Page 73 of Nemesis Mine
Cyrus took it all in, speculative. It was all very fine, but he wasn’t sure he could see much ofMaxamong the riches. No wonder he hadn’t chosen to spend a lot of time here.
Max was heading for the same bedroom they’d used last time, but Cyrus veered off on the second floor when he spotted a door to a balcony stretching almost the entire length of the house. The city of Heliarth sprawled in the middle distance from this side, the stained glass windows of the rich central quarter throwing out a kaleidoscope of warm colours. Little noise carried on the breeze: only faint shouts from the busy harbour where boats cut choppy white paths through the turquoise expanse, screeching seabirds, the distant rumble of wagons on flagstones.
Cyrus’s gaze drifted over to the opposite hill, where two towers of the old church jutted nobly into the skyline, the central sun gleaming brightly between them. He looked towards the brewery’s chimney, blocky and stout, and the swathe of green behind it. Funny, how a city he’d spent so little time in could change his life in a single day.
Max stepped up beside him, watching the boats travelling across to Valyxi before his gaze returned to his city, cradled between the two hills. “It is beautiful,” he said after a moment. He sounded wistful.
Cyrus hummed his agreement. He was in no rush to leave; there was nobody around, and the brush of the breeze was pleasant. Idly, he wondered what they looked like from a distance. What would the people of Heliarththink, if they knew the identity of the two vague outlines standing on the balcony of the champion’s hilltop home?
Max turned his back on the city, leaning against the railing and looking up at the house. “I have to deliver a speech tomorrow at the debate.” He paused. “I have some notes to go through. I need to practise.”
Half hint, half hopeful. Cyrus made a contemplative noise. With the sunshine so pleasant and the prospect of lounging idly in it all afternoon—once he’d removed the fake beard, of course; he wasnotrisking tan lines—he was tempted to pat Max’s head and send him on his way.
Max reached out and trailed a fingertip along Cyrus’s arm through the silk. “What if I make it worth your while?”
“Keep talking.”
Max stepped back. “Oh, I think we’ll have to see how it goes.” He paused. “Unless you don’t want to, of course...”
Cyrus turned, perhaps too quickly. “I suppose,” he said, “I might be able to find it within myself to help with your speech.”
Max smiled. “So helpful. I think I’m having a good influence on you.”
Cyrus made a gagging noise as they returned to the staircase, and Max’s laughter followed them up.
Chapter Seventeen
Earthshaker: Athaca’s Greatest Menace?
Cyrus smirked out from the front page ofAthaca News. Dark blond hair, painstakingly inked, fell into perfect waves about his face. His grin was self-assured, a touch of menace about the curl of his lip. His eyes sparked purple fire.
Flesh-and-blood Cyrus stared down at the parchment, standing in the doorway of his lair. The daily news had been dropped off with the latest offerings from his townsfolk, stacked against the side of the mountain. More milk than he could drink in a week, four different types of bread, sweetmeats and berries and six small cakes slotted side by side in a crate. The baker had taken to experimenting with different flavours in the desperate hope of winning approval. Today he offered cardamom, lavender, rose, ginger, caraway, and orange. Apparently, the bakeryhad never been more successful. He had Cyrus to thank for that.
He looked back at the parchment. It included a lengthy write-up paying homage to his style of wrongdoing. He spotted the wordflairtwice. Someone had taken the time to compile statistics from the past few months, from the number of towns where he’d wreaked havoc to lists of his alleged victims. Cyrus didn’t recognise half of them. The tavern owner from Arclee was there, and the winemaker from Dorre. Apparently he’d traumatised one of the bakers from the village near Cepha into giving up his business, too afraid that Cyrus might return and bake him into one of his own pies.
Earthshaker does not rely on simple violence, the journalist warned,but in many ways, this makes him more dangerous. He is unpredictable. He could come for your home or your livelihood or your family, as his villainous whims take him. He is best avoided, and should be treated with extreme caution.
Finally, the appreciation he deserved.
And yet, in truth, Cyrus wasn’t sure how he felt. This recognition had been everything he wanted, the evidence right here in his hands. He’d reached it: the pinnacle of wrongdoing.
But where did he go from here?
A croak interrupted his thoughts, a raven landing atop the crate of food. It shook its leg at Cyrus, impatient. The scroll bore Max’s name, inked out in spidery writing and presumably forwarded on from Balthazar. He was the only other person who’d know to find Max here, which was a blessing, because Cyrus had no intention of letting a champion’s fan mail pile up outside his front door. He grimaced, contemplating how the admiring messages would probably double once Max won reelection. If he had to read some drippy peasant’s sonnets about Max’s beautiful blue eyes or that damn dimple, Cyrus would not be held responsible for his actions.
“Letter for you,” he called over his shoulder, the scroll balancing atop the baker’s crate as he moved it to his kitchen. Max shouted vaguely in confirmation from the bathroom.
Typical of Balthazar to fuss about getting a raven to deliver it when he could have fetched it himself. He was staying in lodgings a short ride away from Ranragh, and he and Max had spent the last two evenings with their heads together, poring over the final letters of commendation from Heliarth’s council indicating which way they would lean in the election. At Balthazar’s urging, Max had also reluctantly drafted a winner’s speech for his assistant to look over. A strange use of a wrongdoer’s lair, and one which Balthazar had objected to (Cyrus was almost touched; he decided to take Balthazar’s horrified “Nothere” as a mark of respect for his sacred space, not an utterance of disgust). But Max had insisted.
They were due to leave for Athaca’s capital tomorrow. Durov, nestled into the rocky southern shoreline, hosted the championship elections every three years, with results counted within the city walls and announced live in the castle courtyard. Cyrus wasn’t going. Durov would be teaming with champions.
From the depths of his lair, Cyrus heard the slosh ofbathwater, then a faint groan as Max stood and stretched. It was still early, but Max had been up for hours.
Cyrus didn’t really know what to expect from the election. Max didn’t either, flipping between apparent confidence and sudden withdrawal as it drew closer. The debate in Heliarth had gone well enough; there were some difficult questions about where a champion ought to spend the bulk of their time, and the benefits of new blood, but Max was prepared and ever charming. They had to hope it was enough.
Setting the bottles of milk in the kitchen, Cyrus returned his gaze to the news parchment. His own face smirked back, formidably wicked, and optimism pushed quietly forward. If Earthshaker was considered Athaca’s greatest foe, then respect for the champion who’d battled him across the land had to be significant.
“Cy?”
