The scissors in Thragg's hand paused for a moment. His expression turned strange, but he did not look up.
"Are you sure?"
"Because I've heard plenty of rumors. Our dear Marshal eats until he's full, then sleeps; wakes up, then eats again. When does he ever handle affairs of state?"
"Craig's hairline has receded all the way to the back of his head, and you still won't help him. All you do is run around."
Sparta curled his lip, giving him a look that said, What do you know? Then he leisurely crossed one leg over the other.
"I'm glad you called me 'dear Marshal,' but I'm not happy with your tone."
"Craig worries too much. I believe in balancing work and rest. Sleeping after every meal keeps me in peak condition so I can step in when it matters."
"I'm devoted to the Empire, heart and soul. You really are a scoundrel, slandering me like that."
He spoke with such conviction that one might have thought he truly had the Empire and the future of millions of Viltrumite Warriors at heart.
Thragg finally set down the scissors and looked up. A faint, helpless smile appeared on his steady face.
He would sooner believe Clayton than a single word out of Sparta's mouth. The man never told the truth.
"If you put that silver tongue to work governing, Craig wouldn't have to work until dawn by himself."
Sparta slouched against the back of his chair, ignoring Thragg's jab. Instead, he flashed a grin without a trace of remorse.
"Governing? Leave that to Craig. He likes it, and he's better at it than I am."
Craig: Bullshit!
Sparta glanced over the freshly trimmed plants and went on:
"Besides, you've got some nerve lecturing me. What do you do all day? You