Have you ever read a book that feels like you’re sitting in a smoky old tavern, listening to a mischievous friend spin stories that make you laugh, gasp, and sometimes clutch your chest in worry? That’s exactly what The Lies of Locke Lamora felt like for me. From the very first pages, I was dragged into this gritty, crooked city of Camorr—a place that felt like Venice if it were dressed in crime, shadows, and masks. And right there in the middle of all the schemes was Locke Lamora, this slippery, clever conman who always seemed to be thinking ten steps ahead… until he wasn’t.
The way the book starts, with Locke as a child, hooked me immediately. He’s this scrawny little orphan who already has a brain full of tricks and lies, but the thing is—he’s too smart for his own good. I remember chuckling when the Thiefmaker, the guy running the gang of kids, got so fed up with Locke’s schemes that he literally sold him to Father Chains. That was such a wild moment. Like, imagine being such a handful as a kid that even criminals can’t deal with you! But Father Chains turned out to be perfect for him. Chains pretended to be a blind priest of a god of thieves, but behind that disguise, he was training Locke and the other Gentlemen Bastards to pull off the kind of schemes that made regular thieves look like amateurs. That setup alone had me grinning—this wasn’t going to be about simple pickpocketing; this was about long games, about cons that danced on the edge of art.
The wine-counting con was also one of the most palatable sections of the book to me. Do you remember that? Locke and Jean and the others posing as foreign nobility and defrauding rich merchants by playing to their egos. I could not help laughing at Locke, so impertinent--as though he had strolled sparkling into the world of the great persons of the city, and was throwing out lies so smooth, they nearly purred. And down below all that frolic and biscuit, I had a buttery ache in my gut. It was not only about stealing in Camorr, but about survival under the umbrella of Capa Barsavi, the city boss of crime. And close up in the shadow there lurked the Gray King.
Now, the Gray King’s entrance? Whew. Then the story became dark and the fun began to be dangerous. Locke had hitherto been impeccable in my mind. A smart enough guy not to get caught, a smart enough guy to get away. But the Gray King took away that illusion bit by bit. When he dispatched the Falconer, that Bondsmage, after Locke--I say my heart was sure, I tell you. It was almost impossible to see Locke stripped of his belief, tortured, and brought into the game of another man. It was as though we had beheld the jester at his natural and uncouth underbelly. And Jean, oh Jean. Provided that Locke is the brain, Jean is the heart. Their friendship is among the few literary friendships that are believable, messy, and valuable. But I cried more than once when Jean stood by Locke, particularly when all was going badly.
And then came the blood. The betrayals. The moment when Locke’s carefully constructed cons didn’t matter anymore because the Gray King wasn’t playing by the same rules. He didn’t care about cleverness; he cared about power, about destruction. There’s one scene that still haunts me—the Shark Fight, where Locke was thrown into the water with a sea beast. I honestly thought, “This is it. There’s no way he talks or tricks his way out of this.” But somehow, through that mix of desperation and sheer cunning, he survived. That’s when I realized Locke isn’t just a liar—he’s a survivor.
The crew broke me though. The Gentlemen Bastards were not peripheral characters; they were family. So when they began to fall, when the game of the Gray King ripped them open, it struck home. The killing of Calo and Galdo--I cannot tell how gutted I was. I laughed at them, I cheered them, and they disappeared. This is when the book ceased to be fun to me. It turned out to be a tragedy, this crude awakening that no wit can always preserve those you love.
I was tense by the finish, nearly biting my nails, when Locke came into conflict with the Gray King and the Falconer. I had chills at the manner in which Locke applied his greatest weapon--not power, not magic, but lies and boldness--to reverse the tables in one last stroke. He was bruised, shattered, sorrowful, yet Locke Lamora. Still the Thorn of Camorr.
And after I closed the book, I felt no remorse. I was exhausted, as though I had experienced every hoax, every break-up, every gibe, and every scream. What I found most to my liking was not only the brilliance of Locke, but his weakness. Despite all his lies, the truth about Locke is that he cares too much, and that is his greatest weakness and his greatest strength.
It made me think of masks, games we all play to survive, and what it means when those masks drop. There are occasions when life just rips through our illusions regardless of how smart we are. And just because, as Locke, perhaps we simply continue to lie, continue to survive, since the game does not end until it ends.
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