As is sometimes the way with these reviews, I’m going to begin with a small autobiographical note to explain why I have never consumed anything hallucinogenic. Being born into the world before antibiotics were generally available to the public, I contrived to catch several diseases which produced very high temperatures. Having experienced hallucinations the “natural” way, I’ve never felt the need to induce one by taking anything pharmacological. This is not to say I’m prejudiced against people who disable their senses by chemical means. Whether advertently or inadvertently, people are free to do what they like to their own bodies and minds. But I’ve no sympathy for such people if they injure themselves or others while voluntarily under the influence.
Having got that off my chest, I come to Terminal Island by Walter Greatshell (Night Shade Books, 2013). It reminds me of books like Ritual by David Pinner and The Magus by John Fowles where our “hero” goes to a village or an island and finds his worldview shaken by what he finds. In this case, our hero is Henry Cadmus who returns to Catalina in search of his mother. As a young boy, Henry spent some time on the island but was the proverbial square peg, never seeming to find any degree of acceptance from anyone else on the island, and being relentlessly bullied, particularly by the girls at the school. Those of you who enjoy classical mythology allusions will notice that the original Cadmus was sent off on one of these hopeless quests by his father. Zeus had run off with his sister Europa and he was supposed to persuade the ruler of Olympus to return her. When that proved a little too challenging for a mere mortal, he founded Thebes and became mildly famous. In other words, the original Cadmus was a wanderer who eventually made a home for himself and settled down.
To explain my reaction to this book, I need to offer a definition of “horror” as applied to books and films. No matter what the content, the author’s intention is to induce a fairly specific emotional response. This can range from fear through to disgust. As cultures change and supposedly become more sophisticated, the concept of horror also changes because the innocent reactions of a young society no longer occur in world-weary societies who have seen it all before. This is not to say we cannot find ghosts stories scary and must always have some gore-splattered maniac hacking off limbs or inducing others to hack off their own limbs. This is not a race to ever more extreme descriptive content. But writers need to reflect the contemporary psychology and cultural expectations of their readers when deciding what constitutes horror content.
In many ways, this is a classic horror novel. Structurally, the first part is a twin narrative showing the arrival of our hero, his wife and young child on the island, and recalling the events of his childhood. As is always the case, the childhood sequence plays the unreliable narrator game. By definition, children have limited experience and therefore frequently misinterpret what they see and hear. In high stress situations where the fight or flee instincts strongly favour the latter, it’s easy for the emotions to prevent a clear overview of what’s actually happening. In modern America, we can all discount stories of supernatural events. Even if there are cults practising pagan or other religions, they tend to be rather harmless, hiding their rituals away from sight, ever fearful of discovery. So the first part is full of inconclusive facts and deft hints, setting the scene with considerable skill. Indeed, the construction of the plot is meticulous in the way all the details mesh together in unexpected ways. Of course Henry is reckless. This is expected of heroes in this type of situation. As a result he discovers information of a major criminal conspiracy and infers the death of his mother. In a panic, he tries to get off the island with his wife and child but this proves challenging..
During the course of his increasingly desperate attempts to escape, he becomes an unreliable narrator. This is not really his fault. Some of the food or drink he consumes has been spiked with a hallucinogen. Who can blame him for taking a moment to refuel while trying to plan the escape. Unfortunately, this untethers us from reality. Perhaps I was just in the wrong mood but I found a lot of the sequences at the end rather tiresome. Although the way all the plot elements come together is wonderful to behold, some of the revelations are less than credible. To take just two unresolved issues as examples. With the benefit of hindsight, are we to assume the girls would not have maimed or killed Henry as a boy when he was cornered on the pier? In the current situation, why is the cult running the scam and what does it do with the money? When it would be so easy to more positively control Henry, allowing him to discover the secret of the condo is distinctly odd. All the membership needs to do once he’s back on the island is feed him the jungle juice and start working on his mind. Making him run around like this is clearly redundant and could get him injured, i.e. it’s only there to pad out the book. Any excuse that the cult wanted to discover whether there was a mole in their ranks is a red herring. Over time it could have worked out the answer after a particular death had been engineered.
So there you have it. The first two-thirds of the book is a marvellous example of how to create atmospheric horror with little touches and flourishes. Even though I lost some patience towards the end, Terminal Island remains an impressive piece of writing and, so long as you don’t mind the increasingly surreal impressions crowding in on our hero’s mind, you will probably find this an excellent addition to the horror canon.
For a review of another book by Walter Greatshell, see Enormity (written under the pseudonym W G Marshall).
A copy of this book was sent to me for review.
The whole point of a narrator is to supply the point of view through which the story is told. This person will pass on all the relevant facts, give opinions, and offer insights. In other words, this well-informed character moves the story on through the plotted situations until we arrive at the end. Except some authors choose to make the narrator unreliable. He or she now fails to pass on all the relevant facts, gives opinions and insights based on misunderstandings, or just flat out lies when it suits him or her. This makes a good game for the author to play against the reader. It all comes down to deciding just how untrustworthy the narrator is. You will notice this distinguishes the literary device from the unfiltered omniscient author who tells us all we need to know. Through the unreliable narrator, the author can deliberately hide information from the reader, or if the narrator gives factually correct reports but misinterprets them, it’s left to the reader to see the narrator’s errors.
So here comes The Trouble With Charlie by Merry Jones (Oceanview Publishing, 2013) and a first-person narrator who breaks new ground in unreliability. During the course of the book, she’s diagnosed with a dissociative disorder. This confirmed medical condition gives rise to periods of detachment from surrounding events, i.e. she may be physically present but not paying attention. This means she may not be aware of the fine detail of what people tell her. She’s also likely to suffer amnesia following an emotionally stressing event. In both cases, she’s likely to invent information to hide her inability to accurately remember what happened. This can be very confusing to those who don’t know her. Finally, she’s likely to talk to people who aren’t there.
How does this relate to the plot? Well, the Charlie in question is both the husband who has separated from her and lives elsewhere, and the unfortunately dead body in her home. He has a kitchen knife rather prominently displayed in his back and she has a cut on her hand that was almost certainly caused by that knife. She finds the dead body when she returns from from her first time at a bar after her breakup. Although there are plenty of witnesses to show her at the bar, the ME gives a window of opportunity for her to have killed him before leaving home. Worse, she also inherits a tidy sum on life insurance policies (so long as she did not kill him, of course). That gives her motive and opportunity, and makes her the prime suspect. Normally people can explain events, but she has no memory of what she did before going to the bar. Naturally, the police think she’s faking the amnesia and is therefore guilty. She therefore chats to Charlie on a regular basis which would be useful if he knew who killed him. You’ll remember the blow was struck from behind. So he can’t help her fill in the gaps in her memory. Perhaps hypnotism would help.
Then she finds herself in danger and attacked by rather a strong man. She’s able to fight him off and kills him in the process but, of course she can’t clearly remember killing him. She has concussion and obvious wounds. It looks like a clear case of self-defence, but she can’t remember killing him. That could be a major problem if, in fact, someone else killed him while she was unconscious. Why would anyone do that anyway? So now the police are looking at one woman and two dead bodies. They begin to see the beginning of a pattern. Like the narrator, we’re just watching events unfold with not a clue what’s really going on. Fortunately, she has some very loyal friends to give her support and, while she was at that bar, she met an attractive man. Perhaps if she went out on a date with him, they could really hit it off and be happy together (so long as she manages to avoid going to jail for murder, of course).
The first part of this book is actually quite spooky. For a while, I was unsure whether this was a straight mystery or there was a supernatural element. In its own way, this makes for a very successful introduction to our narrator because it immediately highlights the problems she has in interpreting what she sees. Once we get past that, the book settles down into a pleasing rhythm as new evidence comes to light which shakes her confidence in her husband. She had always seen him as somewhat dishonest but basically nice. This information might suggest he was involved with a very unsavory crowd. When she asks him, he’s not completely convincing in his denials. Some men! You just can’t rely on them to tell you things, even when they’re dead. From this you will understand there’s quite a lot of pleasing hokum going on. I found the whole book great fun even though there’s quite a high body count and obvious danger to our amnesiac heroine.
With the one caveat that I think the end is slightly over the top — I understand why it ends this way but. . . — The Trouble With Charlie is very entertaining and the structured revelations as odd pieces of memory return are elegantly handled. Overall, I conclude the book is well worth picking up as a mystery shading into a thriller when the mood takes it that way.
A copy of this book was sent to me for review.
Zeuglodon by James P Blaylock (Subterranean Press, 2012) takes me back to the world of my childhood where I cut my reading teeth on adventure books by Enid Blyton. As a word of explanation to those not lucky enough to have discovered series like the Famous Five when young, the books are about children in danger: the titular five are Julian, Dick, Anne and Georgina (George) and their dog Timothy. They were always having adventures and catching criminals, hopefully always being back home in time for tea. To get this current team changed around so they can participate in this homage to Jules Verne, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Charles Fort and others, picture yourself standing on a sprung wooden floor in a thick fog — I know it’s a challenge to imagine adverse weather conditions inside a building, but bear with me. This is the game being played in this book. You can hear the movements of anyone in the room but cannot see them. You now hear ten pairs of footsteps so, naturally, you assume five people are approaching you. Imagine your surprise when it proves to be three children and a dog. It’s this kind of intensely logical and utterly convincing analysis that appeals to both young and old readers who want to experience a kind of affectionate nostalgia. A view of a past full of gentle wonder as filtered through fantasy rose-tinted spectacles.
So let’s meet the cast of characters. This is a first-person narrative by Katherine Perkins. She’s twelve and already an expert in everything but most especially in cryptozoology. She has two younger cousins, Brendan and Perry. The dog is called Hasbro (which is presumably a reference to his love of games with the kids or the Langdon St Ives’ valet — your choice). With mother missing in acton, Katherine is in the care of John Toliver Hedgepeth. He’s a genius, a member of the Order of St. George, and an inventor in the Heath Robinson style, being able to make a radio out of the junk laying around in his attic. In distant LA, Aunt Ricketts is convinced this is an unsuitable arrangement: a nutty eccentric man in charge of three children. So she gets Child Services on the job to see whether she can bring the children to a safer, more caring environment. To that end, Ms Henrietta Peckworthy appears on the scene to investigate the quality of care the children are receiving. Unfortunately, her arrival coincides with unusual weirdness so the whole issue of custody has to be shelved while the adventures move into high gear as one or more villains kidnap a mermaid (well, that’s not quite right but close enough for these purposes) and make demands. That gets our team on to the SS Clematis and off through the fog to the rendezvous with one or more of the bad guys. Yes, I know this is confusing but half the fun of all this is not knowing who’s on which side and what their motives are. After all, when you’re observing the world through the eyes of a twelve-year-old cryptozoologist in the making, you can’t expect her to know everything (including how fog gets out of glass jars so quickly even though you put the lids on as fast as you can). So think of her as an unreliable narrator or as a reliable narrator in an unreliable world. In such a story, lacking one for a Blyton full house, we’re off to Morecambe Bay and nearby Lake Windermere (which has a big fan installed to keep the fog away).
As a novel, Zeuglodon fits into the same story cycle as The Digging Leviathan with a shared villain Hilario Frosticos, and we’re ultimately in ERB land. As a pair, it fits into a broader set of novels which are called the Narbondo series, featuring Ignatio Narbondo and Langdon St Ives in a steampunk version of history rewriting Victorian events for comic effect. The essence of these stories is that much of what Verne, ERB, Fort and others described is actually real and, using new technology, hero and villain fight over Earth’s future, even travelling through time when necessary. Because of its point of view, Zeuglodon is actually a rather ingenious way of adding to the mythology and showing a different view of how the Victorian inspired future is working out. It’s not quite as steampunkish as earlier books but compensates by trespassing into fantasy dreamscapes where the zeuglodon or basilosaurus might put in an appearance should you be able to penetrate through to the hollow Earth. James Blaylock has managed something rather clever, maintaining a childlike point of view which, by implication, deals with some rather adult issues about relationships and responsibilities, about the difference between the real and the places we see in our dreams, and whether it would ever be right to disturb the world’s understanding of itself by collecting evidence of a different reality.
For a review of another book by James P Blaylock, see The Aylesford Skull.
A copy of this book was sent to me for review.
The Mystery of Edwin Drood (2012) sees the BBC, through the agency of Gwyneth Hughes, taking on the difficult task of not only adapting a piece of fiction by Charles Dickens, but also finishing it. For, as we all know, the Great Man had the bad grace to die without telling anyone whodunnit. Something that has been deeply annoying to generations of readers every since. By any standards the fragment and this adaptation form a real potboiler. We have the delicate seventeen-year-old flower who’s in line for a good slice of money under her father’s will, a young fiancé who’s not much in love with her — it was one of these childhood engagements and neither is red-hot for carrying through — the jealous uncle who’s role as choirmaster makes him look virtuous, and the orphaned twins from Ceylon who come to this country to complete their education.
The opening scenes are all done with great visual style as John Jasper (Matthew Rhys), deep in his opium dreams, fantasises about killing his nephew Edwin Drood (Freddie Fox) while the object of his affections, Rosa Bud (Tamzin Merchant) looks on from the gallery running round the inside of the cathedral. In short order we then have him hurrying back to Cloisterham to conduct the choir, Edwin meets with Rosa, and the Landless twins, Helena (Amber Rose Revah) and the appropriately hot-tempered Neville (Sacha Dhawan), arrive under the protection of the Reverend Septimus Crisparkle (Rory Kinnear). Lurking in the cathedral crypt is the dreary Durdles (Ron Cook). Initially out of sight, the necessary lawyer and Roa’s guardian, Hiram Grewgious (Alun Armstrong) and his clerk Bazzard (David Dawson) stand ready to give advice and support when necessary.
It’s played as a pure drug-fuelled psychodrama as we’re allowed to watch the virtuous choirmaster disintegrate. His life in the cathedral has been one of crushing boredom. For all he loves the music, there’s no prospect of change let alone any advancement. Hence his addiction and his trips to the opium dens of London. His fixation for Rosa is there for all to see and yet, of course, none of the church folk see it. Similarly, his pathological jealousy of Edwin should be obvious, but everyone wants to see only the good in the man. Neville’s arrival is literally Heaven-sent. He’s a natural scapegoat and, if there’s to be suspicion, it will naturally fall on the foreigner.
Thus far, it looks as though we’re more or less on track for a routine completion of the hoary old tale, but then something rather remarkable happens. I don’t think I can recall anything quite so radical as a revision or completion of an existing work. This wins a prize for chutzpah not just from the author, but also from the BBC for making it. Let’s start with the reasonable decisions. I approve abandoning the character Dick Datchery and allowing Bazzard to do the on-the-ground sleuthing around Cloisterham. It also seems a better line to make Princess Puffer (Ellie Haddington) into the kind of blackmailer who listens carefully to what her opium addicts say while they dream, prompting them with questions as their words slow. Although, if I wanted to be less forgiving, I would characterise the role as a quack recovered-memory therapist who wants to heal John Jasper by helping him remember what he did. The rest of the plot innovations are, if you’ll forgive the pun, egrewgiously bad. I feel constrained not to engage in spoilers and so will content myself with generalities. Whatever his faults and, by modern standards, they are many, Charles Dickens wrote in a linear narrative style. It has the clear virtue that the reader can follow the action and watch it unroll. He did not seek to emulate the twist endings that made O. Henry (pseudonym of William Sydney Porter) so popular. As rewritten, this version of The Mystery of Edwin Drood is a nonlinear narrative in which we access the past in non-chronological order through the opium dreams of John Jasper. Needless to say, the fact these dreams are fuelled by opium makes John Jasper a classic example of the unreliable narrator.
So Bazzard in Cloisterham begins the process of uncovering previously unsuspected plot elements, while John Jasper is acting like a man afflicted by post-traumatic stress disorder and uses the opium to reconnect with past events. Not unnaturally, when John Jasper awakes (thanks to Princess Puffer’s promptings), he has a better view of the past and journeys back to Cloisterham with Rosa for the big climax. The “twist” then comes in two parts. The first has some potential credibility in the culture of the times and it also fits in with the “ghostly shriek” heard in the cathedral a year or so before the main action takes place. The second is one of the worst examples of a deus ex machina I can recall. Sometimes, the unexpected event can at least provide some comic relief as we move into the expected happy ending. But this is simply ludicrous. Whatever value there might have been in this production died when this particular deus stepped out of the machina. That it’s followed by a hopelessly contrived romance compounds the nausea-inducing quality of the ending. So it’s worth watching the first episode of The Mystery of Edwin Drood. This is the BBC doing period drama rather well. If you decide to watch the second episode, fortify yourself with a strong drink and keep ready one of those brown paper bags airlines believe will catch projectile vomit.
We need to set out on this journey of discovery with a short discussion on how to define a “comic novel”. Historically speaking, it could be judged by criteria of blandness, i.e. that it all turns out well for the good and the bad get their just deserts. This is fiction as seen by the Miss Prisms of this world (as in The Importance of Being Earnest) which, as Cecily Cardew observes, is not the fairest way for things to turn out. The reason? Because it fails to answer the question actually posed for who’s to say how the goodness or badness of the protagonists is to be judged. For example, we might think Malvolio in Twelfth Night gets his just deserts, but he’s rather more narcissistic than bad, an arrogant hypocrite who deserves to be taken down a peg or two. So this makes this Shakespearean humour more as defined by Plato who thought comedy lay in people’s failure to understand themselves and their roles in society. Together with Socrates and Aristotle, he explored the idea that there’s something ugly, if not hateful, about those who demonstrate ignorance of themselves. This does not, of itself, make the characters bad but it can make the humour cruel by exposing their weaknesses. Yet, the fact we may see people’s behaviour and beliefs as delusional and ludicrous does not prevent things from turning out well for them. Indeed, if they learn the extent of their errors and make efforts to reform, they can avoid the bad outcomes. Authors need not be heavy-handed moralists with an agenda to punish all who transgress social boundaries. In the midst of amusement at the expense of these characters, the authors can be asking the reader to think about the social themes woven into the narrative. Indeed, it’s often the case that by framing a novel as an apparent comedy, we can be seduced into thinking constructively about taboo issues — an inherently good outcome.
Which slightly heavy-weight discussion brings me to The Corpse-Rat King by Lee Battersby (Angry Robot, 2012) and our first meeting with Marius dos Hellespont and Gerd, his sidekick. Since they live in a time of war, they turn their hands to mining the battlefield dead for their cash and personal valuables. This would be a relatively safe and highly remunerative business opportunity if Gerd had grown to be more than the village idiot who was seduced from the care of his grandmother by the smooth-talking Marius. But, in sidekick terms, he’s as smart as bait. In this case, he attracts the attention of soldiers searching for the body of the King. They don’t take kindly to “graverobbers” and despatch poor Gerd. Although this is a short-term distraction and allows Marius to evade capture, he’s them forcibly invited to join the dead under the battlefield. They’re upset at the prospect of being without a King so, in military terms, task Marius to recruit a King for them. They make the usual threats to encourage him to take the task seriously, even returning Gerd as a factotum.
Except, of course, once he’s released back into the world, his mission is to get as far away from the dead as possible, and that includes Gerd. But how does someone dead blend back into the human community? And just where in the human world are you far enough away from the dead to be safe? So begins most of the most amusing fantasy journeys of the last few years. I’m not going to stick my neck out and say this is anything like the best fantasy book of the year but, in its own terms, it’s certainly one of the best comic novels I’ve read for many a year. Marius is a man who’s grown comfortable in his own skin as a bilker and hustler. When he dies, the skin shrivels and the marks won’t stand still long enough to hear the pitch. They’re far more interested in running away as quickly as possible. With his style completely cramped, he elects to go on a sea trip, i.e. we get into a picaresque format as our roguish hero tries to get by on his wits but is continually frustrated. This leads to some introspection, triggered by occasional sensations. As a question to chew on, how dead are the dead who are still walking around and able to interact with the living? It’s a tricky question and, courtesy of some backstory and one or two meetings with individuals he’s known in the past, our hero comes to a better view of himself. His self-ignorance shrivels along with his skin. He ponders on whether there’s a way of reversing his condition. Should he actually find a King who can lead the dead, would “death” release him? Could he and Gerd actually return to life? For the entertaining answers to these and other relevant questions, you’ll have to read the book. While doing so, you can be assured that the comic greats, Plato, Socrates and Aristotle, would probably have found it hilarious.
The Corpse-Rat King is completely beguiling and genuinely amusing, something you rarely find in a book clearly marketed as fantasy. So kudos to Angry Robot for picking up this delightfully non-standard novel and bringing it to the market. If there’s any justice in the world, it will sell like the proverbial hot cakes.
For a review of the sequel, see The Marching Dead.
Cover by Nick Castle Design.
A copy of this book was sent to me for review.
It happens every now again that I feel the urge to slip back into the realms of academic discourse and try vaguely to say something intelligent about the construction of a narrative. This time I’m seduced into walking this rocky road after reading Immobility by Brian Evenson (Tor, 2012). In other circumstances, I might mutter darkly about this being a post-apocalyptic novel, one of these science fiction efforts that places us in a world left in ruins by the unrestricted detonation of nuclear bombs. What is not physically demolished, is substantially extinguished by the radiation. At a stroke, this precipitates an almost complete collapse of civilisation as we know it and, in the best sense of the word, we’re depressed that humanity should have been so cavalier with its own existence. Yet, of course, there are survivors. Such novels would be impossible without a few rats left to crawl out of the rubble. So what makes this book different?
Well, here we go with more thoughts about our old friend, the unreliable narrator. Our point of view is a man just being revived from suspended animation. He finds himself unable to remember anything about himself, let alone the circumstances which led to his storage. As his eyes open, it’s therefore for us to view this world as a tabula rasa. We have no way of knowing its history nor who these people are. Literally, we see everything as if for the first time. Although our hero can report his surface interpretation of what he experiences, it’s entirely possible he’s misinterpreting the data. At this point, I need to make a distinction. Because of his lack of knowledge, the guesses he makes could be the best he can make on the basis of the evidence. Hence, some could be correct. Or everything he comes to believe could just be wrong.
Let’s take a simple early question. When he recovers some upper-body mobility, our hero’s first instinct is to attack the technician who revived him. He has no idea why he should feel so aggressive. Later, when discussing the situation with Rasmus, the leader of this community, he’s told he was a kind of fixer. A man who would carry out difficult tasks without caring too much about the morality of the means. As someone with a killer’s reflexes, coming out of storage in a confused state, he might mistakenly consider the technician a threat and lash out in self-defence. Rasmus reassures him that he should not feel guilty about the attack. That’s actually his virtue and the reason for his revival. The community needs his fighting reflexes. And the task? Well, they need him to go and recover some stolen property.
Unreliability in this instance stems from his complete lack of memory as to who he is or what his moral values are. When asked to judge the truthfulness of those he meets, he has no real basis on which to assess credibility. Perhaps Rasmus is lying but, if so, what would his motives be? Since we as readers know no more than our hero has told us, we’re also rudderless. Although we might have genre expectations about the way narratives of this kind would normally develop, all we can do is observe and reserve judgement until more information is forthcoming. The only comfort we can draw is that our hero is aware of the gaps in his memory and so appreciates his own unreliability. From this, you will understand this is a very clever piece of writing. It deliberately plays with our genre expectations, challenging us to work out what’s actually going on. Except, of course, even that could be a trap. For all we know, our hero has not actually woken up and is simply dreaming all this.
For once, I’m not going to say very much more about the way the story develops. All that it’s necessary to do is explain the title. As he wakes, it rapidly becomes apparent that our hero is paralysed from the waist down. His upper body is very strong but, as Rasmus sadly explains, he’s the victim of a disease that will ultimately cause him to lose all his mobility. The only way in which he can move around is literally by being carried. When he sets off on his mission, two large individuals take it in turn to act as beasts of burden. He has a small window of opportunity to recover the stolen property and then get back before the paralysis completely overcomes him. He will then be put back into storage until a cure has been developed.
Immobility is very impressive. It’s beautifully written and, most importantly, it nicely reinvents many of the standard tropes, often inverting expectations. I admit to being surprised by the revelations that come at the end. With decades of reading experience in my locker, that’s a neat trick for an author to pull off. I usually keep up with the story and have the situation analysed before the final few pages. Except, I chose to forget the mindset of those who greenlighted the nuclear launches. When you think about the extent of the disaster that has touched every part of this world, the attitudes of the survivors are completely understandable if not very laudable. At every level, this is a must-read, if slightly downbeat, post-apocalyptic novel.
A copy of this book was sent to me for review.
Purple and Black by K J Parker (Subterranean Press, 2009) is slightly unusual in being an epistolary novelette set in the same world as the Engineer trilogy and Company. Most modern prose at length will include one or more letters or other communications. This story is told exclusively through an exchange of military dispatches with covert messages included in the official mail. In the novel length works, we have followed the internecine war between members of the royal family which left Nicephorus alive. The reason for his survival is that he was never interested in the throne. He had hidden himself away in academia and was therefore disconcerted to find himself suddenly elevated as the King. No-one has ever come to power so reluctantly. Because he has no experience and no idea who might be trustworthy, he drags colleagues with him from the ivory towers.
In modern terms, he finds a government based on the interests of the nobility as filtered through an essentially corrupt and inefficient civil service. To force through reforms, he introduces what should have been a technocracy where people are appointed on the basis of their knowledge and expertise. Under normal circumstances, this would see economists appointed to run the department of trade and the treasury, experts in military history to run the department of defence, and so on. Except Nico does not have that many friends he can trust. So, regardless of whether their knowledge is relevant to the different posts, his friends are appointed and told to get on with things as best they can. The result is an advanced form of cronyism. The only justification for this is all the appointees are highly intelligent and come into the political fray without any prior allegiances. If they have the skill and can seize control, they should be able to introduce reforms that have some rational basis and do not excessively favour one group as against another. It should be government from the academic centre of the universe, i.e. hopefully utilitarian.
However, there’s one really difficult post — the regional governorship of Upper Tremissis, the northern provinces where, from what Nico can discover, there’s an invasion or a war or a civil uprising. This is potential dynamite. If the army is allowed to leave the capital, it could turn around, depose the current King and instal one of the generals as the new ruler. It has happened many times in the history of this kingdom. So, if at all possible, this fighting must be brought under control without having to call out the army. Nico therefore appoints his friend Phormio who has no idea how to run his own life efficiently let alone mount a military campaign without any additional soldiers to call on. This sudden banishment to the cold of the north comes as a severe shock to Phormio’s system. To make matter worse, he soon finds his civil servants have every interest in following the letter of the law and never letting him do anything. Indeed, he’s not entirely sure there is any fighting anywhere in this province. And as for finding ink of the right colour to write with. Well, that’s equally impossible. For the record, only purple ink can be used for official communications to the King. Black ink is reserved for private communications. Failure to use the right coloured ink is a serious criminal offence. People have been executed for less.
When old friends correspond, they may actually speak the truth to each other. Friendship means you have the right to be the bearer of bad news or to criticise without fear. Even when one of the friends has become king and has acquired the power of life and death over his subjects, this still holds. . . Or perhaps not. The notion of the unreliable narrator is well established and here we have two ex-colleagues either or both of whom may have a hidden agenda. So, from the outset, we’re looking carefully at what they say, what they imply and what they carefully do not say. The result is a rather pleasing resolution to the problems of leadership at both a national and provincial level.
This is another nicely produced book from Subterranean Press with rather moody jacket artwork from the ever reliable Vincent Chong. My only comment is that the story is rather shorter than the design and typesetting suggests. Purple and Black is elegant and somewhat ironic and only just good value for money in this hardback edition.