The Fallen Blade: Act One of the Assassini [Paperback]

The Fallen Blade is the first book in Jon Courtenay Grimwood's new series, The Assassini. In it, he creates an alternate 15th century Venice, one plagued not just by the era's political upheavals, but also vampires, werewolves and witches. It is an exciting time to be alive (or undead).

For a relatively compact book, The Fallen Blade contains a sprawling cast of characters and no shortage of action. The ostensible lead is a mysterious young man called Tycho - who has, quite literally, appeared from nowhere (or ancient Scandinavia, same difference). Tycho is a gorgeous physical specimen with the face of an angel. However, that's where the resemblance ends. He's a vampire (Mr. Grimwood gains kudos not only for avoiding the word but also avoiding it in a natural way) and one with no self-control.

Anne recently drew parallels between vampirism and puberty and, in The Fallen Blade, Mr. Grimwood continues to link the two. Tycho is a raging pit of hormones - hungry, horny and hot - and he's straddling not two, but a half-dozen worlds. His distant Viking past is a series of upsetting memories, his life on the Venetian streets is confusing and lawless and his cultivation into high society is a series of unpleasant, non-sensical rules. Tycho is a perpetual conflict between his festering, murderous instincts and the brittle veneer of civilisation that has been lacquered onto him by his more patient friends.

Arguably the least patient of said friends is Atilo, the city-state's chief assassin. In a previous life (figuratively - unlike Tycho, Atilo is still very much human), Atilo was a warlord for the city's enemies. In a bid to save his home and family, he sold himself to Venice's previous duke, and proved his worth time and time again as a naval commander (publically) and assassin (privately). Atilo is a far cry from the ubiquitous hooded young bravos that grace genre covers. He's older, grumpier and more thoughful. In contrast to the testosterone-pit that is Tycho, Atilo is an iron rod of discipline. He's shockingly cruel to those around him, but that's because he's focused on the greater good. Of course, this invariably comes back to bite him (no pun intended, mostly), as it is the human relationships that repeatedly wind up saving the day - not Atilo's greater schemes.

Also of note are Giulietta (the closest Venice comes to a princess) and Roderigo (vaguely analogous to the city's chief of police). Both are pawns in the great game - Giulietta is repeatedly pursued, kidnapped, pursued again, kidnapped again and dangled as lovely bait in front of friend and foe alike. Roderigo is a piece of slightly lesser value, but he's caught between the discreetly warring factions of the city's oligarchy, trying desperately to preserve both the city's peace and his own neutrality.

To these four characters (and a half-dozen others) fall the task of saving Venice from its enemies within and without. The city's streets are filled with werewolves and gangs, every dark alley packed with assassins and alchemists. Outside of its walls, Venice's status as an independent power means that it is caught between empires, stuck tenuously balancing enemies in order to preserve its freedom.

The setting is magnificent - Mr. Grimwood indulges himself in the tiny details of statuary and dress. But his Venice isn't world-building for its own sake, it is a matter of making the stakes abundantly clear in the book's dangerous game. If the city is to fall to pirates/gangs/Germans, it isn't an academic matter - it is a case of losing a uniquely brilliant culture, and one that, in 1407, is already indescribably ancient.

Not that the stakes are even necessary. Although his portrayal of the city has been justifiably praised in other reviews, I found that Mr. Grimwood's political maneuverings stole the show. The undead are a dime a dozen, but books that can actually dramatise 15th century Mediterranean politics in an intriguing way are much rarer finds. This also says volumes about the author's ability to integrate the supernatural in a seamless way - I was less interested in the fantastical existence of werewolves than the murky realities of who was financing their operation. Probably the closest comparison for me would be John Ford's award-winning The Dragon Waiting - which also combined genre and period politics in a way that emphasized the latter. That's a book I've read over and over again without finding a literary heir - Mr. Grimwood may have just provided it.

In fact, the only bits I didn't enjoy of The Fallen Blade were those moments when it slipped into the wholly supernatural - mostly championed by A'rial, a demonic young witch with plot-bursting occult powers. Tycho and his lycanthropic foes fit into the dirty machinery of the era, more pawns in the great game, but A'rial's awkward near-omnipotence threatens to flip the board off the table entirely. I could see how she is a necessary evil, but not one I particularly enjoy.

The Fallen Blade is a twisted, Machiavellian, complicated and ornate book about survival and the terrible lengths people will go to for power. It may dress itself in the trappings of an angel-faced vampire assassin, but readers expecting Brent Weeks will be stunned to find Tim Powers instead. And even that is unfair - political, compelling, dark and urbane, this is a unique and stylish book that belongs wholly to Mr. Grimwood.

There's enough going on in the first hundred pages of The Fallen Blade that I honestly had trouble keeping track; enough character, atmosphere and narrative in that short space to fit out a swathe of less ambitious fantasy sagas from top to tail. Overwhelming is what it is, initially, and for its density - for its complete and utter abundance from the word "go" - The Fallen Blade will very likely haemorrhage readers of a certain type. For myself, only rarely will I think to put a book down without sticking with it till the bitter end... and I nearly did this. Nearly... but not quite.

Imagine my astonishment, then, that having resolved to give Jon Courtenay Grimwood's dark fantasy debut a little longer to find its feet, and taken the opportunity to realign a few of my own key expectations, I found in The Fallen Blade the first act of a trilogy with such tremendous promise that at this point, its difficult beginning be damned, I wouldn't hesitate to proclaim it the finest new series of the year to date.

Perhaps the problem I found myself facing, starting in on book one of The Assassini, was a lack of familiarity with the author: an award-winner, at that. And here I hadn't read End of the World Blues, or The Arabesk Trilogy -- more fool me, from where I stand now.

But I don't think that was it.

I think the trouble was, I came to The Fallen Blade expecting a certain standard of fantasy -- which is to say, politely put, standard fantasy. We all know the like, no doubt. And what with the uninspiring blurb and cover art adorning Orbit's edition of The Fallen Blade, it's surely fair to say I had my reasons. Namely a city teetering on the brink of collapse, with a war in the offing, a history of horrors and a proliferation of political strife. Want to bet a pretty boy with incredible supernatural powers will somehow save the day?

Well, not so much.

Tycho - he of the aforementioned angel face (p.43) - is assuredly our protagonist for the macabre entertainments to come throughout the remainder of this stunning introduction to the world of The Assassini, but let's be clear here: he's no sweet cheeks, despite sharing a name (somewhat distractingly) with one half of renowned internet funmongers Penny Arcade. Either a fallen angel or a risen devil, Tycho is at the outset of The Fallen Blade as new to the filthy 15th century Venice of Grimwood's trilogy as you and I; and as new to himself, too, for he's an amnesiac when we meet, only lately freed from a voyage to the city spent in cruel and unusual captivity. Or so one gathers.

You might think his gradual awakening, both to who he is and to the festering wonders of the world around him, would work as an ideal means of introducing the reader to this "city of gilt, glass and assassinations," (p.28) and so it serves to... eventually. But in the early going this is assuredly not that sort of novel. Much in the mode of the hard SF this author cut his teeth on, Grimwood courageously refuses to pander; his priorities at the outset of The Assassini are of a grander order than the offering up of accessible worldbuilding and an array of relatable characters. Inevitably, readers used to the baby's-first-fantasy chaperoning of so many genre novels will find themselves floundering for a foothold through the first act of The Fallen Blade. For me, my own frustrations are evidence enough of that disheartening fact.

But I wouldn't change it if I could. Grimwood might make you work for it - for an understanding of this murderous, Machiavellian society wherein "the briefest glimpse of lovers, seen through the window of a candlelit room overlooking the Grand Canal, carried more interest than prices murdered on Venetian orders miles away," (p.145) check your undivided attention in at the entrance - but the end result of all your effort is a red-wine rich and resplendent sight; a measured assault on the senses which only a precious few fantasists are capable of accomplishing in fiction.

The Fallen Blade is many things, and if there's any justice in the publishing industry - and I dearly hope there is - it will be many things to many people. At first, it's hard work; I make no bones about that. Having come to fantasy only after sharpening his storytelling skills as a science fiction author, working in a field esteemed for its intelligence and density, Jon Courtenay Grimwood's prose in The Fallen Blade is so finely honed as to seem a point... a point which some readers will struggle to see past. But at the last, The Fallen Blade is a darkly remarkable first fantasy, featuring goodly amounts of sex, death and other assorted grimnesses, set in a squalorous city the equal of Styria - from fellow filth slash fine art purveyor Joe Abercrombie's Best Served Cold - and starring in Tycho a character handily up to the task of carrying a thickly political narrative with such boundless ambition as to recall no-one more than George R. R. Martin.

It really is quite good, shall we say.

Recently I've been embarrassed to tell people I like books about vampires, because the whole sparkly teenage angst thing has ruined them for me. What I like, I want to yell at them, is GOOD BOOKS about vampires (see also "The Vampire Tapestry" by Suzy McKee Charnas. "Nosferatu" by Paul Monette). Vampires are monsters, and what makes them interesting is when they realise their difference and are intrigued by it.
Tycho is never referred to as a vampire. The word is never even used. He is undoubtedly a blood-drinking monster, but living in Renaissance Venice he is surrounded by humans who behave far worse than he does. At the start he is not much more than a thirsty animal, and his climb from slave to lord speaks as much of his desire to learn and improve as it does of his usefulness to those around him. He learns to lie, and control his appetites, and to love. And that's all you get of spoilers. I have just inhaled the first and second books and will be twiddling my thumbs until part three comes out.