The Traitor (“The Traitor Baru Cormorant” in the US) is Seth
Dickinson’s debut novel. It’s a complex piece, which can be viewed from several
angles. It’s the tale of Baru Cormorant, an island girl taken into the service
of the Mask Empire. A savant, she quickly becomes useful to them – but her goal
is to bring down their system from within. There’s a strand of narrative about
her personal growth, and the moral quandaries she finds both internally and
externally as she strives to shatter the Imperial system. But there’s also
duels, and lovingly rendered large scale battles. There’s discussions on
utilitarian morality, wrapped up in Baru’s own relationships. There’s cut-throat
(possibly literally) politics, and some fascinating discussion of economics.
And then there’s wider themes – about choice, about the impact of colonialism,
about humanity – the heights and depths which people will allow themselves, and
the way both are screened by institutions.
The world Dickinson presents is one spread over geographical
locales, with distinct cultures to suit. There’s the island culture which is
the origin of our protagonist. It’s defined in broad strokes, a polyamorous
paradise, a culture with stylised conflict and a straightforwardly bucolic
lifestyle. It’s defined more closely by the contrast it makes with the Empire
of the Mask.
The Mask is a growing Imperial power, it’s civil servants
cloaked by masks when on duty. The sense of conformity that this induces – both
in those servants, and in the reader – seems quite intentional. Dickinson does a masterclass in
depersonalisation and separation – the members of the Mask that we run into are
uniformly competent, and typically quite terrifying in one form or another.
There’s a conflict for the reader between the inhumanity of their role and the
humanity of the individuals behind the masks. This is exacerbated by a
seemingly deliberate tension between
political policies which allow citizens freedom – economically, and
largely socially – and the brutal psychological conditioning that the Empire
inflicts on those it thinks are living outside of accepted norms.
Dickinson’s
done well here, creating a system which is, in many ways, beneficial to the
ruled – whilst also providing enough policies guaranteed to draw horrors from
the reader to induce conflict. That conflict, that narrative mirror between the
reader and the increasingly torn Baru, is marvellous.
Then there’s the battleground. The Empire works on a series
of fragmented duchies which cannot be ruled. The cool, green trees of this
space are in contrast to the distant mechanism of the Mask, or the warmth of
Baru’s homeland. An area soaked in mist and conflict, it’s the centre of much
of the book. It’s to the author’s credit that these duchies begin, after a
while, to feel real. It’s possible that there are too many of them – the reader
doesn’t get the room to explore them all, as much as we’d like to. However,
there’s enough of a sense of national solidarity to allow us to draw a feeling
of character, and how the Mask is encroaching upon it.
This is one of those areas where Dickinson’s interest in
colonialism, and in the issue of identity, becomes obvious. One of the others
is more personally focused, being our protagonist, Baru. Torn between the Mask,
which has shaped her for a task, and her homeland, she’s flung into a political
battlefield, unsure of who or what she is. The Mask’s presence in the duchies
mirrors this confusion. Members of the Duchies are absorbing social attitudes
from their governors. At the same time, the new ruling elite exist alongside an
older lineage, and are picking up distinctly new habits – as when the Mask
governor goes hunting with one of the Dukes. There’s some wonderful subtext
here, of absorption of cultural attitude on both sides, and of the subtle
realignments that take place due to this – and it’s a joy to read.
From a character standpoint, there’s quite a lot going on.
Our protagonist is Baru, one-time conquest, now a member of the Mask elite. Her
character is a wonderful example of the duality seen throughout the novel – on
the one hand, she’s determined to break down the regime of the Mask, to break
it’s hold on her homeland, and entirely if possible. On the other, she’s
determined to collaborate, to do the best that she can for the Mask, in order
to climb ever higher echelons of the system that she’s now bound to. It’s a
fascinating examination of the psyche of the conquered. She acknowledges the
superiority of the system, in part, but is determined to overthrow it – but,
paradoxically, feels there is no choice but to make it stronger. That her own
social proclivities are likely to draw down the attention of the Mask’s
terrifyingly named ‘hygienists’ is a fabulous means of adding personal terror
and investment to an already aching sense of dread.
Baru is a complex beast. There’s a great deal here which
happens out in the open, where Baru
acknowledges who and what she is, to herself. But there’s a great deal more
which passes in subtext, in unspoken asides in dialogue, in broken off
sentences, in understandings of facial expression, which the reader is left to
interpret. There’s enough in the top layer to make for a good, even a great
book, but delving into the detail, into the small asides and the broken
promises, builds a character which is thoroughly compelling – impossible not to
read, tied up in Baru’s twists of fortune.
Her compromises, her reactions to misadventure and success, her vices
(several) and her virtues (visible) are a complex mix, and are what craft this
character into a person.
Delightfully, the ensemble cast here is given a fair bit of
room to manoeuvre. They’re all eclipsed by Baru’s coruscating brilliance, but
it’s almost accidental. The duchess with whom Baru discusses economic warfare.
The governor whom she reports to on arrival. The naval lieutenant who assists
her with delicate problems. They have enough depth, even in a self-centred
narrative, that they feel like the stars of their own books, intersecting
Baru’s for a moment. She overshadows them, because this is her story, but they
have the complexity, the sense of things hidden beneath the surface, to feel
like starts of a story of their own.
The plot…well, this is an instance where there are multiple
ways to spoil it, so I’ll contain myself. It is, however, exactly as convoluted
as you might imagine. There are red herrings strewn through the narrative with
great abandon. Dickinson has the skill to pull off a lengthy discussion of warfare-through-economics,
several times, and make it as tense and intriguing as any stand-up duel – and
there’s more than a few fight scenes here as well. As Baru wends her way
through a space filled with conflicting loyalties, personal, political and national,
the reader is dragged with her – through every choice and every error, through
every repercussion, and every triumph. It’s perfectly pitched, perfectly paced,
and wonderfully done ; Dickinson has managed to produce a pitch perfect,
complex novel, with multiple levels, and some great things to say across the
themes it approaches and with the characters it uses to do so. Absolutely worth
the read.
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