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Theology had never really been his strong suit, but he was reasonably sure the Saviour had talked a lot about mercy.
Start the evening looking for fun, end the morning begging forgiveness.
If you had that grin, at least clean your teeth, and if you had those teeth, at least don’t grin.
She’d been called a scammer, a fleecer, a cheat, a thief, a bitch, a thieving bitch, a ferrety fuck, a lying weasel, and those were only the ones she’d taken as compliments. She’d never, far as she could remember, been called a princess. Not even in the least funny jest.
“And that’s what her life’s worth?” “Oh, no,” said Duke Michael. His servant sank gracefully to one knee beside him, pulled open his coat, and produced a large sword, its stained sheath chased with shining wire, its battered gold pommel tilted towards his master. The duke rested one fingertip upon it. “That’s what your lives are worth.”
“The Church must, of course, remain faithful to the teachings of our Saviour. But there are tasks that must be undertaken, and methods used, to which the faithful and unimpeachable … are not suited.”
“It all comes across as a little … outside my experience?” “Did Saint Evariste have experience when at fifteen years old she took up her father’s spear and led the Third Crusade against the elves?” “But didn’t she end up getting … a little bit…” Brother Diaz winced. “Eaten alive?”
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.
“She’s dead.” And he started to limp back the way they’d come. “Dead?” whispered Brother Diaz. “As fuck.” Baptiste gave his shoulders a parting squeeze. “She’s dead as fuck.”
“Don’t worry. They always say that.” “And that’s a good thing?” squeaked Alex. Bock hooked a finger to scratch under her crimson skullcap. “Long term it is definitely a concern, but for the time being—”
one of the top three necromancers in Europe, mark you—possibly four, depending on your opinion of Sukastra of Bivort, who he personally considered an absolute hack—should
The choice at Balthazar’s farce of a trial had been atonement for his trespasses through service to Her Holiness or burning at the stake. At the time it had seemed a no-brainer, but he was beginning to suspect that, in the long run, immolation might prove to have been the less painful option.
a truly explosive episode at the other end of the digestive tract, left him in no doubt as to its considerable puissance.
“Sunny is, in some ways, your opposite.” “Meaning?” “She doesn’t say much. But when she does, it’s worth listening to.”
“God damn it,” hissed Balthazar. The limitations of human faeces as ink were becoming starkly apparent.
You can stack your doubts high before. You can polish your regrets up after. But while the fight’s on, your purpose must be pure. Kill the enemy. Don’t die yourself.
“The Church is not that keen on God, in my experience,” said Baron Rikard. “They think of him much as a lawyer thinks of the law. Something to be got around.” “You’re a vampire,” snapped Brother Diaz. “Of course you hate the Church.” “On the contrary, I am a great admirer of the tenets of your religion. I merely find it a shame that the Saved are, as a rule, so little like their Saviour.”
“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.”
Lying was a sin, apparently, unless you did it outrageously and persistently enough, in which case it qualified as scripture.
Vigga didn’t think about the past much. The past was nutshells. Once they’re cracked off what use are they? Toss ’em away and walk on, why hoard the bastards?
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.
“Hope is a precious resource,” murmured Jakob. “We shouldn’t waste it against the inevitable.”
the burning of the Trojan Horse,
