by Luke Arnold
By the time I got home, the sun was setting and I was still empty-handed. I searched through all my belongings for a good book to escape into. I needed to spend some time in a mind that wasn’t my own. There was nothing. I was a stupid brute without a book to my name.
I collapsed back in my chair and started counting through my funds. Enough for a bottle of whiskey to crawl into for the night. I gathered my change and my wits and prepared to face the world again. Then, my eyes fell on the bag beside my desk. It was the leather satchel full of tutoring files. Inside, amongst the notepads and scraps
of paper, was the thick handwritten manuscript. I lifted it on to the desk and looked at the title: An Examination of Change by Professor Edmund Albert Rye.
I opened the first page, started reading, and didn’t stop. Time tumbled past without disturbing me. When the sun came up the next morning I was wading into the final chapter.
I was still out of coffee and wouldn’t have been able to finish the book without some kind of stimulant, so I tucked it under my arm and lumbered my way down the stairs. The restaurant was already open. My old friend was waiting patiently at the door with an apron, a smile and beautifully misguided optimism about the day ahead.
“Good morning!” he chimed.
“Mornin.” I tried to meet his enthusiasm but I was dehydrated and dosed up on too many painkillers. He led me inside and pulled out a chair at what was slowly becoming my table.
“The usual,” I managed to say, and winked. He gave a delighted wink back and hurried towards the kitchen. Halfway there, he stopped, turned on his toes, and returned to my side.
“I’m sorry, sir. I always forget to ask. What is your name?”
For some reason that made me laugh.
“Fetch. Yours?”
“Georgio. Like on the sign.”
I looked around.
“I haven’t seen a sign.”
“Oh, yes. It isn’t up yet. But it will be soon!” His eyes dropped down to the large pile of papers I’d plonked on to the table.
“What is this?”
“Just some light reading. A textbook, written by a teacher. He wanted to explain everything he knew about magical creatures.”
“Oh. Are the Shay-men in there?”
“Uh, yeah.”
I flicked back through the chapters till I found the section that described the tribe he was talking about. They were a small group of spiritual warriors that lived out in the Northern Plains. Though they were warriors of great strength, practically invincible, they swore an oath to live as pacifists. Governments across the globe would look to them for counsel and guidance.
I showed Georgio the page and he read it over my shoulder. His uniform smelled like every possible ingredient mashed into a milkshake.
“See,” he said. “Gorgoramus Ottallus. That’s me.”
He bowed his head politely and went off to have another crack at the famous breakfast special. I reread the paragraph on the Shay-men leader. He was described as a seven-foot-tall giant of a man with the kind eyes of a family dog. As wise as he was capable, and one of the most beloved leaders in Archetellos.
It only took fifteen minutes for Georgio to return with the plate of food. He put it down on the table as carefully as he would a newborn kitten. I observed him properly for the first time. His kind, old eyes waiting with expectation.
“Georgio. You’re a hero, man.”
“Well, I was once called that, yes.”
I glanced around the ramshackle laundromat that was masquerading as an eatery and tried to pair it up with the tales of Georgio that were told by the book.
“No disrespect, but I have to ask: what the hell are you doing here?”
Georgio just shrugged. “I have children, so I need a job. I am not strong any more so I cannot do the things I once did. Heroes, they are…” He waved a hand through the air in a dismissive manner. “When there was magic, I would share what I knew. Now, the magic is no more, so nobody needs to know about it. Instead, I ask myself – what do people always need?”
He straightened himself up and smiled with perfect teeth.
“Breakfast!”
I took that as my cue to bring my attention to the plate.
There was potentially even more mushroom soup than the first time. The tomatoes, as usual, were infused with the bread, and the black thing on the corner of the plate was no easier to identify.
With trepidation, I picked up my knife and placed it against the flesh of one of the eggs. I pressed down firmly, cutting it in two, and a burst of gooey, golden yolk flooded the plate. Georgio jumped on the spot.
“Yes! There you go! Happy?”
I took a fork-full and it was pretty darn good.
“Delicious,” I mumbled through a mouthful. He bowed and pulled a pad and pen from his apron to mark down the recipe of his success, then disappeared back into the kitchen.
I turned back to the last chapter of the manuscript. Though the book was intended to be educational, Edmund never held back from adding his opinions to the page. He’d written it for his students and his words were full of passion and care. By the end of the volume, I’d actually grown to like the old guy. I could almost forgive him for trying to suck the marrow from my bones.
Eventually, I got to the last page:
And thus, we enter this strange new world. A simpler world. It may not be as bright or as loud as the eons leading up to it, but this is the time that fate has chosen for us.
Life once felt so grand and meaningful. This new world is hushed. Diminished. Fleeting. Sometimes it feels like the last bubble that will burst and leave nothing behind.
There was always darkness. Though, there was always light to challenge it. Now that light is gone.
Do not try to be a savior because the old world cannot be saved. Do not try to be a hero of history because history is dead. Every pathway ever walked has been washed away and there is no map, no message, no gospel, no god. There is only you, alone in this darkness, deciding how to take your first step. If there is a future, that’s how it will be determined. Not by winning wars or medals or fame, but by searching out into the darkness and, when you find it, holding up the light.
It might have felt inspiring a week ago. Now, I could hear the conflict in him. All those words. All those lessons. Perhaps they weren’t for his students after all. He was trying to teach himself. Maybe he hoped if he said them enough times, with enough passion, those lessons might actually ring true.
I ate absently while I read. It was preferable not to look at what was at the end of the fork. The black thing turned out to be pretty tasty, whatever it was, and I managed to finish the whole meal. When Georgio cleared my plate, I thought he was going to cry. Even the lazy grandson seemed pleased when he finally brought me out my coffee.
And what a cup of coffee it was.
It was so strong and rich I felt like I’d slept for a week. You would never dare tarnish it with milk or sugar. Every sip brought a caramelized sweetness to the back of my tongue and I kept closing my eyes to savor it. It was the most incredible coffee I’d ever tasted. I sat back for a moment and wondered if that little cup could be the best thing that ever happened in my sorry little life. It was warm and it was bitter and it was good.
When I tried to tip them, Georgio wouldn’t hear of it. He felt he owed me for the two previous meals. I conceded and asked for another cup to go.
I climbed those rotten old stairs and aired out the waiting room and opened the windows to my office. I placed the manuscript alone on the mantel and told myself that I would find it some friends. I washed out the glasses from around the room and left them on the sill to dry. I wiped the dust off my desk, sat back in my chair and waited.
Then I thought about the girl. The Siren kid with the forbidden voice who put too much trust in her teacher.
I thought about Amari, and what she was hoping for when she asked me to stay. Surely, it wasn’t this.
So, I opened up the Angel door. Th
e one that led out to nothing but a patch of empty air. It had been useful when there was magic in the world and folks took to the skies like it was nothing. Now it was only handy if you wanted to kiss the cobblestones at fifty miles an hour.
I sat myself on the doorstep and looked down at Main Street between by boots. I never did go to that cobbler. I didn’t do a lot of things.
But I did keep Amari up in her mansion. Stuck to the floor and waiting.
For what?
For whatever can happen if Trolls are moving, I suppose. And if a Vampire can find a way to put some magic back in his bones, then what else might be possible? Maybe a Man for Hire is just the right kind of fool to find out.
I’ve got nothing left to lose. No friends. No money. Nobody to disappoint. All I have is the perfect cup of coffee.
So, for now, I’ll drink the coffee.
The story continues in…
BOOK TWO OF THE FETCH PHILLIPS ARCHIVES
Keep reading for a sneak peek!
Acknowledgements
Thank you.
First, to Mum and Dad who made a world where it never felt ridiculous to try something ridiculous, and are both endlessly supportive and brutally honest at the same time.
To Jenni Hill who made all this happen and has been the perfect partner in editing this story, and to everyone else at Orbit and Hachette, especially Nivia Evans and Joanna Kramer.
To my agent Alexander Cochran and all at C+W, Joe Veltre and the gang at Gersh.
To Steven and Simone Lochran, and Lani Diane Rich, who were the first voices in the publishing world to tell me I might have something special and, more importantly, to tell others that too.
To all my generous friends and family who were willing to read my book before it was a book. Daphne Olive, especially, who has been an invaluable bouncing board through this whole process, and to Ashley, George, Jin, Abs, Bracks, Tobes, Josh, Estefania, SKC, JPK, Jira, Lauren and Keran, because if you weren’t willing to read this along the way, I would have forgotten why I was writing it.
To anybody who ever bought or lent me a book, most importantly Simon Tate and Sarah Kanake.
And finally, to all the fans who were introduced to me as an actor and have been kind enough to follow me here, thank you for your support and I hope you’ve enjoyed the journey so far.
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extras
meet the author
LUKE ARNOLD was born in Australia and has spent the last decade acting his way around the world, playing iconic roles such as Long John Silver in the Emmy-winning Black Sails and his award-winning turn as Michael Hutchence in the INXS mini-series Never Tear Us Apart. When he isn’t performing, Luke is a screenwriter, director, novelist, and ambassador for Save the Children Australia. The Last Smile in Sunder City is his debut novel.
Find out more about Luke Arnold and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at www.orbitbooks.net.
interview
You’ve worked as an actor for several years and have now published your first novel. How is the creative process different between acting and writing? Did your acting experience influence your writing?
I could probably fill another book pondering the differences between writing and acting (I’ve been thinking about it a lot as I try to balance both careers), but the most profound difference to me is that you cannot act on your own but you must write on your own. After years of auditioning, it’s empowering to be able to wake up every day and start work without having to ask anyone for permission. The counterpoint is that you miss out on the collaborative elements that make performing so much fun. (I’m answering these questions from my theater dressing room while many great minds are running amok around me.)
Working as an actor has absolutely helped my writing. I’ve been lucky enough to spend time with great screenwriters and directors as we plot character arcs, discuss motivation and decide how to balance humor, suspense and vulnerability. While I haven’t rubbed shoulders with many other authors in my life, I’ve spent untold days on set (or in bars) discussing plot, style and character with some of the most passionate and experienced storytellers imaginable, and I’ve done my best to absorb as much as I can.
Where did the initial idea for The Last Smile in Sunder City come from, and how did the story begin to take shape?
I was about fourteen when my dad introduced me to the film The Big Sleep, and it kicked off a love affair with film noir, Humphrey Bogart, Raymond Chandler and all classic hard-boiled detective stories. At the time, I was also playing a lot of video games, watching anime and reading sci-fi and fantasy novels. I was seventeen when I wrote my first short story that combined those two worlds.
A couple of times since then, I attempted to evolve the idea on paper, but I didn’t really dig into it till 2016 while working on Black Sails. First, I wrote a Fetch Phillips mystery that was about 30,000 words long. I showed that to some friends and got some good feedback, so when Black Sails finished, I locked myself away and wrote the first draft of The Last Smile in Sunder City.
Did you do any specific research to build the mythology of the world?
Yes… and no. The underlying mythology of how the magic works was pieced together from a few different places, but I won’t go into detail on that, as it hasn’t completely come up in the series yet. I also wanted to keep things malleable enough that the world can evolve as Fetch does. This world is built for him, and the most important part of the worldbuilding is how perfectly it can reflect his inner struggles and challenge his ideas. There are lots of hidden secrets tucked into the cracks of Sunder City, but they can only crawl out when Fetch is ready for them.
Sunder City feels gritty, broken, and completely lived-in. What was your approach to creating this setting? Were there any challenges?
When you read Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe mysteries, he expects the reader to have a certain amount of assumed knowledge about Los Angeles. I wanted to create a similar feeling, as if Fetch is filling in details about a world that isn’t completely outside your understanding. He thinks you must live in a city similar to this one, so you don’t need all the technology given in detail, but you wouldn’t know where the library is located or what year they installed the streetcar. Because this is a fantasy story, I am walking a very fine line. I needed to make sure the reader was given sufficient information to be immersed, without destroying the intimate nature of Fetch’s voice. I relied on the feedback from beta readers to let me know when Fetch wasn’t filling them in on things that felt crucial. My hope is that you can imagine Fetch telling you this story in a dimly lit bar after he’s had one too many burnt milkwoods.
The characters in The Last Smile in Sunder City are incredibly compelling. If you had to pick one, who would you say is your favorite? Who did you find the most difficult to write?
I love writing scenes with Hendricks. He’s an amalgamation of some of my favorite people in real life: verbose, articulate, flamboyant, creative folk who always convince you to go to one more pub and have one more drink.
There isn’t a particular character that I find hard to write yet. If I’m struggling to put words in a character’s mouth, it usually means I haven’t nailed down their point of view. If that happens, the best solution is to put them in conflict with Fetch. Not only does that help me define what they’re saying, it makes Fetch’s narration more loaded.
He’s a character who works best when the whole world is out to get him.
Fetch is haunted by his role in the war. What was it like writing a character dealing with PTSD?
When I was younger, I romanticized the idea of growing up into the kind of man that Humphrey Bogart would play in films: cool, stoic, unflappable. With most of these characters, there’s something traumatic in their past that made them that way. Sometimes it’s war. Often it’s heartbreak. As an an
xious young man, I remember thinking that life would be so much easier after you got hurt and you stopped giving a shit. Of course, when you grow up, you realize there is nothing romantic about becoming wounded or traumatized, or using your past as an excuse to be jaded, cynical or selfish.
With Fetch, we get to swim in the mind of someone who made terrible mistakes, while he tries to hold a hard-boiled face over his guilt and fear. He projects a certain image, but we know that the man underneath is extremely broken.
To make matters worse, every aspect of Sunder City reflects his failures. Fetch blames himself for this broken world. Each day, he has a choice to stay stuck, give up or be better. I don’t suffer from PTSD, but I’m pretty sure we all go through times in our lives when this choice isn’t as easy as it should be.
It should also be noted that we are hearing this story from Fetch himself, and he probably doesn’t realize how screwed up he really is. A lot of things that Fetch justifies in the text could be seen as quite horrific when looked at from a distance.
Fetch’s internal journey will not be a straight line, and it won’t be wrapped up in a couple of books. This is the beginning of a fantasy adventure, but we don’t yet know if we’re journeying with Frodo or Sméagol.
Who are some of your favorite authors, and how have they influenced your writing?
As mentioned earlier, Raymond Chandler was a huge influence. So many people have been inspired by Chandler over the decades, but often they take the skin and forget the soul. What I always loved most about Philip Marlowe was his sentimentality. So, for better or worse, Fetch is an overly sentimental son of a bitch.
As far as fantasy books go, I read a lot of Terry Pratchett growing up. I can’t deny that the shadow of Ankh-Morpork hangs over Sunder City. The stories I wrote when I was younger were heavily influenced by the Discworld books, but I hope I’ve found my own way of using a fantasy world to explore the things in my head.