The Cold Equations of Revenge Power The Traitor Baru Cormorant
Here are some facts about Baru Cormorant: she is usually the smartest person in the room. She’s not great at personal relationships. The daughter of a conquered people, she is singled out for her unusual gifts at an early age by a powerful, mysterious mentor (of sorts) with an agenda of his own. She’s an “untraditional protagonist” in the sense that it’s less common to find mainstream SF/F novels with a queer woman of color as the protagonist; in other ways, she couldn’t be more traditional. Up to a point.
That point is, The Traitor Baru Cormorant is riveting, immersive, and tough to talk about without spoilers. To give away too much is to risk losing some of the tension that will keep you compulsively turning pages, though the ending is less a surprise than an inevitability toward which you careen helplessly. The writing is so tight, the plot so well-constructed, that if you were to surreptitiously read the ending first—or the original short story of the same name—you would still find yourself addicted.
The Traitor Baru Cormorant
Hardcover $25.99
The Traitor Baru Cormorant
Hardcover $25.99
Let’s assume you haven’t read the short story, and outline the basic premise. Baru grows up on Taranoke, an idyllic island; there are macadamia nuts and black sand beaches. She has two fathers and one mother, as is traditional, until the Masquerade’s imperial forces swoop in, and it’s not anymore. One of her fathers disappears, as if erased from the ledger. Baru goes to a colonial school, where she’s instructed in the arts and sciences the Masquerade has introduced to Taranoke, including eugenics and homophobia. She’s taught that the Masquerade is a meritocracy, and that its masks, worn on state occasions, are in service to this ideal: anyone may stand behind the mask, and anyone with sufficient talent may rise to power in the Masquerade’s imperial system. The emperor is an ordinary citizen behind his mask. He could be anyone.
The emperor could be anyone, because he’s irrelevant. The Masquerade’s real power lies with the counselors who surround him. These puppeteers control the Masquerade’s empire through various subtle and unsubtle manipulations, because while the Masquerade is known for its sea power, its real strength is social engineering. Identified for her intellectual gifts at an early age, Baru seems on track to join this elite group—until she uses those gifts to protect her cousin from abuse at the hands of a teacher. The teacher is thwarted, but so is Baru, and instead of heading to the imperial capital, she is sent off to distant Aurdwynn, to live out her days as the colony’s Imperial Accountant. But her secret goal remains: to rise to power and bring the Masquerade down from the inside.
What follows is a romance of strategy that reminded me what I liked about epic fantasy in the first place. Baru follows the money to uncover a sophisticated plot to liberate Aurdwynn from Masquerade control, then manipulates Aurdwynn’s currency to sabotage the rebels’ plans. But the rebellion isn’t over yet, and before it’s done, Baru Cormorant will have to choose a side.
There’s a love interest, but not much of a love story; the passion in Baru Cormorant is reserved for the workings of systems, the way networks of influence intersect and intertwine. This is a book with an enormous cast, and it’s a testament to Dickinson’s skill that he neither bogs the narrative down with unnecessary information, nor leaves important details unexplained. Moving pieces fall into place with an enviable grace; how the hell is this a debut novel?
Baru Cormorant may trouble some readers when it comes to the structural oppression that shapes so much of the story. Institutional homophobia is the norm, and Baru is reminded frequently, in graphic detail, of the horrific genital mutilations which await convicted “sodomites” and “tribadists.” This villainy is an important influence on young Baru’s development and a central plot point. Her dads are gay, she’s a dyke, and she’s being raised by people who simultaneously tell her she’s brilliant and that everything about her is wrong. How, the book seems to ask us, could she not grow up lost in a labyrinth of her own secrets?
But we’re all more than the sum of our scars. Last week, Jenny Zhang wrote that “White supremacy tries to reduce people of color to our traumas” in a way that reinforces the society that creates those traumas, because it insists that there’s no hope of transcending the oppressive power structures it describes. The icy, pragmatic Baru is as far from a weepy victim as it’s possible to get, and yet I found myself wishing that her personality wasn’t defined by her wounds, that we could see her more clearly as an individual and less as the queer schizoid product of forces beyond her control. Even Tom Ripley has hobbies.
The book’s most welcome moments are the glimpses into Baru’s everyday life—a remarkable conversation with an actress she never expects to see again, a brief yet important scene in which she observes her secretary, Muire Lo, has real affection for her. These are the vignettes that give the broader plot arcs meaning, and they are the scenes I’ll remember long after I’ve forgotten the names of every last Duke and Duchess of Aurdwynn. Amidst the calculations, which never stop, there’s warmth and unexpected humor. One definition of a round character is this: does she surprise you?
I’m very curious about the sequel. Don’t spoil it for me.
Let’s assume you haven’t read the short story, and outline the basic premise. Baru grows up on Taranoke, an idyllic island; there are macadamia nuts and black sand beaches. She has two fathers and one mother, as is traditional, until the Masquerade’s imperial forces swoop in, and it’s not anymore. One of her fathers disappears, as if erased from the ledger. Baru goes to a colonial school, where she’s instructed in the arts and sciences the Masquerade has introduced to Taranoke, including eugenics and homophobia. She’s taught that the Masquerade is a meritocracy, and that its masks, worn on state occasions, are in service to this ideal: anyone may stand behind the mask, and anyone with sufficient talent may rise to power in the Masquerade’s imperial system. The emperor is an ordinary citizen behind his mask. He could be anyone.
The emperor could be anyone, because he’s irrelevant. The Masquerade’s real power lies with the counselors who surround him. These puppeteers control the Masquerade’s empire through various subtle and unsubtle manipulations, because while the Masquerade is known for its sea power, its real strength is social engineering. Identified for her intellectual gifts at an early age, Baru seems on track to join this elite group—until she uses those gifts to protect her cousin from abuse at the hands of a teacher. The teacher is thwarted, but so is Baru, and instead of heading to the imperial capital, she is sent off to distant Aurdwynn, to live out her days as the colony’s Imperial Accountant. But her secret goal remains: to rise to power and bring the Masquerade down from the inside.
What follows is a romance of strategy that reminded me what I liked about epic fantasy in the first place. Baru follows the money to uncover a sophisticated plot to liberate Aurdwynn from Masquerade control, then manipulates Aurdwynn’s currency to sabotage the rebels’ plans. But the rebellion isn’t over yet, and before it’s done, Baru Cormorant will have to choose a side.
There’s a love interest, but not much of a love story; the passion in Baru Cormorant is reserved for the workings of systems, the way networks of influence intersect and intertwine. This is a book with an enormous cast, and it’s a testament to Dickinson’s skill that he neither bogs the narrative down with unnecessary information, nor leaves important details unexplained. Moving pieces fall into place with an enviable grace; how the hell is this a debut novel?
Baru Cormorant may trouble some readers when it comes to the structural oppression that shapes so much of the story. Institutional homophobia is the norm, and Baru is reminded frequently, in graphic detail, of the horrific genital mutilations which await convicted “sodomites” and “tribadists.” This villainy is an important influence on young Baru’s development and a central plot point. Her dads are gay, she’s a dyke, and she’s being raised by people who simultaneously tell her she’s brilliant and that everything about her is wrong. How, the book seems to ask us, could she not grow up lost in a labyrinth of her own secrets?
But we’re all more than the sum of our scars. Last week, Jenny Zhang wrote that “White supremacy tries to reduce people of color to our traumas” in a way that reinforces the society that creates those traumas, because it insists that there’s no hope of transcending the oppressive power structures it describes. The icy, pragmatic Baru is as far from a weepy victim as it’s possible to get, and yet I found myself wishing that her personality wasn’t defined by her wounds, that we could see her more clearly as an individual and less as the queer schizoid product of forces beyond her control. Even Tom Ripley has hobbies.
The book’s most welcome moments are the glimpses into Baru’s everyday life—a remarkable conversation with an actress she never expects to see again, a brief yet important scene in which she observes her secretary, Muire Lo, has real affection for her. These are the vignettes that give the broader plot arcs meaning, and they are the scenes I’ll remember long after I’ve forgotten the names of every last Duke and Duchess of Aurdwynn. Amidst the calculations, which never stop, there’s warmth and unexpected humor. One definition of a round character is this: does she surprise you?
I’m very curious about the sequel. Don’t spoil it for me.