Fool!

“You tell Master Farthingsworth,” said the Duke behind his desk, pointing his quill menacingly at the distraught page before him, “that eighty-thousand gold crowns is highway robbery, all I”™m asking him to do is fix a bloody door. You tell him that.” The page nodded nervously, though visibly relieved that the fifteen minute tirade concerning the downfall of an “Honest day”™s work for an honest day”™s pay” and the decidedly dubious heredity of the Duchy”™s chief stonemason was nearly at and end. He let out a squawk, however, when the door to the office burst open and a wizened figure stormed in with a flurry of violet robes. “OUT!” the figure (who seemed to the page to be at least eight feet tall and breathing fire) roared, and out...