Review: The Troupe, Robert Jackson Bennett

I haven’t had much time recently for reviewing at length, but as I wrote a very short review of this book for Goodreads, I thought I should also pop it up here, for anyone interested.

The Troupe

Robert Jackson Bennett

Orbit, 2012

ISBN 978-035650-040-9

The Troupe is a fun, vibrant novel with a few flaws. The characters are fabulous and well drawn, and their interactions and relationships are what primarily had me turning the pages. The plot is good, if a bit meandering around the middle, but the aforesaid character interactions make up for that. The concept is fine – it’s nothing tremendously new, but it works for this standalone book and is refreshingly simple compared to lots of fantastical set-ups in the genre. I had a few quibbles with the internal consistency of the worldbuilding, however. The author gave himself scope to use whatever magical beings he liked (the four Shepherds, fairies, ghosts, his own invented ‘wolves’) which was fine – he did use them all with flair – but felt slightly slack as I wasn’t certain of the limitations of the fantastical occurrences. The novel also seemed to be terribly US-centric, seeing as what the characters were up to was supposed to effect the entirety of existence… Perhaps I didn’t understand correctly, but that’s how it came across.

But all in all, The Troupe was a highly enjoyable read with some fabulously magical moments. I’d recommend it to fans of Neil Gaiman’s American Gods – the novels aren’t *that* similar, but if you enjoyed Shadow’s road trip across the US in company with deities, you’ll probably find something to like in George Carole’s adventures in The Troupe too.

Review: God’s War, Kameron Hurley

God’s War (Bel Dame Apocrypha, volume 1)

Kameron Hurley

Night Shade Books, 2011

ISBN 978-1-59780-214-7

Nyx sold her womb somewhere between Punjai and Faleen, on the edge of the desert.

From the very first words of God’s War, Kameron Hurley plunges us into the raw desert world of Umayma and throws us in with her sharp-witted, dirty-mouthed protagonist, Nyxnissa so Dasheem (a.k.a Nyx). What follows is a gritty, adrenaline-filled ride that isn’t scared to careen outside the box. Science fiction mingles with fantasy as well as a heavy dose of weird – a combination that will appeal to fans of all or any of those genres, and especially to readers looking for something different, dark, and daring.

One of the things that stands out most about the novel is its departure from the Western-inspired settings and cultures that SFF seems to gravitate towards. With God’s War, Hurley tears us off this well-travelled course, depositing us instead on the war-torn planet of Umayma thousands of years from now. This is a world first and primarily colonised by Muslims (though Hurley never mentions the religion by name – or, at least, not by its present name). In the ensuing years, various nations have formed on the planet, notably Chenja and Nasheen, whose different forms of religious practice have propagated a centuries-long war. Still ongoing, it is this horrifying conflict – fought with deadly chemical weaponry and organic technology – that serves as the backdrop and incitement to the novel’s action. Conflicting loyalties, religious disagreements, and societal differences are crucial to the characters’ motivations, relationships, and decisions.

The result is a complex, well realised – if extremely grim – creation. God’s War is certainly not for the faint of heart. Umayma holds horrors besides the war: with giant insects swarming about and sunlight so intense that it causes cancers, the characters are beset with trials left, right, and centre. But it’s not all doom and gloom; Hurley’s worldbuilding also makes room for some extremely nifty concepts. The combination of insect-fuelled technology, shape-shifters, and ‘magicians’ who run boxing gyms and can reconstitute human bodies is heady and ambitious. What’s more, it works.

The characters, too, are a varied and potent mix. First up is Nyx, a Nasheenian, and one of a government-funded group of assassins known as bel dames. It’s their job to hunt down men who flee from the front or dodge their drafts, and to punish such deserters with death. Nasheen is hard-eyed in its wartime politics: the men are shipped off to fight at 14 and are not permitted to return until they’re 40, if they return at all. Nasheen, therefore, has grown into a state governed and dominated by women. Conservative gender politics have gone out the window; women are not required to wear the hijab and are anything but submissive. Indeed, men are considered ‘the weaker sex’ – Nyx, speaking of her front-line service, refers protectively to the ‘boys’  who served under her.

In contrast to Nasheen, Chenja is a pious nation that retains its conservative religious dogma. There, men still dominate while women are expected to remain in a submissive role.

Building a far-future world inspired by a modern-day religion not the author’s own is, you might think, a recipe for disaster. However, I’m pleased to report that by dint of extensive research, powerful empathy, and consummate skill, Hurley avoids the many pitfalls that God’s War may have pitched into (though, admittedly, as a white, atheist Brit I am not the best person to judge this…). The author does not judge either of her fictional nations; neither is demonised, nor upheld as perfect – far from it. Instead, Hurley uses her diverse characters to explore the nations’ conflicts and frictions in small-scale, nuanced ways. Rhys, for example, acts in many ways as a foil to Nyx. He is Chenjan, a male ‘magician’ whose ability to control insects (via some not-wholly-explained deployment of pheremones) makes him invaluable when it comes to operating the organic tech of Umayma. To Rhys, Nyx is a brazen, ‘godless’ woman; to the atheistic Nyx, he is a self-righteous chump who needs to grow a stronger backbone. Their bickering provides some great (and much-needed) humour in the novel, while their increasing respect and liking for one other affords us some of God’s War’s most heart-rending moments.

But Hurley’s novel does not only explore the tension between Nasheen and Chenja; its scope is broader than that, and indeed it’s impressive how much detail Hurley manages to cram into one book without it becoming overwhelming. On Nyx’s team there is also Khos, a shape-shifter from a neutral country called Tirhan. Evolved from some kind of biological oddity unique to Umayma, Shifters are accepted by some, treated with suspicion by others. And then there is Hurley’s inclusion of homo- and bisexuality. Umayma’s various countries and religions have different takes on these relations. Nasheen accepts homosexual relations between women while outlawing those between men ‘for no better reason that that it made people uncomfortable’; in Tirhan, men and women are segregated and men are encouraged to satisfy their desires amongst themselves. Once again, Hurley portrays the factions warts and all; indeed, one of God’s War’s major themes is the fact that no one side has it all right.

It is this realisation that creates the overarching tension behind the main narrative. For when Nyx is sent after a woman from off-planet who may have the means to end the Nasheenian-Chenjan war – but only to one side’s benefit – she must decide which course to take. But only if she can keep herself and her team alive for long enough to find the cursed target in the first place…

Hurley’s writing is sharp and clean. Despite the complexity of her world, she does not indulge in info-dumps. Instead, the reader is given information about the world as and when they need it, and not before. Like the characters, you’re expected you to fend for yourself (as it were), putting the pieces together as you go. I expect some readers might not like this – mileage varies, after all – but, personally, this is how I like to experience a science fictional world: as a traveller, an explorer.

Hurley also has an eye for irony and detail – often unpleasant, sometimes dryly amusing. It is this injection of humour that really vitalises the book, with the wit and snark of the characters helping to offset the novel’s more depressing moments. Nyx always gives back as good as she gets, and the secondary protagonists are also very sympathetic despite their various flaws. Rhys is the best example here – despite his somewhat judgmental opinion of Nyx, he is a gentle soul and probably the most easily likeable of the main bunch.

The bad guys, on the other hand, are truly terrifying. Hurley does not pull punches and, accordingly, neither do they. Rasheeda, in particular, gave me the shivers. I will be having nightmares about white feathers and snickering. (You’ll see what I mean… Oh, you’ll see…)

Other reviewers have pointed out a bit of a pacing problem in the novel – i.e. that the beginning section was rather slow, and that it takes a while for the main storyline to kick in. I suppose that’s true, but I honestly didn’t think this was a problem whilst reading. For me, the beginning section gave a solid grounding from which the novel then took off in the second part. The pacing really ramped up, and the ending certainly didn’t disappoint: God’s War finishes with a stirring, action-packed climax. Indeed, in the final quarter I couldn’t turn the pages (OK, click the pages… I have a Kindle edition) fast enough.

God’s War is the first book in a trilogy – Hurley’s wonderfully named ‘Bel Dame Apocypha’ – but it wraps up well and can be enjoyed as a stand-alone (in case you’re chary of plunging into a trilogy right now). As for me, I’m curious to see where Rapture will take me… if also a little nervous! But what is SFF for, if not to take us places we never expect to go, force us out of our comfort zones, and show us things beyond our own imaginings…

Review: Shadow and Claw, Gene Wolfe

Shadow and Claw (the first half of The Book of the New Sun)

Gene Wolfe

Tor Books

ISBN 978-0-31289-017-9

This review has been a long time coming… as has my introduction to the works of Gene Wolfe, of whom I’ve heard great things. So it was with excitement that I approached Wolfe’s best known work, the tetralogy The Book of the New Sun, hailed by many as a seminal SFF masterpiece. From everything I’d read about Wolfe, I expected something fantastic but challenging. And that is exactly what I got… but in a fashion I had never anticipated.

First off, I will say that I have only read the first half of this lauded series – the omnibus edition of Shadow and Claw, comprising The Shadow of the Torturer and The Claw of the Conciliator – and so I don’t yet have an overview of the work as a whole. Now, I wouldn’t usually point this out, and would normally just judge each book in a series on its own merit, but with Wolfe’s tetralogy I feel that it’s necessary to make the caveat. This is because Wolfe’s series feels like an elaborate puzzle where the pieces come together only gradually, and even though I’m halfway through I don’t feel like I have a real handle on where the tetralogy is going or quite what Wolfe is aiming at in The Book of the New Sun.

I’m not sure whether this is a criticism. I don’t think it is – because I think it’s probably what readers are supposed to feel upon their first foray into Wolfe’s creation. An intriguing mixture of fantasy and science fiction (science fantasy, if you find the label useful), The Book of the New Sun introduces readers to the world of Urth, where fantastical happenings coincide with remnants of an advanced technological society, now long decayed. (Comparisons could be drawn with M. John Harrison’s Viriconium stories, which I’ve also just started reading.) In this baffling world we meet our protagonist and narrator Severian, an apprentice torturer who lives with his guild in an ancient Citadel in the city of Nessus. In the first chapter, we experience his first real exposure to the politics of his world, in which he declares sudden allegiance to a shadowy, aristocratic figure called Vodalus who is engaged in a rebellion against the Autarch. From them on, we follow Severian’s adventures as he weighs his loyalty to the guild against his newfound purpose… and also his newfound passion for one of his prisoners, the beautiful and beguiling Thecla.

It took me a little while to settle into Wolfe’s style. After the action of the first chapter, The Shadow of the Torturer proceeds slowly, and the narration has a formal tone which makes it seem rather distant despite the first-person viewpoint (this is presumably because Severian is supposed to have written the text a long time after the events, and so is himself now distanced from them by time and maturity). Because of this, I found the style a little alienating at first, and didn’t really engage with Severian as a character.

And yet… I was hooked. I was hooked by the world unfolding before me, its secrets, its weirdness, the way it departed from the usual fantasy tropes and plunged me into unexpected territory. This is not a book for the impatient: Wolfe holds back as much as he lets on, and – despite a prologue that explains some of the terminology – the reader must slowly piece together the society and its history. Words from different eras and locations of our own world (cataphract, ephor, carnifex) intermingle with completely invented names (atrox, avern, notule) to create a setting both enigmatic and palimpsestic, the language suggesting the overlapping of cultures – the ‘medieval’, the advanced, the fantastical – that exist on this strange Urth. Add to this the ‘Note on the Translation’ at the start of the novel, which states that the ‘translator’ has often approximated terms to try and give the most accurate picture of the world presented in the text, but that he may not always have succeeded… and, well, this makes for fascinating – if not easy – reading.

The plot is also unusual. If you’re looking for a clear-cut story arc with straightforward character developments leading to a round, satisfying conclusion, then these are not the novels for you. Instead, the story is rather meandering, meaning that the reader is treated to a gradual tour of the world (first the city of Nessus in The Shadow of the Torturer, then beyond its walls in The Claw of the Conciliator), following Severian as he ventures away from his guild for the first time. Whilst his works well as a plot device – we learn about the setting as Severian does, so avoiding those dreaded info-dumps – it also makes the whole experience rather baffling. The episodic plot makes it difficult to ascertain the thrust of the tale, and in places it seems a little stagnant. Moreover, the endings of each novel are extremely abrupt; the books certainly don’t work as stand-alones. However, Wolfe’s prose is so accomplished that he kept me intrigued; the novels possess a literary authority that makes me confident they are doing something rather wonderful, even if I can’t figure out quite what it is yet. (Those with an intolerance for postmodern stylistics should probably steer clear!)

I warmed to Severian a little as I went on, though in all honesty I still can’t say I like him much. But, again, I don’t think Wolfe set out to give us a sympathetic protagonist. Severian’s voice is detailed and self-reflective, but also oddly indifferent for the most part (the latter quality perhaps arising from his profession as a torturer). Seen through his eyes, the secondary characters are also at once distinct and unaffecting. Though I didn’t really care much about them, I nonetheless found them intriguing. They seem to be further pieces of the puzzle, and it’s interesting to watch Wolfe manoeuvre them, and to try and guess where they fit into the wider scheme…

That said, I was slightly uncomfortable with the way the female characters were presented. They came across almost as stock types (Dorcas the ingénue vs. Jolenta the vamp, for example) and I was frustrated with the way almost all of them got intimate, or attempted to get intimate, with Severian. The characterisation of Jolenta in particular made me scowl. But hey, I guess you can’t have everything… *sigh*

I realise this isn’t the most coherent review I’ve ever written, as I’m still trying to get my head round Wolfe’s creation. To sum up my rather fragmentary thoughts, I’d recommend Shadow and Claw to patient readers looking for a challenging and cerebral series to sink their teeth into. With a world and plot that defy expectations, along with a definite undercurrent of weirdness, the two novels gave me much to think about. I expect it won’t be long before curiosity forces me to pick up the second half… Hopefully I’ll be able to draw some more concrete conclusions when I’ve finished the tetralogy. Then again, it’s been said that ‘The Book of the New Sun is too complex a work to evaluate on one reading’ (Baird Searle). So… well… wish me luck!

The fantastic artwork of Stephanie Pui-Mun Law

Today, I feel the need to spread my love of the art of Stephanie Pui-Mun Law, an artist of extraordinary talent whose work I first came across on Elfwood, a large online community of SFF writers and artists. I immediately fell in love with Stephanie’s stunning watercolours, which are often inspired by mythology and folklore – Asian, European, and otherwise. In short, her pieces are breathtaking, and fantasy fans in particular should make sure they head over to her site and have a look through her wonderful galleries. She also has books, prints, jewellery, and tarot decks available (I have her tarot, and it’s gorgeous!), should any of her works take your especial fancy!

Just click on the beautiful banner below to head over to Shadowscapes! You won’t regret it, I assure you…

Review: Miserere, Teresa Frohock

Miserere: An Autumn Tale

Teresa Frohock

Night Shade Books

ISBN 978-1-59780-289-5

Miserere: have mercy. Well might the characters of Teresa Frohock’s dark debut beg for such a thing. Some of them might even receive it… but not before Frohock drags them through a gauntlet of emotional, physical, and spiritual trials. This grim fantasy is certainly not for the faint of heart – but despite its darkness and the ugly challenges its characters face, Miserere contains a core of beauty and hope.

In the parallel realm of Woerld, divided from present-day Earth by a mysterious Veil, life is hard, to say the least. For Woerld is the last line of defence between Earth and Hell. Peopled by warriors called Katharoi, Woerld’s bastions of faith are in constant battle with the Fallen: the angels expelled from Heaven who now languish in Hell. The Fallen’s attempt to escape their prison is never-ending; their aim is to break through Woerld’s defences, taking over Earth so that they can return in force to Heaven. Only by remaining true to God, and thus channelling their own spiritual species of magic, can the Katharoi hold the Fallen back, and save both Earth and Heaven from conquest.

Frohock’s cosmos, split into the four dimensions of Heaven, Earth, Woerld, and Hell, is a fantastic concept, made all the better by the way Frohock skilfully transforms these celestial/abstract realms into palpable, realistic settings. The majority of Miserere’s action is set in Woerld, and as such the reader has abundant opportunity to explore this fascinating locale. A quasi-medieval realm infused with a gloomy, purgatorial atmosphere, it departs from the standard epic fantasy setting in many ways, but notably in the manner that it interacts with Earth. For whilst the denizens of Earth are blissfully unaware of Woerld’s existence, the same is not true of Woerld’s citizens. Indeed, many of them actually come from Earth, having been drawn through the ‘Crimson Veil’ that occasionally opens between the realms. Consequently, although the magical resonances in Woerld interfere with modern technology (there’s a cool moment involving a mobile phone), the characters are aware of modern advances despite their own medieval-style living conditions. Not only does this add an interesting complexity to the worldbuilding, but it also gives Frohock logical reason for the characters to express modern sensibilities and to use contemporary language that in a standard quasi-medieval fantasy would be anachronistic and/or evidence of lazy writing. In Miserere, however, the occasional ‘okay’ is by no means out of place.

I also admired the way that Frohock’s novel, whilst obviously grounded in theology, did not become preachy at any point. The existence of a higher power (God, if you will) is a given in Woerld, and his power is the basis for the Katharoi’s magic system. Nevertheless, this is not ‘Christian fiction’ in the sense that I understand it (i.e. actively promoting Christian faith and teachings). Religion forms the foundation of the cosmos and the magic, but it is not present for any overt didactic reason. Miserere’s concept reminds me more of Pullman’s His Dark Materials than anything else, though it lacks the actively atheist sensibilities of that series as well.

What makes this novel all the more impressive is that despite its sweeping, epic outlook, the story is character-driven. Long-suffering protagonist Lucian is held hostage by his twin sister Catarina, for whom he betrayed his lover, Rachael, abandoning her to Hell’s torments years before. In doing so, Lucian became tangled in his sister’s machinations, becoming complicit in her scheme to help the Fallen to gain a foothold in Woerld, and consequently exiled from the Katharoi’s Citadel. But when, at the start of Miserere, Lucian escapes his sister’s clutches, he unexpectedly gains a companion: Lindsay Richardson, a child from Earth who has been sucked through the Veil with her brother. Such children are known as ‘foundlings’ – those with the potential to become Katharoi – and Lindsay’s sudden entrance into Lucian’s life changes everything. Pursued by his sister’s minions and tracked by his resentful ex-lover on behalf of the citadel, encountering demons and dark spells, travelling through the Wasteland with a crippled leg and a weight of guilt, and all the while trying to protect Lindsay and teach her about this strange new world… Lucian is forced to reassess his life. Can he keep Lindsay safe and uncorrupted? Is there the slightest chance Rachael will forgive him? Is redemption even possible for him anymore, after what he’s done?

That cast of Miserere is a particularly strong one. Lucian is a brilliant protagonist, simultaneously noble and culpable, tortured and determined. Rachael is similarly awesome: struggling with her conflicting feelings towards Lucian, wracked with memories of her horrific time in Hell, and possessed by a demon known only as ‘the Wyrm’, she is hard-as-nails but also emotionally (and physically) scarred and vulnerable. Catarina, meanwhile, is appropriately terrifying, but Frohock gives us enough insight into her past to understand why she has turned to the Fallen. Lindsay worried me slightly at first, as I wasn’t keen on the ‘girl drawn through portal between the realms’ thing, but I needn’t have fretted. Frohock handles her adroitly and without the usual clichéd pitfalls, and I really warmed to Lindsay as the novel went on. She and Lucian made a great duo, and their interactions made for some truly affecting scenes.

Frohock does not flinch from being cruel to her characters – which, personally, I think is crucial to crafting an effective tale (cf. Robin Hobb!). Miserere is dark stuff, and the level of threat remains high throughout. Between the Wyrm, the Barrens, the Sacra Rosa, Catarina, and Catarina’s truly hideous henchman Speight (*shudder*) the reader is kept in a state of constant tension and fear for the characters. There are also enough action sequences to satisfy any thrill-seeking reader – sequences made all the more effective by the attention Frohock pays to her characters’ emotions throughout.

There’s little to fault with the writing style either. Frohock’s prose is accomplished and relentless, and both settings and characters are luridly realised.

All in all, Miserere gets a fervent recommendation from me. It’s harsh, bleak, and often twisted, but as its title suggests, it’s not completely merciless. For within the darkness of its world, a light resides – and its that spark of hope that keeps you turning the pages, rooting for Lucian and his cohorts as they battle through their numerous tribulations. I can’t wait to follow it into the next instalment.

Promoting Women in SFF: Two New Blogs

Just a quick post about some exciting new blogs that have emerged over the past couple of days.

First there is Fantasy Mistressworks, started by Amanda Rutter, editor of Strange Chemistry (Angry Robot Books’s YA imprint). This site aims to promote fantasy novels written by women, published in the 20th Century or earlier.

Next, we have Daughters of Prometheus, started by Michaela Staton. Inspired by Ian Sales’s SF Mistressworks site, DOP aims to draw attention to SF works by women published in the 21st Century.

Excitingly, the first review to be posted on Daughters of Prometheus was my review of Lauren Beukes’s Zoo City — which will probably (and hopefully productively) spark discussion about cross-genre works from the get-go!

Both of these websites are looking for suggestions of books to add to their lists, and they are also seeking reviews of eligible works. They are well worth checking out and contributing to.

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I haven’t gone into detail about the history that prompted these new blogs, but you can find out more about recent discussions of the (lack of) visibility of women in SFF by following the clickety-click of blog trails. Some links to start you off (there are many more to dig up):

6th March: A post on dreamwidth shows disparity in gender coverage on SFF review blogs. 

7th March: Fantasy Cafe talks about the visibility of SFF female bloggers.

10th March: My Awful Reviews asks ‘Is there sexism in review blogging?’

25th March: Bastard Books discusses some possible reasons for the gender disparity in SFF reviewing.

Review: Farewell to Tyrn (novelette) by Ryan Harvey

‘Farewell to Tyrn’ (novelette)

Ryan Harvey

Self-published (available from Amazon or Smashwords)

In his novelette ‘Farewell to Tyrn’, Ryan Harvey returns to the setting of his Writers of the Future award winning story, ‘Acolyte of the Black Spires’. A world of blazing hot summers populated by humans and saurians (alternate dinosaurs), powered by a strange force called ‘the Art’, and overlooked by an enigmatic and terrifying masked people – the Shapers – this has all the ingredients for a brilliant science-fantasy tale. ‘Farewell to Tyrn’ introduces us to the concepts that underlie Harvey’s setting, whilst also kicking off an action-packed storyline.

In the city of Tyrn, young Belde roams the streets with her friends and her pet saurian, Rint. But gradually she begins to notice a change in her friends. A strange ennui begins to affect them, and she learns from her father about ‘the Sorrow’, an affliction that settles upon everyone as they pass into adulthood. But Belde doesn’t understand – she doesn’t feel sad or afraid. Could it be that she’s somehow immune to the Sorrow? Her suspicions are confirmed when the Shapers appear at her parents’ door, and she is thrust out of her peaceful domestic life in a wild bid to escape.

This punchy 9000-word tale draws readers immediately into Belde’s world, wasting no time before immersing us in its fascinating setting. Belde and Rint make an endearing team, and Belde’s young perspective forms a great juxtaposition with the more ominous side of the story, as Belde struggles to understand the mysterious Sorrow and the politics of the city.  Harvey’s style is swift and exciting as he takes us scrambling over the rooftops of Tyrn, though occasionally the writing indulged in slightly too much exposition. Despite this, ‘Farewell to Tyrn’ is an accomplished piece, and provides an intriguing glimpse into the world Harvey has created. I especially loved the idea of saurians: dinosaurs aren’t exactly a staple of SFF (despite Jurassic Park), and their presence in Harvey’s tale immediately gave Tyrn its own distinctive flavour.

‘Farewell to Tyrn’ is intended as the prologue of the novel Harvey is currently working on – and, if the novelette is anything to go by, Turn over the Moon is definitely a novel to look out for.

Review: Never Knew Another by J. M. McDermott

Never Knew Another (Book 1 of the Dogsland trilogy)

J. M. McDermott

Night Shade Books, 2011

ISBN 978-1-59780-215-4

Fugitive Rachel Nolander is a newcomer the city of Dogsland, where the rich throw parties and the poor just do whatever they can to scrape by. Supported by her brother Djoss, she hides out in their squalid apartment, living in fear that someday, someone will find out that she is the child of a demon. Corporal Jona Lord Joni is a demon’s child too, but instead of living in fear, he keeps his secret and goes about his life as a cocky, self-assured man of the law. Never Knew Another is the story of how these two outcasts meet.

(Blurb source: author’s website.)

So reads the blurb of J. M. McDermott’s Never Knew Another, the first instalment of his Dogsland trilogy. This description, however, does not do justice to the compelling and skilfully woven tale that lies between the book’s covers. Whilst Never Knew Another is indeed about the meeting of Jona and Rachel, that is only one facet to its intricate narrative – a narrative that surpasses much of the ‘traditional’ fantasy genre in its emotional depth, stylistic and structural crafting, and understated elegance. In that regard, I would say that the book’s cover is a better indication of its contents than its blurb. Julien Alday’s artwork conveys just the right combination of magic, threat, and sophistication – a near-perfect match to the strange, eerie, and enticing tale that McDermott has created.

Never Knew Another is a novel that is not content to ride the wave of convention. Shorter and sleeker than your average fantasy offering, it nevertheless delves deeper and more relentlessly into its characters than most. Its prose, too, is a departure from the easy, (and sometimes rather lazy) straightforward style we often witness, instead possessing a maturity, deftness, and economy that is more common to short stories than novels. The story’s structure is similarly artful, with McDermott using foreshadowing, flashbacks, and layered perspectives to tell his tale. Restless, ruthless, unsettling – and yet with a core of very human warmth and feeling – Never Knew Another is an ideal pick for someone looking for a novel that reaches beyond your ‘standard’ fantasy.

What lends the story much of its success and potency is the perspective McDermott chooses to tell it from. At first, the reader is introduced to a straight first-person narrative – nothing new about that, you might think – but then we get the twist: this narrative becomes in itself a framing device. This is made possible through the viewpoint character’s nature and profession: she is a ‘Walker’, a shapeshifter from a religious sect whose job is to hunt down and eradicate ‘demon children’ (i.e. people with a demon ancestor, whose blood literally corrupts and decays the world around them). In order to track her prey, she draws upon a mysterious power: she is able to access other people’s memories, experiencing their most intimate thoughts and feelings, their aspirations, loves, and fears. In the novel’s first chapter, she and her husband (also a Walker) discover the dead body of Jona, a demon child and once King’s Man of Dogsland city. Via a ritual involving Jona’s bones, the narrator enters his memories – and it is through this channel that the reader encounters demon child Rachel Nolander, her brother Djoss, the criminal Salvatore, convent girl Aggie, and the rest of the book’s cast. The reader watches the narrator, who watches Jona, who watche(s/d) the other characters. But far from distancing us from the characters, this multiple layering takes the reader deep into each and every one. By embedding their experiences into the predatory Walker’s first-person narrative, McDermott not only cultivates a constant sense of menace, but also weaves a dense emotional tapestry which allows the reader access into the intimate, inner lives of his characters.

In fact, one of the most mysterious characters is the narrator herself. Although she is the first figure we encounter, and acts as the conduit through which we view all the others, her own story remains enigmatic. Revealed to us slowly and delicately in short snippets and references, it’s both fascinating and eerie – perhaps even more so because of the way McDermott withholds details from us. I found myself particularly drawn to this woman and her often silent husband: on a religious mission to hunt down all demon children, and with the power to shapeshift into wolves (in the classic Norse style, using wolfskins), they are in many ways a frightening pair. And yet, they also think constantly of their peaceful forest home, longing to finish their hunt so that they can return there. At once utterly committed to their cause – ruthless and unmerciful when it comes to carrying out their duty – and simultaneously sympathetic towards victims of injustice, the Walkers are complex and intriguing. It’s not often you come across characters so human and yet inhuman, so frightening but still compassionate. Having one of the principal antagonists as the first person narrator was an inspired choice – and McDermott executes it superbly.

As the Walkers track the demon children through the chaotic and fetid streets of Dogsland, McDermott serves us many horrors: the poor starve on the streets, the King’s Men are violent and corrupt, convent girls go missing in the darkness, and the Night King carries out dirty work in the shadows. It’s a harrowing tale, dealing with isolation and prejudice and fear and loneliness, but is not without its moments of hope and light. Friendships form, kin stick together, and sympathy kindles in unlikely places. The Walkers hunt… but they also feel.

For me, Never Knew Another was a marvellous find – and if you too are a fan of fantasy that takes you to weird, dark, and uncanny places, then I highly recommend it. It’s not a light read, but out of the suffering and sorrows of this characters McDermott weaves a startlingly human – and yet constantly otherworldly – tale, where people endure through adversity and hate, and hope still glimmers in grime-stained corners. I look forward to reading the next instalment.

Review: Cold Magic by Kate Elliott

Cold Magic(Book 1 of the Spiritwalker trilogy)

Kate Elliott

Orbit, 2011 (first pub. 2010)

ISBN 978-1-84146-882-9

Cold Magic is the first book in Kate Elliott’s latest fantasy series, the Spiritwalker trilogy. In a tale of intrigue, magic, and personal revelation, Cold Magic introduces readers to an alternate version of Europe (or Europa, as the novel has it [NB. map linked from Kate Elliott's website]). The year is 1837. Ice caps creep across the land, the remnants of the Roman empire still persist in Italy. The rest of Europa is governed by feuding princes, and powerful but hated mage Houses also keep watch over the populace, using their feared cold magic to keep their dependents in check. Caught between the princes and the cold mages, the people are restless. Amongst all this, protagonist Catherine Hassi Barahal is an orphan, living with her relatives in Adurnam, a city in the south of Brigantia (Britain). There, she spends her time reading her dead father’s journals, taking lessons at the city academy, and giggling with her beloved cousin Bee. All is peaceful… That is, until a cold mage turns up at the Barahals’ door and demands Cat’s hand in marriage. Suddenly, Cat is caught up in a whirlwind of events: given up by her family, whisked away from her home, and forced to endure the company of the arrogant and icy cold mage, Andevai. But it is only then that she begins to learn the truth about her family, to uncover the histories that will affect her future, and to discover the extent of her own strange powers.

My reaction to this novel was mixed. For a start, I found the beginning quite slow, as it takes a good few chapters for the main narrative to really kick in. Once the action had really begun, however, I warmed to it (haha), enjoying the squabbling and tension between Cat and Andevai, and finding myself genuinely caught by surprise at the twists and disclosures that Elliott weaves into the tale. And yet, I found that I was never fully swept away by the story. This is, I think, because I found the prose style rather distracting. Elliott deliberately opts for a relatively florid style, tailoring her writing to match the novel’s pseudo-Victorian setting. Whilst I respect this decision, I personally found Elliott’s writing a little chaotic. There was – to my mind – some decidedly awkward syntax and more than a few unnecessary adverbs (‘I fumblingly laced on two petticoats’, for example), which made some of the scenes stilted and more confusing than they needed to be. The dialogue, too, was correspondingly more formal and verbose. Sometimes this worked extremely well, but at others it came across a bit clunky and unrealistic. And I don’t think this is merely a question of it being a departure from the ‘transparent’ prose style that is today’s norm – I’ve read a lot of Victorian (and older) fiction, after all. Nevertheless, although I found Elliott’s prose overwrought at times, it certainly wasn’t enough of a distraction to make me stop reading.

The plot of Cold Magic is satisfying, if not overly complex; for me, the real tension was generated more by the unravelling of past secrets than the actual thrust of the main narrative. This isn’t to say that the narrative itself is dull (though I did feel that it was a bit long-winded, and could have been shorter and sharper): Elliot delivers some great moments and surprises, and I particularly enjoyed Cat’s forays into the spirit world. Andevai was also interesting, with his uptight, aloof manner, and I liked the theatrical and impulsive Bee. I can’t say I was overly fond of Cat, but I think this comes down to personal preference, for her feistiness, determination, and loyalty all serve to make her a fine, sympathetic protagonist. What’s more, the novel certainly ends on a dramatic note, and I’m sure that Elliott has a good many more surprises in store in Cold Fire, the trilogy’s second instalment.

The great strength of Elliott’s novel is, in my opinion, its setting. Populated by haughty mages, curious trolls, distant princes, Roman soldiers, unpredictable radicals, Celtic and Afric peoples, spirit creatures, goblins, and more besides, Elliott’s world is crammed full of wonders, variety, and detail. Built upon a wealth of historical and cultural background, the Europa of Elliott’s imagination gains an impressive depth and richness rare even for fantasy such as this – even if sometimes the information is delivered in a rather clumsy fashion. That is to say, Elliott often has the characters explain things to each other in slightly *too much* depth, and, informative as these sections are for the reader, they’re unconvincing in terms of dialogue and character. I sympathise with Elliott about this, though: to communicate such a detailed world through a first-person narrative is a tricky task, and the pitfalls of over-explanation are difficult to avoid.

Stylistic reservations aside, I found Cold Magic very inventive, with a fantastic setting and a very distinct atmosphere. In fact, I’m having difficulty thinking of anything to compare it to. It has airships – but it’s not what I’d call steampunk. It has characters with important magical powers and a background of war and conflict – but, with its first-person viewpoint and character-orientated narrative, it’s not what I’d call epic fantasy. So if you want to try something a little different, something vivid and well-imagined, something with plenty of magic and splashings of romance, something emotional and character-driven, and, what’s more, something with a great variety of female and PoC characters, then take a chance on Cold Magic. I’d be interested to hear what you think.

Review: Zoo City, Lauren Beukes

Zoo City

Lauren Beukes

Angry Robot, 2010

ISBN 978-0-85766-0-541

Lauren Beukes’s second novel, Zoo City, won the Arthur C. Clarke award last year – and in this humble blogger’s opinion, the accolade is definitely deserved. A more gripping, imaginative, and smart read you would be hard-pressed to find. Zoo City has the works: witty, well-honed prose, a tough, wily protagonist, an exciting thriller-style plot, and a central concept that is fantastic in more ways than one. But this novel is also far from formulaic. Plunging us into the perilous, grimy warren of the Zoo City ghetto – an alternate version of the Hillbrow district of Johannesburg – Beukes conjures a twisting tale that, whilst flavoured as a noir thriller, is made unique and multi-faceted by its interweaving with the novel’s magical concept. For Zoo City is populated by the ‘animalled’, also known as ‘zoos’ or, if you wants to get technical about it, ‘aposymbiotes’: people who have, by dint of a former crime, come into possession of a shavi – a magical animal that accompanies them everywhere, and with it a magical talent (also called a shavi). These animals are at once companions and brands of criminality, and the aposymbiotes of Beukes’s alternate world find themselves the victims of personal and institutional prejudice. The onset of this phenomenon, during the 1980s, marks the divergence of the world of Zoo City with our own.

The protagonist, Zinzi December (great name, no?) is ‘animalled’, going about her various (and often questionable) business with a large sloth draped across her back or stuffed into her bag. His name is… Sloth. And Sloth, incidentally, is a wonderful character in his own right – endearing and timid, he is often disapproving or frightened by his mistress’s actions. For Zinzi is no shrinking violet: sharp and hard-assed, she is an ex-addict-turned-conwoman, struggling to pay off the huge debt she owes to her dealer while also maintaining a relationship with her lover, Benoît. But further complications await her when, because of her own shavi which allows her to track down lost objects, she is employed by an ageing music industry don to find a missing person. Zinzi might be used to Zoo City’s ways, but the search takes her into places she never wanted to go, and dredges up more than she ever anticipated.

There were many things that made this book stand out for me. Firstly, there’s the premise of the ‘aposymbiotes’. Comparisons have been drawn with the daemons of Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy, but Beukes’s creatures have an entirely different feel about them. The magic in Beukes’s novel is scruffy, dingy, down-and-dirty stuff – these animals may be magical but they’re as real as they come, complete with matted fur, chipped claws, and gummy, infected eyes. The concept of the shavi is also entirely bound up with the cultural context of the novel: Zoo City is entrenched within South Africa, its plot, its characters, and its ideas inextricable from that location, resonating with its social and political history. Even if, like me, you don’t know much about SA, it’s still clear how very situated Beukes’s story is. What’s more, it has encouraged me to find out more about SA (not that you need to do this to enjoy the book) – and that can never be a bad thing.

Secondly, there’s Beukes’s brilliant writing. The majority of the story is told in the first person, from Zinzi’s perspective, and Beukes brings Zinzi’s voice to life with zest, humour, and downright fantastic prose. Beukes’s style is intelligent, clear, snappy, and often very funny as the reader piggybacks through Zoo City’s streets with Zinzi as their cynical guide. And yet, Zinzi is no ‘tough chick’ stereotype. Beukes has written a thoroughly rounded and fascinating character, and throughout her adventures we also witness her dealing with her feelings for Benoît – the relationship played out in an unsentimental yet affecting way – and also with her deep-set guilt. For, of course, as Zinzi has a shavi, she must have committed some crime… and allusions to a terrible incident involving her brother hover perpetually in the back of her mind, emerging into the narrative in fragments when her guilt comes to the fore.

But Beukes fleshes out her story even further by inserting other perspectives into the novel. Including news articles as chapter epigraphs is by no means a new idea (a great example is in Tad Williams’s Otherland saga – whose protagonist is also South African, incidentally), but Beukes pulls it off with panache. Indeed, these addenda are more than epigraphs, as Beukes donates whole chapters to them. What’s more, they are not only news stories, but also email transcripts, DVD blurbs and viewer comments, and prisoners’ testimonies. This device allows Beukes to step outside of her first person narrator, giving readers a wider glimpse of life in this alternative Earth, and also nods to the vast, varied textual output of our modern, technological world – and to what seemingly small things – like DVD blurbs – can tell us about a society and its views. For me, these interjections also served to highlight just how talented Beukes is. Adapting her writing to these many different voices, with their different biases and agendas, with such ease and authority, Beukes shows that she’s a writer with intimidating skills.

As to Zoo City’s plot, it wasn’t what I expected – and was the better for it. I won’t go into detail, as I don’t want to spoil the surprises that Beukes springs upon the reader. I’ll just say that if you combine magic, murder, and the music industry; sift in crumbling blocks of flats and street gunfights; mix with dread of a strange, black ‘Undertow’ waiting to claim the ‘animalled’; add the blood of a shavi… Well, then you get at least a flavour of what Zoo City is. But to get the full, strange, bursting taste, you’re gonna have to read it.