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The Temple of the White Rat was that rarest of religious orders, one that simply found problems and solved them and tried to make life better for everyone involved.
The larger part of power was understanding the power you had over others, even if you would rather not have had that much power in the first place.
“You are not a failure, you know,” he said, “simply because you can’t endure something unendurable.”
There was only the road, which was damp clay splotched with stones, like a toad’s back. Perhaps it was a toad. Perhaps the whole world was a toad. It was no stupider than anyone else’s cosmology. Clara would leave the order of St. Ursa and found the order of St. Toad. They would sleep a lot. Yes. Sleeping seemed like a good commandment for the order. Sleep and hot tea. Yes. She was working out the various ranks and the secondary rules for St. Toad’s worship when Galen said, “There’s smoke rising ahead. We’re nearly there.” The town probably had a name, but Clara never learned it. It was the
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“I was just thinking, first you’re with Beartongue and now you’re chasing after someone with an actual bear’s—” “Galen.” “Look, I’m just saying you have a type. A weirdly specific type.” “If you ever make that joke again, I will end you.”
In life, if you were careful, there were simply not that many times when you absolutely, positively, had to turn into a bear.
“Why do men get so defensive about their swords?” “They’re remarkably fragile when they’re not in use.”
Paladins were famous for resisting temptation, but life was a lot easier when temptation kept at least ten feet away and only offered easy things, like wealth and vengeance and earthly dominion.
You learned better and you got on with things. You learned that you were what you were, and tried to be the best version of that person, because you were never going to be anybody else. And you stopped envying other people because everyone had problems you didn’t know about.
“Madam,” said Istvhan, his voice dropping nearly an octave, “I have made love. I have had sex. I have bedded, rutted, fucked, and on one occasion, with enthusiastic consent and a great deal of oil, I have sodomized, but I have never, not once, canoodled.”
“Getting old is a terrible thing. They say that beats the alternative, though.” “I’m not sure. I never used to hurt myself sleeping.” “Oh gods, yes. You sleep wrong and your neck goes out for a week.” She shook her head. “I’m amazed that sleeping on the ground didn’t lay me up permanently.”
Trust is faith plus predictability.
