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“The Almighty tends against killing,” said Duke Michael, “if I remember my scripture.” “Far as I can tell he makes all manner of exceptions.” “God has that luxury, he’s unlikely to get knifed in a fish market.”
“I knew you had it in you,” he whispered. He didn’t say what she had in her. Shit, maybe. Lies, probably. Doubts, definitely. But she, the stupid arse, had to make the big gesture. So, at least till she found some way to wriggle out of it, she’d cut her choices down to two. Empress or death. She regretted it already, of course. Just like always. But now she was stuck with it. Just like always.
“Virtue is found in the resistance of temptation,” said the bishop, “rather than its absence.
“How is it?” asked Alex. “Cheesy.” “Is that bad?” “In many things it would be, but in cheese it’s essential.”
“She doesn’t suit you? The arrogance. The insolence. The self-serving hubris! Bishop, cardinal, or King of fucking Araby, you don’t get to choose a Pope.” He stabbed at the sky with a finger. “That choice is for God!” “Think Brother Diaz found his balls,” murmured Vigga. “The thing about God, my son,” sneered Bishop Apollonia, “is that he often needs a nudge in the right direction.
The Saviour had definitely tended against killing, and she heard priests talk about murder like it was really the worst, but when she finally read the scriptures herself, she found God couldn’t go a page without smiting the shit out of someone.
So this was a crosstrees. One of those things you’ve heard of, sounded vaguely interesting, but you’d never, ever want to actually visit. Like England.
“You spend years illuminating manuscripts,” said Baptiste, working off one boot, “and singing hymns, and tending the monastery gardens, but all anyone wants to talk about is the one time you fucked a werewolf.” “Three times,” said Vigga, “in fact.” “Once could be considered a mishap,” said Baron Rikard, in a sermonising tone, “but three times begins to look like deliberate sin!” “How can even once be a mishap?” asked Sunny, confused. “Cardinal Zizka, I must confess,” sang Baptiste as she pulled off her other boot and leaned back, wriggling her bare toes at the fire, “that I slipped while
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“The world’s a bitter place,” said Alex, a gleam in the corner of one eye made Sunny think she was smiling. Made Sunny hope she was smiling. “We’ve got to grasp at any joy we can.”
“Happy endings are just stories that aren’t finished yet.”
“Thought you didn’t believe in God anymore.” “Maybe I was hoping … that he still believed in me.”
“My greatest battles I fought against myself, and they were all defeats, and I’ve suffered far less than I deserve.” Brother Diaz considered the statue of William the Red, glaring into the middle distance. “Is that why you’re always looking for more?” “More what?” “Suffering. Would you presume to find yourself beyond salvation?” Brother Diaz pointed to the echoing darkness above them. “That judgement is for God.” “He who cannot die cannot be judged.” “He who cannot die cannot run out of time to win redemption. To level your own accusation, reach your own verdict, pronounce your own sentence…”
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“as, in the end, they smiled upon our journey. When we set out, I thought you all monsters. I have learned, I suppose, that you are only people. A set of devils, perhaps, but, on this occasion, you’ve done God’s work.” And he smiled, and gave a nod, and stepped from the lectern. Balthazar watched with lips discerningly pursed, like a connoisseur considering a bottle. Then he leaned over. “He’s actually not awful at this, is he?” “All in all…” murmured Jakob, “far better than expected.”
The vampire rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. “The problem with clever people is they think everything must be clever. The binding works on the soul, Balthazar.” He shrugged. “I’m a vampire. I don’t have one.”
“What did you do?”
