The Lies of Locke Lamora (Gentleman Bastard, #1)

by Scott Lynch

Locke said nothing, instead staring up at the vast glass towers as the sky behind them drained of color. The blue-white stars brightened, and the last rays of the sun vanished in the west like a great eye closing.

Falselight radiated from every surface and every shard of Elderglass in Camorr, from every speck of the alien material left so long before by the creatures that had first shaped the city.

a beard that clung to his craggy face like a pad of scrubbing wool.

the mold-eaten tapestries on the walls were rapidly devolving into their component threads.

We’re a different sort of thief here, Lamora. Deception and misdirection are our tools. We don’t believe in hard work when a false face and a good line of bullshit can do so much more.”

Jean grinned, showing two rows of crooked brawler’s teeth in a face that looked as though someone had set it on an anvil and tried to pound it into a more pleasing shape.

It is one thing to kill in a duel, to kill in self-defense, to kill for vengeance. It is another thing entirely to kill simply because you are careless.

He was bewildered at how quickly he had escaped his old life and fallen into this new one with strangely pleasant crazy people.

If your father says ‘bark like a dog,’ I say ‘What breed, Your Honor?’ ”

“Very noted,” said Locke. “Received, recognized, and duly considered with the utmost gravity. Sealed, notarized, and firmly imprinted upon my rational essence.” “Gods, you really are cheerful about this, aren’t you? You only play vocabulary games when you feel genuinely sunny about the world.”

A florid man with an overachieving belly and an entire squad of spare chins wobbled up,

Jean’s blubbered apology died in his throat with an unmanly choke; the sort of wet noise a clam might make if you broke its shell and squeezed it out through the cracks.

THE SOFTEST rain was falling, little more than a warm wet kiss from the sky,

The pork and capon in his stomach made enthusiastic inquiries about coming up in a nauseous torrent; his throat seemed to be on the verge of granting the request.