I’ve always had a deep affection for Ian Cameron Esslemont’s Night of Knives, and much of that affection has to do with place. The novel came out after, and in the same year as, Steven Erikson’s Midnight Tides—a ballsy shift in focus that, unbelievably, managed to expand what was already shaping up to be the most ambitious fantasy series ever conceived.
Before moving on, if interested this is my interview with Ian Cameron Esslemont.
Esslemont’s debut dials things back in time, recounting a specific 24-hour period set in a single location—Malaz City, an imperial backwater and the mythic origin point of the Malazan Empire. It’s a place where legends go to hide and dreamers go to escape.
The events of Night of Knives take place after the prologue of Gardens of the Moon but before the novel’s main narrative. Through the eyes of Temper and Kiska, we follow the chaotic events of a Shadow Moon, a convergence where thrones are secured and empresses crowned.
Old Guard, New Eyes
What’s always drawn me to Night of Knives is how deeply Old Guard it feels. It features Kellanved and Dancer—two characters I’ve always been fascinated by. These are not mortals who became gods out of ambition for godhood. No, they became gods because it was simply the most efficient way to further their plans. Immortality wasn’t the goal—it was a goal. A stepping stone.
As someone who leans excessively pragmatic myself, that kind of thinking hits home. In a genre often obsessed with power for power’s sake, here we have ascendants who use divinity as a tool to get other things done. It’s not about living forever. It’s about what you do with forever.
In Erikson’s books, many of the quotes that open chapters are attributed to Kellanved. These aren’t just narrative flavor—they’re reminders. We may be reading about legendary events, but legends live here. And Night of Knives is set in the place where many of those legends began.
It starts, like many stories do: in a bar.
At Smiley’s, a group of exceptional people came together, took over Malaz Island, and built an empire. We’re given glimpses of iconic moments: the breaking of the sword, the sense that if Dassem Ultor couldn’t be there, then at least one of his retinue should—if for no other reason than to witness.
Yet for all its nostalgia, Night of Knives also gives us something new: Kiska. Her story is a classic one—someone trying to escape their hometown and chase something bigger, unaware that the most pivotal moment in history is about to unfold right where she lives.
In many ways, Kiska is us. Trying to get close to the action. To brush against greatness. To measure ourselves. In the Malazan world, even the gods take notice of mortals, and it’s often the mortals who kick them in the teeth and put their feet on their couches.
Kiska looks out and asks, “Why not me?” while people like Temper try to disappear.
The Emperor Returns
One of my favorite moments in the entire Malazan saga happens in Night of Knives. It reminds me of a climactic scene from Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, where a presence makes itself known—a moment where magic demands to be acknowledged.
Esslemont isn’t Clarke—JS&MN is one of the most masterful fantasy novels in decades—but Esslemont has something else working for him: a rich narrative universe already steeped in power. We know, long before this book, that Tayschrenn is no lightweight.
Which is why the scene where Kellanved and Dancer face off with Laseen and the Claw, and Kellanved unveils his warren, lands so hard:
An overpowering sensation of pressure bore down upon her like an invisible hand. A gravid deadly presence too huge to grant her notice. She glanced to Tayschrenn and saw him grimace, fingertips pressed against his temples. A droplet of blood fell from his nose.
The goddamn Emperor is back.
Later, Tayschrenn references the Stormriders, comparing their brutality to Kellanved at his worst. We’ve seen this kind of pressure before—Anomander Rake arriving in Memories of Ice, or entering Baruk’s in Gardens of the Moon. It’s unclear whether Kellanved is already ascended, but it’s certain: even as a mortal, the man was packing.
Still, interpretations of the confrontation differ. Everyone involved seems to get what they wanted. That’s classic Malazan. And it’s classic Esslemont, too—because he often sidesteps direct confrontation.
Convergences Without Catharsis
Here’s where my biggest critique of Esslemont lies.
He creates effective moments—Surly in her tent (Return of the Crimson Guard), this return of Kellanved—but he builds and builds, only to avoid the payoff. We’ve seen it across his works. Where Erikson confronts convergence, Esslemont often turns away.
And maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s the myth of it. That we never truly see the thing that becomes legend. But Night of Knives was our chance. We were finally there. We were meant to witness. And in that moment, we were held back.
It’s frustrating.
Like a horror film, Night of Knives thrives on atmosphere. Mystical hellhounds roam the streets. Cults clash in alleys. There’s even a haunted house. Everyone’s told to stay inside—yet all of our players are out, each trying to understand the convergence that’s unraveling their city.
But the three characters who seem to know what’s happening?
One’s dead.
One wants to be.
And the third—Tayschrenn—is mostly just guessing.
The climax never quite arrives. We don’t get the revelation. We know who Shadowthrone and Dancer are. We know the game they’re playing. But we wanted to see them become those things. And that… never quite happens.
The Game and the Friendship
But maybe the most enduring thing I took from Night of Knives—the thing I return to most—is friendship.
Yes, the partnership between Kellanved and Dancer can be read as mutually beneficial. And yes, there are hints throughout the series that Dassem and Dancer may have been even closer.
But to me? These two are bros. Their relationship is the engine behind the entire saga. It’s what made me ask Erikson and Esslemont years ago if Kellanved and Dancer were their avatars—and they admitted they were.
It makes sense. These two friends, creating a world, reaching for the stars, chasing knowledge, toppling stagnation. Epic fantasy meets postmodern gods. They aren’t interested in conquest—it’s already behind them. They want more.
There’s a moment in Night of Knives where it seems Dancer might go on without Kellanved. But he doesn’t. He drags him—literally—to their destiny. And Kiska, our stand-in, witnesses. One of the first examples in Malazan where the creators felt the gaze of the reader—and acknowledged us. Dared us to follow.
We wanted to.
We couldn’t.
But we were there. And we continue to be.
Upon entering the Deadhouse, Edgewalker, as old as anything in this universe, regards them as what they are:
“…the continuing possibility of progression.”
Final Thoughts: The Players and the Game
Malazan has always felt like a game between two brilliant minds—Erikson and Esslemont—shared with the rest of us. Night of Knives may have been a retelling of one of their best sessions.
Mere moments after ascending, Shadowthrone turns the Deadhouse into a home. A hearth. Wherever they are, the game is alive. And throughout the series, most references to the duo cast them as players.
No one knows what they’re doing. But everyone knows they’re doing something. These rogue dungeon masters reshape the world, sacrifice gods, leave chaos in their wake—and stories.
They remind us that being a god isn’t the point. Creating legends is.
*if you enjoyed my review you may also like my interview with Steven Erikson.