A Desolation Called Peace - Arkady Martine

A Desolation Called Peace is the sequel to Arkady Martine’s stellar A Memory Called Empire. The latter was one of my top books of 2019, and even though it’s early, I’m going to call it and say that A Desolation Called Peace is one of my top books of 2021. If you’re coming here for the tl;dr takeaway, it’s that yes, the sequel is as good, or better, than its predecessor. It’s thoughtful science fiction, exploring ideas of colonialism and identity, acculturation and diplomacy, between cultures and species. It also rocks some intriguing palace intrigue, and some fascinatingly byzantine politics rears its head. But don’t worry, there’s also some epic, explosively tense moments of space combat to get your adrenaline pumping. And there’s the complex, deeply felt, fully realised personal relationships that will wring out your emotions and leave you bathed in sorrow, delight and wonder in equal measure.

On that note, Mahit Dzmare is back! As is the ever wonderful Three Seagrass. I love these two. Mahit, fresh from the events of the previous novel, is sharper, perhaps a little more focused, figuring out what her wants and needs are. She’s someone determined to set her own course, and now somewhat less willing to have it guided by others. Mahit is working through her feelings, not just for Seagrass, but for the entire culture which surrounds them both, at least  some of the time - the culture where she’s the outsider, where Seagrass is assuming she’ll want to be, to blend, to fit in. Mahit is, perhaps, not so good at fitting in, even for a woman whom she loves, or could love. And Seagrass, oh, such a disaster.A wonderful person, whose affection for Mahit is somehow unbridled in its intensity, but delicately masked in the skein of social front and construction which the Empire gets all of its citizens to build around themselves. 

THe relationship is delightful on its face, crowded with misunderstandings, but also a genuine warmth and affection, backed up by the kind of emotional vulnerability, on both sides, which risks genuine hurt. Working out how they can be, and working out how they can be as a pair, is, I think, at the emotional heart of this story. If they can,, of course. In a world which looks on Mahit as an outsider, where the world has only a language to describe itself and its boundaries as real, Mahit and Seagrass’ romance dances on the razors edge, in the liminal space that borders groups who think they’re People. And may yet decide that everyone else is just people. Anyway, they’re an absolute disaster of raw affection and pain and struggle, questing out to connect in the darkness of the heart. But somewhere in the broken glass pain and the raw affection and the passionate intensity are two people making their way in an uncertain world. And I love them for that. For their vulnerability. For the way that their fights over identity and politics and selfhood come from different perspectives, but aren’t dishonest in it. In the way that they can be in love but still struggle to find themselves at the centre of it all. This is a quiet romance which pierced my cynicism like a stiletto. The two of them are different to us, and different to each other, but people still, living and fighting and trying to make the connections which keep them together. It’s a hard fight, that one, but a recognisable one - and you can feel the struggle and the love, on the page and off it. That its often in the quieter moments, the clinks of tea mugs or the passion of a shared project, and not always in the grand gesture - I think that grounds the relationship and makes it work. It’s a real relationship, even as it’s showing us the power politics of Imperial identity and their cultural attitudes, even as it’s a showcase of soft power and imbalance, it’s a living, breathing thing - and I love it for that, too, for the way that Mahit and Three Seagrass tackle the bigger issues around them, the ones that invisibly shape the questions they ask; and I adore that the story asks these questions through them, and leaves it to the reader to think things through.

Oh. I went on a little while there. Sorry. 

There’s also all sorts of excitement happening in the heart of the Empire, while Three Seagrass and Mahit are out there in the border spaces.  We get a fresh perspective, one a little closer to the ground. Eight Antidote, clone of the recently departed Emperor, and somewhat precocious Young Person, shows us the palace machinery at the centre of what the Teixcalaan call The World. There’s a shifting sand of politics here, and the cost, the personal cost on a boy who has no room to be a child, is faced and borne front and centre. Again, his efforts at connection, at understanding, at reaching out, are critical. It’s not all state functions and snide remarks - but there’s a lot that we hear, and a lot that foes unsaid, for Eight Antidote and the reader.  I really enjoyed delving into Teixcalaan’s society with him, and loved the differing perspective from our previous protagonists. Eight Antidote is young, but not naive, a wild card that can be underestimated, and may rely on that overmuch. He’s at least as clever as he things he is, and as aware of his limitations - but refuses to be bound by them. Or, perhaps, by expectations. He made me smile, negotiating the governing halls with a quiet face, a studied demeanour, and an incisive desire to understand.

In that, at least, he’s joined by Nine Hibiscus, the Fleet Captain sent out to find out what’s chewing up worlds at the edge of The World. Nine Hibiscus throws open the doors of the Teixcalaan military for us. Humanises it whilst recognising an inhumane institution, whose purpose, depending on your point of view, is glorious expansion, or cultural malignance through superior firepower. Still, Nine Hibiscus, looking for aliens in all the wrong (and right) places, is either going to start a war or end one. Watching her, a calculated staff officer, a fierce mind behind a political facade, with the backbone to do what needs to be done once she knows what it is - well, it’s a joy. That she acknowledges her own flaws and need for friendships and affections, that she doubts her own righteousness enough, that she is unconventional in an Empire which wraps everything in the tendrils of its own past, is a joy. That she too, seeks connection, seeks understanding, is clear - though balancing that against what is perceived as necessity is somewhat harder. Anyway, Nine Hibiscus lights the centre of almost every scene she is in, and we are cooly warmed thereby.

Which is all to say, that the excellent character building of the first novel remains intact. And that in exploring the mining station of Mahit’s people, and the heart of Teixcalaan, and the claustrophobic halls of a military warship, and weaving the notes between them so we can see the threads that bind them closer and closer together, see the power of force and the wonder of words at once, we can feel and live the world Arkady Martine has built for us, ifor all it is fearsome and wondrous in equal measure.

I won’t delve into the story, partly because I’ve already gone on for too long, but also because it turns and pivots under your hand. There’s plots and counter plots under the surface, and military actions - for those of you who love a bit of space warfare. There’s appalling, amazing sacrifices, and quiet conversations in boring conference rooms that shake the foundations of worlds. The story enfolds the characters and their world, and flows organically from their actions - and where it goes is often unpredictable, but always, always left me wanting to turn a few more pages to see what happened next. I swallowed this story whole, sat up at some ridiculous hour of the too-early morning to see how it ended, desperate to know, and desperate for it not to be done. I think, I hope, you’ll like it as much as I obviously do; and perhaps if you do, you’ll see why I’m calling it early, and saying this is one of my top books of 2021. 

Go out and  get a copy of this, then read it, then read it again to see what you missed the first time It’s absolutely bloody fantastic.