Chapter Seven #2
Maximillian’s mouth twisted, a petulant little moue. “I do have a strong reputation across the rest of Athaca, even if my
own people need reminding of why exactly they should reelect me. And I don’t profess to know how a wrongdoer thinks, but I’d
be willing to bet that they’d be impressed by someone who can repeatedly match me in a fight.”
He threw Cyrus a look, almost daring, like he expected correction. Cyrus allowed it, unexpectedly amused. He didn’t let it
show on his face.
“As for the champions . . . they will get the chance to see your ferocity. Your skill. They would think twice before testing you.”
He was trying to flatter. It was obvious, and Cyrus was not fooled. Typical behaviour from one used to flashing a smile and
getting whatever he wanted—apart from the respect of his own city, ironically.
Still, his words stayed with Cyrus. He leaned back, turning his head away so he could think it through without those eyes
boring into his own. Maximillian himself had seen fit to plaster Ranragh with his smug face in anticipation of a visit. He
had heard of Cyrus’s allegedly violent magic, but it had not deterred him. If Maximillian felt that he could do that, how
long before another champion set their sights on Ranragh? How long before they started pushing at Cyrus’s control, grabbing
for what was his?
If they did come, he would not be able to defend himself or punish them with magic in the way that they expected. So: He had
to stop them coming. And embarking on this scheme with Maximillian—odious as he was—was likely the best opportunity he had
to salvage his reputation.
He looked back at Maximillian. It was dark outside, only candlelight remaining.
Shadows teased at Maximillian’s brow, lapped at his cheekbone.
He watched Cyrus carefully, the blue of his eyes turned navy in the guttering candlelight.
Cyrus took in the determined set of his jaw, the knot of his hands on his lap.
He was tense all over, and not because he was in a wrongdoer’s lair.
Because he wanted, more than anything, for Cyrus to say yes.
“You think you can trust me,” Cyrus murmured, almost wondering.
“You’ll have to trust me just as much,” Maximillian returned. It sounded like a challenge.
Cyrus smiled. He couldn’t help it; he found Maximillian intriguing. He was still a showboating fool, of course, but the knowledge
that he would embark on a scheme like this—that he would suggest it—made him so much more interesting. It was immoral, deceitful. What would happen to Maximillian if the Federation found
out? There had been a story in the news years ago, when Cyrus was still a child, about a champion who betrayed her kin by
stealing from the charity she was supposed to represent. The details were hazy, but he knew Athaca News had thrived on her public humiliation. There had been a trial, some kind of public service; penance until she made back the
money she stole. The Federation came down hard to make an example out of her. Maximillian was risking a lot.
And not for any honourable reason. Cyrus was under no illusions: Maximillian feared losing his seat in Heliarth because he
feared the loss of his status and riches and gifts. This wasn’t about helping people.
But Cyrus didn’t care about helping people either. Riches and gifts, on the other hand . . .
“I want a share in the goods from any brand deals you get as a result of this,” he announced.
Maximillian’s scowl was immediate. “That’s not what I—”
“Fifty percent. I don’t care what it is. Any freebies that come in whilst we’re doing this because people are oh-so-impressed by your standing up to the mean wrongdoer—half of them are mine.”
“I didn’t say that you could—”
Cyrus reached out with his magic. The honeysuckle outside the door twitched questioningly. He ignored it, more interested
in the sudden reflection of purple in Maximillian’s own irises as the champion fell silent, glaring at him.
“Fifty percent,” Cyrus repeated.
“Fine,” Maximillian muttered. “But you’re not doing that every time you want to win an argument.”
Cyrus released his magic. “Of course not,” he said amicably.
Maximillian shook his head. “Anything else you’d like to demand?” It came out waspish, sarcastic. Not a question he expected
an answer to.
But Cyrus had one all the same. “Yes,” he said, tipping his chin up. His tone was firm; there would be no give here. “You’re
to cancel your visit to Ranragh.”
Maximillian frowned. “But that’s not part of—”
“If you come to Ranragh—to my town—it doesn’t matter what agreements we make together,” Cyrus interrupted.
He held Maximillian’s gaze, unblinking. “We can’t plan a confrontation with no fatalities and put on a show for these people.
It’s my territory. If you walk away from that fight, it looks like weakness.
” Maximillian had opened his mouth to object, but he stopped at that, his frown deepening.
Perhaps he realised the sense of Cyrus’s words.
“So. That’s my condition. You come to Ranragh, and the deal’s off. We fight to the death.”
A handful of seconds crawled by before Maximillian inclined his head. “I understand,” he said. The tone was stiff—he didn’t
like being told what to do, that much was clear. But he’d given ground. Good. Cyrus would be sure to keep pushing. “I’ll cancel
the appearance. Just that one, though.”
“I truly could not care less about any of the others,” said Cyrus indifferently.
After a beat, Maximillian ventured, “You said the deal. I take it that means you’re agreeing to this?”
Cyrus wasn’t fond of being deemed agreeable in any sense, but he couldn’t exactly deny it. He made do with picking at a fingernail,
feigning indifference. “Suppose so.”
Maximillian’s shoulders slumped. Such relief. How much did he need this?
“It remains between us, of course,” added Cyrus. “Otherwise I will have to murder you, and I know lots of inventive ways to
really drag it out. Just so you know.”
A glance from under those long lashes. Maximillian looked shifty. Why did he look shifty? Cyrus narrowed his eyes, then stilled
as the answer presented itself to him.
“Your personal assistant already knows, doesn’t he?”
“Well, he’s practically an extension of me—”
Cyrus’s temper prickled. He shouldn’t be surprised. Arrogant, obnoxious champion with expectations that everyone around him
would fall into line. “You assumed I would agree?”
“No,” said Maximillian hurriedly, “no, I didn’t.
Honestly.” As though that word meant anything to Cyrus—or to the champion, it seemed.
“But he does know that I’m here now, and he knows I’m putting the suggestion to you.
I had to tell him where I was going, so he’d know where to look in case something went wrong. ”
“In case I killed you.”
Maximillian threw him an arch look. “In case I killed you but you got in a lucky hit as you went down, more like.” Quickly, before Cyrus could put him right, he added, “Look, Balthazar’s
clever, and he’s completely dedicated to me. He can keep a secret. He’s nosy too. If I kept it from him he’d only go digging.
He handles my calendar. He can take responsibility for identifying any opportunities, picking out the places and events that
would be best for us to target. We can focus on . . . you know. The fun bits.”
Cyrus eyed him in silence. He wanted to keep objecting on instinct, his temper half mollified but unwilling to settle entirely.
He wasn’t accustomed to working with anyone. A secret deal with Maximillian was one thing, but putting up with some simpering
little PA as well? It was far too much teamwork for Cyrus’s taste.
But Maximillian was looking at him imploringly. He even had his head slightly tilted to one side. As tempting as it was to
extinguish the hope in those big blue eyes, fun had always appealed to Cyrus more than any kind of responsibility.
“Ugh. Fine.”
Maximillian smiled at him. Cyrus looked away, annoyed in a way he couldn’t put his finger on.
“I assume you have a place in mind to try this out,” he muttered. “Unless you need to run it by your dogsbody first.”
Maximillian ignored the barb. “I’m attending an awards ceremony next week. They’re celebrating some local kids getting into
the Federation. There’ll be a decent audience. I thought we could use that as a trial, see how it goes. You can ambush me
onstage, we can fight it out. Let the people ooh and aah.”
“Where’s the ceremony?”
“Cepha.” Not too far away, maybe a day and a half on horseback. It was sunnier further down on the west coast. Soulripper
would be pleased. “I can speak to Balthazar, have him meet you beforehand.”
“How will I know what he looks like?”
For some reason, Maximillian looked like he was swallowing a laugh. “Oh, you’ll—he’ll make himself known, I’m sure. I’ll tell
him to introduce himself. Discreetly.”
“Right,” said Cyrus slowly. Whatever funny thought had occurred, Maximillian seemed to be over it. Maybe Balthazar was just
extremely ugly.
A few seconds passed, as though the dust was settling over their agreement.
Then Maximillian extended his hand and locked eyes with Cyrus again, challenging and just a tiny bit pleased.
Pleased to be working with a wrongdoer, despite the way it went against everything he stood for.
Despite the risk of the Federation’s wrath landing on his head if this went wrong, or if Cyrus decided to spill.
Ridiculous. Perhaps he’d gone mad after all that do-gooding.
“Next week,” Maximillian stated. The little grin twitching at the corner of his mouth brought out that stupid dimple. Cyrus
was going to have to learn to tolerate the sight of it. “Here’s to being fake nemeses.”
Cyrus took the hand. He allowed the calloused fingers of the man he’d tried very hard to kill—his new partner in crime—to
wind around his own. Maximillian’s touch was surprisingly warm, and the intimacy of it coaxed a shudder down Cyrus’s spine.
A life of dedicated villainy did not marry itself to handshakes and teamwork, especially not with a shining hero of the realm.
But he could swallow his disgust and play along—for now.
“Fake nemeses.”