Red Seas Under Red Skies

Scott Lynch
July 6, 2019
Gentleman Bastard



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“I suspect that drink has made you impulsive.” “Drink makes me see funny; the gods made me impulsive.”
Caldris sighed before continuing, and suddenly looked ten years older. “If it’s a summer’s-end storm coming up on us,” said Caldris, “it’ll be moving north and west, faster than we can sail. We’ll have to pass through it, for we cannot outrun it by beating up to the east. It’ll catch us still, and it’ll only catch us tired. I’ll do my damnedest, but you’d better pray in your cabin tonight for one thing.” “What’s that?” “Cats falling from the bloody sky.”
But in that he was no different from any of the survivors aboard the Red Messenger. As Chains had once said, feeling like you wanted desperately to die was fine evidence that you had yet to do so.
You’re ten pints of crazy in a one-pint glass.
“Come, then! Face Ravelle! The gods have sent your doom, motherfuckers!”
“Mew,” the kitten retorted, locking gazes with him. It had the expression common to all kittens, that of a tyrant in the becoming. I was comfortable, and you dared to move, those jade eyes said. For that you must die.