If what drew you to These Mortals was the way court politics hinge on dangerous enchantments and back-room bargains, you’ll love how Clarke pits Mr. Norrell and Jonathan Strange against cabinet ministers and generals, turning séances and summoning into matters of state. The duels of wit in salons, the midnight rituals that tip campaigns and alliances, and the way a single conjuration can upend a ministry echo the high-stakes maneuvering you enjoyed—only here it sprawls across Georgian England and the Napoleonic wars, with fairy pacts every bit as treacherous as any ducal conspiracy.

You enjoyed how courtiers, magi, and dukes in These Mortals play masked games of power—the invitations, the whispers, the performances that are really traps. In Sailing to Sarantium, mosaicist Crispin is summoned to a glittering capital whose palace factions are as lethal as any ducal council. Banquets conceal schemes, a chariot racetrack hosts political theater, and a whiff of augury threads through every audience with the emperor and empress. It’s that same heady blend of artistry, ritual, and perilous patronage you savored, with every commission doubling as a test of loyalty.

If the luxuriant, candlelit prose of These Mortals—all tapestries, reliquaries, and whispered conjurations—was your delight, Davidson’s tale of the magus Vergil crafting a speculum of power will feel like a richly embroidered cousin. The sentences glow with incense and erudition; each errand for rare ingredients becomes a small ritual of scholarship and danger. You’ll find the same savor of hermetic lore, antique courts, and the hush of forbidden rooms where a single word, or a slip of the chisel, can change a destiny.

If you were captivated in These Mortals by protagonists who thrive in smoky antechambers and dangerous parlors—making uneasy alliances with patrons who might be enemies by dawn—Swordspoint gives you that same delicious moral gray. Swordsman Richard St. Vier and his lover Alec slip through a city of nobles where a duel at noon can settle a midnight slight. Everyone smiles while plotting, and favors are deadlier than curses. It’s all about the glittering edge of power, reputation, and the price of choosing one’s own code.

If the thread of tender feeling set against peril in These Mortals stuck with you—the guarded glances across a treacherous hall, affection tempered by duty—you’ll find a powerful echo here. Cazaril returns to serve a princess in a court riddled with betrayals and sorcerous blight; as he unknots a curse, affection grows in the spaces between prayers, stratagems, and self-sacrifice. The romance is patient and hard-won, blossoming not despite the dangers but because of the choices made within them.