Page 72 of Nemesis Mine
“For the record,” he mumbled, “I’m pretty good at forcing things to change when I want them to.”
Max huffed. “I don’t need to be reminded of that.” Some of the tension ebbed out of his shoulders as he rested his own head against Cyrus’s. Amusement coloured his tone. “You’re being sweet.”
Cyrus scrunched his face up in distaste. “Wouldn’t call itsweet, exactly...”
Max laughed quietly. They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Max was warm beside him, the weight of his body a reassuring anchor. Cyrus was just startingto think about moving—maybe going to pick some of his tomatoes, or checking on the squash—when Max spoke.
“What if I don’t win?” His voice was soft, pensive.
“You will,” Cyrus said calmly. “I know it.”
“How can you know it?”
“Because I know everything.”Obviously.Cyrus sat up, dislodging Max and rolling his shoulders. “Anyway, you’re the only one who knows how to keep the dreaded Earthshaker at bay. They don’t takethatfor granted.” He tilted his head, preening. “I’m quite the threat.”
It worked, coaxing a smile from Max. “I know more than a few ways to keep you at bay,” he murmured, his mood lifting as he leaned to kiss his neck.
Cyrus shivered. “Not sure that’s true,” he managed to say. “Seems like you know more ways to keep me close, actually.”
“Don’t tell them that,” Max muttered, but then any talk of the election was lost to traded kisses and the feeling of Max’s hair beneath his fingertips.
Signs of the upcoming election were all over Heliarth. Little wonder it was preying on Max’s mind. As they rode towards the red stone archway, the tips of great banners unfurled into Cyrus’s vision, hanging from almost every building and wall. Depicted faces gazed out at him, solemn and benevolent. Most of them looked startlingly young to Cyrus’s eye—a man with braided hair and swirling tattoos over his chest, a dark-skinned woman with challengingeyes and a spear in her hand.Vote Leslo, new champion of Heliarth. Let Avexa restore glory to Heliarth.
Avexa: Max’s main competition. Cyrus eyed the poster critically. She did look the part, her muscular arms wrapped with golden bands and a superior lift to her chin. She featured on a lot of the posters, crowding out the others, Max included. Cyrus couldn’t avoid her lofty stare whichever way he turned his head. Clearly Avexa had her heart set on the city.
Max had ridden ahead so that he didn’t draw unwanted attention to Cyrus, though they’d had fun picking out a disguise to discourage prying eyes. A few eager hands reached up to touch Lysander reverently; a scattering of voices called out his name with respectful nods. A child waved excitedly from her mother’s hip, showing gappy teeth when Max waved back with a smile. Others watched from a distance, perched on red stone steps and leaning against walls, their faces impassive.
Cyrus followed him towards the western hill. When the crowds had dwindled behind them, he encouraged Soulripper into a trot to catch up. Max’s smile had faded.
“Rich pickings in Heliarth,” he said, nonchalant, as though the sight of the young champions’ posters in his space didn’t bother him at all.
“You’re hotter than them,” said Cyrus. Again, Max tried to look unaffected. Cyrus still caught a glimpse of his pleased little grin as he urged Lysander up the final stretch.
The windows to the house had been flung open, muslin drapes dancing in a strong breeze blown in from the sea. Looking up, Cyrus saw a figure pass by an upstairsbalcony, dusting as they went. A man with his shirt tied around his waist and the shiniest bald head Cyrus had ever seen was trimming the tall hedges and smoothing out the lines, oblivious to the plants’ petulant undercurrent.
A team of staff to keep the house fit for a champion’s residence was, apparently, a necessity now that Max was spending more time here. It was expected, but it did mean they had to be more careful. The fake beard tacked onto Cyrus’s jaw had seemed funny that morning. Now, under Heliarth’s unforgiving sun, he was starting to regret it. The glue was also growing increasingly pungent. It had better be easy to remove, as Max had promised, or else Cyrus was going to glue his finger up his nose whilst he slept.
As well as the beard, Cyrus wore a broad woven hat to obscure his features and a fine silk shirt to help him pose as a visiting noble, his fingers wrapped in elaborate rings he’d pilfered from Max. He hardly wore any, the spoilsport; what was the point in being a champion plied with gold and riches if you were going to insist that jewellery “wasn’t your thing”?
Balthazar ventured out as they dismounted by the orchard. He stopped dead when he saw Cyrus.
“Oh, no,” said Balthazar. “No, no, no.”
“Greetings,” said Cyrus grandly. He held out his hand for Balthazar to kiss. A hexagon of Summer’s Eye glinted on his forefinger, maroon sleeve billowing in the breeze. Not that he’d seen anyone else do that in Heliarth, but he enjoyed the way it made the vein in Balthazar’s temple pulse.
Balthazar stared at Cyrus’s hand in revulsion. “No,” he said, with feeling.
“Yes,” said Max, coming up behind him with Lysander’s bridle in hand. The gardener stepped back into view, crouching to neaten the next section of hedge. Max dropped his voice, exasperated. “Stop fussing, I told you we were doing this.”
“Kindly take my horse from me, good sir,” Cyrus declared. Max stifled a laugh behind him.
“You’d better do as he says, Bal,” Max said lightly. The nudge he gave Balthazar was good-natured, gentle. “You know he’ll just pester you until you give in.”
Balthazar cast him a dark look, but it softened in the face of Max’s smile. It wasn’t enough for him to give in with grace, but he straightened as he looked at Cyrus, trying to assemble his dignity. “I’ll fetch someone to see to the horses. Sir. As that is not actually my job, in any way.” In an undertone, he added, “I’m not kissing your fucking fingers.”
He’d never heard Balthazar swear before. Cyrus beamed, delighted.
Max led the way into the house, through the entrance hall with its pale marble, up the mahogany staircase. Cyrus peered into rooms as they passed this time, more curious now that he wasn’t clutching a wound or storming out. There were more bedrooms than could surely ever be needed and sitting rooms that looked like nobody ever sat in them. A serving boy polished a display of ornate golden plates, twitching nervously whenever he set one down. A towering pile of neatly folded linens passed by, stumbling feet beneath the only indication that the pile wasn’t moving of its own accord. An exasperated woman crouched by a liquor cabinet, trying to coax out a trio of sprites who’d found theirway inside whilst the house was empty and gorged themselves on a sweet berry liqueur. They were curled around the half-empty bottle, bleary eyed and content.
