Page 57 of Nemesis Mine
He cleaned himself up in a bathroom of gleaming marble larger than most of the hovels in Arclee, making the most of the enormous circular bath in the corner, cut into the stone and deep enough to require its own inbuilt steps. Maximillian had left out a fluffy towel and some fresh bandages, as well as a box clinking with small jars and bottles. Cyrus daubed yarrow paste and calendula salve onto his wound before he redressed it.
Returning to the bedroom, he dressed in the cream shirt and linen trousers Maximillian had laid out before they got—well. Distracted. The clothes were soft against his skin, slightly too big but floaty with it. Cyrus twistedin front of one of Maximillian’s (many) mirrors, scanning himself critically. Cream and muted stone weren’t his usual, but he did look good. He would be keeping these.
He would also be making the most of the opportunity to roam a champion’s home unsupervised. Cyrus rifled through the walk-in wardrobe, letting an array of fabrics drift through his fingertips—soft silks and expensive wools, a spectrum of cool colours. All bore hand-stitched designer labels. No surprise there. There was a whole rack dedicated to needlessly tight leather trousers; equally unsurprising.
He turned his attention to the writing desk next, smoothing a hand over the ebony surface and tracing the whorled pattern. A vase of dried blue delphiniums sat at one corner with a hunk of Summer’s Eye alongside to serve as a paperweight. Cyrus ran a finger along the perfect curve of the fiery stone, then reached below and pulled out the drawer.
Some parchments, neatly folded; a couple of spare quills; a branded stack of notes from the Swordz4you partnership; a rattling tin of breath mints. Disappointingly ordinary. Cyrus was just about to close the drawer with a pout when he noticed a slim black box beneath the stacked parchments.
Inside he found press cuttings fromAthaca Newsand a handful of letters, most faded with age and curling at the edges. Some, he realised with a scoff, were earnest fan letters proclaiming their eternal respect and adoration for the champion. One was from Balthazar. Blah-blah,you did so well, et cetera, et cetera,the people loved you. The final line, which Maximillian had carefully folded around so as not to crease the ink:You really ought to be so proud. I certainly am.
Oh, Maximillian. How sentimental. And egotistical, really, but that was hardly a surprise.
The oldest of the cuttings, yellowed and crisp at the corners, was larger than the rest. It showed a drawing of a much younger Maximillian: a teenager with tousled hair and a serious expression, round faced and smooth cheeked. “Arclee’s Hero: The Federation Welcomes Youngest-Ever Student.” Cyrus glanced at the article below, some of the ink long since faded.
... just fourteen, and already showing such nobility of spirit, having bravely rescued an entire family from their burning home...
Of course. The Arclee fire. His gaze returned to the faded image, wondering what the teenage Maximillian would make of his older counterpart today.
A noise from downstairs made Cyrus jump, nearly dropping the cutting. His wound protested at the abrupt movement. He pressed a hand to it as he listened.
The main door had opened. A pair of boots rang out against the marble floor, a heavy, authoritative tread—and a second pair, lighter, following close behind. Maximillian was not alone.
Cyrus hastily put the cutting away and closed the drawer, keeping his own footsteps soft and discreet as he crept out of the bedroom and onto the landing.
“—not been around for a while. I’ll have staff air it out for the election.”
“An exciting time,” said a new voice. Down in thehallway, a woman stepped into Cyrus’s view. She was pretty, dark skin and darker eyes, stylishly dressed in a black blouse and a wraparound skirt of green silk. A leather satchel was thrown over one shoulder, a sheaf of parchment tucked under one arm and a quill in her other hand, so he didn’t have to wonder what her job title was.Smooth things over, Maximillian had said.
Just like he had following their first fight in Arclee?
“We’d be very interested in speaking to you about your tour, by the way,” the journalist added before Cyrus could shake off a sudden sense of disquiet. “We’ve been trying to get hold of you for a while, but I suppose Earthshaker’s been keeping you rather busy.”
Maximillian laughed, rueful. “You could say so. He’s determined, I’ll give him that.” He ushered her towards the archway at the opposite end of the entrance hall, where another door led onto the sloping lawns. “Come through here, we can speak in the garden.”
Quickly, Cyrus slipped back into the bedroom and opened the balcony door as quietly as he could. He couldn’t see anything, not at this angle and not with the muslin drapes obscuring his view, but their voices floated up as the pair made themselves comfortable in the garden.
“—nice to have at leastoneevent that he doesn’t hijack. A few weeks ago now, when he attacked me in Dorre, you wouldn’t believe how much expensive wine got wasted with him careering around making a mess of everything.”
“It must be very difficult for you.” Her sincerity made Cyrus’s teeth ache. “Of course, you must know that ourreaders truly value your efforts in keeping him at bay. Especially considering the recent earthquake. How did you feel, when you heard about that?”
“Angry,” said Maximillian, as though he’d not dismissed the same quake to Balthazar with a total lack of care. “Honestly, I just felt angry. I know it could have been worse, but... the people of this land don’t deserve that. That poor winemaker in Dorre, he’d only just picked himself up after Earthshaker’s last attempt to wreck his business. Our people shouldn’t have to live in fear.”
“But theyareafraid,” she pointed out. “What do you say to the citizens who are worried that Earthshaker might strike them next?”
Maximillian made a sympathetic sound. He was good at faking humility when he needed to, Cyrus would give him that. “You have nothing to fear of Earthshaker so long as I’m around.”
“Yet he’s matched you again and again,” the journalist observed, deliberately bland. “Another explosive showdown, but he’s still on the loose. You don’t think he’s a threat?”
After another, longer pause, Maximillian mused: “I think he’s a coward, actually.”
Cyrus stilled, frowning into the drapes. Coward?
“What do you mean by that?” There was a sharp edge to her words, like the journalist had scented blood.
“I don’t think Earthshaker is nearly as tough as he pretends to be,” Maximillian elaborated. “He’s all show. I mean, are his earthquakes really as powerful as he claims? Maybe Eborre was a fluke. If he could bring down whole cities, whydoesn’t he?” A derisive scoff. “You know, I think he’s going soft.” The knowing, conspiratorial edge to his voice made Cyrus’s skin crawl.
He’d piqued her interest. “And you have a plan to prove it?”
