Hmmm, we likes it. . .
We likes it a lot!
Carrie Vaughn Giveaway!
Thanks to the good folks at Tor Books, I have two copies of Carrie Vaughn's latest Kitty Norville novel, Kitty Goes to War, up for grabs! For more info about this title: Canada, USA, Europe.
Here's the blurb:
Kitty Norville, Alpha werewolf and host of The Midnight Hour, a radio call-in show, is contacted by a friend at the NIH's Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology. Three Army soldiers recently returned from the war in Afghanistan are being held at Ft. Carson in Colorado Springs. They're killer werewolves—and post traumatic stress has left them unable to control their shape-shifting and unable to interact with people. Kitty agrees to see them, hoping to help by bringing them into her pack.
Meanwhile, Kitty gets sued for libel by CEO Harold Franklin after featuring Speedy Mart--his nationwide chain of 24-hour convenience stores with a reputation for attracting supernatural unpleasantness--on her show.
Very bad weather is on the horizon.
As if this wasn't enough, the winners will also get a copy of Discord's Apple as a bonus prize! For more info about this title: Canada, USA, Europe.
Here's the blurb:
When Evie Walker goes home to spend time with her dying father, she discovers that his creaky old house in Hope’s Fort, Colorado, is not the only legacy she stands to inherit. Hidden behind the old basement door is a secret and magical storeroom, a place where wondrous treasures from myth and legend are kept safe until they are needed again. The magic of the storeroom prevents access to any who are not intended to use the items. But just because it has never been done does not mean it cannot be done.
And there are certainly those who will give anything to find a way in.
Evie must guard the storeroom against ancient and malicious forces, protecting the past and the future even as the present unravels around them. Old heroes and notorious villains alike will rise to fight on her side or to undermine her most desperate gambits. At stake is the fate of the world, and the prevention of nothing less than the apocalypse.
The rules are the same as usual. You need to send an email at reviews@(no-spam)gryphonwood.net with the header "DISCORD." Remember to remove the "no spam" thingy.
Second, your email must contain your full mailing address (that's snail mail!), otherwise your message will be deleted.
Lastly, multiple entries will disqualify whoever sends them. And please include your screen name and the message boards that you frequent using it, if you do hang out on a particular MB.
Good luck to all the participants!
Here's the blurb:
Kitty Norville, Alpha werewolf and host of The Midnight Hour, a radio call-in show, is contacted by a friend at the NIH's Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology. Three Army soldiers recently returned from the war in Afghanistan are being held at Ft. Carson in Colorado Springs. They're killer werewolves—and post traumatic stress has left them unable to control their shape-shifting and unable to interact with people. Kitty agrees to see them, hoping to help by bringing them into her pack.
Meanwhile, Kitty gets sued for libel by CEO Harold Franklin after featuring Speedy Mart--his nationwide chain of 24-hour convenience stores with a reputation for attracting supernatural unpleasantness--on her show.
Very bad weather is on the horizon.
As if this wasn't enough, the winners will also get a copy of Discord's Apple as a bonus prize! For more info about this title: Canada, USA, Europe.
Here's the blurb:
When Evie Walker goes home to spend time with her dying father, she discovers that his creaky old house in Hope’s Fort, Colorado, is not the only legacy she stands to inherit. Hidden behind the old basement door is a secret and magical storeroom, a place where wondrous treasures from myth and legend are kept safe until they are needed again. The magic of the storeroom prevents access to any who are not intended to use the items. But just because it has never been done does not mean it cannot be done.
And there are certainly those who will give anything to find a way in.
Evie must guard the storeroom against ancient and malicious forces, protecting the past and the future even as the present unravels around them. Old heroes and notorious villains alike will rise to fight on her side or to undermine her most desperate gambits. At stake is the fate of the world, and the prevention of nothing less than the apocalypse.
The rules are the same as usual. You need to send an email at reviews@(no-spam)gryphonwood.net with the header "DISCORD." Remember to remove the "no spam" thingy.
Second, your email must contain your full mailing address (that's snail mail!), otherwise your message will be deleted.
Lastly, multiple entries will disqualify whoever sends them. And please include your screen name and the message boards that you frequent using it, if you do hang out on a particular MB.
Good luck to all the participants!
Slovenia photo album
Hey guys!
I'm in Montenegro for another day tomorrow, and then it's back to Dubrovnik, Croatia, for two nights before heading out to Bosnia and then Serbia. Finally finished uploading a sample of my Slovenian pics on Facebook.
As was the case with my Southeast Asian photos, the album is public. For those interested, follow this link.
US cover art for R. Scott Bakker's THE WHITE-LUCK WARRIOR
Screwing around on the computer as I wait for breakfast in Kotor, Montenegro, and I stumbled upon this on Westeros!
Not bad, if I may say so myself. . . Can't wait for this book! Hopefully Scott will send me a file of the final copy-edit like he did for THE JUDGING EYE! ;-)
Win a copy of Naomi Novik's TONGUES OF SERPENTS
I have a copy of Naomi Novik's Tongues of Serpents for you to win, courtesy of the folks at Del Rey. For more info about this title: Canada, USA, Europe.
Here's the blurb:
A dazzling blend of military history, high-flying fantasy, and edge-of-your-seat adventure, Naomi Novik’s Temeraire novels, set in an alternate Napoleonic era in which intelligent dragons have been harnessed as weapons of war, are more than just perennial bestsellers—they are a worldwide phenomenon. Now, in Tongues of Serpents, Naomi Novik is back, along with the dragon Temeraire and his rider and friend, Capt. Will Laurence.
Convicted of treason despite their heroic defense against Napoleon’s invasion of England, Temeraire and Laurence—stripped of rank and standing—have been transported to the prison colony at New South Wales in distant Australia, where, it is hoped, they cannot further corrupt the British Aerial Corps with their dangerous notions of liberty for dragons. Temeraire and Laurence carry with them three dragon eggs intended to help establish a covert in the colony and destined to be handed over to such second-rate, undesirable officers as have been willing to accept so remote an assignment—including one former acquaintance, Captain Rankin, whose cruelty once cost a dragon its life.
Nor is this the greatest difficulty that confronts the exiled dragon and rider: Instead of leaving behind all the political entanglements and corruptions of the war, Laurence and Temeraire have instead sailed into a hornet’s nest of fresh complications. For the colony at New South Wales has been thrown into turmoil after the overthrow of the military governor, one William Bligh—better known as Captain Bligh, late of HMS Bounty. Bligh wastes no time in attempting to enlist Temeraire and Laurence to restore him to office, while the upstart masters of the colony are equally determined that the new arrivals should not upset a balance of power precariously tipped in their favor.
Eager to escape this political quagmire, Laurence and Temeraire take on a mission to find a way through the forbidding Blue Mountains and into the interior of Australia. But when one of the dragon eggs is stolen from Temeraire, the surveying expedition becomes a desperate race to recover it in time—a race that leads to a shocking discovery and a dangerous new obstacle in the global war between Britain and Napoleon.
The rules are the same as usual. You need to send an email at reviews@(no-spam)gryphonwood.net with the header "TONGUES." Remember to remove the "no spam" thingy.
Second, your email must contain your full mailing address (that's snail mail!), otherwise your message will be deleted.
Lastly, multiple entries will disqualify whoever sends them. And please include your screen name and the message boards that you frequent using it, if you do hang out on a particular MB.
Good luck to all the participants!
Excerpt from Sam Sykes' TOME OF THE UNDERGATES
Has Sam Sykes' Tome of the Undergates piqued your curiosity? Here's an extract to give you a taste of the novel. For more info about this title: Canada, USA, Europe.
Here's the blurb:
Lenk can barely keep control of his mismatched adventurer band at the best of times (Gariath the dragon man sees humans as little more than prey, Kataria the shict despises most humans and the humans in the band are little better). When they're not insulting each other's religions they're arguing about pay and conditions. So when the ship they are travelling on is attacked by pirates things don't go very well. They go a whole lot worse when an invincible demon joins the fray. The demon steals the Tome of the Undergates - a manuscript that contains all you need to open the undergates. And whichever god you believe in you don't want the undergates open. On the other side are countless more invincible demons, the manifestation of all the evil of the gods, and they want out. Full of razor-sharp wit, characters who leap off the page (and into trouble) and plunging the reader into a vivid world of adventure this is a fantasy that kicks off a series that could dominate the second decade of the century.
Enjoy!
----------------------
The voice was alien and convoluted, as though it couldn’t decide what it wanted to convey. It was deep and bass, but tinkled like glass, and carried with it a shrill, mirthful malice.
“Tell us,” it spoke, “what drives the landborne to try the same thing over and over and expect different results?”
Lenk arched a brow. Wherever the speaker was, it seemed to see this.
“You have been pounding at the stone for some time,” it sighed. “Have you not yet realized it moves by will? Our will?” It giggled and spoke at the same time. “All moves at our will, at Her will, earth and water alike.”
“You haven’t moved me,” he spat into the water.
“Haven’t we? You drew your horrid metal at the sound of our song.”
“Conceded,” Lenk muttered, “but it’s no great accomplishment that the sound of your voice makes me want to jam something sharp into you.” He raised the weapon in emphasis. “Show yourself so we can get this over with.”
“Curious. What is it that drives you to fight? To think that we wish to fight you?”
“I’ve been doing this sort of thing long enough to know that if I’m aware of someone referring to themselves as ‘we’, they’re typically the kind of lunatic that I’ll have to kill.”
“Astute.”
“Time is too short for that sort of thing, you understand.”
“One would think all you have is time, unless we decide to move the stone.”
Lenk ignored the echoing laughter that followed, searching the waters for any sign of the speaker.
The stirring began faintly, a churn in the water slightly more pronounced than the others. He saw a dim shape in the gloom, the inky outline of something moving beneath the surface. Soon, he saw it rise, circling at the very lip of the rock.
It was when he saw it, so dark as to render the void pale, that it dawned on him.
“Deepshriek…”
“The servants of uncaring gods and the blind alike have spoken that name,” the creature replied, its voice bubbling up from the gloom. “To others, we are Voice and Prophet to Her Will. The landborne forgot all those names long ago, however.” Its voice was quizzical. “Tell us, what maidens with green hair have you been consorting with?”
“Hardly the point.”
“The point? The point?” It became wrathful, a great churning roar that boiled to the surface. “What heathen consorts with blasphemy with such casualness? Such callousness?”
“Yeah, I hear that a lot.”
“Speak to us.” The black shape twisted towards his outcropping. “What did she promise you in exchange for vengeance? Treasures of the deep, perhaps, the laden gold of the drowned? Or were you overcome with sympathy for her plight? Perhaps she appealed to your love of false, uncaring deities.” Its voice became a slithering tendril, spitefully sliding up from the deep. “Or are you the breed of two-legged thing that lusts to lie with fish-women.”
“I’ve come for the tome.”
The shape froze where it floated. The voice went silent, its pervasive echo sliding back into the deep.
“You cannot have it.” It spoke with restrained fury. “Landborne…you all covet things you have no desire to learn from, you seek to steal them from their proper authority.” Its echo returned with a tangible, cutting edge that seeped into flesh and squeezed between sinew. “Do you even know what holy rites this book contains?”
“I don’t care,” he snarled through gritted teeth. “I gave my word I’d return it.”
“Your word is an iron weight in deep water. What is your true purpose to come with such heresy in your heart?”
“One thousand pieces of gold,” he answered without hesitation.
“Meager riches!” the Deepshriek roared. “Fleeting! Trifling! They give you pleasures you will forget and in exchange forsake your purity and chastity. You would trade power, the power to return the Kraken Queen to her proper seat for shiny metal? There are infinite worlds of golden garbage in the deeps, forever clenched in the drowned hands of those who would die with it. You are no different.”
“I haven’t even been paid yet. If I die, I won’t even have gold to drown with.” The irony was lost on him in a sudden fury. “I’ve seen what comes out of the deeps. I’ve seen it die, too.”
“So it was you,” the Deepshriek seethed from below. “I heard the cries of the shepherd as you callously cut it down. And so did Mother Deep hear the wails of her children.”
“I didn’t kill it,” he replied, “but I put a sword in it. That’s one thing I can do to demons.”
“Demon?” It loosed an infuriated wail. “Demon? A word birthed by the weak and covetous to rail impotently against the righteous. You display your ignorance with such callousness.”
“I don’t care.”
“You are blinded and deafened by hymn and terror for your false gods. You would deny your place in the endless blue. You were not there, as we were, in ages past when Great Ulbecetonth reigned with mercy and glory for her children.”
“If you really are so old as that, you’re well past-due for a sword in your face.”
“This book has the power to return Her,” the Deepshriek ignored him, “to return Her from worlds of fire and shadow to which She was so cruelly cast.” Its voice became shrill, whining, pleading. “Join us, landborne. It is not too late to forsake this quest and aid our glorious mission. You, too, have a place in the endless blue…for the moment.”
“I’ve heard stories that a demon’s promise is the bait to hook the mortal soul.” Lenk eyed the shape, growing larger and darker beneath the surface as it slid toward his ledge. He held his sword tightly, planted his feet upon the stone. “I’d sooner believe that shicts bottled my farts than believe...whatever in Khetashe’s name you are.”
The black shape rose wordlessly to the surface. Straining his eyes, Lenk thought he could make out the shape of stubby, jagged fins, like those of a maimed fish, and a long, threshing tail that spanned an impressive distance from the creature’s already impressive mass.
Shark, he recalled the name of such a thing.
“We tried, Mother Deep, how we tried.” The Deepshriek muttered, whined and snarled all at once. “Let this waste of promise not enrage You.”
The surface rippled, parted. Lenk hopped backward, leveling his sword before him. A pair of glittering, golden eyes peered up at him and he stared back, baffled. A woman’s face blossomed from the gloom in a bouquet of golden hair wafting in the water behind her.
Somehow, he had expected the Deepshriek to be more menacing.
Slowly, her visage rose from the gloom entirely and Lenk found himself staring at a pair of enchanting eyes set within a soft, cherubic face the color of milk. She smiled, he found himself tempted to return the expression.
And she continued to rise. There were no shapely hips or swelling breasts to compliment the beautiful face. From her jawline down, she rose from the darkness on a long, gray stalk of throbbing flesh. Her smile was broad, delighting in Lenk’s visible repulsion as he recoiled, sword lowered.
But he could not turn away, could not stop staring. He spied another feminine face, another pair of golden eyes framed by hair of the blackest night. Another bobbed up beside it with a mane of burned copper. They shared their golden-locked companion’s smile, revealing sharp fangs as they rose on writhing stalks.
In hypnotic unison, they swayed above Lenk, their sharp teeth bared, golden eyes alight against the green fire. They glided gracefully through the water to the outcropping’s flank, visibly delighted as Lenk hesitated to follow their movement.
“What,” he finally managed to gasp, “in the name of all Gods are you?”
“We,” they replied in ghastly symphony, “are your mercy.”
The golden-haired head snaked forward suddenly, its lips a hair’s width from Lenk’s face.
“And no god will hear you down here.”
Here's the blurb:
Lenk can barely keep control of his mismatched adventurer band at the best of times (Gariath the dragon man sees humans as little more than prey, Kataria the shict despises most humans and the humans in the band are little better). When they're not insulting each other's religions they're arguing about pay and conditions. So when the ship they are travelling on is attacked by pirates things don't go very well. They go a whole lot worse when an invincible demon joins the fray. The demon steals the Tome of the Undergates - a manuscript that contains all you need to open the undergates. And whichever god you believe in you don't want the undergates open. On the other side are countless more invincible demons, the manifestation of all the evil of the gods, and they want out. Full of razor-sharp wit, characters who leap off the page (and into trouble) and plunging the reader into a vivid world of adventure this is a fantasy that kicks off a series that could dominate the second decade of the century.
Enjoy!
----------------------
The voice was alien and convoluted, as though it couldn’t decide what it wanted to convey. It was deep and bass, but tinkled like glass, and carried with it a shrill, mirthful malice.
“Tell us,” it spoke, “what drives the landborne to try the same thing over and over and expect different results?”
Lenk arched a brow. Wherever the speaker was, it seemed to see this.
“You have been pounding at the stone for some time,” it sighed. “Have you not yet realized it moves by will? Our will?” It giggled and spoke at the same time. “All moves at our will, at Her will, earth and water alike.”
“You haven’t moved me,” he spat into the water.
“Haven’t we? You drew your horrid metal at the sound of our song.”
“Conceded,” Lenk muttered, “but it’s no great accomplishment that the sound of your voice makes me want to jam something sharp into you.” He raised the weapon in emphasis. “Show yourself so we can get this over with.”
“Curious. What is it that drives you to fight? To think that we wish to fight you?”
“I’ve been doing this sort of thing long enough to know that if I’m aware of someone referring to themselves as ‘we’, they’re typically the kind of lunatic that I’ll have to kill.”
“Astute.”
“Time is too short for that sort of thing, you understand.”
“One would think all you have is time, unless we decide to move the stone.”
Lenk ignored the echoing laughter that followed, searching the waters for any sign of the speaker.
The stirring began faintly, a churn in the water slightly more pronounced than the others. He saw a dim shape in the gloom, the inky outline of something moving beneath the surface. Soon, he saw it rise, circling at the very lip of the rock.
It was when he saw it, so dark as to render the void pale, that it dawned on him.
“Deepshriek…”
“The servants of uncaring gods and the blind alike have spoken that name,” the creature replied, its voice bubbling up from the gloom. “To others, we are Voice and Prophet to Her Will. The landborne forgot all those names long ago, however.” Its voice was quizzical. “Tell us, what maidens with green hair have you been consorting with?”
“Hardly the point.”
“The point? The point?” It became wrathful, a great churning roar that boiled to the surface. “What heathen consorts with blasphemy with such casualness? Such callousness?”
“Yeah, I hear that a lot.”
“Speak to us.” The black shape twisted towards his outcropping. “What did she promise you in exchange for vengeance? Treasures of the deep, perhaps, the laden gold of the drowned? Or were you overcome with sympathy for her plight? Perhaps she appealed to your love of false, uncaring deities.” Its voice became a slithering tendril, spitefully sliding up from the deep. “Or are you the breed of two-legged thing that lusts to lie with fish-women.”
“I’ve come for the tome.”
The shape froze where it floated. The voice went silent, its pervasive echo sliding back into the deep.
“You cannot have it.” It spoke with restrained fury. “Landborne…you all covet things you have no desire to learn from, you seek to steal them from their proper authority.” Its echo returned with a tangible, cutting edge that seeped into flesh and squeezed between sinew. “Do you even know what holy rites this book contains?”
“I don’t care,” he snarled through gritted teeth. “I gave my word I’d return it.”
“Your word is an iron weight in deep water. What is your true purpose to come with such heresy in your heart?”
“One thousand pieces of gold,” he answered without hesitation.
“Meager riches!” the Deepshriek roared. “Fleeting! Trifling! They give you pleasures you will forget and in exchange forsake your purity and chastity. You would trade power, the power to return the Kraken Queen to her proper seat for shiny metal? There are infinite worlds of golden garbage in the deeps, forever clenched in the drowned hands of those who would die with it. You are no different.”
“I haven’t even been paid yet. If I die, I won’t even have gold to drown with.” The irony was lost on him in a sudden fury. “I’ve seen what comes out of the deeps. I’ve seen it die, too.”
“So it was you,” the Deepshriek seethed from below. “I heard the cries of the shepherd as you callously cut it down. And so did Mother Deep hear the wails of her children.”
“I didn’t kill it,” he replied, “but I put a sword in it. That’s one thing I can do to demons.”
“Demon?” It loosed an infuriated wail. “Demon? A word birthed by the weak and covetous to rail impotently against the righteous. You display your ignorance with such callousness.”
“I don’t care.”
“You are blinded and deafened by hymn and terror for your false gods. You would deny your place in the endless blue. You were not there, as we were, in ages past when Great Ulbecetonth reigned with mercy and glory for her children.”
“If you really are so old as that, you’re well past-due for a sword in your face.”
“This book has the power to return Her,” the Deepshriek ignored him, “to return Her from worlds of fire and shadow to which She was so cruelly cast.” Its voice became shrill, whining, pleading. “Join us, landborne. It is not too late to forsake this quest and aid our glorious mission. You, too, have a place in the endless blue…for the moment.”
“I’ve heard stories that a demon’s promise is the bait to hook the mortal soul.” Lenk eyed the shape, growing larger and darker beneath the surface as it slid toward his ledge. He held his sword tightly, planted his feet upon the stone. “I’d sooner believe that shicts bottled my farts than believe...whatever in Khetashe’s name you are.”
The black shape rose wordlessly to the surface. Straining his eyes, Lenk thought he could make out the shape of stubby, jagged fins, like those of a maimed fish, and a long, threshing tail that spanned an impressive distance from the creature’s already impressive mass.
Shark, he recalled the name of such a thing.
“We tried, Mother Deep, how we tried.” The Deepshriek muttered, whined and snarled all at once. “Let this waste of promise not enrage You.”
The surface rippled, parted. Lenk hopped backward, leveling his sword before him. A pair of glittering, golden eyes peered up at him and he stared back, baffled. A woman’s face blossomed from the gloom in a bouquet of golden hair wafting in the water behind her.
Somehow, he had expected the Deepshriek to be more menacing.
Slowly, her visage rose from the gloom entirely and Lenk found himself staring at a pair of enchanting eyes set within a soft, cherubic face the color of milk. She smiled, he found himself tempted to return the expression.
And she continued to rise. There were no shapely hips or swelling breasts to compliment the beautiful face. From her jawline down, she rose from the darkness on a long, gray stalk of throbbing flesh. Her smile was broad, delighting in Lenk’s visible repulsion as he recoiled, sword lowered.
But he could not turn away, could not stop staring. He spied another feminine face, another pair of golden eyes framed by hair of the blackest night. Another bobbed up beside it with a mane of burned copper. They shared their golden-locked companion’s smile, revealing sharp fangs as they rose on writhing stalks.
In hypnotic unison, they swayed above Lenk, their sharp teeth bared, golden eyes alight against the green fire. They glided gracefully through the water to the outcropping’s flank, visibly delighted as Lenk hesitated to follow their movement.
“What,” he finally managed to gasp, “in the name of all Gods are you?”
“We,” they replied in ghastly symphony, “are your mercy.”
The golden-haired head snaked forward suddenly, its lips a hair’s width from Lenk’s face.
“And no god will hear you down here.”
Win a copy of Mark Charan Newton's NIGHTS OF VILLJAMUR
I have three copies of Mark Charan Newton's Nights of Vill jamur for you to win, compliments of the folks at Bantam Dell. For more info about this title: Canada, USA, Europe.
Here's the blurb:
Following in the footsteps of writers like China Miéville and Richard K. Morgan, Mark Charan Newton balances style and storytelling in this bold and brilliant debut. Nights of the Villjamur marks the beginning of a sweeping new fantasy epic.
Beneath a dying red sun sits the proud and ancient city of Villjamur, capital of a mighty empire that now sits powerless against an encroaching ice age. As throngs of refugees gather outside the city gates, a fierce debate rages within the walls about the fate of these desperate souls. Then tragedy strikes—and the Emperor’s elder daughter, Jamur Rika, is summoned to serve as queen. Joined by her younger sister, Jamur Eir, the queen comes to sympathize with the hardships of the common people, thanks in part to her dashing teacher Randur Estevu, a man who is not what he seems.
Meanwhile, the grisly murder of a councillor draws the attention of Inspector Rumex Jeryd. Jeryd is a rumel, a species of nonhuman that can live for hundreds of years and shares the city with humans, birdlike garuda, and the eerie banshees whose forlorn cries herald death. Jeryd’s investigation will lead him into a web of corruption—and to an obscene conspiracy that threatens the lives of Rika and Eir, and the future of Villjamur itself.
But in the far north, where the drawn-out winter has already begun, an even greater threat appears, against which all the empire’s military and magical power may well prove useless—a threat from another world.
The rules are the same as usual. You need to send an email at reviews@(no-spam)gryphonwood.net with the header "NIGHTS." Remember to remove the "no spam" thingy.
Second, your email must contain your full mailing address (that's snail mail!), otherwise your message will be deleted.
Lastly, multiple entries will disqualify whoever sends them. And please include your screen name and the message boards that you frequent using it, if you do hang out on a particular MB.
Good luck to all the participants!
Here's the blurb:
Following in the footsteps of writers like China Miéville and Richard K. Morgan, Mark Charan Newton balances style and storytelling in this bold and brilliant debut. Nights of the Villjamur marks the beginning of a sweeping new fantasy epic.
Beneath a dying red sun sits the proud and ancient city of Villjamur, capital of a mighty empire that now sits powerless against an encroaching ice age. As throngs of refugees gather outside the city gates, a fierce debate rages within the walls about the fate of these desperate souls. Then tragedy strikes—and the Emperor’s elder daughter, Jamur Rika, is summoned to serve as queen. Joined by her younger sister, Jamur Eir, the queen comes to sympathize with the hardships of the common people, thanks in part to her dashing teacher Randur Estevu, a man who is not what he seems.
Meanwhile, the grisly murder of a councillor draws the attention of Inspector Rumex Jeryd. Jeryd is a rumel, a species of nonhuman that can live for hundreds of years and shares the city with humans, birdlike garuda, and the eerie banshees whose forlorn cries herald death. Jeryd’s investigation will lead him into a web of corruption—and to an obscene conspiracy that threatens the lives of Rika and Eir, and the future of Villjamur itself.
But in the far north, where the drawn-out winter has already begun, an even greater threat appears, against which all the empire’s military and magical power may well prove useless—a threat from another world.
The rules are the same as usual. You need to send an email at reviews@(no-spam)gryphonwood.net with the header "NIGHTS." Remember to remove the "no spam" thingy.
Second, your email must contain your full mailing address (that's snail mail!), otherwise your message will be deleted.
Lastly, multiple entries will disqualify whoever sends them. And please include your screen name and the message boards that you frequent using it, if you do hang out on a particular MB.
Good luck to all the participants!
Crack'd Pot Trail
As you're all undoubtedly aware, over the last few years I became a huge Steven Erikson fan, and I'm always looking forward to the next Malazan installment. Surprisingly, though I can't get enough of The Malazan Book of the Fallen due to it being so ambitious a tale and so vast in scope, the author's hilarious short fiction stories comprised of the Bauchelain and Korbal Broach novellas have been totally satisfying reading experiences. So far at least. . .
Here's the blurb:
It is an undeniable truth: give evil a name and everyone's happy. Give it two names and . . . why, they're even happier.
The intrepid necromancers Bauchelain and Korbal Broach, scourges of civilization, raisers of the dead, reapers of the souls of the living, devourers of hope, betrayers of faith, slayers of the innocent and modest personifications of evil, have a lot to answer for and answer they will. Known as the Nehemoth, they are pursued by countless self-professed defenders of decency, sanity and civilization. After all, since when does evil thrive unchallenged? Well, often: but not this time.
Hot on their heels are the Nehemothanai, avowed hunters of Bauchelain and Korbal Broach. In the company of a gaggle of artists and pilgrims, stalwart Mortal Sword Tulgord Vise, pious Well Knight Arpo Relent, stern Huntsman Steck Marynd, and three of the redoubtable Chanter brothers (and their lone sister) find themselves faced with the cruelest of choices. The legendary Cracked Pot Trail, a stretch of harsh wasteland between the Gates of Nowhere and the Shrine of the Indifferent God, has become a tortured path of deprivation.
Will honour, moral probity and virtue prove champions in the face of brutal necessity? No, of course not. Don't be silly.
Having thoroughly enjoyed Blood Follows, The Healthy Dead, and The Lees of Laughter's End, I couldn't wait to sink my teeth into Crack'd Pot Trail. For if I couldn't read Erikson's The Crippled God, then a new novella featuring my two favorite necromancers and their manservant seemed to be the next best thing. Expecting more of the same in style and tone, I was sorely disappointed. Indeed, while the first three novellas were fun-filled reads showcasing the misadventures of this unlikely trio, Crack'd Pot Trail is more akin to a weird experimental theatre play. The narrative is all over the place and often lacks coherence. At times I found myself wondering what the heck this novella was supposed to be about.
I habitually go through Erikson's novellas in one or two sittings, always bemoaning the fact that the end is reached all too rapidly. Yet with Crack'd Pot Trail, it took me about two weeks to finish a 181-page novella. I kept expecting, or at the very least hoping, that Erikson would turn it around with one of his unanticipated twists that would leave me dumbfounded. But alas, in the end the novella turns out to be a collection of reflections on the nature of art, being an artist, and their relationships with inspiration, their fans, and their craft.
Moreover, the novella's focus remains on the various members of the Nehemothanai. Emancipor Reese, Bauchelain, and Korbal Broach don't make a single appearance until the bottom of page 180. Considering that these three are at the heart of the stories, this was a major disappointment.
As always, humor abounds in this latest short fiction piece, but it doesn't always work. Whereas I found myself chuckling often while reading its predecessors, the humor in Crack'd Pot Trail frequently felt strained and wasn't as funny as in the previous novellas.
The ending, at least, promises more interesting adventures to come. Still, Crack'd Pot Trail, based on the potential of the novellas which came before it, can't be considered anything but a letdown.
You can read an extract from Crack'd Pot Trail here.
The final verdict: 6/10
For more info about this title: Canada, USA, Europe
Here's the blurb:
It is an undeniable truth: give evil a name and everyone's happy. Give it two names and . . . why, they're even happier.
The intrepid necromancers Bauchelain and Korbal Broach, scourges of civilization, raisers of the dead, reapers of the souls of the living, devourers of hope, betrayers of faith, slayers of the innocent and modest personifications of evil, have a lot to answer for and answer they will. Known as the Nehemoth, they are pursued by countless self-professed defenders of decency, sanity and civilization. After all, since when does evil thrive unchallenged? Well, often: but not this time.
Hot on their heels are the Nehemothanai, avowed hunters of Bauchelain and Korbal Broach. In the company of a gaggle of artists and pilgrims, stalwart Mortal Sword Tulgord Vise, pious Well Knight Arpo Relent, stern Huntsman Steck Marynd, and three of the redoubtable Chanter brothers (and their lone sister) find themselves faced with the cruelest of choices. The legendary Cracked Pot Trail, a stretch of harsh wasteland between the Gates of Nowhere and the Shrine of the Indifferent God, has become a tortured path of deprivation.
Will honour, moral probity and virtue prove champions in the face of brutal necessity? No, of course not. Don't be silly.
Having thoroughly enjoyed Blood Follows, The Healthy Dead, and The Lees of Laughter's End, I couldn't wait to sink my teeth into Crack'd Pot Trail. For if I couldn't read Erikson's The Crippled God, then a new novella featuring my two favorite necromancers and their manservant seemed to be the next best thing. Expecting more of the same in style and tone, I was sorely disappointed. Indeed, while the first three novellas were fun-filled reads showcasing the misadventures of this unlikely trio, Crack'd Pot Trail is more akin to a weird experimental theatre play. The narrative is all over the place and often lacks coherence. At times I found myself wondering what the heck this novella was supposed to be about.
I habitually go through Erikson's novellas in one or two sittings, always bemoaning the fact that the end is reached all too rapidly. Yet with Crack'd Pot Trail, it took me about two weeks to finish a 181-page novella. I kept expecting, or at the very least hoping, that Erikson would turn it around with one of his unanticipated twists that would leave me dumbfounded. But alas, in the end the novella turns out to be a collection of reflections on the nature of art, being an artist, and their relationships with inspiration, their fans, and their craft.
Moreover, the novella's focus remains on the various members of the Nehemothanai. Emancipor Reese, Bauchelain, and Korbal Broach don't make a single appearance until the bottom of page 180. Considering that these three are at the heart of the stories, this was a major disappointment.
As always, humor abounds in this latest short fiction piece, but it doesn't always work. Whereas I found myself chuckling often while reading its predecessors, the humor in Crack'd Pot Trail frequently felt strained and wasn't as funny as in the previous novellas.
The ending, at least, promises more interesting adventures to come. Still, Crack'd Pot Trail, based on the potential of the novellas which came before it, can't be considered anything but a letdown.
You can read an extract from Crack'd Pot Trail here.
The final verdict: 6/10
For more info about this title: Canada, USA, Europe
Musical Interlude
Heard this old school tune on my way to Zadar, Croatia, the other day. So I decided to share it with you, what with the free internet access here in Split. =)
Can't tell you how many times I sang this song, drink held aloft in various clubs and bars, all through college and university.
Enjoy!
R. Scott Bakker has a blog!
Just found out about this!Don't know how often Bakker will update it, but he now has a blog which can be found here.
His first blog post is titled "Why Does Blogging Feel So . . . Loserish?"
You might want to keep an eye on it. . .
Exclusive excerpt from Jon Sprunk's SHADOW'S SON
Reading Adam and Ken's reviews of Jon Sprunk's Shadow's Son piqued my curiosity. Which is why I invited the author to write a guest blog for the Hotlist. And now, to give you a taste of this novel, the good folks at Pyr supplied this extract. For more info about this title: Canada, USA, Europe.
Here's the blurb:
In the holy city of Othir, treachery and corruption lurk at the end of every street, just the place for a freelance assassin with no loyalties and few scruples.
Caim makes his living on the edge of a blade, but when a routine job goes south, he is thrust into the middle of an insidious plot. Pitted against crooked lawmen, rival killers, and sorcery from the Other Side, his only allies are Josephine, the socialite daughter of his last victim, and Kit, a guardian spirit no one else can see. But in this fight for his life, Caim only trusts his knives and his instincts, but they won't be enough when his quest for justice leads him from Othir's hazardous back alleys to its shining corridors of power. To unmask a conspiracy at the heart of the empire, he must claim his birthright as the Shadow's Son...
Enjoy!
-----------------------
Caim leaned into the Vine’s dingy whitewashed siding as the sickness washed over him. Black lines wriggled before his vision. His stomach tried to squirm up into his throat, but he fought it back with firm determination. Twilight’s veil was drawing over the city. Angry shouts resounded from inside the wineshop. What had happened inside? His talent had never reacted like that before. It usually took every ounce of concentration he could muster to conjure a few flimsy shadows, but this time they had flocked to him like flies to a corpse, and whatever else had emerged from the dark. He took a deep breath. Stars filled the darkening sky. No light shone from the new moon, hidden as it crossed the heavens. A Shadow’s moon, a night when the shades from the Other Side could cross over to walk in the mortal world. He shivered. The sweat under his shirt had turned cool. Godsdamned legends. Stories to spook little children. Then why are you shaking? Caim pushed off from the wall and started walking. The alley was empty. Kit, as usual, was nowhere to be found. Neither was Hubert, which was a good thing. Maybe he’s learning. Kit appeared over his head. Her violet eyes shone in the twilight gloom. “Fun night, huh?” “Sure. A little more fun like that and I could be enjoying the comforts of a pinewood box.” Caim glanced over his shoulder. An uneasy sensation had settled in the pit of his stomach, the feeling he was being watched. He tried to pass it off as his imagination, but it refused to leave. There was something in the air tonight. The city, never a safe haven for fools, seethed with barely restrained frustrations. Like a boiling kettle, the steam needed to vent before it exploded.
“Oh, Caim. I’d never let that happen to you.”
“I’m serious. Something happened in there.”
“Yeah. You finally let loose. Felt good, didn’t it?”
He shook his head. It had been terrifying to feel that much power flowing through him, out of his control. “That’s never happened before, Kit. Why this time?”
Her dainty shoulders lifted in a shrug. “How should I know?”
“You’re supposed to know about this kind of stuff, but you never tell me anything useful.”
“Well then, since I’m not useful . . .” With a mighty huff, she disappeared in a shower of silver and green sparkles.
Caim sighed and continued on his trek.
Three streets later, he turned a corner and stopped before a monolithic structure. The dark mass of the city workhouse eclipsed the skyline like a colossal black glacier. The building had been closed years ago, but the specter of its presence hung over Low Town like a bad dream. Among the Church’s first creations in the chaotic years following its rise to power, the workhouse had been heralded as an opportunity for the unlawful to repay their crimes against society. Thousands of convicts had entered its iron doors. Most of them died before their sentences were complete, killed by either sadistic guards or the miserable conditions. A mournful wail rose from behind the weather-stripped walls. It was the wind, no doubt, blowing through a broken window, but it was unnerving nonetheless.
Caim picked up his pace to put the unpleasant edifice behind him. He wished now he’d been smart enough to turn down Mathias’s offer. With the city in such a state of turmoil, the last thing he wanted was to risk his neck doing Ral’s secondhand work. This job had better be the easiest he’d ever done or someone was going to regret it. Hell, he regretted it already.
A pair of painted slatterns called out to Caim with promises of earthly delight from the mouth of a cramped alley and flicked their chins at him as he walked past. The street branched ahead of him, both lanes crowded with streetlevel shops and sprawling tenement houses above. Murmurs of life filtered through their faded, whitewashed walls, sounds of laughter and tears, talking voices and wordless moans. The city was a living creature, hungry and untamed beneath its thin veneer of civilization.
In the kaleidoscopic days and weeks after the attack on his family’s home, he and Kit had trekked across the countryside like hunted animals, moving at night, holing up during the daylight hours under whatever cover they could find. He ate whatever came his way—wild berries and nuts, the few animals he was able to catch or knock down with well-aimed stones, stolen goods from the occasional farmstead. Chicken coops were his favorite. He became adept at pilfering eggs without disturbing the sleeping hens.
The towering gray walls of Liovard, the first real city they encountered on their flight south, amazed him. They stretched up to the sky several times the height of a grown man. Beyond those mighty stone ramparts protruded the peaks and turrets of more buildings than he had ever seen in one place. His father’s estate, including the fields and bordering woods, would have been lost inside the walls, and Liovard, as he would learn later, was petite compared to the great cities of the south: Mecantia, Navarre, and Othir were all larger and more diverse. Yet, walking through the iron-shod gates was like passing into another world, a realm of noise and commotion where everyone hustled on vital business. Business was a new word he’d learned in Liovard. Just the sound of it quickened his pulse. That’s what he wanted to be reckoned: a man of business.
It didn’t take him long to learn about the messy underside of city life. For a young boy with no family and no prospects, the city was a frightening place. He slept in alleyways and inside piles of garbage. A stack of discarded shipping crates provided shelter for almost a month until the street cleaners took them away. He moved from place to place, always hungry, always searching for his next meal. If he thought he was safe from harm amid the bustle of the city, he learned better the first time he encountered a street gang. He’d been rooting through a barrel of halfrotten apples when cutting laughter erupted behind him. A dozen older boys surrounded him. As a lesson for trespassing on their territory, they beat him bloody. After that, he learned to avoid them. He snuck like a rat through the slums with Kit, his only companion.
But if the street toughs were dangerous, the tinmen were worse. The bully boys only wanted your food and whatever you had hidden in your pocket, and maybe to rough you up a bit. Yet when he was dragged into a backstreet by two looming guardsmen after stealing a pomegranate from a vendor’s stall, he knew with sinking certainty they wanted more than to thrash him. While Kit swatted ineffectually at their heads, one held him fast while the other ripped open the laces of his breeches. He struggled, but they cuffed him hard across the face, knocking him to the ground. A white-hot ember of rage burned in the pit of Caim’s chest as he remembered that day, but also a thread of euphoria, for no sooner had the guards begun pawing at him with their big, clumsy hands than something erupted inside him. At first, he thought he was going to be sick as the feeling bubbled in his belly. Then, the colors of the waning day faded before his eyes. As he was turned onto his stomach, a new spectrum of shades emerged from the bleak drabness of the alley, blacks and grays of marvelous, vivid tones. While his tears mingled with the dust beneath his face, something extraordinary happened.
A shadow moved.
He had seen shadows move before, when a cloud passed in front of the sun or the object casting the shadow shifted, but this shadow stretched out from under a heap of broken boards like a black tentacle of tar. Strangely, he wasn’t afraid as it oozed toward him, and the guardsmen were too distracted to notice. One held him down by the shoulders while the other tugged down his pants. Caim didn’t recoil; he wanted to know what it was, this crawling, amorphous darkness. When it touched his hand, he yelped as a sensation of burning cold slid over his skin, like dipping his hand into a bucket of ice water. More shadows crawled into the light, swarming over the alleyway until Caim couldn’t see the ground under his nose. The guardsman holding him down shouted and let up enough for Caim to wriggle. He kicked and scratched. When a hand seized his face, he bit down hard until warm, salty blood filled his mouth. A strangled scream pierced the gloom, and then he was free.
He didn’t hesitate, but hitched his breeches around his waist and ran. Fear thundered in his ears with every stride.
Caim let the memory fade away as he turned his footsteps toward High Town. Two things were clear to him. First, he couldn’t risk using his powers until he figured out what had happened at the Vine. He couldn’t risk losing control. And second, he would avoid contact with the Azure Hawks for the time being. Those decisions made him feel a little better. Then he remembered that he’d left his cloak back in the taproom.
Caim hunched his shoulders against the night’s chill and hurried through the umbrageous byways of the city. Yet the haunting images of his past followed him down every street.
Here's the blurb:
In the holy city of Othir, treachery and corruption lurk at the end of every street, just the place for a freelance assassin with no loyalties and few scruples.
Caim makes his living on the edge of a blade, but when a routine job goes south, he is thrust into the middle of an insidious plot. Pitted against crooked lawmen, rival killers, and sorcery from the Other Side, his only allies are Josephine, the socialite daughter of his last victim, and Kit, a guardian spirit no one else can see. But in this fight for his life, Caim only trusts his knives and his instincts, but they won't be enough when his quest for justice leads him from Othir's hazardous back alleys to its shining corridors of power. To unmask a conspiracy at the heart of the empire, he must claim his birthright as the Shadow's Son...
Enjoy!
-----------------------
Caim leaned into the Vine’s dingy whitewashed siding as the sickness washed over him. Black lines wriggled before his vision. His stomach tried to squirm up into his throat, but he fought it back with firm determination. Twilight’s veil was drawing over the city. Angry shouts resounded from inside the wineshop. What had happened inside? His talent had never reacted like that before. It usually took every ounce of concentration he could muster to conjure a few flimsy shadows, but this time they had flocked to him like flies to a corpse, and whatever else had emerged from the dark. He took a deep breath. Stars filled the darkening sky. No light shone from the new moon, hidden as it crossed the heavens. A Shadow’s moon, a night when the shades from the Other Side could cross over to walk in the mortal world. He shivered. The sweat under his shirt had turned cool. Godsdamned legends. Stories to spook little children. Then why are you shaking? Caim pushed off from the wall and started walking. The alley was empty. Kit, as usual, was nowhere to be found. Neither was Hubert, which was a good thing. Maybe he’s learning. Kit appeared over his head. Her violet eyes shone in the twilight gloom. “Fun night, huh?” “Sure. A little more fun like that and I could be enjoying the comforts of a pinewood box.” Caim glanced over his shoulder. An uneasy sensation had settled in the pit of his stomach, the feeling he was being watched. He tried to pass it off as his imagination, but it refused to leave. There was something in the air tonight. The city, never a safe haven for fools, seethed with barely restrained frustrations. Like a boiling kettle, the steam needed to vent before it exploded.
“Oh, Caim. I’d never let that happen to you.”
“I’m serious. Something happened in there.”
“Yeah. You finally let loose. Felt good, didn’t it?”
He shook his head. It had been terrifying to feel that much power flowing through him, out of his control. “That’s never happened before, Kit. Why this time?”
Her dainty shoulders lifted in a shrug. “How should I know?”
“You’re supposed to know about this kind of stuff, but you never tell me anything useful.”
“Well then, since I’m not useful . . .” With a mighty huff, she disappeared in a shower of silver and green sparkles.
Caim sighed and continued on his trek.
Three streets later, he turned a corner and stopped before a monolithic structure. The dark mass of the city workhouse eclipsed the skyline like a colossal black glacier. The building had been closed years ago, but the specter of its presence hung over Low Town like a bad dream. Among the Church’s first creations in the chaotic years following its rise to power, the workhouse had been heralded as an opportunity for the unlawful to repay their crimes against society. Thousands of convicts had entered its iron doors. Most of them died before their sentences were complete, killed by either sadistic guards or the miserable conditions. A mournful wail rose from behind the weather-stripped walls. It was the wind, no doubt, blowing through a broken window, but it was unnerving nonetheless.
Caim picked up his pace to put the unpleasant edifice behind him. He wished now he’d been smart enough to turn down Mathias’s offer. With the city in such a state of turmoil, the last thing he wanted was to risk his neck doing Ral’s secondhand work. This job had better be the easiest he’d ever done or someone was going to regret it. Hell, he regretted it already.
A pair of painted slatterns called out to Caim with promises of earthly delight from the mouth of a cramped alley and flicked their chins at him as he walked past. The street branched ahead of him, both lanes crowded with streetlevel shops and sprawling tenement houses above. Murmurs of life filtered through their faded, whitewashed walls, sounds of laughter and tears, talking voices and wordless moans. The city was a living creature, hungry and untamed beneath its thin veneer of civilization.
In the kaleidoscopic days and weeks after the attack on his family’s home, he and Kit had trekked across the countryside like hunted animals, moving at night, holing up during the daylight hours under whatever cover they could find. He ate whatever came his way—wild berries and nuts, the few animals he was able to catch or knock down with well-aimed stones, stolen goods from the occasional farmstead. Chicken coops were his favorite. He became adept at pilfering eggs without disturbing the sleeping hens.
The towering gray walls of Liovard, the first real city they encountered on their flight south, amazed him. They stretched up to the sky several times the height of a grown man. Beyond those mighty stone ramparts protruded the peaks and turrets of more buildings than he had ever seen in one place. His father’s estate, including the fields and bordering woods, would have been lost inside the walls, and Liovard, as he would learn later, was petite compared to the great cities of the south: Mecantia, Navarre, and Othir were all larger and more diverse. Yet, walking through the iron-shod gates was like passing into another world, a realm of noise and commotion where everyone hustled on vital business. Business was a new word he’d learned in Liovard. Just the sound of it quickened his pulse. That’s what he wanted to be reckoned: a man of business.
It didn’t take him long to learn about the messy underside of city life. For a young boy with no family and no prospects, the city was a frightening place. He slept in alleyways and inside piles of garbage. A stack of discarded shipping crates provided shelter for almost a month until the street cleaners took them away. He moved from place to place, always hungry, always searching for his next meal. If he thought he was safe from harm amid the bustle of the city, he learned better the first time he encountered a street gang. He’d been rooting through a barrel of halfrotten apples when cutting laughter erupted behind him. A dozen older boys surrounded him. As a lesson for trespassing on their territory, they beat him bloody. After that, he learned to avoid them. He snuck like a rat through the slums with Kit, his only companion.
But if the street toughs were dangerous, the tinmen were worse. The bully boys only wanted your food and whatever you had hidden in your pocket, and maybe to rough you up a bit. Yet when he was dragged into a backstreet by two looming guardsmen after stealing a pomegranate from a vendor’s stall, he knew with sinking certainty they wanted more than to thrash him. While Kit swatted ineffectually at their heads, one held him fast while the other ripped open the laces of his breeches. He struggled, but they cuffed him hard across the face, knocking him to the ground. A white-hot ember of rage burned in the pit of Caim’s chest as he remembered that day, but also a thread of euphoria, for no sooner had the guards begun pawing at him with their big, clumsy hands than something erupted inside him. At first, he thought he was going to be sick as the feeling bubbled in his belly. Then, the colors of the waning day faded before his eyes. As he was turned onto his stomach, a new spectrum of shades emerged from the bleak drabness of the alley, blacks and grays of marvelous, vivid tones. While his tears mingled with the dust beneath his face, something extraordinary happened.
A shadow moved.
He had seen shadows move before, when a cloud passed in front of the sun or the object casting the shadow shifted, but this shadow stretched out from under a heap of broken boards like a black tentacle of tar. Strangely, he wasn’t afraid as it oozed toward him, and the guardsmen were too distracted to notice. One held him down by the shoulders while the other tugged down his pants. Caim didn’t recoil; he wanted to know what it was, this crawling, amorphous darkness. When it touched his hand, he yelped as a sensation of burning cold slid over his skin, like dipping his hand into a bucket of ice water. More shadows crawled into the light, swarming over the alleyway until Caim couldn’t see the ground under his nose. The guardsman holding him down shouted and let up enough for Caim to wriggle. He kicked and scratched. When a hand seized his face, he bit down hard until warm, salty blood filled his mouth. A strangled scream pierced the gloom, and then he was free.
He didn’t hesitate, but hitched his breeches around his waist and ran. Fear thundered in his ears with every stride.
Caim let the memory fade away as he turned his footsteps toward High Town. Two things were clear to him. First, he couldn’t risk using his powers until he figured out what had happened at the Vine. He couldn’t risk losing control. And second, he would avoid contact with the Azure Hawks for the time being. Those decisions made him feel a little better. Then he remembered that he’d left his cloak back in the taproom.
Caim hunched his shoulders against the night’s chill and hurried through the umbrageous byways of the city. Yet the haunting images of his past followed him down every street.
Win a copy of the mass market edition of Steven Erikson's DUST OF DREAMS
Thanks to the kind folks at Transworld, I have five copies of the paperback edition of Steven Erikson's Dust of Dreams up for grabs. For more info about this title: Canada, USA, Europe.
Here's the blurb:
In war everyone loses. This brutal truth can be seen in the eyes of every soldier in every world…
In Letherii, the exiled Malazan army commanded by Adjunct Tavore begins its march into the eastern Wastelands, to fight for an unknown cause against an enemy it has never seen. And in these same Wastelands, others gather to confront their destinies. The warlike Barghast, thwarted in their vengeance against the Tiste Edur, seek new enemies beyond the border and Onos Toolan, once immortal T’lan Imass now mortal commander of the White Face clan, faces insurrection. To the south, the Perish Grey Helms parlay passage through the treacherous kingdom of Bolkando. Their intention is to rendezvous with the Bonehunters but their vow of allegiance to the Malazans will be sorely tested. And ancient enclaves of an Elder Race are in search of salvation—not among their own kind, but among humans—as an old enemy draws ever closer to the last surviving bastion of the K’Chain Che’Malle.
So this last great army of the Malazan Empire is resolved to make one final defiant, heroic stand in the name of redemption. But can deeds be heroic when there is no one to witness them? And can that which is not witnessed forever change the world? Destines are rarely simple, truths never clear but one certainty is that time is on no one’s side. For the Deck of Dragons has been read, unleashing a dread power that none can comprehend…
In a faraway land and beneath indifferent skies, the final chapter of ‘The Malazan Book of the Fallen’ has begun…
The rules are the same as usual. You need to send an email at reviews@(no-spam)gryphonwood.net with the header "MORTAL SWORD." Remember to remove the "no spam" thingy.
Second, your email must contain your full mailing address (that's snail mail!), otherwise your message will be deleted.
Lastly, multiple entries will disqualify whoever sends them. And please include your screen name and the message boards that you frequent using it, if you do hang out on a particular MB.
Good luck to all the participants!
Guest Blog: Carrie Vaughn
As a big Kitty Norville fan, when I was asked if I wanted to be part of Carrie Vaughn's blog tour promoting her new release, Kitty Goes to War (Canada, USA, Europe), I had to say yes!
Here's the blurb:
Kitty Norville, Alpha werewolf and host of The Midnight Hour, a radio call-in show, is contacted by a friend at the NIH's Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology. Three Army soldiers recently returned from the war in Afghanistan are being held at Ft. Carson in Colorado Springs. They're killer werewolves—and post traumatic stress has left them unable to control their shape-shifting and unable to interact with people. Kitty agrees to see them, hoping to help by bringing them into her pack.
Meanwhile, Kitty gets sued for libel by CEO Harold Franklin after featuring Speedy Mart--his nationwide chain of 24-hour convenience stores with a reputation for attracting supernatural unpleasantness--on her show.
Very bad weather is on the horizon.
Don't miss out on a terrific urban fantasy series:
- Kitty and the Midnight Hour (Canada, USA, Europe)
- Kitty Goes to Washington (Canada, USA, Europe)
- Kitty Takes a Holiday (Canada, USA, Europe)
- Kitty and the Silver Bullet (Canada, USA, Europe)
- Kitty and the Dead Man's Hand (Canada, USA, Europe)
- Kitty Raises Hell (Canada, USA, Europe)
- Kitty's House of Horrors ( Canada, USA, Europe)
Enjoy!
----------------
More Authorial Responsibilities by Carrie Vaughn
I followed with train-wrecky fascination the whole "George R. R. Martin is not your bitch" kerfluffle last year, and it got me thinking. Not about deadlines specifically (I'm always thinking about that at some level) but about other areas of authorial responsibility, and some problems that inevitably show up with a long-running series. Such as the one where, eventually, the author is going to take the story in a direction that some, or many, of the readers don't like.
I'm starting to think this is impossible to avoid. You write a few books about the same set of characters, develop a following, and that world and those characters live on in your readers' minds while you're holed up in your cave writing the next book. You're not telepathic. Neither are they. The readers start spinning events forward in time, developing expectations about what should happen next, who should hook up with whom, and so on. Then the next book comes out, and what happens there isn't what they wanted to have happen. The satisfying reading experience they expected isn't satisfying, or as satisfying as they wanted. I think this is an issue that most writers can sympathize with because we've all experienced it as readers (or TV viewers, or movie viewers, and so on). We know how frustrating it is. We want our readers to be happy. But there comes a point where it's impossible to make everyone happy.
The more books there are in a series, the more likely this is to happen. You can't make all readers happy. They're all spinning different stories in different directions. This is where authorial responsibility becomes what it always is: write the best book you can. Your readers have followed you this far, most of them will keep following. If you write a good story, they'll trust you, and appreciate that your imagination differs from their own. At least, you hope they'll trust you.
This happened pretty early on in the Kitty series: in the third novel, Kitty hooked up with a different character than the one many of my readers thought she should hook up with. In fact, I did something to that character -- Cormac, hands down the second most popular character in the series -- to shove him off stage for the next several books. (I'm trying to do this without too many spoilers, can you tell?) I knew when I did it this would make a lot of people unhappy. I did it anyway, because that was the story I had lodged firmly in my brain and it wouldn't budge. I had to tell the story as it was living in my imagination, because trying to tell any other story would have felt faked and forced.
I was right. A lot of people were really unhappy about that choice. I even got an e-mail from someone telling me she wouldn't read the series again until I hooked Kitty up with Cormac, with whom she so obviously belongs. Huh. But see, it isn't obvious to me. I know what happens at least two books further out than my readers do, and I'm not going to change what I've already planned.
It seems to me that this is one of the risks of fiction, both as an author and a reader. When you pick up a book, do you trust the author to tell a good story? Are you willing to roll with a few unexpected punches? Do you actually love those unexpected punches? I know I do. As long as the author convinces me it's the right way to go, I'll go with it. As an author, I have to listen to my own story instincts, but if I take the story in a new direction, I have to make sure I sell that change and convince my readers that it's the right story. And I have to be aware that not everyone is going to be happy no matter what I do. In the case of the plot twist I mentioned, I think I did okay because I've gotten plenty of e-mails supporting my choice, in addition to the ones telling me I'm crazy.
Kitty Goes to War is the eighth book in the series, and we've come a long way in the five years since the first book came out. And yeah, more changes are in store, because Cormac is back in the picture in this book. I don't know yet if his fans are going to be happy with where I've taken him. I'll find out soon enough.
Here's the blurb:
Kitty Norville, Alpha werewolf and host of The Midnight Hour, a radio call-in show, is contacted by a friend at the NIH's Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology. Three Army soldiers recently returned from the war in Afghanistan are being held at Ft. Carson in Colorado Springs. They're killer werewolves—and post traumatic stress has left them unable to control their shape-shifting and unable to interact with people. Kitty agrees to see them, hoping to help by bringing them into her pack.
Meanwhile, Kitty gets sued for libel by CEO Harold Franklin after featuring Speedy Mart--his nationwide chain of 24-hour convenience stores with a reputation for attracting supernatural unpleasantness--on her show.
Very bad weather is on the horizon.
Don't miss out on a terrific urban fantasy series:
- Kitty and the Midnight Hour (Canada, USA, Europe)
- Kitty Goes to Washington (Canada, USA, Europe)
- Kitty Takes a Holiday (Canada, USA, Europe)
- Kitty and the Silver Bullet (Canada, USA, Europe)
- Kitty and the Dead Man's Hand (Canada, USA, Europe)
- Kitty Raises Hell (Canada, USA, Europe)
- Kitty's House of Horrors ( Canada, USA, Europe)
Enjoy!
----------------
More Authorial Responsibilities by Carrie Vaughn
I followed with train-wrecky fascination the whole "George R. R. Martin is not your bitch" kerfluffle last year, and it got me thinking. Not about deadlines specifically (I'm always thinking about that at some level) but about other areas of authorial responsibility, and some problems that inevitably show up with a long-running series. Such as the one where, eventually, the author is going to take the story in a direction that some, or many, of the readers don't like.
I'm starting to think this is impossible to avoid. You write a few books about the same set of characters, develop a following, and that world and those characters live on in your readers' minds while you're holed up in your cave writing the next book. You're not telepathic. Neither are they. The readers start spinning events forward in time, developing expectations about what should happen next, who should hook up with whom, and so on. Then the next book comes out, and what happens there isn't what they wanted to have happen. The satisfying reading experience they expected isn't satisfying, or as satisfying as they wanted. I think this is an issue that most writers can sympathize with because we've all experienced it as readers (or TV viewers, or movie viewers, and so on). We know how frustrating it is. We want our readers to be happy. But there comes a point where it's impossible to make everyone happy.
The more books there are in a series, the more likely this is to happen. You can't make all readers happy. They're all spinning different stories in different directions. This is where authorial responsibility becomes what it always is: write the best book you can. Your readers have followed you this far, most of them will keep following. If you write a good story, they'll trust you, and appreciate that your imagination differs from their own. At least, you hope they'll trust you.
This happened pretty early on in the Kitty series: in the third novel, Kitty hooked up with a different character than the one many of my readers thought she should hook up with. In fact, I did something to that character -- Cormac, hands down the second most popular character in the series -- to shove him off stage for the next several books. (I'm trying to do this without too many spoilers, can you tell?) I knew when I did it this would make a lot of people unhappy. I did it anyway, because that was the story I had lodged firmly in my brain and it wouldn't budge. I had to tell the story as it was living in my imagination, because trying to tell any other story would have felt faked and forced.
I was right. A lot of people were really unhappy about that choice. I even got an e-mail from someone telling me she wouldn't read the series again until I hooked Kitty up with Cormac, with whom she so obviously belongs. Huh. But see, it isn't obvious to me. I know what happens at least two books further out than my readers do, and I'm not going to change what I've already planned.
It seems to me that this is one of the risks of fiction, both as an author and a reader. When you pick up a book, do you trust the author to tell a good story? Are you willing to roll with a few unexpected punches? Do you actually love those unexpected punches? I know I do. As long as the author convinces me it's the right way to go, I'll go with it. As an author, I have to listen to my own story instincts, but if I take the story in a new direction, I have to make sure I sell that change and convince my readers that it's the right story. And I have to be aware that not everyone is going to be happy no matter what I do. In the case of the plot twist I mentioned, I think I did okay because I've gotten plenty of e-mails supporting my choice, in addition to the ones telling me I'm crazy.
Kitty Goes to War is the eighth book in the series, and we've come a long way in the five years since the first book came out. And yeah, more changes are in store, because Cormac is back in the picture in this book. I don't know yet if his fans are going to be happy with where I've taken him. I'll find out soon enough.
I Feel SLOVEnia
Well, though Mother Nature hasn't been cooperating these last couple of days, I have thoroughly enjoyed my stay in beautiful Slovenia. For some reason, this country remains under the radar, regardless of the fact that it's so close to Austria and Croatia, two extremely popular destinations.
Ljubljana is a charming city. Think of a more compact version of Prague or Krakow minus the crowds. Although a euro country, everything is pretty much affordable. Where else can you get a good cup of coffee or tasty ice cream for a mere 1 euro? Forget about Union beer, but the Lasko brew is actually quite good. And pretty cheap to boot!
Slovenians are a chatty and curious bunch, most of them fluent in English. There is no tourist overkill in this country, so chances are locals, whether or not they work in the tourist or service industries, will be more than happy to strike up a conversation and help you get on your way to a nice bar or restaurant. Unlike places overrun by tourists, where you get the feeling that people don't give a flying fuck about you and are only interested in the money you're bringing in, Slovanians truly make tourists feel welcome.
Ljubljana is a relatively small city, and you can walk or bike your way absolutely anywhere. Hard to believe that it's the capital, as it feels more like a small vacation town. The outdoor bar/cafe scene is unreal! You must see it to believe it. They actually close down entire streets to set up outside terraces. Hence, you'll never have a hard time finding an outdoor seating area to have a drink or a meal. Unless perhaps for the 8:30pm World Cup game. . .
The Ljubljana castle is nothing to write home about, but the views from the watchtower are spectacular, especially on a bright and sunny day. You can basically see and do all the important sights of Ljubljana in a single day. But give yourself at least two days to take your time and soak up the cool atmosphere. The Triple Bridge and the Franciscan Church of the Annunciation form a nice backdrop, with the Preseren monument and the Plecnik Colonnade nearby adding to the scene. The Cathedral of St. Nicholas and the Dragon Bridge are also cool, yet just taking your time and strolling around the riverfront areas is the most enjoyable experience. Went to the National Gallery and the National Museum of Slovenia because of the bad weather, yet none are necessarily "must see" places.
Stayed at Hostel Celica, which is housed in a former prison. Booked onw of those cells, with the bars and everything. It's a pretty cool place to stay at, with a great staff and a very cool vibe. The only problem is that it's smack down in the middle of Metelkova Mesto, which means that you've got music blaring from like 5 bars and 2 clubs till about 3:00am. And ear plugs are useless, unfortunately. Add to that the fact that breakfast kicks in at 7:30am, with yet more music from the cafe downstairs, and it means that it's impossible to get more than about 4 hours of sleep per night. It adds up. . .
Caught a bus to Bled yesterday. It's a gorgeous town in the middle of the Julian Alps. Thunderstorms forced me to remain at the Traveller's Haven, a very cozy place to stay. When the sun peeked out from the clouds following dinner, I decided to take a chance to climb up to Castle Bled. Totally worthless, especially at 7 euro to get in. Even though the views of Bled and Lake Bled are something to see. Since the weather appeared to hold up, I walked around the length of the lake (6km) for splendid views of Bled Island and the Church of the Annunciation.
Watched the end of the soccer game between Uruguay and South Africa with my fellow travelers, had a fews glasses of wine (Slovenian wine is good and affordable), and then turned in for my first good night's sleep of this trip.
We were all aware that it would pour again today, but things didn't look too bad this morning. The hostel offers free bikes, so I took one and made my way to the stunning Vintgar Gorge (see picture). The mist created by the recent showers gave the whole scenery some kind of surreal feel.
Biked my way back to Bled for a quick lunch, and then walked around the lake to climb up to the Mala Osojnica viewpoint. Screwed up and ended up taking the more arduous path up. The footing was uncertain throughout, what with the surface being made of rotten leaves and slippery rocks. It was a pain in the ass, but I made it up there for a nice panorama. Started raining on my way down, but I did reach the lake (via the easier path which I found at the viewpoint) without breaking my neck. Made my way to Hotel Park for a piece of Bled's famous cream cake. And as soon as I sat down and got ready to order, it started pouring like a son of a bitch. So I ordered a cafe latte to go with my cake, and enjoyed watching people get soaked as I lounged under a nice and convenient roof over the outside terrace.
All in all, a very nice day. I now regret planning so little time in Slovenia. It's a mix of Austria, Switzerland, and Quebec's Laurentians, as charming but less expensive than all three. Had I known I would enjoy it as much, I would have planned more time to see more of the country. This is definitely a place I want to return to.
I now have dinner plans to make. . . And must then pack my shit, for tomorrow I must catch a bus back to Ljubljana, and then get on a train bound for Zagreb. No worries, photos are coming in the near future!
Croatia, here I come!;-)
Ljubljana is a charming city. Think of a more compact version of Prague or Krakow minus the crowds. Although a euro country, everything is pretty much affordable. Where else can you get a good cup of coffee or tasty ice cream for a mere 1 euro? Forget about Union beer, but the Lasko brew is actually quite good. And pretty cheap to boot!
Slovenians are a chatty and curious bunch, most of them fluent in English. There is no tourist overkill in this country, so chances are locals, whether or not they work in the tourist or service industries, will be more than happy to strike up a conversation and help you get on your way to a nice bar or restaurant. Unlike places overrun by tourists, where you get the feeling that people don't give a flying fuck about you and are only interested in the money you're bringing in, Slovanians truly make tourists feel welcome.
Ljubljana is a relatively small city, and you can walk or bike your way absolutely anywhere. Hard to believe that it's the capital, as it feels more like a small vacation town. The outdoor bar/cafe scene is unreal! You must see it to believe it. They actually close down entire streets to set up outside terraces. Hence, you'll never have a hard time finding an outdoor seating area to have a drink or a meal. Unless perhaps for the 8:30pm World Cup game. . .
The Ljubljana castle is nothing to write home about, but the views from the watchtower are spectacular, especially on a bright and sunny day. You can basically see and do all the important sights of Ljubljana in a single day. But give yourself at least two days to take your time and soak up the cool atmosphere. The Triple Bridge and the Franciscan Church of the Annunciation form a nice backdrop, with the Preseren monument and the Plecnik Colonnade nearby adding to the scene. The Cathedral of St. Nicholas and the Dragon Bridge are also cool, yet just taking your time and strolling around the riverfront areas is the most enjoyable experience. Went to the National Gallery and the National Museum of Slovenia because of the bad weather, yet none are necessarily "must see" places.
Stayed at Hostel Celica, which is housed in a former prison. Booked onw of those cells, with the bars and everything. It's a pretty cool place to stay at, with a great staff and a very cool vibe. The only problem is that it's smack down in the middle of Metelkova Mesto, which means that you've got music blaring from like 5 bars and 2 clubs till about 3:00am. And ear plugs are useless, unfortunately. Add to that the fact that breakfast kicks in at 7:30am, with yet more music from the cafe downstairs, and it means that it's impossible to get more than about 4 hours of sleep per night. It adds up. . .
Caught a bus to Bled yesterday. It's a gorgeous town in the middle of the Julian Alps. Thunderstorms forced me to remain at the Traveller's Haven, a very cozy place to stay. When the sun peeked out from the clouds following dinner, I decided to take a chance to climb up to Castle Bled. Totally worthless, especially at 7 euro to get in. Even though the views of Bled and Lake Bled are something to see. Since the weather appeared to hold up, I walked around the length of the lake (6km) for splendid views of Bled Island and the Church of the Annunciation.
Watched the end of the soccer game between Uruguay and South Africa with my fellow travelers, had a fews glasses of wine (Slovenian wine is good and affordable), and then turned in for my first good night's sleep of this trip.
We were all aware that it would pour again today, but things didn't look too bad this morning. The hostel offers free bikes, so I took one and made my way to the stunning Vintgar Gorge (see picture). The mist created by the recent showers gave the whole scenery some kind of surreal feel.
Biked my way back to Bled for a quick lunch, and then walked around the lake to climb up to the Mala Osojnica viewpoint. Screwed up and ended up taking the more arduous path up. The footing was uncertain throughout, what with the surface being made of rotten leaves and slippery rocks. It was a pain in the ass, but I made it up there for a nice panorama. Started raining on my way down, but I did reach the lake (via the easier path which I found at the viewpoint) without breaking my neck. Made my way to Hotel Park for a piece of Bled's famous cream cake. And as soon as I sat down and got ready to order, it started pouring like a son of a bitch. So I ordered a cafe latte to go with my cake, and enjoyed watching people get soaked as I lounged under a nice and convenient roof over the outside terrace.
All in all, a very nice day. I now regret planning so little time in Slovenia. It's a mix of Austria, Switzerland, and Quebec's Laurentians, as charming but less expensive than all three. Had I known I would enjoy it as much, I would have planned more time to see more of the country. This is definitely a place I want to return to.
I now have dinner plans to make. . . And must then pack my shit, for tomorrow I must catch a bus back to Ljubljana, and then get on a train bound for Zagreb. No worries, photos are coming in the near future!
Croatia, here I come!;-)
The Dervish House + Giveaway
When I gave Guy Gavriel Kay's Under Heaven its perfect score a few weeks back, I was persuaded that no other speculative fiction work could possibly even come close to it in terms of quality. And yet, I knew full well that the ARC for Ian McDonald's The Dervish House was sitting on my desk, practically begging me to read it. And still I believed that Kay's latest would reign supreme as the best SFF book of 2010 -- at least in this house. The more fool me, I know. . .
Considering how much I loved River of Gods, Brasyl, and Cyberabad Days, I'm aware that I should have waited a bit longer before granting Under Heaven its crown. After all, every McDonald title I've read since the creation of the Hotlist ended up in my top reads of that year. Call it Canadian patriotism or whatever you like, but I really wanted Guy Gavriel Kay to finish in pole position at the end of 2010. Unfortunately, Ian McDonald had another think coming for me.
The Dervish House is without a doubt his best and most accessible science fiction novel to date. And to put it simply, it just blew my mind. Believe me, I did try to find some shortcomings and facets that left a little to be desired. All to no avail, of course. The Dervish House is about as good as it gets, folks. McDonald's past novels had already set the bar rather high, no question. But this one, at least for me, is as close to perfection as a book can get.
Here's the blurb:
It begins with an explosion. Another day, another bus bomb. Everyone it seems is after a piece of Turkey. But the shock waves from this random act of twenty-first-century pandemic terrorism will ripple further and resonate louder than just Enginsoy Square.
Welcome to the world of The Dervish House—the great, ancient, paradoxical city of Istanbul, divided like a human brain, in the great, ancient, equally paradoxical nation of Turkey. The year is 2027 and Turkey is about to celebrate the fifth anniversary of its accession to the European Union, a Europe that now runs from the Arran Islands to Ararat. Population pushing one hundred million, Istanbul swollen to fifteen million, Turkey is the largest, most populous, and most diverse nation in the EU, but also one of the poorest and most socially divided. It's a boom economy, the sweatshop of Europe, the bazaar of central Asia, the key to the immense gas wealth of Russia and central Asia. The Dervish House is seven days, six characters, three interconnected story strands, one central common core—the eponymous dervish house, a character in itself—that pins all these players together in a weave of intrigue, conflict, drama, and a ticking clock of a thriller.
Previous novels by McDonald took some time to get into, as the author used the early part of each of his work to build the groundwork for what was to come. Uncharacteristically, in The Dervish House McDonald's tale grabs hold of you from the get-go and won't let go till you reach the very end. I wasn't expecting the novel to make such a powerful impression right from the very first pages. But as soon as that woman detonates herself inside Tram 157 near Necatibey Cadessi, any hope I had of ever being able to put down this book evaporated immediately.
Seemingly effortlessly (don't know how he manages to do it, but McDonald's always makes this look easy), the author captured the essence of 21st century Turkey on countless levels. His evocative prose brings Istanbul to life in vivid fashion. His undeniable eye for details creates an imagery and an atmosphere that will delight and impress readers in myriad ways. As is the author's wont, the worldbuilding is superb. His depiction of a futuristic Turkey now part of the EU is even more memorable than his thrilling depictions of India and Brazil were. Whether its the country's political and social psyche, or mundane details such as what people are having for breakfast, McDonald's narrative makes you feel as though you're part of the action.
The Dervish House is not split into usual chapters. Instead, the story takes place during seven days, beginning with that fateful terrorist bus bombing. The tale unfolds through the eyes of six disparate characters, with the dervish house connecting these various plotlines together. I felt at first that the contrasting personalities would perhaps create a somewhat discordant whole, but Ian McDonald makes them all come together in a surprising manner. As was the case with River of Gods, when the multilayered storylines converge, the author's genius and his gift for well-crafted characterization shine through.
Though every character has his or her part to play in the overall story arc, Necdet, who was staring at the woman on the tram when she blew herself up, could be what one might consider the central character. Yet that's not entirely true, as the rest of the cast, even if they do so sometimes indirectly, plays as important a role in the greater scheme of things. The boy Can Durukan is particularly well-realized, and his relationship with Georgios Ferentinou showed that the author possesses a deft human touch. Still, Ayse Erkoç was, for me, probably the most interesting of the bunch. Another great aspect of The Dervish House is that every single character has a backstory, making them all three-dimensional protagonists. Hence, although the novel is a thought-provoking work of science fiction, it is nevertheless a character-driven read.
The pace, even though it is never a factor, is not always crisp. The narrative slows down considerably in the POV portions of both Adnan Sarioglu and Leyla Gültasli. And yet, when McDonald's reveals the true importance of each plotline and how it's connected to the overall story arc, that's when things get really interesting!
Perhaps because fundamentalist islamic terrorists and the emergence of Turkey and its possible accession to the European Union have made the news quite often these last few years, many of the themes found within the pages of The Dervish House feel more actual and better known and understood than those of McDonald's previous novels. Which is why I feel that The Dervish House, while showcasing Ian McDonald at his very best in terms of thought-provoking storytelling skills, just might be his most accessible work to date.
The Dervish House deserves the highest possible recommendation. If you only have money to buy a single scifi novel this year, this has to be it.
Follow this link to read an extract from Ian McDonald's The Dervish House.
Impossible to put down.
The final verdict: 10/10
For more info about this title: Canada, USA, Europe.
Considering how much I loved River of Gods, Brasyl, and Cyberabad Days, I'm aware that I should have waited a bit longer before granting Under Heaven its crown. After all, every McDonald title I've read since the creation of the Hotlist ended up in my top reads of that year. Call it Canadian patriotism or whatever you like, but I really wanted Guy Gavriel Kay to finish in pole position at the end of 2010. Unfortunately, Ian McDonald had another think coming for me.
The Dervish House is without a doubt his best and most accessible science fiction novel to date. And to put it simply, it just blew my mind. Believe me, I did try to find some shortcomings and facets that left a little to be desired. All to no avail, of course. The Dervish House is about as good as it gets, folks. McDonald's past novels had already set the bar rather high, no question. But this one, at least for me, is as close to perfection as a book can get.
Here's the blurb:
It begins with an explosion. Another day, another bus bomb. Everyone it seems is after a piece of Turkey. But the shock waves from this random act of twenty-first-century pandemic terrorism will ripple further and resonate louder than just Enginsoy Square.
Welcome to the world of The Dervish House—the great, ancient, paradoxical city of Istanbul, divided like a human brain, in the great, ancient, equally paradoxical nation of Turkey. The year is 2027 and Turkey is about to celebrate the fifth anniversary of its accession to the European Union, a Europe that now runs from the Arran Islands to Ararat. Population pushing one hundred million, Istanbul swollen to fifteen million, Turkey is the largest, most populous, and most diverse nation in the EU, but also one of the poorest and most socially divided. It's a boom economy, the sweatshop of Europe, the bazaar of central Asia, the key to the immense gas wealth of Russia and central Asia. The Dervish House is seven days, six characters, three interconnected story strands, one central common core—the eponymous dervish house, a character in itself—that pins all these players together in a weave of intrigue, conflict, drama, and a ticking clock of a thriller.
Previous novels by McDonald took some time to get into, as the author used the early part of each of his work to build the groundwork for what was to come. Uncharacteristically, in The Dervish House McDonald's tale grabs hold of you from the get-go and won't let go till you reach the very end. I wasn't expecting the novel to make such a powerful impression right from the very first pages. But as soon as that woman detonates herself inside Tram 157 near Necatibey Cadessi, any hope I had of ever being able to put down this book evaporated immediately.
Seemingly effortlessly (don't know how he manages to do it, but McDonald's always makes this look easy), the author captured the essence of 21st century Turkey on countless levels. His evocative prose brings Istanbul to life in vivid fashion. His undeniable eye for details creates an imagery and an atmosphere that will delight and impress readers in myriad ways. As is the author's wont, the worldbuilding is superb. His depiction of a futuristic Turkey now part of the EU is even more memorable than his thrilling depictions of India and Brazil were. Whether its the country's political and social psyche, or mundane details such as what people are having for breakfast, McDonald's narrative makes you feel as though you're part of the action.
The Dervish House is not split into usual chapters. Instead, the story takes place during seven days, beginning with that fateful terrorist bus bombing. The tale unfolds through the eyes of six disparate characters, with the dervish house connecting these various plotlines together. I felt at first that the contrasting personalities would perhaps create a somewhat discordant whole, but Ian McDonald makes them all come together in a surprising manner. As was the case with River of Gods, when the multilayered storylines converge, the author's genius and his gift for well-crafted characterization shine through.
Though every character has his or her part to play in the overall story arc, Necdet, who was staring at the woman on the tram when she blew herself up, could be what one might consider the central character. Yet that's not entirely true, as the rest of the cast, even if they do so sometimes indirectly, plays as important a role in the greater scheme of things. The boy Can Durukan is particularly well-realized, and his relationship with Georgios Ferentinou showed that the author possesses a deft human touch. Still, Ayse Erkoç was, for me, probably the most interesting of the bunch. Another great aspect of The Dervish House is that every single character has a backstory, making them all three-dimensional protagonists. Hence, although the novel is a thought-provoking work of science fiction, it is nevertheless a character-driven read.
The pace, even though it is never a factor, is not always crisp. The narrative slows down considerably in the POV portions of both Adnan Sarioglu and Leyla Gültasli. And yet, when McDonald's reveals the true importance of each plotline and how it's connected to the overall story arc, that's when things get really interesting!
Perhaps because fundamentalist islamic terrorists and the emergence of Turkey and its possible accession to the European Union have made the news quite often these last few years, many of the themes found within the pages of The Dervish House feel more actual and better known and understood than those of McDonald's previous novels. Which is why I feel that The Dervish House, while showcasing Ian McDonald at his very best in terms of thought-provoking storytelling skills, just might be his most accessible work to date.
The Dervish House deserves the highest possible recommendation. If you only have money to buy a single scifi novel this year, this has to be it.
Follow this link to read an extract from Ian McDonald's The Dervish House.
Impossible to put down.
The final verdict: 10/10
For more info about this title: Canada, USA, Europe.
-----------------
And to celebrate McDonald's perfect score, the cool folks at Pyr are giving away ten copies of The Dervish House!
The rules are the same as usual. You need to send an email at reviews@(no-spam)gryphonwood.net with the header "DERVISH." Remember to remove the "no spam" thingy.
Second, your email must contain your full mailing address (that's snail mail!), otherwise your message will be deleted.
Lastly, multiple entries will disqualify whoever sends them. And please include your screen name and the message boards that you frequent using it, if you do hang out on a particular MB.
Good luck to all the participants!
Guest Blog: Sam Sykes
With the UK edition of Tome of the Undergates (Canada, USA, Europe) making some noise on the other side of the pond, and with the book about to be released in the USA this fall, I thought it was a good time to invite Sam Sykes for a chat.
Here's the blurb for Tome of the Undergates:
Lenk can barely keep control of his mismatched adventurer band at the best of times (Gariath the dragon man sees humans as little more than prey, Kataria the shict despises most humans and the humans in the band are little better). When they're not insulting each other's religions they're arguing about pay and conditions. So when the ship they are travelling on is attacked by pirates things don't go very well. They go a whole lot worse when an invincible demon joins the fray. The demon steals the Tome of the Undergates - a manuscript that contains all you need to open the undergates. And whichever god you believe in you don't want the undergates open. On the other side are countless more invincible demons, the manifestation of all the evil of the gods, and they want out. Full of razor-sharp wit, characters who leap off the page (and into trouble) and plunging the reader into a vivid world of adventure this is a fantasy that kicks off a series that could dominate the second decade of the century.
And since he doesn't strike me as the kind of guy to pull any punches, I knew that it would be an entertaining guest blog!
Enjoy!
-------------------
To be perfectly honest, I only got the idea what to write about on this here guest blog a few hours ago. Despite whatever reputation I might have garnered, I have a hard time thinking of what to say on the spot (unless the topic is video games, dirty jokes or people I’d like to punch in the face).
So, like many authors, congressmen and witches at a loss of what to say, I turned to my good friend, Mark Charan Newton.
“It’s a fantasy blog,” he said. “People are coming to read about fantasy. Write something fantasy-related. You just met George R.R. Martin, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “I didn’t want to punch him in the face, though, so…hey, what would you write about? If this blog were about you and you were going to talk about, say, problems with Nights of Villjamur, what would you say?”
“I’d probably talk about the modernisms in the book, and fantasy as a whole, and perhaps why some people don’t care for such things in their novels.”
And that’s about when it hit me: I would talk about the time I read Nights of Villjamur while drunk and on the toilet in a shady motel in Boston.
And that’s when a better idea hit me: twenty years ago, could you use the words ‘modernisms’ and ‘fantasy’ in the same sentence and still be considered sane?
For what seems like a very long time, fantasy was a genre governed by strict rules. In the beginning, everything had to be at least passably close to Lord of the Rings: there had to be a bad guy who was bad, there had to be good guys who were good, the quest had to involve saving the world and doing right for right’s sake and you had to have at least one song that everyone would skip over so they could read the next action sequence.
Then George R.R. Martin came along and ruined everything. Granted, moral ambiguity was not, by any means, invented or even pioneered by Martin, but it did get a lot more accepted once he showed up. Suddenly, we collectively discovered the color gray. Good guys could do bad things, bad guys could be motivated by good reasons, people could die and the quest could be personal. The rules were cracked, but not entirely broken.
It would take a few more years before someone stood up and said: “well, fuck, it’s fantasy, isn’t it? We can write whatever the hell we want to.” And I think it’s only now that readers and authors alike are starting to accept that.
Fantasy, at this point, is probably the most diverse genre around, if only because every twisted thought, fleeting fancy and “hey, wouldn’t it be cool if…” idea that comes into a person’s head can become a book. We’ve got the old school of black and white fantasy, the slightly less old school of morally ambiguous political fantasy, the relatively new school of urban fantasy and the New Weird, which is probably that smelly little kid in kindergarten who ate bugs and used all the black crayons.
For every weird image that flickers through your wrinkly little brain-meat, someone else wrote a book to match it. For every psychotic urge you feel, someone else has put it into words. For every time you think it’s impossible, someone else disagreed. It’s a good time to be a reader, no doubt.
But is it a good time to be a writer? Specifically, a new, young, debut author? Specifically, a new, young, debut author with rugged good looks, an impressive jawline and the ability to rip through steel with his titanic canines?
Short answer: yes.
Long answer: hell yes.
Longer answer: hell yes and at the same time, oh God no.
Tome of the Undergates has been out for a while now and has collected a fairly nice set of reviews. Some people have loved it. Some people have been merely okay with it. Some people don’t like it at all. This is all well and good now, though it didn’t really feel all well and good when I first discovered the age-old wisdom that not every book is for everybody.
Amongst everything I prepared myself for in writing a book, from accepting rejection letters to helping my editors hide bodies, the one thing I didn’t foresee was the fact that not everyone was going to fall instantaneously in love with me (well, that and writing guest blogs, apparently).
Tome of the Undergates is…different. This is what most people agree on. Sure, it has a band of adventurers. Sure, they might be reflected, in part, by their professions. Sure, they might be misanthropic, selfish, lustful, zealous, arrogant, morally ugly and decidedly socially dysfunctional. These are conditions I was comfortable writing about, this was a story I wanted to tell, so I did. It rang true with a lot of people, but not all of them.
“Oh ho,” you might say, “isn’t this just the lame excuse that so many authors fall back on when someone doesn’t like their book? The whole ‘the audience just doesn’t get me’ excuse? How very emo of you, Sykes.”
First of all, how dare you call me out in front of Pat’s audience, you jerk. Secondly: no. I dislike that excuse a lot. If my book doesn’t ring with people, then I don’t blame them. They didn’t necessarily not “get” it, it just didn’t work for them. There’s no particular shame in that, on either part.
But I can’t write for those guys.
The thing is, I don’t “get” normal. I don’t understand normal people. I’ve never seen one in my life. From what I understand, though, they’re pretty boring. I’ve met a lot of broken people, though. I’ve seen them threaten, abuse and spew in lieu of confess, admire and…not spew. These are the stories I’m interested in writing: broken people doing broken things, trying their hardest to become un-broken and expressing themselves in broken ways.
The characters of Tome of the Undergates are extreme examples, but that’s half the fun: seeing how low people can go before they go back up (and even the filthiest trash goes up once in a while). And they reflect problems I think we’ve all thought about from time to time: doubt in ourselves, our faith, our people and our companions, urges that we feel that we know are wrong or that we know are right despite what everyone tells us, whether or not it’s acceptable to spy on other people while they urinate…that sort of thing.
Some people have said I haven’t gone far enough into these ideas.
To those people, I say: wait.
We’re going deep, baby.
Balls deep.
And this is the best time to go deep. Because twenty years ago, I couldn’t write this shit.
Here's the blurb for Tome of the Undergates:
Lenk can barely keep control of his mismatched adventurer band at the best of times (Gariath the dragon man sees humans as little more than prey, Kataria the shict despises most humans and the humans in the band are little better). When they're not insulting each other's religions they're arguing about pay and conditions. So when the ship they are travelling on is attacked by pirates things don't go very well. They go a whole lot worse when an invincible demon joins the fray. The demon steals the Tome of the Undergates - a manuscript that contains all you need to open the undergates. And whichever god you believe in you don't want the undergates open. On the other side are countless more invincible demons, the manifestation of all the evil of the gods, and they want out. Full of razor-sharp wit, characters who leap off the page (and into trouble) and plunging the reader into a vivid world of adventure this is a fantasy that kicks off a series that could dominate the second decade of the century.
And since he doesn't strike me as the kind of guy to pull any punches, I knew that it would be an entertaining guest blog!
Enjoy!
-------------------
To be perfectly honest, I only got the idea what to write about on this here guest blog a few hours ago. Despite whatever reputation I might have garnered, I have a hard time thinking of what to say on the spot (unless the topic is video games, dirty jokes or people I’d like to punch in the face).
So, like many authors, congressmen and witches at a loss of what to say, I turned to my good friend, Mark Charan Newton.
“It’s a fantasy blog,” he said. “People are coming to read about fantasy. Write something fantasy-related. You just met George R.R. Martin, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “I didn’t want to punch him in the face, though, so…hey, what would you write about? If this blog were about you and you were going to talk about, say, problems with Nights of Villjamur, what would you say?”
“I’d probably talk about the modernisms in the book, and fantasy as a whole, and perhaps why some people don’t care for such things in their novels.”
And that’s about when it hit me: I would talk about the time I read Nights of Villjamur while drunk and on the toilet in a shady motel in Boston.
And that’s when a better idea hit me: twenty years ago, could you use the words ‘modernisms’ and ‘fantasy’ in the same sentence and still be considered sane?
For what seems like a very long time, fantasy was a genre governed by strict rules. In the beginning, everything had to be at least passably close to Lord of the Rings: there had to be a bad guy who was bad, there had to be good guys who were good, the quest had to involve saving the world and doing right for right’s sake and you had to have at least one song that everyone would skip over so they could read the next action sequence.
Then George R.R. Martin came along and ruined everything. Granted, moral ambiguity was not, by any means, invented or even pioneered by Martin, but it did get a lot more accepted once he showed up. Suddenly, we collectively discovered the color gray. Good guys could do bad things, bad guys could be motivated by good reasons, people could die and the quest could be personal. The rules were cracked, but not entirely broken.
It would take a few more years before someone stood up and said: “well, fuck, it’s fantasy, isn’t it? We can write whatever the hell we want to.” And I think it’s only now that readers and authors alike are starting to accept that.
Fantasy, at this point, is probably the most diverse genre around, if only because every twisted thought, fleeting fancy and “hey, wouldn’t it be cool if…” idea that comes into a person’s head can become a book. We’ve got the old school of black and white fantasy, the slightly less old school of morally ambiguous political fantasy, the relatively new school of urban fantasy and the New Weird, which is probably that smelly little kid in kindergarten who ate bugs and used all the black crayons.
For every weird image that flickers through your wrinkly little brain-meat, someone else wrote a book to match it. For every psychotic urge you feel, someone else has put it into words. For every time you think it’s impossible, someone else disagreed. It’s a good time to be a reader, no doubt.
But is it a good time to be a writer? Specifically, a new, young, debut author? Specifically, a new, young, debut author with rugged good looks, an impressive jawline and the ability to rip through steel with his titanic canines?
Short answer: yes.
Long answer: hell yes.
Longer answer: hell yes and at the same time, oh God no.
Tome of the Undergates has been out for a while now and has collected a fairly nice set of reviews. Some people have loved it. Some people have been merely okay with it. Some people don’t like it at all. This is all well and good now, though it didn’t really feel all well and good when I first discovered the age-old wisdom that not every book is for everybody.
Amongst everything I prepared myself for in writing a book, from accepting rejection letters to helping my editors hide bodies, the one thing I didn’t foresee was the fact that not everyone was going to fall instantaneously in love with me (well, that and writing guest blogs, apparently).
Tome of the Undergates is…different. This is what most people agree on. Sure, it has a band of adventurers. Sure, they might be reflected, in part, by their professions. Sure, they might be misanthropic, selfish, lustful, zealous, arrogant, morally ugly and decidedly socially dysfunctional. These are conditions I was comfortable writing about, this was a story I wanted to tell, so I did. It rang true with a lot of people, but not all of them.
“Oh ho,” you might say, “isn’t this just the lame excuse that so many authors fall back on when someone doesn’t like their book? The whole ‘the audience just doesn’t get me’ excuse? How very emo of you, Sykes.”
First of all, how dare you call me out in front of Pat’s audience, you jerk. Secondly: no. I dislike that excuse a lot. If my book doesn’t ring with people, then I don’t blame them. They didn’t necessarily not “get” it, it just didn’t work for them. There’s no particular shame in that, on either part.
But I can’t write for those guys.
The thing is, I don’t “get” normal. I don’t understand normal people. I’ve never seen one in my life. From what I understand, though, they’re pretty boring. I’ve met a lot of broken people, though. I’ve seen them threaten, abuse and spew in lieu of confess, admire and…not spew. These are the stories I’m interested in writing: broken people doing broken things, trying their hardest to become un-broken and expressing themselves in broken ways.
The characters of Tome of the Undergates are extreme examples, but that’s half the fun: seeing how low people can go before they go back up (and even the filthiest trash goes up once in a while). And they reflect problems I think we’ve all thought about from time to time: doubt in ourselves, our faith, our people and our companions, urges that we feel that we know are wrong or that we know are right despite what everyone tells us, whether or not it’s acceptable to spy on other people while they urinate…that sort of thing.
Some people have said I haven’t gone far enough into these ideas.
To those people, I say: wait.
We’re going deep, baby.
Balls deep.
And this is the best time to go deep. Because twenty years ago, I couldn’t write this shit.
Provisional SFF Top 5 of 2010
With various SFF titles being postponed, a lot of fans thought that 2010 would go down the crapper as far as speculative fiction went. Well, looking back at the first half of the year, nothing could be further from the truth!
Three perfect scores thus far regarding novels published in 2010, though Stieg Larsson's The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets' Nest (Canada, USA, Europe) isn't part of the Top 5 because it's not a speculative fiction title.
- Tied for 1st place: Under Heaven by Guy Gavriel Kay (Canada, USA, Europe)
UNDER HEAVEN will be published in April 2010, and takes place in a world inspired by the glory and power of Tang Dynasty China in the 8th century, a world in which history and the fantastic meld into something both memorable and emotionally compelling. In the novel, Shen Tai is the son of a general who led the forces of imperial Kitai in the empire's last great war against its western enemies, twenty years before. Forty thousand men, on both sides, were slain by a remote mountain lake. General Shen Gao himself has died recently, having spoken to his son in later years about his sadness in the matter of this terrible battle.
To honour his father's memory, Tai spends two years in official mourning alone at the battle site by the blue waters of Kuala Nor. Each day he digs graves in hard ground to bury the bones of the dead. At night he can hear the ghosts moan and stir, terrifying voices of anger and lament. Sometimes he realizes that a given voice has ceased its crying, and he knows that is one he has laid to rest.
The dead by the lake are equally Kitan and their Taguran foes; there is no way to tell the bones apart, and he buries them all with honour.
It is during a routine supply visit led by a Taguran officer who has reluctantly come to befriend him that Tai learns that others, much more powerful, have taken note of his vigil. The White Jade Princess Cheng-wan, 17th daughter of the Emperor of Kitai, presents him with two hundred and fifty Sardian horses. They are being given in royal recognition of his courage and piety, and the honour he has done the dead. You gave a man one of the famed Sardian horses to reward him greatly.
You gave him four or five to exalt him above his fellows, propel him towards rank, and earn him jealousy, possibly mortal jealousy. Two hundred and fifty is an unthinkable gift, a gift to overwhelm an emperor. Tai is in deep waters. He needs to get himself back to court and his own emperor, alive. Riding the first of the Sardian horses, and bringing news of the rest, he starts east towards the glittering, dangerous capital of Kitai, and the Ta-Ming Palace - and gathers his wits for a return from solitude by a mountain lake to his own forever-altered life.
- Tied for 1st place: The Dervish House by Ian McDonald (Canada, USA, Europe)
It begins with an explosion. Another day, another bus bomb. Everyone it seems is after a piece of Turkey. But the shock waves from this random act of twenty-first-century pandemic terrorism will ripple further and resonate louder than just Enginsoy Square.
Welcome to the world of The Dervish House—the great, ancient, paradoxical city of Istanbul, divided like a human brain, in the great, ancient, equally paradoxical nation of Turkey. The year is 2027 and Turkey is about to celebrate the fifth anniversary of its accession to the European Union, a Europe that now runs from the Arran Islands to Ararat. Population pushing one hundred million, Istanbul swollen to fifteen million, Turkey is the largest, most populous, and most diverse nation in the EU, but also one of the poorest and most socially divided. It's a boom economy, the sweatshop of Europe, the bazaar of central Asia, the key to the immense gas wealth of Russia and central Asia. The Dervish House is seven days, six characters, three interconnected story strands, one central common core—the eponymous dervish house, a character in itself—that pins all these players together in a weave of intrigue, conflict, drama, and a ticking clock of a thriller.
- 3rd place: Geosynchron by David Louis Edelman (Canada, USA, Europe)
The Defense and Wellness Council is enmeshed in full-scale civil war between Len Borda and the mysterious Magan Kai Lee. Quell has escaped from prison and is stirring up rebellion in the Islands with the aid of a brash young leader named Josiah. Jara and the apprentices of the Surina/Natch MultiReal Fiefcorp still find themselves fighting off legal attacks from their competitors and from Margaret Surina's unscrupulous heirs -- even though MultiReal has completely vanished.
The quest for the truth will lead to the edges of civilization, from the tumultuous society of the Pacific Islands to the lawless orbital colony of 49th Heaven; and through the deeps of time, from the hidden agenda of the Surina family to the real truth behind the Autonomous Revolt that devastated humanity hundreds of years ago.
Meanwhile, Natch has awakened in a windowless prison with nothing but a haze of memory to clue him in as to how he got there. He's still receiving strange hallucinatory messages from Margaret Surina and the nature of reality is buckling all around him. When the smoke clears, Natch must make the ultimate decision - whether to save a world that has scorned and discarded him, or to save the only person he has ever loved: himself.
- 4th place: Prince of Storms by Kay Kenyon (Canada, USA, Europe)
Finally in control of the Ascendancy, Titus Quinn has styled himself Regent of the Entire. But his command is fragile. He rules an empire with a technology beyond human understanding; spies lurk in the ancient Magisterium; the Tarig overlords are hamstrung but still malevolent. Worse, his daughter Sen Ni opposes him for control, believing the Earth and its Rose universe must die to sustain the failing Entire. She is aided by one of the mystical pilots of the River Nigh, the space-time transport system. This navitar, alone among all others, can alter future events. He retires into a crystal chamber in the Nigh to weave reality and pit his enemies against each other.
Taking advantage of these chaotic times, the great foe of the Long War, the Jinda ceb Horat, create a settlement in the Entire. Masters of supreme technology, they maintain a lofty distance from the Entire's struggle. They agree, however, that the Tarig must return to the fiery Heart of their origins. With the banishment immanent, some Tarig lords rebel, fleeing to hound the edges of Quinn's reign.
Meanwhile, Quinn's wife Anzi becomes a hostage and penitent among the Jinda ceb, undergoing alterations that expose their secrets, but may estrange her from her husband. As Quinn moves toward a confrontation with the dark navitar, he learns that the stakes of the conflict go far beyond the Rose versus the Entire—extending to a breathtaking dominance. The navitar commands forces that lie at the heart of the Entire's geo-cosmology, and will use them to alter the calculus of power. As the navitar's plan approaches consummation, Quinn, Sen Ni, and Anzi are swept up in forces that will leave them forever changed.
In this rousing finale to Kenyon's celebrated quartet, Titus Quinn meets an inevitable destiny, forced at last to make the unthinkable choice for or against the dictates of his heart, for or against the beloved land.
- 5th place: Warriors edited by George R. R. Martin and Gardner Dozois (Canada, USA, Europe)
“People have been telling stories about warriors for as long as they have been telling stories. Since Homer first sang the wrath of Achilles and the ancient Sumerians set down their tales of Gilgamesh, warriors, soldiers, and fighters have fascinated us; they are a part of every culture, every literary tradition, every genre. All Quiet on the Western Front, From Here to Eternity, and The Red Badge of Courage have become part of our literary canon, taught in classrooms all around the country and the world. Our contributors make up an all-star lineup of award-winning and bestselling writers, representing a dozen different publishers and as many genres. We asked each of them for the same thing—a story about a warrior. Some chose to write in the genre they’re best known for. Some decided to try something different. You will find warriors of every shape, size, and color in these pages, warriors from every epoch of human history, from yesterday and today and tomorrow, and from worlds that never were. Some of the stories will make you sad, some will make you laugh, and many will keep you on the edge of your seat.”
Included are a long novella from the world of Song of Ice and Fire by George R. R. Martin, a new tale of Lord John by Diana Gabaldon, and an epic of humanity at bay by David Weber. Also present are original tales by David Ball, Peter S. Beagle, Lawrence Block, Gardner Dozois, Joe Haldeman, Robin Hobb, Cecelia Holland, Joe R. Lansdale, David Morrell, Naomi Novik, James Rollins, Steven Saylor, Robert Silverberg, S.M. Stirling, Carrie Vaughn, Howard Waldrop, and Tad Williams.
Many of these writers are bestsellers. All of them are storytellers of the highest quality. Together they make a volume of unforgettable reading.
So there you have it, folks! The best of the year thus far. In this house at least. . .
Pyr is on fire (no pun intended!). Three books in the Top 5!?! Somebody tell Lou Anders to stop slacking!
And since many of you have been emailing me regarding summer reading suggestions, I'll redirect you to this Shameless Plug post. There are enough books on that list to keep you out of trouble for a while. Give Katherine Kurtz a shot!
Would love to chat more, but I have a plane to catch in a couple of hours. And I'm not even fully packed yet. Next time you hear from me, I'll be somewhere in Slovenia!
Adios!
Three perfect scores thus far regarding novels published in 2010, though Stieg Larsson's The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets' Nest (Canada, USA, Europe) isn't part of the Top 5 because it's not a speculative fiction title.
- Tied for 1st place: Under Heaven by Guy Gavriel Kay (Canada, USA, Europe)
UNDER HEAVEN will be published in April 2010, and takes place in a world inspired by the glory and power of Tang Dynasty China in the 8th century, a world in which history and the fantastic meld into something both memorable and emotionally compelling. In the novel, Shen Tai is the son of a general who led the forces of imperial Kitai in the empire's last great war against its western enemies, twenty years before. Forty thousand men, on both sides, were slain by a remote mountain lake. General Shen Gao himself has died recently, having spoken to his son in later years about his sadness in the matter of this terrible battle.
To honour his father's memory, Tai spends two years in official mourning alone at the battle site by the blue waters of Kuala Nor. Each day he digs graves in hard ground to bury the bones of the dead. At night he can hear the ghosts moan and stir, terrifying voices of anger and lament. Sometimes he realizes that a given voice has ceased its crying, and he knows that is one he has laid to rest.
The dead by the lake are equally Kitan and their Taguran foes; there is no way to tell the bones apart, and he buries them all with honour.
It is during a routine supply visit led by a Taguran officer who has reluctantly come to befriend him that Tai learns that others, much more powerful, have taken note of his vigil. The White Jade Princess Cheng-wan, 17th daughter of the Emperor of Kitai, presents him with two hundred and fifty Sardian horses. They are being given in royal recognition of his courage and piety, and the honour he has done the dead. You gave a man one of the famed Sardian horses to reward him greatly.
You gave him four or five to exalt him above his fellows, propel him towards rank, and earn him jealousy, possibly mortal jealousy. Two hundred and fifty is an unthinkable gift, a gift to overwhelm an emperor. Tai is in deep waters. He needs to get himself back to court and his own emperor, alive. Riding the first of the Sardian horses, and bringing news of the rest, he starts east towards the glittering, dangerous capital of Kitai, and the Ta-Ming Palace - and gathers his wits for a return from solitude by a mountain lake to his own forever-altered life.
- Tied for 1st place: The Dervish House by Ian McDonald (Canada, USA, Europe)
It begins with an explosion. Another day, another bus bomb. Everyone it seems is after a piece of Turkey. But the shock waves from this random act of twenty-first-century pandemic terrorism will ripple further and resonate louder than just Enginsoy Square.
Welcome to the world of The Dervish House—the great, ancient, paradoxical city of Istanbul, divided like a human brain, in the great, ancient, equally paradoxical nation of Turkey. The year is 2027 and Turkey is about to celebrate the fifth anniversary of its accession to the European Union, a Europe that now runs from the Arran Islands to Ararat. Population pushing one hundred million, Istanbul swollen to fifteen million, Turkey is the largest, most populous, and most diverse nation in the EU, but also one of the poorest and most socially divided. It's a boom economy, the sweatshop of Europe, the bazaar of central Asia, the key to the immense gas wealth of Russia and central Asia. The Dervish House is seven days, six characters, three interconnected story strands, one central common core—the eponymous dervish house, a character in itself—that pins all these players together in a weave of intrigue, conflict, drama, and a ticking clock of a thriller.
- 3rd place: Geosynchron by David Louis Edelman (Canada, USA, Europe)
The Defense and Wellness Council is enmeshed in full-scale civil war between Len Borda and the mysterious Magan Kai Lee. Quell has escaped from prison and is stirring up rebellion in the Islands with the aid of a brash young leader named Josiah. Jara and the apprentices of the Surina/Natch MultiReal Fiefcorp still find themselves fighting off legal attacks from their competitors and from Margaret Surina's unscrupulous heirs -- even though MultiReal has completely vanished.
The quest for the truth will lead to the edges of civilization, from the tumultuous society of the Pacific Islands to the lawless orbital colony of 49th Heaven; and through the deeps of time, from the hidden agenda of the Surina family to the real truth behind the Autonomous Revolt that devastated humanity hundreds of years ago.
Meanwhile, Natch has awakened in a windowless prison with nothing but a haze of memory to clue him in as to how he got there. He's still receiving strange hallucinatory messages from Margaret Surina and the nature of reality is buckling all around him. When the smoke clears, Natch must make the ultimate decision - whether to save a world that has scorned and discarded him, or to save the only person he has ever loved: himself.
- 4th place: Prince of Storms by Kay Kenyon (Canada, USA, Europe)
Finally in control of the Ascendancy, Titus Quinn has styled himself Regent of the Entire. But his command is fragile. He rules an empire with a technology beyond human understanding; spies lurk in the ancient Magisterium; the Tarig overlords are hamstrung but still malevolent. Worse, his daughter Sen Ni opposes him for control, believing the Earth and its Rose universe must die to sustain the failing Entire. She is aided by one of the mystical pilots of the River Nigh, the space-time transport system. This navitar, alone among all others, can alter future events. He retires into a crystal chamber in the Nigh to weave reality and pit his enemies against each other.
Taking advantage of these chaotic times, the great foe of the Long War, the Jinda ceb Horat, create a settlement in the Entire. Masters of supreme technology, they maintain a lofty distance from the Entire's struggle. They agree, however, that the Tarig must return to the fiery Heart of their origins. With the banishment immanent, some Tarig lords rebel, fleeing to hound the edges of Quinn's reign.
Meanwhile, Quinn's wife Anzi becomes a hostage and penitent among the Jinda ceb, undergoing alterations that expose their secrets, but may estrange her from her husband. As Quinn moves toward a confrontation with the dark navitar, he learns that the stakes of the conflict go far beyond the Rose versus the Entire—extending to a breathtaking dominance. The navitar commands forces that lie at the heart of the Entire's geo-cosmology, and will use them to alter the calculus of power. As the navitar's plan approaches consummation, Quinn, Sen Ni, and Anzi are swept up in forces that will leave them forever changed.
In this rousing finale to Kenyon's celebrated quartet, Titus Quinn meets an inevitable destiny, forced at last to make the unthinkable choice for or against the dictates of his heart, for or against the beloved land.
- 5th place: Warriors edited by George R. R. Martin and Gardner Dozois (Canada, USA, Europe)
“People have been telling stories about warriors for as long as they have been telling stories. Since Homer first sang the wrath of Achilles and the ancient Sumerians set down their tales of Gilgamesh, warriors, soldiers, and fighters have fascinated us; they are a part of every culture, every literary tradition, every genre. All Quiet on the Western Front, From Here to Eternity, and The Red Badge of Courage have become part of our literary canon, taught in classrooms all around the country and the world. Our contributors make up an all-star lineup of award-winning and bestselling writers, representing a dozen different publishers and as many genres. We asked each of them for the same thing—a story about a warrior. Some chose to write in the genre they’re best known for. Some decided to try something different. You will find warriors of every shape, size, and color in these pages, warriors from every epoch of human history, from yesterday and today and tomorrow, and from worlds that never were. Some of the stories will make you sad, some will make you laugh, and many will keep you on the edge of your seat.”
Included are a long novella from the world of Song of Ice and Fire by George R. R. Martin, a new tale of Lord John by Diana Gabaldon, and an epic of humanity at bay by David Weber. Also present are original tales by David Ball, Peter S. Beagle, Lawrence Block, Gardner Dozois, Joe Haldeman, Robin Hobb, Cecelia Holland, Joe R. Lansdale, David Morrell, Naomi Novik, James Rollins, Steven Saylor, Robert Silverberg, S.M. Stirling, Carrie Vaughn, Howard Waldrop, and Tad Williams.
Many of these writers are bestsellers. All of them are storytellers of the highest quality. Together they make a volume of unforgettable reading.
So there you have it, folks! The best of the year thus far. In this house at least. . .
Pyr is on fire (no pun intended!). Three books in the Top 5!?! Somebody tell Lou Anders to stop slacking!
And since many of you have been emailing me regarding summer reading suggestions, I'll redirect you to this Shameless Plug post. There are enough books on that list to keep you out of trouble for a while. Give Katherine Kurtz a shot!
Would love to chat more, but I have a plane to catch in a couple of hours. And I'm not even fully packed yet. Next time you hear from me, I'll be somewhere in Slovenia!
Adios!
