From the work in progress:

“You ought to kill this new ambassador,” Olyeron told his father absently as he moved a stone on the merti board. “Soon. Where’s he from?”

Seavik watch his son beneath lowered lids. “Is that opinion or something you’ve seen?”

Yeron lifted his shoulders in a dismissive shrug. “I wouldn’t know. Ask my scribes.” He waved a long fingered hand in the air, his long nails gleaming ebony. All but the nail on his left forefinger. That glistened silver. “I say what I think. Who know how I arrive at it?”

Seavik frowned at the game board. It was always difficult to see Yeron’s strategy. Or more accurately, it was impossible to know if there was a strategy or if his gameplay was a result of his silver born insanity.

He moved a stone, switching it with another and setting that one one an outer corner of the merti. But his mind was only half on the game. He mused over his son’s words. Kill the new ambassador? Why? What would it serve?

“Why does he need to die soon?” he asked, not expecting a real answer. Even in his saner moments, Yeron liked to tie his words into knots and webs.

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