According to some, heroic deaths are admirable things. I've never been
convinced by this argument, mainly because, no matter how cool, stylish, composed, unflappable, manly, or defiant you are, at the end of the day you're also dead. Which is a little too permanent for my liking.
Freedom is an illusion. It always comes at a price.”
One magician demanded I show him an image of the love of his life. I rustled up a mirror.
A dozen more questions occurred to me. Not to mention twenty-two possible solutions to each one, sixteen resulting hypotheses and counter-theorems, eight abstract speculations, a quadrilateral equation, two axioms, and a limerick. That's raw intelligence for you.
Can you define "plan" as "a loose sequence of manifestly inadequate observations and conjectures, held together by panic, indecision, and ignorance"? If so, it was a very good plan.
And then, as if written by the hand of a bad novelist, an incredible thing happened.
Hey, we've all got problems, chum. I'm overly talkative. You look like a field of buttercups in a suit.
Watch where you leave your victims! I stubbed my toe on that.
That did it. I'd gone through a lot in the past few days. Everyone I met seemed to want a piece of me: djinn, magicians, humans...it made no difference. I'd been summoned, manhandled, shot at, captured, constricted, bossed about and generally taken for granted. And now, to cap it all, this bloke is joining in too, when all I'd been doing was quietly trying to kill him.