Scott Lynch

“That’s a sweet piece,“ said Jean, briefly forgetting to be aggravated. “You didn’t snatch that off a street.“

“No,“ said Locke, before taking another deep draught of the warm water in the decanter. “I got it from the neck of the governor’s mistress.“

“You can’t be serious.“

“In the governor’s manor.“

“Of all the—“

“In the governor’s bed.“

“Damned lunatic!“

“With the governor sleeping next to her...It is possible,“ said Locke with a sheepish grin, “that I have been slightly too bold.“

“What do you have to say to that?“

“Oh, very little, to be sure, Master Kosta. It’s so hard to think, overawed as I am with the sublime genius of your plan.“

“That bears some vague resemblance to sarcasm.“

“God forfend,“ said Jean. “You wound me! Your inexpressible criminal virtues have triumphed again, as inevitably as the tides come and go. I cast myself at your feet and beg for absolution. Yours is the genius that nourishes the heart of the world.“

“And now you’re—“

“If only there was a leper handy,“ interrupted Jean, "so you could lay your hands on and magically heal him.“

Time went by with all the speed of a sleepless night.

It was strange, how readily authority could be conjured with nothing but a bit of strutting jackassery.

Our patron has always sort of danced upon the notion that austerity and piety go hand in hand; down here, we show our appreciation for things by appreciating, if you get me.

There’s no freedom quite like the freedom of being constantly underestimated.