Beneath my breath I continued my conversation with God. As usual, He did not trouble Himself to defend His Works to me. My fault for being a woman. - Glen Cook

Smeds did not give a rat’s ass who ran things as long as they left him alone. Most people felt that way.

But, no. It was too late. Fortune’s die was cast. The cruel game had to be played to its end, no matter what anyone wanted.

This soiree must have been so big that if held today, we’d call it a war. Or at least a riot. On and on. So-and-so of such-and-such, with Lady Who’s-is, sixteen titles, four of which made sense. By the time the heralds finished proclaiming everyone, the party must have died of encroaching senility.