At any other time, Cyrus would have been keen to get his hands all over a champion’s designer belongings. Now, he was more interested in the truth.
“Right,” he said. “Clothes. Yeah. Important. So, why did you stab me?”
Maximillian winced. “I didn’t—”
Cyrus plucked pointedly at a bandage, ignoring the twinge of pain. “Oh, you did. You very muchdid.”
He watched Maximillian’s mouth open and close, struggling to pick an excuse. Or a lie, Cyrus reminded himself. Was it strange that he felt more annoyed than angry at the thought? Embarrassing, that the champion had been the one plotting against him from the start rather than the other way round.
He waited. Maximillian fidgeted. Cyrus considered the very real possibility that it was actually more painful than getting stabbed, watching him try to work out a watertight excuse. For a champion who’d come up with the fake nemeses idea in the first place, he was having a hard time thinking up a lie.
Enough was enough. “I can’t watch this anymore,” Cyrus announced. “You look too pathetic. It’s making me feel itchy. Balthazar told me the truth.”
Maximillian’s head whipped up. “I—you what?”
“I know,” Cyrus repeated impatiently. “Balthazar told me in the gaol. You were planning to kill me from the start.”
A moment of silence. Then Maximillian turned to face Cyrus properly. He was staring, expression edging towards incredulous.
“Why are you here?” he demanded.
Cyrus wasn’t expecting that. He scowled. “Well, I wasinvited, you see—”
Maximillian shook his head impatiently. “No, no, I mean—if Balthazar told you that I was going to—” He stumbled there. Unsurprising. “About the plan,” he amended. Cyrus cast him a dark look. The plan, yes, the one that involved Cyrus dead at his feet whilst the people of Heliarth sang his praises. That one. “Why are you here, knowing that?”
Why indeed. A fair question, and one that Cyrus could offer no real answer to. He didn’t have the words for gut feelings, or the stomach for the kind of vulnerability required to lay them out.
“You owe me an explanation,” he said. It didn’t really answer the question, and Maximillian’s frown said he knew it.
