By Damien Broderick
August Seebeck is in his twenties, a guy of commonplace appears and mind. Then comes the declare of his great-aunt Tansy that she has been discovering corpses every one Saturday evening in her tub (they vanish via morning). August dismisses this story as aged myth until eventually he stumbles upon a corpse being shoved into the second-floor toilet window of his aunt's condo. Even that wouldn't faze him, yet then an individual steps out of the mirror....
August by surprise discovers he's a participant within the multi-universe Contest of Worlds and that his precise relations is quarrelsome on a mythic scale. His look for figuring out follows a vintage quest trend of the Parsifal style, other than that August is nobody's idiot.
An epic quest that's humorous and engrossing, Godplayers is within the top culture of Zelazny, Van Vogt, and the Knights of the around desk, from one among technology fiction's most well-liked up-and-coming writers.
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Additional info for Godplayers (Players in the Contest of Worlds, Book 1)
He shifted his drink to his left hand, extended his right. "Thank you. Lune," she told him. "Lune Katha Sarit Sagara. You're hunting," she said. "So am I. " She frowned. He released her hand, watching her. " Another cat smile. " The barkeep frowned. " "Thomas, I wouldn't want to get you in trouble. But I'm not working for Mr. " He flashed her a grin. "I never heard of that cocktail, though, ma'am. " "Lot farther away than that. Jigger of cognac, teaspoon of maraschino," she said. "You have absinthe, of course?
You been sitting here exchanging names while I—" "Now, now ladies," the disposer said, fingers plucking at his pocket for the pipe, dropped away again, "it's not the end of the world when one of them finds his way into the wrong corner of a Contest. " I swear he winked at her. " Dazed, simply unable to think, I helped him get the naked corpse into the bag, then jammed shoes and clothing in on top. We zipped the bag shut, me zipping, him pulling the edges together. He hoisted the bundle up on his shoulder.
With a noise like tearing canvas, a short man pushed his way out through the mirror, stepping lightly from the basin to the floor. He carried a huge bag over his shoulder. I was ready to throw up. There wasn't enough room in the place to faint, so I stayed pinned against the door. All this racket, and still no word from Do Good. I hoped violently that none of the bastards had harmed the dear old beast. "Here's a rum turn," the disposer said, looking around. He was a small cheerful fellow apparently in his fifties, with a bleary eye and a three-day beard.