That’s a sweet piece,” said Jean, briefly forgetting to be aggravated. “You didn’t snatch that off a street.””No,” said Locke, before taking another deep draught of the warm water in the decanter. “I got it from the neck of the governor’s mistress.””You can’t be serious.””In the governor’s manor.””Of all the -” “In the governor’s bed.””Damned lunatic!””With the governor sleeping next to her.”The night quiet was broken by the high, distant trill of a whistle, the traditional swarming noise of city watches everywhere. Several other whistles joined in a few moments later.”It is possible,” said Locke with a sheepish grin, “that I have been slightly too bold.
Scott Lynch, Red Seas Under Red Skies
