Author: geoffreybelliott

A Robin Hobb Rereading Series, Entry 477: Assassin’s Fate, Chapter 18

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Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

An old letter from Shrewd to Desire regarding the Fool precedes “Silver Ships and Dragons,” which opens with Fitz ruminating on the comparison between meetings of his family and the assemblage of the intertwined Vestrits and rulers of the Pirate Isles. Fitz assesses and describes those present at the meeting, and conversation about events and the coming changes to the liveships ensues. The looming end of Brashen and Althea’s mercantile careers is also reported.

This may not be too far off…
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Conversation is interrupted by the arrival aboard the Paragon, not entirely welcome, of Paragon Kennitsson. The brash heir to the Pirate Isles is described as he arrives, and after a tense exchange, the young man is summoned by the ship to the figurehead. Althea and Brashen confer over her difficulty with Kennitsson, due to Kennit’s mistreatment of her, and the whole group moves to the prow of the ship. There, they find Kennitsson and the ship plotting for the former to sail with the latter, and Wintrow argues against it, joined by Sorcor.

Kennitsson takes his leave, and the others confer about him, noting their failures with the young man. Fitz observes and ruminates on the difficulty and undesirability of having so much companionship on his errand of destruction. Conference continues until interrupted by the arrival of Etta, herself, in a royal dudgeon. It is quickly clear that she is aware of the current situation surrounding the Paragon and her son, and she voices her displeasure with how events are unfolding. Brashen pleads for assistance in sending along what can be sent of the goods they had carried in trade to their originally intended destinations, to which Wintrow agrees, but the notion of sailing without Kennitsson provokes anger from the Paragon; the threat to Althea and Wintrow provokes the Vivacia to anger.

In the ensuing tumult, Fitz offers to find another way for he and the Fool to proceed, but he is rebuffed, the Fool citing aspects of his prognostication in support of his assertions. This occasions upset among Fitz’s party, and Fitz voices his anger, but the Fool persists nonetheless. Fitz absents himself from the ongoing discussion between the liveships, considering Silver and trying to sort out more of his understanding of the Skill. Implications of using such of the substance as he carries occur to him, although his reverie is disturbed first by Lant, then by the need for his labor, and finally a sending from Tintaglia, whose approach is imminent.

As often, I find my attention taken by the prefatory materials of the chapter. For one thing, the revelation of an aspect of Shrewd’s character is a welcome thing. When he appears directly in the Farseer novels, he is a necessarily remote figure; it makes sense that a child and youth of disfavored parentage would not be terribly close to a ruling king of a grandfather, and even in closer relationships along family lines, there is often a distance between children and adults that is not easily bridged. To get a glimpse into Shrewd, then, is informative. It is also revealing, showing how besotted the man was with Desire–and it speaks again to the delight of emblematic naming in the Realm of the Elderlings, here making the clear point that desire can overwhelm even a shrewd mind, ultimately to bad ends.

The prefatory materials also connect back to the very beginnings of the Realm of the Elderlings novels, with the Fool’s first recorded words to Shrewd being a maxim Regal complains to Verity of him repeating upon his first meeting Fitz–to paraphrase, don’t do what you can’t undo without knowing what you can’t do after doing it. There are some minor variations in phrasing between what Shrewd gives in his letter and what Regal quotes his father as saying, differences between contractions and not, so nothing that much alters the meaning of the quip…which is, itself, very much in keeping with the Fool’s prognostications and recognition of the butterfly effect in enacting and avoiding them. To my rereading, it comes off as a nice bit of binding-up, a back-threading that makes a more cohesive narrative whole, and it’s something I appreciate seeing.

On the topic of prognostication, I note the Fool’s insistence that he cannot guide Fitz, that Fitz’s foreknowledge would taint his actions and skew the Fool’s visions. Here, again, the resonance with Asimovian psychohistory comes out for me, an older correspondence. While it’s been a while since I reread the sequence of the Robot, Empire, and Foundation novels, it used to be the case that I would reread them (and The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings) annually, doing so starting at age ten or so; they’re in me pretty deeply, even now, and so they do inflect my readings of other works. That’s to be expected, however; we all exist in a multilayered environment, and any interactions with any part of that environment will necessarily be influenced by the other parts of it–including the legacies of environments that were but no longer are. That I see a thing is a result not only of something being present to be seen, but also my predilection to look for that kind of thing; that I understand a thing in a given way means not only that the thing is available for that understanding, but also that I am apt to apply such an understanding. It does not mean other things are not present and other ways cannot be followed, which is something that I think many people run into, but I am digressing more than I ought to at this point.

There will be other days.

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More about Hanlon

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To continue on from three weeks ago, the week before last and last week, in which I discuss running a Dungeons & Dragons (D&D) role-playing game (RPG) for some middle schoolers at my local public library (for pay!), I’ll note that the party in question continued its work against the thief that had stolen a particular ceremonial object from the town from which the members hailed. Progress was made, and the party has a good one-session return to their home town, one session because the program will have but one more meeting. I’ll hope for renewal, of course, but I cannot count on it.

That’s an…interesting way to treat dice…
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I try to do more in these discussions than simply give a gloss of in-game events. The practice of composing recaps of games, however, is one that I’ve found useful in running tabletop games. (The play-by-post forum games I’ve mostly involved myself in function differently; while the tabletop game is, as an artistic object, ephemeral–here, again, I borrow from Mackay’s The Fantasy Role-playing Game–the forum-based game is not, but creates a stable [-ish] textual object by its very nature. Recaps still help in such cases, but they necessarily function differently in them.) I’ve not done it with the middle-schoolers yet, although if there is some kind of return to Hanlon, I think I will employ it.

The practice is in fact much as it is labeled. One or more players will volunteer or be assigned to take notes on party deeds and doings and compose a summary of what happened in the previous session or sessions so that everybody at the table is operating from a common understanding of events thus far. When a player has to miss a session, that player can come abreast of events easily. When the person administering the game has to refer back to something, there is a stable record for them to use to that end. From a narrative perspective, then, it is a helpful thing; the record allows for more internal consistency and easier access, both of which increase immersion and therefore improve the narrative flow and engagement with the same, enriching the RPG experience.

Getting players to do such things can be easy. Sometimes, particularly motivated players will take it upon themselves to do so–and it’s fine to let them, although the person administering the game should keep an eye out against the tendency to self-aggrandize (and, less commonly but still an issue, the tendency to run down other players and their characters). It is easy, when doing the writing, to make one’s self look better than events actually bear out; “history is written by the winners” is an old adage for a reason. When multiple players are thus inclined, the recap of events can be a bit more fraught; the question of whose vision of history is the “right” one becomes an immediate concern, and while negotiation is possible, it can also lead to tension at the table that helps nobody sitting at it.

(Having the record be an in-character thing offers a possible workaround, and there are many character types for which it might be an appropriate option. Sometimes, however, action is obliged to stop in the middle of things, and it would break narrative sense to have a completed record of an uncompleted action. It does, at least, make any disagreement an issue of the character instead of the player, which experience suggests is easier to address; players are a lot more likely to tolerate Meador of the Rock Wall trumpeting himself than they are Bob, playing Meador, doing so.)

When players are perhaps less eager to do the work of compiling such a record (and even when they are quite eager), there is an easy remedy: give a meta-game award. To use the example of D&D: characters advance by means of acquiring experience points (XP), an arbitrary and nebulous measure of having done things. Most commonly, XP are acquired by defeating opponents and overcoming challenges. At my tables, XP also result from making things better for the other people at the table, something I’ll talk about in more detail later on (but probably not today). Compiling and presenting a solid record of party events is something that does make the game better for the other people at the table, and while it is the case that everybody at the table should have that as one goal of play, it is also the case that composing such a record requires work away from the table. (It’s writing, and I’ve talked about writing processes before at some length–such as here, here, and here. The remarks still largely apply, if with adjustments for medium and context.) It’s outside effort, and that kind of thing deserves some acknowledgment; a small bonus to XP for the session in which the record is presented isn’t out of line in such a case. Such has been my experience, at least; others’ may well vary.

Now, again, I’ve not put this into practice at the middle-school table. Given the players and what I know of them (and I know quite a lot about one of them: my beloved Ms. 8 is one of the players), I don’t know that any of them would be keen on the task, and given the nature of the program, I’m not sure there will be a return to the present game as such. I can hope for such things, but I cannot be assured of them. Still, I expect that some time will come when I run another in-person table, and when I do, I may see if I can get a party scribe started. Because there is one other thing that such tends towards…the player willing to put in the extra outside work is also one who is apt to take on administering a game, in turn, and much as I enjoy running a game, I do look forward to playing in one again sometime.

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One of Several Shower Thoughts

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The echoes of old acquaintances ring in
The hollows left behind by their absence
My absence
And the insuperable Planck gap between
What we were
And what we now are

One wonders what might have been…
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A Robin Hobb Rereading Series, Entry 476: Assassin’s Fate, Chapter 17

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Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

After a report from Rosemary to Dutiful, Elliania, and Kettricken that follows up on Fitz’s work in Kelsingra, “Serpent Spit” returns to Bee in her captivity. The effort of Dwalia and her followers, with Bee still captive, to depart from Sewelsby is reported, and Bee begins to be taken by her dream-visions. Vindeliar attempts to offer some comfort to Bee, and she steels herself against it as best she can.

A vivid image from the chapter…
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Vindeliar continues to suffer under Dwalia’s attentions, begging for magical aid, as Bee watches and considers the straits in which she has found herself. She notices that, underneath her flaking skin, she is paler than she had been before. At length, Dwalia finds a victim upon which to focus her attentions for passage to Clerres, and she harshly pushes Vindeliar to work upon that victim. As he does, Bee becomes aware that he plies the Skill, and he pulls from her for his working. It succeeds, however, and the group finds a ship to take them onward.

Aboard, Dwalia plies Vindeliar with an intoxicating substance that amplifies his abilities. Vindeliar reaches out through the Skill to Bee, and she reaches into him in turn, learning much of his background. She begins to be moved to sympathy for him but rejects the notion as she is dragged onward.

The present chapter returns to an idea that has come up before in the series, that more successful White Prophets become less white as they increase in success. I believe I most recently address it, if perhaps only glancingly, here (and I am again confronted with my lack of proper indexing!); the idea is noted at several points in the series that, as a White Prophet moves the world closer to their vision, they darken as their skin peels away. The Fool shows it several times, and the present chapter presents the inversion. Bee cannot be considered to be advancing towards the future she envisions, or does not seem to consider herself doing so (prognostication is always a tricky thing), so she grows whiter as she goes. Again, the inversion of the usual trope is present, and, again, it makes things more interesting than a more common treatment would be apt to be. It’s one of those details I appreciate in Hobb’s writing.

I should comment, I think, that I do not think the use of tropes in themselves to be bad things. I don’t think I’m the only one who remarks that what works gets used until it doesn’t anymore, and for reason. I also don’t think I’m the only one who appreciates having the touchstones that many tropes represent; I like that there are “straight” productions of Shakespeare, for example, and that there are unironic re-presentations of standard fare. I sometimes return to such things for comfort. I also find them useful; having a baseline for comparison, however arbitrary, is necessary for much discussion, and while I can certainly acknowledge the fraughtness of asserting that any one work is the standard, I still find a measuring stick a good thing to have.

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More about an Ongoing Project

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I‘ve mentioned, most recently at about this time last week, that I’m running a Dungeons & Dragons (D&D) game for middle schoolers at my local public library–for pay. The game is progressing well enough; the third 90-minute session was yesterday, with six players in attendance. The party continued along the path I’d laid before them, making headway towards their assigned objective (some social structures within the game have emerged from play and improvisation, which makes some things easier than others). Fun seemed to have been had all around, so I count it as a good evening of play.

This ain’t too far off…
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One of the things that I’ve used to keep the party moving while allowing them both agency and a means to work around failure is something I’ve taken from my experience participating in play-by-post forum games, something about which I’ve written before (for example, the piece referenced here, as well as this piece, referenced here). That thing is employing levels of overall success based on racking up a certain amount of individual success before incurring a certain amount of individual failure.

To explain a bit: in D&D and many other tabletop role-playing games (TTRPGs), tasks that characters face are often adjudicated by a single roll of dice. In D&D rules current to this writing, the player whose character must face a task with an uncertain outcome rolls one twenty-sided die and adds (or subtracts!) modifiers, comparing the result to a set difficulty, a minimum number that must be arrived at for the character to get the task done. In other games I’ve played, things generally work similarly; the player rolls once for the character’s attempt at a task, success or failure results, and the story moves on.

The method has the advantages of being simple and quick. The die roll is what it is, the result is what it is, and consequences can flow from it with relatively little interruption of the narrative flow around which the game centers. It has the disadvantage, however, of being more or less entirely up to chance; players can build characters to stack modifiers and roll scads of dice, but there are times when the dice simply fail to deliver a success, and staking a whole story on one such shot can leave players feeling unsatisfied. In some cases, those administering the games will “fudge” numbers a bit, altering things where the other players cannot see so that they succeed at pivotal tasks, but in such cases, one might well ask what the point was of rolling dice.

The issue, for me and for more than a few others I’ve known, is that some things admit of reattempts, and some things are better represented as progressions than one-off events. In such cases, what I and some of my acquaintances and friends do is set up tasks for players that ask them to make a series of rolls in which they have to accumulate a certain number of successes before incurring a certain number of failures, say three successes before three failures. (Threes work well for reasons that others expound upon at great length across quite a few years.) Getting that done allows a superior overall outcome, while failing before succeeding still allows progression, if with some additional challenges thrown in. And it mitigates the feeling of frustration that comes from one thing going against a character, even when it flatly doesn’t make sense that that character would falter at the test in question.

Admittedly, such a setup necessarily takes longer than the traditional one-off model; there are more die rolls involved, and more things to do take longer than fewer things to do when the same number of people address them. Too, there are some tasks that probably should be one-off events: much of the combat in which characters engage in games hinges on single actions, and rightly so. But for a number of tasks, spreading out success helps to mitigate failure in ways that help keep players engaged (checking out after one failed roll is sometimes an issue, and not only for less experienced players; it happens to most or all of us), and it is something that allows for more players to be engaged in keeping things moving along, since more die rolls necessarily offer more opportunities for each player to roll, to have their character contribute to the overall success of the party in which they find themselves.

In the game I’m running at the library–which I’ve taken to calling Hanlon for ease of reference–the kids at my table found their characters in pursuit of a thief who went out into the countryside surrounding the characters’ home village. In some games, in many, there would have been a single roll or set of rolls: one to track the thief, one to pursue at speed, one to apprehend the thief. And that would work well were it time to wrap up a story arc, to conclude an episode…and if the thief escaping had no other effects on the story. None of that is the case in Hanlon, however, and so I opted to arrange matters to require a series of cycles of rolls. The characters who are best in the party at each stage–tracking, pursuit, apprehension, and foraging along the way–each get the chance to try their hand at things, contested by the thief whom they pursue. Their increasing numbers of successes bring them closer to the thief; their increasing numbers of failures leave them farther behind. If they fail enough times, they will find themselves obliged to retrace their steps, but they can still pursue the thief, if not as ably. And they can decide along the way what they do and how they do it, giving them more agency, giving the players more familiarity with the rules in which they are playing, and giving me more time with the materials I drafted to lead the players and their characters through.

There will be things for them to do that are one-and-done events. I know what’s waiting for the players’ characters, and I know what they’re capable of doing. But I also have a pretty good idea what it is the players’ characters can do, and I know well that the players, themselves, will think of things that never occurred to me…which is part of the fun I get to have running games.

It’s nice to enjoy the job.

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My Head Is Full

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My head is full
Less now of words
Than of allergies’
Lin’gring curse
Or of some illness–
It were worse
Were it thus–
So I am terse

Yep. It’s that time of year, here.
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A Robin Hobb Rereading Series, Entry 475: Assassin’s Fate, Chapter 16

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Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

Following an excerpt from Symphe’s papers, “The Pirate Isles” begins with Fitz mulling over his continued voyage aboard the Paragon as the liveship obliges Althea, Brashen, and the crew to proceed past their intended and agreed-upon destination towards Clerres. The ill regard in which the crew holds him and his company is noted, and the routines into which Fitz and his company settle further are described.

An oldie but a goodie…
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One evening, Fitz disguises himself in Elderling garb and reconnoiters the liveship. Unseen by the crew, he overhears Clef teaching Per, as well as Lant and Spark discussing romantic entanglements. The latter gives Fitz cause to ruminate, and he retires.

The voyage continues, and matters worsen aboard the Paragon. Fitz confers with the Fool about the matter, as well as about how he feels himself treated by the Fool as Amber. The conference leaves Fitz angry, and he walks the decks to try to ease himself. An earlier argument with the liveship is rehearsed, and Kennit’s exploits are glossed to Fitz as the Paragon enters the Pirate Isles and is spotted by one of their ships. A conference about that ship is begun among Amber, Fitz, Althea, and Brashen, and the perils that present themselves at that juncture are noted.

The liveship shudders and shifts as the other ship approaches, and Paragon determines to make for Divvytown. Matters grow tense as the other ship draws closer, and the liveship consents to follow it, finding mooring near the Vivacia. As the ship is tied off, Fitz urges Lant to take Spark and depart, but is rebuffed once again. Fitz prepares messages for Buckkeep as ship’s matters are conducted, and he is aboard as the Paragon makes to confront the Vivacia. The two liveships confer at some odds, and Fitz is nearly overwhelmed by the magical energies that flow between the craft, and he is roused by a messenger bespeaking the return of Amber, Althea, and Brashen to the Paragon. Althea and Brashen’s son joins them, and Fitz muses on the complications that surround them all.

The present chapter is one of the longer ones in the novel thus far, running to thirty pages in the printing I am re-reading. The length does allow for a fair amount of material to be presented in a way that makes sense, in context; exposition is always a challenge to address well, but using time aboard ship with little else to do to address it picks up the gauntlet with relative ease.

That noted, I do find the introduction of the romance between Lant and Spark a bit abrupt. It does seem to surprise Fitz, admittedly, so I can accept it as a thing that had been going on “off-screen,” as it were, but I think I would have liked a bit more lead-up to it, a bit more foregrounding. In a series of novels that largely predicates itself on prognostication, I don’t think that’s too much to ask. (At the same time, I note something of a back-handed joke in the relationship, a spark setting off a lant[ern]. [Yes, it’s FitzVigliant, not Lantern, but still…]) Not that I could do better, admittedly; I do not claim to be able to do so much, and I do not want to be understood as doing so. But that does not mean I cannot point out what I see–or what I would have liked to have seen, even in a series of works I have repeatedly affirmed and demonstrated that I very much enjoy and appreciate.

I’ll note that my issue with the romance is not the romance itself. It makes sense that those who are in close proximity for extended periods of time would get to know one another better the longer they are together, and it does not exceed belief that that greater knowing would lead to greater affection leading towards love. Hell, I met my wife in graduate school, and while that’s not quite as sequestered an environment as Spark and Lant have shared, being in a post-baccalaureate program together does mean you see an awful lot of a relatively restricted number of people, the more so when you share office space as my wife and I did (about which a bit here). And it’s not like amorousness is new to the Realm of the Elderlings; Fitz has had his share, as have Althea and Brashen, as well as others who figure prominently in the milieu. It’s part of life for many people (I see you, aro folks), so it should be present in the work of an author who prizes verisimilitude, even if it’s not the protagonist’s focus at any given point in that work.

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About an Ongoing Project

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At around this time last week, I noted the start of my work as a contract programs teacher at my local library, running a Dungeons & Dragons (D&D) game for a group of middle-school-aged students. As reported, the first session went pretty well, so I spent some time in the following days developing materials for the next session, scheduled to take place yesterday afternoon into early evening as this reaches the internet. I’d planned on bringing in one more player, signed up for the program but absent on the day of the first meeting, and I’d planned on moving the whole group ahead from the introductory session into the main plot, and so I wrote with all that in mind.

There are arts I do decently, and there are others.
Image is mine.

One of the things I did, because I am often helped by doing so, was to sketch out a map of the local area. I am well aware that my pen-hand leaves a lot to be desired, and I am more than a little out of practice as a cartographer; it had been a while since I’d put together materials for a tabletop game, after all. But it was helpful for me, nonetheless, to begin to gesture towards a wider world into which Hanlon Village falls, to have a visual idea of what area is dependent on Hanlon and what Hanlon, in turn, depends upon. And it was helpful for me to have some idea of where shenanigans could take place, as well; hills and woods offer many opportunities for that kind of thing, and having some variety, some options, is a good thing.

I’ll admit to being influenced in what might be called map-making by the maps present in a lot of fantasy novels, mostly following the Tolkienian tradition; Lord of the Rings does it, but then, so do the Chronicles of Thomas Covenant and its successor series, the Wheel of Time novels, the Song of Ice and Fire novels that have managed to make it into the world, and (near and dear to my heart) Robin Hobb’s works. I’m also marked by having grown up in the Texas Hill Country; there have been times I have directly taken from maps of towns and cities in my part of the world to make towns and cities in other worlds, entirely, although I did not directly do so for Hanlon (although there were definitely local features in my mind as I did my sketch.) I’ve also benefited from reading Karen Wynn Fonstad’s works of fantasy cartography, although I’m not in any way claiming the talent or expertise she deployed. I do think it’s important to acknowledge my influences, though, even if I do not live up to their inspiration.

I’ll note, too, that I deliberately did not “fill in all the blanks,” that I left things open and did so on purpose. While I do tend to plan a lot for the games I run, I also know from experience playing and running games that the narrative does not always go as planned. There always needs to be room for players to take their stories in their own direction, and if there is a direction to go, there has to be something in that direction for them to uncover. Admittedly, there is a fair bit of manipulation that can go on; an opponent who had been hiding in a tree or behind a rock can be concealed in tall grass or in a shallow depression. But even aside from that, if the intended plot would move players east and they go west, it’s good to have a west for them to explore–and taking notes can make what is extemporized (again, I make a lot of use of Mackay’s The Fantasy Role-playing Game) more permanent, giving players some agency in creating the world in which their characters exist.

The map was not the only thing I did, of course, and could not be for me to do a decent job running the game. If I was going to send them off chasing something or other, I had to figure out who was doing the sending and what that something or other is…as well as where it ended up being. That much, at least, the map made easier; I had my idea, if one that player actions influenced somewhat. And in my earlier notes, I’d jotted down some ideas about what the something would be: a horn, passed down across generations. As to how it got from where it should be to where it was…I can’t give everything away, you know, at least not all at once.

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Another Sonnet Dashed off in Haste

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Again, I want to take up pen and write
Against the horror of the growing night
That creeps upon the world. The fading light
Of hope that lingers yet is growing dim
Amid a flood, and I can barely swim
In calmest waters. I grow yet more grim
As I stare through my dirty windows’ panes
And see the world, see its increasing pains
And know I can do little ‘gainst the gains
That swelling ill accrues. I strive for joy,
Of course, and look for something to upbuoy
Myself, but need more than a simple toy
To move my mind. Today, both pen and page
Can offer little to my mood assuage.

I am aware the waters will recede…
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A Robin Hobb Rereading Series, Entry 474: Assassin’s Fate, Chapter 15

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Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

A brief excerpt from Bee’s dream journals precedes “Trader Akriel.” The chapter opens with Bee dickering with a merchant aboard the ship where she has been captive. Bee offers to indenture herself to the merchant, her situation rehearsed, and the merchant lays out some of her own situation before agreeing to take her on.

It’s a dire situation that makes this seem an attractive option, I think. And a worse one when it becomes unattractive again.
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The agreement made, Bee assesses her situation again, and she is taken by the merchant, the Trader Akriel, to her own quarters. There, Bee is given instructions and follows them, although not entirely to Akriel’s liking, and the pair begin to settle into a routine. Bee takes the opportunity to learn about her putative owner, and Akriel tests certain of Bee’s skills in order to market her better.

At length, Akriel takes Bee ashore in the port of Sewelsby. There, as Bee notes her surroundings, she takes lodgings and goes about her business, leaving Bee to see to her comfort. Bee accomplishes this, and she makes to greet Akriel upon her return, only to find her ensorcelled by Vindeliar and preceding him, Kerf, and Dwalia. A brief fracas ensues, leaving Akriel dead and Bee recaptured.

Bee wakes to find herself chained and dragged by Dwalia and Vindeliar, who have left Kerf behind as they continue to flee. She begins to offer resistance but is dissuaded therefrom decisively, and she reluctantly accompanies Dwalia as they depart.

The present chapter recalls to me my assertions regarding Bingtown mirroring the early United States; this piece fairly encapsulates them. Akriel calls to mind figures I recall being discussed without irony, “kindly” slavers who were “nice” to the humans they held as chattel and were “dispossessed” in the wake of the Emancipation Proclamation and the 13th Amendment. From that perspective, it is a challenge to read her sympathetically, to feel even as much pity for her death as Bee reports. And for those who might contend that Bee made to indenture herself, for one, she is yet a child, and for another, she is in such exigent circumstances as do not admit of truly free choice–and I have to think there is a parallel there to the also-unironically-discussed indentured servitude of Irish populations in early US history, as well. But I’d have to do some more reading to be as certain of that as I’d like to be to discuss it at any greater length.

So much said, it remains the case that Dwalia is far worse an evil than Akriel represents, with the clear and continued implication that those she serves are yet more evil for accepting and encouraging that service in the manner of its delivery. Akriel is foul, certainly, for trading in human lives without regret, but the rapaciousness with which Dwalia proceeds, coupled with what is attested by the Fool and others about the conduct of the Servants…I suppose I also need to look further into ponerology, which though continues to provide morbid amusement for me even after Halloween has happened. And I think that the Realm of the Elderlings novels could well sustain an extended inquiry in that line; there is enough treatment of evil in a variety of forms and degrees that there would be much to say, I think, although, again, I’d need more background to address it well. Despite the regard in which I’ve been told I’m held more than once, I’m not so good at evil as to have that work ready to hand.

We’re approaching the holidays, and bespoke writing makes a great gift!

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