Emissary by Uvatha the Horseman

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The Yule Banquet

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Chapter 12 – The Yule Banquet

The sun was already up when Urzahil opened his eyes. Today was the first day of Yule. There were no classes to go to, all he had to do was look after the horses.

Actually, there was something he had to do. Every year, the House of Castamir hosted a celebration to welcome the Winter Solstice. It was always held on the first day of Yule. Even so, all during exam week, Ardamin kept reminding him of the date and making him promise to come. Tar-Castamir had been his father's closest friend. He couldn't skip the banquet just because he wasn't feeling festive right now.

He had another reason to attend. Urzahil hoped Tar-Castamir could help him secure an appointment to the Diplomatic Corps.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil heaved a shovelful of manure into the wheelbarrow, then went back into the stall to collect another. While he was poking through the straw, the auburn-colored stallion stood stiffly and took an extensive leak. Urzahil was used to horses. He paid no attention until the spreading puddle surrounded his boot and soaked his stocking. He jerked back, surprised. His boots used to be waterproof.

He put a hand on the side of the stall for balance and inspected the bottom of his foot. White wool peeked through a hole the size of a coin. The leather was almost worn through beneath the second toe as well. He checked the other boot. It wasn't much better, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

Once he finished with the horses, he climbed back up to the hayloft. He laid out his clothes in the straw and considered what to wear to the banquet that afternoon. Everything he owned was threadbare or dirty. Urzahil couldn't wear any of them, they were rags. But he couldn't skip the banquet, either.

If he'd been at home, he would have borrowed something of his father's. He was almost as tall as his father now. His father's clothes might be a little loose, but they would fit. Urzahil started for the ladder. He would go to the house and borrow something of his father's.

Unless his father's things had already been given to charity. That was sometimes done with the clothing of someone who'd died. Urzahil stiffened. He'd hate for his father's clothes to be given away to strangers. To a stranger, they were just clothes, or even scrap fabric.

He slid down the rails of the ladder and landed on the dirt floor with a thump, dusted himself off, and raced up the street to his father's house.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The house was silent. It appeared to be unoccupied. The grounds were tall with weeds, and the roof tiles that had come off during the storm hadn't been replaced. He looked around for his brothers, but didn't see either of them outside. He would have preferred to ask one of them to go inside and get the clothes for him.

He pushed open the gate and stood on the front walk, thinking. He could slip in by a side door to avoid being seen, but that was foolish, this had been his home for most of his life. He climbed the steps to the front door and raised his hand, but let it fall without knocking. He tried the latch. The door swung open at a touch. He stepped inside.

The front hall looked strange, as though everything were the wrong size. A moment later, it was normal again. That's when he noticed how bare it was. The ordinary cutter of family life was missing, as if nobody lived here anymore. A model ship that had always been over the archway was gone, only the brackets that held it remained. The patterned carpet under the hall table was gone too, and so was the copper fish that had perched on it since before he could remember. He'd always liked that fish, it troubled him that it was missing.

He listened, but heard no voices, no footfalls from within the house. It was past noon, they might have left for the Castamiri banquet already. He crept up the stairs as quietly as he could.

On the landing, he stood outside the door to his father's bedchamber and looked in. It was the same as before, sunlight came in from the balcony overlooking the garden, dark red bed-hangings hung from the carved wooden bed frame. He didn't want to go in, his father had died here.

At the foot of his father's bed was a large wooden chest, once filled with everything from tunics and leggings for everyday use, to embroidered silks formal enough for Court. Last year, his father wore the green brocade with gold embroidery. It wasn't the most expensive thing he owned, but it was his favorite. He was wearing it now, in the quiet of his tomb, the stiff fabric as still as the hands folded over the hilt of his sword. Urzahil blinked hard and pushed the thought away.

Urzahil stepped inside. The connecting door to Lady Lintoron's bedchamber stood open. The tapestry that used to hang in his father's room was gone, so were the carpets. He knelt in front of the clothes chest and raided the lid. It was empty.

"Urzahil! What are you doing here?" Lady Lintoron swept through the doorway between the two rooms. The lid slipped from his grasp and dropped on his hand.

Her eyes were cold. Why wouldn't they be? He'd entered the house to steal something, and she'd caught him at it.

"I can explain …" Actually, he couldn't. "I have nothing to wear to the banquet. I wanted to borrow something of Father's."

She sighed. "You couldn't just knock on the door and ask?" She left the room and returned a few minutes later with a wicker hamper. A tawny silk tunic with gold embroidery, which his father used to wear on formal occasions, lay neatly folded on top.

"The ladies from the Fishermen's society were supposed to pick these up, but they haven't come by yet."

She gave him the hamper. Urzahil knelt on the floor to look through it.

In addition to the golden-brown tunic, there were leather gloves, stockings, and linen shirts and wool leggings for everyday. At the bottom of the hamper, his fingers closed on soft leather, the long brown coat his father used to wear in cold weather. He folded each item and returned it to the hamper.

Lady Lintoron stood behind him for a moment, then reached under the bed and pulled out a pair of his father's boots.

"I expect you could use these, too."

She must have seen the holes in his boots. He squeezed his eyes shut, mortified.

"Try them on and see if they fit." She held them out to him.

He pulled them on. His father's boots were loose on him, but with two pairs of stockings, they would be fine. More than fine, they were well-made and new. He thanked Lady Lintoron and returned to the Inn, wearing the boots and carrying the hamper in his arms. The clothes smelled like his father, reassuring and poignant at the same time.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil climbed the ladder to the hayloft with the basket under his arm. He put on the brown and gold tunic and made his way to the House of Castamir.

The Castamiri Yule banquet was the most lavish event of the season. There would be at least seven removes, each one having three dishes or more. The entertainments between removes would include music, acrobats, and humorous skits between each remove. The banquet always began in the middle of the afternoon and ran until almost midnight.

Between the trip to the house where he grew up, going back to the Inn to change, and retracing his steps to the Castamiri house, Urzahil arrived at the banquet when the festivities were well under weigh. By then, so many people had packed into the cavernous entry hall, it was hard to move. Strains of music floated over the buzz of conversation.

He looked around. Even though he was used to it, the foyer of the Castamiri house always impressed him. Marble columns three storeys tall, life-size statuary on pedestals, weaponry mounted on the walls dating back to the Kinstrife, the civil war that devastated Gondor.

The marble foyer had been transformed. Garlands of greenery were draped over every doorway, wrapped around every pillar, and suspended from every railing. The room smelled of pine and juniper. A swag of evergreen hung from the balustrade over the heads of the musicians on the landing of the staircase, and the two statues at its base had been given wreaths.

When it was time to be seated for the feast, Urzahil followed the crowd into the Great Hall. The High Table was set up on a dais, with the Castamir family in the center and the highest-ranking families, the Marös and the An-Ardûmir, to their left and right. Lady Lintoron and her sons, Urzahil's half-brothers, were seated at the same end of the room, just below the dais in high-backed chairs with the other nobles.

Urzahil gave his name, and a servant showed him to his place in the back of the Great Hall. He took a handful of topaz-colored silk and lifted it high enough to step over the bench, taking care not to snag the gold embroidery. His seatmates were dressed in the subdued hues of the learned trades. One was a respected physician, another was the tutor for the younger Castamiri children. Urzahil was pleased about sitting with educated people. Last year, he had been seated between the captain of the guard and the steward who kept accounts for the estate. They were nice, but it was hard to find things to talk about.

His friend Ardamin, sitting at the High Table near Tar-Castamir, spotted Urzahil and waved. Urzahil waved back.

"I take it you're one of the nobility," said the physician.

"Tar-Lintoron was my father." Urzahil sat up a little straighter.

"Then why are you seated below the salt?" the physician asked.

"Lady Lintoron is not my mother."

-o-o-o-o-o-

During a break between removes, Urzahil got up and threaded his way through the throng in the entry hall. Beeswax candles burned in the chandeliers overhead; the scent of pine was joined by the scent of honey.

Fragments of conversations reached him as he moved from group to group.

"Tar-Adûmir is looking for a tutor for his sons. He'll be at home tomorrow to meet with applicants." Urzahil had never met the man, but he knew who he was, a minor envoy in the Diplomatic Corps.

A servant with a tray of spiced wine offered him a cup, but he waved the man away.

"… assemble enough men-at-arms to begin drilling in earnest …" Urzahil couldn't worry about the threat of war right now, he was focused on one thing.

He spotted Tar-Castamir was at the far side of the foyer, talking to several important men. Urzahil waited until they were finished, then approached Tar-Castamir before anyone else engaged him in conversation.

"Urzahil, I wanted to thank you for all the help you've given my son. He tells me he wouldn't have passed Diplomacy without your help. He says you can read a man's mind from his face and posture. That's a key skill for a diplomat."

Urzahil swallowed hard. "Tar-Castamir, that's what I came to talk to you about. I'm out of school now, and I'd like to enter the Diplomatic Corps."

"You left school after just one term. Before they'll accept you as an emissary, the Diplomatic Corps requires you to complete your course of study."

"I don't need to be an emissary. I'll take any position available, scribe, clerk, aide, it doesn't matter. I'll start at the bottom and learn the trade from within. I'm a hard worker." Urzahil's voice was rising, he tried to control it.

A shadow crossed Tar-Castamir's face. "Your education isn't really the issue. The Diplomatic Corps is driven by tradition and protocol. All of its members belong to the nobility. You don't have an ancient family name, and you can't be a diplomat without one."

"My father acknowledged me and raised me as his own. I've always gone by the Lintoron name."

"Legally, you aren't entitled to use it." Tar-Castamir looked severe.

The next remove was announced, and people began to move toward the Great Hall. Tar-Castamir pulled Urzahil between the pedestals of two statues and lowered his voice.

"If it were up to me, I'd give you a position today. The trouble is, I have to think of our counterparts from other nations. If a foreign emissary learned we'd sent them someone baseborn, he might take it as a slight. It could hurt the negotiations."

"I could work behind the scenes, writing out fair copy and making duplicates. The foreign embassy would never know I was there." Urzahil tried not to beg.

"I'm sorry, Urzahil, the stakes are too high. I can't risk it."

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil joined the crowd going back to the Great Hall, and returned to his seat between the physician and the Castamirs' tutor. The next remove had already been served to the High Table and the nobles at the tables around the dais, and now the servers were setting dishes below the salt, one platter to every four people.

This remove consisted of meat pies with currant jelly, pears poached in red wine, and a green salad with pomegranate. Urzahil filled his plate and his wine cup too, though he had no appetite for either. He pushed food around on his plate with the tip of his dagger, pretending to eat.

He hadn't expected to be an envoy right away, not without completing University, but he had thought he could start as a clerk and work his way up. He'd never guessed that his illegitimacy would bar him from the entire profession, even the invisible, behind-the-scenes roles.

Perhaps he could be a private secretary or assistant to a great lord. He would attach himself to the most powerful man he could find, and make that man's fortunes his own.

When the dishes were cleared away, a group of musicians filed in and arranged themselves in the center of the square of tables, facing the dais. He would have liked to stay and listen to them, but he had work to do.

People got up and walked around during the breaks between removes, creating an opportunity to conduct business. All twelve members of the Council of Captains were here tonight. Urzahil knew Tar-Castamir, of course, and Tar-Marös, Adûmir, Miruvor, and Númendur. At least one of them must need a clerk, scribe, or an assistant of some sort, but none of them did.

He approached the other members of the council, great lords he barely knew by sight, but none of them needed a scribe.

-o-o-o-o-o-

It grew late, and the celebration began to wind down. Urzahil sat with Ardamin on a marble balustrade that separated a stone terrace from the sunken garden beyond it.

The waxing moon was high overhead, bleaching out the stars around it. To the west, the Sickle of Melkor[1] swung low on the horizon, its handle plunged into the sea.

It was cold out here. The chill crept through the thin silk of his formal clothes. He hugged himself and shivered.

"You're quiet this evening. Is something wrong?" Araman swirled the wine in his goblet.

Where to start? Urzahil hadn't told Ardamin that he was working two jobs, or that he'd been kicked out of the house, and was sleeping in a barn. Saying nothing was a form of lying, and it had gone on for so long, he was embarrassed about it.

"I don't feel very festive right now. This is my first Winter Solstice without Father. He always loved this season.

"I'm sorry."

Sounds reached them from inside the house, a few notes of music, the murmuring of peoples' voices, laughter. Bells rang in the distance, and then closer.

"There's something I haven't told you …" Urzahil's mouth was dry.

A door banged open and a servant called, "Castamir, your father is looking for you. It's late, and the guests are starting to go home. He wants you to come inside and say goodbye to them."

"I should go." Ardamin slid off the balustrade.

Castamir went inside, and Urzahil crossed the darkness of the garden to the main road.

He was approaching the gate through the old city walls when it occurred to him, he should have spoken to Tar-Adûmir about the tutoring position before he left the banquet. He would speak to him about it first thing in the morning.

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Chapter End Notes

[1] the Big Dipper