Jhereg
by Steven Brust
When reading, I sometimes get caught up with the wrong pronunciation, and I have a far too hard time letting go, even when someone corrects me. I’m thankful that Brust was kind enough to provide a pronunciation guide at the start of Jhereg; this way I hopefully won’t embarrass myself when discussing the book with anyone, getting a significant name horribly wrong, such as the title.
I originally picked up a beat-up old copy of Jhereg a year ago at a used-book store. I read through the prologue, and it instantly hooked me. I loved the world presented; the protagonist, Vlad, was quickly and effectively characterized; and the treatment of magic––whether through witchcraft or sorcery––was thoughtful and, frankly, pretty cool. Then, the story stopped making sense. My copy of the book was missing about ten pages. So, I started again, this time from the copy I ordered that actually had all the pages, and … well, things still fell apart after the prologue.
One of the biggest flaws of Jhereg is the pacing, wherein most of the book involves people sitting around, discussing the reasons that people are doing things, learning about the history of the land, hinting at exciting sounding things that may have happened in the past, and almost fighting. Like I already said, I love the world that Brust created, but I wish he held off explaining things about its history, as well as significant things about Vlad. This may not appear to make a lot of sense, reading it now, but things could have had much more weight if they were presented later in the series, after we get a feel for characters and the way things work around here. (It’s quite possible that Brust intended Jhereg to be a standalone book at the time, which would explain why he did what he did, but it’s still a bit unfortunate that he did it.)
Once we move past the chatting and planning, however, the action is great. Being an assassin, Vlad is tasked at killing someone who stole a large sum of money from some very powerful people. The kink in the plans comes when his target takes refuge in the sanctuary of Vlad’s friend, and he has to find a way to make a move against him without shaming his friend or, potentially, triggering a war. Brust writes about swordplay effectively, and he convincingly humanizes Vlad after such a battle, in what was probably the book’s best moment. (I loved his raging paranoia that follows; it was such a great passage, and I was left wanting more, for sure.)
I don’t know how well I can recommend Jhereg. The good parts, when we get there, are quite good, but the big issue is still getting there. Perhaps you’ll forgive this more than I will and, given how highly regarded Jhereg appears to be, you probably will. I’m hoping that Yendi has a little less conversation and a little more action––and, yes, it was my full intention to quote Elvis here––and I’m also hoping that Brust treats Loiosh, Vlad’s familiar, a bit better in the sequel. (This strikes me as a petty gripe, but it grated on me throughout: Loiosh, the comic relief, whose attempts at comedy were by and large unappreciated by me. I’m sure this won’t be a deal-breaker for most readers, but I also had a hard time accepting that the most common phrase uttered to a creature who is intricately linked to you in mind and spirit would be, “Shut up, Loiosh.”)