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If you had that grin, at least clean your teeth, and if you had those teeth, at least don’t grin.
finding a beggar in your doorway would be merely distasteful, while finding one in your bed would be cause for considerable alarm.
You have to treat people like oranges, Gal the Purse always said. Squeeze what you can from the bastards, then waste no regrets when you toss away their wrung-out skins. You have to treat people like stepping stones. Like rungs on your ladder. Or you’ll wake up one day with nothing but a set of bootprints on your own back.
He’d always had something in him that men would obey, and that was lucky. It was only keeping them going that kept him going.
‘Speak for yourselves,’ said Balthazar. ‘I am one of the top three, possibly two, necromancers in Europe. Success leads to jealousy, of course, and jealousy to resentment, but people have no choice but to at least respect me.’ ‘Point out one person who respects you,’ said Princess Alexia. There was a silence filled only by the patter of rain.
‘Sometimes,’ growled Jakob as he turned his horse to follow, ‘least worst is the best you can hope for.’
Pay a man to grovel to God three times a day and he’ll soon be grovelling to everyone.
‘I like the sound of shield-maiden.’ ‘Shield-maiden, please.’ The baron snorted. ‘Axe-bitch, maybe.’ Vigga grinned. ‘I really like the sound of axe-bitch.’
Lying was a sin, apparently, unless you did it outrageously and persistently enough, in which case it qualified as scripture.
She’d stood up, once, in the circus, and told a joke, and it had made everyone furious. You’re here to be hated, not to make jokes, the ringmaster had told her.
She really didn’t understand people at all, they were so weird. Dealing with them was like being slapped in the face over and over.
Sunny once heard it said that loaves are all about the grooves. They won’t rise properly without them. Maybe people are the same. They’ll never come out well unless they’re cut a bit.
‘Think I’ve found the first problem,’ she said, waving towards the door. There was no door.
He gave a groan of frustration. ‘How much longer must I suffer these wretched creatures?’ Brother Diaz rubbed at his sweaty temples. ‘I have been asking myself the same question for some time now.’
‘Because no one’s really happy where they are, Sunny.’ And he sighed, and carried on working his dough. ‘And everyone’s lonely.’
‘That thing nearly killed me!’ ‘A shame,’ observed the baron. ‘We can only hope their next is more accurate.’
One of those things you’ve heard of, sounded vaguely interesting, but you’d never, ever want to actually visit. Like England.
‘No, I mean, how d’you become a monk?’ ‘The usual way. Bit by a monk.’ She stared sideways. ‘Really?’ ‘No. Not really.’
‘Steal some bastard’s purse you’re a thief,’ breathed Alex. ‘Steal a whole town you’re a hero.’
Alex had a soft spot for hard-used, unlovely things. Came from being one, maybe.
murmur, ‘In the east it’s a sinful Pope and a righteous Patriarch, in the west we swap over.’ ‘What about the middle?’ asked Brother Diaz. ‘If you’re not sure of the opinions of your audience, try to be as vague as possible.’
All Alex could do was keep edging back, and hope Sunny could see a way to get them out of this. Sunny could see no way to get them out of this.
her head throbbed from hunger and her guts ached because with classic timing these bastards had arrived just as she was squatting for her daily business. She’d even had a few nice shiny ivy leaves lined up for the wipe. Ivy was her preference, so smooth but so tough to tear.
She curled her lip and kicked them savagely away. ‘They have a necromancer!’ she snapped. ‘One of the three …’ came a voice from the opposite side of the graveyard, ‘best in Europe!’
‘Who does this bitch think she is?’ His jaw clenched. ‘That she can get the better of Balthazar Sham Ivam Draxi?’ His nostrils flared. ‘The best necromancer in Europe?’ His eyes snapped open. ‘Above a giant fucking tomb?’ He slapped her hands away. ‘I … think … not.’
Pretend to be what you want to be, one day you might find you’re not pretending any more.
Tell the right story, people will buy any old shit.
‘Happy endings are just stories that aren’t finished yet.’
‘Tell me … the elves. Are they really as bad as they say?’ ‘I have come to think … that they are no worse than men.’ Jakob took a long breath. ‘So … yes.’
Gentle was the last thing she’d ever have expected from the old knight, but for a man who’d spent a lifetime killing elves, he was surprisingly good at hugging one.
Jakob had never been much with words. But in the language of violence, he was a poet.
In many areas, the monk had proved himself surprisingly erudite. But in the language of violence, he was illiterate.
Vigga turned enemies into corpses, and Balthazar turned corpses into friends.
‘An elf giving an Empress lessons on virtue?’ ‘Someone has to, and your priest fucked a werewolf.’
The pagans had chained her in a cage, and starved her, and goaded her, and used her to kill their enemies. And Vigga saw now the pagans and the Saved didn’t hate each other because they were so different, but because they were so alike.
