Brigdh

Reading Wednesday

2013-05-22T20:09:50Z

What did you just finish?
The Ghost Map: The Story of London’s Most Terrifying Epidemic- and How It Changed Science, Cities, and the Modern World by Steven Johnson. Sometimes I do not understand how humans managed to survive until the invention of modern medicine. Discoveries from this book: in 1849, 1 in 20 of the houses surveyed in London had human waste piling up in the basement. Also, acceptable ways to treat dirty water: let it sit for a few days until the dirt (...and other things) sank to the bottom. Totally drinkable now!

Seriously, humanity, how did you all not die of cholera?

Saraswati Park by Anjali Joseph. Part of my 'Read 50 books about South Asia' effort, which I had been neglecting the last month, but I'm back on now. This was a really beautiful novel, but left me feeling a bit unfulfilled at the end. I liked reading it, but I'm not sure what the point of it all was; nothing much happened, nor did the characters change in an describable way. Ah, well. Enjoyable!

Graveyard Dust by Barbara Hambly, because yes, I still want to read nothing except Benjamin January books. This one is the third in the series, and features Benjamin's sister being accused of poisoning someone, thus forcing him to investigate to prove her innocence. This one also features a lot of scenes of Benjamin, Rose, and Hannibal hanging out, making jokes in Ancient Greek, and sharing groceries while cooking lunch together, and I really want there to be endless OT3 fic that basically repeats that exact set of things over and over again. Maybe with fewer scenes of Hannibal coughing up blood; he has to be able to breathe to have sex.

What are you currently reading?
Sold Down the River by Barbara Hambly: Benjamin and Hannibal go under cover as slave and master!

The Englishman's Cameo: Murder mystery in 1600s Delhi!

Small Fandoms!

2013-05-17T21:01:32Z

smallfandomfest is currently taking prompts for small fandoms (basically, anything more or less Yuletide sized). You can submit prompts until the 21st- that's Tuesday- and claiming will begin a few days after that. Have an idea for a fic in a small fandom? Looking for more stories to read and write? Come and play!

Here is the post with the details of how and where to submit prompts, or see what's already been submitted.

Music for Benjamin January

2013-05-13T16:18:39Z

I made a fanmix for my new obsession! Well, also for waywardmixes' "Heroes & Villains" round. It is a combination of mostly Classical music and African drumming, which turn out to go surprisingly well together. Let me know if you like it!

Benjamin January is the main character of the Benjamin January Mysteries by Barbara Hambly, a series of books set in New Orleans in the 1830s. Benjamin is very much a hero, repeatedly called on to investigate murders and kidnappings and robberies, not because it's his job, but because he has a strong sense of injustice and a desire not to see others hurt or forgotten. Traits which are not exactly conducive to an easy life, if one is a black man living in the antebellum South. Benjamin is a free man, trained as a surgeon and a professional pianist, and brilliant (I seriously think he speaks like seven languages), but he's often lonely and uncertain, due to a childhood as a slave (where everyone you love could be taken from you at any time) and the death of his first wife. My favorite part of these books is how he comes to build a home and a family- both of blood and of choice- and the complicated love the characters have for one another.

Benjamin's community is rich and detailed and amazingly well-researched. The books have a fantastic sense of a living New Orleans, and I wanted to try and capture that through music. Benjamin and many of his friends work as musicians, and music is fundamental to how he thinks and lives. But though he was trained in Classical European styles, a big part of his world is also music descended from Africa, and still practiced by the slave and free black communities. As often as I could, I used music actually mentioned in the books, and tried to split the fanmix equally between these two sides of Benjamin, with a final song to bring them together. I hope you like it, and I hope more people read these books, because they are fantastic.

1. Djole - Mamady Keita
Always, someone played the drums. Ancient rhythms flowed and leaped through the
American dust, rhythms passed down from mothers or fathers or grandparents
who'd been taken from African shores- even the modern tunes were quirked into
African syncopation.
(Dead Water, 5)

2. Concerto in Mi bemolle maggiore per violino, archi e
clavicembalo "La tempesta di mare" Op. 8 n° 5 (P 415) - 01. Presto - Vivaldi
As a slave-child on a plantation called Bellefleur, Benjamin January had lived
in music as naturally as a fish lives in water. His earliest memories were of
his father whistling in the freezing dark as he washed in the trough behind the
cabin that two families shared: every morning a different tune. Some were those
African tunes men sang in the fields, songs whose meaning had been lost over
the years but whose haunting melodies still moved the heart and the bones. Some
were the bird-bright cotillions heard once or twice, when the Master had company
at the big house and folks would loiter in the yard to listen to the fiddle played
within. January's father could whistle a tune back after hearing it once. When
January grew older- freed by his mother's new master and given proper piano lessons
in the light-handed Austrian mode from an emigre- he was astonished at how many of
those tunes he instantly recognized.
What would Antonio Vivaldi have thought had he known that his "Storm at Sea"
concerto would be whistled by a tall black man with tribal scars on his face,
walking out to the sugar-harvest with his cane-knife in his hand?
(Die Upon a Kiss, 28)

3. La Ballade de Jean Saint Malo - Zachary Richard
The voices of small children rang shrilly from the direction of the cabins, and
from far off came the faint, steady suggestion of the chop of mattocks and hoes,
of voices singing.
"They chased, they hunted him with dogs,
They fired a rifle at him. 
They dragged him from the cypress swamp,
 His arms they tied behind his back, 
They tied his hands in front of him..."
It was a forbidden song, a secret song, about the rebel slave leader Saint-Malo.
Uhrquahr must not be near. January shivered and scratched with a fingernail at
the mortar around the screws.
(A Free Man of Color, 230)

4. Rondo Alla Turca from Sonata No. 11 in A, K. 331 - Mozart
January turned around in the rush-bottomed chair and commenced warming up his
hands with the simplified version of the "Rondo a la Turque" that he used for his
students. In keeping with everything else in the American Theater, the piano was
the best to be had, a massive iron-framed Babcock grand with the heavy action
typical of English instruments.
(Die Upon a Kiss, 48)

5. Mississippi Jailhouse Groan - Rube Lacy
'Rodus's voice rose in the work-chant, and the slaves took it up as they threw
their weight on the capstan-bars:
Mama brought me coffee- uhn!
Mama brought me tea- uhn!
Mama brought me evvythin'
'Ceptin' the jail-house key- uhn!
On the capstan-bar before them January picked out the bent back of Jubal Cain,
heavy shoulders standing out like pink-stained marble between the black and
whip-scarred backs on either side. He took up the song; a moment later Mr. Byrne
the gambler, heaving the bar between Quince and Weems, added his.
Turn me over easy- uhn!
Turn me over slow- uhn!
Turn me over easy, lord,
'Cause de bullets hurt me so- uhn!
(Dead Water, 139)

6. Beggar Boy - The Baltimore Consort
“Don't he play a treat, though? Last night, with that little thing he plays-
da-da-deeee-da" -she made a stab at getting the tune known as 'The Beggar
Boy'- "he made old Railspike cry."
Railspike kicked her suitor- a bearded Irish bargee- bloody-mouthed into the
street. She began picking up teeth from the dirt floor and pitching them after
him, screaming curses all the while.
(Fever Season, 294)

7. Djansa - Madu Diakite, Drissa Kone, Sedu Balo, and Fasiriman Keita
The drums knocked and tripped, dancing rhythms. Fairly close to the house,
he thought. This far above Canal Street the lots in the American suburb of St.
Mary were large, and few had been built on yet. Ten feet from kitchen, yard,
and carriage house grew the native oaks and cypresses of the Louisiana swamps,
as they had grown for time beyond reckoning. January picked out the voices of
the drums, as on summer nights like this one in his childhood he'd used to tell
frog from frog. That light knocking would be a hand drum no bigger than a vase,
played with fast-tripping fingertips. The heavy fast thudding was the bamboula,
the log drum- a big one, by the sound. The hourglass-shaped tenor spoke around
them, patted sharply on both sides.
(Graveyard Dust, 14)

8. Fledermaus-Quadrille, Op. 363, piano arrangement ("La Pantalon")
- Johann Strauss Jr.
Lucien flourished into the opening bars of ‘Le Pantalon’. It was time to get
back to work.
[...]
For the next twenty minutes, January devoted the whole of his attention and
the whole of his heart to the light-hearted glitter of chasses, jetes, rigadoons
and emboittes; to the soft swish of silk petticoats and the light pat of dogskin
slippers on the waxed parquet of the ballroom floor. And within seconds, all
other concerns vanished. There were times when he missed the sense of helping
people that he’d had, in his days as a surgeon; the joy of seeing a woman walk
out of the Hotel Dieu alive, whose life had been despaired of, or of hearing the
voices of a family clustered around the bed of an injured child as that child
woke once more to life....
The sense that he had acted, for a brief space of time, truly as a servant of God.
But God dwelled in music, too.
And there was nothing that gave him greater joy and so deep a peace of heart.
(Ran Away, 55)

9. Calinda - Clifton Chenier
The drums seemed to have reached an understanding. One could hear it, like the
pounding of a lust-quick heart. A banjo joined in, sharp as crickets in summer trees,
and a makeshift flute called a nightbird's rill.
"Calinda, calinda!" called out someone. "Dance the calinda! Badoum, badoum!"
It was nothing like Rossini, nothing like Schubert. Nothing that had to do with Herr
Kovald or Paris at all.
(A Free Man of Color, 133)

10. Peggy-O - Giovanni Tiroldi
In the clear silver light of the gibbous moon, the girl strode out to the rocks along
the stream, and January heard a man's soft whistle:
What will your mother say, Pretty Peggy-o,
What will your mother say, Pretty Peggy-o?
What will your mother say when she finds you've gone away...?
(Days of the Dead, 290)

11. Wade in the Water (ft. The Nyahbinghi Livity Choir) - African American
Choral Ensemble
Then, in mid-song, the words changed, weaving themselves around a different tune:
'Wade in the water, wade in the water, children,
Wade in the water,
Angel's gonna trouble the water...'
As swiftly as he could without drawing attention to himself, January retreated
into the woods, till he came to the bayou he'd passed a half an hour before.
'Wade in the water' - no matter what verses of the Bible it had been taken from
- meant only one thing, when sung by the field hands: they've got the dogs
out after you, brother. Whoever you are, whyever they're after you, wade in the
water, till they lose your scent.
(Dead and Buried, 178)

12. Scotch Reel: Bonny Highland Laddie - Spare Parts
After the students departed January remained in the parlor, playing the pieces
that pleased him, Bach and Haydn and von Weber, letting the music roll from the
instrument as dusk gathered in the little cottage and slowly, unwillingly, the
day's heat withdrew. In time Hannibal appeared, waxen and shabby as usual- without
saying a word about it, Livia had begun including him at her dinner table now
that entertainments in the town were growing thin. He unpacked his violin and
slipped into accompaniment, the fiddle like a golden fish in the dark strong waters
of the piano's greater voice: jigs and reels and sentimental ballads, and snatches
of melody from the Montmartre cafes that had been popular in Paris two years ago.
Dominique came in, and then Livia, simply sitting and listening as the evening
deepened and the crickets began to cry.
(A Free Man of Color, 301)

13. Nan Pwen Lavi Anko / Lamize Pa Dous (ft. Ti Roro & Ti Marcel) - Issa
El Saieh
The hammer-and-lift of the drumming, the wailing, the dance filled the Square:
bone-deep, groin-deep, soul-deep. Pain and memory, loss and hope, weariness and
exultation at having survived another day.
"What are they doing, Mama?" asked a child.
"They're dancing, dear. That's how Negroes dance."
Men stripped to bandanna loincloths, bells jangling around their ankles, turning
the women under their arms. Graceful movements, serpentine as those of the woman
on the boxes, absolutely alien to the waltz or the Lancers or the bright beauty
of contredanse. Others danced alone, feet planted, bodies swaying, or stepped gaily,
highly, in patterns half-remembered, half-invented, faces intent with relief or
release, or beaming with joy. Eerie, wailing, the voices rose and fell like storm
wind over the Atlantic, like the far-off jangling of chains.
"Why do they dance like that, Mama?" The little boy was probably thinking about
his own experiences with stern-voiced teachers and white gloves and pumps that pinched.
They dance that way to forget that they have to step off the banquette to let YOU
pass, Young Massa.
They dance that way to forget that they, or those they love, can be sold off like
two-year-old colts and taken someplace to be worked to death if their new owner chooses,
for no better reason than that their owner wants a new buggy.
They dance that way so they don’t kill themselves from despair. Sir.
(Graveyard Dust, 127)

14. Fur Elise - Beethoven
After supper Hannibal, to impress his new in-laws, played the violin. Mozart and
O'Carolan, jigs and shanties and sentimental ballads. Some of the men got up in the
firelight and danced, with the Taos girls who - hearing the music - walked up from
Seaholly's in their jingling poblana finery, or with each other in the
time-honored frontier fashion, the 'lady' scrupulously marked with a red bandanna
knotted around a hairy wrist. As the music flowed out like a shining rainbow over
the meadows, January saw them gather in the darkness beyond the light of the fire,
as Prideaux had predicted: traders and engages from the Hudson's Bay camp, independent
trappers and representatives from half a dozen Indian tribes. Most who came hauled
along contributions to the feast: grouse, pronghorns, a bighorn sheep...
Most also brought liquor. [...] Everyone seemed to accept this except yellow-bearded
Jed Blankenship, who was stupendously drunk himself and was finally removed by
Prideaux and Shaw for a non-consensual bath in the river. Manitou Wildman, also drunk,
burst into bitter tears when Hannibal played 'Fur Elise' and retired to the meadows
to howl at the moon.
(The Shirt on His Back, 84)

15. Walk on Guilded Splinters - Marsha Hunt
Always there was dancing, the men turning the women under their arms, leaping and
slapping their feet, wriggling in doubled and quadrupled rhythms, styling to show off
what they could do. Ankle-bells jangled, hands clapped. Voices shouted encouragement,
and when the sun glanced low over the slate roofs of the pastel town and flashed like
a burning sword blade on the river, then Mamzelle Marie would come- Marie Laveau, the
Queen of all the voodoos- and dance with her snake, and sing the songs of her power
and her triumph.
At the gates of the paling fence that circled Congo Square, Benjamin January stood
watching the voodoo queen dance in the twilight. [...]
I walk on pins,
I walk on needles,
I walk on gilded splinters;
I want to see what they can do...
(Dead Water, 6)

16. Canon - Pachelbel
St.-Denis Janvier had sent him to study with an Austrian music master, a martinet
who had introduced to him the complex and disciplined joys of technique. Music had
always been the safe place to which his soul had gone as a child: joining in the
work-hollers, picking out harmonies, inventing songs about big storms or his aunt
Jemma's red beans or the time Danro from the next plantation had fallen in love with
Henriette up at the big house. All of this, Herr Kovald had said, was what savages
did, who knew no better. Kovald had played for him that first time the Canon
of Pachelbel- and January's soul had entered onto that magic road, that quest for
beauty that had no end.
(Graveyard Dust, 24)

17. Marie Laveau - Papa Celestin
Twilight transformed the sky to a shining topaz. Cicadas roared, and the earth gave
back its scents in a deep musk of wetness and sweet-olive. In the wild firelight Marie
Laveau the voodooienne appeared, stepping up on a platform of boxes, a tall, handsome
woman in a skirt made of red bandannas, her head adorned with a tignon worked into
seven points, like flames around her dark, Indian-boned face.
Men shouted, and sang her song: Oh, yes, yes, Mamzelle Marie / She know well the
Grand Zombi....
And in Laveau's arms the Grand Zombi was lifted up, a seven-foot king snake with a
darting tongue and wise copper eyes that seemed, in the firelight, to be more than the
eyes of a reptile.
(Wet Grave, 90)

18. Improvisations on Mozart Violin Concerto #3, Third Movement's
Cadanza (ft. Zagreb Soloists) - Gilles Apap
But behind him he heard music, the light sweet embroideries of a single violin, playing
a Mozart air in the dark.
And he turned back.
A white man was sitting on a bollard about halfway between the wharf's end and the
levee behind them, a thin man of medium height whose long dark hair hung straggling
over his shoulders like a disheveled mermaid's. He played like an angel, dismissed from
the Heavenly Choir, for drunkenness, perhaps, because a squat black bottle of gin sat on
the wharf-planks at his feet. He didn't look up as January came back toward him out of
the night, only embellished the little dance-tune till it sparkled, calling secret rhythm
and resonance from it until it seemed to speak of all joy, all light, all life.
(Days of the Dead, 7)

19. Jin-Go-Lo-Ba - Babatunde Olatunji
Along the starboard promenade, the men were singing, their voices rolling out across
the water:
Ai, tingwaiye, at tingwaiye...
And from the women's side of the boat, two or three voices at first, then on the next
round more, replied,
"Ah waiya, ah way."
African words, learned by rote from mothers who'd sung them long ago. Even those who
hadn't known them before took them up, drawing comfort from the sound, from the memory
of the quarters of their childhood, and the villages on the other side of the ocean,
beneath the hot African moon.
Day-zab, day-zab, day koo-noo wi wi,
Day-zab, day-zab, day koo-noo wi wi....
(Dead Water, 112)

20. "Souvenir de Porto Rico" (Marche de Gibaros) Op. 31, D. 147
- Louis Moreau Gottschalk
And that, he thought, was home.
Not Africa, nor Paris, but here, this place where he’d grown up. Sitting at the piano
again he let his hands wander, sketching a tune he’d heard in the fields of Bayou Chien
Mort, an echo of older tunes, and Hannibal’s violin trailed and threaded around it
like a skein of gold.
Dominique looked up, smiled, and said, “That’s pretty, Ben. What is it?”
He only shook his head. In his mother’s household, he thought, it wouldn’t be
considered at all respectable.
(A Free Man of Color, 304)

Download (change the x's to t's):
hxxp://www.sendspace.com/file/u379am
hxxps://www.box.com/s/x7qy2u3khga3ao5lrot9
hxxp://www.4shared.com/zip/6mVaKMBZ/musicforbenjaminjanuary.html
Please let me know if there are any problems with the file, or if any of the links go down!

Reading Wedn- Thursday

2013-05-09T20:28:53Z

I have finally managed to track down a copy of Good Man Friday! On the one hand, yay! More Benjamin January! On the other hand, of course I have already finished it and now there is no more of the series to read.

I liked Good Man Friday more than Ran Away despite a grievous lack of nearly all my favorite characters, due to most of the plot happening in Washington DC. It continues the trend of this series of containing all the most id-ficcy and delightful potential of historical fiction: early baseball! insane asylums! spies! grave robbers! Edgar Allan Poe as sidekick! John Quincy Adams! secret codes! ladies disguised as dudes!

I also really liked getting to see more of Henri and Chloe Villard. Henri's attempts to be intimidating were hilarious, if more successful than I expected, and Chloe is made of so much awesome I can't even handle it. I had been looking forward to seeing more of her, and I hope she continues to play a part in future books. She is a beautiful, tiny heiress who is more concerned with solving math problems than with love, and is perfectly content for her husband to go off and spend time with his mistress, so she can get some reading done. I LOVE HER. She and Rose need to meet; I think they would be friends. Charmian is also adorable. I love her and her father's roach collection, and Dominique and January's reaction to said.

The only thing I wanted is the thing which I want out of every book in the series, and that is for Rose and January and Hannibal to live together in a big house and be a family and be happy and OT3 yes please. IT IS SO CLOSE TO CANON, YOU GUYS.

I actually listened to the audiobook, because no copies have yet shown up at any bookstore I can find. I was mostly happy with the reader, though I thought it was strange that she gave January and Dominique such wildly disparate accents (January having a slight Southern accent, Dominique a very heavy French accent). I think I would have given them both slight French accents, or maybe had Dominique's more pronounced, but in my head they should sound fairly similar to one another, being brother and sister and all. Shaw's accent was so wrong it hurt, but he was only in one scene, so that was not too terrible. I really hope they go back and do audiobooks of the earlier books.

Also, I'm basically going to keep posting about this until I convince someone else to read the books and form a fandom with me, so hopefully that's not annoying.

Reading Wednesday

2013-04-24T21:34:40Z

What did you just finish?

Far too many of Barbara Hambly's Benjamin January series because, as mentioned in a previous post, I am obsessed. Since last Wednesday: Days of the Dead; Dead Water; Dead and Buried; and The Shirt on His Back. The titles could use more variety. Of these, I think I liked Dead Water the best, for steamboat action and the duel, though Days of the Dead was quite successful in making me crave Mexican food (not a commodity, alas, easily found in India).

Anyway, these books continue to make me deliriously happy, and the only thing I could want is for January to convince Hannibal to move in with him and Rose, so they can all be a big happy family forever.

What are you currently reading?
Ran Away, which is the last of the series currently available, and I don't know what I'm going to do once I've finished it. Potentially start over from the beginning immediately.

A Reccomendation

2013-04-19T17:59:14Z

Oh my God, you guys. I have a new series of books that I am obsessed with, and I want you all to read them because they are just that good. Also, then maybe there would be fanart.

I'm speaking of the Benjamin January series by Barbara Hambly; the first one is A Free Man of Color and the most recent- the 12th in the series- is Good Man Friday, which is coming out next month, omg yay. I am particularly happy because I have already devoured 8 of the series in less than three weeks, and am obviously going to run out soon.

So, why should you read them? I have a lot to say on that topic. The series is set in early 1830s New Orleans, and deals primarily with the culture of free blacks that existed at that place and time. It's a mystery series, though I can't really comment on that aspect of it, not being a mystery fan in particular; as far as I'm concerned, the mysteries exist in order to have the amazing characters interact with each other and with the setting. Many of the books take up a particular aspect of the world and focus on that (A Free Man of Color- the famous quadroon balls! Graveyard Dust- voodoo! Die Upon a Kiss- opera! Wet Grave- pirates!), but regardless of the individual focus, there is just so much historical detail and realism. The fictional characters interact with real historical personages- Marie Laveau, Madame LaLaurie (note: don't read that wikipedia page unless you want the plot of the second book spoiled. If you already know who she is, well, haha, I guess the plot was spoiled for you anyway, which is what happened to me), Jean Lafitte, etc. So much of this series is like id-candy for me: it's a setting that I have generally found to be completely fascinating, and with an author who has clearly done unbelievable amounts of research. Plus, descriptions of food! of music! of clothing! of landscape! ladies disguised as guys! characters who are total geeks! gay couples (okay, only in minor characters. But still)! ghosts! con-men! Additionally, this particular setting allows for my two irrational phobias: alligators and cholera. (Irrational not because they are not terrible things, but because I'm unlikely to ever actually be in danger of either. And I'm not afraid of anacondas or plague or lions or polio or whatever. Just these two. But seriously you guys, did you know cholera can take you from healthy to dead in less than 24 hours? And sometimes you turn blue, the dehydration is so bad?) And yet, I think the writing is too good to call it id-fic. Particularly the way race and class and color and gender and language all play out is so thoughtful, and well-done, and moving. They're just really, really good books.

Anyway! The characters. Because they are my favorite part.
Benjamin January is, as you could probably guess from the name, the main character. He's the son of a placee- that is, a woman of color who functions as a mistress/courtesan/secondary wife to a white man, as was the custom at the time. However, Ben was born before his mother became a placee, and in fact they (as well as his father) were slaves until Ben was 8. His mother's new protector (St.-Denis Janvier, from whom the family gets their last name) then paid for him to be educated, and trained as a pianist and surgeon; however, Ben currently is making a living as the former only, as people are more willing to pay a black guy to be a musician than a doctor. He also spent 16 years living in Paris, returning to New Orleans only just before the beginning of the series. He is brilliant, and funny, and kind, and gentle. He is not, however, dealing so well with a combination of returning from Paris and the changes in New Orleans since he was last there; by the 1830s, there was a hardening of racism, and the existence of a community of free blacks is more tenuous than it was before. He generally gets involved in solving the mysteries because no one else cares enough, and he wants to see justice done, or protect who he can.

Olympe - Ben's full sister. She is angry, and smart, and hard, and cynical, and I love her. She resented their mother for becoming a placee, and ran away at 16; their mother has since basically refused to acknowledge her. Olympe is now a voodoo, which involves more nursing and midwifery than it does love spells and curses.

Dominique - Ben's half-sister, the daughter of St.-Denis. Dominique is now herself a placee, and is utterly concerned with fashion and gossip and parties and so forth, but is much tougher than she looks.

Rose - Benjamin's sort-of girlfriend. Rose is also the daughter of a placee, but refused to become one herself. As a child, she was stubborn enough to get herself the standard classical education (by which I mean, standard for boys), and now variously makes her living translating Greek and Latin, grading math papers, and trying to run a school for free colored girls. She is particularly interested in natural science, and runs her own chemical experiments. She is also super tough, and occasionally dresses as a man to go have adventures and help solve mysteries.

Abishag Shaw - Lieutenant of the New Orleans police. Shaw is a Kentuckian (a lot of the series is taken up with the conflict between the "Americans" and the "Creoles", New Orleans having very recently become part of the US at this time), and he looks just as unwashed, illiterate, and generally coarse as is expected of him, but is actually incredibly clever. He and Ben have worked their way around to a sort of friendship.

Hannibal Sefton - HANNIBAL IS MY FAVORITE CHARACTER, YES. Hannibal is formerly part of Anglo-Irish gentry, attended Oxford, and is currently living in the backrooms of brothels in New Orleans while being an alcoholic, an opium-addict, and dying of consumption. He also is the best violin player in the city. He can't speak a line of dialogue without quoting someone- Shakespeare, Dante, Plato, etc. (Ben does this too, though to a lesser extent)- often in the original language. He is always charming, even if unreliable. One time he ran off with a opera diva to Mexico City. He's good friends with both Ben and Rose (who he has nicknamed 'amicus meus' and 'Athene', respectively).

Let me post a couple of excerpts, so you can see if you like the style or not. I've got three bits I particularly liked: one funny, one sad, and one just pretty.
This first one is from the third book, Graveyard Dust. Obviously it has to do with the mystery of the book, but don't need to know who the people mentioned are, as every single thing after the ellipse is completely imaginary, as January and Hannibal make up stuff to amuse themselves.
***
“There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.” Hannibal coughed, one hand holding himself upright against the crumbling stucco and the other pressed to his side. “If you ever find out how to make consumption good by thinking, please let me know. I’ve been trying for years. Did you ever track down the map your cut-armed friend brought to Isaak, by the way? Find where the meeting place was, if it was a meeting place?”
“I’m sure it was.” January waited, listening, watching the alley from which the cat had fled.
[...]
Hannibal drew a pair of thin-nosed pliers and a length of bent wire from his pocket and set to work on the carriage-gate lock. “And did you find the teacup Mathurin Jumon served Isaak the arsenic in?”
“I found a teacup with arsenic stains in it,” replied January gravely, his eyes moving ceaselessly up and down the dark streets. “I didn’t attach much importance to it because the teacup was Sèvres pâte dur instead of Palissy ware. Oh, and there was a copy of Laurence Jumon’s will impaled on the tree trunk with an Arabian dagger, and one of Isaak’s visiting cards. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. And up she comes.” He pushed the wrought-iron gate inward a little, then closed it behind them, pulling out the black ribbon that tied his hair to bind the gate loosely shut again. “Was the visiting card also impaled on the tree trunk with a dagger?”
“On the other side of the tree,” extemporized January, scratching a lucifer and shielding the candle he took from his bag. “Separate dagger.”
“Also Arabian?”
“Venetian.” Their whispers echoed in the arch of the flagged carriageway. “Quattrocento. Cellini, I think.”
“Cellini made good daggers.” Hannibal nodded wisely. “An excellent choice. Tasteful.”
“Which would argue that it had to have been Mathurin. I mean, I can’t see Hubert Granville having the refinement to buy a Cellini dagger.” They emerged into the dark courtyard, the closed and shuttered bulk of the slave quarters looming before them against the sooty sky. The fountain muttered softly; the candlelight showed up a cat’s eyes, hunting frogs among the banana plants.
“A point, my friend. A most distinct point.”
“All daggers”, said January, in a tone of deep solemnity, “have a point,” and Hannibal went into a fit of coughing from trying to stifle a laugh.
***

Now a sad bit. Ayasha is Ben's first wife, who died of cholera in Paris (not a spoiler, since it happens before the first book). This is also from Graveyard Dust.
***
He reached the house on Rue Burgundy with barely time to bolt down what was left of the beans and rice Gabriel had brought last night, and change into his respectable garb of biscuit-colored trousers, linen shirt, and black coat. “Give your sister my regards,” whispered Hannibal, lying waxen as a corpse under the tent of mosquito-bar. He’d been violently sick—January could see the signs of it in the ill-cleaned slop jar—and January thought, Not the fever. Not now.
He felt his friend’s hands and face, and they were cool. But all the way through the streets to the Cabildo he remembered Ayasha, lying dead in their rooms on the Rue de l’Aube. Remembered the smell of the sickness as he climbed the stair. Remembered opening the door and seeing her.
Some part of him, he thought, would never recover from that. Some part of him would always be trapped in that moment, like a ghost returning to repeat endlessly one single action in the same corner of the same house forever: opening the door and finding her. Opening the door and finding her.
***

Now, just a straight-up pretty bit. This is describing the bayous and swamps south of New Orleans itself. This is from Wet Grave
***
Past Crown Point the true marshes began. The ciprière thinned from an unbroken forest to a succession of wooded islands in wide beds of reeds and alligator-grass. The sedges towered head high, navigable only when a man would stand up to look out across the reeds, and not always then. January had never felt easy in this country: here, he was always conscious of how tenuous was man's occupation. The very earth and water and sky conspired to trade places, shallow bayous shelving to mud and flottants—floating blankets of grasses riding unsupported on the water's surface—masquerading as islands to trick the stranger.

No wonder the American Army had never been able to come in and deal with Lafitte.

A world of birds and dragonflies, silent but for the plop and whisper of oars or pole, and the peeping choruses of frogs. Turtles basked on logs, arranged neatly in order of size, largest to smallest, with smaller turtles perched on the larger ones' backs. Now and then the water would slurp and January would look down and see a six-foot gar-fish that could take a man's arm off, sliding so close to the boat he could count the teeth in its ugly undershot jaw, or gators blinking sleepily in the reeds. Olympe had given them oil of citrus mixed with aromatics, which kept some of the mosquitoes at bay, but even in the brutal heat of the day they were everywhere. At night they would settle on Jim's little tent of netting like a thirsty cloud.

The spaces of water got larger, between the squiggly islands of grass and mud. The sky grew huge. Clouds moved across it like traveling cities in the afternoons, and in the mornings the first sun on the water was a sounding cymbal of brass.

Whatever is happening in New Orleans, thought January, we are out of it now. Slave revolt and betrayal; Uncle Veryl's grief, and Artois lying in his crypt... Whether Henri would return to Dominique, when he came back to town with his bride in the fall, or whether she'd have to raise her baby alone... These are no longer our concerns. They will all go on without us. He would think this, and look back at Natchez Jim, like Charon poling lost souls across the Styx, brass-gold multitudes of dragonflies hanging in the air about him thick as the falling leaves of Vallombrosa.
***

So. Has anyone already read these? Do you want to talk to me about them? Yes? Awesome! They are all available as ebooks as well, so everyone has no excuse for not reading them immediately.

wordsofastory @ 2013-04-10T13:52:00

2013-04-10T17:52:56Z

It's my birthday, yay!

I'm getting so old! This is the last year of my twenties. What will I do when I have to be an adult? (Also, ha, I think everyone I know who still is reading LJ is older than me, which I suppose proves that the answer is just 'continue to have fun as before'.)

National Poetry Month

2013-04-09T11:28:55Z

Beetles - Siddhartha Menon

I have an affection
for the larger black beetles,
bulbous, gauche: I think I sympathize.

They are out of sorts
on surfaces, contrive to be lost in empty dustbins,
are seldom on an even keel.

They flounder anywhere- on clods,
on cement, and topple
quicker than a house of cards.

They are so much upon their backs, so
helpless as they claw
air, such easy meat.

You flip them right: they grope,
poise themselves and whir like helicopters.
They do not cling to redemption.

Are they meant to be like this? There must
be a realm where every act
isn't the tragic-comic one-

where touchstones are less clear, the walls
less near. Not for surfaces,
yet there they are, rising and blundering,

there they are being flipped.
At times I see them pause, then burrow
impatiently, boring in.

National Poetry Month

2013-04-07T14:32:32Z

After Gujarat - J.P. Das

After Gujarat,
will there be poetry?
Was it possible
to write poetry
after Alexandria was burnt down?
After Auschwitz,
after Hiroshima and Vietnam,
after the Emergency
and Babri Masjid,
after 9/11 and Iraq?

It's not possible
to banish poetry.
Poetry comes back effortless
to Plato's Republic,
to Stalin's Siberia,
to Pokhran and Kalahandi.
Poetry follows
the footprints of violence
as it chronicles
the descent of man.
Like history
poetry has no end.

Poetry is written
despite fatwas and bans.
Poetry laughs at Gulag,
ignores the censor's blue pencil
and the fundamentalist's frown.
Poetry is written
against the backdrop
of bonfire of books.

After Gujarat
there will be poetry
about Gujarat itself.
It will begin
with the shame of Ayodhya,
and track the bloody trail
to Godhra to Gujarat,
on to Mumbai.

When Babri arises again,
poetry will affirm
that temples are built
not with blood-scribed bricks
and stones carved with hatred,
temples are built,
like poetry,
with imagination and faith
in the hearts of men.

After Gujarat,
poems will be written
to affirm the truth
that there is no Ayodhya
outside of the poet's
epic imagination.

National Poetry Month

2013-04-06T14:55:03Z

Creation - Akhtar-ul Iman, translation by Kathleen Grant Jaeger and Baidar Bakht

I'm sure I could create a world!
A few hamlets, a heart-broken few.
A sun and a moon, and a few shining stars.
Supports forever wavering, and hopes that are never fulfilled.

Let lights be swallowed up in darkness.
Let life forever cry itself to sleep.
And let this tale unfold through all eternity.

Let helplessness be the way of life,
Let death's anguish be the light relief,
And let the desert sand run red with blood.

Let plagues come down from heaven,
Let prayers rise up, quiet and sad,
And let me stay merciless forever.

Drabble Meme

2013-04-05T10:36:26Z

I want to write something. But I have no ideas. Thus: drabble meme! Make a request, get a drabble: just give me a fandom, characters, pairings, prompts, words, photos, whatever. And then I will write you a drabble (or a ficlet, or a vague slice of story, or a massive epic. One of these is unlikely. Actually, all of them is unlikely, as I have a terrible track record with actually completing this meme. Try, try again, I guess?)

National Poetry Month

2013-04-05T08:58:17Z

Poetry Is for Those Who Wouldn't Read It - Nilmani Phookan, translation by Pradip Acharya

A poet had stated
poetry is for those who wouldn't read it
for the wounds in their hearts
for their fingers where thorns are embedded
for the anguish and the joy
of the living and the dead
for the outcry that trundles
down the road day and night
for the desert sun
for the meaning of death
and the vacuity of living
for the dark stones cursed by ruins
for the red patch between the lusty lips of maidens
for the yellow butterflies with wings spread on barbed wires
for the insects, the snails and the moss
for the bird flying lonely down the afternoon sky
for the anxiety in fire and water
for the mothers of five hundred million sick and starving children
for the fear of the moon turning red as blood
for each stilled moment
for the world that keeps turning
for one kiss from you
that man of dust will become dust again,
for that old saying.

poetry month

2013-04-03T14:37:26Z

All I Have to Do - Anonymous, translated by Martha Ann Selby

All I have to do
is hear his name
and every hair on my body
just bristles with desire.

When I see
the moon of his face,
this frame of mine
oozes sweat like a moonstone.

When that man
as dear to me as breath
steps close enough to me
to stroke my neck,

the thought of jealousy
is shattered in my heart
that's only sometimes
hard as diamond.

April is National Poetry Month!

2013-04-02T07:05:59Z

And you know what national poetry month means: I vaguely attempt to post a poem every day! Of course, it's already the second, and this is the first poem, but whatever. Some poetry is better than no poetry!

Desires Come by the Thousands - Asadullah Khan Mirza Ghalib, translated by Robert Bly and Sunil Dutta

Each desire eats up a whole life; desires come by the thousands.
I've received what I wanted many times, but still it was not enough.

The one who killed me should not accept blame for my death.
My life has been pouring out through my eyes for years.

In paradise, as we know, God showed Adam the door.
When I have been shown your door, I feel a shame deeper than his.

The tallness we all see in you is an illusion.
If someone took the tangles from your hair, we could all see that.

Hire me if you are commissioning a letter to her.
Every morning I come out of my house with the pen behind my ear.

These days people point at me and say: 'This is true wine drinking'.
It must be time once more for Jamshid's great cup.

I am always asking others to sympathize with my pain,
But it turns out they are worse off than I am.

For devoted lovers, living and dying are about the same.
My life is sustained by looking at her but it also takes my life away.

For the love of God, please don't lift the curtain over the Kaaba.
Perhaps in that spot we may find an ordinary stone.

The mullah and the tavern door seem to be two separate things, Ghalib,
But I did notice that he was entering yesterday as I was leaving.

Fic: False Speaking (Swordspoint, PG-13)

2013-03-31T14:40:52Z

Title: False Speaking
Author: Brigdh
Ratings/Warnings: PG-13, I suppose, for sexual tension
Notes: Written for the 31_days's prompt, "the curves of your lips rewrite history". 500 words exactly. Also available on AO3.
Disclaimer: All characters and places belong to Ellen Kushner.

***

"Tell me how you killed him," Alec says.

"The usual way," Richard replies. "With a sword."

"One thrust?"

"Of course."

Alec sighs: disappointment, not pleasure. "No," he says. "That's not how it happened. It should have been... slow."

In reality, it had been too fast, leaving Richard still feeling the lack of a climax. But though Alec is outwardly calm, intensity waits in him, and so all Richard says is, "If you like."

"He had time to be scared. He had time to know what was coming." Alec loiters over each word, deliberating on them. "Tell me what he did."

Richard imagines a different fight, a better one, and smiles. "He'd improved. It surprised me. He had this move-" He starts to describe it, but realizes details are meaningless to Alec and settles for a hand gesture. "I didn't see it coming."

Alec stands. "And what did you do?"

"I parried. Took a step back. I had to wait for him to give me an opening."

Alec drifts closer. "Give you an opening," he repeats, though the words are different in his voice, dark and low. He stands very near, near enough for the hair on Richard's arms to rise, and rests his hand on the hilt at Richard's waist. Tension prickles down Richard's spine. "Tell me how it ended."

"He feinted left." Richard feels Alec's fingers curl around the hilt, and it stops him from speaking. He takes a deep breath, then takes another. "But I saw it coming. It left his flank unguarded." Alec draws the sword, and it scrapes his skin raw with the hiss of metal against leather, with the danger of unsheathed steel. It's only a few inches, but each one seems pulled out of Richard's own body.

Alec sways into him. "And then there was the opening." His breath is hot on Richard's ear. "Did he do it on purpose? Did he want you to-" Richard has to touch him, but as soon as he moves Alec pulls away again. "Tell me," he demands, something hungry and possessive in his eyes.

Richard shakes his head but says, "Yes." He's not thinking straight; the space between them is so narrow it fills his mind.

Alec nods. "I would." He says it gently, and drops the hilt; the sword falls back into the scabbard with a thump that hits Richard like a blow. Alec lifts a hand and touches his cheek with cool fingertips. He is staring at him as though he could read meaning from Richard's face; his eyes burn against skin pale as dawn.

They stand like that until Richard cannot wait any longer, can't take another moment; he opens his mouth to hear himself say "Alec-"

"Yes," Alec hisses viciously, and then he is kissing Richard, licking into his mouth, biting, as though he would devour him. Richard catches at him, fingers digging into the flesh of his shoulders, the soft fall of his hair, and then there is nothing more to say.

***

Reading Wednesday

2013-03-27T08:01:31Z

What are you reading now?
Nothing, actually, as I've just finished one book at breakfast and haven't started a new one yet.

What did you just finish?
The one I finished this morning was Mulk Raj Anand's Untouchable, which was a bit disappointing, more of a political tract than a novel. Alas.

Before that, I read Point of Knives, which was by the far the best of the three 'Point of...' books. I had much, much higher hopes for "gay fantasy policeman", but at least this third one actually developed some characterization. I also read "Point of Dreams" this week (the second of the three), which in turn was slightly better than "Point of Hopes", the first. In the first book every single character had absolutely no personality or individuality. And yet I read all three books. I suppose that says something about the level of my hopes for 'gay fantasy policeman'. Anyway, this third one was good enough I suppose I'll read a fourth, if such ever is written.

I also read The Artist of Disappearance, a collection of short stories by Anita Desai. Very good, sad and sort of... delicate. None particularly grabbed me emotionally, but all very beautiful.

What books have you aquired this week?
None. I know! How is this possible?! Mainly because I was in a town too small to have bookstores. But now I am in Delhi, and will presumably promptly buy more books than I can reasonably fit in my luggage.

Story Recs

2013-03-07T12:01:44Z

I found two new, excellent Swordspoint stories, and everyone should read them!

Who'll Give You Time by wishlark. The summary on AO3 is "Five Times Alec Didn't Cry", but this story is so much deeper and more complicated and better than that. It's about Alec, and his history, and Richard/Alec, and the good and bad of that, and how people change, and ugh, it's just so good, go read it right now, seriously.

A Room, also by wishlark. "Marcus meets the Duke." Another story with perfect dialogue and characterizations, if happier than the first. A quote:
“Marcus,” he repeated. “Can you read?”

The duke was notoriously unpredictable, and the question seemed innocent. But Marcus feared it was a test of some sort, a double-edged question which he had to consider carefully. He opened his mouth, but didn't know what the duke wanted him to say. “I -”

“It is not,” the duke began, “A difficult question.” Each of his words filled up the space of ten of anyone else's.

Both of these stories are fantastic, and if you know the fandom at all, I highly recommend them.

Also, I'm heading to Rajasthan tonight, whooo! (I think I forgot to mention it here on LJ, but I've been in India since January. However, unlike my usual travels, I've had continuous access to the internet this trip, and so it doesn't make much of a difference. Except for the time zones. No one ever posts when I'm awake.)

Reading Wednesday

2013-03-06T14:03:26Z

What are you reading now?
I am still reading The Discovery of India, because it never ends, argh. Okay, no, it's a fine book, it just isn't capturing my attention and so I am reading it very slowly.

I am also still listening to the audiobook of Villette, which is annoying me far more than Discovery of India. I've only got about four chapters left, though, so at least I should be done with it soon. I was briefly enjoying it, around the time the Lucy Snow/Paul Emmanuel relationship first started, because they are cute together. But now I've come to hate it, mainly because Lucy hates everything, and there is only so long that I can listen to her many complaints before I just want to slap her. What does Lucy Snow hate? Everything, basically: Catholics (she hates Catholics *SO MUCH* you guys, SO MUCH. There are entire chapters that are entirely her criticizing various aspects of Catholicism. It cycles between hilariously over the top and just irritating. Who knew early 1800s Protestants cared so much?), fat people, various paintings, girls who talk too much, girls who talk too little, girls who cry too much, girls who laugh too much, girls who dress inappropriately (which, for Lucy, seems to mean in anything other than grey), people who care about money, people who like sweets, her boss, her co-workers, her students, and basically everyone she interacts with. And now there is some sort of weird-ass conspiracy against her. I would actually love it if this all turns out to be a Turn of the Screw type situation, and Lucy Snow is descending into paranoia and madness over the course of the novel, but alas, I feel sure that is not the case. Instead, we are probably going to find out how perfect Lucy is and how everyone hates her/wants to steal her man/spies on her/is forcing her to convert because of her perfect-ness. Bleh.

What did you just finish?
Nothing, see previous question.

What books have you aquired this week?
Rohinton Mistry's Tales from Firozhsha Baug and Premchand's The Co-Wife and Other Stories. Both of these are part of my on-going attempt to collect important and/or famous Indian literature that I should read, particularly ones that are not available as ebooks or that are hard to find in the US.

Hugo Nominations

2013-03-05T10:34:42Z

I bought a WorldCon membership this year, which means I can nominate people for the Hugo Awards (mainly because I hear you often get free copies of the nominees, and who does not want more books?). The deadline is this Sunday, so of course I only got around to actually looking at the ballot yesterday. Here's what I've nominate:

Best Novel:
Red Country - Joe Abercrombie
Banner of the Damned - Sherwood Smith
God's War - Kameron Hurley
Vessel - Sarah Beth Durst
Timeless - Gail Carriger
I haven't actually read too many books that were published in 2012, which made it hard to pick five. I did really love Red Country though; Abercrombie is probably my favorite current fantasy author, though I know a lot of people can't stand him.

Best Novella
Let Maps to Others - K.J. Parker
All the Flavors: A Tale of Guan Yu, the Chinese God of War, in America - Ken Liu
Both of these stories are so fantastic, though I have to give slight preference to Let Maps to Others, since it is about a historian.

Best Novelette
Swift, Brutal Retaliation - Meghan McCarron. Creepy ghost story about a family falling apart. I really love how the ghost works here.
In the Palace of the Jade Lion - Richard Parks. Another ghost story, but this one is light and happy, with almost the air of a fairy tale.
Deus Absconditus - J.M. Sidorova. I think this is the one science-fiction story I nominated (I tend to prefer fantasy), but I really liked the premise.
The King's Huntsman - Jennifer Mason-Black. Really excellent writing and plot, though hard to describe without spoilers. The king's huntsman is not who he seems.
Woman of the Sun, Woman of the Moon - Benjanun Sriduangkaew. A story with the feel of myth, set in a Chinese heaven - the goddess of archery and her wife.

Best Short Story
Cutting - Ken Liu. This is so short as to be almost a poem rather than a story, but I loved it.
The Three Feats of Agani - Christie Yant. Another story that reads like a myth, though as far as I know this one is not based on any real-world analogue. Really good.
Worth of Crows - Seth Dickinson. Really interesting mix of magic and physics in the world-building, and beautiful writing.
England Under the White Witch - Theodora Goss. This is so good and creepy! Plus, I am partial to any story where winter symbolizes death.
"The Ramayana as an American Reality Television Show: Internet Activity Following the Mutilation of Surpanakha" - Kuzhali Manickavel. (Published in Breaking the Bow: Speculative Fiction Inspired by the Ramayana and not online anywhere, as far as I know.) Hilariously accurate to the internet.
Novella, Novelette, and Short Story are all hard categories to nominate, as I don't tend to hear about these publications much. That's really the main reason I wanted to make this post, so other people might read some of these; they're all excellent stories.

Best Related Work
Deborah Stanish and L.M. Myles - Chicks Unravel Time Mad
A Feast of Ice and Fire: The Official Game of Thrones Companion Cookbook - Chelsea Monroe-Cassel and Sariann Lehrer
I couldn't think of much that fit into this category, so if there's something out there I should nominate, feel free to tell me!

Best Fancast
Boars, Gore, and Swords: A Game of Thrones podcast
Sword and Laser
Skeptoid
I didn't know there was a podcast award! I love podcasts beyond the telling of it. Most of the ones I listen to are not SF/F related, but 'Boars, Gore, and Swords' is possibly the funniest thing on the internet.

A lot of the categories I left blank, since i know nothing about best editors or best fan-artists. If any of you have recommendations, let me know! I can edit my ballot until Sunday.

Reading Wednesday

2013-02-27T07:02:21Z

So, I've been forgetting to do this for the last several weeks. But today I remembered! I'm just going to skip all the previous weeks because, hey, I'm lazy.

What are you reading now?
The Discovery of India by Nehru. Because I figured it was time to stop reading cheesy chick-lit/random travelogues/stuff with pretty covers for my '50 Books about South Asia' self-challenge, and actually read some important things. Discovery of India is good, so far, though I'm less than 100 pages in. However, I keep seeming to read it at the same time as watching to TV, listening to music, and having conversations, and it is not a book that lends itself to that. I have to keep rereading the same page over and over. Which is my fault rather than the book's, but it's my main impression of it so far.

I'm also listening to an audiobook of Villette by Charlotte Bronte. I'm don't have many thoughts about that yet, except that it is managing to be scarier than Turn of the Screw. Ghost nuns!

What did you just finish?
The Turn of the Screw by Henry James. Mainly because I had never read it before, and it is very short. Unfortunately, I didn't think it was very scary (not that a hundred-year-old ghost story has much chance of being genuinely frightening today), nor did I get much into the "is it really happening" or "is the governess crazy" debate. I'm guess I'm glad to have read it, if just for the sake of checking it off my list, but I didn't get much out of it.

Before that, I read Aravind Adiga's The White Tiger, which I've had a copy of for ages and for some reason had never gotten around to reading. It's very good! Funny, in a very, very black humor sort of way. Which I suppose is why it won the Booker.

What books have you aquired this week?
None, whoo!

Reading Wednesday

2013-01-30T10:55:46Z

(Format stolen from various people)

What are you reading now?
Such a Long Journey by Rohinton Mistry. I'm only about two chapters in, so I don't have a good sense of it yet, but it seems fairly light-hearted and funny. There has yet been no bad-mouthing of the BJP or Shiv Sena, which is pretty much the sole thing I knew about this novel before starting.

Also, The Inventor's Companion by Ariel Tachna. It's a Steampunk m/m romance! Of course I am reading this. In actuality, it's kind of terrible, which I am not really surprised by, as pretty much every gay romance I've read has been terrible to one extent or another. Not that it stops me from reading them, obviously. In this case, the romance between the leads is not the problem, surprisingly, but rather the absolutely thoughtless and plot-hole-filled worldbuilding.

And okay, there are also some problems with the romance, but it was developed rather believably, instead of being the 'love at first sight' that is so very common.

What did you just finish?
The last book I finished was Consider the Fork: A History of How We Cook and Eat by Bee Wilson, which was surprisingly very much a page-turner. She just had so many interesting stories and facts and new ways of looking at things that I pretty much devoured this in a day. And I see she has another book called Swindled: From Poison Sweets to Counterfeit Coffee, the Dark History of the Food Cheats, which I will totally have to check out, since that sounds even more fascinating.

After that, I read the first few pages of multiple things without being able to decide on what I wanted and not being grabbed by anything. One of the nice things about having a nook is that, when I'm in that sort of mood, I don't have to carry around an entire stack of books.

What books have you aquired this week?
Swami and Friends by R. K. Narayan, which I've been meaning to acquire a copy of since forever. This one has an incredibly cheesy cartoon on the front, but was only about $3, so I suppose I can't complain. Also, Jim Corbett's India - Selections by R.E. Hawkins. Jim Corbett was a tiger hunter-turned-conservationist in the early 1900s, and supposedly was quite a good writer, particularly in describing wildlife, ecology, and anthropology. I first heard of him a few weeks ago, and when I saw this book, I figured I should check him out.

Yuletide Recs

2013-01-28T12:53:27Z

Traditionally one posts Yuletide recs before the reveal. Or at least before it's almost February. Better late than never, I guess.

First off, the stories written for me. Because these are always the best, of course:
The Long Way 'Round by pathstotread. Pitch Perfect, Beca/Chloe, PG-13. Funny and sweet and just the perfect coda to the movie.
Where We're At Is an Act by Snow. Swordspoint, Alec/OMC, PG-13. Bitter and sharp and OMG I LOVE IT.

And now for something different:
No such thing by Vnutrenni. Conan the Barbarian, gen, PG. God, this is a beautiful story. If you think of Conan the Barbarian as the canon of Arnold Schwarzenegger and women in fur bikinis, you need to read this.
Of all the places he had gone in his life, he loved the sea best. As a child of those dark evergreen forests and rolling hills in the hard north, this felt like a small betrayal of his heritage; but violence was his joy, and he shared it with the sea. When storms came, it opened its black throat with howling and threw the beasts that rode its back. Such passions and tumults were Conan's own. Currents were cunning. Waves were hungry tongues lapping the blood from pirates' swords. He could think of no creature more beautiful or ruthless in all the world.

Escapades Out on the D Train by spoilers. Babysitters Club, Claudia/Ashley, PG-13. This is hilarious and nostalgic and perfect and so, so good. There are descriptions of Claudia's outfits! There are absolutely correct NYC details! How can you not love this story?

Alan Grant and Indiana Jones Walk Into a Bar by longwhitecoats. Jurassic Park/Indiana Jones crossover, gen, G. This is so funny and so right and also is exactly like being at an archaeology conference.

Years Gone By by Themistoklis. Candle Cove, gen, R. All of the Candle Cove stories this year were creepy and perfect. But it seems redundant to rec all of them, so I'll choose this one, for being as terrifying as the original and yet taking the idea in a compelling new direction. (By the way, if you like horror at all and do not know about Candle Cove, you can read the original in its entirety here. It's only about 500 words long and yet is absolutely one of the scariest stories I know.)

Le Rouge et le Blanc et le Noir by Quillori. This is not a fairytale, but god, it feels like it should be. The language and the strangeness and amorality of it make it seem exactly like something you should find in an old copy of Grimms' stories.

Run Red by dizzy_fire. I do love fairytale retellings. Little Red Riding Hood + Baba Yaga + horror = amazingness.

Harriet the Spy Has Nothing on Me by psychomachia. Suri's Burn Book, gen, G. The narrative voice here is spot on to the original, with all its snarkiness and allusions and bizarre erudite-ness. Plus crazy plot. What more could you want?
There is a knack to looking nonchalant in New York. A tourist cranes her neck, looking to see what street she's on, a businessman walks briskly, making no eye contract whatsoever, but a person out for a lovely stroll in Manhattan must vacillate between gazing at the wondrous Christmas displays in the window in some sort of drugged awe and dodging the well-meaning passers-by who keep asking her where her mother is. Honestly, if anyone needed someone looking out for their well-being, it was Katie Holmes.

Shipmates by zlot. Hark! A Vagrant, gen, G. This is as hilarious and bizarre and, sadly, hard to explain as the original canon. Which, if you are not familiar with, you should read immediately. It's two comic strips! It won't take you long.

Five Times Tommie Lied to Margo (And One Time She Told the Truth) by oulfis. Apartment 3-G, Tommie/Lu Ann, G. I imagine the venn diagram of people who read Apartment 3-G, people who read fanfiction, and people who read The Comics Curmudgeon is a small one. But, if you find yourself in that intersection, you should not miss this story.

Books of 2012

2013-01-07T23:25:20Z

As always, here is the list of what I read in 2012. And, for once, I managed not to have a computer crash or corrupt a file, and so it's actually a complete list.

There's 121 books on this list, which I think is pretty typical of the amount I usually read in a year. Of those, 38 are by or edited by PoC, and 61 are by or edited by women. I had a goal of reading 50 books about South Asia (mostly India, though there's one or two about Sri Lanka or Pakistan in here), which I managed to complete on literally the last day of the year. Numbered books on the list below indicate my South Asian project.

For next year, I'm going to try and read another 50 books on South Asia. I'm also going to try and post more reviews, particularly to 50books_poc. Though that community seems to have mostly died, which is sad. As always, feel free to ask me about any title! I love talking about books.

January
A Perfect Red: Empire, Espionage, and the Quest for the Color of Desire - Amy Butler Greenfield
Little Women - Louisa May Alcott
A Cook’s Tour - Anthony Bourdain
The Wilder Life: My Adventures in the Lost World of Little House on the Prairie - Wendy McClure
1. Curry: A Tale of Cooks and Conquerors - Lizzie Collingham
Nature Girl - Carl Hiaasen
2. Myths and Legends of India - J.M. Macfie
3. Chowringhee - Sankar

February
4. Someone Else’s Garden - Dipika Rai
5. No Onions Nor Garlic - Srividya Natarajan
6. Gay Bombay: Globalization, Love, and (Be)Longing in Contemporary India - Parmesh Shahani
7. The Last Song of Dusk - Siddharth Dhanvant Shanghvi
Reading in the Brain: The Science and Evolution of a Human Invention - Stanislas Dehaene
Slayers and Their Vampires: A Cultural History of Killing the Undead - Bruce A. McClelland

March
Dragonsong - Anne McCaffrey
8. Piggies on the Railway - Smita Jain
9. The Indians: Portrait of a People - Sudhir Kakar and Katharina Kakar
Dragonsinger - Anne McCaffrey
MWF Seeking BFF: My Yearlong Search for a New Best Friend - Rachel Bertsche
The Sirens Sang of Murder - Sarah Caudwell
Dragondrums - Anne McCaffrey
10. Best Indian Short Stories, Vol. 1 - Ed. Khushwant Singh
Emergence: The Connected Lives of Ants, Brains, Cities, and Software - Steven Johnson
11. Eating India: An Odyssey into the Food and Culture of the Land of Spices - Chitrita Banerji
Eutopia: A Novel of Terrible Optimism - David Nickle

April
12. Delhi: Adventures in a Megacity - Sam Miller
The Hunger Games - Suzanne Collins
13. Behind the Beautiful Forevers: Life, Death and Hope in a Mumbai Undercity - Katherine Boo
Catching Fire - Suzanne Collins
Skin Tight - Carl Hiaasen
14. A Disobedient Girl - Ru Freeman
Mockingjay - Suzanne Collins
15. India: An Introduction - Khushwant Singh

May
16. A Tale of Two Revolts: India's Mutiny & the American Civil War - Rajmohan Gandhi
The Sibyl in Her Grave - Sarah Caudwell
The Husband Test - Betina Krahn
Watermark - Vanitha Sankaran
17. Litanies of the Dutch Battery - N. S. Madhavan, trans. by Rajesh Raja Mohan
Barrel Fever - David Sedaris
18. English, August - Upamanyu Chatterjee
19. Being Indian: The Truth About Why the 21st Century Will Be India’s - Pavan K. Varma
Snuff - Terry Pratchett
Beauty Queens - Libba Bray
20. A Free Man - Aman Sethi

June
Soulless - Gail Carriger
21. Kim - Rudyard Kipling
Changeless - Gail Carriger
Blameless - Gail Carriger
Heartless - Gail Carriger
Timeless - Gail Carriger
Inside Scientology: The Story of America’s Most Secretive Religion - Janet Reitman
City of Sin: London and Its Vices - Catharine Arnold
22. In Spite of the Gods: The Rise of Modern India - Edward Luce

July
Banner of the Damned - Sherwood Smith
23. The Last Burden - Upamanyu Chatterjee
Chang and Eng - Darin Strauss
24. Roadrunner: An Indian Quest in America - Dilip D’Souza
Bleak House - Charles Dickens

August
Antarctica - Kim Stanley Robinson
25. The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken - Tarquin Hall
Shine - Lauren Myracle
The Aviary Gate - Katie Hickman
Dr. Tatiana’s Sex Advice to All Creation - Olivia Judson
Dark Banquet: Blood and the Curious Lives of Blood Feeding Creatures - Bill Schutt
Sick Puppy - Carl Hiaasen
26. Folktales from India: A Selection of Oral Tales from Twenty-Two Languages - A.K. Ramanujan
27. The Habit of Love - Namita Gokhale
Rasputin’s Bastards - David Nickle
Tulipomania: The Story of the World's Most Coveted Flower & the Extraordinary Passions It Aroused - Mike Dash
28. Our Lady of Alice Bhatti - Mohammed Hanif
Sacred Hearts - Sarah Dunant
29. Everybody Loves a Good Drought: Stories from India’s Poorest Villages - P. Sainath

September
Breath and Bone - Carol Berg
30. A Proper Education for Girls - Elaine diRollo
31. In Light of India - Octavio Paz
32. Sahibs Who Loved India - Ed, Khushwant Singh
Guards, Guards! - Terry Pratchett
Dragonflight - Anne McCaffrey
The Blood of Flowers - Anita Amirrezvani
Breed - Chase Novak
33. An End to Suffering: The Buddha in the World - Pankaj Mishra
34. The Impressionist - Hari Kunzro
Dragonquest - Anne McCaffrey
35. Empires of the Indus: The Story of a River - Alice Albinia
36. Beautiful Thing: Inside the Secret World of Bombay’s Dance Bars - Sonia Faleiro

October
The White Dragon - Anne McCaffrey
The Spirit Lens - Carol Berg
37. The Immortals of Meluha - Amish
The Soul Mirror - Carol Berg
38. Caste, Society and Politics in India from the Eighteenth Century to the Modern Age - Susan Bayly
39. In Hanuman’s Hands - Cheeni Rao
The Daemon Prism - Carol Berg
The Know-It-All: One Man’s Humble Quest to Become the Smartest Person in the World - A.J. Jacobs
Drop Dead Healthy: One Man’s Humble Quest for Bodily Perfection - A.J. Jacobs

November
40. The Satanic Verses - Salman Rushdie
41. India: An Archaeological History: Palaeolithic Beginnings to Early Historic Foundations 2nd Ed - Dilip K. Chakrabarti
42. Miss Timmins’ School for Girls - Nayana Currimbhoy
How to be a Woman - Caitlin Moran
43. The Idea of India - Sunil Khilnani
44. The Decline and Fall of the Indus Civilzation - Ed. Nayanjot Lahiri
Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
The Virgin Cure - Ami McKay
Quiverfull: Inside the Christian Patriarchy Movement - Kathryn Joyce
45. The Unknown Errors of Our Lives - Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
Stormy Weather - Carl Hiaasen
In the Company of the Courtesan - Sarah Dunant
My Life as an Experiment: One Man’s Humble Quest to Improve Himself - A.J. Jacobs
46. India: A Mosaic - Eds. Robert B. Silvers and Barbara Epstein

December
Moon Over Soho - Ben Aaronovitch
The Midwife of Venice - Roberta Rich
47. From the Ruins of Empire: The Intellectuals Who Remade Asia - Pankaj Mishra
48. Joseph Anton - Salman Rushdie
Eat My Globe: One Year in Search of the Most Delicious Food in the World - Simon Majumdar
49. The Holder of the World - Bharati Mukherjee
The Book Thief - Markus Zusak
Tourist Season - Carl Hiaasen
The Winter Palace - Eva Stachniak
The Devil’s Gentleman: Privilege, Poison, and the Trial that Ushered in the Twentieth Century - Harold Schechter
Red Country - Joe Abercrombie
America Again: Re-Becoming the Greatness We Never Weren’t - Stephen Colbert
50. The Twentieth Wife - Indu Sundaresan

5 Worst Books of the Year, in order of terribleness:
5. The Immortals of Meluha, Amish. This one almost shouldn't be on this list, because it fell firmly in the category of "so bad it's good". A hilariously inaccurate and cliched combination of mythology, the Harappan culture (the archaeology which I study), and action-adventure, this is just the first of a trilogy. I hear they are also possibly turning it into a movie, and I CANNOT WAIT.
4. The Last Burden, Upamanyu Chatterjee. This book is all the worst traits of the 'literary fiction' genre: a plot in which nothing happens, no likeable characters, boring angst, and mostly concerned with the drama within a middle-class family. Plus lots of jumping around in time, which meant it took me forever to figure out what was happening, even when the answer was nothing. It took me forever to finish this book, because it was just so boring and motivation-less.
3. The Midwife of Venice, Roberta Rich. UGH this was so terrible. I love historical fiction, and "Jewish midwife in Renaissance Italy" should have been a guaranteed hit for me, but no. Not when every character is wholly good or wholly bad, all characterizations are flimsy, plot "twists" are unbelievable and way too convenient for the main characters, and even the setting isn't used well. I know nothing about the author, so I could be wrong, but the whole thing also had a feel of "look at the customs of the strange Jewish people! I have done my research so well!"
2. Piggies on the Railway, Smita Jain. An almost laughably bad example of the worst traits of chick lit. We have a main character who is supposedly a private detective but who acts like an idiot, is only concerned with finding rich guys to sleep with, constantly puts down other women for their looks, has a running commentary on her own diet/weight, and name-drops expensive brands. This is also the first in a series, but I won't be reading the rest.
1. The Aviary Gate, Katie Hickman. SO TERRIBLE. Did you know graduate students could just randomly disappear to Turkey for months without telling their advisors? And that if such students should sleep with their professors, the problem with that is the professor is a leather-jacket-wearing hunk who can't commit? But don't worry! Everything will resolve itself when the student sleeps with a hunky Turkish guy who her Turkish landlady introduces her to! Sexy eating of baklava will play an important part in their courtship. There's also a whole secondary plot about an English woman in a harem in 1600s Istanbul, but I hated the characters in that plot slightly less, so I'll forgive it.

5 Best Books of the Year, in order of awesomeness:
5. Eutopia: A Novel of Terrible Optimism, David Nickle. This novel is so smart. Set in the rural upper Midwest in the 1890s, it managed to combine so many disparate streams, and yet work them perfectly together: eugenics, disease, racism, utopic communities, and medicine. This is a horror novel, and the monsters were the perfect combination of mysterious and creepy. I really, really liked this.
4. Quiverfull: Inside the Christian Patriarchy Movement, Kathryn Joyce. I'm not sure 'liked' is the right word for my feelings about this book, as it mostly made me want to scream and/or cry. But I definitely want to make everyone I know read it. It is terrifying yet true, which makes it much worse than Eutopia.
3. Soulless, (and sequels) Gail Carriger. This is one of those rare series where each book is better than the one before it. The first is a fairly forgettable Regency romance/urban fantasy, but each succeeding book builds on the world and the characters to go deeper and more interesting places. Werewolves and vampires in steampunk London, with really interesting world-building! Also, god, Biffy's story. I could read so much fanfiction about him.
2. The Satanic Verses, Salman Rushdie. So, I had somehow never read any Rushdie until this year. I had this impression that he was very serious and deep and hard to get through, sort of like Tolstoy or Dickens, and so I'd been putting it off. I'm so glad and surprised to find that is not the case! He's funny and mixes mythology and children's stories and advertising jingles, rhymes and alliteration, comedy and drama, and has such beautiful language. I can't wait to read more. (Although Joseph Anton could seriously have been about 200 pages shorter.)
1. English, August, Upamanyu Chatterjee. How are you on both my best and worst lists, Chatterjee? Never mind, this book is so good I will still love you even if everything else you write is terrible. This novel is the perfect depiction of being young and being stuck in a small town and not sure what to do with yourself. He captures the heat and the boredom and the restlessness and the distance from everything of being in small town in North India in the summer. My utter love for this novel may be influenced by having read it while in rural Haryana in April, but I still think it's wonderful and that more people should know it.

Fic: A Very Necessary Thing (Swordspoint, Richard/Alec)

2013-01-04T16:32:09Z

Title: A Very Necessary Thing
Author: Brigdh
Rating/Warnings: R.
Summary: Richard and Alec take a trip to the countryside; chaos, inevitably, ensues.
Notes: Written for Yuletide 2012, for anno_hreog. As always, this could have been better if I didn't leave things to the last minute, but I'm rather pleased with it nonetheless. Thanks to p_zeitgeist for looking over it when I was anxious. You can also read this on AO3, if you prefer.
Word count: 6,296

***

Richard suspected the letter would be strange, but he was still surprised at the offer it contained, once Alec had read it to him. It wasn't that it was unusual; nobles who'd hired him often found themselves including a stay in the country alongside his regular fee, if matters became a bit more heated than they had expected. It was part of the standard arrangement: Richard handled the swordfighting, and they handled the consequences.

He hadn't expected to receive any letters from this patron; the fight was over, for one thing, and he never liked it when they put his work into writing. Most relevantly, no one could call this situation heated, not if they wanted to be believed. Richard had won the fight- it had been arranged on a river barge, which was more showy than he liked, if an interesting challenge- then there had been a few days of typical gossip, and now, nothing. Richard would have heard if the watch wanted him for questioning. As far as he knew, the matter had been forgotten by everyone. Except, perhaps, his patron.

Richard suspected that was exactly the problem. He'd only met this patron once, dealing mostly with the man's secretary, but he'd come away with the sense of a thoughtless, self-important man, not the sort he usually liked to work with. It had been such a simple job, though: only to first blood, and with no chance of a court investigation, not with it taking place at an afternoon party where everyone could see the correct forms had been followed. The man had not really wanted Richard's skill, only his notoriety. He must have been disappointed when no scandal had resulted.

So there were plenty of reasons to refuse, and if it had been another day, Richard would have. But it was late summer, and the city felt like an oven. There hadn't been rain or wind to break the hold of the heat in over a week, and no signs of any approaching. It was too hot to fight, too hot to eat, even too hot to sleep. And just to add insult to the injury, Riverside smelled even more vile than usual, reeking of sewage, rotting fish, and the green mud that was exposed along the edges of the river. A week in the country sounded like a welcome retreat, necessary or not.

Alec slid his thumb along the edge of the letter; thick, expensive paper, into which the ink had sunk like melted chocolate on a linen napkin. "What was his name, again?"

Richard shrugged. "A second cousin to the Nevillesons; something like that. I think he's new to the city. I'd never heard of him two months ago."

"Who arrives to the city in summer? Anyone with sense- or money- has fled the heat and the fevers." Alec took the letter to the window and tilted it in the light. "And no watermark. A sure sign of a tasteless man." He sighed. "The country house is certain to be stunningly ugly."

"Does it matter? As long as the place isn't as hot as here."

"It's summer in the countryside too." Alec’s voice was less harsh than the words; it was too hot even for impatience.

"I know. But there will be breezes, and cold cider, and no one boiling laundry in the courtyard."

"You do make it sound appealing." Alec looked at the letter again. "Must we? I'm sure I'd be terribly bored. And you know how I hate the country. It's full of... nothing." He shuddered melodramatically.

"He's offering rooms in his own house. That means there'll be a library."

Alec only snorted. "One matched to the color of the rugs, I'm sure." He started to toss the letter out of the window, then caught himself, remembering that Richard was careful of any written records. "We're not burning this. Not now, at any rate. If you light so much as a candle, I swear I'll kill myself." His voice mocked his own threat, and there was a small smile on his lips as he turned from the window, dropped the letter in Richard's lap, and made his way to the chaise lounge, where he stretched like a cat. The upper buttons on his lightweight summer shirt were left undone, revealing the lines of his collarbones, and the hollow where they met beneath his throat. "Shall we go to Martha's?"

Richard placed the letter on the table, drawing an empty bowl over to rest on it, though there was no wind to blow it away. "Let's wait till sunset. I'd sweat through my shirt if we went anywhere now."

"You're not wearing a shirt," Alec said, his smile deepening.

"I would be, if we went out."

"Really? What a disappointment for Martha." Alec laid back and flung an arm over his eyes. His neck looked long and pale, a few strands of hair clinging damply beneath his chin. "I'm going to sleep. Wake me when it’s cool enough for you." His feet were bare to above the ankle, hanging limply off the end of the chaise lounge he was too tall for. Richard thought of going to him, touching the soft skin of the arch, the curve of the bone in his ankle, but the afternoon was so very hot. He stretched out his own legs and closed his eyes.

Martha's was nearly empty later, and Alec lost a handful of coins dicing with a drunk whore, the only person there who agreed to play him. They stayed late into the night though, because the tavern was located in a basement, and it was cooler than their own rooms. Still, the next morning Richard woke in the pale grey light before dawn to find Alec out of bed. He was packing clothes, along with a random assortment of other things: a book, a deck of marked cards, a spool of thread.

"I think they have their own candles," Richard said, still half-asleep.

"You'd be amazed," Alec drawled without turning to look at him, "what nobles can forget."

Not you, Richard thought, but that wasn't the sort of thing Alec liked to hear.

He got up to help, relinquishing the prospect of more sleep; there was no changing Alec's mind once he'd decided. He packed a few things of his own, things Alec had either forgotten or considered unnecessary: weapons, mostly. It was barely day when they left, leaving the key with Marie, who wished them an unconvincing-sounding happy travels, most likely for waking her at that hour. The air was almost cool so early, though the cobblestones and buildings had retained the warmth of the previous day, radiating it in a subtle promise of the coming heat. The light was white and hazy, casting diffuse shadows, without the strength it would have in a few hours.

The carriage was waiting where his patron had promised it would be, far enough from Riverside to annoy Alec. "Does he fear thieves that much, this Nevilleson? Doesn't he know this is entirely the wrong hour for that sort of thing? All good criminals are tucked into bed right now. Or snoring in the gutter. Either way, entirely indisposed."

"Except for us."

"I'm not a thief." Alec held up his hands, spreading his fingers. "I never acquired the dexterity for it."

"No? I’ve always thought your hands were quite... skilled." Richard said blandly, not smiling.

Alec lifted his chin and pointedly did not reply. Instead, he gestured at the carriage, waiting under the eaves of an inn. "Look at that. He's got his device emblazoned on the doors. Does he want everyone to know he's the one who hired you?"

"Yes," Richard said with a shrug. "I rather think he does."

Alec pursed his lips. “Well, one can’t blame him. You cost him enough; he may as well show off what he purchased.”

Richard shot him a look at that, but Alec didn’t meet his eyes. Richard might have said something, but just then the coachman came around the side of the building, hastily hiding a mug behind his back when he noticed them waiting.

They were inside the carriage and on their way soon enough, though the coachman’s worried gaze had lingered on Alec. Richard had thought he would protest- after all, the letter had only mentioned Richard himself- but in the end he was too well-trained, and Alec’s manner too arrogant, to allow any room for objection.

Richard hated traveling in carriages. He found them stuffy and cramped, and they left his stomach with an odd feeling. Alec sank into the seat with grace, adjusting the curtains to his taste as though he owned the thing, which Richard supposed he should have expected. They were still bouncing on cobblestone streets when Alec discovered a wooden box on the floor, half covered with one of the lap rugs he’d tossed aside.

“How kind; he’s left you a picnic.” Alec offered the box to Richard, who waved it away, not wanting to even see food just then. “Or perhaps he forgot this after his own last jaunt.”

Alec pulled an apple from the box and took a bite; Richard could hear the crunch. “No,” Alec decided, “it’s too fresh to be forgotten.” He rubbed excess juice from his lips with the back of the hand that held the apple, sorting through the box with the other. “He doesn’t think much of your palette: apples, cheese, brown ale. No delicacies for the swordsman.” He took another bite of the apple and replaced the lid. “I did warn you. I’m expecting this trip to be a mistake. And I can feel that house will be ugly.”

He was wrong though; at least about the house. It was designed and decorated in accordance with the current mode; unoffensive, if also uncreative. Alec sneered at its size, but it was larger than any building Richard had slept in before, and empty except for them and a few live-in servants, who mostly ignored them, to Richard’s relief. Despite the many rooms with furniture covered in white cloth and curtains closed to prevent fading the wallpaper, they’d been given a small room near the pantry, which Alec swore was meant for a servant. “Probably a chambermaid,” he’d said, irritated, “or a seamstress. Tell me, Richard, where does a swordsman rank on the hierarchy below stairs?”

But mostly he was pleased. Richard had been right about the library, and Alec was content to be lazy, relaxing in the long, empty days. The grounds were filled with trees that provided shade and cooled the air when it blew, filling it with the scent of ripening apples and peaches. There was a flowerbed near the front entrance, trellises of roses and jasmine and honeysuckle, the blossoms heavy and full, most of them blown in the heat. The house had been built recently enough to have large windows, and they left them open at night for those scents, heavy and almost too sweet.

“I suppose,” Alec granted on the third evening, “you were right. It’s an improvement over Riverside.” He was sitting on the floor by the bed, attempting to teach himself to deal from the bottom of a deck of cards without dropping them. Richard could have shown him how, but Alec hadn’t asked.

“I wonder if it worked,” he said idly.

“If what worked?”

“This. The country trip, the escape from the city, all of that. Did he get people to talk about him in the end?”

“I thought you didn’t like it when people talked about you.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be about me, would it?” Richard pointed out. “It would be about what’s-his-name. All I did was beat Miltner, which is hardly worth mentioning. But my patron, now; he hired a swordsman over a game of billiards.”

“I doubt it. Anyone who wants attention that badly is sure to be utterly uninspiring.”

“I don’t think you’d like him. I didn’t.”

“I never like your patrons, Richard, you know that. They want you to kill for them, but only if it’s proper, tidy. Safe.” He spat the word out like a curse. And then he shrugged one shoulder and said, in a lighter tone, “Besides, they’re always nobles. If I liked the nobles, I wouldn’t have to spend summers in Riverside in the first place.”

Richard watched his hands on the cards, squaring the deck neatly for another attempt. “No other reason?” he dared to ask.

Alec looked up at him, and the cards jumped out of his grasp. He looked down again, swearing as he bent to sweep them up.

“Here, you’re holding it wrong,” Richard said, taking Alec’s right hand and fitting his fingers around the top of the deck more tightly, letting the smallest finger slip, hidden, underneath the cards. “Try it like that.”

Alec did, but the result was still too obvious; if he wanted to cheat, he’d have to be able to deal the cards without anyone noticing. It didn’t seem to bother him, though; he wasn’t even watching the deck. “Never mind. There’s no one to play against here. Except for you, and you won’t gamble.”

Richard’s hand was still on his wrist; he slid it down and took the cards gently from Alec’s grasp, rearranging them to the right hold. “Watch me, I’ll-”

“Richard.” Alec shoved hard at the cards, and Richard let them fall, not watching how they scattered. Alec raised himself to his knees and spread his arms. “I said, never mind. Kiss me,” he commanded, and Richard obeyed.

***

Richard had discovered a small brook in one corner of the grounds, and the next day he decided to go fishing, borrowing a pole from the old gardener. Alec came with him, carrying a book he had secretly removed from the library. It, like all the others, was a dark reddish-brown; as Alec had predicted, they were the same shade as the imported carpet.

The water of the brook was cool, and the shade of the trees dappled its surface. There was a rotting log a little downstream, just the sort of place trout liked to hide, and a mossy bank where Alec could sit and lean against some overgrown roots. Richard discarded his shoes and put his feet into the water; it might scare away the fish, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to catch one anyway. It wasn’t as if they needed it; the house’s pantry was more than adequately stocked.

They had been sitting there for a time, producing neither fish nor words, when Richard noticed the birds had fallen silent. He half-turned, and caught a distant crunching sound. “What’s that?”

Alec looked up from his book, puzzled, and then he heard it too. “Gravel. Someone’s riding through the gates.”

They looked at each other, wary. Richard sighed. “Come on. We’d better see who it is.” He was glad he’d brought a sword with him that morning. It wouldn’t be impossible for some young blade to have followed them out here, expecting to make his name by catching St Vier unprepared.

The brook wasn’t far from the front of the house, and they arrived in time to see a large carriage pulling up to the door, more ornate even than the one they’d ridden in. Richard stopped while still hidden in the shade of the trees, waiting to see who emerged. Alec took a few further steps, but Richard caught him by the arm, drawing him back. It was a sign of Alec’s nervousness that he came.

It was a young man, of average height and build, but wearing a garish outfit of royal purple. Richard recognized him by the curly blond hair, just a little longer than most nobles’, and relaxed. “It’s my patron,” he said. “I wonder what he’s doing here.”

Alec went rigid under Richard’s hand. “You never told me it was Will Nevilleson!”

“I didn’t think it mattered.” Richard started forward, but halted, noticing how pale Alec’s face had gotten. “What’s wrong? Do you know him?”

“No. Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”

“Alec,” Richard said, uncertain. “He doesn’t know you’re here.”

“Shall I hide under the bed, then? I don’t think I’d fit in the linen closet. Perhaps if you snuck me a bit of bread once a day....” He trailed off, turning from the sight of the housekeeper curtseying to Nevilleson. “Listen. There’s more coming.”

***

They snuck in through the back servants’ entrance which, as Alec had pointed out, was suspiciously close to their room. By that point, four carriages had passed through the front gates, and there seemed to be no indication that that was the last of them.

“Do you think he could have forgotten we were here?” Richard asked, more to distract Alec than any other reason. He was pacing up and down the hallway, arms crossed tightly across his chest.

“No. He’s throwing a house party. You don’t throw a house party with the city’s most expensive, most notorious, most reclusive swordsman in your house by accident.”

“I’m not reclusive,” Richard said mildly. “I just don’t like parties.”

Alec rolled his eyes. “Oh, yes. I’m sure if we go and explain to him that you’re not reclusive, it’s just that you’re a bit shy, he’ll call the whole thing off.”

“I don’t think there’s a way out of it. Maybe it won’t be so bad. He might have those little cakes you like.”

Alec’s fingers tightened on his arms, and Richard thought he might hide in the bedroom after all. But he drew himself up to his full height. “Let’s go, then. Before I change my mind.”

Nevilleson was in the reception hall. Luckily, he was alone except for a servant he was giving instructions to; Richard could hear the voices of the other nobles a few rooms away. He had to wait only briefly. “St Vier!” Nevilleson shouted, louder than necessary, as he caught sight of them, dismissing the footman with a slap on the shoulder.

“Hello,” Richard said. He could feel Alec hovering behind him, tension radiating off of the man.

Nevilleson came at them with an arm extended, as though he would drop it around the swordsman’s shoulders, but Richard shifted his weight backward slightly, and Nevilleson let the arm drop. His wide grin didn’t falter. “Welcome, welcome! I hope you’re enjoying the stay.” He seemed to notice Alec for the first time, a slight question coming into his eyes. “Both of you?”

Richard paused to see if Alec would say something, but he was silent. When the wait became uncomfortable, he said, “This is Alec. He’s with me.”

Nevilleson didn’t acknowledge him, just continued staring at Alec. His furrowed brown and pale hair gave him the look of a pug dog. “David? Is that really you?”

“William,” Alec said cooly.

“I- I heard- that is...” Nevilleson shook his head. “I had no idea you were here.”

“I heard you were giving a party. Richard and I adore parties.” Alec gestured to the clothes he was wearing, old things he’d put on that morning when they’d thought they’d be alone. His breeches were threadbare at the knees, his boots needed resoling, and he wasn’t even wearing a jacket. At least his shirt was new. “Of course, if we’d known, I’d have dressed up.”

Nevilleson, to his credit, took no more than a polite glance at the outfit. “Well, of course you’re invited. In fact, this is wonderful.” A smile, proud and anticipatory, lit his face. “You’ll have so much to talk about!”

“Charming,” Alec drawled.

Nevilleson caught the irony, but tried to smooth it over. “Would you like some time to freshen up? Perhaps you could wait to join us for dinner; we’ll be eating at six. Country hours, you know.”

“Don’t be silly; I can’t keep your guests in anticipation. That would be rude.” He took Richard’s arm to escort him to a door on the left; the gesture must have looked casual, but Richard could feel how taut he was. Nevilleson hurried to catch up with them, a slightly stunned look on his face. Richard recognized the expression from people Alec didn’t like.

They paused on the threshold, and the low chatter of the gossip within died out as those gathered there turned to look at them. Richard was already regretting this; he didn’t like these looks, curious with a bit of impatience. He suspected that they thought he and Alec were beggars Nevilleson had brought inside for some no doubt amusingly eccentric reason.

“This is St Vier,” Nevilleson announced. “I’m sure we’re all honored by his presence here. I know I feel lucky to get to talk to the great man. He accepts invitations so rarely these days!” He laughed, the sort of laugh the nobles used when they thought they were being generous. The eyes in the room all focused on him.

“And this,” Nevilleson said, a bit more awkwardly, “is an unexpected guest, though no less welcome. I’m sure some of you know David Campion Tre-”

Alec waved a hand, cutting him off. “Now, now, there’s no need to be so formal. We’re all friends here, aren’t we? David is fine.”

And then no one was looking at Richard. Nevilleson proceeded to introduce the people in the room, but the names washed through Richard’s mind. Mostly young men, Alec’s and Nevilleson’s age, with a handful of young women, and a few older ones, scattered here and there throughout the group. Chaperones, he supposed. Despite the long ride in the carriages, they were dressed in unwrinkled finery, lightweight linens and thin silks. Several of the women waved painted fans in a manner meant more to draw attention to their faces and necks than to cool the air.

Alec nodded to the room grandly, his smile wide, his eyes unhealthily bright. As soon as Nevilleson had finished speaking, he plunged into the crowd, drawing Richard along by their linked arms. He headed first for one of the young women, a short, thin girl with black hair and a pink dress.

“Sarah Wells,” Alec said. “How do you do?”

Her eyes were large and dark, and a slight blush came to her cheeks at Alec’s attention. Her fan was painted with cherry blossoms the pale pink of the inside of a shell. “Very well, my lord. And you?”

“Oh, but I am also very well. Isn’t this such a pleasant party? Not like some.” Alec frowned theatrically. “You made my sister cry at her birthday party.”

She laughed nervously, and her fan moved faster. “I don’t remember.”

“I do,” Alec purred. “You told her she was too ugly to play games with you, and then you threw her doll in the mud.”

“Oh. Yes. Well, we were all such naughty children, were’t we? It seems so long ago.”

“Janice washed the doll, but she never could get the mud out of that dress. My mother beat her for it,” Alec said, offering the information like an observation on the weather.

She opened her mouth slowly, but closed it without a word, pressing her lips tight together and looking away.

“Alec,” Richard said, his voice low.

Alec didn’t look at him. “Lovely reminiscing with you,” he said brightly to the girl. She closed her fan and clutched it tight in her hands, eyes still downcast. “I must go and say hello to the others now. Perhaps we’ll play cards, after dinner? I am very good at whist.”

The party was like that. Alec didn’t know everyone in the room, but that didn’t stop him from insulting them. When Richard left his side for a glass of the lemonade servants had brought, a few of the men cornered him to ask questions about swordfighting. Richard was not good at explaining how he did what he did, and had started avoiding these parties precisely because of such questions. Most of them weren’t worth the effort; he was tempted to ask in return, you do know you’re not supposed to hold it by the sharp end, don’t you?

But he knew what they really wanted to ask; he could see how their eyes went from him to Alec. None of them dared. Not yet. It was early, though, and there had not been much to drink.

Nevilleson didn’t look pleased, which Richard didn’t understand; this was certainly a party that would be remembered.

By the afternoon, the gathering had dispersed a bit; some to the games room, some to a small parlor with a harpsichord, some to stroll the grounds. Richard caught Alec in the hallway. “Hasn’t it been enough?”

“But we’re having such fun, Richard.” Alec’s face gave the lie to his words; the skin around his eyes was dark, his lips chapped and pale. The note of sarcasm in his voice was savage. From a near room came the sound of billiard balls clicking and, following, low male laughter.

“This isn’t good for you.”

“I’m not-”

They both caught the sound of Alec’s name from nearby, spoken with careless superiority. “Do you think he really lets that swordsman fuck him?”

“Why else would he be here?”

“I suppose St Vier seems a nice enough fellow, but... to live in Riverside? What could he be playing at?”

“Well, his grandfather did go mad. They say it runs in the family.”

A third voice, more amused than the other two, broke in. “You’re ascribing far too much credit to David. There’s no grand mystery there. He likes it rough, that’s all.”

“Don’t be so crude, Thomas. There has to be something more to it than that.”

“I doubt it. You’ve seen how St Vier handles a sword, haven’t you?” More laughter.

Alec’s face was red and his mouth had tightened, drawn to a thin line. Richard placed a hand on his sword’s hilt, but Alec shook his head. “They’re all thinking it. You can’t kill an entire party of nobles.”

“I wouldn’t have to kill all of them. Just the one who said it. To make a point.”

“They won’t learn. They can’t. Learning would imply their own imperfection.”

“To scare them, then. To give them something else to say.”

“Yes.” Alec smiled, though none of the strain left his face. “You’re right. We’ll make a point.”

He posed on the threshold, allowing the doorway to frame him: a tall, fine-boned figure, aristocratic despite the shabby clothes. There was the brief hush that follows the appearance of the object of discussion, but the room went deadly silent when they noticed Richard motionless by his side, hand still on his sword. A few of the men wore thin court swords, too light and bejeweled for real fighting, but more of them had discarded weapons entirely, counting on the small group and causal environment for safety.

“Thomas. Simon. Leo.” Alec nodded at the three men in turn, singling them out from the rest.

One of the three, the youngest-looking, had gone pale already. “David,” he said, “it didn’t mean anything. You know how people talk- it was just curiosity-”

Alec listened with a show of patience, but the man came stumbling to a halt over his own words. “Three of them,” Alec said, disregarding the excuses, “and only two of us. That doesn’t seem like fair odds, does it?”

"For me,” Richard asked, “or for them?”

Another one of the men laughed, a note of fear in it. “You can’t really mean to challenge us, David. I’m not armed.” He turned, trying to get some others to agree with him.

Alec shrugged. “The law does not concern itself with such matters. As long as the challenge is spoken out first. Trust me. I am quite intimate with the details of the laws regarding dueling. As you may remember.”

The third man Alec had singled out, the one who hadn’t spoken yet, snorted. “The law, perhaps, doesn’t care. But what of honor?” His had been the last voice, the one full of smug insinuation. It was indignant now, resenting the situation.

“Oh, honor. Of course. What do you think honor has to say here, Richard?”

“Yours has been touched, my lord.”

“See, there? I think we all can agree on that.” He pointed to the third man; Thomas, Richard thought his name had been. “Him.”

The man’s foot slipped back half a step before he steadied himself, his right hand opening and closing on the empty air beside his hip. Richard drew his sword, and the rasp of metal from the scabbard was very loud in the quiet room.

“Here, now,” one of the onlookers began. “You can’t-”

“Be quiet,” Alec growled.

Richard steadied his sword, the tip at the man’s chest, and waited. He had no pity for him, but this wasn’t his way: an unarmed man, who wasn’t even trying to back away. Waiting for Alec to call him off, Richard met the man’s eyes; they were hazel, but they fluttered closed at Richard’s gaze.

It seemed like a long time passed. Richard thought Alec must have changed his mind, decided to kill the man after all. He couldn’t delay any longer; holding the man like this, making him wait, must be a sort of torture. He drew back, elbow bent, and at that moment two things happened: someone arrived in the room at a run, noisily crashing against the doorframe, and underneath Alec said, “Wait.”

“What are you doing?” Nevilleson said, his voice rough from the dash to the room.

“Things were growing a bit boring. Don’t blame yourself, it’s just that time of day: too late for tea, too early for dinner... what to do? I thought I’d help.”

“Thank you,” Nevilleson said carefully. Richard turned his head just enough to see him from the corner of his eyes. “That will be unnecessary.”

“So many things are,” Alec said politely. “But isn’t this why you invited us?”

“No.”

“Isn’t this what you wanted? Something for everyone to talk about?”

“No.” Richard could see Nevilleson swallow, hear how difficult the word was for him. “Please.”

Alec gave a deep, satisfied sigh. “As you like.”

Richard did not step back immediately; instead he pressed the sword forward, slowly and deliberately. It reached the man’s shirt, dented the crisp, white linen, and touched the chest beneath. A little harder, and he could feel in the sword how the man trembled; harder still, and he would have felt his heartbeat, though just for an instant. He didn’t; this was enough. When he sheathed his sword, there was the tiniest spot of blood on the man’s chest, no bigger than a thumbprint.

“I do hate to leave a party early, but I’ve a prior engagement.” Alec looked around the room, and his smile was vicious. Nevilleson stayed silent, making none of the polite protests that appropriate. “All of you, please feel free to pay us a visit anytime. We’re in Riverside; ask for Marie the whore.”

They left the room, and behind them, conversation was slow to start.

“You know,” Richard said, “none of them will hire me now.”

“Oh, you’re wrong. Everyone is going to want you; more so, I mean. You came off just as they adore: silent, obedient, and deadly.”

“Not Thomas,” Richard said, remembering the look in the man’s eyes.

“Well, one can’t have everything.”

“They won’t like you, for this.” 
“And so? They didn’t like me before.”

Footsteps sounded behind them. Alec turned suddenly, opening the nearest door and rushing into it. Richard followed, and Alec closed the door softly behind them, pressing his ear to it. They were in another bedroom, larger than the one they’d been given. It had a feel of readiness: there were new candles on the table and fresh linens on the bed. An opened trunk waited against one wall, bright-colored dresses waiting inside.

“Are we hiding?” Richard asked, amused.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Alec was stiff, though, near the breaking point with the pressure that had been building in him all day, ever since that first sound of a carriage on the gravel path. He took a shallow breath, and then another. Richard could see that they were coming too quickly, and realized this was the moment when Alec might do anything. There was no expression on his face, no clue to what might come.

He knew better than to touch Alec, not yet; he had tried it before, thinking he could soothe away the tension, and Alec had struck him, twisting away as he lashed out, his voice suddenly raised and angry. Alec wasn’t a fighter, but a lucky blow had caught Richard in the mouth, and when he touched his fingers to his lips there had been blood.

Now, Alec took a step away from the door, but still rested his hands on it; he clenched them into fists, the knuckles white against the dark wood. “I don’t want them to know me. I don’t want them to see me.”

“I know.”

“You can’t stop them. You can’t kill all of them,” he said again, but earlier he had been joking, and this was harsh.

“We could leave. Just go, away from here, right now.”

Alec turned his head slowly, his eyes glittering. “Richard,” he breathed, and his voice trembled on the edge of anger and desire. “I did.”

He came away from the door, and his fingers were hard as stone as he took Richard’s hand, as they drew together, but Richard still waited until Alec kissed him, and then he opened his mouth, tasting him, and closed his eyes. Alec’s hands ran over him, searching, and took hold of his face, pulling him closer. Alec’s body had no softness in it now, no hint of comfort, as clear and fine and sharp as broken glass. He was asking for something, wordlessly- to forget, to feel, to burn out- and Richard wanted to give him whatever he needed.

They didn’t make it to the bed. Alec gasped with something like pain when Richard drew open his breeches. “No, they’ll hear us.”

“Not if you’re quiet.”

“I don’t think I can.” But he released Richard’s wrist, and made no protest when Richard stroked him, made no sound at all. Richard kissed his neck, and felt Alec swallow under his mouth, could nearly feel the words struggling to break free.

Richard dropped to his knees, and felt with pleasure the sharp arc Alec’s body made, jerking up even before he took Alec in his mouth. Alec’s breath sounded almost like sobs, rough and short, and he tasted of sweat and seed. Richard looked up, and saw Alec had his hand pressed tight to his mouth, saw him throw his head back against the wall with enough force to strike a dull thud. The reverberations seemed to travel down him in shudders. Richard drew his mouth slowly away and then back again, fascinated to watch how hard Alec fought, how reluctantly he let go of his control. When release finally took him, he shook like a flag cracked by the wind, lips pulled back from his teeth, one hand clenched hard in Richard’s hair. He nearly fell, then, and as Richard caught him, held him, he saw the imprint of teeth on Alec’s palm and ran a thumb over the livid marks.

***

It was evening when they left, the sky streaked red and gold and purple with the lingering summer sunset. Alec convinced the stablehand that they’d been sent to fetch supplies from the village below- “you know his lordship demands fresh berries this time of year. Hurry up, man; I’m not going to be blamed for your slowness. How long does it take to saddle a horse?”- and they rode out before the first stars had appeared. Richard hadn’t ridden a horse in years, but he must have managed well enough, because he caught Alec glancing at him in surprise.

There was no one else on the road, and Richard doubted they’d be missed before morning. Alec tried to convince him to engage in some highway robbery, but in the end the only person they passed was a night mail coach, a few drowsing passengers slumped on the roof. Alec would still have gone for it, but Richard argued that the only thing to steal on a mail coach was likely to be a governess’s trunk of dresses, and if Alec wanted grey flannel so badly, they could buy it. In the end, the matter was dropped, though Alec pretended to sulk for a few miles.

It was black midnight when they caught sight of a glow in the sky ahead of them. They were walking the horses to rest them, and the low hanging clouds reflected the city’s light, rosy orange, like a beacon for travelers. “It looks almost pleasant, from here,” Alec said.

Richard laughed. “It’s not so late as that. We can still catch a game at Rosalie’s, if you want.”

“Do you think I could bet a horse?”

“Easier to change them for coin outside the gates.”

“Less amusing, though.” Alec sat the horse with unusual grace, the reins held loosely in his hands, his back- for once- straight. He looked the part: a nobleman fully, in the dark of night. He could have ridden to the Hill like that, even ridden back to Nevilleson’s house, and they would have taken him in. Richard felt a slight twinge at that, and put the thought aside. He didn’t need Alec. It was the reason he loved him.

“To Riverside, then?”

“Of course.” Alec gave him a scornful look, and snapped the reins, the horse under him shifting to a trot. “Hurry up. I can’t wait to get drunk.”

***

Yuletide, Part Two!

2012-12-31T16:54:26Z

I got a Yuletide Madness story! And, um, somehow did not notice until today. But that is not a reflection on the quality of the story!

Where We're At Is an Act - Swordspoint, Alec/OMC, R. It is Alec in University, with another student, and it is so, so good. the voice is perfect. Go! Read!