Back when I was first published, people made a lot of comparisons between me and Scott Lynch.

The sentiment was mostly along the lines of "Pat Rothfuss is the next Scott Lynch!"

Here's the thing, Lies of Lock Lamora had come out almost exactly a year before my first book, The Name of the Wind. It was Scott's first book, the first in a fantasy series. The world was gritty and real, and it had knocked everyone over with how good it was.

So I knew it was a flattering comparison, but at the time, I was kinda irked by it. I remember thinking, "Why do I have to be the next Scott Lynch? Why can't I just be the first Pat Rothfuss? I'll probably be a lot better at that, I've got way more experience at it if nothing else...."

Years later I finally got around to reading Lies and enjoyed it. I saw that it was a clever book, and gritty, with a cool world. And there was an orphan boy in it who was a witty, mouthy thief. A while after that, I met Scott and really liked him as well. So I let go of what little residual irritation I had, not that there was very much...

Fast forward to now. This last week I started re-reading Lies, and I was absolutely f***ing *stunned* by how good it is. The construction of it. The language. The world. The cleverness. The wit.

There is nothing I don't like in this book. Seriously. Okay. Fine. One tiny *tiny* quibble.

Even so, do you know how rare it is for me to say that? Right now, in the full flush of this second reading, I think Lies is probably in e in my top ten favorite books ever. Maybe my top five.

It's not really fair to compare the two books. They're different styles. Different subjects. Different worlds.

That said, here's the things that The Lies of Locke Lamora does better than The Name of the Wind.

1. The beginning of his book is stronger than mine.

Seriously. 50 pages into my book, you'll have reached the point where someone is starting to actually tell a story.

50 pages into Lies, you know the main character and are halfway into a f***ing heist.

2. His title is better than mine.

Don't get me wrong. The Name of the Wind is a good title, it's the *right* title for my book. But "The Lies of Lock Lamora" that's a faboo title right there.

And his series title is better than mine too. "Gentleman *******" beats "Kingkiller Chronicles" hands-down.

3. His cussing is better than mine.

Not in real life. In real life I cuss like a sailor. But the language in my books is pretty genteel and tame.

In Lies, Lynch's low-life street thugs are vulgarian virtuosos. This might seem like a little thing, but it's not. It builds the world. It shows character. It helps make the story feel truly, perfectly grubby and real.

Here it is in a nutshell: When I was first published, I was irritated when people compared me to Scott Lynch. Only now do I realize how huge a compliment I was being given.

If you haven't read it, you should. If you have read it, you should probably read it again....

At the height of the long wet summer of the Seventy-seventh Year of Sendovani, the Thiefmaker of Camorr paid a sudden and unannounced visit to the Eyeless Priest at the Temple of Perelandro, desperately hoping to sell him the Lamora boy.

“Have I got a deal for you!” the Thiefmaker began, perhaps inauspiciously.

“Another deal like Calo and Galdo, maybe?” said the Eyeless Priest.

“I’ve still got my hands full training those giggling idiots out of every bad habit they picked up from you and replacing them with the bad habits I need.”

“Now, Chains.” The Thiefmaker shrugged. “I told you they were shit-flinging little monkeys when we made the deal, and it was good enough for you at the—”

“Or maybe another deal like Sabetha?” The priest’s richer, deeper voice chased the Thiefmaker’s objection right back down his throat. “I’m sure you recall charging me everything but my dead mother’s kneecaps for her. I should’ve paid you in copper and watched you spring a rupture trying to haul it all away.”

“Ahhhhhh, but she was special, and this boy, he’s special, too,” said the Thiefmaker. “Everything you asked me to look for after I sold you Calo and Galdo. Everything you liked so much about Sabetha! He’s Camorri, but a mongrel. Therin and Vadran blood with neither dominant. He’s got larceny in his heart, sure as the sea’s full of fish piss. And I can even let you have him at a… a discount.”

The Eyeless Priest spent a long moment mulling this. “You’ll pardon me,” he finally said, “if the suggestion that the minuscule black turnip you call a heart is suddenly overflowing with generosity toward me leaves me wanting to arm myself and put my back against a wall.”

The Thiefmaker tried to let a vaguely sincere expression scurry onto his face, where it froze inevident discomfort. His shrug was theatrically casual. “There are, ah, problems with the boy, yes. But the problems are unique to his situation in my care. Were he under yours, I’m sure they would, ahhhh, vanish.”

“Oh. You have a magic boy. Why didn’t you say so?” The priest scratched his forehead beneath the white silk blindfold that covered his eyes. “Magnificent. I’ll plant him in the f***ing ground and grow a vine to an enchanted land beyond the clouds.”

“Ahhhhh! I’ve tasted that flavor of sarcasm before, Chains.” The Thiefmaker gave an arthritic mock bow. “That’s the sort you spit out as a bargaining posture. Is it really so hard to say that you’re interested?”

The Eyeless Priest shrugged. “Suppose Calo, Galdo, and Sabetha might be able to use a new playmate, or at least a new punching bag. Suppose I’m willing to spend about three coppers and a bowl of piss for a mystery boy. But you’ll still need to convince me that you deserve the bowl of piss. What’s the boy’s problem?”

“His problem,” said the Thiefmaker, “is that if I can’t sell him to you, I’m going to have to slit his throat and throw him in the bay. And I’m going to have to do it tonight.”