"Was the real Shenkt even in the city?"
"Who says there even is a real Shenkt? People like things that are simple. Black and white. Good and evil. They want to make a choice and tell themselves they were right, but as his Eminence is fond of saying, the real world is painted in greys. The truth is complicated, full of mixed emotions and blurred outcomes and each way bets. The truth is a hard sell."
They'd reached the ship now, an unappealing tub in need of a good careening, but it was sailing the right way. The two Practicals set down Vick's trunk with a clatter. One unceremoniously planted his arse on it while he stretched out his back. The other pulled his mask aside to wipe his sweaty face.
"It helps to give people a straight forward story with villains to boo and heroes to root for." Vick narrowed her eyes as she looked out to sea. "In my experience, that means making them up."
It doesn't matter how sharp you are, no one can be ready all the time. Something flashed past: one of the two Practicals. He didn't make a sound, he didn't have time. He just flew a dozen strides and crashed into the side of a boat, staving in the planking in a cloud of splinters.
Tallow shrank back, hands over his head.
Vick whipped round to see the other Practical tumble across the Quay, limbs bonelessly flopping. She caught a glimpse of a black figure against the rising sun, coming impossibly fast. She was just raising her arm - she hardly even knew what to do - when it was caught with irresistible strength. She was jerked off her feet, the world reeled, and the quayside smashed her in the chest and drove her breath out in a choking wheeze. She saw boots through the blur; well-worn, old work boots. Then something was over her face. Darkness, and her own booming breath. Hands tied behind her, scrape of her toes as she was dragged along under the armpits, hiss over the cobbles, clack clack clack over the boards of a wharf. She gathered herself, trying to think through the throbbing in her head, the burning ache in her shoulder. She might only get one chance. She might not even get one chance. She shoved a boot down, tried to twist free, but she was gripped tight as barrel bands. Pain stabbed up her arm, and made her gasp through gritted teeth.
"Better not," said a man's voice in her ear. A soft, bland, bored sounding voice.
~ The Trouble With Peace by Joe Abercrombie
