Another Epinions orphan; I also reviewed this one at Green Man Review.
Brokedown Palace is another one of Steven Brust’s romps – I have to admit, the man astonishes me: from the highly individual noir detective cast of the Vlad Taltos novels to the delightful and affectionate take-off on Dumas in The Phoenix Guard and Five Hundred Years After, he has an amazing range and an astonishing amount of creativity. In this one, he’s done it with the traditional folk tale – not that this story owes much to any particular tale, but Brust has taken the idea of folklore and the means and methods of folklore to make an engaging and fabulous – in the strict sense – novel
The universe is the same as that of the Vlad Taltos novels, in a different time and with a very different tone. Structurally, the story follows a more-or-less traditional narrative form, broken by interludes that may describe events that are important but of which the characters are unaware, or may simply be folktales (of the “tall tales” variety) within the larger folktale. The story is quite simple: it is the story of László, King of Fenario, who is not particularly sane, and his brothers, Andor, who is shallow and perhaps overly religious – at least sometimes; Vilmos, who is the archetypal giant, large, strong, gentle, and perhaps with a little more on the ball than others realize; and Miklós, the youngest, who is a little – well, more than a little stubborn, and more than a little outspoken. It is tempting to say that the Palace is another major character, but it’s not; it is, however a potent symbol that Brust uses to great effect. László has a tendency to try to beat Miklós to death, or nearly so, and is extremely sensitive about the condition of the Palace, which is tottering on its foundations – in this case, it’s called denial. After one nearly-fatal beating, Miklós exiles himself to the land of Faerie – in the Taltos cycle, Dragaera – where he learns Dragaeran sorcery (pre-Empire, needless to say) before his return to Fenario. We meet the táltos horse Bölk, a magical steed who is much more than he seems and always answers questions with more questions; the Countess Mariska, destined to wed László – or perhaps one should say resigned to the fact – and Brigitta, László’s mistress. There is a hidden villain, and a magical tree, and the Demon Goddess Varra, who has her own agenda.
And the whole thing is permeated by magic – not only the fantasy-world magic of spells and incantations, but the fairy-tale magic that says the unbelievable is real and is walking right next to you. In this novel, Brust displays a remarkable gift in combining irony, wit, and the innocence of childhood, in which the Palace, the River, a horse, a tree, all have their own purposes and their own ways of effecting their goals. As in folklore, the characters are broadly drawn, but this is a novel, and they accumulate the telling details that belong to real people as the story progresses – they are well-developed, but always hover in the realm of the archetype.
A word about the narrator, who encapsulates Brust’s various gifts in a highly entertaining way. The narrator is indeed a storyteller, who digresses (another of Brust’s many talents) to fill in the story, bring us details about the history of Fenario, the people and the land, and who provides a commentary that is sometime wry, sometimes matter-of-fact, but always lively and good-humored. But make no mistake – there are dark and terrible events in this story, as is necessarily the case if we are to be engaged at all, and as is very much the basis of folklore as it is of literature. Whether Brust’s stance makes them more terrible or more distanced is something that each reader, I think, will have to decide.
A final note: those who are more familiar with Eastern European folklore than I may derive an additional layer of enjoyment from this book. The vocabulary and I suspect the general tenor of the narrative seem solidly based in Hungarian language and Hungarian traditions (alright, Fenarian is Hungarian, or damned close), which brings an element of the exotic to the tale that just adds to the fun.
Recommended? Absolutely.
(Ace Books, 1986)
The universe is the same as that of the Vlad Taltos novels, in a different time and with a very different tone. Structurally, the story follows a more-or-less traditional narrative form, broken by interludes that may describe events that are important but of which the characters are unaware, or may simply be folktales (of the “tall tales” variety) within the larger folktale. The story is quite simple: it is the story of László, King of Fenario, who is not particularly sane, and his brothers, Andor, who is shallow and perhaps overly religious – at least sometimes; Vilmos, who is the archetypal giant, large, strong, gentle, and perhaps with a little more on the ball than others realize; and Miklós, the youngest, who is a little – well, more than a little stubborn, and more than a little outspoken. It is tempting to say that the Palace is another major character, but it’s not; it is, however a potent symbol that Brust uses to great effect. László has a tendency to try to beat Miklós to death, or nearly so, and is extremely sensitive about the condition of the Palace, which is tottering on its foundations – in this case, it’s called denial. After one nearly-fatal beating, Miklós exiles himself to the land of Faerie – in the Taltos cycle, Dragaera – where he learns Dragaeran sorcery (pre-Empire, needless to say) before his return to Fenario. We meet the táltos horse Bölk, a magical steed who is much more than he seems and always answers questions with more questions; the Countess Mariska, destined to wed László – or perhaps one should say resigned to the fact – and Brigitta, László’s mistress. There is a hidden villain, and a magical tree, and the Demon Goddess Varra, who has her own agenda.
And the whole thing is permeated by magic – not only the fantasy-world magic of spells and incantations, but the fairy-tale magic that says the unbelievable is real and is walking right next to you. In this novel, Brust displays a remarkable gift in combining irony, wit, and the innocence of childhood, in which the Palace, the River, a horse, a tree, all have their own purposes and their own ways of effecting their goals. As in folklore, the characters are broadly drawn, but this is a novel, and they accumulate the telling details that belong to real people as the story progresses – they are well-developed, but always hover in the realm of the archetype.
A word about the narrator, who encapsulates Brust’s various gifts in a highly entertaining way. The narrator is indeed a storyteller, who digresses (another of Brust’s many talents) to fill in the story, bring us details about the history of Fenario, the people and the land, and who provides a commentary that is sometime wry, sometimes matter-of-fact, but always lively and good-humored. But make no mistake – there are dark and terrible events in this story, as is necessarily the case if we are to be engaged at all, and as is very much the basis of folklore as it is of literature. Whether Brust’s stance makes them more terrible or more distanced is something that each reader, I think, will have to decide.
A final note: those who are more familiar with Eastern European folklore than I may derive an additional layer of enjoyment from this book. The vocabulary and I suspect the general tenor of the narrative seem solidly based in Hungarian language and Hungarian traditions (alright, Fenarian is Hungarian, or damned close), which brings an element of the exotic to the tale that just adds to the fun.
Recommended? Absolutely.
(Ace Books, 1986)
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