Muse of poetry, come to his aid, I thought. Could the man produce one more metaphor of husbandry? He seemed to be trying.
"Green wood," I suggested, but even he sensed that there was something unfortunate about a metaphor for a king in which you dry out your royalty before you set fire to it.

Ambiades, I realized, was the kind
of person who liked to put people in a hierarchy, and he wanted me to
understand that I was at the bottom of his. He was supposed to treat me
politely in spite of my subservient position, and I was supposed to be
grateful.

For my part, I wanted Ambiades to understand that I considered
myself a hierarchy of one. I might bow to the superior force of the
magus and Pol, but I wasn't going to bow to him. Neither of us moved.

I love stupid plans.

Were you lying?"
"I never lie," he said piously. "About what?"
"The sand, the snake."
For a young man who never lied, he seemed surprisingly unoffended by the question.

I am not sure I trust you."
"You can trust me with your life, My King."
"But not with my wine, obviously. Give it back.

I know that if you don't look for an alternative, Sophos, you certainly won't find one.