A Wasteland Of My God's Own Making - Bradley P. Beaulieu

A Wasteland Of My God’s Own Making is a novella from Bradley P. Beaulieu, set in the same world as his ‘Sharakai’ stories. Regular readers will know that I’ve been a fan of Beaulieu’s for quite some time – and that I think the ‘Sharakai’ sequence is some of the most imaginative contemporary fantasy available. So expectations were set fairly high from the first page of this latest work.

It’s a prequel of sorts, seeming to occur earlier than the first ‘Sharakai’ novel. Its protagonist is Djaga, a pit fighter. Which is to say, she goes out onto the sands in front of a baying crowd, and hurts people for money. Djaga shows an impressive depth of character. Yes, she fights, braking bones and taking money for an audience. But though part of her revels in the attention, though part of her wants to fight, even to kill, and to keep fighting until she can’t fight any longer, that’s not all she is. Not just muscle and reflex, no. On the one hand, Djaga is a creature of regret. A long ago error in judgment festers at the back of her mind, its consequences visible with every red blow she lands in the pit. Djaga fights in part because she enjoys it. In part because she’s good at it. But also in part, I think, to atone, to expiate the past, or at least buy its acceptance for another night or two.

But the other pole for our protagonist is her love. A fierce affection, as much an absolute as the fighting rage. Djaga wants to leave the pits, to become something else, to share a new life with the woman she loves. And each word she speaks is an avatar for that affection, each kinetic ballet in the pits sitting in balance with the warmth and togetherness she feels in the arms of another. Djaga is built to fight, yes, and has a past that wracks her dreams – but she isn’t an avatar of destruction, but a flawed person, making their way in the world with the reader, and with a chance at a love that makes her feel complete. It’s a multi-layered, thoughtful type of affection, a comfortable certainty and fountain of hope in a world which could have spoken about blood upon the sand for a few more pages instead. The story is better for it – for giving us Djaga as a person, one whose needs and wants are complex and contradictory, whose inner life is a whirlwind of crackling thought and deeply felt, honest emotion – even as to the outside world she is a calm avatar of destruction.

What I’m saying is, Djaga is thoroughly human, and manages to balance her need for more connection with her capability to be an incredible badass. She’s a great focal point, and I’d love to see more work focusing on the character. The text is approached from her viewpoint, which serves to keep the narrative tight and focused on the world around Djaga.

And what a world it is. If you’re coming in fresh: Sharakai is a city in the desert, a thriving metropolis, ruled by immortal Kings, whose magic has kept the city alive, and whose jealousy and power keeps them in charge, if less than united. The soaring spires of Sharakai connect to everything outside the desert via ships on the sand – sailing craft driven by the desert winds. And outside the city, rebellion and  unsanctioned magic are fermenting into a dizzying, deadly brew. Here though, we, and Djaga, are centred on the fighting pits. On the sand beneath her feet, still slick with blood from that last cut. On the background roar of a crowd which wants blood, and isn’t too particular about how it gets it. On each breath taken under a blazing sun.  The pits are the centre of a close-knit world, and there’s a strange intimacy in the struggle, the sweat, the crowd, the blood. It’s mirrored in the digressions into Sharakai, in the gentler moments Djaga tries to share with Nadin. It’s a strange, richly imagined world, but one which feels very real.

I won’t get into the plot, for fear of spoilers. But I’ll say this: It’s got a lot going on. There’s a searing emotional heart, yes. And there’s dark secrets from the past, uncovered. And treachery, and blood, and tears on the sand, and friendship. Love and sorrow. And there’s some absolutely top-notch fight scenes, which will put your heart in your mouth, right before the story breaks it for you. There’s a little bit of everything here, and it’s all put together with the precision of a stiletto to the heart.

This novella serves as an excellent entry point into the wider Sharakai universe. But it also succeeds on its own terms, giving us a well-crafted work of fantasy which will keep you turning the pages until morning. If you’re a long time reader of the series, or a newcomer to the deserts of Sharakai, this is a book you ought to try.

The Light Brigade - Kameron Hurley

The Light Brigade is a multifaceted, scintillating, bloody gem of a book. It’s a masterclass in sci-fi from Kameron Hurley, whose other works have always had that perfect blend of interesting ideas and emotional impact. This latest, a sci-fi story in what may be our near future, has the same energy and a raw, visceral feel that keeps the text grounded even while exploring some high concept ideas.

This is a book about conflict. At one level, that conflict is a concrete one. Mega-corporations which now run the world struggle with each other for dominance. And while they engage in a cold war with each other, they also have a hot war with Mars, where a different branch of humanity does not appear to regard them kindly. Our protagonist is a front line soldier in this war, and through their eyes we get a view of guts and mud and horror.

This is also a story about more personal conflicts. About the sacrifices people make internally, the hurt they do to themselves while working within systems that limit their potential. About the self justifications that allow that to continue. About how someone makes it through the day, when they don’t know if they will, in fact, make it through the day. This is, after all, a war run by corporate entities, who are almost equally effective at dehumanising their own troops and those of their enemies. But people fight through this. The narrative lets us see people at their best, under the pressure to do anything to win, deciding who they’ll become, how far they’re willing to go, and for what cause.

I’m not sure I can fully describe how visceral, how horrifying and immediate and brutal the scenes in the active war zones are. They’re typically fast-paced, snappy, with a thread of tension running through them like a razor-edged tripwire. Nobody is safe. The connection our interlocutor feels to their squad mates has some real emotional weight, and I found myself sympathising with these grunts as they trekked through mud and ruined cities, as they were asked to do more and more appalling things for a command structure which felt so far removed as to be more alien than the individuals they were fighting against.

This is a conflict whose futility is written in the actions of the people fighting it; the increasing disaffection and rage some feel at doing sounds in parallel with those who just want it all to be over. This is a conflict of exhaustion, of atrocity, of disenfranchised rage against a slow slide into seemingly inevitable disaster. Each page is searing, an indictment of a society which isn’t more than a few steps away from our own.

So it’s a story about conflicts, personal and systemic, played out through the lens of a near-future war. Maybe that’s enough to get you to pick it up and turn some pages.

It’s also a top notch character piece. Sitting behind the eyes of our protagonist, we live through the conflict with them. We learn about their past, the matter-of-fact horrors that shaped their trajectory before the story began. We learn about their loves, and about the ideals which they hold close to their heart. We learn about their mistakes, and see them commit what might be unforgivable acts, under the aegis of war. We see them struggle to forgive themselves and others for similar acts. This is someone drowning, trying to remain human whilst the environment militates against humanity.

The characterisation is, I would suggest, top-flight. The feelings we gain from our narrator have an honesty to them, an immediacy which makes them feel real; and their inner voice is thoughtful, aware of its limitations, a regular person playing out a situation which is pretty irregular. The supporting cast are an intriguing bunch as well – by turns villainous, conflicted, complex, unfeeling, affectionate, treacherous and loyal. They are, to sum up, people, and they shape the world by being seen as people through our protagonist. Some of them aren’t very nice people, but that’s neither here nr there -w hat they are is real, one way or another.

So you’ve got a war, a conflict in a vivid and believable world that lets us explore ideas about wealth and violence, about humanity and personal and institutional power, under the hood of an adrenaline-stoked struggle. And you’ve got characters who feel real, who live and die for each other, whose passions and needs come right off the page. The story is stylistically clever too, smoothly moving between non-linear sections; the reader working alongside our protagonist to make sense of their dislocation. Plotting this out, working out which pieces g where and when, which are visible to the reader and the narrator at which time, must have been a nightmare. But as a means of getting the story across, it’s perfect; as the clouds begin to lift, as quite what’s happening becomes clearer to our protagonist, so too the lines of story begin to join up for the reader. The plotting is intricate work, which pays off admirably over the course of the story.

But there’s other ideas here, too. I won’t touch on it too much for fear of spoilers, but there’s this: In order to move soldiers around, in order to take part in an interplanetary conflict, the corporations have found a way to turn their soldiers into light. To shift them across the world (or worlds) instantly, to reconstitute them, and let them hit the ground fighting immediately. But this is a process with costs. Some come back broken, some come back dead, some come back mad. What they see in that disembodied journey is a mystery, and one which might change the course of history.

This is Hurley at her best. It’s a story about people – real people. Not always good people. Often the opposite. Sometimes beaten, broken, fighting, furious people. But always people. And it’s a story which asks big questions about society – about the way we shape it, and it shapes us. It’s also a book which plays with some big sci-fi ideas in innovative and clever ways, and will reward an in-depth read.

Hurley’s really knocked it out of the park with this one – give it a try.

Holy Sister - Mark Lawrence

Holy Sister is the conclusion to Mark Lawrence’s ‘Book of the Ancestor’ trilogy. Regular readers will know I’m a big fan of Lawrence’s work, and that I thoroughly enjoyed both previous parts of the trilogy. I went into this book with high expectations, and I have to say at the outset, those expectations were more than met.

To me, this is a story about family, and about affection, and the ties that bind us all to each other. It’s about struggling with strangeness, and with finding the meaning in your own lives, and those of others. It’s a story about taking hard decisions, and about forgiveness. By this time, I imagine you’re familiar with Nona, whom we’ve followed from her somewhat unfortunate childhood, through her time in the convent of warrior-nuns and into the present. If not, I’d say the first word I’d use to describe her is ‘fierce’. Possibly alongside ‘bloody stubborn’ or, if pressed, maybe just ‘bloody’. Nona has an absolute loyalty to those she has decided are her friends, a quality which gleams in the underbrush of every paragraph. If not the smartest of her peer group (albeit due to some very strong competition), she’s certainly also a fast thinker, and one able to do so under pressure. But  she remains the sum of her flaws as well as her best parts; the events which have shaped her and left her with a sharp edge have also gifted her with a fast-rising temper, and the skills to make a red mist out of anyone who happens to be standing too close when it blows.

I’ve got a lot of time for Nona. She’s an amalgam if her experiences – the broken reeds of childhood, the intense need for family, for acceptance, the desire to do more, to do better. The fiery drive that works with her rage to move mountains. Like all of us, she’s not a hero or a villain in her head, but a person, broken and re-forged in each moment, trying to make the best decisions she can, and deciding what matters to her. There’s pain between the lines of these pages, raw and honest; but there’s joy as well, and the scintillating prose gives both an equal depth and truth.

This is Nona’s story, and it explores her connections into the found family she’s built for herself. I won’t go through one by one (for fear of spoilers if nothing else), but I’ll say this: they all have a part to play. This is Nona’s story, but she isn’t surrounded by ciphers. Her friends are as vividly alive as they ever were, and you can see their minds ticking over and their blood pumping. They’re people too, a strong ensemble behind the lead. They help to guide Nona, they help shape her decision, and in many cases, they help to execute them as well. They share her concerns, hopes and fears, and they feel too, taking on the burden of her world and sharing their own. This connection, this sense of togetherness, seems an accent on the larger theme. It’s also worth mentioning the antagonists, who have a tendency to be intelligent, mildly unpleasant, and utterly ruthless. Maybe they’re the heroes of their own stories. There’s certainly no moustache twirling here, just individuals, organisations and nations with incompatible goals, and a desire to see themselves win out. Which isn’t to say it doesn’t get bloody. But does mean that when it does, the emotional and narrative stakes feel higher. This is a book which isn’t pulling any punches.

Okay, so Nona is raw and vital and honest and fun to read. Great. And her friends are people too, well-crafted, vivid characters that give us different insight into her world and facets of Nona’s character. Fantastic! And the villains are cunning and terrifying. Marvellous!

But what about the story?

The story is an absolute firecracker.

I’ve now tried to describe it several times here without spoilers. I’ll say this. Lawrence is a master at building narrative tension. At making you chew your nails and turn pages wanting to know what happens next. At cutting away as everything builds to a seeming crescendo, leaping onto another thread, and winding the screw a little tighter. There’s a lot going on in these pages. All of it is important. All of it is intriguing. And I wanted to know what was going on with all of it, all at once.

The climax, when it arrives, is an absolute tour-de-force. In a story with revelation, betrayal, with grief and murder and love and joy interweaving with each other, the close is a ray of light which feels like a kick in the gut. And the denouement has the sort of emotional heft which can leave you in tears, can demolish the reader entirely, in fact.

Is that too fluffy?

Okay. If you’re not just here for the characters, for the closure, for the feels, I can promise you this:

The world is still there, and the story takes us to places we’ve never seen before. There’s ice and darkness, there’s new questions and even a few answers. There’s battles which aren’t just talking about rivers of blood, but showing human fear and courage and the price of resistance. But the blood’s there too – there’s scenes which will take your breath away with their terror and grandeur, and ones which will bring you to your feet with their immediacy. There’s sweat and dirt and tears in here, there’s intimacy amid the great sweep of armies. There’s a story which wraps all of these things together, and will make you feel them, feel this world and these people as sharply as a razor-cut.

Holy Sister is, truly, a revelation, It’s a conclusion which will leave you satisfied but also wanting more. It’s an ending and a beginning, and it’s, seriously, a bloody good story.

Finder - Suzanne Palmer

Finder is a snappy, smart space adventure from Suzanne Palmer. It’s a lot of fun, and has some clever big ideas lurking beneath some tremendously human characters and a breakneck plot.

The story is centred on the marvellously alliterative Fergus Ferguson. Fergus calls himself a finder. He retrieves things for people. That leans less toward dropped earrings, and more toward slightly larger things – in this case, a spacecraft. To retrieve these lost objects, Fergus employs a variety of soft skills, including fast talking, impersonation, building improvised tools and the occasional well-placed theft. Fergus is also thoughtful, introspective, and altohihg unwilling to dig too far into his own psyche, gives us some truly vivid imagery to allow for a partial analysis of his personality.

The larger point here is, Fergus is fun to read. He can talk his way out fo a lot of things, and seeing the excuses and rationales he runs up to get out of various scrapes is a delight. At the same time, when events call for the physical, he’s no slouch (if not a ninja). There’s enough high impact conflict here to sate anyone – but there’s also a lot of running away, or arranging events so as to  fight again another day. This is a smart, thoughtful protagonist, unwilling to risk their hide unnecessarily. That Fergus is also always ready with some banter is a plus, and helps carry the story along. But Fergus has enough depth to make him more than an entertaining cipher. There’s a sense of history, of past hidden beneath a shroud of memory and long con’s gone wrong. The meat is there if you want to infer and dig into it, and if not – he’s an interesting person with a smart mouth and a degree of competence that makes the characterisation an absolute joy.

Fergus operates in a weird, complicated, fascinating world. It’s one which knows about non-human species, where some are better known as your neighbours, but others are a potentially lethal enigma. The system he’s working in is a string of habitats, linked together by a desire for atmosphere and commerce, at the edge of any space where anyone cares about law enforcement. It’s a pot on the boil, torn between several factions, none of whom particularly want to share power with the others. But they’re also part of a broader universe, a claustrophobic environment connected by hump oints to a larger, sprawling universe. And to Palmer’s credit, this universe feels alive. If the habitats are often cramped, claustrophobic and filled with dangerous flora and fauna, they’re also thriving, with a dynamic and invested population base. The politics, the environs, the details of life in this world feel believable. The wider scale also works for internal consistency. There’s grime and grudges and attitude, and they all feel real. This is a real, living, breathing world – it makes internal sense, and it will keep your attention even as Fergus leaps across it wreaking havoc.

Speaking of which – the plot is rather fun. It ramps up quickly, and although you’re grounded, there’s a sense of the unknown and unfamiliar throughout. We’re grounding ourselves alongside Fergus, and as he looks into alien ships, into political malfeasance, and as he works to talk his way into stealing a star cruiser, we empathise, we understand his pain, every step of the way. The conflicts though have depth and raw, hard edges, and a history which helps them to feel real The stakes are high, for sure, and the pacing never lets up – throwing you between witty repartee, gunfire and the potential end of the world between paragraphs.

This is a tightly written, compelling space opera. It has charm and grace, and will make you want to finish it very quickly, to see what happens next. It is, above all, a fun piece of sci-fi which will reward your attention – and so I recommend it.

A Veil of Spears - Bradley P. Beaulieu

A Veil of Spears is the third in Bradley  P. Beaulieu’s “The Song of the Shattered Sands” sequence. I’ve enjoyed the first two, with their nuanced, complex, bloody take on a more Arabian-styled fantasy. This latest addition is an absolute stormer, upending the setting, revealing secrets, and, if possible, raising the stakes even further.

It strikes me that this is, at its core, a book about identity. About the history of individuals and peoples, and about the way that history blends with myth and legend to create culture. That is, in the end, what Sharakhai is – a culture, built on a myth, the myth that is semi-divine Kings deserve to rule, that they carry a divine blessing, that what exists now is the way things have always been. That the Kings are inevitable, immutable, natural forces It turns out that  this is, to say the least, not entirely true. The world of Sharakhai has been rocked at its foundations, and people within and without the city are questioning who they are. This happen at several levels; there’s the grand sweep, where the mysterious Thirteenth tribe, survivors of a historical massacre, thrown to the winds, have begun to come back together, to redefine themselves as a people in the desert, against not only the hostile Kings, but the remaining desert tribes, who aren’t entirely sure whether a new player is a good idea. There’s the more intimate  though, as Çeda, our protagonist for the last few books, finds herself at the heart of this new tribe – looking at a wider family, a kin that she’s never known growing up almost alone.

This matter of identity reaches further, too. Whilst the struggles of the Kings and the Tribes of Sharakhai are at the core of the text, they’re both part of one cultural tradition. That tradition may have been controlled by the narrative of the semi-immortal Kings, but it serves as much to unite as to divide, But there are other forces on the march now, other kingdoms eyeing the struggles in Sharakhai with interest. They’re perfectly happy to take over Sharakhai and its valuable trade route, and have, it seems, relatively little interest in the cultural struggles of those they’d have to step over to seize it. There are tremors here suggesting that we’re about to open the story out onto a wider canvas.

In the meantime however, there’s the political manoeuvrings of the Kings of Sharakhai to look into, as these monstrously powerful individuals fight not only the tribal forces gathering against their rule, but also with each other. This book gives us more insight into the personalities and goals of the remaining Kings, leaving them less ciphers than men – albeit ones cloaked in supernatural power. This revelation to the reader maps well with the same discovery by Çeda and her allies – that the Kings are mortal, can be hurt, can die. We also get a bit more insight into the life of the desert tribes outside of Sharakhai, where family and blood are everything, where life in the desert often sits on the edge of a knife. They’re a tough bunch for the Kings to bring to heel, but they’re just going to roll over for Çeda and the gang either. Exploring the society of the tribes takes us out into the deep desert, away from the confines of Sharakhai – the geography broadening alongside the scope of the story. It paints a vivid picture that lets you feel the heat of the sun on your face, or the desert winds, the cool dark of the nights around a campfire, the shriek of a supernatural creature coming to rip your head off. The desert is as alive as the city, if differently – and this new facet of the world is as perfectly realised as the others. Sharakhai lives, the desert breathes.

The plot comes at the reader from multiple angles. Though we tend to be focused on Çeda, there are other viewpoints – Kings, outright outsiders, and those further down the social chain. Each of their stories interweaves with the others, and each has something to contribute to the larger tapestry. I won’t go into details on what that wider picture looks like, but will say this: there are some beautiful, intimate moments of precision character work here, payoffs of arcs constructed over the course of the preceding texts; there’s discoveries that will change how the characters and the reader view the past couple of books, too. And there’s some buccaneering, fast-paced, brutal, bloody action, too. There’s clashes of armies, betrayals, revolutions in the making. This is a book with real heart, and a real emotional heft.

 If you’ve been wondering whether to pick up the next book in the series: yes, yes, this is a good book, you should read it. If you’re wondering whether to start the series: Yes, that too. Go, read them all. This is great stuff.

Titanshade - Dan Stout

Titanshade is the debut fantasy-noir novel from Dan Stout. It certainly has a lot going for it. There’s a city in the centre of an ice-field, whose economic survival depends on slowly depleting oil reserves. There’s different species living side by side, with all the socio-cultural tension which that brings. There’s politicians who have an agenda to promote, and little care for what damage they’ll do. There’s sorcerors who can bring back the dead for a bit of a chat. There’s a police force whose members have a penchant for graft, planting evidence, and applying a swift phonebook to the side of the head of a problem when an interrogation won’t solve it. Oh, and there is, of course, a murder

So yeah, there’s a lot going on here. The first thing I have to say is that, with all of these things going on, there’s a sense of style, and a vivid sense of place. The style – well, it feels like a blend between the hard-edged noir of Hammett and Ellroy, and the blurred excesses of an extravagant Seventies. Wide collars, smart shades and smart mouths are available in equal measure. The place? The place is Titanshade. It’s a city that sits on the edge of nowhere. An urban hub nestled against a mountain, with freezing plains in every direction. A city of rings, each ring a little further out than the last, each ring a little colder than the last. It’s a city built on a desire to escape government intrusion – in the far end of nowhere – but also on wealth. This is an oil town, whose liquid gold has kept the populace in work and in ready cash for quite some time. You can feel the sense of the past in the prose – in characters in richly decorated offices, looking out on run-down drill-rigs. In the neighbourhoods in the city which still hold some of their care and class, but are just that little bit more decrepit than the year before. This is a city on the edge of a downturn, hanging on to its former glory by its fingernails. And the prose gives us that – in the sparkling white of the snow, in the rust and steel gleam of the oil rigs. In the energy of the populace, warming themselves in the city’s heart, and in the cool calculation of its leadership. This is a place which comes alive on the page, which pulls you into its streets and makes you feel the clamour, the drive, the need to be alive – and the undercurrent sin the same streets, the darker pulses of the urban heart. Titanshade lives.

Our protagonist in this town is Carter. Carter works homicide in Titanshade, a place where the dead can be revived to answer awkward questions (albeit with no guarantee that they’ll be answered), and where corruption makes sure that inconvenient answers are delicately swept under the rug, along with the people who found them. Carter hits a lot of familiar notes – he’s down on his luck, he has a mysterious past, he’s not a completely straight shooter, but has limits; for all that, they ring true. Carter’s voice is wry, thoughtful, aware of his position, but determined to do some good despite himself. The colloquial tone makes for an accessible read, and if Carter isn’t always the best person, still he’s easy to empathise with.

Watching with Carter’s eyes works especially well when compared to his partner, who, apart from having mandibles (being from one of Titanshade’s other resident species), is new to the city. He’s keen to learn, keen not to mess up, and keen to do the right thing – but far, fasr less keen to be seen anywhere near Carter. There relationship is a small joy in the text, as they circle each other, trying to reach a rapprochement through banter, the odd bite of street-food, and examining the occasional murder scene.

Both, I have to say, manage the tricky feat of feeling alive, of feeling like people. I felt their successes, their fears, their victories and defeats.  They’re ably supported by a broader cast of memorable figures – from the down-home oil baron, to the activists trying to help get sex-workers off the street, to ice-cold political operatives. There’s a lot going on here, and the people in it have their own lives and their own agenda.

The plot – well, I shan’t give anything away. It starts with a murder, which is how Carter finds himself involved. But even as the investigation is hitting its stride, there are suggestions that there are other things going on – including politics, blackmail and betrayal. It’s a story whose central post is a complex murder with many different angles, and the investigation is both convincing and compelling. You’ll want to know whodunit, but I, at least, also wanted to know why they dunnit. There’s more than enough action here to set the pulse racing, and the prose pulls absolutely no punches in that regard; but there’s a strong emotional centre as well, and a believable mystery with a strong resolution sat at the heart of the text.

This is a solid debut, giving us a fascinating new world, some fun characters who feel real, and a story which, I guarantee will keep you turning pages into the wee hours. Give it a whirl!

The True Queen - Zen Cho

The True Queen is Zen Cho’s follow up to their utterly charming debut, Sorcerer to the Crown.

It’s a delightful blend of magic and manners, as well as wit and romance. It’s the sort of book you can happily read while drinking a cup of tea on a rainy day, letting it transport you to a world where fairies are real (and sometimes deadly), and so is magic; where a scathing word can cut deeper than a blade, where dances are utterly serious, and where everyone should know their place.

Muna, the protagonist, isn’t particularly good at knowing her place. She begins her journey on a beach, with no memory of who she is, and with a sister. Muna is grounded, considerate, thoughtful, and unbending in the face of adversity. You can feel her quiet strength suffusing every line she speaks, and parse it from her quick thinking and craft in the face of danger. By contrast, her sister is imperious, sharp, sometimes thoughtless – but also fierce, witty, a being of air and fire . Their relationship is characterised by their love for each other. Though they bicker, squabble and banter as much as siblings do, there’s an undercurrent there of trust and affection, a bond which sustains each, even as it holds them to fight for each other. This familial bond is given a sympathetic rendering in the text, and it’s wonderfully drawn, as the pair of bickering siblings strive toward their mutual goals.

I’d also be remiss if I didn’t mention the friendship she has with Henrietta, one of the magieiennes of Britain, whose family issues probably deserve a novel all of their own. The two of them are kind to each other, supportive, fierce and endearing. The time they spend together, through thick and thin, was an absolute delight.

Still, Muna is our viewpoint on the world, and it’s with her we explore Regency Britain once again. Well, actually, we begin at Janda Baik, near the straits of Malacca The text brings to life the myths of the area – sometimes literally, with a vividly realised originality. The warmth and life of the island on which Muna and her sister find themselves has a constant dynamic thrum, and it’s brushed into being with care and vitality. The contrast of an island where power lives informally with its dependents, and cheek-by-jowl with its own mythology, is contrasted cleverly with the more formal, colder, more regimented world of Regency England, where Muna finds herself after something of a mishap while trying to trace her identity.

Identity is something of an issue here, actually. Muna is looking for who she is, but the English are more than happy to try and craft a role for her, layering on colonial expectations as well as gendered and social ones. Muna I thought, was expected to be a magicienne, of a strange  (to the English), far away tradition, and to be at once a divergence from the expected role of women and one of its exemplars. Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t take this overly well. Still, it means we get to see Regency society once again – the parties where people are willing to talk about what dress someone’s wearing, the scandal of that one fellow who is up to his ears in debt, and of course, that cousin who ran away to join the faerie court, or, more scandalously, that daughter who now does magic. That baroque sense of style is back, and it wraps around the text, giving it a style and grandeur of the period. We do get to see more of the faerie realm as well, an odd, ineffably cruel place, where nothing is quite what you’d expect.

Muna is going into these places looking for herself. What she finds may be something else entirely.

The plot takes a while to get rolling, but don’t let the gentle tone of the characters disguise the scheming and steel which lies beneath. By the mid point I was intrigued to see what happened next, and where it was all going. By the last quarter, you would have had to pry it from my hands to stop me getting to the end.

This is a clever, thoughtful book. It explores a lot of interesting ideas around identity, gender, and empire. It draws and builds some marvellous relationships, which feel vivaciously human. And it’s a book which is hopeful, and a genuine balm for the soul. If you’re new to the series, maybe read Sorcerer to the Crown first; but I’d say if you’ve read the first book, you know what you’re getting into – this one is a delight, and worth your time.