The FDA needs to add Bujold novels to its list of controlled substances. They’re too damn addictive.

I recently locked myself out of my apartment. I was stuck sitting around for a couple of hours until someone with a spare set of keys could come by. Fortunately, I had a stack of books available to me. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the book I’m currently reading (Midnight Sun by Karl Edward Wagner). So, rather than start something new, I picked up Komarr by Lois McMaster Bujold: I’d read it before, so I figured I could dip into it and then drop it again to go back to my Wagner.

Six hundred pages and a sleepless night later I’d finished re-reading not only Komarr, but A Civil Campaign as well.

Sigh.

I’ve talked before about all the things which make Bujold, arguably, the best SF writer working today, but they bear repeating:

(1) The smooth, perfectly natural use of her science fiction. After finishing A Civil Campaign I actually thought to myself, “There was scarcely any science fiction in this novel at all.” And then, after another moment, “Except the functional sex change. And the bioengineered bugs. And the uterine replicators.” All of which the plot is directly dependent upon. Not to mention the clones, gene therapy, hover cars, automatic traffic systems, stunners, wormholes, terraforming, contraceptive implants, and force fields which you’ll find laying around.

Whoops. Guess there’s quite a bit of science fiction in there after all.

The reason people say this type of thing about Bujold – and why even my subconscious will occasionally spew up such thoughts – is that Bujold is simply masterful in her ability to create a world utterly of the future yet, at the same time, utterly believable in its organic detail. You literally don’t think about the uterine replicators, clones, and terraforming as being particularly remarkable because Bujold makes them seen perfectly natural.

And, of course, that’s pretty dang remarkable.

(2) The detailed, believable, and moving portrayals of her characters. Bujold is one of those authors seemingly incapable of producing cardboard characters. Even the bit parts who show up for no more than a page or so are given a unique identity, personality, and presence. And her main characters are drawn with a depth and humanity which make them either beloved or hated without ever hitting a false note.

(3) The compelling and well-paced plots. Bujold’s books are, quite simply, page-turners. The compulsion to find out what happens next simply never lets you go, even when the book comes to an end. Plus, Bujold never drags her feet or rushes her tale – she tells the story in precisely the amount of space it needs to be told in, neither more nor less.

(4) The clean, expressive prose. Reading a Bujold novel is like looking through a clear window. The characters and their actions simply present themselves before the mind’s eye, without obstruction or distraction.

(5) The accessibility. Bujold’s Vorkosigan novels are the only series in which a new reader can pick up any single volume and enjoy it fully and completely. No matter which book you’re reading, Bujold somehow manages to accomplish the impossible – neither boring long-time readers with constant recaps nor expecting new readers to be familiar with her previous works. (The trick seems to be that, in any given book, the previous continuity is seamlessly handled like background information would be in any other novel.)

And, when all is said and done, the sum of all these strengths is stunningly greater than its notable parts.

Bujold’s one intermittent flaw as a writer, in my experience, is her peculiar variation upon the deus ex machina. I call it her “random meeting in a space station” plot point. In short, she will occasionally hinge an entire plot upon – literally – a random meeting in a space station. This particular flaw crops up significantly in Komarr, which results in my grade for that novel being knocked down from an A+ to a mere A.

A Civil Campaign, on the other hand, is without flaw. It is a masterful mixture of romance and high politics played out in a rip-roaring comedy of manners. Several scenes – including Miles’ infamous dinner – easily earn the work its place among such classics as Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest. The result is startling unique and utterly captivating.

As with everything Bujold writes, these come highly recommended.

GRADES:

KOMARR: A
A CIVIL CAMPAIGN: A+

Lois McMaster Bujold
Published: 1999 / 2000
Publisher: Baen Books
Cover Price: $7.99
ISBNs: 0-67-157808-1 / 0-67-157885-5
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There was a time when I owned every single Star Trek tie-in novel ever published. When I became a paperboy in grade school I took my first real paycheck and bought every single Star Trek novel ever published by Pocket Books. (This would have been the late ‘80s, so there would have already been a lot of them, although not nearly as many as there are now.) I had already collected all the novels published before Pocket Books took the helm, including the retellings of the original series by Blish and the animated series by Alan Dean Foster. I took a great deal of pride in the completeness of my collection, continuing to buy each and every Star Trek novel as it was released.

I kept that up even after I had essentially stopped reading them. Then, eventually, the habit grew too expensive: Once DS9 made its appearance there were three different series of novels, each with a monthly release, and I couldn’t afford to spend $20 or more each month on books I wasn’t even reading.

Not to mention the shelf space.

My point here is that I had gotten to the point where I simply ignored media tie-ins. My philosophy was simple: With all the great books out there that I will never get a chance to read, why should I waste my time trying to sort through the great sea of mediocrity which is tie-in fiction?

But then I encountered Babylon 5, which lit a burning passion in my heart. In fact, the TV series was painfully good, with each new episode leaving an ache of yearning in its wake.

That ache still wasn’t good enough to get to me try out the tie-in fiction, mind you. In fact, in a lot of ways, my love for this particular series only made the tie-in novels less interesting to me. Why? Because what raised Babylon 5 to its transcendent level was largely the loving care with which J. Michael Straczynski revealed his universe, his characters, and his story. Disconnected, disjointed tie-in fiction written by third party authors simply lacked the very things which made Babylon 5 so special.

But, suddenly, that changed: The license for Babylon 5 tie-in novels changed hands and, with the new arrangement, J. Michael Straczynski was providing detailed outlines. The new novels were, rather than being misbegotten step-children, unique new windows into the Babylon 5 universe.

And that, finally, enticed me back into the tie-in stable. Three trilogies resulted from the Straczynski outlines: Legions of Fire by Peter David; The Passing of the Techno-Mages by Jeanne Cavelos; and The Psi Corps Trilogy by J. Gregory Keyes. All three were eventually issued as omnibuses by the SFBC, and it’s in that form that I finally picked up copies.

I read Legions of Fire last year. It was my first choice among the three because it finished the story of Londo Mollari – a story which had been broadly and intriguingly hinted at over the course of the TV series, but never told. Its revelations made it an addictive and entertaining read for me, but I couldn’t help regretting the relative crudity of its craft. In a lot of ways, the flaws in the novel made it painfully clear that I was reading a novel written by one author from the outline of another: For whatever reason, Peter David had been unable to fully own the material, resulting in a certain lack of depth. Nor had he been able to forge a smooth narrative from bullet points, creating an awkward pacing and a definite lack of causal continuity.

In short, you had a very compelling plot that simply didn’t come to life in the telling. The result was something that I think any fan of Babylon 5 would enjoy reading, but which fails on its own merits. As a result, I ended up setting aside the other two trilogies, expecting more of the same.

All of this is nothing more than a lengthy prelude, however. What I’m really here to talk about is my reaction to The Psi Corps Trilogy, which I just finished reading.

Let me brutally blunt here, because otherwise I fear my point will be lost:

These are damn good books.

And I don’t mean that in a “these are really good considering that they’re tie-in novels” way. I mean that these are damn good books, period. Start with a little of Mutant by Henry Kuttner, then add a lot of The Demolished Man by Alfred Bester, and then give it some meat with a dark version of the best parts of Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card and you’ll begin to have some sense of what The Psi Corps Trilogy has to offer.

In short, J. Gregory Keyes offers a dynamic, complex story with an epic scale. He seizes the opportunity to work with a large, multigenerational cast by drawing each character with care and detail. He then cements the entire work by placing at center stage an absolutely compelling psychological drama which takes the reader’s heart in hand and wrings emotion from it almost effortlessly.

The only “flaw” – and I hesitate to call it such – is that there is a gap in the narrative of the trilogy. The first volume, in an epic style reminiscent of the Foundation Trilogy, covers the history of telepaths from their first appearance in the 21^st century until the time of Alfred Bester (another of the many compelling and deeply drawn characters from the television series). The second volume is the life story of Bester up to his first appearance in the series. The third volume essentially completes Bester’s story after the series. (The missing part of the narrative, of course, is the story that we see in the series itself.)

In essence, The Psi Corps Trilogy is the Tragedy of Alfred Bester. The particular brilliance of the work can be ascribed entirely to Keyes’ success in not only telling this story as an intense drama of the human spirit, but also by imbuing in Bester the legacy of the telepathic race. Keyes perfectly captures a character created by Straczynski and portrayed by Walter Koenig, and then renders that character into a Janus-like figure, looking down upon the twin destinies of his people. The result is Shakespearean in its scope.

As I sit here, giving the work the thought it deserves – looking at its details and savoring each in turn – I am particularly struck by the complexity of the characters. Not only does Keyes practice an exceptional conservation of cast (never once allowing a character to simply amble through his narrative without some deeper purpose or effect), he also makes sure that every character is fully realized as a living, breathing being.

On a similar note, the careful weaving of the story’s many themes also leaps out at me as a stellar accomplishment. No event is allowed to pass as an idle plot point: Nothing simply happens – it happens to someone, and has a meaning; an impact; an effect upon them. And, on top of that, each event carefully illuminates some new facet of the gem which Keyes is crafting – it has a unique significance not only to the characters, but to the reader.

Which brings me back to my thesis statement:

These are damn good books.

You should read them.

GRADES:

DARK GENESIS: A
DEADLY RELATIONS: A
FINAL RECKONING: A

J. Gregory Keyes
Published: 1998-1999
Publisher: Del Rey
Cover Price: $6.50
ISBNs: 0-34-542715-7 / 0-34-542716-5 / 0-34-542717-3
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More of What I’m Reading today. I might try for some variety tomorrow, or I might just keep chewing through these until I’ve got the website completely updated:

26. The Psi Corps Trilogy – J. Gregory Keyes
27. Komarr and A Civil Campaign – Lois McMaster Bujold
28. Midnight Sun – Karl Edward Wagner
29. Northwest Smith – C.L. Moore
30. 40,000 in Gehenna – C.J. Cherryh

I’ve been on a pulp fantasy kick for the past month or so: I started with Robert E. Howard, having finally secured (by way of the Science Fiction Book Club) a hardcover copy of what promises to be the first true edition of his Conan stories to be issued in the States. From that familiar territory I spun off for a quick foray through Henry Kuttner’s imaginative Prince Raynor stories before returning to Howard for the outstanding – if unfortunately few – Cormac Mac Art stories. I then took a voyage of peril and pleasure across Clark Ashton Smith’s forgotten continent of Zothique before turning my attention to Fritz Leiber’s legendary duo: Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser.

From there I had intended to set sail for the lands of either Moorcock’s Elric or Wagner’s Kane, but – in truth – I find myself so disheartened that I am instead turning my attention to wholly different pastures for awhile.

But I fear that I set my premise before my scene. Let me back up for a moment.

For those who don’t know, Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser are famed heroes of the sword and sorcery genre. First unleashed in the pages of the pulps, their literary career spanned almost five decades, coming to an end only with Leiber’s death in the early ‘90s. Their tales are most commonly available in seven authoritative collections: Swords and Deviltry, Swords Against Death, Swords in the Mist, Swords Against Wizardry, Swords of Lankhmar, Swords and Ice Magic, and The Knight and Knave of Swords.

I first read their adventures in junior high, savoring the two omnibuses which collected the first six of these volumes: The Three Swords and Swords’ Masters. Coming back to them now, nearly fifteen years later, I had only dim and disjointed memories of the two dashing swashbucklers, their gritty city of Lankhmar , and the mystic-laden land of Nehwon .

On this return trip, I found myself harboring a great deal of uneven disappointment. In short, I found that the stories of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser could be roughly divided into two camps – the outstanding and the painfully mediocre – with the latter far outnumbering the former.

Nor can one simply say, as one can in so many cases, that the earlier tales are superior to the hack work of the later. “Ill Met in Lankhmar”, The Swords of Lankhmar, and even the somewhat mixed “Rime Isle”, although among the later works, would make the list of those stories I would recommend. Although, that being said, I think it is clear that, as the series continued, a certain dreary repetition and self-conscious cleverness began to consistently diminish the stories.

Perhaps the best way to approach this inconsistent and self-crippling series is through a volume-by-volume summary of impressions.

SWORDS AND DEVILTRY: Fortunately, the most consistent volume in the series is also the first, although it contains only three tales. “The Snow Women” and “The Unholy Grail” each tell a tale of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser before their fateful and legendary meeting in Lankhmar. The former is a top-notch tale of youth and magic in the frozen north, keenly demonstrating the fantastic and unique vision which Leiber is capable of delivering. The latter, although strongly crafted, is a somewhat weaker tale – its plot more commonplace in its conception. The volume is rounded out by “Ill Met in Lankhmar”, which is the tale of the first true meeting of our destined heroes. It is also a powerfully tragic story, and its strength is best described by the fact that it represented my strongest memory of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser before returning to the series.

SWORDS AGAINST DEATH: The second volume in the series begins to show the inconsistency I’m talking about, particularly in the short bridging stories which I believe Leiber wrote specifically for these collections. “The Jewels in the Forest ” and “Thieves’ House”, two of the oldest stories, are the highlights here, and come highly recommended. Running close behind are “The Howling Tower” and “Claws of the Night” – the former being slight, but imaginative; while the latter comes as close to being a prototypical tale of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser as you are likely to find (mixing thievery, gods, and sly humor across the backdrop of Lankhmar).

Much of this volume, however, is thoroughly pedestrian. To this category belong “The Bleak Shore”, “The Sunken Land”, “The Seven Black Priests”, and “Bazaar of the Bizarre”. (Although, in their favor, I will note that these all have their moments of fantastic vision. The last, however, is a very thin pastiche.) Finally, it would be charitable to describe the last two tales offered here – “The Circle Curse” and “The Price of Pain-Ease” – as thoroughly mediocre. It would be more accurate to simply describe them as bad.

SWORDS IN THE MIST: The third volume is even more uneven than the second. On the one hand, it arguably contains the two best stories in the series: The first of these, “Lean Times in Lankhmar”, is a masterfully crafted tale. Its characters keep you enthralled while its fanciful premise is cleverly worked into an utterly hilarious conclusion. It reminds me strongly of Terry Pratchett at his finest. (Pratchett’s Small Gods, in particular, owes an obvious debt to this story.) The second gem to be found here is “Adept’s Gambit”, which is also the first tale of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser written by Leiber. Set in a mythically tinged epoch of ancient history, the tale is faintly resonant with the finest creations of Lovecraft, Howard, and Clark Ashton Smith, but possesses a flair and unique sense of character which makes it all Leiber’s own.

Unfortunately the rest of this volume can’t compare with these two classics: “The Cloud of Hate” and “When the Sea-King’s Away” are forgettable clichés, while “Their Mistress, the Sea” and “The Wrong Branch” are ham-fisted, half-baked afterthoughts attempting to create an unnecessary bridge between one tale and the next.

SWORDS AGAINST WIZARDRY: The bulk of this volume is taken up by two lengthy tales, “Stardock” and “The Lords of Quarmall”. Both stories play out across a fantastic and vividly imagined landscape populated with strange cultures and larger-than-life characters. These two tales give Swords Against Wizardry perhaps the strongest base of any volume in the series. Unfortunately, the collection is also padded out with a couple of bridging stories – “The Witch’s Tent” and “The Two Best Thieves of Lankhmar” – which have a bit more substance to them than the other bridging stories, but are still mediocre offerings at best.

THE SWORDS OF LANKHMAR: This is, in fact, the only stand-alone novel in the series. It tells the sprawling saga of an attempted invasion (of a most unusual size and character) aimed against the great city of Lankhmar . Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, of course, almost single-handedly turn back this invasion – although the path they take is anything but simple or straight-forward.

The Swords of Lankhmar is not the best story told of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, but it is perhaps the greatest. The expanded format allows Leiber a chance to stretch his muscles, and he accepts the challenge admirably by weaving a tapestry not only expansive in its imaginings but detailed in its fancies.

Perhaps the most intriguing thing to me about this novel is the clear inheritance its narrative receives from fairy tales. Whereas most writers of sword-and-sorcery trace their antecedents back to classical myth and legend, Leiber’s heroes clearly inhabit a world inspired as much as by Hans Christian Anderson as it is by Beowulf. And it is perhaps this, more than anything else, which gives these stories a unique distinction in the field.

SWORDS AND ICE MAGIC: Unfortunately, after The Swords of Lankhmar the series appears to have spent its creativity. Swords and Ice Magic, the sixth volume, is largely an unimaginative regurgitation of the themes, plots, and characters found earlier in the series. The first five stories in this collection (“The Bait”, “Beauty and the Beasts”, “Trapped in Shadowland”, “The Bait”, and “Under the Thumbs of the Gods”) are simply dreadful wastes of time. In fact, they are all essentially the same story: Distant powers or gods attempt to kill Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, who – for their part – accept the improbable with stoic complacency while thoroughly and effortlessly thwarting the attempts each time. Unfortunately, this is also a story which was told twice before in these collections.

Fortunately, things then take a slight turn for the better. The sixth story, “Trapped in the Sea of Stars ”, is badly contrived and nearly plotless, but makes up for it through the vivid description of its sense-of-wonder sea voyage. There is, in fact, no particular story here at all – but the visions conjured forth by Leiber’s prose are worth the price of admission.

The last two stories in the collection – “The Frost Monstreme” and “Rime Isle” – are, in fact, two halves of a single story. Although still flawed by an increasingly rambling style, self-conscious commentary, and regurgitation of plot and imagery, this story still has a lot to offer: Clever interactions of character, epic sensibility, charming wit, and wondrous feats are offered up with a melancholic flair.

THE KNIGHT AND KNAVE OF SWORDS: Sadly, however, that is the end of it. This last collection of stories offers nothing but an imagination apparently spent.  “Sea Magic”, “The Mer She”, and “The Curse of the Smalls and the Stars” each offer us regurgitated plots while doing nothing more than shuffling around the characters and magic items presented in “Rime Isle” to little sense of purpose or accomplishment.

Finally, in “The Mouser Goes Below”, Leiber pulls the same trick: Shuffling around characters and devices already well-worn beyond any effective use. The only difference to be found is that Leiber pulls his reused material from a larger portion of the series, rather than a single story.

I also found another trend in this last volume particularly disconcerting: A pointless coarseness which was previously absent from the series. I’m not sure what Leiber was attempting to accomplish by suddenly inundating the narrative with “long poniards” piercing “cunts and arse holes”, but the effect was merely distasteful.

In the end, I think this was a series which long-outlived its creator’s interest. Or, at the very least, his ability. The later offerings become increasingly repetitive and unimaginative, as if Leiber had simply run out of new ideas to share. Unfortunately, in collected form, these lackluster efforts seem to out-mass and actively detract from those stories which legitimately earn Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser a place of high honor in the pantheon of fantasy heroes.

Indeed, I found myself unable to finish the series. Swords and Ice Magic had seriously fatigued my interest, and I pushed on with The Knight and Knave of Swords only because (a) I had never read that final volume and (b) I wanted to finish what I had started.

But, in the end, I could manage no further than the mid-point of “The Mouser Goes Below”. Leiber pinioned the Mouser – immobile, invisible, and speechless – in order to have him bear witness to a gratuitously graphic description of one of his former loves having her maid stripped bare, fondled in the cunt and arse hole, and then given instruction on “naked serving”. After several pages of this pointlessly turgid prose I finally gave up and closed the book.

If I ever return to the adventures of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, it shall be a markedly proscribed path I take through their tales. Such a journey would look something like this:

“The Snow Woman”
“The Unholy Grail”
“Ill Met in Lankhmar”
“The Jewels in the Forest”
“Thieves’ House”
“The Bleak Shore”
“The Howling Tower”
“The Sunken Land”
“The Seven Black Priests”
“Claws of the Night”
“Lean Times in Lankhmar”
“When the Sea-King’s Away”
Adept’s Gambit
“Stardock”
“The Lords of Quarmall”
The Swords of Lankhmar
“The Frost Monstreme”
“Rime Isle”

I suspect this is less than half of the words written by Leiber of the two greatest swordsmen to ever live in this or any other universe, but it is decidedly the better half. And it, unlike the balance of the series, comes with my highest recommendation.

GRADES:

SWORDS AND DEVILTRY: A-
SWORDS AGAINST DEATH: B+
SWORDS IN THE MIST: A-
SWORDS AGAINST WIZARDRY: A-
SWORDS IN LANKHMAR: A-
SWORDS AND ICE MAGIC: B
KNIGHT AND KNAVE OF SWORDS: D

Fritz Leiber
Published: 1940-1990
Publisher: Various
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The sheer scope of Deadhouse Gates is truly amazing. It’s also nearly impossible to describe. Imagine The Iliad, The Odyssey, Dune, and an Elric novel all seamlessly integrated into a single narrative and then lightly spiced with a little Lord of Light. And I’m not even beginning to do it justice.

When I got to page 200 in this book, I thought for a moment that I had it all figured out: I knew exactly where Erikson was going with the story. But then I realized I was only a fifth of the way through the novel and, in point of fact, I had no idea where he was going.

It was then that I realized something special was happening here.

When you look at this 900 page novel, I suspect your first instinct will be to cry, “Bloat!” After all, your typical 900 page fantasy epic is just begging for a ruthless edit, right?

Wrong.

Deadhouse Gates is, in fact, one of the tightest novels I’ve ever read. There’s more plot per square inch of page space in this book than any other book I can think of, and I wouldn’t give up even the tiniest iota of it.

Let me back up.

When you’re talking about fantasy masterpieces, you’re talking about books like Deadhouse Gates.

When I finished Gardens of the Moon with a somewhat tepid reaction, I had a lot of people tell me that Deadhouse Gates was going to be a massive improvement. I thought I understood what they meant. But I didn’t. See, they meant massive improvement. The type of improvement which just leaves your mouth gaping open.

Erikson jumped straight from “pretty damn good” to “one of the best fantasy books I’ve ever read”.

The improvement in basic storytelling is immediate and amazing. The primary difference between Deadhouse Gates and Gardens of the Moon is not the size of the cast, the density of the plot, or the complexity of the world – it is simply the fact that, in Deadhouse Gates, you can actually follow the story.

There are a lot of things that contribute to this: Erikson sticks with each plot thread long enough for details to establish themselves. He’s also much better at identifying the important details of who, what, and where in a scene – rather than expecting you to read his mind through loose detail. To some extent, I also learned to hook location to character groups – but that’s also an improvement on Erikson’s part, because his characters no longer hopscotch across continents while off-screen.

It’s a relatively simple improvement, but it allows everything else to shine – the epic plot; the extravagant detail and depth of the world; the powerful characters. With Gardens of the Moon we were looking at Erikson’s genius through a smoky room. With Deadhouse Gates we’re staring straight into the halogen bulb.

There’s almost too much to rave about here: The sheer, brilliant pacing of Coltaine’s march. The dozens of characters drawn with a depth which will absolutely wrench your heart out. The careful point and counterpoint of every plot thread. The tragedies of Sophoclean scope and Euripidian detail. The ineffable brilliance which lends the whole a greatness larger than the sum of its many accomplished parts.

On top of all that, there is a quality here which is really quite remarkable, because Erikson manages to evoke the mythic and the epic within the framework of a modern novel. And that’s something I really haven’t seen out of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings – especially with the kind of scope and scale that Erikson attempts here.

My joyous shouts aside, there are still some problems here: The names remain a grab-bag of inconsistency. Erikson can, at times, make butchery and pain amazingly boring through its senseless repetition and lack of effect. (Oh, sure, people feel pain – but there’s no lingering effect or psychological impact. Even the most pampered nobles apparently have a limitless capacity of stoic resolve in Erikson’s world. People can have their eyeballs burst, their faces crushed with maces, and their ears ripped off… and still be smiling about it a couple minutes after it happened.)

There is a whole range of fantasy species, but I never get a firm description of any of them. For example, one of the main characters is a Trell: I know that he has a thick hide and lots of muscles. But that’s not enough information to actually construct a coherent picture. All of these races are well-defined and detailed (in fact, they feel truly *alien* in a way that most fantasy races don’t)… except when it comes to physical appearance. The ironic thing is that I found myself continually struggling to pin some kind of fantasy archetype onto Erikson’s creations – not because they’re particularly similar to other fantasy races (they aren’t), but because I was desperate to find something to base a mental picture on.

There is also a slight tendency towards minor deus ex machinas to resolve minor plot points in midstream, and a handful of authorial tics…

But, really, none of these amount to a significant criticism when compared to sheer, towering might of Erikson’s accomplishment.

As a final note: Don’t let Gardens of the Moon be the only Tale of the Malazan Empire you read. If you must place the series within a crucible, then let Deadhouse Gates be the work you judge. (It’s also notable that each novel in this series stands independently of the rest. Each is its own story, with a unique beginning, middle, and end all its own.)

GRADE: A+

Steven Erikson
Published: 2003
Publisher: Tor
Cover Price: $29.95
ISBN: 0-765-31002-3
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