We were trying to come up with things that were true, but garden-variety truth is so dull. It just doesn't catch the heart and mind the way Truth does, and to tell the Truth, oftentimes you must lie. [p. 324]
An elderly, itinerant storyteller is arrested in the cold northern backwater of Nuryevet, on charges of witchcraft and brazen impertinence. He manages to persuade the judge he's not a witch -- and is then imprisoned on suspicion of spying. His court-appointed advocate, Consanza, is initially suspicious of a pro bono client who won't even tell her his name (it's a 'religious matter': he's a Chant, a member of an ancient order of storyteller-priests, and 'Chant' is the only name he has), but unthaws slightly as she comes to know him. And Chant, though he has no magical abilities, does have the power of story on his side, and a knack for finding the story to suit the circumstance. As he plays the games of Nuryevet's political factions, and plays those factions (and fictions) against one another, he creates his own story about Nuryevet, and whether it's worth saving, and what might take its place.
This is a timely tale: fake news, a climate of fear, good people letting bad things happen, bureaucracy run amok ... Nuryevet has a rather Slavic feel, at least from the inside of Chant's various, poorly-heated prison cells. In some ways it's remarkably liberal to a contemporary eye: there's no evidence of homophobia, sexism or racism. (Chant is dark-skinned, his apprentice Ylfing somewhat lighter-skinned, a distant tribe is described as having skin the colour of shelf mushrooms.) Polyamorous marriages, for love or business or to avoid tax burdens, is the norm. But one person in five is a lawyer, because everyone is trying to protect what they have -- assuming they have anything. Nuryevet, Chant recognises, is a story, a consensus: and one of its underpinnings is 'the idea that they could feed their poor to the story like cattle to a sea monster so the wealthy could eat its leavings'. [p. 200]
I was reminded, in a good way, of the work of K J Parker -- with its focus on economics, bureaucracy, corruption and geography, rather than on the fantastical elements and chosen ones of a magical realm. Rowland's female characters are rather more likeable than Parker's, and the novel features real magic. Not that Chant is at all magical: but he is a showman, and his knowledge of chemistry proves as effective as a spell.
It's worth noting that despite the narrator being held prisoner for almost all of the novel, there's little or no sense of claustrophobia. By telling, and hearing, stories, Chant both creates and inhabits the world beyond the prison walls. And by narrating the story that is A Conspiracy of Truths to an individual who is not identified until late in the novel, he sustains an air of mystery quite separate to the already-answered question of his survival.
A lot of the buzz about this novel centred on Ylfing, Chant's seventeen-year-old, 'boy-crazy' apprentice. He is indeed a delight, and the affection and loyalty between him and his elderly, cynical, grumpy master is evident despite Chant's disclaimers of watering eyes et cetera: but Ylfing's loyalty is poorly rewarded, and that's one of the novel's most poignant aspects. Luckily the sequel (A Choir of Lies) focusses on Ylfing ...
I had to buy an American paperback edition of this book, because it's not available on Kindle in the UK. (Benefits include beautiful cover, soft spine and general niceness.) Buying the physical edition meant that I had to time the reading to when I'd be at home for an extended period (good lighting, easy to take notes, no need to carry book anywhere). So this was my Christmas present to myself: it is good to give and to receive!
No comments:
Post a Comment