Chapter Sixteen #3
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 challenging eyes 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 upstairs balcony, 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 their way 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.
Cyrus took it all in, speculative. It was all very fine, but he wasn’t sure he could see much of Max among 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 Heliarth think, 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 was not risking 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.