The Blacktongue Thief (Blacktongue, #1)

by Christopher Buehlman

I never liked it that we worshipped the same god, they and I, but they were Galts like me, born with the black tongues that mark us all, and Galtish thieves fall in with the lord of foxes. We can’t help ourselves.

“Who’s going to watch the shop? While I wreck your womb and enslave your heart, I mean?” “I had them both removed. And she will,”

calm. “It was like gathering flowers in the fields. It was so beautiful most of my friends and two of my brothers decided to stay.”

No one felt the death of horses as sharply as the Spanths. She kissed the baroness’s knuckles and turned her face away and walked alone into the rain.

Pigdenay, city of warships, city of armorers, city where the first sick horses clomped ashore, let me weave a garland of wishes for you.

Not that I speak much Molrovan, but as you may have noticed, I collect vulgarisms.

I wish you uncountable pans of milk, a bit of cheese and fish, and fewer kicks than you deserve, and I know you’d want the same for me.

But even if I did not know this man, I would have called you to answer, for you have insulted Death, and she is my most beautiful and serene mistress.”

I conjure the white, perfect spar of your arm, the one I saw from far below when you leaned from the witch’s tower and etched your name where I will never be smooth again.

If honor decided to attend our adventures, I only hoped I’d recognize her; she’d been pointed out to me a few times, but we’d never really gotten acquainted.

I found a graveyard of rubble and thrown boulders. I found a playground of free thieves. I found so much blood between cobblestones that thirty rains might not wash it all away.

If you’ve never fallen hard in love and lost your heart’s sovereign, go on and laugh at me. If you have, have a drink and dab an eye.