The Orphans of Raspay (Penric and Desdemona, #7)

by Lois McMaster Bujold

The Bastard was, among many other things, the god of leftovers, last home to all the souls that no other of the Five would take. Criminals, executioners, orphans, whores, bastards, sorcerers, some artists and musicians, those with odd loves, and, yes, pirates. (On the whole, Pen much preferred to deal with prostitutes, with whom he got along fine.) Theologically, a divine of the Bastard was obliged to care for them all. He didn’t have to like them all, fortunately. Just fulfill his duties to them, if no one else could.

Somewhere, there was an important boundary between calming their fears, and keeping enough respect that they would obey his orders in an emergency instantly and without question. He wished he knew where it fell. Though as pacification ploys went, letting them groom him like a pony cost only a little of his dignity.

“So you think the demon-god will answer your prayers, Sea-eyes?” Sadly, no. I think the demon-god employs me to answer them for Him. Lazy Bastard.

Pen thought if his god wanted him martyred, He could bloody do it without Pen’s help.

the gods could do nothing in the world of matter except through beings of matter. A doctrinal point Pen had constantly to explain to people trying to pray for good weather or no earthquakes, who never listened, he’d finally decided, because they didn’t want it to be so. The gods did not control the weather. Or the world. Or souls.

And yet somehow they have arranged to put Pen precisely in the right place. How?

It wasn’t cold by his standards—in the cantons, you could drive a horse and sleigh across properly cold water—but it was cooler than his body, and drew dangerous heat from his blood.

“I sweetened the pot by offering to not grant my fleet three days of shore leave.” “There’s a difference between that and sacking the town?” “Not much. The council took my point. You were a more fundamental bone of contention. To the tune of thirty thousand silver ryols.” Pen gasped, appalled. “That’s a prince’s ransom! Or, wait, no, were they demanding reparations…?” Adelis stared, then laughed. “Ah, no, Penric! I wouldn’t have offered a copper for that. No, that’s what they’re paying us to not leave you here.”