Newton's Second Law of Thermodynamics states that in a closed, isolated system temperature, pressure, and chemical potential will eventually achieve equilibrium. All of the energy tends to even out throughout the system. Sometimes, this is referred to as entropy. When we think of entropy, we usually imagine loss of energy, not necessarily energy equalization. But something is lost when energy is equilibrated. What's lost is vitality, motion. The imbalance of energy permits action, transfer and conversion of energy convey motion and collision. When elements within a system bleed energy off to form that equilibrium, those elements seem to die.
It is this sort of energy death that Jack Vance explores in The Dying Earth. I recently reread my 1960s Lancer SF Library edition of this seminal work of its eponymous genre during school vacation. It's not very long, only 160 pages. Within are six stories set on an unnamed continent in a far, far distant future when the sun has grown dim and the inhabitants of the weary Earth imagine that it will one day gutter and flicker out like an exhausted flame.
Through these tales, Vance explores the theme of innocence--an ironic topic considering the setting is a far distant future where everything is slowly dying. However, through her old age, the Earth has regained a shred of her own innocence, as magic and myth have resurfaced, albeit mixed with science and technology. Vance's language invokes that same sense of the legendary and mythopoeic that Tolkien, Dunsany, and Howard possessed, although instead of dwelling in some mythic past when the world was young, he places his era of legend in a dreamlike future full of nostalgia and misty exoticism.
It was night in white-walled Kaiin, and festival time. Orange lanterns floated in the air, moving as the breeze took them. From the balconies dangled flower chains and cages of blue fireflies. The streets surged with the wine-flushed populace, costumed in a multitude of bizarre modes. Here was a Melantine bargeman, here a warrior of Valdaran's Green Legion, here another of ancient times wearing one of the old helmets. In a little cleared space a garlanded courtesan of the Kauchique littoral danced the Dance of the Fourteen Silken Movements to the music of flutes. In the shadow of a balcony a girl barbarian of East Almery embraced a man blackened and in leather harness as a Deodand of the forest. They were gay, these people of waning Earth, feverishly merry, for infinite night was close at hand, when the red sun should finally flicker and go black.
Countries have strange names, such as Kauchique, the Cape of Sad Remembrance, and the Land of the Falling Wall. We read of "orange-haired witches of the Cobalt Mountain; forest sorcerers of Ascolais, white-bearded wizards of the Forlorn Land," and silk-clad princes of "Cansaspara, the city of fallen pylons across the Melantine Gulf." Vance's prose infuses his perpetually twilit world with a sense of storied history.
The ground rose, the trees thinned, and T'sais came out on an illimitable dark expanse. This was Modavna Moor, a place of history, a tract which had borne the tread of many feet and absorbed much blood. At one famous slaughtering, Golickan Kodek the Conqueror had herded here the populations of two great cities, G'Vasan and Bautiku, constricted them in a circle three miles across, gradually pushed them tighter, tighter, tighter, panicked them toward the center within his flapping-armed subhuman cavalry, until at last he had achieved a gigantic squirming mound, half a thousand feet high, a pyramid of screaming flesh. It is said that Golickan Kodek mused ten minutes at his monument, then turned and rode his bounding mount back to the land of Laidenur from whence he had come.
We may only spend a few pages on the Modavna Moor, but that brief description of Golickan Kodek's ride from Laidenur gives the location weight and feeling, and makes it seem a real and actual place. Though Prince Datul Omaet is only mentioned in passing, the fact that he exists, is a sorcerer, and comes from a city of "fallen pylons" from across a sea makes Vance's world just a little bit richer and more fascinating. Vance doesn't flesh everything out with the thoroughness of a Tolkien, but rather keeps his world open and unmapped like Robert E. Howard or Clark Ashton Smith, enabling him to broaden and expand it at will.
Though the setting has great potential for nihilistic pessimism, Vance avoids that. In a sense, the decay and imminent death of the Earth is an opportunity to rediscover a romanticism. Though the Earth cannot be saved from its ultimate fate, maybe it could be spiritually redeemed through heroism, sacrifice, bravery, and intelligence. Indeed, there's a great strain of optimism that runs through the entirety of The Dying Earth and defies the sun's exhaustion. The mythic lyricism of Vance's prose is very much a return to an older form, and though he's not the master that Dunsany or Tolkien would be, he does a decent job of it nonetheless.
"Far in the past, far beyond thought, so the legend runs, a race of just people lived in a land east of the Maurenron Mountains, past the Land of the Falling Wall, by the shores of a great sea. They built a city of spires and low glass domes, and dwelt in great content. These people had no god, and presently they felt the need of one whom they might worship. So they built a lustrous temple of gold, glass, and granite, wide as the Scaum River where it flows through the Valley of Graven Tombs, as long again and higher than the trees of the north. And this race of honest men assembled in the temple, and all flung a mighty prayer, a worshipful invocation, and, so legend has it, a god molded by the will of this people was brought into being, and he was of their attributes, a divinity of utter justice.
"The city at last crumbled, the temple became shards and splinters, the people vanished. But the god still remains, rooted forever to the place where his people worshiped him."
Magic plays an enormous part of the setting--both in its romantic nostalgia and in its entropic decay.
At one time a thousand or more runes, spells, incantations, curses, and sorceries had been known. The reach of Grand Motholam--Ascolais, the Ide of Kauchique, Almery to the South, the Land of the Falling Wall to the East--swarmed with sorcerers of every description, of whom the chief was the Arch-Necromancer Phandaal. A hundred spells Phandaal personally had formulated--though rumor said that demons whispered at his ear when he wrought magic. Ponticella the Pious, then ruler of Grand Motholam, put Phandaal to torment, and after a terrible night, he killed Phandaal and outlawed sorcery throughout the land. The wizards of Grand Motholam fled like beetles under a strong light; the lore was dispersed, and forgotten, until now, at this dim time, with the sun dark, wilderness obscuring Ascolais, and the white city of Kaiin half in ruins, only a few more than a hundred spells remained to the knowledge of man.
The spells are described as "so cogent" that characters can only fit a limited number of them into their brains at any given time. Upon casting of these spells, the release of magical energy wipes the formulas from the sorcerers' minds. This is exactly what role-playing-gamers describe when discussing "Vancian magic" in games like Dungeons & Dragons. Indeed, E. Gary Gygax and David Arneson were directly influenced by Jack Vance's setting when they were designing D&D, and elected to try to capture the feel of Vance's magical system in their game. This is obviously how Vance's The Dying Earth found its way into Gygax's heavily influential Appendix N.
This interesting mixture of innocence and romanticism amidst decay and entropy is combined with another major theme that runs through his books--justice and redemption. Characters either surrender to their base desires and lusts for power, or they can achieve a sort of moral epiphany and seek to do right. Such characters as T'sais, Turjan of Miir, Etarr, through love, sacrifice, bravery, and loss manage to achieve redemption and have their courage recognized. Other characters, like Liane the Wayfarer and Mazirian, get a satisfying comeuppance. Though Vance's world is dominated by decadence and dark forces, the just, good, and brave can definitely make a positive difference in the world, and Vance's stories are of those exceptional people who manage to overcome obstacles both internal and external.
One may say that all of these good deeds are for naught, since the sun is fading and eternal night is immanent, but the tenor and texture of the narratives do not suggest that this was Vance's aim. Rather, the author seems to feel that his protagonists really do matter and that their actions truly have a positive impact in spite of the looming heat-death of the world. Though cities crumble to dust and the sun continues to fade, magic and wonder still persists, and the world can still be enchanted, right up to the very end. (The Caffeinated Symposium)
Unlike The Dying Earth, The Eyes of the Overworld is not a collection of short stories but a full-length novel. Here we have the character Cugel, who is likeable enough throughout most of the story, though I did find some of his qualities unsavory if not reprehensible at times. Still, he is our hero, so to speak, and it is his adventures we follow as the story progresses.
We begin with Cugel trying to sell some goods. Things are not going well, though, and at the urging of a fellow merchant, Cugel gets it in his head to go steal from Iucounu the Laughing Magician if only to acquire some magical items which he can then sell for profit. Cugel is caught in the act and, as penance, the Laughing Magician sends Cugel on a quest halfway round the world to bring back a favored item. Keeping Cugel in line is a parasite called Firx, who wraps himself about Cugel's liver and promises certain death if Cugel strays from his appointed task. Thus begins a series of odd and sometimes death-harrowing adventures as Cugel attempts to locate the wizard's prized item and return home, all the while keeping Firx content that he is in fact doing all he can to fulfill said quest.
Trouble arises when Cugel sees an opportunity for personal gain, which is at almost every turn, for Cugel is concerned with himself above all other things. He steals, he cheats, he lies, he even rapes a woman at one point in the story (though, to be fair, they are married and she does agree, but only after Cugel's extreme urging). Still, Cugel is likeable if only because nothing ever seems to go his way. He's the quintessential down-on-his-luck character who, after being beaten down so many times, we just want to see succeed even just once.
The Eyes of the Overworld is, of course, set in Vance's Dying Earth world, so far in our future that the Sun is nearing the end of its life and technology is so advanced (and its operation forgotten, in most cases) that it is more magic than science. Those who do know its operation are few and far between, and are actually called sorcerers and wizards rather than technologists, engineers, or scientists.
Vance's writing style is from another era; the book was originally published in 1966. The matter-of-fact narration is easy to follow, though, and the adventures Cugel finds himself on are engaging. (Out Of This World Reviews)
Picaresque adventure-comedy and scathing wit in the inimitable Vance manner: a fantasy sequel to The Eyes of the Overworld (1966)--which itself shared the setting of The Dying Earth (1950). Cugel the Clever has again been dumped half a world away from home by the vindictive Iucounu the Laughing Magician. To gain revenge, Cugel must travel through a far-future world lit by a guttering old red sun: this bleak, antique landscape is populated by weird creatures and an array of larger-than-life human eccentrics, rogues, fanatics, and tricksters--among whom the charming, rascally Cugel is perfectly at home. Frequently hilarious, often self-induced difficulties ensue: Cugel is obliged to dive in a pond of slime for the talisman Scatterlight; he acquires a magical boot-ointment that confers weightlessness on objects kicked with the boots; he floats across a wasteland in a stolen ship occupied by a monster; and finally, aided by a trainer of singing fish whose four wizardly fathers have one set of human body-parts among them, Cugel confronts the madly rapacious Iucounu in his manse. Though somewhat more expansive and languid than the earlier classic, as if part of Vance's attention remains in Lyonesse: a sparkling performance that no fantasy fan will want to miss. (Kirkus Review)
Rhialto the Marvellous closes the initial collection of Dying Earth stories, as chronicled by Jack Vance, a master of invention who took me on an incredible journey through eons of history, hundreds of lost civilizations and quirky cultures, multicolored vistas of exotic lands, weird trees and chimaeric wildlife, magic invocations and last, but not least : deeds of daring, craft and cunning to tax credibility . Even if none of the later books quite recaptured the lyrical, melancholic atmosphere of the first one, prefering instead a more humorous, adventure oriented approach, the series kept me glued to the pages until the very last morsel. And then I wished I could spend more time in the company of the characteristic amoral, arrogant, opportunistic and unreliable scoundrels that usually lead the way around the Dying Earth landscape.
Rhialto is not a simple reincarnation of Cugel the Clever: he is a fussy dresser and a cad where women are concerned, but as a wizard he is quite proficient in the art, and as a trickster he is less easily fooled by other magicians, demons or villagers he meets on his quests. Both heroes have supersized egos, but where Cugel ended mostly on the losing side in every intellectual endeavour and got by only through brawns and a lot of luck, Rhialto is deviously planning ahead and outsmarting his adversaries in a Sherlock Holmes manner. It took a good portion of the book to get me interested in Rhialto, and finally it was his sarcastic wit and elaborate form of polite expression that conquered me:
Always disposed to create a favorable impression before members of the female sex, so long as they were of an age and degree of vitality to notice, Rhialto leaned an arm against a stump, disposed his cloak so that it hung in a casual yet dramatic style.
The girls, preoccupied with their chatter, failed to notice his presence. Rhialto spoke in melodious tones: "Young creatures, allow me to intrude upon your attention, at least for a moment. I am surprised to find so much fresh young beauty wasted upon work so dull, and among brambles so sharp."
I have already accepted the fact that the series abandoned almost all the science-fiction elements after the first book and developed as a magic intensive sword & sorcery adventure. If Cugel was more adept with a sword that with a spell, Rhialto relies very little on physical exertions and deploys almost exclusively his magic-fu. The magic theory of the Dying Earth is succintly presented in the introduction of the novel ( Magic is a practical science, or, more properly, a craft, since emphasis is placed primarily upon utility, rather than basic understanding.), with a few choice examples of spells that had me chuckling in anticipation of seeing them deployed later in the book:
Looking into (for instance) Chapter Four of Killiclaw's Primer of Practical Magic, Interpersonal Effectuations, one notices, indited in bright purple ink, such terminology as:
Xarfaggio's Physical Malepsy
Arnhoult's Sequestrious Digitalia
Lutar Brassnose's Twelve-fold Bounty
The Spell of Forlorn Encystment
Tinkler's Old-fashioned Froust
Clambard's Rein of Long Nerves
The Green and Purple Postponement of Joy
Panguire's Triumphs of Discomfort
Lugwiler's Dismal Itch
Khulip's Nasal Enhancement
Radl's Pervasion of the Incorrect Chord.
Actually, very few on the list made it into the proper adventure, but it was fun to imagine them in action. The one spell that is put to repeated use is one that I believe every one of us imagined at one point in his life being in control of: the power to stop time for everybody else, and move freely about the frozen population. Here it is used primarily for mischief or for getting the heor out of tight corners.
Coming back to the book, there are only three novellas in it, but the middle one is quite extensive, and I didn't feel shortchanged in any way by the limitation. Having the same set of protagonists (a conclave of wizards that are constantly quarelling among themselves, reminding me fondly of the masters of the Unseen University on Discworld) in all three parts of the book helps with the continuity and with the character development.
"The Murthe" is a hilarious farce about the wizards phobia towards womenfolk. Their 'boys only' club falls prey to a spectre from a terrible past, when women had ascendancy:
The Murthe is at large among you, with squalms and ensqualmations.
The series had its less savoury moments, especially when Cugel was involved, with women treated as sex objects and as fickle creatures. The panic of the wizards as they contemplate serving under women is a refreshing reversal, and their bafflement regarding their true nature is illustrated in the following extract:
Calanctus likens a woman to the Ciaeic Ocean which absorbs the long and full thrust of the Antipodal Current as it sweeps around Cape Spang, but only while the weather holds fair. If the wind shifts but a trifle, this apparently placid ocean hurls an abrupt flood ten or even twenty feet high back around the cape, engulfing all before it. When stasis is restored and the pressure relieved, the Ciaeic is as before, placidly accepting the current. Do you concur with this interpretation of the female geist?
"Fader's Waft" follows the quest of Rhialto to recover the Blue Perciplex: a precious prism containing the rule of law governing the Wizard Conclave. The prism is hidden in the past, and Rhialto must time-travel back accompanied by a couple of recalcitrant indentured demons. He meets twenty footed blue aliens from Canopus, witnesses epic battles between long lost empires, damzells in distress, venal construction workers, villagers with peculiar eating habits:
Must your disgust be so blatant? True: we are anthropophages. True: we put strangers to succulent use. Is this truly good cause for hostility? The world is as it is and each of us must hope in some fashion to be of service to his fellows, even if only in the form of a soup.
The humour mixed with the rich history of the past/future Earth and with the flowery prose made for a very pleasant pastime indeed, and too quick I arrived at the last story:
"Morreion" has the wizards travelling in a floating palace to the edge of the Universe searching for 'nothing' (aka : the nonregion beyond the end of the cosmos). There they hope to rescue one of their colleagues who left ages ago in search of precious, magic infused IOUN stones (and relieve him of this treasure, if possible). Some of the passages describing the journey came very close to the marvellous prose that first attracted me to Jack Vance:
Through clouds and constellations they moved, past bursting galaxies and meandering star-streams; through a region where the stars showed a peculiar soft violet and hung in clouds of pale green gas; across a desolation where nothing whatever was seen save a few far luminous clouds.
Then presently they came to a new region, where blazing white giants seemed to control whirlpools of pink, blue and white gas, and the magicians lined the balustrade looking out at the spectacle.
But every ship or floating castle eventually reaches harbour and the weary traveller must disembark, wave goodbye to his companions and go his own way. Morreion, the lost wizard, remarks at one time to his colleagues:
Before you came my life was placid; you have brought me doubt and wonder.
The same applies to me, and I know I will come back to sail once more with Jack Vance on the boundless oceans of his imagination. (Algernon, GoodReads)
The definition of High Fantasy is not something I'd considered until recently, beyond a vague feeling that it had something to do with princesses and wizards. Apparently the "height" of fantasy depends on how much magic is involved - low fantasy would just be, for example, a straightforward tale of military or political tactics with a quasi-mediaeval setting. The Lyonesse trilogy has been billed as Vance's "high fantasy masterpiece"; alongside the blurb's promises of wizardly rivalries, tragic princesses and the machinations of power-hungry rulers, that creates quite a daunting prospect. But, as ever, Vance's blurb-writers have done him a disservice. This is no worthy tome of ponderous prophecies and humourless heroes; it's a gleefully irreverent epic fairytale, replete with dashing rogues, dastardly ogres and all the trimmings.
"Bah!" muttered Casmir, already bored with the subject. "Your conduct is in clear need of correction. You must throw no more fruit!"
Madouc scowled and shrugged. "Fruit is nicer than other stuffs. I well believe that Lady Desdea would prefer fruit."
"Throw no other stuffs either. A royal princess expresses displeasure more graciously."
Madouc considered a moment. "What if these stuffs should fall of their own weight?"
"You must allow no substances, either vile, or hurtful, or noxious, or of any sort whatever, to fall, or depart from your control, toward Lady Desdea, Dame Boudetta, Lady Marmone, or anyone else. In short, desist from these activities!"
Madouc pursed her mouth in dissatisfaction; it seemed as if King Casmir would yield neither to logic nor persuasion. Madouc wasted no more words. "Just so, Your Majesty."
If Jane Austen ever wrote fairy tales, they'd probably look like this. Kings trade mortal insults with courtly decorum, wayfarers banter with dishonest innkeepers, and supernatural bargains are conducted with scrupulous care over the phrasing. However, there's more than a dash of Vance's dark mischief here too, and alongside the sly banter the details are often dark and gruesome. Captured enemies are casually disembowelled and hung up for display; minor characters suffer various unpleasant deaths at the hands of trolls or other monsters, and others simply pass away unremarked from pneumonia, dropsy or one of the many other hazards of mediaeval life. This is no sanitised Merrie Englande representation of the time - apart from all the magic, you get the feeling that the Dark Ages really looked like this.
There is certainly magic a-plenty here, more than enough to justify the High Fantasy tag, but it's treated in a very commonplace way and hardly affects the plot at all. The main story is in fact a very low-fantasy tale of rival kings plotting to conquer the whole of the Elder Isles, currently divided into several kingdoms; this is largely achieved via the normal means of disputed successions, diplomatic manipulation and outright war.
The first book takes a little while to get going. The opening chapters about Suldrun and her garden are quite slow and mostly serve for background - the real story is elsewhere, as her father King Casmir makes his coldly ambitious plans to unite the isles under his rule. However, once we meet her secret lover Aillas, the story takes off and becomes a lot more interesting. His quest to find their son Dhrun, and Dhrun's own search for his parentage, take up most of the rest of the book, and take in many of the tropes of fairytale quests. A witch with a fox's face and a chicken's feet guards the ford; an amulet protects Dhrun from fear; Aillas is given a walnut shell which always points towards his son. With a style that cleverly implies a patchwork of collated oral tales, full of footnotes, inconsistencies and snippets of history from repeated retelling, it feels like the view of a fairytale from the inside.
The second book is much more focused on the politics, as Aillas struggles to tame his growing empire and defy Casmir's machinations. The pace is much faster and more satisfying, despite a strange interlude towards the end where a couple of characters are transported to a parallel world for a few chapters. Book three returns to the fairytale style, and mostly follows Princess Madouc, a fairy changeling who was swapped for Dhrun at birth but who most believe to be Casmir's granddaughter. This is probably the frothiest and least dark of the books, but it still has its share of casual violence and tragedy.
While magic rarely has any major effect on the main political story, there is a side-plot that reeks with it. Master magician Murgen, with his one-time apprentice and scion Shimrod, are trying to thwart the wiles of the sorcerer Tamurello; unfortunately, they don't know what those wiles are, but they probably have something to do with the deceased witch Desmei and her beautiful creation Melancthe. This plot is less successful than the non-magical one; it doesn't get a lot of screen-time, and while Shimrod's efforts to romance Melancthe are entertaining, Melancthe herself is a very empty character. Deliberately so, maybe, but she's still pretty boring to read about.
Lyonesse is an absolute classic of Vance's work. The dialogue is pointed and witty, the worldbuilding is superb and the descriptions are lavish - the banquets of mediaeval fare are almost enough to make your mouth water. It may not be perfect, but it's a fantastic read that conjures up a real sense of the exotic, with more than a few laughs along the way. This is one of my favourite series to reread and I can't recommend it highly enough. (Sandstorm Reviews)
Songs of the Dying Earth is easily the best anthology I've ever read and I'm not even done yet. That's how excited I am about this anthology - I'm posting this review at a little over the halfway point (although I usually do like to post anthology reviews in parts anyway to make sure I don't forget earlier stories).
I almost decided to wait until I read Vance's original work before starting Songs, but I decided I wanted to give a clear perspective from someone who's not already a fan. I'm so glad I haven't waited.
"The True Vintage of Erzuine Thale" by Robert Silverberg (5/5) - A character who reminded me a lot of Kruppe from the Malazan Book of the Fallen owns a rare wine that is being saved for a very special occasion. Today might be that day, but not for the original reasons. Silverberg starts this anthology off with a bang. What a great story that also introduces some of the surprises this world holds.
"Grolion of Almery" by Matthew Hughes (5/5) - I thought this was even better than the first story even though both were amazing. This story broadens the implications of the world of the Dying Earth and I've become that much more addicted to it. An unwary traveller is trapped with only one option of escape, cooperation.
"The Copsy Door" by Terry Dowling (5/5) A contest of wizards ensues involving Amberlin the Lesser whose spells don't quite go as planned.
"Caulk the Witch-Chaser" by Liz Williams (3/5) Not bad, but doesn't have the same charm as the former three. It lacks those witty/odd characters and descriptions that I've already grown to expect.
"Inescapable" by Mike Resnik (4/5) An enjoyable story, yet again reminding us that not everything is always as it seems in the Dying Earth.
"Abrizonde" by Walter Jon Williams (5/5) I really loved this story about a man who gets caught in a war of nations, none of which he belongs to, and decides to get involved. Given the indifference the leaders have to his predicament, getting involved is a good idea.
"The Traditions of Karzh" by Paula Volsky (5/5) The heir to Karzh has never really had the need to apply himself...until he is poisoned (by his uncle) and forced to unlock the cure or die. The ending was very surprising and also quite satisfying.
"The Final Quest of the Wizard Sarnod" by Jeff Vandermeer (4/5) I really enjoyed the characters in this one, but didn't love the ending. It also lacked, somewhat, that charm I mentioned earlier.
"The Green Bird" by Kage Baker (5/5) Probably my favorite so far in this excellent collection. It's witty, interesting, and surprising. The idea of not only a giant pit that people are thrown into is great, but to add to that a colony of survivors developing at the bottom of this pit and I was sold. Cugel the Clever earns his name in this one.
"The Last Golden Thread" by Phyllis Eisenstein (3.5/5) Another good, but not great story. It was interesting, involved some things (and species) I'm becoming familiar with, but I didn't love it or especially the ending.
"An Incident at Uskvosk" by Elizabeth Moon (4/5) This was an enjoyable story about a race of Giant Cockroaches and a young man falsely accused.
"Sylgarmo's Proclamation" by Lucius Shepard (4/5) Shepard has a unique way with metaphors that really gelled with me. I really liked the characters in this interesting tale that revolves around getting revenge on Cugel the Clever.
"The Lamentably Comical Tragedy (or The Laughably Tragic Comedy) of Lixal Laqavee" by Tad Williams (4/5) This story does everything the title suggests, but I think I still wanted a bit more. A presumptuous miscreant forces a wizard to "sell" him a few spells. This reminds me of the part in The Dark Knight where the accountant tries to extort Batman.
"Let me get this straight: You think that your client, one of the wealthiest, most powerful men in the world, is secretly a vigilante who spends his nights beating criminals to a pulp with his bare hands. And your plan is to blackmail this person? Good luck."
"Guyal the Curator" by John C. Wright (4/5) This was a surprisingly good tale about a man with a case of amnesia and the last Effectuator, Manxolio Quinc, who uses his effectuating skills to find this man's identity. Many of the words used in this tale made me very glad I've read Erikson's Malazan Book of the Fallen series almost in preparation.
"The Good Magician" by Glen Cook (3.5/5) A lazy, self-centered man stumbles across something that should not be in his persuit of something he should not be persuing...at least not in the way he was doing it. I liked Cook's style and humor, but the story wasn't my favorite.
"The Return of the Fire Witch" by Elizabeth Hand (3/5) Another I wasn't a huge fan of. Saloona Morn is all but forced by the fire witch to participate in her plan for revenge. There were some surprises, but overall the story wasn't extremely interesting.
"The Collegeum of Mauge" by Byron Tetrick (5/5) This is another favorite in a The Name of the Wind sort of way. Drogo gets into a school for wizards, interrupting his search for his father.
"Evillo the Uncunning" by Tanith Lee (4.5/5) The self-named Evillo, encouraged by tales of Cugel, takes off on an adventure and picks up a magical talking snail. This was one of the more hilarious tales in the anthology. One great quote right at the beginning:
"...life is ever valuable and must be preserved - so that it may also be punished for the insolence of persisting."
"The Guiding Nose of Ulfant Banderoz" by Dan Simmons (4.5/5) The longest story of the bunch (almost 70 pages), the first half is easily 5 stars, but my interest began to wane in the middle and then it picks up again. Still a great story about wizards and warriors, powerful demons (one that took centuries to tame), and a trip across the dying world.
Also, this has one of the best illustrations of the book, including a look at each of the different characters.
"Frogskin Cap" by Howard Waldrop (2.5 to 3/5) I wasn't too impressed with this story. There really wasn't much to it, but it makes up in it's length (about 9 pages).
"A Night at the Tarn House" by George R R Martin (5/5) This read like a breeze, of course. The atmosphere was dark, yet playful and really captured the essence of the entire anthology. Some unlucky (and not so unlucky) characters find out that the Tarn House may not in fact be better than braving the terrors in the night - despite the wearies of travel.
"An Invocation of Curiosity" by Neil Gaiman (5/5) The perfect conclusion to the collection. Gaiman looks at what happens when it's all over and takes this premise in a really unexpected way. (Seak, GoodReads)
