What kind of knife is this?” Locke held a rounded buttering utensil up for Chains’ inspection. “It’s all wrong. You couldn’t kill anyone with this.

You simply collapsed, sir. In layman's terms, your body revoked its permission for you to continue heaping abuse upon it.

In the glass burrow beneath their feet, the flames began to rise. First the flames, and then the screams

Stand aside, and try not to catch fire if I shed sparks of genius.

It was strange, how readily authority could be conjured with nothing but a bit of strutting jackassery.

When you can't cheat the game, you'd best find a means to cheat the players.

Crooked Warden, I will fear no darkness for the night is yours," muttered Locke, pointing the first two fingers of his left hand into the darkness. The Dagger of the Thirteenth, a thief's gesture against evil. "Your night is my cloak, my shield, my escape from those who hunt to feed the noose. I will fear no evil, for you have made the night my friend." "Bless the Benefactor," said Jean, squeezing Locke's left forearm. "Peace and profit to his children.