What Stalks the Deep (Sworn Soldier, #3)

by T. Kingfisher

(Also, my sister was going to have another child and while I think babies are fine in the abstract, my sister has a regrettable belief that if I just hold one long enough, I will come to enjoy it. I will not. I have proven this to my own satisfaction, but apparently not to hers, and America seemed like an excellent alternative. Land of opportunity, they say, which presumably includes the opportunity not to hold a baby.)

One American can really fill a room. I assume it only takes a hundred or so to really fill a country.

We don’t shake hands in Gallacia, but Americans are completely mad for it, and you can’t refuse or they get this confused, somewhat hurt look. I resigned myself to shaking a great many hands in the next few weeks.

Although Denton had never struck me as a formalwear type. Someone who would help you finish off a fungal abomination that had taken over your childhood friend, yes. Someone who wore a tuxedo with tails to dinner, not so much.)

We grow turnips and sheep, but our primary export is people who want to get the hell away from it.

“That is a lot of mauve,” I said, after a moment of stunned silence.

a bellhop, dressed from head to toe in mauve, who took our luggage. I wondered if the bellhops ever stood up against the walls for camouflage.

I spotted my old friend Denton, who, thank Christ, was wearing a dark brown suit and no mauve at all.

(Yes, we know about Boston accents in Gallacia. We’re backward, but we do occasionally meet people.) (Okay, fine, I met a Bostonian in Paris once.)

Ah, I thought. The sort of person who talks about “observing phenomena.” I actually quite like people like that, because if you can get them talking about their particular specialty, they will tell you the most fascinating anecdotes about botflies or ball lightning or things they have extracted from some unfortunate soul’s rectum. They can be immense fun at otherwise stuffy parties.

and of course, things go missing everywhere, most particularly pens.

“That is horrifying and I want to go home,” I said, although I pronounced it, “Ah. I see.”

Ours is not to question why, etc. (I hate that poem, but I understand it.)

(I wouldn’t mind being taller, but having a harem of either sex sounds frankly exhausting.)

And what was my other option—wear skirts and let men open doors for me? No, thank you. At least when people mistook me for a man, they didn’t do anything more obnoxious than demand my opinion of Guam.

I did not want to compound the awkwardness of foreign travel by having to shoot someone in the kneecap.)

No wonder Americans all move like they’ve got extra space around them. If their country was a house, it would be one of those monstrous old ramblers that no one can afford to heat in the winter. They probably develop drafts in New York because someone left a window open in San Francisco.

I rubbed my temples and wondered if God still looked out for fools, and if so, whether I’d exceeded Har patience already.

I wasn’t alone though, and like many fools over the ages, I was determined not to be the one who broke first.

Probably there’s a culture where ask him a few questions isn’t a euphemism for beat him until answers fall out, but I’ve yet to encounter it.

I could think of nothing that I would like less, so naturally I volunteered.

I didn’t volunteer to go along this time. Even I eventually run out of the need to prove myself to myself.

Pistols are not what you want to have in hand if a bear is charging at you. I would prefer a rifle to a pistol and a ticket to another country to either. I hear that Guam is lovely this time of year.

Were American bears similar? Did they try to shake hands with you before they attacked?

The walls were white limestone, hung with stalag … stalac … the ones that hang down, okay?

“Why is everyone’s first response to a stranger to kill them?”

I pulled out my lighter and flicked my wrist to snap it open and light the flame in one motion. (If you do it right, it looks very suave. I used to practice it for hours as a teenager, in hopes of impressing girls.) (Look, girls were more easily impressed in those days. Shut up.)

WHY DID YOU COME IF YOU DO NOT LIKE THE STONE? “To prove a mountain can’t tell me what to do.” I DO NOT UNDERSTAND. “Neither do I,” I said, sighing. “But I’m here anyway.”

I fell backward off the thing that clearly wasn’t a dog at all. (Fine. You had probably figured that out already. My only defense is a fundamental belief that dogs are inherently good and Thunder must therefore be good and if he hadn’t liked me, it was probably a failure on my part.)

But I was furious—deeply and unexpectedly furious—because how dare this monster impersonate a dog?

“It’s complicated, Fragment. Sometimes when people hurt for a long time, they start to think that hurting is part of who they are. And then anything that helps the hurt, even healing, feels like it’s trying to strip part of them away.”

And now we were talking about feelings. I would almost rather he had poured the burning oil on me.

“What’s odd?” Angus asked. (I almost asked what wasn’t, but restrained myself.)

Christ’s blood, couldn’t people learn to speak up?

everything was terrible and if I could just scratch, I could deal with it, but no one had warned me that being dead would itch.

“You,” Angus said, “are proof that God looks out for fools and drunkards.” “I resent that,” I said.

“I am not a drunkard.”

And the possibly permanent hearing loss, which would at least pair nicely with my tinnitus.

What hadn’t died in the blast was doused with lamp oil and set ablaze. (Served him right for pretending to be a dog.)

It’s rare that you can mend relationships with an explosion, but I’ll take it.

Did Fragment have a soul? I thought he probably did, and that was as much as I could say for any person I knew.

Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead, and we’re at least three over.

At least there were no explosions.” Everyone looked at me. I rolled my eyes. You blow up one mine shaft …

“I mean this in the nicest possible way,” I said, “but I think I have seen enough of America to last me for a while.” “The parts outside of mine shafts are generally much nicer.” “Mm. So you say.”