The Thief Who Pulled on Trouble's Braids (Amra Thetys, #1)

by Michael McClung

What, you've never been on a three-day drunk? Take a big bite out of the next dead cat you see lying in the gutter; you'll get the idea.

“What kind of meat tonight, Atan?” “Edible,” he grunted, fanning the charcoal. “Sounds like something my mother would have said.”

Making my way across the overgrown garden was payment for all my sins. I hadn’t realized I’d committed so many.

“Young woman. Very pretty. Very, very pretty.” “A strumpet,” injected Myra. “A pretty strumpet. There’s a thought.” “Black hair, green eyes, quality clothes.” “I don’t know any—” Wait. That girl from the Dream. Estra’s girl. “What’s she want?” Estra knew how to get hold of me if she needed to. Why was this girl wandering around asking after me? Alain shrugged. “She’s put it about that there’s a package for you at Locquewood’s shop.” “I’ve no idea what it’s about, and I don’t have time for, ah, strumpets at the moment,” I said, glancing at Myra, who rolled her eyes.

You can’t just go walking around with a severed head in Lucernis. But you can, I discovered, walk around with a lumpy head-shaped item, wrapped in linen and dripping blood. I think it’s just that nobody really wants to know you’re walking around with a severed head, and are appreciative of the courtesy of leaving room for doubt.

“And there, right there, is why I want nothing to do with Seers. Because for all your signs and portents, however true they might be, you never offer a scrap of useful advice, and you never, ever offer the simplest shred of hope. Fate is a slaver, bloodwitch, and I refuse its chains.” As I walked out her door, she spoke in a quiet voice. “That is why fate has singled you out, Amra Thetys.”

Nice meta comment about prophecy in literature.