"My name," said Locke Lamora, "is Lukas Fehrwight."
The voice was clipped and precise, scrubbed of Locke's natural inflections. He layered the hint of a harsh Vadran accent atop a slight mangling of his native Camorri dialect like a barkeep mixing liquors. "I am wearing clothes that will be full of sweat in several minutes. I am dumb enough to walk around Camorr without a blade of any sort."
"Also," he said with a hint of ponderous regret, "I am entirely fictional."
"I'm very sorry to hear that, Master Fehrwight," said Calo, "but at least we've got your boat and your horse ready for your grand excursion."
"My attendant will be along any moment," Locke/Fehrwight said as he/they stepped aboard the barge. "His name is Graumann, and he too suffers from a slight case of being imaginary."
"Merciful gods," said Calo, "it must be catching."