Three Parts Dead by Max Gladstone

'To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead.'

Bertrand Russell - Marriage and Morals (1929)

That use of the word parts in that Bertrand Russell quote should be read as quarters. Fearing life is to be three quarters dead already. Undoubtedly the source of the title for Max Gladstone's debut novel Three Parts Dead, it offers some interesting insight into the purpose behind this legal thriller vis`-a-vis´ fantasy.

Kos the god of fire, is dead. But, in Alt Coulumn, death doesn't have to be permanent. No longer responding to His faithful nor fulfilling His contracts, the firm of Kelethres, Albrecht, and Ao have been called in to represent the Church in Kos's resurrection and restructuring of His obligations. Without Him, the metropolis’s steam generators will fail, its trains will cease running, and its four million citizens will riot.

". . .When a god makes deals with other people, deities or Craftsmen, they borrow his power, his blood, through those holes. Out when it's paid out, and in when it returns, increased by the terms of the contract."

What appeared on the surface to be an accidental death is in truth much more and Tara, a first-year associate necromancer, soon finds herself in the middle of a murder investigation.

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Slow Apocalypse by John Varley

November is almost here, which for those of us in the United States means election time. It's easy to get caught up in the rhetoric that's espoused at the conventions. What springs from that is a crazy notion that the two American political parties are separated by a legion of issues from abortion, to fiscal responsibility, to same sex marriage, to defense policy.

While it's certainly true that the extremes of the two parties disagree on most of these items, many of those who identify closer to center find themselves separated by one fundamental ideology. Democrats believe government creates opportunities, and Republicans believe it restricts them. Who's right? I've no idea and both parties often find themselves in hypocritical boxes (Pro-life policies for example seem more big government, than not). But, I often wish the debate could center around this issue because there's a lot of great academic work that's been done from both perspectives.

Why do I bring this up? John Varley's Slow Apocalypse, released September 4, contains a lot of political back drop, particularly as it relates to the government's role. Not in a traditional political sense, but asking the question of when everything goes to pieces, to whom can I turn to put it back together? Is it the government? Or is me? Varley answers the question resoundingly with the latter, demonstrating the failures of of the 'system' and the weaknesses it has foisted on us all.

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The City's Son by Tom Pollock

Tom Pollock writes beautiful prose. It's the first thing I noticed about his debut novel, The City's Son. So good in fact, that it buoys a straight forward young adult urban fantasy to new heights. It's a rare novel of that ilk that's able to hook me enough to give it a full run. I was pleased that not only did it engage me enough to finish the novel, but I found myself coming back to it time and again despite finding the plot just short of boring.

I admit that last sentence is about the biggest back handed compliment I've ever given someone. Guilty as charged, however, it's not that simple. Allow me to explain.

Beth is a trouble maker, daughter of a Hackney widower with a penchant for artistic tagging, and she's pulling her best friend Pen Khan down with her. After a rough encounter with corrupt school administrators, Beth runs away from her endlessly grieving father. In London's back alleys, she sees something she should never have seen. Caught up in the divine forces on which the city is built, she finds herself in a war between London's deep history and her ruthlessly modern future.

The architecture grew darker, stranger: a heavily graffiti'd old cinema building, its neon sign long-dead and its doors shuttered; an electricity sub-station half-hidden behind a cloud of razor-wire, and everywhere, the cranes massed on the skyline like cruel sentinels.

City's Son is a love story, both in the traditional sense and otherwise. Beth is struggling through life. She's a teenager who lacks direction. Her dad is checked out. She's falling through the cracks. Her brilliance is unappreciated by anyone other than her best friend. Pollock guides the reader through her awakening to the world outside her own skull--her love for the people around her and their love for her. Not love as excretion as so often is the case in juvenile fiction (notice, I didn't say young adult as adult fiction can often be more juvenile this regard than the younger variety), rather love as acceptance, both of herself and others.

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The Blinding Knife by Brent Weeks

Brent Weeks has a blurb on Terry Brooks' UK edition of Dark Legacy of Shannara: Bloodfire Quest. I'm sure that's a surreal moment for Weeks who was aided by a blurb from Brooks on his debut novel, Way of Shadows:

‘I was mesmerized from start to finish. Unforgettable characters, a plot that kept me guessing, non-stop action and the kind of in-depth storytelling that makes me admire a writer’s work’ — Terry Brooks on The Way of Shadows

On the back of that blurb and a brilliant marketing strategy from Orbit, Weeks' first trilogy was a huge hit (I'm sure it had something to do with it being good too). Since then, Weeks has been considered a rising star in the genre, further cemented by The Black Prism debuting at #23 on the New York Times Bestseller list.

Despite Weeks' commercial success, I wasn't quite ready to coronate him one of the heirs apparent to the epic fantasists of the 1980's and 90's. I felt that, while a tremendous creator, he hadn't yet come into his own as a storyteller. After finishing The Blinding Knife, his follow-up to Black Prism and the second installment in the Lightbringer series, I don't hesitate to grant him that status. His newest novel is a tremendous achievement and a logical next step for him as a writer.

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A Series of Short Audio Reviews

Having been on a work trip, I find myself spending a lot of time in the car commuting and driving to various meetings. The result is a lot of time with audio books. It's been a nice break and an opportunity to catch up on a few things I haven't been able to get into in print. The following three books are what I've recently finished. Before my trip is over I suspect to finish two more, John Steakley's Armor, and probably Ellen Kushner's Swordspoint. 

Bitter Seeds by Ian Tregellis

I don't know about anyone else, but I'm pretty much done with World War II. It's just been done to death, hasn't it? The History Channel might as well be Hitler Channel for crying out loud. Or at least that's what I said before I listened to Ian Tregellis' Bitter Seeds.

Beginning in the early stages of World War II, Bitter Seeds shows the secret history of the conflict between Germany's Gotterelektrongruppe (Nazi mutants, a la X-Men) and Britain's warlocks. Tregellis uses four points of view, two from each side, to tell an immense story in an intensely personal way. It works beautifully, interweaving real events with invented ones, while never losing site of the characters that drive them.

Structurally, the novel reminds me very much of Stina Leicht's Of Blood and Honey. They both tell a story over a long period of time, jumping in at appropriate moments in the characters' lives and then jumping forward to the next. It makes for a disjointed story at times, but allows the author to only show the important bits. Tregellis also writes incredibly descriptive prose without being verbose, making even his minor characters come alive. Narrator Kevin Pariseau takes all that and uses it to great effect, creating one of the best audio book presentations I've ever listened to.

Bitter Seeds is a novel that should appeal to fans of almost any genre. Even in its most reality bending moments it feels grounded, a history that's just out of reach. I highly recommend it in any format.

The Hammer and the Blade by Paul S. Kemp

No matter how much I tried, I couldn't make myself like Paul S. Kemp's The Hammer and the Blade.  It's a well put together novel, with entertaining characters and a good enough plot. Yet, even with the masterful narration of Nick Podehl, it couldn't overcome odd pacing, moments of sheer boredom, and plot devices that robbed the characters of agency. Oh, and a first chapter that I bounced on four times before finally getting past it.

Although I mention a host of issues, the one that most frustrates me is the pace and structure of the narrative. The novel begins with Nix and Egil (or Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, or Locke and Jean, or Royce and Hadrian, et. al,) in a tomb, robbing it of the appropriate treasure and narrowly escaping with their lives. It's dungeon crawling at its finest--funny, mildly horrifying, and pulse pounding. It's also the last time the reader gets to enjoy that dynamic until the novel's penultimate chapter. Instead, Kemp gives the reader the machinations of a morally bankrupt sorcerer or Egil and Nix sitting in a bar drinking, puttering around blasted landscapes, and all the while grousing. In either case it induced in me long stretches of disinterest.

All that goes to say, it didn't work for me. I wouldn't discourage anyone from trying it themselves; it's been well received by hosts of reviewers I trust. My negativity could very well have been a result of wrong place and time for The Hammer and the Blade. I certainly won't hesitate to give Kemp another shot with his next novel despite my frustrations with this one.

Starship Troopers by Robert Heinlein

Can you believe I've never read Starship Troopers? Me either! It wasn't the book I was expecting, bearing almost no resemblance to the film. I should have known better having read several of Robert Heinlein's other works.

Told in the first person by Juan Rico, a recently graduated teenager who enlists in the military, Starship Troopers recounts his experience from high school graduation to commissioned officer in the Mobile Infantry. The result is a no-nonsense look at a future dominated by the military, where humanity has embraced notions of duty and responsibility to his common man. I found it both immensely moving and horrifying in equal parts.

The vast majority of the narrative centers around Rico's training and conditioning, first in bootcamp, and later his memories of lessons taught in History and Moral Philosophy, a mandatory class every high school student is required to take. Throughout Heinlein waxes about social mores and the human condition--the things that separate us from other living organisms. It's fascinating and stimulating, often making my mind wander away from the story itself as I pondered the implications.

For Heinlein these mind expanding moments are absolutely vital to the success of the novel because the narrative itself is bone dry (a fact only enhanced by Lloyd James' detached reading). Rico shows little development as a character, often reacting to stimuli as designed, but rarely taking the time to ponder its implications. Instead, Heinlein leaves that to the reader. Very reminiscent of Ayn Rand's work, Starship Troopers isn't about the story, or even the characters, its about demonstrating a line of thought, a philosophical back and forth with his reader. Just like Rand's work, the reader's appreciation of it will vary greatly depending on the level of common ground he can find with author.

Either way, it's a vital piece of science fiction history and a novel I recommend wholeheartedly to anyone interested in how the genre got where it is today.

Wards of Faerie by Terry Brooks

I owe Terry Brooks a lot, so much so that I hesitate to write this review. In 1991, I read The Sword of Shannara and opened the door to two decades of imagination. I still rank it as one of my favorite books ever written. I went on to read Elfstones of Shannara and Wishsong of Shannara, both superior novels to the original, as well as the subsequent Heritage of Shannara quartet, a spectacular follow-up series to my memory. Thirteen years later I haven't read any further. Encouraged by Aidan Moher of A Dribble of Ink to give Brooks another go, I picked up Wards of Faerie to see where the wind would take me.

Given that fourteen Shannara books filled the gap between The Talismans of Shannara and Wards of Faerie, I was moderately concerned that I'd be lost among the history of Brooks' creations. I'm happy report that fear unfounded. Brooks newest novel is an ideal place to jump back in with only a few knowledge gaps left unfilled. Unfortunately, I can also report that it is quintessential Brooks with all the good and bad connotations such a description elicits.

Aphenglow Elessedil, a Druid of Paranor, searches through the elven libraries for hints of lost magic. The Druid mission is, after all, to find lost magic for the good of all. She comes across a journal written by an obscure royal child a thousand years ago that tells of the elfstones, now lost to history. While the text reveals little about their whereabouts, Aphenglow believes she has found the first hints to uncovering the legendary elven magic. Beset by assassins and those who would keep the stones hidden, she returns to Paranor to rally the Druids to her discovery.

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The Great Bazaar and Brayan's Gold by Peter V. Brett

I'm going to keep this short.

Peter Brett's two novellas, published by Subterranean Press, fill in some of the time gaps in his first novel The Warded Man. Where Brett's novels are decidedly epic fantasy, both of his shorts ignore scope and grandiose machinations in favor of the here and now. Sword and sorcery is often described as a self-interested protagonist who does what needs doing while killing monsters. In this case it fits, but I would argue that the difference is much more about narrative pace and structure than any particular story element. In both senses, The Great Bazaar and Brayan's Gold are decidedly sword and sorcery.

Great Bazaar, the first of the two novellas, fills in a gap of time that was left unexplained in Warded Man. It provides the method by which Arlen gains the financial backing for his later trips into the desert. The tale is essentially a quest to find a deserted city destroyed by demons decades previous and return with the beautiful pottery it was once famed for. It's not particularly revelatory for Arlen, but it's a fantastic look at Abban's character, the shamed and wealthy Krasnian merchant who becomes so significant in The Desert Spear.

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King of Thorns - Mark Lawrence

Prince of Thorns, Mark Lawrence's 2011 debut novel, was not well received in all corners, occasionally offending reader sensibilities. Jorg, the protagonist and narrator throughout the series, is a self interested often bloodthirsty teenager who's ruled equally by his emotions and lack thereof. Those hoping for a redemptive tale, or an ultimately apologetic tone from the author, found themselves woefully bereft. Deeply disturbing, and written with a haunting elegance, I called it the best fantasy debut of 2011. To say I was eagerly anticipating its sequel, King of Thorns, would be an understatement akin to George R.R. Martin sells a few books.

Jorg, no longer a wandering prince in search of revenge, has taken a throne. Not his father's or the Empire's, but it's a start. The path he carved has made him visible to those who share his lust for power, and now a six nation army marches toward his gates, led by a man far more suited to rule than he. An honorable man would lay down his sword and join the fledgling Empire in peace, leaving his kingdom whole and his people alive. That doesn't sound like Jorg, does it?

While Prince of Thorns was structured with frequent flashbacks, jumping between the past and present, there was a pace and direction to the novel that was clear, concise, and full of intent. The recollections merely filled in the back story, without directly participating in the primary narrative. King of Thorns is murkier. Instead of showing Jorg's past and how it influenced his future as he did in Prince of Thorns, Lawrence opts to merge two time periods into a single narrative with the present influencing the past and vice versa.

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Dauntless - Jack Campbell

Jack Campbell came highly recommended. Myke Cole, author of Shadow Ops: Control Point, instructed an entire room of people at a recent convention to read Dauntless. Putting aside the fact that Cole and Campbell share an agent and a publisher, his strong opinion on the subject piqued my interest. Of course, it didn't hurt that my fellow bloggers Rob and Kathryn of SFFWorld like wise urged me. What I discovered is quintessential military science fiction that extrapolates naval combat into the vacuum of space with a real knack for storytelling despite archetypal characters, an extremely linear plot, and workmanlike prose.

Read that last sentence again. Dauntless is uninspired in a lot of ways except one and it's a big one. It's an absolute blast to read. In fact, it's such an entertaining read that I don't hesitate to call it the perfect cozy novel for the military science fiction fan.

It's essentially the story of a war between the Alliance and the Syndicate. As the name would suggest, the Syndicate functions something like an evil corporation who cares nothing for the cogs in the wheel, just the products it produces. Meanwhile, the Alliance is a functioning government by the people, for the people, or so the rhetoric goes in a story told entirely from their point of view.

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Libriomancer - Jim C. Hines

Before I talk about Jim C. Hines' newest novel Libriomancer, I wanted to briefly address his recent decision to withdraw from a Reddit Ask Me Anything (AMA) session with the Fantasy Subreddit community. The Fantasy Subreddit is made up of nearly 18,000 highly engaged readers. It's a wide ranging group of fans, some of a more literary bent and some Sandercrombiefuss fanboys of the highest order. I've been a member for a few months now and I've really enjoyed my experience there.

Hines backed out of his AMA when a thread, in an unrelated Subreddit, came to his attention. The thread was providing a forum for rapists to discuss their crime. It's a disturbing series of comments. So many comments when I can't imagine anyone being interested in reading it. In that way, I support Hines' decision; he's long been an advocate for the awareness of violence against women. His decision regarding the AMA is wholly consistent with his position. I'm also disappointed that the result of his decision was a loss for the Fantasy Subreddit, although I in no way begrudge it.

Putting that aside, I think the situation raises important questions. Questions that will only become more prevalent in an ever expanding on-line world. On a massive site like Reddit, which prides itself on providing an unfiltered mechanism for discussion, how do we hold separate units accountable? Do we punish users completely unrelated to the material we find offensive? How do we regulate it? Should we regulate it?

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Three Short (Not)Reviews - Continuing Series Edition

I tend to write long reviews for everything I read, but I've found that difficult, particularly with second and third book in a series. From time to time I'm going to do posts like this one where I bundle a bunch of reviews together. Most of them will be part of a series, but occasionally I'll throw a standalone in as well. I'll also write up novels in this space that I didn't finish (very rare) and I'll try to explain why without actually reviewing it. Enjoy!

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Suited by Jo Anderton

Last year's Debris was a fascinating debut novel. In it, Anderton developed a world that reminded me of Brandon Sanderson's Mistborn, particularly in the mystery surrounding the world's mechanics. Her main character was a powerful woman, cast down from the heights of society to work in the dreary underbelly of a city literally falling apart. The second novel, Suited, picks up soon after the end of the first, suffering from middle book syndrome and falling short of its predecessor by a reasonable margin.

Far more action oriented, having already built the mystery of the world and plot in Debris, Suited is the story of Anderton's protagonist taking control of her life and new found abilities. Despite the increased agency, and the illusion of activity, there doesn't seem to be a ton of progress to the overall plot. Instead, it sets up a final show down in a third book and a reveal of the villain behind it all.

However, it's my understanding that Anderton isn't under contract for the third book. I always find that disquieting in cases where the story is so clearly unfinished. I'd certainly like to see what happens in the series conclusion, but I don't know if I'll be writing letters to Angry Robot HQ demanding it.



Caliban's War by James S.A. Corey

Caliban, one of the antagonists in William Shakespeare's The Tempest, and also a moon of Uranus, is a word that never occurs in the text of Caliban's War. Instead, the title is an acknowledgement to the Shakespeare character, defined as a once controllable monster who turns on its master. In this case, the monster is the alien protomolecule. Loose on the Martian moon Ganymede, Captain James Holden and his crew are tasked with trying to stop it.

Much more a space opera than the noir horror that personified Leviathan Wakes, Corey's sequel moves at a slower pace. The protomolecule remains the MacGuffin, but the conflict in the novel is between humans as the different political factions come to grips with a seemingly all-powerful presence in their midst. The result is a far more nuanced story that will call to mind the skills Daniel Abraham (part of the James S.A. Corey writing team) honed in his Long Price Quartet series.

Caliban's War is the natural next step from Leviathan Wakes, superior in almost every facet. I suspect mileage may vary for readers who will pine for the Detective Miller chapters and their noir sensibility.

Roughly eleven months to go until the next installment. I can't wait.



The Wanderers by Paula Brandon

I began Paula Brandon's Veiled Isles Trilogy last year with The Traitor's Daughter. Mocked up like a historical romance, the novel offered far more than appeared on the surface. Putting aside the hatchet job Random House did on marketing, I said,

'Brandon's debut is high fantasy with a sprawling plot, political machinations, complex systems of magic, all of which manifest themselves in themes that both men and women will very much enjoy. To someone looking for romance they're going to be sorely disappointed.'

It had me very excited to read the second book in the series, The Ruined City, which continued some of the promise from the first, while simultaneously descending into a somewhat tedious travelogue. The central female character, Jianna, also fell into the 'hopeless female' trap that sapped my investment in her half of the narrative. I held out hope that The Wanderers would return to form. Sadly, it did not. Continuing at pace until the final chapters, Brandon's plot unravels into a neatly arranged conclusion that lacks any tension, topped by one of the more blatant examples of deus ex machina I've seen.

As I read the final volume I found myself comparing it in my head to some odd combination of KJ Parker's characters and Diana Gabaldon's style. Unfortunately, neither of those two glowing comparisons hold water when the plot fails to carry any of its own.

Sharps - K.J. Parker (with mini-interview)

KJ Parker has a new novel. May the heavens part and the angels rejoice. In novels past Parker has given readers stories about "...economics, alchemy, blacksmithing, armor-proofing, bow-making (and fletching, and archery in general...), siege equipment, volcanoes, charcoal and buttons", to quote Pornokitsch. In Sharps, fencing is the name of the game, with a side order of détente. It's a wholly engrossing addition to the Parker library, providing a tremendous entry point for new readers, while falling just short of Parker's best.

An uneasy truce has been called between Permia and Scheria, two neighboring kingdoms with four decades of bad blood between them. The war has been long and brutal, punctuated by the wholesale flooding of a major city courtesy of a Scherian General subsequently dubbed the Irrigator. With a legitimate chance for peace, it's time for an olive branch, a coming together of two countries over a shared passion -- fencing. In this way, Sharps reflects real world history, namely the end of World War II and the following rise and fall of tensions between the United States and the Soviet Union.

I suspect that the forty year mark for the war between Permia and Scheria was hardly coincidence for Parker, as the same number of years characterizes the length of the Cold War. Likewise, some of the tensest moments occurred every four years at the Summer Olympics. It seems an odd spark, but not all countries saw the Olympics as a place for competition, instead favoring it as a validation of an ideology. Sharps take this notion and exploits it.

Fencing, in Scheria, is an art form, a sporting duel with blunted instruments. Thanks to the Irrigator they won the war and with it a belief in their superiority. When they form a team of fencers to send into Permia for the "peace tour" it's with an absolute belief in victory. So much so that it's viewed as an exhibition of Scherian supremacy, not a genuine competition. Reflecting that, the Scherian team isn't exactly the cream of the crop as it relates to fencing, including a alcoholic fencing champion, a murdering nobleman, the lesser son of the Irrigator, a woman who refuses to marry, and coached by an aging fencer turned businessman who's in so far over his head he can't tell which way is up.

A grosse messer.

The Permians fight with sharpened blades to first blood. Rather than favoring the elegant art form of fencing, they prefer the messer, a short bladed weapon whose only purpose is raw aggression. In short, the narrative that the Scherians hoped to create falls hopelessly short in the face of reality -- true war between equally committed parties assures only mutual destruction.

These kinds of extended metaphors are Parker's money-maker, so to speak. It's the hallmark of a Parker novel, abstracting complex ideas from the most mundane of activities. Unique from previous novels, Sharps uses an activity that resonates with fantasy readers more so that any other, sword fights. For once, describing a Parker novel doesn't involve selling the reader on reading on lathes or mortars and pestles. This makes it Parker's most marketable novel to date, and potentially the novel that propels the author into the upper echelons genredom.

That said, Sharps isn't Parker's best novel, an opinion driven largely by a lack of clarity as to the motivations behind many of the characters actions. Perhaps a commentary on the nature of war and conflict, or the "invisible hand" to steal an economics term, I found it more frustrating than intriguing. I could see many new readers coming to the novel for the sex appeal (swords) and find themselves a tad perplexed by a very twisty web of political machination. I suspect that Parker's exceptional characterizations and perfectly precise prose will overcome those difficulties for most, but even this dedicated fan could have done with a bit more of Parker's typical directness that's been so prevalent in previous works.

I still consider Sharps to be one of the better novels I read this year, just not the best KJ Parker novel I've read this year (Devices and Desires holds the latter distinction). Parker is a magnificent writer and one I insist everyone try to read as soon as possible. Sharps is a good place to start for new fans, but I wouldn't hesitate to start with The Folding Knife or any of the previous trilogies as well. In other words, just start reading. Please.

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Below is a mini-interview from a series of questions I sent to KJ Parker via Orbit Books. Only a few of my questions were answered, but it's my understanding several other blogs will be running answers to questions as well and Orbit will be collecting them at weeks end. Keep your eyes peeled.

Justin: In an article you wrote for Subterranean, “Cutting Edge Technology: The Life and Sad Times of the Western Sword,” you talk quite a bit about how swords have evolved, and why. In Sharps there are four types of sword used by the fencers – the longsword, smallsword, rapier, and messer. The first three are mentioned in your essay, but not the last. Yet it is the weapon most intertwined with the narrative. Where does the messer fit in the history of the sword?

KJP: The messer doesn’t really have a place in the aristocratic family tree of the Western sword. It was a farm tool. Messer is just the German for ‘knife’. The grosse messer was a large version of the everyday utility knife. A modern analogy would be the Nepalese khukuri, or the bowie knife on the American frontier. Humans being as they are, they tended to turn their cutting tools on each other in moments of stress. As with the khukuri or the bowie, the messer doesn’t naturally lend itself to defensive plays – it was designed to cut things, not to ward off blows or be hidden behind, unlike the purpose-designed weapons of the upper classes, whose design is all about still being alive at the end of the fight. Because a purely intuitive fight with messers would inevitably be short and lead to mutually assured destruction, extremely complex and sophisticated combat techniques evolved to enable messer fighters to survive encounters (if you get no help from the weapon, you have to try harder). A considerable literature on the messer survives from 15th century Germany – there’s a complete manual illustrated by Albrecht Durer, no less. I stole the line “Here they fight with messers; God help them” from Talhofer’s manual; it was that line that gave me the idea for the book. For me, the messer stands for functional savagery, the desire to actually hurt people, as against the more civilized weapons, which represent a desire to win (you can’t be said to have won if you’re dead or in bits) I guess that’s why Addo, who deliberately loses at chess, starts off as a complete no-hoper with the messer, and then evolves a way of subverting it to achieve victory with the minimum of slaughter.

Justin: I've found inherent self-interest to be one of the hallmark traits of characters throughout your different novels. From Vaatzes in the Engineer Trilogy to Basso in The Folding Knife to The Irrigator in Sharps. All of these individuals will do almost anything to someone opposing their ambition/desire. It rings true to me. What attracts you to writing these kinds of characters? Do you believe in altruism?

KJP: I believe in altruism; to acknowledge its existence isn’t necessarily the same thing as approving of it unreservedly. Altruism, like most good intentions, has a nasty habit of being transmuted by the law of unintended consequences into an instrument of havoc and misery. A fair proportion of the Conquistadors and the 19th century Imperialists were sincere altruists, honestly believing that they had a duty to save heathen souls from the everlasting bonfire.

True unalloyed altruism is also quite rare. I’m rather more interested in alloyed motivations, driving conflicted characters operating in the Demilitarised Zone between good and evil.

Justin: Having read quite a bit of your past work, Sharps seems to be the novel that most clearly indicates that your novels are set in the same world. Can you confirm that?

Parker: “Set in the same world” – hm. If so (which is not admitted), there’s no intention to create a coherent historical narrative in the manner of, say, Asimov’s Foundation (which is something I would rather like to do, at some stage). If it is the same world, then each sequence of events is separated from the others by several centuries; the Mezentine rapiers in Sharps are irreplaceable antiques, rather as a Byzantine-made artifact would’ve been in the seventeenth century.

Year Zero - Rob Reid

In 1999, I was a freshman in college at the University of California, Santa Barbara. We Gauchos have a bit of reputation, but I think that first year more students spent time indoors that ever before. We were in the midst of the file sharing revolution and I was at ground zero.

A lot of files were shared that year from music to movies to games. Napster was catching fire, but for the lazy college student it was as easy as peeking into another's public folders and grabbing what caught the eye. I don't think most understood what they were doing. It was the Wild Wild West back then, long before the narrative of intellectual property theft began in the public eye. Nevertheless, in Rob Reid's Year Zero, they'd be in the same dicey position as the universe's non-Earth population. That is to say, in a severe legal conundrum as it relates to copyright law.

Low-level entertainment lawyer Nick Carter thinks it’s a prank, not an alien encounter, when two extraterrestrials show up in his office. The entire cosmos, they tell him, has been functionally addicted to humanity’s music since 1977, when American pop songs first reached the stars. As a result, intergalactic society has committed the biggest copyright violation in history, bankrupting the entire universe. Sure, they tried to stop, but:

"Normal reactions to Rickrolls range from eye rolls to ironic sing-alongs. But my visitors started trembling, almost convulsing. And as they clung to their chairs for support, they took on an ecstatic air that was almost smutty."

Obviously, they need legal advice and fast. Who better than a Backstreet Boy turned copyright expert? Oh... he's not the Nick Carter? 

That statement alone offers quite a bit of insight into the kind of novel Reid has written. Sold as the new Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, driven by its status as a funny science fiction novel, I find little in common between the two. Reid's humor is biting, and grounded almost exclusively in today's pop culture where Douglas Adams' was silly, timeless, and (if I may say) British. For me that makes Year Zero exponentially more funny, although fifty years from now I'm not sure the same will hold true. Lines like this bring that home:

"But they just have to get up there and mime it to a famous recording, and the crowds go nuts (catch a Britney Spears show to see something similar here at home)."

Laughing from start to finish, I also found myself genuinely invested in the plot. Carter, his love interest, his hard-ass boss, and the strange aliens who reach out for help, are all well drawn. They move through a plot that makes sense and has a natural pace that doesn't get lost in its own comedic meanderings, another fact that distinguishes it from its classic comparative.

In that way I find quite a bit of John Scalzi in Reid's style, but without the endless font of sarcastic characters that pervade Scalzi's work. That's accomplished by Reid's use of the narrative voice for his humor (aided by a first person narrator no doubt) allowing his characters to exist organically as opposed to the joke delivery devices I find many of Scalzi's characters to be.

In the background, Reid builds a workable commentary on the state of copyright law as it relates to the music business and intellectual property in general.

"...music licensing is an arcane thicket of ambiguity, overlapping jurisdictions, and litigation. This is a disastrous situation for musicians, as well as for music fans and countless businesses. In fact, it suits absolutely nobody -- apart from the cynical lawyers who run the music labels, the lobbying groups, the House, the Senate, and several parasite law firms like my own."

He often points out the unique nature of the penalties associated with copyright law and the disincentive within the system to change them. Many of these are included as footnotes that allow the author to break out the more important educational details that would impeach any sort of consistent narrative voice. Reid sometimes attempts to expand into the realm of political commentary, although I didn't find those moments quite as successful.

Reid's background contributes to these aspects of the novel, echoing the age old advice to write what you know. Sole founder of the online music company Listen.com, which in 2001 launched Rhapsody, as well as a founding member of IGN Entertainment, Reid has been a unique figure in the music business -- one fundamentally connected to the internet and other forms of entertainment. Subsequently, he's become a vocal spokesperson for change, highlighted by his presentation TED this year where he explained his idea of "copyright math", which was clearly the germ that gave birth to Year Zero.

And what a beautiful zygote it is. Rob Reid has struck a nerve with Year Zero that will resonate with anyone who lived through the music internet revolution in the same way that Scalzi's Redshirts does with science fiction television fans. It lives and breathes the absurdity of copyright law, while simultaneously recognizing the importance of protecting artists' rights. It's also the funniest piece of fiction I've ever read and will almost surely be one of the five best novels I read this year. I would suggest acquiring a legal copy at the earliest convenience. Trust me, you'll want nothing to do with violating copyrights after finishing it.

Thieftaker - D.B. Jackson

Prior to reading D.B. Jackson's (aka: David B. Coe) most recent novel, my only exposure to the idea of a thieftaker, or a private individual hired to capture criminals, was Julian Sandar from Robert Jordan's iconic Wheel of Time. Interestingly, my only experience with pre-Revolution America in genre fiction also came by way of Robert Jordan in his Fallon Blood series written under the pseudonym Reagan O'Neal. Jackson's Thieftaker lifts both limitations, deftly blending historical fiction and urban fantasy to create a who-dun-it dressed up with tricorn hats and blood magic.

Set in 1765 in Boston, Massachusetts, during The Stamp Act riots, Thieftaker follows the exploits of Ethan Kaille, Jackson's protagonist and only point of view character. Making his living finding stolen goods, Ethan is also a speller, capable of turning organic material into magical energy. When he's asked to recover a necklace worn by the murdered daughter of a prominent royalist, he finds himself in the middle of a conspiracy to upset the delicate balance between Britain and her colonies.

As that summation suggest, Ethan is the narrative impetus, and the vehicle that Jackson uses to snare the reader. His history, power, and moral center held my interest despite a standard crime fiction plot structure that won't overwhelm anyone with its inventiveness. In particular, it's Ethan's back story and how conjurers interact in a world that reviles their existence which gives Thieftaker its unique flavor.

There were perhaps thirty other active conjurers in Boston. No doubt there were far more than that who had conjurers' blood in their veins, but many of his kind did all they could to avoid notice. People were still burned and hanged as witches throughout New England; fear of discovery ran deep among conjurers, and those who didn't have access to power tended to shun those who did.

It's a flavor that tickled my taste buds to the degree that I finished the novel in a single sitting. Jackson does a tremendous job at closing chapters in a way that satisfies, but also demands turning the page to the next. It's a skill I most closely associate with George R.R. Martin's work, and while Jackson's novel has little in common with Martin's, there is some similarity in the inability to put it down.

If there's any disappointment on my end it stems from two sources. The first is a fairly contrived ending that follows the patterns set down over scores of crime thrillers (i.e. - "Well hero, since you can't possibly escape my clutches, let me reveal my entire plan to you!") . Even then it's well executed, leaving my only other complaint to be Jackson's lack of exploration into the ethics of the Revolution.

Given the time period, and the frequent appearance of historical characters on either side of the debate, I felt Jackson gave Ethan a free pass, allowing him to wrestle with his tenuous position between the two factions, and occasionally reflecting on his own personal views, without ever reflecting on the credibility of either argument. That's not say the issue is ignored, just that Ethan is never forced to act on his beliefs as they relate to politics. It leads me to believe that future novels in the series will more firmly enmesh themselves in America's move toward independence. Or at least I sincerely hope they do.

These negatives are more a reflection of my own expectations and shouldn't necessarily be read as a criticism of the novel, which, while not exceptional in any particular way, is done with such deftness that the sum is greater than the parts. The writing is strong, but not so much that it will call attention to itself, nor is the plot so densely woven that it constantly surprises the reader. Rather D.B. Jackson has struck several different notes and struck them all well, combining just the right amount of historical veracity and magical alteration. I highly recommend it to fans of historical fiction, crime thrillers, urban fantasy, and anyone else looking for a great way to spend a weekend. Thieftaker is just a fantastically fun novel.

The Best SFF Novels of 2012 - First Half Edition

I was planning on writing this post for a few weeks then the Mad Hatter, Pornokitsch, the OF Blog, and a host of others beat me to it. Jerks. In any case, it's the halfway mark for the year. I've read 49 genre novels so far this year. Included below are very brief and very early looks at my best/worst of lists for the year.

***

Best Novel of 2012:

1. The Troupe by Robert Jackson Bennett (Review)
2. Year Zero by Rob Reid
3. Faith by John Love (Review)
4. The Killing Moon by NK Jemisin (Review)
5. The King's Blood by Daniel Abraham (Review)

It should bear noticing that three of the novels are from Orbit, and the sixth would have been K.J. Parker's Sharps, yet another Orbit title. With Joe Abercrombie and Jesse Bullington both due out with novels later this year from Orbit, it appears to be a banner year for Hachette's genre imprint.

Faith, has been Night Shade's best debut novel from 2012. It's a shame it came out so early this year (January 3), as I worry it'll be forgotten by many come year's end. And while I haven't reviewed Year Zero yet on the blog (next week), I've been raving about it since I finished it back in April. It's the funniest book I've ever read, hands down.

Best Novel Not From 2012 (tie):

• Desert of Souls by Howard Andrew Jones (Review)
• Devices and Desires by K.J. Parker

My review of Desert of Souls speaks for itself, I think. As for the first book in Parker's Engineer Trilogy,  it's amazing, as is nearly everything Parker writes. I don't plan on reviewing it until I finish the whole trilogy, but I already recommend it with great vigor.

Worst Novel (tie):

• The Pillars of Hercules by David Constantine (Review)
• Seven Princes by John R. Fultz (Review)

Orbit makes an appearance here as well and I'll never figure out how Seven Princes made it into the Orbit catalog. It doesn't seem to fit with the editorial perspective of the rest of the novels they've released this year. Nevertheless, there it is, in all its pulpy deus ex machina Mary Sue glory.

Pillars of Hercules, is just a jumbled mess. As I stated last week, Night Shade occasionally suffers from subpar "creative" editing. I think Constantine's novel might be the best example. The novel has a fascinating conceit, and Constantine seems a capable writer writer, but the whole novel is a confusing ping pong match of switching PoVs and unexplained occurrences. Total face plant as far as I'm concerned.

***

Be sure to check back in December for my Juice Box Awards where I'll recognize the Best Novel of 2012, the Best Debut of 2012, and a host of others.

Discount Miracles - Brand Gamblin

Around these parts I commit myself to (at least try) finishing everything I start. Why, you ask? Because I think it's important for me to help my readers make decisions about what they should buy and what they should avoid. If I only read things that I enjoy, how will I ever fulfill the second half of that commitment? I'm also loathe to spend 800 words eviscerating someone's baby. Thus, Cheryl was born. Cheryl is my imaginary personal assistant who helps me "review" novels I really did not like. Instead of just doggedly attacking a novel's failures, I try to have some fun with it and get some laughs. Hopefully it's taken the way I intend it.

This is my seventh installment of posts featuring Cheryl. If you enjoy this one, I suggest finding the Cheryl tag on the right sidebar for the others. This is the second time Cheryl has been deployed on a self published novel. While the previous incarnation was an abomination of fiction, Discount Miracles has some redeeming qualities. That said, it just isn't good enough for a wide audience.

***

I don't generally accept self-published titles for review. Seriously, I don't. Except sometimes I get an e-mail I can't say no to. Brand Gamblin's e-mail was one of those. He invoked the name of a mutual friend, happens to be a Washington DC Metro local, and didn't try to push a vampire werewolf paranormal romance on me. I also got a sick kick out of the author's last name as reading self-published work feels an awful like gambling.

I'm a sucker, aren't I?

Gamblin's novel, Discount Miracles, follows the crew of the space salvage ship JN3-0518 (or Jenny) that's crashed on a planet that's been out of touch with the rest of the galaxy for hundreds of years. In the midst of a superstitious dark age, the planet's denizens liken the Jenny's crew to witches, a fact they tend to reinforce by faking miracles. Things seem to be going swimmingly when they take a job to help a prince ascend to godhood. Easier said than done.

As I considered how I would write this review I went through several stages. First, I felt compelled to critique the novel as I would for someone asking me to look at an unpublished manuscript. There are a host of small changes I would suggest to Gamblin that would produce a better product. Of course, he didn't ask me to do that. Second, I felt like employing my fine assistant Cheryl to eviscerate the novel, but I couldn't find an angle worthy of Cheryl. Not to mention there aren't any typos or structural screw ups, which pretty much rules out my standard plan of attack for self-published work. Finally, I resolved to write what amounts to a pretty ho-hum piece that once again emphasizes the reason why many self-published authors self-publish. (Hint: Because they aren't very good writers.)

Before I get too far into the flaws in Gamblin's writing, let me say that I rather enjoy the novel's conceit. Motoring around a technologically backward planet in a spaceship that's incapable of leaving orbit, and leaving miracles behind, is fun to imagine. It opens up a host of questions, both in terms of science and morality, some of which Discount Miracles promises to address, but never really does.

Character wise the Jenny's crew behaves as crews have come to behave in the post Firefly era -- self interested, but ultimately honorable. Sadly, Gamblin never develops them much beyond their immediate interaction with the narrative. In a novel with such a simple plot, it's vital that the characters exist in three dimension. Unfortunately, Gamblin's crew is the science fictional equivalent of Flat Stanley....

Oh, who the hell am I kidding?

*buzz*

Cheryl: Mr. Landon, I can't believe you reviewed a self-published title before you'll even look at my manuscript.

Justin: No. Absolutely not. I'm not reviewing Tumescent Snake under any circumstances.

Cheryl: But, I've added magic and a space ship. It's slipstream paranormal romance!

Justin: Please don't say slipstream.

Cheryl: Why? Slipstream, slipstream, slipstream.

Justin: Argh! I just read Brand Gamblin's Discount Miracles. He calls it slipstream. I call it slipped and fell in a stream of uninspired writing.

Cheryl: Oh, here we go.

Justin: What? I could have easily made a urine joke there. I thought the final product showed a great deal of self restraint.

Cheryl: You're about as restrained as Katie Price at a melon smuggling convention. But, really... do tell. What makes Brand Gamblin... Jesus, is that his real name?

Justin: I'm assuming it's a pen name.

Cheryl: God, I hope so. Can you imagine meeting him in a bar? Hey beautiful, want to get Branded tonight? Place a wager, because it's time to start Gamblin. I can go on.

Justin: I think you've made your point. You were saying?

Cheryl: Right. *ahem* What makes his writing so... uninspired?

Justin: Would believe that in 200 pages of reading I don't recall a single metaphor? Gamblin writes clear prose, and he's obviously hired a copy editor to clean it up, but there's a complete lack of vitality. It's like reading the corpse of a novel. I have no idea what the Jenny looks like, or more importantly what it feels like, smells like, or evokes from the crew. I can tell you one of the crew members is short and stocky, one is female, one is a scrawny jerk, and the other is a stand-up captain dude. I don't know much more about them as people which is a complete failure of the author.

Cheryl: I bet the short guy is strong.

Justin: You guessed it. He's from a hi-G planet. How does he feel about being away from home? How did he end up on a ship in the middle of nowhere? Now that I mention it, why are any of these people on a ship together?

Cheryl: Sounds like a pretty shallow novel. Aren't most self published novels self indulgent rants that go on forever because the author can't parse it?

Justin: You know, that's a good point, Cheryl.

Cheryl: *beaming*

Justin: Don't let it go to your head. You're right though, Gamblin actually has what reads more like a bare bones first draft where he lays out the major plot points before laying down all the supports that make a novel. And truth be told if he had gone through and laid down that framework, my response to his work would be a great deal warmer.

Cheryl: Weird.

Justin: You're telling me.

Cheryl: So you're saying this the last time you're Gamblin on self-published work? God, I could use that pun until the cows come home.

Justin: Leave the comedy to me.

Osiris - E.J. Swift

It begins with the execution of Eirik 9968, rumored leader of the NWO. Vikram, his friend and sometime conspirator, watches from the crowd as the skadi carry out The Council's sentence. Not a Citizen and only recently released from prison himself, he's helpless to stop it. Also watching is Adelaide Mystik, daughter of a founding family, tabloid darling, and eternal disappointment. She can barely watch as Eirik drowns, chained to the bottom of a sealed tank. The Council hopes that Eirik's death will quell the uprisings in Osiris' western sector. They're wrong.

Osiris, E.J. Swift's debut novel, is a title pregnant with meaning. The Egyptian god of the afterlife and underworld, Osiris judges the dead, sending them on to their rewards, which for the elite of Egypt meant eternal life. Through the hope of new life after death Osiris also associates with nature, in particular the annual flooding of the Nile, and crops that spring from it. In Swift's world, the city of Osiris is the afterlife made real. The last bastion of human civilization -- surviving on the ocean and disconnected from land -- it is literally the life come after a world torn apart by climate change and resource wars. But, like most belief systems that preach a life beyond this one, Osiris also separates those judged worthy and those damned to an eternity of pain.

To Citizens of Osiris, life is good, echoing their Egyptian appellation who was often described as "He Who is Permanently Benign and Youthful". Created around sustainable principles, the city is self sufficient for those granted access.

"a shimmering metropolis sunk shin deep into the ocean. Before dawn, mist obscured the entire city, enveloping the thousands of pyramid skyscraper in its damp, arcane touch. It was noon now, and the fog had mostly dissipated. Deceptive sunshine polished the tapering structures of glass and metal, turning the bridges and shuttle lines that webbed them into silver threads. The solar skins of the towers greedily reaped this bounty of heat and light."

Unfortunately, the western sector is denied these things, reliant on the benevolence of the The Council to provide, an emotion rarely felt through the insulation wrapped around them. Crippled by food shortages, drug and human trafficking, and continual power failures, the west is not unlike a modern day war zone. Cut off from Osiris proper by a militarized border, people like Eirik and Vikram are the few willing to speak out against the injustice.

Structured around two points of view, Vikram and Adelaide, Osiris switches every chapter, often overlapping scenes to provide the perspective of each. As the novel begins, the pair could not be further apart, divorced by economics and geography, but also by incompatible world views. Vikram, looking at the Osiris elite wonders,

How could you trust the sadness of someone who had never seen that cold could kill? Who had never seen a gun fired, never been afraid to sleep?

It's a sentiment that resonates in the world today, where so much of the government represents a small subsection of the educated elite.

Despite the hurdles, Adelaide has more in common with Vikram than is readily apparent. With her twin brother missing, and a family seemingly unwilling to find him, she finds herself as willing as Vikram to bring change. Using each other to further their own ends, Osiris is at heart a fascinating character study of a have and a have-not in a world defined by the possession of food, water, and energy.  In short, a microcosm of the world we live in.

If I were writing this review with only mind toward the ideas behind the novel and the subtext that runs through it, I would call it a crowning achievement. It's unfortunate then that I won't be able to be quite so glowing. While Swift's writing is exceptional, vivid and compelling, Osiris lacks any sense of pace. Even from the opening pages, with a prologue written in an inaccessible voice and a first chapter that lacks any definable hook, Swift struggles to consistently demonstrate narrative purpose. It's too easy to put the novel down after every chapter and even easier to put it aside for a day or two in between "Parts" (there are four).

It could be argued, compellingly so I think, that these fits and starts reflect Vikram and Adelaide who themselves are full of misfired failures. Likewise, if Osiris is as much a glimpse into the future as a reflection of the world today, the novel's structure points to the notion, that flying in the face of scientific reality, finding a joint impetus to move forward is the most improbable of outcomes. If this is Swift's message, and it can be powerful, I'm not sure it excuses the inability to compel me forward in the narrative itself.

Part Waterworld, part 1984, E.J. Swift offers a new dialogue in Night Shade's conversation on climate change that began with Paolo Baciagalupi's The Windup Girl. Even in its most frustrating moments, I found Osiris to be a novel that deserves to be read. Swift's talent as a writer can't be questioned, and it's clear to me that there exists an intent behind her work. It lends a depth that helped me persevere, not only to finish, but to anticipate the sequel. I'm hopeful that other patient readers will take the time to find the beauty in it that I ultimately did.

***

It should be noted, that over the last eighteen months I've tended to heap the honors on Night Shade. I have believed, and still do, that in terms of editorial direction and a willingness to push the envelope of genre fiction, they are the premiere publisher today. But, I feel it necessary to point out that the problems I describe in Osiris are becoming all too commonplace in their novels. From God's War, to The Emperor's Knife, to The Winds of Khalakovo, Night Shade seems willing to accept a brilliance of ideas in the face of tedious structure.

It could be a result of the number of debut authors they've published, or the size of their editorial team (small), or the fact that they don't have the clout to compel authors to rewrite large sections of their manuscripts. Or it could be all of the above or none of the above. Nevertheless, it's a theme I'm noticing and one that gives me pause. Ideas and beautiful prose are, in and of themselves, not always enough to carry a novel, much less an entire line of them. I'm just one reader, but food for thought, perhaps.

Amped - Daniel H. Wilson

I was so amped to read Amped. I'm sorry. I couldn't resist.

In reality, I was moderately interested in Daniel H. Wilson's follow up to his New York Times bestelling debut Robopocalypse. His first novel was an entertaining page turner that garnered far better press than it rightly deserved, but it demonstrated that Wilson was a capable story teller who would improve in future novels.

With that frame of mind I went into Amped hopeful that it would meet expectation. It did not. I finished it more convinced that Robopocalypse's success had more to do with the formula (borrowed from World War Z) and marketing push than any inherent quality of the novel itself. It left me wondering whether the definition of a summer read has become wholly reflective of the summer blockbuster film -- form over substance, effects over plot.

Wilson's strength is in the merging of science and reality to create a believable future. He did this in Robopacalypse and does so again in Amped. Instead of predicting widespread reliance on robotics, Amped focuses on the augmentation of the human body through technology. Specifically, the enhancement of the brain by linking it to minature on board computers.

In Wilson's imagination, these implants can be used to cure all sorts of mental deficiencies from epilepsy to ADHD or even link the brain to prosthetic limbs. The unintended consequence is that this modification also leaves the enhanced individual far beyond a regular human. Applying a tiny bit of imagination, the military application of such technology becomes obvious. Throw in a dash of the religious right, some bigotry, a belief that might makes right, and there you have the entirety of what Amped has to offer. It's a strong idea, but if the execution sounds an awful lot like Magneto versus Professor X, it's because it is.

Before I get too far into what's wrong with the novel, let me first say there are several things Amped does right. As I mention above, Wilson does a great job coming up with a technological MacGuffin, implanting it into his reality, and crafting a story around it. I want to know more about the implants and how they work from the first page to the last. He also writes with great clarity, and a sense of purpose with where he's headed in the narrative. Unfortunately, that's the extent to which I can offer praise.

Told in first person from the perspective of Owen Gray, a school teacher implanted as a child to overcome epilepsy, the novel progresses at an erratic pace. Painfully slow at times and then quickly racing, Wilson does a poor job of building tension. Using the present tense, he attempts to give the reader the sensation of riding along in Owen's head as opposed to listening to him tell his story. I agree with the choice, but not the result.

Far too often exposition comes through Owen's thoughts, breaking the narration and my investment in what's happening "on screen". Emphasizing the point, every chapter ends with a news clip that expands the scope of world events. Instead of relying on these enders to fill in the scientific holes, he uses these cutaways to offer more narrative. Had these been reversed I can't help but wonder if Owen would have been freed to interact in a more natural way.

It's difficult to go deeper into the reasons why Amped fails without giving away too much. Suffice to say the main character demonstrates very little agency, making him terribly uninteresting to me as a reader. Likewise, the characters that surround him are cardboard cutouts that never demonstrate any depth beyond the pale drawings Wilson offers when they're first introduced. This lack of character and poor narrative voice, make Amped one of the most uninspired pieces of fiction I've read since this blog began. It isn't catastrophically flawed, as most novels I negatively review are, it's just boring.

As a result, even to a reader merely looking for a light popcorn style novel, I can't recommend Amped. In fact, I strongly suggest you give it a pass.

A Series Review: Acacia by David Anthony Durham

"Of course a thing that could be made into a weapon would be made into a weapon. It did not matter if it was a thing of beauty. It did not matter if their mission was holy and benevolent. It only mattered that The Song could be twisted to serve human greed. If that was so, it was only a measure of time until someone grasped for it." 

- The Sacred Band, David Anthony Durham

That quote stood out to me in the final volume of The Acacia Trilogy. I wouldn't say it's the theme of the series distilled down into four lines of prose, but it is pretty representative of one of the many contained there in. On the surface, David Anthony Durham's trilogy, and first foray into genre fiction, looks like run of the mill epic fantasy. His protagonists are four royal children whose father is struck dead in the opening moments of the first novel, The War With the Main, forcing them to scatter, grow to adulthood, and return to restore peace to the Akaran Kingdom and the Known World. It's not quite the farm boy prophesied to save the world, but it's not far off.

I began with this quote not because of its significance to the overall message of Durham's work, rather because it signifies an attempt to speak to something larger than the narrative itself. I suspect that many reviews written about Durham's series will laud it for its progressive nature (edit: after writing this post I read NethSpace's review that does just that) and rightly so.

At the start of the story, the Akaran kingdom has been ruled by a family for generations. Their power is maintained through an arrangement with a powerful entity across the sea. In exchange for a drug called mist, the Akaran's offer up a quota of children for an unknown purpose. Through mist they create a pliable population to work the mines and fields that sustain their reign. Unlike so much fantasy, the series ends not with the status quo (i.e. - the evil defeated), but with legitimate change and progression toward something better, brought about by the will of the characters and their own growth. Suffice to say there's a great deal to chew on with regard to Durham's social commentary.

While this discussion isn't necessarily my central focus, I mention it to highlight the depth achieved by Durham in a less than expansive canvas. The three book series, while historically the standard in genre fiction, has gotten complicated. Epic fantasy has become unwieldy. Robert Jordan, George R.R. Martin, Joe Abercrombie, Raymond E. Feist, Terry Brooks, and all the rest keep writing in the same world. The result is a massive backlog of story that encourages readers to either plow ahead without knowing what's come before or invest gads of time and money catching up. This is fine, they're great authors who write great books. Unfortunately, I've a belief that these types of fantasies have bread an inherent attempt to find the next Wheel of Time or Song of Ice and Fire.

As a result, we have Brandon Sanderon's Stormlight Archive, Peter V. Brett's Demon Cycle, and Daniel Abraham's Dagger and Coin. Not because readers want length; because they crave the sweeping canvas, the endless scope, and the breadth of change. Packing more into three volumes than many authors can pack into ten, Durham's Acacia bucks that trend to return epic fantasy to its structural roots, embracing tropes, while simultaneously moving afield.

One of the places he most manipulates expectations is in his approach to characters. Many modern fantasies, from the Joe Abercrombies and K.J. Parkers of the world, present the individual, heroic or otherwise, as a self-interested actor. To those authors, morality is a judgement after the fact. Actions can be interpreted to be good or evil, heroic or cowardly, but the motivations behind them are always inherently selfish. This is juxtaposed by the traditional fantasy character who sacrifices himself for the greater good, or sacrifices everyone for his own gain.

In Acacia, Durham handles it different still. Morally relativistic, yes, but with an intrinsic belief that most people want to do the right thing. Even Durham's "evilest" characters act in (what they've convinced themselves to be) the best interests of others. To them, the ends always justify the means. Layered there is an argument that power corrupts in so far as it blinds the individual to the consequences of action. It's an interesting conversation at Abercrombie and Parker who write without a recognition of good and evil. To them all motivations are the same, only outcomes differ, interpreted as right or wrong objectively by others. Durham recognizes goodness in all its forms, most especially when evil is done in its commission.

It's all of these reasons that War With the Mein was the novel that brought me back to fantasy. What made me really sit up and take notice was the subtext -- the frank discussion of social class, duty, family, and morality. There are times when Durham's characters become Mary Sues. And moderate levels of deus ex machina rear their head from time to time. For me, these moments are easily pushed aside, ignored in favor of the poignant story, memorable characters, and vast change ushered in with every page.

Published by Anchor, a Doubleday imprint and publisher of mainstream fiction, War With the Mein generated a lot of early buzz, including a John W. Campbell Award nomination for Best New Writer for Durham. Alas, with a two year delay between books and a first installment that lacked obvious newness, some readers moved on. That was a mistake and George R. R. Martin agrees with me, recently blurbing the series' reissue in trade paperback.

The new editions of the trilgoy come with Martin's recommendation, but also 14,000 words lighter. Responding to critics and readers who found the early part of War With the Mein slow, Durham tightened things up, cutting exposition and redundancies without changing the plot or characters. I think it speaks to the truth that each novel in the series improved as Durham did as a writer.

I still worry that not enough readers will find Acacia. I hope this review will help in that regard. It rekindled in me a love of fantasy and for that it will always hold a place in my pantheon. More importantly though, it's a series I'll pass it on to my children for the honesty that David Anthony Durham brings to the Known World. I hope it isn't the last we've heard of him in genre fiction.

The King's Blood - Daniel Abraham

I walked into Barnes and Noble earlier this week. What I saw shocked me. I rarely buy books in a store (bad, I know), but I often go in just to see what's being advertised, what's on the shelf, and more importantly what isn't on the shelf. Those who follow me on Twitter will know by now that I consider Daniel Abraham one of the best writers in the business and among writers of epic fantasy he might be the best, period. With the stage thus set, scouring the shelves of my local B&N, it wounded me to see only one Daniel Abraham title on the shelf. This would be an appropriate time to gasp.

Believe it or not, there were no copies of The Long Price Quartet or The Dragon's Path, the first book in The Dagger and Coin series and the preceding volume to his newest release, The King's Blood (there were eight copies). How's an author supposed to find new readers when they can't find his books? How many shoppers will pick-up Abraham's new book, realize it's a second book, look for book one, can't find it, walk out, and purchase it on Amazon (or not at all)? And we wonder why book stores are going out of business.

It's a tragic circumstance as far as I'm concerned. Not only is Abraham a great writer, but when Dagger and Coin is finished it will be hailed as the most impressive work of epic fantasy to date. Maybe that's a lot to hang on a series two books in, with three (at least) still to come, but King's Blood is that good. It demands hyperbole.

Unique among epic fantasies, there is no clear conflict in Abraham's series. No Dark Lord, or bellicose neighboring savages, or king gone mad, Dagger and Coin is fundamentally a study in character. Abraham creates a sandbox in which his children play, lacking the supervision of their parents and only cruel ingenuity at their disposal to determine who holds the shovel.

It's not really even a particularly vibrant sandbox as far as such things go. His magic system is based solely on the ability to manipulate conviction. Interesting to be sure, but nothing quite as inspirational as Aes Sedai or Allomancers. His world is also fairly two dimensional, constructed around the notion that dragons once ruled the earth, created thirteen slave races, and then disappeared, leaving their creations behind to bicker over what remained. The places and history that populate the canvas are only illuminated when the characters require them to be, thus lacking the true sense of place that George R.R. Martin's Westeros or Brandon Sanderson's Scadrial evoke.

That said, King's Blood, by the very nature of having spent another five-hundred pages with Abraham's characters, allows a far clearer picture of the world to emerge. While it still isn't the novel's strongest aspect, there's enough of a milieu to get lost in once his lush characterizations set their hooks.

To that end, the cast from Dragon's Path is back, including the points of view of Geder, Dawson, Cithrin, Marcus, and the introduction of Clara, Dawson's wife. Through these individuals Abraham's novel thrives. He depicts fully formed, painfully conflicted, layered characters that entrench themselves in the reader's mind and refuse to leave, taking up residence like stray cat you wish you'd never fed, but can't bear to send away.

Cithrin, an orphaned ward to the Medean Bank, an alcoholic, and a financial genius, is the coin:

"Cithrin mulled over how much of the performer's craft relied on excellence in a small range and how much competence over a wide variety of performances. It was, of course, a single instance of a more general problem, and it could be applied to the bank as well. A certain range of contracts -- insurance and loans and partnerships and letters of credit -- required relatively little additional expense. To widen the business into renting out guardsmen or guaranteeing merchandise in bank-owned warehouses required more resources and higher expenses, but it also brought in coin that wouldn't have come in otherwise."

A microcosm in Abraham's novel, Cithrin has no discernible key by which the reader can define her moral barometer. She's neither good or evil, merely a woman trying for self-reliance. One of the hallmarks of the series, it's a facet likewise demonstrated by Dawson whom always seeks to do the right thing, but possesses a point of view rarely shared by the modern man,

"Before this same window, his father had explained that the walls of the holding were like the fabric of the kingdom, that the noble houses were the jade. Without their constancy, even the most glorious structure would eventually fall into ruin."

His stubborn denial of change and progressiveness, juxtaposed with the warmth and love for his family make him one of the most ambivalent characters I've ever read. It's a style Abraham wields with precision. Even Geder, a mass murdering insecure man-child, becomes an object of some sympathy in Abraham's hands as he caves in the face of someone who dared oppose him.

If Cithrin is the coin, Dawson and Geder are the daggers -- blunt instruments good for little else but destruction. Unable to think beyond the moment; the necessity of response to a perceived action. In one of the earliest chapters a minor character begins,

"Wars are easier to start than end, and where they take you is rarely where you intended to go," the ambassador said. "It will be better for all of us to avoid it."

Would that Geder and Dawson could conceive of such foresight. Instead it's left to Clara and Cithrin, who see the board many moves ahead, to pick up the pieces. Knowing Abraham, I suspect it's too easy levy the charge that women are the coin and men the dagger. Perhaps more appropriate is the notion that everyone, man or woman can be either. There is no black and white. A merchant one moment can be an assassin in the next. I can't wait to find out how wrong I am.

As disappointed as I was to see a bookstore lack the requisite staples of Daniel Abraham's work, I am just as pleased to advise my readers with every ounce of conviction I possess to read The Dagger and Coin series. Make it the commercial success it deserves to be.

The Dragon's Path and The King's Blood are available now, while The Poisoned Sword (or is The Tyrant's Law?), the third volume in the series has already been turned in to Orbit. I couldn't be more excited to read it this time next year. I trust it will blow my mind.