Top Ten SF&F novels of 2017

So it’s that time of year again; as the days get shorter and the temperature plunges, I find myself making a top ten list. It’s an endeavour fraught with peril, because 2017, for all its faults, has been a really good year in SF&F fiction. That said, these are my top picks from 2017, arranged in the order in which I read them (clicking on the titles will navigate to full reviews where available):

1. Red Sister – Mark Lawrence

It’s probably no surprise to long term readers that I picked this one. I’ve been a fan of Lawrence’s work for years, and this, set in a new setting, with a new protagonist, is a very strong entry in his oeuvre. Nona Grey is a young girl, brought to a nunnery for an education in, amongst other things, magic and murder. In a setting glimmering with nifty ideas – murderous nuns, reshaped worlds, succession struggles, to name a few – it’s Nona’s relationship with her new Sisters which really sells this to me. If she springs into action, it’s to help her friends, struggling against her own emotional difficulties. This is a smart book, which demands due attention from the reader, but repays it with a high stakes, high reward narrative, with a brilliant blend of politics, battles, and emotional entanglement. 

2. The Ninth Rain – Jen Williams

Another author whose books turn up here regularly, Williams has started something innovative in her new series. It’s an ensemble piece, which includes fire-throwing witches, blood-drinking elves, and some genuinely unpleasant antagonists. The setting, a world broken by and recovering from relentless assaults from an implacable enemy, is an excellent backdrop to some captivating characters and a tightly crafted plot. The idea fo a world broken up by its saviours is one which has strong emotional resonance, and that's backed up by some sparkling characterisation of less than perfect characters. It's sharply observed, emotionally compelling fantasy, which explores the myths people tell themselves, and the importance of family and frienship, even if those lead into dark places. Also, it has giant bats. Which people ride. What’s not to love?

3. Blackwing – Ed McDonald

Blackwing,  McDonald’s debut, is, to steal a word, grim. To steal another, it’s a gem – albeit one soaked in carmine. The setting is focused around the aptly named Misery, a blasted waste that serves as a No Mans Land between the empires of two sets of supernatural entities. The story focuses on Galharrow, a bounty hunter, a man willing to do pretty much anything to achieve his goals. Galharrow evokes some of the protagonists of fities noir for me – hiding a thoughtful mind behind an uncaring façade which, honestly, may or may not be a façade. Galharrow finds himself hip deep in an investigation with very worrying implications and potentially fatal consequences. The plot is full of intriguing twists and turns, with some seriously explosive battles in between. This one may be worth picking up for the dialogue alone – Galharrow’s world weary cynicism is almost never disappointed, and he’s great to read alongside.

4. The Seven – Peter Newman

The Seven closes out Newman’s “The Vagrant” series with a bang. Well, several, actually. We get more backstory on the Seven, guardians of an empire which seems eternal, if sclerotic. We get to see more of the relationship between Vesper and her father, which remains one of the most honest, emotionally affecting relationships in fiction. Importantly, this is a book which is prepared to look at the happy ending, and then show us what happens after that, to explore and to revel in that. There’s a feeling of hope wrapped around the core of the story, and that helps make the conflicts between a diverse, broken humanity and the uniform forces of their opposition feel real. There’s goats, of course, and moments of quiet humour mixed in with those of desperation. There’s also magic swords, betrayals, victories – and families, coming together and falling apart. As a conclusion, it promises a lot and, to my eye, delivers with a nuanced, complex story. 

5. The Raven Stratagem – Yoon Ha Lee

The sequel to the explosive Ninefox Gambit, The Raven Stratagem takes place in the same deeply weird science-ficton world. Here, the consensual nature of reality can be shaped and broken by numbers, by performing certain rituals on certain days, not on others. Here, society is stratified, with different houses holding different positions in a sprawling multi-system hierarchy. Here, enemies are quietly gathering, ready to rip holes in a society which is literally sacrificing its citizens to maintain conceptual stability. The whole universe is marvellous – plausibly petty oligarchs are mixed in with unknowable technology and space battles are decided by equations. It’s dazzlingly innovative stuff. 

Then we get the protagonist, Shuos Jedao, the Empire’s greatest tactician. They also happen to be dead. Also quite possibly insane. With an agenda which seems to span generations, Jedao is charming, witty, and emotionally present – with hidden edges on which an observer might cut themselves. I kept turning pages to see what they’d do next, and I have to admit, I was never disappointed. This one is sci-fi at its best, asking big questions whilst giving us great characters in an interesting setting. 

6. Spellslinger – Sebastien De Castell

I have a lot of love for Spellslinger. A fantasy western (of sorts), blended with a coming of age tale. Kellen, the protagonist has just the right amount of naivety mixed in with being a bit of a smart arse. By the standards of his society he’s weak, a liability, not worth keeping alive. Kellen, of course, doesn’t really see it that way. The setting, a society built around magic, is interesting enough – insular and proud, rigidly unwilling to explore its own shortcomings. But watching Kellen grow up, a little, and realise some of his potential – to harm or help others – was what kept me coming back. That and the brilliant banter between Kellen and his ‘partners’, which always has the potential to wring the heart or generate a belly laugh, or (often_ both at the same time. It’s got gunslingers, mages and revolution – what more needs to be said?

7. The Court of Broken Knives – Anna Smith Spark

Smith-Spark’s debut is a painfully brilliant read. It explores themes of power and violence, and then wraps them up in questions about control and personal integrity. It’s also a story about civilisations – making and breaking them. There’s byzantine court politics, including assassination attempts, betrayal, scheming and the odd bit of thuggery. There’s battles which evoke screams and blood, the tearing down of walls between men at the same time that they carve each other apart. There’s reflections on religion, and on sustaining that religion through death. It’s a multifaceted text, which I get something new out of each time. It also has a lot of heart (possibly because it ripped it from the chest of the reader) – the raw emotional intensity pours off the page. This is whip-smart fantasy, engaging, cunningly plotted, and bloody. 

8. Dogs of War – Adrian Tchaikovsky

I’m a big fan of Tchaikovsky’s work, and that trend continues here. This book explores a lot of big questions, looking through the eyes of Rex. Rex is a dog – sort of. He’s a dog given intelligence and bred for war. He’s a dog with cannons strapped to his sides, and a behavioural reinforcement chip in his brain. He’s a dog that will always follow orders, even if they’re the wrong ones. Rex acts as our eyes, in a future where corporations are building deniable living weapons. The story asks questions about sentience, about how we decide who and what makes up a person. It examines the future of AI, and the ethics of war. It does all that, and it’s also an absolutely cracking read. Rex’s journey starts in the trenches, following orders and destroying the enemies of his Master, in fast-paced gun-battles which seem as familiar as they do strange. As the story heats up, it’s not afraid to ask the reader to think on bigger questions of morality and self, within a fast-paced sci-fi wrapper. It’s a smart, occasionally painful, captivating read.

9. Ruin of Angels – Max Gladstone

The latest entry in Max Gladstone’s wonderfully weird Craft sequence is an unadulterated delight. In a world where soulstuff is used as currency, and mages run corporations, Kai Pohala arrives in Agdal Lex to do a little business, and revisit her past. That Agdal Lex is a city built on the bones of another, that it’s possible to dive from the city streets into a frozen, war-torn moment of that other world – to plunder or preserve the past, that the city authorities discourage this with violence and social conditioning – well, that’s all by the by. Except, of course, that it isn’t. The characters are really the heart of this world – quick thinking fast talkers, mages with, if not hearts of gold, at least aluminium, and adventurers plumbing the depths of the city for the adrenaline, and for the price artifacts will command – each comes off the page fully formed, and their emotional entanglements feel honestly, heartbreakingly human. This is a book which explores both the human condition and the societies which we’ve built to get where we are – and adds truth, romance and explosions over the top. It’s an absolutely cracking read (and one I must do a full review of next year!).

10. Siege Line – Myke Cole

The finale of a trilogy, Siege Line has all the qualities which make Cole’s works so much fun. It’s a fast-paced, hard hitting thriller, with some interesting supernatural elements. The combat sequences have the patina of authenticity, which always helps when the protagonist’s opponents are wights with a penchant for human flesh. Jim Schweitzer, the protagonist of the first two books, is as charming as ever; living in his own corpse has to be hard on a guy, but the love and loyalty he feels for his family is something you can feel through the words on the page; he’s driven and focused, and a lot of fun to read. He’s joined by a marvellous ensemble cast, struggling to defeat a relentless antagonist before time runs out. This blend of military urban fantasy makes up a very tasty brew indeed.

There were. of course, other abbsolutely storming reads this year; these are just a sample of the tid of excellent fiction we've been inundated with. That said, f you want to get a flavour of SF&F in 2017, these books are probably a good place to start.

Elysium Fire - Alastair Reynolds

Elysium Fire is the second in Alastair Reynold’s ‘Prefect Dreyfus’ sequence – itself part of his ‘Revelation Space’ universe. It’s been ten years since the first of the sequence introduced us to Dreyfus, in a stellar blend of sci-fi and noir, so I was quite excited to see where this sequel took us.

Where it takes us first of all, is the Glitter Band, an orbital ring of high-tech habitats orbiting the planet Yellowstone. The Glitter Band is perhaps humanity’s finest achievement. It’s effectively a post-scarcity economy, with no starving masses yearning to be free. In part, this is because of its unique political system. Each citizen of the Band is able to vote on issues in real time, using neural implants. It’s a society that is run, basically, by the people within it. Each habitat in the Band is able to set up its own society, and its own rules. Some of these societies are downright odd – like the habitats where everyone is perpetually wired into virtual reality with their body on ice, or where all the citizens have entered a voluntary coma. Others are considerably more toxic – “voluntary tyrannies” for example.

But the one core right of the Glitter Band is the vote. No matter your society, you can vote. It’s at the core of the Band’s social structure. When there are irregularities in the voting, that’s when the Prefects are called in. They’re what passes for law enforcement in a world which has largely eschewed crime. Negotiators, a quick reaction force, investigators, analysts – the Prefects do it all, with limited resources. Following the events of the previous book, which involved considerable loss of life and property damage, they find their institution eyed with increasing scepticism by the citizenry. There’s an antiauthoritarian trend here, and sparks of demagoguery and secession movements are starting to fly. The Band is a delicate structure, always dancing on a tightrope between the needs of the citizenry, the increasingly constrained and beleaguered authority of the Prefects, and the risk of catastrophic incidents in a world which is incredibly tightly coupled.  It’s an entirely plausible, complicated, sharply realised society, one which showcases its complexity and provides a living, breathing world for the characters to work within.

Speaking of characters. Inspector Dreyfus, unsurprisingly, returns for this book. The duty-bound inspector was always a joy to read. He has a clear affection for the high-tech utopia around him, and an awareness of its vulnerabilities. That’s matched with a similar incisiveness into both his own condition and those of his subordinates and suspects. Dreyfus is, of course, troubled – still carrying the physical and mental scars from the previous emergency, and from decisions he took decades earlier. Here is a man with the capacity to cut through the wood of false trails one so sharp he might actually cut himself.It’s nice to see that he’s as gruff with his team as ever, a layer sat over a deeper affection.

Dreyfus is backed by Sparver and Ng, the duo who served as his team in the previous book. Sparver is perhaps the more emotional, the one more prone to action over analysis. Where Dreyfus navigates through the wood to find the trees, Sparver is probably off somewhere arranging for a chainsaw delivery. Ng is the more technical, quieter, less authoritative, at least within the team. Like Sparver, she’s insightful, and a wizard with technology – but more prone to analysis, and less prone to reach for a weapon. Between them, the hyper-pig and the tech make a great backup for Dreyfus, a man in whom they’re prepared to invest their trust. Together, they make a compelling triad – laced with flaws, as all families are, but with an emotional depth that resonates off the page.

They’re surrounded by a cast of other characters of course, from the terrifyingly intelligent Jane Aumonier, head of the Prefects, for whom Dreyfus is an excellent button-man, and the more martial Prefects trying to run the organisation, to stern faced, damaged orbital construction workers, and open-faced, virulently persuasive demagogues. It’s a pleasure to seem some familiar faces in the background, their faces and views tracking from the previous book. This new emergency carries new heroes and villains of course, though the cunningly crafted narrative often left me wondering which was which.

From a plot standpoint – well, this is a mystery novel, so no spoilers. There are mysterious deaths occurring throughout the Glitter Band, and their pace appears to be escalating. Dreyfus and his team have to track down the cause, before even more people die. There’s a lot to love in the plot – the investigation is snappily paced, slowing down to give you a view on Dreyfus’s thoughts, and the reactions of those around him, letting you draw your conclusions alongside the Prefects; but it’s quite happy to ramp up for some vividly drawn and snappily paced action scenes, which wrap around the emotional core of the story and keep the stakes high and the adrenaline going. This is a story willing to look at social change and consequences in the micro and macro levels, to explore the ways that new technologies would impact people – but also wants to show you that the participants are, at heart, people. The central mystery is thoughtfully crafted and left me scratching my head trying to work it out as I went along; the world, as always with Reynolds, is beautifully drawn, and the characters seem to stroll off the page, bringing wry remarks and the streets of the Glitter Band with them.

If you’re new to Reyonold’s work, I’d say go back and start with the first in this series (“The Prefect”/”Aurora Rising”) – there’s some back story which it’s worth knowing before you take the plunge here. But as a returning reader, Reynolds has brough back Dreyfus and the Glitter Band in high style; if you’re looking for a cracking sci-fi mystery, pick this one up.

Too Like The Lightning - Ada Palmer

Too Like The Lightning is the first in a duology by Ada Palmer. In a world which looks, at first glance, to be a utopian society, this is a narrative from a somewhat unreliable narrator, picking at the seams of that society. The prose has a charmingly eighteenth century feel to it, a baroque style which, whilst dense, packs in a lot of detail, and helps evoke a regency atmosphere, somewhat appropriate to a post-scarcity world.

Speaking of which, the world. It’s one in which it appears the needs of the bulk of humanity have been met. Most people are part of one of the large social groupings, or ‘hives’, which have distinct high level ideologies and backgrounds. These semi-utopian institutions are backed by the ability to travel anywhere on the globe, seemingly very quickly. Of course, the utopia has its own issues. There’s the implication that violence is still a familiar tool of humanity, and if no-one is starving, there’s still plenty of room for ego, for conflicts based on social status. There’s other quirks as well – like the Servitors. Those who commit crimes are simply left loose, but required to perform tasks for other citizens in payment for food. Though this is a world where murder is almost unknown, it’s one in which the darker impulses of humanity still percolate. The servitors feel a lot like indentured servants, for example. Further, in a world which has actively banned the teaching of religions outside of reservations, there’s a feeling that theology is seen as a black market indulgence.

In all instances, this is a world which takes its background seriously, and spins out a plausible society based on that. It’s a society which is prepared to challenge the preconceptions of the modern reader, and to lay out consistent philosophical approaches to defend its structure. This allows the world to have a feeling of depth to it, and a vivacity and charm matched with a gentle corruption  which make this future seem very real.

In this semi-ideal future, our interlocutor is Mycroft. Made a servitor for an unknown crime, Mycroft is a prodigy. Quick thinking, erudite and clearly rather damaged, his liquid prose makes  for easy reading. Mycroft, a broken intellectual, is just one of a great many weird and wonderful characters. There’s the twins that manage the world transport network, wired entirely into the grid, never having seen the sun, and quite happy that way. There’s the mysterious J.E.D.D. Mason, whose gaze seems to compel truth from those around him. There’s Bridger, the young boy who may have unusual capacities of his own, and Ganymede, the European prince in an egalitarian world. The cast is sprawling, but given enough room on the page to become themselves, each a unique entity.  Some characters carry layers of personality, exposing themselves as the story continues – and not everyone is entirely who you, or they, think they are.

The story? Well, it starts gently, exploring the world, and looking at the potential impact of Bridger, a child with potential. The pace is a languid one, allowing for exploration of some of the ideas on the page, giving the reader room to get accustomed to the characters and their society. It does, however, gradually pick up momentum – by the end of the text, the plot is an unstoppable juggernaut, one which is almost impossible to put down. There’s some good stuff in here – for example. questions about the way we structure societies, what sacrifices were willing to make. They’re tied up with thefts, deaths, and some extremely tense verbal sparring. Without spoilers, I’ll say that though it takes a while to build up a head of steam, the narrative payoff, when it arrives, is totally worth it.

This is an elaborate, inventive, intriguing piece of sci-fi. It’s probably not for everyone, but it’s a thoughtful exploration of humanity and our future, and if you’re in the right mood, absolutely worth a read.

Deadhouse Landing - Ian C. Esslemont

Deadhouse Landing is the second in Ian C. Esslemont’s ‘Path to Ascendancy’ series. Set within the larger universe of Malazan, the series serves as a prequel of sorts. It follows the adventures of Dancer and Wu, a nefarious, lethal and frightfully amusing pair of schemers. Readers of other stories in the Malazan universe may recognise both characters as playing larger roles later in the chronology. The first book in this sequence, Dancer’s Lament, was smart, tightly plotted, and thoroughly enjoyable – so I’ve been looking forward to this sequel immensely.

Wu remains as Machiavellian and downright strange as ever. He seems to drift from encounter to encounter, things falling into his hands almost despite his rather cavalier attitude. He’s also clearly got an incisive, probing intelligence. Quite how much of the incidental madness which seems to surround him is planned or part of the image, and how much is any, er, actual madness, remains to be seen. It’s great to have a character who is both clearly playing for deeper staes and presents something of a facile façade. Wu is fun to read, because you’re not only always wondering what happens next, but also how or if it fits into the deeper plan, or if it’s just another amusing misadventure.

Personally I like to think that Wu is slowly growing in power and influence almost entirely by accident, but your mileage may vary.

Dancer is something else again. He’s a man slowly being pushed into the boundaries fo responsibility, accepting loyalties and proffering his in return. He feels older, perhaps more experienced, in this volume than the last, which is all to the good. Dancer’s wry scepticism and intolerance for Wu’s general chaos-mongering means he serves as a spectacular straight-man. It helps that he’s self-aware enough to view his colleague somewhat askance, and accept his own shifting role. If Wu brings the comedy and the longer-playing game, Dancer is less inscrutable, the reader’s way into the schemes. There are moments in this book which carry a lot of emotional freight, and Dancer is the one who reaches out and sells that to the reader – his own commitment, hurt and adrenaline splashed across the page.

They’re joined by a veritable who’s who of the Malazan series so far I won’t spoil it, but really, the chances of running into your favourite character from the wider series is quite high. I suppose this makes sense in the narrative context – Malazan as a whole deals with a band broken apart, so the early history would bring them all together – though ti can be a bit overwhelming. Still, it’s great to see the ‘twenty years earlier’ version of some series favourites, and if only some get enough time on the page, I’m hopeful we’ll see more of others later.

The world – well, we’ve moved on now to Malaz, the dour, ensorcelled island which gives the Malazan series its name. There’s a sense of decline here, of something not quite ready. It’s an island ruled by a pirate king and his mistress, trying to turn a small fleet of ships and some stone walls into political leverage. The atmosphere is fraught with both decay and a growing sense of purpose. The island, with its mysterious mists and sorcerous seas is almost a character in its own right. Mock’s broken-down Hold is pitch perfect – moss on the walls, and drunkards and charlatans within. There’s also some wider story time spent on surrounding nations, which helps provide a broader context for the intimate portrayal of the world in our current view. In any event, this is a vivid, detailed and convincing world.

The plot…well, suffice to say that it’s complicated. There’s crosses. There’s double crosses. There may or may not be further crosses thereafter. Quite who is doing what, and for whom, can be a bit opaque at times, but this feels like it’s by design. The whip-crack dialogue and the adrenaline-fuelled action scenes help carry the plot when you want to stop working things out and have someone hit something – and the larger narrative threads all tie together and pay off throughout the text.

Is it worth reading? If you’ve an interest in the early days of the Malazan series, absolutely. There’s lots of familiar faces, there’s more than a few surprises and revelations, and it’s all wrapped up in a cracking story. 

From a Certain Point of View - Elizabeth Schaefer (Ed.)

“From a Certain Point of View” is an anthology of forty short stories set in the Star Wars universe during the events of “A New Hope”. The title refers to the suggestion that the truth is a matter of points of view – and indicates the diversity of perspectives that become clear from their associated stories. That some of those stories may conflict, with each other or with other works in the Star Wars universe – well, we can put that down to the subjectivity of truth, and just accept that each of these stories is true – from a certain point of view.

There are a multiplicity of views on display here – from the crew chief doing paperwork on star destroyer guns, through the Tusken raider with dreams of a different life, to old favourites like cantina band The Modal Nodes and mysterious spy Long Snoot. These are the people in the background of the Star Wars cinematic story, beavering away and getting things done whilst the heroes captured our attention. Perhaps the most important lesson the collection teaches is that each of those background players was someone in their own right, with their own hopes, their own enemies, their own betrayals, their own dreams.

One of the positives of the sheer number of stories is that there’s something for all tastes in here. There’s wry pieces like Ken Liu’s ‘The Sith of Datawork’about the necessity of filling in a vast amount of paperwork every time you shoot down an escape pod. There’s pieces like Pierce Brown’s ‘Desert Son’ which explore the emotional intensity of rebellion, and the love of friends for one another. There’s pieces like ‘Grounded’, where a maintenance chief waits on the ground at Yavin to see if her pilots survive, which blend flat-out action with the kind of emotional weight that might catch you by surprise. Then there’s pieces that are blaster fire, lightsabers and chases. Whichever you’re in the mood for, there’s a story somewhere in this collection which will fit. Some of them will work better than others  for any given reader, of course – given the number of tales in the volume, that’s going to be inevitable. But I think they’re all interesting entries into the Star Wars genre.

The breadth of narrative also includes the scope. There’s sweeping, horrifyingly grand events here, like the eyewitness account of the destruction of Alderaan. Of course, the story which gives us that also provides a close character study of a woman torn between concern and pride in her daughter, worry for her husband, and the pressure of her own duties. There’s more intimate portrayals too, like Contingency Plan, following Mon Mothma as she prepared for the possibility that the Death Star won’t be destroyed. Here we get a tightly plotted examination of Mothma. Her internal voice is intelligent, wracked with a complex welter of emotions behind a calm façade; it’s a spy story, with only the protagonist’s internal dialogue to guide the reader through (it’s also fantastic).

We also get to see some experiments in narrative style and structure. The multiple viewpoints of ‘The Kloo Horn Cantina Caper’ combine with a noir atmosphere to make something unique, mixing gentle comedy, emotional truth and  something a little edgier. The metatextual ‘Whills’ is a comic homage to fans of the franchise, whilst ‘An Incident Report’ , in the clipped formal tone of Imperial correspondence, gives a unique perspective on the way Darth Vader handles his udnerlings.

This is a strong collection; the sheer volume of stories means there’s always something to pick up, read and enjoy. But alongside that, another strength is its sheer heart. You can feel the affection for Star Wars rolling off of each page in the volume, and the effort that each writer put into building a Star Wars story of their own. There’s a few quirks – everyone in the Cantina seems to know Han Solo! – but they’re forgivable. If some of the stories didn’t work so well for me this time, I imagine they might when I’m in a different mood – and the overall quality is rock-solid. 

Is it worth reading? If you’re a Star Wars fan, new or old, absolutely. I’d even say if you’re not, this might be a good way into the franchise. There’s small revelations scattered here and there, but what this book celebrates is Star Wars, in all its warmth, energy, humour and diversity, and it does that extremely well. 

Mongrel Mage - L.E. Modesitt Jr.

Mongrel Mage is the nineteenth in L.E. Modesitt Jr.’s ‘Saga of Recluce’ fantasy series. Yes, nineteenth. I think I picked up the first one in the mid-nineties, and since then, Recluce has always delivered. Modesitt is known for top-notch world building and solid, convincing characterisation wrapped in an interesting and entertaining plot – so I was looking forward to his latest entry in the series.

Recluce has developed a rich world history over the course of preceding books, looking at the rise and fall of kingdoms, empires and nation-states. We’ve seen the declining high technology of Cyador, the brutal mines of Hamor, and the city of chaos, Fairhaven, amongst others. This time we’re looking at a conflict between Spidlar and Gallos. The Spidlarians are mercantile, pragmatic, and if prone to bouts of greed, also somewhat socially progressive. The Prefect of Gallos, by contrast, seems calculatingly brutal – prepared to take control of as much of the continent as he can get away with. The conflict between them evokes some of the later wars of the medieval period – groups of professionals, backed by the general population, crawling through mud and fire in an effort to make their lords holdings a few feet larger.

Of course, in this case, the wars are backed by magic. Recluce has a highly systematised system of magic, or ‘Chaos and Order’. Order mages tend toward healing, invisibility and subtler, defensive arts, whilst Chaos mages lean more toward fireballs. There’s a balance between the forces – the more unused Chaos there is in the world, the more Order is available, and vice versa. Modesitt has put some serious thought into the way that the two types of magic work with each other, and if you’re a fan of logical systems for your magery, this one is for you.

Our protagonist here is Beltur, a young man being brought up as a user of Chaos. Beltur is thoughtful and has a talent for self-reflection, whilst also demonstrating a lack of practical experience. He lives under the shadow of his uncle, a powerful user of Chaos magic, His uncle clearly loves Beltur, but also clearly knows more than he’s saying, and feels convincingly disappointed by Beltur’s weak talents in the area of Chaos magic. The relationship between them is clearly a complex one, with mixed obligations, expectations and emotional freight; the prose works hard to make this initil conflict between Beltur and his uncle have meaning, and largely succeeds – the conflicts in their relationship feel genuine, as well as familiar.

Beltur isn’t defined by that conflict, though it does help shape him. Instead, he’s the portrait of a young man trying to work out who he is, and what he wants to do. Modesitt has always had a gift for putting us inside his character’s heads, and exercises it to the fullest here. Beltur’s inner voice is compassionate, occasionally mystified, and self-aware enough that the reader can go along for the ride, sharing and empathising with his trials and tribulations. Beltur’s journey of the self is convincingly portrayed -  and works as a coming of age tale, even without the addition of magic.

Beltur is joined by a very strong supporting cast. It’s difficult to get a handle on the antagonists; as-is, they seem to exist mostly to drive the plot. I would have liked to spend a little more time on their side of the fence, to give them a bit more depth. However, they serve perfectly well as insidious adversaries, and the more positive characters are complex, charming, and entirely believable as individuals. Modesitt has often produced strong characters, and I have to admit he’s done well here. All of Beltur’s acquaintances feel like they have lives of their own, which we happen to be casting an eye over. In some ways, they lack a passionate intensity, but the subtle, quiet moments fof emotional resonance which are scattered throughout the narrative make them compelling characters.

The plot…well, it’s one part coming-of-age, one part war story. There’s some romance, and it’s plausibly portrayed and not overwrought. There’s magical battles, with fireballs, cavalry charges, and cast-iron consequences. There’s also the story of Beltur, trying to work out who he is, and what he wants, in the crucible of war. It’s good stuff. Certain elements may seem familiar to readers of Modesitt’s other work, but the story is compelling enough that it probably won’t matter.

In the end, Mongrel Mage works as a way in to the larger Recluce series, as a stand-alone novel, and as a part of the series as a whole. Its well-crafted plot, convincing characters and imaginative world make it a firm recommendation from me.

Valiant Dust - Richard Baker

Valiant Dust is a military sci-fi novel, and the first of Richard Baker’s “Breaker of Empires” series.

Sikander North is a prince. Well, close enough. His family rules a world, and, as he at one point indicates, he’s the at least nominal suzerain of a continent. Sikander also has the slightly less glamorous job of being a Lieutenant in the space navy of another power. Because whilst Sikander is a prince, he’s a prince of a minor world in the scheme of things, one which is dependent on the patronage of greater powers to survive intact. In order to help maintain that patronage, he’s now serving as an officer on a ship largely crewed by his patrons.

Sikander is an individual of several facets. Perhaps the largest, from the point of view of the book, is his role as a naval officer. He’s smart, honourable, determined to make a good impression on his new colleagues. That he has unarmed combat training probably doesn’t hurt either. In his moral outlook, Sikander feels like an uncomplicated hero: a good man, struggling againt those with a less ethical view of the world. In some ways, it’s a relief to read about a straightforward good guy, doing the righ thing because he believes in it On the other hand, the antagonists feel a bit more nuanced, willing to cut deals, mislead and politick in order to achieve their goals.  It’d be nice to give Sikander a little more room in his character for this sort of thing. On the other hand, he does have some issues all his own, including some deep-rooted trauma explored in flashbacks. It’s not all sweetness and light for Sikander North – he bleeds, sweats and worries as much as the rest of us, which helps bring him a more attainable sense of humanity.

There’s a sense of the iceberg about Sikander – with a great deal going on beneath the surface. His supporting cast, including the officers and crew of the ship on which he serves, are given less time to shine on the page, which is a shame. Several have visible edges which would reward exploration; the officer who seems to struggle with reporting to Sikander after an incident in her past, for example, or the one with a prejudice against client kingdoms. These feel like spaces ripe for exploration; in the meantime, they serve as solid foils to Sikander, driving the plot whilst exposing more of his character to the reader.

The plot – well, I enjoyed it. The ship containing Sikander and crew is sent to a world which is also a client state, this time of another of the larger colonial powers. There’s unrest bubbling away under the surface, and they’re sent to keep a largely-disinterested eye on things. This lets the reader follow Sikander as an observer in another culture, looking at the legacy and effects of colonialism, as well as other social factors – religion and gender roles are both touched upon. That gives us a nuanced backdrop, and emotional investment in the world when everything (inevitably) kicks off.

When things kick into high gear, Baker shines. His space combat has enough of the abstract to let the reader grasp the strategy, whilst carrying enough visceral weight to let the (sometimes bloody) consequences feel real. The battles are both a ballet of radar lights and fast-acting kinetic weapons, and brutal, unflinching affairs where bulkheads blow out and lives are lost in an instant. It’s almost a poetry of war. The ground combats are more immediate, but have a grit and grace of their own; in both cases, the tension builds and cracks with equal intensity – and makes for a page-turning read.

In the end, is it worth reading? If you’re looking for something new in military sci-fi, I’d say yes.
The battles are elegantly done, but they’re wrapped in a world which carries greater depths (and explores them further) than might be the usual, and characters who can, given the chance, pour their feelings off the page.  It’s definitely a compelling story, and a fun read – and the series has a lot of potential.