By Isobelle Carmody
As head of Obernewtyn's Farseeker guild, Elspeth Gordie needs to go back and forth to the lowlands to seal an alliance among Obernewtyn and the insurgent forces that oppose the totalitarian Council. but her goals name to her with an altogether diverse objective: Elspeth needs to damage what is still of the guns that introduced unbelievable chaos, demise, and mutation to her international. Leaving the relative protection of the mountains, Elspeth embarks on a trip that takes her around the sea and into the guts of the mysterious wasteland quarter of Sador.
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Additional info for Ashling (Obernewtyn Chronicles, Book 3)
Don’t you want your work to do some good? I stood the smell hanging around Oiseau-Lyre as long as possible. The Hills are supposed to be separate and independent economic units; actually they’re shipments and expense padding and doctored tax returns. It goes deeper than that. You know the Hill slogan: SERVICE IS GOOD AND BETTER SERVICE IS BEST. That’s a laugh! You think the Hills care about serving anybody? ” “I never imagined the Hills were philanthropic organizations,” Wakeman said dryly. Benteley moved restlessly away from the two of them; they were watching him as if he were a public entertainer.
Cartwright heard the words, but they didn’t register. He was vaguely aware that Wakeman had come into the lounge and was moving up to Moore. The two of them walked away talking in low tones. He hardly heard them. Like a frigid nightmare, the phrase “a million gold dollars” dripped and leaked into his brain. There’d be plenty of takers. With that much money an unk could buy a variety of classifications on the black market. The best minds in the system would gamble their lives for that, in a society that was a constant gamble, an unceasing lottery.
Nothing seemed stable or fixed; the universe was a sliding flux. Nobody knew what came next. Nobody could count on anything. Statistical prediction became popular … the very concept of cause and effect died out. People lost faith in the belief that they could control their environment; all that remained was probable sequence: good odds in a universe of random chance. The theory of Minimax—the M-game—was a kind of stoic withdrawal, a nonparticipation in the aimless swirl in which people struggled.