Chapter Ten #3
Maximillian’s head was down again, scratching out something on their plan, but he looked up as Cyrus’s silence stretched out.
“What?”
“Didn’t say anything.”
Maximillian made an impatient noise. “I know. I’m asking what you’re thinking. I can see you’re thinking, you have that face
on.”
“I don’t have a thinking face.”
“You do. It’s—” Maximillian stopped. Cyrus got the feeling he’d been about to spill out a word he might regret. Curiosity
swelled, but he wasn’t about to ask.
Maximillian was busy doing an impression anyway, a frowny little pout that looked nothing like any expression Cyrus had ever
worn. “Like this.”
“I’m going to need you to stop doing that,” Cyrus said, “before I’m forced to destroy you and put a premature end to our agreement.”
Maximillian did stop, but he was grinning.
“Well, that’s what you were doing. Come on, tell me what you were thinking about.
” He sidled closer on the couch. Cyrus stared down at the lack of space between them, wondering how he had ever found himself in a situation where a champion knew he could elbow him and not immediately lose a limb as a result.
“I was just thinking about what you said, about Balthazar sparing you from the most boring aspects of being a champion. I
was wondering what the most boring parts are.”
“Well, the paperwork—”
“Yeah, I got that,” Cyrus interrupted. He felt restless in a way he couldn’t properly place, like he was tiptoeing around
something that kept slinking out of reach before he could dig into it. “I mean, I was thinking about . . . whether it’s worth
it. Whether it ever gets . . . too much.”
Maximillian didn’t answer. He’d gone still; Cyrus could feel it with their arms still touching. His words seemed to hover
in the air between them, almost solid. Cyrus half wanted to take them back, to shy away from the conversation. It felt too
much like straying into vulnerable territory, like Maximillian might think he could ask questions of his own.
After a few long seconds, Maximillian sighed, casting around for the right words. “I mean . . . it’s like I said when I suggested
this. Wrongdoers aren’t . . . constrained, are you? You do what you like, when you like it. Being a champion, working for the Federation . . . it’s not like that.”
Not constrained in the same way as a champion, no, but Cyrus was starting to think that their situations were not so very
different. “You feel . . . trapped,” he estimated.
“No,” said Maximillian, too quickly. “I don’t mean—it’s just how it is.
It’s just the way. There’s a lot of good too, all the money and the respect and the freebies—and helping people, of course.
” That was hastily added, not convincing in the slightest, and Cyrus found himself fighting back a sudden, foolish urge to smile.
Maximillian, thankfully, didn’t notice. “The Federation likes things done in a certain way,” he said. “And there’s not much
room for creativity. That’s all I mean.”
“Right,” said Cyrus. “Only it sounds like—”
“Can I have a word?”
Balthazar was back. At the sound of his voice, Maximillian withdrew. There was suddenly a lot more space between their bodies
than there had been. Cyrus didn’t know whether he was relieved or disappointed.
He did know that Balthazar was a nosy little shit. Cyrus pincered him with a sharp look. How long had he been standing in
the doorway, listening?
Balthazar glared right back, and then his eyes shifted to the champion again. “Maximillian,” he said, somewhere between a
rebuke and a plea.
Maximillian sighed but stood, rolling his shoulders. He was starting to look tired in the fading dusk light.
“What is it?”
Balthazar didn’t reply. He jerked his chin towards the door. It was presumptive of him, but Maximillian just sighed again
and stepped outside, leaving the door cracked open. Cyrus heard his exasperated “What, Bal?” as he went.
Cyrus waited for a handful of seconds, just in case Balthazar was lurking and waiting to catch him in the act. Then he slunk
over to listen in.
Balthazar, first, struggling to contain his frustration. “—but this isn’t you!”
“It is me, and I think you know that.”
“It isn’t what you—”
“It’s working! Why would we spoil a good thing?”
“Because you gave me your word that you would do it,” Balthazar hissed, terse and agitated. He sounded like he could barely
contain the emotions crowding behind his teeth.
Do what? Pull back from the feud, perhaps, when they deemed it had served its purpose? It was going well, nobody could deny
that, but there was so much more they could do.
“Yeah, well, that was when I thought it was the best thing to do.” Stubbornness from Maximillian. Cyrus recognised that well
enough by now.
“He’s not—”
“He’s not what, Bal? What you expected? What the fuck did you expect?”
“Actually, I’d say he’s exactly as we expected,” Balthazar snapped. “Unpredictable, savage, dangerous. He just called an earthquake
in Dorre, for Summer’s sake, did you even ask him why?”
“Nobody got hurt. And I’m not responsible for everything he does.” Stubborn again. “You just never wanted this in the first
place.”
“No, I didn’t, and I think that’s understandable! My feelings have always been perfectly clear. Yours, on the other hand—”
“Don’t.” The single word was abrupt and cold.
Silence from both. Even on the other side of the door Cyrus could feel the prickling tension. He wondered what Maximillian’s face looked like. He had seen Maximillian filled with noble wrath, the vengeful god, but what did his anger look like directed at someone close to him?
Balthazar spoke again, quietly. Weary. “You know I’m just trying to help you.”
A beat. Then Maximillian deflated with a sigh. “I know. And I don’t mean to—” He broke off. What were the missing words, the
ones he couldn’t quite grasp? I don’t mean to push you away?
“I’m not going to be swayed on this,” Maximillian said eventually. His voice was as quiet as Balthazar’s, but there was an
edge of steel to it. “You need to stop trying.”
Cyrus returned swiftly to the couch. Only Maximillian reentered, sinking into the space beside him with a quiet groan.
“Think I’ll head back soon,” he said. He and Balthazar were staying at an inn not far from Ranragh. Cyrus could well enough
imagine the atmosphere there tonight. “Been a long day.”
Cyrus hummed in acknowledgement. “Balthazar fucked off yet?”
“No. He’s sulking outside.”
Cyrus risked a glance up. He regretted it when he found Maximillian looking back at him.
They both averted their eyes at the same moment, Cyrus looking back down at the parchment laid out in front of him and Maximillian
glancing towards the door as though he might see Balthazar standing there, hands planted on hips, expression accusing.
“See you next week, then,” Cyrus said, when the silence had stretched on a little too long.
“How about tomorrow?”
Surprised, Cyrus looked up. This time, Maximillian didn’t break his gaze.
“Tomorrow?”
“We haven’t finished planning,” Maximillian said.
They almost had. Cyrus hadn’t expected to need another session on the wedding. They were more used to each other now, the
way they moved, the way they fought. Each altercation had turned into a variation of a familiar dance.
But . . . it was a complex event, he supposed. A lot of factors, a lot of eyes on them. It made sense to ensure every eventuality
was accounted for. And if Maximillian wanted to spend more time on this, just to make sure they got it right, of course . . . well, Cyrus shouldn’t stand in his way.
“Tomorrow,” said Cyrus, and Maximillian smiled.
The wedding went well. Not for the bride and groom or any of the wedding guests. But for Cyrus and Maximillian, it was a job
well done. Cyrus didn’t manage to explode out of the cake or push anyone into it, but he did steal the heart-shaped layer
on top. He even saved a piece for Maximillian to try in a moment of unparalleled generosity, tucking it into Lysander’s saddlebag
as he left. It didn’t mean anything. Just the spoils of the scheme.
“You’re such a dick,” Maximillian said, but Cyrus could hear the laughter he was trying to hold back.
Cyrus beamed. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he said seriously.
“Yeah, yeah. Come on, get the door open. I stink.”
That was true. The briny tang emanating off Maximillian’s sodden shirt was starting to make Cyrus regret his suggestion that
the two of them should come back to his lair. He’d been trying to be practical, that was all.
And trying something new. In the wake of the wedding, they had decided to let another couple of weeks go by without incident,
to see if the silence stirred up more apprehension towards their feud, or whether it lulled people into a sense of false security.
But Maximillian had made an offhand comment about how he had been invited to watch a theatrical performance on a barge sailing
down the Roasham river, winding close by Ranragh. A chance for spontaneity, and a chance to secretly revenge himself for that
dip into the river all those years ago. Who was Cyrus to resist?
It went wonderfully. Cyrus turned up unexpectedly, pushed most of the actors into the river, and threw some props at screaming
audience members. Then he advanced on Maximillian.
Maximillian put up a decent fight, for someone who wasn’t expecting an ambush. He managed to clonk Cyrus around the head with
a pair of tongs snatched from the buffet table, surprisingly hard. But he was sure he hadn’t imagined the way Maximillian’s
eyes had lit up when Cyrus first pounced onto the boat—successfully, this time.
It wasn’t surprising. The play looked eye-wateringly dull from Cyrus’s observations, telling the tedious story of the Federation’s beginnings nearly a hundred years ago (a saintly do-gooder drawing other do-gooders to her in the name of helping people and being kind to all—Cyrus’s least favourite things).
Really, he’d done everyone a favour by interrupting it.