The story went in circles, chasing its own tail like a half-starved cur.
Prince Nibadur of Habadia set the letter down, the way one might place a dead rat on a clean table, with a lot of distaste.
One might expect irritation after reading such news, perhaps even outrage. But no,he felt better than that. A quiet certainty had taken root in him.
It is now perfectly clear, he thought, that I could find more success teaching a drunk ape to dance than expecting any of these mongrels to stand as a true challenge to that man.
Not that he was without vexations of his own. The coin he had poured into this venture, golden and silver rivers sent to fill empty hands, was now wasted, evaporated in the heat of another's incompetence.
This was the second time his investments returned nothing but empty air.
Gods! The man killed his father, and he freezes up at the slightest danger.
He would have killed his son, if he grew up limp as that one.
