Arthur C. Clarke winner and Sunday Times bestseller Adrian Tchaikovsky’s triumphant return to fantasy with a darkly inventive portrait of a city under occupation and on the verge of revolution.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Adrian Tchaikovsky’s City of Last Chances, which is out May 2nd.
There has always been a darkness to Ilmar, but never more so than now. The city chafes under the heavy hand of the Palleseen occupation, the choke-hold of its criminal underworld, the boot of its factory owners, the weight of its wretched poor and the burden of its ancient curse.
What will be the spark that lights the conflagration?
Despite the city’s refugees, wanderers, murderers, madmen, fanatics and thieves, the catalyst, as always, will be the Anchorwood – that dark grove of trees, that primeval remnant, that portal, when the moon is full, to strange and distant shores.
Ilmar, some say, is the worst place in the world and the gateway to a thousand worse places.
Ilmar,
City of Long Shadows.
City of Bad Decisions.
City of Last Chances.
The Final Moments of Sage-Archivist Ochelby
The Sage-Archivist. A dignified old man, prosperous without being fleshy, because the Palleseen valued moderation in all things save ideology. Someone people felt they could confide in, so that when their doors were kicked in and they were taken off for re-education it always came as a surprise. A dagger of ambition in the sheath of a generous uncle with a pocket full of sweets.
Sage-Archivist Ochelby had a kindly face. It crinkled in pleasant, paternal ways when he was conducting the more demanding tasks his position required. Such as deconstructing primitive magical belief systems – a task that often involved deconstructing primitive magicians. He had, in his career, taken action that might be seen as distasteful – certainly to foreigners, perhaps even to some of his fellow Palleseen. Sometimes those acts had been to bring the perfection of Pallesand to the untidiness of the outside world. Sometimes they had more to do with his own career in the School of Correct Erudition, and that was regretful. Personal ambition was imperfect, after all. The hierarchy of talent should admit none of it. And yet, he had undercut rivals, stamped down promising subordinates, denied applications, curried favour and played favourites. And this was, he concluded, simply a sign of how much work there was to do, in bringing perfection. He worked tirelessly for a world in which a flawed vessel such as he could not use such underhand tactics to prosper. But until then…
Back home, the real power was held by the Temporary Commission of Ends and Means. Everyone knew the days of the Commission were numbered. That was, in fact, the first axiom of the Commission, recited whenever it was in session. The same perfectly formulated words had been used when the Commission first convened several centuries ago, affirming its own transient nature and its willingness to disband the moment lasting perfection had been brought to the rest of the world. Until then, the Commission ruled, and Sage-Archivist Ochelby had his eye on a seat there. But those seats were filled by the backsides of ambitious oldsters just like him, and they’d stamp him down, ruining his career just as he’d ruined the careers of all his own underlings who had been just a bit too capable. Ochelby needed a triumph to distinguish himself, and it was that desire which had brought him here to Ilmar. Here, in fact, to this little stand of trees on the outskirts of one of the meanest districts of the city, and the hostelry that stood by them. A placard above the door displayed only the symbol of an anchor. Ochelby tutted. An establishment run according to principles of Correct Exchange would have man-high boards setting out tariffs, regulations, prices and permits, so that any prospective patrons might enter properly informed. And it would be so, in time. Perfection would come to the city of Ilmar. He wasn’t here to enforce ordnances. That was menial work not befitting the second most senior academic of the Ilmari Perfecture. He made a mental note to remind his secretary to send a memo to the Brokers about it. It was always a joy to further the perfection of the world by adding to another School’s workload.
His secretary was standing with the soldiers, looking at that little stand of trees. She was barely out of the phalanstery. He preferred to surround himself with youth. His preference for assistants and personal staff of twenty years at most had attracted some attempts at censure from those who suspected him of improper use of resources. That kindly, crinkly face of his was exactly the countenance of a man who used his position to sleep with his subordinates. In truth, Ochelby’s tastes were more exotic. He had slaked them earlier, as a little personal celebration before embarking on tonight’s grand voyage of discovery. Another flavour of imperfection in his nature. Another stain of wrongness that he and his peers would eventually steam out of the fabric of the world, leaving it all starched and neatly folded. But until then, he would indulge his little peccadillos. And Ilmar was well-supplied for those of his particular kink. There was a discreet establishment that knew him, whose bawd was a skilled conjurer and knew to keep her mouth shut.
Not lechery, then, but merely caution that meant his secretary was twenty years old and so wide-eyed he wondered the orbs didn’t just pop from her head. A steady parade of disposable youngsters meant he didn’t have to watch his back. He’d trade innocence for capability any day. He’d had quite enough intradepartmental skirmishes to get this far. He wasn’t interested in any underling using him as a rung on their own ladder.
This one was Companion-Archivist Nasely, unless that had been the last one. She was staring at the trees and shaking her head.
“I don’t understand, magister,” she told him. “You can see right through to the other side. There can’t be more than twenty trees there.”
“You don’t understand because it is not wholly understood,” he told her, in his best crinkly-faced kindly tones. “You see through the trees now because the moon isn’t up yet. We have a little time. Let us patronise the establishment.”
There were a good number of patrons already there, but most of them left soon after Ochelby and his escort moved in. Twenty armed Palleseen soldiers took up more room than mere physical presence might suggest, especially in the minds of a conquered people. Ochelby considered detaining and questioning them, just to pass the time. It was more than likely many had something to hide. Winkling it out of them might be an amusing way to wait for moonrise. After all, people came to the Anchorage – came to Ilmar as a whole, in fact – because they thought there was an escape here. And sometimes, if the moon was right, and if they possessed the proper key, a door might be found. Outside these walls, within that little grove.
The Anchorage was an old building, wood-built, predating anything else nearby. It wasn’t in the local style which preferred brick and tile, plain walls with coloured borders. The central taproom rose to a peaked space defined by the slope of the eaves. The visible beams and ceiling had been carved with knotted, irregular vines like grasping hands. Twin rows of pillars in a similar style turned what should have been a pleasantly open space into something secluded and shadowed. The place was full of little tables half hidden from each other, alcoves and cubbyholes, odd little balconies and spyholes. Little brass trinkets, bones and wooden carvings hung in looping strings across the space above without discernible pattern. Undisciplined, Ochelby felt. He’d already seen one unimaginative Fellow-Monitor’s request to tear it down. And eventually, they would tear it down. But first, it would give up its secrets to the School of Correct Erudition. As would the grove beyond. As would what was beyond the grove. To perfect the world, one must first understand it, after all. Should such understanding bring with it personal power and status fit to catapult a humble Sage-Archivist to the Commission, then Ochelby was willing to make the appropriate sacrifices. Perhaps literally. Another advantage of access to a constant train of young secretaries without any important departmental connections.
