Chapter Nine #2
only sometimes. When the light was particularly flattering. But he didn’t want to think them, let alone voice them.
The panic must have been visible on his face despite his efforts, because Maximillian took pity on him and clarified, “About the ceremony. Our little performance. There must have been something you thought I did well?”
Cyrus stared at him in silence for a few long moments. Then he cleared his throat, too aware of both sets of eyes tracking
his every breath.
“I thought it was good when you . . .” Cyrus groped about for a way to finish that sentence, mouth opening and closing several
times as he landed upon an option, examined it for potential humiliation, and discarded it just as quick. “When you . . .”
“I don’t think you impressed him enough, boss,” said Balthazar. He sounded like he was enjoying Cyrus’s discomfort.
Cyrus made the mistake of looking up. Maximillian’s eyes were very blue and very intense. They made it difficult to hold on
to the thoughts he was trying to marshal into order. It was the alcohol, it had to be the alcohol, but surely there was something
that he could—
Balthazar laughed under his breath. It buried Cyrus’s discomfort under a sudden cold flood of annoyance.
“Your swordsmanship is good,” said Cyrus, flatly. “Which you’re clearly already aware of, since you made such a spectacle
of showing it off.”
Something like disappointment flashed across Maximillian’s face. Cyrus ignored it.
Maximillian leaned back, putting more distance between them. “Good enough, I suppose.” He took a long sip, nearly finishing his drink in one. It stained his lips to plum. “That wasn’t so hard.”
“You say that,” Balthazar observed, “but why does he look like he just ingested poison?”
“Shut up, Balthazar,” said Maximillian, a frosty edge to his voice, just as Cyrus turned on him and said loudly, “Why are
you here again?”
The sudden movement seemed to spook Balthazar a little; he tried and failed to hide a slight flinch at Cyrus’s abrupt turn.
Or maybe it was in response to Maximillian addressing him in that tone? Either way, Balthazar recovered himself quickly with
a scowl to rival a wrongdoer’s, fixing Cyrus with a prim glare.
“I’m here because I was informed I needed to be here,” he said stiffly. “Believe me when I say I would rather be anywhere
else.”
“Yeah, we can all tell,” muttered Maximillian.
Cyrus jerked his head towards the champion. “He said you’re here because you know his diary, all the events he’ll be attending,”
he said flatly. “So let’s get the next showdown planned and then you can fuck off.”
Balthazar’s lips pressed tightly together. His eyes found Maximillian, a plea for support. The champion hesitated.
When the awkward silence dragged on a beat too long, Balthazar took a breath and plastered on a neutral expression. He leaned
over the side of the chair to sift through the contents of his small leather satchel. A scroll of parchment emerged, formidably
thick. Cyrus caught a glimpse of Balthazar’s neat handwriting, listing event after event.
“Busy boy,” said Cyrus. He thought he saw Maximillian’s lip twitch.
“Go on, Bal,” said Maximillian. His tone had softened again, encouraging now.
“Maximillian wants a private meeting before the next scheduled event,” said Balthazar. He seemed to have decided that addressing
the parchment was the best option. “To coordinate the physical elements.”
“The physical elements?” Cyrus echoed.
“Oh, yeah. I thought it would be better, next time, if we do choreograph the fight ahead of time.” Maximillian held up an
appeasing hand, as though he expected an interruption. “Not all of it, but . . . more than we did last time. I think we’ve
got room to go even bigger, as long as we’re both on the same page about what’s happening.”
Cyrus recalled his dagger at Maximillian’s throat, the rapid patter of his pulse. Ha. Perhaps he’d frightened the champion
too, as well as all the onlookers. But if this was in the name of more drama, he wasn’t about to stand in the way. “If you
insist.”
“Bal, a date—?”
“There’s some room next week,” Balthazar muttered. With clear reluctance, he tilted the parchment so that Cyrus could see.
“A couple of evenings.”
Cyrus made a contemplative noise under his breath. In truth, he was free both evenings, and indeed every evening for the rest
of the week. But he wasn’t about to admit that in the face of Maximillian’s busy social calendar.
“That one,” he said, tapping the closer date. “Suppose I can fit you in.”
Balthazar fished out a quill and bent his head over the parchment. The scratch of the nib filled the silence between them.
Maximillian leaned in. “So if we’re doing that next week, how about the week after for a fight—what have I got lined up?”
Balthazar set his quill down and adjusted the scroll. The length of it tumbled down from his knees. Cyrus eyed it, trying
to imagine having so many social commitments, and didn’t bother to mask his shudder.
Maximillian caught him looking. When their eyes met, he grimaced too. Cyrus hid a flare of surprise. Did the champion not
thrive on the adulation, no matter the source?
“You’re due to attend a public meeting regarding the proposal to increase the shipping lanes from Heliarth’s port to the northwest
port below Eborre,” Balthazar said, squinting down at his own handwriting. “That’s next week—”
“Boring,” said Maximillian.
“—or there’s the annual city hall gathering, you’ll need to meet all the new guild masters in the city, there’ll be a handshake
opportunity there—”
Maximillian made an impatient noise. “Even more boring.”
“It could be a good chance to show your people that you’re still very much present in your city,” Balthazar said pointedly.
Maximillian just shook his head. The toss of his hair reminded Cyrus of Soulripper in a particularly imperious mood.
Balthazar sighed and went back to scanning the list. “Visits to a number of schools, and a petting zoo . . .”
Cyrus perked up, but Maximillian got in there first. “No. No, definitely not.”
Balthazar was quiet for a handful of seconds. Then: “The wine tasting at Dorre?”
It was Maximillian’s turn to perk up. He moved a bit closer, twisting so that he could read the list over his assistant’s
shoulder. Cyrus didn’t miss the way Balthazar’s gaze flickered towards Maximillian, nor the faint, unguarded inhale as he
caught a trace of that cologne. He wondered whether Balthazar still nursed a crush, or whether it was something older and
more tired; something that had dimmed over time into quiet resignation.
Balthazar, sensing observing eyes upon him, looked up. A blotchy flush coloured his face as Cyrus gave him a slow, knowing
smile.
Oblivious, Maximillian started to read aloud. “Midday, meet and greet, drinks reception—”
“Sounds like my kind of ambush,” said Cyrus. Maximillian glanced up at him, a flash of incisor showing as he grinned.
Cyrus expected Maximillian to come to his lair again to plan out their next fight, but instead he received a raven with a
date, a time, and a short note.
Straight past The Prancing Pixie on the other side of the river. We’ll have more room there. M
Cyrus wasn’t sure how he felt about meeting outdoors, but Maximillian had to be confident that they would go undetected. He
would be the one scrabbling to defend himself if the Federation found out about his alliance with Cyrus. The Guild would probably
send Cyrus a basket of muffins if they thought he’d dragged the champion off his pedestal.
The air bore a faint chill as Cyrus mounted Soulripper and nudged her into motion down the mountain path. The Prancing Pixie
wasn’t far, tucked into the forest bordering Ranragh to the south.
The sun was setting as Cyrus reached the edge of the forest, hovering around the horizon line as though reluctant to descend
into slumber. Its glow barely penetrated the density of the woodland. Wildlife chittered and scurried across the brittle ground,
Soulripper’s hooves thudding out a dull tempo. Cyrus listened out until he heard the burble of the Roasham river and turned
Soulripper to follow alongside.
The river flowed like blank ink, already leached of its colour by evening shadows and split by the bite of jutting rocks and tangled grasses.
After a while The Prancing Pixie came into view on the river’s opposite bank, warm candlelight spilling from the windows and illuminating the worn path leading to the tavern’s door.
The rickety old sign, featuring a cavorting creature with spindly limbs and a shock of green hair, emitted a mournful creak.
It was quiet, with only a meagre scattering of passing travellers and the odd antisocial local avoiding town crowds.
They were all inside, their chatter a muted hum as Cyrus passed by.
He kept going as the river turned, leaving him behind. Cyrus soon saw why Maximillian had chosen this as a meeting place.
The trees grew thicker here, more foreboding, and nature had taken back much of the track. Bracken swallowed a long-abandoned
shrine, a flat stone set with the warped remains of three pale candles, stooped over a bubbled puddle of wax: a plea for a
kind winter. It didn’t look old enough to date back to the days when religion still gripped Athaca tight, but people still
had their superstitions.
He slipped from Soulripper’s back, leading her through the shadowy undergrowth. He found no pixies prancing but he did startle
a drowsing family of sprites tucked into the hollow of a gnarled old oak. Magic hummed through him, the wildness of the woodland
drawing his power too close to the surface. Any branches that might have snagged against his hair or clothes leaned subtly
away from him with no conscious effort until Cyrus wrestled it back under control. Moving on with leaves and twigs cracking
underfoot, he emerged in a circular clearing well lit by moonlight and banked by dense trees on all sides.