On the other hand, it would be wiser not to be here at all, but that didn’t seem to be an active option. Perhaps -
The Emperor-designate looked at her, and past her, at whomever was coming up the grand stair from the elevator behind her. Leen edged off to the side before casting a glance back over her shoulder. She noted two men, one with a neat, perhaps affected mustache, a dashing earring and a plumed hat, and a certain regal air perhaps shading toward godliness; she had seen him before, several hours ago in fact, also in the company of the Emperor-designate atop the reviewing stand for the Running of the Squids, before they had all been blown half to hell and gone. For all his festive garb, the fellow looked substantially the worse for wear, especially considering his limp and apparently immobilized arm - but then the same could be said for many of the others in this august company, who had been unfortunate enough to attend the Running in the sparkling company of the Emperor-designate and had now been unwise enough to choose another public ceremony so soon afterwards with the same group.
As she woolgathered, though, the other newcomer was still in motion, a dark specter in fulgent armor whose lacquered ebony curves covered him from greaves on up to his hardshell cowl; even eyes were invisible behind charcoal glass socket-pieces. The fact that he was somewhat shorter than the first man did not immediately register, such was the armor’s glowering aura, although the person inside did wear it to full effect, passing silently (but for a small creaking of joints) up the stairs with a feline glide, all promise of contained energy and ferocious contempt.
Leen had never seen the armor. It was barely possible, however, that this was not the first time she had witnessed that glide.
“Emperor,” said the one with the mustache, inclining his head and placing his hands on his hips as he came to a halt, effectively drawing the four of them - the Emperor-designate, the two just arrived, and Leen herself as well - into a tidy conversational group.
“So,” said the Emperor-designate. “Phlinn Arol. You have decided after all to grace us with your presence. Yet that you find it appropriate to accompany yourself with such an aggressively menacing figure makes one question the message you mean to project.”
The menacing figure executed a precise bow. Rather than bending toward the man of the hour, as protocol, good manners, and a prudent regard for one’s own health and longevity would dictate, the genuflection was unmistakably toward her. “Honor to you, my lady,” intoned a voice from beneath the cowl; a voice not at all like that of Maximillian, the Vaguely Disreputable. “And to you, my Emperor.”
“Hmph,” sniffed the Emperor, ignoring the figure as completely as if it had been a black lacquered beetle, although the bodyguard at his shoulders was clearly on alert. On alert, but not ready to pounce - the person might be an affront, but it was an affront mounted by the only dignitary present who arguably outranked the Emperor-designate himself. “Surely the Scapula does not still concern you?”
“Surely,” said Phlinn Arol, “he does, and more than ever. Have you not noticed the vacancy of the gods’ gallery? That his cunning has not reached its culmination is assured.”
“Oh, come come, Phlinn, I already have a mother.”
“I hope she’s not too attached to this particular son,” Phlinn Arol said darkly
“None of that,” the Emperor-designate told him, raising a reproving finger but clearly fighting to keep an expression of annoyance off his face and his smile of beneficent welcome tempered by the weighty responsibilities of impending office in its place instead. “We are on showcase. All auguries must be favorable.”
“Have you proclaimed that to the Scapula? You still have a perfect opportunity to postpone the Knitting until we know how to deal with him. Declare a public commemoration of that mess at the Running of the Squids; host a municipal banquet.”
The Emperor-designate lowered the finger to point between Phlinn’s eyes. “You are becoming more tiresome than witty, Phlinn Arol. When this ceremony is over I shall request from the gods a new liaison.”
“You’re not going to have much to choose from if you get rid of me, except for the Scapula. He’s laid low pretty much everybody else.”
“That,” declared the Emperor-designate, “is patently impossible. Since you are clearly descending into fantasies, our audience is over. Please assume your place at the designated station.” He turned away, hesitated, then rounded again on Phlinn Arol. “Furthermore, if you do not follow your role in this ceremony to the letter you will find yourself discorporated faster than -”
“Very well,” Phlinn Arol snapped, “you’ve made your point. Why don’t you go off and see to your... guests.”
The Emperor-designate glared at him one last time. Then the Emperor took a step back, wheeled, and stalked off, motioning for another supplicant to approach him.
Said the menacing figure in the beetle-like armor: “How did that blockhead ever survive to become Emperor?” This time his manner of speech did remind one significantly more of that of Maximillian the Vaguely Disreputable. “If we stick around for this, Phlinn, we’re gonna be sitting ducks.”
“Quaint,” said Phlinn Arol, “but not beyond the bounds of possibility. That is what you are here to prevent. You are the local expert.”
“The way to prevent it is not to be here.”
“What the -” began Leen in her own low hiss. “What is going on here? Is that you in there, Max?”
“Of course it is,” said the dark figure, becoming none the less dark for all of that. “My good old patron thinks the best way to deal with Shaa’s brother is to present him an easy target, in the hope he’ll be grateful and give everybody a break.” He fixed Phlinn Arol with the front of his cowl, the polished lacquer showing Phlinn’s reflection on its surface. “Maybe he’ll only kill us all instead of redeploying us in some new game.”
“You are supposed to be developing a plan to counter him,” Phlinn Arol said, in the clipped voice of one whose patience is chafing thin enough to snap at any syllable. “That is what you are good at, plans. Yes? Correct me if I am wrong.”
“Yeah, I’m so good my last plan played things just the way he wanted them. It’s time for me to retire before I cause more trouble.”
“I think there’s only one way you retire from this one,” said Leen. In the midst of all of this, she felt light-headed with relief. The way for her to play this, though, was clearly to follow their lead. This was scarcely the moment to explore the nature of any relationship she might contemplate with Maximillian. Providing motivation, on the other hand, seemed thoroughly appropriate. “You may have screwed up, all right, but that means the Scapula probably thinks he has you beaten. As far as he’s concerned you’re still in the dungeon, right? At least you’re out now, and in a position to do something about him, and if that’s still not anything than at least I’m glad to see you’re safe.” Well, okay, so she had tossed in that tidbit at the end, there. The lords of skullduggery could sue her.
“I’m not safe,” Max glowered, “none of us are, but - but thank you. I’m glad you’re safe too. Only what are you doing here? How did you get away from Arznaak?”