Purple and Black
K.J. Parker
Subterranean Press, 2009
U.S. hardcover, deluxe hardcover edition
ISBN 978-1-59606-241-2
120 pages; $25.00

I tried to find out a few things about K.J. Parker before writing this review, but all I discovered is that she is “enigmatic.” The name is a pseudonym; the Fantastic Fiction website refers to her as someone who has worked in journalism and the law who now “writes and makes things out of wood and metal.” I’m not even certain that “she” is the correct pronoun. It’s all very mysterious.

There’s nothing mysterious about Purple and Black, though. It’s another of Subterranean Press’s novella-length books, and a very fine one, too. It is an epistolary novel, containing letters between an emperor – one whose empire seems very Roman in character – and the former schoolmate he has appointed as the governor of Upper Tremissis, a province that is the focus of an insurgency. Official communications between the two are written in flowerly language in purple ink: “Phormio begs to inform his His Majesty that he has safely arrived at Tremissis City, and has assumed control of the civil and military administration.” The less formal and much lengthier portion of any message is written in the vernacular, in black:

You are, of course, an unmitigated bastard. Not content with dragging me away from my chair at Anassus, which I worked bloody hard to earn and which will not go to that pinhead Atho, you made me waste three months of my life in a military academy, of all places, and now you’ve dumped me here, in the last place on earth, surrounded by snow, soldiers and savages. What the hell did I ever do to you?

Obviously, the former school friend persona is more in evidence than the formal governor persona; and the emperor responds in the same form. It’s clear that both men are young and still idealistic, thrust into positions of power that they’re smart enough to handle as an intellectual exercise, but a bit too naïve to manage as well as more seasoned men might. It’s one thing to read about how to handle an insurgency in Art of War, and pretty much as easy to order soldiers to perform a certain task, but quite a different one to deal with the consequences.

One would suppose that a book about an insurgency and how the government deals with it would either be relatively dry or entirely vicious – or a combination of both. This book isn’t. It’s moving: sad, even bittersweet, much more emotionally touching than I expected when I picked it up. It is so well-written that the reader genuinely feels he knows these characters, and their dilemmas. Seeing what happens to them, then, is painful. This was not the military drama I expected, but something much more.

Purple and Black is my introduction to Parker, and I intend to read more of her work. There’s much more to be read; three trilogies and two stand-alone novels are currently in print, and a new novel is already scheduled for 2011. I’ve sampled the first few pages of The Company, and I can see that I’ll be sucked into it in exactly the same way I was captured by Purple and Black. Parker is a major new find for me. I’m delightedly anticipating the hours I’ll be spending in the worlds she’s created.

Bone and Jewel Creatures
Elizabeth Bear
Subterranean Press, 2010
U.S. hardcover, first trade edition
ISBN 978-1-59606-274-0
133 pages; $20.00

Subterranean Press continues its course of publishing lovely novellas in book form with Elizabeth Bear’s Bone and Jewel Creatures. Bear appeared on the scene in 2004 as if she were Athena, sprung fully formed from Zeus’s forehead to be a major player in the science fiction and fantasy genres. Her first project was the science fiction thriller Jenny Casey space opera series beginning with Hammered, but in short order books by Bear began appearing at least every six months. In 2005, she won the John W. Campbell award for Best New Author; in 2008 the Hugo for Best Short Story (“Tideline”); and in 2009 the Hugo for Best Novellette (“Shoggoths in Bloom”). I briefly met her at Readercon several years ago, and expressed my astonishment at her sudden, prolific appearance. She assured me that she had been laboring for many years in complete obscurity, and was clearly relishing that she did so no longer.

I discovered that Bone and Jewel Creatures is being marketed as a story for young readers from nine to twelve years old only after I finished reading it. I was surprised; this novella strikes me as a very sophisticated, adult tale with plenty of allusions and implications that would go right over the heads of all but the most well-read of children. It does not seem at all childlike in any way.

Bone and Jewel Creatures is a sort of fairy tale, though; a story of magic and wizards and necromancers. The protagonist is Bijou, a very old woman crippled with arthritis, a wizard who creates creatures out of clean old bones and sparkling jewels. Her former apprentice is Brazen the Enchanter, a man who clearly loves her as a mother. He has been trying for a decade to get her to take a new apprentice, “someone youthful and broad-back who could pump the bellows and heave the ingots, who might tend the maggots and the corpse-beetles, who would haul the ashes and stir the porridge.” She has consistently refused. But one day he makes the choice for her, bringing her a feral child who bears a terrible wound on her hand, one that requires that her arm be amputated at the elbow. Bijou takes the child in, performs the necessary surgery, and forms for her a new arm made from her own bones and beautiful semi-precious stones. She names the child Emeraude.

Emeraude’s appearance augurs more than a new apprentice, however; her wound is not natural, but the work of Kaulas the Necromancer. Kaulas, Bijou and Brazen have a shared history, and not a happy one. Now Kaulas seems to be creating an army of undead creatures to serve some unknown purpose, to be infecting the living with putrefaction that kills them but keeps their flesh animated. Bijou and Brazen must act to stop him.

That makes this novella sound like a very straightforward tale. In some ways it is; but it is also more complex than a plot summary suggests. Part of the story, for instance, is told from the point of view of Emeraude. This child, raised by jackals, must figure out where she belongs in the world, and that is not an easy task. And then there are Bijou’s creatures, described with elegance and a wonder to behold in one’s own imagination. This story would be a beautiful graphic novel, but left to my own devices, I was able to build Bijou’s home and illustrate her work with a lot of detail thanks to Bear’s lovely writing.

Set aside an hour or two to spend with this book. It may be a trifle compared to Bear’s more challenging trilogies or novels, but it is a lovely trifle – a jewel.

The Taborin Scale
Lucius Shepard
Subterranean Press, 2010
U.S. deluxe hardcover, first edition
ISBN 978-1-59606-288-7
104 pages; $35.00

I have long thought that the ideal length for a work of science fiction or fantasy is the novella length, defined by the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America as 17,500 to 40,000 words. This gives an author sufficient space to create a world, describe it and the characters that inhabit it, and spin a plot. It’s a short enough work for the reader to consume in a single sitting, allowing her to immerse herself in the author’s world without any such rude interruptions as the need to go to work. For this particular reader, it’s lovely to be able to give myself up entirely to a writer’s imagination; the colors, the scents, the textures of the world become completely real to me.

Lucius Shepard writes ravishing novellas. The Taborin Scale, set in the same universe as the novella Scalehunter's Beautiful Daughter and the short story “The Man Who Painted the Dragon Griaule,” gives us yet another perspective on the massive Dragon Griaule. It is the story of George Taborin, a numismatist who purchases a glass jar containing coins, buttons and other odds and ends when on his annual trip to Teocinte to sport in the brothels. He finds a dark, leathery chip in the jar, and begins polishing it, uncovering a blue-green color. A prostitute sees what he’s doing and identifies the chip as a dragon scale from a young dragon – definitely not the Dragon Griaule, she says, and it has to be centuries old. She wants the chip, so George strikes a deal: two weeks during which she will meet his needs (“spelled out … in clinical detail”), and the chip is hers.

Sylvia and George get along well enough, but of course there are times when they’re not in bed, and George spends some of it polishing the dragon scale. At one point, George strokes the scale and the world around him changes: suddenly he and Sylvia are on a plain with tall grasses and stands of trees, far from the city of their hotel room. The landscape fades after a moment and they’re back. Sylvia, though frightened, wants him to try it again, and he obliges. This time the landscape doesn’t fade, and they’re stranded in the new world that seems to be their own, only much younger.

Before long, it becomes clear that they have been brought here by the Dragon Griaule, though the reasons for the dragon’s actions are never made clear, even after a climax that is as unexpected as it is exciting. There is always more to this dragon than any reader might have thought. Shepard explores his meaning, religiously, culturally and historically; indeed, the book is presented as a sort of history in itself, with infrequent footnotes that explain certain details in a much more clinical manner that the tone of the story, which is much more artistically told.

The novella is published by Subterranean Press, which often publishes novellas in beautiful editions that justify the high prices it charges. This book, for instance, is signed by Shepard and, opposite the title page, bears a picture of the Dragon Griaule by J.K. Potter (who also did the lovely cover) that just might haunt your dreams. It’s a small detail, but I was particularly taken by the end papers, which are textured to resemble the dragon’s skin and scales. I cannot imagine replacing this sort of book with the bare text on an e-reader; it stands as an argument for physical books all by itself. My only complaint is a familiar one when it comes to Subterranean: there are far too many typographical errors for a book on which such love has been lavished.

Despite the typographical errors, if I were rich, I’d be collecting Subterranean Press books by the boatload. They are lovely in every way. The Taborin Scale is as beautiful to hold and touch as it is to read. If you are already a Shepard fan, you’ll want to add this book to your collection. If you’re not, think about investing in another Subterranean book, The Best of Lucius Shepard, which opens with “The Man Who Painted the Dragon Griaule.” Shepard is worth savoring.