Page 7 of Nemesis Mine
The mayor stared at him. “I don’t—who are you?”
Cyrus narrowed his eyes, then looked meaningfully out across the crowd. “I said,willshe be fine?” he repeated pointedly.
“I don’t—none of us can—why?” the mayor spluttered. “Do you know something about this? Who are you, you really shouldn’t—”
Odd, the lack of instant recognition. But perhaps the chaos had driven Cyrus’s name from the man’s mind. Undeterred, he raised his voice to address his audience.
“I am Cyrus. Earthshaker.” Finally, the crowd quietened. They were all staring at him now. He breathed deeply, savouring the moment, and fancied he could taste the apprehension in the air. “Feared and maligned across the realm. I have bested your champion.”
The silence that followed was, Cyrus thought optimistically, taut with fear. Then a young girl with straggly plaits and eyebrows so fair they were near invisible held up her hand, despite her mother’s hurried attempts to stop her.
Unexpected. But every successful wrongdoer ought to thrive on the unexpected. Cyrus pointed at the girl. “Speak, child.”
“What did you do to her, mister?” the girl asked.
Was it too much to ask for an intelligent question from the likes of these people? Cyrus masked his sigh only because he didn’t want to seem agitated. Cool, calm control was everything, especially with the furtive scribbling of quills on parchment and assessing glances from the reporters in attendance.
He could be patient. The girl was probably a simpleton. He might as well take the opportunity to ensure they got the story right this time.
“I have broken through Lailar’s pretence,” he said. “These champions you alladoreso much... they are nothing more than a façade. A pretence at greatness.” Disdain dripped from his tone. “Apply the right pressure and they will reveal their true selves.”
The girl blinked at him uncomprehendingly. “She went all pink.”
Ah. She was curious about his methods. Perhaps not a simpleton after all. Cyrus tossed his head, letting his hair bob attractively with the motion.
“I poisoned her,” he said, pausing to enjoy the sharp intake of breath from the crowd before he added, “with her own face cream.”
The intake of breath seemed to huff to an awkward halt. The townsfolk peered up at him in confusion. One or two scratched their heads.
“Huh?” Not the girl this time—a man, further back, with a weaselly little face screwed up in a way that made him look even uglier than he already was. “She didn’t eat no face cream.”
Cyrus flapped—no, pointed a hand towards the jar of cream, lying where Lailar had dropped it. “No,” he said, with what he felt to be admirable patience, “but she wiped it upon her face, did she not?”
Trent trudged out of the baths. There was a red mark on the side of his face where Lailar must have thrown something at him. He was soaked through, a sad little trail of wet footprints following him out of the building. But he still frowned at Cyrus.
“You put something in her face cream? Just to hurt her?”
“That’s fucked up, man,” said a random peasant. The crowd was getting agitated again, shuffling forward, voices rising in pitch and dissent.
“It wasn’tjust to hurt her,” Cyrus snarled, “it was to expose her true colours, which I have succeeded in, and for me to demonstrate how laughably easy it would be for me to destroy her entirely if I wished. I could have killed her in her dressing room! I could have killed her entire team! But instead I have chosen to reveal the truth of Lailar to you all, because I havewitson my side, andschemes, and it was all part of my grand master plan to defeat another champion!”
“How many champions have you defeated with face cream?” enquired the mayor.
Cyrus sputtered. “I haven’t—she’s the first, but—”
“What was your name again?” asked Trent.
“Citrus,” offered the mayor.
“It’sCyrus, and I’ll rip your innards out of your nostrils and feed them back to you, you snivelling little worm,” Cyrus hissed. This had gone on long enough. He shook a dagger out of his sleeve.
The agitation of the crowd abruptly surged into chaos once more. Cyrus paid it no heed, leaping down from the platform as peasants scattered before him. He could recognise when the time came to abandon a plan, and this one needed leaving behind in the dust.
Chapter Three
Cyrus knew the report on the event in Elzekar wouldn’t meet his aspirations. His takedown of Lailar hadn’t gone as well as it could have—as itshouldhave, if only people had the brains to recognise brilliance when it was before them.
He reluctantly paid a visit to Ranragh’s finest tavern upon his return. “Finest” was a matter of comparison; The Winter Moon was a tall rickety building crammed in beside a butcher and a grocer of questionable reputation, which meant the air carried either the iron tang of blood or the sweet rot of spoiled turnips. But the beer was less watery than some of the tavern’s competitors, and there was a single seat by the fire that Cyrus claimed on the rare occasions he ventured inside. He hadn’t wanted to come into town—he didn’t want to be around people at all—but he had to know the extent of the damage.
