He has roamed the earth for a hundred thousand years. He’s died countless times but has always risen. His hands have shaped history in ways unguessed. He has loved more tragically than any man, ever. He is the world’s only immortal, and now he’s missing. The clues to finding him may be in the diary he’s been writing for millennia.
Doctor Valory Grace is a synesthetic hyperpolyglot. She knows every language in antiquity through internal sensations of color, texture, and aroma. She is recruited in secrecy to decipher the immortal’s ancient diary and discover his whereabouts. Falling in love with him isn’t part of the job.
Grace’s work is the key to biological immortality, and powerful men will do anything to possess it. Terror looms as she tangles with secret agents, a nefarious billionaire, and the world’s deadliest assassin in her quest to find the lost immortal—or die trying.
The Lost Immortal is an existential fever dream that asks the question; What is it truly like to be immortal? To live, love, and be human in a world where everyone turns to dust? Delve into the darkest corners of history and humanity in this mysterious, page-turning thriller.
He has roamed the earth for a hundred thousand years. He’s died countless times but has always risen. His hands have shaped history in ways unguessed. He has loved more tragically than any man, ever. He is the world’s only immortal, and now he’s missing. The clues to finding him may be in the diary he’s been writing for millennia.
Doctor Valory Grace is a synesthetic hyperpolyglot. She knows every language in antiquity through internal sensations of color, texture, and aroma. She is recruited in secrecy to decipher the immortal’s ancient diary and discover his whereabouts. Falling in love with him isn’t part of the job.
Grace’s work is the key to biological immortality, and powerful men will do anything to possess it. Terror looms as she tangles with secret agents, a nefarious billionaire, and the world’s deadliest assassin in her quest to find the lost immortal—or die trying.
The Lost Immortal is an existential fever dream that asks the question; What is it truly like to be immortal? To live, love, and be human in a world where everyone turns to dust? Delve into the darkest corners of history and humanity in this mysterious, page-turning thriller.
THE KNOCK STARTLED HER. At first, she thought it was her imagination. No one ever knocked on her door, not at home. At the office, sure. Lots of people interrupting her there. Not here, though, where she hid from the loud, needy world in her cozy fortress of solitude. Maybe this was just a trick of her mind, an auditory hallucination induced by hours of reckless caffeine drinking and monotonous typing. She remained silent, fingers poised over the keys, ears perked.
The knock repeated. Bolder and more insistent, too strong to be one of her elderly neighbors. So who was it? She wasn’t expecting a delivery, and solicitors were not permitted in the complex. Had someone from the university decided to pop in? That’d be a first—and a last, too, after the scolding she would give them for showing up unannounced. At least that’s the fantasy she conjured in her mind. In truth, she would tolerate the intrusion like a timid mouse.
Staring at her laptop, she battled indecision. Give into curiosity and answer the door, or ignore the interloper and continue working?
The doorbell this time. Then a faint voice. “Doctor Grace? Are you there? It’s rather important.” A man, Italian accent. Not one of her colleagues then. Nevertheless, it sounded like a professional matter. Intriguing, but also rude. She would never dream of appearing at a stranger’s home out of the blue to talk shop. She considered staying quiet until he retreated, but she feared he’d just accost her later at a more inconvenient time. May as well get it over with now.
She rose from her chair, knocking off a stack of folders that had been teetering on the edge of her desk. With a curse, she began gathering them, but each time she pressed one folder against her chest, two more escaped her grasp, sliding across the hardwood.
The doorbell again.
“Mon Dieu!” Giving up on the folders, she tossed the few she’d gathered onto a side table where they flopped among the other clutter. On her way to the door, she stopped to check her reflection in the mirror. Yikes. The she-thing from the library. Oh well, nothing she could do about it now.
“Ah,” she heard the stranger say as she turned the deadbolt, “molto bene.” She opened the door a foot wide, squinting the sudden sunlight from her eyes. There stood a portly man in a gray suit, blazer unbuttoned, a loose tie around his ample neck. He removed his fedora, set his briefcase down, and extended a meaty hand. “Doctor Valory Grace, I presume.” His relief was obvious. “It is an honor to meet you. My name is Doctor Rafael Moretti. I am the Deputy Chief of Staff for the Italian Ministry of Cultural Heritage.” Like a wizened cherub, his grin was fat and red-cheeked where it was not smothered by an ashy beard. His nose was a fleshy bulb, his hair a tidy horseshoe ringing a bald pate. The broadness of his smile turned his eyes to friendly slits etched with crow’s feet. “I hope I have not startled you.”
She shook his hand without opening the door further. “I was working,” she said, only afterward realizing it was an aloof thing to say. “Sorry, I mean that I wasn’t expecting visitors. What can I do for you, Doctor Moretti?”
Moretti placed his fedora over his heart. “My sincerest apologies, Doctor Grace, I know I have come uninvited. But, due to the nature of my visit, it is necessary.”
“Why? What is this about?”
Moretti was hesitant, casting a sidelong glance as if the empty breezeway might be peopled with well-hidden eavesdroppers. When he spoke this time, it was in Italian. “La questione è piuttosto delicata, Dottoressa. Possiamo parlare dentro? Per favore?” The matter was sensitive, and he wanted to talk inside.
A list of excuses to decline zipped through her mind. None were socially feasible. “Yes, of course. La prego di entrare, Dottore.”
“Grazie mille. Grazie.”
Before she closed the door behind him, Valory glanced over the guardrail of the walkway. In the car park below, a man in a dark suit was leaning on a Mercedes lighting a cigarette. He slipped the lighter into his pocket, looking up at her. She shut the door.
Turning, Valory was suddenly embarrassed. Only then when she saw Doctor Moretti checking out her apartment did she realize just how chaotic it was. Books upon books piled here, spread open there. Loose papers scattered over the couch. Coffee mugs lying about, some of them accompanied by crumb-filled plates. A whiteboard where a normal person’s television might be, dense with scribbles and symbols. “Sorry about the mess,” she said. “If I’d known you were coming—”
“No no no, Doctor, please,” he said, waving her off with his fedora. “It is I who is imposing. Besides,” he chuckled, “you should see my office.”
“Kind of you to say. Please have a seat,” she said, clearing off a spot on the couch. “Caffè?”
“Si,” he said, sinking into the cushion, “but only if it is already brewed. I don’t want to be a trouble.”
“Trust me, if these eyes are open, there is freshly brewed coffee nearby.”
Doctor Moretti’s deep-chested laughter and plump red cheeks brought visions of an Italian Santa Claus to her mind. Except that one always knows the exact date that Santa will arrive at one’s chimney. As Valory went into the kitchen, she considered the nature of his surprise appearance. The Italian Ministry of Cultural Heritage? She’d never worked with them, and she was quite sure the university had no open collaborations there. So why would they send their Deputy Chief of Staff to her private residence, bypassing all official channels in this clandestine manner? She’d find out soon enough, but she feared she’d have to withstand a volley of small talk beforehand. Though not as bad as the French, Italians liked taking their sweet time. Valory had endured many an aimless conversation with sociable European academics before being allowed to sample the goods. If only all people were as businesslike as the Germans.
“I must say, Doctor Grace—”
“Just Valory, please,” she called as she felt along the top shelf, hoping to find a clean mug. “Or Val if you’re into brevity.”
“Bene. And call me Rafael.”
“K.”
“I must say, Valory, I was a bit surprised to learn that a thirty-four-year-old woman lives in a retirement home.”
“Assisted living. There’s a difference.”
“Ah yes, of course. But,” he grunted, pulling a hairbrush from beneath his rear end, “after some rumination, I see that it is quite a prudent choice. I’m sure your elderly neighbors are quiet as mice. No parties or loud music. You don’t have to maintain the grounds or repair anything. You can escape your office and focus on your work here without hassle.” He chortled. “I think the rest of us have all missed a fine, eh, how do the kids say—a life hack, hm?”
“You’ve discovered my secret. Cream and sugar?”
“Si, grazie. The only thing I don’t understand is how. Must not a person be of a certain age to live here?”
“Normally, yes, but old people love me. They accept me as one of their own.” She handed him the coffee before taking an adjacent chair. “Kidding, of course. I mean they are rather fond of me—they say I have an old soul—but the truth is my colleague at Oxford pulled some strings to get me in here. She’s chummy with the administrator.”
“Ah, I see.” He sipped his coffee and nodded approval. “Grazie. I think, not long from now, I may be living in a place such as this. Not to work in peace, but because I will be too old to face the world anymore, eh?” Another Santa chuckle hid his eyes. Valory smiled politely but said nothing. It was then she noticed Rafael had placed his briefcase behind his legs as if protecting it. Something important in there. “I can see you are anxious for me to get to the point,” he said after a second sip. “I cannot blame you. I understand this is all quite unexpected.”
“Well, since you mention it.”
“Molto bene. Down to business then. First, Valory, I must confess I’ve done a bit of homework on you.”
“Homework? On me?”
“Si. And two words kept coming to mind as I read about your career—quietly remarkable.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
“Let’s see how good my memory is. As I recall, you began attending Harvard at sixteen, eventually attaining your doctorate in historical linguistics.”
“That is correct.”
“And, as a student, you also worked as a judiciary translator.”
“Yes,” said Valory, tightening. “I’d thought that to be a rather obscure part of my life. How did you know?”
“I found an old article about you in the Harvard International Law Journal. It said you were a wunderkind, that the courts held you in high demand. You could speak any language thrown at you—a dozen interpreters rolled into one. Such recognition opened many doors for you, hm?”
Valory bristled. Was Rafael casually hinting at her stint with the D.I.A. during the Iraqi War? Her translations of intercepted communications had led to people dying—not something she was proud of. Nor was it something Rafael should know about, yet she was beginning to suspect he did. “You certainly have done your homework, Doctor.”
“We are academics. Our entire lives are homework.”
“Can’t argue there.”
“Now, I also know after graduating, you held a position at the Max Plank Institute for Psycholinguistics in the Netherlands. While there, it is said that you gained a reputation as a resurrector of dead languages. You assisted teams around the world with reconstructing extinct tongues using what little evidence had survived. Your uncanny comprehension even earned you the moniker ‘Language Jesus.’” Rafael was tickled by the nickname.
Valory nodded, a bit embarrassed. Yes, she’d contributed to such projects throughout her career, sometimes bridging linguistic gaps that had eluded other experts for decades, but she’d never liked ‘Language Jesus.’ Sounded sanctimonious. She’d been trying to ditch it for years.
Registering Valory’s discomfort, Rafael moved on. “I also learned that you’ve consulted on numerous archeological and anthropological ventures worldwide.”
“I’ve traveled a little, yes.”
“And currently, you’re a researcher for the Centre of Study of Ancient Documents down the road at Oxford.”
“You’re on a roll, sir.”
“An impressive career, especially for your age. As I said—quietly remarkable.”
“Thank you.”
“May I ask how many languages you speak, Doctor Grace?”
“Valory.”
“Mi dispiace, Valory.” He sipped his coffee, smiling.
“Fluently? Seventy-five modern languages, give or take. Semi-fluently, another ten or fifteen, depending on your definition of semi-fluent. Honestly, I don’t keep an exact count.”
“Oddio! You say that without the slightest braggadocio.”
Valory shrugged. “It’s not as mind-blowing for me as it seems to be for others. It doesn’t feel extraordinary.”
Rafael popped with surprise. It was the first time Valory had seen the entirety of his irises. “Surely you are joking! I speak four languages, and those took me years to learn. Your achievement is remarkable!”
“I suppose.”
“Almost a hundred modern languages. Oh mio. I hesitate to ask how many historical languages you know. You might give me an inferiority complex, no?”
“We don’t want that,” she said, hoping to match his genial energy. “Guess I’ll just have to keep that to myself.”
“No no, I can’t resist, you must tell me. How many, please?”
“Well, let’s just say that if it was written on papyrus, painted on a wall, or carved into stone, I can read it.”
“Amazing,” Rafael half-whispered. “What is your secret? How do you retain so much knowledge?”
Valory shrugged again. “The mysteries of this world are never-ending.” She managed a lighthearted tone, but she prickled with annoyance. Minutes ago, Doctor Moretti said he would get down to business, but all he’d done since then was engage in sycophantic posturing, back-door interviewing her for a job for which she hadn’t asked. Now he wanted her to explain the freakish neurological complexities that made language comprehension as natural for her as a sunrise. Good thing she’d lied to him. If she’d told him the real answer—that she could speak more than a thousand modern languages, far and away surpassing every other hyperpolyglot on the planet—he might have blown a fuse. She’d learned to perpetrate that lie long ago, understating her abilities just so she didn’t have to deal with peoples’ amazement.
“Say something in Swahili!” they’d demand.
Sighing, she’d respond, “Kitu katika Kiswahili,” which translated to “Something in Swahili.” That game had gotten old in her teens.
This man had come to Oxford all the way from Rome when a simple call to her campus office would have sufficed. Why? What matter was so sensitive, and what was in that briefcase he was protecting? Spill the beans already, Jack.
Valory felt a poke of guilt, for Rafael had noticed her edginess. He sat forward, dowsing his cheerfulness. Doctor Grace the party pooper strikes again. Would she ever be able to fake the graceful social etiquette that made people like each other? “What are you working on now, Valory? If I may ask?”
More questions. Managing a smile, she fetched a handful of folders from her desk, the same ones with which she’d fumbled earlier. She withdrew several high-res scans of weathered stones carved with faded lettering. “The Centre is collaborating with the Department of Antiquities in documenting a neglected corpus of Hellenistic inscriptions. Thousands of documents and artifacts with alphabetic scripts in syllabic, Phoenician, etcetera. I’m serving as principal researcher. For instance,” she said, handing a print to Rafael, “this image shows a section of a stone altar bearing a prayer for Ptolemy V Epiphanes. One-ninety BCE.”
Moretti wrapped a pair of glasses around his ears, face crunching as he squinted through the round lenses as if they blinded rather than aided him. “Fascinating,” he muttered, inspecting the scan. “There is much historical overlap between the Ptolemaic era and ancient Rome. I am surprised that you and I have not met before in some official capacity. Our work is certainly intertwined.”
“I suppose so.”
“Translating and cataloging these must be keeping you quite busy.”
“Definitely. And I have hundreds to get through.” Hint hint.
“Tell me,” he said, peeking over the rim of his glasses, “might you be willing to set these aside for a little while?”
“Set them aside?”
“Si. Say, if a golden opportunity appeared on your doorstep?”
“Well, that might be difficult. We’re working on a one-year grant, so I don’t have much time to . . .”
She trailed off as Rafael slid a stack of books out of the way and put his briefcase on the coffee table. He spun the numbers on the combination lock but stopped short of opening the case. “Valory, if I may ask, what led you to your profession?”
“Led me?”
“Well, clearly, you love languages. Their evolution, their etymologies, their cultural significance. You have pursued such studies from a very young age. It is a field of academia that most of the world finds dry and boring, but not you. My guess is you would not be happy doing anything else. So, what is it? Why do you love it so much?”
Valory measured the question. How could she answer without sounding like a freak? Doctor Moretti wouldn’t understand the truth. No one had ever understood, not even other hyperpolyglots. As an adolescent, she had tried to explain it to her mother, to her sister, and to friends. How confronting a new word tickled her mental pleasure center. How absorbing a dead language gave her a rush akin to a lover’s caress. When other teenage girls were going on dates and navigating social pitfalls, she was running her fingers along glossy pictures of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, reveling in a quasi-erotic miasma as she uncovered their dusty meanings. In the innocence of girlhood, she thought everyone shared such feelings. How could they not? Was not the mastery of words and language an intoxicant like no other? Did not everyone long to weave that magic tapestry underpinning the whole of humanity? No. No, they didn’t, she had learned. Hers were not natural feelings. People thought she was weird. Looney bin weird. Quasi-erotic? Best not to say things like that. Ever. Just bottle it up and move on.
Rafael sensed that he’d hit on something personal. Even so, he did not retract his question. For whatever reason, he wanted an answer. Fine. Give him the watered-down version.
“Language is everything to me,” said Valory. “I see it as humankind’s most vital and most beautiful invention. Without it, we’d have never evolved beyond simple societies, let alone built great and complex economies. Civilizations could not have recorded their collective wisdom, nor have educated their citizens, nor have kept an accurate historical record. We’d have no Plato, no Dickinson, no Shakespeare. No way for our brightest scientific minds to build upon the achievements of their predecessors. No one ever thinks about that,” she said. “The modern age just takes it for granted, but the truth is that today’s world would be unrecognizable without complex language and the written word.”
Rafael nodded, pleased. “I knew I chose the right woman. Saluti, Doctor Grace.”
He opened the briefcase, producing some thin cotton gloves. He gave a pair to Valory before putting on his own. Then he removed a protective foam layer and spun the case around so Valory could see. Lying there, snug in another layer of fitted foam, was a fragment of dried clay riddled with timeworn markings. At first, Valory assumed it was a cuneiform tablet like others she had examined from ancient Sumeria. Like those Sumerian tablets, this one had been made by forming marks in wet clay and then letting it bake dry in the sun. Such tablets were several thousand years old and contained the first true writing system in human history. One look at these markings, however, revealed they were not Sumerian. Nor were they proto-writing symbols from any civilization with which she was familiar. The markings on this fragment were unrecognizable to her. That was shocking. She’d studied every letter, symbol, glyph, and pictogram in antiquity and could identify them in an instant. But not these. The characters before her were beautiful and new, rudimentary yet artistic, like a clay-bound predecessor of calligraphy.
“First reactions, Doctor Grace?”
“It’s an unknown language isolate . . .” She heard the breathlessness of her own words as she painted the relic with her eyes.
“Brilliant!” said Rafael, clapping his meaty palms. “My little team spent months of comparative study determining that, and here you’ve done it in mere seconds. Assolutamente brilliante, Dottoressa. Si, it is an isolate as you say. Whatever this language is, it bears no genealogical relationship to any other known language.”
Valory steadied herself, unsure if she could believe what she was seeing. “Where was this found?”
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss that. But I will say this. By our estimates,” said Doctor Moretti, pausing for impact, “this writing predates even Sumerian. We put the date at approximately 8000 BCE.”
“You’re saying this is ten thousand years old? But that would mean . . .”
“Yes. It means we must revise history. For this written language holds the new title for the earliest in all of humankind. And you, Doctor Valory Grace, are one of the first in the modern world to lay eyes upon it.”
Had Valory been standing, she’d have swooned. She looked at Moretti, who nodded, granting permission. Trembling, she placed a fingertip on the dried clay, dragging it slowly along the archaic impressions. Through the thin glove, her skin dipped into the grooves, lingering for a moment on each character. In her career, every extinct language she’d studied had been unearthed long before her arrival. But here, beneath her quivering touch, was a true and shining mystery. Not just for her, but for the entire human race. Now Valory had a chance to start from ground zero. The buzz in her brain was almost audible. Could this be a hoax perpetrated by some skillful counterfeiter? No. No way. The fragment was authentic. She could feel it. As she caressed the ancient characters, they seemed to lift out of the dried clay, slipping into her skin, crawling into her fingers, tingling up her arm, into her blood. They beckoned her. They whispered. In the silence, she could almost hear their words. Let us have a lusty dance, sweet Valory. Bring us deep into your soul. Revel in the taste of our secrets . . .
She snatched her hand from the tablet.
“Are you alright, Valory?” asked Rafael, reaching out to her. “You look flush.”
“Yes,” she said, suppressing embarrassment. “I’m fine, thank you. This is just a bit of a shock, that’s all.” She tried to smile at him, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the fragment.
“You have many questions.”
“I do. The first being why would you bring this here?” She heard the reproachful tone of her voice, walking it back. “I mean, I’m honored that you did, but this is a priceless and fragile relic. It could be damaged, it could be stolen. Lost forever. Does your Ministry know you’re traveling with this piece?”
Rafael chuckled. “You’re right to chide me, of course. I promise I would never do such a thing under normal circumstances, but this situation is far from normal, as I hope you will soon discover.”
“I’m all ears, Doctor.”
“Yes, well, unfortunately, there is much that I cannot say, not at this stage. What I can tell you is this.” He rested his fingers on the edge of the briefcase. “What you see here is just a morsel. There is more.”
“More?”
“Si.”
“More like this? Inscribed with this language?”
“Si, and many other things.”
“Such as?”
“Valory,” said Rafael, enjoying her enthusiasm, “it pains me that I can’t answer that right now. My government demands complete discretion, you understand. But if you agree to the job, all will be made clear. Once your security clearance has been approved, that is.”
“So you are offering me a job, then.”
“Indeed, and it is this. I would like you to lead the study of these historical relics,” he said, tapping on the briefcase. “I believe you are uniquely capable of deciphering and documenting what we’ve discovered. In fact, you are one of the few people on Earth who qualifies for this project.”
Valory peered at the fragment, an eager lump in her throat. “That’s why you brought it here. You knew if I saw it—if I touched it with my own hands—I wouldn’t be able to refuse.”
Rafael smiled like a boy caught stealing from the cookie jar. “So you will accept?”
Deep within her, a voice was crying Yes! A thousand times yes! But she forced a practical response. “When would I start this job?”
Rafael tugged at his tie. “We must leave tomorrow, I’m afraid.”
“Tomorrow. You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was. Unfortunately, I am on a very strict schedule here. Again, I can’t—”
“Can’t go into details, right. Could you at least say where I’d be going?”
“To the site.”
“The site where you found this tablet?”
He nodded.
“An active excavation?”
“Eh, yes. In a sense.”
“Uh-huh. And I assume the site is in Italy since the Italian Ministry of Heritage is in my home.”
“I’m so sorry Valory, but I’m unable to reveal that information until you pass clearance. If you decline this job, you cannot know where the site is. For that matter, whether you accept or not, I must ask you not to tell anyone about this meeting, or what I have shown you today.”
“Right. Super-secret Italian stuff.” Valory exhaled, coaxing herself away from the rush that was coursing through her. When she was sure her legs would hold, she walked to the dinette table and thumbed through the Oxford folders. “Doctor Moretti—Rafael—I admit I’m sufficiently tantalized, but I can’t just up and leave the university tomorrow for some mysterious job in God knows where. We’re three months into our grant, I can’t bail on my colleagues.”
“Yes, your work at the Centre is of course very important.” Rafael grunted, rising from the couch. “But, at the risk of sounding melodramatic, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. There is no doubt you will forever regret it if you decline. For I humbly swear,” he said, raising his right hand, “the site in question is a treasure unlike any I have ever seen. And that is saying something considering my experience.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” She turned from her folders, thinking. Past projects had taught her that so-called dream offers such as this were often riddled with gotchas, and that she had better clearly define her conditions. “When you say you want me to lead the project, you mean I’ll have a team?”
“A small one, yes.”
“So the course of study will be at my discretion, right? No hidden overseers?”
“That is correct. This project will be all yours.” He watched her ponder this as she looked at the fragment. Smiling, he said, “To tempt you a bit more, let me just say that the site is in pristine condition. Never looted. It is rich with well-preserved texts the quality of which academics like us can only dream. The artifacts we are discovering there have the potential to change the world. You can be a part of that, Valory.”
She held his gaze for a moment, letting his words resonate. Sighing, she returned to her chair. There, on the coffee table nestled in the briefcase, the oldest written language in existence begged to be explored. She laid her fingertips upon it, resting them on those words that someone, somewhere, had pressed into clay ten thousand years ago.
Let us have a lusty dance, sweet Valory.
The Lost Immortal was an enjoyable book to read for many reasons. The idea of immortality and the hunt for it when it is discovered to exist in the world is one that has woven its way through many a good novel and Huston uses the tragic figure of his protagonist, a man of many names but for this review we'll call him Alexandros, to show that it might not be all that it's cracked up to be.
Alexandros's story runs alongside that of Valory Grace, a language specialist with an almost otherworldly skill in deciphering previously incomprehensible scripts, like a human Rosetta Stone but with much more linguistic scope. She is brought in when a remarkable discovery somewhere in Italy presents a mystery to be solved. Only she has the skill to find the answers that everyone craves although the mission is shrouded in secrecy at governmental level. It is only while Valory is there and uncovers the enormity contained in what she reads that she realises exactly what this could mean for the world and how she may have inadvertently, in her desire to use her gift and in her pursuit of discovery, landed herself in danger.
I really liked Huston's vision in this book from the creation of the setting where most of the action takes place to the trips into Alexandros' past, to its ultimate denouement. His creation of character is good: Valory's keenness and obsession to find out more about Alexandros feels real and the ambition of those intent on acquiring immortality for themselves is ruthlessly depicted.
If I had to offer criticism, it would be to state that the first half of the book moves a lot more slowly than the second half. Having said this, though, I would urge you to stick with it as the descriptions and the pace in the latter half of the book more than make up for its slower start. The first half is devoted to a lot of establishing and is valid for framing the further action of the book and the reader's knowledge of character, but the second half of the book ramps up the stakes, the danger and the action and I was impressed with the way that Huston created tension and described vividly pursuit and peril.
The first in the series, I would be keen to read Huston's next book.