The coolest thing I noticed about the science fantasy novel Gideon the Ninth was how the story uses slang, profanity, and pop culture references to make a complex plot about hard-to-imagine people and places as accessible and enjoyable as possible (blurb-level spoilers follow).
The tagline for Gideon the Ninth is “lesbian necromancers explore a haunted Gothic palace in space.” This is somewhat misleading (the sexuality of the main characters isn’t really important), but it does evoke how different the world of the story is: A sprawling, decrepit space empire in the far future made up of ancient royal houses with wildly different cultures, each in charge of its own planet. Enabled by faster-than-light travel and a powerful magic/technology that allows the living to reshape and control the remains of the dead to do their bidding.
It’s hard to imagine a simple entry point for such a story, and the book’s opening “dramatis personae” suggests the reader is in for an experience like Dune or The Lord of the Rings, where it’s useful to keep a finger tucked in the glossary for quick access. Instead, the story’s main character (Gideon) is foul-mouthed, irreverent, and regularly drops references from the 21st century. Her companion/rival (Harrowhark) is more posh and restrained, but this doesn’t make her less a product of the here and now.
I found this jarring and almost disappointing at first, but was quickly impressed by how easy this made it to understand Gideon and Harrowhark’s world and what mattered to them. In other words, no distracting, made-up terms, cultural practices, or quirky worldviews to prevent me from appreciating the heroes or their struggles. This is doubly interesting because neither Gideon nor Harrowhark are likeable much of the time, but this use of language helped me relate to them so effectively that I quickly appreciated their potential for growth and wanted to see where it led.
In this sense, I think Gideon the Ninth is following in Shakespeare’s footsteps. Most of Shakespere’s plays were about distant times and places (Coriolanus was set roughly a thousand years before Shakespeare was born) and staged for 17th-century audiences with a mix of education and status. Shakespere’s approach to reaching so many people was also to be as relatable as possible, complete with low humor and references to current events. Even Shakespere’s histories portray his characters in ways that worked for audiences, but probably wouldn’t make sense to the real people those characters were based on.
I also think Gideon The Ninth’s use of language suggests a universal human experience that feels enjoyable, even if it’s misleading. I don’t expect the real Gideon or Harrowhark would make much sense to me if I met them, but then again I’m much happier in my day and age than I probably would be in theirs. In other words, Gideon The Ninth lets me have my cake and eat it too — a bizarre, dangerous world full of no-less bizarre people, that I’m able to explore with ease. Which, as I said, is pretty cool.
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GIDEON THE NINTH
The Emperor needs necromancers.
The Ninth Necromancer needs a swordswoman.
Gideon has a sword, some dirty magazines, and no more time for undead nonsense.
Brought up by unfriendly, ossifying nuns, ancient retainers, and countless skeletons, Gideon is ready to abandon a life of servitude and an afterlife as a reanimated corpse. She packs up her sword, her shoes, and her dirty magazines, and prepares to launch her daring escape. But her childhood nemesis won’t set her free without a service.
witch extraordinaire, has been summoned into action. The Emperor has invited the heirs to each of his loyal Houses to a deadly trial of wits and skill. If Harrowhark succeeds she will be become an immortal, all-powerful servant of the Resurrection, but no necromancer can ascend without their cavalier. Without Gideon’s sword, Harrow will fail, and the Ninth House will die.
Of course, some things are better left dead.
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