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Worst of all, the inner vault is guarded by a live dragon, attended by fifty naked women armed with poisoned spears, each of them sworn to die in Requin's service. All redheads. -You're just making that up, Jean.

Scott Lynch

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Scott Lynch
Age: 46
Born: 1978
Born: April 2
Author
Novelist
Writer
St Paul
Minnesota
Inner
Attended
Service
Spears
Worst
Dragon
Redheads
Dies
Guarded
Vault
Making
Dragons
Vaults
Women
Armed
Sworn
Live
Fifty
Poisoned
Naked
Jean

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When you can't cheat the game, you'd best find a means to cheat the players.
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I think piracy is a bit like drinking. You want to stay out all night doing it, you pay the price the next day.
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Maxilan, darling. Locke raised one eyebrow and smiled. I knew you were driven, but I had no idea you could smoulder. Come, take me now! Jean won't mind he'll avert his eyes like a gentleman.
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To us — richer and cleverer than everyone else!
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Are you smarter than a pig, Locke?” “On occasion,” said Locke. “There are contrary opinions.
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I think it’s fairly common for writers to be afflicted with two simultaneous yet contradictory delusions, the burning certainty that we’re unique geniuses, and the constant fear that we’re witless frauds who are speeding toward epic failure.
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My disinterest in your bullshit is so tangible you could make bricks out of it
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It was strange, how readily authority could be conjured with nothing but a bit of strutting jackassery.
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The water caught the Falselight glimmer like layers of shifting, translucent mirrors and formed split-second works of art in the air, but men cursed it anyway, because it made their heads wet.
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You simply collapsed, sir. In layman's terms, your body revoked its permission for you to continue heaping abuse upon it.
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Advice,' Doña Vorchenza chuckled. 'Advice. The years play a sort of alchemical trick, transmuting one's mutterings to a state of respectability. Give advice at forty and you're a nag. Give it at seventy and you're a sage.
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Cold walls do not a prison make, nor iron bands a bondsman.
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My name's Jean Tannen, and I'm the ambush.
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I'll wager I would have screwed things up regardless. But. . .can you imagine those poor bastards grappling their prey, leaping over the rails, swords in hand, screaming, 'Your cats! Give us all your gods-damned cats!
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