wayfriend wrote:Ser Visal's Tale is indeed very good. I haven't read it so recently that I can discuss specific points. But I would just add that this is a great example of Donaldson elevating an otherwise simple story through the use of exquisite characterization. In that regard nothing else but Mordant's Need compares. (I would be curious to compare when these were written.) Re-reading such treasures is always worthwhile because watching his characters sparkle and twirl is ever fascinating.
You're absolutely right, wayfriend, this story has some of the strongest characterizations of any of Donaldson's work I've read so far, save for the two
Mordant's Need books.
I believe "Ser Visal's Tale" was completed in 1983, and
Mordant's Need was started sometime the following year.
________________________________________
Frostheart wrote:I'll have to find a copy of this book somewhere, getting interested in the content. Thanks for the review.
(For once I'm posting something that doesn't involve explaining a dirty joke!)
I DO encourage the reading of
Daughter of Regals & Other Tales, as most of the stories in it I've found to be enjoyable! Even the stories I didn't like so much had something about them I could admire. I think you'll be glad you read it, if you get the book, Frostheart.
Sorry it took me so long to get the joke! The idea of a Giantess warrior having "sword-lengthening abilities" puzzled me there, for a while.
(To KW readers, this refers to comments between Frostheart, myself, and others concerning one of the Giantesses in
The Last Dark. I don't think I can say any more about it, in this particular forum, without giving away spoiler information pertaining to
The Last Dark.)
________________________________________
Visal, Knarll, Thamala, Peralt, Hught, and even Growt were fleshed out well enough with words that I cared a lot what happened between them.
Ser Visal is clearly aware that he's got enough sweating to do in dangerous times, and that he needs to cover himself for a protection that his somewhat high station can't give him:
Ser Visal was diverted into a lecture on piety. He was prone to such digressions, perhaps thinking that they would whet our attention for his stories--and we dared not interrupt him, for fear that he would grow vexed in truth and refuse to continue. He demanded a rapt audience, and we sought to satisfy him.
Ser Quest Visal was indeed a fat old man--as fat as a porker, with eyes squeezed almost to popping in the heavy flesh of his face, arms that appeared to stuff his sleeves like sausages, and fingers as thick and pale as pastries. His grizzled hair straggled like a beldame's. Careless shaving left his jowls speckled with whiskers. Though he sat in the corner of the hearth--the warmest spot in the Hound and Whip--he wore two robes over his clothing, with the result that sweat ran from his brows as from an overlathered horse. Yet every gesture of his hands beyond his frilled cuffs held us, and every word he uttered was remembered. We were familiar with his storytelling.
_________________________
Ser Visal smiled at the effect of his announcement. Then--perhaps recollecting that it was unwise to smile on any subject associated with the disfavor of the Temple--he frowned and slapped a fat hand to the table. "Be warned, whelps! This is not the tale of daring and passion you expect. It is sordid and foolish, and I tell it to caution you, so that you will be wiser than mad Dom Peralt, who was nothing more than a boy some few years older than yourselves."
But we were not daunted. We watched Ser Visal brightly, our breathing thick with anticipation in our chests. And slowly his face appeared to refold itself to lines of sadness. His gaze receded, as though he were now seeing the past rather than the public room of the Hound and Whip. We knew that look. If we did not interrupt him now, he would tell his story.
_________________________
All our attention was centered on Ser Visal. He appeared oddly shrunken in the fading candlelight, his eyes glazed by what he saw in his mind, his stubbled cheeks ashen and sagging from the bones of his skull. At another time--during another tale--we might have nudged each other and winked, thinking in silent laughter that the heat of the hearth made him melt, that his fat flesh was composed of nothing but tallow and wine, which he sweated away. But not now. We were held. And he seemed hardly to be aware of us.
There was one thought in all our minds. He is afraid. This tale is dangerous, and he fears to tell it.
_________________________
Bulging in his fat cheeks, Ser Visal's eyes shifted among us warily. Still slick with sweat, his skin had a pasty color. Twice he opened his thick lips and closed them again, gaping like a fish. Some of us nudged Domson Tahl warningly. Others clenched their fists. We wanted no harm to come to Ser Visal for the things he had revealed to us. But at last he swallowed his fear and accepted the full risk of his tale.
Knarll, brimming with resentment and determined to overcompensate by covering himself with symbols of holy dignity and authority as much as possible:
"Into the cell came Templeman Knarll, highest of all servants of the Temple of God in this region.
"He wore his formal robes which were customarily reserved for the pulpit of the Temple. Resplendent in white surplice and gold chasuble, symbolizing Heavenly purity and worldly power, he would have appeared impressive if--Well, Templeman Knarll is known to you. He is a devout and searching man, worthy of admiration." Ser Visal employed his pious tone to good effect. "He is not to be mocked for his appearance. That he has the form of a toad and the face of a hedgehog is the will of the Almighty--surely not of Templeman Knarll. Nevertheless, it is not to be wondered at that he has little patience for those better made by their Creator than he."
Thamala, with her courage, indomitable spirit, and determination to leave no debt unpaid, whatever the cost to herself:
"Thamala waited until he [Peralt] was done [protesting]. Then she said, 'You are brave, Don Sen Peralt.' Her tone suggested both mockery and respect. 'But no coin measures the value I place upon my life. How do you intend to prevent me?'
"For his pride--if for no other reason--he attempted to match her. 'I need do nothing,' he said, 'nothing other than wait. When next the guards come to this cell, they will find us together--and then we will both be undone.' He smiled wryly through his fear. 'To avert that outcome--so that your life will be preserved and I will be able to hope--you will depart before the guards come, relocking the door after you to protect my protestations of innocence. Of what worth is my life,' he concluded, 'if it may only be saved by your death?'
"You are mistaken,' she said. "The world has need of such men.' For no evident reason, her voice now seemed to come to him from a great distance. The candlelight blurred, as if his eyes were failing. 'Therefore,' she uttered in a tone which could not be refused, 'it will be necessary for you to dream.'"
Peralt, used to not taking life's responsibilities very seriously, discovering that deep within himself he has a strong conscience that cannot be denied:
"When at last Templeman Knarll released him from the temporal office, Dom Peralt went back to his estates in mortal shame to await the sitting of the judica.
"In shame? you ask. Why in shame?" Ser Visal glared around at us. It became increasingly difficult to distinguish between his piety and his sarcasm. "For no good reason. The woman was a witch, offensive to God and Temple. If she chose to do one honorable thing before she died, perhaps her soul would be the better for it. And I repeat that he had not known her for the total of an hour. He knew nothing about her at all, except her power.
"Yet he was shamed. His skin burned with it, and his heart ached. Every twist of his thoughts squeezed sweat from his brow. It was a cauldron more subtle than iron, but no less compulsory. Hiding himself within the walls of his manor, he drank wine by the barrel to slake the fire--but it only burned higher. All about him were reminders of his father, that strong and just man who had filled his life with care for those dependent upon him--memories which gave young Sen no ease. In desperation, he turned from strong wine to clear water and became sober, hoping that cold reason would succeed where besottedness failed. But the flame did not subside. He consulted those who still named themselves his friends--not young Beau Frane and Serson Lew, I assure you, but older heads and wiser--and obtained no relief. He attempted every solace but one, the strict comfort of the Temple. All failed him, as all things human and prone to sin must fail. His shame would not be quenched. One thought tormented him. It was not just. He had purchased Thamala with a few coins--his father's earnings, not his own. It was not just."
Hught, dangerously unrelenting in his pursuit of purity for the kingdom's subjects to safeguard their souls:
"Though he was similarly black-clad, the High Templeman did not need the golden miter which he carried in the crook of his arm to distinguish him from the other servants of the Temple. He was tall, strong despite his years, and commanding. Much of his authority was in his eyes, shich seemed to have no color at all. Indeed, at first glance his face itself appeared to have no color. His thin, close-cropped hair was white--his skin pale with the translucence of old age. Upon nearer inspection, however, a faint red hue could be seen, for every blood vessel was visible beneath the skin, as distinct as madness--I mean, of course, that purity of mind which the sinful world might term madness, but which is in truth the most exalted devotion to God. Seeing him, it was at last possible to understand his importance to good King Traktus. He was not a man who would be easily refused."
And the slaver Growt, a minor character in the overall story, yet the one who gets the story rolling:
"It is said of Growt--but such tales are told everywhere, especially among boys. Well, my puppies, the tales are true. Growt is feared because he asks no questions concerning those he hales into slavery. If the Templemen desire a man or woman punished, they merely give the name to Growt. If a miller comes to loathe his goodwoman's shrewish tongue, he gives her name to Growt. If a usurer covets the property of a debtor, he gives the name to Growt. And when he has not enough commissions to fill his quota, Growt takes minstrels and travelers and gypsies where he finds them.
"Now among slavers, as in the Temple of God, such men as Dom Peralt are looked upon with resentment--and perhaps also with fear--because they take no slaves. Their wealth is denied to those who most merit it. And on this slaving day Growt's resentment had grown beyond its usual blackness. His wares were in little demand. It will not surprise you that innocent travelers and shrewish goodwomen are not always docile slaves. Growt's wares were rendered suspect by his means of obtaining them. Therefore it was in no mood of good fellowship that he set himself in the way of Dom Sen Peralt.
"Burly as a bear, but entirely hairless from the knob of his pate to the tops of his toes, and dressed in his slavers' leathers, he was a formidable obstacle to be found in any man's path, were the man drunk or sober. But he was not content merely to bar Dom Peralt's way. When the young Dom neared him, Growt thrust out an arm as heavy as an axletree and jolted Dom Peralt in his tracks."
Having several well-described characters appearing in this tale make this story rise above its simple plot to be a page-turning thriller I've never forgotten, and never forgotten I've loved.
________________________________________
[Editing note: I decided to apply a spoiler tag in my original post.]
I shall download it to my kindle sooner or later so won't need the paperback.
I found some used copies in Play.com beginning from 3€ and they don't charge for the shipping. Gotten most of my Malazan bricks second-hand from there as well.