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“The Dowager knows something about the Clockwork Boys,” said Caliban. Sonofabitch… Slate threw her hands in the air, turning away. “God’s teeth! Why do we even bother with secrecy, if men in goddamn solitary confinement can figure that out!?”
Why did men always grab your wrist? There were any number of ways to break that grip, of course, but it was mildly infuriating nonetheless.
Yep
“This really is foolishness,” said Caliban in an undertone behind her. “The warden should have given you guards—an escort—something. Letting a woman walk out of here with a murderer—I’d have his skin if he were serving under me.” He sounded genuinely outraged. Slate had to laugh. “Relax, mister murderer, you’re not getting off that lightly.” She turned her head as she spoke, in time to catch his grimace. “Sorry. Sir Murderer, should I say?”
“Shut up, Brenner,” said Slate, a well-polished phrase if Caliban had ever heard one. He wondered if they were lovers. They seemed more like siblings who did not entirely care for one another.
Down, girl. He’s a walking corpse anyway. Quit staring. He was just an unexpectedly good-looking corpse, that was all.
It was not chivalric to snicker. He did it anyway, because if you were going to be thrown out of a religious order on your ear, you took what small comforts you could get.
“I don’t know why we even bother having wars,” muttered Slate. “The world’s trying to kill us fast enough as it is.”
Mules were worse. Mules were like horses who could plan.
Why am I crying? I’m cold and exhausted and I don’t want to die, and someone just handed me a handkerchief. These seemed like excellent reasons.
Knight-Champion Caliban—who had indeed been known to recognize hints, and who was clinging to what was left of his vows by will alone—leaned his head back against the damp wood of the tree stump and waited for the rain to pass.
By the time she stopped sneezing and managed to pry her eyes open again, he already had a handkerchief out and was dangling it in front of her. “Thangks.” “Don’t mention it.” “How many of these things do you carry?” He lifted his chin. “Leave me some small mysteries.” She snorted. “Actually, I buy a dozen any time we stop at a town large enough to have a dry goods store.” “I always lose them.” “I know. That’s why I keep buying them.”
Awww
Your enemies are my enemies.” “They already were your enemies!” “Well,” he admitted, “that’s true. But I’ll be here if you make any new ones.”
Inspiration knocks now and again, but spite bangs on the door all year long.
from the acknowledgement section
