The Escher-eqse city of Ayona has a nominal nobility, in the form of a duke and his royal family, but the city is mostly governed by the frequently conflicting groups of Mechanics and Alchemist. While the Mechanics and Alchemists exist in an uneasy truce with each other, they both vie for the upper hand in power. The ancient city was “grown” out of stone by the ubiquitous but slowly dying race of gargoyles, who, when they were stronger, were worshipped and feared and kept both groups in check.


Mattie, a mechanical automaton, is at the center of this conflict for several reasons. First, she is the creation of a prominent Mechanic, Loharri. Second, she is a practicing alchemist. And finally, she has been contacted by the gargoyles and given the task to heal the sickness that turns them into stone. While Mattie is mostly a free agent, she bound to Loharri, because he has the key to her clockwork heart.


The novel has numerous subplots and operates on several levels. One is as a novel of political intrigue. The war between the Mechanics and Alchemists is kicked off when a terrorist group destroys the stone palace, and both groups point the finger at each other. Mattie shuttles back and forth between the two groups. As automaton, most of the mechanics believe that she is the mute and mindless servant of Loharri, so she can listen in on their plans without being considered a threat. Both groups use Mattie to find out who the culprit is, without realizing that she has her own motivations. The Alchemy of Stone is also a novel of weird magic. In addition to the major narrative featuring Mattie, part of the novel is narrated by the gargoyles themselves. Their mysterious story is told in a plural poetic voice, not unlike Kafka’s short story Josephine the Singer.

“We scale the rough bricks of the building’s façade. Their crumbling edges soften under our claw-like fingers; they jut out of the flat, adenoid face of the wall to provide easy footholds….We could’ve flown. But instead we hug the wall, press our cheeks against the warm bricks; the filigree of age and weather covering their surface imprints on our skin, steely-gray like the thunderous skies above us…”

Most of the scenes of Mattie performing alchemy have her doing arcane things. She can see salamanders dancing in fire, and other elementals. The fact that Mattie does not have a soul also allows her to befriend the Soul Smoker, a much feared lonely old man who devours ghost and like Mattie is used by various factions. It is also a novel of relationships, between creator and creation, between magic and science, and ultimately, between people. While there is a slight love story, most of the tension in the book is generated by the love-hate relationship between Mattie and Loharri. In a way, their disturbing relationship reminds me of the dynamics of male-female, master and slave relationship explored in the oeuvre of Octavia Butler.


Sedia’s novel has a steady pace and aims for the ‘slice of life’ feel of the fantasy books of Ursula LeGuin’s Tehanu or any of Patricia McKillip’s work. She avoids explaining some of the magic/mechanics—like what makes Mattie intelligent. Instead, the reader sees the world mostly through Mattie’s eyes, and feels her terrible loneliness. She’s a misfit toy in a strange world. If at times she is passive, it fits with her character. She is literally a breakable person. The novel’s main weakness is that is can’t make up its mind as to what kind of story it wants to be. Quest story? Love story? Political allegory? (In addition to the terrorism and the revolution stories, there is also a subplot involving racial profiling). The anomie that pervades the narrative seems to be the main theme of the book. From the Soul Smoker to the gargoyles to Mattie herself, this is a book about those unsung heroes and outsiders who sacrifice much for the common good. The resolution is both haunting and unresolved. While The Alchemy of Stone is not a perfect book, it is a worthwhile read and belongs on the same shelf as such postmodern fantasy authors like Mieville and Vandermeer.

“I am Gabriel,” said the angel, “come to charge you with a duty.”


By the second page of Mainspring, the teenaged clockwork apprentice Hethor has been given the task of finding the Key Perilous to re-wind the world’s mainspring, which is slowly but surely winding down.


The setting reflects an alternative history in which the colonies remain under the rule of Queen Victoria. The Earth orbits on brass tracks and runs on gears much like a clock. Even Christianity furthers the steampunk atmosphere with references to Our Brass Christ and Our Father, Craftsman be thy name.


In his quest to find the key, Hethor is press ganged into Her Imperial Majesty’s service to sail the high skies aboard an airship, is captured by savage winged men, battles a wizard who would let the world run down, and meets a tribe of “correct” people, smaller and furrier humans, who follow him like disciples.


But Mainspring’s protagonist is not so much a hero as he is an instrument. A stumbling, bumbling youth relying completely on his faith to see him through his trials in pursuit of the key. And with the frequent use of deus ex machina, it soon becomes apparent that Hethor’s destiny is, in fact, preordained leaving little room for doubt that his task will be met with success.


The book has its moments of levity and is filled with intriguing descriptions of the orrery.

Mainspring is also about a more personal journey: Hethor’s coming of age and maturation. He comes to question his preconceived notions, and shows considerable emotional growth by the final chapters.




Mainspring has all of the makings of a grand adventure, but the excitement factor is tempered somewhat by a pace that seems to drag at times coupled with the foreknowledge that Hethor simply cannot fail in his mission.

Fiction’s new favorite purloiners return, the scene of their last crime – an act of lurid but no less true justice - drifting behind them. Their introductions behind them, the characters cast off and stripped of nearly all possessions but their lives, one could conclude an author would be primed to hit the shores running with his second offering, diving headlong into another fresh and elaborate juke devised to follow 2006’s most recommendable debut.

To our initial disappointment Lynch delivers.

We find the remnants of our band stalking the pits of the Sinspire, patiently and calculatingly ascending lady luck’s ladder in Lynch’s Monte Carlo, the city-state Tal Verrar, marked on any map as the destination for the apex of high society and high stakes. The absurdity of the back in-saddle starting point exhibits the author’s greatest strength, his decisions on how to pace a novel. The cuts to the recent past, giving us the anatomy of the scheme and farther back to moments transpiring in the direct aftermath of The Lies of Locke Lamora are perfectly placed, once again functioning as a new door to open just before the occupied space stagnates. You seem to never be anywhere but where you want to be, Lynch just doesn’t let you in on the fact until a chapter later, and the reader isn’t sprinting or running a marathon as much as they are in a literary shuttle run. The initial perceived thoughtlessness is rectified as our ‘hero’ is doing the only thing any reader should expect as an aftermath to the first book…

The Thorn of Camorr is grieving. Reduced to a melancholic lush, burdened with the weight of an adynamic soul. The Gentleman Bastards have been reduced to a duo and it is Jean who takes on a gamgee role to make sure that number isn’t cut in half again. The bastard’s lifestyles are inherently risky, but Locke is used to winning his gambits and the effect of the loss of members of his troupe is not skirted over by Lynch. While Locke chooses to rot we witness Jean exploring other avenues other friendships, and destiny - paths that make him at time vague, unreadable even to Locke. For Locke it was the dead end, for Jean it was a bit of crossroad, they always knew the stakes better than anyone but never had to pay-up, and the events in Camorr were shakedowns of the soul. When we finally see the charisma and vigor return to Locke – he is not unchanged – he has doubt, not in himself or Jean, but in Jean’s faith in him. There is an Ocean’s Eleven vibe but what drives the duo most is neither a faire sauter la banque goal nor vengeance, but it is passion for the art of the trade as Lynch cuts back to unveil steps to the heist at intervals even as they are being cast in multiple plots against other factions – simultaneously.

When I reviewed The Lies of Locke Lamora the single stumbling point for me were the Bondsmagi. Their presence as a nation of essentially unstoppable ace-in-the-hole-ass hole-boogiemen seemed more convenient plot device to me than a welcome in reading even though Lynch memorably made sure to exhibit they could indeed be touched – and with extreme prejudice – it remains an element still that I wish we could be rid of. It does give that constant threat of reprisal in Locke’s and Jean’s lives and one they are fully aware that they are almost powerless to stop if the Bondsmagi want to collect, but otherwise seems like a burden we now have to deal with just to make the Grey King’s ploy in the first book plausible. That aside, Red Seas Under Red Skies is not only a worthy sophomore effort, it is with little doubt the superior book. Too infrequent is our chance to read great pirate stories, such that we all have that similar shortlist in our head when asked to reference them: The Scar, On Stranger Tides, The Princess Bride (okay I’m stretching but you its one of those inclusions you simply can’t be mad about), Pyrates, Captain Blood; some more dedicated readers may include recent stories by Wells Tower or Rhys Hughes and Lynch supplies an addition to that list. It is so because in a book that features our protagonists being used as puppets by both sides in a feud over control of Tal Verrar between a well informed War Lord and the master of the Sinspire, Requin and his majordomo, learning the art of pirating and with one eye always looking over their shoulders for Bondmagi, all while still keeping to and amending their own scheme in play, Lynch is able to still make a brief excursion to Salon Corbeau the highlight and most decisive and gratifying chapter in the novel.

The glamorization of thieves and their exploits are hardly an untested formula in all mediums of fiction (and non-fiction) from – and Lynch’s books have a manner about them that make them feel cool but not trendy – the difference is achieving a state when it is not your goal. In this manner it’s more pool hall junkies than smokin’ aces and Locke’s healthy hatred for the wealthy and is so blatant that it creates this aura of honesty about the character that creates a natural common ground with more than ninety-ninety percent of the people who could potentially pick up the book. Chain’s words rattle in the back of his mind, and brands Locke to be an instrument, not as a social equalizer, but to act as a living memory and in a case that a past humbling instance doesn’t apply, to be the tool with arms long enough to hit the elite in the mouth – not so much for the joy of the literal punch, but to personify the figurative, permanent black eye. While Lynch keeps his promise of offering the reader a complete, self-contained story in each book of the sequence, it is the chapters such as this sprinkled in both books that expose the roots of the Thorn, the foundation and origin of the persona and we are a witness to it as much in the displays of his commitment to his craft as we are when he later insures a family of master artisans be spared a settlement’s judgment. It is really these chapters that supply that secondary, post-read pondering content and allows us to discuss Locke himself: peerlessly confident, a traveling - even if for one person audience - show, adrift, and guided by nothing but perhaps his own unique brand of avarice and the camaraderie of his partner, or is he that and still a child – looking to be guided by a higher authority, be it a father figure or deity. Is he driven by purpose or constantly searching for it? I’m unsure if it was the author’s intent – perhaps it was my own projection – but Locke seemed to go into a darth-mode for a moment, as he was a spectator of game played in Salon Corbeau called The Amusement War. He showed what was more than mere disgust, it was pure, unbridled, hatred. We know Locke is certainly capable of mischief from grand theft to killing, but the presence of this hate was almost disconcerting, and in the most positive of ways. This is not a balanced individual and while capable of extreme concentration and control when necessary, as much as Locke is able to manipulate his surroundings – the world moves him, not the other way around, and thus a feeling of contrivance is avoided in a manner that sometimes is not true of larger than life characters where often too often the world revolves around them.

This is as much a Jean novel as it a Locke novel, and it Jean’s story that in some ways saves the novel as the secondary characters tend to be a bit uneventful and seem perhaps too bit of a clean fit. There was no Chains, or characters of the like that were only limited by pages they were on, not what they brought to them. When we left Camorr we did so feeling we left some future stories whether they included the bastards or not, told or left untold where Red Seas Under Red Skies feels much more like just simply leaving a chapter behind us. Lynch has a talent for what amounts to multiple epilogues, and while actual roles may seem a bit less thoughtful or standout, the conclusions to various plot lines never do. It's probably true that Red Seas Under Red Skies ends up feeling more harmless than it's predecessor and in end we are left much the same as we were in the beginning except the condition of the spirit and body change places, yet from the tone you feel there is a weary but playful composure - a game face – has returned to Locke and we wonder if these red seas will ever lead him to a home.

For even the most novice of fantasy enthusiast it is hard not to notice the Mieville similarity, not in the sense of adding to the tired modernization of the fantastic spiel, or at in any way implying a creative riff in regards to content, but in terms of general symmetry. Like China, Lynch abandons the confines of his urban center that not only served as the backbone of the introduction, but also breathes as if alive - a constant presence without dialogue, and chooses to launch to the high seas, a decision that makes us as much reader and mystery tourist. It also creates a odd sensation that rather mimics and reinforced the point-of-view and continuity cuts from past to present – as readers we were not so much unlike Bellis in search of future opportunity but ran off from our immediate past enough to look back before ever step forward and the subsequent trips were what made the story. We still have that Camorr musk on us as readers and it takes awhile for us to appreciate the fresh sea air. In Red Seas Under Red Skies, no matter the location of the masquerade at hand, Camorr still plays an off-stage roll and we perhaps learn more of the city – and the mentality of her vagabond sons while being elsewhere. There is also an excursion in The Scar to a land of blood sucking horror mosquito people, and Lynch has his version of such a stopover and monsters only they are represented by man. Admittedly it’s all rather superficial - as were many of the overstated comparison involving with the first novel - (the comparisons) but something that was definitely in my mind.

In the more the merrier era of ensembles and complexity weighed by cast numbers Lynch chooses what is still not the path less taken, but is one that is polluted with innumerable unmarked graves, not blank due to a lack of information, but to signify that is no more relevant than the other, of stories buried that don’t require a revisit, failed adventurers blurred together that fail to spark reasonable recognition and whose names die even if they themselves do not, where the Tristan of Eutracia’s will come to rest or be buried alive. It is the path that has successfully been undertaken by a few, these are characters that threaten to become part of the very fabric of fantasy’s conscious – they are not necessarily characters that claim new territories and spill first blood on new ground but all are those that come to define. I like Neverwhere more than the next guy – but who was the protagonist again? Inevitably some replies will be "the guy who Vandermer and Croup were chasing". With Lynch, through just two books you feel as if the author perhaps has stumbled upon that multiverse-spanning, vellum-crossing, shadow walking, dream trail that ran through the Underdark that once revealed a lavender glint reflecting off dual scimitars, or was once trodden by a storm-bearing Albino, or where a blind prince of Amber sulked, or where stalked a ring-totting leopard, and even once bore a fool wizard and his luggage, among others. It is that connection with a single character that was once vogue that seems to a point admonished now for that very fact, and thus the numbers of personalities and seem that is still able to drive a series by their presence alone in a manner that perhaps is only mirrored in its first steps currently by Stover’s Cain or Morgan’s Tovac. The accomplishment includes and goes beyond being the topic of self-important small circles; it extends into daring to be large, indeed embracing it, but not at the same time fearing to achieve that state by accepting built in limitations more often simply the vices of minority aloofness. These are characters that create absolute statements – to actually come to not like Locke Lamora seems near implausible, a sad, dark place, an opinion hell with baffling inhabitants and even stranger horizons who sadly run away from large crowds just to be noticed and seemingly always scratch their when they miss the party wondering why. These are the characters that transcend book and series titles: they are the Elric, the Cain, Conan, Covenant and Drizzt books. The vast majority of the time I would say the human element – I think – remains the most important facet of any piece of fiction but I think we often limit what we perceive as grand accomplishment to examinations of that state and tend to view simply the enjoyment of as something lesser. There are simply very few reads that just have that kick back and relax ambience, that timeless fresh and jazzy ‘Summertime’ experience, "Here it is the groove slightly transformed just a bit of a break from the norm just a little somethin' to break the monotony of all that hardcore dance that has gotten to be a little bit out of control it's cool to dance but what about the groove that soothes that moves romance give me a soft subtle mix and if ain't broke then don't try to fix it" – ahhh...good times! That’s what Lynch brings to the shelf. When will Locke find what he searches for? Is it something even the greatest thief can steal? Does Locke Lamora fascinate me? Not in specific ways that some characters do. But the idea of more of his as of yet untold adventures do – and that’s an accomplishment.

The headstones don’t lie.

Jay Tomio
The Bodhisattva

Set in a Victorian era and a New Amsterdam still apart of the British Empire, where many of the familiar vampire tropes made popular by the likes of Anne Rice and Laurell K. Hamilton, and a good bit of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle the mix, Elizabeth Bear shows what can be produced at the hands of a talented writer. Think vampires, sorcerers, detectives, political revolutionaries, corrupt aristocracy, and a British Empire still in its prime where places like New England never achieved independence framed with a skillfully woven character study.

Sebastian de Ulloa is a vampire over 1000 years old enduring his long unlife. Partially spurned by his own kind, yet given allowance for his advanced age, he seeks more intimate human connection in contrast to others of the Blood. New Amsterdam begins with him fleeing Europe and all it’s traditions for the New World with only one remaining member of his court – Jack Priest, a young man now coming of age. A murder occurs and Sebastian’s now centuries old employ as a private investigator takes center stage.

Abigail Irene Garrett is the Detective Crown Investigator for New Amsterdam and a powerful sorceress. A middle-aged woman of aging beauty, she fled a past of royal scandal in England for the isolation of the New World. As a strong, independent, intelligent, and powerful woman who is long past caring overmuch for other’s opinions, her new life is not without scandal and controversy.

Bear weaves this mosaic novel together through a series of short adventures – some from the point of view of Sebastian and some from Abby Irene. The characterization of both Sebastian and Abby Irene is wonderfully complete and complex, as is that of even the secondary characters. The interplay and frequent role-reversal of the Sherlockian mysteries forming the spine of each adventure is fascinating to watch unfold as present and past pain bleeds from the pages and the complex lives of the characters. Abby Irene’s enduring loyalty to the Crown is tested through former and current lovers and gross injustice. Sebastian struggles with the inevitable – the independence, interdependence and death of those he comes to love in spite of knowing better and the knowledge that history repeats itself and he will continue.

Bear is at her peak when dealing with the strange love triangle between Sebastian, Abby Irene and Jack. Two courtesans and their master, an immortal and two mortals, two men and woman, two respected investigators and a youth – this is the heart of mosaic. I love the shifting vantage of Sebastian’s view of Jack and Abby Irene and Abby Irene’s view of Sebastian and Jack and I would have loved to see more of Jack’s view of Sebastian and Abby Irene. Through this triangle we see struggles of love, loyalty and the inevitable told in alternative historical world of upheaval and advance where light invades the darkness, yet creates shadow.

New Amsterdam is a skillfully told mosaic of mystery and fantasy with the potential for appeal to many. Those looking for a different take on the vampire mythos, those seeking another strong female protagonist, those seeking political intrigue, love triangles, alternative history, steampunk with its zeppelins and engines, sorcery and beasts in the dark – New Amsterdam castes a wide net. However, the real strength of the mosaic is the character study of Sebastian, Abby Irene and Jack.

Hinterland continues the story begun in Shadowfall, the first book of James Clemens' The Godslayer Chronicles.

With the slaying of the naethryn-possessed god Chrism by Tylar de Noche, an uneasy peace has fallen over the lands of Myrillia. Tylar has been named regent of Chrismferry as a temporary measure and his former order of Shadowknights plans to reinstate him to his knighthood.

In the distant land of Saysh Mal, the dark Grace-tainted skull of a rogue god fleeing the lawless hinterlands is recovered, bringing various factions out of the shadows who all desire the power held in the skull for their own ends.

In the land of Oldenbrook, Brant, a young Hand of the god Jessup is haunted by the fateful day when he witnessed the rogue god's final stand, and by the terrifying power that sweeps across Oldenbrook.

Events come to a head with Tylar's arrival at the Shadowknight stronghold of Tashijan for his knighting ceremony. A god-driven storm rises up to besiege the walls of Tashijan, sending ice and dark Graces against the defenders. Even the inner reaches of Tashijan are not safe, as the former castellan Mirra lurks in the bowels of the stronghold, sending darkness-spawned horrors against the defenders.

In the end, the only answers to be found are in the hinterland bordering Saysh Mal...

Hinterland manages to somewhat get away from the predictability of Shadowfall. As before, the concept of the god's bodily humors being used for power is a good touch. In particular, the feeling that not everyone arrayed against the protagonists is completely evil keeps the story from being just another "good versus evil" struggle. As with Shadowfall, it may not be an entirely original story, but there's enough here to lift it above the run-of-the-mill epic fantasies.

I'd rate it a bit above Shadowfall, and would hope that this improvement continues with any future books in the series.

Shadowfall begins James Clemens' The Godslayer Chronicles, set in the world of Myrillia and the Nine Lands. 4000 years have passed since the world was sundered and the 100 immortal gods came to Myrillia, some choosing to settle the land and live amongst their followers, and others choosing to roam the hinterlands as maddened rogues.

The story begins with the disgraced former Shadowknight Tylar de Noche witnessing the murder of the goddess Meeryn by a dark shadow. Receiving the final blessing of the goddess, Tylar is healed of the crippling injuries from his former enslavement, but at the same time is branded as Meeryn's killer, as he is the sole witness to her death.

Forced to flee across Myrillia, Tylar is pursued by enemies both mortal and immortal as he seeks to discover the truth of the matter. Meanwhile, the young orphan girl Dart is selected as a Hand to Chrism, first among the gods to settle the land, only to discover that others have dark plans for her. Even Tylar's former order of Shadowknights are split by political and darker forces as a new Warden is elected.

To be sure, Clemens doesn't exactly break the mold with this one.
The plot is more or less predictable to the end. I didn't go in expecting anything incredibly new and wasn't disappointed.

In Clemens' defense however, the concept of the gods' bodily humors (blood, tears, sweat, bile, etc.) being used as a source of power as well as the idea of each god being aligned to a different element (fire, water, air, earth) keeps things interesting throughout and provides some good twists to the story. There's plenty of action and a dark tone to the overall book that helps as well.

Not the best book I've read this year (and the last book I'll finish in 2006, most likely), but still a cut above other derivatives I've read recently.

Setting out to read book one of the new young adult series, Monster Blood Tattoo (Foundling) I didn't have particularly high expectations. But there are a lot of great YA fantasy novels out there, so I was willing to give it a try. And I was richly rewarded. Wow.

Australian illustrator D. M. Cornish is a worldbuilding geek. Prior to writing the novel, he'd spent over a decade developing his 'Half Continent' for no reason other than the sheer pleasure of the creation. And it shows. The setting is rich and detailed and strongly original, and the feeling of discovery is enhanced by the inclusion of Peake-esque character sketches and glorious maps, the kind you could get lost in. The Half Continent is a landscape with character and history.

Buy this book for every child you know, if you want them to grow up reading good fantasy. And definitely buy it for yourself. Reading it I was reminded of Peake, of Mieville and of Vance (especially the latter's Lyonesse in the fantastical ecosystem Cornish has revealed).

The Half Continent is inhabited by an amazingly diverse variety of monsters. And humans who, with their steampunk technology, are encroaching on monster lands. Much of human science is devoted to finding new means of tracking and killing monsters. Those heroes who manage the feat are given the privilege of a tattoo made from the monster's blood - hence the title of the series.

I'm not giving anything much away by saying that it's pretty obvious from the beginning that the situation isn't as black and white as the humans perceive things. Nevertheless, some of the monsters are convincingly terrible. As, of course, are some humans.

The plot is a classic one. Rossamund, a boy with a girl's name, is an orphan. The time comes for him to leave the orphanage and start a career. Unfortunately he doesn't get the adventurous job of his dreams (such as a sailor on the vinegar seas), but instead is selected for one that sounds dull - lamplighter.

And of course nothing is as simple as it seems, there are ... complications ... and through Rossamund we see a great new world explored.

Buy and read this wonderful book. Trust me.

Lyra is a young orphan girl, raised by the masters of Jordan College at Oxford, knowing little of the outside world and caring for little beyond her carefree existence playing with the other children.

The story opens with Lyra's curiosity leading her to eavesdrop on a secret meeting between the mysterious Lord Asriel (Lyra's uncle) and a number of scholars at the college. After foiling an attempt to poison Lord Asriel and overhearing the subsequent discussion of a mysterious substance referred to as "Dust", a disturbing series of events begins to unfold.

Tales of the "Gobblers" snatching up children become more than just rumors when Lyra's friend Roger disappears without a trace and Lyra herself is forced to leave her home, with only her daemon Pantalaimon and a curious device said to reveal the truth. With all signs pointing to the frozen North, Lyra must uncover the mystery of Dust and what has happened to the missing children.

While the His Dark Materials trilogy is billed as and clearly written for a young adult audience, this shouldn't dissuade older readers. I went into The Golden Compass uncertain of what to expect, and I was actually pleasantly surprised. Granted, the writing is a bit simplistic and lacks some depth, as might be expected, but Pullman doesn't write in a "cutesy" (for lack of a better expression) way. The underlying story is certainly interesting and more "mature" than I had expected.

With all said and done, I enjoyed The Golden Compass and I'm looking forward to reading the followup, The Subtle Knife.

Some eight months ago I found myself in the presence of an obscenely assured debut, a story that spawned a sense of enthusiasm that just cascaded from every page. At the time it had had no binding, inconspicuous in the form of a modest stack of papers, and yet not halfway through it I realized I was reading something of rare quality, an adventure that exists as a throwback – a homage to the fantastic familiar - while presenting something utterly the author’s own. I felt it was far too early to at the time to offer a full review, but I offered some brief thoughts.

If you can imagine stepping out of nineteenth-century East-End London nodding to the artful dodger, and turning a corner ending up pacing Cheap Street in Lankhmar, and take in the Venetian element, you may be able to envision the city-state of Camorr. Our protagonist, young Locke Lamora is introduced to us as a boy of six, taken in by Camorr’s resident kidsmen, the uninvited thirty-first of thirty plague orphans recruits, Locke’s uncanny ability would force even the Thiefmaker of Camorr to remove him from his organization and send him to a blind priest – with just a pat on the shoulder and a shark tooth around his neck – a kiss of death - to wear symbolizing that his death had been approved and paid for and awaited only the inclination of his new master to act on.

He was not yet nine years old.

Thus Locke was now apprenticed to the Eyeless Priest, Father Chains, a man of Perelandro, the father of mercies - a regional legend - as it is said of him he chained himself to the temple with irons that had neither lock or key, never to have left for the last thirteen years and had his eyes plucked out in a public performance - only he wasn’t blind, nor was he permanently bound, he was a thief and a cultured extortionist. He was a priest however, only not one of Perelandro, but of a thirteenth god in a twelve-god pantheon, a nameless deity – a god of thieves. It is here where Chains will pass along his knowledge and tenets of a refined roguish lifestyle. Indeed Chains becomes a father figure, as well as the person who would take a seemingly natural, a gifted and deft thief, and accord him scope, a vision that didn’t exclude consequences. In short he taught him how to be a thief, but with the mind of a man of the world – all worlds. For a couple of coppers, the eyeless priest bought a new member of his band of Gentlemen Bastards, who one day would be referred to in whispers around social circles as the Thorn of Camorr.

We find the Gentleman Bastards orchestrating their latest caper, namely alleviating another of Camorr’s elite, Don Salvara, of a sizeable portion of his wealth. It is an intricate plan, an investment fraud involving overstating eminent foreign conflicts, and a sizeable shipment of the choicest and fashionable drink, Brandvin Austershalin, loved by the cognoscenti and aristocracy alike. It is a virtuoso performance by Locke that gets sidetracked, as various garrista - that is Lynch’s version of a caporegime - have become victims of what amounts to a full blown gang war initiated by an arcane newcomer calling himself the Grey King. It is here where we can imagine the author being an avid fan of films like The Godfather, Scar Face, Goodfellas, and the like. Camorr, like any city you and I live in has a criminal underworld and sub-culture, and Lynch’s structure, while familiar, is effective, as garrista lead their gangs large or small (Locke is a garrista) and pay tithe to Capa Barsavi, who is essentially the boss of bosses, and a likable one at that. Lynch also doesn’t insult us by making us have to believe such an organization could operate without the knowledge and the support of some of those wielding legitimate power.

‘The Spider” and the Midnighters loom over Barsavi, and even the Duke. The veteran bastards explain to Bug while fashioning Locke’s costume:

Criminals, or even those – and real folks know the difference - who aren’t criminals who simply perform illegal activities to make a living or put some bills in their pocket and in the post - don’t speak like English majors (even though Barsavi was a former scholar himself prior to running the streets). Whether fans of watching fictionalized variation, or if you have ever had to go pay-up for that gift of consignment, you will feel the drastic differences in tone between the environments of performances and reality of the gentleman bastards and appreciate it. The slang is functional, distinctive and to the point. The Gentleman Bastards are a gang – a family – and includes Jean, the group’s portly and stout muscle, was sent by Chains to the House of Glass Roses the most respected school of arms, the Sanza twins, Galdo and Calo, and its sole female member Sabetha who is currently absent, and a recent addition, Bug, round out the small gang. While difficult to avoid casting a complete romantic outlook on such a fun and mischievous troupe, Lynch does so by not making hardship and even ultimate loss an infrequent element in their lives, both past and present, leading to the real strength of the novel, involving the chosen structure Lynch employs to administer his story, sprinkling flashbacks between chapters either revealing personal history of characters or enlightening the reader on past historical events tied to a subject just mentioned. The latter examples could be viewed as page-sized footnotes in some fashion that will avoid being harped on as detraction by simply not presenting itself as proper footnotes. It is a method that disallows stagnation in the reading experience even while being in the presence of what is an essentially an info dump. Matt Stover says of Lynch, “Scott Lynch is a con man, a conjuror, a wickedly entertaining juggler of words with knives up his sleeves and hatchets down his back.” - and this is an apt description in both these cases. Lynch relays history, and background while simultaneously moving the story eventfully forward. We have come to a point where it seems the term ‘page turner’, once a positive remark applied to a book, has come to also mean a book that’s pages carry marginal if any weight, a possible intelligent reaction to the Dan Brown phenomena. Well, The Lies of Locke Lamora is a page-turner, and perhaps Lynch has in his possession a revolutionary ethereal ink to explain the discrepancy, because these pages laden with rememberable quotes, a baroque corporeal fictional setting thats landscape and history is infused with past empires and an alien origin thats legacy is eternally evident at every twilight, and a protagonist that is a constant lure belie the ease that in which these pages turn. It’s a work that didn’t seem to ever abandon the scope of the author’s own interests in a story in an effort to make it more substantial, and because of this, it indeed possessed true substance and not a less faithful abstraction. It’s a very fine line to tread, and The Lies of Locke Lamora emits a passion from the author that marks him as a fan of fantasy that neither fell into the banal bin where fan-author works mislabeled as homage dwell, nor did he attempt to overstep his fan base.

There were instances that were shaky. Personal preference causes me to be wince at the element of Bondsmagi, a powerful and almost preposterously expensive guild. While human, their first rule protects them, as Chains explains to Locke:

The Bondsmagi came across as more of an extremely necessary plot tool than anything more substantial, and while Lynch gives us insight on the past of the order, the element just never overcame my initial thought even though it results in sadistically satisfying fashion, a true cart full of fun. There are also moments that tend to be corrected after a first novel, where a sharper eye corrects some moments of description that seem to be present for aesthetic purposes but in some instances don’t really equate in terms of real purpose.

The Lies of Locke Lamora is the first book of the seven part Gentlemen Bastard sequence, but series abstainers can and should find peace of mind in that at least the first book offers a complete adventure; from the introduction of a six year old plague surviving pilfering prodigy to casting off to red seas under red skies it is an effective stand-alone jaunt, an excursion through the sites of Camorr, from the subterranean tunnels of a necropolis guild of thieves to the heights and the opulence of the alien-like Elderglass towers, through the hectic streets and the lives in-between, Lynch’s true accomplishment is in striking a rare balance caused by not being unmindful of the most important but often relegated ingredient – fun. It’s cunningly riveting, colorfully cutthroat, possessive of an everyday organic humor, and occurs where the end of any given day can lead to the comfort of your home or fishing with Fredo, a true-page turner with no need to apologize for the fact and decisively the most significant debut of the fantastic this year.

The Lies of Locke Lamora will be out June 1st in the U.K from Gollancz and its U.S. release is at the end of the month by Bantam Spectra.

Jay Tomio
The Bodhisattva

Here's the beginning of another comic-book adaptation of a fantasy classic - Red Prophet, set in Orson Scott Card's Alvin Maker universe. It's an alternate history of frontier America, and a fascinating one.

This first issue seemed a bit of a risky move ... it's told largely from the perspective of some unpalatable characters, but it's justified in setting up some major characters and factions in the milieu.

The setting is Carthage City, a town with pretensions, military outpost and trading centre, on the edge of the frontier. It's dominated by self-styled 'governor' Bill Harrison's corrupt regime.

Hooch Palmer is a whisky trader, the main supplier of the liquor craved by the white settlers and the despised alcoholic native americans who dwell on the fringes of their society.

The corrupt Harrison aims to use liquor to undermine the foundations of native american society. Palmer simply wants to profit from its sale, despite the terrible effects.

Into this lion's den comes Ta-Kumsaw, a leader of and spokesman for the local tribes, to try to shame his fringe-dwelling brethren (literally, his brother Lolla-Wossiky) out of their alcoholic stupor, and to threaten the Governor with the dire consequences of treaty violation.

Ta-Kumsaw is a great character - strong and intelligent, and as good a political player as the Governor. I was relieved to see his appearance after the denigration of the native americans by the unpleasant, racist whites.

The stage is set for an exciting and tense struggle, and it's one that I'm confident will be a gripping read.

The issue is vividly illustrated, a real window into a complex, multicultural milieu.

Oh, and I should mention that we're also introduced to the very interesting system of magic that Card developed for the Alvin Maker world.

The series has it all - alternate history, epic struggle, intrigue, and magic!

Infernal Devices is the story of George Dower, a stolid fellow who has inherited his father's clock-repair shop, but not his genius for clockwork. The novel is written as a personal account, an apologia for the life of Dower, and an attempt to set straight the sordid and scandalous rumours attached to his name.

These rumours are brought up in an introduction that tantalisingly hints at the adventures to come: plans to shatter the earth, the unnatural pleasures of the 'green girls', a secret career as a violin virtuoso and debaucher of women, the desecration of a church, and his involvement with:

... reports from the Scottish Highlands of the Book of Revelation's Seven-Headed Beast flapping about and dropping flaming sheep carcasses upon the heads of Sir Charles Wroth's grouse-beaters while the Whore of Babylon laughed and shouted disrespectful comments from her perch aboard the creature...

And those are only a few of the delights contained in this wonderful steampunk book by K. W. Jeter - a friend of James P. Blaylock and Tim Powers (to whom the book is dedicated).

Dower is struggling to make ends meet with minor repairs and upkeep on clocks, but is slipping into poverty. One day a man who appears to be an African, with leathery brown skin, commissions him to attempt repairs on an inscrutable mechanism of his father's.

Soon afterwards he is visited by the anachronistic impresario Graeme Scape, and his accomplice, Miss McThane, who attempt to steal the 'Brown Leather Man's' device.

Dower is drawn into a mystery when he examines the coin the Brown Leather Man paid him with: silver, and engraved with the curiously exophthalmic face of a Saint Monkfish.

His efforts to identify the Saint and his client lead him into a bizarre subculture of Victorian London: the secret borough of Wetwick. And from there, through deeper and deeper layers of intrigue to discover the truth about the machinations of the Royal Anti-Society, his father, and himself.

I particularly liked the idea of the Royal Anti-Society, a crackpot secret society devoted to the pursuit of dark knowledge, locked in an underground struggle with the similarly secret Godly Army. Another favourite was the idea of trying to destroy the earth using sympathetic vibrations, or 'Cataclysm Harmonics'.

Jeter has created a greatly entertaining steampunk novel, full of intriguing ideas and colourful characters. It's written in the style of a book of the Victorian era, but doesn't come across as affected, and is certainly fast-paced.

Infernal Devices is definitely a must-read for steampunk fans, and I recommend it for anyone who enjoys a humorous, madcap adventure - the book is aptly subtitled 'a mad Victorian fantasy'.

The orphaned Evelyn Todd lives in Edinburgh’s Fountainbridge Institute for Destitute Girls, run by the grim Calvinist, Mr Lindsay. She's recalcitrant girl with a highland spirit. One day Lindsay stops his efforts to suppress her imaginative, artistic tendencies and allows her free reign. This might be because her long-lost father (the Laird of Millenhall no less) suddenly appears to collect her.

Playfully blindfolded, she’s taken to the ancestral home and locked in her room. She’s comfortable, though, and allowed to draw. Slowly she comes to realise that she’s a prisoner, and that the people she’s with aren’t her parents at all. She’s comforted somewhat by her imaginary friend, Leerie, the lamplighter.

Twenty years later, a series of brutal murders terrifies Victorian Edinburgh (O’Neill does a wonderful job in his description of the city – fans of historical fiction will eat it up). Two separate investigations commence independently of the other.

The first is the official investigation, by police inspector Carus Groves, a stuffy and sententious memorialist (the book is peppered with references to the memoirs he’s writing for his retirement). Long in the shadow of his superior, who gets the high-profile cases, Groves worries about being out of his depth. He finds that the highest echelons of the city are taking an interest in his investigation.

All of the murders are done in such a grisly way as to lead to the conclusion that the killer is a beast or a man of supernatural strength.

The second investigation is by the skeptic Thomas McKnight, Professor of Logic and Metaphysics. McKnight is disillusioned by his career, and rather impoverished. He relies heavily on Joseph Canavan, his self-educated Irish friend and foil. The pair are a bit like Holmes and Watson (this is probably part of the reason that the book is set in Edinburgh, not London).

When a fellow professor and rival of McKnight is murdered, his interest in the slayings is piqued. While Groves is doing a lot of footwork, McKnight is working more from metaphysical deductions (in fact, there’s some hand-waving going on to distract you during a few of his leaps of intuition).

Both Groves and McKnight start to encounter a young woman – the grown-up Evelyn – who has dreamt of the slayings. Both suspect that she knows more about the killings than she’s telling them.

The Lamplighter is a Gothic, supernatural mystery, with strong philosophical and psychological components running through it. O’Neill does a great job of establishing his setting without making it cliché. And he’s introduced a new and fascinating subculture of 19th century society for our delight – the lamplighters who nightly activate the city’s gas lamps. I was interested to learn of their habits and concerns (damn electric lights!).

O’Neill’s book is an atmospheric evocation of a city, and his story is an engrossing page-turner. As you progress through the book you find yourself drawn in to the questions of who and what the killer is, whether the answer is to be found in psychology or philosophy … or demonology.

The book has a series of revelatory moments, and it’s one I’ll enjoy rereading to appreciate the skill of the author in crafting his mystery.

Irth, the world of The Dark Shore, is a place where magic, or Charm, is as useful and as accessible as electricity is to us. Perhaps more so, for as well as being practical, it's also a medium of exchange in the form of amulets. Having the industrial and economic basis for society dependent on magic has led this world in some interesting directions.

The book opens with a sequence that illustrates the uses and ubiquity of magic from the lowest levels of society to the highest - Lord Drev. Drev is the most powerful man on Irth, and he comes into contact with a newts-eye (unit of magical exchange) that his scrying sense tells him is ultimately from the hand of the commoner woman he's fated to love.

The opening scenes with Lord Drev searching for his love aren't too impressive, but bear with them. Maybe I'm just averse to fantasy novels that focus on royalty. Fortunately, once the Conquest begins, things pick up markedly.

Out of nowhere, hordes of unstoppable cacodemons start attacking the residents of Irth. These creatures are immune to magical weapons, and the defense of the realm crumbles quickly. Attanasio wonderfully describes their "horrid abdominal snouts".

Their leader, rather unfortunately for a quite original book, is the Dark Lord - wait for it - Hu'dre Vra. This appalling name is mitigated by the fact that it's self-chosen by the insane, and somewhat pathetic Dark Lord, and is described as puerile in the book.

The Dark Lord began his life as a scavenger who, upon recovering an object of power, led a rebellion against the Peers, and was cast into the Gulf, to land on the supposedly legendary Dark Shore. There he found dark magic and darker allies.

In my mind, this makes the Dark Lord quite an interesting character, at least potentially, and it's a shame that Attanasio doesn't explore the inequities of this society better to explain the genesis of the Dark Lord's hatred of the elite Peers. Instead he is presented as intrinsically and irredeemably evil.

The story shows us the travails of half a dozen major characters following the surrender to the Dark Lord. They travel a lot, and take a while working out a fairly obvious strategy to defend themselves against the cacodemons, who as I've said, are immune to magical weapons.

But their journeys are interesting and take you through some vivid settings. I particularly liked the city of Saxar, with tiers of "smouldering factories and tilted streets hewn into titanic sea cliffs", a fleet of black trade dirigibles and a skyline of colossal retorts and alembics. Overhead fly the cities of the Peers.

Aside from Hu'dre Vra, Attanasio makes some more missteps with place names - such as Lake Apocalypse or the Mere of Goblins - but overall his vision is an intriguing, Vanceian world.

In fact, part of what drew me into the book was my curiosity to uncover the mysteries of Irth's cosmology. Attanasio provides no easy introduction to the world, just tantalising clues about the Dark and Bright Shores, the Gulf, and the Abiding Star.

The author's strengths are the power of his description and his worldbuilding. Like China Mieville, he's well mastered the trick of giving you just enough to whet your imagination. At the very end of the book he mentions the sunken continent of Gabagalus, with its salamandrine inhabitants, that rises from the sea daily ...

The book's weaker in characterisation and at times the plot seemed to cover some well-worn ground. Nevertheless, it's an enjoyable read and I recommend it.

N.B. In the United States, this book was published under the pseudonym Adam Lee.

A sparkling catastrophe has struck the city of Thermidore, transforming the inhabitants into crystalline statues (called roches). The sole survivor, Casmeer, has spent four hundred years protecting his former compatriots from the magpie depradations of the plumosites – a species of flying gargoyle with a tendency to steal colourful fragments of the roches.

The people of Thermidore were crystallised by the drug that made them immortal. Casmeer, who can’t explain his own survival, passes his solitary time writing a history of the city, currently numbering fifty-seven volumes.

With his fifty-eighth, Casmeer turns his hand to writing a fictional story of his own devising. The chapters progress and you realise that his creation is a vision of the world outside the city, or is the world in fact his creation?

Across a vast plain, surrounded by impassable mountains, crawl a legion of moving cities. Each is a unique and baroque growth, in their construction, propulsion and culture. The cities are drawn across the land by trails of crystal planted by terranauts, the secretive clans of navigators entrusted with finding a way forward.

Constantine has conjured some great names for the cities: Zanymandias, Frenepolis, Concatadore. Each too has its own fascinating and vividly described culture and mannerisms. Calenture is a book of wonderful cities and this alone would make me commend it to fans of urban fantasy. But apart from the gorgeous settings, Constantine has created a host of memorable and often grotesque characters, which reminded me of Mervyn Peake’s (particularly the travellers on the train Whiteknuckle Rush).

Ays is a priest whose job is to take life: to euthanise the sick and dying. He's addicted to the drug hela, and carries around his own supply, which grows from spores planted in the lining of his coat. Ays leaves the flying city Min to discover his origins.

Finnigan is a terranaut – expelled from his tribe to undergo a traditional quest of self-discovery, to find his own way in the world, and to uncover the secret of the stones.

Each drifts through a series of random adventures and encounters, which in a lesser book would lead one to think the author just wanted to show off their world. With Calenture, however, I didn’t mind this, as the undirected nature of their journeys complemented the dreamlike, hallucinatory nature of the world.

Calenture, by the way, is a word that describes “A disease incident to sailors within the tropics, characterised by delerium in which, it is said, they fancy the sea to be green fields and desire to leap into it.” In the worlds of the cities, anyone who seeks to leave is considered mad.

Described by Michael Moorcock (with whom Constantine collaborated to write the multiverse novel Silverheart) as exotic and erotic, Calenture is a perfect read for fans of authors like Mieville, Vandermeer and K. J. Bishop. Unlike these authors, however, the prose is usually clear and straightforward. This doesn’t detract from its descriptive power, nor does it mean that the book doesn’t embrace complex themes. It's engrossing and rewarding to the very satisfying conclusion.

Caveat for collectors: I haven’t seen the Stark House Press version of this book, but an Amazon.com reviewer recommends the Hodder Headline edition, which I can personally vouch for. The cover is definitely superior.

_{Fantasybookspot - fantasy book reviews and fantasy book author interviews}