Friday, March 16, 2018

Review: Royal Assassin

Royal Assassin Royal Assassin by Robin Hobb
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I’ll repeat my earlier conclusion in this, the second of Hobb’s Farseer trilogy: after George R.R. Martin, she is the most capable person writing in this slice of the fantasy genre. She has a clear vision of the world she’s describing, she has the ability to move a plot forward (though, given the constraints of the way the genre is marketed, she does so very slowly), and she has a sense of deep detail. When you read her stuff, you get a sense of the very specific economy of the seven duchies. You see what it means to run a stable, to make and market your scented candles, or to learn the hard lessons of how to fight. Many of her competitors try, but they fall far short of what she accomplishes. She runs on, but she does so in a careful survey of the world she’s invented.

On top of that, in this volume particularly, she is using her “system of magic” (a term I don’t like since it treats something potentially wondrous like an algebra problem) to explore a legitimate, human question: to what extent are we “selves” in the sense of being locked in our own experience, and to what extent are we connected to others who are sorting out what it means to be alive.

One of the magics in play here, the wit, is precisely that. It’s an extra sense that allows you to know what animals are experiencing. In its extreme form, it means “bonding” to an animal, making an alliance with a creature very different from yourself and thereafter seeing the world through two sets of senses.

Hobb is at her best and most compelling here when she brings that material out. The scenes where Fitz comes to bond with his wolf, Night Eyes, are among the best. Hobb avoids the easy way of describing it, avoids the notion that getting to see through a wolf’s eyes is somehow an addition to oneself. Instead, she makes clear that it exacts a price. It’s too much like love, too close to giving ones full self over, to be something that is merely empowering.

We get the voice of Burrich who knows to fear the wit, who knows the potential for it to turn a man into an animal. Fitz insists he’s wrong, but we see enough to know that Burrich has a point. Giving that much of yourself to anyone – even in the more conventional sense of dedicating oneself to king or country – is somehow wrong. I almost used the word “sinful,” but that’s not quite right. The concept is more fundamental, more a matter of deep gut instinct than any larger system of ethics.

We get a parallel concern in the way ‘the skill’ works. At its best, in the hands of Prince Verity, it allows someone to send his or her strength to others. (It also allows someone to beguile another, but Verity makes clear that such magic isn’t to his taste, even as he spends much of the book practicing it.) It lets you give of yourself to others in ways that simultaneously deplete you. For Verity, it’s also about love, loving his subjects, but it’s wearing him out.

So, with those kinds of ideas in play and the rich detail that Hobb gives, this middle book in the trilogy sustains the strong work of the first book. I can’t entirely forgive what seems like unnecessary slowness, but I did find myself caught up in the action as Fitz found himself going up against Regal and his coterie.

If you don’t care for the genre – and there is enough silliness inherent in it that I get your concern – this isn’t the one to start with. If you’ve enjoyed Game of Thrones, though, this is better than any of the dozens of door-stopper imitators and wannabes I’m aware of.


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