Tsalmoth, a Vlad Taltos novel by Steven Brust, begins with a punchy opening line: “Have you ever noticed that getting married is like trying to collect a debt from a dead guy?” Well, have you? I myself have not noticed this, but I also do not have any personal experience doing either thing, so perhaps I am not best qualified to assess the analogy. In any case, I certainly felt compelled to read the next line, and the next, and the next—which is a good thing, because before that, I had been slightly worried to discover that I was starting the sixteenth Vlad Taltos novel, having read none of the previous fifteen! This seems to be a theme with my book reviews—jumping into series and universes at random points and trying to find my footing. I needn’t have worried though, as I was able to understand enough about the world and characters to find it deeply enjoyable as a stand-alone novel. Indeed, after a few pages, I found myself caught up in the story and piecing together enough context to enjoy the ride. Tsalmoth follows the adventures of Vlad Taltos, a sort of mid-level organized crime boss in a fantasy city, as he attempts to plan a wedding and collect a debt from a dead guy. The story is told first-person from Vlad’s perspective, and I quickly found myself enjoying his voice. Although the first few pages had me feeling in over my head with characters and lore, Vlad quickly addresses this by offering “...maybe I should tell you a bit about myself. Nah, skip it. That’s boring. You’ll figure it out.” This snappy and somewhat cocky tone is tempered by Vlad’s curiosity, good-heartedness, humor, and noted simple tastes. Each chapter begins with several ‘out of time’ paragraphs of Vlad describing the wedding planning process. As he sorts through the various traditions and cultural expectations of a wedding, I was reminded of a The Sopranos meme of actor Michael Imperioli as the hapless Christopher Moltisanti pinching a cigarette between his fingers and earnestly explaining his understanding of a concept. Go ahead and insert “So get this, Tony…” before any of Vlad’s expositions and you’ll see what I mean. Brust, as Vlad Taltos, does include some absolutely effective descriptions that can’t help but resonate with the reader. For example, recounting a conversation with his betrothed, Cawti: We talked about moving stuff around. How can a discussion of moving a table from one side of a room to the other make you so happy? I don’t know. It did. Those few, simple words about the pure contented feeling of planning with another person that you trust and want to spend time doing nothing with do more to capture the feeling of love than a lot of flowery prose that I have encountered. Vlad’s adventures begin, as alluded to, with the death of a guy who owes him money. In his efforts to find who is responsible, and who might be able to make good on the debt, Vlad is drawn into a world of intrigue. In classic mob story fashion, the plot thickens—and thickens again, as more players are revealed, and factions emerge. Each time it seems that he is closing in on the money, a new angle develops, until the very end when everything is tied up in surprising and satisfying fashion. One element that I found to be missing, although I stayed on my toes expecting it for the whole read, is a devastating betrayal. In fact, most of the characters, aside from Vlad, are fairly one dimensional (in the character sense, not necessarily in the planar existence sense). This could be an intentional choice of the author to depict an unreliable and self-interested narrator, so I mention it more as an observation than a criticism. There is sorcery and necromancy and demonology in the world of Vlad Taltos, as well as a collection of races and classes that I struggled to keep track of. I attribute my struggles more to the fact that I started in the middle of the series than as a shortcoming on the writing. If anything, I am now motivated to read more of Brust’s books so that I can begin to understand more of this world. Overall, Tsalmoth is an entertaining mob mystery set in a fantasy world. The quick pacing and snappy dialogue helped smooth over any of my confusion about the world of Vlad Taltos. Even if I didn't know exactly what was happening in the universe, I always knew what was happening in the moment. Steven Brust has firmly been added to the list of authors whose works I will always check for at libraries and booksellers.

I should begin by explaining something of my own relationship to the author’s works. Like many, I first encountered Brandon Sanderson when it was announced that he had been asked to complete The Wheel of Time series after the untimely passing of Robert Jordan. There are several camps of opinion on how he managed this monumental task, and I fall firmly in the camp of being glad that the plot was wrapped up in an overall satisfying manner, while being somewhat disappointed by the change in the tone of writing and the presentation of some of the characters. Sanderson himself has been open about the challenge of meeting the expectations of Wheel of Time fans and how he found some characters—Mat especially—more difficult to capture than others. It was that exact issue that soured me on his writing for a time, as Mat is a favorite character of mine, and I found myself increasingly disheartened by what felt like a cartoonish representation of Mat’s thoughts and actions. On the other hand, Sanderson did a very nice job of advancing Rand’s arc into darkness (and eventually back out again) that had somewhat plateaued in Jordan’s final books. When I reread The Wheel of Time, which tends to happen every three years or so, I am prepared for the change in writing style and am increasingly able to enjoy the final three books of my favorite series. However, I have struggled to get into Sanderson’s other works, finding within them the same style of writing and characterizations that put me off his Wheel of Time books. So when I opened Tress of the Emerald Sea, I was mentally prepared to not enjoy it. I am delighted to say that Brandon Sanderson proved me wrong! And he did so with the exact elements that I had come to dislike about his writing. I read Tress of the Emerald Sea in three days over my winter holiday break. It was the perfect book for this time of year—cozy and fun and easy to put down as various social obligations arose and then pick right back up again after they were met. Brandon Sanderson says that the book was inspired by The Princess Bride, and this is apparent. The wit, fun, and magic—not the magic system or its wielders, but the magic of simply reading—reminded me of both the movie and the book by William Golding. The word “romp” is overused in describing books and movies, but I am going to go ahead and say that Tress of the Emerald Sea is a delightful sea-faring romp, complete with all of the elements of a classic adventure: pirates, mutiny, a friendly cook, a talking rat… you get the idea. The book is well structured, with a clear and concise plot, believable character interactions, and strong character development. Tress is especially compelling, growing into her own as she leaves her small island home and ventures into an increasingly bigger world. The villains are somewhat comical (the evil sorceress sometimes plays Solitaire on her laptop, er, “magical seeing board”), but it does not detract from the stakes of the story. In fact, the real danger in the book comes from the environment. In a twist that is both very Sanderson and a touch sci-fi, the seas that cover much of Tress’s world are not water but spores that drift down from the orbiting moons. These spores are highly reactive to water in ways that are dangerous and often deadly. The worldbuilding—always a strong suit for Sanderson—is executed perfectly, with details given to the reader gradually but steadily so that our understanding of the world is always exactly where it needs to be. The narrator is a familiar figure to those acquainted with Sanderson’s cosmere, and is eventually introduced to be a character in this book as well. This allows the fourth wall to be more of an open window, with thoughts frequently directed at the reader. Some of these are useful exposition, some are comical asides, and some are absolutely nonsensical ramblings. There is a reason for that though, as you’ll see. The combination of relatively low stakes and a narrator with a known penchant for zaniness is what allows me to put aside my usual preference for grimdark fantasy and really enjoy Sanderson’s writing in this book. For example, all of the nameless sailors on the ship are simply generalized as “Doug” or “the Dougs.” Descriptions often employ similes, mostly to positive effect. A character described as having a “neck kind of merged with his chin—to the point that after meeting him, you’d inexplicably get a hankering for a baguette” made me laugh out loud. On the other hand, sometimes these comical descriptions detract from moments of gravity. That particular character is being described right after he dies, one of the few actually depicted deaths in the book. Other times—as when the ship tilts and we are told that it is “as if we are seeing through the lens of a student who had just discovered experimental film”— I am reminded of the note left by a professor on one of my college assignments: “Is this really the best way to describe this?” Maybe not. Overall, this book was a joy to read. The physical copy is beautiful, with an outside cover and endpapers that fit the spirit of the book perfectly (and that you will appreciate even more as you consider them again after finishing the book). Sanderson’s acknowledgements and postscript notes make clear the absolute pleasure that the book was to create. For an author who has been so prolific over the past decade—in fantasy, no less, a genre whose authors have a notorious tendency to be less prolific than we would like—Tress of the Emerald Sea is a welcome addition to an already impressive catalog. In fact, it just may have motivated the Sanderson skeptic in me to take another look at the cosmere.