15

"Thanks ever so much, Duke Ruffino," Fig mutters, rubbing his eyelids. "Please sit."

You obey, directing Brute into a corner. It promptly goes to the other. "Good," you say, feigning contentment.

"You made quite an impression on the Court last night," Fig says, perching himself with difficulty on the edge of his desk.

"An impression like silver poured into a candlestick mold? Or an impression like a boot-print in a horse's clay?"

"I think you know the answer to that," Fig says, looking over his glasses at you. You're not sure you disagree.

Onward