#0015: Star Wars: Rogue Planet, by Greg Bear

[orbitaldiamonds]

Star Wars: Rogue Planet
by Greg Bear

p.36 "I do small favors for certain people," Tarkin said. "I once balanced these favors between opposing sides. Lately, my efforts have become a bit more lopsided. Balance is no longer necessary."

p.76 "Blood carvers are an artistic people," Sienar said. "Refresh my memory, but the most famous product from Batorine is sculpture... carved from the bright red wood of the indigenous blood tree?"
     "It has a double meaning," Ke Daiv said. "Assassination, too, is a kind of sculpting, chipping away what is not needed."

p.121 "The planet is named Zonama," Gann said. "The living world that covers it is named Sekot. This is a small part of Sekot, as are the boras around and behind us, and, we believe, as are we who live here. To be worthy to fly a piece of Sekot, one of our ships, you must tune yourself to our way. You must acknowledge the Magister and his role in our life and history, and you must acknowledge union with Sekot. It's not an easy course--and there are real dangers. The power of Sekot is awesome. Do you accept?"

p.157 The title Magister implied someone of accomplishment, of dignity and bearing, and for all his searching the landscape, Obi-Wan received no signs of any impressive human personality.

p.167 Gann followed reluctantly, as if entering a shop full of feminine undergarments.

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#0016: The Last DragonLord, by Joanne Bertin

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The Last Dragonlord
by Joanne Bertin

p.50-51 Linden rocked from foot to foot. Oh, bloody damn indeed. First they had to stand about in this stuffy little room while some pompous ass brayed, then the herald would announce them, giving their human and dragon names, one by one. Then he would present the council--one by one.
     What idiocy. They'd met the same nobles last night. But now it had to be done with the proper ceremony and formality.
     Bother the ceremony. He wanted to get started.
     He pushed back his sleeves. Wretched things, always in the way. He wished they didn't have to wear the regalia for these meetings. He'd had enough of it at the welcoming festivities. He'd spent the entire evening waiting for the wide sleeves to fall into the gravy. They usually did; sometimes he thought they had a mind of their own.
     And these blasted tight breeches pinched.

p.60 "hadn't enough brains to bait a fishook with"

p.67 He pulled the only other chair from its place against the wall and set it backwards before her desk. He straddled it, arms crossed along the top, his long legs stuck out to either side.

p.75 Had the kitchen cat settled itself upon the council's table and lectured them on the differences between the nine hells of Yerrin belief and the three that Cassorin priests held to, the council members could not have looked more surprised.

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