Richard K. Morgan's Blog
September 1, 2014
He woke from a dream of winter sunset out on the steppe, long, low spearing rays of reddish light that spilled and dazzled across his eyes as he rode, but failed to warm him at all. He was riding somewhere important, he knew, had something to deliver, he thought, but there was a faint terror rising in him that whatever it was, he’d lost it or left it behind somewhere on this long cold ride, and now the remainder of his journey was a hollow act. He should have been able to see the Skaranak encampment by now, the thin rise of campfire smoke on the horizon, or the dark, nudging mass of grazing buffalo herds at least. He raised up in the saddle, twisted about, scanning ahead and side to side, but there was nothing, nothing out here at all. He was riding alone, into a rising chill and a dwindling red orange glow……
Egar blinked and found the fire sprite hovering in his face.
He flailed at its red orange radiance with a stifled yelp. One blank moment of panic. Then full wakefulness caught up.
He sat up in his blankets and stared around. A pallid dawn held the eastern sky, pouring dull grey light across the sleep-curled forms in their bedrolls around him, the scattered packs and the blue radiant bowls now gone opaque and glassy, like so many big stones gathered from a river’s bed. Across at the stairway entrance they’d come in, Alwar Nash waved casually from where he sat huddled at last watch. Everyone else was still out cold.
“Early yet,” the Throne Eternal commented when Egar had stumbled to his feet and wandered over to join him. “Another hour to full light at least. But our friend there seems pretty agitated about something.”
He gestured and the Dragonbane saw how the sprite was now floating directly above Archeth’s sleeping form, flickering rapid shades of orange in her face.
“It tried her first,” Nash said. “Guess she’s too wrung out to notice.”
Egar shook his head. “Always been that way. When she sleeps, she really sleeps. Seen her snore right through a siege assault at Shenshenath once.”
“Must be that Black Folk blood.”
“Must be. Had the lizards a hundred deep at the walls that time, couple of blunderers smashing their heads in against the stonework because they were too stupid to find the gates……” Lost in the skeins of memory for a moment, and then understanding hit him in the head like a bucket of cold water. “Shit! Nash – start kicking them awake. We got to move.”
“Scaled Folk.” He was already on his way to Archeth, calling back over his shoulder. “Lizards don’t get up early. Something to do with their blood; their heritage or……. Look, just get everyone moving.”
Can’t believe you forgot that, Eg. Not like the war was that long ago, is it?
And he had a couple of seconds to feel suddenly very old, as he realised that Nash, in common with most of the others, had not only not fought in the war, he had in all probability never even seen a living lizard before yesterday’s fight.
They got everyone awake inside a couple of minutes, gave soft instructions to load up and be ready to move out. When Archeth blinked initial sleepy incomprehension at him, Egar gestured at the fire sprite’s agitated bobbing and flickering.
“Someone’s in a hurry here. My guess? It wants to get us someplace before the lizard hour.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, shit. Got to be, yeah.”
She flung off her blankets. Flinched as the movement caught the wound he’d stitched for her the night before. Impatient grunt of pain held down, and the flare of anger in her eyes at her own unwelcome weakness. She settled her harness and knives about her with a blunt lack of care that looked to the Dragonbane like punishment. She must have tugged on the wound more than a few times in the process, but to watch her, you’d never have known.
“Alright, then,” she said tightly when she was done. “Let’s go.”
They filed rapidly down the staircase behind the sprite and let it lead them out into the street. Any actual sunrise was still a good way off, and down at ground level there was a lot of gloom. The jut and slump of broken architecture around them worried at the Dragonbane’s attention, sketched hints of a thousand phantom enemies, crouched to pounce every few yards. Every darkened gap in the rubble they passed seemed to promise an ambush, every glint of something shiny in the low light was a reptile peon’s eye. Egar, yawning despite the heightened tension, marched with a prickling at the nape of his neck and tried to recall useful detail from the tactical lectures given by the Kiriath commanders during the war.
Like any reptiles, the Scaled Folk like heat better than cold, but they seem to have adapted beyond this in ways their smaller cousins on this continent have not. They do not depend on warmth to the same extent, and can function quite sufficiently well in cooler conditions. Yet their ancestry tells upon them in a number of ways which may be helpful to us. They are drawn instinctively to warmer climes and to discrete heat sources; they appear to accord some sacred significance to the roasting pits they build and ignite; and they do not stir early in the day if they can avoid it.
Sounds like me, muttered Ringil to him in the back rank where they stood, and Egar tried to stifle an explosive snigger.
They’d both been a lot younger back then.
You have something to contribute? Flaradnam, seamed black features glaring into the ranks. He waited a beat, got no response. Then shut the fuck up and listen, all of you. What we tell you here today could save your life.
Across the shattered pre-dawn city, then, threading through empty streets and plazas, picking their way up and over mounds of rubble bigger than any intact building he’d ever seen, even in Yhelteth. Once again, the fire sprite led them a crooked, seemingly senseless path through the ruins. They backed up and twisted and turned. They followed thoroughfares straight as arrows for miles, then turned abruptly off them into tangled, broken ground, worked difficult, meandering routes, only to spill out onto what Egar would have sworn was the same thoroughfare an hour later and head onward as if they’d never left it. Once, some way along a broad boulevard similar to the one they’d been attacked on the night before, the sprite led them directly off the street and up a punishingly steep rubble slope, then along a windy, exposed cliff face of ruined facades that ran for at least half a mile and tracked the boulevard directly. It was tricky work, and in some places involved clinging and edging their way forward with the risk of a lethal fall, while all the time below them, the boulevard stretched on, devoid of apparent obstacles and utterly deserted.
“You think,” he asked Archeth, breathing hard, as they rested at one of the infrequent safe sections. “That this thing has a sense of humour?”
She looked out to where the sprite hung blithely suspended a couple of yards away in empty space and a hundred feet off the ground.
“Either that, or it thought we’d like the view.”
“Yeah. Well worth the climb.” Egar glowered out across the fractured landscape, and the pale grey wash of another cloud-shrouded morning. “Like Gil would say if he was here, I’m particularly enamoured of the……”
She glanced round curiously as he trailed off. He squinted, wanting to be sure, then pointed outward, what he estimated had to be north-east from their position and a dozen miles off or less.
“You see that? Past that torn up pyramid thing? Where the three boulevards cross, then back a little and left. See the……..what is that? Looks like…..”
As if a broad expanse of the city’s structure had broken like pond ice under the weight of some vast, lumbering black iron creature, which now clung to the ragged edges of the hole it had fallen through with huge claws sunk in, struggling not to go down into an abyss below. As if several gargantuan black spiders out of one of his father’s tales hung suspended in a shared, irregularly shaped ambush burrow, only their limbs extending up and out to grip the edges of the gap on all sides, poised to spring. As if dragon’s venom had splattered on the city’s flesh in overlapping oval pools, had eaten its way in and left splayed black burnmarks all around, or……..
It dawned on him then, full force.
It looks like Kaldan Cross.
As if the Kiriath had laboured here as they had at Kaldan in Yhelteth, delving down into the bedrock for their own obscure purposes, reinforcing the sides of their pit with outward clamping iron struts, but on a massively larger scale.
“Look familiar?” he asked.
“Well, it’s Kiriath built, that’s for sure.” Archeth, shading her eyes against the glare the rising sun had put into the clouds. “And whatever it is, it goes down. Aerial conveyance pits, right?”
“I reckon it’d be a pretty huge coincidence otherwise.” She propped herself carefully upright against the facade at their backs. “Come on, let’s see if our flickery friend there feels the same.”
They followed the facade almost to its end before the sprite dived into a gap in the stonework and led them down through a series of collapsed and angled spaces that might once have been rooms. They crowded in behind, relieved to get away from the sheer drop, but none too happy with the confined quarters and gloom.
Our scaly pals show up now, they’ll have us quicker than a shaman’s shag. Egar’s gaze flickered about, making the odds. Barely enough room in here to swing a fucking long knife, let alone a sword or axe. And gaps on every side – floors, walls, ceilings, it’s all up for grabs.
Still, he slapped down any comments in that direction from the men at his back, told them to shut the fuck up and watch where they stepped. While ahead and below him, Archeth’s lithe form braced its way downward with boots and elbows and arse, backlit into silhouette by the sprite’s onward beckoning fire.
Not bad, Archidi, for someone with a sewn gash across the ribs big enough to stick your whole hand in. And not a grain of krinzanz to sweeten the ride.
He didn’t know if she’d used any of the powders they were gifted with at An-Kirilnar, but somehow he doubted it. There was a gritted edge on Archeth right now – if anything, she seemed to be using her pain for something, maybe as a substitute for the fire the krin habitually lent.
“You alright?” he asked her, when they finally spilled out into the light at street level and he stood close at her shoulder.
She didn’t look at him, took no break from scanning the street ahead, for all that the sprite was already drifting steadily along it. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”
“Stitches holding up?”
“Well, you should know – you put them in.” She glanced round at him, face tightening up into a grimace as her body twisted. “Stings worse than getting head from a cactus, if you really want to know. But it’s some beautiful fucking work, Eg. I don’t reckon Kefanin stitches my riding leathers this well.”
He shrugged, mask for the enduring bitter taste the skirmish the night before had left. “All part of the service. If I can’t keep you from getting hurt, at least I can patch up the damage afterwards.”
“Works for me.”
The last of the men dropped out of the gap in the masonry behind them and straightened up with vocal curses of relief. Egar shut them up, got them formed into a loose wedge, and led them out once more behind Archeth and the sprite.
The rest was hard marching but uneventful. They cut across the mounded rubble a few times more, leaving one boulevard in favour of another, trading plazas for streets and vice versa, but it was all open ground, ruined masonry packed solid underfoot or sections of stairway and raised platforms that had taken no more than superficial damage in whatever cataclysm had snuffed the city out. Clear views on all sides now, no real risk of ambush, and their pace picked up accordingly. Egar began to catch traces of a familiar reek on the wind.
He jogged forward, caught up to Archeth who was striding a few yards ahead.
“You smell that?”
“Yeah. Like the stacks at Monal. Must be getting close.”
Sometimes at An-Monal, the winds blew in from the south, and then you caught an acrid whiff of the chemicals at play in the Kiriath brewing stacks on the plain below. The Dragonbane had never been very sure what it was Archeth’s people made in those towers, he’d only understood that they preferred to make it at some considerable distance from where they lived. Watching at night as huge, unnaturally coloured flames leapt and gouted atop the miles-distant darkened towers, he didn’t much blame them. Whatever they had trapped in there, you wouldn’t want to be standing very close if it ever got loose.
He remembered asking Flaradnam about it once, one banquet night out on the balcony shortly before they all headed out for Trelayne and then the Wastes. He might as well not have bothered – as was so often the case with the Kiriath, any reply you got left you with more questions than you’d started with, and this time was no exception to the rule. ‘Nam glanced around the table at the various commanders’ faces in the bandlight, then dropped some cryptic comment to the effect that most of the Kiriath’s more useful alloys had to be grown to full complexity or some such shit. That it was in fact a process less like smelting and smithing, and more akin to raising crops or, in its finest expressions, breeding warhorses or – a fond side-smirk at an embarrassed Archeth – children. What all that actually meant, Egar had no fucking clue and was too half-cut at the time to pursue any further. And later there was no time, they were all too busy, and a couple of months after that, Flaradnam was beyond all asking.
The smell was growing stronger, there even in the gaps between the bluster of the wind. He sneaked a glance at Archeth, wondering if it kicked her back as thoroughly to memories of her father.
But in the grey morning light, her face was as impassive as the flat of a blade.
They came over steeply-piled mounds of rubble the size of hills, started a descent through isolated crags and outcrops of architecture that looked like the drowned upper levels of buildings once dizzying in height. And then, abruptly, they were looking down at the edge of the Kiriath earthworks from not much more than five hundred yards away. The holes gaped there, larger than some lakes he knew back on the steppe, but empty, shadowed and dark. More than ever, it looked as if these were wounds the city had sustained, and the vast black iron protrusions that sprouted from them on all sides some kind of surgical clamps to prevent healing. As if the Kiriath had dropped something from a great height on their enemies here, and then left it in place to grow and sprout, just the way all those complex alloys were supposed to grow in the stacks at An-Monal.
The fire sprite came to a flickering halt just past a standing ruin a handful of storeys high, paused there perhaps to give them time to take in the view down across the rubble. The air was warmer now. Even the occasional gusts of wind carried some stale-tasting heat along with the brewing stack odours. Egar fetched up at Archeth’s shoulder again.
“See a way down inside?”
She cupped both hands above her eyes to shade them, peered for a while. “Not from here.”
“At Kaldan Cross, you got those things like big mason’s hods running on cables, but they’re sort of tucked away, under the lip.”
“Yeah, I know. I was there when they built it, remember. This is a fuck of a lot bigger than anything at Kaldan.”
“Well,” he shrugged. “Bigger hods and cables then. Maybe.”
The warm wind came and went, gusts and gaps, blowing directly across the open plain and the huge iron-clamped holes in it. The acrid chemical reek rolled in again, but it brought something else with it this time, another note to the mingled odours that -
Or not. He’d lost it again, in the buffet and gust of the wind. He turned his head, breathed deep trying to get it back. He cast about, a sliding sense of doom behind his eyes. Saw the fire sprite turned jumpy and irresolute, slipping back and forth in the air beside them. Archeth, lost in peering down at what her people had built here……
Sudden, sharp spike of aniseed in his nostrils. The wind came banging back, brought with it the sandalwood again, stronger now, no room left for doubt. He heard comment murmur among the men, men too young or too lucky to know what it meant. He stared down at the gaping holes ahead of them. Felt the warmth in the air again, as if for the first time, and understanding fell on him like the ruin at his back.
But he knew it was.
And now the stealthy chill, waking and walking through his bones. The grinning skull of memory, the bony beckoning hand.
Well, well, Dragonbane. Here it comes, after all these years.
He grabbed Archeth by the shoulder. “Snap out of it, Archidi. We got trouble.”
“Trouble?” She blinked, still lost in thought “What’s the…….”
She caught the blast of spices on the breeze. Her eyes widened in shock. Egar was already unslinging his Warhelm-forged staff lance. He shed the soft fabric sheaths at either end, let them drift to the ground without attention. Plenty of time to chase them up later.
If there was a later.
“Clear your steel,” he snapped to the men at his back, as they gathered in around him. “And get back inside that ruin, find yourselves some cover, fast.”
“Is it the lizards again, my lord?” someone asked.
He had time to offer one tight grin. “I’m afraid not, no.”
Across the wind, out of Kiriath pits below them, it came and split the air. A shrieking, piercing cry he’d thought he’d never hear again outside of dreams. A cry like sheets of metal tearing apart, like the denial of some bereaved warrior goddess, vast, immortal grief tipping over into the insane fury of loss. Like the drawn-out, echoing rage of some immense, stooping bird of prey.
“It’s a dragon,” he told them simply. “Pretty big one too, by the sound of it.”
August 19, 2014
So there’s been a bit of talk about this, and how it heralds the End of Grimdark (rumble), a Return to Core Values (drumroll), some sort of genre re-set maybe, at least within the context of superhero movies. I don’t see it myself – but then I haven’t seen it and I don’t suppose I will for quite some time (my son’s only 3, so a little young yet for that avalanche of self-righteous gun violence and fisticuffs that passes for PG entertainment in Hollywood these days). So I’m not about to start passing judgement on either the film itself or the contention that it represents some kind of paradigm shift within genre.
I can’t help noticing that the much vaunted opening take of 94 million dollars ranks quite a long way down this list, and that the last Dark Knight movie, floating right there in the top five, took close to twice that amount. Presumably all the people who paid to see that one haven’t undergone a sudden revulsion against the Gotham Gloom they were so eager to partake of two years back, and though many of them probably went quite cheerfully to see the Racoon with a Machine Gun this month, they would presumably also hurry just as cheerfully back for another instalment of the Grim Dark Knight if anyone’s prepared to serve one up. And I don’t see anybody crying out for a return to the Adam West days on that particular franchise. So there’s that.
But beyond that, I have to ask – what is all this desperate longing for an End to the mythical Grimdark? What’s with the whinging about collateral damage in Man of Steel? I mean, who are these people? What parameters are they using? Have they really been going to cinemas to sit through superhero movie after superhero movie over the last ten years with gritted teeth because those movies are just not Shiny Happy enough, just not Black and White enough in moral tone? Seriously? Did they just……fall asleep or something, and miss sixty years’ worth of cultural growth and diversification? Have they also been sitting at home with the TV, stomaching HBO and Nordic Noir with a bitter grimace, dreaming wistfully of a return to the glory days of TJ Hooker and The A Team? Is this a constituency so totally bombproof resistant to cultural shift that they want to go back to a fictionscape dreamed up in the middle of the last century, back when women and coloured folks still knew their place, the cop on the beat was a lovely cuddly (white) guy, war was a glorious endeavour undertaken against dastardly foreign foes, and real men walked like John Wayne? Do they really feel so threatened?
Look, this mythical Grimdark overlordship just doesn’t exist, it never has. Want Shiny Happy Superhero movies? You got ‘em. Sam Raimi’s Spiderman trilogy straddles the previous decade, box-office triumphant, and the grimdarkest thing that happens in those movies is Tobey McGuire going briefly rogue, which in the end added up to what? Wearing a bit of black, not showing up to work on time and leching at women in the street. Oooh, shudder. What else? Well, the much reviled moral landscape of 2007′s KickAss actually features the squeakiest clean gang of heroes you could imagine going up against cackling evil Mafia bad guys (oh, but Hit Girl swears a lot and she’s a girl – Hey. Deal with it.) Even Chris Nolan’s Batman never really lacks for clear moral justification, his antagonists are all chips off the old Supervillain block, and he gets a straight up Happy Ending to round the trilogy out. And is someone really going to try to tell me that the Iron Man movies are dark?
Even in the arena of fantasy literature, where Grimdark has perhaps kindled to life as an actual thing, a conscious sub-genre, it’s still never been the dominant form. Anyone recall the name Paolini? The Inheritance Cycle? That sucker’s sold over 33 million copies since 2002. And it’s not exactly grimdark in its thematic assumptions. Lord of the Rings hasn’t gone anywhere either, it still shifts copies by the tonne, and so do books that are its direct thematic heirs. Sure, George R R Martin and Joe Abercrombie sell, but so too do Terry Brooks and Trudi Canavan. The only thing that’s really happened in fantasy is a diversification of form – something for everybody, a spectrum of story-telling reflecting a spectrum of demand. And in the shifting matrix of that marketplace, what still sells more than anything else – just go back to that opening weekend list – is straight up Good guys vs Bad Guys with the Good triumphant and a Happy Ending every time.
So where’s the beef? Why do people get so bent out of shape about this minor thing called – for want of a better, more nuanced, more fucking grown up descriptor – Grimdark. Why so desperate for its limited influence to be over?
It seems to me that for a certain sub-section of genre consumers, it’s not enough that Grimdark exists as a limited aspect of the genre landscape and that there’s plenty of other, brighter and cheerier stuff to consume elsewhere. Grimdark is like the latte-sipping elites so railed against by Republican Right pundits in the US a few years back – it’s a construct that offends by its very existence. Never mind that childlike story-telling completely dominates genre cinema. Never mind that such grimdarkness as has actually managed to creep into superhero movies is at most a veneer on a largely unchanged black and white moral base. No, the mere intimation that there might be more to a heroic narrative than the heroes are the Good Guys, the villains are Bad Guys and the heroes should Win a rousing Victory appears to be in itself such an offensive contention that it arouses a kind of defensive knee-jerk hysteria just by surfacing. Get that Grimdark out of my sight! How dare you imply a moral relativity in my fictionscape! There’s no place for that shit in this town. I want capital E escapism, dammit, and so should every other decent person on the planet!
Guess some of us just aren’t decent.
In fact, some of us wish SF movie-making could manage to import a sensibility that looks a bit more like this.
Now there’s a movie I’ll be queuing to see.
Grimdark ain’t over, it’s just hanging out elsewhere under its real name. Look for the mailbox labelled Nuanced Adult Thriller.
July 8, 2014
…make it this one!
Looks cool, don’t it. And I happen to know for a fact that it is cool, because I was lucky enough to snag a super-early advance reading copy at the back end of last year. Peter Watts is one of a very small list of writers, and an even smaller list of writers within the SF genre, who make me genuinely jealous when I read their stuff (full disclosure, he’s also an occasional work colleague, and a friend). Blindsight blew me away with how head and shoulders above the general standard it was – there was a poetry to the prose, an intensity to the characterisation and action, a bare-knuckle no-holds-barred emotional honesty to the storytelling that rarely surfaces in genre fiction of any stripe, and barely exists at all in the rarified cerebral vivarium of so-called Hard SF. Blindsight left me painfully aware of how lacking those qualities tend to be in genre fiction, and it left me desperate for more.
Now there is more. Echopraxia picks up a bit less than a decade after the finale of Blindsight, and like its predecessor, it puts the whole of the rest of the genre in the shade. It deserves to walk away with the Clarke, the Hugo, the Nebula, the BSFA, and pretty much any other genre award for which it’s eligible. It’s off the scale.
What’s it about? Well, here’s my attempt at a blurb, some of which you may or may not see adorning the jacket of the book when it hits the shelves next month:
Ever wondered what X-Men or Avengers Assemble might have looked like if it were written for adults and based on actual bleeding edge science – now you don’t have to; Peter Watts is back after cometary absence and burning bright as ever across the genre skies. Zombies, vampires, post-human prophets and invasion from outer space – Echopraxia reads like some dark, twisted superhero ensemble piece, but with all the prose gravitas of a novel by Cormac McCarthy or Philip Roth. Its late twenty first century future feels at one and the same time dizzyingly outlandish and all too grimly real, exploding with high-end concepts, laced through with harsh human truths. If science fiction can really be claimed as a literature of ideas, then Watts is without doubt its premier practitioner – Echopraxia is a depleted uranium shot across the bows of complacent, by-the-numbers SF, and a bright rallying cry for the soul of the genre. Fucking awesome!
And here is my rough-cut, less-than-honed initial impression, once I’d put the finished book down and got my breath back:
Makes Blood Meridian look like Bonanza
I suppose that last comment is a warning of sorts, because if you thought Blindsight was kind of bleak, well, prepare to revise your parameters – Echopraxia takes bleak to a whole new level.
But it’s a beautiful kind of bleak, and as with any kind of beauty, you’re going to find it very hard to look away.
June 22, 2014
- breakfast is late and leisurely, and rather than actually ending, it just peters out into a vague stirring to activities which mostly don’t require you to relinquish your still unfinished coffee; check your mails, from the one place on the verandah you can get reception; carry the used crockery back inside by dribs and drabs; tidy up last night’s spent matches and mosquito coil stubs; top up your phone credit; read.
- the news all seems to be happening a long, long way away.
- you haven’t had access to a PS3 for more than a month; you don’t care.
- your socks are all still packed neatly away in the suitcase you brought them in, surplus to requirements since you arrived.
- your favourite T-shirts are growing bleached and frayed with prolonged exposure to seawater, suncream, chlorine, sweat; you find you like them better that way, and like yourself better when you wear them.
- your hair’s a mess – long and unruly and stacked stiff with salt, suncream, chlorine, sweat; you don’t care. Most mornings, you grin at yourself in the mirror like sharing a secret.
- your nearest supermarket car park features views out across heat-hazed open ground and ragged giant palms to the sea.
- you’ll cheerfully drive the seven kilometres of winding mountain road to the village on an empty stomach and sleep-clogged eyes to get fresh bread and coffee for breakfast.
- you buy and barbecue meat at the slightest excuse, using wood and pine cones you foraged for yourself just hours earlier; in certain places, at certain moments, as you forage, the breeze carries hints of rosemary and wild thyme.
- you haven’t eaten inside for a month now; the idea of doing so starts to seem odd.
- despite all this food, you seem to be losing weight. Or maybe it’s just the tan.
- your three year old son mistakes Joy Division’s Love Will Tear Us Apart for the theme tune to Postman Pat – Special Delivery, and insists you play it over and over again in the car. You comply, and after a while you start to realise that despite Ian Curtis’s mournful voice and lyrics, Love Will Tear Us Apart is actually quite a catchy, upbeat little number….
- at night the stars glimmer so brightly and the cicadas’ rhythmic chirring sounds so loud that that they seem to blend, to become two sensory aspects of the same huge single phenomenon
- you shower outside with a garden hose whose coils have been heated so long in the sun that the water comes out too hot to use for the first thirty seconds.
- you’re careful to avoid actual serious sunburn or heatstroke (obsessive care of your infant son has spilled over into looking after yourself better too), but you find flirting with borderline overdoses of sun carries the same faintly masochistic pleasures as the hangovers and Sunday mornings after of your misspent youth.
- you get your hair cut locally and they fuck it up; you don’t care.
- you rip out the inner wall on a front tyre when it slips over the edge of a ragged poured concrete track and catches (on reflection, you maybe took that corner a little too hard, maybe had the Joy Division cranked up a little too loud); no matter. Changing the tyre in 30 degrees of heat feels like Boy’s Own fun.
- you’ve quite forgotten you’ll ever have to go home.
May 23, 2014
Finishing a trilogy – it turns out – is a more protracted affair than you’d imagine. For quite some time now, I’ve been trying to get Ringil and company out of my head, in order to clear the decks for some straight up SF, but they’re not taking the eviction well. Had a dream about the Gil the other night, something to do with dog-food, make sense of that if you can. And a few days ago, I heard this on some nameless local radio station out in the wilds of Andalucia, and was surprised to find how well it suited one of the principal characters. So I backed up through my dodgy vinyl hard rock collection (so near as I can recall it at a distance), and sure enough I managed to find a match for the other two as well.
Bonus points for matching protagonist to track (note – some space for ambiguity and overlap here, but in my mind at least, it’s clear).
Right. Maybe they’ll leave me alone now, and fade out like heroes of legend should…..
April 24, 2014
Still not entirely sure of the why, both certainly have their respective flaws. Might be a question of scale, or maybe just of tone. But if anyone were to ask, I’d have to say the Ringil books chime far closer to the former than they do to the latter.
March 17, 2014
Having been approached by the Star Wars franchise to write a tie-in with quote “a startlingly fresh angle on the canon”, I find myself-
Okay, just kidding. Though it is tempting to imagine which New York-based emigre Latin American or East European post-modernist writer you might hire to deliver a tie-in novel behind that title….. No, ahem, what this is really about is a minor revelation of linkage I had a few weeks ago. I’d greeted the foundational statements of Ken Loach’s political brainchild Left Unity back in November with a facepalm-level groan – hey, a political party that’s against inequality and injustice; how come no-one ever thought of that before? What a genius innovation! All those other people who’ve spent their lives working in politics must just be kicking themselves that they missed that one. And the procedures, I mean, it’s so simple – just end capitalism. Yes, that’s worked so fucking well every time it’s been tried before. Oh, and on an international scale while we’re at it! Yes. Just oppose all forms of discrimination, fully democratise all levels and aspects of society, everywhere. Off we go, then!
So, wearily irritated by the fact so many seemingly intelligent people seem to be drinking this particular Koolaid, off I grouched. Didn’t even bother posting at the site because, honestly, what’s the fucking point? I mean, have we really learnt nothing in the last few decades? Nothing about human nature, about social dynamics, about wealth-creation, about state control, about power – nothing, in short, about who we really are?
But I did notice that the irritation felt vaguely familiar. I’d had the same basic feeling about something else, at some other time – but couldn’t pin down what exactly it was.
It took this article about megabrothels in Germany, with its links to an article on Canadian sex trade legislation and an interview with a British sex worker, for the penny to drop. Here again, was the same myopic well-intentioned idealism, repelled by an unpleasant aspect of human behaviour, and touting brain-dead big-stick policy-making as the cure. Yes – just ban prostitution; that’ll work. Oh, and hey, why don’t we have a war on drugs while we’re at it, fuckwits? Take down that Evil Empire, why don’t you?
Sudden recollection slammed in, of this quote from George Lucas on the subject of his inspiration for the original Star Wars (the quote is from Wikipedia here, cited as occurring in the Joseph Campbell biography A Fire in the Mind):
“I came to the conclusion after American Graffiti that what’s valuable for me is to set standards, not to show people the world the way it is”
Right. Which is why I could never stand Star Wars once I’d reached the age of about fifteen. Because by then, most of the literature and cinema I was consuming was precisely about showing the world (the human world anyway) the way it is. By then, I took – and still take now – the effective mirroring and interrogation of the human condition (rather than dreamy, idealistic flight from it) as the hallmark of good adult fiction.
Thing is, though, Star Wars sure is popular, and not just with kids under the age of fifteen. Huge numbers of people actively enjoy the refuge from the real that idealised Hero figures and their battles against a Great Evil provide. Which is fine, I guess, it is only fiction after all. But I can’t help wondering whether an entertainment matrix which constantly reinforces unrealistically black and white contexts of struggle doesn’t also distil a similarly unrealistic attitude when it comes to assessing real human struggle in the real human world. How many Left Unity supporters see themselves as Che-style X-wing pilots, swooping in to destroy the evil capitalist Death Star, because then, of course, all will be right with the universe? How many campaigners for maintaining the criminal status of prostitution once dreamed of rescuing a captured Princess from the clutches of evil men? Come to that, how many supporters of the Iraq war thought they were finally seeing a chance to take down Darth Vader and set a people free of tyranny just like that?
My irritation is not with the dreams. They’re part of who we are; we all have them – wouldn’t it be nice if……. My problem is with those who stubbornly expect, against all the gathered evidence and informed opinion from those on the ground, that their dreams can be imposed, flatly and mechanistically, onto the myriad teeming variegated mess that is the real human world. Abolish capitalism. Abolish commerce in sexual relations. Stamp out Drugs. Free Iraq. Yeah, right.
And I have the feeling that the general failure of maturity present in that mindset, the apparent congenital inability to understand that in the real world things are actually a bit complicated than that, isn’t helped by the pervasiveness of a fiction whose primary intention is full retreat from that real world.
February 21, 2014
One of the nice things that wrapping Land Fit for Heroes has given me is a sudden freedom to catch up on a whole lot of other people’s fantasy fiction; now I’m done, I no longer live in terror of involuntarily inflecting my work with traces of Martin, Abercrombie et al – I can actually go and try this stuff with my reader’s hat firmly on. Or, to be more accurate so far, with my watcher’s eyes in, because my first step in this process has been to slump exhausted on the sofa in front of the first two seasons of A Game of Thrones. I do actually have A Game of Thrones the novel on my bookshelf, just as I have most of Joe Abercrombie’s stuff (one of the perks of sharing a publisher is gifted access to gifted fellow authors’ work), but I was (still am) just too textually wrung out from eight months nailing down The Dark Defiles to embark on reading anything quite that colossal right now. And anyway, I’d heard HBO stuck pretty close to the original material, so…..
How was it for me? Ehm, yeah, good. Not many of my personal obsessions in there as far as subject matter goes, and how anyone ever thought to compare this stuff with my own is beyond me. But you’ve got your solid, engaging story-telling, some nice subtle character work, intricate and intriguing world build, some truly powerful moments as knowledge of the contexts deepens. If the books measure up to this, I can see why Martin has been hailed as such a phenomenon in the fantasy field – especially given that the first book dates from almost twenty years ago.
But for all that, I’m puzzled.
Puzzled why? Well, puzzled as I try to match up the material I’m watching with the vast, vitriolic storm about it that’s raged across the genre blogosphere the last couple of years, right from the sniffy, dismissive reception the series got from the New York Times when it first surfaced, through to the on-going whinge about G-g-g-grimdark and the charges of creepy! problematic! misogynistic! racist! Uhh, really?
One way or another, I’m having a hard time seeing this thing as the reprehensible stain on the face of modern fantasy that various commentators have avowed it to be.
Don’t get me wrong, that’s not to say the show doesn’t have its flaws; much though I like looking at the naked female form, I do also like there to be some faint narrative justification for it, and two seasons in I’m seeing a pretty shaky justification-to-breasts ratio. Likewise, I’m not overfond of the constant use of cliff-hangers to drag me along; you kind of feel that a confident narrative shouldn’t need to keep falling back on that trick. It’s very American TV of course, with the constant terror that medium has of haemorrhaging audience numbers during a commercial break, and I imagine it’s in his work for TV that Martin acquired his taste for the technique. But still, less is more, y’all, and anyway HBO doesn’t have commercial breaks. Oh yeah, and then there’s the Dothraki, who just seem to have lost out a bit where it comes to the world-building – unlike almost every other aspect of Martin’s social and political creation, I’m still unable to get a very clear fix on who the Dothraki are, where they are, what they’re about, how they relate to everyone else they bump up against…… Dunno, maybe it’s clearer in the books.
But still – it takes a peculiar kind of personality disorder to go violently overboard about these flaws (much the same personality disorder, it now occurs to me, as the one that so often manifests itself in shrill, stonewalling fanboy adoration of any given book/game/movie/TV show. Other side of the same grubby coin, perhaps?).
What I reckon this genre conversation needs is some New aunts.
Coincidentally, you see, I was over at the Song of Ice and Fire message board, going back and forth on the much vexed subject of gender parity in epic fantasy contexts (women as warriors? how many? doing what? how likely? so forth) and up popped a regular board contributor with some hands on experience of female warriors (being one; working with others like her) in the IDF. Asked about that experience and her feelings on the psychology involved, said contributor, name of Datepalm, responded at length and included this little gem:
“in general, my view is…nuanced.”
And you know, that’s the whole thing in a nutshell – nuance.
Nuance is the beating heart of good critical appreciation. Nuance allows that a piece of art may have elements with which to take issue, but that those elements need not obliterate a more general validity – and conversely that cool or otherwise delightful elements do not invalidate functional criticism. Nuance is what you find in film reviews by guys like Peter Bradshaw and Philip French (I’d give rather a lot to read a review of Game of Thrones by either of those two gentlemen, but it appears they don’t do TV). Nuance is the reason I read broadsheet review sections in general. Nuance defuses fanshrill and rant. Nuance enhances rather than tears down, puts under a microscope, not a hammer. Nuance encourages a plurality of opinion and a complexity of interpretation. Nuance allows that the world is a complex place, humans complex entities, and that the vast bulk of art that attempts to address the human condition carries that same complexity within it as a matter of course.
With nuance, for example, you can say things like although there’s a fair bit of gratuitous female nudity in Game of Thrones, the show also features a panoply of smart and powerful female characters and an implicit on-going critique of patriarchal power. Perhaps it reflects – knowingly or not – our own stumbling cultural confusion where female agency is concerned. The sort of thing, in other words, that opens a debate rather than shuts it down. Nuance will let you wonder if the Dothraki, though they may seem to stand for an exotic savagery and Otherness, are in fact any more savage than any of the cultures and kingdoms we see in the west? For that matter, are they any more exotic or Other than, say, Winterfell, the Wall and the Night’s Watch, the Eyrie and its Sky Cells, or the Targaryens and their dragons? Tell the truth, it’s all pretty fucking weird and Other, isn’t it? Nuance will outclass Ginia Bellafante’s quite stunningly myopic and ill-informed dismissal of the show in the New York Times, not by beating the drums of fan fury and genre ghetto outrage, but by enumerating the ways in which Game offers a perfectly serviceable mirror for general human failings including but not limited to misogyny, infidelity (of various types) and pointless factional squabbling in the face of a larger doom, every bit as effective as more narrowly reality-based shows such as Boardwalk Empire or Rome. Oh, and is also, like those shows, good, fast-paced, visceral but intelligent entertainment (with a number of flaws).
Nuance, in fact, will be your passport out of the usual wearisome morass of intra-genre back-biting and self-righteous oneupmanship and into a place where you can, like consumers of most other forms of fiction, appreciate a piece of work for what it is, see its strengths and weaknesses, all without feeling the need to either get down on your knees and worship at the shrine or somehow beat it shrilly and triumphantly into submission.
So yeah – who’s for some new aunts?
January 14, 2014
Just call me Santiago…..
Out in the Gulf three days (ehm, that’d be three years actually, Richard – ed.) towed behind this bloody great fish, biggest thing I’ve ever had a hook in. But I landed it, Sunday last, and finally got it on the scales.
Yeah, that’s 247 thousand words. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present The Dark Defiles – done at last.
I know a quarter million words isn’t considered all that big of a fish in the oceans of fantasy (Game of Thrones 284k, Deadhouse Gates 272k, Name of the Wind 259k, Dance with Dragons don’t even go there), but it’s still about half as long again as anything I’ve written before, so if you’re wondering what the fuck has been keeping me all this time, well, there’s that. And the good news is that now it’s done, you’ll have a whole fifty percent more time and space than The Cold Commands in which to enjoy the final company of Ringil, Archeth and the Dragonbane. Plus – and this is the big thing, for me – Defiles ties the Land Fit for Heroes trilogy definitively up. All your questions answered, all outstanding narrative threads resolved, all debts paid.
December 5, 2013
There were times he dreamed that the cage had taken him after all; that he made some impassioned speech confessing guilt and repentance on the floor of the Hearings Chamber, and offered himself up for the sentence instead. That the Chancellery law-lords in their enthroning chairs and finery murmured behind their hands, deliberated amongst themselves for a space and finally nodded with stern paternal wisdom, and the manacles were unlocked and his wife and children set free. He saw it with tears in his eyes and a sobbing laugh on his lips, saw Sindrin kneel on the cold marble, weeping and hugging at little Shoy and Miril, while Shif junior just stood and looked back at him across the chamber with mirroring tears standing in his own young man eyes.
Then he woke, to his chains and the memory of what had really been done.
Sprayborne tilted on her anchors beneath him, yearned seaward on the currents from the river’s mouth. The damp cold of dawn seeped in through the portholes over his head and brought with it from the mudflats a stench like death.
At other times, maybe triggered by that reek, it was nightmare that took him – he dreamed, keening deep in his throat as he slept, that the rusted locks fell off the gibbet cages where they’d been heaved over the side and come to rest on the estuary’s silted bed, and now Shoy and Miril swam free, glitter-eyed and skeletal in the murky water, rising into the light to knock at Sprayborne’s hull and call for their father to come out and play……
Living punishment, as severe as the law allows, pronounced law-lord Murmin Kaad grimly into the anticipatory quiet of the Hearing Chamber. Meted out to reflect the severity of your sins against the Fair City and its allies, and to serve as clear example to others. Shif Stepwyr, you will see your bloodline extinguished, you will be imprisoned in the vessel you used to commit your crimes, and you will be given the rest of your natural span to reflect upon the evil you have done in this world.
He screamed when he heard it, and sometimes, waking from his dreams, he echoed those screams again. Screamed and tore at his fetters until he bled from the old scarred wounds once more, screamed as he had in the Hearing Chamber, for the Salt Lord to come for him, for the whole fucking Dark Court to come if they willed it, to take his soul, to take him away, to any kind of torment but this, if he might just first pay back the rulers of Trelayne for what the justice they had meted out.
Four years now, as near as he could reckon it, since the last of his children’s weakened cries ceased and he knew he could count them dead. Since he heard the splash of the gibbet cages thrown overboard and then the steady grating back and forth of the bandsaw they used to cut through Sprayborne’s masts and topple them.
Four years trying to sell his soul to every demon god whose name he knew, and no takers yet. Four years chained the same way his ship was chained, in a space meant to break body and mind alike.
For the craftsman jailers of Trelayne knew what they were about. They were well versed in the art of converting ships into dungeons – in a rapidly burgeoning city where every new square yard of building space had to be reclaimed from the marsh, prison hulks had long been the most economical way of shelving undesirables not considered worthy of execution. Better yet, there was a helpful, finger-wagging symbolism in the trick, especially where piracy was the crime for which punishment was to be exacted. The prison hulks were visible from the city walls on the south side, and from the slums in Harbour End too, if you had a good enough eye; clearer still from the spread of reclaimed land beyond the city’s skirts, where Trelayne’s agricultural workforce bent their backs to earn a barely sustaining crust, and from the broad sweep of marshland beyond that, where the marsh dweller clans held to their encampments and grubbed a living in whichever way they could.
For all in those places who cared to look, then, the hulks were a grim, gathered presence, like storm clouds on the horizon. Transgress the laws of the Fair City, and look where you could end up. Look what became of sweet-keeled pirate vessels and their crews when the force of that law was invoked.
Inside Sprayborne, the same didactic sensibility held sway for the inmates, but seasoned with an additional twist of cruelty. They’d built the cells into the hull like the chambers in a wasp’s nest, each one sitting just above the bilges and served with light by portholes too high up to peer out of without the prisoner gouging at wrists and ankles when his restraining chains went taut. You might see the outside world you had forgone for your crimes, but only at painful cost.
For the rest, you sat chained in damp, stinking gloom and watched the days of your life march in filtering fingers of light from the portholes, across the opposing wall of the cell from one side to the other and down again into darkness.
Wyr availed himself of the option to look outside only on those occasions that he felt his sanity going, slipping quietly away from him in the rank confines of the cell. At other times, he refused to torment himself with what he could not have. He was, above all and despite himself, a survivor. He shook off his dreams each day, fed them as fuel to the rage in his belly. He cleaned the bowls of thin stew they served him, he devoted the few clear-headed hours of strength the slop gave him to simple, mindless exercises that didn’t pull on his chains. The evenings, he spent filing away at his fetters with one of the iron nails he had worked loose from the hull planking, until it grew too dark to see what he was doing. It would take years to cut through a single manacle, probably a decade to free all four limbs, always assuming he didn’t run out of nails first. And if they caught him at it, they’d just replace the irons with fresh ones or maybe simply kill him.
But it gave him something to do. It gave him a daily focus for his fury. It gave him hope, and he knew how vital that was.
In the other cells, he could hear how men from his crew went slowly, gibbering mad with the isolation and the death of hope. They started out four years past with thumped messages in code through the wooden walls, shouted vows of solidarity to each other from cell to cell. But all too soon the structure of their communication began to break down. They hammered on the planking in incoherent rage, they yelled, they screamed, they wept. Eventually, they began to cackle and crow incomprehensibly to themselves. In the first couple of years, he’d been able to recognise voices, put individual names of men to the yelling, but that time was long past. Now, Sprayborne’s whole hull echoed faintly with their mingled mutterings and laments, as if the men themselves were gone and only ghosts remained.
Footfalls, in the corridor along the keel.
Wyr propped himself up from the planks where he lay, stared at the filtering fingers of light over his head. It was early in the day for food, they’d not usually feed him much before noon. The tiny shift in routine, the trickle of difference it made, set an unreasonable jag of excitement chasing through his veins. Something was going on.
Scrape of a key in the lock, the heavy wooden door thumped back and a familiar figure stood in the space it left. Wyr blinked and straightened up in his chains. Coughed and shuddered with the damp.
“Gort?” Voice a choked husk. Stifle the coughing, force it down. “What you doing here at this hour?”
“Same as fucking ever.” The jailer hefted a pail at his side, bigger than the usual, and it made a slopping sound that set Wyr’s mouth running with saliva. “And I’m telling you now, this might be all you get ‘til day after tomorrow, depending. Don’t scoff it all at once, eh.”
“Right, yeah. What’s going on?”
Gort heaved a world-weary sigh. He was a gutty sack of a man, lugubrious and slow and full of complaints. But by the standards of prison hulk jailers, he was a prince. He appeared to pass no judgment on the men he attended, saw them as unfortunates just like himself, caught up in the same atrocious web of chance that had landed him with this gods-forsaken job. Previous jailers, equally unhappy with their lot, had never missed a chance to take it out on the chained prisoners at the slightest provocation, or sometimes with none at all. It was a casual brutality, no different than stomping a cat or hurling stones at a street cur – they mostly used boots or fists, only occasionally the short studded lash they carried at their belt as the closest thing there was to a badge of office in this line of work. But Wyr had never seen Gort’s lash come off his belt, and the worst he’d had to endure at the man’s hands were the interminable monologues on the many, many ways in which life had conspired to treat his jailer unjustly.
“Got to do the whole fucking boat and be back to Harbour End before noon, if you can believe that shit. Like to see them up at the Chancellery manage that. They must think – here, cop hold of this; stash it or eat it now, up to you – must think I’ve got a fucking longboat and full complement to row me out and back, ‘stead of what I have got, which is two broken down old war veterans with more scar tissue than skin barely know one end of an oar from the other. ‘course, that’s not the best of it, neither. After this round, we’re right back out again with provisions and medicines for the yellow-n-blacks. Well, they needn’t think I’m setting a single foot on one of those fucking decks, not on what they pay me. Let the fucking bone men go, earn their money for a change-”
“Yellow and black?” Voice still husky with lack of use, but a fresh pulse of interest prickled along Wyr’s nerves. “Out here, you mean? With the hulks?”
“Yeah, fucking plague ship, where else they going to stick it? Navy picket brought them in last night, a whole squadron of them.” A vague nod up at the portholes. “Three ships, and two of them are captured imperials. Probably where they picked it up, those southerners got some filthy fucking habits from what I hear. All flying the pennants, anyway.”
“Plague.” He said it like the name of a god he might worship. The bucket of stew was forgotten at his feet.
“Yeah, just what we fucking needed, right? On top of the war and all? Don’t really know why they’re making us feed them in the first place. If it’s anything like back in ’41, they’ll all be dead by end of week, and then we’ll just have to burn the ships to the waterline. Waste of good food, waste of my fucking time coming out an extra trip every day.” Gort’s eyes narrowed with freshly aggrieved suspicion. “Might be, you know, this is all some Empire trick to fuck us over. Maybe the imperials let them capture those ships on purpose, crewed them up with men what were already infected and let us take them, so we’d carry the plague right into the city. Sort of thing they’d do, treacherous fuckers, they pretty soon forgot how we drove out the lizards for them, didn’t they. And now look. Hinerion taken like a peach, Empire columns marching right into the peninsula like it was their backyard. You ask me, that raiding you did down south after the war, they should of given you a fucking medal for it.”
“What I thought,” said Sharkmaster Wyr quietly.
“Yeah, guess we all got to carry other men’s fuck ups, don’t we. Like I should of had that harbour watch job when old Feg died, everyone knew I was his favourite for it. Still can’t believe that little shit Sobli got it instead. Anyway, not going to bore you with that story again. Like I said, don’t you go eating all that at once, mate. With this shit boiling up, could be a couple of days before I get back here again. Right, that’s it, got to get on. Let’s hope your old bosun’s calmed down a bit since yesterday. Last thing I need on top of everything else, that is – him flinging his own turds at me like any of this is my fucking fault.”
The door clubbed shut again, the key grated round, and Gort went grumbling away. Wyr got up and hobbled stiffly to a portion of the cell floor under the nearest porthole. He took a long breath, then hauled himself up on the porthole’s lower edge, wincing as his fetters dug into recently healed flesh from a dream he’d had a few days back.
He gritted his teeth and hauled harder, got his chin over the edge and peered out.
Bright morning light, long angled ladders of it propped up against the clouds, as if the sky was prepared for boarding. The new ships sat at anchor about a quarter league off, marked out from the hulk fleet by their masts, at the top of which the yellow and black plague pennants flopped slackly about in the breeze. One League caravel, looked like Alannor yard work from the lines, and two bigger, fatter Empire merchantmen, the sort that would have raised a low, predatory cheer from his crew back in the day. All three vessels flew the colours of Trelayne. It was hard to tell in the glare of early daylight off the water, his eyes were stinging from the unaccustomed brightness, but it didn’t look as if there was anyone up on deck.
“Hoy, look – No! Fucking pack that in!”
Gort’s muffled bellow from a couple of cells down the keel. Something nearly like a smile touched Wyr’s lips, then passed away. He lowered himself back down to the plank flooring and slid fingers under the fetters on his wrists, massaging the abused flesh there as best he could.
He crouched there, thoughtful, trying to understand why the arrival of the plague ships should feel so much like something good.