Emissary by Uvatha the Horseman

---

The Merchant

---

Chapter 13 – The Merchant

Urzahil reached the sign of the Boiling Frog as the bells were tolling midnight. All he had to do now was climb the ladder, fold his father's good clothes, and collapse into the straw and fall asleep. Across the stable yard, the tavern windows were yellow squares of light. Inside, the Innkeeper was wiping tables and sweeping the floor.

Urzahil's hand flew to his mouth. The University closed for Yule, he'd assumed everything else did, too. It never occurred to him to ask for the evening off.

He sprinted across the yard towards the tavern, but stopped before he reached the door. He didn't want Allard to ask what he was doing here at midnight. He stepped into the shadows and crept toward the barn, taking care not to be seen.

-o-o-o-o-o-

It was full daylight when Urzahil opened his eyes. He realized he hadn't saved any fruit or bread from the banquet the night before, so he had nothing for breakfast. He put on his oldest clothes and spent the morning mucking out the horses' stalls. When he finished, he stripped off his shirt and washed in the trough where the horses drank, then changed into his father's best clothes, the ones he'd worn to the banquet yesterday.

He left the stable and headed for the Adûmir house to ask about the tutoring position he'd heard about the night before. Urzahil took his time getting there.

A tutor, usually a poor relation in a noble family, was paid in room and board but little else. It was understood that a tutor remained in the job only until a better offer came along, an officer's berth on a warship or a position as secretary to a great lord. Urzahil was no different, as soon as something better came along, he would thank them and give his notice.

He arrived at the house, a white coral-block manor house ten or twelve doors down and across the street from his father's house. He lifted the doorknocker, a bronze dolphin, and let it fall. There were footsteps within, the spyhole slid open, and an ancient servant peered through the grid.

"May I speak with Tar-Adûmir? I'm here about the tutoring position." Urzahil kept his voice deep and authoritative, and hoped his anxiety didn't show.

"Tar-Adûmir isn't available at the moment, but he'll be free this afternoon. Can you come back in the hour past noon?"

Urzahil agreed to the appointment and went for a walk through the city to pass the time. He followed the main road through the seaward gate down to the waterfront. Seabirds wheeled overhead, mewing. The wind carried the scent of salt.

Urzahil walked along the docks, looking at the ships tied up at the wharf. The scores of fishing boats were dwarfed by the great ocean-going warships, the sleek lateen-rigged vessels of the Corsairs. The largest, which bore the crest of the House of Castamir, unloading at the dock. Urzahil stopped to watch.

Corsairs with facial tattoos and greasy hair wrestled a long ramp through a gap in the bulwark and positioned it on the weather deck. They climbed the ramp onto the ship and came back down lugging gilded furniture, a rolled-up carpet, and crates packed with straw. They must be returning from a successful raiding trip up the coast.

They marched a group of five or six prisoners down the ramp, farmers or fishermen unfortunate enough to have crossed paths with the Corsairs. Chained together and were naked except for a rag tied around the waist, they'd soon be sent to the mines or put to the most dangerous work in the shipyard, unless they were sold to the desert traders first. Urzahil felt bad for them, their fields left untilled, their families worried where they were, but like piracy, slaving was an ancient tradition in Umbar. Urzahil tried not to think about it.

Urzahil continued down the wharf. The sound of hammering from the shipyards carried across the water. Spars and planks were being assembled into ocean-going vessels, the pride and strength of the Haven of Umbar. He watched as ribs were raised and made fast against the keel.

At the next pier, a wagon filled with barrels had been driven onto the dock, where broad-shouldered men loaded them into nets to be lifted by cranes into the cargo hold. Each barrel was marked with a heraldic device, a green mermaid on a white shield. He frowned. It was rare to see an unfamiliar emblem, since most of the nobility knew each other and recognized each other's badges.

The façade of the building opposite the pier sported a garish mural of a caravan of camels bringing cargo to a fleet of ships, which suggested it housed the offices of an import-export firm. Above the doorway arch, a shield was decorated with the same mermaid that appeared on the barrels. On closer inspection, it wasn't a heraldic device at all, it was a commercial painting like a tavern sign.

"Urzahil!" Tûlmir called the doorway, his plump cheeks bulging in a smile. "Come inside and have a cup of tea with me. We have pastries to go with it, the triangular kind with green nuts on top, and I'll have some meat pies sent in too, if you're hungry."

It was close to noon, and Urzahil hadn't had anything to eat since the previous day. His stomach growled. He pressed a hand against his middle to silence it. He hoped his classmate hadn't heard. Urzahil weighed the prospect of a good meal against its price, an hour of listening to the bouncing puppy dog. The merchant's son meant well, but he was exhausting to be around.

Urzahil followed Tûlmir inside. The lower part of the walls had been paneled in exotic woods, the costly materials carved with no particular skill. Above the paneling, the walls had been painted with a series of murals. Unfortunately, they had no more artistic merit than those on the façade.

Tûlmir showed him to a private room behind the main chamber. A servant poured tea. Another brought in a platter of food and set it on a low table. Tûlmir filled a plate for Urzahil and made small talk.

"What did you think of the price of kippers in the marketplace this morning? I never saw anything like it!"

Urzahil had no idea what he was talking about.

"Come on, your family owns a fleet of fishing boats, you must have heard. The catch was thin this morning, and someone bid the price up higher than it's ever been before. Even without a stake in the game, my heart was pounding!" Tûlmir's round face glowed with excitement.

"That's the first I've heard of it." And the last, he hoped.

"You really hadn't heard? Father says that the nobility care more about the 12th king of Númenor[1] than they do about the price of fish." Urzahil lifted a shoulder and let it drop.

"Urzahil, what I really wanted to ask you was, I saw next term's roster, and you're not on it. I'd hoped we'd be classmates again." Tûlmir looked genuinely grieved.

"I decided to start the rest of my life early. I'm looking into a position with the diplomatic service." As a tutor to a diplomat's sons, he didn't add.

"Without finishing school? I didn't know that was possible. Oh, what am I saying? You have family connections."

For what good it did. Powerful men all over Umbar had wished him well, but they hadn't actually used their influence on his behalf.

"But if the Diplomatic Corps doesn't work out, you should consider clerking for a merchant. No, seriously. You could travel with the caravans to Harad or Khand, and when you got there, you'd use every bit of diplomatic skill you have, negotiating the price of cloves. Even in Diplomacy class, half the exercises were more about commerce than politics."

"I really don't think…" Urzahil glanced around the room, looking for the door.

"Don't be too quick to dismiss a life as a merchant. We may not defend the city, but we do something just as important, we feed the people in it. We buy and sell the fish and the grain and the spices, we move things from where they're grown to where they're needed. We do things that matter to ordinary people, right now, today."

Judging from the openness of his face, Tûlmir really believed what he was saying, but this life was not for him. He glanced toward the door, and looked for a chance to make a polite excuse and get away.

"Father's looking for a counting-house clerk. The position comes with bed and board. You'd have to share a room with the apprentice, but you'd have your own bed. Living quarters are above the shop." Tûlmir mentioned a wage, and Urzahil's jaw dropped. A merchant's clerk made that much? Tûlmir must have misread Urzahil's reaction, because he added, "You could always ask for more. Father can pay, he's just careful with money. Act disinterested and walk away, he'll come around."

Maybe … no, it was impossible. Urzahil was not about to be drawn into Tûlmir's world, where people got excited about the price of fish and spent their money on bad art. Urzahil got to his feet and said goodbye.

Tûlmir followed him to the door, talking the whole time. "If you want the position, I'll tell my father I know you, and put in a good word. He should be back by mid-afternoon. Shall I tell him you'll stop by at, let's say, six bells?" To end the conversation, Urzahil agreed, even though he didn't plan to keep the appointment.

-o-o-o-o-o-

An hour past noon, Urzahil knocked on the door of the Adûmir house and was shown into Tar-Adûmir's study.

The interview went well. Tar-Adûmir had been a friend of Urzahil's father. They'd been on the Council of Captains together, and Tar-Adûmir was one of the men who'd helped hunt down the desert raiders, the natural-born diplomat who'd have preferred to talk before unsheathing their weapons.

Urzahil gave Tar-Castamir as a reference, and managed to work into the conversation his fondness for his two younger brothers and that he'd done well in his Diplomacy classes. He thought that he and Tar-Adûmir got along well.

On the way to the front door, the servant who showed him out told him the position had been promised to the first candidate who interviewed that morning, and that his master was only keeping the other appointments out of politeness.

Urzahil looked up and down the street, trying to think of another family that might need a tutor. The children who lived here were either as old as Urzahil, or too small to start school. A few families had girls, but it was an exceptional father that spent money on the education of a daughter.

Socially ambitious tradesmen, the merchants, moneylenders, fish brokers, and owners of large shops, sometimes hired tutors to give individual lessons to their children, but it wasn't steady work, and it didn't offer room and board. The houses of tradesmen weren't as large as those of the nobility. They didn't usually have extra bedrooms, or even space for an extra bed in one of the children's rooms.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil left the Adûmir house with his head down, walking fast, not looking where he was going. He came to in the center of the city. It was a market day, and he found himself pressed in by the crowd, struggling to breath. He started to maneuver around a slow-moving group of women, but was blocked by a fruit stand. He tried to squeeze between a donkey laden with earthenware jugs and a group of men locked in a heated discussion. He saw an opening and made for it but ran into someone, hard. Something hit the paving stones with a crunch, and there was a muttered curse.

"Watch it, you ill-mannered whelp." A man in brown and rust colored velvet was sitting on the ground, his cap crooked on his head. He glared at Urzahil, his narrow black eyes above a nose like a parrot's beak.

"You watch it. Don't you know to step aside for your betters?" Urzahil snapped back.

The man wasn't looking at Urzahil, he was on his hands and knees retrieving the pieces of whatever he'd dropped. It was a model ship, a nice one. The bowsprit was broken, the foresails hanging limp in a tangle of rigging. A jetsam of wood and brass littered the cobblestones. It had been a pretty boat. Urzahil's throat tightened.

The man shouted at his retreating back, "You think you're better than the rest of us, but you're not. You're just a …"

Urzahil turned on his heel and plunged into the crowd, too ashamed to apologize. He walked through the city streets for an hour. Over and over, he heard the words spoken at his father's funeral. "Tar-Lintoron was noble, Tar-Lintoron was courteous …". The scene in the marketplace kept playing through his head. He wished it hadn't happened in the first place, given that it did, he wished he'd held his temper.

Ding Ding, Ding Ding, Ding Ding.

The tower bells pulled him back to the present. It was six bells into the noon watch. Tûlmir must be wondering where he was.

Urzahil regretted his rudeness in making an appointment he didn't plan to keep. Plus, when he thought about it, he might like to travel to the east with a caravan and be their negotiator, even if it was only to haggle over the price of cloves.

The position clerking for Tûlmir's father paid well, and it came with room and board. His father used to say, if worst came to worst, Urzahil could always find work keeping the ledger books for a shipping merchant. It was respectable work, better than unloading freight on the docks.

He still had reservations about it. He was worried he would become like them, and cease to be one of the nobility. But it was only until he found a place as assistant to a great lord.

Urzahil rehearsed what he would say to the merchant. He pictured a middle-aged version of Tûlmir, a Tûlmir with steel-colored hair, ruddy jowls, and a middle over which the buttons of his waistcoat would barely fasten, with Tûlmir's friendliness and good nature.

Tûlmir liked Urzahil and had said he would put in a good word for him. Would it be enough? Tûlmir had aristocratic pretensions, probably his father did too. If so, he would welcome an aristocrat into their household.

Urzahil squared his shoulders and made his way back to the shipping office on the waterfront. He arrived at the façade with the garish murals ten minutes late and out of breath.

The door opened with a jingle or harness bells and a Teleri[2] merchant stepped out. Like all Elves, he was painfully beautiful, in a cold and distant way. Ice blond hair fell to his waist, and his clothes looked like the work of an artist. As he passed, he glanced at Urzahil but didn't acknowledge him with so much as a nod.

Urzahil caught the door before it closed and went inside. Tûlmir looked up from behind the counter and gave him a big smile.

"Father will see you now. I told him all about you." Tûlmir came out from behind the counter and led him to a small office.

"Father, this is Urzahil. He's come about the clerk's position."

The man behind the desk was wiry, black hair showed beneath his rust-colored cap. A servant was setting out tea and a small array of pastries. They were nice enough, but not the substantial meal Tûlmir had given him earlier that day.

The man finished writing and set aside his stylus, then looked up. His smile froze, and his black eyes narrowed over a nose like a parrot's beak.

"I didn't get the position, did I?" said Urzahil.

"No, you didn't," said the man he'd knocked down in the marketplace. "You may look like a great lord, but you're nothing more than a toad-eating boot-licker who's attached himself to a great lord."

He was wrong, Urzahil hadn't even managed to accomplish that much.

Urzahil fled the cramped room and stumbled out into the street. "Stupid, stupid, stupid!" Running into Tûlmir's father wasn't the worst thing he'd done. It was his behavior afterwards, cursing the man and walking away, instead of apologizing and helping to pick up the pieces. The least of his problems was that he'd never be able to face Tûlmir again.

---

Chapter End Notes

[1] Ciryatan the Shipbuilder, father of the Witch King.

 

[2] Valmar, Noldor, and Teleri are the three races of Elves.