He was like a man swatting mosquitoes while ignoring the gash in his leg, an artery open and throbbing gushes of blood onto the floor.

“The more alone you are,” Waxillium said softly, “the more important it is to have someone you can rely upon.”

But the mark of a great man is one who knows when to set aside the important things in order to accomplish the vital ones.”

Millions lived here, maybe as many as five million.

“Ignore him,” Waxillium said. “Trust me. He’s like a rash. The more you scratch him, the more irritating he gets.” “Ouch,”

amenable?

What did it say about him that he’d rather face down a nest of outlaws—outgunned and outmanned—than meet with Lord Harms and his daughter?

he threw on his mistcoat, a long, enveloping garment like a duster with a thick collar and cuffed sleeves.

constables