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It is a fact as immutable as the Third Law of Sod that there is no such thing as a good Grand Vizier. A predilection to cackle and plot is apparently part of the job spec.

After a while a tall, saturnine figure appeared from behind the pavilion. He had the look of someone who could think his way through a corkscrew without bending, and a certain something about the eyes which would have made the average rabid rodent tiptoe away, discouraged.

That man, you would have said, has got Grand Vizier written all over him. No-one can tell him anything about defrauding widows and imprisoning impressionable young men in alleged jewel caves. When it comes to dirty work he probably wrote the book or, more probably, stole it from someone else.

He wore a turban with a pointy hat sticking out of it. He had a long thin moustache, of course.

Thief: I was on to your scam all along.

Chancellor Usurper: Impossible! I spent my entire life gaining this position and the trust of the royal family in preparation for this ultimate act of betrayal!

Thief: Well, yeah. That was my first clue. You're a Chancellor. They're always backstabbers scheming to take the throne away from those who rightfully deserve it through accident of birth.
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