This latest movie in the X-Men series initially seemed promising, but I was mortally disappointed when I went to see it. There wasn't much good to be salvaged from the flat acting, mutant cameos, and needlessly grandiose special effects.
Ian McKellan does a reasonably good job as the evil, overdramatic Magneto, and Patrick Stewart plays an intriguing Professor X (although I didn't personally like what the script did with the character), but there the decent acting ends. Halle Berry plays an utterly personality-less Storm, leaving me wondering whether I was seeing her face or a mask. Hugh Jackman, normally a fine actor, spends most of the movie scrambling desperately to keep up with events, squeezing in an emotion here and there when he can get away with it. Kelsey Grammar makes a surprisingly apt Beast, but unfortunately he doesn't get to do much of anything, either.
The reason for this rapidly becomes apparent when you look at the number of cast members involved in this movie. In addition, a great deal of time was devoted to levitating cars, houses, and Magneto relocating the Golden Gate Bridge (an impressive feat, to be sure, but it was never apparent why he bothered unless he just felt like showing off).
The best moment of the movie is completely ruined by a ten-second "sign off" at the end. If you're going to call a movie "The Last Stand", I think it behooves you to tie up the loose ends. I don't think this X-Men movie is worth going to see in the theater at all.
About Me
Jun 7, 2006
Jun 6, 2006
Everything Bad Is Good for You
This little book by Steven Johnson posts an interesting hypothesis: is it possible that modern popular culture is actually making us smarter? According to Johnson, there's a very good chance that it is.
In a world where prophetic warnings against the dumbing effects of popular culture are rampant, Johnson's view seems more than a little crazy. However, he points to a number of trends that seem to support his viewpoint, trends he refers to as the "sleeper curve". One of the most intriguing is his mention of the Flynn Effect: an unusual and unexplained rise in IQ scores over the past 30 years.
What in popular culture could possibly be responsible for this shift in intelligence? Why attribute it to popular culture at all?
The real problem is that the Flynn Effect doesn't correlate to anything else. After all, during the same period educational performance has been very obviously decreasing, as evidenced studies of SAT scores and other performance indicators too numerous to mention. If Americans are performing less well as students, (and, in my opinion, being taught increasingly poorly at the same time) how on earth are we getting smarter?
Johnson's answer: video games. Well, not just video games, but a number of forms of popular entertainment: television, movies, even Dungeons and Dragons. As a gamer, I found this section particularly amusing (bold emphasis mine):
Does that seem bizarre? Most of the gamers I know have gone through precisely this experience, and decided to design their own system to fix what they perceived as the problems with the existing ones! Remember, also, that we're talking about ultra-complicated hobbies that once only ultra-geeks pursued at all . . . D&D is now huge!
The trend towards more complicated, and thus more intelligence-raising entertainment can be found everywhere. Yes, appalling junk still exists, but as he says, "even the crap is getting better."
The book is an interesting read, although Johnson doesn't prove that pop culture is making Americans smarter. He says that a lot more research needs to be done, a fact that only adds to his presentation. How often does some pseudo-scientist notice a correlation between two facts and immediately announce that this necessarily indicates causation as well? Here, at least, we have someone that is willing to say "I have two facts that run roughly parallel, maybe they're related?"
As for me, I'm hoping this means that, in the future, there will be some TV shows I might actually want to watch.
Rating: 3.5
Cross-posted to the Objectivism Metablog
In a world where prophetic warnings against the dumbing effects of popular culture are rampant, Johnson's view seems more than a little crazy. However, he points to a number of trends that seem to support his viewpoint, trends he refers to as the "sleeper curve". One of the most intriguing is his mention of the Flynn Effect: an unusual and unexplained rise in IQ scores over the past 30 years.
Across the board, irrespective of class or race or education, Americans were getting smarter. Flynn was able to quantify the shift: in forty-six years, the American people had gained 13.8 IQ points on average.
The trend had gone unnoticed for so long because th eIQ establishment routinely normalized the exams to ensure that a person of average intelligence scored 100 on the test. So, every few years, they'd review the numbers and tweak the test to ensure that the median score was 100. Without realizing it, they were slowly but reliably increasing the difficulty of the test, as though they were ramping up the speed of a treadmill. If you looked exclusively at the history of the scores themselves, IQ seemed to be running in place, unchanged over the past century. But if you factored in the mounting challenge presented by the tests themselves, the picture changed dramatically: the test-takers were getting smarter.
What in popular culture could possibly be responsible for this shift in intelligence? Why attribute it to popular culture at all?
The real problem is that the Flynn Effect doesn't correlate to anything else. After all, during the same period educational performance has been very obviously decreasing, as evidenced studies of SAT scores and other performance indicators too numerous to mention. If Americans are performing less well as students, (and, in my opinion, being taught increasingly poorly at the same time) how on earth are we getting smarter?
Johnson's answer: video games. Well, not just video games, but a number of forms of popular entertainment: television, movies, even Dungeons and Dragons. As a gamer, I found this section particularly amusing (bold emphasis mine):
Once you released your Dwarven fighter into the world, the calculations involved in determining the effects of his actions--attacking a specific creature with a specific weapon under specific circumstances with a specific squad of comrades fighting alongside you--would leave most kids weeping if you put the same charts on a math quiz.
Which gets to the ultimate question of why a ten-year-old found any of this fun. For me, the embarrassing truth of the matter is that I did ultimately grow frustrated with my baseball simulation, but not for the reasons you might expect. It wasn't that arcane language wore me down, or that I grew tired of switching columns on the Bases Empty chart, or that I decided that six hours was too long ot spend alone in my room on a Saturday afternoon in July.
No, I moved on from [the baseball simulation] because it wasn't realistic enough.
Does that seem bizarre? Most of the gamers I know have gone through precisely this experience, and decided to design their own system to fix what they perceived as the problems with the existing ones! Remember, also, that we're talking about ultra-complicated hobbies that once only ultra-geeks pursued at all . . . D&D is now huge!
The trend towards more complicated, and thus more intelligence-raising entertainment can be found everywhere. Yes, appalling junk still exists, but as he says, "even the crap is getting better."
The book is an interesting read, although Johnson doesn't prove that pop culture is making Americans smarter. He says that a lot more research needs to be done, a fact that only adds to his presentation. How often does some pseudo-scientist notice a correlation between two facts and immediately announce that this necessarily indicates causation as well? Here, at least, we have someone that is willing to say "I have two facts that run roughly parallel, maybe they're related?"
As for me, I'm hoping this means that, in the future, there will be some TV shows I might actually want to watch.
Rating: 3.5
Cross-posted to the Objectivism Metablog
Jun 5, 2006
Epic: Mire
An oppressive weight of water hung in the air, shrouding all but the immediate surround in grayish haze. Beads of moisture formed on any exposed surface and ran, forming a slick of revolting slime. A rain of spontaneously coalescing drops fell constantly with an ominous, irregular bubbling sound: the malign chuckle of a pain-crazed wreck, ripe with terror and pregnant with dread.
There was no solid ground to be seen anywhere. Two or three inches of dark, murky water floated on a seemingly bottomless depth of muddy ooze that bulged in gelatinous ripples at the slightest disturbance. Thick snarls of roots rose from the water, supporting trunks that were themselves simply supports for dark curtains of tangled moss. The trees seemed to droop wearily under the weight, aged heaps rotted by despair, nearing collapse.
Jemith perched somewhat uncomfortably on a protruding root and attempted to brush leaves, mold, and bits of bark from his clothing. The branches above shook as Daian descended the tree. A long streamer of moss broke free and landed with a soggy squelch on Jemith’s shoulders. He flung the moss aside with a hiss of disgust.
“My apologies,” Daian offered solemnly.
“What hell is this? I wonder whether I truly did survive that fall. Perhaps this is some grim ever-after and my punishment is simply to be stuck here with you.”
“I think I detect a note of resentment in your voice.”
“Only a note?” Jemith sighed noisily, his expression sour. “At least, before you appeared, my life had the advantage of being dull.”
“How is that an advantage?”
“I had the expectation that it would continue.”
Daian shrugged and began edging her way carefully down the mound of roots until she reached the water level. She shielded her eyes from the water and attempted to peer into the gloom, rewarded only with the sight of vague shadows looming in the mist. She frowned at the unpromising water, tightening her muscles against the ordeal she knew must follow. There was no sense in waiting for her imagination to make the traverse even worse than it already was.
“You cannot honestly be proposing to swim.”
“It’s that, or wait here and die.”
“You’ll be lucky to make half a mile!”
“If you have a better suggestion, I’d love to hear it.”
Jemith looked skyward, in the direction of his home, but he saw only wet clots of leaves. “I don’t think I know how to swim.”
“You do not belong here.”
“You’re certainly correct!”
“Be quiet!” Daian hissed sharply. Jemith turned to snap at her and realized they were not alone in the swamp any longer. A woman was watching them from the mist.
She stepped forward, her bare feet touching the surface of the water without sinking beneath it. Her skin was the color of mud-smeared bark, her hair hung stiff and heavy like a tangle of vines. Her gray, shapeless dress seemed a composition of patches and loose threads. Only her glittering black eyes made her seem alive, not simply a part of the general surroundings.
“You do not belong here,” she muttered vaguely.
“Which way out of this wretched swamp?” Jemith demanded.
“There is only one way out of the swamp. But it is not for you.” She turned, indifferent, and vanished into the mist. Behind her, lazy ripples spread from footprints left on top of the water.
“Unbelievable,” Jemith murmured. Daian was looking at the water. She cautiously extended a booted foot and sighed when her experiment yielded only a splash. Jemith chuckled slightly. “Were you expecting something else to happen?”
“She’s walking on the water somehow. If we can figure out how to do it, we won’t have to swim.”
“I can see why you aren’t a magician.”
Daian considered for a moment and then sat on the roots, pulling her boots off. Then she extended her foot a second time. “That feels really strange.” She took a few experimental steps, leaving wide, smeary footprints in the water.
“No,” Jemith said quietly.
“No what?”
“Magic doesn’t work that way. If there’s something in this water to enable you to walk on it, it should work regardless of whether you’re wearing shoes or not!”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so! Do you have any idea what this means?”
Daian squished her toes in the water thoughtfully. “No, I’m afraid not.”
“It means there is a chimera around here somewhere.”
“A what?”
“A chimera. A . . . changed one. How much do you know about history?” Daian treated him to a peculiar expression, both jaundiced and amused.
“Oh, a fair bit.”
“Well, it used to be that . . .”
She held up her hand, cutting him short. “I can tell you’re concerned, however, does it make any difference one way or the other? We’re still stuck”—she pointed to her feet—“and this is better than swimming.”
“We just need to be careful.”
“I’m always careful.” Jemith stripped off his shoes and tentatively extended one foot towards the water. The liquid gave slightly, and then supported his weight. He followed Daian silently as she wound through the trees, thinking too hard for conversation. He’d never encountered any phenomenon even approaching this scope, and he found himself unable to focus on anything else.
“Jemith!” Daian shouted suddenly, her voice confused and commingled with the deafening sound of an eruption. Jemith skidded sideways over the water, gasping in shock, as a mass of teeth, claws, and tangled waterweeds launched itself in his direction. Daian blurred into motion and the creature’s attenuated body suddenly developed a rent, top and bottom sliding away in opposite directions with a hideous, bubbling shriek. Jemith stared at it in horror. It looked almost human. And it was still moving.
“Jemith, what are you doing?!” Startled again, he looked up to see Daian hacking ruthlessly at a rapidly encroaching mass of monsters. Two more burst from the water as he watched, close enough that the twin plumes of water splashed him. “Cast a spell or something!”
“I don’t have anything useful!”
Daian wrenched herself through most of a circle to lop a reaching arm in half. “Then run!” Jemith took off at a sprint; in a musical jingle of armor, Daian followed him. Reaching hands rose from the water, sending Jemith sheering off in a new direction to leave them behind. His legs began to ache and the air burned in his chest. Then his feet hit something other than water and he stumbled, falling face-first into a patch of semi-solid mud. Daian stood over him, facing into the swamp, waiting for him to rise.
“They . . . they’ve stopped chasing us.”
“I think I see why.”
She glanced over her shoulder. A decaying village rose above them on endless ranks of narrow bamboo stilts.
There was no solid ground to be seen anywhere. Two or three inches of dark, murky water floated on a seemingly bottomless depth of muddy ooze that bulged in gelatinous ripples at the slightest disturbance. Thick snarls of roots rose from the water, supporting trunks that were themselves simply supports for dark curtains of tangled moss. The trees seemed to droop wearily under the weight, aged heaps rotted by despair, nearing collapse.
Jemith perched somewhat uncomfortably on a protruding root and attempted to brush leaves, mold, and bits of bark from his clothing. The branches above shook as Daian descended the tree. A long streamer of moss broke free and landed with a soggy squelch on Jemith’s shoulders. He flung the moss aside with a hiss of disgust.
“My apologies,” Daian offered solemnly.
“What hell is this? I wonder whether I truly did survive that fall. Perhaps this is some grim ever-after and my punishment is simply to be stuck here with you.”
“I think I detect a note of resentment in your voice.”
“Only a note?” Jemith sighed noisily, his expression sour. “At least, before you appeared, my life had the advantage of being dull.”
“How is that an advantage?”
“I had the expectation that it would continue.”
Daian shrugged and began edging her way carefully down the mound of roots until she reached the water level. She shielded her eyes from the water and attempted to peer into the gloom, rewarded only with the sight of vague shadows looming in the mist. She frowned at the unpromising water, tightening her muscles against the ordeal she knew must follow. There was no sense in waiting for her imagination to make the traverse even worse than it already was.
“You cannot honestly be proposing to swim.”
“It’s that, or wait here and die.”
“You’ll be lucky to make half a mile!”
“If you have a better suggestion, I’d love to hear it.”
Jemith looked skyward, in the direction of his home, but he saw only wet clots of leaves. “I don’t think I know how to swim.”
“You do not belong here.”
“You’re certainly correct!”
“Be quiet!” Daian hissed sharply. Jemith turned to snap at her and realized they were not alone in the swamp any longer. A woman was watching them from the mist.
She stepped forward, her bare feet touching the surface of the water without sinking beneath it. Her skin was the color of mud-smeared bark, her hair hung stiff and heavy like a tangle of vines. Her gray, shapeless dress seemed a composition of patches and loose threads. Only her glittering black eyes made her seem alive, not simply a part of the general surroundings.
“You do not belong here,” she muttered vaguely.
“Which way out of this wretched swamp?” Jemith demanded.
“There is only one way out of the swamp. But it is not for you.” She turned, indifferent, and vanished into the mist. Behind her, lazy ripples spread from footprints left on top of the water.
“Unbelievable,” Jemith murmured. Daian was looking at the water. She cautiously extended a booted foot and sighed when her experiment yielded only a splash. Jemith chuckled slightly. “Were you expecting something else to happen?”
“She’s walking on the water somehow. If we can figure out how to do it, we won’t have to swim.”
“I can see why you aren’t a magician.”
Daian considered for a moment and then sat on the roots, pulling her boots off. Then she extended her foot a second time. “That feels really strange.” She took a few experimental steps, leaving wide, smeary footprints in the water.
“No,” Jemith said quietly.
“No what?”
“Magic doesn’t work that way. If there’s something in this water to enable you to walk on it, it should work regardless of whether you’re wearing shoes or not!”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so! Do you have any idea what this means?”
Daian squished her toes in the water thoughtfully. “No, I’m afraid not.”
“It means there is a chimera around here somewhere.”
“A what?”
“A chimera. A . . . changed one. How much do you know about history?” Daian treated him to a peculiar expression, both jaundiced and amused.
“Oh, a fair bit.”
“Well, it used to be that . . .”
She held up her hand, cutting him short. “I can tell you’re concerned, however, does it make any difference one way or the other? We’re still stuck”—she pointed to her feet—“and this is better than swimming.”
“We just need to be careful.”
“I’m always careful.” Jemith stripped off his shoes and tentatively extended one foot towards the water. The liquid gave slightly, and then supported his weight. He followed Daian silently as she wound through the trees, thinking too hard for conversation. He’d never encountered any phenomenon even approaching this scope, and he found himself unable to focus on anything else.
“Jemith!” Daian shouted suddenly, her voice confused and commingled with the deafening sound of an eruption. Jemith skidded sideways over the water, gasping in shock, as a mass of teeth, claws, and tangled waterweeds launched itself in his direction. Daian blurred into motion and the creature’s attenuated body suddenly developed a rent, top and bottom sliding away in opposite directions with a hideous, bubbling shriek. Jemith stared at it in horror. It looked almost human. And it was still moving.
“Jemith, what are you doing?!” Startled again, he looked up to see Daian hacking ruthlessly at a rapidly encroaching mass of monsters. Two more burst from the water as he watched, close enough that the twin plumes of water splashed him. “Cast a spell or something!”
“I don’t have anything useful!”
Daian wrenched herself through most of a circle to lop a reaching arm in half. “Then run!” Jemith took off at a sprint; in a musical jingle of armor, Daian followed him. Reaching hands rose from the water, sending Jemith sheering off in a new direction to leave them behind. His legs began to ache and the air burned in his chest. Then his feet hit something other than water and he stumbled, falling face-first into a patch of semi-solid mud. Daian stood over him, facing into the swamp, waiting for him to rise.
“They . . . they’ve stopped chasing us.”
“I think I see why.”
She glanced over her shoulder. A decaying village rose above them on endless ranks of narrow bamboo stilts.
Jun 1, 2006
The Purge
As a bibliophile I have a perennial problem that makes housework a greater challenge than it normally is: books all over the floor. Not just the floor, even, but on any and every flat surface available. So, today I decided to make a frontal assault on this problem. I'm getting rid of my books. I've increasingly lost the tendency to accumulate possessions over the years because I just move too often and have too little storage space. There's quite a few positive aspects to an unencumbered existence.
I'm not getting rid of all of them, of course (I've had books since before I could read!), just the ones that aren't worth the time and effort to re-read and thus are taking up space, collecting dust, and straining my back when I move. So, of course, the question became, which which of my books are actually worth keeping? The answer, I discovered, was: painfully few.
Some are just so battered that I'm going to replace them, but the truth is that a lot of the books I own just aren't that good. Either that, or I've outgrown them. I'm keeping a few for sentimental reasons (Where the Red Fern Grows, for instance) and those that I would rate a 4+, but the rest are getting shipped to the gulag. I wonder why so few of them are worth keeping. Is it just that my taste in books hasn't been that good? Do I keep walking past the good ones on the shelf?
Or is the truth that there really aren't that many really good books out there, regardless of the huge masses of them in print?
I don't think that I'll miss them (I didn't when I abandoned them for a year), although getting them out of the house is going to take some work. I wish Half-Price would pick them up like the Salvation Army will pick up donated furniture. Heck, I'd let Half-Price have them for FREE if they'd just come and GET them.
My housemate asked me a bizarre question, too: what will your kids read? My answer to this is: they can buy their own durn books and carry them around themselves.
All this makes me wonder why e-books haven't taken off more. I'm not going to suddenly stop reading mediocre books just because I've stopped keeping them. Actual books are nice in that they don't require batteries and they're portable (individually, anyway), but if that could be solved reasonably well I, at least, would love to be able to buy my mediocre books online and be able to read them right away. I know there are some devices for this out there. I'll have to look around at them.
I'm not getting rid of all of them, of course (I've had books since before I could read!), just the ones that aren't worth the time and effort to re-read and thus are taking up space, collecting dust, and straining my back when I move. So, of course, the question became, which which of my books are actually worth keeping? The answer, I discovered, was: painfully few.
Some are just so battered that I'm going to replace them, but the truth is that a lot of the books I own just aren't that good. Either that, or I've outgrown them. I'm keeping a few for sentimental reasons (Where the Red Fern Grows, for instance) and those that I would rate a 4+, but the rest are getting shipped to the gulag. I wonder why so few of them are worth keeping. Is it just that my taste in books hasn't been that good? Do I keep walking past the good ones on the shelf?
Or is the truth that there really aren't that many really good books out there, regardless of the huge masses of them in print?
I don't think that I'll miss them (I didn't when I abandoned them for a year), although getting them out of the house is going to take some work. I wish Half-Price would pick them up like the Salvation Army will pick up donated furniture. Heck, I'd let Half-Price have them for FREE if they'd just come and GET them.
My housemate asked me a bizarre question, too: what will your kids read? My answer to this is: they can buy their own durn books and carry them around themselves.
All this makes me wonder why e-books haven't taken off more. I'm not going to suddenly stop reading mediocre books just because I've stopped keeping them. Actual books are nice in that they don't require batteries and they're portable (individually, anyway), but if that could be solved reasonably well I, at least, would love to be able to buy my mediocre books online and be able to read them right away. I know there are some devices for this out there. I'll have to look around at them.
May 31, 2006
The Big U
Neal Stephenson's first novel has returned to print, and unsurprisingly, it is crazy. While not as skillful as his later novels (possessing a somewhat peculiar first-person narrator) it is nonetheless a blistering expose on modern educational "factories".
Containing its full share of brainless females, frat boys, live-action role players, computer geeks, lesbians, and physicists that launch weights at high rates of speed, the book goes yet further, introducing college legends that turn out to be true: nuclear waste in the basement, rats the size of dobermans, and a previous administrator turned raving lunatic.
From there, it gets really weird. In fact, it reminds me of something Scott Adams (creator of Dilbert) once said: no matter how surreal his comic strip becomes, with cats in the HR department and trolls in accounting, he STILL gets letters from people saying: "this is exactly like my office!"
Well, I went to college in an education factory (washed out), and I have to say that The Big U is exactly like it. If you've gone to college, don't miss this fabulous mixture of laughter, horror, and twisted nostalgia.
Rating: 3.5
Containing its full share of brainless females, frat boys, live-action role players, computer geeks, lesbians, and physicists that launch weights at high rates of speed, the book goes yet further, introducing college legends that turn out to be true: nuclear waste in the basement, rats the size of dobermans, and a previous administrator turned raving lunatic.
From there, it gets really weird. In fact, it reminds me of something Scott Adams (creator of Dilbert) once said: no matter how surreal his comic strip becomes, with cats in the HR department and trolls in accounting, he STILL gets letters from people saying: "this is exactly like my office!"
Well, I went to college in an education factory (washed out), and I have to say that The Big U is exactly like it. If you've gone to college, don't miss this fabulous mixture of laughter, horror, and twisted nostalgia.
Rating: 3.5
May 30, 2006
Turn the Other Chick
At some point I acquired a taste for the "Chicks in Chainmail" series of goofy short stories collected by Esther Friesner. There's not a lot to any of them: exaggerated sexual characteristics, exaggerated sexual innuendo, implausible armor . . . pretty much what you'd expect from fluff fantasy except that this is actually intended to be a joke.
Unfortunately, in this latest compilation I only found one of the stories to be, well, funny. This could be attributed to the fact that I'm gradually losing my sense of humor, or at least my sense of what is meant to be funny. Something has to be fairly surprising and clever to elicit a real laugh from me any more.
That, and I think the topic of this particular humor (namely Women) has been Done to Death, so it's time to move on to a new and always-funny topic, namely: stupid people.
Just kidding.
Rating: 2.0
Unfortunately, in this latest compilation I only found one of the stories to be, well, funny. This could be attributed to the fact that I'm gradually losing my sense of humor, or at least my sense of what is meant to be funny. Something has to be fairly surprising and clever to elicit a real laugh from me any more.
That, and I think the topic of this particular humor (namely Women) has been Done to Death, so it's time to move on to a new and always-funny topic, namely: stupid people.
Just kidding.
Rating: 2.0
May 29, 2006
Epic: Meeting
“Apprentice!” Ehmammin screeched and Jemith snorted frigid water up his nose. Blowing and coughing desperately, he managed a strangled, “Yeb, Mazter?” and turned to look in the direction of the elder magician’s voice, wincing as the water hit the top of his head and ran down his back. His body stiffened, unprepared for the onslaught, and he convulsed with shivering.
“Where is my fulminating shardstone?”
How should I know? was Jemith’s immediate thought; he was surprised enough that he almost said it, too, and thanked an erratic jet of water that caused him to splutter incoherently.
“What?!”
“Did you leave it by the condenser again?” he hazarded. “Er, Master.”
“No! I put . . . no, wait, here it is. Not by the condenser, thank you so very much. Hmph!”
Jemith rested his forehead on the wall and gritted his teeth as Ehmammin stormed away again. It’s so good to be home, Jemith thought with heavy sarcasm as he grabbed a handful of sandy soap and resumed his shower. The water came straight out of the cliff; channeled into crude plumbing it took care of their sanitary needs fairly well, apart from being so blasted cold. It also turned the stone into a warren of caves and deposited a number of minerals magicians found useful in their work.
Jemith escaped from the shower, tied a towel around his hips with fingers that were thoroughly numb, and trotted his way past the equipment towards the kitchens. Once, he might have slowed to see what dripped through glass tubing or boiled sluggishly over a tiny blue fire. Once, he’d loved these machines. Now they only represented infinite unrewarded work.
Ehmammin wasn’t a picky eater; stew in a bowl satisfied the majority of his grumbling. The magician shooed Jemith away from a precipitating mixture impatiently when the younger man tried to help.
“Don’t touch that. And go put on some clothes. You’re a disgrace.”
“Will you be wanting me for anything else tonight?”
“No.” License enough to find a corner and sleep for a few hours. Jemith returned silently to the living quarters, unable to muster any interest in the work Ehmammin considered so urgent.
* * *
“Wake up!” the elder magician bellowed, his voice weirdly distorted by distance. Jemith sat up and rubbed his eyes, blinking at the dim candlelight.
“What is it? It’s not morning already?”
“Not yet, but some idiot is shouting into the caller. Go see what he wants! I can’t be disturbed right now!”
“Yes, Master,” Jemith muttered and heaved himself to his feet. Dark figures were gathered across the gap left by the upright drawbridge. They carried lanterns, but the light only served to cast them in more dramatic shadows. Jemith waved to them and one lifted the caller and spoke.
“Ehmammin, it’s very important that you come out here immediately!”
“This is Jemith.” There was a brief, uncomfortable pause.
“Oh,” the voice continued, flat with irritation. “We didn’t know you were back.”
“Ehmammin can’t be disturbed. Is there anything I do to assist you?”
“He won’t come out at all?”
“No.”
Jemith could almost see the speaker’s expression of distaste and resignation. “There’s an emergency council meeting, and since your master is senior magician . . .”
“What do you want me to do, knock him out? He won’t budge.”
“I am aware of that, thank you. If you had let me finish my sentence . . .”
“Sorry.”
The speaker huffed angrily. “Are you quite finished?”
“Yes, sir.”
“As I was saying, we’ll escort you to the emergency council and you can keep Ehmammin informed. Does that suit you, o great mage?”
“There’s no need to be rude,” Jemith snapped. “Let me ask Ehmammin.”
“Obstructionist jackass,” the speaker muttered as Jemith climbed the ladder back into the cave.
“Master?” Jemith asked tentatively.
“Did you get rid of them yet?”
“No, Master, they need someone to go to an emergency council meeting.”
“Tell them to have their emergency later. I’m busy.”
“Ah, yes, Master. They thought it might be easier if I went to the meeting and reported back. So that you don’t have to interrupt anything.”
“You?”
“Yes, me.”
“And what am I supposed to do if I need my apprentice in the meantime? No, don’t answer that, clearly they won’t be happy until they get something. Go on, and keep your opinions to yourself, do you hear!”
“Yes, Master.” Jemith scurried back down the ladder, threw on a robe over his clothing, and hit the release lever for the drawbridge. The messengers on the other side jumped back as the wooden planks thudded into place inches away. All three of them glared malevolently at Jemith.
“Let’s go,” the speaker announced. “We’ve wasted enough time on this.” The messengers turned in concert, their robes swirling around them dramatically, and marched towards the city. Jemith followed, keeping a few paces behind them at all times.
The platforms and bridges covering the cliff were ominous in the dark, a looming tangle that their eyes could not penetrate. Some signs of life should be visible, but the messengers carried the only lights and the only sound was the progress of their boots. Jemith pulled his loose robe up over his shoulders and shivered, not certain whether his chill was imagined or real.
The tangle parted, revealing the wide arch of the main span. Another robed man with a lantern waited. His posture—arms crossed, leaning against the balustrade—and the noise of his impatient fidgeting broke Jemith’s sense of overwhelming dread.
“Finally! Wait, where’s the magician?” Then he noticed Jemith. “Winds! Why’d you bring him?!”
“Ehmammin’s doing whatever he feels like doing,” Jemith explained.
“I wasn’t talking to you. So he felt like sending you, huh? Vanadragos isn’t going to be happy. Why does he dislike you so much, anyway?”
“Because he can’t keep his mouth shut,” one of the messengers added pointedly. “A flaw that others appear to share, Eber.”
“I didn’t have to wait for you.”
“Yes, I’m sure we would have had so much trouble getting to the other side of the bridge without your help.” The other messengers chuckled appreciatively. “I mean, it’s so big. We might get lost.”
Eber threw up his hands and began climbing the curve of the bridge. The talkative messenger snorted with satisfaction and followed, his men following him and Jemith following them. The five of them were the last to arrive at the Pavilion; the platform was packed with uncertain men recently torn from their beds. Unusually for a crowd this size, no one was speaking, everyone was too busy craning their necks to see the steps of the city building, where a small group was huddled in private discussion.
“What’s going on?” Jemith asked Eber quietly. Several people turned their heads to look at him.
“No one knows for certain. One of the topside observers sent word that there was a sudden outbreak of fighting in Beserrib, lots of fires, looting, people fleeing into the desert with their household goods. Some of the defenders caught one of the looters in the confusion, but he just kept raving about the end of the world. Superstitious fools. Van called this meeting to make some sort of announcement.”
“EVERYONE BE QUIET AND SETTLE DOWN!” a thick, gravelly voice shouted from the city building as the huddle broke up. Jemith stood on his toes and saw Vanadragos throwing back the hood of his robe to address the crowd. There was a sudden burst of indignant chatter at his command. “I SAID QUIET!”
“Everyone was quiet!” Jemith snapped, his statement coming just after the babble died down and clearly audible to everyone in the crowd.
“Who said that? Where is . . .” Eber and several of the other men standing nearby helpfully pointed to Jemith. “Oh. It’s you. I didn’t know you were back.” Jemith’s face heated as the bystanders chuckled. “What’s going on with Aglar?”
“Van!” snapped one of the legislators. “This can wait!”
“Hah. ALL RIGHT!” Van shouted, using his command voice again. “We have news that the so-called Prophet of Beserrib is dead! No one up there knows whose supposed to be in charge. Things are pretty crazy up there, but at the moment there’s no sign of an organized assault, so we’ve decided to sit tight for now and see what happens. Any questions?”
“How exactly does an immortal prophet get himself killed?” someone near the front of the crowd demanded. Van’s face took on an apologetic expression and he turned to look at another man, Uzakha the Spymaster.
“Our prisoner was of the opinion that a demoness came out of the desert and cut his head off.” There was scattered laughter. Jemith felt his chest tighten sharply. “We are not certain how much credence to give this report. It is far-fetched at best, however it is the only explanation we have thus far.”
“This is ridiculous, we’ve been fighting the prophet’s men for who remembers how many years and then chop, he’s dead? What do we do? What’s going to happen?”
Jemith’s hands began to shake and he cupped them over his face, trying to control his reaction. “What’s wrong with you?” Eber asked urgently.
“Nothing. Ex-excuse me,” he managed and fled the meeting altogether. Two people watched him go: Eber with a puzzled expression, and Vanadragos, with his bird’s-eye view of the proceedings. The chief defender scowled and made a faint sign to Uzakha, who nodded and withdrew.
Jemith lost himself in the silent city, climbing whenever he reached a stairway or ladder until he reached the highest platforms. Finally, breathing too hard to continue, he sat down on the edge, dangling his legs over the fall and looking out over the Side. Its hold on the cliff seemed more precarious than ever. For the first time in his life he felt a twinge of vertigo and closed his eyes against the dizziness.
“It’s quite a view,” Daian said quietly. Jemith opened his eyes.
“Somehow, I’m not surprised,” he said. She leaned on the railing and regarded him levelly. Jemith considered a number of questions he could ask, then sighed and chose the simplest. “What do you want?”
She chuckled slightly. “I want to find a magician.”
“You’re not going to find any help around here.”
“There aren’t any magicians here? That’s not what I was told.”
“No, there’s hundreds. They simply won’t help you.”
“Why not?”
Jemith pointed towards the mist hanging overhead. “You’re from up there. They don’t allow outsiders here, and they don’t work for them. In fact, you should probably go back whatever way you came before someone sees you.”
She punched the railing and stood silently for a long time. Then, she looked down at him again. “What about you?”
“I’m no use to you. I’m still an apprentice, I don’t have any of my own equipment or . . .”
“But you’d help me, if you did?”
Jemith cursed himself. “I don’t think . . .”
“You would. Why?”
“Because they wouldn’t. It doesn’t change anything. There’s still nothing I can do.”
“What about . . .”
“If I may have your attention for a moment,” Uzakha interrupted, “I would like to request that you step away from the railing and make no sudden movements.” Jemith was surprised when Daian turned slowly and patiently to face the Spymaster, hooking her hands on her belt. “I do not know you, young woman.”
“I’m Daian.”
“You are not allowed to be here.”
“Then I’ll leave.”
“I’m afraid that is not an option.” Uzakha nodded at the darkness and the platform was suddenly thick with robed figures. The Spymaster rolled a glass vial between his long fingers. Daian removed her hands from her belt. The robed men shifted anxiously.
“She killed the prophet!” Jemith yelled desperately. Uzakha glanced at him and Daian took advantage of his inattention to draw her sword. The Spymaster held up a hand, forestalling her.
“Is this so?” Daian nodded, frowning slightly. Uzakha matched her frown with one of his own. “It does not change the fact that you should not be here. However, I think that with the prophet removed we can make an . . . allowance. You will leave peacefully?”
“If you insist, however the only reason I’m here is that I really need to speak with a magician.”
“I do not have the authority to make that sort of decision.”
“So take me to someone that does.”
“Put up your weapon.” Daian slid the sword back into its sheath. Uzakha gestured to several of his men. “Escort her to Vanadragos.” Daian stepped around Uzakha to follow them. “Now, Jemith, we deal with you.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“You brought this outsider here, a crime for which there is only one punishment.” Rough hands grasped Jemith’s shoulders and hauled him to his feet. “We will see whether you have learned to grow wings.”
“No!” Uzakha planted a hand in Daian’s chest, preventing her from coming to Jemith’s aid as the men picked him up bodily and tossed him over the railing. Furious, Daian punched the Spymaster in the face and flung herself over the side, catching a double handful of Jemith’s clothing as they both fell.
“How, exactly, did you get down here?” Jemith shouted over the wind of their passage.
“I jumped. What’s down there, anyway?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where is my fulminating shardstone?”
How should I know? was Jemith’s immediate thought; he was surprised enough that he almost said it, too, and thanked an erratic jet of water that caused him to splutter incoherently.
“What?!”
“Did you leave it by the condenser again?” he hazarded. “Er, Master.”
“No! I put . . . no, wait, here it is. Not by the condenser, thank you so very much. Hmph!”
Jemith rested his forehead on the wall and gritted his teeth as Ehmammin stormed away again. It’s so good to be home, Jemith thought with heavy sarcasm as he grabbed a handful of sandy soap and resumed his shower. The water came straight out of the cliff; channeled into crude plumbing it took care of their sanitary needs fairly well, apart from being so blasted cold. It also turned the stone into a warren of caves and deposited a number of minerals magicians found useful in their work.
Jemith escaped from the shower, tied a towel around his hips with fingers that were thoroughly numb, and trotted his way past the equipment towards the kitchens. Once, he might have slowed to see what dripped through glass tubing or boiled sluggishly over a tiny blue fire. Once, he’d loved these machines. Now they only represented infinite unrewarded work.
Ehmammin wasn’t a picky eater; stew in a bowl satisfied the majority of his grumbling. The magician shooed Jemith away from a precipitating mixture impatiently when the younger man tried to help.
“Don’t touch that. And go put on some clothes. You’re a disgrace.”
“Will you be wanting me for anything else tonight?”
“No.” License enough to find a corner and sleep for a few hours. Jemith returned silently to the living quarters, unable to muster any interest in the work Ehmammin considered so urgent.
* * *
“Wake up!” the elder magician bellowed, his voice weirdly distorted by distance. Jemith sat up and rubbed his eyes, blinking at the dim candlelight.
“What is it? It’s not morning already?”
“Not yet, but some idiot is shouting into the caller. Go see what he wants! I can’t be disturbed right now!”
“Yes, Master,” Jemith muttered and heaved himself to his feet. Dark figures were gathered across the gap left by the upright drawbridge. They carried lanterns, but the light only served to cast them in more dramatic shadows. Jemith waved to them and one lifted the caller and spoke.
“Ehmammin, it’s very important that you come out here immediately!”
“This is Jemith.” There was a brief, uncomfortable pause.
“Oh,” the voice continued, flat with irritation. “We didn’t know you were back.”
“Ehmammin can’t be disturbed. Is there anything I do to assist you?”
“He won’t come out at all?”
“No.”
Jemith could almost see the speaker’s expression of distaste and resignation. “There’s an emergency council meeting, and since your master is senior magician . . .”
“What do you want me to do, knock him out? He won’t budge.”
“I am aware of that, thank you. If you had let me finish my sentence . . .”
“Sorry.”
The speaker huffed angrily. “Are you quite finished?”
“Yes, sir.”
“As I was saying, we’ll escort you to the emergency council and you can keep Ehmammin informed. Does that suit you, o great mage?”
“There’s no need to be rude,” Jemith snapped. “Let me ask Ehmammin.”
“Obstructionist jackass,” the speaker muttered as Jemith climbed the ladder back into the cave.
“Master?” Jemith asked tentatively.
“Did you get rid of them yet?”
“No, Master, they need someone to go to an emergency council meeting.”
“Tell them to have their emergency later. I’m busy.”
“Ah, yes, Master. They thought it might be easier if I went to the meeting and reported back. So that you don’t have to interrupt anything.”
“You?”
“Yes, me.”
“And what am I supposed to do if I need my apprentice in the meantime? No, don’t answer that, clearly they won’t be happy until they get something. Go on, and keep your opinions to yourself, do you hear!”
“Yes, Master.” Jemith scurried back down the ladder, threw on a robe over his clothing, and hit the release lever for the drawbridge. The messengers on the other side jumped back as the wooden planks thudded into place inches away. All three of them glared malevolently at Jemith.
“Let’s go,” the speaker announced. “We’ve wasted enough time on this.” The messengers turned in concert, their robes swirling around them dramatically, and marched towards the city. Jemith followed, keeping a few paces behind them at all times.
The platforms and bridges covering the cliff were ominous in the dark, a looming tangle that their eyes could not penetrate. Some signs of life should be visible, but the messengers carried the only lights and the only sound was the progress of their boots. Jemith pulled his loose robe up over his shoulders and shivered, not certain whether his chill was imagined or real.
The tangle parted, revealing the wide arch of the main span. Another robed man with a lantern waited. His posture—arms crossed, leaning against the balustrade—and the noise of his impatient fidgeting broke Jemith’s sense of overwhelming dread.
“Finally! Wait, where’s the magician?” Then he noticed Jemith. “Winds! Why’d you bring him?!”
“Ehmammin’s doing whatever he feels like doing,” Jemith explained.
“I wasn’t talking to you. So he felt like sending you, huh? Vanadragos isn’t going to be happy. Why does he dislike you so much, anyway?”
“Because he can’t keep his mouth shut,” one of the messengers added pointedly. “A flaw that others appear to share, Eber.”
“I didn’t have to wait for you.”
“Yes, I’m sure we would have had so much trouble getting to the other side of the bridge without your help.” The other messengers chuckled appreciatively. “I mean, it’s so big. We might get lost.”
Eber threw up his hands and began climbing the curve of the bridge. The talkative messenger snorted with satisfaction and followed, his men following him and Jemith following them. The five of them were the last to arrive at the Pavilion; the platform was packed with uncertain men recently torn from their beds. Unusually for a crowd this size, no one was speaking, everyone was too busy craning their necks to see the steps of the city building, where a small group was huddled in private discussion.
“What’s going on?” Jemith asked Eber quietly. Several people turned their heads to look at him.
“No one knows for certain. One of the topside observers sent word that there was a sudden outbreak of fighting in Beserrib, lots of fires, looting, people fleeing into the desert with their household goods. Some of the defenders caught one of the looters in the confusion, but he just kept raving about the end of the world. Superstitious fools. Van called this meeting to make some sort of announcement.”
“EVERYONE BE QUIET AND SETTLE DOWN!” a thick, gravelly voice shouted from the city building as the huddle broke up. Jemith stood on his toes and saw Vanadragos throwing back the hood of his robe to address the crowd. There was a sudden burst of indignant chatter at his command. “I SAID QUIET!”
“Everyone was quiet!” Jemith snapped, his statement coming just after the babble died down and clearly audible to everyone in the crowd.
“Who said that? Where is . . .” Eber and several of the other men standing nearby helpfully pointed to Jemith. “Oh. It’s you. I didn’t know you were back.” Jemith’s face heated as the bystanders chuckled. “What’s going on with Aglar?”
“Van!” snapped one of the legislators. “This can wait!”
“Hah. ALL RIGHT!” Van shouted, using his command voice again. “We have news that the so-called Prophet of Beserrib is dead! No one up there knows whose supposed to be in charge. Things are pretty crazy up there, but at the moment there’s no sign of an organized assault, so we’ve decided to sit tight for now and see what happens. Any questions?”
“How exactly does an immortal prophet get himself killed?” someone near the front of the crowd demanded. Van’s face took on an apologetic expression and he turned to look at another man, Uzakha the Spymaster.
“Our prisoner was of the opinion that a demoness came out of the desert and cut his head off.” There was scattered laughter. Jemith felt his chest tighten sharply. “We are not certain how much credence to give this report. It is far-fetched at best, however it is the only explanation we have thus far.”
“This is ridiculous, we’ve been fighting the prophet’s men for who remembers how many years and then chop, he’s dead? What do we do? What’s going to happen?”
Jemith’s hands began to shake and he cupped them over his face, trying to control his reaction. “What’s wrong with you?” Eber asked urgently.
“Nothing. Ex-excuse me,” he managed and fled the meeting altogether. Two people watched him go: Eber with a puzzled expression, and Vanadragos, with his bird’s-eye view of the proceedings. The chief defender scowled and made a faint sign to Uzakha, who nodded and withdrew.
Jemith lost himself in the silent city, climbing whenever he reached a stairway or ladder until he reached the highest platforms. Finally, breathing too hard to continue, he sat down on the edge, dangling his legs over the fall and looking out over the Side. Its hold on the cliff seemed more precarious than ever. For the first time in his life he felt a twinge of vertigo and closed his eyes against the dizziness.
“It’s quite a view,” Daian said quietly. Jemith opened his eyes.
“Somehow, I’m not surprised,” he said. She leaned on the railing and regarded him levelly. Jemith considered a number of questions he could ask, then sighed and chose the simplest. “What do you want?”
She chuckled slightly. “I want to find a magician.”
“You’re not going to find any help around here.”
“There aren’t any magicians here? That’s not what I was told.”
“No, there’s hundreds. They simply won’t help you.”
“Why not?”
Jemith pointed towards the mist hanging overhead. “You’re from up there. They don’t allow outsiders here, and they don’t work for them. In fact, you should probably go back whatever way you came before someone sees you.”
She punched the railing and stood silently for a long time. Then, she looked down at him again. “What about you?”
“I’m no use to you. I’m still an apprentice, I don’t have any of my own equipment or . . .”
“But you’d help me, if you did?”
Jemith cursed himself. “I don’t think . . .”
“You would. Why?”
“Because they wouldn’t. It doesn’t change anything. There’s still nothing I can do.”
“What about . . .”
“If I may have your attention for a moment,” Uzakha interrupted, “I would like to request that you step away from the railing and make no sudden movements.” Jemith was surprised when Daian turned slowly and patiently to face the Spymaster, hooking her hands on her belt. “I do not know you, young woman.”
“I’m Daian.”
“You are not allowed to be here.”
“Then I’ll leave.”
“I’m afraid that is not an option.” Uzakha nodded at the darkness and the platform was suddenly thick with robed figures. The Spymaster rolled a glass vial between his long fingers. Daian removed her hands from her belt. The robed men shifted anxiously.
“She killed the prophet!” Jemith yelled desperately. Uzakha glanced at him and Daian took advantage of his inattention to draw her sword. The Spymaster held up a hand, forestalling her.
“Is this so?” Daian nodded, frowning slightly. Uzakha matched her frown with one of his own. “It does not change the fact that you should not be here. However, I think that with the prophet removed we can make an . . . allowance. You will leave peacefully?”
“If you insist, however the only reason I’m here is that I really need to speak with a magician.”
“I do not have the authority to make that sort of decision.”
“So take me to someone that does.”
“Put up your weapon.” Daian slid the sword back into its sheath. Uzakha gestured to several of his men. “Escort her to Vanadragos.” Daian stepped around Uzakha to follow them. “Now, Jemith, we deal with you.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“You brought this outsider here, a crime for which there is only one punishment.” Rough hands grasped Jemith’s shoulders and hauled him to his feet. “We will see whether you have learned to grow wings.”
“No!” Uzakha planted a hand in Daian’s chest, preventing her from coming to Jemith’s aid as the men picked him up bodily and tossed him over the railing. Furious, Daian punched the Spymaster in the face and flung herself over the side, catching a double handful of Jemith’s clothing as they both fell.
“How, exactly, did you get down here?” Jemith shouted over the wind of their passage.
“I jumped. What’s down there, anyway?”
“I don’t know.”
May 23, 2006
Epic: Prophet
The guards regarded Daian with no particular interest when she rode through the gate they were supposedly guarding. The towers were ugly, slapped together from some unwholesome mixture of mud, straw, and bricks that appeared on the verge of total dissolution. Daian’s eyes swept over murder holes in the walls as she passed under a rusting portcullis. Older, sturdier stone construction was visible through the holes, propping up the layers of rotten clay that covered it.
The buildings within the walls were newer construction and thus in better repair, but they were flimsy, ramshackle things. They almost appeared as though they would provide better shelter after they were torn down. The city folk were apparently aware of this fact, clogging the narrow, dusty streets with their ragged bodies. They paid Daian no more overt attention than the guards had, but she pressed through the crowd at the head of a wake of silence, feeling their eyes on her back.
It was a bad idea to ride blindly through unknown neighborhoods, but it was a worse one to reveal her confusion by asking random strangers for help, so she pointed the horse’s nose towards the center of the city. Gradually the crowds diminished and the dust gave way to a paved boulevard. Somewhat relieved by the change, Daian nudged her horse towards the side of the road and hailed a passer-by.
“Pardon me, sir.” The man watched her for some time before speaking.
“What do you want?”
“I am in need of magical assistance, where can I find a magician?”
He choked on laughter and smirked at her.
“Sir?”
The man pointed in the direction she was already riding. “There, barbarian. There you will find your magician!”
Daian eyed him as he continued on his interrupted journey, still laughing. Other pedestrians were watching her, expressions unreadable. Unnerved, she tapped the horse lightly and continued her ride. The boulevard widened into a plaza lined with drooping palm trees, overshadowed by the massive bulk of the Old Palace. Daian smiled at the old structure, pleased to see that it survived and even appeared in good repair.
Alert guards accosted her at the gate this time, and she smiled at them benevolently.
“Are you here for an audience, outlander?”
“Yes, I require some assistance.”
The man smiled darkly. “Well, then you’ve come to the right place.” He waved to a servant. “I am afraid you will have to leave your horse behind; they are not permitted within the walls.”
Daian dismounted without quibble.
“Take her to the audience at once,” the guard ordered the servant. The boy placed the palms of his hands together and bowed, gesturing for Daian to follow. It was a long walk, across more pavements lined with yet more palm trees, and up an imposing staircase clearly designed to test the stamina and determination of potential supplicants. Daian trotted up the stairs without real strain and approached the marble throne at the crest. The seated man jumped noticeably and one of a dozen bodyguards grasped the hilt of his sword significantly. Daian decided it was prudent to halt.
“An outlander?” the seated man asked, glancing to an advisor that stood nearby. The advisor shrugged.
“It is customary to make obeisance to His Lordship, outlander,” the advisor rebuked Daian mildly. She bowed politely.
“Is it a man or a woman, do you think?” the lord continued in an undertone to his flunky. Not waiting for an answer, he turned to address Daian himself. “Welcome to Beserrib, outlander. What news have you of the rest of the world?”
“Precious little, I fear, and what I do know is not good. I must ask a favor from you.”
“A favor?”
“I need the assistance of your magician.”
The lord’s eyes widened. “I-I beg your pardon?”
Daian blinked. “If your magician isn’t available, I’m sure any one would do, as long as they’re reasonably competent . . . is something wrong?” Everyone in the audience chamber stared at Daian, white-faced with shock.
“You . . . you . . . who has allowed this filth into my presence?!” the lord bellowed. His advisor made a preemptory gesture and the mass of bodyguards charged. Daian scowled and drew her sword, dodging the first warrior and regarding him with some disgust as he lost his balance and tumbled down the stairs. Shaking her head, she batted another sword aside and decapitated its owner. Turning slightly, she claimed an arm and ripped open another’s guts. A sword hit her armor and rebounded wildly. These bodyguards weren’t bad, but fighting Daian they had one crucial disadvantage.
They were human.
Daian was not, or at least, not completely. She was a great deal closer than Nimerone, closer than most magic-changed folk, in fact. Not a hint of her warped nature was readily identifiable to any of the senses. At least, until someone decided to attack.
Her lip curled slightly as she continued fighting the bodyguards, paying more attention to her own thoughts than to the frenzied activity surrounding her. Fighting them disgusted her; they were too stupid to change tactics and too suicidal to surrender. At least they didn’t try to run. Daian kicked the last bodyguard’s corpse aside and glared at the lord, who was fleeing for a side passage with the remains of his retinue. Without thinking, she shifted her grip on the hilt and threw. The lord dropped like a stone.
“I’d stop, now, if I were you,” she spat. Courtiers shrank away from her advance. “An unprovoked attack was bad enough. I most strongly advise you not to try to escape.”
“What do you want from us, demon?!” the advisor wailed. Daian reclaimed her sword casually from the lord’s corpse.
“I need the assistance of a magician!”
The courtiers cringed. “Oh demon, there are no magicians in the city! They are cursed, cursed, executed for their crimes!”
“Well, where can I find one, then?”
“There!” the advisor pointed towards the throne. Daian glanced at it and returned her glare to him, tempted to kill him out of sheer frustration. He shrank further away from her, still pointing, and she climbed up to the throne for a better look. Then she stopped, instantly dizzy. Behind the throne, the platform simply ended. Beyond it, there was nothing. The ground dropped away in a sheer wall, all else was sky and drifting mist.
“Out there?!” Daian demanded.
“Yes, yes!”
Daian wiped her sword on the throne hangings and sheathed it. Then, she stepped to the edge and spread her arms.
“Wait!” the advisor wailed one last time.
“What is it?”
“You’ve killed the prophet! Who will rule us now?”
“No one, if you’re lucky,” she told him, and leapt out, into space.
The buildings within the walls were newer construction and thus in better repair, but they were flimsy, ramshackle things. They almost appeared as though they would provide better shelter after they were torn down. The city folk were apparently aware of this fact, clogging the narrow, dusty streets with their ragged bodies. They paid Daian no more overt attention than the guards had, but she pressed through the crowd at the head of a wake of silence, feeling their eyes on her back.
It was a bad idea to ride blindly through unknown neighborhoods, but it was a worse one to reveal her confusion by asking random strangers for help, so she pointed the horse’s nose towards the center of the city. Gradually the crowds diminished and the dust gave way to a paved boulevard. Somewhat relieved by the change, Daian nudged her horse towards the side of the road and hailed a passer-by.
“Pardon me, sir.” The man watched her for some time before speaking.
“What do you want?”
“I am in need of magical assistance, where can I find a magician?”
He choked on laughter and smirked at her.
“Sir?”
The man pointed in the direction she was already riding. “There, barbarian. There you will find your magician!”
Daian eyed him as he continued on his interrupted journey, still laughing. Other pedestrians were watching her, expressions unreadable. Unnerved, she tapped the horse lightly and continued her ride. The boulevard widened into a plaza lined with drooping palm trees, overshadowed by the massive bulk of the Old Palace. Daian smiled at the old structure, pleased to see that it survived and even appeared in good repair.
Alert guards accosted her at the gate this time, and she smiled at them benevolently.
“Are you here for an audience, outlander?”
“Yes, I require some assistance.”
The man smiled darkly. “Well, then you’ve come to the right place.” He waved to a servant. “I am afraid you will have to leave your horse behind; they are not permitted within the walls.”
Daian dismounted without quibble.
“Take her to the audience at once,” the guard ordered the servant. The boy placed the palms of his hands together and bowed, gesturing for Daian to follow. It was a long walk, across more pavements lined with yet more palm trees, and up an imposing staircase clearly designed to test the stamina and determination of potential supplicants. Daian trotted up the stairs without real strain and approached the marble throne at the crest. The seated man jumped noticeably and one of a dozen bodyguards grasped the hilt of his sword significantly. Daian decided it was prudent to halt.
“An outlander?” the seated man asked, glancing to an advisor that stood nearby. The advisor shrugged.
“It is customary to make obeisance to His Lordship, outlander,” the advisor rebuked Daian mildly. She bowed politely.
“Is it a man or a woman, do you think?” the lord continued in an undertone to his flunky. Not waiting for an answer, he turned to address Daian himself. “Welcome to Beserrib, outlander. What news have you of the rest of the world?”
“Precious little, I fear, and what I do know is not good. I must ask a favor from you.”
“A favor?”
“I need the assistance of your magician.”
The lord’s eyes widened. “I-I beg your pardon?”
Daian blinked. “If your magician isn’t available, I’m sure any one would do, as long as they’re reasonably competent . . . is something wrong?” Everyone in the audience chamber stared at Daian, white-faced with shock.
“You . . . you . . . who has allowed this filth into my presence?!” the lord bellowed. His advisor made a preemptory gesture and the mass of bodyguards charged. Daian scowled and drew her sword, dodging the first warrior and regarding him with some disgust as he lost his balance and tumbled down the stairs. Shaking her head, she batted another sword aside and decapitated its owner. Turning slightly, she claimed an arm and ripped open another’s guts. A sword hit her armor and rebounded wildly. These bodyguards weren’t bad, but fighting Daian they had one crucial disadvantage.
They were human.
Daian was not, or at least, not completely. She was a great deal closer than Nimerone, closer than most magic-changed folk, in fact. Not a hint of her warped nature was readily identifiable to any of the senses. At least, until someone decided to attack.
Her lip curled slightly as she continued fighting the bodyguards, paying more attention to her own thoughts than to the frenzied activity surrounding her. Fighting them disgusted her; they were too stupid to change tactics and too suicidal to surrender. At least they didn’t try to run. Daian kicked the last bodyguard’s corpse aside and glared at the lord, who was fleeing for a side passage with the remains of his retinue. Without thinking, she shifted her grip on the hilt and threw. The lord dropped like a stone.
“I’d stop, now, if I were you,” she spat. Courtiers shrank away from her advance. “An unprovoked attack was bad enough. I most strongly advise you not to try to escape.”
“What do you want from us, demon?!” the advisor wailed. Daian reclaimed her sword casually from the lord’s corpse.
“I need the assistance of a magician!”
The courtiers cringed. “Oh demon, there are no magicians in the city! They are cursed, cursed, executed for their crimes!”
“Well, where can I find one, then?”
“There!” the advisor pointed towards the throne. Daian glanced at it and returned her glare to him, tempted to kill him out of sheer frustration. He shrank further away from her, still pointing, and she climbed up to the throne for a better look. Then she stopped, instantly dizzy. Behind the throne, the platform simply ended. Beyond it, there was nothing. The ground dropped away in a sheer wall, all else was sky and drifting mist.
“Out there?!” Daian demanded.
“Yes, yes!”
Daian wiped her sword on the throne hangings and sheathed it. Then, she stepped to the edge and spread her arms.
“Wait!” the advisor wailed one last time.
“What is it?”
“You’ve killed the prophet! Who will rule us now?”
“No one, if you’re lucky,” she told him, and leapt out, into space.
May 21, 2006
Vanity Report
I continue to remain surprised at how many people regularly drop by this blog, even during the recent slump in posting frequency. Here's my most recent numbers:
-- Site Summary ---
Visits
Total ........................ 5,538
Average per Day ................. 34
Average Visit Length .......... 2:42
This Week ...................... 235
Page Views
Total ....................... 11,202
Average per Day ................. 69
Average per Visit .............. 2.1
This Week ...................... 483
-- Site Summary ---
Visits
Total ........................ 5,538
Average per Day ................. 34
Average Visit Length .......... 2:42
This Week ...................... 235
Page Views
Total ....................... 11,202
Average per Day ................. 69
Average per Visit .............. 2.1
This Week ...................... 483
May 19, 2006
They Made America
Businessmen are the symbol of a free society—the symbol of America. If and when they perish, civilization will perish. But if you wish to fight for freedom, you must begin by fighting for its unrewarded, unrecognized, yet best representatives—the American businessmen. –Ayn Rand
This quote is truly appropriate for Harold Evans’ new book, a fantastic journey through the history of American innovation over the past two hundred years. (Evans is also the author of The American Century.) Ayn Rand is actually mentioned in Evans’ introduction, albeit briefly, so I thought I would start out this review with one of her insights.
In great dramatic style, Evans tells the stories of dozens of people that have truly turned America into what she is today. They are not all inventors, although some, like Edison, are renowned for their inventions, but they are all innovators: people that had a new idea and through courage, canniness, and sheer unadulterated drive, used their idea to rattle the nation.
The heavy, high-quality work is just about the right size for a history textbook. It’s divided into three sections: Pathfinders of a New Civilization, America Takes Off, and The Digital Age, dealing respectively with three types of innovators.
Evans first details the people who set the stage for America’s emergence into manufacturing and industrialization when the Founding Fathers foresaw a society of landowners and gentleman farmers. His coverage includes everything from the opening of America’s waterways for shipping to the quiet political revolution that turned semi-coherent ideas of economic freedom into a reality.
One of the things that stood out to me most in the first section is the absolute need for good legislation of intellectual property. Government rulings on the matter seemed to segue wildly between refusing to protect a particular inventor’s idea at all and handing a canny manipulator a government-enforced monopoly on anything even similar to his invention, choking off people that came up with their own approaches to the same problem. In the swamp of arbitrary and contradictory rulings, inventors could spend most of their time and most of their money just trying to get legal recognition for their work.
He then tackles the businessmen of the newly formed culture of economic freedom and industrial progress, subdividing into three secondary sections: Inventors, Democratizers, and Empire Builders.
Inventors is self-explanatory, including such greats as the aforementioned Edison and the Wright Brothers, but also less-famous individuals like Leo Hendrik Baekeland (plastic) and Garrett Augustus Morgan (the gas mask). Their technical achievements through trial and error make for terrific reading, Evans’ descriptive style making each story exciting and uplifting. He has a talent for pulling the really essential points from a wealth of complexity.
Democratizers are those who, while not necessarily being first on the mark with originating a product, came up with the idea of bringing that product to everyone, so that the man on the street could enjoy the benefits of his own car (Henry Ford), camera (George Eastman, Kodak), and bank account (Amadeo Peter Giannini, Bank of America). Some of their innovations have become so ubiquitous that it’s hard to imagine a day when it was almost impossible for the man on the street with some modest savings simply to get a bank account.
Empire Builders includes the likes of Walt Disney, Estee Lauder, and Malcolm McLean (container shipping); individuals that leveraged a simple concept into a sprawling industry. In some cases their contributions may seem small, but they are responsible for turning America into more than just a country—into a culture. Some aspects of that culture aren’t beloved by everyone, but welding a culture is still quite an accomplishment.
The Digital Age isn’t all computers: it covers the really cutting-edge advances and changes like biotech, and, weirdly, hip-hop culture. As I said, you may not like all of it, but you have to admit that it’s had an effect on you, and even the maestro of hip-hop turns out to be a serious, dedicated businessman.
The book does have some flaws; Evans is semi-liberal in his personal views. He spends a fair amount of time enumerating the charitable contributions of the various businessmen and talking about their altruistic goals, meaning that they weren’t just in it for money: they loved their work and what they could provide for their customers. He makes some conclusions that I would consider off the mark, such as his enchantment with the mixed-economy “marriage” between government and business. Still, he does justice to every single one of the businessmen (and women!) that he profiles. So I have to say that despite some small flaws this book gets my complete approval.
On a sad note, though, my copy of this book has fade-marks from sitting on a shelf in the sun for too long. I can't help but think it's an ominous warning.
Rating: 5.0
Crossposted to the Objectivism Metablog
May 18, 2006
Once A Hero
Elizabeth Moon has written some really enjoyable military fantasy (The Deed of Paksenarrion comes to mind) but this book didn't impress me very much. The military space opera reminds me a great deal of David Weber, but I think Moon doesn't quite measure up to the standard. I think this book is a "side" book about a minor character in another series Moon has written, which may explain some of the items of dubious providence.
It begins well, with Esmay, the main character, on trial before a military tribunal for treason and mutiny when she inadvertantly became the commanding officer of an attack ship during an unexpected battle. Her actions saved many lives, but it's the military, after all, so there has to be a trial.
There is then a lengthy pause in the action when Esmay returns home to face her provincial and restrictive family, along with some personal trauma that is preventing her from realizing her full potential. The series of events seemed very contrived to me, because the overall indication was that it's the past that determines who you are and what you can do, not your choices. Too much psychologizing. Let's get back to the plot, please.
Things are a great deal more interesting after Esmay returns to the Navy and is reassigned, but of course nothing ever quite goes as planned when there are enemies about. Sabotage and infiltration by enemy troops worked together to make Esmay's new assignment anything but dull. Still, I found the events somewhat contrived. Here is a ship full of admirals, people that don't reach their position by accident, and they wind up relying on a green lieutenant to help them decide what to do.
It was an okay book, but I've read many that are much better.
Rating: 2.5
It begins well, with Esmay, the main character, on trial before a military tribunal for treason and mutiny when she inadvertantly became the commanding officer of an attack ship during an unexpected battle. Her actions saved many lives, but it's the military, after all, so there has to be a trial.
There is then a lengthy pause in the action when Esmay returns home to face her provincial and restrictive family, along with some personal trauma that is preventing her from realizing her full potential. The series of events seemed very contrived to me, because the overall indication was that it's the past that determines who you are and what you can do, not your choices. Too much psychologizing. Let's get back to the plot, please.
Things are a great deal more interesting after Esmay returns to the Navy and is reassigned, but of course nothing ever quite goes as planned when there are enemies about. Sabotage and infiltration by enemy troops worked together to make Esmay's new assignment anything but dull. Still, I found the events somewhat contrived. Here is a ship full of admirals, people that don't reach their position by accident, and they wind up relying on a green lieutenant to help them decide what to do.
It was an okay book, but I've read many that are much better.
Rating: 2.5
Now, Here's Something I Can Use
Via Gus Van Horn I learned about this new blog of tidbits on modern English usage. I like to speak and write correctly and I really dislike reading anything that is full of banal errors and corrupted words. (The occasional typo is okay; that happens to everyone sooner or later.)
One of my personal pet peeves is anyone that uses "alright" when they really mean "all right". Unlike "all ready" which has a compressed version: "already" (it's not used identically, mind you), "all right" doesn't compress. So type the other l already.
One of my personal pet peeves is anyone that uses "alright" when they really mean "all right". Unlike "all ready" which has a compressed version: "already" (it's not used identically, mind you), "all right" doesn't compress. So type the other l already.
May 17, 2006
Ice Age 2: The Meltdown
It's unusual to encounter a children's movie that exhibits plotlessness, but the new Ice Age movie has managed it. Little more than a string of barely-connected jokes, the "story" is a trial of patience for even an adult audience.
The most enjoyable moments are the various Wile E. Coyote-esque escapades of Skrat, which take up a large part of the movie yet serve no purpose. Perhaps this is the reason why the other characters seem lackluster and unimportant. Then again, thinking back to the first Ice Age movie, the best character was the human baby. Replacing the emotional quality of that character with a highly argumentative Queen Latifah (providing the voice for a mammoth that believes she's a possum) sank the entire movie.
Which, in its way, makes the title somewhat appropriate.
The most enjoyable moments are the various Wile E. Coyote-esque escapades of Skrat, which take up a large part of the movie yet serve no purpose. Perhaps this is the reason why the other characters seem lackluster and unimportant. Then again, thinking back to the first Ice Age movie, the best character was the human baby. Replacing the emotional quality of that character with a highly argumentative Queen Latifah (providing the voice for a mammoth that believes she's a possum) sank the entire movie.
Which, in its way, makes the title somewhat appropriate.
May 16, 2006
Epic: Sideways
Jemith rode his horse with reckless abandon across the desert flats from Peridai, knowing he would have little use for the beast by the middle of the afternoon. The western horizon was near and growing nearer by the minute, sky like blue enamel meeting a low-lying bank of dirty clouds that seemed to boil up from under the horizon. It was not really surprising; Jemith rode straight for the edge of the world. The land simply ended without explanation or apology, turning into a sheer face that disappeared into misty distance in three directions: north, south, and down.
It was not entirely a clean end; the line of demarcation was visibly concave. Massive boulders, more resilient or better anchored than the rock and earth around them, projected jaggedly over the precipice, suggesting a monstrous grin on a gaping maw, open to someday swallow what remained.
Supposedly, there had once been land beyond the edge of the world, but no one was really certain where—or even when—it had vanished. The hot wind that blew during the daylight hours carried plumes of dust from the desert over the cliff and hit cooler, moister air below; dust and vapor formed a haze that confused distances and never completely dissipated.
The horse’s sides began to heave and the breath roared in its chest, so Jemith dismounted and left the beast to its own devices, freeing it from the harness that he casually discarded. The walk was hot and uncomfortable and he rested gratefully in the shaded vee between two massive stone fangs, staring over the edge only a few feet away. He checked the straps on his backpack, settled his gear into place, and gripped the boulder next to him as best he could. Cautiously, he probed the empty air with an extended boot, bending his other knee and lowering himself an inch at a time until he succeeded in thumping his toes on something solid. Sighing in relief, he transferred his weight forward, lost his balance, stumbled, and fell into the illusion, catching the chain that served as a guardrail with his stomach.
He cursed and wheezed painfully for a minute or two, glaring down the length of the now-visible path down the cliff. It was well hidden even without magical protection and he hated not being able to see where he was putting his feet, especially with that endless fall if he misjudged. The board pathway descended along the cliff, decking suspended from chains attached to the wall. It was sturdy and stable construction, but Jemith could never manage to stop himself from clinging to the chains as he walked. It was ridiculous to be afraid of heights, but being ridiculous didn’t reduce the fear.
The clouds were shading into evening colors when the suspension road swerved into a dizzying switchback to pass under a fall of white water. Jemith wiped spray from his face and looked down at the improbable construction of the Side.
Enterprising magicians had contrived a way to make enormous blocks of stone hover in mid-air. It was an impressive feat, and, secure in their power and capability, they’d gone ahead and built their homes on top of floating rocks. It increased the difficulty of visiting the neighbors somewhat, so they threw up delicate bridges to accommodate traffic. Then, they’d quietly vanished from the world, choosing to locate their city where no one would ever think to look for it: beyond the edge of the world.
That was centuries ago. Now, the population of the Side had outgrown the platforms and spread, fungus-like, over the nearby rock face. Thick pilings driven deep into stone supported buildings of rope, wood, and canvas; in the twilight they looked like a colony of birds nesting on a bluff, as though at any moment they might tear loose from their perches and fling themselves into the void.
Ehmammin, important elder magician that he was, had located his home in an eccentric location that required Jemith to navigate almost the full width of the city before he arrived at the drawbridge. Predictably, it was up. Fortunately, the caller was sitting in its box, otherwise Jemith might have been reduced to throwing things to get his master’s attention.
“Master?” he shouted into the device. Faint scrabbling noises ensued, as though rats inhabited the caller.
“What?! Who’s there?”
“It is I, Jemith, returning!”
The drawbridge descended with a thump, nearly claiming Jemith’s toes. With a resigned sigh he walked into the home of the master magician.
“Finally!” the old man declared, grabbing his apprentice’s backpack so aggressively that he almost jerked the younger man off his feet. Jemith ducked his head and pulled his arms out of the straps, then slid into a cushioned niche with another sigh.
“You’re getting dust everywhere! Go take a bath!”
“Yes, Master.”
“And I suppose you’re hungry as well, hmm?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Good, you can start my supper after you’re clean.”
It was not entirely a clean end; the line of demarcation was visibly concave. Massive boulders, more resilient or better anchored than the rock and earth around them, projected jaggedly over the precipice, suggesting a monstrous grin on a gaping maw, open to someday swallow what remained.
Supposedly, there had once been land beyond the edge of the world, but no one was really certain where—or even when—it had vanished. The hot wind that blew during the daylight hours carried plumes of dust from the desert over the cliff and hit cooler, moister air below; dust and vapor formed a haze that confused distances and never completely dissipated.
The horse’s sides began to heave and the breath roared in its chest, so Jemith dismounted and left the beast to its own devices, freeing it from the harness that he casually discarded. The walk was hot and uncomfortable and he rested gratefully in the shaded vee between two massive stone fangs, staring over the edge only a few feet away. He checked the straps on his backpack, settled his gear into place, and gripped the boulder next to him as best he could. Cautiously, he probed the empty air with an extended boot, bending his other knee and lowering himself an inch at a time until he succeeded in thumping his toes on something solid. Sighing in relief, he transferred his weight forward, lost his balance, stumbled, and fell into the illusion, catching the chain that served as a guardrail with his stomach.
He cursed and wheezed painfully for a minute or two, glaring down the length of the now-visible path down the cliff. It was well hidden even without magical protection and he hated not being able to see where he was putting his feet, especially with that endless fall if he misjudged. The board pathway descended along the cliff, decking suspended from chains attached to the wall. It was sturdy and stable construction, but Jemith could never manage to stop himself from clinging to the chains as he walked. It was ridiculous to be afraid of heights, but being ridiculous didn’t reduce the fear.
The clouds were shading into evening colors when the suspension road swerved into a dizzying switchback to pass under a fall of white water. Jemith wiped spray from his face and looked down at the improbable construction of the Side.
Enterprising magicians had contrived a way to make enormous blocks of stone hover in mid-air. It was an impressive feat, and, secure in their power and capability, they’d gone ahead and built their homes on top of floating rocks. It increased the difficulty of visiting the neighbors somewhat, so they threw up delicate bridges to accommodate traffic. Then, they’d quietly vanished from the world, choosing to locate their city where no one would ever think to look for it: beyond the edge of the world.
That was centuries ago. Now, the population of the Side had outgrown the platforms and spread, fungus-like, over the nearby rock face. Thick pilings driven deep into stone supported buildings of rope, wood, and canvas; in the twilight they looked like a colony of birds nesting on a bluff, as though at any moment they might tear loose from their perches and fling themselves into the void.
Ehmammin, important elder magician that he was, had located his home in an eccentric location that required Jemith to navigate almost the full width of the city before he arrived at the drawbridge. Predictably, it was up. Fortunately, the caller was sitting in its box, otherwise Jemith might have been reduced to throwing things to get his master’s attention.
“Master?” he shouted into the device. Faint scrabbling noises ensued, as though rats inhabited the caller.
“What?! Who’s there?”
“It is I, Jemith, returning!”
The drawbridge descended with a thump, nearly claiming Jemith’s toes. With a resigned sigh he walked into the home of the master magician.
“Finally!” the old man declared, grabbing his apprentice’s backpack so aggressively that he almost jerked the younger man off his feet. Jemith ducked his head and pulled his arms out of the straps, then slid into a cushioned niche with another sigh.
“You’re getting dust everywhere! Go take a bath!”
“Yes, Master.”
“And I suppose you’re hungry as well, hmm?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Good, you can start my supper after you’re clean.”
May 15, 2006
Rain Check
There will be a slight delay of a day on the fiction this week, as I'm suffering from a terrible case of Book I Can't Put Down. It'll be up tomorrow.
May 14, 2006
Trivial Politics
Here's a link to an opinion piece about an odious political trend (and a book I might want to read). George F. Will makes some good points, but the thing that I really found interesting is that he inadvertantly indicates that it's theoretically only possible to be meaningfully involved with tragedy.
I've remarked before that it's a very American trait to be ferocious in assault on the bad whilst being unable to define or defend anything that is good. Why are politicians unable to say anything interesting or authentic about $3 gas? Because they don't care about the the issue. All they know is: people are angry because gas is $3 a gallon. What's their interest in this situation? They want said angry people to stop whining at them.
If your motivation is to stop the whining, you're not going to be very interested in the situation and thus you won't be able to generate any authentic emotional reaction to it--apart from irritation, which simple politeness dictates you shouldn't display. Heck, a middle-manager at the company I work for will display wooden-faced endurance when faced with the same old idiot complaints over and over again.
Seeing the government as your (or other peoples') nursemaid is a great way to generate fatigue in the people who are supposed to be protecting your rights instead of holding your hand.
I've remarked before that it's a very American trait to be ferocious in assault on the bad whilst being unable to define or defend anything that is good. Why are politicians unable to say anything interesting or authentic about $3 gas? Because they don't care about the the issue. All they know is: people are angry because gas is $3 a gallon. What's their interest in this situation? They want said angry people to stop whining at them.
If your motivation is to stop the whining, you're not going to be very interested in the situation and thus you won't be able to generate any authentic emotional reaction to it--apart from irritation, which simple politeness dictates you shouldn't display. Heck, a middle-manager at the company I work for will display wooden-faced endurance when faced with the same old idiot complaints over and over again.
Seeing the government as your (or other peoples') nursemaid is a great way to generate fatigue in the people who are supposed to be protecting your rights instead of holding your hand.
May 11, 2006
The Novels of Tiger and Del
"He wants you to fight." Del had just discovered it. And very calm she was, too, considering the fight would be to the death.
"Looks like he might just get it, too. I mean--part of the deal we struck is to make sure you get to Julah, not into an old man's bed." I grinned. "Ever had two men fight over you before?"
"Yes," she said grimly, surprising me; but not surprising me at all, once I thought about it. "Tiger--tell him no."
"If I tell him I won't fight, it means I'm giving in to him," I pointed out. "It means I'm making a gift of you to him."
Del squared her shoulders and looked the shoka in the eye. Not a wise thing for a woman to do. And it got worse when she totally circumvented custom and spoke to him directly. "If the shoka wishes to fight over the Northern woman, he will have to fight the woman first."
Plainly put, the shoka was flabbergasted. So was I, to be honest. Not only had she ignored the rules of common Hanji courtesy, but she also challenged him personally.
His nose-ring quivered against his lip. Every sinew in his body stood up beneat his sun-darkened skin. "Warriors do not fight women."
"I'm not a woman," she said dryly. I'm a sword-dancer, as is the Sandtiger. And I will fight you to prove it."
"Del," I said.
"Be quiet." She'd given up on politeness altogether. "You're not stealing this fight from me."
"By all the gods of valhail," I hissed, "don't be such a fool!"
"Stop calling me a fool, you stupid sand-ape!"
The shoka grunted. "Perhaps it would be better if the woman fought the Sandtiger."
There are a number of things to be said about these two books, collected into one volume, but unfortunately most of them aren't good. There's no plot to speak of--there are events, wedged in between the interminable arguments between the two main characters--but they don't add up to any plot whatsoever. Events that might have been interesting tend to be resolved by some truly bizarre exercises of Deus ex Machina that rather leave you wondering what the point of all that activity was.
The characters groan under the weight of the stereotypes they're required to support, so much so that it's almost impossible to like any of them. That, and they're constantly psychologizing each other (and everyone else they meet), a fact that they actually admit! I'm sorry, but no character in a fantasy novel that includes magic swords and nomadic desert bandits should include the word psychological, ESPECIALLY when it's told from a first-person viewpoint. First person allows SOME editorial comments, but that's just ridiculous.
Del, the heroine, is frankly unlikeable: the fantasy self of every man-hating feminist to ever exist. She's a paragon of physical beauty and she makes a point of proving she's better than every man she meets. The chip on her shoulder is the size of the Empire State Building. It's not especially surprising, because she's a victim of every feminist's favorite disaster: rape, but it IS annoying.
That, and the second book ends in an unforgivable cliffhanger that actually made me NOT want to read any more in the series just from spite.
Rating: 1.5
May 8, 2006
Epic: Bones
Tired as she was—and half-drowned, thanks to Nimerone—Daian still almost decided to begin exploring the mystery campsite at the edge of the pool. Then she remembered an important fact that gave her a moment’s pause.
It was dark. Whatever waited was either big enough to be dangerous or complex enough to require close examination: in either event Daian would need to be able to see in order to make anything of it. It was tempting to approach the tents; the fish-woman’s strange actions had created a knot of confusion that Daian craved to unravel. She pursed her lips tensely and swam for the far side of the water. She would go see what Jemith was doing. That was the sensible thing.
At least one of his activities was immediately obvious; he had started a fire. It was even possible, she mused, that he had cooked some food and could be persuaded to share it. She slithered out of the water, donned her shirt, and shouldered the heavy water bags.
Jemith started guiltily when she returned, twisting his body into an unnatural position to turn around and look at her, his eyes widening in alarm. Daian watched as he heaved a bowl of water onto the fire, raising a cloud of smoke but not otherwise accomplishing anything. She frowned, puzzled by his reaction.
“If you truly don’t wish to share whatever you are cooking I won’t be upset,” she offered, fishing for an explanation.
“I’m not cooking; there’s dry bread and meat in the bandits’ saddlebags and not a thing else worth eating, so why should I bother?”
She considered pressing the issue but she’d already imposed upon their all-too-recent acquaintance by presuming that his activities were her business.
“You were an awfully long time getting that water,” Jemith probed, apparently not aware of any such considerations.
“I decided to take a bath.”
“Ah.” He frowned sourly, apparently disappointed that he couldn’t dispute the value of a bath.
Daian rummaged through the saddlebags, but she only managed to eat a few bites of food before she slumped down and fell deeply asleep. Jemith watched her warily for a while, then threw sand on the fire to quench it and followed her example.
The magician awoke with a jerk, a loud clattering sound translated by his drowsing mind into an imminent threat. He whipped his head from side to side, heart pounding, while he tried to discern the source of the noise. After a moment it was repeated and he realized that someone—namely, Daian—was throwing rocks. He could not imagine a more stupefyingly pointless activity, not leastwise because she didn’t seem in any hurry to stop.
Finally, infuriated, he shot to his feet and stalked into the brush. Idiot! He cursed himself. You should have realized when she appeared out of the desert that she was insane. Nothing good comes out of that oversized cat box. The undergrowth caught at his clothing and snagged on loose threads, adding more wear to them than days of walking in the relatively unobstructed desert. He flailed his way through the plants and with a final vile oath burst into another clear space; a wide plaza paved with large enough stones to hold back the growth for a couple of centuries, at least. Some other travelers had taken advantage of the space to pitch tents.
And there was Daian, in the middle of their camp, heaping stones into a pile.
“What are you doing?!” Jemith demanded angrily. She paused, leaning over to put her hands on her knees, and turned her head to look at him. Dark grime clung to the trickles of sweat on her face, making her repulsive.
“Building a cairn,” she explained.
“A what?”
She took a few more gasping breaths and nodded to the pile of stones, inviting him to look for himself. He scowled, drawing himself up stiffly. He wanted to look, but he hated to give her the satisfaction of ordering him around. After waiting long enough to make it clear that he was only humoring her, he approached the irregular mound of stones and peered down at it. He frowned, then, realizing what he was seeing he sprang backwards an awkward step, turning to look again at Daian.
“Skeletons?” he demanded, then flushed, irritated anew at his own reaction. She nodded.
“While I realize this is not exactly the most pleasant discovery, why did it incite you to cover them in rocks?”
“I don’t have a shovel to bury them.”
Jemith snorted. “They’ve been exposed to the elements this long, it won’t hurt them to stay that way. Only the credulous fear the angry dead.”
Daian shook her head. “Take a closer look at them.”
Jemith squelched his distaste and edged closer. There were no obvious signs of what killed them, not a shred of meat or even a drop of blood. In fact, it almost looked like they’d simply discarded their flesh of their own free will.
“Can you tell how long they’ve been dead?” Daian asked pleasantly.
“How? They’re bones.”
“They’re still fresh.”
He gaped at her. “Fresh? You mean . . . ?”
“I mean I think they’ve been dead less than two days.” She picked up an ulna casually and held it out to him; he waved it away. Taking the slender, curved bone between her hands, she applied pressure. It flexed slightly but didn’t break; it was springy, not brittle.
“That is vile.”
“In more ways than one,” she remarked, returning the bone to the pile.
Jemith frowned slightly, staring into the distance while he thought. It was an odd thing, no doubt, but he wondered whether it Ehmammin would think it was an interesting one. There could be any number of explanations for the condition of these corpses. With relief, he decided it was not worth further delay to stay and investigate them.
“I’m off,” he informed Daian decisively. “Be wise and do not attempt to follow me.”
“I wasn’t intending to follow you.”
“No? Then where are you going?” he demanded.
“Beserrib. I can get supplies there, yes?”
Jemith was taken aback. “Well, yes, I suppose you could.” It was a strange thought, but she wasn’t a magician, so theoretically she could indeed enter the city and conduct her business.
“Perhaps we’ll meet again,” she said diplomatically.
“Only if fortune has no particular love for me,” he replied, and walked away.
Daian finished building her cairn, more for the release of the physical effort than from any serious sentimental regret. She couldn’t really say that she had grasped the puzzle yet, but she was beginning to believe she could see its shape and she didn’t like it at all. Weak and sweaty, she climbed back to the fountain and called for the fish-woman again.
“Come on, Nimerone, I’ve seen your dead, now explain what happened.”
The water stirred. “I’ve explained too much already!”
“You haven’t explained anything. Hundreds of years have passed in the space between one breath and the next. In the ruins of Farsis I encountered a made thing, a machine that seemed almost alive, wrapped in a shroud of lightning. Now here, at the ruins of Peridai, I find you and your strange dead and your cry of demon. No more games. Tell me what happened.”
Nimerone bared shark teeth. “What do you know of it? I too am a ‘made’ thing and I have lived those hundreds of years! Find your own answers.”
“We are all a little changed, Nimerone . . .”
“Spare me your condescension! There is and always will be a gap between us that cannot be bridged. You can choose what you will do with what you’ve been given. I cannot. You are human and I am vermin and that is the end of it!”
“You are not vermin.”
“I am! They died and I could do nothing. Nothing! This has been my home for an age and I was powerless.”
Daian sighed heavily. “Can’t you tell me anything useful?”
“CAN’T?!” The fish-woman shrieked. “No, say won’t. I won’t. That I can still say!”
“All right, Nimerone. I’m going to Beserrib. So that I can find a magician to unravel this mess.”
“That man was a magician.”
“Who?”
“Jemith. Why didn’t you ask him?”
“He didn’t seem inclined to be helpful.”
The fish-woman chuckled, a harsh, threatening sound. “Be careful, Titan-killer. It is not the world that you knew any longer. Things will not seem what they are to your eyes.”
It was dark. Whatever waited was either big enough to be dangerous or complex enough to require close examination: in either event Daian would need to be able to see in order to make anything of it. It was tempting to approach the tents; the fish-woman’s strange actions had created a knot of confusion that Daian craved to unravel. She pursed her lips tensely and swam for the far side of the water. She would go see what Jemith was doing. That was the sensible thing.
At least one of his activities was immediately obvious; he had started a fire. It was even possible, she mused, that he had cooked some food and could be persuaded to share it. She slithered out of the water, donned her shirt, and shouldered the heavy water bags.
Jemith started guiltily when she returned, twisting his body into an unnatural position to turn around and look at her, his eyes widening in alarm. Daian watched as he heaved a bowl of water onto the fire, raising a cloud of smoke but not otherwise accomplishing anything. She frowned, puzzled by his reaction.
“If you truly don’t wish to share whatever you are cooking I won’t be upset,” she offered, fishing for an explanation.
“I’m not cooking; there’s dry bread and meat in the bandits’ saddlebags and not a thing else worth eating, so why should I bother?”
She considered pressing the issue but she’d already imposed upon their all-too-recent acquaintance by presuming that his activities were her business.
“You were an awfully long time getting that water,” Jemith probed, apparently not aware of any such considerations.
“I decided to take a bath.”
“Ah.” He frowned sourly, apparently disappointed that he couldn’t dispute the value of a bath.
Daian rummaged through the saddlebags, but she only managed to eat a few bites of food before she slumped down and fell deeply asleep. Jemith watched her warily for a while, then threw sand on the fire to quench it and followed her example.
The magician awoke with a jerk, a loud clattering sound translated by his drowsing mind into an imminent threat. He whipped his head from side to side, heart pounding, while he tried to discern the source of the noise. After a moment it was repeated and he realized that someone—namely, Daian—was throwing rocks. He could not imagine a more stupefyingly pointless activity, not leastwise because she didn’t seem in any hurry to stop.
Finally, infuriated, he shot to his feet and stalked into the brush. Idiot! He cursed himself. You should have realized when she appeared out of the desert that she was insane. Nothing good comes out of that oversized cat box. The undergrowth caught at his clothing and snagged on loose threads, adding more wear to them than days of walking in the relatively unobstructed desert. He flailed his way through the plants and with a final vile oath burst into another clear space; a wide plaza paved with large enough stones to hold back the growth for a couple of centuries, at least. Some other travelers had taken advantage of the space to pitch tents.
And there was Daian, in the middle of their camp, heaping stones into a pile.
“What are you doing?!” Jemith demanded angrily. She paused, leaning over to put her hands on her knees, and turned her head to look at him. Dark grime clung to the trickles of sweat on her face, making her repulsive.
“Building a cairn,” she explained.
“A what?”
She took a few more gasping breaths and nodded to the pile of stones, inviting him to look for himself. He scowled, drawing himself up stiffly. He wanted to look, but he hated to give her the satisfaction of ordering him around. After waiting long enough to make it clear that he was only humoring her, he approached the irregular mound of stones and peered down at it. He frowned, then, realizing what he was seeing he sprang backwards an awkward step, turning to look again at Daian.
“Skeletons?” he demanded, then flushed, irritated anew at his own reaction. She nodded.
“While I realize this is not exactly the most pleasant discovery, why did it incite you to cover them in rocks?”
“I don’t have a shovel to bury them.”
Jemith snorted. “They’ve been exposed to the elements this long, it won’t hurt them to stay that way. Only the credulous fear the angry dead.”
Daian shook her head. “Take a closer look at them.”
Jemith squelched his distaste and edged closer. There were no obvious signs of what killed them, not a shred of meat or even a drop of blood. In fact, it almost looked like they’d simply discarded their flesh of their own free will.
“Can you tell how long they’ve been dead?” Daian asked pleasantly.
“How? They’re bones.”
“They’re still fresh.”
He gaped at her. “Fresh? You mean . . . ?”
“I mean I think they’ve been dead less than two days.” She picked up an ulna casually and held it out to him; he waved it away. Taking the slender, curved bone between her hands, she applied pressure. It flexed slightly but didn’t break; it was springy, not brittle.
“That is vile.”
“In more ways than one,” she remarked, returning the bone to the pile.
Jemith frowned slightly, staring into the distance while he thought. It was an odd thing, no doubt, but he wondered whether it Ehmammin would think it was an interesting one. There could be any number of explanations for the condition of these corpses. With relief, he decided it was not worth further delay to stay and investigate them.
“I’m off,” he informed Daian decisively. “Be wise and do not attempt to follow me.”
“I wasn’t intending to follow you.”
“No? Then where are you going?” he demanded.
“Beserrib. I can get supplies there, yes?”
Jemith was taken aback. “Well, yes, I suppose you could.” It was a strange thought, but she wasn’t a magician, so theoretically she could indeed enter the city and conduct her business.
“Perhaps we’ll meet again,” she said diplomatically.
“Only if fortune has no particular love for me,” he replied, and walked away.
Daian finished building her cairn, more for the release of the physical effort than from any serious sentimental regret. She couldn’t really say that she had grasped the puzzle yet, but she was beginning to believe she could see its shape and she didn’t like it at all. Weak and sweaty, she climbed back to the fountain and called for the fish-woman again.
“Come on, Nimerone, I’ve seen your dead, now explain what happened.”
The water stirred. “I’ve explained too much already!”
“You haven’t explained anything. Hundreds of years have passed in the space between one breath and the next. In the ruins of Farsis I encountered a made thing, a machine that seemed almost alive, wrapped in a shroud of lightning. Now here, at the ruins of Peridai, I find you and your strange dead and your cry of demon. No more games. Tell me what happened.”
Nimerone bared shark teeth. “What do you know of it? I too am a ‘made’ thing and I have lived those hundreds of years! Find your own answers.”
“We are all a little changed, Nimerone . . .”
“Spare me your condescension! There is and always will be a gap between us that cannot be bridged. You can choose what you will do with what you’ve been given. I cannot. You are human and I am vermin and that is the end of it!”
“You are not vermin.”
“I am! They died and I could do nothing. Nothing! This has been my home for an age and I was powerless.”
Daian sighed heavily. “Can’t you tell me anything useful?”
“CAN’T?!” The fish-woman shrieked. “No, say won’t. I won’t. That I can still say!”
“All right, Nimerone. I’m going to Beserrib. So that I can find a magician to unravel this mess.”
“That man was a magician.”
“Who?”
“Jemith. Why didn’t you ask him?”
“He didn’t seem inclined to be helpful.”
The fish-woman chuckled, a harsh, threatening sound. “Be careful, Titan-killer. It is not the world that you knew any longer. Things will not seem what they are to your eyes.”
Unwritten
(I apologize for the pop-ups on the link, consider yourself warned.)
It's not often that I find myself liking a song (especially a "pop" song) for the lyrics, but "Unwritten" by Natasha Bedingfield is simply too personally appropriate to pass up. It may well be the anthem for anyone out there that has ever set pen to paper for any reason.
Marion Zimmer Bradley remarked that she had a hard time getting respect when she declared her occupation as "writer". Why? Because "every literate person writes". I have met few literate people--using the word to mean not that they can read, but that they DO read--that don't at the very least have a book idea that they'd like to write "someday".
A friend of mine summed up this phenomenon adroitly. You can't just have input. Healthy, sane people cannot tolerate living their lives as a sponge soaking up input: at some point they reach "critical mass" and they have to take what they've learned, thought, or realized and turn it into some sort of output. I read like an alcoholic drinks. I think if I didn't write I might very well explode from the unrelieved pressure.
My only problem is working on the quality of my writing so that I don't have to endure winces when I invariably inflict my efforts on other people.
It's not often that I find myself liking a song (especially a "pop" song) for the lyrics, but "Unwritten" by Natasha Bedingfield is simply too personally appropriate to pass up. It may well be the anthem for anyone out there that has ever set pen to paper for any reason.
Marion Zimmer Bradley remarked that she had a hard time getting respect when she declared her occupation as "writer". Why? Because "every literate person writes". I have met few literate people--using the word to mean not that they can read, but that they DO read--that don't at the very least have a book idea that they'd like to write "someday".
A friend of mine summed up this phenomenon adroitly. You can't just have input. Healthy, sane people cannot tolerate living their lives as a sponge soaking up input: at some point they reach "critical mass" and they have to take what they've learned, thought, or realized and turn it into some sort of output. I read like an alcoholic drinks. I think if I didn't write I might very well explode from the unrelieved pressure.
My only problem is working on the quality of my writing so that I don't have to endure winces when I invariably inflict my efforts on other people.
May 6, 2006
Resenting the Hero
Ayn Rand once remarked (in her introduction to Atlas Shrugged, I believe) that there are three kinds of stories: presenting an old abstraction by the same old means (booooring), presenting an old abstraction through new means (most good literature), and presenting a brand-new abstraction.
She also commented (In The Romantic Manifesto) that there are some old abstractions that, while containing worthy stories, have been told and re-told so many times that there really remains no new way of approaching them. They are cliches, bromides, that no author worth their salt would bother with. (Her specific comment regarded the story of the prostitute with a heart of gold.)
The story of this novel is, I think, one of those cliches: A Man, a Woman, Forced to Work Together by Circumstances Beyond Their Control, They Develop an Instant Dislike, but Through Their Trials They Gain Respect and Even Affection for One Another . . .
Heard it before, haven't you? I personally was doubtful that anyone could turn this story into something interesting and original. Well, in her new book, Resenting the Hero, Moira J. Moore makes a darn good run at it. Good enough, in fact, that she actually succeeds.
I was literally stunned by the quality of this book, and I spent 2 hours taking up valuable space at Olive Garden because I just couldn't put it down. The opening seems a little ominous, but within 20 pages I was riveted by the characters, who are extremely complex and unexpected. Unusually, though, their motivations and reasons are stunningly comprehensible. You may not agree with everything they do, but you can understand why they do it. Even the villian is comprehensible, and without this making him in the least sympathetic.
It is also an unadulterated joy to read a fantasy novel where nothing is put in just for the heck of it, as flavor or to make the book more "authentic". Everything that happens has some purpose to it and is tied back into the novel. The plot is actually a logical sequence of events, driven by the choices of the characters.
It's not a tremendously deep or philosophical book in a lot of ways, but it accomplishes its aims with competence and self-assurance and is a lovely thing to see in the wasteland of stilted or downright bad new fantasy authors.
Rating: 4.0
She also commented (In The Romantic Manifesto) that there are some old abstractions that, while containing worthy stories, have been told and re-told so many times that there really remains no new way of approaching them. They are cliches, bromides, that no author worth their salt would bother with. (Her specific comment regarded the story of the prostitute with a heart of gold.)
The story of this novel is, I think, one of those cliches: A Man, a Woman, Forced to Work Together by Circumstances Beyond Their Control, They Develop an Instant Dislike, but Through Their Trials They Gain Respect and Even Affection for One Another . . .
Heard it before, haven't you? I personally was doubtful that anyone could turn this story into something interesting and original. Well, in her new book, Resenting the Hero, Moira J. Moore makes a darn good run at it. Good enough, in fact, that she actually succeeds.
I was literally stunned by the quality of this book, and I spent 2 hours taking up valuable space at Olive Garden because I just couldn't put it down. The opening seems a little ominous, but within 20 pages I was riveted by the characters, who are extremely complex and unexpected. Unusually, though, their motivations and reasons are stunningly comprehensible. You may not agree with everything they do, but you can understand why they do it. Even the villian is comprehensible, and without this making him in the least sympathetic.
It is also an unadulterated joy to read a fantasy novel where nothing is put in just for the heck of it, as flavor or to make the book more "authentic". Everything that happens has some purpose to it and is tied back into the novel. The plot is actually a logical sequence of events, driven by the choices of the characters.
It's not a tremendously deep or philosophical book in a lot of ways, but it accomplishes its aims with competence and self-assurance and is a lovely thing to see in the wasteland of stilted or downright bad new fantasy authors.
Rating: 4.0
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