The classroom was quiet. Bone-white desks faced a board groaning with chalk and time. The scholar sat on a stool and leaned on her lectern, sorting crisp paper into clean lines. Lecture phrases and lines of ink filled her head and she was caught by surprise when a young man cleared his throat from behind the second row of desks.
“I am sorry,” he said, hands locked around a scroll case. “Please…I am sorry to interrupt you, but…”
“You are not one of my students,” the scholar laid a finger to her temple, letting her mind settle and focus on the young man.
“No, I am not. I am visiting the city. My name is Lucas Grahd.”
Artist: Charlie Bowater
“And I am Prose Willow. You know this, of course.”
The scholar did not smile and neither did Lucas. Her face was sharp and severe, brown skin pulled taut. Long, tight braids wound in an ornate riddle. The young man took a step forward.
“I do. I came here looking for you.”
The scholar sighed. “Why, Lucas Grahd? Why at the end of the day do you tiptoe into my hall? The sun sets.”
“I don’t know,” Lucas said. “I read something you wrote. The gifted man is a plague. To himself, to the city, to the world. What did you mean by that?”
“Most people pass through this world inert. The simple mechanics of society push them through and out, like stones through the belly of a snake.” Prose nodded. “But the gifted, the learned, the wise, those who can see. Actors and painters and sculptors and all the weary litany of those who shape. They affect the system, they touch things. They make, they mar. They change things.”
“Is it wrong to change things?”
“No. Not always. But the more you see, the more you move, the more you change the world, shape it with your choices. You begin to feel the weight, the weight of those choices. Is this why you came? This conversation?” Prose folded her hands and looked over her knuckles at Lucas.
“Not really. Maybe? I don’t know,” Lucas took another step forward.
“The scroll, then?” It was green with black piping, any distinguishing marks hidden by Lucas’ hands.
Lucas looked down at it, as if surprised to find his hands full. “Oh, this? No, I was just carrying this. I came to research a translation in the library, but I walked in here instead. I knew you were here, that you taught here, but I hadn’t planned on approaching you.”
Prose stood up, hands gentle on the lectern. The fading light in the room shot thin gold across the white desks and the young man’s face. “Are you a gifted man, Lucas Grahd?”
“Yes.”
“Then forego the illusion. No mystical force guides your steps, you are not perplexed, you are not whimsical. Why did you walk in here?”
“I want a sage,” the young man sat in the closest desk, eyes on the flat white, whispering. “Someone who knows. Someone I can ask.”
I’ve got the itch to post and write, but nothing dominating my brain pan. I’m going to list some thoughts until I hit something I want to expound upon.
Various thoughts:
I was in Vegas last week for a work conference. It was my first time. I gambled a dollar, drank daiquiris in a bathtub, ate piles of exotic food next to a 30 foot stone statue of Buddha while dubstep played. I believe that Vegas is the most American city I’ve ever been in — not the greatest American city, but the most American.
I’m on Twitter now — it’s fun. There’s a surprising feeling of immediacy to the interactions there, and it’s neat to be able to directly annoy people I
Majesty.
respect. Also to roll my eyes at some writers up the foodchain as they reveal their foibles and strange predilections. Follow me there and allow me to regale you with glib witticisms and reports on my cat’s mood.
Why is their a paucity of Southern genre writers – fantasy and sci-fi? I’ve been directed to several interesting ones that I hadn’t heard of before, but there just don’t seem to be any genre legends within a 50 mile radius of a Waffle House. Southern fiction has a strong tradition, are they all just writing other genres? How come anyone that wants to write about swords and dragons seems to gravitate to the North and West?
This weird-ass journey of writing and promoting myself is …well...weird-ass. I have to constantly pump myself up and feed myself endless packets of cocksurety just to keep myself going [You are awesome. Genre-CHANGING. Undiscovered genius.] all while walking face first into the most humbling series of experiences I’ve ever encountered.
We danced to the dark flute of the gods. A thousand years of war.
All blamed on us, all laid at the feet of every human that survived.
The armies of the gods fought endlessly — the worst devastation of all when one of the Four would walk the fields of slaughter themselves. What mortal can stand against Sun, against Stone? The planet would have burned to a cinder, all of the People and every beast eradicated if not for the gods’ ‘mercy’. They kept us alive, each sheltered their own — their power kept us alive to continue the fight, to keep the fires burning.
That is when this planet found a name. Cynus. In the old tongue, it means ‘ashes.’
And in every army, we were the footsoldiers — the first to bleed. Humans were to blame, so each army saved a special ration of pain for our race. If not for our cunning, our adaptability, our will — there last drop of human blood would long since have been spilled on the dry ground.
But we are cunning. We can change. Our will is strong. And after a thousand years, at long last, one of our race arose to save us all. Us, and all the People of this world.
Her name was Bex. The most gifted wizard of the age, she rose through the ranks due to her wisdom and great power. Even in those days, the People would put aside their hatred if the need was great. After many years of battle, she finally found her way to the ear of Marrus, God of the Sky. Our Lord of Winds is the most clever and cunning of his siblings, then as now, and he listened eagerly to the wizard’s words when she spoke of a grand trick. A ruse that would bring his enemies to heel, at a place of his choosing, totally defenseless.
And so it came to pass. The word went out to the armies of the Four, a great meeting would be held at the Cloud-King’s behest. A truce! A chance to speak in safety for the first time in long centuries. Perhaps, the People dared to hope, an end to the endless war.
Each of the Four came to the agreed upon place, the Vale of Maranth. They each were suspicious, but also eager to turn this meeting to their advantage. The Four arrived in the Vale, and took their seats in four stone chairs prepared for the purpose.
Artist – 二又方丈
Marrus and his servant, Bex, were the last to arrive. The God of Sky tittered slightly as he slid into his seat. “Welcome, sisters and brother! I am so glad to see you here, at this place of peace.”
“Is is good to see you,” Lady Sun agreed. “Good to see you all.”
“Yes, it has been lonely so long apart,” Sea smiled.
Stone said nothing.
“Yes, good to see you here, all comfortable in your stone chairs. The stone chairs my servant has prepared for you. The stone chairs that now hold you bound and trapped forevermore!” Sky laughed with glee, slapping his hands on arms of his chair.
Sun, Stone, and Sea seethed with rage and bellowed. The mountains and plains of the entire globe rang with their furor. Sky continued to laugh at his siblings ire.
He laughed until he tried to get out of his chair.
“Yes,” Bex said stepping calmly into the center of her trap. “You are trapped too, Cloud-King.”
“How dare you?” the Zephyr Trickster laughed ruefully. “Really, how did you do this?”
“Yes, speak quickly before we tear you apart, worm,” Jocasta murmured. “Speak quickly.”
“You cannot harm me,” the wizard said. “You are bound to my power. Of your own free will you came, of your own will you sat in my chairs of stone. Your might is caught. You cannot move, you cannot strike. If it is my wish, I will leave you here until the Unwinding of Time. Bitter, impotent, and bound.”
“I will swallow you for this,” Banu of the Black Water howled. “I will drown you and your race, your bones will waft in my waves. I sleep in your blood and will pull you down —”
“Enough,” Bex said, and the gods fell silent. “It is not my wish to bind you here. You are necessary to this world, to lock you away would only bring a slow ruin. I have brought you here to talk of Truce. You must withdraw from the fields of this world, you must agree to a Code to govern your endless game. You do not feel as the firstborn creatures of Cynus, you know nothing of heartache or sorrow. But I plead with you to hear me now, to feel one tenth of the pain you have husbanded in the creatures that fill your armies. Look upon what you have wrought and relent.”
And the gods heard her prayer. They looked one to the other, and one by one they each dropped their head in assent.
The gods and their captor spoke for many days. A careful Truce was laid, and the laws inscribed in the very fabric of reality. All of the the People waited and hoped. At last, Bex came from the Vale, alone but with a weary smile.
And then, what a time of celebration there was! That the hated blood of humanity should be the one to broker the peace was a marvel. Despised soldiers and battered slaves were welcomed into every hall, all of the People hailed the cleverness and wit of the Human.
And so it was that Bex united the great armies and lead the new Council in all matters. She taught the People of the laws that even the gods must follow, and how it could all lead to a true Balance in their world. The gods’ followers now found their deities more remote, more difficult to contact — but no less powerful when their might was brought to bear.
There followed a great time of peace, where our race, humanity, could finally take their place in pride with all of the others. We were counselors, advisors, knights, merchants, nobles. The wizard Bex had paid our debt and we were eager to move forward.
We meant so well.
But we are cunning. We can change. Our will is strong. And as we tasted the first sips of power, we found it sweet on our tongues. And so with slow patience and eager wit we found our way to it.
Was it any surprise that our cunning would again betray? That in the wake of peace and emancipation we would walk with careful step toward dominion, toward Empire?
Silence, child. It would serve you well to heed my tale. This is not some idle tale shared at a campfire or doused in taphouse ale. This is the Story, and you will tell it back to me word for word tonight when we take our evening meal, or you shall feel my hand.
Heed. Mark. And remember.
And so the Century of Storm wore on, and the People were afraid. Afraid that Father Order would triumph and they would be wiped from the face of existence. Or that the Argument itself would consume their tiny hovels and they would be lost to the wind. They prayed to their Creators, but their words could not reach the Two, they were utterly consumed by battle. The People waited for the end.
But then, one day, a Human child got lost chasing his family’s herd. A ewe, with fur as black as night, climbed a steep cliff into a hidden mountain pass. The child knew that he would be beaten if he returned home without the full flock, and in desperation climbed after the ram. His hands were cut by the sharp rocks and his knees were scraped and torn by the cruel stone. The winds began to pick up and his breath steamed against the blank mountainside. A storm was nigh, a storm was always nigh in those times. But his desperation drove him on and he climbed higher and higher chasing the beast.
The child did not know that he and his sheep were climbing the Forbidden, the secret mountain where Father and Mother made us all.
At last the child found his quarry, bleating and crying on the edge of a cliff, a knife-edge of stone. He laid his hands on her black wool and wept with relief, but he quickly realized that the pain of birthing was upon her. She could not be moved in her condition, the child had to help bring forth her lamb or flee empty-handed. The child looked up at the sky and saw the rain, saw the fire, but could not bring himself to leave his charge.
The rain began to fall. The fire began to fall. Still the child kept his hands on the weary ewe and did his best to cover her with his own. The ewe bleated and strained and struggled to bring a new life into a world. The child wept in despair and felt the fire hot on his back.
Now, there are some that say the child’s tears were what caught the attention of Father and Mother. And there are some that say it was merely that he trespassed the Forbidden. And other still claim that it was some sort of Human trick. But suffice it to say, Order and Chaos stood and looked at the child and his beast, and stopped their struggle long enough that the young lamb could be born.
“Look,” said Mother. “The Things We Made can make themselves. How strange! Was that your idea or mine?”
“I…am not sure,” Father Order said. “Another accident, surely it was your doing.”
“My doing?” Chaos raised her hand to strike her mate. “Why does everything have to be –”
“Please,” said the child. “Please, no more.”
And Order and Chaos turned from their argument to listen to the child, who approached with a newborn lamb held securely in his arms.
“My ewe is dead. She died giving birth. She gave everything that her child could live. How is it that a rude beast on the edge of a cliff has more care for her children than the creators of us all?” The child blinked away tears and stared unafraid at the two gods.
The gods were not ashamed.
“How dare you question us?” Order demanded.
“We are the Beginning and End, the Eye of the Storm.” Chaos declared.
“We do as we wish. We are as we wish. You are a child and your judgement is limited and small, a pebble next to a mountain,” the Two said together. “We have filled this world with wonder and life. All that walk and breathe and fly and swim are here at our will.”
“I see,” the child said. “You have filled the world with many creatures and many People. But you have put no part of yourself into it. You have no true children. This is why you care not for our plight.”
The child gently placed the lamb down and watched it totter about on tender legs. Then an idea came to him and he turned his face again to the Creators, Human cunning and guile as natural to him as breathing.
“Perhaps if you had True Children, you would understand. You could still your endless battle and let your creations grow and multiply. A shame it is that you continue to wage war, when your greatest Making is yet to be.”
Father looked at Mother and Mother smiled.
Chaos leaned down and kissed the child on his brow, and ruffled the newborn wool of the lamb.
“Go child. Tell the People that we do care for their plight, and your sly words have stilled our rage. You have given us an Idea, and in return the People shall have a time of peace while we consider it.”
And so the child took his lamb and climbed back down the fountain as fast as his legs would carry him. He bore the tale of his meeting to all the People, and they watched the Forbidden with hope and fear. For the storms at last fell still, but many were not sure that they had seen the end of the time of ruin.
Years passed, and still the people waited. Crops were planted, and cities began to rise. Children and lambs were born, and after a time the People began to dream that the gods had forgotten them, and would leave them in a time of forever peace.
But it was not to be. At last their came a Time. The sun and the moon stopped still in the air, and shared the sky like two empty eyes. The People and the beasts of the world felt a strange compulsion, and all began to walk – to journey until they all stood arrayed around the feet of the Forbidden. The first moment since the Time of Making when all of the Created stood together in one place.
And they waited. For a year and a day they waited.
Then all at once, a breath.
The Four came down from the mountain, strange of visage but somehow familiar to all who saw. Sun and Sky and Stone and Sea, the Four stood together at the foot of the mountain with all of Creation waiting for their words.
“We are the Four,” Sun said.
“The true children of Father and Mother,” Stone said.
“They are gone, withdrawn from this world,” Sky said.
“Their power and might bequeathed to us,” Sea said.
“Now come forth,” the Four spoke together. “Come forth and choose. For we have decided upon our first Game. One of us is greater than the others, one of us must reign. You will be our army, you will be our pawns. Choose a master, that the Game may begin.”
And the child, who was now a man, opened his mouth to speak — but found himself struck dumb. His words, his Idea had brought this to pass. And all that would follow after was to be laid at his feet, and the feet of his children’s children down the long unwinding of Time. He looked down at the trusty black ram that lead his flock, the same lamb that he had carried from the Forbidden all those years ago. With a sigh he took a knife and opened the ram’s throat, to spare him the horror that was just beginning.
And so began the Ash Eon. The time of endless battle, of cataclysm and pain. The suffering and sorrow of the Storm Century multiplied and compounded. The ceaseless, tireless clash of the Sun against Stone, the Sea against Sky, and each against the other. Generations of the people were born and died, knowing only the endless war, the endless smell of burning in the air, the tireless rain of ash.
A thousand years of ruin, all from one human’s clever idea.
Now remember these words, little human. You will speak them true tonight, say them right and clear or you will feel my hand.
The secret roads of Night
the falling leaves of Autumn
the bright blade
shining in the dark.
Farewell to kith
and farewell to kin
we go forth into the Forest
hunting monsters
and singing strange songs
in the bower of Dawn.
We have no family
except each other
no story
except this one.
The fire burns in the night,
but is ashes come the morn.
Will you come and ride with us?
Will you come and die with us?
This is no time for heroes,
but the road calls all the same.
This is no time for heroes,
but we will remember your name. — Swordkeep’s Song by Tyrol Limmermere
First Bard, Court of Pondegrance 1501
[Legit question — ‘never heard of it’ is perfectly acceptable, just trying to do some un-scientific polling. Drop a comment here or on any of my internet edifices.]
Yeah, I don’t know either. It’s a title, a title to a blog post!
I am in Hell Week of our production of Romeo & Juliet, so my brain tachyons are being primarily targeted against that creative project’s deflector shield, but I’ve got some dribs and drabs. BULLETED LIST.
Editing on The Riddle Box is at a standstill until this weekend, but I’m still on target to get it hammered into a readable shape for my Beta Readers by,
Buster Keaton
let’s say…. DECEMBER 15th!!!!
I’m not excited about the new Hobbit movie, and that makes me kind of sad.
Another writer online is attempting to sell on-demand short stories, poems…and even novels. As in made-to-order, you tell him what you want the story or book to be about, and he will write it for you. He’s even offering live slots to watch the writing happen on Google Drive. I just…have really mixed feelings about that. On one hand, I don’t begrudge any writer their path to supporting themselves with their craft — but on the other hand it seems just unnecessarily mercenary and disrespectful of our art? Writing as product, built as easily and quickly as a pre-fab house in a subdivision? Logically it’s no different than writing professionally for a magazine or newspaper, but something about it just grinds my gears a touch — mainly because, shouldn’t the best use of your skill be to make, you know, art? Maybe just the thought of some phantom observer watching me write just makes my skin crawl.
Sleepy Hollow is endlessly charming and they just hired Victor MF Garber to play Ichabod’s father. Reverent squee.
Almost Human is delightful and I will punch any that disagree, the adventures of Eomer and Sassbot 9000 are a must watch for me.
Agents of Shield continues to grow and shake off it’s wobbly plotting — except for Skye. Seriously, writer — time for a pow-wow, figure out what story you want to tell with this character. Using her as the constant ‘dumb-question’ Window Character or SHIELD-doubter is completely played out. A disservice to the actress, and to the world you are building.
I’m directing Oklahoma in the spring …I should probably do some prep-work for that and confirm my production staff.
DM Burnout Tour 2013 continues apace. My Pathfinder group seems to be enjoying the published adventure I’m running, but I haven’t even had time to prep that properly. Need to do my nerd diligence before we play again on the 16th.
I wish I had time to play video games.
And see my Beloved.
And the four-footers.
Shadeaux Bros. holiday album is in pre-production.
There is a bizarre attitude one must affect to keep moving forward while self-championing your art. This bizarre blend of cocksure arrogance and razor-sharp anxiety, slathered over with a chocolate shell of delusion. Mike Birbiglia has a great bit about it.
This is unwise and out of the ordinary for my blog, but I’m actually going to post a book review here. I have a long and complicated response, and I’ve
Available on Amazon.
already exhausted several friends’ patience with me yammering about this book.
The book in question is Scott Lynch’s The Republic of Thieves, the third in the purported Gentleman Bastards cycle. This is the third book after the exceptional Lies of Locke Lamora, and the problematic but fascinating Red Seas Under Red Skies. I will be discussing plot details and spoilers henceforth for all three books. SPOILER FREE: Pointless to read if you haven’t read the first two. If you have, you’re going to read it anyway, if for no other reason to see how the cliffhanger at the end of Red Seas is resolved and to finally meet the illusive Sabetha.
Now the caveats.
This is not what I’d call an objective review. I am invested in these characters, in this world, and to a small degree in the author himself. I’ve been reading his blog since his LiveJournal days and have more than a nodding familiarity with Mr. Lynch and his battle with depression and social anxiety. It’s the normal level of Internet Familiarity — I don’t know the guy, but I’ve felt concern and kinship with his struggles, mixed with a great deal of respect and normal envy for his skill as a writer. I’ve been waiting for this book for a while and I wanted it to be good, I was invested in it being good. I empathized with the artist — first book is a phenom, second book attracts a lot of haters, then his life goes down the tubes. I’m a huge believer in art as a redemptive act, that art purifies and justifies all our human frailty. I really wanted him to lay me on my ass with how astonishing Republic was.
And I’ve changed since I read the first book seven years ago. I’m older, grimmer. I’ve seen horrible things. I wanted it to feel like the first book, that sense of fever dream wonder, the necessity of that story, the action leaping off the page. So, if my review gets a little petty and upset [read:butthurt] please bear in mind that I had my expectations set somewhere in the lofty stratosphere between Lord of the Rings and Knight of the Black Rose II: Lord Soth Gets Serious.
I’m also, in a weird way, a colleague now. I wrote a book, just finished the rough draft of the sequel — and there is a very small chance I will meet Scott Lynch as a peer somewhere in the misty future. Maybe that’s why I feel the need to justify my thoughts so thoroughly and publicly, instead of squirreling them away on Goodreads or Tumblr. Think of this review as if I sat the author down for coffee and ranted at him, with the hopes that he would still give me a ride to Wal-Mart afterwards. This is how I would speak to my friend Brent, this is speaking dan-dinh. It’s going to be a little roundabout and circuitous, I’ll find my thesis through battle.
The review.
I guess, I’ll start at the beginning.
When last we left our heroes, Jean and Locke, things were pretty bad for them. At the end of Red Seas, our heroes had been thoroughly hoisted on the most vicious of petards. Their grand scheme has failed, Locke has been poisoned with a mortal unction that promises an inexorable painful death, Jean has lost the love of his life.They are penniless and friendless, and except for the bone-depth of their loyalty and friendship — at each other’s throats. A lot of people hated this book, and this ending in particular — but I really appreciated it. After the grand scheming of the first novel, it was a welcome change to watch Locke get completely out of depth [ocean joke] and be so thoroughly defeated — and more importantly to leave that unresolved at the end of the novel. That just doesn’t happen in epic fantasy, it oozed episodic glee, a promise that when we next tuned in, we’d witness the most daring of escapes, the cleverest of plans, that from Death itself. I literally said ‘DUN DUN DUNNN’ out loud when I finished the book.
That was in 2008.
So, I finally crack open the next book, eager — EAGER to see how Locke and Jean were going to thief their way out of this ridiculous predicament. Lynch had five years to mull this over, surely it will be something worthy of the stunts they had pulled in previous escapades.
Except no. We get to watch as Locke succumbs to the final throes of the Dramatically Convenient Poison, while Jean spends their dwindling resources trying to find a doctor that can help. Then, when they have completely given up hope, our new Bondsmage Antagonist arrives to magic the poison away.
So. Okay. Locke is traditional fantasy lead, smarter and luckier than he really should be — we’re all guilty of that when we create our protagonists. And I’m not opposed to breaking them down to their lowest point if it’s in the service of a larger story. I read the whole book assuming that this narrative choice would somehow inform the rest of the novel. It doesn’t. From the end of Book Two Lowest Point, Lynch pushes the needle further into desolation — and then hand waves it away. This only seems to serve a few purposes, none of which I enjoyed. It reinforces the power and might of the Bondsmages [ this book suffers from a lot of this sort of thing. Lynch seems to have decided that they are the really interesting/powerful force in his world, and a lot of the plot is in service of explicating this idea. The entire ‘heist’ of this novel is ultimately revealed to be nothing more than a Bondsmage feint in a larger plan.], and forever cements that there are some situations that Locke cannot defeat with his wits.
Uh, why?
I mean, that is literally Locke’s main attribute. It’s like establishing for Super-Man that all of his real problems will be psychological, or for the Flash that all of his villains can only be foiled by a really carefully tended herb garden. Now, as I said, if Locke had adjusted from this — either immediately, or by book’s end — I could have accepted it. But he doesn’t. He does his same clever confidence-man ‘thing’ without a trace of irony. He also becomes strangely myopic and repetitive in all his interactions with Patience, the Bondsmage Antagonist. Locke spends a lot of energy impotently cursing at her and being as rude as humanly possible. Which, as I usually enjoy, is Locke’s second attribute — he will piss in anyone’s teeth regardless of consequence. But, it just seemed so petty and useless – I spent most of the book expecting the other shoe to drop, for his grand plan to get revenge on the Bondsmages to reveal itself. But it never happened, because he didn’t have one.
He didn’t have one. By omission or by authorial choice, the master planner made no attempt to crawfish the Bondsmages — further reinforcing their supreme power narratively and empirically. He bowed his head, and except for his dalliances with Sabetha, did exactly as he was told from beginning to end. Our Bugs Bunny, true priest of the Unnamed God of Thieves, bent knee to a bully — because the bully was just too strong. And no amount of childish namecalling or fuck-bombs can change that. And that is very fucking disappointing.
I think that’s the core of my disappointment. The main plot of the novel concerns the time that Locke Did As He Was Told.
Sabetha
The second draw of this novel was the opportunity to finally meet Locke’s match, his red-haired lady — spoken of only in whispers and hints for the first two novels. She was the perfect plot-device, most potent by her absence. I’m a sucker for the Lost One True Love trope anyway, but the way she was presented by the other Bastards was as his perfect foil, his match.
So as the main plot revealed that she was to be his opponent in the Five Year Game [see Convenient Predicament issues below] I was stoked. Two thieves at the top of their game, with some soap opera sprinkled on top? I am IN.
But.
Then I met her.
And was utterly bored. Because she was perfect.
She was just as clever as Locke, but colder and more controlled. In both her younger portrayal and her present-day form, she showed herself a better actress, a better planner, a better player of the game. All of this I expected. I was looking for the unexpected, the flash , the imperfection that makes the human heart sing.
I never saw it. She was like a paint-by-numbers characters, built by recipe and architectural design. She was the ideal — and the ideal just doesn’t move me. Maybe just too much of her characterization is wound up in the romance plot of the novel, and through the lens of Locke’s adoration — but I could only muster more than a mild interest in her. What are Sabetha’s goals? What are her plans after leaving Karthain? Has anything happened to her in the past five years that was more than window dressing? The book just kind of shrugs at me. She seems to exist only in reflection with Locke, to reveal more about him and to serve the ritual of the romance plot. She is Plot and not a Person.
A series of checked boxes.
Romance
I did not find Sabetha and Locke’s relationship believable or interesting. Or particularly romantic.
Early on, we find out that Locke fell in love with her at an extremely young age, back in his Shade Hill days. There are some vague genuflections in the direction of labeling it an ‘infatuation’ or ‘crush’ — but throughout the events of the novel his emotions are validated at every turn. He grows up with her, love unabated. He woos her with unfailing respect and loutish awkwardness, until finally in their late teens she admits that she returns the feeling.
Okay, let’s do a little experiment. Turn to any woman. At your workplace, at home, you know, on the subway — and posit the following scenario:
A boy of seven falls in love with you when you are ten. Cute, right? Then, you are both adopted, and raised as siblings in the same household. The young boy continues to fawn over you. Around the time he’s fourteen, he professes his undying love for you. So, as a seventeen year old woman, do you:
a. Pursue a relationship.
b. Laugh and pat his head.
c. Move out.
d. Left hook.
See? On its face it’s more than a little unlikely. But Sabetha loves Locke — because? Because the author says so. Every beat of their relationship happens because the author says so, the quiet cogs of plot roll forward. Oh, it’s time for Sabetha to get mad. Oh, it’s time for Locke to get mad. But underneath it all, it is a foregone conclusion that they do truly love each other — which I was never remotely convinced of. A much stronger narrative choice could have been to have Locke’s love be unrequited in the past, and only won in the final climax of the present, after he saw through his childish idolation and could approach Sabetha as a person. But, none of that — their romance is a foregone conclusion in the past and present. The reader already knows it works out in the past, and is relentlessly hammered with the inevitability of their loving reunion in the present. Locke’s infatuation undergoes no transformation or growth, his love for her is completely static and as inexorable as gravity — nothing more boring than a foregone conclusion. The only true obstacles are external and oddly de-fanged. The Bondsmagi will kill them if they collude or begin a relationship, and the revelation of Locke’s Unlikely Origin. The former seems easily trounced by two Bastards, the latter given far more credence than seems reasonable.
So, this relationship is supposedly the main draw of the novel and I was completely bored by it. We know in the past that it works out, albeit temporarily — and it’s no surprise in the present when it works out, albeit temporarily.
Lynch writes their exchanges like a man trying to remember what his younger self found attractive. There is no heat, no charm, no — poetry? No fire, no blood — knotting the weave with numb fingers.
There are no true peaks or valleys in their relationship, none that last more than a chapter. I expected after Sabetha shipped Locke off that he would get angry and fired up, but instead after a short scene of blather he’s right back to his static attitude towards his lady love. No surprises, regular speed bumps as dictated by a Proper Outline.
Yawn.
Side note: We never actually find out why they broke it off, other than being young and stupid. Well, I’m glad I waited five years to find out the most obvious answer was the correct one.
Convenient Predicament
The entire setup for the Five Year Game infuriates me. It so specifically engineered to remove all possibility of threat that it makes me scream. Patience re-iterates constantly that Locke and Jean are in no physical danger by the very tenets of the game. The only way I could potentially accept this choice was if the move and counter-move between the Black Iris and Deep Root exemplars was especially clever or engaging.
It wasn’t. Sabetha regularly outfoxes her opponents, the majority of Locke’s sallies are thinly-veiled pranks. The only exceptions are having the old lady spies [why can’t the rest of the game have this level of charm?] and arguably Locke’s gambit with the boat. It was legitamately clever, but not astoundingly so — and it’s presented at the main plot’s climax as his master stroke. When, in context, he only stumbles on the knowledge of the informer in his party, while the entire character of Lucari [sp], the greedy counsel member makes him an easy score.
Two master thieves are put in a box. They are given vast resources to work with, and made safe from direct physical harm. Brain to brain, brilliance against brilliance. A true test for Gentlemen Bastards.
I would really like to have read that book. None of the moves were really that clever or memorable, and all ultimately took a backseat to the unsatisfactory romance plot.
It’s a game rigged by uber-powerful wizards to contain no risk and no consequence — and it ultimately is shown as an institutionalized distraction for larger, more important Bondsmagi matters.
A Tale of Two
But wait! This book is a split narrative. We spend about 40% of the novel in an extended flashback to key points in Locke and Sabetha’s relationship — and at last we see the long-promised heist, the plays — the mounting of The Republic of Thieves from which the novel takes its name.
Now, on its face, this is the part of the novel I enjoyed the most. It was truly delightful to spend time with Father Chains and the twins again, and the Moncraine players were a welcome band of new characters to meet. The business of rehearsal and the actual performance are the highlights of the novel. Here Lynch seems like he’s actually – gasp – enjoying himself, and taking true delight in the crafting of the tale.
But then, the true villain of the novel, Convenient Plot Development soured it all for me. The death of their vicious patron seemed contrived, and the solution to hide the body required a bit of hand-waving. Was it really that convincing to show a masked figure on stage as the supposed patron? Similarly, the hard-nosed accountant in the bathhouse accepted their hoodwink with no undue suspicion. It worked because it had to work for the novel to continue. I was also disappointed that after chapters building up the surprising craftiness of the rapacious noble, our heroes are not given the opportunity to outwit or defeat the antagonist [you know, like the Falconer in Lies ?] but instead merely have to vanish his corpse.
BUT HERE’S MY REAL BEEF.
I’m of the belief that you should only have a parallel narrative like this if the two timelines are supposed to inform each other. Two melodies that complement, that reveal and obfuscate each other’s windings. So, the basic plot of the play within the novel is about two men, a prince and his fellow — who infiltrate a thieves’ band with the intent of assassinating their Queen of Shadows, Amadine. Blatantly obvious parallels for Locke, Jean and Sabetha. [There’s even a freaking wizard forcing the assassination plot as a perfect analogue for the Bondsmagi!] The prince falls in love with the thief, and for a time ignores his duty and enjoys a time of blissful content — until he is pushed to the deed by his father, the wizard, and even his best friend. The prince kills his friend rather than harm his lady love, but is pushed on by duty and circumstances. In the final act, Amadine kills herself to spare her love and in defense of her own power and agency. The prince weeps, but continues on to take his place as king.
Does that sound like a great way to have the plot resolve in the present day?
Yeah, it does. I’m completely flabbergasted — why build this mirror to your leads, then do nothing with it? Maybe — just maybe, Lynch’s plan is to have this situation be echoed in later novels, but at 5 years between installments, I cry ‘dirty pool’. I’m not even saying that the climax of the Five Year Game should have exactly aped the events of the play — but I was really expecting some sort of narrative harmony, some connection between the timelines, especially since the name of the book is The Republic of Thieves. It stings like a wasted opportunity.
Locke’s Unlikely Backstory
My exact quote on this, from my Goodreads stream is, “What the hopping fuck.”
So, since Bondsmagi are the only interesting thing in the world, the only truly powerful force, the thing that reduce your leads to hired thugs and impotent children — you decided that the only way to make Locke interesting was to decide he was one? Some crazy convoluted, Darth Plagueis bullshit?
So, our self-made man, our Archon of Smarty Britches — is ultimately just a cast off from a failed spell, by a Bondsmage that actually matters? So now, all his future character development will be about unraveling the secrets of the super interesting Bondsmagi — perhaps even, SHUDDER, learning magic?
Boo. Boo-urns. Poorly foreshadowed if at all, believed WAY too easily by Locke and Sabetha, and not remotely inspiring for the further adventures of the Gentlemen Bastards. Locke is a character fixated on his past — the loss of Bug and the twins, his upbringing in Shade Hill, his entire relationship with Sabetha — now we add another Past Obsession. Great.
A Bulleted List of Other Things I Didn’t Like
Jean – One note, devotion and loyalty – even when Locke is clearly jeopardizing the Five Year Game. Boring choice.
Mimicking Shakespeare is best done very carefully, and very sparingly — the more you do it, the more you come up short.
Oh, you brought the Falconer back as your future villain — LAME.
Can we please stop going back over the events of the first book? I liked it too, but damn.
Jean likes coffee. Got it.
Calo and Galdo are dead. You killed them. You can’t ask me to be invested in their squabbles or growth.
Locke
I Think I Hated Myself Out
I’ve been working on this review for a couple of days — and I’ll be honest, the fire in my gut is fading. I was worked UP about this, but now I just feel kind of sad.
Mr. Lynch, I don’t think you wanted to write this book. You were very open in the past about this being the Gentlemen Bastards Cycle — not the Adventures of Locke Lamora. I think somewhere along the way you, or your publishers, or just the necessity of your process pushed you to write this next installment. Despite all my many words of derision, you wrote it well. I can find no true fault with your craft, you are a superb writer. But what you chose to build with it makes me sad. I believe that you cannot command the lightning, you cannot force your muse — and if you do, this is the type of story that results. It’s well built but it doesn’t sing. It’s correct, but it isn’t true. You have to stay open and honest and dance to the music that the spirits provide. This book is your Saruman, a creature of metal and wheels, bending your power to the line. I don’t think this is the story you wanted to tell. I think you had some other, totally different tale rattling around your brain-pan. And I am eager to read it, I would have read it with delight, to see the words fly off the page again– but it feels like you felt duty-bound to tell this tale. And art cannot be a duty. Calamaxes wanted you to kill the Queen of Shadows, and you did. [See what I motherfucking did there?] When we wrench open the third eye, our vision is sandy and skewed.
Okay, I’m done. I have vented my spleen and extended my temerity to the breaking point. Please understand, if it had simply been a bad book I would have dismissed it — but it was not a bad book, it was a failed book. It’s caught in my craw, and I couldn’t rest until I’d explicated my distaste. You can do better, you will do better, I believe in your ass.
I’ve been working on a series of questions for my Beta Readers of The Riddle Box. The idea was for them to not read them until after they finish reading the draft, but I realized that if I carefully obscured the character names — and a few entire questions — it wouldn’t really matter if they read them beforehand — AND was sort of a backhanded way of revealing some of the things that all readers have to look forward to in the next book. Plus, I’m going out of town for the weekend, and felt guilty about my slow posting of late — and this is an easy cut-and-paste affair. This may be a huge mistake, but you can safely ignore the disclaimer at the top. OR CAN YOU?
I also thought this might be an interesting ‘behind the scenes’ look at MY PROCESS. [Trumpets begins to blare.]
DO NOT LOOK AT THESE QUESTIONS UNTIL AFTER YOU HAVE FINISHED READING
The Riddle Box.
Seriously. Don’t do it.
These questions are chock-full of spoilers and things that could influence your first read for better or worse. I have some specific concerns about the book, and specific areas that I’m less than pleased with, that I want to make sure you mentally target as you give me feedback. I’m not expecting you to actually respond to these questions ‘in-line’ as if this were some sort of high school worksheet [unless you’re in to that], but please be thinking about them as you prepare your feedback in whatever form you prefer it to take.
1. Do you feel cheated by the solution to the mystery?
Did I break the rules of the ‘locked room’ mystery?
There are a series of murders, did the explanation for any seem thin, unconvincing, or illogical?
Which of the murders did you need more information about?
2. Did Jonas or Rime act in a way that seemed incongruous with their portrayal in Spell/Sword?
3. This book introduces more ‘world’ information than the previous, how did you react to it?
What, if anything, would you have liked to know more about?
4. Overall, The Riddle Box has much less action than the first book — or at least it’s nearly half-way thru before there’s a big fight scene. Did you notice the lack?
5. I introduced two ‘love interests’ for the leads in this book, [REDACTED] and [REDACTED]. What were your thoughts about Jonas’ and Rime’s reaction to these characters?
6. With regards to [REDACTED], I was playing around with the trope of the ‘Damsel in Distress’ — too heavy handed?
7. [REDACTED] is a [OBFUSCATED] character. Were you aware of that? Should you have been aware of that? What thoughts do you have about his portrayal, in relation to sensitivity?
8. The entire novel takes place in one location, the Manor. Were you ever confused by the layout or description of the locale?
Did the passage of time seem reasonable and easy to follow?
9. The repeated conceit of the ‘flashback’ chapters, i.e. Who was [REDACTED]? to reveal more information about the murder victims — how did you react to these chapters structurally? How do you think they impacted the flow of the novel?
Did you have any individual issues with these interludes?
10. How did you react to the further revelations of Jonas’ past? Does it contradict anything established in the first book?
11. [KILLER]. Discuss.
Was [REDACTED] scary?
12. The denouement of the novel is a bit rushed. Do you feel any explanations were hurried or glossed over when you wanted more detail?
Does Rime need another beat where she processes [REDACTED]’s death?
Jonas doesn’t approach Rime with the knowledge that they are going to [REDACTED], is this a problem?
13. [ENTIRE QUESTION REDACTED]
14. [ENTIRE QUESTION REDACTED]
15. Jonas manages to subdue [REDACTED] twice via headbutt. Is this funny or lame?
16. The scene of [REDACTED] in the [REDACTED], did you find this scene effective?
17. Any other flaws in logic or plot?
18. What would you say the theme of The Riddle Box is?
How effectively was this conveyed?
19. Compared to the first book, how did this one measure up against your expectations?
If you have not read the first, how well does this novel operate as a stand-alone experience?
20. What do you expect to occur in the next novel? What would you like to see explored in the future?
Normal caveats. These are all questions about the rough draft, the novel can change massively between now and publishing.
I almost wept into some clean laundry this weekend. I think it was a pair of my girlfriend’s purple jeans.
Let me back up.
I’ve discussed a certain concept a few times here, and at various other locales. [See: My Friend’s Backyard, also While Drunk] That fictional characters have weight, have a presence all their own. One way to think of it is similar to the conceit that gods grow in power through the belief and devotion of their followers, but more to the point — our relationship with these fictional characters has a very real effect upon us. I think more deeply than we realize most of the time. The heroes and villains that we keep in the pantheon of our mind guide us and teach us. They vibrate in the airwaves between human minds, growing stronger and more tangible as the mental energy grows. Very Science Fiction, you say?
Well, that brings us to the Doctor.
[And, yes, I realize that this concept is the LITERAL PLOT of one of David Tennant’s episodes, the one where he turns into Dobby and Martha tricks the Master with the DragonBalls.]
I’m a latecomer to this show. I caught a few of the classic episodes on public television as a kid, even had a friend force me to watch a brace of VHS tapes with the Seventh Doctor. I enjoyed them, but it didn’t really click with me. I filed it away next to a lot of other BBC errata from those years like Are You Being Served? and Red Dwarf. I was aware of the modern continuation, but it remained on my periphery, until a roommate and I finally bowed to the nerd pressure, and popped in the first disc of the Eccleston season.
And it hit me. From the moment he took Rose’s hand and told her how he could feel the spin of the Earth.
I’ve tried to put my finger on exactly what I love so much about this character several times. He’s wise, yes. And powerful, yes. And noble and just and funny and mad, the Wise Old Wizard Writ Large. But there’s something more to the Doctor. Something about the weight of his history, in the world of the show and in the legacy of his fiction in the real world. 50 years of this character, unbroken and irresistible. [Yes, I know the show was off the air for years — but they didn’t stop making the radio plays or novels, NOW DID THEY SMARTY PANTS.] The cumulative force of hundreds of writers and dreamers and actors all slapping on pieces of the Best Person. I’ve always believed that we tell stories to create the things the universe requires. It can’t all be blank rock and stale chemistry — we need gods and devils and heroes and villains and tricksters and sages. And with the Doctor, we tell the story about a person who is a little bit of each.
My roommate and I started watching during the weird in-between time at the end of David Tennant’s tenure. After Donna left, but before The End of Time, when it was just the movie/specials ever month or so leading up to the huge climax. So, we watched Nine become Ten, then Ten love Rose, lose Rose, lose Martha, lose Donna, and the Doctor-Donna. From first love with this character to his darkest hour in the space of a few weeks. And man, the final days of Ten were dark. Waters of Mars to me still stands as one of the most shocking, dire, and unbelievably bleak moments in the Doctor’s long life. Around this time we heard the first rumbles of the new actor chosen to fill the role, and as devastated as I was to see Ten march to his doom — I was eager to meet his new face.
Because, I felt like this could by my Doctor. We were latecomers to Tennant, and no one with an active internet connection should have any confusion about the levels of adoration that he earned and still enjoys to this day. I know it’s petty, but when the whole world loves a character or a show, it’s hard for me to get quite as excited. To get quite as invested.
So we watched Ten become Eleven.
And it hit me. From the moment he threw the toast.
This was my Doctor.
Matt Smith came to that role and did the impossible. He owned it without stealing one watt of Tennant’s lightning. He was the heir, the scion of all that came before, with a lovely patina of Two. He was daffy and beautiful and intense and, well, wonderful, as the Doctor must be. I would argue, the finest actor to play the role in its modern iteration. [Mainly because the show’s writing got very dodgy underneath him, and he had to make it all work with his eyes, with his face, with the pure certainty of his portrayal. But enough of that, I came here to praise Caesar.] The pantheon of my mind glowed and I felt that I understood the universe a bit better, as secure as children dreaming of Santa Claus must be. It comforts me to believe in the Doctor in much the same way. To know that that character is somewhere out there in the firmament, mucking about in the TARDIS. A sentinel of my worldview, a fixed point. I’ve watched Eleven’s adventures with great delight [except for long sighs and groaning ‘Moffat…’ every so often], to the point where when I think of the Doctor I see him, just as when I think ‘President’ I see Barack Obama. The role is an office, a mantle, and it comforted me to know that my guy was in there.
But now he is leaving. Eleven becomes Twelve, vicious clock hands. The Doctor’s core is change, regeneration. It’s how the show stays fresh, a new face ushering in a new brace of tales to tell. I know that, and treasure that. Intellectually, I can’t wait to meet Peter Capaldi’s Doctor.
But still.
So, there I was. On the couch, folding laundry. I hate working in silence, so I popped on Netflix. I browsed around a bit, then opted to re-watch one of Smith’s episodes, one of my favorites, The God Complex. I’ve seen it a few times, so I wasn’t really giving it my full attention, just some background noise as I sorted socks and folded towels.
I happened to look up, as Eleven peered into his room. [The episode is about a hotel, every room holds your greatest fear. The episode doesn’t show what the Doctor saw, but because I am just that nerdy, I know what Matt Smith said in an interview that he imagined. Ten men hanging from nooses, with one empty noose waiting for him.]
And it hit me. I’m not ready. I may have said it aloud, though only the dogs can attest to that. This has been a rough year. My mother died from cancer in May, after months of struggle. I’m still reeling now, depression and gloom have me in their grip. This is not a world I ever expected to live in. I’m not ready for my Doctor to go. It’s like swearing in a new President at war time. There’s going to be a gap. The chair’s going to be empty. One of the lights in my head is going to go dark, and it’s scary. It’s scary. I’m not ready.
spell-sword.com 