The Republic of Thieves

Scott Lynch
July 25, 2019
Gentleman Bastard



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“I can’t name the poison that’s killing your friend. But the one that’s killing you is called hope.”
“Um, meaning what, exactly?” said Locke. Butterflies instantly came to life in his stomach, and the little bastards were heavily armed.
“I don’t get it,” said Locke, gently tugging at the scruff of Regal’s neck. “I never even liked cats all that much.” “Surely you realize,” said Patience, “that cats are no great respecters of human opinion.”
The fact that Locke didn’t die instantly may be taken as proof that a human male can survive having every last warm drop of blood within his body rush instantly to the vicinity of his cheeks.
“We seem to be well-kept,” said Jean with a yawn, “excepting a barbaric absence of coffee.” “Endure for another day, Master Tannen, and you’ll have all the foul black misuse of water you can drink.”
“Roots are for vegetables, Locke, not criminals. Chains had enough blind spots of his own, thank you very much. The last thing I ever could have done was prance along hand in hand to your pale imitation!
Optics in place, nose plaster adjusted, he used his suite’s little mirror to affirm that his powerful need for coffee was plainly visible. Alas.
“Three things must you take up and three things must you lose before you die: a key, a crown, a child.” Patience pushed her hood up over her head. “You will die when a silver rain falls.”