Book #52 of 2026:
The Hands of the Emperor by Victoria Goddard (Lays of the Hearth-Fire #1)
This is my very favorite book, which I’ve now read four times in as many years. (I’m not necessarily committing to maintaining an annual rereading tradition, but I’m not exactly ruling it out, either.) That’s once in my hardcover copy, twice by ebook, and once now in the newly-released audiobook edition — only 31.5 hours on regular speed! — which is a well-made production that I do recommend for anyone who enjoys taking in stories that way. Like Kip scribbling additional annotations to his undelivered letter every time it came back to him after the Fall, what follows is a repeatedly-updated version of my original review:
The Hands of the Emperor is a wonderful warm hug of a novel, rich in characterization and gentle affirmation of community trust. It’s rare for a 900-page fantasy tome to feel so cozy, let alone to forgo any significant romance or acts of violence across its duration. But this initially self-published 2019 work is remarkable in any number of ways, each more endearingly quaint than the last. I am honestly not even sure that I would say it has a plot, although events do gradually unfold in support of the central character arc: a quietly effective middle-aged civil servant belatedly earning (or realizing he already has) the love and admiration of his colleagues, his far-off relatives, and his boss.
It’s an incredibly slow unveiling. Cliopher Mdang, a nobody from a Polynesian-inspired culture who’s risen to become private secretary to the ruler of his entire world, spends the first quarter of the text escorting his liege on an incognito holiday, the result of a breach-of-protocol invitation blurted out upon a stroke of insight about how lonely the other man must be in his peerless existence under elaborate courtly taboos, unable to be touched or looked directly in the eye. The two have known each other for decades — or possibly even millennia, as time has fractured in the cataclysmic backstory and now passes slower in some parts of the land than others — but their relationship has previously only ever been professional. We essentially get to meet His Radiancy the individual as Kip does, whilst simultaneously gaining a feel for the viewpoint protagonist himself and the dazzlingly intricate worldbuilding details that author Victoria Goddard has devised for the various corners of her setting.
The tone here is something like The Goblin Emperor crossed with The West Wing, or perhaps a fairy tale spin on Zohran Mamdani’s mayoralty of New York. Or the musical Hamilton, if it weren’t a tragedy and showed its titular politician as more in touch with his island origins like Disney’s Moana. (Immigrants! They get the job done!) It turns out that in his rise through the levels of the imperial bureaucracy, our hero has been subtly reworking that system, pushing for law and policy changes that will contribute to a more equitable society. Inspired by his distant egalitarian homeland, he’s rooted out corruption, instituted a universal basic income, improved the postal and transportation services, and implemented countless further such ideas that in an aggregation of incremental steps have functionally revolutionized the realm. It’s a rejection of grimdark cynicism, a hopepunk ode to the fundamental principle of good governance’s ability to help people, and it’s absolutely riveting to see in action, particularly once its unassuming architect starts getting openly acknowledged and rewarded for it.
This is also a story about cultural conflicts: about coming from a small backwater province to the capital of the known universe and facing misunderstanding and scorn for the customs of home. About keeping those folkways kindled inside as a guiding beacon, and ultimately proving that oral traditions are not primitive but lavish and meaningful and preserved over generations as a powerful representation of identity. About opening the door to other hinterlanders from similarly nontraditional and discriminated-against minority backgrounds, to ease their own struggles and provide everyone more of a say in how their shared government operates. About finding a way to make Kip’s family understand why he left and everything he’s accomplished in the wider civilization, and about his personal journey to realize how he needs to be a better advocate for himself in their eyes.
Above all, I would say that this is a book about being seen and accepted and loved for who you are. The strengthening bond between Cliopher and the Last Emperor is not quite romantic — although the foundation is certainly laid for things to develop in that direction in the sequel At the Feet of the Sun, when the two men are on more of an even footing in their power dynamic — but it is deeply intimate and a model of trusting fealty as the lord and his loyal aide come to reveal more and more of themselves to one another. The meaning of the title is twofold: Kip serves as the metaphorical hands of the Emperor in interpreting and enacting his will, yet he also yearns to be able to grasp His Radiancy’s actual hands in friendship. The catharsis of when he finally does, along with several other key moments in the long path there, is emotional and soothing and genuinely heartfelt. Adults who are competent at their jobs and earnestly decent to the fellow souls in their lives! Is that what people mean when they describe genre fiction as wish-fulfillment?
There is some periodic darkness, on the margins. Abusive marriages are discussed, the aforementioned bigotries are still present to some extent, the trauma of the Fall that most characters lived through continues to affect them, and the kindhearted bureaucrat feels intense isolation and survivor’s guilt that has to be carefully unpacked and confronted, with the occasional panic attack along the way. The possibility of suicide is raised obliquely in passing, and we learn that his former superiors used to torture their political enemies, in the old days before his reforms. One minor character comes from a tribe that practices sacred ritualistic cannibalism, while another gets casually deadnamed at first mention, although there’s no indication of any transphobia that would give that act the violent impact it carries in our world. (“Clia was [__] originally, but she changed her name when she was of age to declare herself a woman.”) I raise these issues to respect reader sensitivities, but in general, I’d say that they only cause the pervasive spirit of humanitarian acceptance that powers the novel to stand out more clearly.
This was my initial introduction to both Goddard as a writer and her broader Nine Worlds saga, and having subsequently now read the remaining 33 titles in that continuity to date — this being my first reread since hitting that particular milestone — I still think it’s probably the best entry point for newcomers. The rest have generally been great as well, however, and they’ve definitely added delightful background context for me upon revisiting this one. (The novella The Tower at the Edge of the World, detailing a certain character’s backstory, is especially fascinating — I wouldn’t necessarily suggest picking it up first, but returning to this one afterwards delivers some excellent dramatic irony. Or you could read this volume and barrel straight into The Return of Fitzroy Angursell, which is a spinoff that matter-of-factly reveals the same information in its opening pages. And if you instead choose to ignore those tangents to follow Kip’s own story from here to At the Feet of the Sun, you’ll eventually get to see him stumble over that exact realization for himself.)
Like Terry Pratchett’s Discworld, the Nine Worlds series is less of a single unfolding narrative and more of a loose configuration of smaller contained plots that’s forgiving of practically any reading order but builds in enjoyment the deeper you go and the more connections you start to spot. Nevertheless, my personal recommendation remains to begin right here, with a thoughtful islander striking up an unprecedented conversation with his sovereign.
★★★★★
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