Significantly better than the first book in this series, Whiskey and Water picks up the loose ends from [b:Blood and Iron|185637|Blood and Iron (Promethean Age, Book 1)|Elizabeth Bear|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1172527400s/185637.jpg|179435] and sustains them through half the book, building to a much more satisfying climax consisting of multiple battles and tense magical standoffs. My gripe: why did I have to wait for book 2 for all that heavy worldbuilding to pay off?!

As with its predecessor, Whiskey and Water suffers from a surfeit of mythology and mythological characters, particularly when it comes to Devils. The complex, and apparently ineffable, rules of magic and Fae once again serve as the cornerstone for the major plots. This time around, I simply gave up trying to make sense of the magical guidelines and tried to enjoy the story. It worked. Sort of.

Several familiar characters return in this sequel, including Matthew Szczegielniak, Jane Andraste, Carel the Merlin, Morgan le Fey, Elaine (now Queen of the Daoine Sidhe), and the eponymous Kelpie, Whiskey. Joining them are some new faces: Kit Marlowe (the one and only); Devils Lucifer, Satan, and Christian (an unconvincing antagonist at best); archangel Michael; and several mortals who may or may not die over the course of the book. And again, it's difficult to tell who the "good guys" are.

Nominally, Matthew and his cohorts are supposed to be the protagonists. Jane Andraste serves as an antagonist, for her attempts to rebuild the Promethean Club may result in another war with Faerie. Meanwhile, Lucifer has his own agenda, as does the charming Christian, who poses as an apprentice to Jane. I found this aspect of the plot entirely unfulfiling. I never understood Christian's motivations--sheer malevolence, or was he working toward a greater plan?

There were few characters I could just sit back and enjoy. Donall Smith was one, because he seemed like a genuinely honest and good person. Like the other mortal characters, he suddenly becomes involved in an epic, centuries-old conflict. Unlike the other mortals, however, Donall actually has the guts to stand and fight. Aside from him, the best parts of Whiskey and Water happened around the climax of the book, when every petty conflict comes to a head simultaneously.

The rules that govern the Promethean Age seem too mutable. I'll again compare this series to the Dresden Files, by [a:Jim Butcher|10746|Jim Butcher|http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1205261964p2/10746.jpg]. The Dresdenverse has a complex set of rules, but I seldom feel burdened or confused by them. However, that may be due to the excellent writing and characterization in the Dresden Files books. The Promethean Age series' complex ruleset may be its single worst feature, but it's the characters and conflicts upon which the success of these books rests. And for me at least, there's just too much magic, too many beings who are, at least from a human's very limited perspective, apparently omnipotent.

The preponderance of powerful beings presents a problem: when unstoppable force meets immovable object, something's got to give. When Dragon faces off against Prometheans, when Hell and Heaven duel, and when one Fae queen plots against the other, the battlefield quickly gets complicated, and the plot can become hard to follow. Unfortunately, Elizabeth Bear's problem is that she tries to do too much and is forced to try to balance too many characters and too many conflicts. As a result, while I enjoyed the book--particularly the ending--I'm still somewhat confused, and not entirely certain of exactly who won or even for whom I should have cheered. While I'm all for moral ambiguity, I like to at least have a hero.

Why, why did [b:Blood and Iron|185637|Blood and Iron (Promethean Age, Book 1)|Elizabeth Bear|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1172527400s/185637.jpg|179435] and [b:Whiskey and Water|185639|Whiskey and Water (Promethean Age, Book 2)|Elizabeth Bear|http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51glVxZxXsL._SL75_.jpg|179437] precede this book?! Ink and Steel possesses the best qualities of its predecessors and few of their flaws. Elizabeth Bear's skill flourishes in an alternate Elizabethan England where Christopher Marlowe and William Shakespeare are agents for the Queen and have dealings with Fae.

By far, my reviews of the previous books singled out an overly-complicated mythology as the Promethean Age's major flaw. Ink and Steel retains much of the mythological basis present in the first two books, but it seems much less preoccupied about dancing around complicated rules. Only the teind, Faerie's seven-year tithe to Hell, plays a large role in this book, and that situation is easy enough to follow. There is no mention of the Dragon (yay) or Dragon Prince, and the concept of a Merlin appears only in passing.

Indeed, Ink and Steel benefits from a narrower focus and tighter, crisper storytelling. Now with fewer annoying human characters! Yes, I can actually like our two human protagonists, Marlowe and Shakespeare, something I had trouble doing with the human characters in the first two books. I credit much of this to the juxtaposition of Bear's fictitious Marlowe and Shakespeare with my own expectations for the characters based on what I know of their historical versions. Similarly, I quite enjoyed seeing Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford (and the true author of Shakespeare's plays according to some) and Ben Jonson.

The conflicts in Ink and Steel are superior to the first two books in this series. As mentioned above, they are easier to understand, and on a level, far more personal. On one level, Ink and Steel is a love story; on another level, it's a political drama where words and songs, poetry and plays, are the weapons of choice. In leveraging the poignant verse of Shakespeare and Marlowe, Bear skilfully reinforces the latter theme.

Ink and Steel makes an important distinction between mortals and the creatures of Faerie and Hell, beyond the obvious differences in strengths and weaknesses. Marlowe and Shakespeare--who are as much legend to us as Morgan and Arthur are to them--are portrayed as brilliant, passionated, and flawed human beings. Yet at the same time, they possess qualities that the Fae envy. I feel like Bear was attempting to draw these conclusions in the first books, particularly with changeling characters, like Elaine the Seeker. However, it took her three tries to perfect the message.

So far I've only compared Ink and Steel to its two predecessors. How does it stand on its own merits?

As noted, Bear makes masterful use of the Elizabethan setting and characters. While your mileage may vary, I personally I have a weakness for historical fiction set in the Elizabethan era--particularly historical fiction done well. There are too many epistolary sections for my taste.

The narrative perspective of Ink and Steel is somewhat more detached than I'd like. That's not to say that we're devoid of glimpses into the hearts of our characters. But each "scene" is related in a very cursory way, with emphasis placed more on dialogue than description. However, I suppose it's necessary in order to preserve the pacing of the story, which takes place over several mortal years, and I wouldn't be surprised if Bear chose to do this to further emulate the structure of a play. Not that such reasons make it any better....

But I mean ... come on. William Shakespeare. Christopher Marlowe. Faerie. Hell. What's not to like? It's 400 pages of quality fantasy, none of which is set in New York, and none of which involves an amoral Dragon manipulating matters behind the scenes. Ink and Steel, owing to its setting, was the book that attracted me to the Promethean Age series; I chose to start at book 1 because I worried I'd like back story. Hopefully, this review will convince anyone similarly interested solely in The Stratford Man duology (this book and [b:Hell and Earth|2436617|Hell and Earth (Promethean Age, Book 4)|Elizabeth Bear|http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51dutzZB0YL._SL75_.jpg|2443805]) to skip right to Ink and Steel. You won't miss anything.

Is it just me, or are books about dead characters living in an afterlife increasingly common? There must be something innately fascinating about making one's protagonist already dead. Fortunately, the eponymous afterlife known as "Elsewhere" is a pleasant, non-threatening environment where dead people age backward and then are born again as babies.

If I had a choice, reincarnation would not be my first choice of afterlife. The concept hinges on the idea that everyone has, ultimately, some form of "immortal soul" that remains constant across lifetimes. Because who we are is determined by our memories, and if we're reborn without our memories, we aren't us anymore. Elsewhere ducks the question of souls and religion in general, giving us a throwaway line that "God's there in the same way He, She, or It was before to you. Nothing has changed."

Very little about Elsewhere is actually explained beyond what affects the protagonist Liz Hall. Rather than a fascinating depiction of a potential afterlife, this bare-bones description of Elsewhere does little to disguise it as the allegorical environment it really is. Not that I have a problem with allegory--it's entirely appropriate to the story. But there's nothing wrong with dressing it up once and a while either. As a place, Elsewhere doesn't seem very interesting. On Earth, it would be called Suburbia, which I suspect would make it closer to Hell than Heaven. Everyone lives in a nice house, has a nice job, and is nice to people. Yet if Elsewhere itself is an allegory for growing up and leaving behind adolescence, what does that say about life in general? This is jarringly inconsistent with adolescence, adulthood, or any other period of life. The moral of Elsewhere seems to be that a life without conflict can be rewarding, and I don't see how that can be the case.

As far as the characters and story go, Elsewhere is predictable. This may not be the case for younger readers. Liz goes through the five stages of grief, then gets on with her "life", falls in love, and experiences a few more tribulations. For the most part, I enjoyed the characterization and dialogue in Elsewhere; Zevin has a knack for quickly turning minor characters into fully fleshed-out people. Unfortunately, few of this people are interesting or remarkable. I did not like Liz's love interest, who is shallow, insecure, and spineless. My opinion of Liz vacillates between "spoiled teen" and "poor girl", but again, I'm no longer a young adult, and I suspect that a teenage girl reading this book will empathize with Liz somewhat more than I could. Nevertheless, Zevin's characters are attractive on the surface, but few have any depth.

After the predictable resolution to the predictable climax, the plot seems nicely tied up, and I was ready for the book to end. Only it continued. For some time. The denouement became a lengthy postscript showcasing the rest of Liz's life up until her rebirth; suddenly the focus of the book had shifted from Liz's attempts to acclimate to how interesting ageing backward must be.

Yet in the course of the entire story, Elsewhere never manages to answer the most pressing question in my mind: why do people even age backward? Why don't they get reborn immediately after dying? What's the point to having a secular cosmic waiting-room where everyone goes on living, in reverse, until they are born again? Why is death exactly like life, and if we get to live after death, what's the point to life anyway?

Mildly amusing, Elsewhere will entertain young adults, but doesn't have much to offer older readers. The entire concept of Elsewhere is interesting, yet its full potential is never properly explored, and I'm not convinced that Elsewhere as an allegory has much to offer to anyone, regardless of age.

Skip this and read [b:The Five People You Meet in Heaven|3431|The Five People You Meet in Heaven|Mitch Albom|http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41D9P3BZSWL._SL75_.jpg|2561472] instead. I say this fully aware that Elsewhere isn't intended to be the same as The Five People You Meet in Heaven, yet even young adults can read and will benefit more from the latter than from this book.

Maybe I'm just not cut out for Dan Simmons' particular brand of mysticism. I didn't like the supernatural bent of [b:The Terror|3974|The Terror A Novel|Dan Simmons|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1165368437s/3974.jpg|3025639] and didn't like the supernatural bent of this book. What appears to be a suspenseful Dickensian supernatural mystery is actually, beneath the surface, an incredibly long and dull tour of Victorian London and opium dreams.

The jacket copy of this edition misconstrues the book's nature, at least in my opinion. When I borrowed this book, I thought I was getting a supernatural mystery told from the point of view of Charles Dickens (or perhaps following him from a limited third-person perspective). Instead, the actual narrator of the book is Dickens' friend and protégé, Wilkie Collins. In fact, I would go as far as saying that the book isn't about Dickens at all. It's more about Wilkie Collins, and Dickens is only involved because the majority of the public will have never heard of Collins but would love, like me, to read a book about Dickens. Now this is all well and good--I didn't mind reading a book about Wilkie Collins. I just wish I had known that going into the book.

Similarly, I shouldn't be upset about supernatural elements in a book that is supposed to be supernatural, right? Except that the entire "Drood" mystery is conflated by the prospect of it all being an opium- or mesmerism-induced fantasy. Perhaps I just dislike it when the supernatural elements aren't blatantly real but merely just suggested.

Almost everyone mentions the unnecessary length of Drood, and it's a valid point. There's no reason for this novel to be nearly 800 pages. Simmons does a wonderful job describing Victorian London, and I liked being immersed in that world. But he could have ... summarized certain episodes. The first two hundred or so pages are enjoyable, and then the book's supernatural aspect goes into overdrive, and it becomes tiresome.

This is just a book worth skipping, period. It doesn't matter how much you love Victorian London, Charles Dickens, or Wilkie Collins. There's no reason to subject yourself to Drood. The payoff isn't worth it. Go read an [a:Anne Perry|6331|Anne Perry|http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1216671529p2/6331.jpg] mystery instead.

Replete with political intrigue, a powerful alien aggressor, and parables of human folly, The Saga of Seven Suns has everything a reader wants from an epic science fiction adventure. Kevin J. Anderson has created a vision of humanity's future both comfortable and unique. While adhering to many established tropes in space operas, including a handwaved FTL drive and form of instantaneous communication (sort of), Anderson has crafted interesting political entities and distinct cultures with often-conflicting agendas.

I first read Hidden Empire several years ago, but I lost track of the series after a couple of books, so now I'm re-reading them from the beginning. Some of the blurbs on the back of this edition compare Anderson to [a:Frank Herbert|58|Frank Herbert|http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1168661521p2/58.jpg], but Hidden Empire is no [b:Dune|234225|Dune (Dune Chronicles #1)|Frank Herbert|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1172968533s/234225.jpg|3634639]. (And any of the Dune books written by Kevin J. Anderson aren't technically Dune either, because they're actually Kevin J. Anderson books!) Anderson is certainly a capable storyteller, but he's not in the league of Frank Herbert, and he's only an average writer at best. Hidden Empire consists of more telling than showing than I'd like to see--i.e., Anderson's omniscient third-person narrator often relates what characters think or desire instead of showing us through actions and specific scenes. Nevertheless, the plot of Hidden Empire makes up for any deficiencies in its characters.

This time, the aliens aren't invading Earth. Instead, in igniting a gas giant into a star, humans accidentally decimated a settlement of an alien species known as the "hydrogues", who live in the mega-pressure depths of gas giants. Interpreting this as an act of war, the hydrogues retaliate with their superior technology. And this isn't the first time the hydrogues have lashed out against "rock-dwellers," as we learn from disparate discoveries by human archaeologists and an unfortunate Ildiran historian. Yet Anderson makes it clear that even if the hydrogues don't ultimately destroy humanity, the machinations of its various cultures during the war may be humanity's undoing.

The plot of Hidden Empire is simply delightful. Predictable at times? Sure. Occasionally trite? Of course. It's got a nice balance of action and introspection, with a touch of romance and the necessary tragedy to accompany it. There are almost too many characters, but for an "epic" space opera, this is forgivable. Some you dismiss almost immediately, or write off as villainous. Others will eventually die, if not in this book, then the next, or maybe the one after that. A couple remain dear to your heart--I've a soft spot for the spunky Roamer Tasia, and for the green priests Nira and Beneto as well. Chairman Basil Wenceslas is a necessary antagonist, although the Mage-Imperator seems rather cardboard at times (again, Anderson's weak point lies in characterization).

Anyone who reads science fiction, especially space operas, needs to give Hidden Empire a try.

Military thrillers aren't among my preferred genres, so take this review with a grain of salt. If you're a fan of David Poyer and his Dan Lenson series, you'll probably like this book better than I did.

I found many of the details too esoteric for someone like me, and I don't fancy joining the US Navy just to find out what some of those acronyms mean. Similarly, especially near the end of the book, Poyer has way too much fun describing how to operate Juliet submarine. The amount of jargon might intimidate some readers.

That being said, as thrillers go, The Weapon had great pace. A couple of early setbacks, then a tense, action-packed climax and quick resolution. Not much I can complain about there.

The characters weren't great. I didn't like Dan Lenson much; Poyer didn't seem to spend much time establishing him as a useful person. Then again, since he's the main character of a lengthy series of novels, this just may be a sign that Dan Lenson was once a great character who is now suffering from Series Decay. I'm not qualified to judge that.

An OK book, but it's not what I want to read. It has very little to offer beyond mild entertainment; I usually prefer books with a little more depth.

What began as a fairly bland, contrived plot soon became an entertaining adventure. Living with the Dead was a pleasant surprise.

I can't say many good things about the book's main character, Robyn Peltier. Kelley Armstrong has her flee the scene of a murder not once, but twice, purely because the plot requires Robyn to be a murder suspect. From that point onward, I expected the book to be fairly clunky. Instead, it rapidly improved as the both the pace and the amount of action increased.

There's not a whole lot of supernatural action in this book, and I'm not sure if that's good or bad. Several of the main characters are supernatural creatures, and that affects the story. Most of the supernatural special effects only happen behind the scenes; the most magic we get comes from Detective Findlay and his ability to converse with ghosts.

While I didn't much like Robyn, I really liked Hope. Perhaps it's just because she was more acclimated to the supernatural otherworld, and thus more useful, but Hope always seemed to be exploring several different avenues in her investigation. As a result, there's a lot of misunderstanding and misinformation in Living with the Dead: Hope thinks Detective Findlay's working with an otherworld Cabal, but Findlay's completely ignorant of the otherworld. The confusion is realistic and entertaining.

Finally, Living with the Dead has a deliciously manipulative villain, Adele Morrissey. She's only in it for herself, which is her ultimate undoing, and will stop at nothing to achieve her goals. She murders and seduces as necessary, and her mercenary ruthlessness is excellent.

This is my first Women of the Otherworld book. Had I read the previous books, perhaps I'd like this one better simply because I'd be more familiar with it. However, I don't think you need to start with the first book before reading Living with the Dead. It's no Dresden Files (my gold standard for urban fantasy), but it comes close. I'll be reading more of this series.

Raymond E. Feist is probably among my favourite fantasy writers, simply because he's mastered the ability to create such realistic fantasy settings while still populating them with fantastic feats of magic. However, Rides a Dread Legion did not live up to my expectations for a new book in a new series of Feist's ever-expanding oeuvre.

A caveat: my experience with the Riftwar Cycle is spotty at best; I think I've read at least one book from every series, but I can't necessarily recall all the details. I'm resolving now to go back and read the series in order, from the beginning, so I can more properly enjoy Feist's writing.

It's the burden of all that accumulated history that undoes Rides a Dread Legion. The book feels too long and too slow--strange, because it's a fairly short book as far as fantasy novels go--because I suspect that fully half of the text is devoted to mentioning, referencing, or recounting events of past Riftwar novels. Familiar characters can barely breathe without Feist attaching an appositive to remind us of how much they've been through.

The plot of this new Demonwar Saga also seems like a rehashing of previous series. Very little feels original, and aside from the surprise at the very ending, much of the novel is boring. There's little element of risk, because we feel like we've been here, done this before. I suspect that the ending is supposed to push aside that idea and show us that no, this is in fact a very different war. I'm not so convinced though.

I don't begrudge Feist weaving the previous events of his sagas into this one--writing as many novels in this universe as he has is a brilliant accomplishment. Yet if you stripped out most of the backstory and exposition, you'd be left with a very thin, shivering work of fiction.

Rides a Dread Legion has a few good moments but is bogged down by the minutiae of its characters' history and the functioning of magic in Midkemia. Die-hard Feist fans will read it anyway, but newcomers should stick to one of the older series instead.

After not enjoying [b:Elsewhere|359410|Elsewhere|Gabrielle Zevin|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1174079582s/359410.jpg|349532], I was hesitant to read this book, but decided to go through with it anyway. I'm not sure that was the right decision. While Memoirs of a Teenage Amnesiac isn't a terrible book, I finished it with a profound feeling of "So what?"

The premise is interesting: Naomi Porter is a teenage yearbook editor who hits her head when she falls down the steps at her school, causing her to forget the last four years of her life. Well, sort of. Zevin uses a good deal of creative license when it comes to Naomi's amnesia--which she's allowed to do, both because it's her book and we still don't precisely understand the workings of the brain anyway. So Naomi begins the book not-quite-tabula-rasa, and you expect her to grow and change as she becomes a brand new person, right? Not so much.

If anything, Memoirs of a Teenage Amnesiac remind me of why I'm glad my years as a teenager are coming to an end: way too much drama. And not the funny-yet-vicious sort of drama I enjoyed watching in Tina Fey's Mean Girls; no, this is the pointless-yet-ubiquitous drama created as a byproduct of our own struggle to discover who we are. Unfortunately, Zevin seems to focus on this byproduct while ignoring the end goal--the whole self-discovery thing.

Naomi eventually regains her memories. Up until that point, we've gotten hints that she wasn't exactly the nicest girl at school but was apparently nice enough to be best friends with a genuinely "nice guy", Will Landsman. With the return of Old Naomi, this plot point gets lost in the shuffle, as Naomi now has to deal with the memory of Will kissing her even as she addresses her feelings for the school's "troubled kid", James. James has every stereotypical condition that would cause a teenager to be labelled as troubled--depression, antisocial behaviour, obsession--you name it, he's got it. The fact that Naomi had the gall to first fall in love with him and then practically devote herself to him made me lose what little respect I still had for her.

The book shifts gears for a third (and last) time toward the very end. Will suffers a spontaneous plot-induced case of hospitalizing pneumonia; predictably, Naomi must return to the yearbook staff to take over his position as editor at this crucial time of the year. As the book ends, she and Will (now recuperated) leave the yearbook office, reminiscing about the day Naomi left the yearbook office and lost her memories in the process. They're apparently friends again, and as far as I can tell, the sexual tension is never fully resolved.

So, in essence, Memoirs of a Teenage Amnesiac begins and ends at the same place. It's a zero-sum book, because its main character never really changes. She loses some of herself and regains it, but for what? Zevin uses too many characters and has too many different plot points to effectively orchestrate a coherent theme about life in high school. Perhaps ironically, there's little about this book that's memorable. Go read something by [a:Douglas Coupland|1886|Douglas Coupland|http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1210858151p2/1886.jpg] instead.

Company of Liars has all the ingredients of a compelling, character-driven novel. It has an interesting backdrop (in this case, historical: the beginning of the Black Death), and a cast of characters with complex desires and secrets worth protecting. Moreover, Maitland manages to sustain interest throughout the entire length of the book (no small task) and supply just enough twists to make you keep reading.

The cast of characters is varied and well-imagined. The narrator, Camelot, is never identified by name, only by his profession. At first I didn't like Camelot: he was surly and world-weary and I wondered how he could act as an appropriate filter for the drama that would inevitably unfold. Camelot grew on me, however; maybe it was his kindness toward strangers, which is the origin of the formation of the eponymous "Company of Liars." Joining Camelot: Rodrigo and Jofre, minstrels; Zophiel, a charlatan conjuror; Adela and Osmond, an expectant couple; Cygnus, a one-armed storyteller; and Pleasance and Narigorm, a nurse/midwife and the book's poster Creepy Child, respectively. All of the book's conflict stems from these characters' interactions, even threats that at first seem external.

Each of the characters is brilliantly developed and enjoyable, although most of them (if not all of them) are not likable. Of particular note, however, is Zophiel. He's introduced early into the company and becomes the most aggressive antagonist among them; it's Zophiel's personal demons who first emerge as a potential external threat for the entire company as well. Yet Zophiel doesn't metamorphose into a stock villain, and I would even argue that he doesn't deserve his ultimate fate. Instead, like the rest of the Company of Liars, Zophiel's morally ambiguous. Indeed, faced with the abject horrors so plain to these 14th century Englishmen, moral ambiguity seems like the only recourse. As the book nears its conclusion and the company continues to find sanctuary from the approaching wave of pestilence, even characters who once seemed sanguine and redeemable (i.e., Adela and Osmond) commit acts we might find reprehensible.

Maybe it's that train-wreck like quality that makes Company of Liars so compelling. As the story derails, you know there's no way it will turn out well, so you become invested in finding out how badly it turns out. Along the way, Maitland treats us to a wonderful depiction of 14th century life, including superstition and fear of the supernatural.

Someone decided to market this book as a "reinterpretation of Canterbury Tales", but as others have remarked, I don't see the similarity beyond the basic concept (pilgrims in 14th century England). I'm willing to ignore this ... betrayal, because the book is actually quite good. Just not what comes to mind when I think "Canterbury Tales."

My other quibble with Company of Liars is the amount of hype around the characters' so-called secrets. Most of these secrets are far too obvious. I'm particularly disappointed with the final secret, the twist involving Camelot and his past--it's just so unoriginal and predictable that it's disappointing. Now, the twist itself makes sense within the context of the plot ... it's just a bit of a let down after such an enjoyable story otherwise.

Company of Liars is one of the best books I've read this year, but it's not without flaws. As far as historical fiction goes, it's an interesting novel. The characters and their conflicts are intense. Unfortunately, the ending doesn't stand up with the rest of the book, which prevents me from giving it five stars.