If you were going to succumb to a trap, though, it might as well be a good one. The one that had landed him here had certainly been a champion.
Although the architect of the plot had not formally unveiled him- or herself, Shaa’s brother Arznaak would appear as a leading suspect to be involved somewhere, at least. The plot-master had a detailed knowledge of the way Max’s mind worked; had in fact used Max’s own methods of plotting to have Max, himself, help deliver himself into his hands. Outmaneuvered he clearly had been. And outsmarted; he didn’t mind giving appropriate credit when he was forced to. And taken unawares. For all of his paranoia, he had never seen this coming.
He had seen something coming, yes. All of those attacks by old adversaries had to have been coordinated for some purpose. The involvement of the Hand in lowering the final boom demonstrated that much. And Max had been looking over his shoulder more than was even his usual hyper-sensitive habit.
Arznaak was also ruthless enough to blow up the Emperor’s own reviewing stand and a major bridge to boot just to implicate Max in terrorism of the most heinous nature. Just? Well, probably not ‘just’; there had likely been another goal served simultaneously, but damned if he could think through what it might have been with that thing next to him pounding away like a mechanical banshee.
...But even so, there still had to be more to it than he’d seen himself. Jardin had the ring containing Pod Dall. Would he realize Max had booby-trapped it, anyway, regardless of their mutual assurances, or would he just go on to use it? If Jardin was part of the plot, as seemed more than likely, then was he in league with Arznaak? Arznaak knew Max’s habits; he’d realize the ring had to be trapped, so he’d warn Jardin... unless he didn’t.
Arznaak couldn’t have been after that - could he?
Of course he could.
Arznaak as a god. That’s all they needed.
Maybe it was just as well for Max to stay wrapped up here in the dungeon, spending his time twiddling his thumbs. Although that was only a metaphorical option. Max couldn’t even move a thumb, much less twiddle it.
But he still had responsibilities that wouldn’t go away. Who had Shaa? And Leen? Max didn’t know how long it had been, a few hours at most, but that was surely long enough for any number of distressing possibilities to have come into effect.
Actually, though, the thought that Arznaak was involved was somewhat reassuring, in a bizarre sort of backhanded way. Arznaak’s modus operandi was to let his victims dangle in contemplation of their possible fates, rather than proceed to their immediate dismemberment or outright eradication. After toying with Shaa all these years why would he put an abrupt end to his fun? Even he, Max, could clearly have been slaughtered by the Hand on the bridge rather than being trundled back to the palace complex. And where there was life, there was... the promise of further aggravation.
Anyway, whatever had been in progress had most likely already played itself out, at least for the present act. A single act wasn’t an entire play, though... even if the cast of characters sometimes had a distressing habit of changing during the interval. Well, at least there was still Karlini. And Roni; especially Roni. The work she had been doing had been on the verge of fruition. Perhaps the best thing would be to sit tight and wait for one of them to come and get him out.
Maybe he’d even make bail.
Well, if nothing else perhaps he’d be able to catch up on his sleep. He could just let the clamor from the noisemaker wash over him, slide past him, as he subsided into a meditative state...
Wait a minute. That clang was different. It had come from the other side of the cell, where the door was. Max opened his eyes. Standing over him was a familiar face. “About time somebody showed up,” Max mumbled around the mouthpiece.
Max had not been badly injured by the events on the bridge. He was showing no lasting danger signs from being hit in the head by flying chunks of pavement, or almost no danger signs; the ringing in his ears and the occasional double vision could be explained by the auditory torture device alone. The Hand hadn’t roughed him up to any great extent, either. Even his appearance was probably better than most, due to his momentary bath in the Tongue Water. Of course, a dip in the Tongue was likely to leave you with its own aftereffects, but at least it had taken off the surface layer of grime and soot.
He had been lucky. Most everyone present on the scene must have been worked over to one degree or another. Even, apparently, the dignitaries attending to take part in the ceremony. But there were dignitaries and dignitaries. Max didn’t know if he’d ever seen a god looking quite so ill-used. Especially one venturing out in public with his head swathed in an oozing linen bandage that drooped low to cover his left eye, the remaining strands of mustache that had not been crisped off shooting away in every direction like the whiskers of a cat. Especially one favoring a leg with a locked knee and leaning on a cane, of all things.
“So,” said Phlinn Arol finally, “just what do you thing you’re doing?”
“What does it look like?” Max said, less distinctly than he liked. Damn that thing in his mouth. “Waiting for someone to rescue me. Is that why you’re here?”
Phlinn Arol gave Max a severe look. “The very thought of you waiting passively is preposterous.” Then he widened his glance to include the rest of the cell, and pursed his lips in assessment. “Still, preposterous or no,” he said grudgingly, “this does look to be an effective pen of confinement.”
“Right, yeah. If anybody around here remembered how to do suspended animation I’m sure I’d be in it, but this place is a close second. So are you here to get me out, or what?”
“Unfortunately it’s not nearly that simple. You don’t have any place to sit down in here, do you?”
“It hasn’t exactly been me hiding the furniture.”
“Urr,” grumbled Phlinn Arol. He settled for leaning back against one of the sledge-restraint chains to take some of weight off his bad leg. Max had to crane his eye around to the side to keep him in view.
“What have you been doing?” the Adventurers’ God asked Max again.
“The last few hours? Engaging in thought.”
“Pure thought?”
“When’s the last time you saw purity in this world?”
“A point well, if sadly, taken. But that’s still not the answer I had in mind. Typically, you’re spinning the question the wrong way.”
“So twirl it back at me again. What are you getting at?”
“What did you say? Oh, yes, I see. Have -”
“If you want to understand me better just take off this mask thing.”
Phlinn Arol looked away. “Even that would scarcely be so simple.”
“What’s not simple?” Max garbled. “I can feel it latches in the back.”
“You tried to assassinate the Emperor-designate, and me too as well.”
“You don’t actually believe that, do you? What do I have against the Emperor? What do I have against you? Somebody wants me on ice, that’s all, and maybe frozen so solid I’ll never thaw out. I’ve got a pretty good guess who, too.”
“And who would that be?”
“Arznaak, who else?”
“Are you certain you’re not letting longstanding personal animosity get between you and a reasonable presentation of the truth?”
“What better reason to pull something like this against me than longstanding personal animosity? If it makes you feel better, I am certain there’s more to what’s going on than just landing me on the shelf.”
Phlinn Arol scowled. He was looking less and less happy all the time. “As it develops, you happen to be correct. Yet let us stay with you for the moment. You are the most radical of radical Abdicationists. You wish to make the gods abandon humanity to its own independent fate, and have been willing to pursue any means to that end.”