The child-monkey has seen beautiful women apply paints and colors to their faces, and has sought to emulate them. He has taken his feces and applied them to his face with a kind of crude care. He now thinks himself better than all the other little monkeys. He thinks himself prettier than them. When all his little monkey friends refuse to play with him, he thinks it jealousy on their part. It is not. It is the stench of his pretentions. It is a coward’s way to hide behind skirts, like a small child being introduced to a stranger. For the child, it is to be forgiven. For a man, it is not, unless, perhaps, age has made a child of him again, since the little lord has forgotten that it is he who demanded satisfaction, and his satisfaction I intend to sate. If that is the case, it would be wrong to kill such a child. Instead, one of his blood may stand for him. As we are the party that is aggrieved and the one who was challenged both, we reject your claim that you are the poor victim in this matter. The little lord is not nearly as adept with words as he thinks he is, and though he may congratulate himself, a wheezing chortle in his study as he applies pen to paper for another of what he may think is a “bon mot,” those who know how to read see the puerile traps he has laid. Let this be an education for you. Repetition does not make truth, no matter how he may wish that. As for the matter of the ruins, there is nothing to be said. It is Azgheya land, no matter how much House Agichi has thrown a tantrum over it, performing an unbecoming show on the floor. No matter how many times Agichi Ho has thrown himself on the stonework before the Archbishop, fists and feet feebly thrashing against the floor, he has no say in the matter. It was settled long before the first tears flowed down the old Man-Child’s face. I do not respond to claims of illegitimacy, because they are made by one who cannot have a say, in the way of a child jealous that his elder brother has something he does not. Signed King Azgheya.