The Thief Who Spat In Luck's Good Eye (Amra Thetys, #2)

by Michael McClung

Having feelings for rented rooms was like having feelings for someone else’s spouse—inadvisable at best.

I knew as little of their life as they knew of mine—I understood that. It’s just that I didn’t think their difference gave me a right to talk about them, whereas they obviously did. But of course it’s always that way when you have the numbers. Men don’t hold exclusive rights to bullying.

If I risk nothing, death and retribution will still come. Given the choice, I would rather die trying to alter my situation.

“You see those weapons?” asked Holgren. “They are the future of warfare.” I laughed. “Those are toys. The only way to kill someone with an arquebus is to beat them with it. A good bowman could kill five times over in the time it takes just to load one.” The only time I'd seen an arquebus be even remotely useful was during the assault on the Elamner's villa months before, and that was mostly as a noise maker. A trumpet would have been just as handy, and a lot more reliable. “Ah, but how long does it take to become that good with a bow?” Holgren replied. “Five years? Ten? One can become proficient with firearms in a matter of weeks. Someday, they will be perfected; their rate of fire, range, and accuracy will be improved. People will die by the thousands without ever seeing their foe.”

I never asked to be a hero.” Which is why you are suited for it.

Holgren’s blood doll was barely more than a scarecrow. He’d given it the merest suggestion of a face, a long hank of hair, and a dark robe. The one he made for me was a bit more. Its short, brown hair was artfully if simply arranged, and its face was free of any scar or blemish. The nose was long and straight, the almond-shaped, green eyes perfectly balanced. My own thin lips were fuller on that face, and I would have needed cosmetics to get them as red as he made them. I fingered my oft-broken nose and wondered if he were mocking me or if this was how he really saw me.

Fear is a funny thing. It can kill you, but it can also keep you alive if you learn to ride it instead of fighting it.

Fear is a powerful motivation. Fear mixed with hope becomes a grand sort of magic.

History wasn’t repeating itself exactly, but it had begun to rhyme after a fashion.

Why do you people think death is any solution? It’s not. It’s the end to any possibility of winning through!”

Some people say fear of the unknown is the worst. They haven’t seen anything truly worth fearing.

Be it spells or swords or some improved arquebus, the mighty would take by force what they wanted and leave bodies in their wake. It sort of made my profession look noble by comparison. I’ve never taken anything from someone who had less than I did.

I don’t really care anymore, you selfish, obsessed, immortal puddle of vomit. Godhood was wasted on you, you miserable tick.”

I’d always thought of water as being soft. When you’re hurled against it, it isn’t soft at all. I suppose it isn’t as bad as being smacked against stone. It wasn’t a feather bed either.

It is amazingly difficult to judge distances and angles when you’re clinging to a lashing, writhing monster of a tentacle. Try it sometime; you’ll see what I mean.

It wasn’t difficult to find Tha-Agoth. His head still glowed faintly. He’d gotten hold of the slimy wall with his teeth and was hanging on with a tenacity that, while admirable, was also gut-splittingly funny in a horrible sort of way. Maybe it was just me. He certainly didn't seem amused.