“Raoden looked up at his friend. "We're not dead, Galladon, and we're not damned. We're just unfinished.”

“What was that?" Galladon demanded."I think I just destroyed the biology section" Raoden replied with wonder.”

“Raoden regarded himself in a small piece of polished steel. His shirt was yellow dyed with blue stripes, his trousers were bright red, and his vest a sickly green. Over all, he looked like some kind of confused tropical bird. His only consolation was that as silly he looked, Galladon was much worse.The large, dark-skinned Dula looked down at his pink and light green clothing with a resigned expression."Don't look so sour, Galladon." Raoden said with a laugh. "Aren't you Dulas supposed to be fond of garish clothing?“ "That's the aristocracy—the citizens and republicans. I'm a farmer; pink isn't exactly what I consider a flattering color."Then he looked up at Raoden with narrow eyes. "If you make even one comment about my resembling a kathari fruit, I will take off this tunic and hang you with it."Raoden chuckled. "Someday I'm going to find that scholar who told me all Dulas were even-tempered, then force him to spend a week locked in a room with you, my friend.”

“Raoden turned to regard the large Dula. "What does it matter? It's not like we have anything pressing to do. It's actually quite pleasant up here—you should just sit back and enjoy it."An ominous crash came from the clouds above them, and Raoden felt a wet drop splat against his head."Fantastic," Galladon grumbled. "I'm enjoying myself already.”

“They tried boiling books, but that didn't work very well.""I'm surprised they haven't tried boiling one another.""Oh, it's been tried," Galladon said. "Fortunately. something happens to us during the Shaod—apparently the flesh of a dead man doesn't taste too good. Kolo? In fact, it's so violently bitter that no one can keep it down.""It's nice to see that cannibalism has been so logically ruled out as an option," Raoden said dryly”

“What I'm trying to say is that you don't understand a man until you understand what makes him do what he does. Every man is a hero in his own story, Princess. Murderers don't believe that they're to blame for what they do. Thieves, they think they deserve the money they take. Dictators, they believe they have the right—for the safety of their people and the good of the nation—to do whatever they wish. . . . The truth is, most people who do what you'd call "wrong" do it for what they call "right" reasons. Only mercenaries make any sense. We do what we're paid to do. That's it. Perhaps that's why people look down on us so. We're the only ones who don't pretend to have higher motives. . . In a way, we're the most honest men you'll ever meet.”

“So, using his pride like a shield against despair, dejection, and-most important—self-pity, Raoden raised his head to stare damnation in the eyes.”