[Review] The Fallen Blade: Act 1 of the Assassini (Vampire Assassin Trilogy #1), by Jon Courtenay Grimwood

I'll begin by making it clear that this was a novel I read a) because it was recommended so highly by various people on my Twitter  network, and b) understanding I was entirely out of my comfort zone. 

Despite being an avid fan of both Venetian settings, and vampires (as well as general occult themes), I am woefully under-read when it comes the nightwalkers: their unfortunate relegation to the romantic realms of YA fiction has dampened my enthusiasm for anything vampiric outside of manga and anime. The Japanese just seem to handle vampires better. Much like science-fiction, if you ask me. 

Regardless, I wanted to read The Fallen Blade, because I expected it to be a different, intriguing read. I wasn't disappointed, that's for sure. Although at times I felt so bewildered it was frustrating. 

I'll clarify: There were aspects that I found lacking, but they are the same things I found wanting in Stephan Deas' Memory of Flames series thus far. I'll come back to this later. Furthermore, anything else I'll pick fault with in the first instalment of the Vampire Assassin trilogy is entirely subjective, and related to the depiction of vampires in general.

What's apparent from the very beginning, is how theatrical The Fallen Blade is going to be: the "dramatis personæ" is only the first hint, followed by both the detailed family tree, the Shakespeare quote, and finally, the "Part One" proudly heralding the book's beginning. Theatrics in fantasy are not something I've experienced much, outside of The Lies of Locke Lamora. I was expecting something special and exciting when I began.

The Venetian setting is seamless; Grimwood effortlessly captures the magic, squalor and darkness of 15th Century Venice, conveying the glamorous lives of the rich, side-by-side with the hopelessness of the poor. Grimwood's Venice is alive, pulsating with life and death. And magic. 

The pacing is excellent, and The Fallen Blade is definitely a page-turner. 

Initially, I was unconvinced. I found it difficult to really become absorbed in the story, because for me, one crucial thing was missing: characterisation. And yet, that isn't quite right. There is plenty of characterisation, in fact, the characters have quirks and traits and idiosyncrasies in abundance. But what they don't have are personalities. I found myself attached to and absorbed in the plot itself, but not particularly bothered--for or against--any of the characters. In the entire book, perhaps three characters stand out to me, and these are not the three I initially expected. 

Tycho. Tycho is amazing, entirely because of what and who he is. In regards to his character and personality...as with the rest of the cast, there's little to grow attached to. I like to latch onto the characters I read; I like to learn to love them. I relish nothing more in a story than growing attached to the characters I'm reading about. I only care about Tycho because I have a soft spot for vampires. Of course, Grimwood is artfully vague about what Tycho actually is, and this works: the last thing needed in such a slick, sexy and dark novel is the (unfortunate) misconception that comes with the word "vampire" in fantasy fiction at the moment. The same goes for the krieghund. That they aren't merely "vampires" and "werewolves" adds a sophistication to the story. There is magic at play, and this very magic permeates the hidden places, the secret places of Venice. The Fallen, and the krieghund are merely part of this. 

Desdaio. She's, quite honestly, wonderful. Whilst she at once fills the role of Othello's Desdemona, she is also the most heart-warming character in the book. Her character is one of the most clearly conveyed, and this is probably why I took to her as much as I did. That there's little to say about her, in no way reflects on her as an uninteresting character. In fact, there's little to say, because saying she's well-developed and well-conveyed amidst a cast I found otherwise lacking, conveys just how fantastic she is. 

Lady Giulietta. That Grimwood manages to effortlessly convey all the petulance, fear and childish innocence of a girl as young as her, in such a specific setting, only serves to elevate him to a higher pedestal as a writer. There isn't a second where her character falters; she remains flawless throughout, even as her personality changes in response to the horrors that befall her. Essentially, Grimwood captures her perfectly. Whether in her snobbish, spoilt anger, her bewildered terror, or devastated perseverance, Grimwood writes her seamlessly, with never a jarring moment. I make a point of this, because I know from my own writing how difficult it can be conveying the opposite sex, let alone a frightened young girl. Occasionally when writers portray teenagers and children, their ages can be forgotten in the delivery; this not once happens with Giulietta, even throughout her most womanly and adultly of troubles.  

The rest of the cast; I couldn't care a fig. They could die, slit each other's throats, and play each other for all they're worth, if they like (and they probably will). It feels as though it's none of my business. I'll be honest; if any one of the three I mentioned is offed (unlikely with Tycho, for obvious reasons, at least at present), I likely won't care as much as I've cared for other characters in  other books. 

The character development feels very literary, and whilst this is excellent in regard to clean, sophisticated writing, I can help feeling that it's lacking. I felt this way after Memory of Flames. I just didn't care about any of the characters. This is obviously by choice. Grimwood has clearly opted for a dazzling, dark and gritty drama, with a heavier emphasis on fast-paced, sexy theatrics, than who his characters are. Whilst this isn't my favoured approach to the people whose stories I'm essentially reading about, it works in this instance. It more than works; it wouldn't be the same without it. Grimwood couldn't be half as ruthless if he'd presented a cast the reader could actually, deeply care for. (Well, he could....but that would be cruel!) 

The fact remains that characterisation is the single fault I could really pick, and even then, I accept that for The Fallen Blade, it works. Other than this, I wasn't sold on the notion that vampires 'transform' into something else, in a similar fashion to how the krieghund do.  This, however, is entirely subjective, and just happens to be because I know how I like my vampires. 

All in all, The Fallen Blade really is as good as I've heard everyone say. Moreover, it's different. For a first foray out of my cosy, warm comfort zone, I wasn't disappointed. The Fallen Blade delivers a pure shot of sophisticated, devilishly wicked dark fantasy at breakneck speed, whilst offering a theatrical, Shakespearean experience that really, truly is "as dark and dazzling as a masquerade". 

Read this book; you will be at once surprised, and delighted. 

3.5/5

[Review] The Wise Man's Fear, by Patrick Rothfuss [Kingkiller Chronicles #2]

I did hesitate somewhat when thinking about reviewing this before the first book (The Name of the Wind), but decided that reviewing book two was far more relevant, given its recent release. That, and The Wise Man’s Fear is the book of the moment—at least, for me it is—much like the first instalment of the Kingkiller Chronicles was back in 2007.

2007.

Yes, it’s been a long wait. Yes, it’s been frustrating at times. But when the doorstop that is The Wise Man’s Fear is sitting there, completed and only slightly crinkled about the dustcover from being stuffed into backpacks and being lugged around for a week, how can one complain?

I’ll start by saying that Day Two of Kvothe’s story was just…brilliant. When asked during my first read of it, by a friend who was trudging through the first book, if it was a ‘good’ book, I found myself saying this: It is what it is—it’s Kvothe telling his story, and he’s got one hell of a story to tell.

Of course there were negative aspects—there always are in books of this length. The Name of the Wind saw Kvothe spend just that little bit too long in Tarbean, and just a few too many pages as a starving thing. That did grate a little, but it’s not problematic enough, and doesn’t affect the story enough to really complain about it. In this case, I personally feel too much time was spent with Kvothe visiting the Adem.

Whilst it was very insightful and important as part of Kvothe’s tale, I didn’t care much for the Adem as a culture: I simply don’t go in for the kind of culture they represent. However, whether my view has been jaded by the sheer frustrating length of how long Kvothe spends with them is up for debate. Would I have a better view of these events had they not seemed to last so long? Probably.

As for the rest of the book’s negative points? There aren’t any.

The Wise Man’s Fear as a novel—a story, a memoir of sorts—is one thousand pages of pure magic. It’s a sweeping tale of everything fantasy really shouldn’t be. Just like the first book, it breaks all the rules, and gets away with all manner of borderline clichés. But this, in part, is what makes it magical. In the same way that J.R.R. Tolkien created a mythology for England (heaven knows, we need one!), Pat Rothfuss has created a mythology for fantasy enthusiasts.

Kvothe is a legend; his life is myth. Cynics might suggest we’ve heard this sort of tale of heroes before, merely dressed in different clothes, but anyone who has read even just half of the first book knows this is false. There is nothing trite or over-egged about the story Kvothe tells; on the contrary, Rothfuss offers, through Kvothe, a reimagining of the fantasy story, and this fantastic creation lives on through the second instalment of the series.

Kvothe is a fantastic character. He’s cut from the same cloth of cocky that Scott Lynch’s Locke (The Lies of Locke Lamora) is, whilst being every bit as brave and heroic as any fantasy hero clad in a ton of gleaming, metal armour. Better yet, Kvothe is so damned clever. Finally, a hero for the less brawny, less beefy, less soldier-y, not at all paladin-y guy! He’s a musician (so an artist) and a scholar; he’s the epitome of geek in the language we understand now. That’s why Kvothe is so fantastic; we see (or want to see) ourselves in him.

We see him and his awkward love-dance with Denna, and we think of our first crush. We see him forging strong friendships with Simmon and Wilem, and we think of making friends in college. We see him struggling to pay his tuition and eat, whilst spending every first penny on his lute, and we think of eating instant noodles for a week just so we can pre-order the latest special edition hardback or videogame we’ve been coveting. We see our intelligent, dreaming, idealistic selves. Kvothe is a geek and it’s why we love him so.

As well as imagining ourselves in Kvothe’s world, there is a lot of thought-provoking material in The Wise Man’s Fear. I’m not a fan of having philosophy (or religion or politics) forced down my throat, but the way in which Rothfuss presents everything he does is so subtle and relevant that not once does it come across as being too deep, or too engaging. Nobody wants to read a fantasy novel only to then feel they should write a philosophy essay on the subject. In a way, the fact that anything of the sort is delivered through Kvothe’s life-experiences and learning dresses the philosophy up as something else. Instead of a book that makes you think, The Wise Man’s Fear serves food for thought as a sideboard buffet; it’s there and you can help yourself, but primarily you’re here for the show and that’s featured on the centre stage.

That said, the philosophical aspects of the book are present, and readers can opt-in and take them on board. Personally, rather than seeing the story in any philosophical light, I would rather just let Kvothe sweep me away. Nothing more and nothing less.

Given the length of The Wise Man’s Fear it’s no surprise that many aspects of the overall plot progress throughout the book. As much as I enjoy Kvothe’s daily life at the University—and I do; I could read a book filled just with this—there is excitement to be had when Kvothe strikes out and adventures elsewhere for a while. We get to see Kvothe outside his comfort zone, and we’re reminded of just how clever he is.

Any fan of the series has the right to be suitably impressed by Kvothe as he is, let alone when he accomplishes all he does during the second instalment—especially when we recall his age.

What I liked most about Day Two, is that we begin to see Kvothe growing up. Yes, our Kvothe is becoming a man. More than any fantasy book I think I’ve read, Kvothe’s story is not just a tale of this and that, of adventures and grandiose events; it’s a coming-of-age story as much as it is a story of growing and learning. Moreover, it’s a story of mistakes.

The very silence that carries throughout the Waystone Inn is the sound of Kvothe’s own mistakes, and this silence rings more loudly in his ears than the sound of his numerous successes, seemingly forgotten by Kvothe himself as he resigns himself to wasting away as Kote the Innkeeper.

Almost as an opposing force to this is Bast. Now, I adore Bast—I took to him from the first sentence in the first book and my love hasn’t diminished. There is something about Bast. More so in The Wise Man’s Fear. Above all else, whilst Bast’s character is developed further in regards to his “race” (readers having enjoyed The Name of the Wind will understand), the way in which his desperation for Kvothe to ‘remember’ who he once was and become that man again is gut-wrenching. Bast stated he merely wanted “his Reshi back” and that is all he appears to want in the world. This desire is a thousand times more powerful in this second part, and Bast’s character is all the stronger for it.

In addition, events in the book—Kvothe’s time with Felurian, as documented in the original blurbs—bring Bast into sharper view during the various interludes, and all the while the reader cannot help but wonder just how Kvothe met this young man, and precisely who indeed, Bast is.

The end of the book was powerful: Kvothe still refuses to acknowledge himself in the present, clinging still to the mask of Kote he’s fashioned for himself, whilst Bast’s desperation reaches new heights and events threaten to darken. The novel closes on somewhat of a cliff-hanger, although the reader can guess as to what might transpire next.

Above all else, The Wise Man’s Fear is a book so deep, so engrossing and so magical, that whilst it might be an agonising wait for book three, the wait will be entirely worthwhile—however long it might be.

Pat Rothfuss is an artist, a storyteller and a minstrel: he could make us wait ten years and we’d forget any frustration the second we reach the first page and read “A Silence of Three Parts”. 

5/5

[Review] Shadow's Son, by Jon Sprunk

This will be the first in a series of regular reviews that I hope to sprinkle amidst the usual updates. Why? Well first off, I like making it known when books are good (or bad, or great!) and by the end I think it'll be a collection of reviews that will show off where perhaps some of my influences come from. Every single book I ever read influences me in some way; whether its writing style, character development or simply tropes and techniques, I take in everything. 

There's a backlog of reviews I want to write, but since I finished this book just last night it seemed as good a place as any to start. 

Before I even read Shadow's Son  [Jon Sprunk] there was already a little story around it growing. Having ventured into Waterstone's and being drawn in by the blurb, title and front cover (everything, really) I was ready to pluck it from the shelf and skip to the cashier. Then, it was pointed out that the book wasn't hardcover—which I have a penchant for—and that Amazon proffered such, at only a couple of pounds more. Reluctantly (I wanted to return home happy with book in hand) I waited on Amazon. An uncharacteristic delay saw me receive the book some two weeks later. I was not impressed. 

Still, when I finally received it I was not disappointed. 

From the beginning I warmed to Caim. What can I say? I detest whiter than white protagonists whose back-stories are cleaner than a nun's unmentionables. Caim is the kind of hero I like: he's clever, quick rather than strong, and pushed forwards by a mysterious past. Moreover, he's a little dark. Sure, he's an assassin, but he's as nice a man as you'll find in his profession, and that's saying something. 

Early into the book we meet Kit. Seconds after meeting her, I loved her. A stunning, strange girl, Kit is witty, clever and the way in which she and Caim interact brings their relationship to life. You can almost feel Caim's ache for her at times, just as strongly as you can sense his desire to wring her neck. Their relationship is one of my favourite parts of the book, and I look forwards to more of it throughout the second. 

Purely because it was set in a city it brought images of both Mark Charan Newton's Nights of Villjamur and Scott Lynch's The Lies of Locke Lamora to mind. Though whilst you're not taken to the chilly winter streets where bistros' steamed windows overlook the trodden cobbles and the undeniable sense of a metropolitan community permeates the air, or the lavish Italianesque streets enhanced by ancient towers and alchemical lamps, traversed by the dandy, the rich and the thieving, the city is alive nonetheless.

In fact, the setting is so rich that you're treated to almost a guided tour of the city as Caim treads its many paths, streets and obviously, dark, dangerous alleyways. The city is ruled by the True Church, which essentially is the Catholic church. This allegory immediately piqued my interest, as I gladly warm to any setting where the church and monotheism are in the firing line. This further compounded the notion that this city was European in appearance and feel, and the same Italian verve from The Lies of Locke Lamora remained. 

Caim boasts a colourful cast to support him. A nobleman's daughter who bears a secret she's unaware of, but that could tear apart the city from its heart. A dandy young activist whose father perches at the very top of the establishment he strives against. An ambitious assassin whose loyalties are as fluid as the silk with which he adorns his apartments. Finally, a dark and dangerous pair; a powerful, influential priest and his dark sorcerer who, whilst he might lurk in the shadows he appears clad in, is not as easy to tame as his master might assume. 

Essentially the book begins with little plot in a sense; only Caim and his occupation, and Caim with a job to do. As the blurb promises, Caim soon is pulled into a deeper plot—a plot against him—and this is when the story heats up. Other books that start with little plot on the table upfront can be a little difficult to really get into, but that wasn't the case at all with Shadow's Son. Quite the contrary, actually. Caim and Kit make for such a dynamic and intriguing pair that their escapades are exciting enough to hook and reel the reader in until the big wheels start to turn. 

And boy do those wheels turn. 

Shadow's Son not only presents Caim as an assassin with a difference—namely, with powers—but also reaches far, far higher than the streets of Othir from which he takes his living, suete knives in hand. The plot reaches the lofty heights of the palace, with Caim struggling to stay one step ahead of enemies who have too much to lose to merely back down. Caim the Knife soon finds himself fighting battles that his knives alone can't match, and that he must rely on the one thing he's been trying to deny since he can remember: the shadows.

Good pacing, gripping action and sublime duelling scenes make this story a winner. Packed with dark sorcery and darker secrets, romance and suspense, all topped off with the proverbial cherry that is Sprunk's excellent writing, Shadow's Son was exactly everything it promised to be. 

4/5