[GdM]: How has Half a King been received so far, being your first major foray beyond the First Law?
[JA]: Very well, yeah. Some great quotes from other writers. A lot of interest and support from publishers and booksellers. It’s only been out a week in the UK but it made no. 3 on the hardcover bestseller list and so far seems to be going down well with the readers. You’re always aware that any shift in direction won’t be to everyone’s taste—I’ve yet to release a book that hasn’t been simultaneously declared a massive fall from grace or a triumphant return to form by somebody. We’ll get a more rounded picture in due course...
[GdM]: You released five short stories to go with The First Law. Any plans to release some for Half a King?
[JA]: No imminent plans. It’s undoubtedly a lot harder to find a market for short fiction than long, and with these books being that much shorter it makes better sense to plough the effort into novels, I think. I’m certainly continuing to write short fiction in the First Law world, though, and there’ll be a collection of those stories coming out some time in 2016.
[GdM]: Just how much research goes into the creation of cultures like the Northmen and the Ghurkish?
[JA]: Some, certainly. I’ve read a lot of history over the years and I’m sure a lot of that reading gets expressed in what I write, and in the settings and backdrops I come up with. That said, I think epic fantasy can get a bit obsessed about setting at the expense of character and plot, and I always try to keep the focus very much on the people. Research is useful to give a world some texture and believability, and sometimes you might use the power of Google to seek out the answer to some specific question (what kind of underwear did Viking warriors wear, or some such), but you don’t want to forget that, in the end, you’re writing fantasy, and that does give you a lot of leeway to just, you know, make shit up.
[GdM]: How important are short stories as supplements to author worlds? What about to you, as the author, to diversify your work?
[JA]: There’s certainly less of a market for short stories than there once was. There was a time most SF&F writers would cut their teeth on short fiction but these days it’s becoming the exception rather than the rule. That said, the internet and e-books are opening up new avenues, and commercially short stories can be useful as exclusives for booksellers and publishers, and samplers for readers. Big, multi-author anthologies can sometimes give you the opportunity to get a story in front of readers who might otherwise never pick up your work. So they’re a useful adjunct but I don’t think short stories will ever be my natural format.
[GdM]: You’ve come up with some magnificent characters (try getting your head out the door after that one). You’ve shown us the importance of perspective in doing away with notions of good and evil by digging into some pretty nasty themes from new angles. How important is it to you to have no restraint when exploring a character?
[JA]: I already have trouble fitting through standard doorways. I often felt that fantasy didn’t mine too deeply into the heads of the characters, sometimes presented some slightly coardboardy, morally simple, predictable heroes whose behaviour I didn’t much believe in and villains whose motivations I couldn’t ever understand. I wanted to present some pretty dark and unpleasant people from almost uncomfortably close up, to really get inside their heads and see what makes them tick, to make them seem real and believable. I think if you’re going to do that it helps to be as honest as you can be. That’s what I respond to in the work of other writers.
[GdM]: Will you return to the First Law world in either short or long form after the Half a King Trilogy, and will we see crowd favourite the Bloody Nine again?
[JA] As I’ve said, short stories, most definitely, but after the three Shattered Sea books are finished I’ll be going back to the First Law at full length, potentially with another trilogy. We’ll see how things pan out.
[GdM]: Thanks for your time Joe. I speak for grimdark lovers anywhere when I say we can’t wait to see what comes next.
[JA]: Oh, me too... [GdM]
Review: Half a King by Joe Abercrombie
Reader Beware: Includes Some Spoilers
KYLE MASSA
Yes, Joe Abercrombie’s newest novel is classified as young-adult.
No, that doesn’t mean he’s gone soft.
Far from it, actually.
What you get is the same carnage, grit, and moral ambiguity of his previous works, all in a more sleek, more focused package.
Half a King tells the tale of Yarvi, a reluctant hero on a quest to reclaim his stolen throne. With a motley band of warriors, he will take back what is his—or die trying.
At first glance, Half a King appears to have a familiar setup, complete with a treacherous uncle and a deposed young ruler—but similarities to other works soon vanish. The plot takes numerous turns you won’t expect, and Yarvi himself is unlike most protagonists you’ll find in young-adult literature. He’s deeply nuanced, and he’s riddled with the contradictions of real life. Yarvi is vengeful but feeble, wise but impulsive, shrewd but not a natural leader. You’ll see a lot of yourself in Yarvi, both the parts you like and the parts you don’t.
I felt that Half a King had a lull in plot early on. The action starts well enough, but dips when Yarvi takes to the seas. For about fifty pages onward, the plot seems to move laterally rather than forward, as though our protagonist isn’t progressing toward his goal.
Not to worry though—the pace ratchets right back up shortly after, and it never slows down again. Yarvi’s quest culminates in an outstanding battle scene, an excellent plot twist, and an even better one in the final chapter.
This is one of the modern greats of the genre at his greatest. Thankfully for us all, there are two sequels on the way. Only problem is, we’ll have to wait five whole months for the next one… [GdM]
The Woman I Used To Be
GERRI LEEN
I sit in the comfortable chair that I’ve been told was never my favourite and enjoy the unexpected quiet of the house. Everyone is out. I’m so much better that they think it’s safe to leave me.
I’m not really better—if better is having my memories back—but I’ve learned to fake it and to fill in the blank spots with research. I must have had mad skills at that.
I laugh at that: mad skills. It’s a funny saying unless you feel like you’re losing your mind, then not so much. But also funny that these ways of phrasing—silly sayings like that—come naturally when I’m just thinking. They flow in my head as if language and memory are not linked at all.
But I know they are. As soon as I try to talk to Nathan or Louisa, my words falter. I reach for names, ideas, basic statements or questions, and they’re like quicksilver, darting here and there as I try to form complete sentences the way she would.
She. I. Pronouns are difficult.
My name is Susanna. I’ve apparently never liked that name, or so the woman who says she’s my mother claims. Carla—I call her that and she frowns. But it feels wrong to call her Mum. Shouldn’t I feel something for her if she’s my mum?
Shouldn’t I feel anything but this overwhelming panic? And the sense that I’m disappointing them all: my mother, my husband, my daughter.
Louisa at least resembles me. I feel nothing when I look at her, but I can logically see the similarities, and I can say, ‘Yes, I probably contributed DNA to that one.’
But Nathan. With his sad, beseeching eyes. With his oh-so-patient voice. I have the feeling he’s not really my type, even though I can’t tell you what my type is.
I dream of another man. He's tall with skin like mahogany, partly from genetics, partly from being in the sun. How do I know this? I don’t know his name, just his face, just his arms, lifted high as he tells me something I can’t hear. I can never hear his words, but I feel inspired anyway. He inspires me.
Until I wake up and realize he has no place in this life I can’t remember.
I’ve asked Nathan and Carla about the man—in the most general terms.
I can tell it hurts them when I don’t remember the right things, but they also seem to like it when I show an interest in my life. They don’t remember anyone matching the dark man’s description.
I’ve asked the house AI also. Just in case they never met the man—just in case I was having an affair. The house AI doesn’t recall any visitors that match the description except an appraiser that came to the house when we were thinking of taking out another mortgage. But the picture the AI brought up wasn’t the man from my dreams.
‘Susanna?’ The house AI’s voice never startles me now that I’ve programmed it to be male when I am alone, given it a deep voice, resonant with pain—or that’s how the voice option I chose struck me. It’s also how I imagine the dark man sounding, if I could only hear what he is saying.
The AI is my best friend. It knows me better than I do, obviously, but it also seems to know me better than my family does. The AI goes by Drew. Louisa named it when we first moved into this house, or so I’m told. She wanted a name that could be male or female. When I’m not alone, the AI speaks in a nurturing female voice that sounds like a grandmother. It has told me Louisa picked the default voice. It has also told me—when I asked—that Nathan keeps it this way when he’s alone.
I was sort of hoping he made the AI sound sultry, sexy. It would make me feel less guilty that I dream about men who aren’t the husband I can’t remember.
‘Drew, are you sure I lived here before the shuttle crash?’ This is not the first time I have asked this question. Perhaps I keep hoping for a different answer. Although isn’t that the definition of crazy?
‘Yes, you lived here before the shuttle crash.’
I love the way it answers. No hesitation. No making excuses. Just the truth.
‘Susanna, why do you keep asking that?’
I huddle deeper into the chair, making myself small, wishing I could disappear. ‘I don’t belong here. Or that’s what it feels like.’
‘The doctor said it would take time.’
‘I know.’ I hear the whirring of Drew’s retrieval arm unfolding from the ceiling. It picks up the throw from the couch and carries it over, setting it gently on my lap. ‘I’m not cold.’
‘Your vitals say differently.’
I give up and wrap the throw around me. It is white nubby wool. Nathan said I knitted it one very boring voyage. I don’t remember of course. I close my eyes and try to knit, try to let muscle memory take me over, but my hands look more like they are afflicted with a tic than actually skilled at knitting. I smell the throw. There is a faint whiff of fragrance. The same one that sits on my vanity in the bedroom I share—used to share—with Nathan.
The thing is, I can’t stand the scent. Nathan says I wore it every day and it is the only perfume on my vanity, but still the scent makes me feel slightly sick.
Why would I hate it now? What part of memory would control reaction to a perfume?
Then again I had extensive head injuries after the crash. I know because I lay alone in the cockpit, buried in rubble from the building we’d crashed into. This I actually remember, this is my first memory. My birth if you will. Waking alone, unless you count the body lying next to me—co-pilot I was told later—and waiting for someone to find me, to dig me out.
Nathan told me the doctors gave me virtually no chance to survive. On the fully packed shuttle, only five others made it.
I don’t know why we crashed. I don’t know if it was my fault. That haunts me as I sit alone.
Because the thing is, if I close my eyes, let muscle memory take over, I can feel the controls of the shuttle. I reach for switches and buttons, hit knobs overhead that control all manner of manoeuvring, fuel balances, small nav changes.
I remember this deep in the fibres of my fingers. I can imagine the headphones I would be wearing. The dark glasses we all wore once we hit atmo, partially because it was a shock after being in space but mostly because it made us look so damn cool.
I found an extra pair in the house—my pair lay crumpled in the cockpit, nearly as crumpled as I was—and tried them on. They felt familiar—they looked right, too, eyes unfathomable in the mirrored lenses. Hidden.
Unrecognizable. Everyone looks the same in the flight suits. Hair has to be up in a bun if you wear it long. Flight cap. The sunglasses. The dark blue uniform that is starched straight, the fit loose enough to mask a figure. You can tell men from women, usually, if only by the height and bulk differential. But one brunette woman from another—be tough to tell them apart.
Except once they got in the air. Once they started to fly. Everyone had their little habits. I was known for... Why can’t I remember that part? I reach up again, as if I’m in the cockpit, feel for the controls, practically can see them when I close my eyes.
‘Was I a good pilot, Drew?’
‘Define good.’
I smile. It’s cagey, our Drew. But also precise. It could measure good in number of runs done on time, in number of passengers who complained of service, in nicks and dings on the fuselage, in how much fuel I used. I know this because we’ve been down this road before, Drew and I.
Always when the others are out. I wonder, though, if it tells them I have asked these things.
‘Given my record, would you expect me to crash a shuttle on a routine approach to a spaceport I’ve flown in and out of hundreds of times?’
‘No.’
It is the same answer every time.
‘Can you analyse the wreckage and see if—’
‘Access to the files of the Pandora is blocked.’
This too is its standard answer. I think of a new question to ask. ‘Do they know that we’ve queried now several times?’
‘No. Each time I framed the query as hypothetical. That should raise no flags.’
I lean forward, the throw I supposedly made slipping off me. ‘Why would you do that?’
‘Because...’ There is a long pause. It is unlike the AI to lack words, but it has been programmed to be sensitive, to have tact.
‘Say it, Drew. Spit it out.’
‘You are unhappy. You are resisting your family. You isolate yourself inside a mind that may never recover the old memories. Your future lies in making new memories but how can you when you are so...alone?’
‘Things don’t add up, Drew.’
‘So you have noted before.’
‘Was I here? Since Nathan bought the house.’
‘Yes, Susanna.’
I pull the throw up and back over my legs. I’m always so cold now. Drew was right. ‘Can you lie, Drew?’
‘If necessary.’
It is the answer I get each time I ask. And I haven’t had the heart—or maybe the balls—to ask what would make lying necessary. ‘I’m tired.’
The house lights immediately dim. ‘Sleep.’
I don’t argue. I just pull the throw up and try to ignore the perfume—how did I ever like this scent, so deep and resinous? Another scent comes to me, citrus and green, like the hills of...where? I fall asleep trying to remember and my dreams are snippets of things that make no sense but also sadly leave me no wiser about the life I’ve forgotten.
***
I am staring in the mirror. It is three months since I woke in the hospital bed to find strangers clustered around me. Strangers who looked at me with such love and hope that I was gentle as I said, ‘You’ve got the wrong bed.’
Those words echo, and I feel a memory and try to catch it.
This is wrong. Doctor Handley has said to not reach out, to let them come to me.
I know my heart is beating too fast, so I close my eyes, and breathe slowly. I go back to the hospital bed, pretend I’m opening my eyes to see the three of them—Carla, Nathan, and Louisa.
I’ve yet to warm up to Carla and Nathan, but Louisa is such a sweet girl, just ready to leave childhood behind, but still needing her mother.
A girl always needs her mother.
But if that’s true, why don’t I need Carla more?
I see their faces and say out loud, ‘You’ve got the wrong bed.’
The memory hovers, and I force myself not to reach for it. I hear a voice, strained and male and full of hate.
So much hate I almost pull back, let the memory go the way of the other snippets.
‘Susanna, your pulse rate has increased dramatically. Are you all right?’ Drew sounds concerned. Its voice so different than the one I just heard. Drew’s voice makes me feel safe.
The way Matthew’s always did.
Matthew?
‘You’ve got the wrong bed,’ I say again since it seems to be the trigger, but nothing else comes.
Then I hear the front door open, and Drew informs me—in its grandmotherly voice—that Louisa is home.
She yells out, ‘Mum?’
‘In here.’ I wait, pulling her in to me, feeling something real and true when I hold her. Children are the greatest blessing. Matthew always said so but we never tried again, not after Kate died.
Kate. I tighten my hold on Louisa. I bury my nose in her long brown hair. Her shampoo smells of evergreen and mint. It should be strawberry.
Kate always loved that scent.
‘Mum? What’s wrong?’
I push her away from me. ‘You’re not my daughter.’
She frowns. ‘What?’
‘I have a daughter. But she’s not you. Kate is her name. And she’s blonde, not brunette.’
‘You’re making no sense.’
‘She’s younger than you, too.’ Why couldn’t I remember this before? ‘She loved to run outside. She was outside when the drone struck.’
Grimdark Magazine Issue #1 mobi Page 3
