The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

My story begins on the day that I thought my life was over. Strange: These days my age makes me forget whom I met yesterday, or what I had for breakfast this very morning, but that day I still remember clearly. Fear, I think, has etched it into my memory.

That day I was waiting for my death; and I was afraid.

 

I did not want to die. More importantly I did not want to die then. I was young – my life had barely begun. I had been married for a mere year, and my wife was expecting our first child. I challenge any man to look at death with a calm mind under such circumstances – I challenge any man not to be afraid.

Still they called me a coward, the guards, and my so-called friends who had brought me there in the first place had called me a coward, too. They were dead already. Narakôr had been executed two days ago, and Lôbar had died the other day; and I was waiting, terrified, for the guards to come for me.

 

It was all Narakôr's fault, though the idea had been Lôbar's. I had only followed them. I had told the guards so, right from the beginning – I had admitted everything forthright; they really needn't have beaten me. They still did, and called me a coward and a weakling when I did not resist, when I pleaded for them to spare me. And maybe I was weak and cowardly – but why should I have shown futile bravery to earn myself more lashes yet? It was all Narakôr's fault anyway. It was Lôbar's plan. Why should I suffer for them? The guards, had they been in my place, would surely have acted no different. Yet they thought themselves better than I – thought even Lôbar and Narakôr better – and had punished me as much as them, though my part in the crime was so much less. And now the other two were dead, and my time must be close at hand.

 

I wondered whether my death would be quick and quiet, or drawn out in public. I could not decide which option scared me more. I wondered whether my wife would come to my execution, if it were public. I half hoped that she would; at least I would see her one last time, and could tell her that she had been right. She had not wanted me to go with Lôbar. I remembered our parting in the dusk, her eyes glinting, her lips pursed in anger, her hands folded across her chest, resting on her swollen belly. "Why can you not be content with what we have?" she had said, quietly. "Why can you not trust that we will prosper lawfully? Why must you endanger yourself?"

"Lôbar has done this a dozen times," I had replied. "There is no danger. The owner of the house is a Venturer, and out at sea. He will not be back for months. And we will not take much. He will not even notice that we were there." And I told her what Lôbar had told me: "Is it not unjust that one man has more wealth than he needs, and is at sea half the time with his wealth unattended, while we are poor and always will be?"

"It may be unjust," Amraphel said, "but stealing from another is unjust as well, whether he needs his wealth or not."

I could make no answer, for of course she was right. I could only reiterate what Lôbar had said: We would not take much – the theft would likely go unnoticed, for months if not forever.

"That makes it no more just."

"I will do it just this once," I had said. And, "I am doing this for you." And that was true. I loved my wife dearly, and wanted her to lead the comfortable life she had led with her family, not one of ceaseless hard work for little gain. She should not have married me in the first place, I knew. Her family had certainly disapproved, and indeed her father refused to support her after the wedding. Yet she loved me. I wanted to show her father that I could very well support her myself, that I could offer her as much as he. I would never achieve that by my usual trade, which was none in particular – I was a day-taler in the market. We never exactly starved, but we never had more than just enough for one day, either.

Lôbar und Narakôr, too, had been day-talers, but Lôbar had managed to start a business, importing wool from Êmarâi (1). He had simply been lucky, I had thought, but he had told me the secret of his good fortune: Sailors and warriors never took all their money on their journey. Most of their wealth they hid in their houses. Then when they were away Lôbar found a way to enter their empty house, and he – or later, he and Narakôr – went in, and took some coins or some jewels. It was easy, Lôbar said. There was practically no harm done, for he only stole from the rich. They did no damage to the house. Hardly anyone noticed.

Of course, now that I knew he would have to make sure that I would keep my mouth shut, he said. I offered an oath, which he declined; instead he asked whether I would not come along when next he broke into a house. He had one in view already, a rich Venturer's home. If Lôbar's business took off, that would be the last time he had to do this, he said. And surely I could use a little silver, or some jewels for the wife?

Of course I could, and the way he had described it, it had sounded very simple and, well, harmless. So why not? It could only help my prospects.

 

Except that it had gone terribly wrong. The house was not wholly unattended. The groundkeeper, who should by rights have been sleeping in his own small house, across the court, hearing nothing, had been alerted somehow; and when he came in on us, Narakôr had struck him down. He had not stopped there. Suddenly instead of no harm done and no trace left there was a dead body, and the expensive carpet soaked with blood. I admit that I screamed like a child, and yelled at Narakôr to stop, which was a foolish thing to do, at night in a strange house. Lôbar and Narakôr told me that it was my crying that alerted the guards, but I think the groundkeeper may just as well have sent a runner before he ventured into the house himself.

 

Either way, we were arrested and questioned and imprisoned; and nobody cared that only Narakôr was the murderer, and that I'd had no part even in the planning. I had told the guards the whole story, and they had laughed at me; I had pleaded for my life, and they had spat in my face and called me a coward.

I shifted unhappily. It was dark in the cell, for they had given me no light. Perhaps it was better that way. I did not want to see my surroundings too closely. I had seen enough of them when they had brought me here, and I could feel the dank straw and smell the refuse in which I sat. Nor did I want to see what I looked like – bruised, even bleeding in places, from the feel of it. I tried to sit a little less uncomfortably, which seemed impossible; I shivered, and I waited. I tried to judge the passing time by counting my heartbeats, but I lost track eventually. I could not tell whether it was one hour or several until I heard the familiar scraping of keys in the lock.

 

Four guards came in. Two carried torches that allowed me to see the low stone ceiling and the straw-covered floor. Two more had their swords drawn, and one of them also had iron shackles with him. Quite unnecessary, I thought; they should know that I could not fight them. I had tried to struggle against them when we had been arrested, and they had overwhelmed me easily using only their fists. Now I was cold and hungry and terrified and aching all over, and even less fit for a fight than I had been that night. I would not struggle. Instead I curled up and started to weep, though not of my volition. I did not want to show them how afraid I was. It just burst out of me, like a sneeze.

"Now look at that pathetic little rat," one of the torchbearers said. "Bitten more than it can eat, and now it can't take the consequences." His words stung, and I sobbed violently. He spat out, though thankfully only at the ground, not at me. "Get up, rat," he said, and I scrambled to obey – they kicked you in the ribs when you did not get up fast enough – and got to my feet, shakily. I still could not stop crying.

"Give me your hands," said the one who held the shackles. His voice was kinder than that of his colleague, though he looked no less disgusted. And I was a disgusting sight, I was certain. I could smell sweat and blood and excrement, and my face must be blotched from crying and bruised from their fists. I tried to take a few steadying breaths, but they turned into high-pitched sobs. I clenched my eyes shut and held out my arms. They were trembling.

"Oh, for Eru's sake (2)," the soldier said while he cuffed my hands. "At least try to behave like a man."

"I do," I sobbed.

"Try harder," he said. "The King wants to see you," and they all laughed. I did not see the joke.

"Perhaps we should clean him up a bit," the other torchbearer spoke up.

"You clean him up, if you want to," the first torchbearer spoke. "I'm not going to touch that thing."

"I am no thing," I protested. My voice sounded annoyingly whiny, but the guard who had told me to behave like a man still said, "There, that's better." The others laughed again.

"Well, no time for that, anyway. Don't keep him waiting," the fourth man said; and already they were half-dragging, half-pushing me out of the cell.

There were two more guards waiting outside, so I had an escort of six men while they marched me through the dark corridor. Even in my despair I couldn't help thinking how absurd that was. I was no match even for one of them; six was certainly overdoing it. I was half-blind with tears. I wish I could have wiped my eyes, but as they dragged me by the chain linking the shackles, my hands weren't mine to command. I tried to wipe my face on my shoulder, and promptly stumbled, causing the torchbearer on my left to snort with disdain. I would have liked to make a scathing remark about how easy it was to look down at a man who had not slept or eaten properly in three days, and how he was as pathetic as I if he believed himself stronger for that reason. But I did not trust my voice, and wasn't certain they wouldn't beat me again if I spoke uninvited.

When they had brought me here the way to the cell had seemed endless to me, but now that I wished for it to last longer, to postpone my death, it was over in a blink. We came through the entrance hall where more guards were sitting and staring at me, and then to my confusion they did not take me out through the main doors, to the plaza where criminals were commonly executed, but through a back door to a pleasant courtyard.

And there, upon the stairs that led to another part of the building, stood the King.

 

This was in the days of the old King, Tar-Ancalimon. He was an old man already, then, though not old enough yet to have lost his impressive stature, nor his sharp mind. He stood tall, with a heavy-looking golden coronet upon his grey hair and more gold on his collar. He made a dazzling figure in the sunlight (especially for me, who had spent the past hours in the dark) as he wore robes of pure white, as though he had just descended from the hallow upon the Holy Mountain, with costly embroidery at the hems. A scribe stood on his left-hand side while some councillor or lord or otherwise stood on his right. Behind him were more soldiers, wearing the blue and silver livery of the King's own household guards instead of the black tunics of the watchmen who had brought me here.

When the guards had told me that the King wanted to see me I had thought it a meagre jest – perhaps the King was going to be present at my execution, or something of the sort. I had certainly not expected to get some kind of private audience. But the man on the stairs was unmistakeably the King, though the face was more wrinkled than it was on the coins. What was he doing here? Certainly cases like mine were not judged by the King. Was I to die for his personal amusement? The idea seemed strange. And the courtyard did not look like the kind of place where people were killed. There was a well in one corner, and two small trees, and vines growing along the walls and pillars. The ground was paved with grey cobbles, and there was not the slightest trace of blood in the cracks. I could hear birdsong and the rustling of leaves on the wind, and voices from the world beyond the walls. There was nothing grim about the place.

I was puzzled.

 

I was so puzzled that I gaped at the King like an idiot for a good while, before I remembered my manners and hastily dropped to my knees. Too hasty: The cobblestones were hard. I managed to suppress a gasp, though my eyes welled up again. I placed my hands on the ground to steady myself, and stared at the cracks in the paving; and I waited. I did not dare to speak.

For a while the King did not speak, either; instead I was acutely aware of being mustered. I wished now that the guards had cleaned me, or allowed me to clean myself at least. I had been wearing the same shirt for three days, and I had soiled myself in my fear: I was not fit to see the King. I would not have passed any muster favourably under better circumstances, but now I was a more shameful sight than ever. My face grew hot with embarrassment.

Finally someone said, "So you are Azruhâr." The voice came from the King's right, and I surmised that it was the councillor or whatever he was who did the talking.

I nodded.

"Son of Narduhâr. A day-taler from Arminalêth (3)," the voice continued.

I nodded again.

"Married to one Amraphel, daughter of Amrazôr the horse-dealer."

I nodded for the third time. The pavement blurred with the movement.

There was some rustling from across the courtyard. "Ask him whether he is dumb," the King said, and I thought he sounded amused. I felt the heat in my cheeks intensify.

"Can you not speak, Azruhâr?" the councillor asked.

I took that as an invitation to open my mouth. "No, lord," I said, and realised how odd that sounded. "I mean, I can, lord."

I half-expected the councillor to repeat my words to the King, but he did not go that far. Instead there was some rustling again, and then the voice said, "You stand accused of base murder, burglary and theft. What have you to say to that?"

Murder, burglary and theft! Put that way, my guilt was heavy – heavy enough, maybe, to explain why the King took an interest in my case. Then I discarded the thought. We had not actually managed to steal anything, certainly nothing of worth. And unless the servant Narakôr had killed had in fact been a disguised nobleman, I could not imagine that his death mattered to the King. Had Lôbar and Narakôr, too, had the honour of being judged by the King himself? It made no sense.

I forgot to reply in my confusion until one of the soldiers behind me barked, "Answer!"

I winced. "I murdered no one, and stole nothing," I whispered.

"Speak up," the councillor said in a stern voice. "We cannot hear you."

It took me a moment to gather enough strength to answer in a louder voice.

"But certainly he would have stolen something, had he not been stopped by the watch," the King told his councillor. "Is it not so?"

I waited until the councillor had repeated the King's question. Then, because I did not dare to lie, I said, "Yes, lord."

"And he does not deny the burglary, does he?"

Again I waited for the councillor before replying, "I took part in that, it is true. I did not plan it."

"So we have been told," the King told his councillor. "Let us come to the murder. He says that he did not commit it. Is that true, as far as can be discerned?"

This time the reply came from the King's left: the scribe, checking his documents. "The murder was commited by a certain Narakôr. He has been executed the day before yesterday, your Highness. Flogged and beheaded."

I shuddered.

"Ah," the King said. "And why did that Narakôr murder that man?"

I only realised that he was addressing me directly when I was again commanded to answer. "The gamekeeper surprised us, your Majesty. Narakôr stood closest to the door, and struck him down with a chair."

One of the guards spoke up. "He lies. The man was not simply struck down. We found him with his head smashed to a pulp."

I clenched my eyes shut at the memory. "Narakôr struck him more than once." My voice was quavering again; I had to swallow the bile that had risen in my throat. "Even after the man was down."

"And you, of course, would not have done that?"

"No, your Majesty."

"Of course not. You would, of course, merely have struck him unconscious?"

I grimaced at the ground. "Not even that, your Majesty," I whispered.

That, apparently, gave him pause. "No?"

"No, your Highness. I am too craven for that."

Laughter arose among the watching soldiers. "Now that is likely true," I heard the familiar voice of the torchbearer, and expressions of agreement from various others.

The King's voice had not changed. "Come here," he said, and I blinked, and for a moment did not know what to do. Was I allowed to rise, or was I expected to shuffle forwards on my knees? I got to my feet, very slowly, and when nobody hindered me, I walked closer towards the King. Before I could make my obeisance he had gripped my chin firmly. I flinched at the touch, but at the same time I felt hope spring up in my mind like a fire. If the King did not shrink from touching me, I must be cleared of the suspicion of murder. Surely the King would not sully himself by contact with a murderer.

"Look at us," he said, and I obediently raised my eyes, regarding him anxiously. Tar-Ancalimon might be old, but his eyes were still those of a younger man, alert and intent. They bored into mine, studying me as I stood before him, and again I was painfully aware of my shameful state. I was not surprised to see the King's lip curl scornfully before I dropped my gaze. He snorted in disdain, and I sank to my knees again.

 

"Your wife," the councillor on the King's right finally explained, "has applied to the King's Mercy. Can you imagine why?"

"The little rat must have hidden qualities," one of the soldiers jested, and I felt my face grow hot again. "Begging your Majesty's pardon," the man added hastily. I looked up in surprise. The King was no longer looking at me, but at the guard behind my back, one eyebrow raised in bemusement. I was tempted to turn and stare at the guard in question to take some satisfaction from his embarrassment. I had to force myself to keep my eyes ahead.

"Be that as it may," the councillor said, and his eyebrows were raised as well, "your wife has pleaded your case and her belly, and his Majesty is feeling merciful. How, then, shall your case be judged?"

I was silent. I did not know what to say. Did they even expect an answer? Doubtlessly they knew how I wished my case to be judged: that I was innocent or at least not so very guilty that I could not be set free, if possible with all my limbs intact. Again there was silence. I stared at the gold embroidery of the King's robes. The hem was so low that the border lay upon the steps, the white fabric greying slightly from touching the dust. I wondered idly how much the delicate gold thread for the embroidery had cost, and whether it would survive even this one day, dragged through the dirt and over stones like that. The silence still did not end. The soldiers whispered amongst themselves, but I was too far away to understand them. The sound of my blood was loud in my ears. "I… I would like to live, so please your Majesty," I heard myself say, in a small voice.

"It's all the same to us," he pointed out. "Do you love your life, then?"

I almost said, Not right now, but caught myself in time. It was strange enough that I was being tossed a chance to save myself. Any condemned man could bargain for the King's Mercy, of course, but I doubted that many did. I would not have dreamt of trying it, and I had no illusions concerning the outcome of this audience. It was hopeless from beginning to end. I had nothing to offer. Even if the King was inclined to believe that my crime was not so very bad, in the end I was simply not important enough to make him change my fate, I thought. As he had said, it was all the same to him.

Still, it would not do to hasten my ruin by trying to be witty. "Yes, your Highness," I said. "I do."

"And your freedom, too, we assume," he said, and I realised in dismay that perhaps I might be granted my life, but might not be set free. I wondered what would be worse, death or an indefinite term of imprisonment. Both were horrors I did not want to ponder too much. Still I knew the old tales: Most prisoners eventually were released, and lived their last years in freedom. I wondered how long twenty, forty, sixty years would stretch out in that dark, dank cell. It was unimaginable. But I would be alive, and might be released one day. There was hope in that. The only thing that lay in death was certainty.

"It – I should like to have both," I said, not without difficulty, "but I love my life a little bit more."

Laughter again from the onlookers – but the King sounded neither amused nor moved.

"Well, we shall send you to the dead either way," he said. I felt what little composure I had left crumble, despair overwhelming me like a dark wave. I could no longer hold the tears back, and when I covered my face with my hands, they shook so hard that the chain jingled.

And the King said, "But we can give you a choice."

I tried to stifle my sobs for long enough to listen.

"You are accused of base murder, burglary, and theft. You may think that you did not and would not commit the murder, but the fact remains that you were involved in the crime. For that you may be sent to a murderer's death, which, we believe, is a somewhat painful business."

I no longer had the strength to hold my head up; I rested it against the cobblestones. They were warm from the day's heat. I felt very cold.

"However, it so happens that we have a certain… undesirable position to fill, among the Keepers of the Dead," the King continued. "Master Târik is in need of another assistant, and it seems that there is none willing."

I was not surprised. Who would willingly surround himself with dead people? It was bad enough that one had to die at all; dealing with the dead even in life was a bit much. I remembered doing the funeral rites for my father, anointing the hardened, clammy flesh with scented oils that had cost far more than I could afford. Father's skin, ruddy in life, had gone pale, almost blueish; his eyes had rolled up in his head, and it had been difficult to close the lids. The Eldar tell us that death has been given as a gift to our people, but my father had not looked like a man who had received a gift. He had looked as though he had been robbed. I shuddered at the memory.

Still, it would be life. And maybe one could get used to it, like one got used to carting manure or to the smell of a tannery?

"You could be sent there," the King said.

"Frankly," the councillor interrupted, "I am not certain that he will be of much worth. He seems to me very weak of character, very unfixed. Unreliable. Not the brightest, either. And he does not even have strong arms to make up for it. Master Târik will have more work with him than without him."

"That may be true," the King agreed. "We are doubtlessly wasting our time. Still, his wife was pleading so…"

My wife, I thought. My sweet Amraphel, who thought me worthy of her love, worthy of leaving her wealthy family to live in my hovel, worthy even of applying to the King for my sake. That was a powerful thought. Amraphel still loved me, despite my crime. Amraphel had pleaded for me, was, perhaps, even now thinking of me, praying that I might be spared. How cruel it would be to disappoint her! No, that must not happen.

I raised myself to my hands. I swallowed my tears and took a deep breath. I had hoped that this might steady my voice, but it was still tear-choked. "I beg your Majesty to let me try."

 

"Should we?" the King said, more to his retinue than to me. "We might save ourselves a lot of hassle if we just concluded this business here and now."

"Indeed," said the councillor, but the scribe spoke up in my favour.

"Oh, why not give him a chance? Your Majesty can still send him to the block if Master Târik is displeased by his efforts."

"Please," I whispered. The King's hand tipped my face up. I felt all my muscles tense as I waited for his judgement. He seemed to study me for a long, long time. I barely dared to breathe.

"Very well," he said finally, and relief surged through me, so overwhelming that I could hardly think. I clasped the King's hand and pressed my lips to it, clenching my eyes shut against the tears. I was trembling like a man pulled out of cold water. Eventually the King withdrew his hand, and I was dimly aware that he was speaking to his councillor again, though I did not understand a word of it. Then the councillor addressed me by name, and all the cold disapproval in his voice could not quench my relief.

"Azruhâr son of Narduhâr, you are hereby released under condition at the King's behest. You may return to your home. Tomorrow is Valanya (4), so you have a full day to rest. On Elenya you will present yourself to Master Târik at the royal morgue in the citadel. You will be expected there by the third hour after sunrise. You will be further instructed then." He paused, and I nodded to show that I had understood.

"I hardly need to tell you what consequences await if you fail to show up there. No matter where you hide, you will be found, and no mercy will save you then. The same will happen when you shirk at your work. Is that clear?"

"Yes, lord," said I. I had no intention of hiding. I swore in my heart that I would work myself to pieces if need be. I would not throw away this gift of life, no matter how miserable the work and how harsh Master Târik.

"Then I think this will be all. Your Majesty?" He turned to the King, who nodded.

"That will be all."

"Thank you, your Highness, with all my heart," I felt compelled to say. I would have done anything to show my gratitude, that moment. I would have kissed his feet, had he wanted me to.

Instead he nodded, sternly; then he turned away. There was a rustling of fabric and clinking of armour as the guards behind me knelt in farewell. The King's guard lined up, and he walked out, accompanied by the scribe and the councillor. None of them gave me another look. They already discussed other things, things I could not understand, in the language of the nobility.

 

One of the soldiers removed my shackles and told me to go home. Other than that no one spoke to me. I got up slowly. I felt dizzy and drained, yet oh so relieved. I made my way through the streets, slowly at first; then another bout of crying came over me, and I clung to a pillar, overcome by joy and relief. The evening breeze cooled my burning face, and through my tears the fading sunlight was splintered into golden pearls. Even the pain in my back and knees was welcome. Mere hours ago I had thought that by this time I would no longer feel anything. I must have made an astonishing spectacle, besmeared and beaten, swaying through the streets as if drunk, then running, tears streaming down my face all the time. I did not care.

 

Amraphel was no longer expecting to see me alive. I saw her before she noticed me: She sat in the small patch of garden we had, picking peas for supper. She was not crying. Instead her face was set in a kind of mask, stern, almost furious. Her red-rimmed eyes betrayed that she had cried earlier, however. She had to pause in her work frequently to catch her breath, her round belly impeding her movement.

"Let me help you," I said quietly when I had almost reached the garden. My voice was hoarse from crying.

She recognised it nonetheless, or maybe she only recognised me when she looked up: But look up she did, staring at me wide-eyed, and then she gave a small cry and jumped up much faster than she should, and flung herself into my arms. Peapods scattered all over the ground. "Azruhâr," she managed to say, and then the flood-gates broke.

We held each other for a while. Finally I found my voice again. "I am so sorry, my love," I said. "You were right."

"Damn right I was," she said, eyes glinting. "I almost lost you, you bloody fool." I hung my head, and she clasped my face and kissed me firmly before speaking on. "I have talked with Lômenil today. She's quite desperate. She had to give up everything to the family of the killed housekeeper; now she's back in the hut."

Lômenil had been married to Lôbar, and would have inherited his business under normal circumstances. I grimaced. "Was it not punishment enough to kill her husband?"

"One should think so. But then, none of the money he used was his own. It was not surprising, really."

"At least they could not have done that to you," I said thoughtfully.

She snorted. "What a consolation." Her face softened, and she stroked my puffed cheeks. "But I have you back. My poor love, whatever have they done to you?"

I shrugged, and hoped she would not examine me much closer. "It's over. The King had me released." And I added, wonderingly, "I owe you my life."

The words seemed to hover in the air between us like a dragonfly, strange and marvellous. It was true, I realised. I owed her my life. There could be no doubt about it, not today.

She gave me a lopsided smile then. "Don't let it go to your head," she said, wiping her eyes with one hand; the other still clung to my shoulder. "At least half of it was pure selfishness."

 

I kissed her then: her hair, her forehead, her full lips. "It's not going to go to my head. I feel every bit as unworthy as I should."

She gave me a reproachful look. "Foolish you are. Not unworthy. I would not have pleaded for your life if you were unworthy, you silly man - nor would the King have granted it."

"If you say so," said I. "Nonetheless I owe you my life. Again. How strange." She was stroking my face again, and I leaned into the touch. I had always loved her gentle hands, but after three days of scorn and humiliation they were more precious than ever. I closed my eyes, and sighed, and finally was able to feel safe.

 

When I had gathered the scattered peas I had the time to clean myself. We had no tub, nor would I have wanted to wait until we had heated enough water. Besides Amraphel needed the fireplace to make pea soup. So I washed first myself and then my clothing with the help of a bucket filled at the well. I tried to take stock of my injuries. I could not see much of my back, but what little I could see over my shoulder sported several darkened stripes, and from the way the rest of it felt, there were more hidden where I could not look. For a moment I debated putting my wet shirt on again, but then I thought better of it. I could not risk falling ill, and Amraphel would see the bruises sooner or later anyway. I'd had worse, although that knowledge didn't make the new pain any easier.

 

Of course Amraphel noticed them at once, and I got a brief moment of feeling heroic when I assured her that it looked worse than it felt. She gave me a look that clearly said that she didn't believe it (nor the heroism - she knew me, after all); but there was little that could be done about it either way, so in the end we turned to other topics. While I wolfed down my bowl of pea soup (I was so hungry that I hardly tasted the first couple of spoonfuls) she recounted how she had, as soon as she had heard of Narakôr's impending execution, made for the citadel. In those bygone days the King still spent half an hour each morning listening to the pleas of his subjects; Amraphel, her belly heavy with child, had incited pity in the others, so she had been able to gain entrance almost immediately.

"Then our child, too, saved my life," I said. "Before it is even born."

Amraphel smiled. "Oh yes. I'm sure it was quite instrumental in lending my words urgency."

Once before the King, she had simply described my case and tried to convince the King that I deserved his mercy. "I lied a little," she admitted with a blush. "I did not say that I had known about your plans, only that you had left the house with Lôbar and Narakôr and had not returned, and that I now worried that you had somehow become involved in the same crime that had overthrown them."

"My clever wife," I said admiringly, setting my empty bowl down.

"Would you like more?" she asked, ignoring the compliment.

I would indeed have liked more; my stomach still felt half-empty. But there was not much soup, and she needed it more than I did. I shook my head, smiling. "Thank you, I am full. You take the rest."

She did, and then sat down again. "After that, the worst part was the waiting." She frowned deeply. In the dancing light of our tallow lamp, the harsh set of her mouth was almost intimidating. But then she smiled again. "Well, here you are. It was worth the wait."

I did not know what to say.

"Just promise me that you'll never, never try anything of the sort again," she said, almost as an afterthought.

I took her hands. "I give that promise gladly. Though I suspect that even if I meant to, I would not have the time." I grimaced.

"What do you mean?"

I suddenly could no longer meet her eyes, bright and inquisitive, and looked away. "The King has decreed that I must serve the Keepers of the Dead."

She did not immediately reply; only held my hands in one of hers, stroking them with the other.

"All days?" she finally said.

"I think so," said I. "I am not certain. I will only be told the details of it when I first go there, the day after tomorrow." I looked back at Amraphel, and was relieved to see that her expression had softened. She squeezed my hands. "If that is what the King commands, it must be done. But how shall we live?"

I had no answer to that.

---

Chapter End Notes

(1) Emerië; adûnaicised by me. If Quenya lië turned into lâi, I feel relatively justified in the –râi; the rest is conjecture.

(2) The guard is not being particularly Faithful here, just using a common formula. I have assumed that the Númenoreans, pretty much like the modern English, did not necessarily put much thought in their mild swears. On the whole it seems to me that the people who curse a lot (in the name of whatever deity) are not actually overly religious. The really religious folk tend to avoid swearing. ... especially after the First Age, which should have made sufficiently clear that swearing is very serious business indeed.

(3) Armenelos

(4) Friday by our calendar, the holy day of the Númenorean week. For the purpose of this story, I've interpreted it as a work-free day. Elenya corresponds to Saturday in our calendar. Appendix D of the LotR states that the Númenorean calendar used the Quenya names, so I went with those. At this point in time, Elvish is not yet out-lawed (nor entirely out of fashion, at least among nobility).

Chapter 2

Read Chapter 2

I arrived at the citadel a full hour before the appointed time for fear of being too late, and was promptly apprehended by the guards.

"And what business do you think you have here?" I was asked.

"I am to serve the Keepers of the Dead," I said.

They exchanged a glance, and the mood changed subtly. The lazy grin disappeared from the one's face; the other looked me up and down, and began leafing through a small, leatherbound book.

"Your name?" he said.

"Azruhâr, sir, son of Narduhâr."

He apparently found the right page; he nodded, and made a mark in the book with a quill.

"You are early, Azruhâr. Do you know the way?"

I shook my head. "How should I?"

He sighed. "You turn left behind the gate, then follow the wall street for about four hundred feet. Behind the fountain there are two doors. You want the second. Can you remember that, or do you need an escort?"

The other guard snorted."An escort for a beggar?"

I felt my face grow hot. "I can find the way," I said.

"I daresay," the guard said. "Mind you don't lose your way. You'll be punished if we find you straying around the citadel."

I tried to give him a reproachful stare. "Do I look like I need to be told?"

He raised one eyebrow. "You won't have been sent to the Keepers for nothing." The other guard chortled. I studied my feet. I had put on boots that day, to make a somewhat better impression, but the leather was already beginning to crumble at the toes. No wonder he recognised me as a beggar.

"Well, off with you," the first guard said. "No point in standing in the way here." They unblocked the gate. I, with a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, went through.

The citadel was, of course, in the best part of the city. I had already passed many grand and imposing buildings on my way there, and admired the white-paved streets and the beautiful gardens; but the citadel was more beautiful than all of them. On my right-hand side was the wall that kept lowly intruders like me out, and even that simple wall was beautifully decorated with little arches and glazed tiles and stones arranged in patterns, and without the scribblings I was used to from the walls in my quarter of the town. On my left-hand side was another wall, equally artful, that secured the foot of a hill, so that I walked through a kind of moat. Even here the street was very clean, paved with white cobbles that were free of dust, as though somebody had just swept them clean. Occasionally the wall on my left was broken by stairs that led deeper into the heart of the citadel. Sometimes I could glimpse the walls of buildings, and I would have liked to follow the roads up-hill to see where they led. But I remembered the guards' warning and kept to the trench-like road along the outer wall, counting my steps until I assumed I had gone about four hundred feet. There was indeed a fountain, a few more steps ahead: Three bowls piled on top of each other, with a stone fish upon the topmost. From the fish's mouth there was a steady flow of water, which cascaded from bowl to bowl with a merry gurgling sound. Otherwise the street was silent, the noises from the city muted by the high wall, and no noise, no hoofbeats or barking or cries, coming down from the citadel. Perhaps anybody living there was still asleep. Or maybe it was always silent like this here?

My thoughts threatened to run astray. I called myself to order, and walked on. There was a gate, rather non-descript, that seemed to lead into the hill; and when I had passed it, I saw another. That must be the gate the wardens had told me of.

I could not immediately muster the courage to enter. While I was here I was still free, for a few precious moments. Through that door was thraldom.

And death. Though at least not my own – not yet.

The bells on the towers rang the half-hour. I still had time, I thought. I could sit here and wait until the third hour had come.

And risk the guards finding me and dragging me off to that dark prison again, with my luck. I took a deep breath, and knocked on the door.

There was no reply.

I knocked again, and waited. Again no answer. I looked around furtively, and saw no one. I debated with myself whether it was not enough that I had tried. Maybe I could go back home now?

Of course I could not. As the King's councillor had pointed out, I would be found and put to death. There was little choice.

I tried the door. It opened. Cold air streamed out into the warm summer morning. I gasped involuntarily. I thought, foolishly, The breath of death has touched me, and half-expected to stop breathing any second. I almost ran away, then.

When I had mastered my fear, I went through the door, my heart beating in my chest like a drum.

The door opened to a dark corridor. At one side it led to a small alcove that contained a cold stove, and a few cooking vessels. On the other side there was a larger room like a bath, with a large, water-filled stone basin. There was a heavy smell of incense on the air. Ahead of me I could see stairs hewn out of the grey rock, spiralling downwards into the dark. I shuddered, and told myself that it was only the cold. For it was cold. I was grateful that I had not come barefoot, for the rock floor was bare. My thin shirt was little protection; I could feel goosebumps rising on my flesh, and hugged myself for warmth.

"Hello?" I called. Again, no reaction. I closed the doors, shutting out the last bit of warmth and sunlight, and walked slowly towards the stairs. "Hello?" I shouted, louder this time.

No one hailed me in return, but straining my ears I could hear voices far below, echoing in the stone vaults. I took another deep breath, bracing myself, and descended, feeling rather than seeing my way down the steps.

The voices grew louder and gradually more discernible, so I stopped, and called out for the third time.

Finally I heard a reply. "Yes?" somebody called from below, and then, "I'll be right there!" And softer, hardly audible, spoken obviously to someone closer to the one who had answered, "That'll be the new man, I am sure."

Torn between relief and anxiety, I continued my descent.

After a while I saw a glimmer of bluish-white light that moved up the stairs. Even accompanied by footsteps which suggested that it was carried by a normal person, it was an eerie thing, and again I was tempted to turn around and run away. I managed not to give in to that temptation, but I could not go on. I stood stock-still until the light-bearer turned around the corner. The light, I saw, came from a very strange lantern, probably of Elvish origin: A kind of ball made of thin wires twisted into a delicate web, with something very bright in its centre. It looked like a bluish stone that gave off a cold light. The man who carried the lamp was thankfully human, though very pale in the odd light. He did not appear to be much older than I; in fact, his face had a rather boyish look to it. He smiled. "Hey," he said. "Are you the new addition?"

I nodded, and because I did not want him to think me dumb, I said, "I am Azruhâr. Are you… Master Târik?"

He laughed. "Not I! I am but a humble apprentice. My name's Mîkul." He mock-bowed. "Master Târik is downstairs. We expected you to come later – we would've come upstairs to welcome you, and give you light."

"I came early. I am sorry," I said, and he laughed again.

"Well, never mind – you found your way and didn't fall down the stairs in the process. Come along and you'll meet the others." He took the lead, and I followed.

"Tomorrow you should bring warmer clothing," Mîkul said. "As you probably noticed, it's pretty cold down here."

"I don't have warmer clothing," I mumbled, embarrassed.

Mîkul kept his eyes on the steps ahead, and shrugged. "Oh well. Next week, then." I did not point out that I would hardly own warm clothes in a week if I didn't have it now.

After what felt like a very long time the stairs finally ended in another corridor, which in turn led to a great vaulted chamber. I did not fully take it in at first glance, but I saw that it, too, was lit by lantern-stones like the one Mîkul carried. It was also colder than the corridor above, or even the stairs: It was so cold that I could see our breath turn into white clouds.

There were two more men here. One was tall and firmly built; his hair was still dark, but he was bearded already (1). The other was small and stocky, shaped somewhat like a barrel, with lighter hair. Both looked pale in the blue light. Their breath, like mine, steamed in the cold air, which smelled of sweet incense and something else that made the hair on my neck stand up.

The tall man came forward, and I was relieved to see that he looked by no means as grim as I had feared.

I bowed. "Azruhâr, Narduhâr's son, reports to service," I said.

He laughed. "So formal! Well, well. Welcome to the catacombs, Azruhâr Narduhâr's son. I am Târik. He," he indicated the stocky man, "is Kârathôn. Mîkul you've already met, and the lady in yellow over there is called Ûrinzil. The dead fellow once was, and may one day again be, Lord Ciryamir of Nindamos." My gaze followed his pointing arm. The former Lord Ciryamir lay upon a stone slab, naked; if he had not been dead when he came here, I suppose the cold would have done him in. There was no fog above his face. I turned my face away quickly, instead searching for the mysterious lady in yellow. It took me a moment to discover her: She was a small bird perching in a cage with little bells attached to its base. It was easy to see how she had gotten her name, for her feathers were indeed sunflower-yellow.

I blinked. "A bird? Does she serve here with us?"

"Oh yes," Master Târik replied. "She does indeed provide a most vital service. She tells us whether we are still safe down here. If there isn't enough air left, she'll drop off her perch – that gives us warning, and possibly enough time to return to daylight. They usually do that in mines, but it's certainly useful here, too."

Suddenly the pretty little bird lost its innocent charm. "I see," said I, swallowing hard. "Does that happen often?"

Master Târik laughed again. "Only once in my time. We're not exactly many people down here – not many, at any rate, who draw breath – and there are shafts to provide us with air; they work fine. But there's also the incense. And sometimes we work with chemicals here, and they're not always entirely harmless. Better to be safe, lest we all join the Sleepers next door." There was another room, I gathered, where the dead were usually kept. It was a gruesome thought: another vault like this, maybe of the same size, full of dead bodies.

"Now Lord Ciryamir, on the other hand, will not stay with us forever," Master Târik explained in a matter-of-fact voice as if oblivious of the horror. "When we're done with him he'll be transported to the Noirinan where the kin of kings is put to rest. That's our other working-place."

The Noirinan, the Valley of the Dead, was at the Southern foot of the holy mountain. The journey there and back surely took the better part of a day. "Do we go there often?" I asked. "It is not exactly nearby."

Kârathôn, who had so far held his silence, spoke now. "Not too far, with a good horse."

"But I have no horse," I said softly.

"Then you can ride on the hearse, and keep his lordship company," Kârathôn said. "At any rate you'll doubtlessly have a horse within a month or two." I blinked, bewildered. Master Târik patted my shoulder. "You'll learn your way around here soon enough, I'm sure. Now, have you ever seen someone dead? I mean, from close by?"

I had to look away again. "I did the funeral rites for my father, two years back," I said.

"Well, that's a start. You've touched a dead body then. Of course there's rather more we get to do here. But all in its time. Can you read and write?"

I shook my head.

"Then you must learn it," he said firmly. "As soon as possible."

I must have given him a very incredulous stare, for he explained, "We have not yet found the perfect way of dealing with the dead, which means we must improve the ways we know and try entirely new ways, too. Whenever that happens, it is absolutely necessary to write a precise protocol of the steps taken and the tools and chemicals used – few things would be worse than a successful experiment that could not be reproduced because nobody remembered just how it was done. Likewise it would be a waste of time and resources if a way that has once been proven fruitless was repeated because others did not know that it had already been done. So you must learn to write a protocol, and read those written by others. Do you know someone who can teach you?"

I nodded. "My wife can read and write."

"Excellent; so it will cost you nothing. So you are married already, eh? Good for you."

"Thank you, master," I said, not knowing what else to say. Then I remembered something he had just said. "What do you mean, 'the perfect way of dealing with the dead'?"

Kârathôn clapped his hands. "I like this man! He comes straight to the heart of the business!"

Master Târik looked amused. "If you want to explain it, Kârathôn, be my guest."

The barrel-shaped man cleared his throat. "Very well then. As you have doubtlessly noticed if ever a mouse died in your cupboard, or you walked through the slaughterer's district on a warm afternoon, dead meat fairly soon begins to rot. Neither pretty nor kind on the nose. Unfortunately human flesh is no different to that of lesser creatures. To whit: the incense. Any questions up to this point?"

Yes, I almost said, where can I throw up if I need to? But I controlled myself, shaking my head instead.

"Right!" said he. "Now technically we are part of a greater endeavour: the victory over death. The main purpose is, of course, to stop people from dying at all or, failing that, to bring them back to life after they died. For the latter, there are the Raisers of the Dead. They are studying to find a way of returning the spirits to the bodies of the dead. You passed the entrance to their part of the catacombs when you came here, if you came through North entrance."

I nodded again.

"Now while they are still studying, people are dying just as they did before. And that's where we come in."

Master Târik took over from him. "Our task is the preservation of those already dead until they can be raised again. Occasionally we will be asked to provide a body for the Raisers to experiment on, but for the most part we just store them."

Kârathôn continued, "Now as I began my lecture, I reminded you of the unfortunate tendency of flesh to rot. That is what we must prevent, you see? And that is where we lack – as yet – the means of doing it perfectly."

I frowned. "So the bodies keep rotting?"

"Not exactly, fortunately," Master Târik explained. "We know by now how to keep them from rotting. Just not – perfectly. Let me show you something."

A large wodden box was brought fourth and opened. I peered in, then jumped back, forgetting to breathe for a second.

The box contained a human body wrapped in a shroud. Or rather, something that had the shape and size of a human body. It did not smell of rot or death: That was not why I was out of breath. The smell was not actually unpleasant, reminiscent of chalk and herbs. Still, it was a body.

But it hardly looked real. It looked as though somebody had tried to make a life-sized doll. It was thick and bloated, enough so to make the face unrecognisable, the dead person's features smoothed out by swollen flesh. What was visible of its skin was yellowish, but most of it was covered with a strange crust of something white and flaky.

"It looks like a rag-doll," I said. My voice sounded pathetically shaky even to my own ears.

"Yes," Master Târik said. "Hardly like the human it used to be. But at least it will no longer rot. When the Raisers find a way to bring them back to life, they – or we – will have to find a way of bringing them back into their old shape, of course."

I felt dizzy. "Is that not impractical?" I asked, almost despite myself.

"Oh yes," Kârathôn said. "But we cannot do their work on top of our own. This is so far the best way we have of preserving the bodies of the dead, and until we find a better one it's what we must do. If we knew how to keep them in a more life-like state, we would."

Master Târik closed the lid of the coffin again, and sat down on it. I could hardly watch. "It is a most unsatisfying way. And that is why we try to discover something better. Most of our work indeed consists of experiments, with varying success. At least these days we no longer have to experiment with, how shall I say, our actual clients. We did that until, oh, a decade or so ago. It... had its disadvantages."

"What happened?"

"An aunt of the King… well, there's no point in beating around the bush. Her body decayed in its wrappings – rotted and melted. You cannot imagine the smell, and the mess it made. Worse, of course, was that she was of royal kin. My own master and his other apprentice were executed for the blunder. I was spared only because I drew the longer straw, and because one man was needed to continue down here."

I shuddered. "Is that not terribly wasteful, to kill two living over a dead body that, well, did what dead bodies do?"

Master Târik gave me a stern glance. "You should forget that kind of thinking. The King takes great interest in our business, which is at times a curse, but also a blessing. Either way we must follow his judgement. Down here the dead are more important than the living."

"It just seemed strange."

"You will encounter all kinds of strangeness here, Azruhâr."

I bowed my head.

"But do not fear: These days we no longer experiment on dead nobility. We are given the bodies of the poor, or parts of criminals, for that purpose."

"Parts of criminals," I repeated. I was now certain that the cold I felt had little to do with the temperature of the room.

Mîkul gave me a sympathetic glance. "You get used to it," he said. "I know how that sounds, but you really do."

I could not imagine it.

I was shown around. I learned where the well was that provided us with water to wash the dead, or our tools, or ourselves – for I was told that we had to keep very clean, because of the poison of death and because of the dangerous substances that we worked with. I looked at all the glass vessels that contained salts and ashes, spices and oils, sand and chalk and peat and other things. All the vessels had signs on them, denoting their contents, which I supposed must be a great help if one knew how to read. I did not even try to remember all the glasses and their contents – there were too many. I saw the tools, the different kinds of knives and hooks and syringes. I was shown the books of old protocols which I could not read, with drawings in them that I did not dare to study too closely. Mîkul took me to the tomb next door, another stone chamber that was indeed full of dead bodies. Not all of them were hidden in coffins. I knew that it would feature in my nightmares for months to come: a cold, domed room dark except for Mîkul's small lantern, with rows of long shelves that held bodies like loaves in a baker's display.

Then we dealt with dead Lord Ciryamir. I was told to help them wash the body with herbal vinegar. I felt seriously queasy by then, but the acrid smell of the vinegar helped to keep the nausea at bay. Touching dead skin was as dreadful as I remembered, and Master Târik was meticulous; every inch of skin had to be lathered and dabbed at several times until he was satisfied. Every now and then the bells on Ûrinzil's cage jingled as she hopped from perch to perch, and every time we would pause and look whether she was still alive, which she was. I had no feeling of time, then. It felt like several days had passed until he decided that it was time for a break.

"Better to eat before we start to work with arsenic," he said.

We scrubbed our hands with icy water, though the smell of the vinegar remained. Then we sat – I was lucky enough to sit on a work-bench, not upon the box with the dried body in it. Master Târik unwrapped a loaf of bread and a large chunk of cheese, and cut generous slices for all of us. I was deeply grateful. My breakfast seemed to be eternities away, and it had not been much in the first place. I ate half of my ration, then wrapped the other half.

"What are you doing?" Mîkul asked, chewing. "You can hardly be full already."

I had hoped that my little theft would go unnoticed, but now of course Kârathôn and Master Târik were looking right at me.

"My wife," I said lamely. "She is pregnant; she needs the nourishment."

Master Târik studied me. I almost squirmed in discomfort. "Have you nothing else?" he asked eventually.

"Not much," said I, truthfully enough.

He pursed his lips as though displeased, but he said, "Eat your part. Your wife can have the rest of the loaf."

I frowned in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"You needn't save that slice of bread I gave you," Master Târik explained. "Eat it. I'll give you the rest of the bread when you go home."

I blinked, and said, "Thank you, master." He nodded, and began a conversation about some actress whom the others obviously knew, though I had never heard of her. I chewed in silence, surprised by his generosity. It was good bread, too – grey bread, not the white bread rich folk eat, but it was properly leavened and evidently made of good flour, ground in a proper mill, without the sand I was used to from our own bread.

I felt a little better with food inside me, and told myself that I should count myself lucky to have found such kind company, although the work was horrible. After dinner we mixed salt and powdered arsenic – "So maggots and the like cannot live in the flesh", Kârathôn explained – with diluted whitewash, which explained the white crust. This mixture was then smeared on the dead body in great quantities, even poured into the ears and nostrils. It was almost as compelling as it was repulsive.

"You are doing well," Master Târik observed at one point. "I've never as yet had an apprentice who wasn't sick at this point."

I shrugged, uncertain whether I should feel flattered.

When the first layer had begun to dry, we applied the chalky mixture for a second time. Only then was the body shrouded and laid out to dry.

"Now we'll let him marinate for a while," Master Târik said, "and let the salt do its work." I looked at the jars that we cleaned away, and thought that Lord Ciryamir's body was filled and covered with substances that would have cost me several months' work – not that I would have been able to buy arsenic in the first place. Whitewash was common enough, though, and I had never had enough spare money to buy a bucketful for my house.

"Now you know the beginnings of the craft," Master Târik said. "This is our ordinary way of preserving a corpse. There is another, much simpler, but it will not result in such a good body – yes, the one you saw was actually quite good."

"But poisoned," I observed. "Is that not a problem?"

"It may be," Master Târik admitted. "But if the Raisers do find a way of tricking Death, a little arsenic should no longer be a problem."

"Oh," said I.

"Alternatively you can put the body in a stone coffin full of peat, so nothing but peat will touch it; that way it won't be poisoned, but the result is not exactly pretty. Mîkul, show him the hand."

Mîkul opened another box, much smaller this time. It really contained a hand, cleanly cut off at the wrist, on a bed of wood shavings. I shuddered.

The hand was not in the least bloated; instead all the flesh seemed to have fled from it. The skin was drawn tight over the bones underneath, and had a leathery look to it; moreover it was discoloured to a dark, almost black, brown. It reminded me of a chicken's claw. I looked away quickly.

"Yes," Mîkul said cheerfully, "you see the chalk is not as awful as it looks at first."

"Which is why we only use this method now when there is no other way – when we are out of whitewash, or out on a campaign. Well, now you know our tried and true ways; let's turn towards the experimental."

He studied the smaller boxes in the nightmarish storage room and chose one, seemingly at random, though I am certain the markings on the boxes aided his decision.

"There," he said, handing me the box. "Take it out."

I held my breath and opened the box, and removed the severed head that was within.

Or that is what I meant to do, until I saw the dead man's face. Then I dropped head and box, and gave a squeal, and did not manage to make it to the washing basin before I was violently sick. For despite the pallour, despite the rigid features, the man's face was still clearly recognisable. I had last seen it less than a week ago, attached to a body.

It was Lôbar's.

Master Târik was kind about it. I was neither struck nor shouted at; instead he waited until I stopped retching, and then handed me a bucket and a cloth. "Here, clean that up," he said, and when I took my time to pull the water-bucket up from the well, he did not call me out on it. When I was done with the cleaning and my tears also had stopped, I brought up the voice to apologise.

"Don't worry," he said. "That always happens, sooner or later. Our trade takes some getting used to it." I nodded miserably.

"It helps not to think about them as human," Kârathôn spoke up. "Do not think about its story."

I hugged myself. "I cannot help it," I whispered. "I knew him."

"Oh," Mîkul said in a sympathetic tone. "Was he a friend?"

"Yes," I said. To be honest Lôbar and I had not exactly been friends; but we had often worked together, and I had known him well, and I could be generous with friendship if I had nothing else. "But for the King's Mercy, that might be my own head. We were caught in the same crime." My foolish eyes welled up yet again.

For a while the others were silent. Master Târik rose, and put Lôbar's head back in the box so I did not have to see it anymore. Mîkul patted my shoulder, but it did not help to make it better. I was ashamed of myself, and realised too late that I had told them why I was here. Perhaps they had so far thought me a volunteer; now I had betrayed that I was indentured to work here. Doubtlessly they would look at me more unkindly now. What a fool I was.

But if they thought less of me they did not immediately show it. Master Târik let me clean the tools and the slab instead of making me work on further dead people, while Mîkul and Kârathôn dealt with the head discretely, somewhere I did not need to watch them. Whatever they did, they did not take any longer than I took for the cleaning. After that, Master Târik mercifully called it a day. He gave me my own Elvish lamp to carry, and took Ûrinzil's cage from its hook in the wall; and we walked up the long winding stair together. My legs were tired and aching, but the relief to be returning to the world above the earth was strong enough to overcome the exhaustion.

After the hours spent in the freezing catacombs, I had to remind myself that I had thought the corridor upstairs cold when I had arrived. "Wait until you get outside," Mîkul said, grinning. "You won't know what hits you." Before we left, however, we first took a bath in the cold basin, using absurd amounts of soap, trying to wash away the smell of death and vinegar and incense.

After the bath there was another surprise. While at work, the other three had been dressed not much differently from me: boots, breeches and shirts, though warmer and of better make than mine. Now they changed into different robes. Master Târik, best of all, wore elegant robes in an expensive tone of blue, lined with actual silk. Kârathôn wore a fashionable tunic in a rather wasteful cut, with an intricate pattern embroidered at the sleeves and collar, and breeches of soft leather. Even young Mîkul had a tunic with pretty embroidery that had definitely been made by a tailor, not a mother, and the shirt he wore underneath looked rather like silk, too. I stepped into my old, worn clothing again; but I could not help gaping.

Mîkul laughed. "Oh, don't look so shocked! It won't take you long to buy some pretty robes of your own, and keep your old stuff for work only."

"Which is a necessary measure, because you'll never get the smell out of the fabric," Kârathôn said.

I looked away. "I don't know what makes you say that," I said, and tried not to let envy colour my voice. I cannot claim that I was successful.

"Experience," Mîkul said. "I know the rates of pay."

"But I'm a slave," I pointed out. "I'll hardly be paid. I'm lucky to be alive."

Master Târik mustered me again. "What makes you think so?"

I still could not face him. "I have been condemned to work here, instead of meeting the same fate as Lôbar. – Don't think I'm not grateful for the chance!" I added hastily. "I am! But I would not have come here of my own volition."

My shameful confession was met with amusement.

"Do you think we are any better than you?" said Master Târik. "Do you think we'd be working here if we had a choice? Oh no. We are all recipients of the King's Mercy, young Azruhâr; we are all criminals. Say, what did they send you here for?"

I swallowed hard. "I was involved in a burglary. A man was killed. I did not kill him," I reassured them quickly. "But I was there."

There was no condemnation. "Mîkul did kill a man, you know," Master Târik said instead. I stared, disbelieving, at the cheerful young man. He was not cheerful now; instead his face was flushed, and he could not meet my gaze. "It was an accident," he mumbled.

"It was that," Master Târik said, "but you still killed a man."

There had been a tavern brawl, I learned. Both Mîkul and the victim had been badly drunk, and quarrelled over some trifle. "I only meant to hurt him. I think I wanted to break his pretty nose," Mîkul said. But the other man had died, and Mîkul faced charges for murder. His parents, I learned, were rich enough to bribe the right people so their son's 'accident' was mentioned in the King's hearing, and so he had been saved.

"And you?" I said, looking at Master Târik.

"I broke an oath to my lord Terakon," Master Târik said. Unlike Mîkul he did not sound the least bit abashed. "I still feel quite justified; he is a harsh man, and what he demanded of me was wrong. Still, an oath is an oath, so naturally my defense was met with scorn. The King was more reasonable than most men, and offered me this post to redeem myself. Well, here I am." With that he finished his tale, and did not go into details.

Kârathôn, it turned out, had been a poor man like me, and like me had turned to ill means in order to change his fortune. He had forged coins. "And I thought my work well-done," he said, "but it did not take long until they discovered it. Normally they might not have remembered a man of my low standing, but I was betrayed by my stature and my hair. It has a reddish hue," he said when he saw my confused look. "You'll see it when we return to the light."

I had spent all day in the company of criminals, I thought, and was shocked until I remembered that I was no better myself.

"At any rate, all of us are paid, and paid well, too," Kârathôn concluded. "I should be surprised if they hold you to a different measure."

Master Târik nodded. "As I told you, the King takes great interest in the success of our craft. And you must keep in mind that it is a craft, like carpentry or bakery. We are organised in a guild, together with the Raisers, the gravediggers and the coffin makers. We have our masters – well, currently I am the only one – and our journeyman – again, only one at this time – and our apprentices. At the end of each week we get our wages. And our pay is extremely generous, as the King hopes to attract more people to our craft."

"I never heard of that," I said, frowning.

"No, somehow all the gossips of this town are deaf when it comes to the upshots of our work. And to be fair there aren't many, aside from the money. You constantly smell of death, you constantly deal with death. People are superstitious. You'll see for yourself. Friends suddenly forget that you exist, strangers refuse to shake your hand when they learn what you do for a living. People will avoid coming close to you. They may bear your presence as long as you give them coins – but they won't love you."

Mîkul nodded soberly. "I no longer live in my parents' house. They did not say anything directly, but they hardly spoke with me anymore. And they went out of their way to avoid seeing me. I assume they were relieved when I left. I have not heard of them since."

"My wife left me, and took my son with her," Kârathôn said. "She returned to her family, and sometimes her father or uncle will tell me that they are well. She no longer speaks with me."

"I was not married when I became a Keeper," Master Târik said, "and now I never will be." He sighed, and picked up Ûrinzil's cage again. "I hope you can hold your wife."

The heat was overwhelming after a day in the cold catacombs. I had almost forgotten that it was summer. The sun was still up. As I went home I felt how the dreadful cold left my limbs, heat and light taking care of both the physical discomfort and the gloomy thoughts.

Amraphel was at home when I arrived, which dispelled the last worries Master Târik's words had incited in me. She, too, had been busy: She had gathered wild oats and berries and herbs. She embraced me and kissed me in greeting, then shoved me away playfully. "You smell like a whore," she said.

"I could also smell like a corpse," I pointed out. "Would you prefer that?"

She made a face. "No, of course not. I'll get used to the perfume." I smiled, for 'I'll get used to it' did not sound as though she planned leaving me any time soon.

She, on the other hand, sobered. "So how is it?"

I shrugged. "The work is horrible, of course. We're stuck in those really cold cellars underneath the citadel, and except for the four of us everybody is dead."

"Well, don't let it rub off on you," Amraphel said dryly, sounding less shocked than I had feared. "So there's a whole four Keepers of the Dead?"

"I think so," I said, and then I described Master Târik and Kârathôn and Mîkul. She knew of Kârathôn, it turned out: He had bought a horse off her father with his forged coins. I also told her of Ûrinzil, and of the many jars and vessels full of precious and poisonous substances. I told her that we had cleaned a dead lord and smeared him with whitewash, but did not go into detail. I did not speak of the second chamber, nor did I mention Lôbar's head.

Instead I gave her the bread. "Master Târik has given this to me."

She looked at the half-loaf. "That is kind of him," she said. "I'm glad to hear you have found some decent company among the dead."

"He is kind," I said. "That reminds me, though. Master Târik wants me to learn to read and write. As soon as possible. You could teach me, could you not?"

"I can," she said. "Oh Azruhâr, that is a good sign. If he wants you to read and write, he surely means to use you as a clerk rather than a thrall."

"They tell me," I said cautiously, "that I am no thrall but an apprentice. They tell me that I will be paid at the end of the week, as any other apprentice."

Amraphel studied my face. "No offense to your Master Târik," she said, "but I'll believe that when I see it."

I agreed with her, secretly. I was certain that the others had got it wrong.

But on Eärenya (2) we emerged from our work to find the King's scribe entering the corridor, carrying his unavoidable book.

I was scared, to be honest. I had felt reasonably content throughout the week, but I had not forgotten the councillor's threat, that I would be put to death if I did not work to Master Târik's satisfaction. Master Târik had not expressed any displeasure to me directly, but what did that mean, really?

I bowed to the scribe, and he nodded with a wry smile. He remembers me, I thought. And the last time he saw me I was down on my hands and knees and weeping like a child. I felt my cheeks grow hot and hoped that the blue light would hide it.

The others were not at all put out by the scribe's appearance. "Master Quentangolë!" Master Târik said in a cheerful tone. "Master Târik," the scribe replied, still smiling. Even in my anxiety I couldn't help thinking what a strange name he had. Quentangolë. I tried to imagine it written – Amraphel had begun to teach me the shapes and the names of the letters – but found it difficult. They all looked far too similar. (3)

"You are early today," Master Târik observed. "We've had no time to bathe yet." The scribe laughed. "I'll survive it, I am sure. I started my round from the other side today. Perhaps I should accordingly give you the guards' wages, eh?"

"Don't you dare!" Kârathôn said, but he was laughing as well. A guard's wages, I surmised, were less than his own.

"Don't worry, don't worry," Quentangolë said, grinning. "It's all written out properly; it'd be far too much of a hassle to change things around. Very well then. Master Târik, here's yours," and he took a full purse from his belt, and from it took a small bag of coins that he handed to Master Târik. He made a mark in his book, and continued while Master Târik opened the bag and counted the money. "Journeyman Kârathôn, here's your part, which you should share with some poor guard some time," and he handed four silver coins to Kârathôn. Quentangolë's quill scratched over the paper (4). "Apprentice Mîkul?" Mîkul stepped forwards and received his share. The scribe paused. "So, Master Târik, how's your new apprentice doing?" I held my breath.

"Hm?" said Master Târik. "Oh, he's just learning the ropes, of course. He's apt enough, though."

"Full pay, then?" Quentangolë said.

"Full pay," Master Târik said, and the scribe held two coins out to me.

I took them, stammering my "Thank you", and looked down at the coins in my palm. I couldn't help gasping involuntarily. Both coins were made of silver, glittering almost white under the Elvish lamps: a silver Crown, and a Half-crown (5). Never before in my life had I owned so much money at once.

I did not pocket the coins immediately so I could not be accused of hushing up a mistake – for surely it was a mistake. An apprentice in another craft would be considered lucky if he went home with a Crown and a half after a full month. But none of the others seemed to see anything untoward with my sudden wealth.

"What did I tell you?" said Mîkul when Quentangolë had left us. "Of course you're getting paid."

I nodded, slowly. "And had you told me how much, I would have believed you even less." I couldn't believe it even now. "Why do we get so much more than other apprentices?"

Master Târik laughed. "Well, you must consider that you are not getting house and board from your master, as normal apprentices do. You are too old for that, anyway, and you're married, too. And as I said, the King is trying to make our work attractive."

I wondered whether I would have applied to become a Keeper of the Dead, had I known about the rich pay. I had hardly been aware that they existed, so it was hard to tell. I wouldn't have thought the career enticing, that much was certain – but for a Crown and a half?

No, I thought, not even for a Crown and a half. Those were delightful, more so after I had feared I'd have to do the miserable work for no pay at all; but it was still miserable work. I did not fear or loathe the dead any less now than I had a week ago, and if I were given the chance to start an apprenticeship with a smith or a baker or even a tanner for a fourth of my pay, I would take it at once. All the money in the world could not make the horror of working among the dead more attractive.

But it was, at least, some consolation.

"I got paid," I told Amraphel when I got home that evening.

She looked up from grinding oats for gruel. "You did? That's good news." She put the stones aside and got up. "So how much do they pay you for picking over corpses?"

"Amraphel!" I was shocked at the brazenness with which she spoke of my work. I showed her the coins in my hand. She gave me a searching look.

"Are you certain you should have taken those?" she said.

I knew I deserved the question, but it still hurt. "Mîkul got the same," I said defensively. "I am told that the King takes great interest in this matter."

"It certainly seems so. My goodness. What do you want to do with all that money?"

I had not really thought about that yet. "I thought you'd decide that," I admitted. "Buy food for the week, I suppose. If there's anything left, it would be nice if I could have a warm shirt. Nothing fancy," I added before she could think that I was vain. "Just a warm woollen shirt. It's very cold down in the catacombs."

Amraphel gave me a sympathetic look. "I'm sure we'll be able to afford a shirt for you, or even two, with a Crown and a half."

"Good," I said. "And… well, perhaps we should give something to Lômenil? She must be destitute."

"She has sold the hovel and returned to her mother's house," Amraphel said, "so she is all right for the time being. But we can invite her for supper some time. If she wants to come into the house of an embalmer, that is."

I stared at her. "What do you mean?"

"There's already been talk," she explained. "People have heard what you're doing. They are… nervous."

"I'm not doing anything wrong."

"It's not that. I think they are afraid that you will bring something out of the catacombs. As if death is contagious, or something of the sort."

"That is absurd. Master Târik has been working there for decades, and he's still alive."

"That may be so, but people are still afraid. That's just how it is. I mean, why are people afraid of touching the dead?"

I did not know the answer even though I myself was no different. Why had it been such a horror to anoint my father's dead body? Why did I feel such dread when cleaning or wrapping the dead at work?

"Because the dead were alive once and now are dead, and we know that we who are alive will die, too. We don't want to have anything to do with that until we must," I suggested.

"Yes," Amraphel said. "So people do not want to have much to do with people who deal with the dead, either."

I sighed. "I do not want to be an outcast."

"Nor I," said Amraphel, "but we do not have much of a choice. Well, Lômenil may not mind. I will certainly ask her. I just thought I'd warn you."

---

Chapter End Notes

(1) In my personal ethnography of Númenor, it is customary that younger men go clean-shaven (possibly to look more like the ever-young Elves) while the more elderly (who can no longer pretend to be anything but mortal) wear beards. In later days, I assume even the old men would have shaved their wrinkled cheeks in an attempt to appear younger. Perhaps they even dyed their hair? Oh, the possibilities!

(2) Thursday: the day preceding the free "high" day, Valanya, and thus payday.

(3) I am assuming that, despite the predominant use of the Adûnaic tongue, the Númenoreans would still have used Tengwar in order to write it. The Notion Club Papers imply as much, at least. The idea of a distinct Númenorean script is fascinating, but, alas, there is no proof that one existed. Perhaps there were attempts to introduce a patently "Adûnaic" script that just never succeeded. Because the Tengwar, like any decent Fëanorian invention, won by sheer awesomeness. Well, and habit.
Hmm, a new plotbunny!

(4) Parchment is very expensive, a pain to produce, and also a pain to write on. I am sure that a culture as progressive as the Númenorean would long have realised the blessings of cheap, user-friendly paper.

(5) We are told depressingly little about the monetary systems of different Tolkienian peoples. That may all be very well for Valinorean Elves, who probably don't need money in the first place, but I can't imagine that the more complex and less happy societies all around didn't at some point stop exchanging goods or weighing ores or counting shells in order to invent some kind of normalised coin system. Probably the Dwarves, who passed it on to the Sindar, from whom the Noldor learned it; or it's a result of the trade relationships between the Dwarves and Caranthir. Either way, the Númenoreans would surely use some kind of minted currency.
I have tried to come up with something as endearingly confusing as the old English coin system. The names of the coins, because I am uncreative, are taken from what they depict. This was relatively common in our history (cf. the Swiss Rappen ("black horse") or the old German Kreuzer ("crossling")). Alternatively it was popular to name coins after the place they came from (cf. Francs, Dollars and the like), but as Númenor (unlike Europe) is a unitary country and probably all the five provinces used the same money, that'd probably be kind of ineffective. Besides the names would've ended up to long.
Anyway.
For the purpose of this story, there are copper Stars and Ships, silver Crowns and Trees, and gold Towers. Their Adûnaic names are up to conjecture.
Five Stars will make one Half-Ship, two of which make a Ship; three Ships make a Half-Crown, two of which make a Crown. Three Crowns make a Tree. Ten Trees make a Half-Tower, and two of those make a full Tower. So there's 10 Stars to a Ship, 60 Stars to a Crown, 180 Stars to a Tree, and 3600 Stars to a Tower.
Everybody confused now? Good!
I am told that the English got along just fine with their wonky currency system until they reformed it according to the decimal system in the 1970s.
Let's assume that a loaf of bread is prized somewhere around four Stars, to have a frame of reference.

Chapter 3

Read Chapter 3

It may seem strange to you young people that we embalmers were reckoned so lowly, back then. I like to flatter myself that it is partly the merit of my colleagues and myself that these days the Keepers of the Dead are honoured well, but in truth I must admit that we likely have little to do with it. Perhaps people are just wise enough to respect those who do what they themselves fear to do. Or perhaps they have simply grown used to our presence. In my youth, at least half the populace did not even know that we were there. We dealt, after all, with a part of existence that nobody wants to think about; no wonder that people took no note of us unless they had to! Those who knew of our craft reacted with fear and disgust, and the others simply copied them. I soon felt it. It did not begin immediately; at first people treated me much as they always had - unless they had heard of my arrest, in which case they treated me with scorn. Only when the news had spread (for of course they eventually wondered about my sudden wealth) did they make a berth around me on the street, or hush conversations to give me mistrustful stares as I passed. Lômenil, to her credit, did neither, instead visiting us (or rather Amraphel) regularly. But my one-time fellows and the merchants on the street slowly began to withdraw from us.

 

But, as Master Târik had predicted, they still took my money.

 

In that first week Amraphel stocked up on millet and grain and onions and other durable things, and she bought a chicken that pecked its way through our garden and provided us with lovely eggs. She had also found two used winter shirts, dyed in dismal tones of green and brown but nice and warm. Much too warm, in fact, when I tried them on at home.

At work, on the other hand, they proved useful – especially as in the following weeks I hardly did anything but sit still and read or take dictation, as Master Târik wanted me to practice my writing skills. They were unimpressive. I kept forgetting letters or turning them the wrong way around, changing the way they were read altogether. Even if I managed to write a full sentence without mistakes, it took me very long; moreover I was not used to handling a quill, and it scratched on the paper and spilled ink all over the pages. My fingers were constantly smeared black. Mîkul, who had the doubtful honour of checking and mending my writing, usually had so much to correct that I thought it would have been better to let him write the whole thing in the first place. I couldn't imagine that I should ever learn to write properly. I did nothing productive and felt miserable about it, more so as Master Târik nonetheless allotted me my full share of the money, which I did not feel I deserved.

 

There was only one day that interrupted the routine, and that was when Lord Ciryamir had received his final layer of whitewash, and that layer had dried. We went to the Noirinan then. The others had fine horses, all of them, while I sat on the hearse for the journey. But the knowledge that my passenger was a dead man no longer held the terror it would have held two weeks earlier. I suppose it would have been absurd to fear Lord Ciryamir at that point, dead or no, after the downright intimate care we had given him. At any rate I was perfectly capable of enjoying the change in my schedule.

 

We left early in the day and reached the Mountain by noon. The riders would surely have been there sooner, but the hearse could not go so fast on the flat but unpaved road. It was odd to be out in the warm and open air around mid-day on a working day instead of in the catacombs – I had grown quite used to spending my days in dark caves.

We had our lunch in the shadow of the Minultârik (1), where the day's heat was bearable. We did not speak much. Even at the foot of the Holy Mountain the atmosphere seemed charged with some awe-inspiring power that we did not wish to disturb with loose speech. We ate and drank in silence; then we moved on to the entrance of the tombs.

 

They seemed much friendlier to me than the catacombs in the city. For one, the light felt more natural, coming through shafts in the ceiling, spread by a system of mirrors; it was much warmer than the blue sheen of the Noldorin lamps we used in Arminaleth. There was also more room, and while the air was cool, it was not as bitingly cold as I had grown used to. Though here as there the tombs were technically little more than caves hewn into rock, here some (probably long-dead) craftsmen had taken great care in decorating the walls with friezes and reliefs. The niches in which the dead kings rested were of course the most beautiful, caves and coffins painted with gold and silver and hung with tapestries.

 

Lord Ciryamir did not get such a splendid tomb, being merely a great-uncle of the present King. Instead he was brought to a cave he had to share with other distant royal kin. But when we had taken his body out of the wooden coffin and rested him in a stone sarcophagus, and cleaned our hands, there was still time to explore the rest of the Valley of the Dead. Of the older Kings, I learned, there was little more left than bones (or so the others assumed, but none of them took a peek) as they had been buried, back then, without the preserving whitewash; but great sculptors had reproduced their sleeping forms in white marble. I stood, marvelling, before the tomb of Tar-Minyatur himself, gazing in wonder at the statue on his sarcophagus, and at the tapestry that showed his life, from his childhood in Beleriand in the clutches of the Kinslayers to his heroic deeds in the War of Wrath to the gifting of Númenor, and the building of the realm. It was hardly imaginable that all that could have taken place in one lifetime, even one so long as that of King Elros. I had never thought of him as a real person before, more like a character from the old legends. Here at his tomb he was turned into a man, a dead body like those I saw daily. I stepped closer to the statue to see whether there was any resemblance to the King I knew. There was. How strange, I thought, to be able to trace one's lineage back to such a legendary figure. How strange to bear his features, generations later.

 

I was torn from my thoughts by soft footfalls, and turned around to see Kârathôn walking along the lit corridor. I nodded in greeting, somewhat embarrassed. I had almost touched the King's stone face.

 

"Quite impressive, isn't it?" Kârathôn said in a soft voice.

I nodded, looking back at the statue. "It makes me feel so small and worthless," I admitted. "Nobody would ever want to depict my life in a tapestry."

Kârathôn chuckled, and put his hand on my shoulder. "Small, yes. I wouldn't know about worthless." I half-turned to him, frowning. He shrugged. "We can't all be rulers. That in itself doesn't make us worse, does it?" He paused, and then went on, "Well, maybe we are worse, seeing what brought us here. But I don't think we can be blamed for not being kings, at any rate. And I'm not sure I'd want to have my life in a tapestry. Too many embarrassing bits, if you ask me."

"No, of course not," I said. "But still, to think how much other people manage to achieve in their lives…"

"And how much more they could have achieved if their life had not ended, eh?" He gave me a wry glance. "But you're not stealing any of their time, Azruhâr. Your years won't be subtracted from theirs."

"I know," I said. "That's not what I meant." And indeed I couldn't have explained just what I meant. Just that there was something marvellous about life and death and memory, I suppose. Something that I could not quite grasp, even though it seemed important.

 

Although there was no corpse with us when we returned, we were strangely subdued and taciturn on our ride back to the capital. I thought at first that it was only me, but after a while I noticed that nobody was singing now or telling stories as we had done on our way to the Noirinan. Instead, everybody kept stealing glances back at the Mountain, rising silently between the hills, looking almost unreal in the haze of the afternoon.

 

 

Not long after that I first met the Raisers of the Dead.

 

I knew that there was another door at the foot of the stairs, across the corridor from the great vault where we worked. We never used it, and I had never given it much heed; but one day there was a loud knock on the door, and the scraping of keys could be heard. I was glad that it was so firmly distant from the corpse-room. I don't know what I would have done if there had been a knock on that door, coming from the inside.

As it was, Master Târik took a key from a shelf, and unlocked the door from our side. It opened to reveal two men in dark robes, carrying a bier.

"Is it time again?" Master Târik only said while I stared at them across the corridor.

"We have, we think, made a breakthrough," the younger of the black-robed men said.

I looked afrom Mîkul to Kârathon in wide-eyed surprise, but Kârathôn muttered, "They always say that." I don't think anyone but Mîkul and I heard him.

"Ah, yes," Master Târik said in reply, gesturing for them to enter the vault. "And what shall it be?"

The two of them looked through the room, at the whitewash-smeared body on the slab, at Kârathôn who stood beside it as if to guard the dead, at Mîkul and me between our open jars and books and boxes.

"If you have someone not yet too long dead? It will work better if the spark of life has not been quenched for long. And it must be somebody who died of age, not of injury."

"I am sure we can find a fitting client," Master Târik said, business-like, and they entered the storage vault.

Kârathôn stepped closer to me.

"'It will work better!' As though he knew." Kârathôn, I gathered, did not put great store into the skills of the Raisers. Mîkul shrugged. "Same old," he said. "It won't work, they'll say it's because our technique leaves much to be desired."

 

Master Târik said the same, when the Raisers had left with their corpse and the door was locked again. "Well, that means another visit from his Majesty."

 

I frowned, confused, and he explained, "The Raisers have to report to the King, success or failure. So far it has always been failure. The King will ask why, they will say they don't know, maybe there was something wrong with the body in the first place. Of course it might also be that they simply did not find the right methods or words or whatever it is they do, but they cannot rule out that it would have worked with a body better preserved."

"Then why do they not take one of the recently dead as soon as one is here?"

Kârathôn snorted. "That'd rob them of a perfectly comfortable excuse," he said. "They'd have to admit their failure forthright, if they did that. This way they can always say perhaps we did it wrong."

I swallowed hard. "What happens then?" I remembered the story of Master Târik's teacher, executed because a corpse decayed as corpses are bound to do.

The others seemed to guess my thoughts. "Nothing so drastic," Master Târik said. "The King will come for a visit to make sure that we are not wasting his money. We show him one or two bodies, our price exhibit among the less conventionally preserved pieces, perhaps a particularly off-putting failed attempt, and assure him that we are doing our very best. He will entreat on us to make our best better, we promise that we will, and that is it."

That did not sound too bad, I thought, though I found it hard to imagine that the King himself would walk down all these steps. Perhaps in a palanquin…? But that could not be carried around the corners. Or perhaps we would meet him upstairs?

Kârathôn patted my back again. "Don't look so worried. There will be stern words, nothing more."

"I'm just confused, not worried," said I. I was lying. Of course I was worried.

 

I had no time to think about the King's visit for long, though, for before another week had passed there was a different event that turned my life on its head: My daughter was born.

 

The King's generosity meant that we could afford to pay a midwife, which was a serious relief. Even so I was all nerves when I came to work after having left Amraphel in the hopefully capable hands of Thamâris the midwife and the reassuring company of Lômenil. My mind was anywhere but in the catacombs that day.

"Still frightened of the King?" Kârathôn asked when I dropped a jar of salts that thankfully didn't break.

"No," I replied, fishing for the fugitive jar under the work-bench. "My wife's in labour."

The others all stared at me. "Then what are you doing here?"

I stared back. "I have been promised a rather painful death if I shirk at my work. Where, then, am I supposed to be?"

Master Târik gave me a bemused stare, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Oh Azruhâr, that hardly counts as shirking at your work! Do you truly think you'd be punished for staying at home to look after your wife on a day like this?"

I shrugged, feeling a little foolish. "I wouldn't know. It sounded rather absolute."

He shook his head, and patted my shoulder. "Go home to your wife, Azruhâr. If indeed anyone apprehends you, I'll take it up with them."

I almost tripped over my feet in my haste to get up the stairs.

 

To be honest I could have stayed at work just as well, for the midwife did not allow me to enter the house anyway. I spent the better part of the day in our patch of garden, pacing in circles, scaring the hens (we now had three) and plucking the seeds of wild grasses to twist them in my restless hands. Our walls were not firm enough to drown out Amraphel's screams, and more than once I tried to ignore Thamâris orders and run in – so often, in fact, that she eventually locked the door on me. I missed my neighbours badly, then; anyone would have been welcome to distract me from the screams. "That is normal," Thamâris had said; but it sounded so terrible, so terrible! Surely something was wrong, and they just didn't want to tell me!

 

It was a relief when Lômenil opened the door and gave me two buckets and sent me to the well, but I was unable to draw the walk out, running instead as though my life (and surely that of my wife and my child) depended on it. Then I was left alone in the garden again.

Three endless hours had passed when Amraphel fell silent, and somebody else took up the crying: an infant's voice, high and unpractised.

It was a good thing that they unlocked the door then, for otherwise I think I would have forced it open.

"Congratulations," Lômenil said, smiling. "You're the father of a beautiful daughter."

 

I must admit that at first I paid no attention to the child, instead rushing over to Amraphel to make sure that she was all right. There was blood on the sheets, which frightened me, but Amraphel herself looked content enough – though exhausted. "I am fine, I am fine," she assured me when I asked. "It's all right now." She called out to Thamâris. "Let me see her!"

 

Thamâris brought the child then. The baby seemed very large to me – unbelievable that my wife should have carried such a big child in her! Amraphel took her in her arms, and smiled so serenely that I finally dared to believe that she was all right. Thamâris carefully kept a distance from me, but she gave me a nod. "Your wife is healthy and strong," she said. "So's the child. All is as it should be. This was easy."

Easy? I thought. If that was easy, I didn't even want to know what it was like when it wasn't easy.

 

But I had no time to argue with the midwife, for now I was taking in the sight of my wife and my daughter.

 

I was very much willing to believe that my daughter was beautiful, though of course I suppose she looked like most children look, just after their birth. She had a few tufts of wet dark hair on her head, and her eyes were blue. She didn't look like either of us. Oh, of course she had two eyes, and two ears, a tiny nose, two arms with tiny clenched hands and two legs with tiny feet on them – but I recognised nothing in her features that reminded me of Amraphel or myself. One might say, I suppose, that her chin looked a little like my mother's.

But I did not think these thoughts until a bit later, when I had the chance to think rationally. When I first saw her, nestled in Amraphel's arms, I thought she was the most beautiful thing in the whole world. I thought that no man could ever have felt this happy, which was doubtlessly nonsense. And then I remembered that I had almost died a mere six weeks ago, and but for my wife's wit and the King's mercy would never have seen this moment. At that point emotion overwhelmed me, and I broke down and wept, sorrowful and elated at once. My stomach clenched with relief and gratitude and overpowering joy, so violently that I thought I must be sick. Looking back I suppose I must have embarrassed everybody, a grown man falling to the ground and weeping helplessly – but at that point I did not manage to spare a thought for my dignity or the onlookers. All I knew was that I was happier than I had any right to be, and at the same time terrified that all this was too good to be true.

 

If Lômenil and Thamâris had not kept me in check I would probably have ended up dancing in the streets like a madman, weeping and singing. But they kept their heads, and brought me back to my senses. "You're upsetting the child, silly man," Thamâris said sternly, and I could not even muster the presence of mind to feel insulted. "Yes," I said, laughing instead. "I am sorry. I thank you." I made less sense then than ever.

 

"That'll be two Ships (2)," said the midwife, looking me up and down. I would have given her the money even though I knew we had agreed on less, but Amraphel was not distracted enough by the baby to let it pass.

"I think we said one, and three Stars," she protested.

"That was before I knew how long it would take," Thamâris replied at once. "Another Star for every hour."

"You said nothing of that in advance," Amraphel said.

"You said it was an easy birth," Lômenil threw in.

"Peace," said I. "We can afford two Ships."

"We cannot afford people thinking they can milk us just because it pleases them," Amraphel said firmly. "One and three Stars."

"One ship and a half, for gratitude's sake," I suggested, and Thamâris agreed before Amraphel could protest again.

Our daughter chose that moment to begin to cry, and we were all sufficiently busied.

 

"So what are you going to call her?" Lômenil asked when the baby had been fed, and I had made tea for the grown-ups.

 

I looked at Amraphel. "Truth be told, I don't know," I said. "I suppose we could simply call her Azruphel, but I'll gladly yield to my wife in this matter."

"I thought perhaps we could name her after my mother," Amraphel said, cradling our daughter.

"Râphumil?" I said, doubtfully. I neither particularly liked the name, nor did I have any friendly associations with her mother, who had graced me with terms like 'that swain' when she had deigned to notice me at all. "Of course, if you'd like, we can name her that," I added before she could take offense.

"It would be a nice touch, wouldn't it?" she said, giving me a winning smile. "And while we're speaking of my mother: It is customary to have a feast for the birth of a child, so perhaps we should invite my family?"

I couldn't say I was thrilled at the thought of having her parents at my house. "We can invite them, if you think we can fit them all in here," I said. "If you think they'll come."

"Surely they will," Amraphel said. "This is, after all, their first grandchild."

 

So I bought the first roast pork of my life, and turnips and carrots and almonds and honey and dried apples and other fine things Amraphel had put on a list, even an amphora of red wine for the guests. I thoroughly cleaned the house with Lômenil's help, and even repaired the broken chair. We'd have to use the bed as an additional bench, and I'd have to sit on the tree trunk we used as a block for chopping firewood, and it would be crowded, but there would just barely be space for everybody now. Perhaps, I thought, it was time to add a second room to the house – if ever I found the time.

 

 

But Amraphel's family refused to see her, or even their grandchild: Lômenil was turned away at the door with the news, I was told when I came home. "I told them that I was bringing news from Amraphel, and they said they knew no-one of that name," Lômenil recounted. Amraphel was sobbing.

 

I tried to console her, telling her that her parents were hurting (not to mention disgracing) themselves. "I pity their folly," I said. "They don't deserve your tears."

"I know that," she said, wiping her face. "I just wish it didn't hurt so much."

"What about the feast?" I said when she had calmed.

"What indeed," said she. "You know what? We'll have a feast anyway. Invite anyone. I don't care whom. Whoever you can think of."

I pondered. "I suppose I could ask Master Târik and the others if they're interested. If that's all right with you."

"Yes, do that," Amraphel said.

 

I barely managed to catch my colleagues as they were leaving the citadel. I had run so hard that I couldn't speak at first; I had to lean against the wall to catch my breath.

 

But I did not actually need to speak at once. "I do not need to ask," Master Târik said, the corners of his eyes creasing in a smile. "Your eyes wouldn't shine like that if all hadn't gone well."

I nodded, gasping for air.

"Congratulations," he said, clasping my shoulders and embracing me. The others joined in, making so much noise that passers-by turned to look.

"Thank you," I said when I could breathe again. "Yes, all went well. I have a healthy daughter!" There were more cheers and congratulations, which was just as well, for I was beginning to feel soundly overwhelmed.

"But I didn't run here all the way just to tell you," I said. "I wanted to ask whether you'd like to join us for a little feast tonight."

They sobered at once, and exchanged curious glances. "Are you certain that you want to do that, young Azruhâr?" Kârathôn asked. "Won't your friends and family object?"

"My sister is in Rómenna, and my parents no longer live," I explained, a little embarrassed. "And you kind of are my friends, are you not?"

There was some shifting, and more glances. "Aw, that's the sweetest invitation I've got in a long time," Kârathôn finally said. "Yes, I for my part would like to come."

"And I also," said Master Târik, giving my shoulder another squeeze.

"What choice do I have, then?" Mîkul said, but he winked at me. "Name the time and the place and I'll be there."

 

We had a very cheerful evening, despite the absence of our respective families. Lômenil and her mother had prepared the meal, which was splendid. They had roasted the side of pork and glazed it with spiced honey, and cooked the roots and apples with onions in the fat and glazing that had dripped down from the meat. We had good grey bread to go with that. The wine also seemed very good to me, and I felt a little sorry for Amraphel, who could not partake of it.

 

Never until then had I eaten so well. Even Mîkul and Master Târik, surely used to such fare, praised the meal and the wine excessively, although Master Târik seemed a little out of spirits. The others jested and sang for ten, however. And of course everybody was smitten with our lovely daughter.

"So what's her name?" Kârathôn wanted to know.

"Ra-" I began, but Amraphel cut me short. "Azruphel," she said firmly. "Her name is Azruphel."

"Clear enough," Kârathôn said, laughing. "Her brother, when she has one, will be named Amrahâr, then?"

"We'll think of that when the need arises," Amraphel said. "But Azruphel is a fine name."

"Very fine," Mîkul agreed, and the others hastened to join in. I cast a questioning glance at Amraphel, but she only gave me a fixed smile in return.

 

When my fellow Keepers and Lômenil's mother had left us, I cleaned the plates and table with Lômenil's help. Amraphel fed our daughter – our little Azruphel, I thought. The idea of being a father still was strange and new.

 

"They seem a good sort," Amraphel observed, meaning Master Târik and the others. "I'm glad you have such pleasant company at work." I agreed.

So did Lômenil. "They were very pleasant," she said. "But why did your master Târik not bring his wife?"

I blinked. "He has none."

"I am sorry," Lômenil said. "She died? How very sad."

"No," said I, "he was never married. He says it's because he works with dead people. He wasn't married when he became a Keeper, and now never will be. What made you think he had a wife?"

Lômenil shrugged, and gave the plate she was cleaning a vigorous scrub. "Oh, I just thought he would. He's quite an amiable man after all, and handsome too."

"He's old and bearded!" I pointed out.

Lômenil swatted at me with her wet towel. "He is surely not that old, and he's still a handsome man!" she said, and blushed fiercely, and returned her attention to the dishes.

 

"Your master Târik may end up married yet," Amraphel said when we were finally alone, and in bed.

 

"What?" said I. "You mean Lômenil? Ah, no. She was just curious, wasn't she?"

Amraphel merely smiled. "You should tell him that Lômenil tried to find out whether he had a wife."

"If you think I should."

 

It was hard to leave for work, the next morning - not only because the evening had been late and I was tired, but also because I could not tear myself away from my wife and daughter. I consoled myself that it was Eärenya, and I would have all of tomorrow at my family's disposal. Amraphel said the same, when she kissed me good-bye. "It's just one day. You'll manage. And don't forget to talk to your master Târik."

 

 

"My wife thinks you may want to know that Lômenil asked whether you were married," I said.

 

Master Târik looked up from the accounts, raising an eyebrow. "Lômenil? Oh, you mean the other young woman?"

"Yes, that's her," I said, and thought that even should Lômenil be interested in him, it was doubtful that he cared much for her if he did not even remember her name.

"Hm," said he. "You told her that I was not, I assume?"

I saw Mîkul pause in his work to listen.

"I did," I said.

Master Târik nodded. "And what did she say?"

I tried to remember the exchange. It had been late, and I suspect I had been slightly inebriated. "She said she'd have thought that you were," I said, somewhat lamely. "She called you a handsome man," I added, and was surprised to see that Master Târik was clearly taken aback.

"You're making that up," he said.

"I wouldn't dare!" said I. "That's what she said."

"Nonsense," he said, gruffer than I had ever heard him, and returned his attention to the books.

"Well, you are a handsome enough man, if a little too old," Mîkul told him cheerfully, and earned himself a glare.

 

I was afraid that I had offended Master Târik, but at the end of the day, when we had bathed and dressed, he invited Amraphel and me to dinner at his house for the next week. "I feel I should repay you for the pleasant evening," he explained. "And my house is much too silent anyway."

 

"I'll ask Amraphel whether she has any objections," I said. "But I'm sure she'll be pleased to accept the invitation.

 

She was, although she said at once that she would like to take Lômenil along, for company. "Since it is such a silent house," she said, "I'll be bored if you men talk about nothing but your trade."

 

We hadn't mentioned our trade even once when the others had visited us, but I nonetheless asked Master Târik whether he was willing to extend his invitation to Lômenil.

He was.

 

Master Târik was living in a very good part of town, close to where the nobility had their city-houses, within a reasonable distance to both the citadel and the markets, and a very long way from the outskirts where lowly folk like me lived. We walked through white-paved streets past beautiful, spacious mansions in lush parks on our way. Lômenil was the first to express her doubts, though I felt them as well. "No, this is too noble a quarter for us," she said. "You go on; I will go home."

 

"No, you won't," Amraphel said. "We are invited after all. It would be impolite if you ran away now, wouldn't it?"

"It would," I agreed, but I understood Lômenil's scruples very well. I, too, felt like an intruder. When we reached Master Târik's house – grand like the others, though the garden was untended – even the servant who opened the door was dressed better than we.

 

But we were welcomed, and shown through a splendid corridor and a courtyard with a fountain into a large hall. Master Târik smiled at us. "How good of you to come," he said, gesturing invitingly at the chairs around the table. "This house has not seen guests in far too long a time."

 

I thought that it showed, although to be honest I had no experience of grand houses then. I would have imagined them to be decorated with all sorts of wall-paintings and tapestries and sculptures, and full of the exclusive pieces of furniture the carpenters offered to those who could pay them. But Master Târik's dinner-hall, if that was what it was, was almost empty but for the table and chairs and chandelier, and a small table holding Ûrinzil's cage. The walls and ceilings were whitewashed (and I could not help wondering if it was the same whitewash that we used at work) without further painting. The floor, at least, suited my expectations: It was a mosaic of hundreds of tiny stone cubes arranged to show a scene from the ocean, with fish of many colours and long strands of seaweed. My gaze kept returning to it, drawn by the amazingly realistic depiction of sea-life. The women admired it as well. Master Târik laughed. "Yes, it is beautiful, but I must admit that I have nothing to do with it. Anything beautiful in this house was there before I moved in; I have put shamefully little effort into it." He sobered. "To be honest it is much too large for one man." It sounded weird, I thought, as though he felt uncomfortable in his own house.

"Why did you buy it then?" Amraphel inquired.

"I did not," said Master Târik. "It was a gift from his Majesty." He said it without the slightest trace of pride or astonishment, as if the King went around gifting houses to people all the time. I, on the other hand, was amazed. "That is a generous gift indeed," Amraphel said, echoing my thoughts. "You are very fortunate."

Master Târik shrugged. "And yet I envy your Azruhâr, madam." He was silent for a while. Then he smiled. "Well! Our dinner should be ready any time soon, but there is probably time enough to see the rest of the house, if you are interested. I must warn you, however; I am an old bachelor, and use no more than two or three rooms. You will be disappointed."

I did not see how we should be disappointed. It was a very impressive house. True, most of it was empty, door after door opening to another unused room, beautifully built but lacking life. I counted five empty chambers upstairs where Master Târik had his bedroom and his study. On the ground floor there was a bath, and a kitchen, and the hall we had first seen. One door was closed; that was the servant's room, we learned. Three more doors led to further spacious but empty rooms. The courtyard was handsome enough, with a few flowerpots around the central fountain, but the garden, overseen from the gallery upstairs, was really in a very wild state. On the whole the house felt rather deserted, a sad place despite its beauty. I had always idly dreamt of one day leaving my hovel for a house like this; yet now that I had seen it, it compared unfavourably. At least our hovel was a home.

"It is a house for a family, not for one man," Master Târik concluded. "Yet aside from Bêliar and Ûrinzil no-one can be convinced to live with me."

"How strange," said Lômenil softly, and blushed.

 

Whatever Bêliar's qualities as a gardener, as a chef he was brilliant. The meal was splendid, much better than our little feast had been. There was first a soup, clear strong broth with vegetables in it. I was as good as full after that already, but I learned that the meal only really began after the soup. Until that day I would not even have dreamt of the possibility of stuffing a quail inside a chicken, and that inside a goose. Between the layers of meat there were layers of herbs and onions and chestnuts and mustard. The taste was indescribable. I ate far too much, so much that I felt sick by the time that Bêliar brought yet another meal, sweet pancakes with a sauce of blackberries. I gave up.

 

"My goodness, sir, if I got meals like that every day I'd be heavy as fatstock," I admitted. Master Târik laughed. "So would I be, I daresay!" he said. "But I don't eat like that every day. Most of the time Bêliar and I have a very simple dinner. He doesn't have to go to such efforts when there's only me to take care of." He glanced at the women, and I saw that Amraphel was still busy eating, showing no sign of being overwhelmed. But then she'd had to hold Azruphel with one arm, and she had also made polite conversation. I had, I now noticed, paid no heed to anything but the food for a good while. Embarrassed, I offered to take the child so Amraphel could eat more easily. Our daughter had been very well-behaved so far, sleeping most of the time; and indeed she woke and cried only when the meal was finally done, and the dishes cleared away. "Yes, now it really is time for your dinner, isn't it?" Amraphel said cheerfully, and took Azruphel from my arms. "Azruhâr, can you help me for a moment?"

I got up and followed her to the courtyard, feeling fit to burst. "You hardly need my help," I complained, holding her kirtle while she nursed Azruphel. "I think I ate too much; I can hardly walk."

She laughed softly. "That's what you get for being so greedy, you glutton. No, dear, I hardly need your help, but I wanted to give those two a chance to speak in private."

"Those two?" I said, feeling obtuse.

"Lômenil and your master Târik," Amraphel said. "Did you not see the looks he gave her, during the meal?"

I frowned. "He looked at both of you."

This time Amraphel's laugh was louder, and our daughter paused her drinking in order to protest, milk spilling down her chin. I wiped it off carefully.

"If he were giving such looks to me, you should be very worried," Amraphel said, still smiling. "No, I am quite convinced that it's Lômenil who impressed him. And she is certainly impressed by him."

I pondered that, tried to imagine Master Târik in love with Lômenil. I had to admit that it wasn't entirely impossible. He had often enough told me how lucky I was for having a wife who loved me despite my work, and occasionally bemoaned his own single state.

"But Lôbar has only been two months dead," I pointed out.

Amraphel raised an eyebrow. "So how long do you think Lômenil should wait before she looks at another? A year? Five? Twelve? But she has met Târik now, and feels drawn to him now. Why should she not be happy? Lôbar was hardly such a good man that his memory should bar his widow from ever loving another."

She had a point, I suppose. Still it was a strange thought.

 

But Lômenil was indeed, as my wife had put it, 'impressed' by Master Târik, and spoke admiringly of him as we walked home. "And so unassuming, for one so rich," she finished another round of praise. "But you work with him, Azruhâr. Any man can be good to his guests, and may yet be a tyrant in daily life. How is he, as a master?"

 

"I cannot complain," I said honestly. "He has never been anything but kind to me."

Lômenil smiled at that, and said no more.

 

"Your friend Lômenil, she lives not far from you, right?" Master Târik asked me, a few days later, when we were bathing after work.

 

"No, sir, only a few streets away," I said.

"Then I shall accompany you," he said, very quickly, and I saw Kârathôn and Mîkul exchange curious glances.

"Do I hear wedding chimes?" Kârathôn said, and to my surprise Master Târik's cheeks turned red.

"Nonsense," he said. "It'll come to nothing, I am sure." He sighed deeply. "Still, a man must try. - Did she say anything, after dinner that other day?" he asked, turning back to me.

 

I nodded. "She called you kind and generous, and she asked how you were in daily life."

 

"Oh?" said he, but at this point his nonchalance fooled not even me. "What did you say, then?"

Kârathôn, standing behind his back, rolled his eyes.

"I said that you were very cruel, and whipped me every day," I said. I don't know what made me say that, but Master Târik's reaction astonished me more than my own words. His face fell as though all his hopes had been dashed – as if anyone would have believed such an accusation! He at any rate knew that it was absurd.

"Of course I said no such thing," I said in a gentler voice. "Sir, you should know that I have nothing to complain of."

"You villain," said Master Târik. "For that, you really deserve a whipping."

Yes, I probably did. I bowed my head. "Do what you must. I promise I won't tell her," I said meekly. The others laughed. "I am joking, Azruhâr, only joking," Master Târik said with a grim look, and then he submerged himself to get the soap out of his hair and beard.

"You are growing cheeky," Kârathôn said to me. He sounded proud, as if this was some kind of accomplishment. "Our good influence is showing."

 

Master Târik indeed accompanied me on my way home that day, and the effect on passers-by was startling. He was obviously better known than I: Whereas I was mostly ignored when I walked through the streets, people recognised him at once, and went out of their way to avoid him. Some just stepped off the sidewalk as we passed, but some actually changed the side of the road as if afraid that even the touch of his robes might contaminate them. He said nothing and held his head high, chin set resolutely, as though it really didn't concern him what the rabble thought about him; but his eyes were sad. Now that I knew how important approval was to him, I could guess how painful it must be for him to be so shunned. I regretted my pert words in the baths all the more. "I truly shouldn't have said what I said just then, Master Târik," I said. "I am sorry."

 

"You truly need not be afraid," he said, all cheer gone from his voice. "I have never as yet whipped any of my apprentices."

I felt my cheeks grow hot. "That's not the point," I said. "I hurt you when I said that, and it was wrong. I am sorry for that. I don't care whether you choose to whip me or not." I paused. "Well, I do care - I really hope you won't - but I couldn't blame you if you did. It was a very bad joke. So I'm sorry."

He smiled then – a forced smile, but it was a smile. "I thank you, Azruhâr."

I was relieved. We walked in silence for a bit until I remembered something else. "Um, sir, there's something I maybe should warn you about."

He tilted his head. "What is it?"

"Do you remember the head, on my first day at work?" I still could not think of that day without shuddering.

He nodded. "What of it?"

I had to clear my throat before I could go on. "That was Lômenil's husband. Lôbar. Just so you know. Maybe you don't want to tell her too many details about our craft, that's all."

"I see," he said, looking sad and thoughtful. "Thank you for the warning."

I told him how to find the house of Lômenil's mother from the corner of my own street, and watched him walk away, embroidered robes flowing behind him, Ûrinzil's cage in his hand as usual.

 

He did not tell us how it went, but he accompanied me on my way home every day after that. Of course I learned a few things from Amraphel, who saw Lômenil each day and heard all the news. It seemed that Lômenil's mother did not like Master Târik much, or did not at any rate believe that he was sincere.

 

"A man like that should court a woman of his own rank," she told Lômenil, "and would, if he were serious. Oh, I don't doubt that he may fancy you, for a while, but he'll leave you just as easily. You should ask money of him so you have at least some gain from all this." I was even more disgusted than the women had been, when Amraphel told me of it.

Lômenil for her part wisely ignored her mother's advice, and arranged her meetings with Master Târik so that for the most part her mother was not present. She seemed to like him better with every day that passed, and raved about him so much that it began to get on Amraphel's nerves a little. "But they are quite adorable, in their way," she said after confessing her annoyance to me. "They are a good match, to be honest: Both think too lowly of themselves and admire the other a bit more than is reasonable, and both are bound to do everything for the other. I truly think they make each other happy, and may continue to do so for a long time."

I did not tell any of these confidences to the others, assuming that Master Târik would tell them himself if he wanted them to know. Eventually Kârathôn and Mîkul stopped inquiring, though they saw that Master Târik walked downtown with me instead of to his own home, which must now feel more deserted than ever.

 

And then one day I came home and overheard a discussion between Lômenil and Amraphel as I walked up to the house. They were inside, but speaking loud enough to be overheard from the yard. Their argument sounded heated, although I soon realised that they were on the same side.

 

"… don't care what they say. I have never known a better man in my life, and I refuse to listen to the slander of those jealous hags!" That was Lômenil's voice. Amraphel replied, in a more measured tone, "And you shouldn't – but you should keep it in mind. You'll constantly have to deal with haughty fishwives and the like, looking down on your husband and on you, trying to make you feel inferior, trying to rip you off. I know how it is."

"Well, I'll give them a piece of my mind! They do very important work, in my humble opinion, and should be admired for it, not condemned! If one day death can be defeated, it will be thanks to these men, not thanks to the butchers or fishwives! And who would look after their dead, grandparents or uncles or what have you? Certainly not they, smelling of guts but believing their hands cleaner!"

I walked inside then. "I wish they could hear you in the streets," I said with a sigh. "Hello, love," I said to Amraphel, kissing her.

Lômenil's face, darkened with anger, took on an abashed look. "Is it that late?" she said, sounding surprised. "I did not know it was so late. Did Târik come with you?"

"He'll be waiting at your house," I said, and Lômenil paled. "I must off," she told Amraphel. "I'll see you tomorrow. Take care of yourselves."

"And you," said Amraphel. Lômenil was already half-way through the door, and ran off in a most undignified hurry.

 

Amraphel smiled. "Poor Lômenil. Or maybe poor merchants. I've never seen her so angry, nor so passionate."

 

"She made quite a good speech," I said, not without a certain admiration. I went to look for my daughter, but Azruphel was fast asleep. I made sure that she was comfortable, quite unnecessarily, as of course Amraphel had taken care of that. She leaned against the wall, watching me with a smile.

"So what was the cause of this outbreak?" I asked.

"Oh, several things," Amraphel said. "Her mother, for one, keeps harassing her about money. Then we went to the market, and there were some snide comments from various sides. And your master Târik himself has repeatedly expressed his concerns about making her unhappy by exposing her to public scorn, if he continues to see her."

"Well, it is good of him to think of that," I said defensively.

Amraphel shrugged. "It is, but frankly he'll make her far more unhappy by no longer seeing her."

"Ah."

She gave me a rueful smile. "My knack for offending all others by my choice of beloved seems to be contagious."

I grimaced. We still had heard nothing of her parents. Even my sister's family, who could afford very little and moreover lived in distant Rómenna, had sent a messenger with a gift, a necklace of beaded sea-shells, when they had heard of our daughter's birth. Her parents, who lived in the city and could afford necklaces of real pearls, did not even send a word of congratulations.

She kissed me, smoothing my furrowed brow with her soft lips. "I would not have it any other way. Especially not now. I only wish you had more time at home."

"That reminds me!" I said, and then took my time to return that kiss. "We will not be working next week, because of Eruhantalë. I have the whole week off." I had almost forgotten about the holiday. I was, I must admit, not the most observant of worshippers in my youth, and besides I had never before had a week off. As a day-taler, the fair in the holiday week gave me plenty of work and good pay (as good as I had known in those days): so far I had worked more than normally around the holidays. Now I had to remind myself that I was an apprentice craftsman, and thus enjoyed the privilege of three work-free weeks per year on top of a regular, reliable income.

"Now that's the kind of news I like to hear!" said Amraphel, and kissed me again. "So what do you want to do with all that free time?"

I felt a little embarrassed. I had indeed thought about what to do next week, and none of my plans were modest. "I thought perhaps we could add another room to the house. I don't think I'll manage to build one in a week, but perhaps I could make a start." Amraphel looked surprised, and I quickly said, "If you agree that we should have one, of course. I think it would be nice to have a separate bedroom."

"It would, but why don't you simply see a builder and ask him to do it, after the holidays? That way you wouldn't have to spend all your free days working. We could afford it by now."

"Perhaps we could," I said. Amraphel was much better with counting and accounting, so she knew better than I how much money we had. "But…" and here I faltered, feeling that perhaps I wanted a bit too much at once.

"But?" said she, smiling.

"I thought perhaps we could buy a horse," I admitted. "That won't leave enough money for a builder, will it?"

"It probably would," Amraphel said. "You shouldn't fully pay a builder in advance anyway. We might still have enough for a down payment. Except we'd have to use it for a stable, if you want a horse."

I had not even thought about that. I was glad that my wife knew about such things, for I certainly didn't. "We must think about this together then. - And," I took a deep breath, feeling more than a little silly, "I will need white robes."

Amraphel raised her eyebrows. "You want to go to the Mountain?"

I looked at my feet in their new, polished boots of dark brown cowhide. "I thought perhaps I should," I said. "I have much to be grateful for, this year."

"That you do," Amraphel said. "But you are aware that my parents tend to go to the hallow, too?"

"Yes," I said, and I was. Amraphel's parents had sufficient reason to go, each year, and at any rate they struck me as the type who would attend the ceremony just to be seen attending. "You don't have to come along if you don't want to see them," I pointed out.

"On the contrary," said Amraphel, eyes sparkling. "I would very much like to go. You are not the only one who has things to be grateful for. Do you mind if I try to find a tailor to make those robes?"

I shrugged. "You will know if we can afford it."

"We can, if you can wait another few weeks for the horse," she said. "Assuming, of course, that there is any tailor willing and able to make our robes at such short notice. I'll need your measurements, of course; you've grown rather broader around the chest and shoulders, unless I'm much mistaken."

 

So I was measured, which Amraphel accomplished by means of a piece of string and her fingers, noting down the results. I assume she bribed the tailor, too, for she did indeed manage to have the robes delivered, neatly wrapped in brown paper, on the first day of the holiday week.

 

"You must try them on," she told me. "If anything doesn't fit, it can still be mended." So I washed (for I had been digging the fundaments for the addition to our house, room or stable, all day) and slightly nervously took a look at the festival robes.

Amraphel had chosen a very soft, closely woven variety of linen, much finer than anything I'd worn before (though not, fortunately, as fine as Mîkul's silk shirts). I was unreasonably terrified of staining the white fabric; I barely dared to touch the clothing, although I had cleaned myself thoroughly. So far my clothing had always been unbleached, and undyed or dyed only with what little variety could be achieved by means of weeds or onion peels and the like. The shirt, when I finally put it on, should have been simple enough, but the tailor had used rather more fabric than necessary so there were fashionable little pleats at chest-level and at the arms. Also he had chosen buttons of mother-of-pearl. The long robes were more distressing yet, going all the way down to the ground and closed with silver toggles. I had not even worn long robes for my father's funeral; I had not worn long robes for my wedding. I suspected I would have to be dreadfully cautious in order not to trip over the hem, which was wastefully embroidered in pale blue and yellow to top things off. The same ornamentation had been stitched onto the sleeves, the belt, and the high collar. I was very uneasy as I put all that on. Paid for or no, I did not feel like I could wear such precious clothing with impunity. The fine fabric felt strange on my skin, and when I looked down at myself I couldn't believe that these elegant masses of cloth covered my own body.

I looked across the room at Amraphel, and my breath caught in my throat.

She had always been beautiful, but in her white robes she looked splendid. Even with her hair tousled and unbraided she wore them perfectly, the white fabric setting her dark curls off nicely. To pay for our wedding bands, she had sold the jewellery she had brought when she had escaped her parents' house, but even without jewellery I thought she looked almost like a queen.

"My beautiful wife," I whispered, unable to take my eyes off her.

"My beautiful husband," she said, smiling. "You should wear robes more often; they suit you very well."

"They don't feel like it," I admitted. "I feel like an impostor."

"Of course you do. You're unused to them. But believe me: They look good on you." She smoothed some crease on my chest. "And you'll get used to them."

"I hear that a lot," I said.

---

Chapter End Notes

(1) Mt. Meneltarma

(2) For note on Númenorean money in this story, see Chapter 2.

Chapter 4

Read Chapter 4

We got up early on the holiday morning, preparing for the journey even before the sun had risen. The robes felt no less strange when I put them on for the second time, though Amraphel assured me that I looked very fine in them. She braided my hair after she had braided her own, and put a garland made of rye and wheat and cornflowers on my head. Even Azruphel got a tiny garland, though she kept taking it off to pull at it and chew on the flowers, and after the first hour there was not much left of the original wreath. But she was beautiful even without it: The tufts of hair had grown into soft dark curls, her cheeks were red, and her eyes had taken on the grey colour of Amraphel's eyes and looked at the world with cheerful curiosity. In her white dress with eyelet embroidery she could, I thought, as well have been a nobleman's daughter, and I couldn't help feeling a little pleased with myself. Who would have thought that I should ever be able to dress my child in such finery?

 

The air was cool and crisp when we set off, the approach of winter no longer deniable, but once the sun was up, the day soon grew warm. We joined the throng of white-clad people streaming out of the city with baskets of fruits and vegetables, cakes and pies and sausages, pots of wine and ale and mead. All were walking briskly, for it was a good distance to the Mountain, but we were singing and jesting as we went, and in such cheerful company the road did not feel long at all.

The rich and noble, journeying on horseback, were of course there before us. Many had pitched open tents and pavilions under which to sit and take refreshments. The most beautiful pavilion belonged to the King and his household, with proud banners flapping in the autumn breeze, dark blue before the bright blue sky. The King's guards had already removed their sword-belts, and the shafts of their spears were not, as usual, crowned with blades but instead with bundled sheaves of corn.

The ascent began as soon as we had joined the waiting crowd, following the winding road around the steepening slopes of the Mountain. Amraphel and I took turns carrying our daughter and our basket of food that contained hard-boiled eggs and cold pancakes and honey, grapes and apples, cheese and small pies filled with the sweet pulp of the pumpkins that grew in our garden. I was somewhat afraid that Azruphel would begin to cry when she grew bored or hungry, as she was wont to do, for I knew that one had to be silent when climbing the Minultârik. But Amraphel had assured me that even the very youngest understood the holiness of the place and held their peace, and indeed Azruphel remained silent for the full length of the ascent and ceremony and descent, though she watched the proceedings with bright, curious eyes and occasionally pointed at things or people or reached up to pull a stalk of wheat or another cornflower from my wreath. There were other parents with young children, I saw, and they behaved in a similar manner, so after a while I stopped being anxious about Azruphel. At any rate the climbing soon grew harder, so that I had little time for idle thought, being instead forced to pay attention to the path and my feet. My robes were far too long, threatening to trip me up when I stepped on the hems more than once. Many of the nobles wore even longer robes that trailed behind their feet, as though it was no concern to them that the fine fabric might be sullied or torn. I found it surprising that nobody trod on them, and felt even clumsier for having such trouble with my own robes. The exertion of climbing also took its toll, making my breath quicken, and I felt sweat on my skin that soon soaked my robes. I was reminded, strangely, of the winding stairs I climbed each day at work, and had to smile because it was so absurd to think of that dark stairwell on the sunlit spiral path up the Minultârik.

 

From the ground the mountaintop looked slender, but when we got there I saw that it was in truth a very broad place somewhat like a bowl, broad enough to offer room for all of us, even though there must have been several thousands of people all in all. The sky seemed to be very close, though it was hard to tell with no clouds to judge the distance by. High above us the eagles circled in the clear air while we spread out, circling around the King, who stood in the centre of the bowl, alone.

So many people, I thought, overwhelmed and elated, and all of them smiling, all clad in innocent white, and all silent – although of course our feet and the hems of our clothing, and the wind whistling around us, playing with our hair and robes and the King's banners, did make some noise. But nobody spoke, or coughed, or hissed at his neighbour to make room. Only when there was no more walking and shifting around, when everybody had found a place to stand and watch, the King broke the silence.

 

I did not understand more than a word or two, for he spoke in the Elvish language. Or rather, he sang: He did not use his normal voice (which I knew, after all) but intoned the alien words in a high singing voice so that they were audible even for those standing further back. He bowed, and held aloft a great plate made of gold filled, like our baskets, with all sorts of harvested fruits and grains, singing a long piece. I did not understand the words, as I said, but I felt an enormous feeling of joy and gratitude build up in my chest, a warmth that not only existed in thought but spread from my belly into my limbs. I made my own prayer in my own feeble words in my head, or tried to; but I did not know how to put the words, and was not entirely certain that the words I had were strong enough to convey what I was truly feeling. In the end I gave up on putting my heart in words. I was glad that with so many important people around, and the King himself singing his prayer in the middle, my awkward thoughts would surely be accepted unexamined. Azruphel caught one of my braids and tugged on it, playfully, and I lowered my head to kiss her smooth baby brow.

 

After we had returned from the mountaintop, we should have joined the rest of the family for a small feast, but Amraphel did not even try steer towards her parents (though we had caught a glimpse of them earlier on). Instead we joined a group of people from a different quarter of the town, and because it was the holiday and they did not know my craft, they welcomed us cheerfully and called us friends. We introduced ourselves and sat down in the soft grass, and everybody shared the contents of their baskets.

I had just eaten one of our pumpkin pies when a hand touched my shoulder, and I turned around to look at the King's scribe. I felt a pang of guilt at once, although I wasn't aware of anything in particular that I should have been guilty of.

Around us, conversations were hushed; some of the others, I assumed, had recognised the scribe, and now they were curious what he wanted.

"Master Quentangolë," I said, feeling inexplicably nervous and rather exposed. "What can I do for you? – Would you like a pasty?" I added as an afterthought.

Quentangolë laughed. "No, thank you, Azruhâr; I have another feast waiting. No, I have come for a different matter. His Majesty saw that you were here, earlier..."

Now I could be certain that even the last distracted talker was listening intently.

"Oh," said I, wondering whether it was forbidden for the Keepers of the Dead to attend the ceremony on the Mountain. I had seen none of my colleagues around, but that needn't mean anything; participation was, after all, not mandatory. "Yes, I saw that his Majesty was here also," I said for the sake of saying something, and there was some laughter. I could have kicked myself – what a stupid thing to say. Of course the King was here. Where else should he be, on this day?

Quentangolë did not laugh this time. He merely grinned, with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "His Majesty has asked to see you," he went on. Amraphel shifted, next to me, and hastily put some eggs and some pies back into our basket.

"Oh," I said again. "Right now?" I hoped that Quentangolë would smile and say that of course I was not required right now, and stared at him, pleading with my eyes; but he did not do me the favour.

"If you have the time," Quentangolë said, smirking. I cast a desperate look at Amraphel, who smiled and squeezed my hand and pushed the basket over to me. I could feel the eyes of our companions on me. I swallowed hard.

"Yes, of course," I said, took the basket, and rose. "As his Majesty commands."

 

I caused more laughter when I arrived at the King's pavilion, for I knelt like a girl, holding the skirt of my robes up with one hand. I felt a little resentful at the nobility's amusement. It was all very well for them, but I did not want to make grass stains on my only set of good robes on their very first airing. At least I was more appropriately attired than the last time I had seen the King.

Quentangolë spoke to the King in a soft voice, announcing (I assume) my presence. "Ah, yes," the King said. "Azruhâr."

"My lord King," said I.

"We remember you," said the King, and I felt embarrassed again. "You look better today."

I did not know what to reply, and blushed because I had been thinking the same thing just a moment ago. "Thank you, your Highness," I finally managed.

He smiled. "Rise. Come, sit with us."

 

I am to this day not certain whether I managed to conceal my horror. I knew I should have felt honoured to be invited to the King's table, but all I could think of was how clearly I did not belong there, and how likely it was that I would say or do something stupid ere half an hour was over.

But there was indeed an empty chair, just across the table from the King, and he gestured at it invitingly. I tried to swallow my anxiety and to keep my face blank if I could not manage a smile, and stepped up.

A page took my basket while another moved the chair for me, and as I sat down, keeping my eyes downcast to avoid the stares of the courtiers who were doubtlessly all wondering who I was, that page filled a goblet with clear golden wine and set it before me. At that point I decided for the sake of my sanity that the whole thing was some kind of bizarre dream.

"My dear, this is Azruhâr, one of my Keepers," said the King, turning to his wife, and I found the Queen's gaze upon me. Like the King's, her face was wrinkled with age, and her hair was as white as her robes. Azruphel would not have managed to pluck her garland to pieces, for the grains in it were made of gold, the flowers of bright jewels. She gave me a kindly enough smile and a nod, and said "Good day, Azruhâr."

I bowed my head. "My Queen."

The Crown Prince, on the other hand, just gave me a disdainful stare before turning back to the courtier next to him, which signalled to the others that they could recommence their conversations. I was left under the eyes of the royal couple, and still did not know why I was there. I had assumed that the King would maybe ask questions concerning my work, but after my introduction he did not mention the Keepers at all. Instead I was passed a plate and tray after tray of food (even my humble pumpkin pies had ended up on a silver tray), and invited to eat.

I figured that I would not be expected to make conversation with my mouth full, and after some hesitation helped myself to the dishes offered. There were all kinds of pies and cakes, cold meats and pickled vegetables and fruits, not all of which I was able to recognise. I wondered where they came from, and whether the nobles gathered here had prepared the dishes themselves. Probably not, I decided after risking a look at them. In their impeccable robes, with their smooth, fair-skinned hands, they did not look as though they knew how to hold a knife. My own hands were ruddy and callused, though at least the skin was no longer so raw since I could afford oils to counteract the desiccating effects of the whitewash and salts at work. I was tempted to hide my hands under the table, and would have done so if I hadn't needed them to eat and drink. At least my pies did not taste too poorly next to all the rich fare, so I did not need to be ashamed for them.

"We hear that your wife has given birth to a healthy daughter," the King said. "Congratulations."

I felt my face grow hot. Did the King know such details about all his subjects? Perhaps it was all written down somewhere in Quentangolë's books, and related to the King as the need arose: This is Azruhâr, he has a baby daughter, and that is Mâgan, he is a smith and his son is a fast runner, and that is Zâmin the weaver, her mother died three weeks ago?

 

"Thank you, your Highness," I said.

"Oh, you are married already?" the Queen said. "But you look very young."

"I am fifty-two years old (1), your Majesty," I said.

"But fifty-two years! Your wife is much older than you, then?"

"No, your Majesty, only by three years."

"And a child already! Can such a young man feed a family, then?"

My blush intensified. It had indeed been foolish to marry so young, I knew, and it had been especially foolish to marry the young daughter of a rich merchant, who was bound to disapprove. But at least I could answer the Queen's question in the affirmative. "By your husband's mercy, I can," I whispered.

"Hah!" said the King, obviously pleased. "Well spoken. We wonder, Azruhâr, whether a gift would not be appropriate for your daughter's birth?"

I stared at him directly in my shock, trying to find out whether he was joking; but he was not even smiling, instead studying me. I looked down at my plate. "Your Highness, that is truly not necessary."

"We know that," he said. "Still, we can reward a loyal man who serves us well, if we please. For that is what you do, is it not?"

No, I thought, it is not. I still did little but practice my poor writing, and had so far done nothing that Master Târik and the others could not have done without me. I wished it were otherwise, but I could not in truth say that I served him well. I wish I could!

I bowed my head, saying, "As well as I can, your Highness. Yet I could not accept such a gift. If not even my parents-in-law saw fit to send a gift for their grandchild, how should it be right that the King himself does?"

"We decide for ourselves what is right for us to do," the King pointed out, and I hastily whispered, "Of course."

"So your in-laws see fit to shun you, do they?" he went on. "Would you like us to have them punished?"

I looked up, horrified. That was not what I had meant!

"No!" I cried, causing the conversations around us to falter. "Please, no, your Majesty," I repeated in a softer voice.

I was relieved to see that the Queen, too, looked rather shocked by her husband's proposal; but when she spoke, she added to my mortification instead of easing it. For she said, "Fie, Ancalimon, shame on you!" – she really and truly chastised the King like a misbehaving child, in front of the court – in front of me! I braced for a storm, but it did not come.

"Oh, never mind," the King said as though it did not matter either way, and waved for a page to bring a bowl of water to clean his hands. "Will it please you to walk with us?" he said to me, and I rose obediently and bowed low to the Queen and Crown Prince, bidding them farewell.

 

We walked away from the pavilion, and indeed from the other revellers. No guards walked behind us, not even Quentangolë accompanied us. The King put an arm around my shoulder, and my mind went entirely blank; had not the King marched me along, I think I would have stood like a statue, or maybe flared up in flame and crumbled to ashes.

After a while of walking in silence, my mind began to recover a little. The King was leaning rather heavily on my shoulder, and I understood that he was steadying himself rather than embracing me. He was, after all, an old man. I was surprised – silly, really - to realise that, underneath the silk and gold and jewels and the heavy crown, there was a tangible person made of flesh and blood.

"The Mountain has worn us out," he said as if guessing my thoughts. "We are no longer as strong as we should like to be, so you must bear with us."

I thought that there were certainly worse things to bear than the King's arm upon my shoulders, and said, "Gladly, your Highness."

He laughed, softly, but sobered at once. "We are worried about the future, Azruhâr," he said.

I chewed my lip, wondering what to say. "But your Majesty has a powerful son," I finally pointed out.

"Oh, not that," the King said. "The country will be well-provided for. No, we are worried about our own future." He stopped walking then. We had left the crowds behind us, and I now realised that we had moved towards the Noirinan. At our backs there was song and laughter, the striking of harps and the hum of conversation. Ahead of us was the ominous silence of the tombs; I imagined that even the rustling of the leaves was hushed around that place, that the birds held their breath while close to the entrance of the valley.

The King turned to look at me, those bright eyes in his wrinkled face boring into mine. "We are old, Azruhâr, and beginning to feel it. Do you know what it is like when your body begins to betray you – when your fingers grow stiff, and your joints ache, and you can no longer move as you once could? I could have run up that path, once, and would have felt no worse for it; I could have ridden around the shore of this land, slept on the hard ground each night, and grown stronger rather than weaker..."

I did not know what to say. I remember that I noticed that he was now speaking differently of himself, as if I had somehow become familiar. I could not decide whether I should be honoured or terrified.

The King went on. "My mind, likewise, is not what it was. I get distracted more easily these days. I remember things from the past well enough, but more and more often I forget what happened a day or two ago."

"Your Majesty remembered even me," I said in a feeble attempt at consolation. I expected him to laugh, or say something scornful. That would certainly have been more reassuring than this strange confidence.

 

But he remained serious. "Yes, because there is one thing that I can no longer forget: I will die. Perhaps in a year, and perhaps in fifty: But I will die. And I do not want to die. I am old, and growing weak, but I am not too old to love life. It is a good life, all in all. And I think I am a good king. It would be wrong to tear me from my people."

I knew less than ever what to say. "I pray that your Majesty may remain with us for many more years," I tried. He merely shrugged. "Another decade, two perhaps. That may seem like a lot of time to one so young as you are, but at my end of things it is nothing. And what if my weakness grows greater? What if in a few years' time I can no longer walk, or speak? It would be a shameful end. And to what purpose?"

"I don't know," I said.

"No, indeed," said the King, and angrier he added, "And we are told it must be so. A gift! they say. A curse, say I. And I will do all I can to break it, even now." His speech grew more intent. "I do not want to die, wherefore the healers try to find a way of keeping death at bay: Without success, so far. But if I must die, I do not want to stay dead, wherefore the Raisers try to find a way of undoing death: Without success, so far. But if I must die and remain dead for a while, at least I do not want to rot. But even you Keepers have so far been unsuccessful."

"We can keep a body from rotting," I pointed out.

He snorted. "You can make dolls of dead men. You let a body keep a human shape, just barely, but you cannot keep it a fit house for a soul. That is hardly more than another form of rot. I do not want to end up such a mockery of human form. You know what I mean, do you not?"

And I did. "Yes, your Majesty," I said.

"Nobody will bring life back to those white-washed dolls," said the King, and I could hear pain in his voice, and trembled. "When future generations finally find how to call the dead back – and they will, Azruhâr, one day they will – they will leave them to lie in their graves. Who would bother with them? But I do not want to be left. I want my body preserved as it was in life, when life is wrested from it. Then when one day the Raisers know how to rekindle that spark, they will remember me."

I nodded numbly.

"Will you do this for me?" the King went on. "Will you find a way of keeping me incorrupt, until I can be brought back?" Again there was an imploring quality to his voice. I shivered to think that one so mighty should implore me to do something for him. He could have commanded me, and I would have been bound to do what he wanted. And yet he asked. Mere months ago I had grovelled at his feet begging for my life, and yet he asked.

But perhaps that was why he asked me: Because I knew what it was like to know death at hand, and because I knew how precious it was to be saved from it. If only I could have saved him as easily as he had saved me.

I clasped his hand and pressed it to my forehead, kneeling. "I swear that I will find a way to preserve you, my dear lord," I said. "Or die in the attempt."

And the King smiled. "Stand, Azruhâr. I am glad. Let us return to the revellers, now, for my mind is at ease again."

 

So I served as his crutch once more as we walked back to the royal pavilion. His mind might be at ease, but mine certainly wasn't. It felt swamped with questions and worries, and the brief moment of determination I had felt when making my oath had passed swiftly. Find a way to preserve him? I did not even have the skill of writing, which was surely simple compared to what I had promised to do. The King's confidence had flattered me, and I had sworn rashly; but in truth I could not hope to fulfil that oath.

"I still owe you a gift," the King said, tearing me out of my thoughts.

"Your Majesty has already been most generous," I pointed out.

"I like to be that, when I can," he said. "Now, is there anything you need? Servants, perhaps? A new house? "

I thought of Master Târik, unhappy in his noble house. "I have everything I need, and more, your Highness," I said. I felt bad enough about being paid so well for so little work.

"Do you?" said he, with a wry glance at me. "What a rare blessing. But surely there must be something you would like, even though you do not need it." He stopped again to study me, and finally smiled. "I know! You have come here on foot, have you not? But surely you would not say no if I chose to give you a horse."

"I could not say no to anything your Majesty chose to give me," I said. "But I cannot ask it."

"Well, I am not waiting for you to ask," said the King. "A good horse, then, to carry you on your roads. I like that. Or two, better, for your wife and yourself?"

I could not deny that I was tempted. Who wouldn't have been? I would have gone out to buy a horse soon enough anyway. It just felt wrong to receive such a rich gift from the King himself – with nothing but a promise to justify it.

But the King brooked no resistance, and I did not dare to defy him overmuch. In the end I had to accept his offer.

 

I had hoped that I would have some time for reflection, after the King had allowed me to return to my family. I needed to order my thoughts. But when I came back to our company, I saw with a sinking feeling that Amraphel's parents were there.

Compared to other meetings, their treatment of me was civil this time. Both acknowledged my presence and addressed me by name, which was new. Even stranger was that Amraphel's father, after looking me up and down, gave me a polite nod that was almost a bow. I returned it, wondering what had happened.

"I hear his Majesty called on you," my father-in-law said.

"His Majesty did indeed, sir," I said, cautiously.

Amrazôr smiled jovially. "Well, well. Who would have thought! What business do you have with the King?"

I was still confused by his sudden interest in me, and unwilling to discuss my work in front of all those strangers. They had so far been welcoming, but they would doubtlessly think twice about sitting with us once they believed that I was surrounded by some kind of death-cloud.

"My business, sir, not yours," I said, and bit my lip directly after. I had not meant for the words to come out so harsh. "His Majesty apparently wishes to give us horses," I said, half-turning to Amraphel.

My father-in-law's smile turned almost sickeningly sweet. "What an amazing offer!" he said. "You are honoured indeed. The King owns the best horses in the country – though I daresay I have a fiery stallion or two that would adorn even the royal breeding grounds…"

I began to understand. I was no longer a meaningless day-taler; I was a man who spoke to the King, and thus worth knowing. I cannot say that I was thrilled. Of course I was glad for Amraphel's sake that her parents remembered her now, for I knew that she had suffered from their refusal to see her. But I could not help feeling that if they only spoke to us because they thought me useful, it'd be better not to have them speak to us at all. Probably he expected me to mention his name – and his fiery stallion or two – to the King, bringing him in direct line of business with the palace.

I remembered the King's words -- Would you like us to have them punished? -- and wondered for a moment what would have happened if I had said yes. Nothing, likely, I told myself. Surely the whole thing had been a joke, albeit a joke in bad taste. Or maybe the King had tested me, wanting to know whether I was vengeful. I was not. Nothing good would have come of it.

But I could not stand Amraphel's father pretending that he cared for me when all he cared about was his fortunes. And that was why he was here, I thought, and to my surprise found that I was disgusted. When he had grunted commands at me, when he had struck me, when he had argued with Amraphel about my lack of suitability – at least he had been honest then. Still, I did not mean to offend him. He was my wife's father, and insulting him would doubtlessly hurt her. I did not want that. But something took hold of me then. I know that the words came out of my own mouth, but it felt as though a stranger was doing the talking, an emboldened stranger who felt affronted and sought revenge, and who did not ask what I wanted.

 

"I am tempted to accept," I told Amraphel, and then the stranger took over and said, "That way I will not have to enrich your parents."

The sweet smile froze on Amrazôr's face. "Now, now. There is no need to speak like that, my son. I am sure we could come to some friendly agreement."

My son, I thought. Not long ago you had me whipped for 'seducing Amraphel', and now you call me son. I stared at him. "Some friendly agreement? What is that supposed to mean? Shall we pretend that you never disowned your daughter and left her to starve for all you cared? Shall we pretend that you love me, or that I love you, now that you suddenly deem me of worth? Is that the kind of agreement you have in mind?"

Amrazôr clucked his tongue. "Proud words from a man who, not two years ago, came to my door begging for work. But so a man's character is revealed, and so it has ever been. Give a beggar money and he'll be prouder than any nobleman. Yet he will never be noble, and his pride will only make his baseness more apparent. For that is what you are, Azruhâr: a base wretch. So you are wearing fine robes now, and conversing with the King? You are still a wretch. Do not forget your place. Arrogance doesn't become one so lowly."

I felt my face flush. I did not need the reminder, I thought resentfully. And less than anything did I need it with all these people watching. For of course they were watching now. Our argument had more attention than the minstrels' play. But it was not just the reminder of my baseness that stung. Just as bad, or maybe even worse, was the accusation of arrogance. I did not think of myself as a proud man. I would not have known what to be proud of.

 

The smile returned to Amrazôr's face as he saw the effect of his words, and his eyes sparked triumphantly. He grabbed me by the collar, disordering the pleats of my robes, and pulled me close. "You will remember this day, and you'll wish you'd have tamed that impertinent tongue of yours," he said. "You may have fallen into the King's favour, but just as soon you will fall out of it. Then you will wish that you hadn't refused my offer of friendship when you had the chance."

I was afraid, and very aware that he was likely right. Still I could not help replying, "When I fall out of the King's favour, then I am sure that you'll forget your offer of friendship, no matter whether I take it or no." He looked startled and let go of me, and I felt a certain elation at having bested him. "For you, too, have revealed your character," I added, and now my voice was fierce. "You gather friends while they are useful to you, and when they no longer suit your purposes, you let them fall. And so it has ever been."

He raised his hand, and I was certain that he was going to strike me down. I did not care in that moment. I suspect I would not even have felt the pain. I stood my ground, hands balled to fists – it felt as though my feet had never been rooted so firmly, my back never been so straight, my chin never raised so high – and he, impossibly, let his hand drop without touching me.

"Ungrateful cur," he spat. "May all that you love be turned to ashes."

 

Amraphel rose, then, clutching Azruphel to her chest. Her face was pale, and her eyes glittered with unshed tears. I felt dreadfully sorry then, for now I had ruined her reunion with her parents. The triumph left me as suddenly as it had come, and I was ready to beg Amrazôr for forgiveness. But before I could humble myself, Amraphel spoke.

"You forget, sir, that you are speaking to my husband," she said.

All fell silent, except for Azruphel, who began to wail - scared, perhaps, by all the angry faces.

"Amraphel," my father-in-law said after a helpless pause, and I saw the horror in his eyes as he realised whom his curse would hit first. My heart softened towards him then. So he did love his daughter after all.

"I did not mean that," Amrazôr said; and then he fled, Râphumil in his train.

I began to tremble, and when I turned to Amraphel, she was trembling also. She recovered quicker than I, though, having Azruphel to look after while I slumped to the ground.

"I don't know you, or him," said one of the watchers, putting a jug of ale in my shaking hand, "but I think you did right."

"I am not arrogant, nor ungrateful," I whispered, not certain whether he was even listening. "But I am no cur, either."

 

- - -

 

That was the last time that the King went to the hallow upon the Mountain. In spring, the following year, he decided that the climb was too much of a strain on his old limbs, and so the ceremony did not take place. After that it was first expected that the Crown Prince might continue the tradition, but he pointed out that it was the King's duty, and while his father still held the throne it would be wrong for the crown prince to do part of his father's work. The Elf-friends made quite a bit of noise about this, heedless of the King's age and health, criticising his refusal and demanding that if he could no longer fulfil all his duties he should pass them on to his son entirely instead of clinging to his office beyond dignity. There were arguments in the streets between those who faithfully supported the old King and the traditionalists who recklessly demanded his abdication. Sometimes they exchanged more than just words. At first I thought that the Crown Prince was behind the latter group, trying to wrench the sceptre from his father's hands; but it turned out that he was as disgusted by the Elf-friends' cries as most of the people. The King certainly suffered under these attacks against his person, as I heard from Quentangolë: His health deteriorated gravely, and he often had to be reminded of his own decisions, forgetting in the afternoon what had been said in the morning. I wished for a way to pass his afflictions on to those who demanded his abdication.

 

But I did not have overmuch time to waste on politics, for after the holiday I had taken up my work with new fervour. I put more effort into my studies now, and slowly I managed to memorise the letters and discover the patterns governing them. Mîkul still found misspelled words on occasion, but I could produce legible protocols before the year was over. Master Târik then allowed me to experiment on my own, which I did with passion. I often skipped lunch to have more time for my work, and when that did not suffice I stayed longer in the evening, leaving Master Târik to walk downtown alone. The others joked, on occasion, about what they called my obsession. "You are young, Azruhâr," Master Târik said. "You don't need to put the work of several years into a few weeks."

"I am young, but the King isn't," I pointed out. "And I must find a way to preserve him ere it is too late."

The others exchanged bemused glances. "You must have a care for yourself, lest you never see such ripe old age," said Master Târik. "Nobody asks that you work yourself to pieces in the process."

I shrugged. "He would not ask it, but it would be right if he did."

Kârathôn raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"His Majesty," I said. "He has been more than generous to me. I cannot hope to repay him, but at least I can fulfil my little oath." And I told them about my conversation with the King.

 

The others again looked at each other before turning back to me. "Be careful, Azruhâr," said Master Târik. "It is right and just that you should serve the King well; but do not forget that he is mortal as we all are, and fallible as we all are. If he demands the impossible, you cannot gain it."

"I wish I could," I said fiercely.

"Yes, I can see that," Master Târik said without smiling. "You are obsessed, you realise that?"

"I am not," I protested. "I owe him as much. As you do. Anyone in their right mind does. He is the best King we could have."

Now he smiled, briefly. "And how many kings do you know, Azruhâr?"

That stopped me for a moment, for of course I only knew the one. Master Târik patted my shoulder. "My dear Azruhâr, I'm afraid you've fallen into a bit of a trap there."

I pursed my lips. "All I know is that he is kinder to me than I deserve. Why should he do so much for me, who has nothing to offer in return, if not because he is a good man?"

Master Târik turned his head, pensively. "There are several ways of ruling people, and a king may use one or more, as he chooses. Of course we are all duty-bound to obey the king, but not all people will be governed by a sense of duty. Some people are ruled only by fear of punishment. And others yet are ruled by love: because they do not wish to disappoint somebody they love. All these ways lead to the same place. You do what the King wants you to do. But depending on your way you will think differently about him, and in the end the way used most determines how people will remember the King, when he is gone. When a man reaches a certain age, he begins to think about how he wants to be remembered. Kings are no different, I suppose. Perhaps our King wishes to be remembered not as Tar-Ancalimon the Terrible, or mere Tar-Ancalimon the Old King, but Tar-Ancalimon the Merciful. So he wants people to love him, or to admire him for his kindness, at any rate. That seems a wise choice to me – and of course I have benefited greatly from it. And you, too. But you should not think that he is kind to you entirely without thought for his own gain."

"It doesn't matter," I said. "Even so I have gained more than he."

 

But for a long time my efforts availed nothing. Instead of finding the perfect way of preserving flesh, I produced a series of failures. Very often these failures were disgusting in the extreme, and in two cases the smell was so dreadful that the others fled upstairs while I had to clean the mess away. It was a good thing that I was so intent on my work at that time: Otherwise I don't think I could've borne the results of my more unfortunate experiments.

Other failures were more amusing, though no less spectacular. When I tested the effects of different salts I preserved a hand perfectly (if stiff and dry) in form, but the skin turned a deep inky black. I also managed to achieve tones of blue and green and, on one notable occasion, purple.

At that point the King had decided that, since he could no longer master the stairs that led down to the catacombs, we had to report to the palace once a month. I dreaded these meetings a little, as we had no success to speak of; but when we had a particularly interesting failure to show, even the King was amused, though he would never dismiss us without exhorting us to do better next time.

 

The Erulaitalë week drew nearer, and again both King and Crown Prince declared that they would not ascend the Mountain. "If it is indeed necessary for me to march up there and sing praises," the King said, "I don't think it's too much to ask that I be given the vigour to manage the climb. If Eru wants me upon the Mountain, He may feel free to rejuvenate me." I thought he had a point, but the Elf-friends again raised their voices in dissent, and there was strife in the city until one of the protesters said that in the old days a King too old to climb the Mountain would have laid down his life, and went so far as to suggest that Tar-Ancalimon should do the same. This smacked of high treason, and many of the Elf-friends seemed to decide that it was too dangerous to be seen on the same side as that traitor. Thus they fell silent, and peace was restored.

I did not care much either way; I had, after all, work to do.

But one morning, while I was absorbed in a book of old protocols, Master Târik closed the book right before my nose. I had not even noticed that he had entered, so I was rather startled. "You haven't heard a word of what I've been saying, have you?" he asked in a voice that was half-angry and half-amused.

"No, Master Târik," I admitted.

Kârathôn broke out laughing. "Let's hope the world doesn't end while Azruhâr is working, or he'll miss all the screaming and in the end wonder where everything disappeared to." My cheeks reddened.

"There, that's more like yourself," Master Târik said. "And you should be ashamed to miss such happy news."
I frowned. "Is the King feeling better?"

"Obsessed," Kârathôn said, shaking his head. "Can't you think of anything else? No, you fool, your master is getting married!"

I stared at Master Târik. "You finally asked her?"

He gave me an exasperated look. "'Finally'? We've known each other for barely a year."

"She's been hoping for you to propose since last fall," I said.

Master Târik groaned. "You never told me! Why didn't you tell me? And here I thought she'd think ill of me if I did not wait. A fine friend you are!"

I was sufficiently embarrassed. "I am sorry," I said, and was. "I didn't think you'd want me to interfere in your affairs."

"If that's the reason, you're forgiven," he said. And it certainly was part of the reason, although to be honest I had forgotten about his affairs altogether in the past months. But I thought it wiser not to mention that.

"Congratulations," I said, trying to make up for my blunder with a broad smile. "When's the happy day?"

"Eärenya in two weeks," he said, smiling even broader. "You're all invited, of course. Bring friends, if you can. It's time we bring some life to my house."

 

I rode to Rómenna to invite my sister and her family, and thanks to the holiday week they came. We hadn't seen each other since they had moved to Rómenna, so that was the first time that I met my young nephews, Barinôr and Barazôr. It was delightful to have them visit us, though our little house was quite full for days (after the King's gift, the planned addition had to be a stable after all). They admired my wealth, and I was glad to be able to grant some of their wishes: appropriate clothing for the wedding, and a small dagger for each of the boys.

Amraphel and I helped Lômenil with the preparations at her mother's house. Now that the wedding was imminent, even Lômenil's mother no longer objected to Master Târik. Lômenil for her part was excited like a young girl. She was hardly recognisable in the dress she had sewn with Amraphel. Master Târik had paid for the fabric, so it was a splendid thing, looking quite out of place in her mother's hut: shining silks in blue and green, adorned with pearls. Doubtlessly Master Târik would also have paid for a grand dinner at his house – or so I had promised my brother-in-law and the children.

In contrast, the wedding company was rather small. Aside from my contribution only Mîkul and Kârathôn, and Lômenil's mother, waited along with us; not even Lômenil's brothers had come. Normally that would not have been a problem, for more people were sure to follow in the train of a wedding, once the groom brought the bride to his house. But Master Târik was too well known as an embalmer, so when the people who at first came running when they heard us clamouring in the streets recognised him, they fell back soon.

So the ten of us sang all the louder to make up for our lack of numbers. I remembered my own wedding, begun in secret because Amraphel's parents would never have allowed her to leave the house if they had known of it – but at least we'd had a goodly following of my fellow day-talers with their families. We had run out of food and drink fairly early, but while the feast lasted it had been cheerful.

 

There was no risk of running out of food at Master Târik's house. When we reached it and Lômenil and Master Târik stopped in the unkept garden to pledge their troth, our company still had not grown; and I could see a brief look of pain in Master Târik's eyes when they passed over us few. A couple in such glorious robes, walking all the way from the outskirts to the heart of the city, should under normal circumstances have attracted dozens of people. There were onlookers even now, but they kept their distance, and they did not join in our song.

But then Master Târik turned back to Lômenil, who was watching him intently as though nothing else mattered, and the joy returned to his face. They held each others' hands and promised each other their love and faith until death, and we showered them with petals and coins and dried beans, for felicity, prosperity and fertility; and again we cheered loud enough for at least twice as many.

We made so much noise, at any rate, that we didn't hear the marching soldiers until they stopped under the gate.

The crowd of onlookers had grown, I noticed. I felt angry to think that they would not cheer for a man getting married, but would watch intently when they expected him to get into trouble. The guards wore the King's livery, and I am certain I wasn't the only one gripped by fear at the sight. I could not imagine what wrong we had done, yet I couldn't deny that the guards were here, and doubtlessly with some reason.

We fell as silent as the watchers on the street, and stared at the guards in shock. Master Târik in particular looked haunted, and I wondered whether the King objected to his marriage. Perhaps he was afraid that Master Târik's attention might henceforth be divided between his work and his wife?

 

But there were no swords drawn, and when the leader of the troup stepped forward, he bowed politely. "His Majesty sends his congratulations, and his best wishes for your marital bliss and joy," he said in a loud voice, and there were astonished gasps from outside the gate. I must admit that I couldn't help smirking. The crowds had doubtlessly gathered to gloat at whatever misfortune might befall Master Târik, and I was glad to see them disappointed so severely.

The guard held out a small, sealed package wrapped in silk paper, which Master Târik took after some hesitation, touching the packet to his brow in reverence. Then he spoke to the soldiers. "I thank you," he said, sounding confused, "and I thank his Majesty most abjectly. Can I invite you to join our feast, or drink a cup of wine at least?"

"Not on duty," the captain said. "But we may come back later, if you are still celebrating after sundown."

"By all means," said Master Târik.

The guards left, but the crowd did not disappear. I would have liked to send them away, but it was neither my house nor my wedding, so I held my peace while Master Târik broke the seals and unwrapped the parcel. This time we all gasped in amazement, for the parcel contained silver and pearls and amber: two bracelets, two brooches, and a triple-rowed necklace that was likely worth as much as a pretty little house. Lômenil covered her lips with her hands in surprise; my sister gave a small cry of astonishment. Even Master Târik, far more used to such precious things than we others, was dumbfounded. He caught himself in the end, but found no words. In silence he fixed the necklace around Lômenil's shoulders, and we could all see his hands tremble. Lômenil, her eyes never leaving his face, took a brooch then and clasped it to the chest of his robes, and he put the other brooch on her dress. They likewise exchanged the bracelets, all in silence. Lômenil's mother wept. I suppose it must indeed have been overwhelming to see her daughter adorned like a lady of the court, wearing jewels sent to her by the King himself. I wondered what my parents would have said if they had seen me in my fine robes, a silver fibula at my throat – or their granddaughter, in tiny robes with silver clasps in her braided locks, learning to walk with tiny boots on her feet. If my sister's reaction was any indication, they would have been amazed and overwhelmed as well. Imagining their delight, my eyes welled up, and I had to swallow a lump that had risen in my throat. I reached out for Amraphel, and she took my hand and squeezed it.

"So you are rewarded for taking me as your husband," Master Târik said to Lômenil, and she gave him a strange look. "I am rewarded already by getting you as my husband," she said; and then they finally kissed.

---

Chapter End Notes

(1) According to The Lost Road, the Númenorean legal age seems to be around fifty years. Unfortunately "legal age" is a rather fuzzy term between cultures and definitions, so instead of giving us a nice easy point of reference it just means that a Númenorean of roughly 50 corresponds to a normal human at some point between 16 and 25 years. I suppose 21 is a fairly safe bet. As we are told that the Númenoreans (or their royalty, at any rate) tend to marry and have children late in life (most of the Kings seem to have fathered their firstborn after their 150th birthday), Azruhâr has indeed started very early in comparison.

Chapter 5

Read Chapter 5

Master Târik did not tire for months of telling us how happy he was – though it hardly needed telling. He was constantly smiling and very often humming or even singing under his breath. Kârathôn once observed that perhaps he should now grow all sober and melancholy, as Master Târik had stolen his part as the cheerful one.

Master Târik had laughed at that. "Yes, perhaps you should! Though I doubt we'd be able to bear the sight of your melancholy face for long. Perhaps Azruhâr and I should send our wives to yours, and they'll talk her into returning to you?"

Kârathôn did indeed grow serious then. "That will not be possible, I am afraid," he said, his voice unconvincingly even. "I am told that she has remarried."

We all sobered at that. It was not common for un-widowed people to remarry unless there were no children, or their marriage had formally been annulled. The way Kârathôn said it, it didn't sound as though he had agreed to an annulment.

"Oh, Kârathôn," Master Târik said. "I am so sorry. I shouldn't have brought that up."

"Ah, well," Kârathon said with a forced smile. "It's not like keeping it silent will make it better." He shrugged. "No, don't pity me, I don't care for that. Just don't go match-making for me, all right?" He looked at us, and a spark of his usual mischievousness returned to his eyes. "Now Mîkul, on the other hand… perhaps you can find a nice wife for him?"

Mîkul spoke with his usual cheer when he answered. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary."

"What!" Kârathôn exclaimed, steering away from the topic of his own failed marriage with determination. "You already have one, and never told us?"

"I have none," Mîkul said, still cheerfully, "and neither do I want a wife." He stressed the last word just the tiniest bit, and Kârathôn groaned and turned to Master Târik. "Now we've both made fools of ourselves," he said. "Quick, let's to work before we drag the young men along in our folly."

But work though we might, we still did not achieve anything of note, except perhaps that I grew ever less repulsed of the dead. Eventually I even began to develop a certain fondness for them, poor unloved things that even their own kin abandoned to our care, forgotten and hidden underneath the citadel.  

 

My kin, on the other hand, grew prosperous as the months passed. When I brought my sister's family back to Rómenna, my brother-in-law asked me for silver. I gave it to him so he could buy a boat, henceforth employing his own crew and earning far better, as a captain, than he had before (though it was several years before he could repay me). Amraphel advised him to buy a cart also, as soon as he could, to take his catch into Arminalêth to sell it there. Most fishers in Rómenna sold their fish where they caught it, either for use or to traders who then took the fish inland, where people paid more money for it. So Amraphel judged that Barakhôn could improve his earnings substantially by selling his fish on the market in Arminalêth.

Apparently she was right. Thus I came to see my sister more often, and when she came for more than one market-day, she would stay at my house despite its distance to the market.

 For my own part I bought the plot of land that bordered on ours, which enabled us to add two rooms to our house and enlargen the garden. We no longer had to sleep in the smoke and smells of the kitchen – although, once the walls were painted and the floor tiled with patterned and glazed tiles, even that grew into a handsome place. Our house came to be the best in the neighbourhood (although that was admittedly not hard to achieve).

Indeed my colleagues asked why I did not leave that dirty neighbourhood altogether, joining them in one of the better quarters. But I no longer had any desire to do that. "My father built that house with his own hands," I explained, "and always dreamed of one day adding a bedroom, or painting the walls. Well, he did not live to see that day, but there's nothing to keep me from continuing his work."

The others had exchanged bemused glances, but they stopped pressing me. 

 

Unfortunately they did not remain the only ones who questioned my residence there. I did not personally hear any of the murmuring, being away most of the day, but Amraphel told me that many of our neighbours were complaining that we stole the room of poor families who needed it, and that we did not belong there anymore.

"I was born and bred here," I said, frowning. "Why should I not belong here?"

She gave me a strained smile that suggested I was missing something. "Love, other people live here because they can afford no better. Someone who could pay housing anywhere in the city and still chooses to stay here after years confuses them. And because people do not like to be confused, they'll come up with all kinds of explanations – like that you hate the poor, whom you keep from living there. Or that you are here to spy on them."

"I, a spy?" I had to laugh at such a silly assumption.

"Yes, love, a spy. You dine with the King regularly, after all…"

I snorted. "I do not dine with the King. I report to the King about the progress of my work, as do the other Keepers and the Raisers."

"And return with a full stomach."

"Well, obviously we do these reports in the evening, when his Majesty happens to be dining, and he is kind enough not to leave us standing around to watch him eat. But it's not like he invites us with no purpose but dinner in mind. It's just part of our work."

 

I suppose it sounds very glamorous that we regularly sat at the King's table, and perhaps in a way it was. But if you think that those dinners were splendid affairs, I must sadly disappoint you. There were no banquets of many courses, no roast beast in rich gravy, no heaps of sweetmeats. Instead we got to witness first-hand the healers' attempts at prolonging the King's life, which very often had to do with his dietary habits. So far none of their ideas had born fruit. Thus his majesty's diet was changed often. At one point the dishes were luke-warm and almost tasteless, since the healers insisted that hot or cold food took too much strength out of the body, not to mention the strain put upon a stomach forced to digest salt or spices. Then a while later the meals were so spicy that I for my part could hardly stomach them - apparently that was the way the Elves of Eressëa ate their food, and they, after all, lived forever. For a while there were only nuts and raw vegetables, because the freshness of the food was supposed to flow into the eater; at other times everything was puréed because drinking instead of eating was surely the key. Drinking in general was another matter of experiment: Sometimes the healers said pure water was best, then suddenly red wine was preferable above all; there were various teas and infusions, not all of them palatable; there was sour milk for a month, and after that warm beer.

If any of these measures had met with success, I would not have minded. But as it was, I couldn't help but inwardly groan and curse the healers whenever they came up with another supposed cure. Of course my fellow Keepers and I were no more successful than they; but at least our victims were dead in the first place! I wasn't surprised that the Queen was never present at those dinners, preferring to dine at her son's house. If our topics of conversation weren't enough to turn their stomachs, some of the dishes would certainly have been. We endured them for the King's sake, who was ever hopeful that one day his dinner would serve to rejuvenate him; but sometimes it wasn't easy.

Only once I protested (with sufficient reason, as I think), when there were three months in which there was nothing but cabbage, like on a beggar's table. "You see, cabbage grows and thrives and remains green even in winter," a dutiful healer eventually explained to us. "Therefore it must clearly contain something that counteracts winter, and surely this will also help counteract the winter of age in a man."

I couldn't help but doubt. "My family lived on little but cabbage for years," I pointed out, "and yet old age took my grandfather at the age of a hundred and thirty-one."

I do not know what that healer told his colleagues, not to mention the King, but when we next reported of our progress two weeks later, there was no more cabbage on the table, and its constant smell had been replaced by that of garlic.

Still, I could hardly tell all that to the people in the streets. I could hardly even complain to Amraphel; it was, after all, what the King wished for himself. I guess it was a great honour, even so. Yet it wasn't done to put us above our fellow men, but only so the King was always informed of our progress (or rather lack thereof). There was nothing exciting about it. 

 

Nonetheless, Amraphel raised her eyebrows. "But you are aware that this is not exactly normal procedure, I hope?"

"I am," I said emphatically. "I know that the King honours us – more than we deserve, with the poor fruits our work is yielding. But still, why should that make me a spy? They know about my field of work, don't they? Isn't that explanation enough? Why would I want to spy on my neighbours anyway? What should the King want to know about them?"

Amraphel sat down with a sigh. "I know that you pay little attention to the mood in the streets, but you must be aware that the elf-friends are getting increasingly anxious. And there are quite some elf-friends among our neighbours. They see that the King is turning away from certain traditions, and find that those who protest are sometimes treated with unwarranted harshness -- "

"Unwarranted harshness? Some of them have demanded that his Majesty give up his life – how does that not deserve a harsh answer?"

"Azruhâr," Amraphel said, sighing again. "Not all elf-friends are so unreasonable – no more unreasonable, at any rate, than any other person. And those that live around us certainly demanded nothing of the sort, yet are nonetheless encountering hostility. They are nervous. And you are very famously a King's Man --"

"Indeed, and proud of it," interjected I.

"You are very famously a King's Man, and in direct line of communication with his Majesty himself, so they suspect that you are staying here because the King commanded it – to spy on them. Don't tell me it's preposterous; it's a very real fear out there."

Despite the warmth of the evening, I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. I tried to play it down. "Well, they hate me anyway for working with dead people. I suppose one more reason does not matter much."

Amraphel grimaced. "Not, I suppose, for the moment. I just worry what happens when they decide that they hate you too much to put up with us any longer."

I stared at her. "You mean they might try to harm us?"

"I do not know. But I think it is possible. You are a Keeper, and they are superstitious; you are a King's Man, and they are afraid; and you are wealthy, and they are jealous. At the moment, there is nothing but talk and glares, and their children forbidden to play with poor Azruphel; but I wonder how long it'll stay at that. It's a dangerous build-up at any rate."

I felt a headache coming on. "Can you not somehow appease them?" I asked, rubbing the bridge of my nose with my fingers. "Give coins to the poor, have feasts for the children, something of that sort?"

"At this point I'm afraid that would only make them more suspicious."

I sighed. "And poor Azruphel is caught in the middle of all this. You say their children are no longer playing with her?"

"There have never been many, but now the last two are gone," Amraphel said.

"Well, I don't want their stupid children to play with my precious daughter anyway," I said, hotly, and felt like an idiot the moment I said it. I grimaced ruefully. "Now I sound like your father, don't I?"

"A little," she said.

"I didn't mean it. I'm just angry that they hurt our little daughter with their stupidity."

"I know," said Amraphel, stroking my face. Then she smiled. "Well, if she finds no playmates outside, I suppose it'll be our task to provide someone to keep her company, hm?"

 

Amraphel was indeed pregnant again before autumn came. It had been a while since I had last thought I almost died or I almost would not have seen this, but now these thoughts returned with full force.

"I'd never have seen this child born," I said when Amraphel told me the news, and my initial excitement wore off, "if the King had not taken mercy on me back then."

Amraphel raised an eyebrow. "If he hadn't - if you had been killed back then, this child would never even have been begotten."

"True," I said in wonder, though it did not take a genius to figure that much out. "Yet it feels like yesterday." I sighed. "How little I have achieved in all that time."

I received a stern look for that. "You have achieved quite a lot. Look at us – look at the house!" I obeyed, and of course I had to admit that Amraphel was right. There had been no carpet on the floor, no embroidered quilt on the bed, no reassuring padding between my ribs and my skin when I had gone off to steal money from some rich Venturer. If Lôbar were still alive, I thought, he might be tempted to come and steal money from me!

"How many ifs there are in our lives," I said aloud.

"If you are going to think about all those ancestors that might have died and never conceived  the next generation, you're just going to give yourself a headache," Amraphel said drily.

"My goodness," said I. "Imagine if our great-grandfathers—"

"Exactly," Amraphel said, resting her head on my chest, which tore me out of my thoughts. "It's a miracle we exist at all. Yet they all lived; and so do you." She smiled, batting her eyes at me. "And so will the child, Eru willing. Imagine that. Another little Azruhâr."

"Or a little Amraphel," said I. And then I sat up. "But if it turns out to be a boy, I would like to name him after the King."

My wife, pushed from her comfortable resting-place, gave me an amused look. "Ancalimon? Truly?"

I winced a little when I heard the name spoken like that, carelessly, without honorifics attached. Perhaps it was not such a good idea after all.

"I owe everything to him," I said, embarrassed at myself. "I cannot repay him. I cannot prolong his life, and the way things are, I cannot even hope to preserve his body in a decent manner. I can at least keep his name alive."

Amraphel still looked amused; but she shrugged. "Well, I suppose you can ask him, when next you dine in the palace, whether he would appreciate that." 

 

It took a while before I did ask. Under normal circumstances, I don't think I would ever have dared it, but on one otherwise dreary winter day we finally had news of success. Checking the results of our experiments from a few months earlier, we found that two of the samples had been preserved very well, indeed much better than we had seen flesh preserved before. At that time we had dissolved various salts in water and bathed the dead in the resulting brine, and while many of the samples had gone rotten or funny, a hand that we had kept in corrosive sublimate looked still very much like it had on the day we had preserved it, though the skin had unfortunately turned somewhat yellowish. Even better was a foot lathered with the watery solution of some dark green salt, for it had lost neither colour nor texture. 

The King would, no doubt, have preferred reports of success from the Raisers. Still, he praised our efforts when he saw the samples – unlike the Raisers, Tar-Ancalimon showed no distaste whatsoever at the results of our work, holding the severed, cold limbs without the slightest shudder. Some of the others were not even able to watch.

"This is most intriguing," he King said, looking at the fair-skinned, fully-fleshed foot. "What did you say you used on it?"

"A metallic salt, your Majesty," Master Târik said. "It is dark green and was found in a mine in eastern Endorë (1). We dissolved it in water and used the solution as we normally use whitewash."

"A salt? Well, that is some powerful salt," said the King. "Do you have more of it?"

"Only a very little, your Highness, but I am sure more of it can be found once the miners start looking for it in earnest. So far they only brought a small amount, as a curiosity, not knowing whether it was of use."

"We shall command the search for this mysterious green salt first thing tomorrow. Perhaps the healers should look at it, too. This is promising, Târik. We are very well pleased."

Master Târik bowed his head, but before he did so he glanced sideways at me, smiling for the first time that day. 

 

We were invited to stay longer than usual, sitting around the King's hearth with goblets of sweet wine and two flutists playing tunes in the background. After dinner the Queen and the Crown Prince and his wife joined us, and our conversation thus was harmless, concerning only our respective families and the bygone joys of summer. Master Târik was very silent once the business part of the evening was over, which I found strange. He almost matched the Crown Prince, who sat in moody silence and warmed up only once, when one of the Raisers told a funny hunting tale. I secretly thought that it was no wonder that the Raisers had no success with their work if they wasted their time hunting, and was tempted to say something to that effect; but the King did not berate the man, so I kept my thoughts to myself.

Our work was mentioned again only briefly when the King called on his treasurer to bring rings for Master Târik, Kârathôn, Mîkul and me. Perhaps that was his way of reminding the Raisers where their focus should be. Whereas they deserved the dampener, I did not feel that we deserved such precious gifts, for even I could see that the rings were of Elvish make, the kind that were normally reserved for the King's lords and councillors.

I first thought that mine was made of gold and copper, but I later learned that the red metal was a kind of gold also, which did not become tarnished as time passed. The two metals were woven into an intricate wreath of narrow leaves, with small clear gems set in-between. I thought it marvellous, although the treasurer said that it was made only by 'some lesser Noldorin smith' - whatever that was supposed to mean. Master Târik's ring, he said, had been made by Celebrimbor himself.

 

Servants kept re-filling our goblets, and slightly drunk with delight and the sweet wine, I finally dared to ask permission to name my child after the King, should it be a son.  The silence that followed my question was enough to make me sober again. I tried to learn from the King's expression whether he was displeased or merely thoughtful, but I could not read his face. His eyes were narrowed often now, whether he was angry or not. Quentangolë had told us in secret that his Majesty's sight was getting worse (though when asked about it, the King would snort derisively, pointing at far-away tapestries and listing in astonishing detail what he could see there) and that he was squinting in order to see better. The wrinkles likewise made it hard to be certain whether he was frowning or not. But I was convinced that I had offended him. Surely a commoner like I should not aspire to such a name – surely only the noble could name their children after kings with impunity.

I felt foolish and tactless. Bowing my head low, I apologised. "I assure your Highness that I meant no insult – indeed, nothing could be further from my intentions. It was meant as a tribute to your Majesty, nothing else."

"We realise that," the King said. "We are touched."

I breathed a sigh of relief, and cautiously looked up again. He was still not smiling when he continued to speak. "You are, of course, free to name your child in whichever manner you wish," he said. "But your kind is not fettered by foolish traditions, as we are. If you do ask our opinion, we would advise you to give your child a decent Adûnaic name. If you must name him after us, you can name him Nimnimirôn (2)."

I felt my face flush. "Well," I said, doubtfully, "that does seem a somewhat presumptive name for a commoner's child." The King laughed, and some of the others joined in. "More presumptive than choosing the name of your King? It means the same thing, Azruhâr." He gave me a wry look. His eyes were still bright then (though no longer so sharp, as if age had softened them). My face grew darker yet.

"But not everybody understands the Elvish, your Majesty," I said carefully, "while everybody will understand Nimnimirôn."

The King shrugged. "Well, you need not listen to us. If you do care for our opinion, you know it now."

The Crown Prince gave me a look that made me crumble for good, his eyes full of disdainful dislike. I looked down, and for the rest of the evening was as taciturn as Master Târik. 

 

Kârathôn was still poking fun at me, the next day, though I doubted he would have known the Elvish himself. Master Târik, too, mocked me a little; but he grew earnest again soon.

"What is wrong?" I asked, worried. "Do you think that I overstepped my bonds, and that something bad will come of it?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I doubt it. Surely his Highness knows how eager to please you are. No, that is not it."

"What is it, then?" I asked, frowning at his unwarranted harshness.

Master Târik sighed. "Lômenil has been feeling very ill for a couple of weeks now."

"Oh," said I, and felt ashamed for thinking only of myself. "But surely it is nothing serious – only a cold, or something of the sort! That is not so unusual in this season. Surely she'll get better soon!"

"We've been thinking that for weeks," he said in a strained voice, "and indeed she feels better as the day progresses; but every new morning the illness returns."

"I am sorry," I said softly. "I truly am."  

 

I told Amraphel of Lômenil's illness that evening, and she, too, was sorry to hear of it. "Have they sent for a healer?" she asked. "If it has been going on for weeks, they should."

"Master Târik did not mention anything about a healer," I said.

"Oh, you men!" Amraphel said, exasperated. "It might be something serious, and you just wait and worry! There are capable healers enough in this city if you can afford them – I'm sure if you mentioned it to the King he would send one of his own, just to please his precious Keepers – that might be able to find out what ails her, and come up with some remedy."

"I do not trust the healers," I said. "They have so far found no remedy for his Majesty's ailment."

Amraphel rolled her eyes, but did not comment. "Well, never mind," she said instead. "I'll go and speak with her tomorrow; and then I will decide whether a healer should be called upon." 

 

But when she returned from her visit to Lômenil the next day, she appeared amused rather than sorrowful.

"Is Lômenil feeling better, then?" I asked, feeling confused; for earlier Master Târik had reported that she had been very sick indeed when he left the house.

"I daresay!" Amraphel said with a snort.

"Then she is not seriously ill after all?"

Amraphel gave me a wry glance. "No indeed – no more ill than I."

"But that is different," I pointed out with a frown. "You are only sick because you are pregnant, and--" here I stopped myself, realisation dawning, and Amraphel clapped her hands.

"Now you've got it," she said. "It seems that Lômenil's mother taught her ill, and she did not know how to read the signs."

"My goodness," I said. "And Master Târik was so unhappy."

"Folly must be punished," Amraphel said mercilessly. "Honestly, they have been married for three years, and yet are caught by surprise when the woman gets pregnant?"

"It is not their fault if they have been ill taught," I said defensively, feeling sorry for them both. "They shouldn't suffer for it."

"Oh, don't you worry," said Amraphel. "I told Lômenil, and she'll doubtlessly tell Târik, and that's the end to their suffering. To their worry-induced suffering, that is. They will, of course, have to go through all the insecurities and pains entailed in this like everybody else."

I grimaced as she mentioned pain, for I had in all honesty forgotten how dreadful the birthing of Azruphel had been, and now I felt ashamed for putting Amraphel through all this again. I told her so.

"I think I cannot clearly remember how bad it was," said Amraphel. "At any rate, don't go blaming yourself now. If I hadn't wanted another child, you of all people would've noticed." 

 

- - - 

 

The second ring on my hand brought an interesting change to the people in the street. Back when they had learned that I was an embalmer, their cheerful disdain had changed to wary disdain. They wanted my money, so they could not entirely avoid me, but they never made a secret of their dislike for my profession. Now that I was wearing a councillor's ring, my frequent visits to the King were no longer a matter of rumour but of fact (very likely, Amraphel said, overblown in their imaginations). The disdain disappeared and was replaced by very respectful behaviour (though Amraphel judged that it was more likely fear than any kind of genuine respect). Sometimes it did feel genuine, but most of the time it reminded me of Amrazôr's false friendliness on that far-away Eruhantalë day.

Nonetheless I can't deny that it was pleasant to be honoured instead of scorned for a change, whatever the motivation. People bowed to me, and sometimes called me 'sir' or even 'lord' though I was none. Merchants would ignore other customers to serve me first; and when I paid them too much, they no longer pocketed the money in silence but thanked me profusely, and very often added some gifts to the things I had bought. This in turn made me popular with the street urchins, to whom I gifted the sausage or apple or cinnamon sticks or whatever it was that I did not need. One of them actually kissed my hand. I suppose he was disappointed when I made a fist, and thus ensured that I would walk away with both the King's ring and my wedding band still on my fingers. I had not entirely forgotten what it was like to be a street urchin. 

 

It turned out that we had only partly earned our rings, anyway. The well-preserved foot of all things was completely spoiled mere weeks later: The skin turned white and flaky like the dried whitewash on our conventional corpses, and then it fell off like ash, revealing the weavings of muscle and sinew and the pillars of bone underneath. Those were still unspoilt - but worthless to our purpose.

Master Târik then remembered that our own hands had been reddened as if burned for a few days, after we had experimented with the green salt, and wondered aloud whether there was any connection.

"But that was because we were clumsy when we heated the water, don't you think?" said I.

"I wonder," said Master Târik. "We are not usually too clumsy to boil water without injuring ourselves, are we? Perhaps the green salt has some burning properties."

I did not think that likely. "But it's a salt," I said. "And salts are like stone. Stone cannot burn flesh, can it?"

"Some can, especially when you dissolve them in water – think of acids or lye!"

"Well, all right," I said. "But we tested whether it was an acid before we used it, and it wasn't."

"The Silmarils could burn flesh," Mîkul pointed out. "Perhaps it is something like that."

I snorted. "The Silmarils were exceptional. That was the whole point, was it not?"

"Well, if they could be blessed to burn unclean flesh, perhaps other stones can be so blessed or cursed, too," Master Târik said thoughtfully, looking at the now useless foot. 

There was only one way of finding out. We had a very small portion of the salt left, and I prepared the solution again, taking great care when I heated the water and leaving the solution to cool completely before handling it. I felt no immediate effect, but a day later my hands began to itch, and afterwards turned red and stung like sunburned for a week. (3)

"Well," Master Târik said while massaging marigold oil into my sore fingers, "it's a good thing we haven't sent that stuff to the healers yet."

I grimaced, not because of the pain but for the idea that this burning stuff might have been used to make a medicine for the King, or anyone else for that matter.

"We'll have to inform his Majesty," I said.

"Indeed. There's no need to send miners searching for the stuff anymore."

I nodded glumly.

He smiled at me. "Don't worry, Azruhâr. There's still the sublimate. I doubt the King's going to punish us for this."

And he didn’t punish us. He didn't even take the rings back, or cut our pay. I was all the more ashamed - which perhaps was punishment enough.

Master Khôrazîr of the Raisers, on the other hand, was delighted. We were only a small step ahead of them now, and we all knew that when they finally succeeded – in those days we still believed that they'd succeed – their accomplishment would be by far greater than anything we could hope to achieve. I thought it strange that Master Khôrazîr, knowing this, still took pleasure in our failure. One should think that we were working towards a common goal, so it did not ultimately matter who made more headway. I for my part could not stand the healers, but if they had found a cure for the King's deterioration, I would have been delighted nonetheless. We were, after all, not racing against each other – we were racing against time. 

 

I was almost relieved when my second child turned out to be a daughter. After all, that meant I would not have to decide whether to use the King's name, or its equivalent, or something else entirely. Or so I thought at first, until Amraphel pointed out that we might well name the baby Nimnimirel. It seemed that the decision was with me after all. But I was uncertain, and for a week our poor daughter was in fact nameless.

Then I learned from Quentangolë that at the palace they were already speaking of my child as ‘little Ancalimë', and that Quentangolë had in fact already noted her down in the books of citizens (4) as Nimnimirel. "I do apologise," he said when he saw my flustered face, "but somehow I was convinced that you would stick with the name."

I must have been gaping like a fool to think that they were speaking of my child at the palace at all. Absurd images appeared in my brain of the King speaking of my family over his tea, or of the Queen knitting tiny socks as Lômenil's mother did. I blushed.

"I wasn't certain if it was appropriate," I explained. "I have done little enough to deserve such an honour."

Quentangolë actually laughed. "Dozens of people name their children after kings or warriors or heroes without for a moment wondering whether it is an honour, or whether they deserve it if it is. As his Majesty pointed out, you can name your child in whatever way you wish." He sobered. "I should, of course, have waited until I heard from you what name you had decided on, but I was so certain you'd take the name you had asked for..."

"Well, I would have," I said, embarrassed. "It just seemed so… presumptuous."

"I can change it in the books, of course," Quentangolë said. "Though of course that may lead to the question why you chose not to use the King's name after all."

I grimaced in dismay. It seemed that whatever I did, I would cause offense. "No, that is not necessary," I said. "If you are certain that his Highness won't think me an upstart for choosing such a noble name…"

"I am," said Quentangolë. He leaned in, and in a lower voice added, "In fact, I think that he is secretly happy. Talk on the street is not overly favourable of him, so it does him good to think that some men, at least, hold him in reverence still."

I had not thought about it that way. "Truly?" I said.

"Truly," Quentangolë said, grinning at my surprised expression. "If fear of offending is your only reason to keep from naming your daughter Nimnimirel, fear no longer. Besides, there was a Queen Ancalimë once, so you could always claim you'd chosen her name."

So our second daughter got her name after all; but Azruphel found such a long word hard to pronounce. She called her little sister Nimmirel instead, and soon enough Amraphel and I copied her. 

 

As soon as Quentangolë had left, Master Târik approached me. "Lômenil and I wondered whether you would allow us to name our child after you."

I must admit that I did not react kindly. "It is no laughing matter to me," I said a little stiffly. "There is no need for ridicule."

Master Târik looked taken aback. "Ridicule? What about my question makes you think that I am ridiculing you?"

"You know I've been discussing the matter of naming with the King, and with Quentangolë just now."

He gave me an exasperated look. "And just because you had the idea, you think I'm making fun of you? I am not. I was asking in earnest."

I stared at him. "Why would you do that?"

Raising an eyebrow, Master Târik said, "If not for you, Lômenil and I would never have met, and thus we'd never have had a child. Is it so strange that I am grateful to you, then? I'd think you of all people would understand!"

He made sense, I suppose; but I was nonetheless nonplussed. "That is really not necessary," was all I could think of saying.

Master Târik studied me. "Not necessary, or not to your liking?" He made it sound as though it mattered.

I was forced to think about his request. It seemed very strange to me. Yes, I had planned to name my child after another – but that other was the King, and it was only proper that his name should live on. There was nothing noble about my name, so I would have thought that the only one who might care to pass it on would be I myself. And now this.

Quentangolë, I suppose, had a point. It was a delightful idea that I was loved so well that somebody wanted to name their child after me. My insides turned warm with joy, and my smile was probably so broad that it surely looked silly.

"I would be honoured," I said. "But what will you do if you have daughter, too?"

"Then she shall be Lôminzil," Master Târik said. It seemed that Lômenil and he had thought about this better than I.  

 

But Lômenil gave birth to a boy, a day before Erulaitalë day. This was somewhat embarrassing, as we had planned to have a joint celebration of our children's birth once little Azruhâr (or Lôminzil) was born – but we also had an invitation to the holiday feast at the palace that had come to replace the old festivities upon and around the Holy Mountain.

In all honesty I was almost grateful for the excuse, for I always felt uncomfortable around the nobility that attended the King's feast. The people in the street might treat me with wary respect, but the nobles and courtiers had no reason to fear me and my conversations with the King, and accordingly they let us Keepers feel quite clearly that we were out of place. On the other hand I was afraid that the King might feel insulted when I missed the celebrations. It was Master Târik who sent messengers to the palace, asking the King's pardon. Said pardon was granted. 

 

Thus instead of joining the noble crowd at the palace, we celebrated in Master Târik's grand house, which had changed greatly now that it had a lady. Lômenil had added furniture to the austere rooms, taking away that feeling of emptiness. She had also employed a gardener and an additional servant, and the former wilderness around the house had turned into a beautifully tamed garden.

We had meant to have our celebrations in said garden, but like most days of that summer, even the high holiday was cool and rainy. Indeed there had already been voices suggesting that the extraordinarily wet summer was a sure sign of Eru's displeasure at the King's refusal to do the proper rites upon the Mountain.

I did not think that likely, unless the All-father was slow on the uptake: After all, his Majesty had not ascended the Mînultârik in several years, and yet the past summers had been perfectly fine. As Amraphel told me while some of our more rebellious neighbours were listening, we must not forget that even the Land of Gift is located within Arda Marred. But not many were rational enough to remember that fact, and again there was unrest in the streets - though in those wet but long summer days the unrest was manageable, and only in winter did it turn dangerous.

But I am running ahead of my tale. Meanwhile, it was summer, and if the rain kept us from feasting underneath the wisterias in Lômenil's garden, there was nothing to hinder us from feasting in the hall. 

 

The hall, too, had changed under Lômenil's influence. There were tapestries now, mirroring the sea-life scenes from the floor mosaic. The simple table that I remembered had received the attentions of enthusiastic craftsmen, rendering the once plain tabletop into a chequered field framed with stilised leaf shapes and geometric patterns. There were also smaller tables with similar inlays, and little cupboards. I wondered how one family should need so much furniture; but then (as Amraphel later pointed out) I had never acquired a rich man's taste.

What I admired most was a harp, made of some reddish wood and inlayed with brass; but when we asked to hear something played on it, we were disappointed.

"Târik has no time to learn it," Lômenil said, "and I don't have the patience for lessons. But I thought it would be nice to have it, all the same."

"May I play it?" Azruphel asked. She had explored every aspect of the great house and now stared, wide-eyed, at the beautiful instrument. Lômenil nodded her permission, and Azruphel walked closer, studying the strings with solemn attention. Then she slowly extended her hand and gave one string an experimental pluck. A low tone reverberated, first loud, then losing strength until it stopped altogether.

Azruphel turned back to us. "How do I play a melody?"

"Oh, my," Amraphel said. "I haven't played in years; I doubt I remember anything." But she handed Nimnimirel to me, and sat on the stool behind the harp. "I'll play something simple so you can see how it is done," she told Azruphel, and then her fingers slid and jumped over the strings in a cheerful jig. Maybe it was indeed 'something simple' - I did not then know much about music – but I thought it pretty nonetheless. I had heard Amraphel play the harp only once, on the one occasion that I had been invited to serve at a dinner in her father's house. Having no brothers, Amraphel had played for their important guests, but I, too, had been there to listen. No doubt that had been better music than the simple thing she played now, but it had been rather overshadowed by what came after. But I digress. Right then, I thought that she played very well, and Master Târik and the others said the same.

Amraphel, on the other hand, grimaced. "I lost whatever skill I had," she said. "Besides, the poor thing is dreadfully out of tune. Lômenil, do you have a tuning key somewhere?" 

 

I got to hold Nimnimirel for the most part of the evening while Amraphel tuned the harp, explaining to Azruphel how it was done and how one had to hold one's hands in order to play. Lômenil was more than a little displeased; she had after all expected to have Amraphel to talk to. I, on the other hand, had hoped that I would be able to use the time to discuss necessary improvements to our work with Master Târik and Kârathôn and Mîkul – the sublimate still left a lot to be desired, requiring regular re-applications that would hardly be possible with a whole body, moreover one laid to rest in the Noirinan. With nobody to distract the lady of the house from such an undelectable topic, we had to keep to harmless things instead, discussing nothing more unpleasant than the weather. Only when Nimnimirel began to squall did Amraphel abandon the harp in order to feed her.  

 

She apologised for her impoliteness afterwards, saying that she had not realised how much she missed playing until now.
"Well, you are of course welcome to visit and play it whenever you like," Lômenil said somewhat stiffly, "though of course that's a bit of a walk over something so trivial."

"It is indeed," Amraphel said with an apologetic smile. "Still, thank you."

"Of course it would be so much easier if you finally moved into a more appropriate neighbourhood," Lômenil continued. "I really do not understand why you keep living at the foot of the hill."

"I have lived there all my life," I said as I had said before. "Why should I not continue to live there?"

Lômenil raised her eyebrows as though I was being absurd. "I used to live there until recently, and I was only too happy to leave," she pointed out. "Everybody who had a chance to get out of there did so, as soon as possible – everybody but you, and you can doubtlessly afford the change better than many others who left that quarter."

I cast a helpless look at Master Târik before remembering that he, too, had put that question to me, and while he had apparently accepted my explanation then, he shook his head slightly now, signaling that he was keeping out of the discussion. I suppose I had to be content that he did not take his wife's side against me.

But as ever I could rely on Amraphel. She simply smiled, saying, "Azruhâr is most attached to the house of his father, and thus we make it our task to improve it instead of fleeing it."  

 

To my great shame I must admit that I had, so far, always taken for granted that she shared my desire to keep our small house. I began to wonder now. Amraphel had, after all, grown up in a great house much like this; perhaps she longed to return to such a place? I would not know how to fill and use all those rooms, but Lômenil had obviously been at no loss, so apparently it was possible. I tried to tell myself that Amraphel – who after all managed our money and thus new better than I what we could afford – would surely have spoken up, if she had been discontent; but I couldn't entirely calm my conscience. I would ask her on the way home, I vowed; I'd leave her the choice. Now, however, was not the right moment. 

"Improve it!" Lômenil said, eyebrows still raised in an expression of doubt. "Improve that hovel! How much can you hope to improve it – you have what, one room? Two?"

"Three, in fact," I said tersely. "Four if you count the kitchen. And then there's the stables, of course. And we have doubled the garden."

Of course I could not expect that to impress Lômenil, lady of this estate. I just hadn't expected her to be quite so scornful. "Four rooms, and twice the garden!" she exclaimed. "But what a waste of money and effort!"

"I count neither wasted," I said, frowning.

"But you can't deny that it is a waste – it'd probably have come you cheaper to buy a whole new house with more rooms and more garden than to add to that little hut!"

"Perhaps so," Amraphel said when I was too daunted to say more, "but then some might say that it is also a waste to buy a harp if one has no intention of learning to play it."

Lômenil's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Why, aren't you so very superior! Of course you---" 

 

Here fortunately her raised voice woke my little namesake, who started crying and thus interrupted Lômenil before she could say something insulting. We exchanged embarrassed glances, and Mîkul told a bawdy story, raising our moods.

When baby Azruhâr was taken care of and Lômenil returned to the table, Master Târik asked that we remain at peace."This is meant to be a feast, not a fight," he pointed out. "So let us not spoil the day with pointless arguments. Come, be friends now, and let us drink to our children. You don't want their first memory to be a petty disagreement, do you?"

We did not. Thus Lômenil and Amraphel smiled at each other and declared themselves reconciled, and we raised our glasses and waited for Master Târik as the eldest to propose a toast.

 

To my great surprise he spoke in the Elvish tongue, so I did not understand the words, although I heard Ancalimë, which I now knew to be the Elvish way of saying my new daughter's name. I did not hear my own – Master Târik's son's – name, though surely he mentioned it, disguised in foreign words.

I couldn't hide my astonishment, and after we had drunk, I admitted, "I find it strange that you of all people should speak Elvish."

"Do you?" Master Târik said with a smile. "Forget not that I was once a nobleman's retainer, before I came to this, and besides other things learned the Elvish tongues."

Indeed I had almost forgotten about that. We had never spoken much about our past lives, being after all quite busy with the present.

"I still love their sound," Master Târik went on, "and I think for a blessing Quenya is far better suited than our Mannish tongue."

I shrugged. I had never found our language unsuitable for anything so far.

Kârathôn noticed my doubt, and said, winking, "Azruhâr is unconvinced, I see."

"That's not it," I said. "I'm just finding it strange that Master Târik, whom I always took to be a loyal man of the King, turns out to be a secret Elf-friend."

My face grew hot. I was doubtlessly giving birth to the next argument.

But Master Târik merely leaned back with a wry smile, and said, "I should hope that a man can yet be both.”

---

Chapter End Notes

(1)Endorë: Quenya for "Middle-earth". We are not given an Adûnaic term for Middle-earth, so I have assumed that (at the time, anyway) they would go with the Quenya name. Most Númenorean place names are never given in Adûnaic, either... 

(2) Nimnimirôn: This is entirely based on guesswork, as we are not given an official Adûnaic version of Tar-Ancalimon's name. The Quenya (meaning, simply, "the brightest", as in aiya Eärendil elenion ancalima) is easy enough, but unfortunately the Adûnaic lexicon is rather small and sure enough there is no word for "bright" in it.

 There is, however, a word "shine", nimir. Problem: This word is also used for an elf (a "shining one"?), so it may have been ideologically difficult. Still, "shining" is close enough to "bright", so it'll have to do. (Perhaps Adûnaic was simply not a very creative language; that would at any rate go nicely with the "The making of words was slow" line from MR, and it would also in a way concur with observations made in comparing the Quenyan and Adûnaic names of the kings.) So we have nimir, "shining", with an affixed ôn to make it look less like an elf and more like a name; that would be something like "Calimon" in Quenya.

There is also no example (in the corpus known to me) of an Adûnaic comparative or, more interestingly in this case, superlative. We do, however, have an example of emphatic repetition in êphal êphalak îdôn hi-Akallabêth, "far far away…" I have applied this to form a superlative form of Nimir(ôn) here, "bright bright one" = "brightest one" (there are some real human languages that do that, so I don’t feel entirely unjustified ;)).

As you can see I didn't use the whole thing – that would've given us Nimirnimirôn, which just looks weird – but only reduplicated the first syllable (maybe the second just got lost at some point in language history?), which brings us to Nimnimirôn, which still looks slightly silly but not irredeemably so. (I wondered, for a while, whether perhaps the –mn wouldn't get assimilated to –mm, but eventually decided against it- in writing, at any rate.)

 

(3) Azruhâr and his colleagues are unwittingly discovering radioactivity. The mysterious green salt is a halide of uranium.  Its toxic and radioactive properties are great for keeping bacteria and other decaying factors at bay - unfortunately they're not exactly healthy for living organisms (or even dead flesh), either.

Corrosive sublimate (which is not radioactive) isn’t entirely harmless either, though. It’s an obsolete name for mercuric chloride, which was used for the preservation of biological specimens as late as the early 20th century. It is also rather toxic (which is why it's no longer used today) and was used as a supposed cure for syphilis (possibly killing more patients than the actual disease did), but that's a different story... 

 

(4) The "books of citizens" are another assumption of my own; canon only informs us that there are "scrolls of kings". Whether or not the Númenoreans also kept a register for commoners is up to conjecture. I decided to assume that there was one. On a relatively small island it is not too hard to keep such records, and considering the fairly limited gene-pool, it's generally a good idea to enable people to check just how closely related they are before reproducing…

Chapter 6

Read Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The wet summer gave way to a wet autumn, and the harvest rotted in the fields. Where normally our neighbours might have gone to the countryside in autumn to earn some coins and food as farm-hands, now poor people from the countryside came to the city and put up residence in the outskirts of already poor neighbourhoods or right at the city walls. To what purpose they came I cannot say. After all, there was nothing to harvest in Arminalêth either, and no more work for day-talers than there usually was – rather less, for few people longed to build houses or pave streets anew while the pelting rain came down; even less could afford to hire builders. There was, of course, a lot of building of ramshackle huts in our neighbourhood, as the new arrivals needed to live somewhere - accordingly, wood and other building materials grew more expensive, and several people were caught and punished for felling trees without permission – but none of that was paid work.
Moreover, soon the new huts began to spill out into the streets, which had always been hard to navigate in this part of the city anyway. Now they grew narrower yet. People were forced to wade through the puddles with no chance to evade mud or water. At that point it was decided that no new people would be allowed to enter the city, and the guards turned all hopefuls off at the gate, advising them instead to go to the coasts, where at least food from the sea would be somewhat more plentiful. As for those who were already in, they had to be housed by those lucky enough to have their own hovel.
We were assigned a family of six: the parents, two sons and one daughter, and the father's old mother. They normally lived off their own patch of land in a village near Ondosto, we learned. They did not know what a Keeper of the Dead was and what he did, and I did not care to explain it to them.
I had grown used to having a proper house to myself, and found it strange enough to have another family lodging with us; but Azruphel, who was too young to remember that we had once shared a small room that was at the same time a kitchen, was seriously angry that she had to give up the room she had come to consider her own.

I tried to explain the situation to her. "Look, my darling, Îbalad and his family had to leave their house in Forrostar behind so they will not starve this winter. Their whole home! Don't you think it is all right when we give them one room? We get to keep the rest of our home after all."
"But it is my room! Why can't they go live somewhere else?"
"Because there are already other people living there. All our neighbours have lodgers in their houses, love – and much smaller houses, too!"
"But I don't want them here."
I sighed. "But imagine if we had to leave our house, and go somewhere else with almost nothing! Imagine everybody living in the new place said 'No, I do not want you here.' We would be quite desperate then, wouldn't we? It's the same for Îbalad."
Azruphel frowned. "But it wouldn't happen to us," she said with a pout, "because we are not poor."
"No, we are not," I agreed. "But we used to be as poor as they, not so long ago."
She laughed at that; my child laughed at the idea that her parents should have been poor once.

I should have been happy that my little daughter knew nothing of poverty, that to her a well-built house and clean, warm clothing and several meals per day were natural. Is not that what we all wish for our children? Yet somehow it made me feel sad. Azruphel would never feel how important these things were, I thought, because she had never missed them.
But she eventually – if grudgingly - agreed that it would not be nice to turn Îbalad's family away and that they should live under our roof for the time being.
"I won't let Khibil have my toys, though," she insisted. Khibil was our lodger's daughter, almost a young woman already, and I was fairly confident that she was too old to desire a small girl's toys.

During the first weeks Îbalad and Baladûn, his eldest son, would walk with me as far as the market every day, where they would then try to find employment; but markets were a sad affair in that year. Even when there was work, it was more likely given to the Arminalêth day-talers whom the merchants knew than to total strangers. Only rarely did my lodgers bring a few copper coins back home. It seemed, in hindsight, that I had been positively wealthy even before I had become a Keeper: At least I had always been able to make sure that both Amraphel and I had something to eat. Îbalad was less fortunate, for his meagre income rarely sufficed even for unground corn - which had at any rate grown ridiculously expensive. There was grain to sell yet because the years before this had been plentiful enough, but everybody was scared that the provisions would run out before the end of winter. Where before bakers had sold the remains of the old day cheaper, enabling even the less well-to-do to buy decent (if no longer perfectly fresh) bread, now there were no remains left. Instead queues of hopefuls formed in front of the bakeries every day.
Soon Îbalad did not even bother trying to find work and just stayed at home all day or went out to visit neighbours similarly afflicted. Only his son persevered, mostly without success. Not that they strictly needed the money: They simply shared our meals, for we could afford to feed ten just as well as four. But it took its toll on Îbalad's courage that he was entirely dependent on our charity, I think.

Back when my parents were still alive and there was a little spare money, my mother would buy a fleece or two of raw, unspun wool which she would then comb and spin to fine threads which could be sold again in spring for somewhat more than the raw fleeces had cost.
That was exactly what Amraphel did now, reasoning that even with food and housing rare, people would still need clothing – especially with the cold, wet weather. She did not stop at two fleeces, however. Of course she did not need the additional work, for I continued to be paid very well. Even with the higher prices, Amraphel assured me that we had more than enough to get through the winter, and another and another if it came to that. But it gave Îbalad's mother and wife and daughter something useful to do, so they at least could feel that they were earning their keep. And Amraphel found it easy enough to spin a little wool while Nimmirel was sleeping. She also taught Azruphel how to help Khibil with the cleaning and combing of the clotted wool. Azruphel wrinkled her nose at the rank, oily sheep-smell of the unwashed wool, but Amraphel told her that she was after all a big and reasonable girl, which apparently made Azruphel think of her new task as a privilege rather than a chore. She even allowed Asattamîk, Îbalad's youngest, to play with her carved farm animals while she 'worked'.
Îbalad, on the other hand, grew more taciturn and discontent as the days went on, and more than once he came home drunk on the wine someone – I never learned who – had distilled from parsnips. Roots, it seemed, were still in sufficient supply, as was cabbage. We did not eat much of either: Amraphel mostly bought better fare, because she did not wish to make it yet harder for our neighbours to procure their meals. They all had lodgers too, after all, and hardly any of them had work as reliable as mine.

This should have been taken into account by the King and his council, I think. Indeed I had assumed that it had been: But I learned from my colleagues that all the new citizens had been placed with families in the poorer quarters, none with the rich. I found that very strange.
"Wouldn't it be far more reasonable to put them up with people like you, who have a lot of spare room and enough money to feed another family if none of them manages to earn something?" I couldn't help musing.
Master Târik shrugged. "Perhaps; but I don't think you could get the wealthy citizens to suffer penniless lodgers in their halls."
I remembered the way Amraphel's parents had treated me, back in the day. Master Târik clearly had a point.
"Of course I couldn't," I said, "but surely the King could. He made all the people who were already poor take other poor people in, after all."
"He could, naturally - if he chose to do so," said Master Târik without sounding too convinced.
"He won't choose to, though," Kârathôn said. "It doesn't pay to offend the well-to-do, even for a King."
I found that unjust. Surely the King simply did not know how dire things could get in the poor quarters – how should he, having ever lived in plenty? If he knew, he would wisely have eased the load of the poor. I said as much, but only got a doubtful look from Master Târik, and a snort from Kârathôn and Mîkul.
I wish I could have proved them wrong. Perhaps I even would have dared to inform the King of the trouble brewing in the lower quarters - under other circumstances. But the King had fallen ill earlier in the month, and our weekly audiences were suspended. The council, headed by the Crown Prince, currently fulfilled the King's duties; and they saw no need to hearing more of any of us Keepers than was strictly necessary, through the mouth of Quentangolë. Therefore there was no way of letting his Majesty know – not that I would have bothered him, cursed with trouble as he already was. Perhaps it was better for him to be bedridden: That way he did not have to hear the ugly things people said in the street. No, I for my part would not speak a word against him.

"It's better the way it is, I think," Mîkul said when he saw my unhappy expression. "The poor won't steal from the poor, seeing as there's nothing to steal – if their hosts were rich, they might be tempted to take their money."
"Indeed," Kârathôn said, picking at his unruly hair. "I am surprised that you are not worried about that. You should sell the house down there and come uptown before one day you get your throat cut and your savings stolen."
"Nobody who can afford a house at the moment would want to live down there," Mîkul pointed out.
Kârathôn smirked. "No one but Azruhâr, you mean? But Azruhâr probably has saved enough to buy a grand house without even selling the old one."
"Not if I want to feed my family through the winter," I said, though in truth I couldn't be certain of that. I left our money entirely in Amraphel's care; she was far better with numbers and planning than I was. "At any rate, why should my lodgers do me harm? I'm keeping them very well, without taking payment or anything."
Master Târik sighed. "The two of them have a valid point, however," he said in his soft, thoughtful voice, "little though you want to hear it. Do think about it. Your neighbours may not care for your reasons to stay among them, and your guests may find it wiser to take matters into their own hands, rather than hoping that your goodwill lasts."

I told Amraphel about this, in secret. I had hoped that she would laugh, but instead she nodded. "Yes, I have worried about that myself. That is why the children are sleeping behind us, and why I am keeping this in reach." She showed me then that she had hidden a dagger and a heavy wooden cudgel at the end of our bed. I was shocked – both because she thought that there truly might be danger, and because she had not told me before. She grimaced. "Will you sleep easier now, knowing that I took these precautions?" she said.
"No," said I, frowning deeply. "I hate having those weapons in my bed."
"So it was kinder not to tell you before," she said, and kissed me. I suppose she was right; but I still wasn't happy.

In Ringarë (1) the Venturers brought two ships laden with provisions to our shores – tribute from the colonies in Endorë. When they brought the food to Arminalêth, we learned that the year had been no kinder in Endorë (which certainly showed that it had nothing to do with our King, as some foolish Elf-friends had claimed), where there had been droughts in some parts and rain-floods in others. Still, they sent us millet and onions and nuts of various kinds. The goods were auctioned off to the merchants and nobles, and the next day's market was overrun with eager buyers. Young Baladûn earned a sack of onions for carrying crates and barrels to and fro all day. Îbalad snorted disdainfully. He was right, of course, in that onions alone were bad payment; but in these times, I thought, one could not be too picky. Besides, onions were a welcome addition to the menu, and they kept long, and we could use the shells to dye the wool the women were spinning. And Baladûn, at least, had earned something at all.

The tribute from Tharbad eased the situation a little, for a couple of weeks; but the goods didn't last forever, and when they ran out, even the prices of parsnip and celery and salcifer rose absurdly. And a loaf of bread – normal grey bread, not the fine white bread of the nobility – came to cost all of a Ship, more than an apprentice craftsman could hope to make in a week (unless he was, like I, apprenticed to a Keeper or a Raiser). I was glad that our money was hidden (though the house was too small to keep it forever hidden from someone willing to do a thorough search), and even glad of the weapons Amraphel kept in reach, for I was beginning to be nervous about gruff, hostile Îbalad and his strong first-born, who came home increasingly bitter. They certainly ate their share at our table, and the women of the family were friendly as well as diligent; but I no longer dared to trust that they wouldn't raise a hand against us. I was torn between staying at work forever, to escape their presence, and staying at home, to make certain that Amraphel and my daughters were safe.

But when the attack on our house came, I was at home anyway.
It was late in the evening on a cold, rainy day. We were sitting at dinner with only Îbalad's mother and youngest son for company, as the others had been invited to some kind of gathering in the neighbourhood, when Khibil came running in as if driven by wild beasts. She struggled for breath before she burst out, "They're coming, they're coming, you must--" and then she began to cry.
Amraphel reacted better than I – I merely stared – and sat Khibil down in a chair, telling her to calm down and explain what she meant.
From what Khibil managed to tell us, we gathered that the cold and rain and lack of food and work had finally managed to overthrow all reason, and now the people in turn wished to overthrow those who kept their wealth from them. Some of the younger men were marching on the bakers' district, while others had remembered their old grudge towards me, and had decided to pay us a visit. Even now, Khibil said, they were preparing the assault, and would likely be here within the hour.
"Mother told me to slip away and warn you, so you can run and hide while there is time," she finished her tale.
"And your father didn't?" Amraphel said, glancing at Îbalad's mother and the little boy who had climbed onto Khibil's lap to try and console her.
Khibil did not meet my wife's gaze. "Father is very angry, and there was a lot of wine…"
"I will ask the guards for help," I announced, finally recovering from my shock. "That's what they're there for, after all. Protecting citizens."
"Yes," Amraphel said, "if they have time. If indeed all the poor decided to rise today, the guards may have more important business than venturing to this neighbourhood."
I looked down, and Amraphel continued, "Of course you must try to bring them to our help. I am just saying that we shouldn't rely on them." Already she had thrown open the chest that held our good robes, taking out my finest. I frowned in confusion. Despite the dire situation, Amraphel smiled.
"You may be better able to convince the guards to help if you look like you can reward their help," she explained. "If other houses are under attack as well as ours, and you want them to pay attention to you anyway, you must look like someone worth listening to. Now hurry."

I gave my festival robes a doubtful look. To be honest I did not like them much. They were certainly very fine, but I felt like a stranger whenever I was forced to wear them. But Amraphel was surely right. I hastily put on the robes over my simple shift while Amraphel helped me with the buttons and clasps.
"Meanwhile, you must hide somewhere safe," I said, my speech partially muffled by fabric. "If the guards take too long to arrive…" If they come at all, I thought. Amraphel's caution had smashed my brief confidence.
"Somewhere safe?" said Îbalad's mother, drily. "Where would that be? Out in the streets, where the angry men have gathered?"
"Master Târik's house," I told Amraphel. "You'll be safer there, and he can lock the garden gates, that should slow anyone down - for a while at least."
"We won't get there if the streets are running with angry people," Amraphel said curtly. "Khibil, please put another pot on the hearth. Perhaps our... visitors... can be placated by dinner. Azruphel, can you bring some bacon and onions?"
I, meanwhile, found myself in the rich cloak that went with my robes, the winter cloak, fur-lined and hooded and fashionably closed on the left shoulder with a glittering brooch. Amraphel pressed my pair of riding gloves into my hand.
"They'll know at once that I'm one of their enemies," I said unhappily, meaning the protesters.
"Yes, of course," Amraphel said; and she produced the cudgel from behind our bed. "I hope you won't need it, but to be on the safe side… you will ride, of course," she said, throwing my riding boots and the cudgel over to me before taking the vegetables from Azruphel and putting them down, with a knife, before Khibil.
I put on the boots and picked up the cudgel. It felt cold and heavy in my hands. I hated the idea of being the kind of man who rode around, armed, in fine robes, while around him people went mad with hunger. But I had little time for reflection.
"Off with you, foolish man," Amraphel cried, pushing me towards the door, and the next thing I remember is that I was stumbling through the mist towards the stable.

It was very dark, and too quiet. There was none of the usual murmur of conversations in thin-walled houses, no people returning from the well or from a visit to their neighbours. Higher up in the city there was yelling and shouting, but where I was, the sloshing of my horse's hooves on the mud-soaked street was the only sound. When I reached the paved streets, the hoofbeats rang unnaturally loud in my ears. Everything was unnatural, unreal, more like a nightmare than like waking life.
I soon found that Amraphel had been right: The guards had plenty of work in the upper city, where (from the sound of it) houses were already being plundered. Glass was breaking somewhere, and people were fighting and screaming. I shuddered, and tried to avoid the fights as well as I could.
It was easier than expected. They were like bubbles of noise in the fog-muffled night, and the streets that held no shops or warehouses were empty and silent. The only problem was that I soon got lost. Even on foot I did not know this part of the city well, still less so at night. I was certain that there must be a way to the watch-house that didn't lead across the besieged market, but I was less certain where to find this way; and because I had often turned away from streets to avoid the battles, I was no longer even sure where to find the market. Hot panic seized me - I would never be able to procure help for my family if I kept on like this. My mare shook her head in discomfort, and I realised that I was pulling the reins much too hard, partly because I was so nervous and partly because I could only use one hand, holding the cudgel in the other. I cursed, and cursed again for having cursed, and let a prayer follow the curse just to be safe. Then I turned, and rode back towards the shouting and the thumping. I spurred the horse on as I hoped that people would be less tempted to stop a fast rider than one that only moves at a trot; and then I rounded a corner and found myself in chaos.

It was no longer dark. There were lanterns and torches, and the smoke and the drizzle broke their dancing light to fill the street. The cobblestones were caked with a white pulp, and I realised that a baker's storeroom or shop must have been broken open. A lot of precious flour had been wasted and spilled, and in a corner I actually saw people who were down on their knees to scrape the soaked stuff off the ground. Then, seemingly from nowhere – my eyes still hadn't adjusted properly to the light – there were watchmen, and while one of the scavengers gave a warning cry the guards reached their little group and struck, turning the warning cry into a scream of pain.
I had no time to pay them any more attention, for now I had reached the thick of the battle, and my horse reared up to avoid two scuffling men, and it took all my focus to stay in the saddle. I clung to the rein stupidly, convinced that I would be pulled into the fight as soon as my feet touched the ground, and I called out without even knowing what I said. The storehouses had their doors broken and their windows smashed, and the white pulp on the ground here and there bore traces of red; and everything was noise and panic. I realised that something much like this might already be going on at my own house, and despair came over me like a dark wave.

Here, at least, the guards were doing their best to control the situation - and indeed they were already gaining the upper hand, as far as I could determine. If anyone had managed to win anything from the broken storehouses at all, they must already be gone, for now everybody who was present was involved in a fight and nobody was left to carry things away. And the guards were armed, though many did not even need to draw swords: They were used to fighting, and their opponents weren't. Probably the insurgents had thrown stones and carried kitchen knives and cudgels and the like, but when they tried to carry sacks of flour or crates of bread away, they had to let go of their weapons, and so they were overwhelmed.
I called out again, but nobody heeded me - and then my horse was so maddened by the cries and smoke and lights that I had to ride away from the tumbling crowd to calm her. When finally she stopped prancing and shaking her head, the fight was all but over. Five men were guarding the open gate; the others were taking the insurgents away.
"My house is under assault," I called to the watchmen, "I need your protection!"
One of them raised his lantern to see who had spoken, and I was blinded again, raising my hand to shield my eyes.
"We can protect you if you stay here, lord," said one of the guards, whom I could no longer see. "But we cannot leave our post, lest more thieves arrive."
"But my wife, my children – they're still in my house," I said. If my house still stood, I thought to myself, looking at the yawning opening that had been the storehouse gate. If I wasn't already too late.
"Begging your pardon, lord," said one of the guards, "but we must stay. Try at the watchhouse, perhaps they can send men out to your house."
"And if they don't have men to spare?" I said. Already my voice was trying to break. Another voice, one in my head, kept repeating too late, too late, too late. The guards exchanged glances.
"Then I wish you the best of luck, lord," the guard said defiantly, and I thought I heard a trace of fear in his voice. But I had no time to argue with him. If I had the slightest hope of finding help at the watch house, I had to go there at once.
"And to you," I said, and rode off. I tried to keep my eyes straight ahead, but they were drawn to a large, red spot in the road.

The streets had grown more quiet, though I passed several guarded buildings with broken doors, and the streets were full of debris and cabbage leaves, trampled vegetables and blood. I could have sworn that I was now taking the direct route to the guard house, but I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, for suddenly I found myself in the aftermath of another fight. Some men were running, and some were dragged away, and one was still in the process of being beaten by a watchman. I had almost passed them by when the insurgent, after a vicious kick to his ribs, threw his head back; and I saw his face.
"Baladûn!" I called, and had jumped off my horse before I knew what I was doing. The guard paused and raised his fist to deal with me, and I clenched my eyes shut, bracing myself for the blow - but it didn't come. Instead, the watchman asked, "Do you know this man, lord?"

I was deeply grateful to Amraphel for thinking of the good robes. Baladûn, meanwhile, had rolled out of the guard's immediate reach, giving both of us an anxious stare while struggling for breath. One of his eyes was blackened, and he had blood on his face, and from the way that he held his left wrist I assumed that it was broken or at any rate badly sprained. I remembered the beatings I had received, years ago, when I had been arrested in a rich Venturer's house, and I shuddered. The guard had to tear me out of my memories. "Lord?" he said, and I remembered his question.
"Yes," I said softly; and then, in as confident a voice as I could, I repeated, "Yes, I do."
"He has broken the peace," the guard said, glancing down at Baladûn who promptly curled up small, "and I will take him to the watch house."
"No," said I. "He will come with me." I had no idea where the words came from, and I regretted them as soon as I had uttered them. How foolish, to argue with a watchman! I should never have brought attention to myself, I thought. Probably I'd be arrested as well now, for hindering the guard. And meanwhile my family...
But the guard did not arrest me. Instead he gave me an uncomfortable look. "But my lord, he rebelled against the King's peace…" His voice trailed off. He was apparently intimidated, perhaps thinking me a nobleman or at least a guildmaster. I noticed his discomfort, I saw him cringe, and something took hold of me again.
"Do you know who I am?" I said through clenched teeth.
"No, my lord," said the guard, sounding increasingly nervous. I pushed ahead.
"I," I said, "am Azruhâr, the King's Embalmer. This man has surely been mixed up in this evening's events unwittingly. He will come with me."
The guard gave up at once. I could hardly believe it. "As you wish, Lord Azruhâr," he said hurriedly, bowing his head. Then he turned to Baladûn. "Get up, you wretch," he said, and made to give him another kick.
I put my hand on his shoulder. "None of that," I said. "My house is under assault; I have no time for this." Too late, too late, said the voice in my head that felt more like myself.
"Oh, no," muttered Baladûn, who had by now raised himself to his knees. "Father…"
"He is your son?" The guard's eyes had now taken on a look of horror.
"Do I look old enough for a grown-up son? He is the son of my… groundkeeper," I said, holding out a hand to help Baladûn up. I listened to my own voice in horror. Baladûn stood, but he was swaying on his feet. I tried to steady him. "Everything all right?" I asked him. He nodded without meeting my eyes.
"Good," I said. "We must hurry then."
"Please, Lord Azruhâr," Baladûn burst out. Inwardly I groaned at the title. It was useful that the guard thought me a nobleman, of course, but I really had no right to the title, and I realised that it might cause me further trouble.
"My mother…" Baladûn continued, and I groaned aloud.
"She was arrested?"
Baladûn nodded, and finally looked at me. His left eye was beginning to close with the swelling; the right was wide open, giving me an imploring stare. "Please, you know she wouldn't do anyone harm..."
I looked at the guard. "Where did you take the insurgents?" Of course I did not truly need the answer. I knew it already.
"They have been taken to the watch-house," he said, looking thoroughly unhappy. I felt thoroughly unhappy myself. I was loosing time, precious time! But I remembered my own incarceration. I could not in good conscience leave Baladûn's mother to the fears and pains of imprisonment. I was foolish and failing in my duty towards my family and overstepping my bounds, but I knew I no longer had a choice. I could not turn away now. The dark wave of that night had swept me off my feet, and now the currents were pulling me into deep waters. I could struggle against the currents, and drown; or I could try to swim.
"You will take me there," I told the guard.

It had been summer when I had been imprisoned, and my prison had felt dark and cold and dank even then. When we arrived it was well-lit, and from outside it looked inviting enough against the cold of the night; but suddenly I found it hard to keep my back straight. I shivered when I passed through the door. Yes, there was the familiar hall where the guards had sat and eaten and chatted when they had nothing better to do. There was the door to the long corridor with the cells, and there the other door that led to the courtyard where the King had pardoned me. Both were shut. The hall was full of people, most of them not belonging to the watch. I assumed that, if the uprisings had been as bad as Khibil's story suggested, the watch had arrested so many people that there was not in fact room enough in the cells. Or maybe the guards were just waiting until there were no new arrivals before they ushered people off into the dark cells?
For the moment, at any rate, the newly arrested sat on the floor of the hall in orderly lines, their hands tied with rope (perhaps there were not enough shackles for so many people, either). Behind them, leaning against the tables or sitting on the benches that had been pushed against the walls, were the guards in their dark livery, with spears that they used when one of the prisoners spoke or moved too much. On the far end, a few watchmen were eating stew from earthenware bowls. It smelled of chicken and of too much fat. I thought of my interrupted dinner, and of Amraphel, and for a moment I thought I could not breathe for fear - fear for my family, but also fear for myself, for when I had last entered through this door I had not expected to leave alive. Wasn't I pushing my luck a bit too much to return here?
It's too late to turn back, I told myself sternly, and again heard the voice go too late, too late in my head. I took a deep breath and tried to procure that part of me that had intimidated the guard into submission, that had defied Amrazôr - but I could not find it now. I would have to make do with my normal self, apparently.

Some people had looked up when we had entered, and I was shocked by how many familiar faces the room held, both among the prisoners and among the guards. I removed my hood reluctantly, and my neighbours narrowed their eyes and gave me hostile or at any rate sullen stares, though they did not speak. The guards, on the other hand, showed no sign of recognition. They looked at their comrade, and then at me in my cloak of rich green wool, with its bright clasp and its fur lining. I saw heads inclining politely to acknowledge me. There was the guard who had first interrogated me – my hand wanted to rise to my face as I remembered his blows – and there was the one who had called me a thing. Here was the man who had flogged me even after I had already confessed everything, and there the one who had spat in my face. Oh, how well I remembered! But they, apparently, did not. They bowed to me.
"The lord Azruhâr wishes to have one of the prisoners released," my guide said to his captain. I held my breath, but even now that they had heard my name, nobody seemed to recognise me.

And the current had me again. "Not one," I interrupted, in a voice so measured and superior that I hardly realised it was my own. "Several. My house is under attack, and I need people to defend it. Unless of course you can spare a few men...?"
There was some discussion among the guards while I tried not to show my unrest. I felt Baladûn's eyes on my back and the stares of the prisoners on my face. I wondered what a real lord would do if he were in my place now. I had no idea. I assumed that real lords did not get into situations like this in the first place. Real lords had their own guards, and did not have to go off at night to find someone to protect their house – oh, sweet Eru, my house! If only nothing had happened to Amraphel and my children yet. And to Îbalad's family, either. I tried to distract myself. Baladûn was shivering slightly, every now and then. Some of the prisoners, wet and motionless, also looked very cold. I heard snatches of the guards' whispered discussion. Too many anyway. Not for us to decide. Released sooner or later. His responsibility. I forced myself to resist the urge to look at my feet. Noblemen never looked at their feet.
"Very well, Lord Azruhâr," the captain eventually said, while I felt another guilty pang at being so addressed. "Indicate those whom you want released."

Truth be told, I would have liked to free them all, whether they were innocent or not, whether I knew them or not. I felt sorry for each and everyone of them as I walked between the lines of downcast, frightened people, pointing at familiar faces. I wondered what would happen to the others. I assumed that, after a certain term of imprisonment, they'd eventually be set free. But I knew well enough how long even three days in this place could be.
But it would be too dangerous, I thought, to take them all with me. I couldn't even be certain that all my neighbours were trustworthy. I could only hope that they would be grateful enough to leave me in peace after today, and that they'd refrain from getting into further trouble. I couldn't risk adding dozens of strangers.
So I stuck to my neighbours and their kin as I marched down the lines of prisoners. I tried to ignore the stares and glares. I tried to ignore the embarrassing rustle of my fine robes. And I tried not to feel triumphant while the guards bent behind me, untying the hands of my neighbours after I had passed. How childish, I told myself, to be proud of fooling others! But I could not quite help it. What power there was in brocades and confident speech!

If only it would not turn ill, I thought while the guards crossed out the names of the people I freed from their watchbook. I had to give them that: They were very correct in their book-keeping. Nobody disappeared without trace; there were books and lists for everything. Yet today I wished they could be less correct. My name (with the wrongful title, too) was noted down with the crossed-out names, released at the pleasure of Lord Azruhâr the Embalmer. So now there was a record of my presumption, I thought. And if any of those set free now joined another little rebellion, I might end up accused of aiding the rebels. I couldn't say I was thrilled. Breaking the peace, the crime Baladûn had been accused of, seemed to me dangerously close to treason; aiding rebels, I suspected, was accordingly close to aiding traitors, and might likewise end in a lengthy death. I wondered whether there was a way of getting my name erased from the watchbook. Perhaps I could bribe the guards...?

But a real lord would have no fear of appearing in a watchbook, I told myself, and all this farce was only working because the guards believed that I had authority. I could either give up on the spot, condemning my neighbours and possibly myself, or continue the game and hope that no ill would come out of it. Drown, or swim, I told myself. I decided to try and swim.
And I decided to push my luck further yet. In for a lamb, in for a ewe, I thought, and asked the captain, "And these are all the prisoners you made tonight?"
He shrugged. "Yes, lord. Well, except for those who haven't yet been brought in," he said. Baladûn, now reunited with his mother and the silent, sullen crowd, winced conceivably.
"And two are currently being questioned, but-"
"Their names?" I said. I hoped I would not know them.
"My lord, I do not know whether..."
"Their names," I repeated. I have no idea whence I took the courage.
The captain consulted first with his fellows, then with the book. "One Pharzuhâr son of Kâduz," the name meant nothing to me, "and one Zâbulon son of Lasbêth." Him I knew – him and his poor mother, whose rich merchant lover had left her when she had been pregnant with Zâbulon, who had thus grown up fatherless. I sighed.
"Bring me Zâbulon," I said, and this time the captain did not even bother to protest.
The account-keeper with his book moved closer while I waited. "We have stronger men than those you chose," he observed. He was doubtlessly right. Few of my neighbours had fighters' physiques, and likely their struggle with the guards had already cost them most of their strength.
"Yes," I said under my breath, "but are they trustworthy?"
He shrugged, giving me a look that clearly said that he wasn't convinced of the trustworthiness of my neighbours, either. "Your call, my lord."

The voice in my head was screaming at me to get myself home quickly, but most of my followers were at least mildly injured and not fit for swift movement. I did not dare to ride ahead, fearing that they might get into mischief again – or be arrested again even if they did nothing but march home slowly. After watching Zâbulon limp along pitifully, and a young woman named Târinzil being carried in turns by her brother and other strong men because her right leg hurt too much to carry her, I gave up my place on the horse entirely. I told myself that there was no point in rushing. Probably everything was over already. I could but pray that they had only taken our possessions and not injured (or worse) the people in my house. I shivered despite my cloak.
One of the older men, Palatâr, finally broke the silence. "Where are you taking us, Lord Azruhâr?" He sounded rather petulant, I thought, considering that I'd gained him his freedom. And he, too, used the foolish title. My patience, already worn thin by the past hours' events, ran out entirely.
"Stop calling me that," I snapped. "You know that I am no lord."
"Well, the guards called you lord, and you did not stop them," Palatâr pointed out.
"Yes," I said tersely, "and I'll probably have to pay for that. But do you think they'd have released you at the humble request of a common citizen?"
Palatâr was silent for a while. Then: "So where are you taking us, Master Azruhâr?"
"I'm just an apprentice, Palatâr. No titles. Just Azruhâr, all right?"
He said no more. I answered his question anyway. "Where do you think I'm taking you? We're going home." And I couldn't help adding, reproachfully, "If I still have a home, that is."

---

Chapter End Notes

(1) Ringarë: Roughly equivalent to our December. Roughly. I could find no mention of Adûnaic month-names, so I have assumed that (at this point in history, at any rate) they continued to use the Elvish terms. Our names of the months are Latin, so it's not too strange an idea...

Chapter 7

Read Chapter 7

It turned out that I did have a home still, though the door was open and the garden full of people with all sorts of lanterns and torches lit. I ran ahead of my little troop then, foolishly, as if I on my own could have done anything (or indeed as if I could be certain that the others would follow me, and not turn on me at once).
But I did not need to do anything. As I came closer, I saw that the people in our garden were talking and eating, not fighting. That surprised me so much that I stopped in my tracks until the others caught up with me.
I took a deep, steadying breath, and took the horse's reins then; and we marched to my house.

The crowd outside fell silent. For a while they simply stared at us, wondering where we came from or perhaps sizing us up for a fight. Then they broke into loud cheers and surged forwards, and suddenly I was surrounded by people chattering and crying and embracing each other. Probably I should have taken care of Târinzil and Zâbulon first, but I could wait no longer. I left the others to their own purposes and ran inside.
And there by the hearth, Eru be praised and thanked, was my Amraphel, safe and hale for all I could see.
"The guard?" she said when she saw me. I only shook my head before wrapping her in my arms. To my embarrassment I began to cry with relief, until little Azruphel came running.
"Why is Atto crying?" she said, tugging on Amraphel's sleeve. I wiped my face.
"I was crying because I'm so happy that you are all well," I said, dabbing at my foolish eyes while Azruphel hugged my leg. Turning back to Amraphel, I asked, "You are all well, aren't you?"
"Oh yes," she replied with a smile.
I closed my eyes. "I was so scared that they'd hurt you."
"It probably was a close call, but they're not actually bad people."
"I know. Yet..." I stopped myself. It didn't matter what could have happened – it hadn't happened after all.
"Yet we have the house full of hungry visitors?" Amraphel finished the sentence for me (though that was not at all what I had meant to say). "So we do, but I figured that was the lesser evil."
"Oh yes," said I, and lifted up Azruphel so that she could see that I was no longer weeping. She studied my face very seriously; I smiled to show that truly it was all right, and with that smile the painful tension I'd felt began to ease.
"How did you bring this miracle to pass?" I asked of Amraphel.
She smiled, handing me a bowl of stew. "I invited them to supper. I assume at the time they just figured that a free meal was nothing to be sneezed at. Or perhaps they were curious what rich people had for dinner."
I looked down at my bowl. If that was indeed the reason, our neighbours must have been sorely disappointed. Millet and lentils and onions and bacon: Good fare, but nothing out of the ordinary.
"Originally, they probably just meant to gather strength and to strike afterwards; but I don't think they mean us harm anymore, not at the moment at any rate."
I listened to the noises outside: Shouting and crying and laughing, and dozens of voices talking at once so that not a word could be understood. They could have been plotting our death, or having a feast – I couldn't tell.
I was loath to ever let Amraphel and the others out of my sight again; but I had to take care of the poor horse at the very least. I ate my stew hastily, and went back outside into the crowd.

The horse had disappeared.
I looked around in alarm, and almost panicked when somebody grasped my shoulders. "Lord Azruhâr, you've really –"
"Don't call me that!" I snapped. The red face of Enrakôr the Taller – the hands on my shoulders were his – took on a puzzled expression, but I had no patience left for explanations. "The horse," I said. "Where in blazes is the horse?"
Enrakôr frowned and said, "Îbalad took it. To the stables, my –"
I left him standing in the yard and rushed off to the stables.
Surprisingly enough, Îbalad was indeed there, and not (from the looks of it) to steal the second horse. He looked up from rubbing the horse dry as I came in, and then turned his focus back to the mare, who stood patiently, accepting his ministrations. I watched for a while, catching my breath.
"Here you are," I finally said for the sake of breaking the silence. He did not answer.
"I thought you had stolen the horse," I said, somewhat lamely.
This time, he looked up and held my gaze. His face was flushed. "I am no thief," he spat.
"You wanted to take my house," I couldn't help pointing out, and he looked down again. I could see his broad hands clench into fists. I was fairly certain that he was stronger than I. He certainly was taller, and broader in the shoulders. I was too exhausted to be afraid.
"Nothing happened," he said so softly that I almost didn't hear it.
"Oh, and no doubt I owe that happy circumstance to you," I said.
"No," said Îbalad. At least he was honest. "No, you owe it to your wife." His eyes met mine again, and now there was a light in them. "She's a clever one, your wife, I've never met anyone like her. She is a lady – a real lady. 'You're just in time for dinner,' she said, 'but I'm afraid we don't have bowls for all of you. Why don't you go and fetch your own dishes, and we can eat together?' And everyone just did what she said, they didn't even dream about asking questions or just taking the food without her permission. Authority, that's what she has. She's –"
I was proud of Amraphel, so proud! But I was also angry. This man had tried to attack my family, and now he was singing my wife's praises. It did not matter that nothing had happened in the end. It did not matter whether he had just been incited by others. I had never wronged him, and yet he had threatened my family. I was so angry that my hands seemed to take on a life of their own, and wanted nothing more than to strike him and drive him to the ground. I just barely managed to control myself.
Something of my fury must have registered, for Îbalad abruptly stopped himself and started rubbing the mare's side again as if he was paid for it. I gritted my teeth, trying to reign my temper in. For a while, the only sound was the chewing and the soft snorting of the horses.
"Will you cast us out?" Îbalad said when he could no longer conceivably be busy with the horse.
I let out a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding. "I should, shouldn't I."
"I suppose so," Îbalad said. Silence again. Then he said, in his usual sullen voice, "I won't beg pardon."
"Fine. Don't, then." That earned me an incredulous stare. I shrugged. I could surely be as sullen as he.
"Will you cast us out?" he asked after a long pause.
"Yes. No. I don't know yet. What good would it do? But I should." Inwardly, I rolled my eyes at myself. A miracle that I had managed to fool the guards, I thought.
Îbalad's jaw worked as though he had something unpleasant sticking between his teeth. "I'd be very glad if you didn't," he said.
"I can imagine."
"I swear something like today won't happen again," he said, giving me a more sullen stare than ever.
I glared back at him.
"I'll hold you to that oath, Îbalad, and don't you dare break it. If you ever threaten me or my family again, I will kill you. And I won't do it fast."
And in that moment, I meant it.

The next day I woke with a severe fever and a splitting headache, and was confined to my bed for several days. I could not go to work, or even around the house, and I expected that guards would come to drag me to the catacombs or else to prison every moment. Amraphel told me that my fretting just made my sickness worse, but I could hardly help it, could I? I think she eventually drugged me with the help of Thâmaris the healer, for I remember very little until I was well enough to rise at last, and sit by the hearth for a bowl of broth. I was so eager to get rid of the dirty aftertaste of willow-bark that I almost burned my tongue.
"Where is everybody?" I asked when I had eaten, for it was uncharacteristically quiet.
Amraphel gave me a tired smile. "The children are with Thâmaris so they don't catch your fever. Khibuleth and the others are visiting friends. Îbalad is gone --"
"He left? The bloody fool. I don't think I'd have the heart to cast him out."
Amraphel clucked her tongue. "Let me finish and you won't be confused. He is gone to see the executions."

That was how I learned about the aftermath of the uprisings. Those who had instigated the rebellion (or those, at any rate, accused by their erstwhile followers) had been judged guilty of treason, and today was the second day of their punishment.
"So now Îbalad has gone to see the torments, has he," I said, and couldn't keep the edge out of my voice.
"Yes. He says he owes it to them." She gave me an earnest look. "Azruhâr, Îbalad was one of the instigators, too."
I cannot say that I was surprised. "Yes, he likes to stir up trouble, no doubt. How glad he must be to see only his comrades suffer, and not himself!"
"I think he's well aware that he would suffer as well, if not for you."
I snorted, but Amraphel insisted. "It is true, you know. If he had been accused, then he, too, would be up on the scaffold now. But they were never questioned, those who could have accused him…"
"Because I had them freed," I said, realisation dawning, and groaned "Oh, this is going to be horrible. What of the others?"
"The others who were arrested? Breaking the Peace."
"Breaking the Peace," I repeated. That would mean a short term of imprisonment, and then some public punishment, a flogging or something of the sort, to deter imitators. Unpleasant, but you generally lived.
"Yes," Amraphel said. "So naturally our neighbours are rather grateful for your timely interference."
"Are they? Well, that's something."
Amraphel took my hands and stroked them. "That's something indeed. Some even brought gifts when they heard that you were ill."
"That is absurd. They cannot afford gifts."
"Yes, and they still brought some. Admittedly they're not big gifts, but it's the thought that counts. Do you realise what that means?"
"They don't currently hate me?"
Amraphel laughed. "That's one way of putting it, I suppose!" She kissed my forehead. "Back to bed with you," she said then. "You're still not rid of that fever."
"I have to go to work."
"Don't be absurd, you can't go in this state. At any rate, Master Târik has told me to keep you at home until you've recovered."
I let her lead me back to the bed, but I could not stop worrying.

When Îbalad came back, he looked very pale, and did not speak with us for a few days. We pretended that nothing had happened as well as we could.
I looked through the gifts brought by my neighbours. Amraphel was right. They weren't much – a needle-bound pouch, a towel with embroidery in the corners, a necklace made of wooden beads, that sort of thing – but somehow it was touching that they had sent gifts at all. I must admit that I almost cried.
They also treated me with the utmost politeness, once I was allowed out of the house and back to work again. It did more ill than good, though. Even Îbalad, when finally he broke his silence, started with the foolish 'Lord Azruhâr', no matter how often I told him to stop it.
His wife supported him. "Why won't you just accept it? It's meant as a compliment, you should know that."
"Well, he can call me 'dear Azruhâr' if he must, but 'Lord' is a title I haven't earned."
"Take it as a compliment," Khibuleth said.
"It doesn't matter how I take it," I explained, "but if the real lords hear about it, they won't be pleased. It's astonishing enough I haven't been arrested yet for my presumption."

I clearly should not have said that, for only two days later I received summons to present myself before the King's council on Valanya next.
Amraphel tried to calm me. "They did not say whether it is about… that business," she said. "Perhaps it has nothing to do with it. It might be about your work…"
"About my absence from work, at best." It was long in the past now, but I still remembered the threat that had come with my pardon. No matter where you hide, you will be found, and no mercy will save you then...
"About your progress," Amraphel insisted. "Or some new guidelines…"
"They would call on Master Târik for that kind of thing," I said.
Amraphel sighed. "Yes. I suppose they would. But for what it's worth, they did not take you with them right away. Whatever it is, you can justify yourself before the council."
And that was true, I suppose. It just was no consolation whatsoever.

I did not wear my fine robes on Valanya. I had first thought about putting on the old stuff I wore down in the catacombs, so I would look more humble, but Amraphel reasoned that the council might then think that I did not take them serious. I certainly did not want that, so I compromised on my normal robes – good but simple stuff, the clothing of a craftsman who had been fortunate in his choice of commissions. At least those felt natural, and did not add to my discomfort.

The soldiers at the palace did not seize me as soon as I arrived, which I tried to take as a good sign. Instead there was some trifling talk in which I tried to participate as best I could. Afterwards I was shown to the council chamber by an amiable watchman, who chattered about nothing more important than the lousy weather. The guards, I deduced, did not know why I was here, either.
The council was already in session when I was shown in, and they did not interrupt their discussion. Few even acknowledged my presence – Master Khôrazîr of the Raisers raised his eyebrows at me; Quentangolë the scribe, seated to the right of the Crown Prince, gave me a brief smile; the Crown Prince himself gave me a look so angry that I almost turned and fled on the spot. I trembled as I made my obeisance, and hoped that they would not notice – or otherwise that they might judge me more kindly, knowing my fear. I waited.

And waited on. Although I had arrived at the appointed hour, the council did apparently not yet care to deal with me. Instead, they were discussing politics.
"The colonies must pay additional tributes," said one of the lords, who looked to be only a little older than Quentangolë or I. "That is only just. We protect them, after all, so they should pay their dues."
"But they already have paid their dues," an older man with a well-trimmed beard said.
The young lord waved his hand dismissively. "Onions and nuts," he said, "for Yôzayan! Onions and nuts to feed the greatest nation!"
"As I understand it, they sent as much as they could afford. That should surely be enough, even for, as you say, the greatest nation," said the old lord who had protested before.
"More than they could afford," said another man in the blue robes of the Venturers. "Their harvest was no better than ours – worse, from what I've heard. I have it on good authority that the Lord Governor of Tharbad already had difficulties feeding his people before the second tribute, and certainly he has more difficulties now."
"The Lord Governor of Tharbad's difficulties are not our concern," the Crown Prince interrupted sharply. He sat on the left-hand side of the empty throne, slouched in his ornate chair and glowering at the poor Venturer.
Had the Crown Prince spoken to me like that, I would have crumbled to ashes, I think; but the reprimanded Venturer merely smiled. "Why, as Lord Séretur so aptly said, they do pay so that we protect them. Letting them starve for our sake hardly seems like good protection to me."
"If I may remind my esteemed colleague," a councillor in spectacular velvet robes said, "that we hear rumours about people starving in the very streets of Arminalêth…?"

They continued arguing, and I began to feel a little resentful. I didn't want to be here, after all, and though I was afraid of whatever the outcome of my trial (for surely that was why I was here, for trial?) would be, I'd rather know it at once than be kept waiting forever. But except for the occasional glance from Quentangolë, who was busy taking notes (I wondered whether he had to write down everything that was said, and if so, how he managed, for the argument was growing heated and the councillors spoke very quickly), the council ignored me. Servants appeared now and then to refill the councillor's glasses, and one of them offered a glass to me as well, but I did not dare to accept it. Instead I stood and waited, trying not to dwell too much on the distressing sight of the empty throne, and to keep my face blank in case one of the councillors should look my way after all.
And they all did, as one man, for the Crown Prince suddenly interrupted the squabbling councillors and said, "Perhaps the Lord Azruhâr has something to contribute to our discussion? Do speak, Lord Azruhâr. What do you think we should do in the face of this crisis?"

I did not crumble after all, but I think it was a close call. The Crown Prince had a terrifying glint in his eyes, and some of the councillors almost matched him with their grim stares. A few appeared merely stern but not furious, and one or two perhaps only looked at me with some curiosity. Quentangolë gave me a look that suggested that he felt sorry for me.
And I opened my mouth, and said, "I… I don't know, your Highness."
The Prince's lips curled into a sneer. "What, a nobleman without an opinion? What a rare creature."
The floor was made of polished white stone with blue and green veins in it. It was probably some sort of marble, but I had never seen its like before. The marble you usually saw around was white and brown, or white and grey, or yellowish instead of white, but I had not known that it could also be blue and green. It was very beautiful. It was not, however, kind enough to swallow me.
"Your Highness knows that I am no nobleman," I said, or rather croaked. My throat felt very dry.
"Yes. We know that indeed." The glint in his eyes gave way to the same sternness I could see on the faces of the gathered councillors. He took up a heavy book bound in stained leather. I recognised it: It was the watch book.
"'Released at the pleasure of Lord Azruhâr the Embalmer'," the Prince read out. "We were a bit puzzled, to be honest, who that might be. Our Lord Eärendur here," he glanced at one of the councillors, the one who had defended the colonies, "does not, I believe, commonly use an Adûnaic name. And even if he did, he is most certainly not an embalmer…"
The Lord Eärendur pursed his lips as if disgusted by the idea. He probably was.
"But lo!" the Crown Prince went on. "All those released live in the same part of town, and by some odd chance they all live in the vicinity of a certain apprentice embalmer by the name of Azruhâr." He lowered the book and looked at me, and I returned to my study of the marble.
"So we have been wondering, you see, we have been wondering. Would you, by any chance, be that Lord Azruhâr?"
Well, what point was there in denying it? "I am that Azruhâr, your Highness."
"But not Lord Azruhâr?"
I frowned at my feet. He knew that already! "No, royal Highness."
"Then why does it say 'Lord Azruhâr' in the watch book, Azruhâr? Would you care to explain that to us?"
One of the councillors rolled his eyes. I suspected that he might be the one who had been present during my pardon, the one who had spoken against me. I was not entirely certain - I had been rather preoccupied and not paid much attention to anybody but the King - but I thought I had seen his face from the corners of my eyes. Now, however, he seemed to be bored rather than hostile.
"Would you care to explain, Azruhâr?" the Crown Prince snapped again.
"It was a misunderstanding, your Highness," I said.
"A misunderstanding?"
I could not stop staring at the councillor. He was no longer rolling his eyes, but he really was looking rather bored. That was a relief compared to the fierce look in the Crown Prince's eyes. He hated me, I thought, he really hated me.
"Yes, your Highness," I said without daring to look at him again. "I was wearing very fine robes that day, and so the guards thought I was a noble. I am very sorry."
There was some laughter. "Yes, fine feathers make fine birds," said the lord sitting next to the one in the splendid velvet, who turned sharply to glare at his neighbour. Quentangolë was scribbling furiously.
"Do you know what the punishment for assumption of authority is, Azruhâr?" asked the Prince.
My heart hammered in my chest; I could hardly breathe fast enough. "Not precisely, your Highness," I managed to say. And somewhat more softly, I mumbled, "Something painful that involves public humiliation, I expect."
This time, all the councillors laughed. They laughed for a good while, and the Crown Prince was left alone to glower at me.
"What an astute understanding of the law you have," one of the lords told me, and he was grinning. I did not know what to reply, so I bit my lip and said nothing.

"Begging your pardon, my lord," the Lord Eärendur said when the general mirth had subsided, "but if I may…? After all, my name was involved."
"Yes, certainly," said the Crown Prince with an annoyed flick of his wrist.
"Look at me, Azruhâr," said Lord Eärendur, so I did. His face reminded me of the King's – more so, in fact, than that of the Prince, perhaps because he was older. There were wrinkles around his eyes that suggested that he had smiled a lot in his life. He was not smiling now. "You say the guards mistook you for a nobleman because you were wearing fine robes?" Lord Eärendur said.
"Yes, my lord."
"Did you actually tell the guards that you were a nobleman?"
I pondered the question, trying to remember the exact circumstances. I was no longer certain what I had or hadn't said – although it had only been two weeks ago, what with the eventful night and the fever afterwards I could not recall it perfectly. "No, my lord," I tried. "Only that I was an embalmer…"
Master Khôrazîr of the Raisers snorted. "Which is quite the opposite," he said. I caught myself in time – almost I would have glared at him. That smug bastard, I thought.
"In that case, it would appear to me that the guards did the assuming, not your Azruhâr," said Lord Eärendur to the Crown Prince, who grimaced as though he had bitten into something sour.
"He is most assuredly not our Azruhâr," he said, glowering. "If anything, he is our father's Azruhâr. At any rate, he did not correct the guards when they called him a lord, now did you, embalmer?"
"I did not," I admitted. "I was trying to save my family, so I was preoccupied and forgot to protest." Only a small lie, I told myself, almost not a lie at all. My cheeks grew hot anyway.
"And in order to save your family, you had the very same people who had been marching against the storehouses released from prison?"
There were some raised eyebrows, but the councillor who had rolled his eyes earlier pointed out, in a dry tone of voice, "Well, they had clearly not been marching against his family." His seat next to the Crown Prince implied that he was of very high rank – a direct cousin or nephew of the King, maybe – which perhaps explained why he was not glared at. "Since the judgement is foregone anyway, shall we stop wasting our time?"
My breath quickened again. At the same time, I felt angry. If the judgement was foregone, why all these questions? Could they not condemn me directly and be done with it?
"It is vital that young Azruhâr understands the reprehensibility of his deeds, Uncle Atanacalmo," said the Crown Prince, mustering me like one looks at a nasty insect.
"I do!" I blurted out. He hated me whatever I did, I thought. It was not my fault.
"Do you?" the Prince said. "I am less certain. I think you have quite forgotten your rightful place, embalmer, and if the decision were mine, you would sorely feel the consequences."
I shuddered. I had no doubt that I would. He hated me enough to forego the plural; that said it all, didn't it? "Remember once and for all that you are Azruhâr the day-taler, Azruhâr the condemned, Azruhâr the nothing!"
"Alcarmaitë (1)," said Lord Atanacalmo. Whether it was protest or reprimand or warning or something else, I could not tell. I was confused. I was not entirely certain that I understood what was happening. What I did understand, in a flash of clarity that tore through my fear and resentment, was that the Crown Prince had it all wrong. Not I had forgotten my place - everyone else had. And that included even him. Azruhâr the day-taler, Azruhâr the nothing would simply have been dragged out of his house, and then scourged and put in the stocks or whatever the punishment for assumption of authority really was. Azruhâr the day-taler would certainly not have been formally summoned to appear before the King's council 'on Valanya next', with three days' warning. Yet here I was – and on my feet, too, and the skin on my back was (as yet, anyway) blessedly whole. Why that was, I did not know, but it was undeniable fact. And the Crown Prince, for all his talk, hated me – singled me out to waste such passion on me. I had forgotten my place? Hah!

"Unfortunately my father, venerable though he is, seems to have likewise forgotten what you are," the Crown Prince ranted on, unaware of my musings. "He appears to be inexplicably fond of you, and has decreed that if we should find you inclined to confess your transgression and repent of it, your assumption should be pardoned." His lips twisted in disgust.
I gaped, open-mouthed. My father appears to be inexplicably fond of you, I thought to myself. If the Prince had meant to intimidate or insult me with all this talk, he had certainly missed his mark – missed it by miles. Fond of me! His father! My King! If you had thrown me off a cliff in that moment, I think I would have floated. I would climb the Minultârik as soon as I could – this night, if I must – to pray for his health, that much was for certain. It was hard enough not to dash off that very moment.

"You appear surprised," Lord Atanacalmo observed, and I called myself to order as well as I could.
"I am, my lord," I said, and heard my voice tremble. "I did not expect to go unpunished."
"'Unpunished' remains to be seen," the Crown Prince said. "You are not to be punished for assumption of authority, but there is a different matter to settle."
He made a pause as if challenging me to protest, but I knew better than to speak. I waited.
He continued soon enough. "You have, after all, freed a goodly score of prisoners…"
Lord Eärendur laughed, and was glared at. Like the Venturer, he did not seem to take this to heart. Perhaps the Crown Prince just generally did a lot of glaring and hating, I thought, and you got used to it if you were a councillor?
"Would you care to explain what amuses you, Eärendur?" the Crown Prince said sharply, and I saw frowns on several faces.
"You make it sound as though he broke the gates and blasted the walls, Highness," Lord Eärendur said in a mild voice. "So far I believed that he had more or less gone and asked. That is perfectly lawful…"
"But since he is a commoner, he ought to have paid sureties, Eärendur," said Master Khôrazîr of the Raisers.
"Why, thank you for reminding me, Master Khôrazîr", Lord Eärendur said, and the way he said it, the honorific sounded like an insult. And perhaps it was, to a nobleman; it was, after all, a commoner's title only. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable again. I had not thought that the King's council was so much like a squabbling group of merchants. I did not think that it was a good idea to squabble over titles and sureties when the head of the council, the Crown Prince, was already close to exploding – although he seemed to be regaining his composure.
"Indeed, sureties, Eärendur," he said. "Sureties, Azruhâr. Will you pay what you should have paid?"
I blinked. That was all? This was about money? He had summoned me, a former day-taler, here over money, and in the same breath told me that I had forgotten what I was?
Out loud, I said, "Yes, certainly, your Highness."
He snorted. "You do not even know how much it will be, and you agree already?"
I grimaced, and amended, "I will if I can, your Highness."
"Listen well then!" Lord Atanacalmo said. "The surety is two weeks' pay. Your neighbours are all unskilled workers?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Hm. So that would be two Ships for each prisoner, then."
"Three Ships," the Crown Prince interrupted. "Think of the rising prices."
I had not meant to look incredulous, but it seems that I was too slow in controlling my features. Lord Atanacalmo raised his eyebrows and said, "Do you wish to say something?"
I tried to make my protest very carefully. "My lords, if my neighbours had a Ship and a half per week, or even just one, they would not have marched on the storehouses."
The lord Eärendur muttered something to his neighbour, but I could not understand what he said. The Crown Prince smiled. It was an unpleasant smile, I thought. "That is the price we have decreed, however. Do you doubt our judgement?"

And I found that I did. Son of the King though he was, and councillors of the King though the lords were, if they truly thought that a day-taler managed to earn a Ship in a week even when times were good, they were very clearly very ignorant. I bit my tongue, however, and bowed my head, and said nothing.
The Prince's smile was triumphant when I looked up again. "How many prisoners did you have freed? Two dozens?" he asked.
I wondered at the question. He had the watch-book, after all, so he should know well how many there had been. "Nine-and-twenty, your Highness," I said.
Raised eyebrows again. Had they expected me to lie? Did they think I was stupid? Well, probably they did – but that stupid?
"At a rate of three Ships per person, that makes..." the Crown Prince glanced at Quentangolë, who said "Four Trees and two Crowns and a half (2)", giving me an apologetic glance.
"Shall we make it a nice round sum?" the Crown Prince said to me. "Five shiny silver Trees?" He was no longer glaring now, and that surprised me. I should have thought that he was immeasurably rich, and that the thought of my five Trees should not cheer him so much. Or did he think that I would be badly hurt by the loss? At the rate of pay I was granted, five Trees meant ten weeks' work, and that was quite a lot of money, but even without knowing the exact amount of my savings I dared to hope that I could afford losing five Trees. It was unjust, since the sum was so clearly based on ridiculous assumptions, and so I hesitated – but it was not impossible.

They seemed to interpret my silence as refusal, for the Prince said, "Of course, you do not have to pay. We can simply have the breakers of the peace punished according to the law, and you fined only for the delay. That will cost you less..."
I bit my lips. "I will pay, your Highness," I said.
"Five Trees," he repeated, watching me closely.
"Yes, your Highness, five Trees," I repeated.
After a long pause, he said, "Very well then. Write that down, scribe. Five Trees, Azruhâr, don't you forget it!"
"I won't, your Highness." I felt like an idiot, but what else could I say?
"And if just one of them puts a toe out of line again, you will be held responsible for all, is that clear?"
I grimaced. "Perfectly clear, your Highness."
He gave me a long stare, and I was hard put not to look away. Finally he turned back to his councillors.
"Very well, Lord Eärendur. If you think the colonies are not an option, what do you suggest we do in order to feed the hungry?"

Since I had not been dismissed, I stood and waited while Lord Eärendur talked about lifestock, and of the oats and roots that were now fed to the pigs when they – and the pigs – might as well nourish hungry people. I was not asked to speak again, which was strange since they were arguing about the feeding of poor people. I certainly knew more about poor people than any of these well-fed lords in their silks and velvets. They argued that there were not enough spices to cook so much meat at once. Spices! As though we'd turn up our noses at a stew because pepper or cumin or coriander was lacking! It was certainly touching, the way they attempted to guess at poor people's lives, but oh, they really had no idea. And that, too, was strange. They were the King's council, after all, the wise men of the realm, and one should believe that they knew everything. They did not. That was quite the eye-opener.
And they did not ask for my experience, I realised eventually, because they had forgotten that I had it. I was born a day-taler, but I was also a man who could pay a fine of five Trees. I was living at the foot of the hill, but I was wearing good, warm robes and fine riding boots underneath. I was reminded of my low station, and yet I was not bleeding and not in the stocks, but in front of the King's council.
I was not Lord Azruhâr, but for all the Crown Prince's words, I was not Azruhâr the nothing anymore, and that was odd.

It certainly was a lot to think about.

---

Chapter End Notes

(1) I was getting annoyed with the lack of a pre-coronation name for Tar-Telemmaitë. As he was supposedly named Telemmaitë for his greed/love for silver, which can hardly have been apparent at birth, and the Númenoreans do not seem to have gone in for the motherly foresight thing of the Eldar, he must have had another name at some point. So I made one up. Shamelessly. Alcarmaitë means "glory-handed" (as opposed to the later "silver-handed"), so it suits nicely with the… um… modest mindset of Tar-Ancalimon and provides the pattern for Tar-Telemmaitë's later name.

(2) For an explanation of the Númenorean monetary system used in this story, see chapter 2, footnote 5.

Chapter 8

Read Chapter 8

As soon as I left the better part of town, I found myself surrounded by neighbours who had apparently waited for my return. "We would have waited before the palace, too, or in the market," Îbalad said, "but they threatened to arrest us for loitering, so we thought we'd better wait here."
"Better indeed," I said with an inward sigh. It looked as though I'd have to walk the rest of the way with an escort, something that would send all the wrong messages to all the wrong people. I marched on in silence, which was broken by Enrakôr the Smaller.
"How did it go, Lo... sir?"
"Later," I snapped. The last thing I wanted was to discuss these things on the open street. Enrakôr looked taken aback.
"Begging your pardon sir. But it went well?" He did look anxious, and I felt bad for having spoken so harshly.
"Well enough," I said. "I will tell you later."
"All right," he said. "Messengers have come, sir..."
I stopped in my tracks. Not again! "Messengers? From the palace?"
"No, from Master Amrazôr," said old Palatâr. Amraphel's father, I thought. Not really any better than guards.
"Do you know what he wants?"
"No, sir. They are speaking with your wife."

When I arrived, they were getting ready to leave - two of Amrazôr's groomsmen, Ulbar and Niluthôr. I remembered them both, particularly Niluthôr, to whom I owed a nasty beating. They no doubt remembered me as well, though they were polite this time. Only Ulbar spoke, however. Niluthôr was probably still nursing grievances. Well, so was I.
"Our master sent us to offer his help to his daughter and granddaughter," said Ulbar, explaining his presence. "But it seems that will not be necessary..."
He glanced around our combined kitchen and dining room. Once this had been the full extent of our house, and the walls had been the colour of loam and the floor had been of stamped earth. Now the walls were white-washed and we were walking on painted and glazed tiles. Only the table was still the same. There were several empty bowls standing upon it, I noticed; Amraphel had apparently fed the messengers. I was not certain that I approved. Feeding them was her father's duty, and he could certainly afford it, even if they looked rather thin and poorly dressed. They looked hardly better than my curious neighbours. I wondered whether they had always looked so shabby and I just hadn't noticed, or whether Amrazôr was in fact less rich than I thought. In that case, his offer of help was quite generous, though I could not help noticing that they had explicitly offered help to Amrazôr's daughter and granddaughter – not to me. No, he would cheerfully see me starve, no doubt. But at least he was thinking of his daughter now.
I did not voice my thoughts. In fact, I said nothing, as I did not know what to say.
"Good on you," Ulbar said, finally, and bowed his head in farewell.

"Well, that was a surprise," Amraphel said.
I nodded, looking after them. "An offer of help from your father himself," I said. "Who would have thought."
"I hope you are not angry that I did not accept it," Amraphel said. "I could not have born it."
I blinked. "Of course not, love. We don't need it." And then, with a sigh, I added, "Or so I hope."
Amraphel studied me, and I could feel the weight of my neighbours' stares as well.
"So what has the council decreed?"
I looked around, wondering whether we should really discuss this in front of all these curious people. But Amraphel only shrugged when I gave her a questioning glance. Fine, I thought. Let them know then!
"They accused me of unlawfully freeing prisoners, and of assuming authority." This was accompanied by glares at those who had insisted on the foolish 'Lord Azruhâr'. There were some embarrassed and some uncomfortable looks. Good.
"In the end they allowed that I shouldn't be punished if I payed sureties for all of you. I mean, those who were imprisoned. Or I could pay a lower fine and send you back."
I did not continue at once. I was hungry and thirsty after the long day, and in my own house I could surely expect not to be interrogated as soon as I stepped in the door! So I helped myself to some of the stew, and sat down on the table since all the seats were occupied, and ate.

"How much would it be?" Enrakôr the Smaller finally asked.
"Quite a bit," I said when I had swallowed my mouthful. "Did you know that the councillors think you make a whole Ship per week?"
I got some incredulous stares, and there was a lot of protest around the room. "I never," said Enrakôr the Smaller, and "A Ship, a whole Ship!" said Enrakôr the Taller. Aside from Zâmin and Thâmaris and maybe Palatâr, most of them had probably never held so much at once in their hands.
"I know it's not true," I assured them. "Yet that's what they think."
"How much then, all in all?" Amraphel asked.
I sighed. I really wasn't certain that we should speak about such sums with my neighbours present. But if Amraphel asked... "Five Trees," I said, setting my bowl aside.
The audience exploded in protest. Some people were close to tears, I could see, and Îbalad looked as though he wanted to murder someone. Old Palatâr stepped forwards, struggling to keep his face even - I saw his jaw tremble with the effort.
"Well, sir," he said, "I don't blame you then."
I frowned. "That's nice," I said. "What for?"
Amraphel clucked her tongue. "Don't be absurd, Palatâr. Of course he'll pay." She looked to me for confirmation. I was confused. Did Palatâr truly believe that I would send them back?
"Of course I'll pay," I said. In the stunned silence that followed, Palatâr clasped my hands and kissed them. I hastily pulled away, embarrassed.

"Five Trees!" said Târinzil, who with her splinted leg was blocking my chair.
"Yes. Three Ships for each of you, and then some because the Crown Prince wished to round the sum up."
Îbalad spoke up. "They won't be able to repay you, you know." He was watching me, I thought, like a fox watches a rabbit.
Well, even a rabbit could glare. "I know that. What of it? I don't expect them to repay me." I turned to the others. "You hear that? You don't have to pay it back. It's a gift. Now perhaps you can just leave me in peace."
They did not leave – quite the contrary, they flocked more closely than before. "That's very generous of you," Enrakôr the Taller said.
"I suppose it is," I said.
"Will you have enough to get through the winter?" Palatâr asked.
How sweet of him to worry about that, I thought. Out loud, I said, "As well as you, I'd imagine."
"Is there anything we can do?" said Zabulon, who had so far been very quiet.
I sighed. "There is indeed. You can keep out of mischief from now on, because otherwise I will be held responsible. I'm trusting you with my life, so to say."
They assured me – one louder than the other – that my trust was not misplaced. I hoped that they were sincere.

Amraphel, at any rate, thought they were. "If you were in their place, and someone had done you a good turn, would you cause them trouble?" she asked that night, when our neighbours had finally left and we were lying in bed.
I thought about the question for a while. "Of course I'll tell you now that I'd rather starve than cause them trouble. But if it came to the actual starving... I don't know. These are desperate times. And I know where despair can lead."
"Into rich Venturers' houses, for example?"
I deserved the reminder, of course, and sighed. "Yes. For example. See, I do trust them not to attack us again. I know they're decent folk. But they still need to eat something, and it's still a long time to go until Spring." And even in Spring, I thought, there would be no food. In Spring we lived on leftover grains and beans, and the last winter cabbages, until finally there were new things to harvest. There would be no leftovers this year. "I don't think they'll kindly remember me before stealing food elsewhere."
"Perhaps they will not be caught."
"That's what I thought, back then."
Amraphel sighed. "So we'll have to remind them that they owe you something. And keep a large pot on the hearth." She leaned closer to kiss my brow. "We'll get through this somehow."
I couldn't share her optimism. "Even the councillors have been discussing this, that's how bad it is. One of them suggested to slaughter most of the lifestock so the people could be fed..."
"Yes," Amraphel said after a moment's thought, "that is sensible. There would be a lot of meat, then, so it would be affordable for most people... and less provisions would be needed to keep the beasts fed, too. Do you know when this is going to happen?"
"No. They kept arguing about spices, and numbers." I couldn't quite keep my disdain from my voice, and Amraphel laughed in the darkness.
"That is important, you know. They have to make sure that there will still be enough animals left, come Spring – and you need salt at the very least to preserve meat for a longer time." She paused, and I knew that she was thinking about something. But she did not say what. Instead she asked, "You have to pay five Trees, yes?"
"Yes."
"When?"
I scratched my neck. Nobody had said anything about that. "At once, I assume. - Amraphel, we can afford five Trees, can't we?"
"Oh, easily."
"It is a lot. It's absurd, really. Two weeks' pay, Lord Atanacalmo said, but even if all of them worked for two weeks straight, they'd never earn so much."
"It is unjust, and no doubt meant to be, but you shouldn't let it trouble you. We can afford it." I could not see her face, but I could hear the smile in her voice. "Your thrift comes in handy after all."
I nodded in the darkness, staring at the ceiling.
"It is a pity, though; we surely could have put the money to much better purpose," Amraphel said. "Well, it cannot be helped."
"Indeed," I said, sighing. "And it could be worse."
Although I was tired, Amraphel made me recount the full tale of my hearing. She was less excited than I had expected about the purported fondness the King felt for me, and she outright forbade me to climb the Minultârik any time soon, saying that it was too dangerous.
"Have you ever wondered why we never go – went – to the Mountain for Yestarë?"
I had not.
Amraphel sighed. "Well, it was so because the Mountain is high enough for frost and snow. You would slip and hurt yourself, or freeze altogether – you cannot go there now. I know you weren't, but I was up there often enough for Erukyermë. More than once, it was miserably cold and windy, and I don't think we'd have dared it if there had not been so many people. My father sprained his ankle, once, on a patch of ice. So don't you even think of trying it at this time. Wait until spring at least."

The next morning, when we were alone, she unearthed one of our hoards. It was an odd moment. Of course I knew that I had been earning a lot of money, and I knew that we had not spent as much of it as we could have, but I'd had no idea that it amounted to so much by now. I stared down at the heap of silver crowns and half-crowns, lying innocently in an inconspicuous wooden box. The thought that there were more boxes like this hidden in other places around the house (so if people sought to rob us, they would hopefully count themselves well-paid after finding one of these hoards and leave the rest, never guessing that there was more) was almost too much to bear. My hands were trembling when Amraphel counted the coins into them. Ten crowns, ten half-crowns, and still there was money left in the box. It was unbelievable.

So after work I went up to the palace, and asked for Quentangolë. Master Târik had suggested that I turn to the treasurer directly, but I did not dare to do that. It seemed safer to speak with someone whom I knew reasonably well, first.
Quentangolë, at any rate, was friendly when I was led to his study - although he expressed his surprise that I wished to pay the full sum at once. "You do know that you could just pay one Tree now, and another in a month, and so on until you've paid in full?"
I frowned. I'd never heard of paying in this manner. "I don't think the Crown Prince would allow that," I said.
Quentangolë's eyebrows went up. "The state of Yôzayân is not so desperate yet," he said with a smirk. "You will pay, by and by; that is enough. It is unlikely, after all, that your income will run out any time soon. Even if the King should die-"
"He mustn't!"
"May Eru grant him many more years," Quentangolë said, sombre for once. "But even if his Majesty should, hm, receive the Gift of Men soon, you embalmers would still be needed."
"But the Crown Prince hates me," I said.
"Ah. Yes, he does that." Quentangolë tilted his head. "What did you do to him, by the way? I have been wondering, and I haven't been alone in wondering. Did you steal flowers from his garden? Or kiss his wife, perhaps?"
"No!" I was almost shouting, and glanced at the closed door. Perhaps the guard who had brought me here was still standing there, overhearing our conversation? Although the door looked quite thick, and was made of strong oak-wood; perhaps there wasn't much to hear on the other side.
Quentangolë, at any rate, did not seem to worry about listeners. "I thought not," he said, and added drily, "you are still alive after all, though the poor princess would probably have been grateful for the change." He saw me open my mouth to protest, and sighed. "I was joking, Azruhâr. Calm yourself. Some things, I suppose, have to remain mysteries. At any rate even the Crown Prince should be satisfied that you will pay – whether at once, or by and by, is of no consequence." He smiled again. "Such is the priviledge of the rich."
I snorted. "I don't think it's a priviledge that applies to me – Azruhâr the nothing."
Quentangolë actually laughed at that. "You did not take that to heart, I hope?" He peered at me, studying my face, and laughed again. "You did, didn't you. Oh, come on! You must realise you're more than that. That was just meant to intimidate you."
I felt embarrassed. "I didn't believe it, but I have no doubt that the Crown Prince does, and the council as well. Consider me suitably intimidated. And I'd rather pay at once, so I need worry about this no more."
"Well, it's your decision, of course," Quentangolë said. "An odd decision, though, I must say."

I shrugged again. "I guess I am odd, then." And with that, I took off my boots, where I had hidden the money all day – my feet were hurting rather badly by now – and counted the bright silver onto Quentangolë's desk. He watched, first with an expression of astonishment, then his mouth crept into a wry smile.
"You certainly are an oddity, and no mistake. So says the council, by the way."
"Well, they would."
"True, true; they set the norms, after all, so anyone unlike them is odd. But for what it's worth, a few of them – Father included – found you 'odd but endearing'. The Crown Prince may have hurt his purpose a little, there; after his introduction, they'd been expecting a noisy mud-spattered brute instead of your quiet little self, and you behaved yourself so impeccably that not a few councillors found it hard to dislike you. - Well!" He sat behind his desk, and took a book and a quill and a bottle of ink, and began to write. "So I certify that you have paid your debt in full, and that the matter is settled. I know that you won't dare to ask for it, but as a friend I will give you a copy in the vernacular anyway--"
I was still trying to make sense of what he had sat about the Crown Prince and the council, and did not understand. "A what?"
Another sigh. "A copy, Azruhâr, so you can prove that you gave me the money, in case I conveniently forget to hand it to the treasurer, or in case the treasurer runs away with it, or in case anyone just generally wants to cause you trouble."
"But you just wrote in your book that I gave you the money."
"Such trust!" Quentangolë turned the book around so that I could see what he had written – see, but not read, for he had used Elvish words. Of course. "As it happens, that is what I wrote down, but I am right in assuming that you cannot read it, am I not?"
"Well, yes-"
"Besides, the book might conveniently disappear... you never know. Don't rely on people's decency, not even up here."
I grimaced, opened my mouth, shut it again – what should I have said, anyway?
"So I write a copy of the receipt for you, in Adûnaic," Quentangolë concluded his lecture. And write he did. Then he handed the writ to me, and after I had checked it, he signed and sealed it. He wrote very fast – it took me more time to read the short note than it took him to produce it. But then, of course, he did a lot of writing, and had surely learned it young. Still, I was somewhat ashamed.
When I had pocketed the receipt, he smiled again. "Remember that, Azruhâr – always ask for a receipt that you can read."
"I do hope I won't ever need one again."
"It is not such a bad thing, to keep track of where your money has gone if nothing else," Quentangolë said. "You know, Azruhâr, you really need to learn thinking like a rich man."

Amraphel did not share his opinion. "It's nice that he gave you so much advice, and I suppose for a noble he's a decent fellow, but that last bit really wasn't necessary," she said when I – as usual – had reported the day's events, her lips thin and her speech curt. "There are too many people thinking like rich men already. I'd rather you keep thinking like Azruhâr."
"Well, Azruhâr is a rich man now," I couldn't help pointing out. "So I have been thinking..."
"Oh, do say. What has Azruhâr the rich man been thinking?"
There was a note of sarcasm in her voice that hurt me, and I was not entirely certain what I'd done to deserve it. I took me a moment to gather my courage.
"Well, I've just been wondering... could we afford to feed the others? I mean, until spring comes?"
For a moment, Amraphel did not reply. Then she said, "In theory, yes. I've been thinking about that myself. But it would not work. People have their pride. They don't want alms, they want to make a living. No matter how kindly meant - and of course it would be meant kindly - if we tried to invite them to more than a meal here and there, they'd soon resent us again, because it'd make them feel indebted."
"I know that!" I said. "I do know. But I've been thinking, perhaps if there were excuses...?"
She tilted her head, and I was relieved to see that she was looking more kindly now. "What do you mean by excuses?"
"Well, for example, if some of the women helped with the wool – then it would be normal that they shared our lunch, because that's how it's done, right? That way nobody's pride would be hurt."
"That is true, but I'm afraid we do not have nearly enough wool to make it feasible. Probably we can buy more if the nobles ever decide on the matter of lifestock, at least when sheep are involved, but until then..."
"Well, it was only a suggestion. Perhaps we can think of something else. Or we can find proper work, and pay them for that."
"That, on the other hand, might put a strain on our funds that would be hard to keep in check," Amraphel said. "And you'd never be able to find something for everyone who needs it."
I sighed, discouraged. "I just wish we could do something. I hate being so helpless."
Amraphel gave me a consoling smile. "We may find something. We'll just look out for opportunities, how's that? Perhaps you can ask Târik and the others whether they need any work done on their houses for a start - they can certainly afford it. A whole lot of people in that part of town could, come to think of it, but I suppose there's no hope in convincing them. With your friends, you may at least have a chance."
"I will talk to them first thing tomorrow."
"And I can offer to teach some of the youngsters to read and write – if they come to our house for lessons, they'll be expected to get lunch without anyone loosing face..."
"Yes!" I was glad that Amraphel liked my suggestion after all, and that she seemed to think we might make it work. "And surely my sister would sell us her fish cheaper, so our funds would last longer..."
"She should, she owes you enough," Amraphel said, and smiled again. "So maybe there's quite a bit we can do. Either way, I must say that I quite like how Azruhâr the rich man thinks."
Was I ever relieved.

Chapter 9

Read Chapter 9

My sister Nardurîl visited us each week after having sold her husband's catch on the market, so we soon had a chance to make our request. She immediately had bad news for us, however.
"To be honest, I am not certain whether I'll continue to come to Arminaleth," she anounced. "The road has been getting more and more dangerous; as long as enough of us fishmongers dare to make the journey, I suppose I'll go along, but I don't know how much longer that'll be."
"Dangerous?" I asked, frowning. "How so? The road to Rómenna is paved; surely it hasn't been washed away?" In our part of town, there were no roads anymore: Instead, you had channels of fat dark mud through which you had to wade if you had any business down here. I wore knee-high overshoes made of straw and sealed with wax, as did anyone else who could afford them, but other than that, there was no way of reaching our house with your feet dry and your legs unsmeared. But the paved streets in the better parts were perfectly fine, if glistening with water, so I could not imagine that the trade route to the coast was worse off.
Nardurîl snorted. "It's awash with muck and leaves, but no, not washed away. It's not the road, Brother, it's the people out there. They're hungry, and we're bearing food."
That was how I learned how desperate people were outside my little pacified neighbourhood: Some had apparently banded together to roam the forest for food, and while they had so far done nothing worse than grumble and block the way and stare at the traders who passed them, my sister and her fellow fishmongers were certain that it was only a matter of time until the hungry people outnumbered their small caravan, or until they were so desperate that they would take greater risks.
"It's not a nice feeling, making your way through people you know would strike you down or worse for the fish in your cart," Nardurîl went on.

"But you have to continue coming," I said, feeling absurdly cold in my snug and warm house. "Fish and seafood are the only things we can still rely on, these days. If you stop coming to the capital, the capital will starve."
"Well, then the capital should make sure the roads are safe to travel on," Nardurîl said. She had a point, I had to admit. If I were her, I wouldn't risk life and limb to bring food to a place that didn't at least offer protection in return. Still, I felt miserable. My great and magnanimous plan of feeding my neighbours hinged on Nardurîl's fish. And, well, life in the city really depended on deliveries from the coast right now, too.
"The city guard have so much on their hands with keeping the peace within the walls, I don't think they have enough men to keep the roads safe," I tried to reason.
"Plenty of men looking for a way of feeding their families," Nardurîl pointed out. "If they don't have enough men, they need to hire more. That'll contribute to peace within the walls, too, I'm sure."
"Indeed," said Amraphel, who was wearing a facial expression that didn't seem to fit the depressing turn our conversation had taken. "And maybe they would, if someone suggested the possibility – and the need – to the responsible people."
Enrakôr the Taller gave a snort. So far, my neighbours had listened in silence – they insisted on being present, however – but now they had emptied most of the fish stew, so they would probably not remain silent for much longer. "I wouldn't even know who that is," Enrakôr the Taller said, "and if I did, I wouldn't speak to them and they wouldn't listen."
My sister nodded grimly.
Amraphel looked at me directly. "Quentangolë must know," she said.
"Who's Quentangolë?" Nardurîl asked.
"The King's scribe," I said with a sigh. "Yes, he should know."
"And you can speak to him."
I nodded. "Probably."
"And the Nobs would listen to a scribe?" my sister sneered.
Old Palatâr spoke up. "King's scribe is a position for a Noble's second son, so the scribe could at the very least speak to his father, and the father could then bring it before the council."
I had to admit that this sounded reasonable. "I will speak with Quentangolë, but even if he is willing to help, that is going to take a long time. See how long the Council is arguing about the lifestock!"
"Of course it is going to take a while," Amraphel agreed cheerfully. She looked as if she'd found a piece of silk among the rags, I thought, as if she'd found some hidden treasure.
"That's not good news," I couldn't help pointing out.

She actually laughed. "No, it isn't. But I'll give you some good news. While the roads are unsafe, the traders are free to employ additional men to protect their goods. Nardurîl, you say that your caravans don't feel safe? Then have them accompanied by your own guards. There are weapons that any free man may bear, if sheer numbers are not enough to deter robbers. I mean, they're just desperate people, not hardened thieves. They'd probably shy away from a few strong men with no weapons at all. They'll certainly shy away from strong men with knives and cudgels."
"That can't be allowed," Târinzil said. "Is it? You can't just hire armed men and call them guards."
"Any merchant may hire up to eighteen workers at any given time, for whichever purpose his business demands," Amraphel said calmly. "Including protection. If you need more, you have to exceed a certain income and get permission from the King's council. But eighteen should quite suffice; I expect most of the fishmongers only have an assistant or two, and most of those will be family members, so they don't count as hired work." She turned to my sister again while Târinzil sat open-mouthed. "So if only five of you still dare to go to the capital, in theory you could take a host of ninety guards with you." Further mouths fell open; mine, I must admit, was among them. Ninety guards!

Nardurîl did not look convinced. "Where would you find such guards?"
Amraphel shrugged and glanced around the room. "I see a couple of suitable men right here, right now. Who among you can wrestle?" she called, and got a couple of cheers in response – the loudest came from Enrakôr the Taller, unsurprisingly. Enrakôr was not merely tall, but also firmly built; if he found work, it generally was heavy lifting.
"Who among you can handle a knife?" Amraphel went on. "Who can handle a spear? Who can hunt with bow and arrow?" Further cheers, and some fists raised triumphantly.
"There you go, Nardurîl," Amraphel said with a smile. "Already we have more than eighteen: You can pick and choose."
My sister stared at her without moving. She did not look as if she was about to pick eighteen of my neighbours (seventeen, I reminded myself, for she had a young fellow with her who helped her with the cart and the stall and the cleaning) for her protection.
Accursed Îbalad spoke up. "And you think you can send eighteen armed men – or more – through town and along the roads without any talk of breaking the peace?"
"They'll need some sort of uniform, I'll grant you that," said Amraphel. "But a hat or a tabard would do – nothing we can't make ourselves."
"And how do you know they'll actually do what you want, instead of robbing the traders themselves?" Îbalad went on. I felt a little guilty because I always thought of Îbalad as a criminal – he was just another desperate man after all – but really, that question was typical for him.
"Azruhâr trusts them," Amraphel said, which was not entirely true. I trusted my neighbours to be, on the whole, decent people – on good days. But these weren't good days.
"And I," Amraphel continued, "trust them not to be bloody fools. If they're getting paid for protecting merchants and their goods, they have nothing to win and everything to loose if they don't do their work."
"What would such guards be paid?" Enrakôr the Smaller asked.
"That is a very good question," Amraphel said. "Let me see. They would have to make the journey to Rómenna and back again twice for every trip the fishmongers make, possibly in the dark and in inclement weather. They'll have to bring their own cloaks and boots, or else go without; we can't equip all of them. They'll also have to bring their own weapons, if they have any. There'll be tear and wear and such. Well, we can't be too generous, but half a Ship, and maybe a Star or two? And a meal by the coast and one when you've brought your charges safely to the market, of course."

I looked around, judging people's reactions. Half a Ship was what a daytaler could normally expect to make in a week, but if it meant walking to Rómenna and back and to Rómenna again and back again, and possibly facing hungry robbers, would they think it worth the trouble?
I wouldn't have; but then, I was no longer one of them. They, from what I could read on their faces, were quite willing to make that journey twice and twice over, if it meant secure payment and a couple of free meals.
"A half-Ship and a Star or two? Who, pray tell, is going to pay that?" my sister asked.
"You and the other merchants," Amraphel stated in a matter-of-fact voice. "Craftsmen may only hire up to twelve, and apprentices none at all – and nominally, Azruhâr is merely an apprentice. But he'll give you the money, of course."
"While I can," I hastily specified.
"That is never going to work," Îbalad said; but the rest of us thought that it was worth a try.
"I just cannot believe that this is really allowed," I admitted later on, when we had discussed the particulars.
Amraphel shrugged. "I am reasonably certain that it is," she said. "But you can ask Quentangolë – you have to see him anyway, after all."

"It is quite legal," Quentangolë told me the next day, "although nobody in their right mind would want to be in your place. Besides, you're going to hurt your purpose."
"How so?" I asked, confused.
"Well, if you want the Council to be convinced that the roads are so insecure that they have to give permission to open the treasury to pay more guards if they do not want trade from the coast to come to a standstill, then it is unwise to make the roads safer."
"It is only meant to be a makeshift solution!" I said. "To tide them over until the Council has come to a decision."
Quentangolë grimaced. "I suspect your makeshift solution will make it look like no other solution is needed. You can do what you want, of course; it's your money, and you're free to waste it in whichever manner you wish."
"I do not consider it a waste, if it keeps people from starving – or from making other people starve."
"That is noble of you, but I am not sure whether the Council will want to share the sentiment."
Now it was back – the feeling of desolation that had gripped me before Amraphel had announced her bold plan.
"Do you understand it, at least?" I asked, biting back the bitter thought that had jumped into my mind: If the Nobles do not share a noble sentiment, what makes them noble? "And will you try to help me?"
Quentangolë seemed to realise how important this matter was to me; he put a hand on my shoulder and looked straight into my eyes, the usual cheer gone from his face. "I understand it very well, I admire your determination, and to some extent, I wish I were as courageous as you are. But I fear that I would bite more than I can chew – I certainly fear that you are about to break your jaw." He sighed. "But very well: I will try to get the Council to agree to a long-term solution that will not drain you of every last Star you've got. I cannot promise that it will be fast, as I'll have to tread carefully and the Council is never swift when it's about money. But I'll try."
"That is all I can ask for," said I, moved by the earnestness in his voice (and somewhat flattered that he thought me determined and courageous). "Thank you."
He gave me a lopsided smile. "Just look after yourself, Azruhâr. I'd hate to see you broken."
"You mean broke."
"I mean both."

In the end, there were only fifty-three, not ninety of my neighbours who passed Amraphel's and the fishmongers' muster; but fifty-three was a proud number already, almost enough to make an unbreakable wall around the carts and mules. It took quite a while to convince the fishmongers to agree to the arrangement in the first place – Amraphel and Nardurîl must have shown endless patience – but once everybody understood that the largest part of the expenses would be born by me, and all they had to do was provide a meal when the fifty-three arrived in Rómenna. As they were genuinely convinced that the road was full of robbers these days, they eventually accepted the fish stew it would cost them as the price they had to pay in order to continue making good money in Arminaleth, where people paid a lot more for fish than they did by the coast.
Amraphel then bought many yards of wool dyed a bright golden orange with onion peels, from which she and several women and girls made fifty-three hooded collars so everybody would see that the fishmongers' guards belonged to some sort of group and didn't just loiter around.
Baladûn – unlike his father, he had passed muster – tried his on with a satisfied air. "We'll be like an army," he said proudly. "Azruhâr's Men."
"Please, no!" said I.
"The Protectors of the Trade?" Enrakôr the Taller suggested. "That makes us sound quite important."
"Too important – and too official," Amraphel said. "This is a private arrangement."
"Well, we should have some sort of name," insisted Baladûn. "We can't just be 'the guys hired by the fishmongers but really paid by Azruhâr to make sure the fish reaches the market'."
Îbalad rolled his eyes. I wondered whether he really thought his son silly, or whether he was secretly angry that we did not trust him enough to send him along. "That would be honest, though," he said. "Be honest and call yourself Onion-hood, at least."
I found it funny that Îbalad should preach honesty (although to be fair he had given me no true cause for grief ever since that fateful night), but he had a point.
"Onion-hood is good," I said. "Or Copper-hood, if you want to be poetic. I mean, it's almost copper-coloured. And you'll be paid in copper, too. So it makes sense, sort of."
"Copper-hood," said Baladûn, "that sounds like a snake or something." Then he grinned. "I like it. All right, let's be the Copper-hoods."
I could not care less, really. All I cared about was that they didn't run around calling themselves Azruhâr's Men. I had no desire to face the Council ever again, and certainly not because someone didn't know how to keep their foolish mouth shut.

They didn't know how to keep their mouths shut, anyway; after a couple of market-days, the news about the Copper-hoods had spread both among the poor of the city and those who were making the roads unsafe. Several of them were willing to change sides, it seemed, for a half-Ship and two stars. They had not initially set out to be robbers, anyway, I was told when they applied for a position among the Copper-hoods: They had gone out to the woods to find roots and beech-nuts and the like. The most criminal thing they had done, their spokesman said, was peel the bark off trees to grind it to flour, or cut branches for firewood.
"You mustn't be caught doing that," Amraphel said. "Trespass against the Vert is a serious thing. All the woods belong to the King."
"Hunger is a serious thing, lady," the spokesman said dourly. "And are we not the King's subjects?"
"The King cannot feed everybody with his own hands," I interrupted, but Amraphel gave me a glance that suggested it was my turn to keep my mouth shut. I swallowed the rest of my words.
"Hunger is a serious thing indeed," said Amraphel. "But that does not make it just to steal food from another, who will then likewise go hungry."
"We never stole from the fishmongers," said the spokesman. "We were just hoping they'd throw us a fish or two. We were begging, like – that is not a crime!"
"That depends on the manner of your begging," Amraphel said, and there were some coughs and some averted faces. Surely it had been the aggressive kind of begging.
"We're starving, and they're parading whole carts full of fish under our noses," someone mumbled. "That's tempting, that is."

In the end, I was compelled to add another thirteen men to the ranks of the Copper-hoods. The women made twenty new hoods (just in case), and I paid for the fabric, and I paid for their journey to the coast and back, twice or even four times per week. I also paid for the additional fleeces Amraphel bought. I had not expected there to be any, at this time of year, at least not before further sheep were slaughtered; but it appeared that many of the poor women who would normally buy fleeces in fall had saved the money for food this year. Now they came to our house to do their usual cleaning and combing and spinning, and I paid them for their work, and I paid for the boys who brought us news from the market and from other parts of town, and for the food they all ate, spinsters and Copper-hoods and errand-runners and the girls who filled our house each afternoon, learning to read and write.
"Why only girls?" I asked Amraphel, who shrugged.
"I offered it to all of them, but they seem to think it only makes sense for young women. The agreement seems to be that a pretty girl who has knowledge above her station may be married above her station." She smirked a little. "My father thought so, too, and look where it got him. At any rate, the others would rather work then learn. It's their decision."
It was that, and it made sense, I supposed. The girls seemed to be reasonably good students, because after a few weeks they stopped struggling with the exercises that had given me so much trouble back in the day. Some also wanted to learn how Amraphel kept our account-book (which I must admit I did not understand, even though I always nodded sagely when Amraphel showed me the numbers to put my fretful mind at ease), whether from curiosity about our wealth or from an actual desire to learn calculation and book-keeping (which was no doubt useful if you dreamed of being, say, a merchant's wife). And then Amraphel brought a storybook home from the market. They took turns reading it out loud to each other and to the older women who were doing their spinning on the other side of the room. I heard bits of it whenever I came home, and found it exceedingly silly. It was about a young Noble who lost the love of his life because he had written a piece of tasteless poetry, and who then had to prove that he was worthy after all by proving his impeccable taste in a number of pointless feats, like arranging flowers or composing perfume.
"That's the most absurd thing I have ever heard," I told Amraphel and the girls when I had listened to the silliness long enough. "Nobody would scorn a nobleman just because he writes bad poetry. And why would he need to arrange flowers? What does it matter?"
Amraphel sighed and said that it was a famous Vanyarin love-story, and in Vanyarin society, nobility mattered less than other accomplishments, which were highly treasured by people who did not die and had nothing more pressing to do with their time.
"Arranging flowers?" I asked incredulously. "Really?"
"Yes, really, you unlearned barbarian," said Amraphel.
"You knew I was unlearned when you married me," I pointed out, "and I hope you won't expect me to arrange flowers for you now, because I have no mind for that sort of thing."
"We'll talk about it later," she said in a gentle voice, so I knew she was not angry because I was an unlearned barbarian, she just didn't want to stop reading the book now.
"It is quite a foolish story," said Khibuleth, our lodger's wife, glancing up from her spindle. "But it's lovely to imagine a place where a common woman can reject a nobleman if he doesn't meet her expectations, and where the nobleman will then do the silliest things to win her back."
Put like that, I could understand the attraction of the book. But it was absurd nonetheless.

Quentangolë had no news for me concerning the safety of the roads, but he did tell me that the Council had finally decided about how many chicken and geese and pigs and oxen and sheep could be slaughtered without leaving the land without any lifestock to breed, or without milk and eggs. He advised me to send anyone in search of work to the butcher's district on Isilya next week, early in the morning, and to buy my share of the meat early before the prices rose again. "They'll also sell stored vegetables, but that'll be the kind that, well, normally goes to the pigs," he said. "I'd stick to the grain and the meat."
"A carrot is a carrot," my mother used to say when I complained about the wrinkled, rubbery vegetables we got in winter, "and an apple is an apple". I kept that to myself. Quentangolë was a fine fellow, but he probably wouldn't understand that some people were grateful for the dry and misshapen vegetables that his kind saw fit only for swine.
I felt a little guilty that I only alerted my own neighbours about the impending chance of work in the butcher's district, because I knew there were other daytalers desperate for such news. But my charity had already gotten me into a mire; I really had to be careful now. At any rate, the news would surely travel fast enough.
Those who had left for the butcher's district early that morning did not return until late in the evening, which was a good sign. Meanwhile, Amraphel and the other women went to the meat-market with buckets and wheelbarrows, accompanied by a couple of boys with slings and cudgels to deter other greedy folk. When I returned from work that evening, our kitchen smelled like a butchery too, because they were busy making sausages and curing ham and boiling cut apples in lard. There were whole half pigs dangling from the ceiling beams, and jars of spices and dried herbs all over the place.
And I paid for the meat and fruit and vegetable, and I paid for the assistance Amraphel had received, and I paid for the use of Old Palatâr's smoking hut so all that meat could be preserved. At least I did not have to pay those who had found work with the butchers. They were mostly paid in kind, not in coin, but nobody complained, since the kind in question was sheep's heads and hams and other nourishing things.

Together with the regular supply of fish, the newly-acquired roots and apples and oats that no longer had to feed the pigs, the sored onions and beans, and the acorns that some of the Copper-hoods brought back from their travels – with all these things to fill our larder and my neighbours' bellies, one might think that I no longer needed to worry about the winter. But I did; oh, I did. Money was running through my hands; I had still not grown familiar with the idea that I had so much of it to go around, and I certainly had never learned to spend money with open hands. Amraphel assured me that there was no danger of exceeding my income yet, as we still had about a quarter of my savings left and I continued to bring in money each week. But although I trusted her with all my heart, I still couldn't help feeling that I was looking at an uncontrollable and unstoppable flood of coins that would eventually sweep us all away into some dark and horrid abyss. A quarter left, that meant three quarters gone!
"Erukyermë is but seven weeks away," she said, putting a cool hand onto my cheek. "Soon after, there will be spinach and radishes and turnip tops, not to mention wild herbs; and not longer after that, peas and strawberries will follow..."
"You're making my mouth water," I said. "But we'll have to hold out until all these fine things are really ripe for the harvest."
"And we will, Azruhâr, we will. Don't give up now."
"I don't want to give up. I'm just terrified that it'll all break down before we're ready for it."

Quentangolë's news should thus have filled me with joy, but they only added to my terror. "The Council has agreed at last to replace your Copper-hoods with guards of their own choosing to patrol the road and safeguard the trade," he said with a smile. "The Crown Prince does not want a certain individual to win fame by making the merchants of Rómenna dependant on his vigilantes; that eventually helped to open the treasury."
The certain individual, I understood, was me. That meant that the Crown Prince knew all about my role in that scheme and had decided to put an end to it. "Why did he wait until now, then?"
Quentangolë shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe he was hoping that you were going to go bankrupt first."
"He didn't wait long enough, then."
"I am glad to hear that," said Quentangolë. "I really am. But he had to do something now, really, because you've acquired quite a reputation."
All my blood seemed to flow into my stomach at once: There was a sickening clump in there, and everything else felt empty and cold. I wrapped my arms around myself. "I don't want a reputation," I said.
"It's not a bad reputation. More along the lines of 'that fellow who keeps the moneyless out of trouble', and 'at least someone is doing something about the situation'."
I groaned, shaking my head. I should have waited for my breakdown until I was alone, I knew, but I could not, I simply could not. Oh, that meant so much trouble! I crouched down and buried my head between my knees, hearing my voice muffled: "Too much, too much! They are going to kill me!"
Kindly Quentangolë did not tell me to get out of his office and stop stealing his time, nor did he point out that I was being ungrateful, after all, I no longer had to keep the Copper-hoods in pay, and he'd probably worked hard to get the Council to that point. Instead, he left his distant position behind his desk, and squatted down next to me, putting an arm around my shoulders.
"Nobody is going to kill you - just yet," he said. "And Prince Alcarmaitë was hating you anyway; it's not like anything got worse."
That was no consolation at all. "I gave him more reason," I explained to Quentangolë. "And I brought more attention onto myself."
"This is what I meant," he said with a sigh. "But for what it's worth, killing you would raise too much of a fuss. Your name is too well-known, in a good way. Trust me, your reputation is a shield!"
"It's a beacon – it's making me a target! It can't be hard to drag my name into the dirt, and then kill me. And I can't guarantee my neighbours that they'll have an income until food is easier to get by, either – they'll hate me too! Oh, I am never going to get out of this-- "
Quentangolë listened to me, and tried to reassure me, though I cannot remember whether anything he said made sense. In the end, he resorted to stroking my back and letting me ramble and weep on until I regained some modicum of control over myself – enough to let him return to his work.

Not long after that, the Copper-hoods sat in my house and discussed the injustice of it all. I came back from work exhausted and frustrated – there had been a series of fruitless experiments again – and learned that the city guards had sent them back to the foot of the hill in the morning, when they had wanted to leave for Rómenna as they always did.
"We're no longer needed, they say," Baladûn said grimly. "The Guards of the Road are more suited for the task, they say."
"Their task is going to get harder, if we have to return to foraging," muttered Dâran, one of those who had been a threat to the trade earlier.
Enrakôr the Taller snorted. "They've got real weapons, you fool. They'd just cut you down if you come too close."
"And they'll probably blame it on Azruhâr," Îbalad said. I expected some sign of satisfaction on his face, but to my great surprise, he looked worried instead. His fingers were drumming on the table (my table). "You mustn't endanger yourself, and you mustn't get him into trouble."
"Thank you!" I heard myself say; I also heard that I couldn't mask my surprise at his sudden considerateness. He just nodded, but I thought I detected a glint of defiance, or maybe hurt, in his eyes.
"Maybe you can apply to join the Guards of the Road," suggested Khibuleth.
Enrakôr shook his head. "Already tried that. Seems they're explicitly ordered not to accept anyone from this part of town."
That, I thought, was the Crown Prince's revenge. Whatever Quentangolë said, it had gotten worse.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Don't be absurd," Îbalad said in a shockingly reasonable tone. "We all knew it wasn't going to last. It worked for longer than I would've thought, leastways."
"Not long enough," I said.
"Six weeks," Amraphel said. Erukyermë had become a magical fixture in our plans, as if everything would be all right again just because a certain date had passed; but I needed to cling to some hope, however foolish it was.
"Six hungry weeks," Enrakôr sighed.
"Most of us are still getting paid, aren't we," Târinzil spoke up, sounding a little smug. That was right; I was paying some women to clean our house, and others to help with the laundry, and others to mend everyone's clothing, and of course all those who continued to turn the enormous heap of fleece that Amraphel had obtained after the butchering days into yarn.
"Indeed," Amraphel affirmed, and the women at least smiled and looked relieved.
"I don't like to be dependent," said Îbalad between clenched teeth, as if it made any difference whether he was dependent on my money or Khibuleth's or both.
"I'll try to find something new," I promised nonetheless.
And I got Master Târik to pay a couple of men to tame his garden, and I got Kârathôn to hire someone to clean away the half-rotten leaves and old birds' nests that were blocking his roof rail, and Mîkul decided that his walls could need some new paint.
But that just wasn't enough.

Chapter 10

Read Chapter 10

"There's a Nob asking to see you, sir!" said one of the young boys – Tîmat he was called – who kept an ear on the streets for us.
It was Valanya, a Council day, and so I expected that my fears were going to come true today: That I was summoned to answer to new charges, Assuming Authority or Breaking the Peace or whatever else the Crown Prince thought I had done this time. I could not keep the tremour out of my voice. "Where am I to go?" I knew there was no point in delaying the inevitable, but good grief, it was hard to man up and face whatever lay ahead. "The palace?"
Tîmat shook his head. "Not so far. No, he's standing where the road starts." He grinned, revealing that his front teeth were missing. Soon he would no longer be counted a boy, I thought, clinging at anything to distract myself. Tîmat went on, "Stepped into the mud and got his shiny boots dirty, and then he asked whether I knew where Azruhâr the Embalmer lives. I didn't know whether you'd want me to bring him here, so I said I'd ask whether you were at home." Another gap-toothed grin. "He gave me three Stars for my trouble, too! But if you'd like, I can tell him I didn't find you and see if he gives me any more."

I tried to calm myself by thinking the matter through. A nobleman who came down to the foot of the hill was probably not about to have me judged in front of the Council – they would simply have sent guards for that purpose – nor was it likely that he would deal out my punishment in person – he wouldn't have waited for a street urchin of doubtful loyalty to warn me first. Besides, it was unlike a Noble to do such dirty work with his own hands. It could not even be the Crown Prince, who maybe hated me enough to wring my throat in person, because certainly he would not have gotten his boots dirty for the purpose. It made no sense however you looked at it, but at any rate it did not seem likely that I would suffer greatly just now. Maybe it wasn't a Noble at all, just one of my colleagues?
I stood up. "No, thank you. I suppose I'd better go and find out what he wants," I said with a sigh. "Come along, Tîmat; maybe I'll need you to bear another message back here."
And I put on my warm cloak and my straw overshoes, and followed Tîmat towards the passage where the muddy road ended and the paved streets began.

The person who was waiting there was indeed a nobleman, that much was obvious, and not one I knew. I vaguely remembered his face (very handsome; some people have all the luck) from the ceremonies I had attended at the palace, but if I had ever been introduced to him, I had completely forgotten who he was. But he was a nobleman: He was accompanied by bodyguards and everything. One of the guards was holding the reins of a splendid black stallion. Its hooves and legs were unsullied; the nobleman's boots were, as Tîmat had said, smeared with mud up to his shins. He had clearly judged correctly that the road was too muddy to safely ride through, but misjudged the depth of the mud.
The bodyguards were all uniformed, from their fine grey leather boots (some of them muddy, some not) to their blue cloaks closed with silver brooches that showed the same family badge; they all looked like trouble, but they remained behind their lord, whose expectant frown actually gave way to a smile when he saw Tîmat and me sludge closer.
I tried not to look too confused.
"You must be Azruhâr, then," said the Noble. "Well met – no, don't!" But it was too late; I had gone down on one knee - if I had to choose between muddy breeches and risking to offend a nobleman, muddy breeches it was. "Please, stand up," he said, and I complied. The mud sucked at my leg greedily, trying to keep me down, and finally let go with a disgusting squelch.
"Oh, look at that mess," the nobleman said. "That really would not have been necessary."
"I apologise, your lordship," said I, although I felt somewhat silly for apologising that I had greeted him in the manner that was normally expected. Well, if he was worrying about the state of my breeches, he surely didn't mean to hurt me, and that was good. "What can I do for you?" I asked.
He was still looking at my mud-caked pant leg, a frown marring his pretty features. He reminded me of someone, that is, I was certain that I had seen his eyes before, just not in this particular face. I just couldn't put a finger on it.
"My brother has asked me to see whether there was anything I could do to help down here," said the nobleman, making less sense than ever, "and you are supposed to be the man who can tell me what needs to be done."
My mouth fell open. I exchanged a glance with Tîmat, who gave a dismissive shrug as if to say, Well, isn't it true?
"Your lordship's brother?" I asked, feeling rather foolish. The Noble's eyebrows went up, whether in indignation or amusement I couldn't quite tell, although he seemed to be given rather to amusement, judging by the curl of his lips and the glint in his eyes.
"You do not know who I am, do you?" he asked.
"Begging your pardon, your lordship, but no, I don't."
He grinned. Amusement, I thought, was better than annoyance.
"Eärengolë of Andúnië," he said with a courtly bow.
"Azruhâr son of Narduhâr, at your lordship's service," I said automatically, bowing lower (I now assumed that it was safer not to kneel again, although it wasn't as though my breeches could get any muddier). The formal response gave me a welcome chance to suppress the words that really wanted to rise to my tongue, What an impossible name. Tîmat, standing a few staps behind me, had given a little snort at it; I hoped that nobody but me had heard it, since he didn't even bother to pretend that he needed to cough or the like. Well, noblemen had strange tastes, I thought; but at least now I knew where I had seen those cheerful eyes before – in the face of Quentangolë, of course. I remembered what old Palatâr had said, about King's Scribe being a position for a lord's second son. So this must be the first son, the future heir of the current lord of Andúnië, who in turn was the man whose name I had sort of dragged into the dirt back in early winter, when I had freed my neighbours. Oh dear.
"Quentangolë is your lordship's brother?" I asked, just to make sure I had pieced the bits together correctly.

He gave a little sigh. "Please, you know my name now. You make me feel ancient – and horrible. Don't you think all this 'your lordship' business is cumbersome?"
"I would not know, Lord Eärengolë," I said, "I cannot pretend to know the preferences of your noble kind."
He sighed again, but said, "Better. And yes, Quenno is indeed my little brother." He looked around, demonstratively rubbing his arms although he was wearing a fine beaver-fur coat and couldn't possibly be cold. "Maybe we can continue this conversation inside somewhere?"
I looked at his feet doubtfully. "I would invite you to my house, but the road is only getting worse," I said. If he worried about my breeches, I could not imagine that he would want to ruin his own boots.
"Ah," he promptly said. "I see you have found a clever way to protect your feet?"
"Yes, Lord Eärengolë. If you wish, you can have my overshoes --" I bent down to take them off.
"No, that will not do." He waved his hands at once. "Are there any more of these overshoes to be had?"
"Would you like me to get Elzahâr?" Tîmat asked from behind. He was going barefoot, and had mud smeared up to his thighs: He probably thought we were being quite silly.
"Elzahâr makes these straw-boots," I explained to Lord Eärengolë. "He may have another pair ready, if we're lucky."
"Then by all means, send for him – and his shoes," Lord Eärengolë said. While Tîmat dashed off, I wondered whether the nobleman would be willing to pay for a pair of overshoes he'd likely only need on this one occasion. Maybe I could later buy them off him and give them to someone else who had more use for them.

I also wondered whether I should try to make conversation. Probably. It was surely impolite to stand here in silence, leaving Lord Eärengolë to boredom. I just had no real idea how noblemen conversed. Did they talk about the weather, too?
"I am dreadfully sorry about the state of the roads down here," I tried.
Lord Eärengolë tilted his head, his lips curving in a grin. "I was not aware that you were responsible for their state," he said. "Which is indeed dismal. How did you go about it? Did you just water them, day by day, until they were aswim? Or did you import the mud from Fornostar?"
I almost laughed at these suggestions, but I wasn't sure whether that was permitted. "That is not what I meant, Lord Eärengolë; I just feel ashamed because you have to see this... this muck. We don't often get such high-born visitors, mind you."
"I can imagine," he said wryly. "It would be a good thing if these roads were plastered, or at least drained and gritted, would it not?"
"Oh, that would be a blessing," I said. "In every respect. It's not going to happen in my lifetime, though."
The nobleman grinned more broadly. He had the same contagious grin as Quentangolë, and the same odd sense of humour, it seemed. "It just might, Azruhâr; it just might."

I did not dare to interpret too much into that exchange, but I did not dare to change the topic, either – so I fell silent after all, clasping my hands behind my back to keep them from scratching my head or peeling the hardening mud off my breeches. Elzahâr saved us when he arrived after a while, at a mad dash, with two pairs of straw-woven overshoes under his arms and two more carried by Tîmat.
"Please, don't kneel," Lord Eärengolë said as they came to a halt before us.
Elzahâr's jaw worked – I could practically hear him think – and finally compromised on a caricature of a courtly bow. "Your lordship," he said breathlessly. "I hope that one of these fits. They're all slightly different, so maybe one pair will have the right size. Um. If it please your lordship to try them on?"
So far, I had probably been Elzahâr's wealthiest customer. Having an actual nobleman wear his overshows would make a fantastic tale if nothing else, but I really hoped that he would get some money for his trouble, too. Weaving straw was miserable work; you could cut your fingers open on it, and the dust got everywhere, making your nose and throat itch. The rims of Elzahâr's eyes were indeed red and enflamed, but on the other hand, it was as reliable an income as one could hope for.
The second pair that Lord Eärengolë tried on seemed to fit nicely, and I thought that would be the end of it, but he asked his bodyguards to try the remaining pairs until three of the bodyguards had overshoes, too. Elzahâr looked at once hopeful and crestfallen as he said, "I do not have any more, though of course I can make more if your lordship wants me to, but that will take a few days..."
Lord Eärengolë smiled. "That will not be necessary; a few men have to stay behind with the horse, anyway. No, this will do very well. What do I owe you?"
A sigh of relief escaped me, while Elzahâr looked down at the ground, mumbling "I normally take half a Ship for a pair, your lordship...?" At this point, customers would rarely pay and more commonly haggle for a lower price. I knew that Elzahâr generally settled at three Stars for a pair, but with so many sold at once, he might be willing to take less.
"Half a Ship per pair, that'll be a Half-Crown," said Lord Eärengolë. I opened my mouth to protest, because maybe Elzahâr did not know enough of calculation to catch the mistake, but I certainly did. Four pairs at half a Ship each, that was two Ships – not three. I assumed that this was some sort of test, to see how honest poor Elzahâr was. This was how we got branded as dishonest often enough: Someone would say too high or too low a price, and because most of us couldn't think beyond half a Ship, we didn't know that we were being tested. I wanted to save Elzahâr from such a fate, but then I saw that Lord Eärengolë was winking at me. I shut my mouth again, frowning.
"One Ship for the speedy delivery, and for troubling you on a high day," he said by way of explanation. "And two Ships for the exceedingly useful overshoes." He began to dig in his purse, and indeed produced a silver Half-Crown. I thought of my first Crown and a half, when I had begun working as an embalmer. I had probably looked just as Elzahâr was looking now, his red-rimmed eyes wide and round, his mouth falling open in astonishment. He accepted the coin with trembling hands, kissed it, and then he fell to his knees after all, which actually caused Lord Eärengolë to step forward and try to catch him.

"Why did he do that that?" the nobleman complained as we made our way to my house, accompanied by tireless Tîmat and three of the bodyguards. "I asked him not to kneel, didn't I?"
I half-turned so I could see his face – see whether he was being serious. He seemed to be.
"We have to show our gratitude in some way, don't we?" I asked in return.
"Well, there's nothing wrong with saying 'Thank you, good lord' or something of the sort," he said.
Tîmat snorted; I shot him a warning glance, although he was right, of course.
"Um," I heard myself say. "An hour ago, Elzahâr and his wife were probably trying to figure out how to put food on the table this night. Now they don't have to worry about that for at least a week. Maybe two. 'Thank you, good lord' seems a little weak, doesn't it? And its not exactly like lords mind when you kneel to them."
He did not reply, and for a while we sludged on without speaking. Then suddenly he spoke up again.
"Can I ask you to be honest, Azruhâr?"
I actually stopped in my tracks, because his voice sounded so strange – almost subdued. "I would not dare to be anything but honest to your lordship," I said, which was quite true. I might try to paint the truth in a way that might suit him better, oh yes, but I certainly would not lie. Most of us wouldn't, unless our life were already at stake and it couldn't get any worse.
I could see his eyes widen as if in shock. "I did not mean to imply that you were dishonest," he said. "I apologise."

Well, how did you reply to that? I wracked my mind for an appropriate answer, and finally came up with, "No offense taken, Lord Eärengolë. And yes, I will try to answer any question that you choose to ask me, if that is what you meant."
There was a smile on his face now. "It is indeed." He sobered at once. "Tell me, Azruhâr: Am I intruding here, or am I welcome?"
I blinked as I tried to figure out the right answer. "I don't rightly know, my lord," I finally admitted. "You certainly are an alien down here, because I've never heard of a nobleman come to the foot of the hill at all. It's hard enough to get craftsmen to come here! And I'm not sure what to do. So I suppose that yes, you are intruding."
And he was, and in more than just the way I had just told him. Life was often bleary if not downright miserable down here, but at least you could feel safe in the company of your peers, all of whom shared your plight and all of whom could be treated in the same way, spoken to in the same language. We had to meet craftsmen and merchants and even the occasional nobleman up in the better parts, of course, and there we bowed and tried not to say or do anything offensive, but down here, we did not need to worry about that; we were free. With him present, we weren't. Especially since he didn't even stick to the normal rules that noblemen tended to follow. With normal lords, when you had inadvertently offended them, you could always fall at their feet. Him, you'd probably just make angrier. How were you supposed to deal with someone like that?
On the other hand, Quentangolë had sent him down here because he thought his brother could help, and while Quentangolë knew next to nothing about our lives and needs, he was certainly meaning well. Tîmat and Elzahâr had already benefitted from Lord Eärengolë's presence, at least.
"But you said that you wanted to help, and help is certainly welcome," I went on. "Just, if I may say so, please don't think ill of people when they are wary around you, because most of us have had our experiences with the powerful, and most of them aren't particularly friendly to our kind."
"'Them', and 'our kind'," Lord Eärengolë echoed. "You make it sound as if we were of different species."
"Aren't we?" I asked. I hadn't meant to be so blunt, but it was out before I could stop myself. There was almost a hurt look in his eyes now, as if I had negated his humanity; but he did not protest.
We went on in silence, and I thought, Great – now you've insulted Quentangolë's brother. Who was supposed to help us, and who had certainly done nothing to deserve an insult. So far, he had been very nice – especially for a nobleman.

He continued to be very nice. I would not have dared to ask him to take off his muddy shoes (both pairs, really), and it did not matter all that much since we had no carpet on the floor, anyway. But he did it without me asking, as did his bodyguards. I had never seen a Noble with his boots off, and wasn't surprised to see that he was wearing silk stockings underneath. The bodyguards' stockings were made of linen, like mine, but of finer weave, the sort I never dared to buy because I feared it would make me look decadent. It clearly paid to be bodyguard to the Lords of Andúnië. I led them into the living-room, which was still occupied by the crowd I had left there. They fell silent as we came walking in, staring at my company.
"Meet Lord Eärengolë of Andúnië," I said, which was probably not the right way to put it, but I hadn't exactly been spoon-fed etiquette. I almost added, He doesn't want to be knelt to, but nobody would have believed that, anyway. Besides, the floor in my house was clean, so maybe he did expect a proper obeisance here.
He certainly got it; anybody who had been sitting rose, and then everybody went on one knee, and there was some muttering of "At your service".
"Lord Eärengolë, please meet my neighbours," I said, feeling more silly by the minute. I hoped I would not have to introduce everyone by name.

Lord Eärengolë first looked puzzled (and his bodyguards looked worried, although what danger they feared from twenty-something kneeling people, I couldn't have told you), but then he broke into a smile. He bowed in his courtly manner, as if asking a lady to dance, and said, "Pleased to make your acquaintances. Please, be at ease." His words were greeted with confused silence, until Amraphel, who had come in from the kitchen to see what was going on, quietly gestured with her hands, Up! People understood that, and rose to their feet again; but nobody looked particularly at ease.
"I am here to discuss business with your..." he faltered, looking for the right word. He would know that 'lord' was inappropriate, and I hoped he wouldn't try 'master', either.
"Host," Amraphel suggested.
The nobleman smiled. "Your host, yes. Thank you, madam."
I hoped that Amraphel would be able to deal with the situation from here on, and quickly went over and took her hand. "My wife, Amraphel daugher of Amrazôr," I said.
Amraphel made a very dignified curtsy; she had a smear of grease on her cheek and was wearing a kitchen-apron, but otherwise, she might have been the lady Lord Eärengolë had asked to dance. "I am honoured to make your acquaintance, gracious my lord," she said.
He blinked, but then he bowed again. "The honour is mine," he said, quite absurdly.
"If you have business to discuss, then Amraphel better be present," I said. "She has more of a mind for such things than I have."
Lord Eärengolë tilted his head with a curious little quirk of his lip. "As you wish," he said. "Do you think we can speak in private?"
"If your lordship does not mind the smells of the kitchen?" Amraphel said. "Otherwise, we'll have to ask these people to leave..."
"No, no, please don't trouble yourselves. The kitchen will be perfectly fine."
"Can I offer you something to eat or drink?" asked Amraphel.
"I feel that I really should not take where others need it more," Lord Eärengolë said with a look at the full room and the occasional empty bowl. "Thank you for the kind offer."
"And your men?" Amraphel said. "Tea, perhaps?"
"Thank you, madam, that will not be necessary," said one of the bodyguards; it was the first time they spoke to one of us directly, although they had on occasion whispered among themselves.
"Let someone know if you change your mind so we can bring you something," Amraphel said, and then turned to our neighbours. "Now, one of you will have to give up his chair..."

"I must confess that I am astonished that you wish to discuss business with Azruhâr, Lord Eärengolë," Amraphel said when we had carried three chairs into the kitchen (our neighbours had been generous like that), and were all seated around the hearth. "Unless things have changed much, I would think that Andúnië does not hold with Keeping the Dead."
"Indeed not," Lord Eärengolë replied. "This has nothing to do with... his usual work."
"What then? The Copper-hoods?"
"In a sense, yes. I was hoping to fund something similar – some way to keep the people down here paid and fed until times are better."
Amraphel raised an eyebrow. "That is a worthy endeavour, Lord Eärengolë. But if you don't mind me asking: Why, and why now?"
Lord Eärengolë's mouth twisted in a pained grimace. "Yes, I suppose I must suffer that question," he said. "This is not exactly a common occurrance, is it."
"I don't think it has happened before in our lifetimes."
Another grimace. "Indeed. Well, my brother has convinced me that it is shameful that a man like your Azruhâr sacrifices his savings to get the daytalers through this winter, while the Nobles of the realm only interfere when hunger drives the poor to rebellion."
"I am tempted to agree with your brother, your lordship."
"Feel free! I am tempted to agree as well. On the other hand, I am told thatyou must be free to lead your own lives and make your own fortunes. I'm not sure whether people appreciate the high-and-mighty meddling with their work life – where does it end? Would it not look as if we were forcing you into our service: Either you work for Lord Eärengolë, or you starve?"
"I believe that is how our economy is working anyway, my lord. Either you find work, or you starve. Whether that work is invented by you, or by Azruhâr, or whether the offer comes from some craftsman who genuinely needs another pair of hands – ultimately that makes very little difference."
"So you think the argument is invalid? You hear it very often."
"From the poor, or from those who could feed them?

Nobody paid any attention to me. I was gripping the seat of my chair, fearing the moment that Lord Eärengolë would tire of being interrogated and strike out. I would have to try and cast myself in front of my wife protectively, I knew, and I was not certain whether I would manage it.
Fortunately, the nobleman did not lash out. "Touché," he said instead, a word that I wasn't familiar with*, but as he said it with a wry smile, I assumed it was some form of agreement.
"I don't think you need to worry that your charity will go unappreciated," Amraphel concluded. "But why here? Why not in Andúnië, which is after all your primary sphere of influence?"
Lord Eärengolë pursed his lips and sat up very straight; for the first time, he appeared indeed offended. His voice sounded a lot colder than before when he replied, "The situation in Andúnië is quite different from that in the capital. We do not have quarters like this in the first place..."
I had been feeling out of my depth for a while, so I latched on to the first part of this conversation that my mind could grasp. "Then where do the poor live?"
"I am not certain that we have poor people in your sense – in the sense of your neighbours, that is," he said stiffly. "We have very few unskilled workers, at any rate. But they live in proper houses. No insult to your fine house, Azruhâr, but some of the hovels I've seen on my way here... I would not want to step inside them for fear that the roof collapses over my head."
"People aren't living in such houses for the joy of it, Lord Eärengolë," I pointed out quietly. "Do you think that they wouldn't happily live in a house like this, or like yours, if they had a chance? That they wouldn't repair the roof, if only they could afford it?"

He heaved a very long sigh. His face softened; apparently, the moment of anger was over, making way for regret. "I cannot do anything about the housing situation," he said. "A house is the responsibility of his owner, and I cannot well order them to rebuild them, even if I pay for it. The roads, on the other hand..."
"Yes," I said. "You mentioned the roads before."
Amraphel caught on fast. "You're thinking of paving the roads?" she asked, disbelief obvious in her voice and face. "Your lordship?" she added quickly, realising that we were being very discourteous towards our noble guest.
"I was considering the possibility, yes," he said. "You think it would not work?"
"Oh, my lord, I think it is a splendid idea," Amraphel replied. Her eyes were shining now; in her head, she was probably already calculating whether we could fund something like that, in case he decided against it. "But it would be huge. The logistics alone will be a pain to plan. You'd need to get the quarriers on board. You'd need a lot of people to bring in sand and gravel and more to prepare the ground... ideally, they would get their mid-day meal on site, stew or at least broth, which would require cooks and ingredients. Then, the mud must be taken somewhere. Depending on how fast you would wish to progress, we're looking at hundreds of workers..."
"Yes, Madam," Lord Eärengolë said, sounding almost like a schoolboy. "Though you forgot to mention flagstones, and we would also need toolmakers. The question is, would your neighbours be willing to do all these things?"
I couldn't stifle a small snort. "My lord, day-talers are willing to do pretty much any work, as long as they're getting paid for it."
"Then would not a project that requires so many unskilled workers be ideal?"
"Unlearned," Amraphel said. "It's not like they lack the skill to hold a pickaxe, they just never got a chance to specialise in one single craft."
I thought that it was unwise to correct him in this manner, even though Amraphel was right; but Lord Eärengolë actually said, "My apologies. Would it not be good to offer work for so many unlearned workers?"
"Oh, absolutely, your lordship. The idea, as I said, is splendid. But I must beg you to consider the costs – no, do not laugh, I know that you can easily afford to fund such a project and more, if you choose to. That is not my point. No, I must beg you to consider the costs and decide whether you are truly willing to pay them, for a road you do not even use, for no recompense but our gratitude. Do not raise people's hopes before you are certain that you will go through with it." Now she sounded very stern. I marvelled at her courage.
The nobleman gave another wry smile. "If I were not willing to expend quite a bit of money, I would not have come here. No, you need not worry that I will change my mind once this vague idea turns into a real toll on my purse, though I understand your concerns. I need permission from my father, from the King and from Lord Atanacalmo – nominally, the upkeep of Armenelos is his responsibility, so I am hunting on his grounds, so to say. But he is a reasonable man; I am sure that I can convince him. Pending these permissions, the works can begin."
"I must still beg you not to tell our neighbours until that happens," Amraphel insisted.
"Of course; and I must swear you to silence until that day, too."

When he and his bodyguards made to leave, queuing in my narrow entrance hall, they discovered that somebody had taken their boots and cleaned and polished them. Lord Eärengolë stood as if thunderstruck; then he turned, glancing back into the living-room. "Who did that?" he asked, holding up his no-longer smeared boots.
There were a few glances exchanged as people wondered whether there would be praise or punishment. Eventually two of the younger boys, Makhôr and Lôrahîl, stepped forwards with sheepish looks on their faces.
Lord Eärengolë smiled. "Much obliged," he said, handing both of them a couple of small coins.

Amraphel looked after him as he left, led by Tîmat and flanked by his bodyguards. Then we returned back inside.
"He seems to be a very nice fellow – particularly for a nobleman," I said.
Amraphel shrugged. "I am trying not to like him."
"Why not?" I frowned. "Am I missing something?"
"Not exactly. It's more that if I allow myself to like him, I'll be all the more furious when all this turns out to have been empty talk."
"So you don't think he'll actually do anything?"
Amraphel turned to face me, a sceptical look on her face. "I don't want to put too much hope into him," she specified. "I wouldn't mind being surprised, of course."

And she was. Two weeks after that day, Quentangolë gave me not only my pay, but also a letter, folded up small so that it fit in my hand along with the coins. I was surprised at such secrecy, but I duly took the letter home to Amraphel.
It contained a precise list of how many workers would be needed in what place starting Elenya next. Hands were needed in the quarry and the lime-pit, for transport, for digging away the mud, for carting it to the gardens where it would be used as fertiliser, for preparing the gardens, and so on and so on. This wasn't just work for a couple of my neighbours; it would require people from the entire foot of the hill, and some of the city's craftsmen as well. It concluded, simply, with if not these numbers, then as many as possible, and was signed, very simply, RNGL.
"Even if he gets all these workers together, this is going to last well into Spring," Amraphel said soberly. "This is a proper miracle if I've ever seen one. I think, I just think, that I might like him after all."
"I don't think it matters whether we like him or not," I said.
"No, indeed," said Amraphel, and prepared to allot our neighbours to all the different tasks and places, to find out who had carts and who had kettles.
I left that entirely in her hands. I had no clue how she did it, but it seemed that she was good at it, because beginning Elenya, everybody was busy. Even the girls stopped their writing lessons, instead cleaning or sharpening tools, weeding the gardens, preparing meals; and until Îbalad's family returned from their work when darkness fell, we finally had our house to ourselves again.
I did not see Lord Eärengolë again during those weeks; but by and by, a handsome gravel road was manifesting, a grey snake making its way into the mud-brown landscape of our neighbourhood.

---

Chapter End Notes

*He probably said it in Sindarin. I figure that there would be fancy Eldarin loanwords in Adûnaic, the way there are fancy French words in English too. They probably have a couple of snobby Elvish cooking terms, too. ;)

Chapter 11

Read Chapter 11

As a child growing up mostly hungry, I always looked out left and right for things that could be turned into food whenever I got out of the city. The past weeks had brought that habit back. As I rode to the Holy Mountain on that long-awaited Erukyermë morning, I noticed every patch of green where nettles or cow parsley, bear's garlic or rampions were showing their tender young leaves (and where there were leaves, there would be roots, too); I scanned the ground underneath each beech tree or oak for any beechnuts and acorns that squirrels or scavengers might have left behind, or for mushrooms unseasonally late or early. I had to remind myself that I had a goal to reach, or I would have dismounted in several spots where I could see good pickings. I told myself that I could stop and pick herbs on my way back – unless others had found these spots before me by then.
But there was no traffic on the road on that day, nothing like the stream of people on foot and horseback that I had witnessed in my youth or joined a few years ago; and thus I was surprised that when I reached the mountain, I found a pitched pavillon and some dozen horses underneath. Others had remembered the old holiday as well, then, even if the King no longer went to the Hallow.
I did not dare to leave my mare in the cover of the pavillion, which doubtlessly belonged to some Noble, so I tethered her underneath one of the mighty oaks (no acorns to be seen, alas). The spiral path to the mountaintop was empty now, but it had been trodden by many feet. It was slippery and steep, making the ascent even harder than I had expected, but at least there was no frost. Before the summit, I stopped for a while to catch my breath; it would not do to disturb the holy quiet atop the Minultârik with my wheezing and puffing.

Some form of ceremony had already begun, and I joined the small circle of white-robed worshippers hastily and, as I hoped, without raising attention. There was actually a man in the middle of the circle, though he was not the King. His face reminded me of old Lord Eärendur, but he was wearing such a simple white shift – more like a night-shirt than a holiday-robe – that at first I doubted that I had recognised him right, until I noticed Lord Eärengolë nearby, attired just as simply. For once, my old white robe with its pleats and embroidery was finer than anything the Nobles were wearing, which I found puzzling.
Not being the King, Lord Eärendur naturally could not speak in this place; but it was clear that he was praying fervently, beating his chest, raising his arms imploringly, even prostrating himself at some point (maybe that was why he had not dressed in his usual splendour, for although it had not been raining in a few days, the ground was still wet, and mud and grass stains were unavoidable). I knelt when the other worshippers knelt, and made my own clumsy prayer, Please, restore our King to his health; please make him live many more years; please, he has been so kind to me and I have not yet been able to repay him, please make it possible. I did not know what the others were praying for; maybe they knew the proper words of the Erukyermë prayer and recited them in their heads. I must admit I did not particularly care. The ground was not only wet, but also chilly, a bitter chill that begin to seep into my bones and, it seemed, my heart. My joints were beginning to ache – I was getting older. Still, I remained where I was, and repeated the words over and over in my thoughts: Please, help the King, and help me!

At last Lord Eärendur rose, and so did the rest of us. He remained standing in a middle for a while, motionless, his loose white robe whipping around him in the harsh wind, still tasting of winter up here. Then he bowed low into the direction of the Eagles that were watching us with (as I thought) cold, uncaring eyes, and made his silent way towards the path. We others followed.
I did not join the others' groups on my way down, nor their conversation at the foot of the mountain, where most were eager to huddle into the warm cloaks they had left with their horses. For my part, I was eager to return home; the atmosphere here was heavy and despondent, nothing like the joyful and festive air I had witnessed when the King had last ascended to the mountaintop. But when I had untied my horse's reins and made to mount, I saw that Lord Eärengolë and his father were walking towards me, so I was forced to wait. I couldn't keep from biting my lips, ill at ease.

"Well met, Azruhâr," said Lord Eärengolë when they had reached me. He made it sound as if he meant it. "Why don't you rise? Father, do you remember Azruhâr?"
"Ah, yes – the Embalmer," Lord Eärendur said, giving me a nod. "I must confess that I would not have expected to see one of your kind here."
I frowned and couldn't bite back my thoughts. "Of my kind? What do you mean - an embalmer, or someone from the foot of the hill?"
That elicited a smile, the first that I saw on his face. The lines around his eyes deepened. I wondered how old Lord Eärendur might be, really. Older than Master Târik, who was a bit over a hundred, and younger than the King, no doubt. Anything more precise I could not say.
"Both, really," said the subject of my ponderings. "Neither seem to be particularly faithful..."
My acquaintance with his sons made me bold, I suppose – I would never normally have contradicted a Noble, no matter how unjust I thought him. "Many of my neighbours are of the faith," I pointed out, and thought in private, More than I am. "And my master is a proper Elf-friend, too."
"Really?" Lord Eärendur raised an eyebrow. "Then why are none of them here today?"
I raised my eyebrows in return. "My neighbours must go on foot; they could not possibly have reached this place in time. And nobody told them that there would be any ceremony in the first place. As for Master Târik, he believes that he would sully the Holy Mountain with his presence."
"And you don't?" Lord Eärendur retorted.
I looked at my feet. I hadn't honestly worried about that. "I don't know," I said. "I just know that I had to pray today."
Lord Eärengolë came to my rescue. "Come, Father, have some mercy on Azruhâr," he said. "He is quite an interesting case."
"All the more reason to question him, is it not?"
"Not like this – not here and now."
"Does Azruhâr have more pressing matters on his mind, then?" Lord Eärendur asked, sounding somewhat sardonic.
"I am at your lordship's disposal," I said quickly, even though I would have loved nothing better than to ride back home at a wild gallop.
"You're giving him entirely the wrong idea," said Lord Eärengolë in a disapproving voice. I looked up in surprise, because it sounded as if he was reproaching his father. I did not want to be present when noblemen argued!
"Maybe," said Lord Eärendur, watching me closely. "I suppose it takes some character to come here on your own, on this day."
I didn't know what to say.
"So you too prayed for a swift end to this crisis, young Azruhâr?" Lord Eärendur asked.
I blinked. "Spring is beginning," I said. "Hopefully, the crisis is over."
The two noblemen exchanged glances. "Far from it," he said. "You are not aware that it has spread to every part of the capital – to much of the island?"

I was, in fact. My neighbours had earned good money in the past week, but it had not helped much, because all the money in the world could not buy goods that simply no longer existed. Even my colleagues at work had complained about the shortages, particularly Mîkul: Even in the better parts of town, it was hard to put food on the table unless you were happy to have fish or mussels or seaweed day-in, day-out. I'd gotten into my first true argument with Mîkul, because I had told him to stop whining, that some people had been facing this situation for months now and surely he could bear a few weeks of lack.
"I know, your lordship, but soon the first harvest will end it."
"The first harvest will assuage some minuscule part of it," he said, "for the fast and the wealthy. But it will not nearly be enough, and our stores are entirely drained. We have been mismanaging the realm, and now we all must pay the price."
I opened my mouth to say something – that surely my neighbours had done no mismanaging, lacking the means to do so – but I thought better of it. There was no point, really.
"Some say that it is your fault, Azruhâr – did you know that? Yours, and that of my Eärengolë. If you hadn't filled the pockets of the poor, they would not have eaten so much."
Now I could no longer keep silent. "I happily accept the blame for that," I said, feeling my fists tighten. "The alternative would have been letting them starve. Would you prefer that? No, you need not answer, your lordship." I bowed my head and fully expected to be struck for my insolence.
"I did not say that I shared that opinion," Lord Eärendur pointed out instead.
I should have been relieved into silence, but Mîkul had been right: I had grown cheekier. "Very well; then would those who think so prefer that all of these people had starved?"
"Did you know that Eärengolë asked that same question?" I thought I could detect the hint of a smile in Lord Eärendur's voice.
"Lord Eärengolë is most gracious," I conceded. And that was certainly true.
"And I am not?"

I looked up in surprise, because it had sounded like a genuine question. I tried to read his face. "I would not know, my lord," I said. "I have had barely any dealings with you, so I cannot judge fairly. But I assume that you, too, are a gracious man, when you aren't faced with the likes of me."
He laughed at that, not in a scornful way but like a man who had been caught unawares by the punchline of a joke. "The likes of you," he repeated. "I am beginning to believe that there are no 'likes of you', Azruhâr – that you are indeed one of a kind."
Confusion silenced me, at last.
The mirth did not leave Lord Eärendur's eyes, and now his stern old face looked softer. He probably was a gracious man, on the whole. He had been reasonably merciful on that dreadful council day, and he had so far taken my inappropriate comments in good stride.
"I should like to find out more," he now said. "I hear such conflicted accounts about you. But Eärengolë is right; this is neither the place nor the time. I will have to study you at leisure – how about a visit to my house? You have the Erulaitalë week off like other craftsmen do, I assume. Come to Andúnië then!"
I stared at him in shock. "Are you serious, your lordship?"
"Whyever not?"
"Because it sounded as though you were inviting me to your house – as a guest. I am Azruhâr the Embalmer. Azruhâr the Nothing. And you are the Lord of Andúnië."
"I am that. I am also a curious old man. Do you object to the invitation?"
I was chewing on my lips, scratching my head. There was no way of saying that yes, I objected, but I really had no desire to enter his house in order to be studied by a curious old man who also happened to be exceedingly powerful. Nor did I want to go to Andúnië, and for a whole week! Rómenna, where my sister lived, that was a different matter – but Andúnië? What would I do there when he tired of me or, worse, decided that the Crown Prince was right?

"No offense meant, your lordship, and I pray you forgive me," I said, grasping at straws, "but the holiday weeks are the only days I can wholly share with my family, and I would be loath-"
"Oh, of course, you may bring them along. I have no objection to getting to know them as well." He was still smiling; now he sobered. "Eru willing, we will be able to feed you all."
My lips were beginning to sting; I was not tasting blood yet, but I had no doubt that I soon would if I didn't stop worrying them. "As you wish, your lordship," I heard myself say. I know I should have thanked him abjectly for his invitation, of course, but I could not. I was too scared of him, and of his house, and of Andúnië.
"Think of it as a holiday by the sea," Lord Eärengolë said, probably trying to reassure me. "Andúnië is well worth a visit, and our house is one of the finest in all of Númenorë, if I say so myself."
"I have no doubt of it, my lord."
"Then that is settled," Lord Eärendur said.
"If that is what you wish," I said. I knew I sounded doubtful – I was doubtful. My only hope was that he would have forgotten about his invitation by summer.
Lord Eärendur tilted his head, a gesture I knew well from his sons. "You do not think very well of us, do you?"
I bit my lips some more. "I have no grievance with your lordship."
"Not me – not us, personally. I mean, you do not think very highly of noblemen."
"I assure you that I have the highest respect for you," I said. "I'm just afraid that noblemen don't think highly of me."
"Ah, yes. Of course," said Lord Eärendur, sounding slightly disappointed; perhaps he had hoped that I would insult his noble brethren or something of the sort. He continued to study my face, his head tilted, and I barely managed to resist the urge to stare at the grass again. "Do you know how many people starved to death in Armenelos this winter, Azruhâr?" he asked at last.
I could no longer meet his eyes. "I know of four," I said, wondering where this was going.
"Really? I know of seventy-nine."
It was as if he had struck me in the face – worse, because the sting went deeper, painfully twisting my heart, driving all the colour from my face. "So many!" I gasped. "Seventy-nine – I had no idea. Oh, I should have found a way..."

"Interesting," said Lord Eärendur, and I hated him that second, because the correct response to a death-toll was not to say 'Interesting'. I gritted my teeth, as it turned out, audibly, but it did not matter, because he already went on, "So far, I have heard a couple of different responses to that number, but you are the first person who claims personal responsibility."
I shrugged, helpless in my anger.
"What Father means," Lord Eärengolë spoke up, "is that people generally say things like 'Well, the poor always die like flies', or at best 'May Eru rest their souls'; but nobody has said 'I should have done more.'"
I felt miserable. All I wanted to do was ride away so that I could cry my grief and anger out at the peaceful road.
"In Ondosto, one hundred and fifty-two people starved," Lord Eärendur said, and now there was no mistaking the tone of his voice: Sad, as one should be at such news. "A hundred and seventeen in Nindamos. It is astonishing that Armenelos, while so much larger and so full of refugees, counts a number so much smaller."
That was no consolation at all, I thought; seventy-nine were too many, and although I was not sure how I could have fed seventy-nine more people through this winter, I knew that I certainly should have tried.
"So you should not see it as failure, Azruhâr; you should see it as a triumph. Maybe without you, Armenelos would look at a hundred and fifty-two dead as well."
I wiped my eyes. "How many in Andúnië, my lord?" I said quietly. "Will you tell me that as well?"
Father and son exchanged another glance. "Three," Lord Eärendur said eventually.
"Three!" I exclaimed. "And you tell me that I should be triumphant at seventy-nine."
Lord Eärendur bowed his head. "Even three are too many."
"As are seventy-nine."
"Yes, Azruhâr, as are seventy-nine; but they are surely not your fault. You did more than you could."
I did not point out that that was nonsense; that at best, I had done as much as I could.
"So I think that we really should get to know you better," Lord Eärendur continued. "And surely you cannot object to friends in high places?"
"Friends," I echoed. This encounter was growing increasingly bizarre.
Lord Eärendur gave a sage old smile at my disbelief. "Yes, who knows? Maybe we will grow to consider each other friends. Quentangolë thinks of you as a friend."
Yes, I thought, and that was strange enough, and I only managed to believe it because I did not truly think of Quentangolë as a nobleman, although of course he was.

Our conversation was (at last!) interrupted by one of the servants – I assumed he was a servant, because he was wearing the same sort of blue woollen cloak that I'd seen on the bodyguards over his white grobes. "My lords, I regret disturbing you, but your company is waiting," he said.
"Of course, Laitesso. Thank you. We will join you forthwith," Lord Eärendur said, and the servant bowed and walked back.
Lord Eärengolë gave me a nod. "We have been keeping you, too. Will we see you at the palace tonight?"
"No," I said, and probably did not mask my relief well. "I was not invited this year. My wife has prepared a little feast for our neighbours, and I am happy that I can attend it."
"A feast! I would not have thought that anybody but the King can offer a feast tonight."
I grimaced. "I doubt you would consider it a feast, my lords. It's just marked out because there's more choice than usual, and because we've been fasting the last days and probably will do so again come tomorrow."
"I see," said Lord Eärengolë with a sympathetic smile. "Maybe we should send you the leftovers from the palace?"
"Send them to the families of those who died; they have more use for it."
"Yes," Lord Eärengolë agreed soberly. "They probably do."

Despite the low-key character of our feast, I would not have exchanged it for all the banquets at the palace. The conversation with the young and the old lord of Andúnië had unsettled me badly, and it would have been hard to face them again – them or their kindred, who were probably blaming me that they could no longer have second helpings. The noise and cheer of my neighbours were a much better distraction.
Given the circumstances, it was a fine feast, too: There were two different kinds of soup, one cooked from chicken (we had sacrificed one of our hens in honour of the day) and one made of mussels and seaweed, as well as the inescapable fish stew. There were boiled shoots and greens – whatever the fields and woods produced at this time, that is, mostly nettles – and a dish of fried early morels and a salad of tender leaves. We ate the remaining sausages and flat bread made from flour ground from acorns that had been watered so often and so thoroughly that all the bitterness had gone out of them. For dessert, we had dried fruit (of which there were not much left) with a spicy honey sauce (honey and spices were, as yet, sufficiently plentiful). There were no leftovers, so we had nothing but fish and herbs left for the coming days; but I felt that we had celebrated the holiday appropriately, and deserved to have our prayers answered.
I even received a present, although I felt guilty for considering it so: Îbalad announced that he and his family would leave for the North the next day. "It is time to till our fields and restore our house," he said. "Soon we'll bring out the seed, and grow crops for all of you!"
That was nonsense, of course, since the food that we ate in the capital came from Arandor rather than Forostar; but his words still garnered some cheers, and it did not ultimately matter.
So my lodgers finally returned to their home, and without cutting our throats first, too.

And it appeared indeed that our prayers had been answered: In the second week after the holiday, I encountered a whole train of oxen-pulled carts rolling up the main road; and when I came to work, my colleagues told me that we had been given the day off, and were invited to come to the huge plaza in front of the palace, where there would be a spectacle to behold.
The plaza was a public space, outside the walls of the citadel, facing the monumental staircase that led to the palace's great gate, and by the time we arrived there, it had filled up with people. I saw the carts again, all lined up from the street to the foot of the stairs, now flanked by soldiers.
And high upon the stairs, between the Crown Prince and the chancellor, stood the King.
My heart lept – and crashed down hard. Yes, he was alive – but oh, he looked ancient now, and no longer in the way that gives a man wisdom and authority, but in the way that precedes an undignified death. He stood barely upright, his once-proud shoulders stooped over; despite his rich robes, he looked half-starved; his skin had an unhealthy pallour and was as wrinkled as an apple that had been stored until Spring (although no such apples existed now). Even from where I was standing, I could see that his hair had thinned, and I thought that the heavy coronet must press down right into his skull – it certainly seemed to weigh his head even further down. I could have cried although it was supposed to be a joyous occasion, for the carts contained much-needed provisions, sent by the Lords of the West to feed our hungry people. Lord Eärendur, who had apparently taken delivery of the goods, knelt before the King, presenting basket after basket with samples of what was hidden on the carts. With each basket, the King would take a handful of its contents, held up his hand and let the grain, or peas, or beans, or nuts fall back down into the basket so that everyone could see what had been given. The last baskets contained onions, parsnips and oranges.

While we who stood in the plaza were still cheering for these gifts, Lord Eärendur, still down on his knees, was discussing something with the King, who had to lean low to understand him. It took some time until the words that were spoken up on the stairs were transferred to us.
"The Lords of the West demand that these things be doled out equally to everybody in all of Yôzâyan, instead of being sold," a man who had heard the news from the people in front of him explained. "How is that supposed to work? Shall the bakers work for nothing, and the millers before them?" He, it turned out, was a baker.
"It is possible to grind your own corn and bake your own bread, at home, with no miller or baker in between," I couldn't help pointing out. But I, too, thought that it was an outrageous demand. Shouldn't the gift-giver leave it to the recepient how to deal with the gift? Master Târik disagreed.
"The gift-giver has a right to dictate how the gift is to be used," he claimed. "If I gave you a knife to cut your roast meat, and you sold it or worse, used it to stab somebody, then would I not be rightfully offended?"
The baker spat on the ground, and I frowned. "It seems rather arrogant to leave us to starve, and then dangle carrots in front of us that we can only have if we do as they demand," I said.
Master Târik shook his head. "You of all people should be happy. If these things were sold to the highest bidder-"
"Or the most high-ranking-" Mîkul interrupted.
"Or that, yes," Master Târik said with the tiniest smile. "Under such circumstances, you and your neighbours, or even we in the better quarters would hardly see a grain of it again."
He had a fair point, I had to admit that.
"But it is going to take months until they figure out how to distribute it all," I sighed. "By then, it probably won't matter anymore because there's nobody left to take it."

I was wrong on that count. Either some sort of protocol existed for cases like this, or the Lords of the West had sent explicit instructions, or else the Councillors thought faster than usual – compelled, perhaps, by the rumbling of their own bellies. At any rate, within the same week each quarter was provided with a desk and scales and a cart or two and some scribes and some assistants; and people queued in front of the desk with pots and bags and baskets to receive their share. The problem was that everybody who received something had to be present in person: It was not allowed to fetch your share as well as your husband's, sickly neighbour's or baby's unless said husband, sickly neighbour or baby was presented at the table, and got an ink marking on the right hand to signify that this person had been given their share. This was meant to keep people from queuing again in a different part of town, attempting to get more than their due. I suppose it was a good idea, but it resulted in endless queues and meant that even the bed-ridden had to find somebody who carried them to the street. Amraphel and our daughters received their share on the second day of waiting, while I had only the evenings left to try and get my part. I was beginning to fear that I would not receive anything at all, but after five days the number of waiting people had dwindled down to a handful, and I could finally carry home my rye and peas, my onions and parsnips and – best of all – four oranges. They were a little dry outside, which was no wonder after their long journey, but there was still juice inside.
Amraphel recommended to all who would listen that they should not eat all of the peas, because it was a good season to sow peas, and to maybe keep some of the smaller onions as well. There was some protest, because it would soon be pea season anyway, but then Amraphel asked from what seed new peas should grow. That made us think. If there were no peas to be bought for eating, were there still enough for sowing?
"From each pea that you do not eat now, a hundred peas may be harvested in a few months' time," Amraphel pointed out; and so we put a good part of our peas into our gardens, which had been fertilised with the mud that had once been our only road, mixed with sand and old leaves, onion peels and the like: Surely it would yield good fruit this year.

We were fortunate, for it was a mild spring, without any late frosts or long rains. There were no leftovers from the past year, for even the not-quite-ripe leeks and cabbage had long since been eaten, but soon the peas began to sprout. And so did spinach and radishes, spring onions and asparagus, turnips and purslane, rhubarb and strawberries. The gardens in our neighbourhood and around the city soon began to show the promise of young lettuce and fennel and summer cabbage, and the fields beyond the city walls grew green with young wheat and barley and oats. The fruit trees flowered as if they, too, were overjoyed that winter was over at last. Never in my life did I see so many people celebrate each new flower, each young stem.
The King could not recover his old strength, although I thought he was no longer quite so pale now that he regularly saw the open air again; but he performed his duties, and we Keepers were invited to the palace again.
And the new, pretty gravel-road at the foot of the hill grew longer and longer. When at last food could be bought in sufficient quantities again, it was at higher than usual prices, but I no longer had to worry about my neighbours. They had been able to earn and save quite some coin. For the time being, all was well. In those days, I had to remind myself of my unfulfilled promise to the King, and of the many people who had unnecessarily died in winter; for otherwise I might have been tempted to feel proud after all.

Chapter 12

Read Chapter 12

One might get the impression that I neglected my work throughout these long, busy weeks, but that is not true. I worked as diligently as ever. It's just that there was nothing to tell about work, no new developments – either good or bad. During that winter, that was actually a relief. Sure, another breakthrough would have been a blessing; but there was so much on my mind and in my life at the time that I was grateful for the respite, the safety of routine. Down in the catacombs, things went as they always did. Up in the streets, everything was a mess. Although my colleagues never said so, I believed they were also glad that we made no groundbreaking discoveries in that time: After all, we could not have reached the King directly, and who knows whether the Council in general and the Crown Prince in particular would understand our news and transmit them correctly?

Now that my life had returned to a calmer course, and especially that the King again showed an interest in our progress, I found myself desperately hoping that there would be progress. But there was none. All we had to show for ourselves was a change of methods. It had turned out (not surprisingly, in retrospect) that there was simply not enough corrosive sublimate to store entire bodies in it for a longer period of time. It was also extremely cumbersome to transport a sarcophagos filled to the brim with the saline solution. That was fine enough with single limbs, but it just wasn't feasible on a larger scale. Fortunately, we had been able to achieve much the same effect by wrapping the bodies in strips of linen that had been soaked in a sublimate solution, but it wasn't entirely secure: For some reason, sometimes the flesh would rot where different pieces of linnen overlapped. We tried to wrap the bandages more tightly and more thickly, but there simply were parts of the body that were hard to cover up, even when the person could no longer move. It always happened in the same spots: The face, shoulders, crotch, heels or toes. Some way of sealing the bandages was clearly needed, and we tried whitewash and even pure gypsum, but these did even more damage, neutralising the effect of the sublimate and quickening decay. It was extremely unsatisfying, and I am certain we only escaped punishment because we could convince the King that it was relatively simple to check for signs of decay regularly, and treat them at once before there was any true damage. And it was simple enough - though cumbersome, particularly when you considered that the bodies that truly mattered lay in the Noirinan, where one of us would have to travel on a weekly basis. Still, it was the best we could offer – that or the old method using arsenic and whitewash. Neither option was satisfying, and in that mild and friendly Spring, we renewed our efforts to find something that better suited the King's expectations. Seeing him was motivation enough for me: Even I could no longer deny that he would not live much longer now, no matter how tenaciously he clung to life.

I had not mentioned the invitation to Amraphel back on Erukyermë day – the feast with my neighbours had been no place for that sort of thing, and afterwards I had successfully convinced myself that it had surely been empty talk, born out of boredom or maybe a sudden idea that was soon forgotten. But at the time that the first carrots and cucumbers were sold in the marketplace, we received a letter – a formal invitation, sealed with blue wax, written in a well-trained hand (but not Quentangolë's) hand on silk paper. Somebody had gone to the pains of painting an ornamental margin around the sheet in black and silver and blue ink.
I did not often see Amraphel shocked, but now she was: Her mouth stood open and her brow creased in a deep frown. I felt guilty then that I had not warned her that this might happen. But even if I had left some room in my mind for the possibility that the invitation was meant seriously after all, I definitely had not expected that we would receive such a handsome letter.

"They mentioned that we should visit them in Andúnië," I said. "I didn't think they meant it, though."
"Well, it seems that they do," Amraphel said flatly. "I just don't see why."
I scratched my head, as I often did when I felt embarrassed. "Lord Eärendur thinks that I am an interesting specimen that he needs to study. He also thinks I want friends in high places."
By now, Amraphel's shock seemed to turn into amusement: She smirked at me. "He may be right on both counts, but I do have to wonder what he hopes to gain from your friendship."
I shrugged. I knew very well that there was nothing I had to offer, and I said so. "I don't really want to go," I said. "What do you think?"
"I have to admit that I am tempted," Amraphel said. Now the shock was mine. "Andúnië is supposed to be exceedingly beautiful, especially in summer, and I should like to see it – some time, anyway," she explained.
That was news to me. "You could have told me, and we could have gone in private. We still can."
"It isn't that important. But since we have an invitation from the lord of the place himself, why not follow it?"
"What if Lord Eärendur finds his studies unsatisfying, or if I do something wrong? I have no desire to visit the dungeons of Andúnië!"
Amraphel clucked her tongue, waving the letter. "Since he invites you – all of us – he will be bound by the laws of hospitality. Even if we were fugetees... but we are not: He asks us as guests, and in writing, too! The worst that he can do to us is send us home. Anything else would break the laws that he is sworn to protect, as a Noble. I doubt you can insult him so badly that he'll risk breaking his oaths."
I wondered whether noblemen were punished as cruelly for oathbreaking as commoners were. Probably not; noblemen were surely put to death in less messy and more dignified ways. Still, death was death, so Amraphel was probably right.

She was already thinking ahead. "We will find some sort of excuse if you are certain that you do not want to go, but I think it is unwise – for a number of reasons."
"I know it is unwise," I sighed. "But more importantly, if you really would enjoy the journey, we should go." Amraphel had born the disadvantages of life by my side with more good grace than I deserved, after all, and she'd saved my life more than once, and I had done little enough to repay her. If the journey to Andúnië would please her, I'd bear the scrutiny of its lords - and whatever else they had in store.
"I think the children will enjoy it also; Azruphel is always eager for new adventures, and Nimmirel will profit from the clean coastal air if nothing else," Amraphel continued. "And it will be good for all of us to get out of the city."
"Then it is decided," I said, forcing a smile onto my face for her sake. She surely knew that it wasn't genuine, though, because she took my hand and squeezed it gently.
"We should find some way of getting the news to my father," she suggested with a mischievous smirk. "Azruhâr, invited by the Lord of Andúnië himself into his own house!"
I felt my lips twitch. "Will wonders never cease," I said.
"Apparently not," Amraphel said.
And so it was decided, and Amraphel wrote a letter in reply (also in a very pretty hand, although the paper was less fine, because it was impossible to buy that quality of silk paper if you were a commoner) to say that we were honoured and delighted to accept the invitation, would begin our preparations forthwith, wishing the best of health, and so on.

Still, Amraphel also had her thoughts about the strange invitation.
"You can't help wondering why they want friends in low places," she said when we lay in bed. We often had long and intricate conversations there (if we weren't busy doing other things), when we were both at ease and the girls were sleeping in the other room. Sometimes I started them, because my mind stumbled across something on its way to sleep, and sometimes Amraphel started them, thinking of something that had been submerged in her busy mind but bobbed to the surface when she relaxed. That night, Amraphel posed the first question, although I had been asking myself the same thing.
"Yes," I said. "I wonder." And after a few silent breaths had passed, I went on, "I am completely useless to them, aren't I?"
"Friends in unlikely places are never useless," Amraphel protested. "But I admit that I wonder whether they have some specific use in mind."
"They can't need my... friendship... for anything specific," I said. "In what way could I be of use to them?"
Amraphel gave a soft snort. "Well, maybe they're just friendly fellows," she said, but it didn't sound as though she really thought it was that simple. "But you're giving yourself too little credit. I can think of a couple of scenarios in which you might be useful to them, and there are probably more."
I frowned. "What sort of scenarios?"
"Well, for instance – the lords of Andúnië cannot openly approve of your work, nor of the King's plans to find a cure for death. But in their hearts, they might feel the same fear that most of us feel. So perhaps they want more information, or just some kind of reassurance, or even an embalmer's service when the time comes – just in case. They cannot openly ask for anything of the sort, but they can speak in private to a friend, of course..."
I pondered that suggestion. Lord Eärendur was old enough to think of death, I assumed, so maybe that was it. Well, that would be no problem, I thought. It might be hard to get him into the catacombs in secret, but one could bring the necessary tools and salts to Andúnië. The roads were unpaved beyond the Minultârik, as far as I knew, but the carts with the gifts from the West had made it to the capital, too: It must be possible to take a cart the other way. If that was why they were seeking my friendship, I was confident that I could help them – well, as much as I could help the King, at least.

But Amraphel was not done yet. "Or they are not thinking quite so far ahead," she said. "They may need supporters for other causes, and if nothing else, you have the people of the foot of the hill behind you."
That was true: I had no more enemies down here, at least none that spoke out against me, and was even treated like something of a hero by my neighbours, even though Winter was now many weeks ago and they were no longer dependent on my help. But the lords of Andúnië did not need me to win over my neighbours.
"So what?" I said. "They already stand behind Lord Eärengolë as well. And he only needs to say that he used his father's money and everybody will worship the father, too."
"I doubt he used his father's money," said Amraphel, sounding distracted. "More like his great-great-grandfather's money. I doubt they need to touch their own income."
"Their own income... how do noblemen get their income, anyway?"
Amraphel laughed softly in the darkness. "Many, many ways. Inheritance. Taxes. Tolls. Rent. You also get a certain stipend for serving on the council, although that's probably only symbolic as far as they are concerned..."
"Oh," I said. It made sense, I'd just never thought about it. In my world, people were paid for specific jobs. Inheritance? If you were lucky, you'd get your father's house and not too many debts to pay. I certainly didn't think of inheritance as a source of income, although come to think of it, I would likely be able to leave a nice sum (as well as the house) to Amraphel and my daughters, unless the Crown Prince disowned me first. I shook my head, trying to clear it from such thoughts.
"I wouldn't know why they'd want us to support them, anyway," I pointed out.

"Oh, they'd need all forms of support if they were planning, hm, a coup d'état, for example."
"A what?" My eyes were wide open now, staring at what little I could see of the curtains on our window.
"A coup d'état. An overthrow of the government," Amraphel explained. "Andúnië is faithful, but it might still be ambitious."
"You mean, they want to overthrow the King?" Now I was sitting in bed.
"Shhh," Amraphel said. "Not so loud, the girls might hear you. I don't know what they want. I'm just guessing, aren't I? But it's a possibility, and it would explain why they are trying to get the poor of Arminalêth on their sides."
"If they want to overthrow the King, that is high treason and I would have to report it," said I.
"You will do nothing of the sort, since we don't know anything. Maybe I am the only person in all Yôzayân who is considering the possibility, and I hope you will not betray me, since I am not going to act on it anyway."
"Of course not," I said, confused and scared. "But..."
"I doubt they'd overthrow the old man," Amraphel went on, seemingly unaware of my distress. "A waste of resources and far too risky. No, but Tar-Ancalimon, Eru keep him, will not live forever - " I was tempted to stop my ears, although I knew she was right – "and the Crown Prince is not exactly popular with everybody."
I gritted my teeth. "Who knows why."
I could hear that Amraphel was smiling as she said, "So I wonder: Might they be hoping to install somebody else on the throne? Lord Eärendur is not such an unlikely candidate; he would be King anyway, if the laws had been different in Tar-Elendil's days, you know."
"No, I don't know," I said truthfully.

Amraphel sighed, probably remembering that I was an unlearned barbarian. "When the fourth King, Tar-Elendil, surrendered his sceptre, he gave it to Meneldur his son according to the laws of those times. But Meneldur was not the King's eldest child: That was Princess Silmarien, from whom is descended the House of Andúnië. The law was later changed so that the sceptre went no longer to the King's oldest son but to the oldest child, whether son or daughter. If that law had been as it now is back in Tar-Elendil's day, Lord Eärendur would be King."
"But it wasn't, and he isn't."
"No – but who knows? He may regret that fact."
"He can regret all he wants; but our King is Tar-Ancalimon. And though I fear and loathe the Crown Prince, he is the King's rightful heir."
"Ah, but that was long disputed," Amraphel said. Her voice suggested that this was common knowledge, but I had never heard of it, or if I had, I'd long since forgotten.
"He is the King's only child," I pointed out.
"He is that. But if I recall correctly – my history tutor was quite obsessed with this, you see, but I did not care much back then – the King was unsatisfied with his son for a long time. The Prince wasn't automatically proclaimed Crown Prince when he came of age, as is customary; instead, he was sent to the colonies to prove himself worthy, and only when he came back victorious and with rich tribute did Tar-Ancalimon finally declare him his heir. Before that day, several Nobles were rumoured to be potential future candidates for the sceptre, and it's perfectly possible that Lord Eärendur, or maybe his firstborn, were among them. So who knows? They may not be happy that the Crown Prince became Crown Prince after all, and maybe they want to act on their unhappiness – not now, but when it is fit to do so."
By which she apparently meant, when the King died.
"But it would be unwise to do such a thing if you cannot expect to be accepted by the council, or in fact by a great part of the populace. They'd need allies both on the council and among the common people, and that might be where you come in."
I bit my lip. "It would still be high treason."
"Yes, it would be high treason – unless it were succesful."

I tried to imagine Lord Eärendur on the throne, or better even, his kind son. The idea was tempting, if I was honest. Lord Eärendur had not been too harsh to me when I had faced the council over the foolish 'Lord Azruhâr' matter, even though I had supposedly abused his own name. Not that I had known at the time that I shared a name with some nobleman, but that sort of thing never mattered. I had misunderstood him half the time when we had spoken in the shadow of the Minultârik, but although I had wanted to escape all the while, I had no real reason to dislike him. As for Lord Eärengolë, well, he had been a real blessing this winter, and we were all infinitely indebted to him, and he had a friendly and gracious temper as far as I could judge it.
I sighed. "They would probably be fine kings, either of them," I admitted. "But it would still be wrong."
"Well, you can tell them that, should the question arise."
"I hope it never arises. We shouldn't go to Andúnië."
Now it was Amraphel's turn to sigh. "We've already sent out letter of acceptance, and we can hardly take it back for no reason – over mere wild speculations. No; you are now prepared for the possibility, and you can act according to your conscience. And maybe you'll be lucky, and the question will never come. Maybe they really just want the friendship and approval of such a fine fellow as you are."
She said this without any audible irony, although I did not think of myself as a particularly fine fellow. "They do want approval," I said for the sake of saying something. "When he first came down here, Lord Eärengolë asked whether he was welcome or whether he was an intruder, and on Erukyermë, Lord Eärendur asked whether I did not think him gracious."
Amraphel gave a soft snort. "There you go, then," she said. And that seemed to settle the matter, because she snuggled against my shoulders and fell asleep.
I did not sleep well that night. There was too much to think about. I did not want to commit high treason, not even against the Crown Prince who so absurdly hated me. But I did not want to report the jovial Lords of Andúnië, either, and that was what I'd rightly have to do if they really approached me with some form of plan to usurp the throne. If that happened, I would not know what to do at all, I thought. I was completely out of my depth.

It was strange: When you were waiting for something and hoping that time would pass quickly, it seemed to go at a snail's pace, as it had done in winter. But when you were dreading some event, it felt as though time was passing swiftly and mercilessly, the days racing ahead towards summer. Suddenly it was Lótessë, only one month to go until Erulaitalë. Amraphel told me of the preparations she made for our journey: Of robes she had sewn, of arrangements she made for our luggage, of the things she taught Azruphel about etiquette. She would have taught me, too, but I had no mind for it. I felt like a man walking in a dream (or, more likely, a nightmare), waiting for some vague and unknown terror.

But when the terror happened, it was weeks before our journey and completely unrelated to it. It began harmless enough: The Raisers knocked on the little door in the catacombs, demanding a good corpse because they believed that they had finally found a way to wake the dead. As always, I hoped that they were finally right; as always, Mîkul and Kârathôn rolled their eyes and shook their heads behind the Raisers' backs, as always.
As always, the Raisers did not succeed; but either this most recent attempt must have backfired in a truly spectacular way, or the King was simply at the end of his patience. We weren't told; but we did know that the Raisers, all of them, were punished for charlatanism, which meant that they were paraded through the streets, stripped down to their loincloths, with their hands tied to heavy yokes on their shoulders. In the market-place, they were beaten, and then they spent the rest of the day in the stocks while gawping onlookers were laughing and jeering. I felt sorry for them, even for Master Khôrazîr, the smug bastard. Of course, he wasn't looking smug now.
Moreover, I expected that we would soon be following in the Raisers' footsteps, if not worse. The others shared that fear.
"Well, at least nobody is going to throw vegetables, this year," Mîkul said, trying to make light, but none of us were laughing. I think we all remembered what had happened to Master Târik's master and fellows. After that day, the Raisers returned to their usual work, but we were certain that their punishment was a warning to us, too.

Master Târik tried to prevent the worst and went to defend us before the King. He returned as pale as the corpses downstairs. I was certain then that we stood accused of worse than charlatanism and would be punished far more harshly. But when Mîkul brought Master Târik a cup of wine and asked what we would be facing, Master Târik waved his hand. "He holds us guiltless, for the time being, at least," he said, and my spirits would have soared if his voice hadn't sounded so terribly dull. "You need not worry, unless someone change his mind."
"You clearly are worrying," Mîkul said.
"Yes. Khôrazîr is banned from the council - "
"Well, I doubt he ever was of much worth as a councillor," Mîkul began, and fell silent when Master Târik stared at him with wide, terrified eyes.
"Khôrazîr is banned from the council, and his majesty wants me in his place," Master Târik said.
I frowned. "As master of the Raisers, or as a councillor?"
Master Târik drained his cup. "As a councillor."

I immediately understood his terror. I did not want to face the council ever again – least of all on a regular basis, and as one of them.
"What's the problem?" Kârathôn asked, clearly not understanding. "You'll be guildmaster, and the guildmaster is a council member. That pays a nice stipend, and who knows, you might even be allowed to make a decision or two."
"Kârathôn," Master Târik began, weakly shaking his head. "Kârathôn, my old lord is on that council."
"Mandos' ever-growing prick*," swore Kârathôn. That shook Master Târik out of his distraught state, at least; his face regained some colour, and he clucked his tongue and gave Kârathôn a very stern look, making him mumble an apology. I hoped that the Judge of the Dead hadn't heard the blasphemy, but I felt that it probably done more harm than good.
"I can't serve on that council," Master Târik said again. "Lord Terakon may be content to pretend that I am dead, the way things are; but if I appear on the council, that is going to sting his pride, and he is not the sort of man who will let you get away with a slight, let alone a broken oath."
"Well, did you tell his majesty?" Kârathôn asked.
"I tried! I am not certain that he listened, however – he didn't acknowledge my concerns in the least, and he certainly did not let me off the hook."
"What, then, can we do?"
Master Târik buried his face in his hands. "I don't know. All I know is that I have until Valanya next to escape this fate, or face Lord Têrakon – and that will be the end of me, I know it."

I did not expect Amraphel to have any helpful advice, when I told her about Master Târik's plight – I just told her to get it off my chest, and to explain why I lacked enthusiasm when she proudly told me that Azruphel had mastered the steps of some courtly dance.
But she did.
"A guildmaster can resign, or his guild may vote him out of office; so all Master Târik needs is to find somebody else to take his place. It's a little more difficult since the King has chosen him, of course; but if he clothes his refusal in the right words, maybe that he feels that council duty would take too much focus off his important craft, it would likely be accepted. The vital thing is that he can suggest another candidate. Who else would be qualified? Surely Kârathôn has been in the craft long enough to earn a master's certificate?"
I did not know. "I guess so. But as it is, he's a journeyman. And surely, being made master takes more than six days, or five, really?"
"Indeed," Amraphel said with a sigh. "Well, what about the Raisers – do they have another master?"
"I believe so. But I suspect they're all out of favour, for now, anyway."
"Ah. Yes. Well, then, who else is in your guild?"
"The gravediggers and the coffin-makers, but I don't know anything about them."
Amraphel snorted softly. "A fine guild, if you've never met each other. I suppose somebody must call a guild meeting, then, and you all must elect a new guildmaster."
That did not sound impossible; surely the coffin-makers, at the least, had an ambitious master or two.
"Thank you," I said, hearing my relief in my voice, even though I also felt sad. "Why do you know the answer to everything?"
"I don't. I know the answer to this particular problem because my father was an ambitious merchant who always wanted me to marry above my station, so he had me fed with all sorts of knowledge about politics and administration."
"And then you married so far below your station."
Amraphel smiled. "I married in exactly the right place," she said. "I married the man I fell in love with. And look how useful my knowledge is here."
"I'd certainly be lost without you," I said. But I couldn't help but feel a little ashamed. Master Amrazôr had surely invested a lot into Amraphel's education, and then I had come along and won her heart. Not intentionally, even, but that made no difference to her father. Not that I regretted that Amraphel had chosen me over some guildmaster or even a lord, because I loved her and needed her. But I could in a way understand why her father disliked me so, and why he'd had me beaten for seducing his daughter, not that it had helped his case.
"You needn't remain ignorant," Amraphel pointed out, tearing me out of my thoughts. "You have the means of learning whatever you wish to learn, as long as you do not neglect your proper work."
And that was true; but to be honest, I did not believe that I had a good mind for learning. Where should I have started, anyway?

Master Târik indeed managed to arrange a guild meeting, and on Isilya, the Guild of Death-Dealers assembled for the first time in my life. The place had been chosen by the coffin-makers, so it was a tavern in the carpenters' district. In truth, it turned out that the coffin-makers considered themselves carpenters rather than "death-dealers"; but since all real carpenters looked down on them and would never have chosen one of them as their guildmaster, they were quite willing to meet with us. In contrast, there were no master gravediggers; you could not make a living on that, so graves tended to be made by gardeners or by daytalers under some gardener's command. It was a little absurd, and we couldn't rightly call ourselves a proper guild at all; but there we were.
The Raisers had also come. They were still out of spirits, and the coffin-makers (as well as the innkeepers) poked merciless fun on them. In spite of that, the Raisers seemed to be determined not to let a Keeper become guildmaster, although I had no clue just why they resented us so much. Well, right now they were probably furious because they had been punished and we hadn't, but they had always acted like they were better than we. It probably was because we were condemned criminals, although in all honesty I didn't know how they had come to follow their career.
At any rate, the discussion was from the start biased towards the three master coffin-makers. Under the circumstances, that suited us just fine. While we nursed our cups of ale and tried to agree on guild guidelines (hardly possible, since our respective crafts were so very different), I attempted to figure out for whom to vote. In all honesty, if I had been driven by the desire to find the best man for the position, Master Târik would certainly have been it. I am quite sure that it wasn't just because I knew him already: If he wasn't the kindest and most sensible of them all, he certainly appeared that way.

But we didn't want him to become guildmaster, after all; and thus, Master Ipharaz of the coffin-makers was elected into the office, to his great delight (and probably surprise). He wouldn't have been my first choice from what I'd seen during this meeting, but he seemed to be popular among his own colleagues, and some of the Raisers had also voted for him, as well as Mîkul and Master Târik. So he was probably a good fit. He was surely better than Master Khôrazîr, at any rate, and he certainly endeared himself to us by paying everything we had drunk that evening and by inviting us to another round.
Master Târik could write his letter of grateful and polite refusal now, declaring that our guild had chosen a different leader and suggesting that the King accept Master Ipharaz on his council. It was probably the Crown Prince who made the actual decision, not the King; but the important thing was that our choice was accepted, and Master Târik spared from encountering the lord he had long ago betrayed.

---

Chapter End Notes

* A horrible linguistic pun that I couldn't resist! There's a word for, as Tolkien put it, the membrum virile (that's "male member" for those who don't speak Italics) in Sindarin, which is gwî. There's also a Sindarin translation for Mandos that reads Bandoth Gwî. While it is perfectly possible that we're looking at two entirely unrelated meanings here, I also find it perfectly possible that the Sindar, and any Men who are at least vaguely familiar with them, would have made uncouth and very, very irreverent jokes about these particular homonyms. (Actually, gwî should more correctly be translated as "phallus", because it's the archaic and poetic version; "prick" should be gwib. But "phallus" doesn't quite have the same ring, and gwib is not a homonym of Mandos. We can blame it on translation, right?)
The "ever-growing" bit, of course, refers to the fact that the Halls of Mandos "ever widen as the ages pass". Like I could pass that one up!
My everlasting gratitude to Darth Fingon for unearthing these particular, um, family jewels.

Chapter 13

Well, look who wrote a new chapter after almost three years! So, off to Andúnië!

Read Chapter 13

There was one thing to be said for the long journey to Andúnië: Towards the end, even I was looking forward to arriving. We covered the distance in two and a half days, and that meant riding very nearly from sunrise to sunset, albeit with breaks in-between to feed and rest the horses (and ourselves). The first night we spent in a crowded, unfriendly inn, making me glad to take to the road again. The second night, when we were allowed to sleep in a hayloft in Andustar and to share the farmer's family's dinner and breakfast, was rather more pleasant - but by that time, the day-long riding on the uneven road made my back and bottom ache fiercely.
My wife and daughters fortunately minded the journey less than I did. Azruphel was excited about the riding, the change of landscape, the many people we passed or met on the road. She chattered almost without cease, pointing out every hill, every brook, every orchard with great enthusiasm. Nimmirel only made happy little sounds, but she, too, pointed and smiled at things. She was snugly wrapped in a carrying-cloth that Amraphel and I took turns slinging around our shoulders. For us grown-ups, it wasn't entirely pleasant, as the cloth and the warm body of our daughter added to the heat of the day; but Nimmirel appeared to be happy with the arrangement.

At least our travelling conditions were as good as one could ask for. The sun was bright in the sky, the ground was dry. The scent of freshly cut hay was in the air; we passed many a shorn meadow where the hay was drying on wooden racks. Other meadows were still covered in lush grass, brightly dotted with buttercups and giant daisies, red sorrel and cow parsley. Andustar presented itself as a rich country of ripening fields and wide-spread orchards, of fenced paddocks for horses and cows, of goats and pigs feeding on public ground. We rode past small, well-ordered villages and handsome windmills. Folk were picking berries in the woods that we passed, and a couple of children ran after us to offer small basket full of redcurrants, which made a nice and refreshing snack. People were busy in the fields, too, weeding between heads of lettuce or picking peas. There were wide stretches of wheat and barley, still green but already heavy on its stalks. Occasionally we passed sites where grand towers on stilts were being built. I thought that they were watchtowers to protect the fields from theft, but Amraphel said that they looked more like granaries.
I found it highly reassuring to see everything growing so well; it made me hope that there would be no repeat of last year's winter, that the new and old granaries would be nicely filled and the windmills would have plenty of grain to grind.

Towards the coast, the land began to rise in gentle hills, and the road was paved again. We were approaching what Amraphel had called the most beautiful city in all Yôzayân. It was certainly an impressive sight. Beyond the city walls, we could see white-washed houses, a few of them thatched or covered in wooden shingles but most roofed with ochre-glazed tiles, glittering like gold in the sunlight. Parks and gardens added green spots to the white streets. And beyond the city, I could discern the sea, a broad silver sheet spread across the horizon.
We did not enter the city; at the city gates, the guards sent us along a road that led past the walls and up towards a small wood. I was surprised that they told us the way to the house of their lords without further question. I would have expected that we'd have to show them our invitation, but they did not seem to find it strange that two citizens who clearly were not there on business, with two small children instead of a cart of goods or at least a bag of tools, would ask for the way to the Lords of Andúnië. But perhaps they had been told to expect us. That thought made me feel queasy again.

"Well. Here we are," Amraphel said when we had passed through a broad gate in a low wall. The gate was open and unguarded, allowing us into the wood that we had seen from the city gates below. I wasn't certain what she meant.
"Almost," I said. "Not quite yet."
"I think," Amraphel said with a glance back at the unobtrusive gate, "that we have entered the property of our noble hosts."
I looked around at the wood, which was surprisingly orderly with hardly any undergrowth, even though the trees were so far apart that they allowed plenty of light to reach the ground, which was covered in short tender grass rather like a carpet. I frowned. "So this is... a park?" I guessed.
"So it seems," Amraphel said. "But you are right, it'll take a little while yet."

She spoke lightly, as if completely unfazed by the idea of our destination, but I for my part felt my panic return. I had rarely bothered to ask for work at the houses of the nobility back at home; they had all the hands they needed, and if they needed more, they would never give it to a lowly daytaler who came begging to the back door. And now I was supposed to enter such a house as a guest? My head was aching – at the mere thought, I first believed, until I realised that I had been grinding my teeth so hard that my jaw was beginning to cramp.
"So," I said, trying without success to make my voice sound normal. "What is going to happen?"
Amraphel half-turned towards me, her raised eyebrow dropping when she saw the look on my face. "We will find out," she simply said. "I expect that once we are there, a servant will announce our presence, and then one of the family will come to greet us. We're not important, so it will probably take some time. If they are too busy, they'll send someone to show us our room. We will be given some time to dress presentably-"
I could not help but groan. Amraphel gave me what was meant to be an encouraging smile.
"Then, there will presumably be some refreshments. After that, I have no idea. We are no guests of state, nor is this a formal visit, so I am not sure about the protocol."
"Then how do I know what to do?"
Amraphel reached out to me, and I took her hand as if grasping for a lifeline.
"I'll try to lead," she said. "If I know what to do."
I grimaced. "I'm afraid," I admitted.
She gave me an encouraging smile. "I know. I understand. But there is no real reason for fear. So let us trust that all will be well."

When we had put the wood that was really a park behind us, the road became lined with a hedge of rose briars in full bloom – and the house came into sight. They called it a house, but they could just as well have called it a palace. It had only two floors - in the city, grand houses had up to five – but it spread out to all sides. A whole village could have been placed within the walls, I suspected. A whole village could have cooked there, too: I counted twelve smaller chimneys and six larger ones, and that was just on the side of the house facing the road. The roof, like those in the city below, was covered with glazed ochre tiles. The walls and pillars were dazzlingly white, except for the ornamental tiling that framed the many windows, which were of generous size. In contrast, the shutters on the windows, currently thrown open, were made of a dark reddish wood veined with black, as were the doors. The main door was placed underneath a broad balcony, propped up by pillars that had been carved with leaf-patterns. That porch alone was easily twice as wide as my own house. On the western end, a white tower rose above the house, facing the sea that we could not see but hear – and smell, I suppose, though it smelled completely different from the sea in Rómenna: a touch salty, but without the fishy or seaweedy smell. Or maybe that was just overcome by the heady scent of the roses.

It was all very beautiful, to be sure, but it was also highly intimidating. The thought of walking up those wide stairs and knocking on the great rosewood door (if rosewood was what it was) and entering the house made me nauseous. Somehow, it felt completely different from the now-familiar palace at home. I had entered that many times and was no longer overcome by awe or fear – but then, it was not properly a private dwelling but a place of government. And I knew my purpose when I went there. Here, I was supposed to be a visitor, invited by the family that lived in his immense house, but that was hardly my place. Nothing had prepared me for it. Not long ago, even a position as a nobleman's stablehand or scullion had been way out of reach for me; entering such a house as a guest was completely beyond my understanding.

But it had to be done. So I tried not to show how inferior I felt to the porter who greeted us and opened the grand door for us, who summoned a stablehand to take care of our horses, who sent a servant to inform the family that 'the guests from Armenelos' (even the servants here spoke with the musical Eldarin accent that I had, so far, only heard from noblemen) had arrived. We were bidden to enter a chamber in which marble benches, cushioned with thick woven rugs, invited us to sit while we waited. The floor, too, was made of marble – the blue-veined kind that I had admired in the council chamber, last year. I goggled at the enormous hall that I could guess at from the entrance chamber. It must cost a fortune to heat this place in winter, I thought, but right now, the cool emanating from the marble was a relief after the heat of the journey. Amraphel unwrapped Nimmirel from the carrying cloth, handing her to me, and rolled her shoulders. Nimmirel looked around with as much curiosity as her sister, though Azruphel hid her face in Amraphel's riding dress when a young servant approached, carrying a bowl of water and a couple of towels. He put them down on a low marble table, gave us a smile, and announced, "My lords and lady will be with you forthwith. I shall fetch some refreshments; I will be back in a moment."
Amraphel had expected us to wait for a long while, but in fact, we had only just begun sipping on the lemonade we were given before we heard footsteps from the marble corridor. "Ah, here they come," the good-natured servant said, and held out a tray so we could rid ourselves of our cups.
We rose.
"My lords, my Lady Nolwen – your guests from the capital," the servant said, presenting us with a practiced motion of his hand. The way in which he introduced us confirmed, to my mind, that he did not actually know who we were or why we were here. Otherwise, he would no doubt have been less polite towards us.

"Thank you, Arcanendo," said old Lord Eärendur, looking relaxed and far kindlier than I remembered him from last winter. Next to him stood young Lord Eärengolë, his handsome face cheerful as ever, and a lady whom I feared at first glance. She must have been a great beauty in her youth, and was still good-looking in spite of her grey hair and the wrinkles on her face. Her eyes were dark and very keen; she did not even look particularly stern, but I felt as though she was staring through my eyes into my all too weak and humble soul. She was wearing a simple gown, but it was made of green silk with silver embroidery on it. Even without the silk, she would have been recogniseable as a noblewoman, simply by the way she held herself, by the self-assurance she radiated. Thus, even though she gave us a polite smile, I was terrified of her. I wondered whether she knew what kind of man she was greeting, whom she was expected to house under her roof for the coming week. I felt that honesty was my only hope.
So I went to my knees, clutching Nimmirel tight to my chest, and said, "Before you welcome us, your Graces, I beg you to remember who I am: A daytaler, a pardoned thief, an embalmer who works with the dead. Your ladyship, I do not know whether you have been informed of this. If you find that you cannot tolerate such a one in your house, I feel that it is better to send us home now, rather than abusing your hospitality."
I knew that I had spoken out of turn, but it seemed safer to address the matter now, before they could no longer easily rid themselves of my offensive presence.

The noble lady looked surprised, but not angry; in fact, the corners of her lips, painted a dark red like ripe cherries, twitched in amusement. "Your honesty is appreciated, but I assure you that I am perfectly aware who and what you are. We have discussed the matter at some length, and come to the conclusion that there is no objection to your presence in our house."
Lord Eärendur looked less amused; there was a line on his brow now that had not been there before, and the smile had left his eyes. "I did not have you travel all this way in order to turn you away on my doorstep," he said, looking from me to Amraphel to the children. "The very thought!"
Amraphel tried to help me out. "What Azruhâr means to say, lord, is that we are most grateful for the honour of your invitation, and hope that we may fulfill your expectations, whatever they may be."
"Really?" Lord Eärendur raised an eyebrow.
I nodded. "Absolutely, your Grace."
To my great relief, he gave a small smile. "Then I shall pretend that this is what I heard."
I breathed out, very slowly. "Also," I said softly, "I must beg you to remember that I do not know anything about protocol or proper behaviour, so whenever I do something wrong, please assume that I did it out of ignorance, not in order to offend."
Lord Eärengolë seemed to stifle a snort of laughter, while his parents exchanged exasperated glances. "I will take that into account," Lord Eärendur said gravely. "At any rate, this is an informal occasion, so I think we can go easy on the protocol." He held out his hands to me and pulled me to my feet. "Welcome to Andúnië, Azruhâr and family. I hope you had a safe journey, and that your stay here will be salutary for all of us."
"Thank you, lord," I said.
Lord Eärendur held out his hand. "May I introduce you to my beloved wife Nolwen," he said, gesturing to the beautiful old lady. "You already know Eärengolë, of course. His lady and daughter are out and about in the gardens, and we did not want to keep you waiting until they return, but you will meet them later."
"I am honoured," I said, for lack of anything better to say. I had not known that Lord Eärengolë had a daughter. I really had not prepared well.
"How old is your daughter?" Azruphel chimed up. She appeared entirely unimpressed by our hosts' rank or riches; she had been taking in the splendour of our surroundings with eyes wide with wonder, but not fear.

It appeared that she did not have anything to fear. Lady Nolwen smiled at her exuberance, and Lord Eärengolë even stooped to her eye level to answer her question. "She is ten years old. But you can still become good friends, even though she is a few years older, hm?"
"I would like that very much!" Azruphel announced, as if it was the most natural thing in the world that a young noblewoman would be her friend. I was almost shocked that Lord Eärengolë would not object to his daughter befriending the lowly daughter of a lowly embalmer.
"Excellent!" Lord Eärengolë said warmly, clearly unaware of my thoughts. Then he returned his attention to me. "It has been a busy spring, has it not?"
"Very busy, lord," I agreed, grateful for an easy question to answer.
"We can all use a week of peace and recreation, I am sure," he continued.
Lord Eärendur nodded. "I expect that you are exhausted from your journey, and eager to refresh yourselves. Your luggage arrived yesterday, and has already been taken to your rooms-"
Rooms, I thought. Oh my.
"- and I have assigned Arcanendo and Nienillë to help you find everything you need." A middle-aged maidservant, who had kept in the background so far, now stepped forward and curtsied. The servant who had brought us the refreshments earlier had, in the meantime, gotten rid of the tray and returned; he also gave a small bow. (To us!)
"Thank you, your Grace," Amraphel supplied; I had once more missed my cue, it seemed.
Lord Eärendur gave another gracious nod. "Shall we show you the way, then?"

We crossed the hall that we had already glimpsed from the entrance. It was even larger than I would have guessed, a cross between a banquet hall and a corridor that linked two wings of the house. It was very high – this part of the house was not in fact two-storied, as I had thought from outside; instead, the ground floor reached up to the roof, which was carried by marble pillars that had to be sturdier than they looked. There were windows on either side of the hall, letting in a flood of light. They were impossibly large, although in truth they were made up of smaller windows with supportive masonry in between. In each window, a circle in the uppermost arch bore the family badge, worked out in blue and grey and silver glass. There was no forgetting, I thought, into what house I had been brought.
The curtains were made of dark blue velvet, the tapestries on the walls showed rows upon rows of flowering trees, as if one were walking through a forest in spring. An endless carpet ran down the middle of the hall, providing the matching leaves and spring flowers. Long tables had been pushed to the walls underneath the windows; I assumed that for banquets, they would be brought to the middle of the hall, though where you would find enough benches or chairs to fill the entire length of the room was quite beyond me. There were chandeliers for hundreds of candles, and there were four huge fireplaces – well, that accounted for some of the chimneys! - although of course none of them were lit today.

Underneath the windows stood sculptures that probably represented the Lords and Ladies of Andúnië from days past. They had been depicted in very different ways – some looked stern, even haughty, others thoughtful or gentle; some wore military dress, one drawing his sword, one holding a proud banner that unfurled behind his back; one held a harp, another had a fledgling tree in his hands. The sculptures of the past Ladies of Andúnië, standing on the other side of the hallway, were no less intriguing. One lady held a proud (if miniature) ship under her arm, one had a hawk on her wrist, one carried a bunch of herbs or flowers, another was putting an arrow to her bow. The last lady we passed held the crown of Yôzayan in her hands. That, I assumed, must be the lady that Amraphel had told me about, who would have been queen if the law had been different in those days. We had walked backwards through history, so to say.
As if all that wasn't yet impressive enough, the most magnificent thing about the hall was its ceiling. "Look, Atto! It's Azrubêl*!" Azruphel cried in delight.
It was. Up in the vaulted ceiling, a gigantic mosaic from billions of tiny coloured stones showed Azrubêl upon his ship, pointing a silver spear at an incredibly monstrous, incredibly huge black dragon. I couldn't stop myself: I just had to walk back down the hall to stare up at the marvellous scene, craning my neck to see every detail – the glinting scales of the dragon, its fierce claws and merciless teeth; the birds that flew around the bright ship, arrayed like a spearhead to help in the fight against the terrible foe. Rays of light seemed to come from the Silmaril upon the mast, and the clouds behind the battling antagonists had been crafted so masterfully that they looked quite real, as insubstantial as smoke and steam, even though I knew that they were made of stone and plaster.
I almost fell over in my admiration of the mosaic. Lord Eärendur caught me with a hand on my shoulder.
"As a boy, I spent many an hour lying on the carpet, looking up at that mosaic," he reminisced. "I dreamed of what it would be like to be aboard a flying ship, and to slay a dragon or to hunt with the Moon."
I could not imagine that Lord Eärendur had ever been a boy, or done something as undignified as lain down in his father's magnificent banquet hall to stare up at the mosaic. It was as absurd as imagining the king as a child with a pony and a wooden sword. I wondered what it must be like, growing up in a house like this; but try as I might, I could not begin to imagine it. I would have been terrified by all these ancestors, I thought, and by the knowledge of what they must expect. But if you had Azrubêl's blood in your veins, you probably felt quite satisfied under the protective keel of his ship, and never once doubted your ability to live up to such expectations.

We were given a whole set of rooms to ourselves. I would already have been content with the antechamber, which was apparently where the personal servants of the family's usual guests would normally sleep: the beds there were looking perfectly comfortable, decked out in fine linens and eiderdown coverlets, and the chest of drawers could easily have taken the clothing we had brought along. But instead, we were supoosed to sleep in a huge carved bed that you only reached when you first walked through a sitting room with its own fireplace, and a round table for private dinners, and a couch upholstered with brocade. The windows went out west to overlook a balcony, and some part of the gardens, and the sea. Through another door, around the corner, was the bedroom. The bed was easily big enough for a family of six or more, but still they had put a small bed for Azruphel next to it, and a cradle for Nimmirel. Every piece of fabric was artfully embroidered: The snow-white linens on the bed, the blue curtains, the covering on the chest of drawers, the towels, the decorative pillows, the tablecloth. The bedroom ceiling had been painted to resemble the night sky, and if the stars had not been painted with real silver, they certainly imitated it very convincingly. The candleholders also had a suspiciously silvery glint. There were pretty things – little sculptures, intarsia, a vase in which the flowers had been arranged, like in the silly story Amraphel had read with our neighbours' daughters in winter – all over the place. I suspected that the contents of one of these rooms would have sufficed to keep me fed for the rest of my life, if I were to sell them. (Though no doubt the rest of my life would be very short, if I were to take and sell any of these things.) Again, I was reduced to gaping in astonishment. Part of me, I admit, was a little excited at the idea of living, for a few days, like a man of nearly endless funds and the power to match them. The other part reminded me sternly that I was not such a man, and if I let the luxuries surrounding me get to my head, I would doubtlessly be in for a quick fall and a hard crash.
"I... I don't know what to say," I said just for the sake of stopping to stare at everything, dumbfounded. "This is very beautiful. I hope you did not give us your best guest room."
Lord Eärendur's lip twitched into a grin. For the first time, I could guess where Lord Eärengolë had got his happy temper.
"Our best guest room is always reserved for my cousin on the throne, should he surprise us with a visit," the old lord said drily. My insides gave a little jolt. My cousin on the throne, what a way to think of the king!
"You'll have to do with the second best," Lord Eärendur continued with a wink. It suggested that he wasn't entirely serious, but he might as well have been.

Even the lavatory was beautiful in this house, as I found out once I needed to go there. Ornamental tiles on the walls and the floor. A nice woollen carpet to keep your feet warm. Basins made of marble, an ingenious pumping mechanism (with a very handsome brass pump) to bring up as much water as you might need to wash away your business and clean your hands afterwards. The soap was creamy and smelled of roses. The towels were thick and impossibly soft and smelled of lavender. Dried lavender also hung from the ceiling. Where I came from, dried herbs were used for medicine, and it didn't matter what they looked like. Here, lavender was apparently grown in different shades of pink, lilac and blue, and then woven into braids and wreaths, just so it would look especially pretty as it absorbed the smells of the lavatory. My gaze wandered out of the window (real glass, even here). Beyond the cliffs, the sea moved in gentle little waves, fishing boats dancing between them. A wide expanse of beach stretched out between the ends of the bay. The tide was clearly quite low, and small figures were moving on the beach, especially among the rocks. The golden light, the white boats, the lush green vegetation, the wanderers on the beach: Everything looked friendly and peaceful and welcoming. I took a deep breath, and tried to relax. Lavender was supposed to calm your nerves, after all.

We were ready for dinner long before dinner was ready. Amraphel gave Nimmirel her long-awaited drink of milk while Nienillë combed her hair and braided it in an elaborate manner. I declined Arcanendo's offer to do the same for me; I was worried that the texture of my hair, no doubt very different from that of noble folk, would disgust him. He was probably already disgusted after unpacking my travelling chest – my simple loincloths, bare of embroidery; my tunics in fading colours; my undershirts of simple linen, precious in my neighbourhood but coarse here, where even the servants slept on the finest linens and wore stockings of the most delicate weave. Arcanendo and Nienillë were dressed impeccably, and neither his tunic nor her gown looked the least bit washed out. I wondered whether they had to pay for their clothing, or whether it was provided by their lords. Blue was an expensive colour after all. I now wished that I had allowed for my own clothing to be re-dyed. Amraphel had asked me about it, but I had considered it an unnecessary luxury and had preferred to keep what was left of my savings. But here, in these tasteful and cultured surroundings, I was suddenly embarrassed by the fading chestnut colour of my good tunics.
Then again, there was no denying that I was a very simple man, and there was probably no point in pretending otherwise.

Since Azruphel was restless after the long journey, eager to explore her new surroundings and threatening to wear out the precious fabric of the couch with her fidgeting, it sounded like a good idea whe Arcanendo asked whether we wanted to join our hosts in the gardens. They really were gardens, with different parts for different purposes. We came through a courtyard in which heat-loving trees in great copper pots stood protected from the sea winds, then to the kitchen gardens where useful herbs grew behind neatly trimmed boxwood hedges, and thence to a terrace among colourful borders of ornamental plants where we found the nobles. It was overlooking the beach and the sea below, and also allowed a glance at other parts of the gardens – a long lawn, an orchard of fruit trees, further orgnamental hedges.
The family were sitting in comfortable-looking wicker-chairs, except for Lord Eärendur, who was kicking a ball around with his granddaughter. Again, I found it strange to picture a nobleman doing something so ordinary. Somehow I had imagined that noblemen were only ever doing dignified and important things - even at home, with their families, since obviously their families would also be noble and dignified. Instead, Lord Eärendur had to stumble after the ball (which was not even made of silver or gold, but of some kind of animal's hide) in his attempts to keep it off the ground, a task made harder because the little girl was not a particularly proficient player.

Lord Eärengolë hailed us, and his father interrupted the game. He bent down to the girl and said something, which made her nod eagerly. She took his hand, and they came walking over to us.
"Ah, you are already done! I am glad that you have some time to enjoy this beautiful evening with us," Lord Eärendur said. He did look glad, too. There was a little sweat on his brow after the ball game, but he was radiating satisfaction, a man entirely at peace with himself and his place in the world. "Please meet my granddaughter, Eärrimë. Eärrimë, these are our guests from the capital: Azruhâr, his wife Amraphel, their daughters Azruphel and Nimnimirel." The girl curtsied – to us! I sank into a low bow.
"Young lady," I said.
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance," Eärrimë said. She spoke slowly, as if she didn't speak our language very well. Everybody here had a sing-song accent, but hers was the heaviest.
"Playing with Azruphel will be a good way to improve your Adûnaic, won't it?" Lord Eärendur told his granddaughter, confirming my thoughts.
"Yes, Grandfather," little Eärrimë replied, and then turned to Azruphel. "Do you like to play ball?"
"Of course!" Azruphel replied emphatically.
Eärrimë turned to her grandfather and said something in Eldarin. Lord Eärendur did not berate her for it, but replied in Adûnaic, "I will look after our grown-up guests first, but I can join you later."
The two girls zoomed off to pick up the abandoned ball, and Lord Eärendur returned his attention to us. "Come, sit with us. Meet my daughter-in-law."

His daughter-in-law did not look at all as I would have imagined her. Somehow, I had been under the illusion that all noblewomen must be dainty creatures of great beauty, but Lady Vanimë of Eldalondë had a rather ordinary face - too round to be called beautiful, with a short, stubby nose and a broad forehead. Beauty was not everything, of course, and she had a nice, friendly, open face, but I was honestly surprised that someone so, well, normal had caught the eye of Lord Eärengolë, who in his turn looked like every woman's dream. I briefly wondered whether theirs was a marriage of love, or one of politics; but from the way in which their hands were linked, and from the joy in Lord Eärengolë's voice as he introduced her to us, it seemed that they really were very fond of each other. And their little daughter would obviously become a big sister in good time: Lady Vanimë's gown, belted underneath her breasts by a narrow girdle stitched with pearls, revealed the well-rounded belly of a woman well into her third trimester. We offered our congratulations.
"Yes," Lord Eärendur said with a sigh, "I had hoped to retire from the council next summer and let Nolo take my place, but with the new child on its way, they will naturally stay here for several years to come."
I was surprised that even a nobleman wanted to escape council duty, but it turned out that Lord Eärendur didn't so much mind the council as rather the place. "I have to spend much more time in Armenelos than I want to," he explained. "No offense to your home town, but it is a place that seems to make people harder than they need to be. It certainly makes me harder, and I do not like it."

I was puzzled into silence. I did not have the impression that anything was wrong with Arminalêth, or that the city made anybody different than they wanted to be, but then, how many other places did I know? If I had a terrace like this, in a house like this, overlooking the glittering sea and the pretty white city, I probably would not want to leave it, either. Amraphel continued to make conversation, and I was grateful to lean back and let the friendly voices, the occasional shrieks of laughter from the girls, the steady rushing sound of the sea wash over me. There was such a wideness about the place, I thought. The sky and sea stretched out bright and endless, and the gentle breeze was just strong enough to make the warmth pleasant rather than oppressive. Maybe the lavender was beginning to take effect: I felt my body unclench, my breath slow down. Perhaps I could get through this week without incurring anyone's wrath. It didn't seem quite as unlikely as it had felt mere hours ago. Under such a sky, there might be room even for an intruder like me.
"I think Azruhâr has fallen asleep," I heard Lord Eärengolë say.
I opened my eyes, embarrassed. "Yes," I admitted. "Azruhâr has been dreaming."

---

Chapter End Notes

*Azrubêl is the Adûnaic form of Eärendil. I know, the mix of Adûnaic and Eldarin names is a pain in the rear, but I cannot (yet?) think of a more elegant solution.

Chapter 14

Matters of great importance are being discussed, people are playing in the sand, and Andúnië continues to be highly idealised. Somewhere has to be.

Read Chapter 14

They called their dinner an informal household affair, which sounded harmless enough, but it turned out to be a gathering of several dozens of people. The small dining hall was small only in comparison to the banquet hall we had crossed at our arrival. Here, an enormous square made up of large tables offered room for, indeed, the entire household, including all the servants and stablehands, guards and gardeners, teachers, clerks, cooks and other people. On the occasions that I had dined in the palace, the only palace employees that had been present at all had been the servants that had brought the dishes and refilled glasses, and they had blended into the background whenever they were not needed. Likewise, when Master Amrazôr had hired me to serve his guests, on that fateful evening when Amraphel and I first met, I had been expected to be invisible unless my services were required, and I certainly had not been alotted a place at the table. I had assumed that this was customary in all great houses, but here, things were clearly different. I was not allowed to hide among the servants, either, but expected to sit at the high end of the table with the noble family. I imagined that everybody must be glaring at the intruder in that place of honour, but when people caught my eyes at all, they just smiled and nodded politely and continued to eat. Everybody was eating at the same time, too; we filled our own plates and glasses while the servants ate and drank their share.

The dishes – that, at any rate, was as I had expected – were splendid. Even with the limitations placed upon them by the rationing and the complete lack of flour or grain, Lord Eärendur's cooks managed to produce magnificent food. Not that I had any reason to complain about Amraphel's cooking, but these dishes were playing in an entirely different league. Not only was everything incredibly flavoursome; it was also arranged artfully, a feast for the eyes. The salad had been put together from different varieties of asparagus in green, white and purple, laid out into little suns with fried scallops in the middle, sprinkled with woodland strawberries like sparks. The sea dace (with flesh prepared so perfectly that it melted on your tongue) was covered in scales cut from carrots; the roast billygoat rested on a meadow made of herbs and edible flowers, which also adorned the honey-glazed cheese we had for dessert. There were no bread and no pastries, but here, I did not miss them at all. Nor did it matter that there were no second helpings for anyone but the children. The food seemed to be filling in more than just one way. Part of it, was probably the care and attention that had gone into the dishes. I suppose you couldn't help feeling special when someone went to the trouble of cutting roses from your radishes. In the coming days, I discovered that even fish stew – of which I had grown thoroughly tired – could be a delicacy, and that even broad beans could look appetising.

To my relief, the atmosphere during dinner was not at all quiet and dignified, but quite noisy in a pleasant, companionable way. A lot of things were going on at once, and the room was humming with conversation and laughter, so when a scallop escaped from my plate into my lap, nobody appeared to notice, and nobody gave Azruphel an angry look when she announced in her loudest voice that she didn't like asparagus. Nor did it matter that she kept on interrupting my attempts at conversation with our hosts with questions of her own. Granted, my conversation was not particularly ingenious anyway – at Lord Eärendur's prompts, a few words about the journey, and after that, admiration for the cooks' efforts, the pretty glazed porcelain, the embroidery on the tablecloths and napkins and other superficial things. At least it kept me from lapsing into awkward silence or delusional daydreaming.

Although things kept progressing as if in a dream. As Azruphel had been growing more and more tired and testy, we took her to bed after the meal. Nimmirel had already fallen asleep, and Nienillë promised to look after our girls and alert us if we were needed. I felt a little uncomfortable about leaving the children alone with a stranger, but Amraphel was quite ready to trust Lord Eärendur's servants. Nienillë, at any rate, assured me that she was perfectly capable of looking after two children. As we made ready to go, she sat down by the window, pulling a book from a pocket in her apron. I stopped in my tracks, and Amraphel had to push me out gently.
"Do you think she can actually read?" I whispered to Amraphel once we had closed the door behind us.
I had not whispered quietly enough; Arcanendo had heard me, and gave me a thoroughly puzzled look. "Certainly. Why shouldn't she?" he said.
"Does your lord know that?"
Arcanendo's eyebrows went up in surprise. "Of course he does. He pays for the schools and lets us borrow from his library. Why should he not know?"
I opened my mouth to answer that question, but Amraphel just shook her head at me. I felt more ignorant than ever.

But I had little time to wonder about the reading servant, as we were now supposed to join our hosts in the sanctum of their house, the room with the perpetually burning fire. My house, being small and of no significance, naturally did not have a Heart, but this place certainly had one, complete with servants specifically appointed to tending the fire. They were given leave for the evening, however, when we entered the room and sat on the delicate-looking sofas and chairs (once more upholstered in beautiful brocade). I sat down gingerly, frightened of putting too much strain on the costly fabric. Lady Vánimë, on the other hand, half-laid across a sofa to rest her aching back against her husband and even put her swollen feet up onto the cushions. Lord Eärengolë buried his nose in her hair, and I swiftly looked away, embarrassed to have caught noblefolk at something so private.
"Well," Lord Eärendur said when we were all seated, and had all been provided with a sweet and heady dessert wine, "I hope you have found everything satisfactory so far." He was wearing an open and friendly expression, so I must assume that he was asking in earnest.
"Perfectly satisfactory, your Grace," Amraphel said, while I spluttered, "Far more than satisfactory, your lordship. I am overwhelmed by your hospitality."
The wrinkles around his keen dark eyes deepened as he smiled. I could almost have relaxed. "I will assume that this is a good thing," he said. "This, then, is the time to get to know each other better. So, tell me your story." My heart sank. I had known that at some point, our hosts would realise that I was not worth knowing; I had hoped that this time would not come so soon.
I looked at my feet, as pale against the rich blue carpet as the blossoms that had been knotted into it, but rather less prettily shaped. I studied the intense red liquid in the glass cup that I held between my hands as if to warm myself (quite unnecessarily). A crackling sound came from the Heart as a log popped into several charred lumps. I chewed on my lower lip.
"Azruhâr?" Lord Eärendur spoke in a light, harmless tone, but I had no doubt that his voice would take on the strict note I had heard on other occasions if I continued to avoid replying.
"Your Grace," I said, rubbing my nose awkwardly. "I don't really have a story."

I saw one of his eyebrows go up before I returned to my study of my feet.
"That is nonsense, Azruhâr," Lord Eärendur said, sounding somewhat reproachful. "Everybody has a story, and yours appears to be quite curious. Mine is straightforward, and thus rather uninteresting. I was born the eldest son of the Lord of Andúnië, and thus from the day of my birth have been prepared to fill that position. I had a happy and carefree childhood, but I suspect that my parents and teachers have worked hard to fill my head with lore and lordly virtues all along the way. Later on, I was sent around the island to both broaden my horizons and help me appreciate my home better. Later yet, I went to Middle-earth for a while, to serve in the colonies but also to learn with the Eldar. When I returned, Father gave me more and more responsibility to prepare me for my inheritance, though I still had the time to deepen my understanding of history at the Academy. I must admit, however, that I pursued my studies with less fervour than I pursued a young spirited scholar." He gave Lady Nolwen a warm smile, which she returned with an almost girlish blush, and I realised that she had been that spirited young scholar.
"Although her family has no known Elven blood in it, my parents raised few objections to our union; her father was the dean of the Academy, and my parents reasoned that this made her virtually noble on an intellectual level. So we were allowed to marry; Nolo was born; Quenno followed somewhat later."
"So it does happen," I blurted out before I could stop myself, and then held my hand before my mouth. But Lord Eärendur did not appear angry because I had interrupted him; he merely tilted his head, giving me a curious look.
"What does happen?"
"That nobleman marry beneath them," I mumbled, and then realised what I had said. I turned to Lady Nolwen, ducking my head as low as I could without tumbling from my awkward perch on the sofa. "Forgive me, your ladyship – I did not mean -"
"Let me make one thing very clear, Azruhar: I did not marry beneath me," Lord Eärendur said sternly. I glanced at his wife, who fortunately looked more amused than offended. Nonetheless, my face was burning with shame.
"But yes, I did marry a commoner." He took Lady Nolwen's hand, placing a tender kiss on it. "It happens more often than you think. As the royal house may only marry to the noble houses, it is our duty to occasionally bring new blood into the line."

I looked at Amraphel, frowning. "You told me it was highly unlikely that your father's plan would work."
"I am as surprised as you are," she said, and seeing the puzzled looks of our hosts, she explained, "Father always hoped that I would marry high up, even into a noble house, since he thought that I had been given more than usual beauty." She grimaced as if to prove the opposite. "He paid a lot of money to stuff my head, as you put it, with lore and lordly virtues. I always assumed that his ambitions were unrealistic – my teachers certainly liked to suggest just that." She gave a little snort of disdain. "They told me that I had to work especially hard to please such a husband, because it would be such a tremendous honour for a mere merchant's daughter. Every day, I would have to prove my worth and value so my grand husband would never regret his choice. It didn't sound particularly appealing, but fortunately, it didn't sound likely, either."
Lord Eärendur tilted his head in thought. "A merchant's daughter would be an unusual choice, but to a mercantile mind...? Your father must be very rich, I suppose."
Amraphel laughed. "Not as rich as he would like – certainly not rich enough to be generous."
I felt I had to speak up in defense of the man whose ambition I had ruined. "He was generous when he hired me for that feast – at first, anyway."
"Love, it looked generous to you because you were destitute," Amraphel said gently. "If Father had been truly free with his money, he would have employed additional servants on a continual basis, instead of getting poor day-talers to act as if his household was greater than it was whenever the need arose."
I chewed my lips and did not reply – this was hardly something that we needed to discuss by Lord Eärendur's fire – but our host appeared intent to listen.
"It seems that we are getting to the heart of your story," he said with a smile. "So the admirable Amraphel was supposed to marry a nobleman, and instead she married Azruhâr. How did that happen?"

Amraphel smiled, almost mischievously. "Looking back, it is almost funny, although there was nothing funny about it when it happened. I had reached my majority, and Father kept on hosting these feasts that would bring rich and, occasionally, noble customers into our house. He hoped that one of them would take a fancy on me – he made sure that they would observe my archery practice, and that I would perform on the harp during meals, and that I danced for them..." I saw Lady Nolwen and Lady Vánimë exchange glances.
"Well, on one of these occasions, Azruhâr was among the day-talers that Father hired to fill the ranks of his servants. In truth, he only has four permanent servants and a cook. But it had to look like a grand household for the sake of my potential admirers, right?" She spread her hands. "I was, at that point, tired of the whole business. Initially, the attention was flattering, but after a while I felt like a prize mare on the market. Father certainly treated me that way. It was clear where his efforts were headed. And his honoured guests were playing the same game. Have I been taught to analyse people's motivations and the meaning behind words, I wondered, just to act as if I didn't realise what was going on? Was I supposed, meek as a mare, to simply go with the highest bidder, rather than have my own say in the matter? I had made up my mind to refuse marriage altogether, though I did not even know whether Father was already involved in any negotiations. Apparently I did not need to know. Then, during one of his feasts, one of the supposed servants caught my attention." Amraphel reached out for my hand, smiling at me. "I must admit that at first, I particularly liked how eager he was to please. He went about his tasks as if his life depended on doing them well."
"It did," I muttered.
Amraphel stroked my hand, and went on with her tale. "There, I thought, I wouldn't have to desperately prove my worth to such a man, every single day. That alone looked like a good reason for marriage." Now her smile was apologetic. But I had already known that; we had discussed her choice often enough. I was not offended. It was, after all, the truth. What I had not realised back then was how much her father had invested in her education. I would have felt far guiltier towards Master Amrazôr, if I had known from the start.
"So even when I first saw Azruhâr, the thought of marriage crossed my mind, although I did not pursue it further. However, I couldn't keep my eyes off him. Part of it," she gave me another apologetic smile, "was that he had something of the kicked puppy about him: Folk either want to add another kick, or else to cuddle it and nurse it back to health. I had the latter impulse."
I felt I had to contribute to the telling. "This was shortly after my father's death," I explained, looking down at my feet again. "My sister had married and moved to Rómenna, and I was on my own and trying to pay the costs for the funeral and keep on going somehow. Master Amrazôr's offer to earn some additional coins was very welcome. I had not meant to ruin his ambitions for his daughter. I did not mean to incite pity."
"You simply were in a pitiful state," Lady Nolwen said. She had apparently forgiven my earlier transgression. "That is nothing to be ashamed of."
But it had certainly been treated like a shameful thing. The kicks, as Amraphel called it, had been adding up. Nobody cared to hire a day-taler with a sullen face and swollen eyes, and if they did, they saw fault with everything I did. I had found it harder than usual to find work, and even harder to negotiate for decent pay.

"Be that as it may," Amraphel went on, since I did not speak further, "I was fascinated by this sad young man. So I kept seeking his eyes all that evening, and when the time came to impress Father's guests with my skill on the harp, I played for him. I like to think that I performed better than on any previous occasion." She winked.
"You should play for us, later on," Lady Vánimë suggested. "Nolo also plays the harp very well; we could have a concert."
Amraphel shook her head. "I haven't played in years. It would be a very uneven match."
Lord Eärengolë chuckled. "I am not as skilled as Vánimë makes it sound, either."
I was grateful for the distraction, hoping that the conversation would now stear away from my painful first meeting with Amraphel. But Lord Eärendur was determined to hear the full story.
"So you played the harp, and Azruhâr proposed to you in front of all your father's guests?"
I shook my head violently, shocked by the mere suggestion. I would never have been so audacious!
"Nothing so forward," Amraphel said. "But I saw the way he looked at me – utterly fascinated. I was flattered. Again, I was young and foolish, and while some of Father's guests had certainly been giving me, hm, admiring gazes when he had paraded me before them, this felt... different. So when the feast was over, I passed his way to bid him a good night and ask his name. He had such a pleasant voice, and answered with such reverence. It made my heart beat faster. I was, as I said, a foolish girl."

She might have been a foolish girl, but to me, she had seemed like a figure out of a dream or of legend - like Melian or Lúthien. I had known that I was not the stuff of legends, and should stay well away. I had told myself that she had simply been kind, that there was no more to it – why should there be?
Amraphel continued. "I had hoped that he might come to my window in the night, or that we could somehow meet in the courtyard before anyone else was up."
I cleared my throat, embarrassed. "I hadn't even realised that this well-born lady had taken a fancy to me. And I wouldn't have dared to disturb her sleep. Besides, we had to clear away the remains of the feast, and clean and polish everything in time for breakfast." We had been allowed to finish off the leftovers, too. That had, in those days, looked like the peak of generosity to me.
Amraphel tossed her head with a sparkle of her eyes. "Well, I did not behave like a well-born lady at all. Instead, I snuck into the kitchen to catch another glimpse at that delightful young fellow. When he was sent to the pantry to fetch more nuts-"
"Almonds," I corrected. I still remembered that very vividly, because I had been sorely tempted to stuff a handful of almonds in my mouth just before Amraphel had practically waylaid me on the way back to the kitchen.
"- I went after him, and stopped him so we could speak again. He tried to get past me without touching me. I think I terrified him. "
"You did," I confirmed. "It was clear what would happen if I were caught."
"And you were," Lord Eärendur guessed. He had put another log onto the fire, but instead of returning to his seat, he had begun to pace around the room.

I nodded. "Niluthôr – one of the groomsmen – saw us, and promptly told Master Amrazôr that I had seduced his daughter. We'd barely even spoken." I couldn't help some bitterness from creeping into my voice.
"In truth," Amraphel said, "I had rather tried to seduce Azruhâr – although, as he said, we exchanged no kisses, barely even words. Father acted as though he'd tried to undress me, or more. I found it very brave that Azruhâr didn't put the blame on me."
"I didn't think anybody would believe me, that's why," I admitted, rolling my shoulders uncomfortably.
"I thought you were trying to protect me." Amraphel said, and to our hosts, "It looked quite heroic. Father had him horse-whipped in the yard, and Azruhâr asked permission to remove his shirt first--"
"That wasn't heroic, I just couldn't afford to have it ripped," I pointed out. Lord Eärengolë almost choked on the sip of wine he had taken, and coughed so much that Lady Vánimë had to abandon her comfortable rest against his side. Her grey eyes were on me, round and full of pity. Lord Eärendur had stopped his pacing, staring at me with his brow furrowed. I would have liked to shrink into the cushions.
"Father certainly did not intend it, but that convinced me for good that I loved Azruhâr, and would marry him or no-one," Amraphel concluded the tale. "I was, as I said, a foolish girl, and a man who endured torment for my sake certainly was a man worth having. So I eloped, and sold my jewellery to pay for a healer and two wedding bands, and that was that."
"It wasn't torment," I protested, embarrassed of being depicted as some kind of hero. "It was just a beating. And I didn't endure it particularly well." In fact, I remembered a great deal of screaming, although unlike on the occasion of my arrest, I had tried to be brave at first. I had just learned that it was impossible.
"It wasn't 'just a beating', Father had you whipped within an inch of your life, and he would have taken you the rest of the way if he hadn't worried that your family would demand damages," Amraphel retorted.
Lord Eärendur narrowed his eyes. "Your father well overstepped his bounds, then," he said, and to me, "I hope you filed a formal complaint."
"Who, me? Certainly not!"
"That went far beyond the lines of 'reasonable and appropriate punishment', fuzzy though those terms are," Lord Eärendur said. "You should have demanded compensation for the pain and the time you were unable to work, at the very least. You could have accused him of attempted murder, even."

I scratched my head. "Amraphel told me to try, but I didn't dare," I admitted. "I figured the authorities would mark me out as the troublemaker, and just laugh at me or give me another beating."
"Good grief," Lord Eärendur said, sounding angry. I didn't know what to say, so I just ducked my head. The mere mention of that beating had made my back ache in memory. A hand came to rest on my shoulder, surprisingly gentle, especially once I realised that it belonged to the old lord. It felt unreal that someone like him would take my side.
"For future reference," Lady Nolwen said, "you do not have to accept that kind of treatment. Even day-talers have rights – and the rights of merchants have their limits."
"It's easy for you to say that, your ladyship," I said, looking down. "But a day-taler who complains is a day-taler without work. And a day-taler without work is going to starve – whatever his rights. No, my lady, we must kiss the hand that strikes us, and hope that it will still give us coin. Not that it did any good, of course," I said with some bitterness, "because Master Amrazôr made sure that nobody in his quarter of town gave me work again."
Lord Eärendur took a deep breath, his eyes closed. "Ai, Armenelos, osto ondona ar ondoron óri"*, he said. "I am beginning to see why you were so unwilling to come into my house. And I am beginning to see, I suspect, how you became a burglar and a thief."
I hung my head in shame. He patted my shoulder. "Enough for today, perhaps? Let us turn to happier topics, and then to bed."

I felt exhausted when I at last fell onto the well-stuffed mattress on the grand bed, but I could not sleep. Amraphel snuggled against me and kissed me good-night. I suspected she would have been up to more than a kiss, too, but my mind was too agitated to relax into love-making, even if I hadn't been afraid of soiling the immaculate bed coverings. I told her to sleep well, and soon, her breath came as evenly as that of our daughters, while I stared up at the painted silver stars on the ceiling. The evening's conversation had rekindled so many memories that had been well-buried under the events of the past years, and it was almost impossible to reconcile them with where I was now. It felt as if I was two different people, because the person I had been born as couldn't possibly be allowed to rest his lowly head on these snow-white pillows, to dine with the king and the noble family of Andúnië instead of begging for the leftovers. It had been years since I'd had to worry where the next day's money would be coming from. But I had been too busy to adjust to the change, somehow. Things had moved so fast. Now that I was forced to rest, in the unlikely position of a guest, nothing made sense anymore. How much of what I had been taught about the world and my place in it still applied? How could I find out without getting myself into trouble yet again?
My thoughts kept on tumbling over each other, but it seems that I fell asleep eventually, because the next thing I remembered was that Azruphel climbed onto my chest to give me a very wet kiss, and that Arcanendo opened the curtains and bid us an excellent good morning.

Our days fell into an easy, pleasant rhythm. Between breakfast and the mid-day meal, each of us had something different to do. Amraphel spent much time with the ladies, doing whatever noble women did and talking about whatever noble women talked about. "Administration, literature, childcare, plans for the week – all kinds of things," Amraphel said when I a sked her. "I have to admit that I was rather too confident in my own learning; there are many things that Father's teachers didn't bother to mention, or maybe I didn't bother to learn them well. There are a lot of new things to soak up." She laughed a little. "I have grown far too used to being an authority!"
But she did not seem to mind that she was no authority here. I admired her confidence; she walked with the ladies, conversed with the lords and accepted Nienillë's attentions as if she had been born to it. It made my heart sting a little, too. If she had followed her father's wishes rather than married me, she could have led this kind of life all along, after all. She consistently told me that she did not regret her choice at all, and I longed to believe her, but deep in my mind, I was worrying that she just wanted to humour me.

Azruphel, too, had a lot of knowledge to soak up. She followed the young Lady Eärrimë everywhere, even attending her lessons. I assumed that these lessons went right over Azruphel's head, but she managed to acquire a couple of words of Eldarin if nothing else, making Lady Nolwen smile and offer to assemble a list of good teachers in Arminalêth. I thought that was rather excessive, for a former day-taler's daughter, but Amraphel reminded me that learning could do a whole lot of good. She was probably right. Yet, it was a strange idea that I should invest into the future of my daughters like her father had done. (I began to expect that even Nimmirel's first proper words might be Eldarin, since she kept hearing so much of it around her. To us, everybody spoke Adûnaic, but amongst themselves, they all spoke in the solemn language of the Elves.)
After lessons, the two girls played in the nursery, or ran through the gardens where some servants' children joined them to play tag or hide and seek. They built brightly coloured kites out of silk paper and feathers, which they flew on the beach in the afternoon. They played ball, climbed trees and tried to find their way through the hedge maze faster and faster. In short, outside of their lessons they were behaved just like ordinary children, except they were doing it in the elaborate surroundings of the mansion gardens.

Meanwhile, our hosts showed me around the property and took me along as they went about their duties. I had declined the offer of joining them for hunting, feeling not up to the task. I neither had the necessary skill with bow and arrow, nor would it have felt right. Instead, I was shown around the property, "to help me feel at home". I could not have felt less at home. They had several kitchens and several larders, a very well-stocked wine cellar, and an ice cellar for storing perishables. They had their own baths, built by long-dead ancestors for the enjoyment of their noble kin. They had their own woodlands whence to take firewood for the many fireplaces in the house, and a vast orchard to provide fruit for the household. They had broad stretches of land for their horses and lesser beasts, and a huge south-facing meadow where their linens were bleached. They had a piece of garden for every purpose, be it practicing archery or growing vegetables.
"Um," I said. "Your lettuce and spinach are going to seed, my lords."
It was intentional. I learned that the growing and distribution of seeds was among the duties of the nobility. It made sense, I suppose – they could afford letting their lettuce grow bitter and tall, their peas dry in the pod – but it was odd somehow to see the otherwise so perfectly tended garden sport the misshapen pillars of lettuce, the wiry growth and bitter roots that every other gardener would seek to avoid.

I was taken to the vinyards. I was taken along as the lords inspected the progress on the new granaries. "We were not prepared for a year like the last," Lord Eärendur said, as if he had to explain himself to me, "assuming that the Valar in their kindness would forever protect us from bad weather and crop failure. It was foolish, and has brought us to the brink of ruin. That must not happen again." He expected that food would remain rationed for years to come, no matter how good the harvest, simply so that some surplus could be stored for the future.
I noticed that neither the winegrowers nor the farmers nor the builders knelt to my hosts, showing them no more than casual respect. I had already observed that lack of humility – almost shocking to me, who was ready to bow low to every craftsman – in their servants, and couldn't help commenting on it now.
Lord Eärendur smiled sagely. "We know who we are, they know who we are. There's no need to constantly demonstrate power and subservience, is there? I'm aware that you are prepared to fall to your knees at every opportunity, but it is not the custom here. Respect can be shown without casting yourself on the ground. I find it rather tiresome, if there is no good reason."
"But you kneel to the King, lord," I said, confused.
That made him laugh. "He is the King - it is not my choice to make," he pointed out. "We lords must, after all, uphold order, and thus submit to it. That is reason enough. At any rate, Ancalimon does not expect me to kneel to him when we are amongst ourselves."
Ancalimon, I thought. His cousin on the throne. Expressions like that certainly served to remind me in whose company I was spending my days.

Other than that, it was sometimes too easy to forget just that. When we went down to the beach in the afternoon – the tide was at its lowest then, the beach at its widest² – the nobles stripped down to their loincloths and frolicked in the waves, or played ball, or picked up shells to decorate the children's sand buildings just like I could see other people doing. This seemed to be a popular pastime even among grown-ups, building walls and cities and towers of sand that would be washed away by the flood overnight. When I asked why anyone would spend time and effort on something that would be destroyed within a few hours, Lord Eärendur gave me an amused look. "Mostly because it is satisfying to create something quickly and easily, I suppose," he said, "but it is also a useful exercise to remind us that ultimately, nothing that we make will last forever."
Why anyone would find that satisfying, I did not understand. I always felt wistful when we left Azruphel's lovingly crafted hills of sand behind, artfully decorated with stones and shells and starfish, knowing that they would be gone tomorrow.

One remarkable afternoon, Azruphel came running from having collected new shells for her sand buildings, yelling at the top of her lungs: "Atto, Atto, I have found a Silmaril!"
I glanced up in alarm, and saw curious looks from all around.
"Good grief, I hope not," Lord Eärengolë said flatly.
Azruphel reached us and showed us her finding. It was not a Silmaril. It was a small, rounded lump of clear, silvery material that shone with a pale blue light under the sun. But when Azruphel cupped her hands around it, the blue sheen turned into liquid gold. I gasped. If not for that glow, I would have thought she had simply found a little shard of glass, worn round by the waves and sand. But it was too light for glass – it felt almost weightless - and it exuded warmth in a way that could not be explained by Azruphel's warm little hands. It reminded me of amber.
"It is amber," said Lord Eärengolë confirmed, in an awe-struck tone that I had never heard from him before. "But it is far more special than ordinary amber. This is from the sap of the Trees of Valinor – very rare and very precious – though not quite as rare as a Silmaril. Still, you could probably buy a horse with that little piece. Did you see any more of it?"
"No, just the one," Azruphel said. Of course, the girls spent the rest of the afternoon searching. But neither of them found any more, to their great disappointment.

"You must give that piece of amber to Lady Eärrimë," I told Azruphel as we made our way back up to the mansion.
"But I found it," Azruphel protested, clutching her little fist tight around the piece of amber.
"But you found it on her family's beach, love," I explained it, "so it rightly belongs to them."
Azruphel's lip trembled unhappily, but she held out the shining little stone to her noble friend.
Eärrimë's eyes lit up, and she made to take the gem. Her father intervened.
"Finder's Keepers," he told Azruphel. "You found it, and it belongs to you. You can give it to Eärrimë as a precious gift, if you want, but you don't have to."
I could see that Azruphel was now torn between her desire to keep the precious stone, and the wish to make her friend happy. But Lord Eärengolë's words had made an impression on young Eärrimë as well. She shook her head. "You can keep it," she said with astonishing firmness. "I can go and search for one every day, but you will soon have to go back to Armenelos."
Azruphel beamed as she pocketed the stone. I caught up with Lord Eärengolë and quietly said, "Your generosity, lord, is as always appreciated; but you are putting ideas into Azruphel's head."
Lord Eärengolë's eyebrows went up. "Ideas? What, that she should be permitted to keep the fruits of her labour? A shocking idea indeed. I might as well accuse you of putting ideas into Eärrimë's head, that she is entitled to things she did not earn just by virtue of her birth."
"Well, that's what it's like," I pointed out. "Not, maybe, in blessed Andúnië, but as Lady Eärrimë has wisely observed, we will soon have to return to Arminalêth. And there, a day-taler's daughter mustn't think she is entitled to anything."
A moment's silence. "An embalmer's daughter," he eventually corrected me.
"That amounts to the same thing," I said, frustrated. "Nothing."
Lord Eärengolë studied me for an uncomfortably long while before he finally said, "Do not sell yourself under value, Azruhâr. Nor your children." Then, at last, he smiled again. "At any rate, we already have some fine pieces of Valinorean amber. Azruphel is welcome to keep hers."

To prove it, he showed us a pendant later on. It was far larger than the little shard that Azruphel had found. If you could buy a horse with Azruphel's stone, then this probably sufficed for a whole herd, and the stables to house it. Moreover, it had been polished and set in silver. Even more precious than its size was the pretty caterpillar encased within. Amber sometimes held insects in it, of course, but this one was especially impressive, the plump body of the caterbillar arched in mid-movement, brightly coloured spikes sticking to all sides, lit by the gentle glow of the petrified Tree-sap. Absurdly, I felt sorry for the hairy little beast. It must be a horrible feeling, I thought, to be entrapped in this manner, helpless, unable to move or escape until death took you at last. And centuries later somebody found your dead body, unchanged in its resin prison...
Dead but unchanged, centuries later. I drew my breath in sharply.
"How long has that caterpillar been dead?" I asked, my voice ringing out inappropriately loud for polite company.
Lord Eärengolë laughed. "We were not there, so we do not know," he quipped, but grew more earnest when he saw my face. "Well, we know that the Trees were destroyed three thousand and twenty-one years ago. So it must be older than that."
"Three thousand and twenty-one years!" My mind was racing, and I could barely keep my hands still. I wanted to run and sing and dance. I could feel Lord Eärengolë's bemused gaze and his mother's inscrutable eyes on me, and forced myself to stay still. But inside, I was hollering in excitement. Dead for three millennia, and still undecayed! If that wasn't food for thought, nothing was.

On the day that the local council convened, I rode down into the white city of Andúnië. I had been invited to attend the council meeting but could not bring myself to face another council, even if I had to do nothing but sit on the side and observe the proceedings. Besides, it was interesting to travel into the town on my own, as a random visitor rather than a guest of the lords. As Amraphel had said, the place was well worth a visit. I admired the bustling port, the little fishing boats, the large boats for transport, and the tall ships which belonged to our host. I admired the busy market hall and the craftsmen's quarters and the Academy of Andúnië, almost more imposing than the house of the noble family. I admired the clean, nicely paved streets and the white-walled houses with their tiled roofs, even in the outskirts. Of course, parks had been turned into vegetable patches even here, showing that the hungry winter had taken its toll on Andúnië, too. Nonetheless, the atmosphere was one of peace and prosperity. Nobody was shouting, or shoving past others to get to the market stalls first; nobody was yelling at the street urchins to stay well away from the goods. In fact, there were no street urchins, neither in the marketplace nor in the side streets; nobody came running after me to beg for coin or offer to watch my horse while I took a look at the stalls.

"Where are all the urchins?" I asked of a passer-by, who first gave me a puzzled look and then, once she had understood that I did not speak Eldarin, pointed me at a market stall. I could see plenty of seafood there, but no children, and after a moment's confusion I realised that the woman must have thought I was looking for sea urchins. I asked the fisherwoman behind the stall for the whereabouts of the street children. She gave me a look very nearly as puzzled as the first woman's. "Why, in school, friend," she said. "You're from the East? We have our holiday week after Erulaitalë, for the sake of the merchants and artists who attend the fair in the capital and then return for our own. So this is a work week, and a school week."
I blinked hard. "Why are the street urchins going to school?"
She tilted her head at me, studying me like I was some kind of curiosity. "So they learn their letters and their numbers, I presume, or so it was in my day. Why else?"
I pondered the question. Why else indeed? Nobody had bothered to send me to school when I was young. In fact, my parents had rather expected me to make a few coins by shining shoes or passing messages, or at the very least to 'find' the occasional apple or loaf of bread. Nobody in my neighbourhood had bothered with letters or numbers until this winter, as far as I knew. Nobody would have taught them, for that matter. They didn't need to know that kind of thing.
"Isn't your lord afraid that nobody will be willing to sweep the streets and empty the chamberpots if everyone can read and write?"
I stopped being some sort of curiosity and became a proper marvel, from the look she gave me. "Apparently not," she said. "Did that happen in your place?"
"Well, no. But I'd think that nobody would want to do dirty work, if they can write."
She snorted. "Fishing's dirty work, too. Or butchery. But somebody has to do it. We can wash afterwards, no? There's a fine public bath just around the corner, and another one down by the port --"
Hopeless. But that certainly explained the mystery of the reading servants. I remembered something Lord Eärengolë had said, about Andúnië having very few unlearned workers, and I tried to ask the marketwoman about that. I had to explain the concept of day-taling to her because she did not know the Adûnaic word, but she apparently didn't know the Eldarin eqivalent, either. "You mean, like the new people who came here from other places last fall?"
"No, not refugees. I mean, proper citizens."
"Well, those who stay are becoming citizens now, I hear. Well, I expect they'll try to find positions as assistants or servants, right? I mean, what would you do?"
I opened my mouth, but couldn't think of a sensible answer. "Are there that many positions for assistants and servants to fill?" I asked instead.
"We'll have to create a few more, perhaps," she conceded. "Or maybe a few journeymen will be promoted to master sooner, so they can start taking on apprentices. Our lord will think of a way, no doubt; he always does."
I did not know what to think about that. "Your lord is very gracious, I suppose."
"Well, yes," she said. "That's why we call him 'your Grace', isn't it?"
I gave up. That, I thought weakly, was the sort of logic on which Andúnië operated. There was no getting behind it.

If my impertinent questions caused offense, I ever heard of it. In fact, the noble family continued to treat my ignorance with kindness. Even after I had ruined what should have been a pleasant evening sailing cruise by being exceedingly prone to sea-sickness and a childish terror of drowning, Lord Eärendur insisted on viewing that as a strength.
"If all men were like you," he simply said once we were safely sitting by the Heart of the House, overlooking the perfectly peaceful sea, "then the Valar need have pronounced no ban, and we need not worry that anyone would think of breaking it."
That was no consolation. "You are determined to paint me in a good light, your Grace," I said weakly. "I cannot understand why."
"Yes, I expect that it's an unfamiliar feeling," he drily replied. "But somebody has to."
"I agree," Amraphel said, "but I cannot help but wonder why you care, lord."
"Yes, I suppose I will have to explain," Lord Eärendur said with a sigh, as if it should all be obvious. "Let us try to make it simple. I am an old-fashioned man. I also like to think that I am a good man. Good people should support each other – whatever else they may be."
I grimaced, and felt that I needed to make a confession. "I – I'm afraid that I don't fit your definition of a good person. I'm a Keeper of the Dead – and you know what brought me into that position – and I am no man of faith, I just went to the Mountain because it seemed the right thing to do. I have a knack for biting off more than I can chew, and I manage to cause offense wherever I go --"
Lord Eärendur's keen eyes bored into mine. "I would have held these things true, not long ago. But it is said that a man will reveal his true character when he is given money or power. You have been given money, and this winter, you have put it to good use. You have ennobled yourself - in fact, you have put many a nobleman to shame."
He made it sound like a good thing. "But that's not what I wanted. I just – something had to be done!"
"Exactly," Lord Eärendur agreed. "Something had to be done, and somebody had to do it. Let me tell you something. After that council session that Alcarmaitë dragged out so unnecessarily, I returned here to help Nolo deal with the situation, with no time or mind to expend on Armenelos. Still, we heard that a private individual was employing poor folk to keep the road to Rómenna safe, and we rejoiced."
"We did," Lady Nolwen said with a smile. "We spoke of the Good Man of Armenelos."
I felt my cheeks fill with heat.
"At first, it looked only like a way of creating additional work, which would have been valuable enough," Lord Eärendur continued, "but it became apparent that the capital was desperately dependant on fish from the coast. Somebody was helping the poor, the fishermen, the fishmongers and much of the citizenship of Armenelos – a highly commendable somebody. So we began to speculate who the Good Man of Armenelos might be. Alcarmaitë had reason and the means, but no inclination. Atanacalmo would have been in the right position, but he wasn't behind it, either. Who then? A rich merchant? Or Quenno, perhaps? Naturally, as a proud father, I hoped that it might be Quenno, and the more I thought about it, the more sense it seemed to make. But when we next spoke, he told me that he had no hand in it; however, he did tell me the identity of the Good Man. Imagine my surprise."

I tried to imagine his surprise. It must have been massive. Azruhâr the Nothing was the Good Man of Arminalêth. I was glad I hadn't known at the time that I was being discussed in such terms. There mere responsibility would have terrified me into inaction.
"It was Amraphel who thought of it, your Grace," I said, for the sake of saying something at all.
"So the Good Man of Armenelos was in fact a woman? This is getting better and better." Lord Eärengolë clapped his hands.
"After Azruhâr expressed his intent to use our money to help our neighbours," Amraphel said. "It was a joint effort, really."
"She did all the calculations and grasped the opportunities," I insisted. "I couldn't have done any of that. I just happened to have the money."
"Well, it was fortunate that you two came to be together, then," Lord Eärendur said matter-of-factly. "Perhaps it was fated."
That thought, at least, was reassuring. If it was fated that Amraphel should marry me, then it was not my fault. She wrapped her arms around me, and I leaned into her embrace.

"At any rate, at that point I had to realise that in spite of the unflattering light in which I had first met you, you must in fact be a decent fellow – not, as Alcarmaitë would have it, an unrepentant criminal, undeservedly protected by the King, who all too freely trusts anyone who promises to save him from death."
I winced. "Save his body from decay," I corrected. "That is all I can hope for. And his royal Highness is doubtlessly correct, but I'm not sure I deserve his hatred, either. I should be beneath his notice, shouldn't I? Why does he hate me so?"
I was speaking to myself rather than to the others, but Lady Vánimë replied nonetheless.
"If that knowledge can help you: I think it is jealousy," she said.
I blinked, hard. "Why should the Crown Prince of Yôzayân be jealous of me?"
Lady Vánimë drew herself more upright. "Because from his perspective, you have been given something that he has been struggling for his entire life: his father's affection."
I opened my mouth, shut it again; there was nothing to say.

"Vánimë is right," Lord Eärendur calmly said. "Alcarmaitë has, for a long time, been treated as a disappointment by his father. He is a formidable warrior, but he appears to be lacking the intellectual disposition – or at the very least, the patience and subtlety – that Ancalimon prizes. Alcarmaitë has found it hard to please the King."
"Is it true that his Majesty considered passing the sceptre to you instead?" The question had slipped from my tongue before I knew what I was saying.
"To me? Unlikely." Lord Eärendur laughed. "I am too far removed from the direct line. Atanacalmo³ was a more likely candidate. It stands to reason that if Ancalimon would not pass the sceptre to his son, he should pass it to his brother. But it is true that he took his time to declare Alcarmaitë his successor."
"Amraphel says that the Crown Prince had to prove himself in the colonies," I said.
"Amraphel is well-informed," Lord Eärendur said. "Yes, Alcarmaitë had to lead a campaign in Middle-earth to show that he was capable of good leadership, strategy and planning. He succeeded – or at the very least, he showed himself capable of listening to sensible advice - and he returned with rich treasure to lay at Ancalimon's feet. After that, he was at last declared worthy of the sceptre. But it has been a struggle for him."
Lady Vánimë held out her hand as if presenting me with something – the evidence, I suppose. "And now imagine that this man, who had to pay precious silver for his birthright, sees a man like you showered with favours, with money and kind words."

I ducked my head lower. Put like this, it really was no wonder that the Crown Prince hated me.
"Alcarmaitë is a bitter man," Lord Eärendur summarised, "and that makes him dangerous. You are under the King's protection while you are of use to him, but his protection will run out – one way or another. When that happens, you'll have to convince Alcarmaitë that you are useful to him. I will help you where I can, obviously --"
"You will, my lord?" The words slipped out of me before I knew what I was saying. I had no intention of doubting his words. I was just overwhelmed by the generous offer.
He raised his glass to me. "I certainly will – although I do not know how much I can. I can speak in your favour, but I cannot overrule Alcarmaitë. If he puts his mind to hurting you, all I may be able to do is offer shelter to your family."
I shifted uneasily. This was not something I wanted to think about, although I probably should. If the Crown Prince put his mind to hurting me... it was absurd, but unfortunately, it seemed quite likely. There probably was no protection from him, certainly not once he was King. But at least Amraphel and the girls could be kept safe. I thought of Lômenil, driven back to her mother after Lôbar's execution – well, until Master Târik had fallen in love with her, anyway. I thought of Lasbêth, abandoned by her lover and raising her son in despair and squalour. I thought of Master Amrazôr's questionable behaviour towards his daughter. It would indeed be a powerful relief to know that they would be provided for in Andúnië, should the worst happen to me.
I took a deep breath. "That would be a generous gift – of all the generous gifts I have been given this week, the greatest. I wish I had some way of repaying you, lord."
"The point of a gift is that it does not require repaying, Azruhâr," Lord Eärendur pointed out. "But who knows? Maybe a day will come when I need your help, rather than you mine. Should that happen, I will naturally hope that you will give it."
"Of course, your Grace," I said. "I am entirely at your service - as long as it does not interfere with the King's interests, of course."
"May my interests and those of the King never be at odds," Lord Eärendur said. He spoke lightly, as if there could be no doubt about that, and I desperately hoped that he was right.

---

Chapter End Notes

*“Oh, Armenelos, city of stone and hearts of stone“ - or so I hope.

² I am not trying to figure out the tidal calendar of a potentially flat world. Azruhâr's observation may apply to that specific week, or every day ever; take your pick.

³ If you are desperately searching for canonical evidence of this Atanacalmo dude, you can stop; he isn't canon. We are told that Tar-Telemmaitë's daughter Tar-Vanimeldë marries one Herucalmo (Tar-Anducal), who is a great-grandson of Tar-Atanamir – just as Tar-Vanimeldë is his great-granddaughter. To make them a little less closely related, it seemed sensible to give Tar-Ancalimon siblings: a brother Atanacalmo (nominally Lord of Armenelos, a rather useless office, but he's got to have some kind of title, right?), and a sister Calimíriel, whom Azruhâr hasn't yet (consciously) met. One of the two canonically has to exist, but the details? I totally made them up.

Chapter 15

Azruhâr has impressed the right people; time to pick a fight with the wrong people. Violence warning applies.

Read Chapter 15

It was very different to travel home in the company of the Lords of Andúnië – mostly because we travelled by ship to Eldalondë, which cut the length of the journey to a single day. In Eldalondë, we would then be welcomed and fed by the family of Lady Vánimë even though she herself did not come with us. Her parents, however, would apparently ride along to the capital for Erulaitalë; her father, Lord Vánatirmo, would then stay in the city, while Lady Lótirië would join Lord Eärengolë on the journey home a few days after the celebrations. It seemed to me a cumbersome amount of travelling, but nobody else seemed to marvel at it. They were used to it, I suppose. Lord Eärendur assured me that I would not be expected to come to the Minultârik with them, so I could settle back in at home. Privately, I thought that I would not be able to do much settling in, considering that my colleagues and I had once more been summoned to the royal celebration in the afternoon, so I might as well begin the holiday in the proper manner. But I did not say that out loud. There was little time for conversation while we prepared for the journey, and I was ill at ease for having to board a ship again. However, I hadn't wanted to leave earlier to make the entire trip on horseback, either. I could have used the additional days to sort my thoughts, I suppose; but I was now as loath to return home as I had been to depart, a week ago.
Still, it had to be done. So I went on board, and then stood at the rail and watched Andúnië grow smaller and smaller until it disappeared behind the headland altogether. The wind was strong enough to make my eyes water. So close to the shore, I found that I did not feel particularly nauseous, but my known weakness was a welcome excuse to stand aside and look back in silence.

Amraphel walked up behind me, and I hastily wiped my eyes. "Are you well enough to handle Nimmirel?" she asked. "I'm not quite comfortable with Azruphel's courage; I want to stay close to her just in case."
I looked around guiltily. Azruphel didn't show the least sign of sea-sickness or anxiety, instead exploring the ship seemingly at random, ducking under ropes and jumping over steps. It was all too easy to imagine her getting in the way of the sailors, who might easily overlook a small girl running behind them. Or she might start climbing the rail or even the mast... I held out my arms to take Nimmirel and her rag doll. "I can manage," I said, ashamed not to have thought of helping Amraphel to look after the children on my own account.
"Thank you," she simply said, handing me the squirming infant and hurrying after our firstborn.

Anxious of dropping Nimmirel, who wanted to move, I went looking for a safe place in the middle of the ship where I wouldn't get into the way of the sailors. I could see Lady Nolwen and Lord Eärengolë and some of their attendants by the prow. I assumed that this was a safe place to stay, so I went to join them, sitting down on the deck so Nimmirel could comfortably sit in my lap. She stopped squirming and took to throwing down her doll, laughing whenever it hit the polished planks. Then I had to pick it up again and return it to her (not without pretending that I really wanted to keep it, and that she had to tug it from my hand with all her strength). I hoped that we didn't disturb the other's conversation too much. At any rate, they did not seem to mind. One of the servants even crouched down to join in the game. Nimmirel seemed to like that even more; her eyes flitted from my face to the servant's as if to guess who of us would take the doll this time, and she squealed in delight whenever she had guessed right. It did not seem to occur to her that we were taking turns.
I felt Lady Nolwen's eyes on the scene, and looked up, embarrassed. "I don't know why she loves this game so much," I said as if to excuse myself.
She laughed. "I suppose it is exciting if you aren't yet sure how the universe works," she pointed out. "Can I make the doll fall sideways instead of down? Will Atto give it back to me, or will he keep it for himself? Wise as we are, we naturally know that things will always fall down when dropped, and that you have no interest in keeping the doll. But Nimmirel is not yet certain about these rules." She squatted down, joining our little circle. "She has the makings of a scientist - like her father, perhaps?"

In my surprise, the doll slipped from my fingers. Nimmirel squealed in protest; I had messed up her game. "You overestimate me, my lady," I said, returning the toy to my daughter.
Lady Nolwen raised an eyebrow. "From what I have learned, you conduct experiments as a scientist would. You note down your expectations, and your materials, and the results. You may do so with a specific application in mind rather than out of general interest, but otherwise, I assure you that this is precisely how the chemists at the Academy work. You could pursue a doctorate, you know."
I was so puzzled that I missed my turn. Nimmirel made another protesting sound, and I hastily picked the doll up again. "Certainly not," I said then. "That is for learned folk. Besides, I don't have the time. I have my work."
"If you say so," Lady Nolwen said, shrugging, and fully turned his attention to Nimmirel. "Maybe you, then?" Nimmirel gave her a searching look, held out her doll, and opened her hand. The doll dropped and hit the planks with a soft thud.
"I must disappoint you, Mistress Nimnîmirel; gravity is already well-documented," Lady Nolwen said in an inappropriately serious tone. "You will have to find something else to study." She gave the doll back to Nimmirel, then rose. "About an hour until Eldalondë, and then an hour and a half, maybe two, until we are ready to ride. We will make Armenelos well before sunset." A small smile. "You will be glad to sleep in your own bed again, I expect."
I wondered whether she was mocking me. "It will be good to be home again, your Grace," I said without much conviction. "But I already know that I will miss Andúnië. Not because I am lazy!" I quickly tried to clarify. "But because it was so... pleasant." I should have liked to find a stronger word.
Lady Nolwen gave a small smile, saying, "Well, come and dine with us every now and then, when we are in the capital, although I realise that it is not the same thing. But you can visit us again in fall – then we can marvel at how big your Nimmirel will look next to our new grandchild, if all goes well."
"I would like that very much," I admitted, and again forgot to pick up Nimmirel's doll.
"A-do!" she said, reprimandingly, and I blinked.
"Did you just say Atto?"
"She said it earlier, too," the servant confirmed. He had clearly paid more attention than I had. My little daughter was starting to speak, and I was too distracted to notice!

I hadn't thought that Lady Nolwen had been serious, but later as we rode along the river Nunduinë, when I thanked Lord Eärendur for his hospitality and kindness, he confirmed the invitation. "We can make a habit of it, if you want," he suggested. "There are merchant ships that would take you along, too; that way, you will not take so many days. Unless you prefer riding, of course."
"I don't rightly know," I said, rubbing my nose. "I don't even know whether the future will allow me to accept your offer..."
He nodded sagely. "But you may remember it, if you are free."
Lord Vanatirmo of Eldalondë deigned to notice me. "I do not think I know your guest, Brother?" he told Lord Eärendur, with an apologetic nod in my direction. I felt my face flare up, because of course he knew me; after all, he, too, was on the council. He had mocked the nobleman in the expensive velvet robes. I knew his face, even if he could not recall mine.
"Oh, you do know him," Lord Eärendur promptly said, with a smile that looked almost mischievous. "You remember Azruhâr the Embalmer, don't you?"
It was almost comical, the way Lord Vanatirmo reacted; he physically withdrew, startling his horse and making it fall back before he got himself – and the animal – back under control. I bowed my head, both out of embarrassment and so the amusement in my eyes would be hidden..
"Really," Lord Vanatirmo said in a shocked tone. "Brother, I should hope that you have no need for an embalmer!"

Lord Eärendur continued to smile serenely. "Oh, at my age, it does not take a seeing stone to know that the time is approaching," he said lightly. "But Azruhâr is not here in his function as an embalmer, but rather as the founder of the Copperhoods. You remember that, too, don't you?"
"I remember that, yes," said Lord Vanatirmo, giving me a wide-eyed stare. "The Good Man of Armenelos. That was you?"
"That – I do not deserve such a title, your Grace," I said, trying to hold his gaze. His eyes were blue and innocent like an infant's, even though there was silver in his dark hair and beard. That beard had been allowed to grow up his cheeks, maybe to conceal that his face was rather broad and round, as I could see from so close.
"Yes, that was Azruhâr," Lord Eärendur said without looking back at either of us. I could hear the smile in his voice, though. He clearly enjoyed his brother-in-law's surprise. I wondered whether he had planned on it.
Lord Vánatirmo continued to fix me with his round blue eyes. "It appears that I underestimated you, then," he said; and then, to my endless surprise, he lowered his head and bent forwards in what was, considering that he was on horseback and could not risk tumbling off, the lowest possible bow.

It was good to be home again, although the inferiority of my house (the best, I dully thought, in the entire neighbourhood) to the place in which I had spent the past days was naturally striking. Still, it was my own, and I knew how to move in it. That was worth something – even though I found myself looking up at the bedroom ceiling, wondering whether I would get away with painting stars on it. When I mentioned the possibility to Amraphel, she just gave me a gentle smile and asked, "Are you putting on airs?"
I hastily assured her that I wasn't, and she kissed me. I wasn't certain whether she was serious or not.
Old Palatâr and his family had taken good care of the house. It was much cleaner than I remembered it being when we had left, and the garden had been weeded in our absence. There was even a pot of pea soup waiting for us, and when we lit the fire to re-heat the soup, thereby announcing our safe return, several neighbours arrived to welcome us back. They were curious about the journey and about Andúnië, of course, but they also appeared to be genuinely pleased to see us again. That was a nice feeling, and I was quite sorry when Amraphel reminded me that we had to rise early in the morning so we would make it to the Mountain on time.
"I should like to come along," old Palatâr mused, "but if you who ride have to leave early, I should probably have to start walking right now."
Others agreed. "In the old days, the ceremony didn't begin before poor folk had a chance to get there on foot," said Lasbeth. She had been a regular worshipper, though whether it was out of conviction or because she had hoped that her erstwhile lover would see her and her son and feel a sense of guilt, I did not know. Not that I had any right to question her motives.

"Well, in the old days, there was no feast at the palace," I pointed out. "Now that the ceremony has to take part before the official celebrations, it has to be done earlier. That's all. But you can come later; you don't have to go to the palace celebrations, after all." I couldn't speak the last part without some envy. The council was supposed to see how well the King trusted and honoured his embalmers, and that was why we had to attend. I would gladly have foregone the honour.
"But that's not the same," Târinzil said. Despite her youth, she had probably been to the Mountain far more often than I had been; her parents were proper elf-friends.
"It's not the same, either way," I replied. "The King is not there, and Lord Eärendur can't speak. It's all silence, and very few people. It's just..." I tried to remember the words Lord Eärendur had used. "An interim solution."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
A way to do things until we have a younger King. I could not bring myself to say the words.
"It means," Amraphel said, "that you can just as well go there at your own leisure, to have your own impromptu ceremony, because that's the only kind we currently have. And now, it's time to sleep."

As we reached the Mountain early in the morning, the noblemen's servants were in the process of putting up the pavillons for the horses and a table for a brief lunch.We were immediately hailed by Lord Eärengolë. He greeted us with a grin. "Good morning, Amraphel, Azruhâr! And your lovely daughters." He helped Azruphel off the horse, then turned to offer his hand to Amraphel, but she had already unhorsed without assistance. "How good to see you again," Lord Eärengolë said cheerfully, as if it hadn't been a mere half day since we had parted. "We did not expect that it would be so soon – since Azruhâr professed to be no man of faith." His eyes were glinting as he looked at me. My face grew hot.
"It's not that I never pray, Lord Eärengolë," I tried to explain. "It's just that it's not a habit."
"But it felt necessary - again?" That was Lord Eärendur, silently walking up on us. Like the others, he was again wearing a very simple white shift, barely more than a night-shirt. Maybe it was a night-shirt. I suddenly wondered whether Amraphel and I should have removed the embroidery from our holiday robes. In spring, I had not known any better, since I had not been among the people informed that there would be a ceremony at all. Most of them appeared to belong to Lord Eärendur's household and that of Lord Vanatirmo, anyway – although there were a couple of faces I recognised from the market in Arminalêth. Of course, it had to be a private affair; only the Crown Prince could have continued the official ceremony.
Still, by now I knew that this year's fashion was apparently humble, and maybe I should have acted on it. On the other hand, the nobles wore highly elaborate garlands of cornflowers and carnations, while Amraphel and I wore simple wreaths of sweet peas, picked and wound this very morning. Perhaps that levelled the field.

Either way, despite their joking tone, both the young and the old lord of Andúnië honestly seemed to be happy to see us, even if we were overdressed. Why else should they have interrupted their conversations only to greet us? And if they had not, in fact, been involved in any conversations, did that not imply that we had been waited for?
My silence appeared to be answer enough. Lord Eärendur's hand, warm and firm, came to rest on my shoulder. It was a perfectly friendly gesture, but somehow, it threw me off-balance – perhaps because the friendliness in it still was so unexpected. He could have steered me like a ship, in this manner.
And in a way, he did. "There is still time for refreshments. It is only getting hotter, so everybody should drink something before we climb. We will join you in a moment."
Lord Eärengolë raised an eyebrow, but no objections. He politely led Amraphel and the children into the small crowd that was standing, talking and laughing and toasting the holiday, in what shadow the pavillons provided. I could see Lady Nolwen greet them, immediately including them into her circle of friends or retainers or whoever they were.

I stayed behind, wondering what was coming next. "I hear you, my lord?" I said in what I hoped was a neutral tone.
He looked down on me with a smile. "No need to be afraid, Azruhâr." My voice clearly hadn't convinced him. "There is simply something I want you to have, but I don't feel it necessary to have everybody know it."
I frowned, still disconcerted. He produced a small velvet bag that he had been hiding in his left hand. I took it, more confused than ever. When I looked inside, I saw a glint of silver, a gleam of pale golden light, and a shadow that rather looked like a very dead caterpillar.
"It is very beautiful," I said, wondering why he was showing me this pendant again.
"It is yours," he said.
I felt as though he had knocked the breath out of me. "Have mercy, lord! You know that I cannot repay such a debt."
"There is no debt."
"There is always a debt, lord."
There was a hint of a smile. I was grateful for it, but it did not make me feel any more at ease.
"You should not think of it as a debt, Azruhâr. It is a gift. Perhaps, an investment. It clearly means something to you that it does not mean to me, and I am certain that it belongs in your hands."
I felt myself break out in a sweat that had nothing to do with the burning sun.
"I understand nothing of investments, lord, but I think I should tell you why I found this pendant so intriguing," I said. "It has to do with my work. With preserving the dead. I keep thinking – if that caterpillar could outlast three thousand and however many years in there... perhaps it would also work on a human body."
"You want to encase the King in amber?" Lord Eärendur asked, an eyebrow raised.
"No, your Grace. But amber is made of resin, is it not? Before the caterpillar was encased in amber, it was trapped in resin. Maybe that is enough. I don't know – yet. But I will try to find out. I know you cannot approve of my work, so I cannot accept your pendant for that purpose. Besides, it is much too valuable."

I held the bag out to him, and after a moment, he took it. His other hand left my shoulder, and he slipped the amber pendant into it, pondering it. It had looked brighter while surrounedd by the thick fabric, I thought. Under the sun, its gleam might have been a mere reflection.
Lord Eärendur looked me in the eyes. "I thank you for your honesty, Azruhâr. You are right in that I should condemn your work. But I have been forced to give the matter much thought, and I suppose I have come to terms with it." He shrugged his shoulders. "As for the pendant's value, yes, it is an expensive piece, but I assure you that my house is not going to go bankrupt over its loss. I have made up my mind to give it to you, and taking it back would be graceless. So take it. Keep it, wear it, or sell it if you need money to support your neighbours again. It is yours." Without further ado, he slipped the silver chain over my head. The lump of amber came to rest on my chest, just below my sternum. It left barely an impression in the white fabric. Nonetheless, it felt heavy. It felt like an obligation. An investment, that much I knew, was supposed to pay off at some point. It was the same thing as a debt, I suppose, only seen from the other end.
Not that I had a choice. "Refusing it would also be graceless, I know, so I accept it with gratitude and good will," I said, touching the pendant to my brow in order to display the gratitude I wasn't able to feel. "I pray that I will not disappoint you."

It seemed to suffice, for the time being. "Today is a good day for praying," Lord Eärendur said drily. "Come, let us join the others."
We made our way towards the pavillon, and he said, very quietly, "It is good that you are here, you know. It will convince Vanatirmo and Lotórië that you are of the right sort, and their approval will go a long way."
"Oh? Why did you not tell me that, yesterday, lord?"
"I could have," Lord Eärendur agreed. "But then your decision would have been guided by ulterior motives. That would have been quite inappropriate. But as you have come of your own accord, I do not mind telling you that it was a good choice – for more than one reason."
I chewed my lips. "I made that decision weeks ago, your Grace," I said, which was perfectly true, although I wasn't certain that he would believe me.
But apparently, he did. "Then there was no need for me to tell you anything."
"You knew it, though, lord, didn't you?" I couldn't help asking. "You were expecting me. Lord Eärengolë was keeping watch for us. And you wouldn't have brought the pendant along if you hadn't been reasonably certain that I would be here."
Lord Eärendur laughed. "That is true. Let me just say that I have more trust in your faith than you seem to do."

The ceremony on the Mountain was, in spite of the unavoidable silence, comfortable and reassuring. In contrast, the feast at the palace was an unpleasant affair, even more so than usual. The King was not feeling well, so instead of walking around and speaking with all of us in turn, he did not rise from the throne even once. He accepted everybody's felicitations with a few gracious words, but it was obviously wearing him out. We Keepers, lowest of rank among the visitors, spoke to him last, and he appeared very much out of spirits, exhorting us to continue our good efforts without much energy. We were soon ushered away so he would be able to rally his strength.
Instead of the King, his son was making the rounds, and I dreaded the moment when he would reach our group. Master Ipharaz of the Coffin-Makers, invited in his function as a councillor, made civil conversation with us, which Master Khôrazir had never done. I tried to catch up on what I had been missing, but couldn't help casting furtive glances around. It made me a bad listener, but it had the advantage that I noticed when the Crown Prince began to steer the Lords Atanacalmo and Têrakon, with whom he had last been speaking, towards us.
"Master Târik, your former lord is approaching," I said under breath. "Maybe you want to be elsewhere."
"You are right," Master Târik said at once. "Councillor Ipharaz, shall we get some fresh air before the meal?"
Karathôn and Mîkul joined them on the way to the terrace. I wondered whether I could seek refuge in the company of Lord Eärendur, but I doubted that I would be welcome there. Perhaps he didn't want to be seen associating with me in public, either. It was one thing to entertain me in the privacy of his house, or in the select company of elf-friends; but I probably should not expect public displays of friendship just here. At any rate, there was no more time to go anywhere without looking as if I was fleeing. So I stayed where I was, forcing a nervous smile onto my lips.

"Well, well, if it isn't Lord Azruhâr," the Crown Prince said by way of greeting. "Though how anyone could mistake you for a lord is quite beyond me."
"Royal Highness," I said, kneeling. "I do not know it, either."
I did not dare to look at his face, but I could hear the sneer in his voice as he told Lord Atanacalmo, "I believe it was Azruhâr who was so unhappy with the way you run the city, Uncle..."
"Was he," Lord Atanacalmo said, sounding strangely distracted. He probably did not care about my opinion very much, and would have been happy to ignore me, if the Crown Prince hadn't forced him to take notice. Lord Têrakon seemed more affronted than the Lord of Arminalêth. "Is that so, Embalmer? Do you know better than your betters?"
In some respects, I just might, thought a rebellious part of my mind. Out loud, I said, "Not at all, your lordship."
"Then why did you take matters that should have been your lord's into your own hand?" said Lord Têrakon, the distaste in his voice clearly audible.
"I did not think of it in such terms. I only wished to help my neighbours."
"Really? I hear you hired a whole army."
I tried to remember Amraphel's construct of an explanation. "No, your Grace, I made a loan to the fishmongers of Rómenna. So they could employ assistants to keep their transport safe."
"Why such generosity towards the fishmongers?" That was Lord Atanacalmo, now. I thought I could discern some amusement, although it might have been displeasure as well.
"My sister is a fishmonger," I said.
"Well, in that case, it clearly wasn't political," Lord Atanacalmo said with a shrug, to my puzzled surprise. I doubted that he would buy my explanation so easily, but he acted as if he did. "I can surely trust that you will not be so forward again?" he went on.

I studied the hems of our robes as I thought about my answer. Brocade appeared to be out of fashion, because the others were all wearing embroidered silk, much lighter than the festival robes I had bought a few years ago. Gold and silver thread had been used for the embroidery – of course – and the bright lining contrasted sharply with the solemn colours of the outer layer, but gaudy brocades like mine were clearly outdated. I called myself to order. "I doubt that I will be able to – to again make such a loan, anytime soon," I said. That was the kind of answer that Amraphel had recommended to me for such cases: not saying yes or no, but something that could be taken either way.
A benevolent interlocutor would play along, but of course, the Crown Prince was not benevolent towards me. "You have not answered the question, Embalmer."
I glanced up at Lord Atanacalmo. His gaze still seemed entertained rather than angry, which gave me a little courage. "I will remember to ask my lord's permission, in the unlikely case that the occasion should ever arise again," I said.
Lord Atanacalmo's lip twitched in what might have been a sneer or a suppressed smile. "Then all is as it should be," he told his kinsmen. "I daresay there are other matters that require our attention."
"More important matters, doubtlessly," Lord Têrakon agreed, and they moved on. The Crown Prince appeared to be taken aback; I could sense hesitation before he stalked away. I awkwardly straightened my cumbersome robe. The worst thing, I reflected, was that the King was so unwell. In fact, he now appeared to be fast asleep on the throne. Still, I was probably safer within sight of his Majesty than I was anywhere else, so I carefully walked closer to the throne in spite of the temptation to take refuge with my colleagues outside. I was sorely missing Amraphel. The councillors and noblemen had been permitted to bring their wives and grown children with them, but Master Târik and I had explicitly been invited alone. Clearly, we were to be honoured, but not so much as to feel like peers to the other guests.

I wondered who else I could talk to. The answer was Quentangolë, who also appeared concerned about the King's well-being and slowly fell into pace next to me.
"How has your holiday week been, Azruhâr?" he asked in a seemingly harmless tone.
I wondered that he did not ask his father instead of me. "It has been an excellent week, albeit too short," I said with a sigh. "I marvel that you can stand it here, if that was your home."
A wry sideways glance. "I can as little choose to leave as you can," Quentangolë said. "We both have our duties, and yours, I'm afraid, is growing more dire than ever."
I gave the sleeping King an anxious look. "Yes." I chewed my lips a little, wondering how much time the King had left. "Yes," I sighed again. "I have an interesting new idea, and I hope that it will enable me to do what his Majesty requests, but..." I trailed off. The amber pendant was still around my neck, I suddenly realised. I had stuffed it underneath my white robes as we had climbed the Minultârik, feeling that it was inappropriate to display such rich jewellery when everybody else was clothed humbly, and I had forgotten to take it off when I had changed into my festival finery. Now my fingers were drawn to the slim silver chain, pulling the pendant out of hiding. The smoothly polished amber was pleasant to the touch, reminding me of warm, peaceful days on a distant western beach. I had to force my mind back to the present.
"But I fear that I am running out of time," I said.
Quentangolë nodded earnestly. "I fear that also." With another nod, he left me to greet some noblewoman who was probably a distant relative.

When the meal was served – splendid by the standards of that year, doubtlessly ignoring the rationing and using up food that should have lasted a whole week; there even was white bread, wherever they had found the wheat for it – the Crown Prince saw another chance to attack me. "We have been able to secure a modest feast," he announced loudly, "although much of our due has already been eaten by the greedy and the undeserving at the foot of the hill."
I opened my mouth to protest, remembered myself in time, and bit my tongue. With the exception of the King and my colleagues, everybody was staring at me. Lord Eärendur was wearing a pained expression. Lord Atanacalmo looked annoyed, and I wondered whether his annoyance was with me or with his nephew. He might not be especially fond of the Crown Prince, I reckoned, considering that he might otherwise have been the one to inherit the sceptre. I sought his eyes, trying to see whether he was ally or enemy, and he met my gaze, raising his eyebrows in challenge. Indifferent, I decided. Lord Têrakon was giving me a narrow-eyed stare; Lord Vánatirmo was toying with his plate, pretending to pay me no attention whatsoever. His wife, the Lady Lotórië, whispered to the lady next to her – no, no lady, but the Crown Princess herself, seated beside her royal husband and decked out in silver and sapphires. She turned her head to look at me. Her eyes were wide and round, blue like the gems on her throat and in her ears. Blue like a new-born child's – or like those of Lord Vánatirmo of Eldalondë.
It was this realisation that made me bold, I think. Before I properly knew what I was doing, instead of crumbling underneath the combined weight of all these important eyes on my face, I stood up and bowed low. "Majesty, Royal Highness, Lords, Ladies, I beg your pardon. If I had realised that the state of Yôzayân was so desperate, I would gladly have starved both my neighbours and myself so as not to ruin your feast. In token of my contrition, I shall refrain from eating your precious food today." The words seemed to come out of nowhere - surely my feeble mind could not have come up with them. My face was flaming. Quentangolë, now in his place by the King's side, was clearly stifling a laugh – his shoulders were shaking a little. The King actually did laugh – a hoarse, wheezing laugh. "I should say that there is enough – even for you," he said, and there was some dutiful laughter around the long table. Slowly, the tension lifted. People's attention turned away from me and towards the many dishes on the table (there really was no reason to complain), and I slumped back into my seat. I did not touch the food, spending the meal staring at my empty plate. My stomach was churning as badly as if I had been taken out to sea again.

Of course, my little speech did not go unpunished. I had not expected it to, but the attack still came as a surprise. Everybody was entertained, distracted by music and dancing and conversation. Even I was listening to the bards, as much as ease as I could be, when the Crown Prince approached me again. This time, he had two guards with him, who positioned themselves behind me. It was a warning, I suppose, but it wasn't much use as I had no hope of escaping. I attempted a low bow. The Crown Prince's hand swooped past my nose, clasping the silver chain around my neck.
"That is a very fine pendant you are wearing, Azruhâr," the Crown Prince said in a deceptively soft voice. "One must wonder where you got it."
I answered truthfully. "It was a gift, royal Highness."
He laughed, harshly. "Really! A gift from yourself to yourself, I daresay. You have gone back to your old thieving ways, haven't you?"
It was, I realised with a sinking feeling, not likely that he would believe me. I did not want to draw Lord Eärendur into this – he had, after all, said that he didn't want everybody to know – but I urgently needed him to confirm my story. I looked around, trying to spot him. But my noble friends were clearly busy elsewhere; I could not see any of them nearby.
I protested louder than necessary, hoping against reason that Lord Eärendur would hear me and realise that if he had any intention of helping me, now was the time. "I have done nothing of the sort, your Highness! Do you think that I would wear it openly, if I had stolen it?"
My reasoning impressed nobody; instead, I was struck around the head, hard. As I stumbled forwards, the Crown Prince hissed, "Apparently. Well, you will pay the price now."
Fear was making way for panic, and I appealed to the highest power I could think of. "Lord King!" I cried, senselessly. "Your humble servant is wrongfully accused!"

His Majesty showed no sign of hearing me; either the music fully absorbed him, or he had fallen back into a stupor. I had no chance to find out, because I received another blow to the back of my head. Black dots danced in front of my eyes, and my knees buckled. The next thing I knew was that the guards were twisting my arms behind my back and dragging me away. In a flash of clarity that tore through my aching mind, I realised that the truth would no longer matter, if they succeeded. I would confess to theft - or any other crime - sooner rather than later, under the threat of torment. My only hope was that that my case would be treated openly, in public, right now.
That thought got me kicking. I had no hope of convincing the Crown Prince, but I could try to get people to notice. Secrecy was no longer an option, and so I sobbed, "It was a gift! It is true! I got it from Lord Eärendur - ask him!" Through my tears, I could see that some of the lords and ladies began to crowd in, alerted by the commotion. As far as I could discern, there were no friendly faces among them, but at least they were paying attention.
"Eärendur?" the Crown Prince asked, incredulous. "Eärendur - of Andúnië? Can you not fabricate a less transparent lie?" A third blow to my head made everything turn black. As if from far away, through a world of mist, I heard laughter.

I was in front of the throne when I came back to my senses. I should have rejoiced at the realisation – it surely meant that there would be no secret interrogation - but I could not muster the energy. The darkness wanted to keep me, and light and voices seemed to reach me only through a wall of mist. I shook my head to clear it, which only made things worse. A wave of agonised nausea washed over me, and I just barely managed to swallow the bile that wanted to rise up my throat.
"What has Eärendur done?" The voice had little to do with the King that I knew and loved; it was muffled, as if every word had to be wrested from a formidable enemy. But it was his voice. I had apparently made enough noise to alert him. Or had Quentangolë intervened? The scribe's familiar figure seemed to hover before me, holding a book that I was certain hadn't been there before. My head felt fit to burst. From the whispers around me, I learned that Lord Eärendur had been sent for, but it had taken quite some time to locate him; apparently, he and Lady Nolwen were taking a stroll around the gardens with the Princess and her parents.
The Crown Prince insisted that there was no need to wait for him. "Lord Father, that man is obviously lying. Look, this is the pendant that he has stolen. Why should he be given a gift like that – from Eärendur of all people?"
"It is unlikely..." the old King agreed readily, sounding like a man talking in his sleep. "Is it mine?"
"No, Majesty," I heard Quentangolë's voice. "Yours has a bee in it. This indeed looks like my father's..." Doubt was in his voice; even he did not believe me, I realised.
I struggled to explain, but the words kept hiding just out of my grasp. Articulating them was almost beyond me. "Majesty – the caterpillar," I managed to get out. "Still perfect. After thousands--"

There was unrest around us; Lord Eärendur finally arrived. Although he must have received quite a dramatic summons, he sounded calm and collected. "What happened, your Highness? How can I help?"
"This man has stolen a highly valuable pendant of Valinorean amber, and claims that you have given it to him," the Crown Prince spat out. The stress he put on the word you made clear that he was convinced I was lying. To be fair, it did not sound likely. Suddenly, I wondered whether Lord Eärendur would confirm my story at all.
I lifted my aching head to give Lord Eärendur the best pleading look I could muster. I could barely recognise his face, and I could not read his expression as he tilted his head to take in my appearance. Everything was fuzzy. I must be badly drunk, although I could not remember drinking all that much.
"It is Azruhâr, who has already dragged your name in the mud before," the Crown Prince helpfully supplied, fury colouring his every word.
"Yes, thank you," Lord Eärendur said mildly. "I know Azruhâr. He speaks the truth. I have given this pendant to him." Relief almost made me loose my fragile grip on consciousness.
The Crown Prince spat out an incredulous "What?!" that made my head feel fit to burst.
"Yes," Lord Eärendur repeated, and then held out his hand to me. It seemed to be very far away. "Come, get up, Azruhâr; such grovelling should be beneath you."
"He stays where he is until this matter is settled," the Crown Prince snapped before I had even begun to react.

Lord Eärendur heaved a heavy sigh, but before he could speak again, the King intervened.
"I want... an explanation," he grated out. "Eärendur... what is going on?"
"I think both his Majesty and Azruhâr are in dire need of a drink," Lord Eärendur said smoothly, turning to one of the palace servants who were paying intent attention to the events, and none to their duties. Footsteps were hurrying away, and then back. A cup was pushed into my trembling hands. I could barely hold it still enough to drink, and when the water was in my mouth, I could hardly swallow it, although my throat was dry and screaming for refreshment.
The King, meanwhile, seemed to have profited from the drink. "What is going on?" he repeated, more clearly. "What has Azruhâr done?"
"Nothing wrong, as far as I know," Lord Eärendur said. "There really is no need to treat him like that. There seems to have been a misunderstanding about the pendant I have given him."
"It was a gift?" the King asked.
"Indeed," Lord Eärendur confirmed.
"Why?!" The Crown Prince was practically shouting. Lightning shot through my mind, and the world seemed to be quaking around me. Nobody else seemed to notice it. I wanted nothing more than to sleep. Maybe nobody would notice if I rested my bursting head on the nice, cool marble...?
From high above, I heard Lord Eärendur's voice. "We spoke about the amber – about its age, to be precise. Azruhâr seemed to feel that it was relevant to his work for you, my King. It seemed appropriate that he should have the pendant, as a reminder. It is really very simple."
By the murmur that arose around us, the others did not seem to agree that it was simple. I tried to follow their shreds of conversation, but it was impossible to hold on to any but the most important thought.
"But you oppose my Keepers," the King said, sounding nearly as bewildered as I was feeling.
"I do not," Lord Eärendur stated calmly. "I have long been uncomfortable with their efforts, that is true, but I have come to the realisation that I have no right to be that. If the knowledge that their body will be preserved incorrupt helps people to accept the Gift of Ilúvatar more readily, then the Keepers' work is as valuable to me as it is to your Majesty."

There were gasps in the audience, and I realised that something momentous must have happened, but I couldn't bring myself to care. Darkness was tugging on my consciousness again, and it was all too enticing to give in to it. But it appeared that I would not be allowed to do that. "Let Azruhâr stand," the King said.
I realised that I would have to move. The effort of pushing to my feet made the quaking worse. I felt like a ship tossed about by the hostile sea. Bile was rising in my throat again, and I sank back down, doubling over. Strong, supportive hands pulled me to my feet and held me upright; I clung to them, unable to steady myself. The people around me all seemed to be present twice, and danced along with the movement of the world.
"He is addled," somebody said.
"Addled!" I heard the King's puzzled voice. "Who has addled my embalmer?"
An abashed voice directly behind my shoulder said, "I must have hit him harder than I intended." I realised that the helpful arm I was clinging to belonged to the very guard who had beaten me, and tried to push away from him, but my hands were sluggish and did not obey my will.
Two faces of Lord Eärendur closed in on me as he took a look at my eyes. "I recommend Azruhâr to the attentions of a healer," he said, sounding suddenly alarmed. But before I could even begin to worry, the faces and the candles flared up. The world turned first into shining white, and then into black nothingness.

Chapter 16

Azruhâr does some heavy thinking, and has to appear at the palace again. Amraphel covers the research.

Read Chapter 16

I awoke in a forest. No; it was a room that had been painted to resemble a forest, ivy twining around the ceiling beams, the spaces between them imitating a canopy of leaves in different shades of green. Much effort had gone into giving them verisimilitude, but as the fog lifted and my eyes began to adjust to the light, I could see that the leaves were lacking in depth, and that the spacing between the supposed tree trunks was suspiciously regular.
I had not been dropped in a forest to die, then. In fact, I did not appear to be dead, which was an important realisation. My brain was hammering against my skull as if desperate to get out, but I was alive. I was also – another important realisation – in a friendly place. Nobody would bother to paint the ceiling of a prison. There was a sour smell of sickness, but also of chamomile, meadowsweet and lavender, soap and beeswax, which suggested the presence of a kindly soul intent on care and cleanliness. That was certainly reassuring. Less reassuring was the fact that I had no idea how I had got to be here, or where „here“ was in the first place. I tried to get a better look at my surroundings, but an attempt at turning my head resulted in a sharp stab of agony, and I decided against further stock-taking. Instead, I said, „Hello?“ It was harder than it should be. My tongue had turned into a bloated slug that only unwillingly remembered that it was a muscle.

A face hovered into view, giving me an intent stare. It was a dignified face, with bushy eyebrows and a serious dark beard. I wondered whether it should have been familiar. „Hello,“ the lips surrounded by the beard said, enunciating the syllables as clearly as if talking to a small child. „Can you understand me?“
That was a strange question, I felt. If the answer was no, how would I be able to provide it?
„Yes?“ I suggested.
„Very good! How are you feeling?“
„My head... hurts,“ I told him. The words came slowly, but they came.
„Yes, of course,“ he replied. My head, apparently, was meant to hurt. „Can you see me?“ he continued.
„Yes,“ I said flatly. Again, I wondered whether I should recognise him. Who was he? Was this his house?
He gave me no time to think. „How many fingers am I showing you?“
I blinked. I might not be clever, but I did know how to count. „Three,“ I said.
„Can you remember where you were before you got here?“
The mere thought made me sick again. „The palace,“ I said tersely. „The Erulaitalë feast.“ For good measure, I added, „I did not steal that pendant.“
He did not seem to care about that. „Do you know who you are?“ he asked instead.
How could someone sit by my bedside without knowing who I was? Maybe he hadn't been told, in order to protect me. Then I probably should not tell him, either? But my tongue, now back in action, was faster than my aching brain. „Azruhâr son of Narduhâr, at your service,“ I said.
„Excellent!“ the serious face exclaimed, breaking into a smile. „Do not be alarmed, Azruhâr son of Narduhâr. You have been given a bad concussion, but it seems that you are now safely on the road to recovery.“

I had slept for over two days, I was later told, and Master Sérindo – he was the respectable man with the serious beard, and apparently a renowned healer – had already been planning to feed me through a silver tube. I felt equally flattered that I was considered worth the effort (and the silver), and horrified at the idea of having such a tube pushed inside me. Later yet, I learned that Master Sérindo had also considered cutting a hole into my skull to keep my brain from being crushed. And to avoid jostling me, he had simply cut me out of my brocade robes, ruining them forever. Together with the strange conversation we'd had after my awakening, all this made me rather suspicious of the learned healer, although he had supposedly brought many a wounded soldier back from the brink of death. Nonetheless, I was glad that I could drink my broth from a bowl like a normal person, and that no further harm would be done to my poor head, which recovered slowly from the blows it had been dealt. The robes, well, I suppose we would find some use for the surviving scraps of fabric.
I was in the city-house of Lord Eärendur. He had judged that my home might not be safe enough, and that I would be taken better care of under his direct supervision. 'Just in case,' my family had also been brought here, although nobody wanted to tell me what 'just in case' meant. I was very glad to have Amraphel for company, but very unhappy that my daughers were not permitted to see me, because they might be too lively and make my condition worse again.

My condition was apparently a matter of national importance. The King had been livid that one of his embalmers had been addled, especially after it had become clear that I had a new idea concerning the preservation of dead bodies. My mind, or at any rate the idea in it, had to be preserved at all costs; the guard who had endangered it stood accused not merely of inflicting harm on an innocent citizen, but of high treason. The mere thought made my headache return at full force. I was still bedridden at that time, although I was by then allowed to sit up and converse with Amraphel, or the servants, or my noble host. We were supposed to stick to light topics, but that didn't always work out.
„Treason?“ I couldn't help asking now. „How does that add up?“
„An action that risks the stability of the state or the life of its ruler,“ Lord Eärendur said, as if that made sense of anything. Seeing my puzzled expression, he explained, „Ancalimon is convinced that his life – his future life – depends on you; therefore, in striking you down, poor Balakhil has endangered the King's future life. Therefore, he has committed treason. It is not a particularly strong case, but the King is the law, so that is that.“
I remembered Master Târik's tale, how his own master and fellow apprentices had been put to death over the decay of the King's aunt, and shuddered.
„It is not even a very clear plan,“ I said, worried and unhappy. „In truth, you know as much about it as I do.“
„But you will be able to make more of it, I hope.“
„I certainly hope so. But it doesn't depend on me. Master Târik could do the same, if you had told him what I have told you.“

The smile left his eyes. Whatever Lord Eärendur had said about his attitude towards embalmers, his friendship clearly did not extend to my colleagues. „Perhaps,“ he said. „But I have no intention of going into the catacombs; and your master has not approached me, not even, as it happens, to inquire after your health.“
„Does he even know that I am here?“ I asked.
„I have made no secret of it,“ Lord Eärendur said firmly. „Anybody who was present at the Erulaitalë feast would know.“
„Then he is too frightened to ask you! He cannot afford to win the attention of the nobility – even less than I can.“
„Really!“ I thought that I could discern a note of amusement. „And why would that be?“
„Because of the circumstances that made him a Keeper. I don't know the details – something about an oath he could not keep. He even turned down a seat on the council to avoid Lord Têrakon's notice. “ I shrugged unhappily. „He never told me what exactly happened. I didn't want to pry. But I'm sure Quentangolë knows more.“
„No doubt. But that is not my primary concern at this time.“
„Of course not,“ I said, abashed. „All I mean is, he has his reasons to avoid you, and me while I am in your company. It isn't negligence. It's only self-preservation.“
„If you say so. In that case, I'm afraid he will have to remain ignorant for a few more weeks, until you are fully recovered.“
„Weeks! But I have to get back to work!“
„You have to do nothing of the sort. Master Sérindo is quite adamant in that respect, and I trust that he knows best. No exertions until he declares you healed.“
I fell back into the pillows. „I cannot intrude upon your hospitality for so long, your Grace.“
He graced my concern with a soft snort. „You are not intruding; I have taken you in, and I will keep you until it is safe – for both of us. If you return to work too early and suffer a relapse, I shall be held responsible for failing to protect the King's prize embalmer. I do not care to learn whether that, too, constitutes treason under the current circumstances.“

I was silent for a while. The King's prize embalmer, I thought. It was absurd that I should be considered so important. And what if I failed after all? Would that make me, too, a traitor? High treason, that much I knew, was considered the very worst of crimes, even worse than murder, and the consequences were brutal.
„The punishment for treason... is it as bad for a nobleman as it would be for one like me?“ I asked before I could think better of it.
The change in his face was frightening. The easy smile was wholly gone, the eyes took on a steely glint, and the jaw clenched firmly, although Lord Eärendur's voice was as collected as ever when he answered. „Worse, in fact. You are right in that the law normally treats us more kindly; but treason is the one crime that would see us more harshly punished, since we are to protect the state and set an example for the people. An act of treason would condemn us to an even lengthier period of public torment, and we would be burned at the end of it instead of merely strangled.“ A thoughtful pause. „I must wonder whether, after a week of agony, that would make much of a difference; but I have no desire to settle the question through personal experience.“

An icy lump had settled in my innards. „I am sorry to have drawn you into this,“ I whispered.
He shrugged his shoulders with a wistful smile. „I am a grown man, Azruhâr – good grief, I'm easily six times your age – and I have brought myself into this. I should have known better than to give you the pendant; it was bound to get unwanted attention.“
„I did try to tell you that it was too much.“
He laughed at that. „So you did. So did Nolwen. To me, it seemed a good idea. I was wrong. It was not the right time for a covert vote of confidence.“
I nodded and discovered that the movement made me nauseous. I had to clench my eyes shut until my stomach settled again.
„I suppose it's a very public vote of confidence now,“ I said with a sigh. „I am sorry – desperately sorry. I know you said that you didn't need everybody to know, so I probably shouldn't have shouted about it in the middle of the feast.“ I bit my lips. „I wouldn't have. I didn't, at first. But they wouldn't believe that it had been a gift, so I needed you to confirm my story.“ I raised my head to give him an imploring stare, and was glad to see that the hard glint had left his eyes. „It was my only hope. If the King hadn't listened then and there, they would have taken me to prison. And then...“ There was no point in beating about the bush; Lord Eärendur already knew that I was no hero. „I would probably have confessed to whatever they wanted.“
I wasn't certain whether his sigh was directed at my confession or at general circumstances. „Yes. Probably. I suppose it could not be helped.“ Another wistful smile. „I must admit that I had not planned to declare myself quite so openly, so soon. But I did insist that you take the pendant. So it is my own fault, and you need not apologise. Rather, I should apologise to you; it was my gift, after all, that brought you into this situation.“

I did not know how to handle an apology from a nobleman gracefully, so I tried to deflect it. „This situation is easily bearable,“ I said, indicating the pleasant bedroom. „And the one that led to it... I do not think it was truly about the pendant. His Highness was trying to set people against me all afternoon. If he hadn't accused me of theft, he would have thought of something else. Especially after I answered back to him at dinner. I should have known that he would make me pay.“
A cleft had appeared on Lord Eärendur's forehead. „But the accusation of theft did not come from Alcarmaitë, but from the guard Balakhil...“
I shook my head in protest, and instantly regretted it. „Ow! No. The Crown Prince brought the guards along for good measure, but he raised the accusation all by himself.“
Lord Eärendur seemed to chew on his words for a while. „That is not how the story has been told to us,“ he eventually said. I remembered that he had only entered the scene towards the end, almost too late, and had probably been given an account of the events preceding my questioning later. The other observers, too, had only come in when I had already gone down. Oh...
Lord Eärendur went on, „According to Alcarmaitë, Balakhil saw you – in his words – loitering in the corridor, went to investigate, and seeing the pendant about your neck assumed that you had stolen it. He then brought the case before Alcarmaitë, who saw no reason to doubt the guard's assumptions.“
I resisted the impulse to shake my head again. „That's not how it was,“ I disagreed. „I never loitered in any corridor. I was listening to the music in the grand hall, and the Crown Prince came and accused me of stealing the pendant. I think he wanted the guards to just quietly sweep me away. He didn't want a public scene. I made noise because I was afraid of what they'd do to me.“ I buried my face in my hands. „I mean, aside from hitting my head.“

Again, it took Lord Eärendur a while to respond. „And you are certain that this is what you remember?“
The question stung more than it should. „I know it.“
„Please do not take my question amiss. I do not mean to imply that you are inventing things. However, a concussed man's memory may not be entirely reliable.“ He sighed. „As I told you, there has so far been a somewhat different account – one that conveniently places no responsibility with Alcarmaitë, and all with the guard.“
I felt a sudden rush of pity for the man to whom I owed my concussion. He had not necessarily been cruel to me on purpose. Perhaps he had honestly believed that I was guilty, or perhaps he had simply not given the matter any thought. Either way, he had followed his lord's commands; if the Crown Prince had told him that I needed to be struck into submission, then the guard had had little choice in the matter. Or had he? I broke an oath to my lord Têrakon, I heard Master Târik's voice, what he demanded of me was wrong. Had it been circumstances like these, I wondered, that had nearly brought Master Târik to the executioner's scaffold? In that case, I could hardly blame the guard for choosing duty over conscience. I would likely have done the same. Although it clearly hadn't helped the guard, if he was now accused of treason in spite of his obedience. So should he have refused? Did he deserve such a harsh sentence? Should I consider it just vengeance for my pain? But... treason?

My mind was not yet up to such complicated thoughts.
„He's a pawn,“ I said weakly. „The guard. Balakhil.“ It was important, I felt, to remember that he had a name.
„That is entirely possible,“ Lord Eärendur agreed. „Nonetheless, you may want to question your memory.“
„Your Grace, you weren't even there at the time!“ I couldn't help pointing out. „I know what happened to me.“
„Azruhâr. Even if you are currently high in the King's favour, it would be unwise to call his son and heir a liar.“
That startled me out of my stubborn insistence. I hadn't realised that I was in effect accusing the Crown Prince of lying, being more focussed on the truth of the matter. But I suppose that was what I was doing. „You are right, lord,“ I said. „I forgot. I must kiss the hand that strikes me, even if that makes me a liar.“
He recognised the words, no doubt, and grimaced sympathetically. „We are not talking about some upstart merchant, we are talking about the future King of the realm. In this case, there is very little choice.“ With a sigh, he added, „In fact, I suppose this is as good a chance as you may ever get to prove yourself valuable to Alcarmaitë. Do not come between him and his father. Show him that you will support his judgement. On the whole, that will serve you a lot better than insisting on the truth.“
I put my hands on my stinging eyes. „What of Balakhil?“ I could not help thinking about the guard.

Lord Eärendur took a while to answer. „I do not think the truth would help him, either.“
„But it's not right that he should be punished for treason. Not over me! He didn't even know what was in my head. He didn't plan to harm the King. He surely didn't! He didn't even do lasting harm to me. Surely that must be taken into account.“
„You can apply to the King's Mercy, I suppose.“
The thought was more than a little daunting. I did not exactly feel qualified to plead for someone's life. „Can't you, lord?“ I asked.
„In theory, yes. In practice, it would be hard to justify. I can hardly declare my support for you on one day, then plead mercy for the man who hurt you the next day. It would look as if I were trying to play both sides. No; if anyone can convince Ancalimon, it must be you, the other wronged party.“
„Then I will have to do it.“ I grimaced. Not without bitterness, I added, „If he's still alive by the time that Master Sérindo allows me to do so.“
Lord Eärendur rose from the armchair by my bedside. „I will ask that Balakhil's judgement be postponed until you've been heard. That I can do. And you, I daresay, should rest now. Sérindo would be very cross if he knew that I have occupied you with such difficult matters.“
„Yes. Thank you, lord.“ He was almost at the door when another thought crossed my mind. „Lord?“
„Yes, Azruhâr?“
„Am I a pawn, lord?“
It was not a wise question to ask, of course. In my heart, I feared that I knew the answer; hearing it spoken would make it no better. But now that it was out, I could hardly take it back.
Lord Eärendur breathed in and out slowly, studying me at length before he replied. „I do not care to play games with people's lives. As for Ancalimon's game, I would assume that you have reached the end of the board and advanced to promotion. I am not certain what that would make you. A knight? An archer*?“
That was not what I had meant, and I was certain that he knew it. But I suppose I would have to be content with this answer.

I rested. I drank my tea and my broth. I used the chamberpot. I tried to refrain from heavy thinking, and even dozed a little. I answered Master Sérindo's questions about my sense of balance, my eyesight, the extent of the pain in my head. Master Sérindo appeared satisfied; steadied by his assistant, I was permitted to walk the incredibly long distance from the bed to the window, and to sit there while the servants changed the bedclothes. I felt rather useless, watching them at their work without having anything to do, although it was true that I was not yet back to health; the short walk had brought the throbbing in my head back at full force. Nonetheless, all this fussing about my condition was unnerving. I had been whacked about the head before – not bad enough to knock me out for two days, but certainly enough to make me dizzy – and had always returned to the market the next day, no matter how sick I felt. I had felt far worse than now after my fated service in Master Amrazôr's house, and yet I had recovered from that without regular changes of linens (not that I'd had anything to change at the time) or constant attendance by a healer. In fact, I'd been told that the healer bought with Amraphel's earrings had only taken a brief look and left a dosage of poppyseed to help me through the first days before he had fled my hovel. It was true that I had spent a couple of days lying on my belly and having Amraphel shoo away the flies, but as soon as I had been able to walk without breaking into tears, I had tried to find work again. It had been awful, but I had obviously survived it, so it felt a little absurd to be so overcautious about my health all of a sudden.
I felt inclined to mention as much to Master Sérindo.
„Yes, I've seen the scars,“ he said, unimpressed. „You would have profited from further rest, not to mention professional care. Likewise, a concussion is not to be trifled with, unless you're eager for complications.“
I looked down, embarrassed. „I just mean... I've been worse. Surely I can return to my duties in a couple of days.“
„Not on my watch,“ Master Sérindo said darkly, cleaning his hands with a wet, sweet-scented cloth.

I chewed on my lips and looked out of the window. A well-tended garden – though small in comparison to the gardens in Andúnië – with pretty flowering shrubs and ornamental borders spread towards a handsome white wall. Beyond the garden wall, the western city wall rose up high and strong, more lavishly decorated than the parts I was familiar with but nonetheless forbidding. Behind them, untended grasslands interrupted by occasional shrubs rose up unto the lower slopes of the Holy Mountain. If I bent forwards and craned my neck a little, I could even see the peak, crisp and clear against a brilliant sky. I sat back before Master Sérindo could reproach me for straining my precious head. Prime location, I couldn't help thinking. Probably more or less across the road from the citadel, and impossible to buy with money, however much you had; you needed noble blood to be granted the privilege of building here. I wondered who the neighbours might be. The noble family of Eldalondë? Or someone less friendly, like Lord Atanacalmo? The Crown Prince, even?
I chose to put such thoughts aside for the moment, a decision made easier by the sight of a small, dark-haired figure running onto the broad lawn below. My heart lept at the sight of Azruphel, confident and vivacious as ever. She was followed by a young maidservant and by Amraphel, carrying little Nimmirel. They sat down in the trimmed grass, although Azruphel soon grew tired of sitting. She apparently challenged the maidservant to a game of tag, weaving through the bushes and laughing so loud that I could hear it through the glass panes of the window. Well, someone was enjoying my unplanned and extended sick leave, then. I wondered whether my firstborn would ever settle in back at our humble abode after all this running around in noble houses.

Amraphel felt that she would, although she agreed that it might not go entirely without complaint. „She does miss the company of other children, though, so that will be an argument in favour of home,“ Amraphel said. „Ruiloth is working hard to amuse her, and the pages and serving girls also keep Azruphel entertained, when they have the time; but it is not the same thing as playing with children of her own age, or near it. But yes, I suspect she is growing rather used to the freedom and luxury of these houses.“
I nodded uncomfortably. „And I am told that I must stay for weeks.“
„You make it sound like a chore,“ Amraphel said. „You should be delighted.“
„I am that, and I am also grateful and honoured and everything else that is appropriate. But I feel that I need to deserve the... importance I've been given. Amraphel, I don't even know if my idea is leading anywhere!“
She let out a slow breath. „Yes. That would be awkward. But whether or not you set to work right now cannot change that outcome. In fact, if your idea does not work, you should be glad that you needn't find out right now.“
This time, I knew better than to shake my head. „That is not the point. I will need time to find out, and I must find out before the King...“ I could not say it. „Before it no longer matters.“
Amraphel took my hands and carressed them. I could not help but relax under her gentle touch. „You can preserve him, using the old method, until you know.“
„I suppose.“
„And you can use the time of your reconvalescence to make plans. How will you go about testing your idea? What materials are you going to need? What can go wrong? How can you stop it from going wrong?“

Amraphel's questions did not make me feel more confident about my chances of success, but they did help me to get a clearer idea of what I was going to look into. We discussed the technical feasibility of encasing a body in resin. It was Amraphel's idea to instead combine this new method with our previous use of sublimate-soaked wrappings: perhaps the resin would provide the sealing that we so urgently needed. That thought left me giddy with excitement, and if I had dared, I would have escaped to the catacombs right away. Instead, talking the process through had to be enough. Later, Amraphel spoke to Lady Nolwen about known applications of resin and about how much we could hope to get in what period of time. She went to talk to cutlers and shipwrights and lacquer-makers and other craftsmen in order to find out more about how they worked with resins. She took notes upon notes and helped me to sort my thoughts. She went to Master Târik's house to give him a long-due update and allow him to prepare things for my return. It didn't appear to come entirely appreciated.
„He sends his regards,“ she told me that evening, „but I had the impression that he is displeased.“
I rubbed my nose. „He'll be angry that I didn't tell him first, I'm sure,“ I said. „I just didn't have the chance; we had hardly a moment for ourselves on Erulaitalë day.“
„You can explain yourself when you're back at work,“ Amraphel said kindly.
„Yes,“ I said, feeling exhausted at the mere thought.

Although I probably wasn't following Master Sérindo's advice of thinking only simple and pleasant thoughts, I recovered. The throbbing in my head disappeared, the waves of nausea ebbed away, the world no longer span when I sat up or rose from my sickbed. I could measure the progress in the steps Master Sérindo allowed me to take. Embracing my daughters again, seeing Nimmirel's incompetent but enthusiastic attempts at walking and listening to Azruphel's excited tales of everything she had seen and done. Joining the household for mealtimes and taking small walks in the garden. Amraphel sharing my bed again. Finally, being pronounced fit enough to go out without assistance. My joy at my release was almost immediately doused when Lord Eärendur announced that he would schedule an appointment at the palace to settle the matter of the guard Balakhil. It had to be done, I knew, but the thought of defending a man before the throne made me feel rather weak. However, Master Sérindo declared that this was only a case of nerves, not a relapse. Lord Eärendur kindly pointed out that the King might not actually have the time or strength to see me today, so the appointment had to be made betimes.
But it turned out that the King was perfectly willing to receive me that same afternoon. „In fact, he appears to have waited for you quite eagerly. He is better than he has been in the past weeks. You have given him hope.“ Lord Eärendur raised an eloquent eyebrow.
I hid my eyes behind my hands. „What if I cannot fulfil it?“
„Best not to think about it.“ After a pause – after I still had not taken my hands from my face – he reached out for my shoulder. „No, truly: Do not think about it. And do not speak about it. It will not help Ancalimon to bear the disappointment more easily. It might, however, make him angry, and it will certainly give Alcarmaitë new reasons to attack you. Show him no weakness.“

We set out after lunch. It had probably been a fine meal, but I could not even remember what I had eaten as we stepped out onto the hot street. I was sweating already, both from anxiety and from the day's warmth, made worse because Master Sérindo had wrapped a bandage around my head as a reminder to myself and others.
„You did not make me wear a bandage while I was still actually ill,“ I had protested.
„Well, here, we all knew to have a care for your head. People outside the house won't necessarily know, so it's better to demonstrate it.“ The bandage made me feel even more self-conscious than usual. I was certain that the guards at the palace were all glaring at me behind my back. I kept as far away from them and their batons as I could, although I should probably have felt safe enough with Lord Eärendur's bodyguards around me.
In contrast, my reception by the King was enthusiastic. Even the Crown Prince offered a few words of greeting, although he gave me poisonous stares whenever I caught his eyes. But what did it matter, when the King was more awake than he had been for so long? The sharp glint had returned to his eyes, and although his back and shoulders were bowed, he was certainly not slouched over in near-sleep as he had been a few weeks ago. „Stand, stand,“ he said impatiently and gave me a smile, revealing unnaturally perfect teeth. There was a wheezing quality to his voice that belied the intent look in his eyes, but I did my best to ignore it. „How relieved we are to see you back on your feet, Azrubêl. We were quite shocked by the developments at the feast, quite shocked.“
„Azruhâr, your Majesty,“ I corrected him against better wisdom, and then stumbled over my own courage. „Um. I. I am touched by your concern, your Majesty.“
„Such a horrible misunderstanding,“ he said, nodding sadly. „Very glad indeed that our best embalmer is back on his feet!“
Our best embalmer. I closed my eyes in dismay before I remembered that Lord Eärendur had advised me against showing doubt or weakness openly. The Crown Prince was certainly watching me with a very curious expression, one eyebrow quirked in thought, his lips pursed in disgust. I should try to project more confidence, I knew, but I simply couldn't. „Lord King,“ I said, my throat dry, „I am not quite certain what Lord Eärendur told you...“
„Ah yes, Eärendur.“ The King drew himself more upright and gestured for the Lord of Andúnië to step up beside me. „He has taken good care of you, yes?“
„The best, I am sure,“ I said, eager to repay my host for his kindness. „I have been treated by a very conscientious healer, and given every possible comfort. I feel like a new person.“
„Good, very good! Well done, Eärendur. You have quite surprised us all, I must say. And just in time! A lot of dissent has been stilled since you have declared your support of the Keepers. We will discuss your reward later, hm? Come, sit with us.“

As we sat down by the King's table, I glanced aside to see Lord Eärendur's reaction. He looked calm and focused as ever, briefly bowing his head in acknowledgement of the King's words without commenting on them. I know that I would have been gushing my thanks, but Lord Eärendur showed neither surprise nor satisfaction. I for my part was satisfied that there would be a reward. I could feel a little less indebted, then.
The King was ready to move on. „But now, unpleasant business. Eärendur tells me that you want to save my faithless guard? Did he get that right?“
„I – I am sure that Balakhil – that is his name, is it not? - was acting with the best intentions, and in good faith,“ I said awkwardly. I couldn't help glancing at the Crown Prince again, trying to guess how he felt about the fate of his henchman. He gave nothing away. He was leaning back now, his eyes half-closed, as if he didn't particularly care either way. Perhaps he didn't.
His father, however, cared very much. „Well, we can't have him risk your invaluable knowledge,“ the King said, waving his hands impatiently. They had grown thin, the wrinkled skin too large for the shrunken flesh underneath, and I marvelled that so much authority could rest in such fragile hands. I quickly looked down lest my thoughts registered in my eyes.
„My... knowledge... is fine, Lord King. I remember everything.“ From the corner of my eyes, I saw the Crown Prince shift. Was he worried now, I wondered? For a moment, I entertained illusions of grandeur: Announcing that the guard had been but a tool, that it was the Crown Prince who had accused me from the start, who had brought in the guards with their batons, fully conscious of my supposed importance to the King. How would the King react? Was the idea inside my head so invaluable that he would disinherit his own son, even accuse him of treason? Was that even possible? My head span at the thought. But I caught myself in time. Lord Eärendur had said that I should not come between the King and his son. I assumed that meant that there would be no devastating consequences for the Crown Prince, nothing worse than hard words and resentment – more resentment, which he would doubtlessly nurse in his heart and unleash on me once he was on the throne. No, that was not worth the risk. I would say nothing. But I did turn my head to catch, for a second, the Prince's eyes. He had narrowed them now, no longer relaxed, but as if he was trying to extract my thoughts through my brow.

I returned my attention to the King, who said, „That is good. Very good indeed. But in treason, the mere attempt is punishable.“
„I venture that the guard did not act with treasonous intent, your majesty,“ I said. „Assault, yes. Abuse of authority, yes.“ I had discussed the terms and corresponding punishment with Lord Eärendur. Nonetheless, I felt badly prepared. I ended, somewhat weakly, „But treason? Surely not.“
„Is your importance overrated, then?“ That, of course, was the Crown Prince.
„That is for his Majesty to decide,“ I said quietly.
„It is indeed!“ the King interrupted us. „As is the judgement of a guard who outsteps his bounds.“
„Absolutely, your Majesty.“ I was tempted to take my leave and run away. This had been a bad idea. I gave Lord Eärendur a pleading look, and he spoke up.
„Azruhâr would never question your judgement, Majesty; he only begs you to reconsider the severity of the guard's punishment.“
Relieved, I nodded my agreement. „I wish to appeal to your mercy, your Majesty.“
„We see,“ the King said. „We do regret having to condemn Balakhil; he has served us faithfully for decades, until this lapse. But we – will not – be disappointed!“ To underline his words, he slammed his flat hand on the table. I flinched both at the violent change in his face and demeanor and at the meaning of his words. Did they not apply to me? All my attempts would be of no matter if I disappointed him at the last. One part of my mind, one that seemed to be less worried about personal consequences, was more concerned that the King would break a bone; the table looked a lot more massive than his frail old hands.
„Rightly so, Lord King.“ I swallowed hard, trying to keep him from doing damage to himself in his anger. „Yet... I feel that your guard attempted no treason. He surely believed that he was serving you as faithful as ever. As you said... it was a regrettable misunderstanding.“
I made the mistake of glancing at the Crown Prince again. Sure enough, he was now watching me with his head tilted and his eyes narrowed. „We must wonder why you care,“ he now spoke up. „Should you not be delighted that you shall be avenged in this manner? Why plead for a man who injured you?“

Because I will not be avenged on the wrong man, I thought, but of course I could not say that. I did not understand enough of politics, of the waxing and waning of the King's passions, or the security of anyone's position on the board, to even begin meddling with these things.
I took a deep breath, and said out loud, „Your Highness may be aware that I was once in a similar position – accused of a crime which I had not contrived and did not... not fully commit, and facing harsh punishment for it. His Majesty was kind enough to spare my life and let me redeem myself. Do I not have to try and make such a chance possible for another?“ My voice was trembling a little; there was nothing I could do to steady it. It was, after all, a very dire memory.
All of a sudden, the King was smiling again. „See, Alcarmaitë? He has not forgotten. Azrubêl knows what he owes us.“
„Azruhâr,“ the Crown Prince ground out.
„Just so,“ the King agreed. „Don't you, Azruhâr?“
„Every day I give thanks for your kindness to me, Lord King. No, I have not forgotten. I was convinced that I would die. I think a man remembers everything when he is about to die.“
„Hear, hear!“ said the King. „And now you have redeemed yourself indeed, we are told.“
It was very hard not to contradict him now. I only had a theory and a handful of ideas! That barely counted! Was it really any safer to put off the disappointment, I wondered, or wouldn't the disappointment – and the vengeance – be greater the longer I delayed?

Sensing my uncertainty, perhaps, Lord Eärendur cleared his throat. „Maybe Azruhâr can outline some of the considerations behind his new theory,“ he said mildly, more to me than to the others. „I know that he has put a great deal of thought into it.“
„By all means!“ The Kind was leaning forward as if eager to hear my measly considerations. Today, I decided, was not the day to disappoint him.
„Yes,“ I heard myself say. „Um. As your Majesty know, we have in past years faced the problem that decay might find its way to a corpse through the wrappings. Our previous attempts to seal them with gypsum have proved useless, but resin may be the key. Like in amber, it could create a protective coat that no rot can permeate.“ I was pleased to hear that my voice was gaining in strength as I spoke. Sometimes, once you spoke a thought out loud, it would fall apart and look ridiculous all of a sudden, but in this case, I found the idea every bit as compelling as it had been when Amraphel had first mentioned it. „We will also experiment with coats of pure resin – and we will seek to know whether the source of the resin makes a difference, of course – and we will also study related materials, like pitch or propolis, of course, to compare different methods.“
The King had been nodding with great enthusiasm. His throat and neck, I noticed, had crown as fragile as his fingers, and I was a little afraid that the constant forward motion of his head would eventually prove too much strain on his aged neck. But he seemed to be quite convinced by my words. Not so the Crown Prince. „So this is all still very much in an experimental phase?“ he asked with an unpleasant smile.
„Yes, your Highness,“ I could not help saying. In fact, I thought, it had not even come to the actual experiments, but it was surely better to keep that to myelf. I met his eyes squarely, affecting as much confidence as I could find, hoping that my underlying fear would not bubble to the surface. „I am quite hopeful that resin is the missing material that we have been searching for,“ I said as firmly as I could. I held up the amber pendant – I had not wanted to take it back, but Lord Eärendur had assured me that I could now wear it with impunity, since it had become popular lore by now – and said, „So far, we have had to scrutinise our... clients... every few weeks to see if decay was beginning to work its way in. With the sealing resin, we may be able to leave the embalmed bodies undisturbed for years and years – perhaps forever. Or until the Raisers have found a way to bring their spirits back. Even if it takes them three thousand years.“

The Crown Prince gave a snort of disdain, but apparently did not want to question my methods further. „Well, we are very much looking forward to seeing proof of your theory,“ he merely said.
I tried to copy the dignified wordless bow Lord Eärendur had used to signal acknowledgement to the King, earlier, but I had no time to study its effect because the King spoke up again.
„Yes, indeed! When will you show us the first specimens?“
I briefly closed my eyes, considering my options. „As soon as I can, of course,“ I said. That was, I hoped, vague enough to give me some time. „But your Majesty are aware that proper results need their time...“
„How convenient,“ the Crown Prince muttered under breath. I did not turn this time.
„Of course, of course,“ his father said. „We will be patient! But you mustn't keep us waiting for too long. We may not have that long.“
I bowed my head. „Of course, your Majesty.“
„Good. Yes, very good. I am pleased, Azrubêl. You have done well. You may go back to your work; there is still much to do, as I understand. Eärendur, you will stay a moment longer; we must, after all, discuss your reward.“
„As you wish, Majesty,“ Lord Eärendur said. I rose and made my bows.

To my endless dismay, the Crown Prince also stood up.
„I have some more questions for Azruhâr, if I may, Lord Father,“ he said. I felt my eyes widen in fear even before I decided to give the King an imploring look, hoping that he might spare me from another interrogation at the hands of his son. But he did not understand my wordless plea.
„By all means,“ he said. „Ask away.“
Lord Eärendur had more mercy on me. „Should we not better keep an eye on Azruhâr? Trouble seems determined to find him.“
The King only waved his hand. „I am quite certain that my guards know better now. Alcarmaitë will take care that he is not damaged again, won't you?“
„Certainly,“ the Crown Prince said.
„No reason to worry, then,“ the King decided. Then he called for the treasurer, and my audience was over.
„Outside, if you please, Azruhâr,“ the Crown Prince said softly. He was now standing so close beside me that I could feel his breath on my ear. It set my teeth on edge. Slowly, I willed my feet to carry me through the door, and out into the corridor. I was almost surprised that the guard standing by the door did not immediately fall upon me.

The Crown Prince softly closed the door and gestured for me to follow him into a secluded corner. The guard at the door and the guards at the end of the corridor were still well within earshot, but they were probably trained well to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear. I very much doubted that they would come to my help, should the Crown Prince decide that I was worth dirtying his hands.
I went on both knees, hoping that I could convince him that I was the least threatening person on the entire island of Yôzayân. I bowed my head and clasped my hands behind my back – it would not help me to see his fist coming, nor could I raise my hands to defend myself against the heir of the throne - and waited. He took his time, pacing in front of me as if searching for the perfect angle of attack. I could not help but harbour resentful thoughts. His father the King would already have allowed me to rise. Lord Eärendur would not even have wanted me to kneel in the first place. But the Crown Prince clearly had no intention of letting me stand, although he finally deigned to speak.
„You pride yourself on your good memory, it appears.“
I waited whether anything more was coming. It had not sounded like a question, but apparently it was supposed to be one.
„I do not pride myself on anything, your Highness--“
„Enough of these games! You may humble yourself before me, but I can see through you; whatever you say, you have grown proud and all too sure of yourself!“
I opened my mouth to protest, but then realised that he would not believe me. „I regret to have given your Highness that impression,“ I said quietly.

He snorted, violently; I would not have been surprised if he had spat on me, although he thankfully didn't. „You will regret it, that much is certain. You will fall; I can wait. But we were speaking of your memory. You recall, then, what happened on Erulaitalë?“
Yes, I thought, you desecrated the holiday. I closed my eyes as the memory hammered against my mind. „Yes, your Highness, I believe I do.“ I swallowed hard. „However, it has been brought to my attention that one's memory may not be wholly reliable after a concussion.“
„Hah!“ He snorted again. „How very astute. You have told others about... what you think you remember, then?“
„I have,“ I admitted. „I did not know that you had already explained the events of the day.“
„Whom did you tell? Your wife? Your darling daughters?“
I began to tremble as I began to suspect where this was headed. „Your Highness have nothing to fear from them!“ I said hastily. My fingernails were beginning to dig into my wrists, but I could not bring my hands to relax their grasp on each other. „My children know nothing. The others will say nothing. Lord Eärendur was the one who reminded me that my condition might make my memories unreliable, and who advised me not to contradict your version.“
„Really!“ He was pacing again. His feet, clad in silk stockings with soles of soft leather, fell soundlessly, but I could hear the soft swish of his robes as he walked and turned.
„Really,“ I said. „And I didn't, did I?“
„Indeed. You dropped a great many hints, so you can barely be surprised by this conversation, but you said nothing directly. I must wonder why.“
„Because it seemed unwise and pointless, your Highness. Who would believe my word against yours? Who am I to claim that I know better than you?“
„You,“ he said with a voice full of venom, „are a man who is impossible to predict. You jump over the walls in your way. But when you should triumph, you affect modesty. You take turns that make no sense, and I do not like when I cannot make sense of a man. Look at me!“
I lifted my head, noticing with dread that looking up at him forced me to bare my throat – not, perhaps, to a blade, but perhaps to strangling fingers? His bright eyes seemed intent to read my mind. His lips were, as so often, wrenched in a scowl of severe displeasure. He could have been beautiful, I thought, with his grey eyes and high cheekbones, firm chin and dark locks of hair, but all the glaring and scowling and sneering had already carved harsh lines on his face. He was probably younger than he looked – the same age as Lord Eärengolë, perhaps – but all this anger and bitterness had made him age before his time. One might almost feel sorry for him. That was a shocking, quite irreverent thought, and I hoped that it did not translate into my eyes.

The Crown Prince folded his arms in front of his chest. He would not be strangling me immediately, I thought with some relief.
„It seems that I will have to deal with you a while longer, so I would infinitely prefer to understand your inner workings,“ he announced. „What are your ambitions? What is your prize? What are your fears?“
A thousand things came to mind, one more terrifying than the next. I tried to wall them up safely – perhaps he could read my thoughts, I'd heard people say that Elves could read thoughts, and he had a modicum of Elven blood in him after all – and said the first thing that seemed innocuous.
„I fear you, your Highness.“
He sneered at that. „You hate me, Azruhâr.“
I shook my head, feeling the silly bandages shift. „I could never hate the son of my King, and my future King,“ I whispered. „But I fear you; Eru guard you, your Highness, but I fear you.“
Something in my words seemed to have convinced him. „That is as it should be,“ he said. „And your ambitions?“
I thought long and hard about that question – well, it felt like a long time, anyway, but since the Crown Prince did not yell at me to finally answer, it probably wasn't that long after all. „I don't really know, your Highness,“ I said, perfectly honest. „Ambitions are something I can't afford. Right now, I would like to get out of here in one piece. Other than that, I just want to lead a quiet, content life and offend no-one.“
He waved his hands angrily as if swatting away flies. „I mean your political ambitions, you fool.“
Again, I was reduced to gaping. „Political... ambitions? Your Highness, I am entirely unpolitical.“
„Then why – are – you – here?!“ His voice was rising; he was not quite shouting yet, but it wouldn't take much more volume to be heard even across the corridor and through the heavy ebony doors of the chamber where the King and Lord Eärendur and the treasurer were doing their dealings. The guards stood unmoving, as I had expected, pretending not to hear a thing.

I couldn't meet the fury of his gaze anymore, looking back down to the marble floor (only the usual white kind out here). It was hard and cold; my kneecaps were aching quite fiercely by now. „I am just trying to do my duty, as I understand it,“ I said tiredly. „I will do my duty towards your Highness, too, if you kindly let me know what that duty is.“
The sneer was back. It was probably better than the shout. „So simple?“
„I am a very simple man, your Highness.“
He dismissed that statement with another throwaway gesture of one hand. „Too simple to be true.“ I could feel his fierce, angry stare without even looking up. „Eärendur, for instance, is a complex man with an array of ambitions. What do you think he wants from a simple man such as yourself?“
I forced myself to look up again. Since he did not believe my humility, he would probably assume that I was avoiding his eyes to cover a lie. I hoped that he would believe me if he could see my honest fear. „I truly cannot tell your Highness. I am grateful for his kindness to me, but I cannot claim to understand it.“
He laughed softly, almost pleasantly. „You see, I believe that I am beginning to understand it.“ He began to pace again. I wondered whether I would get away with asking permission to stand up; my knees were now sending stabs of pain into my thighs, while my feet were beginning to fall asleep. But no; he would probably take that as provocation again. At any rate, he was already speaking again. „Do you know, Embalmer, where most of the resin used on this island is harvested?“

I was confused by the sudden change of topic. „Forrostar, I presume?“
„As usual, you presume wrongly. It comes, in fact, from Andustar.“
That was interesting, I supposed, but of no significance to me. The resin, wherever it came from, would simply be delivered to the palace and brought down to the catacombs; I would never inspect the woods or talk to the cutters or anything of the sort. I assumed that some sort of answer was nonetheless required. I settled for, „Is that so, your Highness?“
„It is so indeed.“ He was watching my face with an amused spark in his eye, although that quickly disappeared when he realised that I was not catching on whatever I was supposed to be catching on. He sighed, clearly frustrated by my dullness. „To whom do you think do the resin-cutters of Andustar pay their dues?“
Even with my complete lack of economic knowledge, I could figure that one out. „To Lord Eärendur?“
The Crown Prince's lips twitched in acknowledgement. „Precisely. To kindly Eärendur. If your resin-work – which I personally do not believe in – turns out to be the new way of embalming, they will amount to quite a bit. Eärendur has already mapped out the numbers, no doubt. So you should not delude yourself that Eärendur is protecting you for your sake, or making you precious gifts because he likes you. He is merely seeing to his business interests. He has found a way of furthering his riches and, conveniently, his influence on Father through you. I respect that – it's a clever move. But it is only just that you know that you are only a tool to him, nothing more.“

An expectant silence followed his tirade. I was puzzled. Perhaps I had wanted to believe that the noble House of Andúnië would bother with the likes of me because I had paid a couple of vigilantes and made irregular appearances at the Holy Mountain – I had felt flattered by all this Good Man of Arminalêth stuff – but I had nonetheless known, more or less, that they must have more practical motives. After all, I knew where I came from. I had been born at the foot of the hill, both literally and figuratively, and so my purpose was to serve the purposes of other men. It could make one a little sad, I suppose, but that was what the world was like.
The Crown Prince continued to study me, his eyes full of disdain.
„You don't want to understand, do you?“ he finally snapped. „Your precious Eärendur is only using you.“
I felt my brow knit in confusion. „I know that, your Highness. He calls it an investment.“ The Crown Prince seemed to be expecing outrage or something of the sort. I did not understand why, until I remembered that he believed me to be a proud man. Perhaps a proud man would have been hurt by this information. But I? „I am honoured to be of use to a nobleman,“ I said as evenly as I could. It was not untrue. My grandfather had dreamed of that honour; my father's youth had been dominated by that dream. If I had achieved it, that was no reason to complain.
Sheer incredulity on the Crown Prince's side: his eyes went wide, his eyebrows rose, even his proud chin went slack. „Do you not mind?!“

Of course I minded, in the sense that I minded not being born to the comforts of a merchant family, in the sense that I minded rain on a day when there was work outside, in the sense that I minded the pain in my worn knees right now. But these things could not be changed and had to be suffered; what point was there in getting worked up about them?
„Your Highness, perhaps I do not understand your meaning,“ I said carefully. „I am, as I said, a very simple man.“
He was still staring me down – I would not be able to hold his gaze for much longer – perhaps searching for a sign of truth or a sign of hurt. I only had confusion to offer. Perhaps, at last, he believed it.
„Then go,“ he said with a final sneer. But it was he who turned and walked away and left me, alone except for the guards who still pretended not to be present. I could hear the swishing of his robes as he marched off around the corner.
I got up slowly. My feet had gone wholly numb and began to prickle fiercely when I made them carry my weight. I paced slowly, cautiously, until the needle-stings subsided. My head was spinning again, from exhaustion or relief or some vestige of the concussion. I wished I did not have to wait, but I did. The discussion in the audience chamber seemed to be complicated, because it took a whole while until first the treasurer, and finally Lord Eärendur, re-emerged.

Lord Eärendur gave me a friendly smile as he approached me. „You are unhurt, I see. I am glad of it.“
„Yes, your Grace.“ I trotted along as he made his way through the corridor and exchanged polite words with the guards. The heat of the day had grown even more oppressive; entering it from the cool marble shade of the palace was like running into the steam-soaked curtains of a bath-house. Suddenly, I felt like crying; it was quite a struggle to resist that childish urge. My throat was stinging, but my eyes remained dry.
„I hope you are satisfied with your reward, my lord,“ I said for the sake of saying something.
Lord Eärendur shrugged with the disarming grin I knew so well from his sons. „Trinkets,“ he said. „The true reward is that I am no longer suspected of secretly working against the King's endeavours – for the time being.“ He put an arm around my shoulders as if we were cousins or good business partners. It made my heart swell with happiness. It might be a hollow gesture, meant solely to keep me in a content mood, but it was pleasant nonetheless. It worked.
„Well, I am glad that your investments are beginning to pay off,“ I said, and I was, too. I did owe him a lot, and it was good to know that some of my debts would be paid in royal favours and the resin-cutters' taxes.

From the corners of my eyes, I could see that he was studying my face. „Are you well, Azruhâr? Alcarmaitë did not harm or threaten you again, did he?“
I shrugged. „Given our history, it was almost a civil conversation, your Grace. But yes, there may have been a threat. I'm not sure about it.“
He frowned in a sympathetic manner. „What sort of threat?“
„Well... he asked about whom I had told about... my version of what happened. He assumed that I would have told my family. I... I was scared by the way he said it.“
He nodded, slowly. „That might indeed have been a threat. Did you tell him that I know your version also?“
Shamefaced, I had to admit, „I did.“
„Good,“ Lord Eärendur said to my amazement. I had expected a reprimand, or the end of our purported friendship; instead, he gave my shoulder a reassuring little squeeze. „He knows that he cannot easily get me out of the way. That, I hope, will protect you and your family.“ He paused, studying me from the side. „You are pale as a sheet. Are you very worried? You may stay in my house, all of you, if you feel safer there.“
I shook my head. The throbbing ache was returning, I noticed, but I refused to give in to it. „Thank you, your Grace. I hope that will not be necessary. I hope he understood that I will be no threat to him.“
His eyes were still on my face, his brow contracted in concern. „As you wish. Should you change your mind... you are always welcome, as are Amraphel and your daughters.“
The tears I had suppressed earlier were rising again, making my vision blur. I did not dare to wipe my eyes lest he noticed. He probably guessed something, because he asked, „Are you certain that you're alright? Is your head troubling you again?“
I shook my head again, foolishly. „I am fine,“ I lied. „It's just the heat. And audiences always wear me out; I am so terrified of saying something wrong. That is all.“
I was not going to mention the return of my headache, I decided. Pleasant though the week-long rest had been, I could not make further use of it. It was high time for me to get back to work. Plans and theories were all very well, but at some point I would have to show results.
I needed to return to my duties. After all, I did not want to loose my usefulness.

---

Chapter End Notes

* Not a queen, presumably, due to the awkward implications. ;) The archer (or alphyn = hunter) is today more commonly called bishop, but since Númenor is said to have no clergy aside from the King (who doubles as High Priest), that term doesn't work. The ancient term of the piece seemed rather more useful! Assuming they'd know chess in the first place, of course, but it would be too cumbersome to invent an original game and introduce the corresponding terminology. We'll assume that there is some kind of strategic board game, and the rest is just translation.

Chapter 17

Things progress uncomfortably, and Azruhâr's good deed has unexpected consequences.

Read Chapter 17

Amraphel had been right; Master Târik was wroth with me. When I finally returned to work the next day, Kârathôn greeted me with a playful "Well, look who's bothering to rejoin us!" and Mîkul told me that he was glad to see me, Master Târik first said nothing at all, staring right through me. A bit later, he did speak, and in a calm voice, too; but I could hear the tension underneath the surface, just as I could see that there was no smile either on his lips nor in his eyes.
"Good morning, Azruhâr."
"Good morning, Master Târik," I said uncomfortably. "I apologise for..." Where should I begin? I couldn't decide, so I ended in, "...everything."
"Yes, that about covers it, doesn't it," he said, and then turned and made for the stairs without further ado.
Mikûl grimaced at me. "I don't think it worked," he said. "You may have to be more specific."
I had realised that, of course, and hurried to change into my work clothing so I could walk down to the catacombs myself. I barely managed not to trip over my own feet.
"Sir," I panted when I had caught up with Master Târik, "can we talk about this?"
"Yes," he said, his voice flat, "I expect we should." But he did not stop walking until we were inside the first vault, where he leaned against the work bench, folding his arms in front of his chest and giving me the sternest of looks, his jaw firmly set. Behind him, I could see the notes Amraphel had taken of our conversation about my ideas. They had been nailed to the wall with, from the looks of it, rather more force than necessary: some of the nails were bent, others had been driven into the plaster all the way to the head. Somebody had been very upset. I was more than a little frightened.
On the rare occasions that I had seen Master Târik angry, it had been a quiet anger, turned inward; it was hard to imagine him furiously driving nails into the wall until they could not go any further. He seemed to have his anger under control now, but it was clearly there. I had no idea how to begin.

"About... that," I said, nodding at the mistreated sheets of paper, "I know I should have spoken to you first. I only thought of it during the holiday week and things happened rather too fast after that. I never meant to make plans without you. I am desperately sorry. I really wish things had been otherwise."
Master Târik's fingers were rapidly tapping the crooks of his arms. "You are missing the point," he said tersely. "Yes, you've presumed to send me instructions without so much as a 'by your leave'. But more importantly, you have made me look like a fool in front of the King and Council. And even that is insignificant compared to the danger you have brought upon us --"
"Danger?" I now had to interrupt him. "Upon you?"
"Yes, Azruhâr, danger! You have no idea how hard I have been struggling to satisfy the King's demand for good news while not raising his hopes pre-emptively. You have no idea how difficult it has been! We do not announce that we have a great new method before we are reasonably certain that it will work! And certainly not before we've even tried it! That is precisely what has been the Raisers' downfall – insisting that they had found a way to do the impossible, and then failing again and again and again. The higher his hopes, the harsher the disappointment, and by now, the King is at the end of his patience! Every disappointment may be the final straw. The Raisers just had to endure a day's punishment and are now out of favour, but we? If his Majesty decides that he is tired of us, he may very well remember the crimes that brought us here, and then..." His voice had risen in pitch and sunk in volume; now it failed him altogether. He did not know what to do with his hands, he shifted from foot to foot; I had never seen him so unbalanced.

And no wonder. I felt chilled to my bones myself. I was painfully aware of the presence of Mîkul and Kârathôn behind me, of their footsteps on the stone floor, of the deliberately slow way in which they seated themselves on the slab and shifted into a comfortable position. So far, I had thought only of the danger to myself. I had not considered that it might extend to my colleagues as well.
"You don't know that the King will have us put to death," I tried to defend myself. "He needs us!"
"No, Azruhâr. He needs our enterprise, not us. I have seen it happen! I do not expect that I will be lucky enough to draw the longer straw again. Are you feeling so lucky? Or maybe you will not need it, because you have a noble friend now? Unfortunately, the rest of us cannot boast of such powerful connections."
"He is not my friend, it's only --" Business, I had meant to say. But of course, it didn't ultimately make a difference, so I stopped. "I am sorry," I said, rubbing my nose. "I really did not think so far. Mind you, I had no time to think about anything. I suppose that is no consolation, but I did not want to announce the new method before we had tried it. The Crown Prince rather forced my hand."
"That may be, but the fact remains that you have incriminated us all in your attempt to save yourself! That was an incredibly selfish thing to do, Azruhâr."

I nodded despondently. He was right. "I did not realise it. But yes. I suppose that's what I did." I looked him in the eyes, full of honest dread. He was more afraid than angry, I realised – now, at least. Taking a deep breath, I declared, "I will take sole responsibility, I promise it. We can say that you were never involved in my new experiments, and that it is my fault alone that the King's hopes were raised and disappointed. It is the truth, anyway. It would explain why you did not know of them, too."
Kârathôn cleared his throat. "Don't make promises that you can't keep. You'll take sole responsibility? Really? If you had a chance to save yourself by spreading the blame, wouldn't you do that?"
I had no immediate answer to that. Would I? "Not if I had promised otherwise," I protested, but of course, I couldn't be certain of that. It is easy to say that one would never do this or that, but I knew only too well what fear, and pain, and fear of pain, could do to a man's resolve. I looked down, ashamed. "Maybe it will not fail," I said, though I myself wasn't convinced. "I know we haven't tried it before, so we can't know that it fails. Maybe it really will work. Then you have nothing to fear."
Master Târik gave a bitter snort. "I would say 'Eru hear you', but we are not exactly doing His work down here, so there is no use," he said.
"Lord Eärendur seems to think otherwise," said I. Even in my memory, the words seemed to be surrounded by a heavy fog, but nonetheless I recalled them: If the knowledge that their body will be preserved incorrupt helps people to accept the Gift of Ilúvatar more readily, then the Keepers' work is as valuable to me as it is to your Majesty. But perhaps Master Târik had not heard any of that. My colleagues had kept away from the commotion as long as they could, after all. I wasn't the only one keen on saving myself.

Either way, Master Târik actually moved away as if my presence had become physically revolting. "The less we speak of your lord Eärendur, the better," he ground out. I was shocked. I would have thought that Master Târik would be the first to admire Lord Eärendur; instead, his voice now bordered on venomous. I could see his jaw working, as if he had to chew down further words.
"Why? Do you know something that I don't?" I couldn't help asking, frowning with uncertainty. "I thought he was an excellent man."
Without turning to face me or stopping, Master Târik said, "Oh, no doubt he is the best man you have ever met, if not the best who ever breathed -- I want to hear nothing of it."
My eyelids fluttered in surprise. "Are you jealous of Lord Eärendur?" I heard myself say. I hadn't even realised that I was thinking these words because it seemed so absurd. Being jealous of a nobleman was like envying a bird or a rose – a complete waste of strength. And Master Târik had always been so sensible. Now, he did not even answer; instead he went into the corridor, and let the door fall shut behind him. I bit my lip until I thought it might split.
"No, you idiot, he's jealous of you," Mîkul said in his place, and I turned to face the other two. In spite of his words, Mîkul's expression could pass as sympathetic. Karathôn had his arms crossed in front of his chest just as Master Târik's had been, but he, too, looked wistful rather than angry.
Mîkul went on, "If he'd ever entertained the hope that Andúnië could look kindly upon one of our kind, he'd probably have worn his knees raw to try and win their affection. And you're not even an elf-friend!"
"They don't like that," I said absentmindedly.
Mîkul raised an eyebrow. "Not being an elf-friend? That's to be expected, but --"
"No, I mean, wearing your knees raw. Lord Eärendur says there is no need for," I tried to remember his turn of phrase, "constant demonstrations of power and subservience."
"Well, that's nice," Kârathôn said. "But see, you know these things, and he doesn't, and that alone is gnawing on him. So don't go mentioning your noble... patron around him all the time. He won't tell you, but he really wishes he was in your position."
"Without getting clobbered around the head, of course," Mîkul said drily, "he probably doesn't wish for that. How's your head doing, by the way? We haven't even asked about that. How shockingly rude."
"I'm fine. And you had other things on your mind. I'm sorry to have caused so much trouble. "
Kârathôn shrugged and raised his hands in resignation. "For my part, I'll pretend that there is no chance of failure until I am forced to think otherwise. Mind you, if you really have brought us to ruin, I might be tempted to clobber you myself!"
"Do that," I told him. "Spare me a traitor's death." At their surprised faces, I felt a surge of annoyance. "What? I'm in as much danger as the rest of you. If anything, I'll be facing the wrath of both the King and – my noble patron. So there's really no need to be like that," I said with a pointed look at the closed door. The door didn't seem to be moved in any way.
Mîkul slid from the slab to his feet. "He'll come around. But he is feeling betrayed, so it'll take a while. The stakes are higher for him than for us; he has a family--"
"Well, so do I," I pointed out. I was getting tired of all this. I could understand Master Târik's fear – only too well! - and to some extent, I also understood how he envied me my business with the lords of Andúnië, though I hadn't done anything that he couldn't have done himself. I hadn't even asked for any of it. Besides, I might not have needed to blurt out my secret plans if my colleagues hadn't kept their distance, I thought. It was a little unfair to blame me for trying to save myself first and foremost, when they had acted no differently. But I could hardly say that. Instead, I lapsed into silence.
After a while, Kârathôn heaved a sigh. "Well," he said. "There's a lot to do. Let's get to work."

In spite of his annoyance with my instructions, Master Târik did not seem to object to the new turn our experiments were taking. In fact, he expected us to be even more thorough than I had imagined, revisiting materials that had produced promising but only short-lived effects to see whether they could be made to last through the use of resin. We certainly used up a lot of the stuff (the resin-cutters of Andúnië must be creating a whole lot of revenue). We used it undiluted, but we also experimented with a solution in spirit of wine, along with resin-analogues like pitch and propolis. It was a messy business, but I could have enjoyed the feeling of trying something new and promising.
If only the work could have been done in better cheer. Master Târik returned to his civil self after the first day, and I was never punished for my insubordination; but he did not speak more than necessary. Kârathôn's usual quips were met with a stony silence also, and eventually, he stopped making them. It was probably better that way. There was too much frustration that might have erupted at the slightest provocation. I regretted it greatly, but I did not know what I could do about it. My apology had clearly gone wrong, but I could not undo what had happened. All I could do was work at my hardest and be at my most obedient to show that although I had pushed ahead without consultation, let alone permission, I had no intent of questioning Master Târik's authority. But since that was only a small part of the problem, it did very little to alleviate the situation.

At the end of the first week, I was accosted by a beggar on my way home. That is, I had to assume that he was a beggar – it was payday, a good day to pester folks for money, and dressed in only breeches and a stained shirt, this man seemed to be in need of just that. But his demeanor was not that of a beggar; he stood too tall for that. He stepped into my way unapologetically, and I stopped on instinct. "What do you want?" I asked, alarmed (and also a little annoyed).
"You are Azruhâr," the beggar said. It was not a question.
"Yes," I said, starting to wonder whether this was the prelude of a new attack. There were plenty of passers-by, which I considered a good sign. I could perhaps not be certain that their presence would deter an attacker, but a crowded street felt safer than a lonely corner. I tried to figure out what the stranger might want. He did look like a man who could be trouble, with strong legs and broad shoulders and the sort of straight-backed deportment cultivated by years of being in charge. No ordinary beggar, this; rather, someone who had been in authority, and only recently fallen on hard times. Crime and imprisonment, to judge by the marks on his wrists and ankles – not merely grazed, but actually chafed raw, which suggested a lengthy time in bonds. Studying the stranger more closely, I noticed that his breathing was deliberately shallow, like that of a man desperate to keep the strain off broken ribs or a flayed back. He was doing his best to hide it – he was clearly braver than I would have been under the circumstances – but I could deduce that he was in a great deal of pain. That probably meant that he was no threat just now, although I still did not allow myself to relax.
"Yes," he said, observing my stock-taking, "it's surprising how much resentment the city watch harbour for a palace guard – particularly one accused of treason."
Realisation dawned on me. "You are Balakhil," I guessed. "I did not recognise you without the uniform."
He gave a bitter laugh through clenched teeth. "My days in uniform are over. I have been dishonourably discharged."
"I am sorry to hear it," I replied automatically, and had to ask myself: Was I? Not really, I decided. A dishonourable discharge seemed appropriate enough. "But you are alive," I pointed out.
"Yes," he agreed. "I'm alive. Thanks to you, I am told."
"Thanks to his Majesty's mercy," I said. My hands were dangling uselessly by my side, and I folded them across my my chest to get them out of the way.
A dismissive snort, followed by a grimace of pain. "Either way, it would appear that I owe you gratitude. And an apology."

I should probably have been happy with this development, but I did not feel that I could trust it. Perhaps it was a trap. I glanced around uncomfortably, but the people in the street continued to walk past. It did not appear as if any of them wanted to close in on me while I was distracted.
"I suppose," I said cautiously. "Make it quick then. I want to be on my way."
He gave me a wide-eyed stare in response, and no wonder. There were probably time-honoured words to be spoken on such an occasion. I did not know them.
"That is all?" Balakhil said. "One should think that you would be happy."
Everybody seemed to know what I should do, I thought a little bitterly. "Yes, well, one should also think that I would have been happy to see you die a traitor's death," I retorted, "but I wasn't. I don't want revenge. I don't want apologies or thank yous, either. It's alright. I don't care. I am glad that you have been released, because it wouldn't have been right to send you to the scaffold. But beyond that, it doesn't matter." I had spoken more hotly than was my wont. But I had no time to regret it. Where the road met with the byway to the market, a troup of city guards rounded the corner. They moved steadily, like they were routinely patrolling the streets, rather than running as if to catch a fugitive criminal, yet I was certain that this was the trap that I had feared. Balakhil no doubt meant to keep me until they reached us. I tried to think of an escape route, and he duly distracted me again. "It matters to me!" he complained.

I closed my eyes with a heavy sigh. Clearly visible behind his broad shoulders, the soldiers continued marching towards us.
"It's over, Balakhil." Maybe I should just turn and walk away? I was not yet far from the citadel; at a brisk pace, I might be able to reach Lord Eärendur's house.
But Balakhil had now gone down on his knees, clutching the hem of my tunic. The glances of the passers-by slid over the scene and away again. A beggar pleading was hardly a novel thing; they were probably relieved that I, not they, had to deal with what to them looked like a common nuisance.
"No, sir, that will not do," Balakhil protested. "I must be allowed to have my say." He was maintaining his act convincingly enough, but I could still see the watchmen come closer, and closer. I could have extricated myself from his grasp easily enough. I could have struck him around the head and tried to escape. But if it was a trap, it would be closing in from both directions and I was already doomed. And so I stood transfixed to the spot, waiting for the inevitable. Balakhil, meanwhile, spoke on. His voice wasn't unpleasant to hear, and he managed to keep it firm and even, but I still wished I could have drowned it out.
"I hope you will believe me how very much I regret what has happened. I meant no harm to you, personally, nor did I mean to harm the King's prospects; in truth, I have only ever striven to protect the royal house from harm..."
"I never did, and never will, do harm to the royal house," I interrupted him sharply, briefly torn out of my worried observation of the approaching guards. He regretted what had happened? Of course he did; it had cost him his position and obviously gotten him flogged and who knows what else. Anyone would regret that! As for whether he had struck me personally or not – what should I care? It made nothing better!
"Do you regret hitting me too hard – or not hard enough?" I asked, deciding that there was no more point in escaping. At least I could show him that I was not fooled so easily, then. Balakhil flinched at the question, but he no longer needed to reply because the guards, six of them, reached us at that point. As expected, they stopped, surrounding us in a half-circle. I took a deep breath to brace myself when I realised that Balakhil's reaction did not fit my expectations. His eyes widened in surprise as he looked around at the guards, and I could see the dark in his eyes flare up in terror. It did not look as though he had been prepared for their arrival after all.

And indeed, they did not behave as if they had come to support him against me. Instead, their leader asked me, "Is that man troubling you, sir? Would you like us to remove him?"
My mouth had dropped open, but before I could respond, Balakhil spoke up. "No, please," he said hastily, "I am no trouble! Far from it, I swear!" His hands had relinquished their grip on my tunic and were now held up imploringly, revealing the crusted sores on his wrists. His voice had lost its confidence, sounding suddenly like that of a much older man, worn and weary. I glanced down at him, and his eyes met mine with a look of pure pleading that looked quite genuine.
"Sir?" the guard repeated, pulling my attention away from Balakhil, who went on, "I am only trying to settle a debt, please --"
The guard ignored him completely. The word of a beggar had no weight, of course, so it seemed to be up to me to make a decision.
"No, thank you," I said, "I think I can handle him." From the corner of my eye, I could see Balakhil's shoulders sag in relief.
After a moment's deliberation, the leader nodded to the other guards. "Very well, sir." With a curt bow, he took his leave from me. "Onwards," he told his colleagues, and they fell back into file and marched on.
A patrol. It had only been a routine patrol after all. I let out a long, slow breath, and felt very silly when I realised that Balakhil was heaving a similar sigh. "Thank you," he said softly, "I don't think I could have taken another beating."
"Oh, you're a brave man," I said, trying to mask my relieved embarrassment. "You'd have pulled through."
"I'm not so sure," Balakhil admitted, "it's hard enough to keep breathing."
I sighed, feeling suddenly sad and tired. "Yes. I know." I was chewing on my lip again; no wonder it was constantly chapped. "Come, get up," I said for the sake of saying something. "You don't want to draw more attention, don't you?"
A shadow flitted across Balakhil's face. "I don't suppose I can ask you to help me up?" he said quietly. "I'm – somewhat out of shape." He was, too. When I gave him my hands, his grip was shockingly weak – I could have easily torn free from him earlier – and I had to invest more strength than expected to pull him back to his feet. And it wasn't because he didn't try; I could feel him tremble with the effort, and I could hear his teeth grind on each other as he clenched his jaw. He kept quiet, though. My hands, which had needed to take quite a strong hold on his wrists, came away bloodied, but he didn't even groan. It was as annoying as it was admirable. Well, I suppose guards, even if they were mostly ornamental palace guards, were selected for a certain amount of valour.

We began to amble down the street, towards a little park. I knew there would be a fountain for washing my hands.
"I have been punished for both, you know," Balakhil said after a moment's silence. He was still speaking in that defeated tone; the ordeal had taken some toll on him after all, it seemed. When I did not answer, he continued uninvited, "For striking not hard enough, and for striking too hard."
I shrugged. I wasn't honestly surprised. I also didn't particularly care to discuss the matter further, but Balakhil seemed determined to – yes, to do what? I still did not feel like I had heard a proper word of apology. I had been honest when I had said that I did not care for it, but if he insisted that he had to deliver one, then I wondered why he didn't get on with it. Because he needed to settle this question first, apparently.
"First, his Majesty had me beaten for harming you," Balakhil explained, "and later, his Highness whipped me for failing him. In the meantime, I suppose my jailors were just delighted to have a fallen palace guard at their mercy, and they made me pay very dearly for my purported treason, also."
"I'm not sure your being a palace guard has anything to do with it," I needed to point out. "In my experience, they are delighted to make anyone pay very dearly."
"Maybe," he said sullenly, apparently disappointed because I wasn't impressed by the tale of his suffering. I couldn't help it. I pitied his pain, of course I did, but it didn't endear him to me. He shouldn't expect me to, since he tried so hard not to show it.

We reached the fountain, the decorative kind that had a sculpture – dancing miniature maidens, in this case – on it and water pumped up to splash down from a certain height. Perhaps the pretty maidens were supposed to be dancing in the rain, or maybe a waterfall, although that seemed to me like a dangerous thing to do. Either way, I was glad to be able to clean my hands. The smear of blood had mingled with my sweat, and the sticky sensation of it lingered even after there was nothing left to see. Balakhil cupped his hands into the water and drank it greedily. I dried my hands on my tunic and waited until he had finished.
"Look," I said when he stepped away from the fountain at last, "I really don't mean to be graceless, but unless there's something important, I would like to go home now. I'm sure you could use some rest, too. Recover your strength and all that."
Balakhil stared at me with his brow furrowed. "I thought you would have some purpose for me," he said. "I owe you my life, after all."
I felt my eyes widen in shock. Yes, he owed me his life. I had not considered that. Nor did I want to consider it now, in all honesty. The last thing I needed was a resentful bondservant.
"I don't want it," I said bluntly. "Keep it, and return to your home and family."
The look he gave me now was rather unflattering; he clearly felt that I should have known better. "I have no home or family. I was a palace guard," he pointed out slowly.
Of course, of course; he would have shared a bedchamber with other guards somewhere in the citadel, and was probably barred from marriage for the length of his service, which had only just ended unceremoniously. "Parents?" I suggested.
"Yes, they'll be delighted to take me in, dishonoured as I am," he said tersely.
I scratched my head. "Well, I don't want to take you in either," I said. "I don't really have a use for you."
That seemed to sting his pride. "I can pull my weight! I could be your bodyguard. Or your groundkeeper, perhaps."
I couldn't help laughing. "Balakhil, I live on a tiny plot of land. My house consists of three rooms and a kitchen. There is nothing to do for a groundkeeper. As for bodyguarding..." I wondered how I could put this diplomatically, and figured that I probably couldn't. "You'll understand that I'm a bit wary about trusting you of all people with my safety."

He looked down at the cobblestones, or maybe his bare feet. It must be an unusual sight for a man used to a handsome uniform and well-shined boots. "I am loyal," he muttered indignantly. "And I'm in your debt."
I heaved a heavy sigh. "So you are. But I don't want your service. Look, Balakhil, I release you from your obligation. You're free, alright? Go and live your life."
He didn't look as content as he should have, really. His eyes met mine again, and they were full of doubt rather than relief. "That is generous, I suppose. But what will I do?"
I closed my eyes, and immediately felt how weary I was. I felt as if I could have fallen asleep on the spot. Nobody had warned me about this, I thought grimly. Nobody had told me that I would have to figure out what to do with a dishonoured palace guard. I massaged the bridge of my nose, hoping to dispel the sense of exhaustion that way. It didn't help. I said, "I suppose you'll share the fate of everybody else who doesn't have a secure position in life. Do you have money?"
He grimaced. "A little. Not much. Guards aren't paid all that well, you know." I didn't. It was a prestigious post, being a guard. Then again, perhaps the prestige was considered reward enough. With no family and no house of their own and their food coming from the palace kitchens, they wouldn't need high wages, anyway.
Balakhil added, in a rather plaintive tone, "I would have been given a generous reward after retiring honourably, of course, but it is not going to happen now."
I pondered this, and had to acknowledge that his situation was looking rather bleak. Releasing him from his obligation to serve me was not enough if he didn't even have a place to stay. So I fished the coins I had just been given from my pouch and held them out to him. He stared at me as if he'd never seen a silver Crown before. "Here," I explained, "this should help set you up. Find yourself some lodgings. Register with a merchant in one of the lower markets so you can get your rations. See a healer, for pity's sake. And once you're recovered, you'll just have to go looking for work like other day-talers do. They manage. You'll manage."
Balakhil continued to frown at me as if I had spoken a foreign language. Very slowly, his hand moved to accept the money. He was no good as a beggar, and he would make a lousy day-taler, I couldn't help thinking; he didn't even kiss the coins to show how much he appreciated them. You always had to demonstrate your appreciation. Well, he would probably figure that out in time. After all, it didn't take a lot of learning to be a day-taler.

That encounter put a fitting end to an already botched week, and as a result, I attended dinner in Lord Eärendur's house in rather low spirits. I was not cheered when I learned that my benefactor would return to Andúnië the next day, leaving me (as I feared) more vulnerable yet. I felt as though I would be trapped in a city full of people who hated me. I chewed my meat until it had lost all taste, sipped listlessly on my wine.
My brooding was noticed and remarked upon, and I felt that I had to explain myself. "It is very hard," I said after my summary of the week, "to make an exciting discovery and then find out that one has offended – perhaps endangered – one's friends along the way. And there is so much to do now, and it's all rather gruelling. I suppose I forgot how miserable the work is, it's always been made bearable because we've worked so well together, and now... we don't. It brings back the horror." What I meant was that I was now seeing all these cut-off body parts again, all these remains of people who might have been criminals or might have been innocent but had, either way, been torn from life in the most brutal manner. In the past years, these had been specimens that I had handled. Now, they had become dead people again – and a gruesome reminder of what might become of my colleagues and me, if we failed. But that was hardly polite dinner table conversation.
"Surely you will be reconciled," Lady Nolwen said kindly.
"I certainly hope so, your Grace," I said, "but until we are, I dread every day that I have to spend in the catacombs." I saw the lord and lady exchange meaningful looks, and realised that I might be making it sound as if their investment was at stake. "It is not affecting our performance, I assure you," I hastily said. "We are still doing our very best."
Lord Eärendur smiled, a little sadly. "I do not doubt it," he said. "But it is taking its toll on you, I can see that. Do you think it would help if I spoke to your master?"
"No, please! He is frightened enough as it is!"
Tilting his head to the side, Lord Eärendur gave me a look that suggested that I was misunderstanding completely. "I do not mean to threaten him, Azruhâr; rather, I was hoping to reassure him. If he is worried about protection, I can offer it to him – whatever it may ultimately be worth, of course."
I blinked. "Really? But I thought you despised him!"
His smile looked a little more amused now. "Despise is too strong a word. I have no reason to love him – now as little as ever – but in this case, we are speaking only of reassurance. For that, I do not need to like him; it is enough that you feel he deserves it."
"Why?" I asked, foolishly.
Lady Nolwen raised both her eyebrows at me, and Lord Eärendur gave me a reproachful stare. "Because I like you, of course," he said flatly, and I was reduced to staring at my plate in embarrassment. I wished he would stop saying such things.
"That is generous of you," I muttered, looking up just in time to see the noble couple exchange eloquent looks again. I glanced sideways at Amraphel, who was also studying me with a somewhat exasperated expression. I looked back down at my glazed carrots.
"I shall postpone my departure then," Lord Eärendur announced. "I suppose it is asking too much that your Master Târik come to my house. I will meet him in the greengrocer's market near the citadel, then, by the fountain. That should be non-threatening enough, I hope. Tomorrow, after your work?"

I passed the message on, but the reaction wasn't promising. "What happened to not interfering in my affairs?" was all that Master Târik had to say.
My face grew hot. "I just thought..."
"Yes. That's one of the things you keep on doing. Just thinking."
"Sir, I thought that you would not object to noble protection. I have tried to convince Lord Eärendur that you're a good man. If he's willing to talk to you, shouldn't you go?"
"Oh, if his lordship deigns to talk to me, I'm sure I should go," Master Târik replied testily. "Thank you for bringing me to his attention. That is exactly what I was hoping for."
I understood where he was coming from – hadn't I been terrified of the journey to Andúnië? - but then, if Mîkul had been right, Master Târik was secretly longing for business with these people, so his opposition puzzled me. "I thought I was helping you," I said.
"What about us?" Kârathôn interrupted my attempted self-defense. "Are you going to help us too?" He raised an eyebrow pointedly, and I couldn't figure out whether he was seriously offended or just, as usual, poking fun at our argument. Either way, I felt as if I was caught in a web of guilt and obligations and foolish mistakes. "I can speak to him, if you want," I promised, and heard an angry snort from Master Târik. "If their conversation goes well."
In the event, the conversation didn't happen. The next day, Master Târik told me outright that he had not gone. "It would not have turned out in my favour," he said when I asked.
"How can you know that? You should have tried!"
"Don't you tell me what I should have done!" There it was, the anger that had bent nails into the walls. I took an involuntary step back. I trusted that Master Târik still had himself well in check, but I was still a little cowed. Still, I felt compelled to point out, "Lord Eärendur postponed his journey home to Andúnië in order to see you. Now you've wasted his time. That isn't going to work out in your favour."
Master Târik began to sort the jars of salts on the shelf. There was no need to do it; I suspected that he just wanted an excuse for turning his back on me – or maybe he needed to occupy his hands.
"Azruhâr, I could not risk it," he said after a while. "Absent displeasure is less dangerous than facing it directly. And before you accuse me of being a coward, I suggest that you look at your own decisions."
I bit my lips, hard. I would have liked to say that likely I would have to face Lord Eärendur's displeasure instead of Master Târik, but that would have done no good, either.
"Well, now you've gone and ruined it or all of us," said Kârathôn instead, and after that, Master Târik wouldn't speak to either of us for the rest of the day.

Thus, the second week at work was even worse than the first, and the third was no better. I had hoped that the tension would lift once the new experiments were prepared, but it seemed that I would have to wait until there were convincing results. Or maybe even that would not be enough. It did not seem to be enough that we already had a minor promise of success: the resin method allowed us to deal quite easily with those parts of the body that had previously been difficult to wrap safely, such as the fingers or the face or a man's private parts. The resin kept the bandages from shifting, and I found it reasonable to assume that this would in turn prevent these sensible parts from rotting. That should have been worth something, I felt, but Master Târik was quick to point out that it wouldn't help us if the resin didn't otherwise fulfill its promise. At least he was talking to me again by then.
He was right, too, but I still felt that something had been achieved. At the very least, it was something that we could present the King when we next had to account for our progress. "Very well; you present it then," Master Târik said to that. "It is only right that you stick out your neck for your idea. You asked to take responsibility, didn't you? So take it. Let us see whether you find it easier to preserve his Majesty's patience."
I did not like the idea of sticking out my neck, of course. I had indeed suggested it myself, but I had truly been relieved when the others had scorned the thought. But what could I do? "Yes, Master," I said, but couldn't help adding, "What if my idea turns out to work?"
Master Târik studied me for a moment. His eyes were hard, and I knew that I had not been forgiven, but he replied, "Why, in that case, it is just as right that you should be given the reward."
Of course, right now, any such reward was still a long way off, and I was by no means certain that the King wouldn't run out of patience first. That is, if we were lucky enough to escape any massive setback in the first place.

At the end of that week, Balakhil came to see me again. I recognised him at once, this time. I thought at first that he was doing well – he was wearing a clean shirt, and had shoes on his feet – but as he told me, he was now entirely penniless and quite lost.
"I am sorry to trouble you again, sir," he said, ducking his head, "but I don't know what else to do."
I sighed. He really was the last person I wanted to worry about. "Let us walk," I said, to avoid standing around stupidly again. We walked, slowly, down the street and towards the lower markets.
"It is harder than I would have thought, day-taling," Balakhil said.
"If you think so now, wait till it's winter," I said before I could stop myself.
He stared at me in confusion. "I am not joking!"
"Neither am I," I said, and then took a deep breath to calm myself. "I don't mean to be unkind, but maybe you are not going about it the right way? As I recall, summer tends to be a good time for finding work. There's construction and repairs. There are hands needed in the fields. There are loads to be carried and streets to be cleaned..."
"I had rather hoped to guard things," Balakhil admitted. "But nobody trusts a guard discharged, no matter the reason."
Now it was my turn to stare. "Of course not! Nobody wants to hear your reasons!" I bit my lips, but then I went on anyway. "Balakhil, you must be aware of the saying that beggars can't be choosers. That's what it's about. You're not in a position to choose your jobs. You take what you're offered."
"But I'm offered nothing! Sir, are you sure that you don't have anything for me to do?"
I pondered the question. Asking one of my colleagues was impossible at this time, and Lord Eärendur would not come back to the capital until the council was back in session. "Quite sure," I said.
"I thought so," Balakhil said, somewhat testily, and I felt a surge of annoyance. Amraphel had assured me that I was under no obligation to take responsibility for Balakhil's life; he was indeed bound to offer it, but I was as free to release him as I was to take him into service. In fact, being nominally no more than an apprentice, she wasn't even certain whether I was entitled to a servant, life debt or no. Apprentices were not normally house-owners, so it was all a little foggy. Nonetheless, I felt some measure of guilt because I could have afforded it. I just did not feel comfortable with the thought. I tried to buy Balakhil off by giving him another silver Crown.
Therefore, it was probably my own fault that he returned after another couple of weeks (when the money had run out again, presumably) to tell me about his woes. People kept picking on him, he said: house-owners, merchants, craftsmen, few were willing to hire him at all. Seeing the welts on his wrists, most sent him away outright, and some even struck him simply for asking, declaring that they had no use for criminals. When something was wrong or went missing, he was automatically assumed guilty. "Is it possible," he asked one day, "that once you are marked by punishment, people will happily assume that you deserve more of it?"
"That is entirely possible," I conceded.
"But that's awful!"
I was almost amused by his surprised shock. Of course it was awful, but he only found it so because it directly concerned him. "I bet that just months ago, you didn't care," I said. "You were happy to assume that I deserved punishment, weren't you, because you were told that I was a former convict."

Balakhil averted his face, which told me enough. "I know I shouldn't be complaining to you," he acknowledged, "but I don't know who else to talk to."
I had always been too soft-hearted, and his words shook me more than they should. The problem was, I could imagine too well that they were true. He could hardly have made friends among the other day-talers, with his strange manners and his delusions of grandeur. His parents, he'd said, had more or less disowned him. And his former friends, probably other palace guards, would either look down on him or at the least fear to be seen near him. His life, which had been one of certainty, had been completely uprooted, which was probably bad enough, but on top of that, he had to deal with the resulting mess alone – so alone that the one person responsible for his misery became the one person he kept turning to for help.
"Well, I don't know how to help you," I said. "I can't make people treat you more kindly. I'm not all that well-liked myself, at least not among the kind of people who hire day-talers." A thought struck me. "You know what, perhaps you should ask Master Amrazôr for work. If you tell him that your punishment was for beating me, he'd probably be only too happy to give you work."
Far from grateful, he stared at me as if I had lost my mind. "You are making fun of me."
"No, I'm not. Master Amrazôr is not fond of me."
"This is some kind of test, isn't it."
"No, it's an honest suggestion. It might work."

Balakhil gave me that hurt frown again. "What kind of man do you think I am? I will not ally myself with your enemies!" He put his hands on his heart. "Sir, I may not be happy with my lot, but I am not ungrateful."
I scratched my head. "Well, that's good to know," I said, because in all honesty, I felt that he was. I was only ever hearing complaints. Balakhil seemed to realise that, because there was another look of offended innocence.
"I am grateful," he insisted. "And perfectly willing to act on it, if you let me. I feel terribly dishonest about taking your money without giving you anything in return. If you took me into your service..."
"I already told you, I do not want a servant," I cut him short. "I don't mind supporting you until you've found your feet. I just can't do it forever."
"I know. But I can't seem to find my feet," Balakhil said, bowing his head in shame.
I thought. I thought long and hard. Part of me, to be honest, felt that Balakhil must be at fault. It simply wasn't feasible that at this time, at the onset of the busy harvest season, there was no work to be had for a broad-shouldered day-taler – even one who looked like a criminal. He must be going about it the wrong way. Of course he would have to put more effort into appearing meek and useful than other men. Well, I suppose he didn't know any better. Maybe even unskilled labour required something akin to an apprenticeship; I just hadn't thought about it that way because I had simply grown into it myself.
"Tell you what," I heard myself say. "I'll introduce you to my neighbours. They can show you how to find work in the markets. Follow their lead and you'll soon know how it goes."
He nodded without raising his head.
"Have you picked up your rations for this week?" I asked him.
"Well – no. I eat in the public house where I stay."
"You're staying in a public house? Good grief, Balakhil, you aren't some wealthy guest to the city. You're a day-taler – not even that, you're just a beggar right now – you should live with the other poor folk, and make your own meals like they do!" I was really rather annoyed. No wonder that the money I gave him didn't last long. No wonder, also, that he found no work, if he gave off the impression that he didn't really need it. I had to ball my fists to contain my anger, and Balakhil gave me an anxious look. "I don't know how, sir," he muttered. "You told me to find lodgings."
I had to swallow down a string of insults. "Cheap lodgings," I said, feeling that he really should have known that. "You know, I really have enough on my plate without having to look after you. I should just send you off, shouldn't I? I should call the watch so you'll leave me alone."
His shoulders were beginning to tremble; his hands rose to hide his face. Once more, my annoyance became diluted with pity. I sighed. "Well, come along. You're clearly in need of some guidance."

I regretted that decision before we had even reached my house. As we descended to the foot of the hill, Balakhil looked around anxiously, asking, "Where are you taking me?"
"Home," I said, and then added, "my home. Not some posh public house."
His silence didn't last long. "This doesn't look like a respectable quarter."
"As poor quarters go, it's the best," I retorted. And that was certainly true. We had a fine gravel road, after all. Some of my neighbours had even been able to do some repairs on their houses, thanks to the money they had made this winter.
"If you live down here, you must be in dire need of a bodyguard," Balakhil said with a hopeful note in his voice.
I felt my face go rigid with anger. "I trust my neighbours," I snapped. "I'm less sure about you." Of course, my neighbours had not been quite so trustworthy a year ago. But at least I had known that they hadn't brought their misfortune about themselves.
This time, Balakhil's silence – offended or abashed, I did not care – held until we entered my garden.
"You spoke the truth about living in a small house," he noted.
"Of course I did. Did you think I was lying?" And because I was already annoyed, I couldn't help adding, "And before you dream about speaking ill of my house, I am very attached to it."
"Is is a fine house," Balakhil said quickly, and I was hard put not to roll my eyes because he was so obviously trying to say what I wanted to hear.

"Really?" was all Amraphel said when I introduced Balakhil and said that he would be dining with us. I could see raised eyebrows on the faces of our guests, too – old Pâlatar and his daughters, Lasbeth and her son, the two Enrâkors and Târinzil. We had taken to throwing our rations together, to make them last longer and have a little more variety on the table. Besides, the renewed friendship with my neighbours was worth a lot now that the situation at work was so strained.
"Really," I said, and found two empty buckets. "Here," I told Balakhil. "You want to make yourself useful? Then go to the well and fetch water. Do you need instructions for that?"
"I'll show him the way," Enrâkor the Taller offered, rising from his seat. He stood a little taller than the former guard (who towered above me even with his head ducked between his shoulders), which, I suppose, nicely displayed that I knew where to find a bodyguard, if I felt the need for one. I wondered whether Enrakôr had thought the same, and had volunteered precisely for that reason. Perhaps not. Perhaps he was just being friendly.
While Balakhil was outside, I quickly explained to Amraphel why I had brought Balakhil here.
"Are you certain he deserves your pity?" she asked.
"No," I said honestly. "But I do feel responsible. I couldn't sleep at night if I thought he was starving - even if it's because he's too stupid to take care of himself."
Amraphel heaved a sigh, but nodded. "You need your sleep, I suppose."

To be fair, Balakhil behaved himself - he kept quiet and avoided intruding into our conversation, although that was muted by the very fact that he was present, and he ate sparingly enough. He gave every appearance of accepting the advice we gave him to get out of his overpriced lodgings the very next day, and to be less proud in his bearing. He nodded, and expressed his thanks, and he was much subdued when, after dinner, I brought him to the garden gate.
"So this is the best I can hope for?" he asked by way of farewell. "Don't get me wrong, I appreciate your generosity. And the evening's company was pleasant. I am certain your neighbours are good people. But... if I do all that you tell me, and bear all the indignities, and work hard, the best I can hope for is a hut like that," he indicated Pâlatar's house across the road, "and a broken back at a hundred and fifty?"
"No," I said irritably, "you're starting much too late. You won't be able to afford your own house. But maybe you'll get to be a hundred and fifty. Right now? I wouldn't bet on it."
His eyes fell shut in despair. "I wasn't born for such a life," he said. "I don't think I'll be able to learn it. I don't think I can stand it."
Once more, I was torn between sympathy and anger. "Do you think we stand it happily? I have lived like that because I was born to it, and it made nothing easier. My gratitude to the King is infinite, both for sparing my life and for giving it a different turn. My neighbours do not continue to live in this manner because it pleases them; they do it because they have no choice. And neither do you."

Even in the fading evening light, I could see his lips work as he chewed on them. His eyes were glinting wetly; no doubt he was about to loose his composure any moment.
"I believe it," he said. "My gratitude to you would be infinite if you were to give my life a different turn." And then he broke down, even physically, casting himself on the ground and clinging to my feet with trembling hands. "Please, sir, Azruhâr, I'm a guard. I would be a very poor daytaler, but I'm a good guard. I will guard and protect you, if only you let me. I owe you my life, and that is a powerful debt, but if that is not enough for you to trust me, I will give you my oath."
"Let go of me," I said, very quietly. Balakhil obeyed at once. I quickly took a step back, safely out of reach. "You're embarrassing us both," I told him, "and you're putting me into a rotten situation. I don't want your service. But I don't want to be the sort of man who sends a desperate supplicant away, either."
Maybe I should not have let that slip, but it really was the core of the problem. I could too easily see myself in his situation, and although I myself had often met scorn whenever I had been reduced to begging, I could not muster it myself. Two months, I thought. Two months were all it had taken to turn a proud, self-assured palace guard into a man who grovelled at the feet of Azruhâr the Embalmer. It didn't help me to know that he was in many ways responsible for his own misery. It always came down to this: if I myself had cast myself on someone's mercy, I would hope that they would grant it. How, then, could I refuse to grant it when I was in the lucky position of being able to do so?
I covered my face with my hands so I wouldn't see Balakhil's prone figure anymore, but it didn't change a thing. I could still see him before my mind's eye. My ankles still carried the memory of his pleading fingers. Sending him away would solve nothing, I knew. I would always wonder what had happened to him, always worry that I had saved him from the scaffold only to let him starve.
"Get up," I said, giving up. "Come back inside. I suppose we need to talk this through."

Chapter 18

Azruhâr enlarges his household, has some awkward conversations, meets the executioner and the in-laws.

Read Chapter 18

„Yes, by all means,“ said the King.

It was not the answer I had hoped for. In fact, I had rather wished that he would declare that no, I was certainly not entitled to take any man into my service, debt or no, what an absurd thought. That way, I could have told Balakhil that I had tried, but was – alas – not allowed to satisfy his wish. But instead, his Majesty said, „By all means,“ and added, „There is a touch of poetic justice to it. We quite like the idea.“
The Crown Prince, unsurprisingly, found it less poetic. „So Azruhâr the Important needs a bodyguard now?“ he said, looking at me down his nose.
I hoped that I didn't visibly flinch. „I don't know, your Highness,“ I said, trying to return his gaze in the most guileless manner possible. „Do I?“
This seemed to amuse him, because the corners of his mouth twitched, although his eyes remained hard. „Not at this time, no,“ he said.
I was so relieved at the lack of anger for my somewhat provocative question that I only later registered the threat underneath his words.
„So I may employ a guard in spite of being a mere apprentice?“ I asked the King again, to be on the safe side.
For a moment, Tar-Ancalimon looked thoughtful, but then his lips spread into a broad smile. „You own a house, do you not? You are a house-owner, rather than a common apprentice. Then you may hire whatever servant your household requires.“
My household hardly required a guard, I thought to myself, but apparently, nobody cared about that.
„Thank you, your Majesty,“ I said resignedly. „May I have that in writing, please?“
„Of course, of course! But enough of that. Tell us about your work, now...“

After an hour's questioning, during which I (hopefully) said nothing that would raise expectations yet higher, I was sent to see Quentangolë for written confirmation. He listened to my story – not without sympathy, to my relief – and eventually said, „I'll confirm your permission, certainly, if you insist. You are aware that I'll have to put you on a higher tax if you're officially a house-owner?“
That was something else that I hadn't considered, but it made sense. The taxes for day-talers were mostly symbolic (although the tax collectors always seemed to show up at the worst possible time), and an apprentice likewise paid only a pittance (probably to get used to the thought of having to pay taxes at all), but a house-owner who could employ servants would clearly be expected to pay higher dues. Maybe that was why the Crown Prince hadn't opposed my request more strongly. I couldn't imagine that my increased load would make a noticeable difference to him, but it was probably the thought that counted. He had been quite keen on the sureties for my neighbours, after all.
I sighed. „It's going to cost me all around, I suppose. But I can't send a friendless man away.“
Quentangolë raised his eyebrows. „I suppose you really can't. But have a care. You can't save the entire island without breaking your back.“ His quill scratched over a strip of paper. „At any rate, he may not be as friendless as you think. I saw him around here just a week ago.“
I blinked, confused. „Really? Doing what?“
He shrugged and reached for a stick of sealing wax. „I have no idea. But someone allowed him to come inside, at the very least.“

When I asked Balakhil what he had been doing at the palace, I found his reaction hard to read. It could have been annoyance, or shock, or embarrassment. It could have been any combination thereof. „Who told you I was there?“ he asked in a rather petulant tone.
„Quentangolë, the King's scribe,“ I said. „I have no reason to doubt his words.“
To his credit, Balakhil didn't suggest that I should. Instead, he nodded. „Yes,“ he acknowledged. „Since you had said that you did not want me, I tried to get his Highness to help me find a new position. I didn't want to keep pestering you! But he said he saw no need to further help me.“ Bitterness was creeping into his voice. „He said he would have sent me drugs to render me insensate, had I been convicted for treason. Such mercy. One should think that after I got discharged doing his dirty work, he'd owe me more!“
I was tempted to agree, but caught myself in time. „Do not speak ill of the royal family,“ I said as sternly as I could. „I will not have it. It is not our place to question their judgement.“ Granted, I had my own doubts about the Crown Prince's judgement, but it seemed unsafe to allow disrespect towards him from somebody who was supposedly my servant. Everything he said could fall back on me, there was no question of that, and the Crown Prince would be only too happy to accuse me of brooking or even breeding rebellion.
Balakhil looked as if he wanted to protest – he even opened his mouth – before he thought better of it. He bowed his head. „Understood, sir.“
„Good,“ I said, more forcefully than was my wont.

I asked Amraphel to set up a contract. I was told that it wasn't strictly necessary, but I wanted to do this properly.
„I'll expect you to make yourself useful around the house, too,“ I told Balakhil, „rather than just standing watch. I can't afford to employ you only for that. Besides, it wouldn't be right to leave all the menial work to my wife when we have servants. Is that acceptable?“
I could see in Balakhil's face that he wasn't too keen on the idea. „What about the other one?“ he duly asked.
The other one was Enrakôr the Taller. I still wasn't wholly sure that I trusted Balakhil, certainly not when I was away from home, so I had decided to employ a second guard to protect my family from the first. It was an absurd arrangement altogether, and I did not like it at all, but neither did I see a graceful way out of it. Enrakôr, at any rate, had been positively excited about the prospect. I had been ashamed to ask a neighbour to become a full-time servant – it was quite different from the neighbourly assistance I had paid for in the past, I felt – but Enrakôr was day-taler enough to see steady employment as an advancement, no matter whether it was in my modest household or a more prestigious position.
„Enrakôr will also be expected to do whatever needs to be done,“ I said, unwilling to argue the point. Enrakôr shrugged with a cheerfully grin. Of course, he was used to doing odd jobs, and wouldn't see a request to sweep the floor or carry groceries as an attack on his dignity.
„You will share the same duties,“ I went on. „I know that you want to be a guard first and foremost, and I'll try to respect that, but it won't always be possible. You are welcome to go looking elsewhere for a better arrangement, but if you want to work for me, I insist that you do your share of household duties as well as standing guard.“
Balakhil gave me a hurt look that (I felt) would have been reason enough to send him away, but then, he bowed his head once more. „Yours to command and mine to obey.“
I wrapped my arms around my chest. Authority was not something that I was used to having, so I looked to Amraphel for help. She gave a thin smile. „Obviously,“ she said, „but we do not want to hear any complaints of ill-use later, so it is vital that you agree to our terms or take the appropriate steps.“
Whatever hopes I'd had that these conditions would put Balakhil off after all were dashed; by now, he clearly remembered how much luck he'd had with his uppity expectations so far. „Yes, madam,“ he said in a good imitation of meekness.

So Balakhil and Enrakôr moved into our house, sharing the room that had been Azruphel's. I suppose I could have let them both sleep in the hall, but I didn't feel comfortable with my little daughter being alone at night, even if I hoped that Enrakôr would wake up should Balakhil get up to anything. So we bought a second bed, and blankets, and fabric for the tunics, linen and woolen, that I had to provide for my servants. At least we still had some copper-coloured wool left from last winter, which we could use for their cloaks. Then, there were their wages. It all added up. Balakhil pointed out that he needed no wages because of his debt of honour and moreover already owed me two Crowns and a half, and that might be correct, but I didn't want his situation to feel like thraldom.
Then I would have to pay for the additional food. And looming on the horizon was the tax. At least there was an upshot to that development: As we found out when Amraphel registered our new servants with the merchants so we could to pick up their food, house-owners who employed domestic staff were eligible for somewhat more generous rations. The amount of foodstuffs per person didn't go up all that much, but we now had the right to choose between different options if any were to be had, such as better cuts of meat (or more of it if you chose the inferior parts) and different choices of vegetables rather than whatever the greengrocer wanted to get rid of. We gained access to the first harvested grains – mostly millet – so suddenly, it was possible to have gruel again, and once barley became available, we could even make bread, although it never rose properly and remained wet and rather dense. Still, this at the least was very welcome.

Other than that, I kept having second thoughts about hiring Balakhil. He certainly looked impressive when he stood guard or walked behind my shoulder. Enrakôr always looked a bit awkward when he attempted to emulate the guard's stance and bearing, but Balakhil stood to attention as if he meant it. He insisted that he didn't mind waiting for hours outside the catacombs while I was working, but I found the mere idea mind-numbing, so I suggested that he go home and make himself useful there, returning in time for my way back. It was all very silly, anyway, because the fact remained that I wasn't important enough to warrant someone watching my back all the time, and I hated to suggest that I was. People certainly turned their heads and made space for us when we walked through the streets.
And of course, people resented it. My neighbours were merely upset that I hadn't hired one of them instead of a stranger, which I could understand well enough. We continued to enlist their help for things like the laundry or for gardening projects that required many hands, but such occasions were few and far between. So it made sense that they would have preferred something permanent. But I couldn't offer it. However, I promised that I would employ as many of them as was reasonable, should other opportunities arise. That was unlikely to be soon, but the promise mollified most of them for the time being.

Then, there was the mockery. I imagined that a lot of it was being uttered in the streets when I couldn't hear it, although I naturally could not be certain about that. Other snide remarks, however, were made within my hearing. Mind you, not all were levelled at me, but rather at my bodyguard. When Balakhil first accompanied me to the citadel, the palace guards poked merciless fun at him.
„How the mighty have fallen,“ said one, and the other remarked, „My, haven't you found yourself a noble lord, Balakhil.“
„Yea, he must be mighty pleased to have escaped the tedium of the palace.“
„Do you reckon he did it on purpose?“
Balakhil ignored them stoically, but I felt compelled to defend him, or possibly myself. „I hope you two never have to choose between obeying orders and doing what's right, or end up offending your King whatever you do – but if you do, I assure you that falling into a commoner's service is not the worst thing that could happen to you.“
It came out all wrong and not at all as sharp and witty as I had hoped, and they probably weren't very impressed, although they shut up for the moment. Once we were out of earshot, Balakhil said, „You needn't defend me, sir, I can bear it.“
„Perhaps you can, but I can't bear the injustice behind it,“ I said.
But then, scornful guards soon turned out to be harmless, because my colleagues also had their opinions on this delightful new development.

„A bodyguard, Azruhâr? Really? When I said I'd clobber you, I didn't expect you to take counter-measures so fast,“ was Karathôn's comment. Like most of the things that Karathôn said, it was probably meant in good humour, but I was thin-skinned enough to feel attacked by it.
Worse, of course, was Master Târik's judgement. „You shouldn't let your new status as the King's favourite pet go to your head, you know,“ he said. „It never lasts.“ The painful thing was that he was saying it in an entirely reasonable manner, and probably believing every word, too.
I scratched my neck in embarrassment. „That's not it,“ I said. „I'm not doing this for myself.“
„Really? Then for whom are you doing it? It must be flattering your pride, to let yourself be protected by a former palace guard...“
I should probably have followed Balakhil's example of bearing such comments in silence, but I have ever been sensitive to the accusation of pride.
„My pride has nothing to do with it! You're welcome to take him into your service if you want him! But if not, I hope you'll alow me to help him in my way.“
„Help him! You do like to feel generous, don't you. Just explain to me why you would want to help a man who wronged you?“
I tried to bite my tongue, but then it burst out anyway. „Because that's another thing I keep doing, giving people a second chance. Maybe you should try it some time!“
Needless to say that this outbreak was followed by another week in which Master Târik conveyed his wishes to me by way of Mîkul, who carefully kept out of our argument.

Despite their criticisms, my colleagues raised no objection when I told Balakhil to accompany us to fetch new body parts for our experiments. That was a part of our work that we all hated, so getting it over quickly was desirable. Balakhil must have questioned his decision to work for me severely that day, but he did not protest. I suppose he also got a very compelling reminder of why he was working for me in the first place, because greeting us on the scaffold, dangling from the gallows, were the mangled bodies of two traitors. They were now beyond suffering but had quite obviously gone out in agony. I could not bear the sight for long, nor did I want to imagine how the skin had been torn from their backs, how their limbs had been so broken, and how they must have screamed as the glowing irons had seared their flesh. I looked away quickly, but not quickly enough; my squeamish mind was already picturing the answers. Below the gallows, still alive and clearly only punished for some lesser crime, knelt a man in the stocks. He did not raise his head, either unconscious or ignoring his surroundings on purpose. Maybe he was just too worn-out to struggle against the yoke on his shoulders. At any rate, he was breathing, which was more than could be said for the punished traitors.
„Elf-friends,“ said Mâlakh the Executioner, pointing up at the dead men, „demanding that the King lay down his sceptre and his life, as they always seem to do. I don't suppose there's anything left on them that you can use, though.“
„No,“ Master Târik said faintly, and if we had been on better terms, I would have stepped closer to offer him reassurance. He must have been feeling the threat of such a fate more heavily this time, but as I was part of the cause, there was probably nothing I could do to make it better. Balakhil was likewise staring up at the broken and bloodied bodies, as oblivious to the goings-on as the man in the stocks was. As we began to look at the remains of other criminals that were stored in the cold cellar underneath the scaffold, he still remained frozen in place. I sympathised to some extent – it was hardly the first time that he saw what happened to traitors, but it was the first time after he had barely escaped that end himself – but I had brought him here to work, not to gawp, so I went out to tear him out of his broodings.

Although I did not really know how to go about that. „You see,“ I tried, „rendering you insensate for the ordeal would in fact have been quite merciful.“
He lowered his gaze, and now his stare was levelled at me, or rather through me: his eyes were looking quite vacant, as if he was halfway dead himself. Slowly – very slowly – they focused again, although I could not read their expression.
Balakhil stared at me for a good while. „I suppose,“ he finally said. „But sparing me was rather more merciful.“
„Well, obviously,“ I said, scratching my neck awkwardly. „Come on, there's work to do.“ I pointed him towards the vault, and he nodded and went without another word. I walked after him, but I forgot my duties immediately as the man in the stocks looked up after all.
Now it was my turn to stop and stare. „Master Amrazôr!“ I exclaimed in shock.
He blinked several times – and no wonder; we had not seen each other in years, and I was certainly not the scrawny fellow I had once been. Besides, who knew for how long he had been staring down at the rough boards of the scaffold with only shame and anger to occupy his mind. His hair was beginning to look unkempt, and his face was looking drawn and showing the shadow of stubble, so it must have been a day at the least – probably two.
„It's Azruhâr,“ I said to help his memory. „Your daughter's husband.“
The confused look gave way to surprise, and then something that might have been dread. „Azruhâr?“
I rubbed my nose. „The day-taler,“ I said, embarrassed.
Master Amrazôr groaned. „Have mercy on an old man!“
„What has brought you here?“ I couldn't help asking.
„Dishonest dealings,“ I heard the booming voice of Mâlakh as he emerged from below the scaffold, probably to see what was taking me so long. „An old friend of yours?“

He was scratching his head awkwardly. Being an executioner was as distasteful to the general public as being an embalmer, and that outcast status helped us to get along – professionally, at least – but it was difficult to forget what his work was, and harder when it somehow became personal.
„Not a friend, no,“ I replied.
„Old enemy?“ Mâlakh brightened a bit. „You can have a go at him, if you want.“
Slumping forward, Master Amrazôr repeated, „Have mercy on an old man.“
„You had no mercy on a young man,“ I heard myself point out.
And he certainly hadn't. I remembered that morning quite vividly, the sand in his yard underneath my knees, my arms stretched between the posts that were meant for tethering horses, the shame and fear as Niluthôr stepped up behind me, the resolve to remain silent, the terrible whistling of the lash before it bit into my skin and wore my resolve down very quickly. Oh yes, I remembered. I had no recollection of the events that had followed, did not even know how it had ended – I had later been told that I had fainted, that Lôbar had dragged me home, that Lômenil had taken care of me until Amraphel had appeared against all reason, that a healer had come and gone, but I remembered nothing until I had woken up to see Amraphel before me and panicked – but I certainly remembered how it had begun.

Master Amrazôr's shoulders were already shaking, although nothing had happened yet, and I realised in some astonishment that he would take it just as badly as I had done. It was a strange thought because I always assumed that everybody else was stronger than I was, but I could already see that Master Amrazôr would be no hero either. Perhaps he would break down even faster, since he wasn't used to rough treatment at all.
It is said that revenge is sweet, but the thought did not taste sweet to me at all. It was sour, like the rotten taste that fills your mouth after you have thrown up. I felt sick and I felt angry and I felt worn beyond reason, and for a moment I did consider taking it out on Master Amrazôr, who was so invitingly at my mercy and who certainly deserved it. That was the trouble of being put in the stocks, of course: In itself, the sentence wasn't too bad, the public humiliation being the main punishment. But if you had made enemies, it could very easily become worse, because everybody could hand a coin to the executioner and be allowed to take their revenge on you. Now Mâlakh was holding the handle of his whip out to me, and I could have taken it and painted Master Amrazôr's back with the same stripes that his groom had carved into my shoulders, and briefly, I was tempted.
But beating Master Amrazôr within an inch of his life would not make my own any happier. If there was indeed sweetness in revenge, I suspected it would be similar to drowning one's sorrows in wine: it might help for a night, but the morning after would bring them all back, along with self-loathing and a brutal headache.

So I shook my head. „There's no need. That's not why I'm here.“ I was speaking to myself as much as to Mâlakh. „I have work to do. I'm sorry; I have kept you waiting.“ And I went to join my colleagues.
They had already put the useful parts into wooden crates, and were ready to put them on our hearse when I arrived in the vault. Balakhil was looking pale and decidedly sick, although he was holding up bravely. Mîkul raised an exasperated eyebrow at me, and Master Târik said coldly, „What kept you so long?“
„I was distracted,“ I said. „The man in the stocks is my father-in-law.“
„Oh,“ said Mîkul. The others were silent. They all knew the story, except for Balakhil, and I could see the glances they were exchanging.
„I didn't hurt him,“ I said, annoyed by myself and by their meaningful silence and by the entire world.
„No, I expect we would have heard that,“ Karathôn retorted with an upwards glance.
Nothing else was said, but Master Târik's eyes remained on my face. For a moment, there was something in them that made me think that reconciliation was possible. I did not want that moment to pass, and so I held his gaze, and said, hopefully, „Master Târik?“
His face hardened at once, and my hopes were dashed. „What now?“ he asked testily, as if I had been making unreasonable requests all day.
I looked away quickly. „Nothing, sir. I apologise for wasting your time.“

Another frustrating week passed, and with it came the wheat harvest. A celebratory mood grasped the city, because although the precious grains were heavily rationed, there was finally proper bread to be had. Some of it even made it into my neighbourhood, and everybody rejoiced, except for me. I did not have the energy.
The council convened, and that meant that Lord Eärendur came back from Andúnië. We met for dinner. I was still distraught; he was happy. The harvest had been good. Lady Vánimë had given birth to a strong little boy, and was in good health. In spite of the folly of some elf-friends who continued to sow unrest, the King continued to look upon Andúnië with a friendly eye. Lord Eärendur had all reason to be content, and waved away my apologies for the failed attempt at talking to Master Târik.
„Let us not speak of it,“ he suggested kindly. „We all misplace our trust on occasion. Now, I hope you will be attending our feast for Vánimon? We're deliberately having it in the holiday week to allow all our friends from the capital to be there, not just the nobles.“
„I'll be honoured.“
„You'll also be enjoying yourself, I hope,“ Lord Eärendur said dryly. „There are some bad news, however; with all my brethren swarming in to celebrate my little heir, the house will be quite full.“
I bit my lips. „If it is trouble, I will stay at home, of course,“ I said as bravely as I could. In all honesty, I was looking forward to that week in Andúnië quite desperately. It felt as though my sanity depended on that carefree holiday, as if the gentle Western sea could wash away the frustration and exhaustion of the past weeks. But I did not want to become cumbersome to my host, and so I forced an understanding smile onto my lips.

Lord Eärendur shook his head quite violently. „No, that is not at all what I meant. I will arrange alternative lodgings for you and your family; it is no trouble at all. I can only stress that I do not mean to spurn you when I do not give you the rooms you had last time.“
„Good grief, my lord, we have no claim on them,“ Amraphel interjected.
„I know, but I would much rather give them to you than to, say, Atanacalmo,“ Lord Eärendur said with a wry smile. „However, that would raise you to a level of scrutiny that would probably be unwelcome.“
„Indeed,“ I said. „Can't go making enemies of Lord Atanacalmo, although he probably hates me anyway.“ I paused, a little embarrassed; these words had come out more forcefully than intended. „Really, your Grace, you need not worry,“ I continued more softly. „I am happy to be invited. You can put us in your servants' quarters for all I care.“
„No, that would not be appropriate,“ he protested seriously. „It would send the entirely wrong signal; we cannot have them think that you are to be considered servants.“
I said nothing. I could not gracefully point out that a pawn or a tool was only marginally more than a servant when he went to such lengths to ensure that I didn't feel spurned.
„Would you prefer to stay in an inn, or would you like to lodge with a family?“ Lady Nolwen asked now.

Amraphel and I looked at each other. I could not say that I preferred either option. I thought of the unfriendly inn where we had stayed during our journey in early summer. And then I thought of my lodgers last winter, how we had resented each other most of the time. „I suppose an inn would be more appropriate,“ I said, not wholly convinced.
„I don't know,“ Amraphel said, „it might be nice to share the life of a local family – if they are willing.“
„I would not force guests onto an unwilling family – not without dire need, at least,“ Lord Eärendur said, tapping his fingers on the table as if the very suggestion upset him.
„Well, it has happened to us and many of our neighbours, so I hope you will forgive my caution,“ Amraphel said.
The noble couple exchanged glances that I found impossible to read. „No, we generally ask for volunteers,“ Lady Nolwen said. „There are always volunteers.“
„I suppose it's alright then,“ I conceded grudgingly. „Will they be repaid for the food we eat and the linens we use and all that?“
I was given a rather bemused stare. „Naturally.“
„Don't say 'naturally' like it's natural, because it isn't,“ I said more hotly than was appropriate, which made Amraphel nudge me under the table and Lord Eärendur raise an eyebrow pointedly. I looked down, and mumbled, „My apologies, your lordship.“
After a moment's silence, Lord Eärendur said, „Thank you for bringing this to my attention; it clearly needs to be addressed before the council. But I hope you know by now that I try to give my people no cause for unhappiness.“
I kept my head bowed, unable to meet his eyes. „Yes, lord. I know.“

Later that night, when the children were asleep and we could speak in private, Amraphel and I discussed the matter some more. I had come to realise that a fully-fledged feast in the House of Andúnië, among the noble brethren of our hosts, would be a rather terrifying thing to attend, but at the same time, I had been looking at that week as a reward for enduring the past months, and my mind could not let go of that thought. The feast would only be a small part of it, and even if the nobles occupied the house for the entire week, I was still free to walk the streets or sit on the beach or even just sleep. Right now, that sounded like the most enticing thing. I wanted to lie down in a room that overlooked the sea, with a window open so I could hear the rhythm of the waves until I fell asleep. I would probably sleep for days, if only people let me.
No such rest was to be had right now. „We will have to take Balakhil along,“ I observed.
Amraphel did not reply, and I wondered whether maybe she had been lulled into sleep by my ramblings. „I don't want to leave him alone with the house and the hoards, whatever is left of them,“ I went on.
„Enough,“ said Amraphel's drowsy voice.
„So he must come with us,“ I repeated.
„Yes,“ I heard Amraphel sigh. „Then he will need a horse.“
I lay in the dark and stared up at the rafters. Maybe that was why rich folk had their ceilings painted, I thought, so they would have something to look at when they couldn't sleep at night.

So on Valanya, we went to buy a horse. Amraphel remembered the name of a horse-dealer whom her parents had considered 'too honest for his own good'. „I assume that means Tûmuzin doesn't trick his customers quite so badly.“
I nodded without replying. I had not told Amraphel that I had met her father in the stocks, but it seemed that she would not have been surprised at his dishonest dealings.
Master Tûmuzin, at any rate, made a very friendly impression. We first were greeted by one of his grooms, but when Amraphel insisted that we wanted Master Tûmuzin himself, he was quickly fetched without any coins changing hands. He greeted us politely. I wasn't certain that he didn't recognise Amraphel – he seemed to pause longer than necessary, his eyes flitting from me to her and back again – but I assumed that it would not be a bad thing. After all, if he knew who she was, he must also know that she was familiar with all the little tricks horse-dealers had, and that haggling for the right price had its limits.
But if Tûmuzin recognised her, he did not say so. „I'm sure we will find a fitting horse for your servant,“ he said, and to Balakhil, „You're a lucky man.“
„I know, sir,“ Balakhil said, keeping his eyes straight ahead as always.

Master Tûmuzin led us to his stables, and the groomsman who had welcomed us at the gate brought a pot of honeyed peppermint tea and a bowl of ripe grapes so we could refresh ourselves. I was glad to have something to do with my fingers while Amraphel took care of the actual business. She was looking at the different animals Master Tûmuzin presented, checking their hooves and their teeth, peering into their ears, answering the merchant's questions: For a servant, it probably did not need to be a fast horse? Well, it would have to keep up with ours. A young horse? Not too young, we had no time to break it in, it already needed to be trained. Would it need to carry loads also? Did we want a strong workhorse?
„I suppose it would be useful if it could pull a cart,“ I said, thinking of the hearse at work.
„Regularly? Heavy loads? Long distances?“ asked Master Tûmuzin.
I shook my head. „Here to the Noirinán, and only when the occasion arises.“
„Ah. Yes.“ He was silent for a while, perhaps pondering whether he wanted one of his precious horses to drag coffins around. He seemed to decide in the positive. „I think a docile allrounder would be the right choice, then.“
I wondered whether Balakhil would have preferred a fiery war-horse to fit his past as a guard, but he didn't show any displeasure as he was invited to mount a peaceful-looking brown mare. He rode a few times around the yard, and eventually came to a halt next to us.
He shrugged. „She's a bit slow in changing gaits,“ he told Amraphel. „Other than that, I suppose she's steady and willing.“
„Ah yes, she takes her time sometimes,“ Master Tûmuzin acknowledged. „Not the cleverest, maybe. If that's a problem, I can show you another beast...“
„Do that,“ Amraphel said, „but if you make us a decent price, I suppose we could be satisfied with this.“ And with that, the negotiations began. They were briefer than I had feared, and the result was not as bad as I had expected either (although horses were always expensive, of course). Perhaps Master Tûmuzin really was a rare honest specimen, or maybe my expectations had been absurd anyway.
„If you are in need of a saddler, I can recommend my son-in-law,“ Master Tûmuzin said as my money changed hands, and so we left his grounds with our new acquisition to see the saddler Dôrul.

We didn't get far beyond the gate before a familiar voice spoke out behind us, sounding rather sullen: „I hope you didn't pay too much for that horse.“
I froze in my tracks, and I felt Amraphel tense up next to me. We turned around in unison, and sure enough, there stood Master Amrazôr. He was looking his old self again, if somewhat more gaunt in the face, but clean-shaven and combed and properly dressed. Nonetheless, Balakhil recognised him and seemed to guess that he might be a threat; he immediately positioned himself between my father-in-law and us, shielding Amraphel and me with his broad shoulders and, once he had pulled her into place, the body of the confused horse. It was nice to see that he was taking his duty so seriously, although I did not actually expect Master Amrazôr to physically attack me. At the most, he was going to insult me or make some kind of scene, I thought.
My lower lip was beginning to sting, and I realised that I was biting down hard on it. I forced my teeth to relinquish their grip on the tender skin. Some kind of answer was probably unavoidable, so I went for, „I trust that Amraphel knows her business.“ My throat had gone very dry, and the words came out hoarsely.

But Master Amrazôr had, apparently, come in peace. He looked past Balakhil, first at me, then at his daughter, then back into my eyes. „You should have come to my place,“ he said. „I would have given you one of my finest.“
Amraphel gave a disbelieving snort. I swallowed hard, and said, „Really.“ I could not even bring my voice to intonate the word as a question, so absurd was the suggestion.
„Of course!“ Master Amrazôr replied, all hurt innocence, and added reproachfully, „I owe you a favour, don't I?“
Now Amraphel found her words. „What you owe my husband, sir, can hardly be paid with a horse – although I suppose it is a grand concession that you owe him anything at all. May I ask what has brought about this amazing offer, all of a sudden?“
The hurt in Master Amrazôr's face looked real, but it was quickly replaced by puzzlement. „You didn't tell her?“
„Tell me what?“ said Amraphel sharply.
„It would have been unkind,“ I said, feeling stupid. There was a moment's silence. Master Amrazôr probably regretted the fact that he had approached us at all. Balakhil still stood between us, ready to strike, although he must have realised by now that a fight was unlikely.
„We met in the stocks, your husband and I,“ Master Amrazôr finally said to Amraphel, „that is, I was in the stocks, and he was at liberty.“
„I would have noticed, otherwise,“ Amraphel retorted, looking at me sideways.
„I did not do anything to him!“ I said.
Amraphel's stern face broke, briefly, into a smile. „I know,“ she said, and then she returned her attention to her father, who was now shading his eyes with his hand as if exhausted.
„I suppose this is not the right place,“ he said wearily. „But we should speak. I would like to invite you for dinner. Tomorrow evening?“
I did not want to speak with him, I thought. Even if Master Amrazôr genuinely felt that he owed me something, even if his intentions were friendly this time, I did not want to set foot in his house again. But Amraphel was looking at me, leaving the decision to me, and I did not have the heart to say no. „I suppose,“ I said, and saw relief flood Master Amrazôr's face.
„Thank you,“ he said, and then he turned and limped away. I heaved a sigh of relief.
Balakhil also relaxed, and turned back towards us.
„Am I allowed to know,“ he asked, „just what is going on here?“

I dressed with great care, the next day after work, not because I wanted to honour Amraphel's parents but because I wanted to show that I was not dependent on their good graces anymore. I did not wear my new festival robes – there would not be enough time to get them cleaned and pressed in time for the journey to Andúnië – but I put on my least faded tunic, and I asked Amraphel to braid my hair and put in the silver clasps that she had bought to accompany the silver fitting of my amber pendant. I made sure that Balakhil was wearing a clean shirt and tunic also, and I was glad to see that Amraphel also saw fit to dress smart. Lasbêth came to help Enrakôr look after the children, and Amraphel, Balakhil and I rode up to Master Amrazôr's house. At least it was an opportunity for Balakhil to familiarise himself further with the brown mare.
„I do not wholly trust Master Amrazôr's intentions", I told Balakhil, „so I ask you to be especially vigilant.“
Balakhil's eyes lit up. Perhaps he was hoping that he'd be able to show his mettle, or maybe he felt that my request suggested that I trusted him (more than my father-in-law, at least). He touched his fist to his chest in a formal salute, and firmly said, „Yes, sir!“
I tried to reassure myself that he would probably not have to prove himself.
It should have felt different, to enter Master Amrazôr's property as a man of modest wealth and good connections, but I ducked my head between my shoulders as I walked through the gate just as I had done as a poor day-taler. Master Sérindo had told me to keep my back straight, because it was no wonder that my shoulders were always sore if I arched them all the time, but decades of habit were hard to shake off. My stomach had knotted with anxiety. The sculpture of a magnificent stallion, rearing up on its hind legs, looked very menacing to my nervous mind. When we tethered the horses to the posts in the yard, I half expected to discover traces of my blood still on them.

But it was different, oh, it was. It was Niluthôr of all people who stood by the door. He spoke no word of welcome, but he held the door open for us and pointed us into the hallway, and as we sat down to wait for our hosts, Niluthôr knelt to wash our feet. I had to clench my fists to keep my hands from shaking. Niluthôr seemed to tremble as well, probably from suppressed anger; but he did his duty, although he did not meet my eyes even once.
Then Mistress Râphumil arrived, a nervous smile on her lips.“Welcome,“ she said, and then she seemed to struggle for the proper term of address.
We rose and bowed politely. „Madam,“ I said, and because I did not want to be uncivil, I added, „Thank you for the invitation.“
„It has been a long time,“ Amraphel said without returning her mother's smile.
„Yes,“ Mistress Râphumil said. For a moment, she looked lost. Then she took refuge in routine. „Well, please follow me,“ she said, holding out her hand in practiced invitation. „Dinner should be about to be served.“

The large table had been set for exactly four people, but Balakhil did not seem to mind; he stood to attention in his usual impressive manner. Master Amrazôr, when he arrived, looked him over with a worried expression on his face, but did not comment on Balakhil's presence. Instead, he offered a formal bow. Amraphel was clutching my fingers so tightly that it hurt, which I found a little unsettling. She was always the reassuring presence while it was my part to be nervous and frightened; if Amraphel was anxious today, then I might have to be confident and in control. I wasn't certain I was up to that. But I could hardly blame her. Our courtship had been anything but usual, but I suppose that one might consider this the first formal meeting between the prospective husband and the bride's parents, which was certainly a cause for nerves. I tried to compose myself. I gave the sort of straight-backed bow that Lord Eärendur delivered so elegantly, and reminded myself to stand upright even though I found it uncomfortable (but Master Sérindo would have been pleased, I am sure).
„Thank you for following my invitation,“ Master Amrazôr said. Perhaps he noticed that I might have doubts about his change of heart, because he added, „truly.“
I did not know how to respond, so I tried to change the topic. „I hope your business is going well, sir.“
A shadow seemed to pass over his face. I guessed that it was because his business was not going well – on our way to the dining hall, I had seen several corners in need of repair, and outside, I had noticed that the gable of the annex was showing fissures. Besides, I assumed that Master Amrazôr had dealt dishonestly because honest business had failed to gain him enough.That was how such things tended to happen, I thought.

But right now, that did not seem to be his main concern. „Please,“ he said, „why don't you call me...“ he trailed off. In the normal way of things, we should consider each other as father and son, but he must have realised that I would not be willing to say Father, not now, probably not ever, and so he eventually opted for, „Amrazôr.“
I nodded, feeling strangely numb inside.
There was an awkward pause. When he understood that I did not want to repeat my question, Master Amrazôr went on, „Business is going well. Or was. It will take some time to regain my customers' trust, I fear...“
I wondered whether that was the reason for our invitation, to somehow help him regain the trust of his customers. I did not see how I could help him with that, even if I had wanted to, and so I said nothing. But Amraphel had something to say.
„Well, you must have earned their distrust, if you cheated badly enough to earn time in the stocks,“ she suggested.
Her father looked very pale, and I felt almost sorry for him. Mistress Râphumil tried to distract us, asking us to please be seated. I reminded myself to sit upright, and hid my nervous hands underneath the table where I kept on toying with the lower hem of my tunic. And then I noticed something strange: Master Amrazôr kept rearranging his cutlery, although it had been laid out perfectly before he had started to push it around. So he, too, needed something to occupy his hands. That was strangely reassuring, although the awkward silence wasn't.

A young servant brought the salad and stepped back to wait by the stairs. As we began to eat, Master Amrazôr suddenly found his voice again.
„I was tricked,“ he said, looking at his plate but addressing Amraphel. „By a man who wanted to buy three horses. He behaved like a gullible half-wit, begging to be fooled, but it turned out that he was some official person. I didn't know! But then he had me dragged off by guards and judged for dishonesty. Three days in the stocks! I still can't walk properly.“ He dabbed his forehead with his napkin, and then looked at me. „I suppose I shouldn't be complaining to you. That was extremely decent of you, not taking advantage of my situation.“
I felt that I needed to say something, so I said, „I am trying to be a decent man.“ And that was certainly true, although I knew I was not always doing a good job of it.
To my surprise, Master Amrazôr did not scoff, but nodded instead, his gaze dropping to his plate again. He had not eaten much so far. „Yes,“ he said, very simply. From the corner of my eyes, I saw Amraphel's lips twitch into a smile before silence settled upon us once more.

The salad was replaced by a chicken dish, and the servant refilled our glasses. I wondered whether he was a young day-taler, brought here in hope of a few coins and the leftovers, or whether he was a permanent part of the household. I ate listlessly. Nothing was wrong with the food; I just couldn't enjoy it in these surroundings, in this company.
Mistress Râphumil felt compelled to break the silence. „And your business, Azruhâr? I hope it is also going well.“
„As well as can be hoped, thank you.“
Master Amrazôr looked up from dissecting his chicken leg. „You are a death-dealer, are you not?“ he asked, spitting the words out as if they were burning his tongue.
I stiffened, expecting that he would now begin to throw abuse at me – it was long overdue – but instead, he said, „That must be gruelling and frightful work, preserving the dead.“
My lips twisted in annoyance. I was tempted to say that I had ended up in this gruelling and frightful position not least of all due to his unkindness. „It is very sobering, and took some getting used to, but it is of great importance to the King,“ I said instead, but then the words slipped out as an afterthought, „and the dead have never hurt me.“
Mistress Râphumil narrowed her eyes, but her husband nodded in a resigned manner. „I regret what I did,“ he said, „very much.“
I clenched my teeth, resisting the urge to point out how very little that meant.
„I hope that we may yet be friends,“ Master Amrazôr said.

„Now?“ The word pushed its way past my teeth. „Why?“
„There should be peace in the family,“ Master Amrazôr said wearily.
Amraphel spoke up. „After all these years?“
Her father heaved a heavy sigh. „It has been on our mind for some time,“ he insisted, looking at Mistress Râphumil, „but we did not think it likely to happen. However, since Azruhâr did not enact his revenge when he had the chance, we began to hope that he might be willing to reconcile after all.“ His wife nodded in confirmation.
I turned to mine for guidance. Some part of me, I admit, would have liked to throw their offer right back in their faces (along with a plate and the chicken bones, perhaps). But they were Amraphel's parents. And I did want to be a decent person.
Amraphel in her turn was studying me, as if wondering how to arbitrate between me and the people who had conceived and raised her. Out loud, she said, „Then why did you, in winter, offer succour only to me and my children, but not him?“
Master Amrazôr opened his mouth, and did not seem to know what to say. I decided that I did not want to hear it, anyway.
„This would have meant the world to me,“ I heard myself say, „seven years ago.“

Mistress Râphumil looked me straight in the eye. „You will understand that at the time, you were not the kind of husband we had envisioned for our daughter.“
To my own surprise, I found it very easy to hold her gaze. „I understand that perfectly, madam. I would never have envisioned a woman like her as my wife, either. And if you had shown me the slightest kindness then – not even kindness! If you had allowed me to explain myself, perhaps, or if you had let me off with ten lashes and a reprimand, I would have sung your praises, and I would never have presumed to get in the way of your plans. But after the pain you put me through, I felt I owed you no more loyalty.“
Master Amrazôr put his cutlery aside and laid his hands flat on the table. „I was too harsh, that is true, but I punished you only after you had seduced Amraphel.“
My head wanted to hide between my shoulders again, and I had to force myself to square my shoulders and hold it high instead. „As I could have told you back then, if you had allowed me to speak, all I did was answer her.“
„Niluthôr saw you kiss her,“ Mistress Râphumil protested sharply.
„Niluthôr was mistaken,“ I said.
Amraphel was less polite. „Niluthôr lied,“ she said. „Niluthôr lied because he was jealous, and because I expect he wanted to rise in your trust and favour. We spoke a few words, and I touched Azruhâr's hand for a moment. That is all.“ She took a deep breath. „And I started it.“
Her parents looked at each other, confused and perhaps a little shocked at this late confession.

But Amraphel had no intention of stopping. I realised that her earlier silence had been a struggle for self-control, an attempt to maintain polite calmness, not a desire to stay on her parents' side. Now she had reached the end of her patience.
„You have no idea,“ she said in a low and hollow-sounding voice, „how difficult it was to become a day-taler's wife, especially a day-taler who was shunned by many of those who could have given him work. Azruhâr warned me – he warned me against marrying him, he advised me to return to you even after everything that happened! – but I wanted him, I wanted to be with him, and so I learned. You think you had me educated, but there were so many things I had to learn, and I don't just mean sweeping a floor and cooking my own meals. You call these people do-nothings, but they work all the time, all the odd jobs that you don't even know exist, and after they have worked for other people, they go home and continue working, because they have nobody else to do it. You call them unskilled, but they have a great deal of skill. They can make everything from nothing, because they have to. I saw how Azruhâr laboured, and how our neighbours laboured, and if diligence equalled riches, they should have been swimming in gold. But we only ever managed to make ends meet. And you could have made such a difference, but you just talked about your ungrateful daughter and the dishonourable swain who had practically torn her from your arms.“ Her voice had grown louder, and it was full of bitterness. „We had a daughter, and you did not even want to hear about her. You did not care until you noticed that Azruhâr was summoned by the King, and then suddenly he became a person of interest.“ Amraphel was glaring daggers now, and if I had been her parents, I think I would have cowered under the table. They certainly looked as if they had seen lightning strike into their very hall, sitting wide-eyed and very still.
„Everything that Azruhâr said then,“ Amraphel finished, „is still true today. So do not tell me about peace in the family, and don't you dare tell him that he should take your hand while you are generous enough to offer it.“
I swallowed hard, because she was right, but also because I could feel her parents' distress, and in spite of everything, it pained me.
„I have no desire to be your enemy, Master Amrazôr,“ I said. „But you will understand that I find it hard to think of friendship.“

This time, he did not accuse me of arrogance or tell me that I would regret declining his request. That more than anything showed me how much everything had changed.
„I understand,“ he said with a sigh. He gestured to his servants to remove our plates. None of us had eaten well. I felt somewhat guilty about the waste of food, but then I figured that the servants would be happy about it. Surely they would enjoy the remains of the poor chicken more than we had.
When the main dish had been replaced by dessert, honeyed curds with plums and roasted oats, Master Amrazôr looked up again.
„I should like to make amends, if you see a way,“ he said. „Is there anything you need of me?“
I turned to give Amraphel an astonished stare. That was certainly new.
The strange thing was, there was honestly nothing that I wanted of Master Amrazôr, and the things that I needed he could not provide. I had come to terms with the fact that my father-in-law despised me for so long that I no longer wanted his love. Our daughters had never questioned their lack of grandparents. I had steady work, and I had money enough to feed my family. I did not even need a new horse, since we had just bought one.
„For my part, you have nothing that I want,“ I said. I tried to say it in a gentle manner.
Mistress Râphumil abandoned her hunt for a slippery plum that continued to escape her spoon.
„I will tell you what he does not have,“ she said. „He does not have an heir.“

I did not at first grasp what she meant, because I did not see why I should care. It was not uncommon for men to have no heirs. In such cases, they would generally bequeath their business to their most talented apprentice or their most trusted assistant.
But then I realised the significance of her words and felt my eyes widen. Because the third option, for men who had married daughters, was to pass their business on to a son-in-law.
And that would be me.
For a moment, I dreamed. I dreamed of being Master Amrazôr's heir, and it was a good dream. Horse-dealers, in spite of their reputation for driving hard bargains, were respected members of society, people who had it made and who, as long as they stayed within the limits of the law, lived as peaceful and carefree a life as one could ask for. Such security would have been a wonderful thing to have, and it would have been delightful also to leave behind the scorn that better folk reserved for both day-talers and embalmers. I could have escaped the cold of the catacombs and the terror of the dead and the tense and angry mood. I had to admit that I would have liked all that very much. For its sake, I would have declared my forgiveness and my filial love to Master Amrazôr on the spot – if it had been at all feasible.
But alas, it was not. As Master Târik had pointed out, we were alive only as long as we were useful as embalmers. I could not escape my duties without facing the old charges of theft and burglary and base murder. And as I thought about it, I realised that I did not truly want to. It was unpleasant work and the threat of death had in the past months grown stronger than ever, but it was my work. I knew it, I was good at it, and I constantly thought about how I could improve it. It had given me the means to make my sister a succesful fishmonger and to support my neighbours in winter. It had brought me to Andúnië. And my colleagues, even though we were currently at odds, were my best friends.

I shook my head, though not without regret. „If you had apprenticed me those seven years ago,“ I told Master Amrazôr, „then I would be ready to become your assistant in three years.* But now I have come into a different profession. I have my duties towards the King.“ I smiled a little, half wistful and half amused. „Besides, I would be a very poor businessman. Amraphel has to do all the calculations for me. Although I would have done my best to learn, if you had taught me... back then.“
And that, really, was it. I could have learned – back then. I would have done my utmost to please Master Amrazôr, had he made that generous offer at that time when I was poor but free. I would never have ended up following Lôbar into a rich Venturer's house, I would not have been arrested, I would not have become an embalmer's apprentice. I would have moved into Master Amrazôr's house without looking back, and I would not have meddled in politics and earned the hatred of the Crown Prince and some lords of the council. My life would have been so much more simple. It was sad to consider, and also infuriating.
For a while, nobody said anything. Then Master Amrazôr sighed once more. „I see,“ he said. Amraphel looked a little smug. Mistress Râphumil looked displeased. We finished eating, all lost in thought, without sharing our thought with each other.

Our hosts brought us to their gate, and again we stood in awkward silence. I saw Master Amrazôr pat the flank of my horse where it was branded with the sign of the King's stables. I figured I should thank him for the meal, and I did.
He nodded in a resigned manner. „It was the least I could do,“ he said. „And if there is anything else...“ he trailed off.
I still could not get used to this new version of him, although I had to admit that it was a pleasant change. „There is something.“ I suddenly heard myself say. „When you next hire day-talers, be kind to them, and pay them well. And when you have a customer who just begs to be tricked, even if it really is a gullible fool and not a disguised official, don't trick him. And don't punish Niluthôr on my account. At this point, it no longer matters.“
Master Amrazôr stared at me as if I had lost my mind. I stared back, unblinking, and at last he nodded.
„We should like to meet our granddaughter, some time,“ he said.
Amraphel snorted audibly. „Granddaughters,“ she said sharply. „We have two daughters.“
Her father paled again, mortified. and I wondered how he could not have known that. We had not bothered to inform Amraphel's parents of Nimmirel's birth after their reaction to our first child, but their grooms had visited us in winter. Then I remembered that our house had been full of people. It had probably been impossible for Ulbar and Niluthôr to know who belonged to our family, who had been lodgers, and who had been neighbours.
„You know,“ Amraphel went on, „we originally meant to name our firstborn Râphumil. But when you turned Lômenil away with the news, we called the child Azruphel instead. Our second daughter is named Nimnîmirel - at the suggestion of the King.“
It sounded a lot more spectacular than it had really been, I felt, but I knew why Amraphel presented it in this manner. Her parents were certainly impressed. Working directly for the King was in itself an achievement, but having him take an active interest in the naming of your child was on a different level yet. Master Amrazôr was looking at me with something akin to awe, now. I should have been pleased, but instead my heart ached because their sadness was almost tangible and because everything was so complicated.
„We will think about your request,“ I said, glancing at Amraphel, and she did not contradict me.
And then we left my parents-in-law.

I was glad to abandon the unnaturally straight posture as we slowly rode down the streets. My shoulders ached, and my heart and mind were hurting, and I could look no farther than the ears of my horse.
Amraphel seemed to be stewing in her own thoughts. I said, „If you want to make up with your parents, that's alright with me. Please don't feel obliged to be angry just because of my past. Good things have happened since then.“
She half-turned towards me with a half-hearted chuckle. „Thank you, love, but I assure you that I have anger enough on my own account.“
I bit my lips, remembering what she had said about the difficulties of becoming a poor day-taler's wife. I had warned her, but that had partly been out of selfishness because I was afraid of being disappointed when she tired of me and my life of toil. I had desperately hoped that she would stay with me all the same, and miraculously, she had. She always said she did not regret any of it, and she was still with me after all these years, so perhaps it was true.
„I love you so much,“ I told her. „You kept me alive, then and ever since.“
Amraphel's clenched muscles relaxed, as if a mask fell off her face, and she smiled at me. „And you have made my life worth living,“ she retorted. „I love you too.“
If we had been on foot, I thought, we would have embraced now and kissed each other breathless, and possibly more. But we were on horseback, and besides, Balakhil was riding behind us. Remembering his presence, I pulled myself upright again.
„Are you hungry, Balakhil? It must have been dreadful, watching us mistreat that poor chicken while you had nothing for yourself.“
„That is not uncommon in my line of work,“ Balakhil said politely. „Don't worry about me.“ But he did not protest when we made a detour to the night market, where I bought some bean fritters for him. They came wrapped in a cabbage leaf – normally, vendors used flat bread, but that was still too precious to waste on a market snack. It was not the easiest food to eat while riding, but Balakhil managed well enough. He was chewing, and Amraphel was brooding, and I was still feeling inexplicably sad.

„Aren't you worried,“ Balakhil asked when he had finished his meal and licked his fingers clean, „that one day you will waste your kindness on somebody who will use it against you?“
I was a little amused by that question, because it came from him of all people and also because he made it sound so grand.. „All the time,“ I said truthfully. „But I can't help it. And I suppose it's better to err on the side of kindness.“
„It is much better indeed,“ Amraphel said. „In fact, it might have saved you just now.“
I frowned, confused. „What do you mean?“
„I can't help wondering whether it was done on purpose,“ Amraphel said, „that Father was put in the stocks just in time for you to meet him.“
I still did not understand, and she continued, „It's a strange coincidence, isn't it? His business must have been suspicious for quite some time – and no wonder, really – but it's awfully convenient that someone investigated precisely before you embalmers were due to come to the scaffold, isn't it? You only go there three or four times a year, after all. So I wonder whether somebody meant you to see Father there, and act accordingly.“
My brow contracted further as I finally caught on. „You mean, somebody wanted me to have my revenge?“
Amraphel gave me a pointed look. „Maybe. And maybe somebody wanted you to take your revenge a step too far.“
I blinked. That was a sickening thought. It was not hard to imagine that if I had taken Mâlakh's offer, perhaps I would not have known when to stop. But what sort of person would speculate on something like that happening? And to what point?
To make me guilty of murder, I answered my own question. To make me squander the mercy that had been granted to me, and to have me punished accordingly. Even the King would be hard put to save me a second time.
„No,“ I said because I did not want to believe it. „That would be monstrous!“
„It would be,“ Amraphel conceded, „and I very much hope that I am wrong.“
But I couldn't help but suspect that she might be right.

---

Chapter End Notes

* Traditionally, the length of an apprenticeship was often seven years; but given the long lifespan of the Númenoreans, I felt I should make it a bit longer. But not too much, since the amount of learning probably wouldn't really change. So ten years it is.

Chapter 19

Another happy Andúnië chapter.

Read Chapter 19

This time, we travelled via Rómenna. Lord Eärendur had given Amraphel the names of some Venturers whom he had also invited, and she wrote letters and made visits and arranged transport for our luggage and ourselves on one of their ships. We asked Narduril whether we could spend the night before our departure with her family, and she was positively excited.
„You'll finally see our new house,“ she exclaimed, „and you can see the boat that made it all possible!“
„The boat that your money made possible,“ Amraphel dryly said, later on.
„I am sure they have not forgotten,“ I replied.
And indeed, when we came to Rómenna on the eve of the holiday week, the first thing that my brother-in-law did was kiss my hands and hail me as the enabler of his good fortunes. They had grown prosperous indeed, and now lived in a handsome house near the main road, away from the harbour where the smells of rotting seaweed and dead fish and the refuse of gulls filled the air. Barakhôn, whom I still remembered as a dependant crewman, now employed his own crew, and Narduril had a cook and a maid-of-all-works to take care of the household chores. The four crewmen were housed in the old hut, but they had lined up in front of the new house as we arrived, along with the domestic servants and my nephews, now in their teens: Barinôr, strong and cheerful like his father, and Barazôr, lanky and more subdued. They all bowed low as we rode up, as if we were guests of honour. Throughout the evening, neighbours and fishermen and fishmongers came in to pay their respects, shaking my hands and telling me how much they had profited from the work of the Copperhoods, how excited they were to drink to my health on this pleasant evening, and so on. It was all quite flattering (if rather overwhelming), I have to admit, though I did not rightly know how to respond. I was afraid of appearing graceless if I did not answer their toasts, so we raised cup after cup of the dry, spicy wine that Narduril brought up for the purpose.

Accordingly, I went to bed late, and when we boarded the Venturer Kiribôr's ship early the next morning, I felt even more queasy than I normally would have. I greeted the captain with anxiety – I did not know, after all, whether he might not be the man whose house I had broken into. I had never seen him, nor he me, and I had never thought to ask who the house-owner had been, but I assumed that the owner would have been told the names and fates of the burglars who had violated his home and cost him his groundkeeper. But to my relief, Captain Kiribôr showed no sign of recognition, let alone displeasure. He welcomed us politely, offering the usual smalltalk concerning the beauty of the day and his hope of a safe and quick journey. I agreed whole-heartedly and warned him that I was prone to being seasick even on calm waters. That naturally made this man, hardened by the wide and wild waters far beyond the gentle waves that lapped the shores of Yôzâyan, laugh with disbelief. He advised me not to vomit into the wind and then excused himself. Not long after, I heard some laughter from the other end of the ship, and suspected that he had warned his sailors to keep a safe distance from me. I tried not to mind it and kept busy by looking after the horses (even Balakhil's slow-witted mare had boarded willingly) and the luggage and the girls, both of whom appeared to have been born with the sea-legs that I so severely lacked. Nimmirel toddled across the planks as happily as she did on land, and Azruphel had already proven herself perfectly competent aboard ship on our journey to Eldalondë in summer. But I, as soon as Rómenna and the waving crowds were out of sight, crouched down in the stern and tried to quieten my upset stomach. Two more ships, one merchant vessel and another Venturer, were travelling along with us, and Azruphel waved merrily to the sailors and passengers, who for the most part indulged her and waved back. Once we were out of the firth of Rómenna and had rounded the tip of Hyarrostar, we had to beat against the wind; an unpleasant experience for me, although it seemed to delight the children, who found the turns and the reverting sails as exciting as the shouts of the sailors, and the sight of the coast and the uprising Mountain, approaching and receding, approaching and receding as we zigzagged westwards.

Despite his amusement at my weakness, Kiribôr tried to distract me by striking up conversation. I was in luck, he announced, for at this time of the year, it was just as possible to face stormy weather, rather than the pleasant western wind we had today. „That would have made for a choppier ride!“ he said cheerfully, as if the idea was amusing rather than frightening.
I forced a smile onto my lips. In all honesty, I found the way in which the ship jumped through the crossing waves quite choppy enough, and did not want to imagine anything worse. „It is a rather contrary wind, though,“ I could not help pointing out.
„Contrary? Not at all! It is a wind of Valinor!“ Kiribôr threw back his head, closing his eyes and taking a draught of the air. „Breathe deep, friend Azruhâr – it is a wind that makes men virtuous!“
I felt my face flush, hoping that my cheeks were already darkened enough by the wind and the sun that it would not show. I was certain that Kiribôr was alluding to my less-than-virtuous past, warning me that he knew who and what I was, though his eyes – he had opened them again, giving me a wry sideways glance – seemed to glint with amusement rather than menace. Still, I found it hard to meet his gaze, and my throat seemed to have swollen shut. The captain was a tall, firmly built man, and the rolled-up sleeves of his tunic showed arms bulging with muscle; I had no doubt that he could have hoisted me and thrown me into the sea, choppy or otherwise, with barely an effort. I doubted that my dog-paddle would get me to safety.

I cleared my throat, and said, as innocently as I could manage, „Is that so.“
„Oh yes! That is why the folk of Andúnië are so goodly,“ he said, apparently in perfect earnest. „Did you know that they do not even bar their doors at night?“ Again, he grinned at me sideways. „Hardly any criminals in Andúnië. And it is not because they are being punished so harshly! Oh no! The law of Andúnië is ridiculously gentle. It does not need to be hard, because everybody keeps on breathing the blessed winds of the Blessed Realm, which inspires them to peace and goodness.“
„Oh,“ I said. „I did not know that.“ And I had indeed not known that, just as I had not previously noticed that Arminalêth supposedly made people hard.
„Have you been to Andúnië before?“ Kiribôr now asked.
This time, my smile came effortlessly. „Yes, captain, just this summer.“
„Well, then you'll have noticed that they're almost more Elf than Mannish! And now you know why.“ He whacked me between the shoulders, hard enough to hurt, although it appeared to be a friendly gesture. „Maybe that wholesome wind will cure you of your sea-sickness too, eh?“ He winked, and then turned his back on me, shouting at his crew to perform another turn, and as the ship – cresting another contrary wave – lurched around, making my stomach lurch along, I could see that the coastal woods were giving way to the marshlands at the delta of Siril.
Almost halfway, I told myself, and I had not been tossed overboard after all. Nor had I lost my breakfast. I tried to breathe deep. The wind was wet and tasted of salt. If it had any wholesome qualities, they remained hidden from me.

The port of Andúnië had seemed busy to me during my last visit, but it had been downright deserted compared to the masses of people that occupied the quays and docks on that afternoon. A great number of ships that lay anchored already: the beautifully painted ships of the nobles and the more sombre vessels of Venturers, portly merchant ships and smaller vessels of well-of individuals, and two boats of strange and slender build, chalked to perfect whiteness, with their prows rising into the graceful necks of carved swans. I did not fully grasp the significance until Azruphel, clapping her hands in excitement at the colourful spectacle before us, asked whether they were Elven ships. Captain Kiribôr confirmed that assumption, and I felt a trickle of awe and apprehension as I realised that surely those Eldarin mariners were also here for the feast, and we would actually meet them tomorrow.
But for now, I had other matters to consider, for now we had to lead our horses onto the crowded pier. Although the gathered people were friendly, the horses did not understand that, and they were nervous and uneasy. Balakhil found the task easier than I did, and I was grateful to hand the reigns to him so he could lead my horse towards a somewhat more quiet spot at the end of the harbour square. Next came the luggage, and then it was time to take our leave – for now – of Kiribôr. I expressed my gratitude for the safe passage, and in response, Kiribôr quipped, „I see you managed not to be sick. Maybe we'll make a mariner of you yet!“

I very much doubted it, but there was no need to respond anyway, since he was still busy overlooking the unloading of his ship, and I was glad to remove myself to the sidelines. I would have liked to close my eyes for a moment. In the sheltered bay, the wind was no longer as refreshing as it had been at sea, and it was quite a warm day; add to that my short night, and the relief to be back on land, and the bustling crowds around us – sailors, servants, local fishermen and curious onlookers, all swirling around the piers and the roads and the harbour buildings, and it is perhaps no wonder that I felt thoroughly worn. Of course, there was no chance of resting just yet; we would now have to find our way to the house in which we would be staying, but that turned out to be very easy. As soon as we had all come together with the horses and our luggage, a young man, his hair tied back from his smiling face into a sloppy knot, broke free from the crowd watching the goings-on to approach us.
„Are you Azruhâr and his party?“ he asked. I noticed that he diplomatically addressed his question at none of us in particular, while looking from me to Balakhil, clearly uncertain who was who. I could not blame him; with his proud bearing and his superior age, it was far more likely that Balakhil should be the master and I should be the servant. (In truth, that was another reason why I felt so uncomfortable about employing him.) I decided to help the fellow out and stepped forward. „Yes, I am Azruhâr,“ I said.
He dipped his head in a polite little bow, first to me, then to Amraphel, and gave Balakhil and the children a friendly nod. „Aldalaivëo,“ he introduced himself, and even he seemed to think that this was a rather cumbersome name, because he immediately added, „but do call me Aldo. Pleased to meet you. You'll be staying with my family, so I thought I'd pick you up and show you the way.“
„That is very kind of you,“ I said, glad that we would not have to ask around for the family's house.
„I hope you have not been waiting long for us,“ Amraphel said, less selfishly.
„A few hours,“ Aldo announced with disarming honesty, „but it was no trouble at all – there's so much to do and see today, and my parents are still working anyway. I don't mind waiting a bit longer, if you want to join the crowd for a bit?“
„No, I think we should get the horses out of the crowd,“ I said quickly. „And the children, too, probably.“ Nimmirel was yawning a lot, though Azruphel would probably have liked to admire the ships and climb on the quayside walls for a bit longer.
„That makes sense,“ Aldo agreed readily. „Follow me then, if you please!“

It was a fair distance to Aldo's family, or at least it felt like that in my weary state. As Aldo had come on foot, we all walked, aside from Nimmirel (who soon fell asleep on Amraphel's arm) and Azruphel, who was allowed to sit on the one horse not burdened with our baggage. The ground still seemed to be swaying underneath my feet.
„Your parents are very busy?“ I asked Aldo, both in order to keep awake and because I was genuinely curious. It was Valanya after all, and late in the afternoon at that. The streets were full of people at leisure (including, this time, playing children), so I wondered what Aldo's parents might be doing.
„You might say so,“ Aldo replied, „two of the few who are working at all, this week!“ He explained that aside from guards and servants, all citizens of Andúnië had been granted an additional holiday week in celebration of the celebration. „Mother is working on another book, though, and she probably won't put her quill aside until we walk through the door.“
„Your mother is a writer?“ Amraphel asked, sounding a little out of breath but very interested.
„She's a botanist,“ Aldo specified. „She has published a book about the flora of Andustar, and now she's tackling the flora of all of Númenorë.“ It turned out that aside from writing, his mother was teaching at the Academy (the same place, I recalled, where Lord Eärendur had fallen in love with Lady Nolwen). Aldo himself was a student there, though not in his mother's field. Rather, he was going for a degree in chemistry, and was now specialising in preparation for his final exams. „I am working with salts, you see,“ he said, and then quickly added, „not the kind of salt you use for cooking – there are many other kinds.“
„Oh, I know,“ I said, glad to be have something sensible to contribute. „I've encountered quite a few extraordinary salts in my own work – salts that discolour the skin, for example, and one that caused something like sunburn without being caustic.“
„Really!“ Aldo gave me a broad grin. „You know, most of our guests are colleagues of my mother – this is the first time I bring home one of mine. Have you written anything on the matter?“
I foolishly said that I had – we wrote protocols of all our experiments, after all – and that somehow got Aldo really excited. „Brilliant – can you send me a copy then, when you have time for it?“
I must have looked very funny at that - I could see that Amraphel was biting her lips to keep from laughing out loud. „I am not certain that Azruhâr is at liberty to make such a promise,“ she said then, in a serious tone that was bubbling with suppressed amusement, „he will first have to check with his master and the King.“
„Oh, I see, it has not been cleared for publication yet,“ Aldo said, rubbing his chin on his shoulder in a brief show of embarrassment. But it did not seem to upset him for long. „I'm not working on anything classified yet, of course,“ he said by way of justification, and then launched into a summary of his own studies. In this manner, listening to an account of metal salts fraught with technical terms that I wasn't certain even Amraphel knew, we made our way through the garlanded streets of Andúnië.

Aldo's family lived in a handsome three-storied house in a street of similar houses, though to my relief they did not actually own the entire house (nor its well-kept garden with its very neatly labelled herbal beds, although Aldo's mother was certainly responsible for that). Rather, they shared it with two other families and an elderly couple who served as doorkeepers. There was a public stable nearby, where boxes for our horses had already been reserved, and after we had left our animals in the hopefully capable care of the stablehands there, Aldo finally brought us into the house. The family was living on the second floor, and though he called their living space a „humble flat“, it certainly seemed like a spacious place to me, with seven rooms arranged around a central hall into which we entered from the stairwell. All the walls were painted exquisitly, although that was a little less astonishing once we learned that Nantauro, Aldo's father, was a painter. Nantauro in fact greeted us with smears of ink and coal on his fingers, as did Tuilwendë, the botanist. They had clearly been working on the book that Aldo had mentioned up until now, and I began to worry again that we might be an unwelcome interruption to their work, but they protested as soon as I made that suggestion. „No, no, you're perfectly welcome or we wouldn't have offered to have you here, would we?“ The botanist gave me a wry smile. „Sometimes I have to be forced to take a break, or I would continue working all through the holiday week. You know how it is!“
Like her son, she assumed that I was essentially a fellow scientist – nothing I said could change her opinion; she even insisted that they had embalmers at the Academy also, to preserve biological specimens – and thus familiar to the typical workings of a scientific mind. And of course, I did know how it was once one got obsessed with a particular idea, so I suppose she was not wholly wrong.
„In that case, thank you very much, Mistress Tuilwendë.“
Another smirk. „That would be Doctor Tuilwendë, if you want to be all formal, but you're just as welcome to just say Tuilwendë.“

They introduced us to the other inhabitants of the house, so all would know that we were welcome on the premises (apparently, even under the wholesome winds from the Blessed Realm, a certain mistrust of strangers remained), and then we sat down in the dining hall, surrounded by Master Nantauro's beautiful paintings of the cliffs and countryside around Andúnië, to eat a quite magnificent lobster stew. The lobsters had been caught freshly this afternoon by one of the servants (the family employed three and a cook – I must assume that painting and writing books paid a goodly income – who sat with us at the dinner table, along with Balakhil, just as it had been custom in the great house) and tasted exceedingly delicious in their rich sauce of onions and apples and stock and cream, though the cook insisted that it was nothing special at all, only a very simply thing, really, since we should all preserve our appetites for the feast to come.

And what a feast that was. You will think from my description that it was grander than the celebrations I had attended at the palace, which is of course not the case (although it was very nearly as grand as these royal feasts), but it felt far more welcoming, and so it certainly gave me greater delight. For what felt like the first time in ages, I was rested well – Amraphel had let me sleep well into the afternoon, reasoning that it would do me good. Our hosts told me that they understood perfectly well, and so I had gone up to the mansion with no breakfast, but in the sort of dazed serenity that came with oversleeping. The city was now almost completely empty, and when we entered the wood that was a park, we saw why. Presumably, all of Andúnië and a goodly part of the rest of Andustar had gathered there, alongside most of the sailors who had helped to bring the guests here. The crowd was immense; people were sitting everywhere, amid the trees or on the grass, with children running everywhere in between. There were various entertainments, like acrobats and jugglers and musicians that played dancing tunes, and long trestle tables in front of the building, all laden with food and drink where the feasting people could help themselves. (I rather suspected that the whole week's rations for all of Andúnië were being used up in that single evening.) Naturally, Azruphel would have liked to join the playing children, or at least stopped to see the jugglers, but Aldo's family – also invited to the banquet proper – explained to her that we should make our presence known inside. Their servants, as well as Balakhil, took their leave at this point, joining the other revellers; and we made our way to the grand stairs and entered the house.

Inside, things were somewhat less noisy but just as busy. The great entrance hall with the mosaic ceiling was now fully rigged out for a banquet, an endless row of a table covered in pristine bleached linens and decked out in silver, with luscious garlands of flowers snaking their way down the tables. No candles had been lit yet, as it was still sufficiently bright, but the chandeliers had been prepared with what must have been thousands of them. On the sideboards between the sculptures of the erstwhile lords and ladies of Andúnië, all sorts of casks and bottles and amphorae were waiting to be opened. The servants who flitted about, handing out wreaths of flowers or scented wet towels or silver goblets of sparkling wine, were not dressed in their usual livery but in long tunics with the family badge proudly sewn onto the chests. It made them look much like knights on parade, and I marvelled that even the servants wore festival robes in this place. In all, it was quite a stunning display of wealth and splendour, and I was very glad now that this wasn't my first visit to this place, as I would otherwise have been intimidated out of my wits. No matter how affably and modestly the family behaved, today I was reminded that they essentially owned Andustar. Of course, they did not affect modesty today; having to entertain and impress their noble kin as well as their people, they certainly rose to the occasion. Lord Eärengolë in particular looked very lordly and imposing in silk robes dyed in the colours of a sunset over the sea, with a wreath of chrysanthemums on his head. Yet he immediately interrupted my attempt at a courtly bow by pulling me into his arms like an old friend. I only fully realised how starved I was for a friend's embrace when I found myself crushed against his chest. It had been too long since I had been held in this manner, and I was unable to maintain my usual caution, instead leaning in like a needy child. Lord Eärengolë seemed to notice and understand, since he gave me an extra little squeeze before he let go. He gave me a probing look afterwards, although he said nothing aside from warm words of welcome that he extended also to the others. „How good of you to come,“ he said, as if it honestly mattered, and, „you must see my precious little boy!“ And he showed us into the parlour next door, where the baby was asleep in a cradle that looked quite like the one that had held Nimmirel in summer.

The future Lord Vanimon was indeed a precious little child, but then, all babies tend to be, especially when they are sleeping peacefully. He had been dressed for the day not in swaddling clothes but in miniature robes of a design so old-fashioned that I assumed it had been worn by several generations, and had progressed from „out-dated“ to „traditional“. Aside from the robes, he looked like most healthy babies do: soft and rosy and a little plump, with full lips and a roundish chin and a sweet little nose that he occasionally wrinkled in his sleep, just as occasionally the corners of his tiny mouth twitched into an unconscious smile. His fine hair was dark and quite long for such a young child. „I'm told it's a typical feature of our line,“ Lord Eärengolë said drily when I commented on it, „we all get born rather hairy - it must be our Finwëan side.“ Lady Vanimë snorted at that and stroked the fine silky strands with a single finger. Then she rose to greet us. Next to her sat her sister, the Crown Princess, smiling a little stiffly as she acknowledged our genuflections. I was relieved to learn that Princess Vanilótë had come without her husband, who was as indispensable to the King at this point as was poor Quentangolë. But the Queen had come, chaperoned (as if that was necessary) by Lord Atanacalmo, who had in turn brought along his wife and his daughter.

In this illustrious company we handed over our presents for the baby boy, somewhat embarrassingly, since our gifts naturally could not match the bejewelled silver trinkets the happy parents had been given by their noble kin. We had brought a quilt that had been lovingly assembled by our neighbours who had been involved in the building of the road last year: when they had heard about the birth of Lord Eärengolë's heir, they had insisted on sending a gift of their own. I was a little worried that this gift would be met with disdain – there could be no lack of finer blankets for the little Lord Vanimon, but our neighbours could hardly buy the usual gifts for well-born infants, and they had put a lot of work into the quilt. „Our neighbours ask to be remembered to your lordship,“ I explained, hoping that their efforts would nonetheless be appreciated, „and to congratulate you on the birth of your son.“
To my relief, neither Lady Vanimë nor her husband showed any scorn, instead praising the neat stitches and thoughtful patterning. „Many hours must have gone into this,“ Lady Vanimë said admiringly, the finger that had earlier caressed the sleek baby locks now testing the seams. „Tell your neighbours how grateful we are for their kind congratulations, and for their kindness in sending us a gift – I imagine it must have been quite a sacrifice.“
Something about her words struck me as odd, although maybe I was just surprised that she worried about the plights of my neighbours.

„And here is a little something from ourselves,“ announced Amraphel, producing a small sandalwood box that contained a baby's bracelet of amber (the ordinary kind) and silver. We had agonised over what to buy for the baby, since really he was born into a house that already had everything, be it jewellery or cloth or toys. Eventually, we had decided for this bracelet; it seemed a little ridiculous to carry amber to Andúnië of all places, but Amraphel had reasoned that at least there was a certain neat analogy between the amber pendant I had been given and the amber bracelet we now brought for the new child. At any rate, amber was supposed to have protective properties and also to ease the pain of teething. Our gift seemed to pass muster; again, the lord and lady thanked us gallantly, and both the quilt and the bracelet in its little box were reverently placed on a table that was already heavy with pieces of jewellery and silver rattles and books of poetry and tiny silk jackets and other beautiful things. Tuilwendë and Nantauro had made a little herbarium of plants like fennel and caraway and orris root that were used to cure small children's ailments. They, too, received warm thanks, and I almost wished that I had thought of something more original than a bracelet, which could have come from anyone.

Azruphel was growing a little restless over all our adult talk, so I heard with great relief that the children had their own banquet in young Lady Eärrimë's rooms. Our daughter was happy to join, so we had only Nimmirel to worry about as we went to finally greet Lord Eärendur and Lady Nolwen. They were – of course – very busy among their many guests, but nonetheless spared some time for us; in particular, to introduce me to some of their noble kin – Lady Calamíriel of Hyarastorni, sister to the King and to Lord Atanacalmo; her husband, the lord Márapoldo; Lord Ciryamacil of Nindamos with his lady Elennirmë and their grown daughters; Lady Fáninquë and Lord Pallatin of Rómenna... I knew several faces from the council and the celebrations at the palace, where they had been happy to ignore me, and the way in which they now affected politeness for the sake of our host was almost amusing. I hoped that my thoughts did not register too clearly. But it was certainly useful to learn their names at last, and I suppose being formally introduced to them might prove of worth eventually; at the very least, I could now address them properly, if need be. Other friends of the family were more forthcoming; I suppose they did not feel quite so superior. There was a very old lady, wrinkled as a walnut and stooped over by age, who was treated with great respect even by the nobles, common-born though she was. That was Lady Nolwen's mother, Lastawen. Aldo and his mother stood quite in awe of her; she and her late husband, I was told, had made the Academy into the pre-eminent place of learning on the entire island. Accordinly, I was awed as well, and quite embarrassed when they dragged me before her and introduced me to her as some kind of scholar. She peered up at me cheerfully (she was one of the few adult people present who didn't tower above me, though she had doubtlessly been taller when younger), patted my hands and told me to keep up the good work. (She told Aldo the same.)
Further guests included merchants and scholars and soldiers, the craftsmen who commonly did repairs or other works on the grounds, and of course, there were the members of the local council - the estate owners and guildmasters and village representatives of Andustar. There were also the Venturers we had already met yesterday, now robed in the formal navy of their guild. Captain Kiribôr clapped my shoulder heavily and ask, in a voice loud enough to boom over the collective murmur around us, whether I had been seasick yet, to some mirth and some disapproving looks.

I was surprised by the reaction of the Eldarin embassadors as I was introduced to them. Although I could not understand a word of what they said and Lady Nolwen had to interpret between us, they touched their hands to their hearts and then took my hands without hesitation. I would have thought that they would be much too aloof to show interest in such a lowly mortal, let alone touch me, but their politeness did not even appear forced; they seemed perfectly content with meeting everybody here. Mind you, I found their expressions hard to read, so maybe they just hid their distaste well. After a while, I was beginning to wonder whether they showed any emotion at all. But later I saw the embassador Tedian looking at one of the sculptures (I think it was Amandur, Third Lord Of Andúnië 1027 – 1401), and I suppose he must have had some fond memory of the man, because his mouth suddenly became very thin, and he blinked rapidly like somebody who has to fight back tears. His eyes remained dry, and the moment passed quickly, but I thought his jaw remained clenched more tightly for a while after that. (I observed this because I could not keep from staring at the Elves. They were as fascinating as they disconcerted me: the eyes appeared ancient in those ageless faces, which made them look strangely disconnected, like an old actor putting on the mask of a beautiful youth, except that it was clearly not a mask. I cannot describe it properly, but at any rate I found the effect highly confusing and somewhat uncanny. The Elves in turn seemed to be a little nervous about some of the old guests, particularly the honorary lady Lastawen, as though they feared that she might die any given moment. In fact, despite her ripe age Lady Lastawen appeared in the best of spirits, although she only understood what you told her when you stood very close so she could look at your lips.)
It made me wonder whether the Elves would really disapprove of my work – or even that of the Raisers, which Lord Eärendur continued to condemn – or whether it would not be a relief to them if the friendships they struck up with assorted mortals might become more permanent. But the question did not occupy me so much that I dared to breach it, in case I was completely wrong - least of all as I would have to rely on an interpreter.

At any rate, I was soon swept into a different conversation by Aldo, who insisted that I needed to meet his tutor Sorondil (my head was beginning to buzz with all the names that were being tossed at me) to speak at greater length about the properties and uses of salt. There was more enthusiastic hand-shaking and renewed requests to send them copies of my work. I promised that I would ask Master Târik for permission as soon as it was feasible, which satisfied them for the moment. And after that, it did not take long until we were invited to take our places. That was another surprise: I had expected to sit at the very end of the table, as was the usual fate of myself and my colleagues at the King's holiday feasts. I would have accepted it without grumbling, being clearly a very junior guest and outranked by virtually everybody present with the exception of Aldo and a few other young folk. Instead, they had placed me (along with Aldo and his family) much further up, well above the local councillors, certainly further up than a business connection – even one more fruitful than mine could ever be – warranted. Again, I felt thrown off-balance. I did not want to assume too much, but gestures like this rekindled the foolish hope that the Crown Prince had it wrong after all. I told myself not to be absurd – it was probably our association with Tuilwendë and her family that had brought us to the middle of the table – but unaware of my musings, she dismantled that thought at once. „My, we've come up in the world,“ she dryly said as we took our seats, „you must be more important than you've told us.“
I felt my face flare up. „I rather thought that we owed the honour to your eminent scholarship,“ I admitted.
Tuilwendë laughed at that. „My books are not that influential, I assure you. Now, if I had written that compendium of the plants of all the known world that I have been planning, then perhaps... but that has to wait until Aldo has started his own family – I wouldn't want to be away at sea or in some distant desert when he gets married!“
Now it was Aldo's turn to blush, his cheeks and ears glowing bright pink. He mumbled something incomprehensible, but was fortunately spared further embarrassment by the general rustling of robes and scraping of chairs.

Lord Eärendur gave a speech of welcome, and after that, Lord Eärengolë presented his little son, now awake and blinking at the crowd. I'm afraid there was such a surge of applause that the poor tot began to bawl, terrified, and Lady Vanimë swiftly took him back into the reassuring safety of the parlour. Amraphel used that opportunity to follow her so Nimmirel could also get some rest from the noise and bustle. Meanwhile, we were subjected to a somewhat pompous speech from Lord Vanatirmo – at least, I found his tone and stance and gesturing pompous, although I could not judge his words, since he chose to speak exclusively in Eldarin. Whatever he said, it made the Crown Princess raise her chin just a little higher and stare ahead just a little more grimly. I was later told that her father had talked at great length about dynastic continuity. For all the clever marriage alliances he had made, they had presented him with serious difficulties: neither of his two daughters could inherit Eldalondë, since one would eventually become Queen and the other would be Lady of Andúnië. In turn, Princess Vanilótë had only one child, the Princess Vanimeldë (who was also present, as I may have forgotten to mention), who of course was expected to become Queen in her time. Until the birth of tiny Vanimon, it had therefore looked as though the lordship of Eldalondë (and with it, Nísimaldar) was due to fall back to the crown. „Now likely Lord Vanimon will get Andúnië, and Lady Eärrimë has a good chance of inheriting Eldalondë, unless she marries the heir of one the other Houses,“ Tuilwendë explained. I suddenly felt sorry for these noble children, barely born and already scheduled to marry wisely and govern entire provinces.

After Lord Vanatirmo's circumlocution, the Queen rose to express the congratulations and felicitations of the royal house. (Her daughter-in-law was still looking somewhat put out.) She asked for understanding about the failing health of the King that had prevented him from making journeys and required the Crown Prince at his side, and assured everybody present that this was by no means to be understood as an affront to the noble House of Andúnië: „The friendship between our houses could not be greater, now that understanding and goodwill have been restored.“ Lord Eärendur made a funny face at that, but when he rose to answer, he only said that he had the greatest sympathy for the burdens of old age, that he would never expect the King to risk his precious life in an exhausting journey, and that he felt amply honoured by the presence of so many eminent members of the royal family. „I pray that my cousin on the throne may enjoy the best of health that his age can afford him. Long live the King,“ he concluded his speech, and we duly stood up and raised our goblets and echoed, „Long live the King.“
Then the first Elven embassador delivered his speech. Aldo initially tried to translate for me, but we quickly realised that we were disturbing the other listeners, and so he stopped. „Well, mostly just the usual – congratulations and felicitations, blessings of the Valar, best of regards from their King and their stellar forefather,“ he summarised the gist for me in the end.
Another cousin on the throne – or uncle, more like – and one in the sky, I couldn't help thinking, glancing up at the ceiling. We were sitting underneath one of the hideous dragon's front claws, and the brilliant white ship and the fearless figure of Azrubêl were quite clearly recogniseable.

There was a second incomprehensible speech from the Elven envoy from Middle-earth – yet another enthroned cousin sent his greetings, love and congratulations; another noble uncle expressed his sorrow at being kept by his labours from attending in person. After that, I hoped that the speeches were finally done, but then Lady Lastawen rose. She, too, spoke in Eldarin only, and it seemed that I was seriously missing out, because the rest of the audience broke into delighted laughter pretty much as soon as she had uttered her first sentence, and after that, punchline seemed to be following punchline. It was clear that people were not laughing at her, but that she was making them laugh on purpose: Lady Nolwen was chuckling merrily and even the Elves were smiling. Tuilwendë was shaking with laughter, and Aldo almost slid from his chair in delight. „Her tongue is still as sharp as her wits,“ he gasped when the speech had ended, to general applause. „and of course she can say whatever she likes, nobody will hold it against her. I'll try to sum it up for you when we go home, though I may not be able to do it justice.“

But now it was finally time to eat. I will not list every dish that was brought onto that long table; suffice it to say that everything was excellent, beautiful and cooked to perfection. It turned out that the seating arrangements did not play as much of a role as they would have under normal circumstances, where the head of the table cut the meat and the lower you sat, the less likely you were to receive a decent cut. Instead, that army of servants carried huge platters (silver again) into the hall from the kitchens, to noises of appreciation and more applause, and then put them on the sideboards to prepare individual portions that were delivered to the table, all pretty much at the same time, all more or less equal. A single servant had to balance four plates and then steer around the diners and put them on the table. I wondered how long they had practiced to manage this feat and held my breath, hoping that there would be no accidents – surely even in Andúnië, dropping a plate on a noble guest was enough to earn you a whipping, and I very much did not want to see that – but fortunately, all went well. It was a very strange arrangement, such pains taken to suggest that everybody – from the Queen to the Eldarin embassadors to the Venturers to the grown children of the local councillors – had a claim to the better cuts. I could not help wondering what would happen to the lesser cuts if nobody ate them. (I later found out that they would be turned into the pasties and soups and gravies of the coming days.)

Between courses, there were recitations of poetry and musical performances and towards the end, just before dessert was getting served, some of the acrobats and jugglers were invited inside. The cartwheels and somersaults and climbing feats would have been impressive at any time, but now that I was heavy with three kinds of fish and three kinds of meat and generous doses of what they called „corresponding wines“, I hardly dared to imagine moving at all, let alone with such speed and dexterity. Nimmirel, who had happily tried everything that was put on her plate and generally behaved herself very well, squealed in delight at the juggling and plate-spinning. I could only hope that similar performances would be done at the children's feast. (Azruphel later assured us that they were, and for many months, she expressed her desire to become an acrobat. It was strange to think that in my old life, I would have encouraged her ambitions enthusiastically. From a day-taler's point of view, performing physical tricks in the marketplace or at fairs – later, with more skill, even at celebrations such as this - would have been a good source of income. As things were now, I told her that she was welcome to practice cartwheels and flips and the like for her enjoyment, but that I very much hoped that she would choose to become a learned woman, like her mother.)

In short, it was a marvellous occasion, and the most marvellous thing was that I was not made to feel that I was an outsider, unworthy of sharing these people's table. To be sure, I had very little to do with the noblefolk aside from our gracious hosts, who later did the rounds again, spending some time in friendly conversation with everybody. But there was none of the coldness, none of the obvious snubbing that happened during the feasts at the palace. Even when I explained my trade to the scholars of Tuilwendë's acquaintance, there was some confusion as to the purpose, and quite a bit of scepticism, but no absolute horror. And once I took refuge in Lord Eärendur's line about making people less afraid of death through the knowledge that their bodies should be preserved, there even were a couple of nods and some assenting comments. I suppose it was that atmosphere of friendly curiosity, the lack of hostility that made this feast stand out in my mind as the most glorious I had ever attended. When we returned to Aldo's family's home late that night after the most splendid fireworks over the sea, with me carrying Azruphel (who fell asleep in my arms almost as soon as I had lifted her up) and Amraphel carrying Nimmirel (wide awake and babbling excitedly in a mix of gibberish and real words), in spite of my body's exhaustion, my mind felt strangely vitalised, and I couldn't have stopped smiling even if I had wanted to.

Chapter 20

Read Chapter 20

Once again, it was a pleasant week that passed too quickly. The first days we spent under the wings of Aldo and his family, getting to know Andúnië as they knew it. We went for pleasant walks and were taken to see the sights. Among them was Nantauro's workshop, where Azruphel discovered her love for painting. Nantauro showed her how he mixed his colours and made a little sketchbook for her, and henceforth, she attempted with great enthusiasm and little skill to record our adventures. We took a pleasurable trip to a small fishing village further up the shore, where Nantauro had been born. Absurdly, even that quaint, off-the-track place looked like a miniature version of Andúnië itself, all white-washed houses and ochre-glazed roof tiles and handsome gardens. In the city proper, we accompanied our hosts to the markets, where, in spite of the feast, everything was still in good supply. We went to the beach, where, together with the common folk of Andúnië, we were well entertained by the noble guests, gathering up their fancy robes to wade out to the oyster banks or riding on horseback through the water. There was many a shriek and many a curse whenever the gentle waves dared to lap their knees and wet the hems of their robes, or when one of the horses decided to take an unexpected step, causing water to splash into someone's face or even, once, its rider to slip off and land in the warm waves in all their finery. It was highly amusing, and the citizenry of Andúnië was laughing openly and sharing tongue-in-cheek remarks. I was rather worried that at some point, the nobles would hear us, but nobody else seemed to care.

We were invited to lunch by Sorondil, Aldo's chemistry tutor, and afterwards taken on a tour of the Academy to see where our hosts worked. We went to the theatre, to see a play that had been recommended to Tuilwendë. Unlike my colleagues, I had never been to a theatre before, so my knowledge of plays had previously been limited to the historical pageants that the guilds sometimes performed in the marketplace. This was no comparison. I found myself swept up in the dangers and difficulties of the story, and Amraphel had to shush me several times when I was tempted to shout advice or encouragement at the actors. The relief I felt when all entanglements were untangled, the villain was caught and the lovers got to kiss at last, was indistinguishable from genuine relief. I clapped until my hands hurt, and decided to treat myself - and my wife, of course - to plays more often in the future, at home.
We were taken to Aldo's favourite bath-house, where my old scars, and the angry red healing lines on Balakhil's back and wrists, got us rather a lot of stares. Indeed, such things appeared to be highly uncommon here. Although many of the other visitors had the broad shoulders, sinewy arms and large hands of simple workers, they were all walking tall and proud, their eyes bright, their shoulders unbowed, and nary a blemish on their skin. Captain Kiribôr had clearly been right when he said that the people here were more Elvish than Mortal.
They were generous, too, and food was plentiful. There were oysters on the beach and little canapés in the theatre, refreshing fruit in the baths and all sorts of delicious morsels in the marketplace by the harbour, where we watched as the Lord and Lady of Eldalondë, their daughter the Crown Princess, old Lord Atanacalmo, and the Elvish guests departed with great celebration and renewed performances by the jugglers and acrobats.

When at last all the noble guests had returned to their own mansions and palaces, I dared to take Lord Eärendur up on his invitation. While Tuilwendë received a visit from her parents, my family and I made our way up the hill to the great house. It felt strangely empty and quiet. At first, I thought that was because I remembered it crowded and buzzing as it had been on the night of the feast, but as it turned out, the house really was near-empty because the servants had been given the rest of the week off as a reward. Now most were visiting their own families, or simply spending a few days of leisure. Only a few had remained, for their own reasons, but even those did not work. Instead, they joined us as we went riding or walked to the beach, sat and talked, or otherwise did nothing of particular importance. I learned that Tuilwendë's own father, whom I had met earlier in the day, was one of Lord Eärendur's gardeners. When I expressed my surprise that the daughter of a simple gardener - and not even the head gardener! - had risen to be an eminent scholar, the others only shrugged. "Well, she showed a great understanding for the science of plants even as a little girl," Lord Eärengolë said, as if that explained everything. My questions prompted stories from others who had siblings or children or cousins who had studied crafts or lore with good success, or who had plans of entering a different field of work later on once they had saved enough money. Indeed, it did not appear uncommon for young servants to stay a while, and then later move on and learn some other craft. Indeed, the elderly - like Liëcanyo or Roitaro and his wife or the head cook, Esteliel - were a minority among the noble family's servants, and they saw their long-lasting loyalty as a cause for some pride. Liëcanyo, the limping old man who normally tended the Heart of the House, regaled us with hair-raising tales of battle in Middle-earth. He reminded me of my grandfather, who had been similarly injured in (I assume) the same campaign and had also had his share of stories to tell. Sadly he had not been given such an enviable position afterwards, or my own story would have been quite different. With all these tales and opinions, freely shared at the dinner table or on the terrace - even when their lords and ladies were present - I soon felt like I was in the midst of a strange family gathering. Indeed, by the end of the week, I had to remind myself that I was not a member of that household, let alone that family. The parting, when the time came, was even harder than it had been the last time.

My mind was therefore filled not entirely with grateful thoughts when we gathered at the foot of the Holy Mountain for Eruhantalë. I tried hard to push my dissatisfaction to the side, but those thoughts were persistent and kept on nagging at me. As we made ready to ascend the steep path, I began to wonder whether I should really attend the ceremony of Thanksgiving in this mood, when some motion in the distance caught my eye: a single rider, clad in white and approaching at great speed.
"There's another worshipper coming," I called to Lord Eärendur, "maybe we should wait?"
He nodded his agreement, and we stood until the rider had reached us. With a pang, I recognised Master Târik.
He unhorsed, but then seemed uncertain what to do, watching our party with a worried expression on his face. "What is he waiting for?" somebody asked.
"It's my master," I explained to Lord Eärendur. "He probably doesn't dare to approach you."
"Well then, encourage him," Lord Eärendur said. "We should get going." He sounded now more like I had first met him, reserved and stern, and I couldn't help worrying. I went towards Master Târik, hoping that he would be willing to at least acknowledge me after a week's absence.
"Hello, Sir," I said with a smile that didn't feel particularly strong. "You've arrived just in time." He didn't reply. Instead, he continued staring anxiously at the white-robed group at the entrance to the path. I wished now that I hadn't asked Lord Eärendur to wait. Perhaps Master Târik had hoped to follow us in secret, and instead, I had drawn attention to his arrival. Well, it could not be helped now.
"You are welcome to tether your horse with the others," I said for the sake of saying something useful. Now he turned his gaze onto me. To my relief, it wasn't unfriendly so much as uncertain.
"Really," he said, and I was glad even for that single word.
"Really," I confirmed. "Our horses are there, too." Inwardly, I rolled my eyes at my awkward words. But they had the desired effect; Master Târik led his horse to the pavillon, and then - very slowly, as if wading through knee-deep water - followed me over to the path.

Lord Eärendur was still standing there, watching, and the good humour I had grown used to had disappeared from his eyes. He had folded his arms across his chest and was looking very intimidating, even to me. I wondered whether he was aware of how forbidding he could look. In spite of having been a honoured guest in his house a mere day ago, I had to swallow a lump of fear and clear my throat before being able to introduce Master Târik, who bowed almost unto the ground, saying, "Your Grace, I beg permission to come to the Mountain."
Lord Eärendur raised an eyebrow at that. "I did not realise that you needed my permission - it is not my mountain."
Somewhere, I found my courage and my voice. "Please, Lord, don't be like that."I understood well enough why Lord Eärendur had little love for Master Târik, but I could also guess at the inner struggle Master Târik had fought before daring to come here, and I hated to think that he would be discouraged again.
Lord Eärendur, surprisingly enough, conceded to my request; his next words were more friendly. "I do not object to your presence, if that is what you mean; but at any rate, it is not my permission that you need."
Master Târik nodded at that, closed his eyes, and then announced, "I should leave. I apologise --"
"No!" I cried, disrupting the holy quiet and drawing even more attention than before. Strangely enough, the look Lord Eärendur gave me looked kindly rather than reproachful, while Master Târik gave me a stare that I found entirely impossible to read.
"There is no need for you to leave, Tarmo," Lord Eärendur clarified, and I was confused for a moment before I realised that this must be Master Târik's old name, from before he had been disgraced and become an embalmer. It appeared that Lord Eärendur had taken a look at his record after all. "Indeed, I would encourage you to come along. However, I feel that I must ask why you think that you should leave."
Master Târik closed his eyes again as if exhausted. "Because I have fallen, and am unfit to see the hallow."
"Maybe you should let the hallow be the judge of that?" Lord Eärendur suggested, and now I could detect a note of pity in his voice. "Personally, I have always hoped that the All-father would be the kind of father who helps his Children back to their feet, rather than disowning them forever." Master Târik gave him an open-mouthed stare at this astonishing piece of theology. Lord Eärendur continued, "It may comfort you to know that the mountain has not, so far, shrugged off your apprentice for his sins. Shall we find out whether it judges you more harshly?" He turned aside, gesturing for Master Târik to join the other worshippers; and after another moment's hesitation, Master Târik nodded and stepped onto the path. He did not look at me again; his eyes were firmly fixed on his feet.

I could not focus on the ceremony this time. Nonetheless, the mountain did not shrug me off. But when the ceremony was over, I saw that Master Târik lay prostrate and did not move as the other worshippers began to trickle down the mountain path. In fact, he lay so still that, for a terrible moment, I thought he really had been struck down by divine wrath. Lord Eärendur appeared to worry about the same thing, for he actually knelt down beside Master Târik and checked, as far as I could discern, whether he was still breathing. Evidently, he was satisfied with the result, for he nodded to himself and then to me. His stern expression had softened again, and he even gave me a sympathetic smile. I gestured at myself and at Master Târik to indicate that I preferred to wait, and Lord Eärendur nodded again, but pointed at himself and at the path. Now it was my time to nod - of course he couldn't stay all day; his people were waiting. I would also have to leave eventually, with the usual invitation to the palace looming. But for now, I felt that I couldn't leave Master Târik alone. What if the mountain did shrug him off after all? What if the All-father decided to smite him when nobody was watching? I would have blamed myself forever if I did not stay and at least try to help. So I remained on the mountain-top, shivering a little in the cold autumn air, and waited. The eagles, who had circled overhead while all the people had been there, now returned to their perch, observing us very closely. I studied their enormous claws and their equally terrifying beaks and hoped that neither of us looked like food to them.

At last, Master Târik picked himself up. He swayed a little, grimaced, brushed his hair out of his face, and turned towards the narrow path. There, he spotted me, froze briefly, and then raised his eyebrows in surprise or silent reproach. Of course, he said nothing, and neither did I. With a last glance at the indifferent eagles, I followed him as he began to make his way down.
We were about two thirds along the way when Master Târik spoke to me. Maybe that was the proper distance from the summit, or maybe he had finally decided on what to say. What he said was, "You need not have waited."
"I know," I replied. "But it felt wrong to leave you alone. I was worried that you'd suffer a stroke, up there all alone. Or that the mountain would cast you off. Or that the eagles would attack you." I felt my face grow red, although it was worth the embarrassment when I saw the tiniest hint of amusement on Master Târik's face.
"Really? What would have done if the eagles had attacked me?"
It was a fair question that made me blush even harder. "I don't know," I admitted. "Perhaps I could have thrown stones at them. Or tried to confuse them. Distract them until you could get away." I drew myself up a little and flapped my arms as if pretending to be a large bird. "Caw," I said for good measure.
I got a disbelieving stare for my troubles. No wonder. I suppose the idea of distracting the eagles of the Lords of the West from their purpose - or worse, throwing stones at them - was very foolish indeed, if it wasn't outright blasphemy.
"Oh, Azruhâr," Master Târik said, and then he returned his attention to the path.

I trotted along, silent until we were back in the meadow where our horses, and two of Lord Eärendur's servants, were waiting. At last, I could bear it no longer. "Master Târik, will you ever be able to forgive me?" My voice sounded smaller than I had intended.
Master Târik stopped in his tracks, and I almost bumped into him. I had expected him to continue walking, perhaps even ignore me entirely. Instead, he turned around. "I might as well ask you the same question, Azruhâr."
I blinked at that. "What? Why?" I tried to pull myself together and said, "I don't have to forgive you. I'm not angry with you."
That in turn appeared to confuse him. "You should be," he pointed out. "I've been quite petty these past months."
"But I understand," I said, scratching my head sheepishly. "You worked hard to fulfil expectations without raising hopes too high. I unbalanced it all. You were angry and scared. I'm scared too, so I understand why you're angry. I wish you weren't, but I understand."
He gave me a long, thoughtful look, then heaved a heavy sigh. "Let us agree that we both need to forgive each other,"he said. "It seems more appropriate."
"Then I forgive you whole-heartedly," I said hurriedly, barely daring to believe my luck.
"Thank you," Master Târik said. "And I forgive you."
We embraced at the foot of the Mountain, and finally I could feel in my heart the gratitude that was appropriate for the day.

Even the dreaded feast at the palace was bearable this time. Lord Eärendur immediately drew me and my colleagues into his circle of conversation, ensuring that we weren't unprotected at any time. Said circle promptly shrunk as some of the self-respecting nobles and the one or other proud guildmaster drifted away, but Lord Eärendur insisted on having us stay. It was a pleasant change. We still received plenty of scowls, but did not have to face them alone. The Crown Prince in particular did his fair share of glaring from his place of honour. Lord Atanacalmo occasionally glanced in our direction, his lip quirked curiously. Only the Crown Prince's old crony, Lord Têrakon, approached us outright. He shouldered Kârathôn out of the way and leaned up to Lord Eärendur, speaking in a stage whisper, "Your generosity must be boundless; I do not know how you can bear the presence of these criminals. Say, how is that compatible with your faith and your principles?"
To which Lord Eärendur replied, with a smile that bordered on beatific, "Very easily, Têrakon. Are we not all Eru's Children? Whatever else we may be, that ultimately makes us brothers." Lord Têrakon clearly had no response for that. After another disgusted look at us and a particularly nasty glare at Master Târik, he turned his back on us and stomped away. Master Târik did not even notice because he was now staring at Lord Eärendur in utter adoration.

A week or two later, when life had returned to its normal course, I received a summons from Lord Atanacalmo. It made no mention of why he suddenly wanted to see me, only notifying me that my presence was required on Aldëa, the fifth hour of the afternoon. That was immediately after work, giving me no time to rest or eat, but I didn't dare to ask Lord Atanacalmo to postpone our meeting. Fortunately, the high nobility all had their houses close to the citadel, so it was not a long way from work. I arrived just in time, slightly out of breath but otherwise respectable. Nonetheless, the steward at first refused to let me in, even after I had shown him my invitation. "Many people claim to have been called upon; I cannot bother my lord over all of them," he said in a bored voice. "If you cannot give me a better reason, I'll have to ask you to remove yourselves from the premises." I was speechless and helpless, and it was Balakhil who finally growled, "How much, then?"
The steward looked me up and down. "Half a crown," he demanded.
I blinked. "I have a summons," I insisted. "I am not asking to see your lord; he has asked to see me!"
"Perhaps. For half a crown, I will allow for the possibility that he still wants to see you."
I cast a desperate look at Balakhil. He only shrugged, which infuriated me. It wasn't the money so much as the injustice that I objected to. Did I really have to pay this man for the privilege of obeying a summons?
On the other hand, if I did not, would I be punished for not following the summons?
"One ship," I said angrily.
"Two," the steward said.
I gave him the money, which at least got Balakhil and me into the vestibule. Then the steward took my summons and disappeared for what felt like at least half an hour.
"Do you think Lord Atanacalmo will believe me when I tell him that his servant delayed me?" I asked Balakhil as we sat and waited.
Balakhil only shrugged. "The way I see it, you are lucky if you see him at all," he said.

Eventually, I did - but it took the better part of two hours. The steward returned, telling Balakhil to stay where he was but allowing me to venture further into the echoing depths of the grand house, through a splendid reception hall full of bronze and marble sculptures of wild animals, up a broad flight of stairs with artfully carved banisters in the shape of grape-laden vines, and finally into a carpeted corridor furnished with chests and chairs made of a dark wood that I assumed was ebony. There, I was told that his lordship was still busy, but I was welcome to sit and wait.
I sat and waited.
I wondered why I was here, and what was keeping Lord Atanacalmo busy. Occasionally, a door next to me opened, and a servant emerged, rushing off to (I assume) the kitchens and returning with a flagon of wine and two goblets or, somewhat later, a tray with two cloche-covered plates. She ignored me completely. The bells rung the sixth hour. I thought, somewhat resentfully, that I could easily have bought myself something to eat in the market. My stomach had grown used to plentitude and grumbled at being denied its usual supper. I contemplated the hunting scenes on the tapestries, the cornflowers in the carpet, the gold paint on the ceiling, the coloured glass in the windows. It began to grow gloomy outside, and another servant appeared to light the lamps in their gilded casings. He, too, ignored me.
Finally, just as the bells were ringing in the seventh hour, the door opened again, and the maidservant held it open for me. "My lord will see you now," she said. I thanked her and entered Lord Atanacalmo's study at last.

I don't know what I had expected. Somehow I had deluded myself that it must be important business that had kept him occupied, that an appointment with half the council or at least an important guildmaster was taking longer than planned. As it was, there was a single lady present, and that was Lord Atanacalmo's own daughter. She was in the process of sitting down in a gilt armchair behind the desk. Lord Atanacalmo himself was rearranging the pieces on a chequered board, and I was forced to conclude that he had in fact been spending the last hours playing an enthralling game of chess.
It was hard not to grow angry, I have to admit it. I knew that I was of no importance and that my time counted for nothing, but I still felt that it wasn't necessary to summon me and then let me sit in the corridor over a mere board game. I could easily have returned home and eaten and even rested a little in all that time! This felt like a personal slight, and it wasn't easy to pretend that it didn't affect me. I took a deep breath and went a step further into the study before kneeling. At least the floor was covered with a plushy carpet. I probably had to be grateful for that. "My lord. My lady," I said, hoping that my frustration wasn't too clearly audible.
If it was, Lord Atanacalmo ignored it. "Ah, Azruhâr. There you are," he said, as if I had kept him waiting.
I swallowed hard. "I assure you that I was here on time, Lord," I said.
He only smirked at that. "No doubt," he said. "Have a seat." He pointed to the chair in front of his desk - another slender gilt armchair like the one his daughter was occupying. I sat down cautiously, still mistrusting these fragile-looking things. At least it was more comfortable than the straight-backed chair in the corridor.
"Some wine?" Lord Atanacalmo asked, his eyes still sparkling with amusement.
Normally, I would have preferred not to drink his wine - or even water - lest some kind of obligation arose from it. But I was hungry and thirsty at this point, and figured that I could count it as some sort of amends for the long wait, so I said, "Yes, please, your Grace."
Lord Atanacalmo gestured at the servant, who had remained standing in the door.
"Arancalimë, you'll recall the infamous Azruhâr," he then said to his daughter.
"Oh, yes," she said, giving me the slightest of nods. "We have met."
I rose again to perform what I hoped passed as a courtly bow. "My lady."
"Be seated," Lord Atanacalmo told me again. "Fancy a game?" He sat down behind his desk and pushed the board in my direction. I stared at the pieces, cut from semi-precious gems, in alarm. "Your Grace, I'm afraid it would be a very uneven match. I am not particularly familiar with the rules of the game."

He raised an eyebrow. "Really? What a pity. You really should learn to play. It is a most extraordinary game." He picked up one of the smaller pieces - even I knew that it must be a pawn - and turned it in his fingers. "Did you know that the weakest and least valuable piece can decide the outcome of the game?" He set the pawn back in its proper place, then pushed it all the way to the other side. "A pawn has very little power to begin with, but if somehow it makes it across the board, it can become virtually anything short of a king... and then, it can change everything. Isn't that interesting?"
"Very interesting, my lord," I agreed, trying to keep up with him.
"Is not that the kind of role that you aspire to?"
That seemed to be a loaded question, and it took me a while to decide what to say. In the end, I went for, "I would prefer not to be anyone's pawn."
"Hmm," Lord Atanacalmo made, watching me closely. He swirled the wine around in his glass and smiled as if enjoying a private joke. "And what is your relationship to my goodly cousin Eärendur?
I felt more and more unbalanced. "Business," I said. "My work is good for the resin cutters of Andustar, which in turn is good for Lord Eärendur's purse, or so I am told."
"By Eärendur?" Lord Atanacalmo said, one eyebrow raised. But I did not have to answer, because he was already going on. "Then you have not, by any chance, heard about the Good Man of Arminalêth?"

My face grew hot, which clearly was response enough, because Lord Atanacalmo chuckled and said, "I can see that you have."
My wine arrived at last. It tasted very fine, and I was somewhat mollified, although I couldn't help noticing that I had been given an earthenware mug, not a glass cup like my hosts.
Lord Atanacalmo still had his piercing eyes on me. "Well, this is why I have called you here," he said after I had dutifully raised my cup to him and taken a sip. "There is going to be no Good Man-ing this winter. Here is a new bill that I will introduce to the council on Valanya, and I wish that you familiarise yourself with it." He held out a rolled-up sheet of paper to me.
I unrolled it and, frowning, began to decipher it. In consequence of last winter's events and for the security of the city and its populace, a series of amendments... my frown deepened. Apparently, Lord Atanacalmo intended to introduce more severe punishment for theft and rioting, which was fair enough, but also for things like begging and loitering - which included waiting in the market-place for longer than usual until you could secure a job for the day. Street urchins, who were apparently liable to all sorts of theft and mischief, were to be apprehended and whipped under the slightest suspicion. Also, private individuals who instigated any kind of employment scheme would find themselves judged and punished for both Assuming Authority and Breaking the Peace, with no compensation paid to their families if they should die in the process (which seemed likely). No Good Man-ing, indeed. I was suddenly glad that I had not eaten because my stomach was beginning to turn violently.
"Well? What are you saying?" Lord Atanacalmo asked when I had kept my head lowered over the paper for so long that even with my poor reading skills, it was clear that I must be done.
"Yours to command and mine to obey," I responded automatically, because that seemed the wisest thing to say.

He snorted. "I can hear a 'but' lingering on your tongue. Let's hear it."
I chewed on my lip and said nothing.
"No, no. Tell me your thoughts," Lord Atanacalmo repeated.
"You will find them offensive, your lordship," I said. "I'd really rather not."
"No, I insist! I command it!"
Thus cornered, I proceeded as carefully as I could think to. "May I ask why it is so contemptible if I help to create work for my neighbours? They needed it to survive this winter, and nobody else would give it to them. There was nothing more behind it." I had to take a quick breath before I could go on. "They did nothing wrong. They didn't offend you. You didn't even have to pay for them! In summer, you did not seem to care particularly. Why now? Why such a bill?"

Lord Atanacalmo studied me for an uncomfortably long time. His fingertips were drumming a rhythm I didn't recognise on the polished surface of his desk. "Very well, I will tell you why," he said at last. "Nominally, I am the lord of Arminalêth. It is a thankless position, for I am always in the shadow of the King. My work is rarely noticed. My own subjects barely know who I am. They do not turn to me. My house merely exists until we are absorbed into another house or return into the main line. Until then, I am charged with upholding order and protecting the citizens of Arminalêth - whether they thank me or not. Very well, I am used to it. I accept it. I do not expect adoration. But I will not have somebody else praised and admired for further invalidating my position! I will not hear glowing accolades for the Good Man of Arminalêth, which is my dominion! And for the record, I do not care whether it is someone like you, or a respectable merchant, or even a noble fellow like young Eärengolë. I should not have agreed to that scheme, and I shall not do it again. Consider yourself warned."
"Yes, your Grace. Thank you, your Grace. Understood, your Grace," I said, hoping to soothe him before he talked himself further into a rage. And then, being the fool that I was, I asked, "Does that mean that you intend to run some kind of employment scheme yourself?"
My question must have surprised him, because for a moment, his eyes widened and the constant ironic superiority disappeared. Then he replied, "Good grief, no. I have no intention of meddling in the affairs of the poor."
"But you must, Lord!" My protest was out before I could stop it.
Lord Atanacalmo raised an eyebrow pointedly. "I must? I must?! The streets are teeming with the ungrateful poor! I see do-nothings and layabouts in the market every day. Why should I create work for people who already will not work for those who need their services?"

My mouth fell open. I clapped it shut again, but the words insisted on forcing their way out - I must have looked like a fish out of water - and then I could hold them back no longer. "If daytalers stand in the market all day, it's because there is not enough work for them and they have to wait - sometimes beyond hope! We will work - for anyone who needs our services - but often enough, nobody lets us! And it's worse in winter, it was a lot worse this winter, and it would have been worse yet if not for the Copperhoods and the new street. If this is how you want to protect the citizens of Arminalêth, you are going to pay for the safety of one half with the lives of the other half. People will die, Lord! Under your new law, they will either starve if they're honest, or they will die on the scaffold if in their despair they turn to dishonest means. People did not riot last winter because they were bad people, but because they were desperate! They were seeing their families starve, with no hope of earning the money they needed to feed them! It's that despair you need to fight, not the people themselves!" Again, I tried to silence myself, breathing deep, but it was as if the floodgates had been broken open by a sudden storm surge. "You want people to know your name? You want them to turn to you? Your steward asked a half-crown of me, and I had a summons! What does he ask of people who have no invitation whatsoever? Let the people see you! You want them to admire you? Then find work for the poor, let them know a winter without fear and hunger, and I assure you they will never forget your kindness! You can be the Good Man of Arminalêth. Surely something needs to be done in the city - surely there is a bridge in need of repairs or a street that needs to be patched - it doesn't even matter what it is, as long as it keeps a great deal of people in work! People do not want money for nothing, they just want to live! Pay them fairly and I promise you they will love you and sing your praises and kiss your feet if that's what you want. If it's dirty work, give them a bar of soap on top of the money and they'll praise you even more. Please, your Grace - we call you 'your Grace', so I beg you, be gracious." And because I owed that idea to the fishmonger in Andúnië, the river of my words now followed that route, uncovering thoughts I hadn't even known I had. "Do you know why the people of Andúnië are goodly and elf-like? It's not because they breathe the winds of the Blessed Realm, it's because they live a life without fear! They do not need to worry that they will starve or be beaten for the misfortune of being poor! They aren't afraid of their neighbours, and they aren't afraid of their lord! Nobody is made to feel worthless! They have hope, and trust! Even the children of servants are sent to school, and they can walk unbowed --"

"You forget yourself," Lord Atanacalmo interrupted me coldly. He had listened to my tirade first in apparent amusement, then with growing astonishment, exchanging exasperated glances with the Lady Arancalimë. Now he evidently had enough of it. "It is not your place to lecture me. What shall I do with an insolent embalmer who presumes to lecture his lord? What is appropriate in such a case, I wonder? Fifty lashes? Sixty?" I gasped in horror. He shot a sideways glance at his daughter, who suggested, "A week in the stocks, maybe?"
"Or should I do Alcarmaitë's work and simply have your impertinent tongue cut out?" Lord Atanacalmo said, leaning forward and giving me a hard stare. "I am certain my brother would allow that. You insulted me, and you do not need to speak to do your duties. Hmm. What shall it be?"
I shrank back, but I could not bring myself to avert my eyes. My every instinct told me to fall at his feet, bargain for the lesser punishment, and then hope that it would be over quickly. But somehow, my back refused to bend, and the surge that had swept through me still had not abated. In fact, all the frustration at his treatment of me decided to bubble to the surface. My hands balled into fists, and instead of pleading as I should, I heard myself protest, "I deserve no such punishment! Lord, you commanded me to tell you my thoughts, and I obeyed. If my opinion is not to your liking, then I apologise, although it is of no consequence to you, for you need not listen to me. I promise that in the future, I shall keep my thoughts to myself and lie to please you. But on this occasion, you insisted that I speak out, and though I may have been a fool to take you at your word, it would be grievously unjust to punish me for it."
Lord Atanacalmo continued to stare at me, and even now there seemed to be a dark glint of amusement in his eyes. Somehow, I managed to hold his gaze, although my mind was now screaming at my petrified body to get on my knees and start begging. Somehow, I managed to stare back, putting all my frustration and exhaustion and hurt feelings into my eyes. Time seemed to stretch out indefinitely. I began to wonder how much it would hurt to have my tongue cut out, what it would be like never to speak again. I wondered what old and new enemies would make my time in the stocks worse. Or maybe, in his mercy, he would be satisfied with whipping me bloody and let me go, or at the least crawl, home?
I was trembling all over.
But I managed not to look away.

At last, Lord Atanacalmo's lips twitched, as if it had all been a joke. With one hand, he made a shooing motion. "You may go," he said.
I almost stumbled over the pretty chair in my hurry to get to the door. I barely remembered to bow and bid them both a pleasant evening. I was still trembling. Lord Atanacalmo was lounging back, looking comfortable and unperturbed. "A word to the wise, Azruhâr," he said. "You're walking on thin ice, and it's beginning to creak. You would be well advised to learn swimming, and fast."
I mumbled my thanks and followed the servant back through the seemingly endless corridors.
Balakhil was probably bored out of his mind, having waited three long hours, although he did not complain. We hurried home, ostensibly so we could finally have dinner and get some sleep, but truly because I wanted to put as much distance as possible between myself and Lord Atanacalmo. He is a reasonable man; I am sure that I can convince him, I heard Lord Eärengolë's words in my memory. Well, so much for that. On Valanya, I would make my peace with Amraphel's father, I decided. At the rate at which I was making enemies, I couldn't afford to decline even the most questionable offer of friendship.
"What did his lordship want from you?" Balakhil asked after a while.
I replied, "First he wanted me to learn to play chess, then he threatened to cut out my tongue, and finally he told me that I need to learn how to swim." Balakhil was understandably confused, but I did not care to clarify. In truth, I wasn't certain I understood what the whole thing had been about. Really, the sooner I could forget that evening, the happier I'd be.

Chapter 21

There is a lot of crying in this chapter, some of it justified. -- Warning for the death of a supporting character.

Read Chapter 21

Of course, there was no hope of forgetting it. On Valanya that week, the council convened, and Lord Atanacalmo's motion was passed into law. It was posted in the markets and read out in the streets, and even if I had not been forced to hear the criers proclaim all about the new punishments for thieves and rioters, beggers and loiterers, street urchins and Good Men, I would still have noticed the subdued mood that gripped my neighbourhood. I would certainly have heard the discussions of the new law at my table, and in my front yard, and by the well. Mind you, my neighbourhood wasn't the worst off. Thanks to Lord Eärengolë's road, they had come out of the winter with some savings, and though many had used those to take care of long-overdue repairs on their houses or to invest in new clothing and boots or maybe a chicken or two, things were not nearly as bad as they had been a year ago. Nonetheless, everybody realised that it could easily fall apart again, and if it did, that there were even fewer chances of holding it together this time around. And we did not even dare to consider what it might be like for people in other quarters, who maybe had made it - just barely - through the last winter and were now facing a repetition of that dire time, but under even heavier restrictions.

"I tried to argue against it," Lord Eärendur said when we next dined at his house. "But there was very little I could say when Atanacalmo cited the security of the city as his main reason. I am very sorry indeed."
"It's not your fault, your Grace," I said.
"Maybe not. But considering that Nolo's efforts are also among the forbidden actions now, I cannot help but feel that this is somehow pointed at me as well as you. And of course, it was I who told him that we called you the Good Man of Armenelos. That seems to have touched a sore spot."
"Indeed," I couldn't help saying, recalling the man's anger. The candlelight was gleaming on the silver cutlery and the wine glasses and the rich gravy on the meat on my plate, but I could already feel my gloomy mood returning. "Why did you tell him, Lord?"
Lord Eärendur grimaced in a way that was almost apologetical. "He wanted to know why I was supporting you. You recall how Têrakon confronted me about that, during the Eruhantalë feast? Him I could deflect with a clever throw-away line. But Atanacalmo isn't fended off so easily - he may appear indifferent and cynical, but there is a lot going on in his head - and clever lines are his own weapon, so I resorted to telling him the truth."
"The truth," I repeated, looking down at my plate. My nervous fingers had found the silver chain around my neck and started toying with it. "Why didn't you just tell him that it's purely a business relationship?"
Lord Eärendur's eyes widened. "Is that what you think we have, Azruhâr? A business relationship?" He spoke lightly, but there was a strange undertone to his voice - one of hurt, unless I was much mistaken. Lady Nolwen's conversation with Amraphel had come to a sudden stop, and I could feel that both women were staring at me, as well as the steward (who, as usual, had greeted us with perfect politeness and let us in with no bartering whatsoever) and the Keeper of the Heart, who were both sitting nearby.
"Is that what you believe, Azruhâr?" Lord Eärendur asked again.

My face had grown so hot that I wouldn't have been surprised if steam had started to come out of my ears. Suddenly, a thousand little things fell into place. It was not business. He actually meant it. I could have screamed at myself. How could I believe the Crown Prince more than a man who had shown me nothing but generosity? How had I been so misled? Certainly, the idea of a business relationship made more sense than the idea of actual friendship. Except that I now realised that the offer of friendship had been there well before the opportunity of business had arisen. Hadn't Lord Eärendur mentioned the possibility of friendship even in spring? Hadn't I been invited to his very house well before I'd ever thought about amber and resin - indeed, hadn't that been pure chance, and a result of Lord Eärendur's inredible offer rather than the other way round? And yet, like the fool that I was, I had taken the Crown Prince's analysis at face value. Yes, it fit into my understanding of the world. Yes, it appeared to make sense if you did not know the order of events. But I should have known better.
"I did believe it," I whispered, feeling thoroughly ashamed. My hand had clenched around the amber pendant, but its familiar warmth only added to my shame. "Now I realise that I was foolish." I forced myself to raise my head and look Lord Eärendur in the eyes, where I saw confusion and hurt and quite possibly anger. But if it was anger, it was the quiet sort, not a fire that would flare up suddenly, but the kind that smoldered under a seemingly harmless surface. I did not know how to deal with that, and so I just bowed my head again and said, "I am sorry." The silence now seemed to have extended to the whole table, hushing the conversation between the other members of the household at either end of the room. I wished I could get away with hiding under the table like a child afraid of a scolding.
But there was no scolding, either. "We will speak about this later," Lord Eärendur said quietly and returned to eating. After Amraphel had kicked my foot underneath the table, so did I.

Later, I was sitting on the couch and staring into the Heart of the House, which was flickering brightly as always. There was a goblet of fine dessert wine in my hands as always. But Amraphel was not by my side; Lady Nolwen had taken her to the music room. The Keeper of the Heart had put on another log, and then withdrawn discretely. I was waiting, and worrying, and wondering whether things were broken beyond repair.
At last, Lord Eärendur came into the room and sat down next to me. I did not dare to look at him, instead busying myself with setting down the wine glass carefully on the low table so it would not get into the way of whatever lay ahead. I felt Lord Eärendur shift his weight as he settled down more comfortably, but I still did not manage to turn my head. There was a moment's silence, broken only by the merry cackling of the wood in the Heart. I chewed on my lip and knotted my fingers in my lap.

"Business, hm?" he said at last.
I was tempted to burst into tears, and my voice betrayed it easily. "My lord..."
"Eärendur."
That stopped me short. "What?"
"So far, I have assumed that you found it easier to use honorifics, since you clearly did not feel comfortable addressing me as your equal. But now, I realise that it may have made you think that you were no more than a client. So -- my name is Eärendur, and you are welcome to use it."
I had to swallow hard. That was not at all what I had expected. I had fully expected him to withdraw his offer of friendship, since I had more or less renounced it anyway. But if I understood him right, he still wanted me to be his friend - to address him by his name, even? Yet again, I was very nearly reduced to tears.
"I -- I don't know if I can," I admitted, and that was true. It felt as though there was some kind of wall rising in front of me, as impenetrable as it was invisible. Calling him Eärendur, as if he were no more than one of my neighbours, was very much on the other side of that wall. "But I thank you - I cannot even say how much I thank you. I am dreadfully sorry if I have offended you."
"I am not offended, merely disappointed. If it was not the name, what other reason have I given you to mistrust me?"
I shook my head violently. "None, Lord, never. You have shown me the utmost kindness, and I trust you absolutely. It's my own luck that I didn't trust. I couldn't believe that a man like you would truly offer me his friendship, which I know I do not deserve."
"Well, I think you do."

That made me tear up for good, and for a while there was no hope of talking while I struggled to regain what little composure I'd ever had. Lord Eärendur put an arm around my shoulders, which only made me cry harder. I hated myself for my weakness, but at the same time I couldn't deny that there was also a certain delight in being held and consoled by the Lord of Andúnië himself. Even that part of my mind that insisted that I was deluding myself had to concede that there was no reason for him to let me soak his expensive tunic with my tears, unless he was indeed my friend. The realisation wore down my last feeble attempts at pulling myself together, and I was reduced entirely to helpless weeping.
"My goodness,"Lord Eärendur said when I continued to sob against his shoulder. "That has been building up for a long time, it seems. Well, cry as much as you must; and then, maybe, you can tell me the cause of your tears."
And thus, with many a sob and a profound feeling of shame, I recounted my audience with Lord Atanacalmo. Even Amraphel had, so far, heard only a heavily abridged version of that evening; but now it all came out. "It was so... demeaning," I concluded miserably. "And I know it's not my place to mind, but I can't help it. Why can't he just leave me alone? I never did anything to him! I wouldn't even have spoken to him if he hadn't summoned me, and then wasted my time and made me pay for the privilege! I hate being so helpless and having to take whatever he decides to deal out. How is that just?"

"It isn't," Lord Eärendur said simply. "And I am glad that you mind. I'm glad that you stood up for yourself - and for your neighbours. It is good that you no longer accept such injustice. It's been high time that you developed some pride."
"Pride?" Now it was alarm that made me cry out. I had grown up in the secure knowledge that pride was a horrible sin in a day-taler, and it had been beaten out of me at a young age. "People like me cannot afford pride, and I want nothing of it."
Lord Eärendur heaved a heavy sigh. "Pride is not about forgetting what's above you, but about knowing what is beneath you," he said. "Such as being punished for speaking the truth when you were asked for it. Such as being pushed around by those stronger than yourself." Giving me a wry sideways glance, he added, "Or such as breaking into someone else's house to steal his valuables. I firmly believe that people who have no pride are much easier misled. If nothing is beneath them, they aren't above anything. No, people should have some pride in themselves - all of them, including you."
I shook my head, squirming unhappily.
Another sigh. "Very well, let us call it by another name if pride makes you so uncomfortable. How about dignity?"

I gave the matter some thought. Dignity was probably all right, although it definitely wasn't a word that could be applied to myself. "I would like some of that," I confessed.
"There you go, then!" He gave me a warm smile. "I think you're beginning to find it. And a good thing, too, because I suspect that Atanacalmo was testing you, and if you hadn't stood up to him, he would have gone on simply to see how far you would let him. Not that he would have cut out your tongue, naturally -"
"There's that word again, naturally," I mumbled. "He certainly seemed to mean it."
Lord Eärendur shook his head. "That was what he wanted you to think, no doubt. But it is unlawful to maim a man without the king's leave - and I for my part am certain that Ancalimon would not have permitted it, least of all for such a petty offense. The rest of it Atanacalmo could have done, unfortunately. He is, after all, the Lord of Armenelos."

I was squirming again. Lord Eärendur went on, after a grim pause, "And yet he did not, in the end. That, to me, suggests that he was measuring you, rather than truly intending to hurt you. Mind you, if you had not protested, then perhaps he would have taken it further. Which is why it's a good thing that you had pride - pardon me, dignity - enough to speak out against it then and there." He heaved another sigh, then said, "Even so, I can certainly see why it was a harrowing experience. I would have thought better of Atanacalmo, really. I never thought of him as unnecessarily cruel - this is something that should be beneath him."
"He probably didn't think that it was unnecessary," I said, still feeling bitter.
"No," Lord Eärendur agreed soberly. "Probably not. Well, he said some interesting things. There is a lot to think about." We sat in silence for a while, hearing the wood crackle in the Heart. Its warmth was beginning to seep into my weary body, making me feel comfortable and sleepy and strangely calm.
Lord Eärendur went to inform the ladies that it was now safe to join us. After one brief look at me, Amraphel stopped in her tracks and gave our host a rather dangerous-looking stare.
"You made him cry," she said sternly, and for a second I thought she was going to give him an earful. I opened my mouth to protest, but Lord Eärendur was already replying.
"I let him cry, madam," he replied in his mild voice. "He needed it. All should be well now."

All was not well. Still, my heart was lighter now. Work was busy as usual, and now that Master Târik was no longer angry with me, it actually became a source of contentment again. My colleagues were as relieved as I was, I think. There were no great breakthroughs, although the resin method was still looking promising. But it needed more time to prove itself - and we needed proper bodies. We had parts of criminals, and the occasional starved beggar or drowned drunkard whose family did not claim him, but it had been a long time since we'd had occasion to practice on the better kind of deceased. So we could only hope that whatever results we achieved could actually be replicated on them - and that anything that worked on emaciated beggars would equally apply to a member of the royal house. Above all, we had to hope that we would not have to experiment on Tar-Ancalimon himself, for as autumn progressed, the King's fragile health deteriorated again. Soon, our regular reports at the palace were cancelled for the time being, and not long after that, the Crown Prince had to stand in for his father during council and for other public duties. It did not seem at all unlikely that the King would pass before my method could prove itself, and none of us knew how we should proceed then.
"There will be new bodies in winter," Kârathôn reasoned glumly, but that was hardly reassuring.

Everybody was stocking up for winter now, in as much as that was possible under the rationing laws. With typical indiscretion, sacks of grain and beans and onions were given to the guilds for re-sale among their members - not considering (or maybe not caring) that folk like my neighbours had no fixed profession, meaning no guild membership, meaning no access to the cheaper-than-usual and more-than-usual provisions. Master Târik quietly gave part of the allocation for his small household to me so I could in turn distribute it among my neighbours, and Amraphel eked out as much as was possible from our own, but of course it couldn't possibly be enough.
"What we need," I said to no-one in particular, "is a Day-talers' Guild."
"You should apply to Lord Atanacalmo with that excellent idea," Amraphel said.
I did not know whether she was serious or not, nor did I ask. I would not have been able to follow up on it either way.
"Well, the poor wouldn't be able to pay for more food, anyway," Balakhil pointed out. He was probably right, but it was nonetheless annoying. People could forage for acorns and beechnuts, rosehips and mushrooms and the like, of course, but there were plenty of people and not enough wild fruits to go around.

I made my peace with Master Amrazôr. Well, I tried to. I did not feel easy in his presence and I suspected that he still was not fond of me. We treated each other with wary respect and agreed that they should come to dinner at our house for Mettarë, but that we would not tell the girls that these people were their grandparents. I planned to host a proper feast for Mettarë this year - Lord Atanacalmo's law had said nothing about neighbourhood gatherings - because it seemed that the least we could do was give the year a good send-off to hope that it would never return, and stuff everyone's stomachs at least that one time. The planning took up most of my mind when I was not at work, which was probably well enough.
In the meantime, the Guards of the Road were reassembled to secure safe passage for the fishmongers from the coast, and the City Guard recruited more men to help them enforce the harsh new laws Lord Atanacalmo had introduced. That opened new, decently paid positions for unlearned workers, but neither group would hire anybody who was in any way associated with the Copperhoods, and I feared that the opinion of my neighbours would turn against me once more.
"Don't be silly, Azruhâr," Old Palatâr said, "we all know what we owe you. And if those folk from other quarters don't recall, well, I'm fairly sure your neighbours will teach them." It was kindly meant, but I felt very much that a fight between my neighbours and other poor folk was not desirable, either, and would probably reflect badly on me.

Winter came. It was drier than last year's, but colder than it had been in a long time - so cold that what rain we got came down in soft white flakes, enough to cover the ground for a day or two. Elzahâr's straw boots came into fashion once more, this time for the insulation they provided rather than the protection from mud. My hopes that I would be able to host part of my Mettarë feast outside in the barren garden were swiftly crushed. It would be very crowded in my small house, and Master Amrazôr would surely not be impressed - I had to admit to myself that I did want to impress him after all. At least my house was in an excellent state, as I had been giving repair jobs to capable neighbours throughout the month. The ceiling beams had been sanded and polished, the walls had been freshly whitewashed, there was no more broken furniture, and the fleeces that Amraphel had bought once again to provide a source of income to herself and the women who helped her card and spin had been removed, safely bagged, to the hayloft. The floor tiles had been scrubbed until they gleamed, and their colours shone nearly as good as new. We had plenty of candles - they were cheaper than bread this year - and new rugs and actual cushions for the chairs. My neighbours brought additional chairs and tables and benches, and Lord Eärendur had lent me a whole pile of embroidered tablecloths. I had invited him even though I knew he would not be able to attend - he would be celebrating with his own people over in Andúnië, of course - but he seemed pleased nonetheless, and he gave me the tablecloths and sent a barrel of wine and a sack of sweet chestnuts and a saddle of beef to treat my guests.

It was therefore set to be a very splendid feast, even though we had to split the party into three small rooms. Master Amrazôr and Mistress Râphumil arrived early, bringing dolls and wooden horses for the children and a leg of cured ham for Amraphel and me, which ended up being carved for the feast. Master Târik came with Lômenil and Lômenil's mother (who had long since given up her resistance to Master Târik and was in fact quite fond of him, now that he was her son-in-law and she was living in his fine house) and little Azruhâr (who looked a lot healthier and happier than his namesake had been at that age). My sister agreed, reminiscing, "You were always weakly and sullen." She had come with her husband and my nephews, who seemed to have grown yet more since the summer. "People never expected you to amount to anything," Nardûril went on, smirking a little.
Yes; I had been a weak and sullen child, had grown into a weak and fearful youth, and then into a weak and foolish man. I did not take offense. I doubtlessly would have been a healthy and happy boy with fair prospects for the future, if I'd grown up in a house like Master Târik's, with a cook to prepare my meals and a nurse to keep me entertained. Said cook and nurse were present, too, as well as Beliâr, Master Târik's faithful servant. Mîkul and Kârathôn had brought more wine for the celebration. And then of course there were Balakhil and Enrakôr the Taller, and also our friends among my neighbours, such as Palatâr the Old and his son and daughter, Lasbêth and Zâbulon, Enrakôr the Smaller and Zâmin, Elzahâr and Yôris, and Thâmaris the midwife and Râhak the One-eyed and all the others, and plenty of children who slipped underneath the table or into the stable to play after eating their fill. It was a feast all right, and it warmed my heart to see how much people appeared to be enjoying themselves. There was many a toast - some of them to me, which was as embarrassing as it was gratifying - and a great deal of music, even though we had barely room to get up and walk to the outhouse, let alone to dance. Spirits were high, and eventually I stopped caring what my in-laws thought - whether they were secretly or openly impressed, or whether they were unomfortable in the company of all these people whom they must think far beneath themselves. If they did not get into the festive spirit, I felt, it was their own fault.

And at the last, the midnight bells were rung, and the trumpets were blown up in the citadel, and drums sounded, and people were singing all over the city; and in this manner, the year 2383 of the Second Age ended, and the year 2384 began.

It began badly. Two weeks after Mettarë, I came home to an empty house, with a hastily scribbled note left by Amraphel on the table: Palatâr had suffered a stroke. I rushed to Palatâr's house, Balakhil in tow, where we found Thâmaris and a teary-eyed Târinzil, but neither Amraphel nor Enrakôr. "They've gone off to fetch a doctor," Thâmaris said, thin-lipped.
"Well, maybe a doctor can do something to help."
"I have already done what can be done. They should be fetching his son, that would be a lot more useful."
I asked Balakhil to find Târazon, who had been lucky enough to find employment as a stablehand up in the merchant's quarter. Then, not without dread, I took a look at Palatâr. He appeared to be conscious - at least his eyes were open - but he did not respond when I spoke to him; indeed, he seemed to be looking right through me. The left half of his face was sagging, and his left hand lay motionless while the right kept kneading his blanket.He had been brought into a sitting position that did not look entirely comfortable, wedged in with pillows and a stool so he did not fall over.
"Shouldn't we let him lie down?"
"No. That would surely kill him. Mind you, it might well kill him either way. But this way, at least he's got a chance," said Thâmaris. She busied herself with her mortar and pestle, grinding meadowsweet and willowbark into a powder. "I do know what I'm doing. There's no need to go running for some fancy healer as if he could do anything more."
"I'm sure Amraphel knows that you're doing good work," I said, trying to mollify her. "She just wants to help Palatâr as much as she can."
Thâmaris snorted in disdain. "As if a doctor has ever done anything useful down here."
Privately, I was forced to agree. "I don't trust them either," I admitted. "When I had my concussion in summer, Master Sérindo wanted to drill a hole in my skull."
To my surprise, Thâmaris was a lot less scandalised than I had been. "Yes. That's what you have to do to relieve the pressure, if it doesn't get better by itself," she said matter-of-factly.
I grimaced and tried to think of another example of the strange ideas doctors got up to. "He wanted to shove a silver pipe up my -- you know. To keep me fed."
Thâmaris shrugged again. "I would've used a reed."
I shut up.

We waited in the intensifying gloom. Târinzil had lit a single tallow lamp at her father's bedside, and was sitting beside him, holding his restless right hand and talking to him, but getting no answer. I sat at the table with Thâmaris. "We didn't always see eye to eye," I said. "I never understood how he could cling to his faith when it didn't seem to do him any good. But I respected him a lot. He was as much of a mentor as I ever had -"
"Stop talking as if he's dead!" Târinzil shouted at me, and I shut up again. It was true, though. Aside from my parents, Palatâr had been my most frequent teacher, and what little lore I had, I had learned from him. He had seemed old even when I'd been a boy, and now he was the oldest man in the neighbourhood, but somehow I had felt that Palatâr, that pillar of our community, would be there forever.

Amraphel returned with none other than Master Sérindo, with his serious beard and an equally serious expression. At least he put in more effort than the healer Amraphel had found for me after Master Amrazôr had let me off barely alive. He gave a satisfied nod when he saw Palatâr propped up on his narrow bed, took his pulse and felt his chest and shone his Noldorin stone-lamp in the old man's eyes. He struck up conversation with Thâmaris, who answered grudgingly at first, but it evidently satisfied both of them, because they started working together on mixing a concoction to pour down Palatâr's throat when it had cooled down enough. (I observed that the famed silver pipe - or a different one, I suppose - was used in the process, because Palatâr couldn't be trusted to swallow properly.)
"Is he going to get better now?" Târinzil asked, tearfully.

I could see Master Sérindo work on a diplomatic answer, but Thâmaris, in her straightforward way, cut directly to the point. "Sometimes they do. Sometimes they don't. We'll have to wait and see."
Master Sérindo nodded at that. He walked over to the hearth, took the pot of boiling water to the table, and began cleaning his instruments. "Your grandfather?" he asked me with a sympathetic raise of his dark eyebrows.
"No," I said. "No relation. But don't worry, I'm going to pay."
"That won't be necessary; I didn't do much," Master Sérindo said generously. "Mistress Thâmaris has already done most of the work. Incidentally, how does a midwife know how to deal with a stroke, madam?"
"Oh, I served a fine learnèd healer like yourself, when I was younger," she said. "And I learned a lot from him, too, until I was no longer willing to lift my skirts, which was when he kicked me out. They don't let women be healers in their own right, of course, so I became a midwife. Doesn't mean I forgot."
Master Sérindo bowed is head. "For what it's worth, I apologise on behalf of my colleague, madam - whoever he may have been."
"Callo." Thâmaris spat out the name like a rotten piece of fruit.
"Never liked him," Master Sérindo said, which was probably worth very little, but Thâmaris didn't need to reply because Târazon came rushing in that moment.
"Where is he? What's happened?" he asked, breathless and wide-eyed. "Atto, can you hear me?"
"If he can, he can't answer you," Thâmaris said, but in fact, it seemed that Old Palatâr was trying to turn his head at the sound of his son's voice, and Târinzil gasped in mingled hope and fear.

"We should leave them in peace, for the time being," Amraphel said, and thus we took our leave of the family and went out into the unlit street and a flurry of snowflakes. I reached for my money-bag, but Master Sérindo shook his head firmly. "No, truly, you should give the money to Mistress Thâmaris," he said. "If you get me home safely, I'll just consider this a strengthening evening walk." I sent Balakhil and Enrakôr with him, and decided that he was probably not too bad, for a healer.

Old Palatâr regained consciousness and, after a while, the ability to speak, although his words came haltingly and sounded slurred as though he were drunk. His left side remained paralysed, but Târinzil and Târazon could not have cared less, as long as he was alive. Târazon of course lost his work, his lodgings and his board for having left his post on short notice. At least that meant he could help his father get around the house. But their joy at his recovery was short-lived, for Palatâr, being of the old faith, decided that his time to depart this life had come, and that he would merely use the respite he had been granted to set his things in order. He went about this in his usual meticulous fashion, inviting his friends to say his farewells and splitting his belongings between his two children (and comforting them while he still could, I suppose). One evening after work, he invited me too. The siblings greeted me at the door, red-eyed and puffy-faced, and then busied themselves outside so they would not have to witness our conversation.

"Azruhâr," Palatâr greeted me, and I had to strain my ears to hear him. The slurred speech was hard enough to understand as it was, and he spoke very softly on top of that. He sat on his bed, more comfortable than the last time I'd seen him, but still looking terribly unhealthy.
He knew it, of course, and went on, "This is farewell."
I bit down hard on my lip. "Maybe you'll get better," I heard myself say. "It would mean a lot to your children."
Palatâr actually laughed at that, feeble though he was. "No, Azruhâr, it is time. Deep in their hearts, they know it too. There is nothing to be gained in stretching it out." He had sobered, leaning back against his pillows. "You've never understood the concept of courage, of course."
I was hurt, although I knew he was not wrong. But I did not protest, bowing my head instead, although I raised it again when he continued speaking. It helped to see his mouth move, because that way I could guess what sounds he was aiming for.

"But you're a decent fellow," Palatâr said now, "and I owe you for the last year. You've done well for yourself. And you haven't kept it to yourself. I respect that. You may be a coward, but you've got a good heart."
"Thank you, sir," I managed, and because it seemed that this was my last chance to say so, I added, "I owe you, too. You've taught me a lot."
"Not enough," Palatâr said. "But it'll have to do. Be a dear and give me something to drink." There was a bowl of tea on the stool at his bedside. It had gone tepid in the cold room, but he still drank deeply and gave a happy sigh afterwards. "Better. Now, sit down." He struck the thin mattress with his good hand, and I obediently sat. The mattress provided very little comfort, if you had grown used to well-stuffed beds and soft cushions, and I wondered whether I should offer him one of the good mattresses at my house.

But the moment passed, and Palatâr had his mind on other things, anyway. "There. Because I owe you, I feel that I should give you a parting gift that's worthy of the good you've done us."
"You don't have to," I started, but my throat constricted painfully and I had to fight down tears.
"Yes I do," Palatâr countered. I couldn't help reflecting that he was a lot more composed than I would have been - than I could be right now, in fact - as if it was I who was staring death in the eye, not he.
"Unfortunately, as you know, I have very little of value," Palatâr said, "and naturally I am going to give the house to Târinzil and the smoking hut to Târazon. He lost his job, did you know that? Of course you did. You know what it's like. He shouldn't have run off; there was nothing he could have done, anyway." Once again, my mouth opened to protest, but I thought better of it.
"Be that as it may, you don't need my house. But I have been thinking, would you have use for my body? It's old and not going to do much anymore, but from what I've gathered, you don't mind that at your work."
I struggled to reply. "Actually, it would be of great use, but I cannot possibly accept that!"
"Why not? I won't be needing it anymore." He laughed a little, and then said, "I've really made up my mind, Azruhâr. I am not going to turn back at the gates of Mandos, you know."
Swallowing hard, I managed to say, "You really don't have to do that. You have always been a faithful man, and I respect that, even if I don't understand it. You don't have to break your rules for my sake."

Palatâr now laughed so hard that I was afraid he'd forget to breathe, and wondered whether I should alert his children. But he caught himself in time, his eyes wet with tears of laughter. My eyes were brimming with sadness, and here Palatâr was laughing on the threshold of death. I clamped my trembling lips between my teeth to keep from crying. "Azruhâr, Azruhâr, if I had taught you better, then you would know that what happens to my body is of absolutely no consequence. There are no rules against your work, you know. Besides, if the Lord of Andúnië doesn't object, then who am I to disagree?" He sobered at last. "Because I am a little selfish and not as courageous as I'd like to be, I would ask that you treat me well. I don't want to be torn limb from limb or roasted or anything of the sort, even after death. But you won't do that, right?"
I shook my head, and some of the unshed tears dislodged themselves from my eyes and flew across the room. "We will treat you like a king," I whispered.

Palatâr passed away - peacefully, from what I heard; he simply went to sleep and did not wake up again - three days later. I attended the wake, as did everyone else in the neighbourhood, and plenty of folk beyond. I discovered that a lot of people had considered Palatâr as a sort of mentor, and during his long life - two hundred and seven years, an impressive sum for a day-taler - he had seen a lot of young people reach adulthood. He had been my age when my own father was born, which was a strange thought. We helped Târinzil and Târazon decorate the house with the ivy and juniper of mourning, and I paid for the unguents although I knew that we would have to wash them off in the catacombs later on. But I wanted Palatâr's children to be able to part from their father in the traditional manner, and besides, I did not know whether they were going to follow through with Palatâr's decision.

But they did. I expressed my sincere gratitude and offered them to watch, to make certain that we weren't doing anything untoward with their father's body. To my surprise, Târinzil took me up on it. I hope she took some solace from the fact that he was cleaned and anointed with the utmost care, and that we wrapped him in the finest linen, although in her place I would probably have felt resentful that he had to die first before being granted such luxuries. But she did not say so, only watching, pale-faced and resolute, as her father's abandoned body was turned into the prototype for the king's future funeral. At the last, his still face disappeared underneath a silver death-mask - the solution we had come up with to avoid the constantly slipping bandages had been a plaster mask, but the Crown Prince had intervened and declared that this was unworthy of a king, and Master Târik had paid from his own pocket to have the mask for Palatâr covered in silver. Târinzil kissed the smooth silver brow, shook our hands, and left without a word. My heart was heavy with sympathy, and with gratitude to her father. He had given us the perfect body to practice on - old and dead, but otherwise inviolate - and as I had promised, we treated him exactly as we were planning to treat the king. Palatâr was even entombed in the Noirinan so the conditions under which the new method was tested would be exactly as they would be for the king. There were, of course, no tapestries and no sculptures for Palatâr, but he was laid to rest in a sarcophagus made from the glittering granite imported from Middle-earth, like the nobles and royals who occupied that place. After that, there was nothing left to do but wait whether the resin and bandages and mask would work as we hoped they would. But I felt that we had given Palatâr the care he deserved, and I hoped that, wherever his spirit was now, he would feel the same.

Chapter 22

Read Chapter 22

And then, in the middle of winter, when I was least expecing it, two important and completely unconnected things happened.
The first, I grant it, was important only to my own family, because Amraphel announced to me that she was pregnant again. I do not know why I was so surprised. It wasn't as if we'd practiced especial care during the past months, and Amraphel was certainly not of the age where women no longer conceive, so really, it had been bound to happen. Yet somehow, Amraphel's news caught me completely off guard. I suppose that I had grown so used to anticipating bad news that my mind no longer knew what to do with good news.

The second amazing thing didn't concern me personally, but I appreciated it nonetheless, because it meant I wouldn't have to find a way to circumvene Lord Atanacalmo's new law. Apparently, the sewage system of Arminalêth - which was nearly as old as the city itself - had failed to grow along with the capital, and was likely to overflow within the next few years. In all honesty, I was astonished that this was noticed before it actually happened. It appeared that Lord Atanacalmo had applied his clever mind to a map, and done some calculations, and decided that pre-emptive measures were indicated.
Even at their current size, ending at the old city wall – now the inner ring - the sewers were vast. Digging them out to broaden them, and moreover adding new branches that would allow the newer quarters - even poor neighbourhoods like my own! - to convey their effluent out of the city underground, was going to be a massive project that required thousands of workers. Most of my neighbours eagerly applied, and to my endless relief, this time there was no ban on people who had been involved with the Copperhoods. As Enrakôr the Smaller reported, they would be paid in rations, not in money, but that was still very attractive at a time when the prices of food were, once more, frustratingly high. Accordingly, there was no shortage of people willing to get their hands dirty - and dirty they would get. "We're going to smell to the heavens, of course," Enrakôr warned me.

For the time being, however, all they got to do was remove the fine gravel road they had built last winter, and to dig deep ditches that were ultimately turned into subterranean tunnels. The smelly part would only begin when these new sewers led well out of the city in one direction and up to the old wall that had long since turned into the inner circle of the city. By that time, however, spring was in full swing, and it was decided that the connection between the new sewers and the old would have to wait until next winter, so the reek of the open sewers wouldn't get unbearable in the summer heat. And so, once the ditches had been shovelled shut and the road restored (a lot less nicely than it had originally been, it must be said), my neighbours were out of work again.
Still, we had all made it through another winter, and once Amraphel had sold the wool, my funds were no longer drained quite so badly, either. The weather got milder, new growth appeared, and the King, now old and frail, took part in matters of government again. All that gave me hope that I might be able to catch up with the bewildering mess that my life had become, and that my third child might be born into a time of calm and prosperity rather than the upheavals of the last years. It was wishful thinking, of course, but it still would have been nice.

Amraphel gave birth in the middle of summer - a decent summer that was neither too hot nor too wet, although Amraphel had still found the warmth taxing with her heavy belly. I think she was relieved when the baby - a fine little boy - was out, which happened while I was at work. There had been no signs of labour in the morning when I'd left (although Amraphel had naturally suffered from the occasional false labour in the preceeding weeks), and when I came back in the late afternoon, I was greeted by the sight of my already cleaned and swaddled newborn son. Words cannot describe my feelings.
After some discussion and obtaining the approval of the parties concerned, the baby was given the (admittedly unwieldy) name of Palatârik, to honour the men to whom, next to Lord Eärendur and the King, I felt the most indebted. "I did not name the child after you since that is already my own name," I explained to Lord Eärendur, when he offered his congratulations two days later. I had invited him to the customary feast, but I was honestly surprised when he and Lady Nolwen actually came to my little house, bringing lovely cushions and a blanket embroidered in the style of Andúnië, as well as pretty white frocks and bracelets for all three children. My own amazement was nothing compared to that of Master Amrazôr and Mistress Raphûmil, whom we had invited with mixed feelings and after a great deal of deliberation. I noticed that Lord Eärendur, contrary to his custom, was in no particular hurry to raise my father-in-law from his genuflection, and generally treated him with no more than bare civility. It was touching in a way, although Master Amrazôr probably didn't even notice, since Lord Eärendur at his most harsh was still no more unfriendly than the other nobles were on a good day. Towards my family, he was kindly and good-humoured as ever, and with the exception of my in-laws, he extended that good humour to my friends - he had evidently warmed up to Master Târik, too - so that, despite the absurd difference in status between the present parties, it was a pleasant evening. The children were all amazed at how tiny Palatârik was, and yet, fully formed. In all honesty, so was I; it was so easy to forget how small they all had been, once, because they kept growing all the time. Lord Eärendur and Master Târik spoke the Eldarin blessing together while the Faithful among my neighbours listened in awed silence. Master Amrazôr had tears in his eyes, but for very different reasons.

Later, he asked whether I was planning to have my son follow in my footsteps. I had to laugh. "I hope not," I said. Planning for the future of a newborn child was not something that I was familiar with - you took things as they came – but I certainly did not intend for Palatârik to become an embalmer. Maybe I'd be able to secure a decent apprenticeship for him. That was decades away, however, not something that I needed to think about now.
"Then you would not object if I left my business to him?" Master Amrazôr asked.
I gaped at him. "He's a baby!"
Now Master Amrazôr laughed out, and that eased the tension a little. "Well, I don't plan to retire so soon, do I? I just thought, we can have him written into the guild-book as my heir, to clear things up, and then I'll train him when he is old enough."
"What about Niluthôr?"
"Niluthôr! He's hardly trustworthy, is he? And Ulbar isn't smart enough. No; I have no heir, and I have been fully resigned to selling my business to the highest bidder when the time comes. But now, with a grandson..."

I cast a helpless look at Amraphel. As far as I was concerned, this was an excellent offer, but she was the one with the mind for business, who could determine whether this was a good idea. Besides, it would mean forging a much closer bond between her parents and us, and I didn't know whether she was willing to forgive them so far. Me, I couldn't deny that the shimmering possibility of my son as a wealthy horse-dealer was very tempting indeed.
Amraphel gave the matter some thought, and I suspected that she, too, was weighing her grudge against the future of our child, who was sleeping peacefully against her shoulder, unaware of the momentous decisions being made.
"What do you think, Azruhâr?" she asked.
"I would like it very much," I admitted.
She shrugged. "Well, then," she said.
And the next day, the infant Palatârik son of Azruhâr was written into the book of the Merchant's Guild as the heir of Amrazôr son of Amrahil, horse-dealer. The deed was witnessed by Master Tûmuzin son of Atalzin, horse-dealer, and none lesser than His Grace Eärendur son of Elendur, Lord of Andúnië. At only four days of age, my son's outlook was brighter than mine had ever been.

In autumn, after a plentiful harvest, the rationing was lifted. One day later, the markets were depleted entirely because everybody who could afford it had carried home as much as they could possibly take, and the rationing was put back into place. Once more, the only way of stocking up in any significant manner was through one's guild, and men who were no members of any guild had to rely on the mercy of nature and the markets. True, they might be able to earn half a loaf of bread per day and a bag of some easily preserved vegetable at the end of the week once the works on the sewers continued. But we did not know when that would be, and at any rate, it seemed terribly unjust that the needs of such a great part of the populace were overlooked. I vented about it at home until Amraphel sighed and said, "Well, then there's only one thing to do: Someone will have to found a Day-taler's Guild, and that someone is you."
"Why me?" I couldn't help but whine.
"Because you've got the connections and access to the money. None of the others have either."
"I'm not even a day-taler anymore."
"No; but you can be the patron who sponsors their guild, since the day-talers themselves can't."
"I can't do it."
Amraphel stroked my cheek. "I understand. Then it will not be done."

Unfortunately, she was right; and now that the thought had been uttered, I could not get it out of my mind. Could there be such a thing as a Day-taler's Guild? It would ensure a marvellous level of security that, up to now, seemed impossible for the poor. At the moment, the guilds were more important than ever, but even under normal circumstances, I knew that guilds provided their members at least with the minimum they needed to survive, as well as a roof over their heads if they were burned out or the like. They offered some legal advice and protection. They also had a voice in the King's Council. My head span at the mere thought. It was surely impossible. On the other hand, Balakhil's case had shown that there were some skills involved in day-taling, which suggested that it was a profession that had to be learned like any other. That in turn implied that there could be apprentice day-talers, and also masters - which would open up the possibility of a guild. It was far-fetched, of course, but wasn't it worth a try?
I discussed the matter with Amraphel, torn between the desire to keep my head down and the urgent sense of having in my hands the possibility to do something momentous. We addressed the topic with Lord Eärendur, who was cautiously supportive and provided us with the necessary basics of guild law. At the same time, he warned me that my idea would likely not be met with enthusiasm, and urged me to send a runner to his house when I applied to Lord Atanacalmo, so that he could hold himself ready to bail me out if need be.

There was that, of course: I would have to apply to the Lord of Arminalêth. The thought cost me a week of sleepless nights and almost made me decide to forget about the whole venture. I had kept it secret from my neighbours so far, so nobody's hopes would be dashed. Only Amraphel and Lord Eärendur would know, and they (I hoped) would judge me kindly. It was, after all, known that I was no hero.
On the other hand, I was trying to be a decent man, and a decent man probably couldn't throw away the precious (if unlikely) chance of a Day-talers Guild without at least a bit of a fight.
So, with a great effort, I scratched together what courage I had; and on a grey and rainy fall day I made my way up to Lord Atanacalmo's house, feeling heavy inside as if I were heading to my execution.
The snobbish steward let Balakhil and me stand in the drizzle while asking for further instructions. I wondered whether I should pray that he would return and give me a far-off appointment, or whether it would be preferable if he just sent us off right away. In the end, he did neither. With a sour expression on his face, he announced, "My Lord will see you now." He tossed me the two Ships I had been forced to give him. Being unprepared, I fumbled the catch, and Balakhil had to fish the coins from the dirt.
I sent Balakhil to to alert Lord Eärendur and return to await further developments. Then, my heart beating hard, I followed the steward inside. I left my dripping cloak in the vestibule, and cursed myself for not bringing my notes with me. I had assumed that I wouldn't have any chance to speak to Lord Atanacalmo today, without summons, so I hadn't thought it necessary. Oh well; I would be able to sort my thoughts and prepare myself while waiting in the corridor.

Except I was not. We reached the now-familiar door, and the steward opened it for me, looking at me as if I had crawled out of a cesspit, stinking and dripping nasty things onto the precious carpet. I tried not to be disheartened by his glare on my back as I made my obeisance, and heard the door click shut behind me.
Lord Atanacalmo was sitting at his desk, evidently in the process of writing, since there were an inkwell and a sheaf of paper on the desk and his quill was scratching busily across the sheet before him. I wondered whether I would have to wait until he had filled all the pages before him. He was writing quickly, but it was nonetheless a lot of paper. Lady Arancalimë was nowhere to be seen this time.
After a minute or so, Lord Atanacalmo addressed me without even looking up. "What, waiting for a special invitation?"
I blinked. Should I have come forward without being told to? That sounded like a risky thing to do. "I did not wish your lordship to think me insolent or presumptuous," I said.
He glanced at me for a moment, his eyebrows raised. "I shall think of you as I wish," he said, "so you may as well act as if your behaviour were of no consequence whatsoever."
I tried to figure that one out and decided that it was safe to get up. The way to his desk felt simultaneously like an endless stretch, and like much too short a distance. Suddenly I stood in front of it, looking down at the papers and the inkwell and the aged but perfectly manicured hand filling the sheet with line after line of carelessly elegant writing. There were also, I noticed, two full cups of steaming tea on the desk, and a bowl of spiced nuts, and the chessboard with its beautifully carved pieces. I had probably been lucky that he hadn't yet started another enthralling game with his daughter.

"May I sit, Lord?" I heard myself ask.
He wordlessly gestured at the chair in front of the desk, and I sat down and clasped my hands and chewed on my lips, waiting for an opening. There was a great mural on the wall behind the desk, depicting some military victory. A shining warrior who did not look much unlike Lord Atanacalmo – perhaps it was his father or grandfather, one of the old kings – was accepting the accolades of his triumphant troops and the homages of his humiliated prisoners, and I very much related to these unhappy creatures, even if there were no chains on me and I wasn't clothed in the tattered remains of some alien livery, either. The quill was still eagerly running across the paper. Even if my behaviour really was of no consequence – which I doubted – I didn't dare to begin a conversation while Lord Atanacalmo was evidently busy. Eventually, it seems that he got bored of my silence. "Well then, Azruhâr. I assume you have come to complain. I was expecting you sooner, I confess."
Again, I was blinking in confusion. "Complain, my lord?" I realised that I was sounding like a fool, but I honestly did not know what he was talking about. I had been expected to complain? I, Azruhâr the Nothing, glad to have escaped a whipping the last time I had spoken to Lord Atanacalmo?
He tapped the quill on the rim of the inkwell and put it in a silver holder. He pushed one of the two cups in my direction. Then he leaned back, looking at me fully for the first time, one eyebrow raised as if he was surprised. "Why, yes. The last time we spoke, you offered me advice – unsolicited advice, but advice nonetheless – concerning mass employment for poor citizens, which I ended up taking, to my own and the city’s profit. So you have not come to claim credit?"

I was honestly speechless. He had taken my advice? Well, I suppose he had, but – he was admitting that he had taken my advice? And I was expected to claim credit? How did that even work? I shook my head, realising with a sinking feeling that I had been pulled out of my depth very quickly.
Lord Atanacalmo's eyes hardened almost instantly. "Then what brings you here?"
"A request, your Grace," I said, struggling against the constriction in my throat, and then I pushed on before the momentum could leave me. "At this time, the only way of filling one's larder for winter is – for us commoners, anyway – through our guilds. That means that all the many unlearned workers who have no guild to look after them have no means to prepare for the hungry gap." I took a deep breath. "Therefore, my lord, I formally request your gracious permission to create a Day-taler's Guild." I breathed again. There: It was out.
Lord Atanacalmo studied me – now both eyebrows were raised – as if I had suddenly grown a second head. "I see," he said after what felt like a long time. "You wish to be guild-master, I trust?"
I shook my head hastily. "Not at all, Lord! I could not do such responsibility justice. Besides, I am no longer a day-taler, so I would not qualify for that post. No, the guild would vote on one of their own to be guild-master, as is customary. I merely ask your lordship for permission to form and fund such a guild, since the day-talers themselves are in no position to do so."
He leaned forwards, cupping his chin in one of his long-fingered hands. "You are not exactly a likely patron," he pointed out.
I tried to breathe evenly. "On the contrary, your Grace, I am the only likely patron. I am a citizen of Arminalêth. I have a personal interest in the well-being of the poor, but I also have some modest wealth. Who else would invest in a Day-talers' Guild?" I do not know what possessed me to say such a thing. It was true, but I didn't know where I'd found the nerve to say it. I hoped that it would stay with me until the end of the audience.

Lord Atanacalmo's lips pursed for a moment as if savouring my words. "Who else indeed! So you would build and furnish a guild-hall? You would set up statutes and procedures? You would pay the foundational fee and the guild tax? You would ensure the safe-keeping and distribution of gratuities? You would look after the welfare of the guild’s members? Do you honestly think you are up to any of that?"
I felt a little less uneasy now, because these were terms that Amraphel and Lord Eärendur had used, making me feel more prepared. Moreover, I was fairly confident that while I wasn't up to any of that, they would give me the necessary advice – and also, in the case of Lord Eärendur, lend me the money. He had promised as much. So I replied, "I will need help with that, of course. But I know where to find it."
There was a snort in reply – disdainful, but possibly amused as well. "And what would be in it for you, if you do not aim for a seat on the Council?"
"It would take a great worry of my mind, Lord. It would put my neighbours in a more secure position and better their circumstances significantly."
He shook his head, slowly, incredulously. "That’s it? This is your cause, Azruhâr? You've come into… how did you say?… some modest wealth and some modest influence, and you're intending to waste it on the betterment of the unwashed masses?"
I sniffed. "I assure your lordship that they are not unwashed! They wash as often and as eagerly as anyone – with water. But soap is expensive, and if we have a choice of eating the lard or using it to make soap, then I'm afraid food comes first!"

His lips were now stretching into a smile that could almost be described as sweet, if his eyes hadn't still glinted so dangerously. "Well! It seems that little Azruhâr has grown a spine at last! I hope you came by it legally."
My hands clenched into fists before I could stop them. "It's always been there," I protested. "It's just been bent and beaten down for a long time."
Again, Lord Atanacalmo was shaking his head in what I assumed must be disbelief. His hands were now folded on the desk, the candlelight reflecting brightly on the precious rings on his fingers. On his right hand, every finger but the thumb bore bands of gold and silver, adorned with glittering jewels, making the single golden signet ring on his left hand look nearly paltry in comparison. I looked down at the two rings on my own fingers – the ring crafted by 'some lesser Noldorin smith' that I had been given by the King, and the narrow marriage band. My fingers were flexing nervously.
"A Day-talers' Guild," Lord Atanacalmo said, drawing out the syllables to make the words sound as ludicrous as he probably found them. "What's next? A Beggars' Guild? A Guild of Wives?" He chuckled at his own joke. "It is such a pity that you have never been properly educated."

I felt my cheeks flare up in embarrassment. "Allow me to establish the guild, Lord," I said, "and I promise to make sure that future generations of paupers will be educated better."
That made him laugh out loud, and it was all I could do to pull myself more upright again and let the snorts of his laughter wash over me. I told myself that as long as he found me amusing, at least he wasn't angry.
"Tell you what," he said when his mirth was done and he had begun to stack the papers on one side of his desk. "Let us play a round of chess and I'll think about your request. If you beat me, I'll grant it."
I swallowed hard. "My lord, I’ve already told you that I do not know the game well."
"Oh, I'll give you a quick overview of the rules," he said carelessly, arranging the pieces on the board. "I'll even let you open the game. Come on. I insist."
I did not like the idea of chancing the outcome of my application on the outcome of a game I hardly knew. "What if I decline? With all due humility, of course?"
A shrug. "Then I'll dismiss you and this conversation is over."
I thought again. "What if I play and I loose?"
He gave me a smile that seemed to contain dozens of unpleasant possibilities.
"I will think of something," he said, quite ominously, as I thought. I wondered whether Balakhil would even hear me yelling for help, down in the sheltered vestibule. That is, if the steward had even let him in and not left him to wait in the rain.

The rules of the game were as complex as I had feared, and several times Lord Atanacalmo snapped at me because I attempted maneuvers that were not permitted. I was growing increasingly worried. Even as I began to remember more clearly what piece was allowed to make what move, I had no means of opposing the onslaught that he unleashed on the checquered board. I made my moves haphazardly, hoping to get it over with quickly. Lord Atanacalmo, in his turn, gave long and serious consideration to his every move, as if he actually needed some clever strategy to beat me. He didn't. I hadn't even realised that my king was nearly surrounded when he pushed his knight into a killing position. "And… checkmate," he announced cheerfully. "Shall we try again?"
I had no desire to try again, but of course it hadn't been a genuine question. Once again, I desperately tried to protect my pieces, and once again, one by one they were taken from me. Perhaps the game lasted a little longer than the first; perhaps I wasn't beaten quite so easily this time. But beaten I was. "Checkmate," Lord Atanacalmo said once more, flicking my king over with a bejewelled finger. "Third time pays for all." He swiftly rearranged the pieces, then looked at me with a wolfish grin. "Make your move."
This time, I tried my hardest. I thought well before moving a piece. I tried to consider the different ways in which he might react to my moves. I tried to figure out what he might be planning. I was sweating as if I was an actual knight fighting on that battlefield in heavy armour. I wondered whether one could be put in the stocks for Playing Chess Poorly.

That round was the shortest of them all. "Well, that was pathetic," Lord Atanacalmo said, shoving the board to the side. "You really are completely artless."
"Yes, your Grace," I said glumly, studying my artless hands. I realised only now that I hadn't even touched the tea I had been offered. Now did not seem like the right moment to amend that. "I believe I told you so. I beg your pardon."
Smiling his narrow smile, Lord Atanacalmo reached for a new sheet of paper and pulled his inkwell close again. The quill dipped into the ink, and then hovered expectantly over the page. "Very well," Lord Atanacalmo said, beginning to write. "You do not have permission to establish a Day-talers' Guild."
I bowed my head, unsurprised, and waited to be dismissed.
"What I will permit is the establishment of a Day-talers' Society," Lord Atanacalmo went on, unperturbed, and I could just barely stifle a gasp. The quill ran over the paper. "There will be no guild-master and no right to representation, of course. What a nightmare. We have uncultured fools enough on the Council." He was still writing. "I expect full statutes and a list of responsibilities in a fortnight. You will deliver and justify them to me. There will be no provisions before that is settled. You are responsible for providing storage and a meeting place for that society of yours. You will pay the obligatory fees and taxes. You will keep a book of records and a book of expenses. You will lay these books open whenever I demand it. You will ensure the education and well-being of the members of your society. You will also answer for their behaviour." The quill stabbed a final stop onto the paper, then added a scrawled signature before it was put aside. Lord Atanacalmo sealed the document. I was watching in bewilderment.

"There. May you get what you asked for," Lord Atanacalmo said, pushing the finished writ over to me. It was completely covered in Eldarin words that had no meaning for me.
"Thank you, your Grace," I said dutifully. "May I have a copy in the vernacular, please?"
Once again, the aloof expression on his face was briefly replaced by astonishment. "What, you cannot read it?" he said. "I thought the first thing Eärendur teaches his pet would be Quenya."
I felt the familiar glow of embarrassment on my face. "No, Lord."
He gave a disdainful snort. Then he reached for a brass bell and shook it loudly, and within seconds, a servant appeared. "Take Azruhâr here to Fuinil," Lord Atanacalmo commanded, "to have an Adûnaic copy of his charter made and sealed. I authorise it."
"Very well, my lord," the servant said with no apparent curiosity.
Lord Atanacalmo held his left hand out to me. "I'll see you in a fortnight at the latest."
"Yes, Lord." I bowed over the desk to kiss his signet ring and touch his hand to my forehead, as custom demanded. The sweet scent of his perfumed skin and the resinous smell of sealing wax were still in my nose as I followed the servant to the scribe Fuinil’s office.

Chapter 23

Read Chapter 23

A fortnight was a dreadfully short time to draft, discuss, correct and re-write a full set of statutes and responsibilities for a charitable society, and my days were no longer my own. When I returned home, Amraphel and I would discuss the matter until late at night; then in the next day, while I was at work, she took the notes up to Lord Eärendur’s house for comments and advice and additions, and presented the results to me in the evening, when we could hopefully agree on a final version and move on to the next issue. I had no mind for administrative matters and would, in all honesty, have preferred if Amraphel and our noble friends had dealt with the whole matter on their own. But Amraphel insisted that I needed to know these statutes and the reasonings behind them by heart, if I had to present and justify them before Lord Atanacalmo and generally act as patron and spokesman of the Day-Talers’ Welfare Society (as we were now calling it). No doubt she was right, as usual, but still it was a gruelling two weeks, and I would gladly have passed the responsibility to somebody else.

In that light, I was glad that at least I wouldn’t have to tackle the building of a meeting-place right now, since all available workers were now busy in the sewers once more. This time, you could smell it. Not only did the stench hang in my neighbour’s skin and hair and clothing as they came home exhausted; the open sewers in the place where the old were to be connected to the new also gave up the most disgusting stink. I had to pass through it on my way to work, and on warmer days, it hung over the whole quarter. Still, I knew that it was a temporary inconvenience that would soon be remedied – and I knew that the workers, who had to labour in this stench (and in its immediate source) for hours had it a lot worse.
Other citizens were apparently less reasonable, as I learned from my neighbours. "People yell at us for ruining their neighbourhood," Râhak said, "as if it had been our idea and as if we were doing it for our pleasure!" And it got worse. The venerable shopkeepers, merchants and master craftsmen who had to currently live with the smell soon were no longer satisfied with hurling abuse at the poor workers, but began to throw stones or empy the contents of their chamber pots over them. More than once, my neighbours had to flee from their work – they didn’t dare to raise their hands against the better citizens, due to the rioting laws, and the foremen, who should have authority enough to step in, were the first to run away – which meant that they weren’t even getting their pay for the day, and risked being laid off at the end of the week.
"Can’t your Society do something against that?" Târinzil asked. She was in our house every day, helping Amraphel with the children and the household, so she knew what we were planning.
"You are right," I said, sighing. "I will inform Lord Atanacalmo about these things when I bring him the statutes."
And so, with a heavy and anxious heart, in the afternoon of the fourteenth day, I once more left the catacombs and went straight to the grand house of Lord Atanacalmo.

He was indisposed, the steward announced. I could either come back in a week, or discuss the matter with Lady Arancalimë, who was informed about her father’s business and standing in for him. In all honesty, I would have been glad to have another week’s respite; but my neighbours’ hardship brooked no further delay. Besides, it might be better to get it all over with. "I would ask her ladyship for audience, then," I told the steward, who gave me his usual stare of disdain as he led me into the house.
Lady Arancalimë was occupying her father’s study, and as I was shown inside, she was still in conversation with her mother, the lady Hereniel, and a proud young man, who turned out to be her son. The young lord Herucalmo – in truth, he was my senior by many years, but he still had the fresh and unwearied look of a youth, making me feel the older of us two – had clearly been told stories, because he was looking at me half amused and half disparaging. Lord Atanacalmo’s wife stayed, probably as a chaperone, but withdrew to a corner with her embroidery, pretending to ignore me entirely.
"Azruhâr," Lady Arancalimë stated as if reminding herself of my name. "I do hope you do not mind discussing your business with me. I assure you that my father has fully informed me of your past agreement, and I am authorised to make decisions in his place."
I bowed once more. "I have no doubt that your ladyship understands it better than I do," I said, which made her lip twitch – she had much the same expression as her father, aloof and constantly enjoying some private joke. She gestured at the now-familiar chair, and I sat down and unpacked the fair copy that Amraphel had written down in her tidy, practiced hand.
"I will need some time to read these," she announced. "Would you like something to drink?"

I accepted the offer and was given a cup of hot wine, as if the study wasn’t already warm enough. I wondered whether I should make polite conversation with Lady Hereniel, but since she appeared to be fully occupied with her embroidery, I decided not to risk getting on her nerves. Instead, I studied the wall painting behind Lady Arancalimë, trying to guess when and where the depicted victory might have taken place. But my knowledge of history and the colonies was scanty, and I had to confess to myself that I simply did not know.
Lady Arancalimë continued to read, and occasionally made notes in the margin or, twice, struck out something Amraphel had written and replaced it with new lines of her own. I began to count the soldiers in the painting, and then the prisoners. Then I double-checked my count. I took a sip of the warm wine, which made me sweat even more under my woollen tunic. I reminded myself to sit upright. I glanced at Lady Hereniel, still applying gold thread to whatever pretty thing she was embroidering.

At last, Lady Arancalimë handed the papers back to me. "Here, I have made some amendments. See if you agree with them, and then we can discuss the matter further." I checked her amendments, and now it paid that Amraphel had made me follow her thought processes and Lord Eärendur’s explanations, because I could see what she had done and what difference it would make. "With all due respect, I must insist on the original version," I heard myself say, pointing at the line in question, which made her laugh.
"Legal instruction? Really?" she asked. "Isn’t that a bit too far from the original purpose?"
I was forced to explain the plight of day-talers and the lack of security they faced every day, how people were robbed of their payment if an employer decided to send them home after half a day, despite all the work they’d done up till then; how people faced starvation if they were injured in an accident or punished so harshly that they could not walk, let alone work for a few days; how her father’s law made criminals of innocent folk who simply had not found work early on in the morning, making them even more dependent on the whims and conditions of potential employers than they had been before.

Lady Arancalimë raised an eyebrow, sceptical. "Surely that happens only rarely."
"It happens too often."
"Really?" she smirked a little. "How often have you been incapacitated in this manner?"
"At least twice," I said. "More often if you count all the times when I forced myself to work with gritted teeth and on the verge of tears because I had no other choice. If you ask a healer, he’ll tell you one should rest in that state, but that’s something we day-talers can’t afford. Not that we can normally afford healers, either. My own father died because he had his leg injured and it turned foul and poisoned him from the inside. If he’d been able to rest, if the owner of the building had paid for a healer, then Father might still be alive." My fingernails were cutting into my palms because I had clenched my fists so tightly. I forced myself to lay my hands on the armrests of the pretty chair. "A man from my neighbourhood lost an eye when he was beaten about the head. Now he has to live with one eye and some people don’t give him work because they say he’s been careless before, as if it’s his own fault! And the man who did it never owned up to it, nor did he pay a single Star of compensation. So you see, my lady, the day-talers need to know what they have to put up with and what they can ask for, because people aren’t going to give it to us by themselves. And we also need to know what we don’t have to put up with. I’ve been whipped nearly to death once, over what was ultimately a misunderstanding. Now I know that my punishment should’ve been ‚reasonable and appropriate’, whatever that means! I didn’t even know that then. I thought my – my employer had the right to do to me whatever he wanted. I didn’t even dream of protesting!" My throat felt raw because I was struggling to keep my voice even, although I felt like weeping. "So yes, our primary purpose is to make sure that the day-talers are fed and have access to a healer, but the legal part is just as important, and it’s part of the same purpose. Helping people get compensation. Making sure they get paid if they’re injured. Helping them sue for damages if their employer is to blame for the injury." I took a deep breath. "Ideally, we could also make sure that ‚reasonable and appropriate’ really means something reasonable, but I’m not holding my breath for that." I felt myself growing angry, and decided to shut up before I could talk myself further into trouble.

Lady Arancalimë had listened with her head tilted, which at least gave me the impression that she was paying attention. Now she took some notes on her own, nodded, and then moved on to the next point on the list as if the matter was settled. I was less certain, but I had no chance to think about it because I already had to focus on the next issue.
"Concerning the distribution of provisions, I will need a list of members before I can authorise any delivery to your society," Lady Arancalimë was saying. "Do you have it with you?"
I bit down hard on my lip. "I’m sorry, my lady, there is no such list. Yet. I didn’t want to disappoint anyone in case Lord Atanacalmo – or you, of course – withheld permission, so I didn’t tell the others what we’ve been planning yet..."
"Well, if I do not know how many people these provisions need to serve, then I cannot have them sent," she said with a shrug. "Maybe you can give me an estimate, at the very least?"
I figured that my neighbours, at the very least, would be interested in joining. "A dozen, at the very least," I said.

Lady Arancalimë pushed a sheet of paper and the inkwell towards me. "Then list the names, and also the number of people in their household. And whether they have paid the entrance fee, of course."
I gave her a bland look. "They haven’t signed up yet, so obviously none of them have paid."
She very nearly rolled her eyes at me. "Look, Azruhâr, they need to be paying members before they can benefit. I have no way of knowing whether they paid their-" she rustled back through the draft to see the membership fee, which we had deliberately kept as low as was legally possible, "their Star themselves, or whether you paid for them, if you understand what I’m saying."
The quill had a silver grip that I promptly dunked too deep into the ink because I wasn’t used to writing with fancy tools like this. I listed the two Enrakôrs and Zâbulon and Elzahâr and Râhak and the others who hopefully trusted me enough to believe in the benefits of the society to invest one of their hard-won Stars per year. "You are not going to use this list for anything that would hurt them, would you?" I thought of asking before handing it over, hoping that I’d still be able to tear it up.
Her lips quirked. "I see that you think the best of your betters," she replied dryly. "Write the purpose on your list yourself, if that will set your mind at ease." It did not yet my mind at ease, but I assumed that showing my distrust would be offensive, and as she had so far demonstrated some goodwill towards my project, I did not want to risk losing that.

"I will also need the address of your meeting-place, of course," she went on. "You left that out of your statutes. You can write it on the same sheet; there’s still room there."
"Yes, my lady. The problem is, we don’t have an address yet. It’s not a good time for building."
She steepled her fingers, looking at me with something like pity and something like annoyance. "Then you will have to use a pre-existing building, don’t you? For all I care, you can use your own home, as long as you manage to keep everything safe there. I won’t be responsible if the grain rots because you stored it in a humid cellar or if the dog tears up your account-book; you will be."
Even as I was writing down my address, she lept onto the next weak spot in our draft. I had been right; she knew her business far better than I did, and she had the same quick wit and attention to detail that her father liked to employ against people. I tried to argue my points as well as I could, and wished that I myself could have received legal education, not the quick summary Lord Eärendur had provided (although I was deeply grateful for that) but the years and years of study of a proper lawyer.
Still, in the end, we reached an agreement that did not seem to be too far from our original idea, and the important part was that Lady Arancalimë sealed it and sent it to the scribe’s office to have a fair – and official – copy made. "You may wait in the vestibule," she announced by way of dismissal, holding out her hand for the customary kiss.

I had to breach protocol this time. "There is one other matter, my lady," I said, and saw her eyebrows go up . "As spokesman for the Day-Talers’ Welfare Society, I have been asked to bring to your attention – well, I’m sure you’ve already heard about it. But at any rate, there is quite a bit of trouble about the work on the sewers, because the inhabitants of that quarter don’t like it at all, and they’ve attacked the workers several times now and driven them from their work -" I realised that I wasn’t sounding particularly coherent, and pulled myself together. "It’s important work for the whole city, isn’t it? So I was hoping that his lordship, or you, might have an interest in protecting the site better, so people don’t throw stones or, frankly, their excrements at the workers, who really have it bad enough as it is."
Her bemused expression was now very much mirroring her father’s, and I knew I hadn’t made my point well. Nonetheless, she said, "Duly noted. I shall investigate the matter tomorrow. You will be there also." It was not a question.

Therefore, Balakhil went to explain my absence to Master Târik in the next morning while I kept around the construction site. During the night, someone had pushed part of the spoils back into the open ditch, which meant that it would have to be dug out again. That was a disheartening start, and it got worse as the day progressed and the first angry residents arrived with their buckets and chamberpots. I tried to stand in their way (which was more than the foremen did), which was almost beyond my feeble courage. "Do you want some?" one of the men – a shopkeeper by his clothing, and a wrestler by his girth – snarled at me.
"Certainly not," I said. "And neither do they. Let them do their work in peace."
"They cost me my business! Now get out of the way." He roughly shoved me aside.
As I stumbled back, I saw that the city guard had arrived, blocking the streets that led away from the square while others were approaching at a half-run. My heart fell. I was certain that they’d arrest my neighbours, and me as well, for causing offense to the upstanding businessmen.
But instead, some of them positioned themselves between the mobsters and the poor workers – I could hear shouts of astonishment from the ditch below – and a loud voice announced that any attack on the workers or disruption of the work would be considered rioting, and punished accordingly.

The voice was Lady Arancalimë’s. She was sitting on a white horse, robed in white – even her cloak was white – and looked quite out of place in that down-town road, muddy from the excavation and smelling of the open sewers, which doubtlessly was the entire point.
She went on, "This vital enterprise has been commissioned by your lord, and it’s his business you are hurting."
"The stink keeps our customers away!" called the belligerent shopkeeper who had shoved me.
"The faster you let these men work, the faster the stink will be contained again," Lady Arancalimë said coldly. "And look at them! They are standing up to their knees in your shit! I do not hear them complaining. I hear only you." She shook her hand dismissively. "Be grateful for their sacrifice and go home."
"But our business!" someone further back protested.
Lady Arancalimë gave him the ironically detached stare I knew so well from her father. She made a great show of sniffing the air (which, it must be said, really did smell abysmally). "If your customers are less brave than I am, then I’m afraid you must rest your business for a while. You can apply for compensations if you list the exact losses that you have suffered due to… squeamishness," she said, letting the last word drop like a used handkerchief. I could see smirks among some of the guards, and I thought that this would finally be the end of the disruption.

But then one of the would-be rioters did something incredibly stupid. "Wait till your father hears about this, missy," he said, probably hoping to amuse his chastened fellows. But he spoke too loudly, and though some of the merchants and shopkeepers guffawed at his words, they quickly realised that shocked silence had fallen around the square, and fell silent themselves.
Lady Arancalimë’s face had become very rigid, all irony and amusement gone. Very slowly, she rode up closer to the group of merchants. The hoofbeat sounded unnaturally loud, and it was almost a relief when she bridled the horse to a halt.
"Who said that?" she said. Her voice could have been mistaken for pleasant – she was putting great effort into letting it sound pleasant, I suspect – but there was an icy edge to it. Of course, nobody replied.
"Who said that?" she asked for the second time, less pleasantly, and again, nobody answered.
Now she was smiling, which only made her furious face more terrifying. "Why should my father care for a coward’s opinion?" she asked, her voice ringing over the square. "Why should my father listen? Azruhâr!"

I flinched as I heard my name, still pronounced in that icy tone. I did not know whether she had recognised me, or was simply testing whether I had followed her order. I hurried to show myself. "My lady?" I said, bowing low.
"Tell them who I am, Azruhâr."
My cheeks were burning in the cold winter air. "You are the lady Arancalimë."
"And my father?"
"Lord Atanacalmo of Arminalêth, who owns our allegiance under the King."
"Indeed. Did you see who said it?"
I swallowed hard. "No, Lady."
She gave an impatient sigh. "Who said it?" she shouted at the shopkeepers, who were now huddling together as if trying to warm each other, giving each other anxious – or calculating - glances.
"Cowards all," Lady Ancalimë announced, and then turned to the guard by her side. "Seize the next best man and bring him here." The guard complied, grabbing the shopkeeper who had attacked me earlier by the shoulders. He gave a small yelp and shouted, "Rabakhôr did it!", pointing at the hapless culprit. The soldier cast a questioning look at Lady Arancalimë, who nodded in the direction of Rabakhôr, now easily recogniseable by his pallor. He must have realised that there was no point in delaying the inevitable, and so he stepped from the throng of businessmen, who were eager to distance themselves from him.

Most of the day-talers had by now climbed out of the ditch to see what was going on, while the guards that surrounded the square had drawn closer to make sure that none of the shopkeepers got away before they had permission to do so. Everybody was watching as Rabakhôr was brought before Lady Arancalimë, who was beginning to recover her look of indifferent superiority as he went to his knees in the dirty square. He looked like the kind of man who was an authority in his neighbourhood – broad shoulders, his hair and clothing demonstrating wealth and knowledge of the latest fashions, an air of self-satisfaction – although the latter was somewhat marred by the nervous way in which his larynx was bouncing in his throat right now.
"Rabakhôr," Lady Arancalimë said, savouring the name. "Rabakhôr. I’m afraid you have the advantage. Remind me who your father is?"
At first, I thought Rabakhôr wouldn’t answer, but he must have realised that he wasn’t helping his cause by being stubborn, because eventually he muttered, "Miyikhôr, my lady."
"A man of great renown, I am sure. Now tell me, Rabakhôr, why I should wait until my father hears about this? Assuming that he does not already know – that he did not in fact authorise me, of course." She waved her hand dismissively, showing the golden glint of Lord Atanacalmo’s signet ring.
In spite of the chilly day, beads of sweat had formed on Rabakhôr’s forehead. "It’s just something we say, you know, when a neighbour’s daughter misbehaves..."
Lady Arancalimë raised her eyebrows. "And you thought I was one of your neighbours’ daughter, playing dress-up and commanding the city guard, did you? Maybe we should revoke your business licence; we cannot have an idiot in charge of his own shop, can we?"
Rabakhôr shook his head, mumbling, "It was a thoughtless jest, my lady. I beg your pardon."
Lady Arancalimë’s lips quirked unpleasantly, as if she were trying to work a piece of gristle free from her teeth. "And you thought I was jesting material, did you, Rabakhôr? Well, I assure you that my father will hear about this, and he will not like it."

"I did not mean it like that!" By now, Rabakhôr was clutching his hands in front of his chest, ready to plead.
"Then how did you mean it? Enlighten me. Tell me under what circumstances your jest would have been appropriate."
Rabakhôr’s jaw was moving unhappily, as if he was trying several different explanations and found all of them worthless. "I just wanted to..." he eventually said, and then trailed off.
"Yes?"
"I meant to lighten the mood, Lady. I am dreadfully sorry. I beg your forgiveness, and will never do it again."
"Not so fast! You have insulted my authority and my house. If one of these men-" she pointed at the day-talers, some of whom looked very alarmed about the sudden attention - "had addressed you or your daughter as you spoke to me, what would you do with them?"
Rabakhôr, clearly knowing that whatever he said now would fall back onto himself, gave the matter some thought, and then declared that he would reprimand the offender very sternly and demand a contrite apology. I couldn’t hold back a snort at such a blatant lie, and I was not the only one to express my disbelief; there were chuckles and laughter among the guards and the foremen and even among the intimidated day-talers, because we all knew that his reprimand would leave the unfortunate offender bleeding, and the contrite apology would be delivered through screams of pain.

Lady Arancalimë looked around at the reaction Rabakhôr’s answer elicited, pointedly, before returning her focus on the man himself. "You are a coward and a liar," she said flatly. "But never mind. Azruhâr, come here. Refresh my memory. When my father felt that you were being insolent towards him, what punishment did he propose?"
I briefly considered feigning forgetfulness so I would not be responsible for whatever happened next; but then, she doubtlessly knew the answer perfectly well. "Fifty lashes, my lady," I said, unable to meet her eyes.
"Possibly sixty, if I recall correctly," she said, confirming my thoughts. "Or?"
I studied the dirty cobblestones. "Or a week in the stocks."
"Or?"
Involuntarily, I gritted my teeth. "Or my tongue cut out, Lady." I glanced at Rabakhôr, who had, if that was possible, gone even more pale now. Lord Eärendur had insisted that it would require the King’s permission to do something like that, but I still wasn’t wholly convinced that these nobles wouldn’t find a way around that if they were angry enough. At any rate, Rabakhôr clearly knew as little about it as I had, because he was raising his hands imploringly. "My lady, surely none of that is necessary… I will pay good silver to make good for my blunder..."
Again, she cut him short. "You insult me further. Do I look like I am in need of your silver? No, Rabakhôr, you will not buy your way out of this. You will pay the same price as any lesser man would. If you were in my place, what would you do?"

Rabakhôr was shaking his head vigorously, unwilling to bring his punishment upon himself. Nobody stepped up to defend him; the other merchants and shopkeepers and whatever else they were stood rooted to the spot, muttering to each other, doubtlessly glad that it wasn’t them in Rabakhôr’s spot, perhaps hoping that they wouldn’t end up there next, perhaps even secretly gloating about their colleague’s – or competitor’s – predicament. The day-talers were keeping their safe distance from both the guards and the better citizens, lest they got dragged into this mess, while still craning their necks to watch, because most of them had been in situations like that, only with people like Rabakhôr in charge, and there was some satisfaction in seeing someone like him brought low. The guards stood to attention, most of their faces expressionless, though some evidently found the whole thing quite entertaining. The air seemed to be charged, as if a thunderstorm was brewing; we were all waiting for the lightning to strike.
Lady Arancalimë fixed the would-be rioters with a stare. "I need some help, gentlemen," she declared. "Rabakhôr has lost his power of speech. How would you deal with a man who insulted your family?"
Rabakhôr’s fellows exchanged further glances. "A good whipping," one them eventually said.
"Yes, that’s what I thought," Lady Arancalimë said. "Rabakhôr, if you would be so kind as to bare your back?"
"I am an honourable man of business," Rabakhôr protested desperately, "and I refuse to be beaten in front of all these people!"

Lady Arancalimë narrowed her eyes. "Honourable? You insulted me in front of all these people," she pointed out. "Where’s the honour in that? Thought you were a strong man, did you? Someone to put the meddling lady in her place? Well, let’s see how strong you really are. Now take off your clothes before I have them cut off you." Two more guards had stepped up by now, one of them holding the dreaded lash, the other reaching for his dagger, and Rabakhôr hastily began to undo the pin on his cloak. One of the guards took his clothing and handed it on to me, who would have preferred to hide among the other onlookers instead of holding Rabakhôr’s fine shirt and tunic and cloak at the ready. Underneath them, he had the imposing figure of a man accustomed to good food and athletics and regular massages at the bath-house. Once he was done stripping, the guards took a firm grip of his wrists, pulling his arms to the side so his back and shoulders were fully exposed to the whip-wielder, an awkward and vulnerable posture that I remembered only too well. Rabakhôr was shaking, from the cold or from fear or from anger - probably all three. I saw the third guard position himself behind Rabakhôr and couldn’t help feeling pity for the honourable shopkeeper, because I recognised that guard from my own brief imprisonment and knew that he had a very hard hand. I was torn from my reminiscences by Lady Arancalimë, who addressed me once again. "Azruhâr, can you count to fifty?"
My stomach clenched with anxiety. "Yes, my lady," I said, clinging a little more tightly to the bundle of clothing in my arms.
"Then you will keep count," she commanded. "Loudly." I clenched my eyes shut. This was a lot more involvement than I was comfortable with. I have always been squeamish about pain – both inflicted on myself and on others – and I would infinitely have preferred to hide somewhere at the back of the crowd, or ideally to leave the scene altogether, instead of standing in the middle of the square, calling the lashes and seeing the damage they did.
But of course I did not dare to disobey. The guard gave me an expectant look, nodding to signify his readiness; and I took a deep breath, and said, "One."

The lash hissed through the air and hit Rabakhôr’s back with a cruel snap. Even in my position of safety, I couldn’t help flinching. Rabakhôr, meanwhile, jerked forwards with a shriek; if the guards hadn’t held his arms, he would have landed flat on his face. They pulled him back into position, and I could see that his eyes had widened in disbelief at the all-encompassing sharpness of the pain. I realised that this might be the first time he felt the lash bite into his own flesh, because he was accustomed to inflicting punishment on his assistants and apprentices and people he suspected of thieving and whoever else earned his ire, not to being beaten himself. Perhaps he mocked his own victims for being weaklings when they cried out. The thought helped me a little to come to terms with my uncomfortable role of executioner’s assistant, but not much.
"Two."
Again the sickening whistle and crack. Again, Rabakhôr fell forwards. He stifled his shout this time, grinding his teeth, but his eyes were still wide with horror, and no wonder. I remembered all too well how overpowering the sting of the lash was. Fifty lashes wouldn’t take Rabakhôr to within an inch of his life, but they would cause him trouble for several weeks to come, and right now, they were going to feel unbearable.
"Three." Fourty-seven to go. Rabakhôr was probably doing the same disheartening calculations in his head, very much aware of how far away the end of his ordeal still was. Perhaps he was trying to tell himself that he would get used to it at some point, that the sting would grow duller, and I knew that instead, it would only get worse. He was breathing fast now, trying to fill his lungs before the next blow would knock the breath out of him again.
"Four." Crack. "Five." Crack.

At twelve, Rabakhôr could no longer bite back his groans; at nineteen, he began to scream; at twenty-seven, he was gasping for mercy. I paused after thirty, looking up at Lady Arancalimë in case she felt inclined to waive the rest. She was looking ahead with a stony expression, her lips pursed in disgust. Clearly, she was not enjoying the spectacle, but she appeared to feel that it was necessary, because she raised her chin and said, without looking at me, "Continue."
I swallowed. "Thirty-one." I tried to keep my voice even, but I was tempted to cry myself by then. My own back was tingling in sympathy. To some extent, it felt as if I was witnessing my own torment – although that still felt like too strong a word – at the hands of Niluthôr, and it took all my self-control to keep counting, steadily, loud enough for all to hear. At thirty-four, the lash started to draw blood. Rabakhôr was trying to twist away from the flashes of pain at that point, and further guards were necessary to hold him in place for the final stretch of his punishment. I heaved a sigh of relief when I finally reached fifty. Rabakhôr was spluttering for breath, and when the guards let go of him, he crumpled forward, landing on his forearms and hiding his tear-drenched face between them. I couldn’t help wondering whether the experience would make him more kindly disposed towards his inferiors in the future, or whether it would rather turn him vengeful.
"Still in the mood for jesting?" Lady Arancalimë asked. Rabakhôr shook his head without speaking, and she said, "I thought not."
She rode past the weeping man, halting in front of Rabakhôr’s fellows. "I trust you will not interfere with these works anymore. Otherwise…" she glanced back at Rabakhôr, who had now scrambled back to his feet. Thin rivulets of blood were snaking their way down across the bruises and wheals on his back, which was still shaking with suppressed sobs. "That is not the worst that could happen. Rioting is a serious offense. You and you, make sure that man sees a healer. The rest of you, go home and hold your peace."

I pushed the bundle of Rabakhôr’s clothing back at the guard who had handed it to me – I did not want Rabakhôr’s friends to memorise my face, in case they felt that I was somehow to blame for this. He would be alright, I told myself. Even I had been alright, in the end, and I’d been struck worse and been less fit to bear it to begin with. This man would be looked after by a good healer, who would stitch him up so that there would be minimal scarring, and drug him senseless for as long as he needed it. The cloak I’d held had been lined with marten, the shirt had been of fine linen, the tunic of thick soft wool, and nicely embroidered; Rabakhôr’s household would not starve if the healer forced him to remain flat on his belly for a few weeks. In fact, his assistants would keep the shop running, and were probably grateful enough for their jobs that they would not use his absence to steal from him. I told myself all that. But I still felt guilty, and only marginally less so because I knew that Rabakhôr and his fine cronies had attacked my neighbours and other people like them, and would have done it again today.

For the time being, I hurried after Lady Arancalimë. She was now riding over to the workers, and I hoped that she would not accuse them of idleness since they had paused their work to watch. The day-talers knelt in greeting as the horse stopped in a safe distance from the yawning ditch. Lady Arancalimë looked around – her expression was one of disgust, and I hoped very much that it was for the stench (which was even stronger here) or for Rabakhôr (now awkwardly huddling into his cloak as he was led away by his cronies), not for the besmeared people at her feet. At any rate, she told them to stand and asked, without the slightest trace of irony, how they could bear the smell.
"We have to, your ladyship?" one man I didn’t recognise suggested.
That brought the amused glint back into her eyes. "A good reason," she agreed dryly. She asked whether the working conditions were otherwise agreeable and whether the pay was sufficient, as if anyone would have dared to complain after the scene they’d witnessed. Then she asked the foremen how long the work was going to take, and how long in particular it would take until the sewers were connected and closed.
"Two to three weeks," she mused. "A long time to be smelling like that. Well; you’d better get back to work, then." She nodded by way of parting. The day-talers scrambled back into the mire of earth and excrement as she turned her horse around, and I heard her ask the foreman where she could find the nearest bath-house. Then she seemed to remember me, beckoning to me until I had caught up with her.

"Well, Azruhâr!" she said, looking down at me with a curious tilt of her head. "How do you like your first day as spokesman of the day-talers?"
I returned her gaze nervously. "Not particularly, my lady," I confessed.
"No stomach for punishment?"
"No, my lady."
"That is unfortunate, if you're striving for authority."
With a wide-eyed stare, I protested, "I am not striving for authority!"
She smiled in a knowing way. I wasn’t certain what exactly she knew, but it might as well have been everything. "They’ll be more obedient in the future, don’t you think?"
"Without a doubt, my lady." I wondered whether I should leave it at that, but as usual, I could not keep my mouth shut. "They’re not going to speak kindly of you, though, my lady."
Her lip twitched. "They better watch their tongues, then." She smiled to herself, and I hoped that I would be able to take my leave now, but then she said, "Out of curiosity, Azruhâr – if that had been one of your men, what would you have done?"
I felt myself break into a sweat. "They’re not my men, my lady," I pointed out to buy myself more time.
With an impatient flick of her hand, she said, "A member of your society, then – you know what I mean."
"I would have begged you to lower the count," I said. "Fifty is a lot."
"More than is reasonable and appropriate?"
I wondered how I could answer that question without causing offense. "Your ladyship is not bound by these terms, as I understand it..."
"You understand it right. I take that as a yes."
Grimacing, I said, "Well, I think it would be more than is reasonable and appropriate if someone like Rabakhôr had done it. But clearly, it is worse because he insulted you – as a noblewoman, I mean."
"Is it?" There was proper amusement in her eyes now.
"It means that he didn’t respect your authority, doesn’t it. You have to uphold the law, and if people don’t respect you, you can’t do that."

She smiled a thin smile. "Very well; then let us assume that it was one of your day-talers who disrespected me."
"That would have to be a severe misunderstanding, my lady. They tend to err on the side of humility. And if one somehow didn’t, you’d probably have him accused of rebellion right away."
Lady Arancalimë sighed heavily. "Stop dissembling and answer the damned question, Azruhâr."
I wrapped my cloak more tightly around myself, as if that could protect me in any way. "I’d still have asked you to reduce his punishment to twenty. Thirty at the most. That’s bad enough." I looked up, trying to figure out her expression.
"And if I had ignored your request?"
I shrugged. In all honesty, I wouldn’t have expected her to agree. "Then I would have had to make sure that the man got a healer’s attention and that his family was fed until he had recovered."
"Ah. And Rabakhôr?" she asked, studying me intently. "What would you have done with him?"
I thought for a while. "Maybe he could have been made to work alongside the day-talers," I eventually suggested, "Shovelling shit down there in the ditch. That would have been punishment, too."
She chuckled. "An interesting thought. I’ll keep it in mind for the future." She gripped her horse’s bridle more firmly, giving me a nod. "I have business at the bath-house now; and you, I expect, will be late for your proper work. But it has been a very educative morning, hasn’t it?"
"It certainly has been, my lady."
"A good day to you."
"And to you, my lady."
I bowed low, and then looked after her as she rode up the street, wondering whyever she was headed for a commoners’ bath-house.

That evening, there was of course no other topic than the merchants’ and shopkeepers’ attack on the sewage works, and Lady Arancalimë’s astonishing appearance. Most of my neighbours agreed that Rabakhôr had deserved what he’d gotten. Even those who pitied his fate in general felt that it had been exceedingly satisfying to see someone like him reduced to screaming under the lash, rather than one of their own. Accordingly, Lady Arancalimë was the heroine of the day. "And you’ll never guess what she did after that," Târazôn said, looking smug and satisfied and surprisingly tidy for a man who’d been working in the sewers all day.
I did not even try to guess.
Râhak held his hand underneath my face, and I drew back in alarm, thinking that he meant to strike me. Then I realised that he wanted me to sniff his skin, which I did with great caution. But oddly enough, there was very little sewage stink about it, and instead a flowery note reminiscent of the perfumed soap we used in the catacombs to get rid of the corpse-smell. "The lady negotiated with the owner of a bath-house," Râhak explained happily, "and now we can go there for free for an hour after work – every day! She said it’s part of our compensation. Isn’t that grand?"

I conceded that it was very grand indeed, even if their clothing still had the smell hanging in it. Târazôn explained that tomorrow, those who could would be bringing spare clothing to wear afterwards, and they were allowed to wash their used clothing at the bath-house also. Not a bad deal at all. I spent some time lost in thought. I remembered my diatribe concerning the so-called unwashed masses. I remembered telling Lord Atanacalmo that he should give people a piece of soap on top of the money if he had them do dirty work and still wanted them to admire him. Granted, a free visit to the bath-house – with its steaming tubs and comfortable basins, soft towels and scented oils – was even better than a bar of soap, but still, didn’t it veer into the same direction? I came to the conclusion that Lord Atanacalmo and his daughter were paying a lot more attention than I had previously assumed, and that I would have to be even more cautious around them. So far, it had worked out to our advantage, but the tide no doubt would turn. I did not tell my neighbours about these thoughts. Instead, I made a point of praising Lady Arancalimë’s generosity, so that her name would be spoken with reverence and admiration at least among the lower classes.

After the next council session, it was announced that the legal passus concerning the rights of property-holders to informally punish their inferiors had been amended from ‚reasonable and appropriate’ to ‚not exceeding thirty single lashes (or equivalent)’. Lord Eärendur later told me that the motion had been brought forward by Lord Atanacalmo of all people, who had cited cases of "men beaten to the brink of death over mere trifles" and "excessive cruelty wielded by men with no sense of proportion" and the like. That latter part had mobilised the council, who agreed, on the whole, that only the ruling class were responsible enough to be trusted with meting out harder punishments. Lord Eärendur in his turn had enthusiastically supported the motion, and that had pushed over a few traditionalists who felt that it had never been necessary to restrict the rights of the middling sorts, since they were "all reasonable folk". Some of the guildmasters had still resisted, which had led to Lord Atanacalmo questioning them in detail about their own use of the lash, to part mirth and part horror. In the end, it had become a discussion about the maximum number (Lord Eärendur had suggested that ten should suffice to get the point across, but he had been overruled), and the Crown Prince had signed it into law.
„I expect he didn’t like that much,“ I mused. „Does he always have to do what the majority of the Council wants?“
Lord Eärendur gave a non-commital shrug. „In theory, no. The King – or his Regent – is the law, and the Council can only offer advice. But it is considered the sign of a bad ruler to directly oppose the advice of the greater part of the Council, so in practice, the King tends to follow it. At any rate, Alcarmaitë had no particular interest in this matter, since it doesn’t touch upon his own rights.“ And thus, that far-away goal of the Day-taler’s Welfare Society was met before I’d even dreamt of campaigning for it.

Naturally, I mentioned the role of Lord Atanacalmo when my neighbours celebrated the news. As for myself, I still did not know what to make of the whole thing, fearing very much that the attention we were suddenly getting would sooner or later turn into a liability. I certainly did not go and claim credit. It was much better, really, if the nobles thought that one of their own had had the idea. My neighbours, at any rate, were convinced that Lady Arancalimë had put her father up to it, since she had previously shown sympathy for their plight. I did nothing to dissuade them. Accordingly, the noble house of Arminalêth had won itself a loyal base of supporters in the paupers at the foot of the hill in two easy steps.

Chapter 24

Read Chapter 24

In the meantime, I started asking around for a place to build a meeting place for the Society. A few weeks after Lady Arancalimë had authorised the statutes, I came home to find my house full of sacks of oats, horsebeans and onions for redistribution among the twelve listed members of our society (in truth, not all of my neighbours had wanted to sign up, though they certainly changed their mind after the food had been delivered, and then they told others and we could barely write down the names as fast as they came.) I knew I had asked for it, but I was nonetheless shocked that it had worked. Balakhil’s and Enrakôr’s bedroom became a storage room, which was all right for the time being, but it was clearly not a long-term solution, especially after the sudden growth of our membership meant a larger delivery the next time around. 
But the city had grown since I had bought the little patch of land next to my house, and there were no plots for sale anywhere nearby. There was an old tavern in the butchers’ district that I could have bought with a loan from Lord Eärendur, but I did not want to have our meeting place too far away from my neighbourhood, and certainly not up in the inner circle where the neighbours would probably accuse our members of all sorts of misconduct just to get rid of us. There were also some patches of land available alongside the road to Rómenna, but I did not want to forego the protection of the city guards (as questionable as that was) nor the authority of Lord Atanacalmo (who had at least permitted the formation of the society), both of which ended at the city walls. Amraphel and I kept our ears open, but right now, it appeared that there was nothing to be done on that count. We sold the provisions off quickly, which was probably just as well, because that way they stopped being our responsibility.

When the work on the sewers was completed, Lord Atanacalmo held a reconciliatory feast for the neighbourhood that (aside from our own) had been most affected. The workers were not invited, but at least they received a modest bonus as they were discharged. When Lady Arancalimë arrived at the site to hand out the coins to them, her presence was received with such cheer and applause that, for a moment, she looked surprised and quite genuinely pleased before she had rearranged her features into the look of a lady who received such accolades all the time and accepted them as her due. She gave a small speech about the bright future of the city, a place of good order, prosperity and sanitary conditions, for which even the respectable shopkeepers gave her some cheer.
„Too bad about the bath-house, though,“ Târazôn reflected later on, for the end of the sewage works also meant the end of that daily luxury. „Do you think your society could build a bath-house down here?“
„Let me take care of the meeting-place first,“ I said.

But then I had very different things to worry about, because one payday Quentangolë told me, in a carefully nonchalant tone, that his Majesty wished to see me, right now. That in itself was astonishing because we had not heard from the King directly in months. He had lost the power to walk entirely at this point, and his appearances to the public – even a limited public of courtiers and councillors – had become rare and brief, even now that the days were growing warmer and longer again, which in the last years had always meant an improvement of the King’s condition. According to Lord Eärendur, the King could rarely focus on more than one issue at a time, and wearied very quickly; half an hour with the Council would be followed by half a day of recuperative sleep. With the exception of matters of life and death, the business of state rested entirely in the hands of the Crown Prince, although the Regent nominally had to ask his father’s permission for everything he did. I was therefore taken entirely by surprise by the summons, and asked Quentangolë whether he was certain that they came from the King himself. Of course he was. „And – I should not tell you this, but I feel you deserve a warning – he has heard about your side occupation, and is not happy about it.“
I swallowed hard, casting anxious glances at my colleagues, who of course had heard the exchange. 
„I can confirm that Azruhâr has never neglected his work down here,“ Master Târik said. „Has his majesty asked for the rest of us, too?“
„No, you will not be needed at this time,“ Quentangolë said, and there was a heaviness in his voice that made my stomach clench with fear. 

I accompanied Quentangolë up to the palace, trying half-heartedly to talk about innocent subjects but already so worried that I could barely keep my thoughts together, and Quentangolë was uncommonly serious, too. I asked him how badly angry the King was and whether he thought I had any hope of reassuring him. „It is hard to predict anything, these days,“ Quentangolë said. „Maybe he’ll have calmed somewhat after this afternoon’s nap.“ That did not exactly sound encouraging.
Quentangolë could not come with me all the way, since he still had work to do, so he left me in the care of a guard, who led me up unknown stairs and through unknown corridors. The guard was not unfriendly, so that was worth something. I was clearly walking through the private quarters of the King’s house now, not towards some secret dungeon, which was also worth a lot, but I still felt ill at ease.
„Let me see if his Majesty is awake and ready to see you,“ the guard told me, and for a moment, I hoped wildly that he would be asleep. But then, I’d probably have had to wait until he woke up again, and that could have been hours away. So I suppose I had to be grateful that the guard nodded when he came through the door, and then led me inside.

It was the King’s bedchamber. Or so I assumed. It was a bedchamber, at any rate, with an enormous gilded bed in the middle of it, with tapestries on the walls that depicted some kind of ideal forest in tones of blue, full of bright and beautiful flowers (underneath trees with lush crowns that would not have let through enough light for the flowers in a real forest), with thick velvet curtains and slender gilded chairs and rich carpets. The predominating colour was dark blue where it wasn’t gold, making me feel as if I were walking into the sea despite the forest imagery. Only the fireplace was lined in white stone, without any gilt on it. It could have been beautiful, but under the circumstances, it felt rather threatening, as if I really was about to drown.
In contrast to the luxury of the room, the air was filled with the acrid smell of piss and sickness, insufficiently counteracted by smoldering sticks of incense. It was a suffocating combination, and if I had not already found breathing difficult because of my fear, then surely that unholy mixture of sweet incense and sour illness would have made my breath catch in my throat.
His majesty half-sat on the bed, propped up by plenty of pillows, and although he was certainly awake and giving me a narrow-eyed glare, he looked worse than Old Palatâr after his stroke. The once-proud face had lost much of its flesh, and his skin had an unhealthy jaundiced tone.

And yet, in his bony hands rested the power to destroy me; and when I knelt at his bedside, one of these hands clasped the fabric of my tunic like a talon. His grip was not particularly strong; I could have pried the frail old fingers away from my shoulder, if I had dared. But of course I did not dare.
„You called for me, your Majesty; here I am,“ I said. I’d hoped to sound calm and collected, but there was no masking the tremour in my voice.
„There you are,“ the King said sternly. „Yes. Long overdue.“
I wondered whether I had missed any previous summons, but before I could ask, he was already going on. „We hear things about you, Azrubêl, all sorts of things. Secret societies. Building houses. Breaking up riots… betraying my trust! When you should stick to your duty and work on my preservation!“
I was spluttering as if a wave had hit me squarely in the face in the middle of taking a breath. I didn’t even know where to begin. „It’s Azruhâr, Majesty--“
„I know it’s Azruhâr! Azruhâr is everywhere these days, it seems, just not in the catacombs where his ungrateful carcass should be! Traitor, oathbreaker, vilest of the vile!“

At this barrage of reproof, my mouth opened and closed impotently before I could think of something to say. „Lord King, I am no traitor - I assure you that I did not neglect my work -“
„Then how do you explain these stories? Are you telling me that Alcarmaitë has been fed lies? I do not believe it! He has reliable informants! He will have looked into these stories! He would not have troubled his old father with lies!“
„Please, your Majesty, let me explain!“ I had almost shouted these last words; I was certainly too loud for the royal presence, and I could see his jaw work angrily at that, but at least he was too surprised to act at once. I pushed on, hoping to make my point before he called the guard on me. „There is some truth to these stories, but it has been twisted to make my actions sound far more extreme than they are! Yes, I have founded a new society, but there is nothing secret about it, I did it openly and in accordance with the law. I did all the planning in the evenings and nights, so my work did not suffer from it. And yes, I am looking for a place to build. Surely I may do that, in my own time? But I have not even found one yet, and if I had, I would hire others to do the building while I am in the catacombs where I should be. The only time I was not in the catacombs during my working hours was when Lady Arancalimë explicitly commanded me to be present – it was she who broke up the riot, if that’s what you want to call it. And I worked the following Valanya to make up for the lost time. I am not neglecting my duty, your Majesty. I am as devoted to your cause as ever. I would never betray you. Please believe me.“ I twisted my head so I could kiss the hand that had clasped my shoulder, shuddering a little at the sinewy feel of it - but more at the thought of what his accusations could mean for me. Traitor, oathbreaker, vilest of the vile – the very worst you could be condemned for, and the very worst punishment. And I did not even deserve it!

The King’s breath was coming fast, and I knew that he was still not mollified. Again, his mouth was chewing angrily before he spoke. „If you are doing your duty, then why are you not showing me any progress? Where is the great success of your new method? Have you forgotten that I am running out of time?“
I shook my head. „No, Lord King, though I do not want it to be true, I have not forgotten. But it has only been a year since we have entombed our most promising experiment, too soon to know if it passes the test of time. I can neither stop nor speed time, your Majesty!“ Again, I kissed his hand, hoping to soothe him in this way.
But he pulled the hand away. „It is not too soon to know if it lasts one year, or not even that! I may not have more than a year! Get yourself out of my sight. I am too tired to be just tonight. Tomorrow you will come back, and then I shall decide on your punishment. Go! Leave me in peace. I am severely disappointed.“
„I beg your pardon, your Majesty. Good night, your Majesty.“ I was on the verge of tears. Numbly, I followed the soldier through the corridors, considering my options. I had not neglected my duties, I told myself. We had gone on with our experiments; we had documented it all; there was sufficient proof that I had been busy with my proper work. It was not my fault that we needed time to prove our new method. Of course, that would not help me when the King decided that I had betrayed his trust and deserved to be punished as a traitor and oath-breaker. Drawn through the streets to public scorn, three days of the most excruciating torment, and then whatever was left of me would be strung up by the neck until the last spark of life was extinguished. That was what they did with traitors, I thought darkly. Not enough left intact for my colleagues to use. Food for the birds. I very nearly was sick on the precious carpet right then and there.

I therefore gave little heed to my surroundings and did not even think to stop when I heard familiar voices somewhere ahead, apparently rapt in conversation: 
„… cannot for the life of me get behind it.“
„It appears to be quite genuine. Have you considered that nothing may be behind it?“
„So I keep hearing, but how can that be believed?“
Neither my guide nor I intended to surprise the interlocutors, but the carpet muffled our steps, and the talking men clearly did not notice our coming until we rounded the corner, and I lifted my stinging eyes and stared at none less than the Crown Prince and Lord Atanacalmo, who were in turn staring at me and the guard in utter bafflement, looking almost comically guilty, as if we’d caught them locked in an intense kiss. The guard stood to attention, and I hastily went on my knees.
„What are you doing here?“ the Crown Prince rounded up on me, his voice shrill with anger. „How long have you been spying?“
„I’ve only just left his Majesty’s chamber, your Highness,“ I hastened to explain, „we were just walking along! I was not spying!“
„It is true, Highness,“ the guard confirmed to my great relief. „I did not realise that your Highness were having a private conversation, or I would have chosen a different route. I beg your pardon.“
„Do not be concerned, we were not speaking about anything important,“ Lord Atanacalmo said airily, evidently amused by his nephew’s passionate reaction. „I am certain Azruhâr has been busy telling my brother bedtime stories, or whatever else is his purpose these days.“ He turned to the guard. „Get him out of here! It’s getting late, and we don’t want to host him for the night, do we?“ He made a dismissive gesture with his head, and both the guard and I were happy to obey and get away from them as quickly as we could without running. I heard Lord Atanacalmo’s laughter behind us. „Don’t look like that, Alcarmaitë. He’s a harmless fool. Let him go.“ Even under the circumstances, that remark struck me somewhere where it hurt, and I made a fist, although I honestly had more pressing problems than Lord Atanacalmo’s low opinion.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong. I really had been a fool to think that I could take on additional duties without incurring the King’s displeasure. Even though I did not feel that I had neglected my work, what did that matter if the King felt that I had? And since he clearly saw the world filtered through the eyes of the Crown Prince, it had been folly to step out so far of my place. Now my world was falling apart, and everything I had built in the past months, even years, threatened to crumble. But then, of course, I should never have built it. I wondered whether Lord Atanacalmo had given his permission so easily because he had known that he would not be bound by it for long; that I was heading straight into ruin. Maybe he had been doing the Crown Prince’s work even without cutting out my tongue. (Which might yet happen, my mind unhelpfully supplied.) I wondered whether I should even go home, or whether it would be wiser to make for the coast and try to find a ship that would take me to the Colonies, so that I would be far out at sea when the King made his decision. It would be better to face the terror of the boundless ocean – better even to drown in it – than to be sent to a traitor’s gruesome death. But no; I had to at least warn Amraphel so she and the children could take refuge in Lord Eärendur’s house. I had to say my goodbyes. And I also ought to warn my colleagues, in case the King’s anger wasn’t limited to my own person.

It was almost beyond me to walk into my cozy home, crowded and well-lit as usual, and to betray nothing to Târinzil and the other visitors; to smile and make small talk and eat and drink, without constantly thinking that this was probably the last time I was seeing them. I excused myself early, pretending to be exhausted. Amraphel, of course, had noticed that something was off, and followed me as quickly as she could; and then, I told her the whole tale.
„There is still hope, isn’t there?“ she said after a long silence. „If he sent you away because he knew he would not judge you fairly tonight, then he seems to care that he will be just. You can try to make your case again tomorrow, and maybe the King will be willing to forgive you. Not that there really is anything to forgive in the first place.“
„As if that matters.“ I wrapped my arms around my knees, trying to steady myself. „I suppose he might. But I’m sure the Crown Prince will keep him in an unforgiving mood. He knows things one moment and forgets them the next, and who can remind him? And he is so frail. All that power should not be with such a frail man.“ 
I should not normally have allowed myself to think, let alone utter such a treasonous thought, but now, it hardly made a difference. Amraphel held me close, leaning her head against mine. „I shall try to bribe the executioner. And you should speak to Lord Eärendur; maybe he can talk the King into a more merciful mood.“
And then we wept together, because there really was nothing else to do. 

In the next morning, I kissed my children goodbye, and I kissed Amraphel goodbye, and I very nearly broke into tears when Azruphel asked me to bring home some spare paper so she could paint new pictures. I told Balakhîl to take the day off. When I came to the catacombs, I learned that Master Târik would not be with us today; some soldiers had taken him along to the Noirinan, where they were to collect Palatâr’s body. I hoped they would not mistreat Master Târik. I hoped he would again tell them that I had been dutiful as ever. „If you want to clobber me around the head, now would be the time,“ I told Karathôn, trying to affect a bravado I didn’t feel.
He gave me the tiniest of slaps on the back of my head. „It’s not over yet,“ he said. „Besides, you said you’d take responsibility, and you can’t do that if I clobber you first.“
After work, a guard appeared a the entrance to the morgue, telling us to present ourselves at the palace for the sixth hour. We agreed to meet again at the half-hour, and departed with heavy hearts. I ran rather than walked to Lord Eärendur’s house.
But Lord Eärendur was not there; he had departed for Andúnië a few days earlier. „Would you like me to take a message?“ his elderly steward asked.
„That won’t be necessary, unless you can stop an execution,“ I said before I could hold my tongue. I should simply have said „No, thank you,“ of course, but the terror in my heart needed to get out.

The steward looked around the empty street. „I think you’d better come inside,“ he said then, „and tell me more.“
He took me to his room and listened to my tale, nodding earnestly and making small sympathetic noises to keep me talking. „My lord has left instructions for the case of such an event. Wait here,“ he told me when I was done, and then disappeared upstairs. I waited. The steward’s small room was quite comfortable and had a nice view out into the front garden, yet I felt enclosed and downcast as if were already locked in a prison cell. 
When the steward returned, he opened his hand to reveal a tiny glass bottle and a silver coin. „I am sorry I cannot offer you anything more hopeful,“ he said earnestly. „I am told that this poison makes unsusceptible to pain. Mind you, it will also destroy your mind, but if you are about to be executed, I expect that should not concern you...“
I nodded despondently, looking at the vial. It held a clear liquid, and the only thing that suggested that the contents were anything more valuable – and dangerous – than water was that the stopper had been sealed all around to keep it securely in place.

The steward was now speaking very matter-of-factly, as if assigning work to a gardener or builder. „You must wait until after the hearing, if there is to be a hearing,“ he explained. „Otherwise, you won’t have the wits to defend yourself, and moreover, they’ll notice that you’ve taken something. After you’ve been condemned, try to drink it in secret just before they put the yoke on you. Otherwise, you’ll have to bribe one of the guards.“ He held out the coin – a full Tree – to me. „If someone catches you at it, you did not get this from me. Do you understand that? It is of the utmost importance. You did not get any help here. I gave you my sympathy, then sent you away. You went to the black market, behind the brothels. You bought this from someone who was wearing a deep hood. It cost you all of three Trees. Maybe you remember something about their hands – a scar or something – that may save you further torture. Make something up, but do not incriminate my lord, you hear me?“
I nodded; I could not speak. I hoped I would remember these things. The steward put the little vial into my hands. „Keep it in your loincloth. That’s the last thing they’ll take away from you. The drug will turn you insensate pretty quickly – you’ll probably notice it setting in early through the drag, and then you’ll stop knowing what’s going on. It will extinguish your mind. You’ll thrash and cry but you won’t properly feel it – that’s the important thing, isn’t it?“
Again, I nodded dully.
The steward briefly clasped my hands and looked me in the eye, and I could see genuine concern in his gaze. I struggled hard to maintain my composure. „My lord has left instructions for your family also. When I hear that you are condemned, I will send servants to help them pack. I hope that this will not be necessary. Do not take it until all hope is lost. It will surely ruin you, even if the King won’t,“ he said by way of goodbye. „Eru keep you.“ I still had no words. 
He gently steered me to the door, where he made a great show of telling me that his lord was absent, and that – alas -- he could not help me. It was so convincing that even I very nearly believed it and felt tears running down my cheek, and only the cold touch of the vial and the coin in my loincloth reminded me that I had actually received help.

The palace was brightly lit when Karathôn, Mîkul and I arrived there. Master Târik was waiting for us outside. „They did not permit me to be present while they open the bandages – in case I try to hush up anything, I suppose,“ he said. He sounded calm and collected, and while we waited to be called into the throne room, he answered my colleague’s questions. No, the guards had not been unkind to him, merely imperious and disinclined to listen to anything he said. Yes, they had handled Palatâr’s body with the necessary caution so it hadn’t been destroyed by the journey – outwardly, at least. No, he had not spoken to the King or anybody else of importance. No, he did not know what exactly we were going to face, and whether it would be extended to all of us or me alone. Yes, he was a little worried, but there was no point in getting worked up now; he had spent all day with a prayer in his heart, and was simply going to hope for the best. „On the outside, there was no sign of decay. He looked just as we left him. I had no chance to see underneath the bandages, but,“ he smiled lopsidedly, betraying his anxiety, „maybe all is well. Then surely the King will have mercy.“
„Maybe,“ I said, sitting on my hands. The bottle and coin had warmed to the temperature of my body, but they rubbed unpleasantly against my thigh.

It felt like late at night when the drone of conversation in the throne room came to an end. Two guards emerged from the throne room, asking in their efficient, gruff tone who had been responsible for the wrapping. I could feel my colleagues’ eyes on me. Very slowly, I got to my feet. Such a simple motion, and yet it took such an effort. I wondered whether the contents of the bottle had diffused through the glass and into my skin, already affecting my wits, but of course it was simply the fear that paralysed me.
„Come along,“ the guard said, not unkindly, gesturing at the open door. He was not shoving me or gripping my arm, for which I was grateful, so I made myself move forwards to give him no reason to use force. One step, and then another. Towards the door, and then through it. I walked like a sleepwalker. Everything felt strange and unnatural, too bright, too loud, too intense.
„You too,“ the second guard said to the others when I had passed. I tried to continue to breathe.
The throne room was even more brightly lit than the hallway outside, and the candlelight was reflected by the gold and the polished marble into an almost festive light. The poor old King had been carried to his high seat, where he sat precariously, cushioned on all sides. He appeared to be trembling with the effort. The Queen half-sat on the armrest of the throne, much more composed than her husband, but wearing an expression of barely masked disgust. The Crown Prince was giving me his most hate-filled stare, so furious that it made me break into a sweat. Lord Atanacalmo, in contrast, was wearing his usual look of perpetual amusement, lounging back in his councillor’s chair like a spectator enjoying the show.
I went on my knees, as I thought, hurriedly, but I seemed to move with the tedious slowness of a wave struggling to break against the wind. My senses were overly alert, startled by the flickering candles, the rustling of fabrics as my colleagues genuflected behind me. One of the guards cleared his throat, and it sounded like thunder in my ears. 

The body of Palatâr, cut free of the bandages we had so painstakingly prepared and wrapped and sealed a year ago, lay stark naked on a bier at the foot of the throne’s stairs. There was a bright red gash in his thigh which had not been there when we had wrapped him, and I assumed that this had happened when the guards had cut through the bandages. Some blood had escaped from the wound and run down the wax-like skin, and that, I suppose, was what broke through the fatalistic paralysis that had taken hold of me. I had promised Palatâr that we would treat him well, not that he would be put on display, naked, in front of the King and his exalted family, with some bumbling guard slashing at his bandages and his flesh with his careless dagger. The fear in my heart was replaced by anger, and I rose up and cried out, full of frustration and reproach, „You cut him!“ as I rushed over to Palatâr’s body.

Yet in spite of his embarrassing condition and the wound he had received, the expression on Palatâr’s face almost resembled that of Lord Atanacalmo: serene, no, very nearly cheerful, amused by a joke that only he knew. The bloating had been minimal, due to the chemicals and the constraining bandages and the death mask: his features had not melted, though the wrinkles had been smoothed out, so that Palatâr was now looking younger than he had died. In spite of the waxy quality of his skin and the unnaturally stiff posture, one could have believed that he was asleep and dreaming some pleasant dream – if not for the nasty cut on his leg, which wept another slow red tear even as I was watching. I balled my fists and gave the King such a dirty look that in retrospect I am amazed they did not cut off my head then and there. 
And then, Lord Atanacalmo began to laugh. It made me grit my teeth and tear my eyes off the King and instead fix my angry glare on him, and he simply laughed – not in a malicious way, simply like a man who had just realised how absurd the whole situation was, and could not help but laugh.
„Yes, they cut him when they opened the bandages. Calm yourself, man, it was an accident. He has not complained, and neither should you. He’s been beyond caring for a year.“
I heard Master Târik’s voice behind me, soft with astonishment, „He is bleeding. He should not be bleeding after a year.“

I had not even thought about that. Master Târik was right, of course. A body that had been dead for so long could have dried up completely, or it could contain all sorts of disgusting liquids, and they could all have burst forth from Palatâr’s skin as soon as it was disrupted, and instead, his body had held its shape perfectly and just slowly, almost lazily, dripped forth a reddish fluid that, to all intents and purposes, might still have been blood. It did not have the rusty tang of blood, but neither did it stink of putrefaction; indeed, the only smell around the body was the carbolic smell of the salts we had used in the cleaning and disinfection, underneath the hearty aroma of the resin.
Nonetheless, I had no mind for that marvellous realisation, because it did not change the matter that the King’s guards had, in their haste and carelessness, destroyed our hard work and violated the body that Palatâr had trusted to me. It was very hard to unclench my fists and bow my head and, instead of further reproaching them, to say, „I must ask your Majesty’s permission to let me suture that cut and to wrap him again before – before my punishment.“
My simple request seemed to surprise the King so much that he stopped to tremble, while the Crown Prince leaned forward and asked, his voice dripping with venom, „What, do you not trust your fellow embalmers to do it properly in your place?“
„I know they would do it properly, but nonetheless, Palatâr entrusted his body into my care. It is my responsibility that he is kept well, and I think I did it well enough the first time, so I should be allowed to do it again,“ I argued. I could hear the bitterness in my voice, and so, surely, could he; it was beyond me to contain it.
It looked as though the Crown Prince wanted to respond to that, but by now, the King had caught up with the conversation, and he asked in his creaky old voice, sounding thoroughly baffled, „Punishment? Who is talking about punishment? Silly boy, there is no punishment for work well done!“ 

I very nearly cried in my relief, and to my amazement, the King really was crying. But they must have been tears of joy, because he told me to come to him, and as I knelt on the steps to the high dais of the throne, he patted my head and announced that he had not misplaced his trust after all, and that of course I should restore Palatâr’s wrappings and continue doing my good work, and that, having seen the dedication and care I showed even to the least of his subjects, he was now certain that he would be in good hands when his time came. 
The Crown Prince, clearly displeased with this development, interrupted these delightful reassurances. „Surely it is too early to rely on that,“ he said coldly. „It has only been a year!“
At that, the King actually laughed, in his wheezing way, as if he had not been blinded by tears mere moments ago. „Of course it has only been a year! We did not give him more than a year!“ 
I kept my head lowered, so I did not see how the Crown Prince reacted to that, but I cannot deny that my heart was filling with a savage and quite inappropriate triumph. 

Old Palatâr was brought back down into the catacombs, and I immediately set back to work. It was Master Târik who suggested that I at least send a messenger to my family if I planned to stay away for the night, considering what they might think had happened. Mîkul kindly volunteered to inform Amraphel and Karathôn promised to explain things to Lômenil, since Master Târik did not wish to leave me alone. We all embraced, laughing and crying at the same time, and then Karathôn and Mîkul left us in order to make it out of the citadel before the doors were locked for the night. Karathôn passed a few tiny wax-paper envelopes to Master Târik just before he hurried up the stairs, and Master Târik took the jar of arsenic off the shelf. I stared. There was an unspoken code of honour never to steal any of the expensive materials we used at work, and yet Karathôn had evidently snuck out a great amount of the dangerous stuff. And Master Târik didn't even reprimand him for it. I stared, and Master Târik said calmly, „Enough to kill four grown men. We felt that it might be preferable to the scaffold.“
I nodded. I did not mention the glass bottle in my loincloth.
Master Târik washed his hands and began to prepare the tools and materials, and I did not even realise at the time how strange it was that he was working as my assistant, rather than the other way round. I dried the cut on Palatâr’s leg, and because I was worried that it might become a starting point for putrefaction, I cleaned it with pure spirits before sewing it shut, then treated the locale with a generous dose of the preservative salts.
„It was not actually blood,“ Master Târik observed as I cleaned away the remains of the red smear. „It must have been some fluid that the salts drew out of the tissue.“ He took out the protocol we had written when we’d first embalmed Palatâr, preparing to take additional notes.
„I expect you’re right. But it looked like blood, at first sight.“
Master Târik smiled that lopsided smile again. „Yes, I thought it was blood at first, too. And it certainly made an impression – a corpse that bleeds!“

Yes; it had made an impression. A corpse preserved so well that the blood of life was still flowing. It had been the impression that I’d needed. I still felt light-headed, as if I’d balanced on the edge of a high cliff, and lost my balance, and just barely managed to stumble down on the safe side of the edge. I was so relieved and so eager to make good what had been done to Palatâr that I did not even feel my exhaustion until hours later, when the bandages had been wrapped in place and needed to dry before sealing. I told Master Târik that I’d just shut my eyes for a short moment, and then I promptly fell asleep on the work bench. He let me. My dreams were wild and strange, but I do not remember the details, just that they left me with an overall sense of dread and paranoia. Still, I remember very clearly that in the end, I was running from something through a blue wood, and there I came across Palatâr. In the strange way in which dreams work, we began to walk together, leisurely, as if my hunters could not touch me in his presence. I told him what had happened and apologised that I had been unable to protect him, and he said that it was quite all right, he had not felt the cut. Indeed, he found most of the story uproariously funny. „So I had an audience with the King,“ he asked, „entirely in the nude?“ And he laughed and laughed until he faded away, and I was alone again.
And then I woke up because Mîkul and Karathôn had returned, and a new work-day had begun.

Chapter 25

Read Chapter 25

As we emerged from the catacombs in the late afternoon, after that long, long day, a guard was waiting for us. Or rather, for me, specifically. He greeted us politely, and then asked that Azruhâr, son of Narduhâr, please follow him.
Immediately, the feeling of being hunted that had accompanied me through my dream was back at full force. My success, it appeared, had been short-lived. I stood very stiff, forcing myself to remain outwardly calm, and asked, "What is this about?"
"Your reward, sir," he answered.
Nothing in his voice or stance suggested falsehood, but I still hesitated.
Master Târik, however, gave me an encouraging smile. "Go ahead; we'll let Amraphel know that you'll be late again." I nodded and tried to return the smile, but the sense of dread wouldn't lift. I couldn't help feeling that the King must have changed his mind again, that the Crown Prince had poisoned his father's thoughts against me once more, and that this was just a ruse so I would come quietly. I trotted along with the guard, trying to calm my anxious thoughts. I told myself that there would not have been only a single man if I were to be arrested, and that nobody would have been polite about it. But perhaps they wanted to lull me into a false sense of security to get me away from my colleagues and leave me no time to prepare myself. That suspicion certainly intensified when I realised that we were headed towards the plaza that held the watch house and the executioner's scaffold with the stocks and the block and the gallows and the blood-soaked floorboards. I would have thought that the Crown Prince would not forego the delight (for him) of seeing me dragged there under the yoke of shame, but perhaps he was acting against his father's will and hoping for secrecy? I wondered whether I would be able to grasp the little vial and drink the poison without anyone noticing. I wondered whether I should do it now.

But then we walked past the scaffold while my heart beat in my chest so hard that it hurt, and turned into one of the broad avenues that led up the other side of the mountain. My breath came a little easier – it was a pleasant enough road, paved and clean. A sign on the wall of the first house proclaimed that it was called the Woodworkers' Road, and accordingly, most of the houses had workshops of carpenters and joiners and cabinetmakers on the ground floor, and two to three floors of accomodation on top of that – and I realised that I had walked all the time in wary silence instead of making conversation with the guard.
"I apologise," I said, my voice rasping a little, "but I am very tired--"
"It's not far now," he replied.
My sluggish mind concluded that it wasn't worth striking up a conversation now, since we had almost arrived wherever we were headed. In retrospect I assume he thought I was asking for rest. Either way, I responded "Very well," and then fell quiet again.
We turned into a pretty alleyway that was lined on one side with cherry trees. They had mostly stopped flowering, and the withered remains of their blossoms hung limply from their twigs or lay on the pavement, browning. In a few days, the leaf buds would veil the trees in tender greens, but right now they were looking sad and wasted. I wondered – the mind does funny things when you are very tired – whether I was one of the dying blossoms or one of the nascent leaves.

The guard took another turn, through a garden gate, and bid me wait while he found the groundkeeper. The groundkeeper's little house was pretty, whitewashed and crowned with a roof covered in the green roof tiles that had been in common use some hundred years ago, the kind you frequently saw in the older quarters. I very deliberately turned my back on the whipping pole in front of the ground-keeper's house, and contemplated the rest of my surroundings instead. The main house had a green roof as well, the verdigris colour of old copper. Maybe it was meant to imitate copper. It was a stately house in a well-tended garden, with three broad steps leading up to a pillared porch that could provide shade and protection from rain while you waited to be admitted in. The double door in its centre, as well as the heavy-looking shutters on the window, had been painted the same pale green as the roof. The path through the front garden was paved with sandstone, and the blade-like shoots of jonquils were rising among the evergreens in the flowerbed. In the summer, the place would be overshadowed by a tall sweet chestnut tree, but now, the afternoon sunlight made the golden star-flowers of celandine in the lawn shine like tiny reflections of the sun. The air carried that strange mixture of rotting leaves and the promise of young growth that you get only during the early days of spring. I breathed it in deeply and tried to calm down. Whoever we were visiting, they had not used force so far. That must be worth something.
The guard returned with the sour-faced groundkeeper, who opened the door for us. I gave him a polite smile and thanked him, for which he gave me a look of such loathing that I was suddenly certain that this must be the Crown Prince's private home, even though I would have expected that to be closer to the citadel, not in this respectable but entirely common part of the town.

There was no-one inside, and no bowl of water and fresh towels at the ready for us to clean our boots. There were no refreshments, either. It was dark, too, since the windows were shuttered, and only thin shafts of light fell inside through their wooden ribs. But as the guard and I walked further into the house, the groundkeeper marched around on the outside to open the shutters. Specks of dust were dancing in the air as light fell in. The owner of the house must be an elf-friend, I thought, because the hall we entered from the antechamber was decorated with elaborate murals depicting the Valar, watching (as I felt) reproachfully as we disturbed the silence of the large, empty room with its ancient floor tiles and handsome coffered ceiling. I cleared my throat, which echoed unnaturally, and asked, "Whose house is this?"
The guard shot me an amused look. "It used to belong to some Faithful traitor. It's yours now," he said in the business-like tone of a man stating the obvious.
He might as well have punched me in the stomach. I felt nearly nauseous. The floor tiles were alternating between black and white and the classical multi-coloured cornflower design, and they seemed to be spinning around me. "You must be mistaken," I said. One day earlier I'd been made to believe that I'd be sent to a traitor's cruel fate, and now this man told me that this was my house. Whatever next?
"I am not mistaken," the guard said, sounding affronted. "I have very clear orders from his Majesty the King. Would you like me to show you around?"

I had fallen asleep again and was dreaming another strange dream. That must be it. I decided that it was better not to question the logic of my dream, lest it turn dark, and agreed to follow the guard through the house. A good house, even in its current state of half-emptiness. All moveable things, chairs and chests and carpets and suchlike had been taken away when the former owner had been disowned, and the only furniture left where large pieces that had clearly been too cumbersome to dismantle and remove: the massive tables in the dining hall, the cabinets, the bunk beds in the servants' dormitories, the large four-poster beds in the bedrooms upstairs. It made the house look half-robbed and sadly abandoned, but even so, it was evidently a very good place to live. On the ground floor, aside from the dormitories for the male and female servants, there were some smaller rooms for storage and the like, and the latrines, and (on the opposite side) the larders and kitchens – one for baking, one for general purposes, one for dairy, and one for meat – and also a marble bathroom that held not just a tub but an actual basin that was too small for swimming, but certainly permitted comfortable sitting for several people. And the dining hall, where marble sculptures depicted (presumably) the past owners of the house, or maybe their ancestors. And a room for receiving visitors, and a room with a great fireplace that was evidently meant to host the Heart of the House, but was now cold and empty except for the dead ashes in the corners. All these rooms were arranged around a central courtyard that had a drawing well in its centre, and a sort of mosaic made of large round pebbles on the floor. A trellis of fruit-bearing trees had been trained up the south-facing wall. Some were still barren, some bore the first pale pink flowers that might grow into apples or pears or apricots, it was impossible to tell at this stage. Upstairs, there was a study with a large desk and sturdy strongbox, and another study full of empty shelves. There was a row of bedrooms for guests and children and the master and mistress of the house. That latter room was painted with naked Elves in a landscape of lakes and little waterfalls, staring in astonishment at the ceiling, which was dark blue and dotted with stars. The stars were white, not silver, which I suppose was some small mercy. The bedrooms had one door to the gallery that looked down into the courtyard, and a second door on the other side to a balcony that looked down upon the garden. I could see a lawn and some flowerbeds still covered with straw and old leaves for the winter, and a kitchen garden neatly hemmed in by boxwood, and the expansive growth of a fig tree with gnarly branches, and a deciduous hedge separating the garden of this house from those of the neighbours. A small orchard, a row of bee skeps, and a great deal of rose bushes to the left, cut back savagely. Plenty of ever-green scrubs and a round water basin on the right. Straw-covered flowerbeds arranged in geometric patterns right across the garden. The garden next to it contained a proud fruit-bearing tree that had not yet begun to flower, and the one on the other side was dominated by an ancient walnut tree that had evidently thrown a goodly part of its leaves onto the lawn that belonged to this house. I wondered whether it would also drop some of its nuts on this side of the hedge. Not that it should matter to me, because this could not possibly be my house, my garden.

There was a strange conical stone hut in one corner of this garden, and I asked the guard about its purpose, since it looked too small to be a gardener's hut or the like.
"An ice house," the guard explained, and when I stared at him blankly, he explained that you put ice and straw in there in winter, and because the house really covered a deep underground excavation that was cool all year round, the ice would keep until summer, and you could store perishables there or just enjoy a nice cool sherbet with crushed ice in it when you desired it. "You've never heard of an ice house?"
"I am a man of very humble origins," I said, both to him and to myself, in case my dozing mind had forgotten. "And what's that?" I pointed at a brick structure at the side of the house.
"The furnace for the hypocaust, of course."
Of course. It was the kind of house that had a heated floor. A stupid question that just showed how little I belonged in this place. Even for a dream, this was too much.
"I cannot possibly live in such a house," I heard myself tell the guard. "I wouldn't know how to go about it."
He raised his eyebrows and eyed me sceptically. "There are harder challenges in the world," he said. "I daresay you'll figure it out." He clearly expected me to say or ask more, but I was completely overwhelmed by the bizarreness of it all, and in the end, the guard shrugged and said, "If that is all, I shall leave you to it. I'll relay your thanks to his Majesty, shall I?"
"My abject thanks," I agreed absent-mindedly.
We walked back through the blue bedchamber, past the studies, down the stairs (plaster and polished olive wood and a bannister made of iron shaped like flowering reeds) back into the hall where the painted Valar kept watch over the comings and goings. I thought of my modest household and of all these empty rooms. Well, I suppose I would have to make good on my promise to my neighbours, that I would employ more of them as the opportunity arose. A gardener. Someone to tend the Heart. One or two people to do the cooking. Amraphel probably wouldn't mind some people to take care of the cleaning, or the laundry, or whatever else needed to be done in such a huge place. She would figure it out. After all, she had been raised to reside in a house like this, with separate kitchens and its own well, with an ice house in the garden and a heatable floor and a master bedroom with allegorical Elves on the walls. And a whipping pole in the frontyard. If this really was to be my house, I thought grimly, the first thing I'd do was to have that cut down and burned in the Heart.

As the groundkeeper, still looking very angry, brought out the keys to the front door and the garden door and the strong-box and the larder, the guard remarked off-handedly, "You can take this one into your service, or bring your own groundkeeper, that's entirely up to you."
I thought I understood why the man was looking so furious, and told him that he was very welcome to stay. "I see you've taken good care of the house and garden, and I'd be glad to have such a conscientious man working for me."
But that was evidently not what he'd wanted to hear, because his eyes narrowed in hatred instead of brightening with relief. He threw the keys at my feet. "I'd rather starve before I serve the likes of you," he spat.
I sighed. I was too tired to argue, so I just said, "Suit yourself. If you change your mind, you know where I live." Where I am supposed to l live, I thought. Where I am going to live somehow. The thought was outrageous. It wasn't even the fact that my fortunes had, once again, been changed drastically, by an old man who threatened you with torment and death one day and gifted you with a beautiful house the next. It was the house itself, as if the place had a mind of its own and I was afraid that it would resent and combat me, the lowly intruder that usurped the place of its fallen master. The house of a dead traitor, given to me who had turned out not to be a traitor. There was a certain symmetry in it, perhaps, but I was certain the house wouldn't appreciate it. I picked up the keys – heavy, serious keys – and locked the front door after casting one last look into the abandoned hallway. The floor with its checquered pattern reminded me of Lord Atanacalmo's chess board, and I whispered to myself, "Checkmate". I hope the other two didn't hear me, but then, they probably thought that I was mad, anyway.

When I came home, Azruphel upbraided me for forgetting her paper, and that tore me out of the tired lethargy that had gripped me. "I am sorry, my dearest," I told her earnestly. "I've had a couple of very busy days, and so it slipped my mind. I will make up for it tomorrow." I would buy her proper paper, I thought, not scraps put aside at work but good strong drawing paper from the artists' shops. I would send Balakhil there while I was working.
"Are you well?" Amraphel asked gently. "Are you hurt?"
I shook my head and slumped down heavily in my chair. The key ring on my belt jangled, and the little vial pressed into the flesh of my bottom. "I'm just very, very tired." I did not want to explain about the house, I decided. Not tonight. It would probably turn out to be a dream or a mistake when I woke up in the morning, and I didn't need to make more of a fool of myself.

My heart sank when Quentangolë was waiting for me after work the next day, holding a rolled-up scroll in his hands. He was smiling, but I was still too weary and worried to return his smile.
"Another summons?" I asked.
"No, no; it's the deed to your house," Quentangolë said cheerfully. I unrolled it.

Ownership of the house number fourteen in Cherry Lane
in the old craftsmen's quarter of Arminalêth and the corresponding grounds
is hereby made over to Azruhâr, Narduhâr's son, apprentice embalmer
for the length of his life
as of Súlimë the Twenty-fourth in the year two thousand three hundred and eighty-five.
The owner of the house may employ up to fifteen servants
but no more than six male servants at one time.
The owner is obliged to secure and maintain the house and grounds.
Annual dues for the ownership of the house--

I looked up at Quentangolë, blinking as if blinded. "So it is real," I said.
"It is certainly real," he confirmed, grinning broadly. "Congratulations. About time you moved into a proper house, too!"
"I like my old house," I said, a little put out, "Thank you very much."

I did like my old house. My father had built it – well, built the original hovel – with the money he had saved during his ill-fated service in the house of some high-ranking army official who had owed Grandfather a favour after he'd been injured. Father had never told me the man's name or what had caused him to quit his service, only that it had been harsh and that Grandfather hadn't done him a favour in getting him that position in the first place. He had always told me to stay well away from people of rank, but I obviously had not been able to follow that advice in the past years. Nonetheless, I felt deeply indebted to my father, and it had made me happy to add the kitchen and the separate bedrooms to the house, and to whitewash the loam walls and tile the loam floor. And now it made me unhappy to leave that house, even if I was moving into such a pretty place that, objectively, was certainly much better.
"You can turn it into the meeting-hall for the Welfare Society," Amraphel tried to console me. "It'll do well enough once we've cleared it out." I had explained my thoughts to her, and she was sympathetic, even though I suspected she didn't quite share my love for the small house in the paupers' quarter.
But to my surprise, she said she did. "It's where I looked after you before we married, remember?" she said, gently. "Where we spent the passionate first weeks of our marriage. Where our children were born. Where we've gone through worse and better – of course I love this place, too." She smiled and kissed my nose, and then she said, "So it is fortunate that you will not have to sell it, but have a good purpose for it."

The next week was the free week preceding Erukyermë, which gave me the time to oversee the preparations for our relocation – although in all honesty, Amraphel could have done most of that without me. It was she who found a nearby stable where we could rent boxes for our horses, since apparently it was frowned upon to keep horses in your backyard in our fancy new neighbourhood. I had handed her the keys, and she had gone through the empty house and made a list of things that we would have to bring from our old home or buy anew – chairs and benches, but also loads of bedding and blankets and sheets, and bowls and cutlery, pots and pans and towels and all the many things that a household needed. She asked among my neighbours who – aside from Balakhil and Enrakôr – might consider coming along as our servants, and there was an astonishing number of volunteers, not only among those who had long been helping with odd jobs around the house all along, but also among the girls Amraphel had taught during that hungry winter.

"How do you feel about servants who are married, or who have children?" Amraphel asked me. I had no opinion on the matter. I knew that servants were generally expected to be and remain unmarried. But then I thought of Andúnië, where several of the servants had had their own families. "Will the children count towards the number of servants?" I asked, cautiously.
"Not until they are twenty-four," Amraphel said. "Then they are half a servant until they come of age."
"Huh. Who do you have in mind, anyway?"
"Zâbeth, Narâk and their children," Amraphel explained. "The girl is sickly, but maybe she will get stronger when she's no longer living in that damp hovel. And Tîmat can pull his weight, young as he is."
"Maybe they can have the groundkeeper's house." I had spoken with the groundkeeper once more, when I had shown Amraphel the house, but he had been as hostile then as he had been on our first meeting. He had been in the process of packing his modest belongings and announced that he and his family would leave on the first day of the holiday week. I had given his round-eyed little boy an apologetic glance, and again told him that I would be happy to keep him employed, but he had only spat out again. "I don't want your charity, Death-dealer," he'd said. So his house would be empty. I hadn't wanted to look inside while the old groundkeeper's family still had their belongings in there, but it had looked comfortable enough on the outside, and would no doubt be a vast improvement on the family’s current hovel.
"That would do nicely," Amraphel said. "So that means you don't want to make Balakhil your groundkeeper?"
I very nearly groaned. "I suppose I should. Can't he be the groundkeeper but live in the main house? Narâk is probably just as willing to look after the garden." He was. Most of my neighbours weren't picky about the position they'd hold, and didn't seem to be too bothered whether they'd be cleaning latrines or cooking meals, as long as it gave them a steady income, bed and board. Fair enough. Ten year ago, I would have felt the same. Balakhil, in the meantime, was a little disappointed that he wasn't given his own house, although we did give him one of the smaller ground-floor rooms to himself and I felt that should appease him.

By and by, we brought the furniture we needed up to the new house. Amraphel bought much of the missing materials second-hand or off the shelf, since the craftsmen who could have taken commissions were currently enjoying the holiday week or presenting their masterpieces in the trade fair, but even so, my funds were as good as drained by the time that we had completed the move. All the money that I could put in the strong-box rightly belonged to the Daytalers' Welfare Society, and I did not dare to touch it lest I end up accused of embezzlement. I did not like being out of money at all; it made me feel vulnerable and brought back memories of my hand-to-mouth youth, even though I knew that it was only temporary, and that Lord Eärendur or even my colleagues would help me in a pinch. Lord Eärendur himself was still in Andúnië, and wouldn't return until the holiday, of course; but his steward had been very reassuring when I had brought back the unused vial and the silver Tree, and had even offered me to keep the coin for the time being. It had not seemed necessary then, so I had gratefully declined. Now my money-bag was empty. My new servants would have to sleep on their old straw-stuffed mattresses for the time being, and use blankets instead of featherbeds. None of them complained or (most likely) even noticed, since they had not yet tasted the luxuries of living in a grand house, but I would have liked to do it properly from the start. At least we could make the crammed dormitories spacier by removing a couple of bunks – the former owner of the house had clearly been of higher rank, and permitted to employ more servants – and that made it somewhat more comfortable for them. Târinzil would sleep in the nursery, Balakhil had his own room right next to the entrance hall, and Zâbeth and her family had moved into the groundkeeper's house, which consisted of two rooms and a small kitchen, giving them far more space – and far more pleasant surroundings – than they were used to. But they all would have to wait for their first wages until the end of the next month at the least, and that made me feel woefully inadequate as an employer. I was unable to even host a proper housewarming feast. Instead, we marched through the streets in a rather solemn procession as Râhak, my newly appointed Keeper of the Heart, carried the last embers of our cooking-fire in a fire-box I had borrowed from Master Târik, to light the Heart of the House in our new domicile. It had been Amraphel's idea to use the last fire from our old house to kindle the Heart of the new house, and I suppose it was a fitting ceremony, but still it would have been nice to have more than pottage and tea to celebrate the occasion.

I slept very badly in the grand bed, and it wasn't just because our old mattress was much too small and I kept rolling off at the side. I felt uncomfortable under the ever-open eyes of the Elves on the walls, as if they were watching me. I could not see them in the dark, but I knew they were there. Even the beautiful stars, pale dots against the surrounding darkness, could not ease my troubled mind. I tossed and turned until Amraphel wrapped her arms around me, holding me close, and unbidden, I wondered whether I would ever be able to perform the act of love under the keen gaze of the awakening Elves.
When I told Amraphel about these thoughts in the next morning, she had a good chuckle, but she suggested to move our resting place to a different room, which had perhaps belonged to a grown-up but not yet married child of the former house-owner, or had perhaps been used for honoured guests. It was nearly as spacious, also held an impressive carved bed that was too large for our bedding, and also had stars painted on the ceiling. But here, that theme of a starlit sky had simply been continued down the upper two thirds of the wall, whereas the lower third was panelled with wood that had been painted white. It was, perhaps, less prestigious, but I found it a lot less discomfiting. We agreed that we could turn the master bedroom into our best guest room, in case we ever needed to host someone noble. Lord Eärendur, for instance, probably wouldn't have been troubled by the painted Elves. He was probably related to some of them.

My colleagues came to pay their respects and bring housewarming gifts – bread and salt and wine, and in Master Târik's case, a very nice carpet that we put in the nursery. There were plenty of neighbours who hadn't moved in with us, who were curious to see what a grand house looked like beyond the kitchen, or who came to discuss Society matters with us. Târazôn, who had moved into Old Palatâr's house, since Târinzil did not currently need it, would look after the meeting-place, and Elzahâr would support him, so there was much to discuss with these two. Master Amrazôr and Mistress Râphumil called to find out where we had ended up, bringing more bread and salt and wine, and probably went home jealous.
On Erukyermë, I finally saw Lord Eärendur again, who was mortified at what had almost happened during his absence. During the feast at the palace, after the briefest of appearances by the King, he took me aside. "I very much regret that I wasn't here to help you," he said quietly. "I cannot apologise enough."
"I know you didn't do it on purpose," I said. "And you… you put precautions in place. That meant a lot."
He grimaced, dissatisfied. "That was a last resort; hardly proper help. No, I should have been there to speak to Ancalimon and assure him of your dedication – to talk him out of his rage! But I cannot stay in the capital forever..."
I nodded, slightly ashamed, because I had of course wished that he didn't have to go to Andúnië so often, and I knew that I was being unjust, since I knew how much he loved his own province, and moreover, if I had been in his place, I probably wouldn't have returned to Arminalêth at all. "It probably happened precisely because you were gone, and couldn't speak to the King," I mused. "I bet that was no coincidence."
"You may be right," Lord Eärendur said, and then fell silent because Lord Atanacalmo was approaching.
"Ah, Eärendur," he said with his customary smirk. "Back to the toil and tedium of the capital?"
"As always," Lord Eärendur responded evenly, with a studied smile. "As you see."
"And Azruhâr. Settling in well in your new neighbourhood? I expect you'll be campaigning for the betterment of woodworkers next?"
"No, my lord, I think I'll stick with the people who need it," I said, bowing low to make up for my somewhat pert response.
"Hmmm," made Lord Atanacalmo. "It's been a long time since I've seen you. I'll be expecting you on Aldëa – the fifth hour?"
"I will be working until the fifth hour, my lord. I would be very grateful if you would give me time enough to eat, and then come to your house."
"Nonsense! You can eat at my house. Come at the fifth hour." He didn't even wait for my confirmation, but smiled to himself and nodded to us both. "Eärendur. Azruhâr. A good day to you."

"I don't know what to make of him," I confessed to Lord Eärendur when Lord Atanacalmo was out of earshot. "I think he hates me. But he's done some good things. I don't understand what he wants at all. Why can’t he leave me alone?"
"Maybe he will tell you," Lord Eärendur said, sighing. "Better be careful, though. I am not certain that he means you harm, but I am not certain that he’ll keep you out of harm's way, either. Anwer his questions, but volunteer as little information as possible. And don't let him provoke you. If something feels like a trap, it probably is." He looked at my face and must have realised that I was frightened, because he gave an encouraging smile that didn't entirely convince me. "We should not be talking alone lest they think we conspire. Come, we will join Tarmo." He gestured with his head towards Master Târik, who was conversing with Master Ipharaz of the coffin-makers and Mîkul and Karathôn and occasionally casting anxious glances around for Lord Terakon. "Let us speak further when I visit you at your new home. When would be convenient to you? Tomorrow? The day after?"
"Whenever you'd like," I said. "I'm working until the fifth hour, as you heard, but it doesn't take me very long to reach the new house..."
"Let us meet at the gate to the citadel when you have finished your work, then. We can walk together."

We walked together, the next day, but we didn't speak about anything important while we were walking through the busy street – I was talking about the hassle of moving house, and he told me how his family and my acquaintainces in Andúnië were doing. He was carrying a basket that contained small gifts - "mere trifles, I'm afraid, but I will think of something appropriate when I've seen the place and know what you can use" - and a letter from Tuilwendë’s family. He had brought no bodyguard, and I was glad to be walking without Balakhil behind me, too. It was a mild, pleasant day, and when we arrived at the house, Narâk was busy trimming the grass for the first time. The cheerful noises of my playing daughters were audible from the backyard, but as we walked through the door, the firm walls locked these sounds out. I always found the experience alienating, as if the house was a world onto itself that had nothing to do with the life outside. It was particularly strange today, when spring was in full swing but it was still cold and silent and wintery inside. The house was not a part of my world – that was it. I was a stranger here; I did not belong.

Before Lord Eärendur could clean his shoes of the dust of the road (not that there was much dust in this part of town), I took a towel from the stack that Balakhil had prepared, and dipped it into the water-bowl and knelt at his feet. He jumped up, scandalised. "Azruhâr, you don't have to – in your own house, what's more..."
I smiled to show that I didn't mind the task. "No, please let me do this. It will help me to explain something." He was still frowning, but very slowly – watching my face all the time – he sat down again, and I set to work.
"You see," I began, "when I was younger, I used to dream about living in a house like this. I thought how comfortable it must be, firm walls where the wind doesn't creep in, actual windows that let through light but not the cold or the summer heat, pretty decorations on the walls, soft beds well away from the smoke of the fire… it thought it must be wonderful. And I knew it wasn't feasible, because the men who lived in such houses did not commonly hire day-talers, it was hard enough even to be allowed to assist the gardener or to unload a cart of deliveries, but… I dreamed."
"And now you have achieved that dream," said Lord Eärendur, his brow smoothing once more. "And well deserved it. Congratulations, Azruhâr." He reached down to take the towel from my hands, but I shook my head.
"No, Lord, you don't understand. I dreamed that I would live in such a house – to do something like this. I was dreaming that I'd manage to get hired as a boot-boy. A stablehand. Something along those lines." I looked up urgently, desperate to get my point across. "That was the only way how I could envision living in such a house. That was my wildest ambition. I was never cut out to own such a house! How can I be its master?" I breathed in deeply, washed the towel in the bucket, wrung it out. Lord Eärendur was watching me, and his forehead had creased again. There was something in his eyes that I assumed was pity, but also a great deal of worry. I had made him more uncomfortable than I’d ever seen him.

I took another deep breath. "I don't know how to do this. Any of this." Then I got up, walked up the step that led from the vestibule to the hall, and spread my arms in what I hoped was an inviting gesture. "But here we are. Welcome to my house, Lord… Eärendur." I tried to smile, but I’m afraid it ended up rather lopsided.
Lord Eärendur rose. Even when I was standing on the steps and him in the lower vestibule, I had to look up at his eyes when he stood before me. They looked soft and a little sad, but there was also a light in it that might have been joy or just his Elven blood. He put his hands on my shoulder and placed a blessing kiss on my brow. "Thank you, Azruhâr. May you live here long and happily."
We walked together through the hallway, still as empty and echoing as I had first seen it because we didn't yet have anything to put there, and he said, "Concerning what you said earlier – maybe you can look at it from a different angle. Think of yourself as a man who has been able to make it beyond his wildest ambitions. Is that not a great achievement? Clearly, you were not cut out to be a day-taler. You were cut out for something else. So you have not overreached yourself; you have merely outgrown your old dreams. You can grow into new dreams, and I am certain that you will grow into this new role, as you have grown into the role of embalmer before." He was smiling now, and although the warmth of it couldn't drive out my uncertainty, I was grateful for it.
"I will try," I said.

Chapter 26

Read Chapter 26

Lord Atanacalmo received me, as before, in his study. Evidently, I would have to earn my dinner, and I was more than a bit worried what the price might be. He bade me sit in the chair opposite his desk, as before, and then he studied me from half-lidded eyes for a while. I forced myself to smile politely, but as moments passed and he said nothing, the corners of my mouth began to cramp and I gave up waiting.
"What may your harmless fool do for you, my lord?"
I had meant to say it as a joke, to break the awkward silence – Lord Eärendur had said that a sense of humour helped in dealing with Lord Atanacalmo – but it came out wrong, bitter. Maybe I did not have the right sense of humour. I did not, in all honesty, find it funny.
At any rate, Lord Atanacalmo raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking in surprise or possibly delight. "You heard that? Well then, you should know the answer. What is the purpose of a fool? Entertainment, of course. So there: entertain me."
He pushed the chess board into the middle of the table, and soon we were locked in yet another unequal battle that saw my pieces slaughtered left and right, and him victorious in such a short time that he evidently did not find it entertaining at all.

We began a second round, and he said, "You should be thanking me on bent knee, you know," but when I obediently began to slide out of my chair, he clucked his tongue, waving his hand dismissively. "In a manner of speaking. A harmless fool is exactly what you want to be to Alcarmaitë, because you have neither the rank nor the stamina nor, if you'll forgive me, the wits to survive if he continues to see you as a serious opponent." He grinned wolfishly and took an archer that I'd hoped to use against his rook. "You will agree with me, even if your tender pride is stinging, that Alcarmaitë should not be considering you his most pressing problem. Right now, he would love nothing better than to crush you, and he will be in the position to do that fairly soon." His finger rested, for a moment, on the crown of my king. "You have no idea how hard it was to talk my brother into making your judgement depend on the state of that body! Alcarmaitë had him in such a fit that he would have sent you to the scaffold right away. And it's not easy to reason with Ancalimon these days, I can tell you that."

My mouth had fallen open in shock. "You did that, my lord? You changed his mind? Then I really should be thanking you on bent knee."
"Oh good grief, remain seated! I am not telling you this so you'll thank me, I'm telling you so you grasp just how precarious your situation is as long as Alcarmaitë takes you seriously. So let him laugh at you. Let him kick you, even, as long as that's enough to please him." My face was glowing with embarrassment, and still he went on, "Be the fool, or the dog if it need be – a minor nuisance, or ideally, mildly amusing. Don't bare your teeth, because if he takes you seriously, he will kill you, and I assure you he won't be 'reasonable or appropriate' about it."
Now my cheeks were growing even hotter, and I clenched my eyes shut. "I know! I know!" I forced myself to look at the chessboard and think about my next move, simply to distract myself from brooding. "If I may ask, Lord, why did you do it? What's in it for you?" My voice was sounding dull now, but I simply couldn't affect indifference. For a fool, I sadly lacked the skill of acting. I moved a pawn just for the sake of doing something.
Lord Atanacalmo said lightly, "You amuse me, obviously," and let a knight jump into prime position to take my other archer. I moved the archer out of reach, and Lord Atanacalmo snatched my rook with his queen. "Besides," he continued, "a fool may blurt out some useful truths every now and then. So I would prefer to keep you around." He leaned forward a little. His eyes were practically sparkling with delight. "I would even go so far as to offer you a permanent position on my staff."

I blinked and forgot about the game again. I tried to figure out whether he was speaking in earnest, which, with him, was no easy feat. Then I decided that it didn't actually matter. "I have to regretfully decline that offer, my lord."
"Not as my fool, man! It would be a honourable position, as my eyes and ears in the lower quarters. You're no longer living there, but you've still got your contacts, don't you? People know you. People talk to you. You can keep me informed on what is going on among the poor. I'll pay you a decent stipend, too. Moving house is expensive, isn't it? I'm sure you can use some extra money."
I could indeed, and I couldn't help squirming in my seat. "That is generous of you, but the answer is still no, Lord. With all due regret and gratitude, of course."
The laughter had left his face. "Why?"
Although the change in his expression worried me, I felt compelled to smile. "My lord, I have only just escaped punishment for supposedly neglecting my work as Keeper. I am not going to walk into the same trap again. My first duty is to the King, and my second duty is to the Day-talers' Welfare Society. I cannot risk doing more, nor do I have, as you put it, the stamina or the wits."
He was tapping his fingers on the smooth polished surface of his desk; one might almost have thought that he was eager to change my mind. "Lay down your work for the Welfare Society, then. Let someone else be the spokesman. It doesn't have to be you. You can still go there and smile and wave and bless babies or whatever they want of you! You just have to transfer your duty from them to me. I'll even donate some money to the cause, if that sets your mind at ease."
I thought about it, and there seemed to be some wisdom to his words. But still I shook my head again. "No, Lord. I am responsible for them, and for the time being, I don't think anyone else would dare to speak for them. Maybe in a few years, if they've had occasion enough to trust your Grace. But not now. It is too soon and too uncertain." I hesitated, because I probably shouldn't say what else was on my mind, but then I went ahead and said it anyway. "Besides, I already tell you what you need to know about the concerns of the poor, at my discretion, however shaky that may be. I don't want to be obliged to say more, and if I were on your payroll, I'd have to do just that."

He watched me, and his intent gaze felt almost like needles boring into my eyes. I could not bear it for long, and instead pushed the archer I had saved further across the board. He snorted, ignoring the archer and bringing his knight back into safety. I now saw that I could have taken it with one of my remaining pawns, but I hadn't noticed the opportunity in time. I sighed and tried to focus on the game.
"So you are telling me that you are not currently telling me the truth, is that it?" Lord Atanacalmo asked in a light tone that seemed to cover an iron edge.
I bit down hard on my lip. "No, my lord, I am telling you the truth, always! I tell you the truth about everything that is relevant to Society business. But I would not wish to find out my neighbours' private business for you, or report on matters that might be displeasing to you even if they are of no consequence."
"And who decides what is relevant, and what is of no consequence?" Lord Atanacalmo asked, tapping on the table once more.
"I do, as well as I can, my lord."
He snorted at that. "Which is not very well; you blab a lot."
I bowed my head – he was right, of course. I was not very good at keeping secrets, or maybe he was very good at making me talk. Either way, I had certainly told him – or his daughter, which probably boiled down to the same -- more than he'd needed to know before. And certainly he could command me to answer him truly even now. But he would still have to ask the right questions. If he appointed me to his eyes and ears, I would have to tell him everything in full, to lay open every sordid or absurd or maybe slightly irreverent detail, without him asking specifically. It would be different. I had been accused of spying before, and regaining my neighbours' trust had been hard enough. I did not want to betray it now, at least not on purpose.

Lord Atanacalmo was talking again. "Why do I even bother. I remember well what you were like when I first met you – snivelling, hunched shoulders, not an ounce of integrity..."
"'Very weak of character'," I agreed readily, remembering the words he had spoken when the King had pardoned me. I had never asked whether he had really been the councillor who had spoken against me, back then, but I was by now fairly certain that I had recognised him right. I went on, "'Unfixed, unreliable. Not the brightest, either.' I remember, too." I moved the pawn I had neglected before.
He smiled and licked his lips, as if flattered that I had not forgotten his words. "Why, what an excellent memory! Now that, at least, is a useful skill." And then he fixed his attention on the board again, and within six moves, my king was yet again at his mercy.

At dinner I sat among the better sort of servant: below young Lord Herucalmo's tutors and the steward, but above the scribe and the Keeper of the Heart. Perhaps I should have taken it as an insult, since I should technically have been a guest rather than a servant, but I cannot say that I particularly minded. There was just enough distance between myself and my noble host that conversation would have required shouting across the table, which these eminently cultured people obviously did not do, so I had no renewed opportunity to make a fool of myself. The food was very good, and the company was not unpleasant. The steward seemed to have gotten over his grudge, and we exchanged a few polite remarks about the disagreeability of winter and the relief of the mild spring weather. The scribe on my other side was a kindly man full of funny stories. Even Lord Atanacalmo didn't call him to order when he spoke too loud, probably because what he said was generally amusing. I suppose there was something to be said for being considered amusing. As I laughed at one of his jokes along with the others, I noticed Lord Herucalmo watching me closely. I gave him a nervous smile, and was relieved to see him smile politely in return before I lowered my eyes. 
His father, Lady Arancalimë's husband, appeared to be absent, and I observed that no place was reserved for him at the table. I wondered what had happened to him, but of course it was none of my business, and I did not ask. 
On the whole, I had the impression that Lord Atanacalmo's household was a happy one, and had to conclude that in spite of his intimidating nature, he was probably a decent employer. Nonetheless, I was glad that he did not repeat his offer. My duties were to the King, and to my family, and to the day-talers who trusted me with their affairs: I simply did not have the capacities to split myself further.

At Lord Eärendur's suggestion, I spent the money I earned that week on a set of splint boxes. It was customary, apparently, to send one's servants around with small compliments for the neighbours when one moved into a new house. "Normally you'd have the boxes painted with your family crest, but since you don't have one, any common pattern will do," Lord Eärendur had said, and naturally, Azruphel had jumped at the opportunity for painting something that actually served a purpose. She had managed a good imitation of the twists and twirls in the pattern-book that Lord Eärendur had lent her, and we filled the newly decorated boxes with cakes Lasbeth had made out of dried fruit and ground nuts. Ordinarily, we should have sent out fresh fruit, preferably from our own garden, but of course it was much too early in the year for that; even the strawberries in their pots in the protected inner courtyard had only just begun to flower. So Lasbeth's fruit cakes would have to do. Balakhil and Târinzil, the most respectable of our servants, delivered them up and down the street, naming my name and inviting the masters and mistresses of the various houses to call back. "I doubt that many of them will do it," Lord Eärendur had said with an apologetic grimace, "but at least they cannot say that you neglected the custom."
All but two of the boxes came back unopened, to signify that their recipients wanted to have nothing to do with us. My household enjoyed the fruit cakes all the more. Then on Valanya afternoon, Balakhil announced that Lord Saphadûl was asking to see me.
The name Saphadûl was unfamiliar, but of course I could not send a noble away at the door, and anyway, when I saw his face, I did recognise him from the feasts at the palace and the King's council. He was a portly man with greying hair, a heroic-looking scar on his face and a generous grin, and had brought a splint box of his own. The crest on it was a bee upon an apple flower, and the box was sticky at the corners because it contained a huge dripping chunk of badly wrapped honeycomb. I surmised that Lord Saphadûl was the owner of the skeps we could see from the balcony upstairs, which was perhaps fitting because he put me in mind of a bear. "Greetings, new neighbour," he said in a booming voice. "Care to invite an old beekeeper for tea?"

Lord Saphadûl was one of those rare men referred to as a Common Lord – not a guild-master (who might also occasionally be addressed as Lord by low-born men like me, preferring to err on the side of caution), but a man who had been granted the actual title in spite of lacking noble birth for some great service to the royal house. In the case of Lord Saphadûl, he had apparently saved the Crown Prince's life or victory or possibly both during that campaign in Middle-earth that had secured the Crown Prince's right to the throne, which had earned him the title of Lord for the length of his life, a seat on the council, a handsome old house, and the Crown Prince's special friendship.
These things I learned not from Lord Saphadûl himself, who had preferred to talk about gardening and his bees during his visit, but from Lord Eärendur when Amraphel and I next went to visit him. He wasn't entirely certain about what exactly Lord Saphadûl had done because there were conflicting versions of the story going around, as always happens with tales of heroism until one authoritative version asserted itself over the others. (That observation was Lord Eärendur's, too. I hadn't been aware that tales of heroism came in different versions, except maybe Long, Short, and Cleaned Up For Children.) What struck me about the tale – whatever the details – was that Lord Saphadûl was apparently a good friend of the Crown Prince, and yet he had been perfectly amiable towards me.
Lord Eärendur gave me a thoughtful look. "I don't expect they are friends in the usual sense," he mused, "Alcarmaitë is far too class-conscious for that. As for Saphadûl, I expect he acted out of loyalty, in the field, not out of love. I expect it's the companionship of lord and trusted vassal, no special devotion."

I pondered that, and came to the conclusion that it was no explanation. "Still, one would expect that his Highness would disapprove, so I must wonder why Lord Saphadûl is willing to risk that."
"He is high enough in Alcarmaitë's good graces that he needn't worry about it, I'd assume! And just because he was a celebrated hero, you mustn't think that he was eagerly accepted by my noble brethren, or even the common councillors. Many of the lords, or even the so-called better citizens, let him feel that they thought him beneath them and out of his proper place – he was a simple foot soldier before, if I recall correctly – so he may feel some kinship to you over the fact that you have both been raised above your birth, and encounter a great deal of hostility as a result."
That sounded reasonable enough. I nodded, satisfied with this answer, but then Lord Eärendur went on, "Of course, Alcarmaitë might also have asked him to win your trust and sound you out. Unfortunately, that is a possibility that we should also consider."
I sat up at that, very much alarmed. "Then I must not let him into my house again!" I tried to remember whether I had said anything dangerous during our conversation.
"On the contrary, I would advise you to befriend him. Not to trust him, of course! But to let him think that you do, so that you have control over what kind of information is given to Alcarmaitë – if the man is indeed a spy. Maybe he really is entirely benevolent. But if not, you can make sure that he has only innocent things to report. If instead you cut him off, especially if your first meeting was perfectly friendly, you'll not only let them know that you suspect something; you'll also make him think that you do have something to hide. And if Alcarmaitë wants a spy in your house, he will get it there either way. Better you know whom to suspect. So do let him in, and speak with him about innocent matters. Avoid the topic of politics. That should not be hard. He isn't one of those councillors who live for the great game of politics – indeed, he seems to care very little for it. Maybe he would be more committed if his reception hadn't been so discouraging in the beginning, but as it is, he prefers to eat, drink, and look after his garden."
"And his bees," I said. I had learned a lot about bees that afternoon.
Lord Eärendur smiled. "Just so. So if he suddenly does ask about your opinions on the King's judgement or other political matters, that's a fairly reliable sign that something's afoot. Tell him that you know and care nothing about politics, and steer the topic back into the garden!"

So I befriended Lord Saphadûl. That in itself was no hardship. I had found him quite likeable on our first meeting. He seemed friendly and unpretentious, if a bit noisy, and although he could hold forth for hours on how to properly trim and train my fruit trees or what flowers I should plant in my garden, which could at times be irritating, it also meant that I had to contribute very little to our conversations, giving me no chance to say anything incriminating. The trees in the trellis – they turned out to be apricot trees – grew well under his advice. And his honey was good.
The only discussion we ever had about politics concerned the government of the bees, which Lord Saphadûl described as strange, since their state (he said) was always ruled by a queen, and men were of little importance among them, and yet they thrived. Considering that I let my wife govern the household – with great success – and that the noble ladies I had met so far had all seemed quite capable of ruling, I didn't find it particularly puzzling. "If they are born and raised for it," I said, "I don't see how it is strange." Lord Saphadûl laughed, but he did not argue. Privately, I wondered whether this was worth reporting to the Crown Prince, if indeed that was what Lord Saphadûl did; and if so, what they would make of it.

In early summer, I came home – quite literally – to a buzz in my garden. Apparently, one of Lord Saphadûl's hives had swarmed and lodged itself in the chestnut tree in our front garden. Now one of Lord Saphadûl's servants, a young fellow lithe enough to climb along the branches if need be, was making his way up a high ladder while Lord Saphadûl himself, huffing with the effort, came behind with an empty skep. It was quite a spectacle to watch them, and I was worried that the branch would break and send them – and the doubtlessly angry bees – tumbling onto the lawn and the curious spectators. But in the end, they managed to maneuver the skep underneath the bees that hung, like an absurdly overgrown, buzzing and shifting pear, in the branch. Lord Saphadûl struck at the branch with a cudgel, and the swarm – for the most part – dropped into the skep. I was amazed that neither Lord Saphadûl nor the servant seemed to get stung, but apparently, the bees were too busy with themselves, although the servant, climbing back down with the skep in one arm, was surrounded by a cloud of bees all the way down. He clearly wasn't doing this for the first time.
They put the skep, still turned upside down, at the base of the tree. "Now the last stragglers can join the rest. The important thing is that the queen is with her people. The rest will follow." Lord Saphadûl explained, wiping his brow. He sprinkled some water onto the bees in the skep - "that'll make them think it's rainy, so they won't take off again" - and then announced that he'd like some refreshments now, how about us?
"I'm going to leave that hive here overnight to make sure they’ll stay, and then I'll pick it up tomorrow," he declared when we were sitting together in the garden. "Or would you like to buy it?"
"No, thank you," I said. "I'm afraid I don't have the time to look after them properly."
"Oh, I can teach one of your servants, that's no bother at all."
Amraphel spoke up, "Perhaps it would be a good investment for the Society. Would you be willing to teach one of our former neighbours, Lord Saphadûl?"
He smiled his broad smile. "It's all one to me! You know what, I'll donate that swarm to your Society. They can use some honey, I'm sure!"

And he did that, too. I was glad for it, for I could not have afforded to buy it. My weekly pay, which had once felt like a fortune, melted like ice taken out of the ice-house under the heat of my servants' wages and the food for such a large household and the firewood and the furniture I'd still had to buy. When we did not have to impress visitors, we lived an austere life. Fortunately, our servants didn't complain when there was pottage or fish stew for days, being used to worse and less.
I could, of course, have asked Lord Eärendur for a loan, but I did not want to put that strain on our friendship except at the last need. Already, he had given to me a great deal of curtains and sheets and bedding from his own houses: all used, but of such high quality that they would probably last another couple of decades of use. He had said that it was no hardship for him – and I suppose it wasn't – but I already felt that I had received too much. "It pleases me to see you settled well," he had said when I had expressed my gratitude and embarrassment. "Besides, I expect your enemies were hoping to see you bankrupt yourself, and we can't give them that satisfaction."

Still, it troubled me, because it intensified the feeling of being an impostor in that grand house, playing at being rich without being able to afford it. Our savings grew but very little. Amraphel had initially proposed to finally find teachers for our daughters – no self-respecting teachers had been willing to venture into our old neighbourhood, but they could hardly turn up their noses at our new home – and I accepted that both Azruphel's interest in music and dance and her talent for painting ought to be fostered, but we'd had to postpone the search for suitable tutors, and they only learned what Amraphel taught them (which was certainly more learning than I’d had at that age).
My patronage for the Daytaler's Wellfare Society was limited to letting them use my old house as a meeting-hall and storage room, and the small garden for growing vegetables, free of rent. And of course Amraphel went down there twice a week to teach reading and writing to the younger children, and accountancy to the older youths, and we had also organised lessons in weaving and gardening and housekeeping and other useful skills, taught by those of our members who were particularly good at them. But I was not able to bolster their funds, as I had hoped to do. The meagre membership fees we collected didn't add up to much, either.
"It's not worse than it was before," Târazôn said reasonably. "We've actually got some provisions, and most of us are doing alright just now, so we're not using them up. And when they'll be gone… well, then it still won't be worse than before."
And I suppose that was true, but I still was dissatisfied that I couldn't make it better. I could have sold my amber pendant, of course, but I was hesitant to part with it, and besides, it seemed better to keep it in case our need should ever turn truly desperate.

One of the boxes I had sent out to my neighbours had never been returned, which (Amraphel said) was an even worse insult than sending it back unopened, because it meant that it wasn't even worth acknowledging that we had sent it in the first place. I accepted it. Lord Saphadûl had by now told me who the people living around us were – some guild-masters whom he knew from the council, some wealthy merchants, and some old money who barely greeted him in the street. We occasionally saw these people on the terraces and balconies or in the gardens of their own houses, but they never hailed us or even just smiled in our direction. The guild-masters were now, very generously, giving me the curtest of nods when we passed each other in the street or saw each other at the palace, thus showing that at the least they recognised me as a regular appearance. Other than that, my household was like its own small island in that clean, quiet, well-ordered street, and the hedge around my grounds might as well have been the Sundering Sea. After a while, I began to appreciate it. I probably would not have had the time to socialise much, anyway. I kept busy at work. Although we seemed to have now reached the point that we had been working towards all the time, we had been given no new directives, so we continued our experiments, anxious to look productive, although the King’s condition had once more worsened and we saw no more of him. His brother, on the other hand, regularly desired to annihilate me in chess and fire snide remarks – and the occasional thickly veiled word of praise – in my direction. My in-laws wished to see their grandchildren. Lord Eärendur invited us to his city house and to Andúnië, and Lord Saphadûl called regularly, as did my colleagues. So I cannot say that I truly missed the company my new neighbours withheld from me.

Nor can I say that I was truly unhappy. It was, there was no denying it, a very good house. During the hot summer days, it was still pleasant and cool inside, and in winter, the hypocaust would make it pleasant and warm (that is, if I could afford sufficient firewood for that purpose). Waking up in our spacious blue bedroom to pull back the curtains and step out onto the gallery, watching as the garden filled with light, was uplifting. Crossing the pretty white courtyard to pull up water from our own well, seeing the apricots ripen on the trellis and my daughters paint or read in the colonnade, made my chest flood with joy. And of course it was a delight to have a bath inside our own house, where we could not only wash off the sweat and dust but also sit and relax in the warm water for as long as we pleased. The big garden, too, was lovely to have. There were all kinds of good things growing there. Palatârik admired the butterflies and nibbled on strawberries and daisies, and Narâk had converted the useless flowerbeds into additional vegetable patches, which helped to supplement our meals very nicely. His daughter, the frail little Narukil, was no longer constantly coughing and had even put on some weight, which made all of us happy. In short, I had plenty of reasons to be grateful, in spite of the strain on my purse. The house was, as I had felt from the beginning, a world unto itself; but slowly, it came to be my world. Although I continued to feel that I could not possibly be the master of this fine house, I suppose I began to grow into it, and it certainly grew on me. By autumn, the Valar in the front hallway began to look benevolent rather than reproachful to my eye. Of course, our happiness could not last. But still, while it lasted, I decided that we could as well enjoy it.

Chapter 27

Warning for some violence, and the death of a major supporting character.

Read Chapter 27

And then the King died.
Up until then, it had been a decent year without any major upheavals. True, state business had pretty much ground to a complete halt, which vexed Lord Atanacalmo and made him more sardonic than usual. Lord Eärendur also found it frustrating. But for me, personally, it made very little difference. My day-to-day life went well enough. Amraphel had managed to talk, or possibly guilt, her father into paying for a tutor who descended upon our house twice a week so our daughters would learn all the things young ladies needed to know. At this young age, that meant needlework, poetry, music and dance. Palatârik did not yet require that kind of tutelage, being still very much in the toddling stage of bipedal movement, although he absolutely loved to be present during these lessons and dance his own clumsy dance while my daughters increased in grace and skill. Azruphel continued to enjoy painting, and Amraphel had treated the best of her childish drawings like proper paintings and put them in frames in our studies. There were now chairs in every room that required them. There had been no great upheavals at work. We had checked on Old Palatâr's body again in spring, a year after it had last been unwrapped, and it had been unspoiled still. The garden had yielded generous fruit, and my finances were slowly beginning to recover from the exertions of the past years. The Daytaler's Welfare Society had managed to provide medical treatment for several of its members, paid the midwife's wages for four more, and even paid for some repair works on some houses so that they hadn't collapsed in the spring rains. In short, life had reached a good balance that I would not have been unhappy to continue forever.

But in the peace of winter, three weeks before Mettarë, that balance was brutally disrupted. It was late in the evening, and my household – with the exception of the sleeping children and Târinzil, their nurse – was gathered in the room of the Heart, as was our custom. The last conversations were drawing to a close as we prepared to go to bed when we heard somebody hammering on the door. Balakhil went to answer, and came back, ill at ease, to announce that the King wanted to see me and that a patrol of guards had come to escort me there. Obviously, there was no denying them, so I bid the household a good night and donned my warm cloak and went to see the guards.
"What is this about?" I couldn't help asking.
The patrol's leader slammed his fist on his chest in a formal solute. "His Majesty insists on your presence."
Now as I said, the business of state had come to a halt because the King had, in the past year, lacked the attention span and awareness to listen to proposals or sign laws (this was not told to the common people, but I knew it from my noble contacts, friends and otherwise). I therefore asked whether the King had recovered, and the guard took a while before replying, maybe figuring out how much he was allowed to say in public.
"He is lucid," he eventually said. "But the healers say that it is a sign of the end."
I thought of Old Palatâr, using his final days to finish unfinished business, and felt a cold that had nothing to do with the winter chill. The city was empty and silent – there was no need for a whole escort of guards, really – and the world was asleep, and I wished I could have lain in my bed, too, instead of walking at the guards' brisk pace through the dark and glistening streets. I hoped that the Crown Prince hadn't once more kindled the King's mistrust against me, and wondered whether they couldn't at least have waited for the morning.

The gates at the citadel had already been locked, of course, but they were opened again for the patrol, who naturally knew the password. My mind, eager to distract itself, wondered for the first time why the citadel was locked at night when it was guarded at all times, anyway. Did the King have reason to be afraid of his subjects at night? Or maybe it was an ancient custom that had been brought over from Middle-earth, like city walls or the Heart of the House. At any rate, I felt the hairs on my neck stand up as the guards behind the wall turned the keys and threw back the heavy bolts with noisy clangs that echoed in the moat-like street, and the great white gate opened to let us through before it was securely locked and bolted again. Up the stairs and to the palace we went, and there, my escort left me in the care of another – single – guard, who led me through darkened corridors with an Elvish lamp that made every sculpture and every piece of furniture cast eerie shadows.

In contrast, the King's bedchamber was full of candles whose light could have been warm and welcoming under other circumstances, but felt unsettling as it was. The air here was humid, smelling of beeswax and incense, and too many breathing, sweating bodies in a single space. In spite of the generous size of the room, it was too small to comfortably contain all the servants and healers, courtiers and noblewomen and what appeared to be the entire royal Council. The crowded space was filled with a constant hum of conversation, even though those closer to the door briefly fell silent when I was ushered in, staring me up and down in surprise or contempt. The mutter at the back of the room reminded me of the constant buzzing noise that filled the air if you stood among Lord Saphadûl's skeps.
Lord Saphadûl himself was present, too, sitting in a window-seat with some other councillors who evidently preferred comfort to a good view of the King. I could not blame them, for the King, lying in his large bed, looked terrible. In all honesty, my first thought was that there would not be much for us embalmers to do, since he looked nearly as withered and shrunk as a dried-out corpse. Had not his eyes moved, I would truly have thought that he was dead already, and had been for the entire year. His skeletal hands were clutching the sceptre, cradling it to his chest like a child might hold a doll, and that – the sceptre, I mean – made me realise that all the people present were here to witness the passing of power from the old King to the new, either in life or in death. I understood that I had been brought here at this unholy hour of the night not to inconvenience me, but rather because it was not expected that the King would see the next morning.

Right now, however, his eyes were alert – more alert than they had appeared the last time I had looked into them – and wandering over the crowd in front of him as if searching for someone. No less than four healers, Master Sérindo included, were hovering around him and fanning his face or offering him something to drink or wiping the sweat of his creased brow or bringing fresh towels. The Queen sat by his side, as did Lord Atanacalmo, looking serious and uncommonly sad. Next to him was the lady Calamíriel of Hyarnastorni, red-eyed and resolute. Behind them, Lady Arancalimë was whispering with the Crown Princess, who was weeping openly. Quentangolë stood on the other side of the bed, his usually cheerful face looking weary and distressed. The corners of his mouth twitched up for a brief, sad smile of recognition when our eyes met. Next to him, the Crown Prince was grinding his jaw in grief or anger (quite possibly both). Lord Eärendur was in the crowd, surrounded by other men I remembered not only from the feasts at the palace, but also from the Holy Mountain and from little lord Vanimon's birth feast: faithful folk like himself, no doubt. He, too, smiled sadly when he saw me, while most of the others, if they noticed my presence at all, looked me over with expressions of scepticism: What is he doing here?
The King's roving gaze found me, and I could see his lips move although I could hear nothing. Quentangolë evidently could, because he turned in my direction and waved for me to come forward. I really would have preferred not to, because the Crown Prince was clearly not happy to see me, and if looks could kill, then I would surely have crumbled to ashes right then and there. But somehow, I withstood the fury of his gaze and the affronted huffing of the gathered councillors as I wove through the crowd to get to the King's bedside. Already, a lump had risen in my throat, making it hard to breathe. Behind my eyes, I could feel the tears building up, and I knew that I wouldn't be able to hold them back for long. My heart and thoughts heavy, I knelt beside the enormous bed.

One of the King's frail hands left the sceptre and took my own hand, if take was the right word for so feeble a touch. His hand betrayed what his alert eyes were concealing: That he was barely still with us, that the greatest part of his strength had abandoned his body and it would not be long now until his spirit followed. I did not need to be a healer to know that.
"My embalmer," the King said in a voice like a sigh, and I felt my heart swell painfully against the iron grip of sadness.
"My lord King," I said.
"Keep me well," he breathed, and I tried to think of something reassuring to say, but all that came out was, "I shall, your Majesty," as my eyes welled over and I began to weep.
I thought that he might want to say more, but he did not; instead, he sighed heavily and stared up at the ceiling. After a moment, the Crown Prince pushed against me with his foot, clearly demanding that I make room for him. I did not even feel offended – his father was dying, of course he wanted to be closer to him – so I merely kissed the bony royal hand that still rested on mine, and then shuffled out of the way. I would not have minded to leave the room altogether, in all honesty; there was no reason why I should be here, now that the King had evidently said what he had wanted to say. But the King's bed was walled in by all the councillors and nobles, and I did not dare to push through them again, and so I just stood back as far as I could and wiped my eyes and tried not to sob audibly.

The Crown Prince was speaking to his father in a gentle voice that I hadn't previously known he possessed, reassuring him that he was there, by his side, his devoted son, until the end. The King made no reply, although his eyes were still open and his chest was still rising and falling steadily. I could feel the Crown Prince's grief radiating off him, like the warning smell in the air when a thunderstorm was imminent, and I wished that the King could have said something kind in return to his son's reassurances, but he seemed to have wasted his last words on me. The Crown Prince's voice now had a pleading quality to it as he asked for his father's blessing, and the sceptre while there was still time, and although the King's breathing grew more laboured, he still did not respond, except that his free hand returned to its grip on the sceptre. It did not look as though he wanted to pass it on at all, and I could see that this troubled several of the onlookers, and seemed to delight others. The Queen was whispering in her husband's ear, but he showed no sign of recognition. Lord Atanacalmo laid his hand on his brother's shoulder and said firmly, "Let him have it, Ancalimon. He is your son and heir." This prompted a bit of a stir among the councillors, and Quentangolë looked up sharply from the book in which he had been scribbling all the while. Apparently, this was unexpected. I got the impression that some people had hoped for Lord Atanacalmo to contest the Crown Prince's claim, and even though it smacked of treason, I couldn't help but understand the sentiment. I had my issues with Lord Atanacalmo, but he would certainly be preferable to the Crown Prince as far as I was concerned. But clearly, he had decided against it.

His intercession did not have the desired effort, anyway; if anything, the King's fingers curled more tightly around the gilded wood, his eyes now wide as if he were scared. Somehow I felt that it wasn't directed at his son, but rather that he feared that in giving up the sceptre he would also give up the claim to his life, frail though it already was, and he was clearly unwilling to do that even now. The Crown Prince's shoulders had begun to tremble, and Lord Atanacalmo continued to whisper urgently to his brother, and the King continued to breathe in and out, slowly and regularly, and refused to give either sceptre or blessing. The candles flickered. The councillors talked and shifted, and someone at the back of the room was snoring, and the Crown Prince was now crying quietly, but obviously. One of his hands lay on the sceptre, and still the King did not relinquish his grip. It was a feeble grip, naturally, and the Crown Prince could have wrested the sceptre from it very easily, but of course it was the message that counted, and the message was that the King was not yielding to his son. I heard these words muttered somewhere behind me, and very much hoped that the Crown Prince hadn't heard them also, although I suppose he knew well enough that his was what it was looking like. Time seemed to have come to a standstill. The hum of conversation had all but silenced, with everybody watching intently how the drama would continue. My throat was stinging from the sobs I was trying to suppress so as not to draw attention to myself.

The candles had burned about halfway down when there was a sudden change in the King's attitude, and his right hand abandoned its grip on the sceptre and reached for the Crown Prince's head. Although it did not really have the strength to pull him close, the Crown Prince readily let himself be guided. He ended up half-sprawled across the bed, quite undignified, awkwardly propped up on his elbow to avoid crushing his father's chest. But his brow was drawn against the King's lips, and that seemed to be the blessing that he had been waiting for. The gathered crowd let out a collective sigh of either relief or disappointment. No words were spoken, neither by the watchful audience nor by the old King. Eventually, the King's other hand let go of the sceptre, too, coming to rest on top of the Crown Prince's hand, and there was another stir in the room. I chanced to look at Lord Atanacalmo, who met my gaze, opening his eyes wide in a deliberate show of exasperation. The Queen leaned forward so that her head, too, was touching with her husband's and son's: to share in the blessing, or to say goodbye.

And with that, I suppose, the passing of the sceptre had been accomplished. But it did not mean that we had leave to go home at last. We stood – or in the case of lucky people like Lord Saphadûl or the King's immediate family, sat – for what must have been another two or so hours while the King drew belaboured breath after breath. Muted conversation was taking place again, but on my side of the room, I had no-one to talk to – the only friendly face in my immediate vicinity belonged to Quentangolë, who was still taking notes – and the only thing I could do was watch and let the mutters around me wash over me. It was all very unreal, and more than once I slipped into that strange state that your mind enters just before falling asleep. I worried that I actually might fall asleep on my feet and fall over. Yet again, I wished I didn't have to be here at this time. I wasn't on the council and I wasn't part of the royal household and there was no reason why I should have to be at the King's deathbed, and I dearly wished he hadn't summoned me to tell me things that we had already agreed on long ago.

It felt like that darkest hour in the night – and I suppose it was, at least figuratively – when the King's breath quickened. He reared up suddenly, giving us all a terrible start, and rasped "No! No! I am not ready!"
But ready or not, he fell back; he drew one long, bubbling breath and released it slowly; and then he breathed no more. And in this manner Tar-Ancalimon, King of Númenórë, in the four hundredth year of his life and the one hundred and sixty-fifth year of his reign, took the Gift of Ilúvatar. (These are not my words; it is what Quentangolë later put in the official record.)
For a moment, I think we all stared in shock. At least I know I did. I suppose the others may merely have waited to see whether there was going to be another breath after all. As it became clear that there was going to be nothing more, by and by, people began to kneel. The silk robes of the nobles were rustling and the woollen clothes of the guild-masters were folding softly and we were bumping against each other and into the tapestries, and even though I was crying, I felt a burst of shrill laughter that wanted to push past the grief because it felt so absurd how we were all trying to find some space for our legs in the crowded room. I fought it down and knelt along with the others, paying respect to the departing spirit of the old King.

And, of course, to the new King. The Crown Prince had sat still by his father's bedside, cradling the sceptre in the crook of his right arm, his face lowered reverently. As the silence deepened, his left hand moved to close the dead man's staring eyes; and when he had accomplished this, he lifted his head, and then he stood. I did not dare to look up, and I had the impression that the others around me were also bowing their heads even lower.
It was Lord Atanacalmo who broke the silence. Even he had clearly been affected by his brother's death, because his voice was still firm but dull, stripped of life and laughter. Still, he spoke strongly for all to hear: "Long live the King!"
"Long live the King," we chorused dutifully.

I don't know if I spoke too loudly or if, perhaps, I had raised my head at the wrong moment, but either way, the Crown Prince's glance fell upon my upturned face. His eyes, bright with unshed tears, darkened immediately, and he let out his breath in a threatening huff, like a bull that is about to attack; and then, in front of the royal household and the healers and the entire Council, by the side of the old King's death-bed, he struck me across my face with the sceptre. I was too surprised to even cry out as the hard wood broke my nose. Suddenly, there was an absurd amount of blood and a sharp pain and I was torn between the desire to protect my face and the fear of soiling the silk carpet. I tried to compromise by burying my nose in the crook of my arm and wrapping the other arm around my head just in time to make the second blow land, hard, on my wrist rather than the back of my head.
And I would not have been surprised if the first act of the new King had been to beat me to death right then and there. But by now, the rest of the court had unfrozen. Lord Atanacalmo had somehow lunged across the large bed to restrain his nephew's arm, and the Queen was standing in front of him, her hand on his shoulders, and one was pleading and the other was shouting at him not to spill blood in the night of his father's death and not to desecrate the hallowed sceptre. Meanwhile, I was pushing backwards in a panic, and now the throng was parting readily as the former Crown Prince yelled at me to get out, OUT, OUT! and Quentangolë was beside me and gripped my arm and pulled me to my feet. There was a lot of noise – everybody seemed to be yelling at each other – and when the door slammed shut behind us, the silence of the dark corridor was a blessed relief. My face was half burning, half numb, and I could not have told you whether I was crying out of pain or out of grief.
"We can't get him out of the citadel at this time," a dark voice behind me said as we hastened along the corridor, and I realised that Quentangolë wasn't my only companion. Master Sérindo had also abandoned the King's bedside. Of course, the new King did not at this time require his service.
"I know," Quentangolë said without turning around. "Let's take him to my rooms."
I breathed into my wet and sticky sleeve and let myself be led.

A servant was waiting in Quentangolë's office, and although his eyes widened at first as we came in, he very quickly regained his composure. I was worried now that my blood would get on any of the important documents, but it turned out that Quentangolë had a narrow bedchamber behind the long shelf at the back wall of his office. They made me lie down there, and the servant brought a bowl of cold water and fetched some towels. Master Sérindo unceremoniously pushed my arm down and put wet towels on my face. The stinging didn't lessen, but I had by now realised that I had far more severe problems than just the pain. If that was how the new King began his reign, then I might as well throw myself into the sea right away. But no; I would have to fulfil my promise to his father, first. I could not even try to escape before I had done that. If I lived that long, which was questionable. What a mess. I wept harder.
"What a night," Master Sérindo sighed heavily, as if he had heard my thoughts. Then he admonished me, "You'll have to breathe evenly, Azruhâr, otherwise the bleeding won't stop."
I tried to obey, and wondered what was happening up in the royal bedchamber now. I pictured the Crown Prince – no, the new King – roaming the corridors, snorting like an angry bull, looking for me to finish the job. I hoped I hadn't left a trail of my blood that would lead him right here. I hoped Quentangolë and Master Sérindo wouldn't get into trouble. They were speaking softly, over at the window, while I stared at the white plaster of the ceiling and the servant occasionally replaced a bloodied towel with a fresh one.

Eventually, the blood flow stopped, and Master Sérindo allowed me to sit up and drink a cup of water. "It'll probably mend itself," he told me, "but I'd like to take another look at it just in case. Come to my house in the evening. For now, keep on drinking; you've lost quite a bit of blood. My bag is still upstairs, so I can't give you anything for the pain. Maybe Quenno can get you some wine at least. I need to get back up. With some luck, I haven't been missed in all that commotion."
He had already washed his hands, but some of my blood had come on his sleeves, so they'd probably figure out clear enough that he had been involved with me, but I assumed that he knew that already, and I wouldn't have known how to advise him, anyway. So I just said, "Thack gou", as he left.
"So," the servant said, giving me a lopsided smile, "will you be joining us for tonight?"
"If I ngay," I said, with some difficulty.
That was apparently funny, because Quentangolë stifled a chuckle before looking serious again. "You misunderstand, Azruhâr." And to the servant, he said, "I'm afraid tonight is not a night for merriment. The King has died at last."
The servant let out a long, slow breath, but his face did not change. "Has he. Eru rest him. Well, it was to be expected."
"It was," Quentangolë said. "We all knew it. Still, it's different now that it's happened. I expect things will change quite a bit --"
The servant yawned, stretching. "Not for me, I don't expect. The Great come and go, but the lowly have to get on with their work."
Quentangolë grimaced. "I wouldn't rely on it. You and I were both in high favour with Tar-Ancalimon. That'll probably make us unpopular with the new King."
"Tar-Alcarmaitë," the servant said experimentally. "Or whatever he'll call himself. Well, I'm sure I'll be able to charm my way into his good graces." He smiled, and even I couldn't deny that it was a lovely smile in a beautiful face. If anyone could charm the former Crown Prince, it was probably someone like him. I found the corners of my own lips drawn up against my will, in spite of the relentless ache in my face, even though I did not care much for his attitude, simply because that smile was so contagious.

Quentangolë seemed to think so, too, because he also smiled. "Yes, you probably will. I'll have to work harder for it. For now, I'll have to go back upstairs myself. I'll need to make a record of the King's last hours so it can be proclaimed in the streets tomorrow, and I suspect I'll have to edit my notes quite heavily, so I should discuss that with – the new King. And of course they'll need the Will." He tilted his head, giving us both an apologetic look. "Azruhâr, get some rest. Fortulco, behave yourself."
"I always behave," said Fortulco, pouting, and Quentangolë smirked before placing a quick kiss on the pout. I felt my face grow warm.
"If I'm getting in the way of something --" I began, as well as I could enunciate the words through the throbbing mess that was my nose.
"You heard him, he's got to return to work," Fortulco said with a disarming shrug. "Besides, we can't kick you out in the street in that state, can we?"
Quentangolë smiled again, briefly, and nodded to us both. "We'll catch up tomorrow," he told Fortulco, and then he disappeared around the bookshelf. There was the scraping of a key and the creaking of a lid, suggesting that he was opening a strong-box – presumably to take out the King's Last Will – and then the lid slammed shut, and shortly after, the door to the study did the same.

Fortulco and I sighed at the same time. "Well, you look a mess," he told me. "What happened?"
"The new King is not fond of me," I mumbled.
"Oh. Oh dear. Well, would you like to clean yourself up a bit? And something to drink? Wine? Or something more powerful?"
"Water is fine, thank you," I said, or meant to say, although it came out sounding very different. In truth, I should have liked something more powerful, but I didn't want him to feel obliged to fetch something from the kitchens or wherever else in the middle of the night.
His lips twitched. "Well, suit yourself. For my part, I'll have some brandy, if you don't mind."
"I don't mind," I said absentmindedly, taking stock of my face in Quentangolë's small mirror. My nose had swollen to more than twice its usual size and was purple in colour, as was the rest of my face where the sceptre had connected. Blood had crusted around my nostrils and all the way down to my chin, but at least the skin itself hadn't split. I dabbed the blood off as well as I could without rubbing too hard on the bruised skin. My tunic was drenched both down the chest and at the elbow, and my wrist was sporting a dark bruise and hurt viciously. The new King certainly had a strong arm. I looked, I grimly thought, like someone who had walked out of a tavern brawl, not like somebody who had witnessed the solemn occasion of the King's death.
In the mirror, I could see Fortulco behind me, pouring some golden-brown liquid into a cup. I emptied my water quickly. It did me well – and the brandy probably wouldn't – but I was in no shape to be reasonable.
"Maybe we should drink to the memory of the King," I said in my strange nasal voice.
Fortulco's eyes brightened. "We absolutely should! I'll pour you some, too."
And we drank to Tar-Ancalimon the Merciful, to the long life he had lived and to the peace we hoped he would find, and the kingdom, too.

I spent the rest of the night looking out of the window, trying to figure out what would happen now. Quentangolë did not return, and after a while Fortulco asked if it was alright if he lay down and got some sleep because the next day would doubtlessly be busy. I nodded. Of course it was alright. I doubted that I would be able to sleep even if I tried, but that didn't mean he had to stay awake as well. I wasn't exactly in the mood for talking, quite aside from the effort it took, and I had been grateful that Fortulco had not asked for a longer explanation. I suppose curiosity wasn't encouraged in palace staff. Or he knew that Quentangolë would answer his questions. I wished someone could have answered mine, most importantly, what were my chances and what could I do to improve them?
Fortulco had curled up on the bed, but I sat awake and watched through the narrow window as the sky grew gradually brighter. A pale winter morning dawned, and I could hear that the usual dawn bells had been replaced by an ominous-sounding drum that rolled for a while and then fell silent. Now all the citizenship would know that something grim had happened, and soon, the criers in the markets would let them know exactly what.

Fortulco woke when the baleful drum boomed again an hour later, twice this time, and he went to have breakfast with the other servants. He came back with an apple, a hard-boiled egg and two dried sausages that he had snuck away from the table for me. I was grateful, although chewing hurt dreadfully, and I turned away from the room so Fortulco wouldn't see that I was crying again. Not all of them were tears of pain; I also wept for the loss of the King whom I had loved, who had raised me out of despair and squalour, but had now left me to the questionable mercy of his heir. I remembered getting up yesterday morning, cheerfully enough, expecting nothing worse than a cold winter day with its usual workload, and felt a great emptiness in my chest when I thought of the future under the reign of the new King.
And then I snuck out of the palace and went down to the royal morgue, because it was just as Fortulco had said: the Great come and go, but the lowly always have to get on with their work.

Chapter 28

Read Chapter 28

Work was strange that day. We cleaned things away, polished our tools and the slab and the work-benches, made sure that our stocks of resin and salts and wrappings were sufficient. We were all downcast; after all, the old King had met us, for the most part, with generosity. I had no desire to speak of the last night, even to explain my broken nose, so instead we shared memories of happier times. Other than that, we waited for a messenger or a summons or the delivery of the body, but neither came.
We left the citadel at the usual time, unapprehended, and I went to Master Sérindo's house. He had indeed returned from the palace and even taken up his daily work again. He bade me sit and wait while he looked after the last of his patients, and then took me into his study. He studied my nose intently and announced that he would have to set it, but that it would have to wait.
"Until the bruising goes down?" I guessed.
"No, no. I'll do it today, don't worry. But I may have to give you something against the pain, and that'll make you woolly-minded. I have to discuss something serious with you first."
He looked around as if worried that somebody had snuck inside the study with me, then unlocked a drawer in his desk and took out a small box that was also locked and required a minuscule key to open. From this box, he took a small glass vial, the kind of which I had seen before: Filled with a colourless liquid, stoppered and safely sealed with nondescript sealing wax.
"Here," he said. "Judging from yesterday's events, I'm afraid you should have one of these."
I felt as if I had swallowed a stone, or maybe a lump of ice. "What is it?" I asked, even though I was fairly certain that it was the same kind of vial that Lord Eärendur's steward had lent to me a while back.

Master Sérindo held it up to the light. "It is called the Draught of Walking Death," he explained. "The finest opium from the Gardens of Lórien, mixed with concentrated essence of hemp flowers. Very powerful and very dangerous, but also very useful if you're about to suffer the grisly fate of, say, a traitor. It renders the rational faculties insensate – removes the spirit, so to say – while the animal parts of the body still react to their surroundings. That way, the executioner gets his due and the crowd gets its spectacle, but the condemned is spared from actually experiencing his torment. A word of caution – the spirit is destroyed permanently, even if one is pardoned halfway through, so it should not be taken except at the last need. But should that last need arise, you are now prepared."
I took the small bottle hesitantly. "And you are certain that it works?"
"Absolutely. I have seen it in use."

Nodding despondently, I stowed the bottle in my loincloth, a little awkwardly because it was winter and I was wearing three layers on top of it. "What do I owe you? How can I thank you?" I said.
"Don't mention it. And I mean that literally. Do not mention it to anyone. Not to your friends, not to your fellow embalmers, not even to your darling wife. Keep it absolutely secret."
"My fellow embalmers thought about using arsenic, if… the need arose. We can easily get that at work."
"Hm. Can't recommend it. Messy death. Inner bleeding. Awful cramps. Probably not as bad as the torment itself, but not the best choice if you're hoping to go painlessly. Not entirely reliable either. Some people need more than others to be killed, and just end up miserable inside as well as outside. It might make you vomit and thus essentially cure yourself – long enough to be fully conscious for the punishment, at any rate. Besides, it takes too long. And it's not exactly subtle, so they may figure it out and punish you harder while they can. There's just one thing worse than a traitor's death, and that's the death of a traitor who was caught trying to cheat the executioner." He grimaced dramatically, but then conceded, "I suppose it's better than nothing. You'd have to take a lot of it to be on the safe side, though. No, the Walking Death is a lot less unpleasant. You didn't get it from me, of course. Helping a traitor to suffer less is treason in itself."
I put my hands together in a demonstration of sincerity. "I never heard or got it from you. If anyone catches me with it, I got the vial from a hooded figure in the black market, behind the brothels, for the proud sum of three Trees."
Master Sérindo actually smiled at that. "I see you've given the matter some thought. That's good. One should be prepared for the worst, and then take care that it never comes to pass. And now let's have a look at your nose."
In the end, he decided that his poppyseed concoction – the ordinary kind – would take longer to take hold than just setting my nose without any such precautions. "But I'll give you some to take home with you, and you can take it for the night – or future nights - if you need it."
The brief pressure he put on my nose brought the sharp pain back at full strength, and when he told me that it would take several weeks until it would be back to normal, I was very much tempted to cry. My face felt horrible, and my mind felt horrible, and as I left Master Sérindo's practice with a wet cloth pressed to my nose and one of his servants with a lantern guiding me home, I remembered the last night and began to wonder whether I would even last the next month, and that did make me cry. It was not a good idea. The last thing you want to do with a broken nose is sob.

Lord Eärendur had kindly already informed my household of the reason for my absence and of my injury. Nonetheless, I could not wholly avoid telling them what had happened, although I could not bring myself to tell them the shameful truth about my broken nose, which turned out to be a good thing, because Azruphel was furious when she saw me like that.
"Who did that to you, Atto?" she asked, brandishing her small fists. "I am going to punch them back!"
I had vivid, quite horrifying images in my mind of my daughter trying to punch the King's heir. "Revenge is never going to bring peace," I said, and pretended that it had happened in the general commotion following the King's death, and that I did not even properly remember the details of it.
That evening, in the warmth and merry light of the Heart, I told my household of my history with the old King. Most of them had not heard it – the true version of it, not the garbled tale of spying and private dinners that had made the rounds back in the day – and it seemed to be a riveting tale, in spite of my thick nasal voice. At any rate, they all listened intently and kept asking what happened next, and I spoke a lot more than I would have liked to.
When I lay in bed at last, I had no more words left to speak. Amraphel took me in her arms, and we wept together for the death of the old King and the terror of the new.

The next day was uneventful. The day after that, I received the summons that I had expected and dreaded. They did not wait until after work, either, but called me up from the catacombs and told me to present myself at the palace. Not knowing what else to do, I obeyed, and had to wait in the antechamber in front of the throne room for the better part of an hour, as if I needed to be reminded that I was the kind of man who could be called from his work at any time and then kept waiting at his betters' discretion. I wondered whether I should have joined the queue of mourners who filed past the dead King. He had been put on display on some sort of ceremonial table, anointed and robed all in white and crowned with a wreath of juniper, and it appeared that anyone who had ever received the least kindness from him, and probably a whole lot of people who were simply curious to see the King up close, had come to pay him their respects. They touched his feet or kissed his dead hands, and I began to worry that all this lying on display and being handled and kissed would damage the body. Already, two and a half days had passed since his death, and the longer the body was untreated – the scented oils barely counted – the higher the risk that we would not be able to preserve it properly.
But anyway, I wondered whether I should have gotten into line with the other mourners, some of whom were giving me very curious glances because I was simply standing around, doing nothing, and probably also because of my bruised face and puffed eyes. I had been given no instruction other than to wait in front of the throne room, and was beginning to think that I had understood something wrong when finally, a servant appeared to take me into the state room on the other side of the chamber.

The King – the new King, that is – was there, as well as Lord Atanacalmo and a man whom, by the coal smears on his fingers and the clothing too fine for a charburner, I identified as a painter. I was informed that he was making the sketches for the memorial tapestry of Tar-Ancalimon's life, and that my assistance was required.
I must have looked very stupid at that, because I was neither a painter nor a tapestry weaver and did not see my purpose in this. I tried to sound collected and not too badly confused. "And how exactly may I help?"
"Our father," the King announced, "desired to be remembered, among other things, for his habit of pardoning undeserving criminals like yourself, and since you are such a prime example of his mercy, we felt that you should pose for the tapestry."
I blinked hard. "Your majesty wants to have me on your royal father's tapestry?" That seemed, on the whole, a strange decision, even if the tapestry would be put up at the Noirinan where he wouldn't have to see it often.
"A depiction of you," he said dismissively, which was of course what I'd meant. "What a better way to let everybody know what kind of man you are?"
"I see," I said, not seeing a thing.
The artist spoke up. "Oh yes, he'll do very nicely; he does have the face of a prisoner-"
At that, my temper began to stir, and I interrupted him, saying, "Nobody broke my nose back then."
Lord Atanacalmo, who had so far kept quiet, seemed to find that inexplicably funny. He was dressed in mourning, of course, and had been looking uncommonly grim up to now, but at this exchange, the old smirk was reappearing on his face, which he swiftly turned away from us. Even more strangely, the King suddenly stiffened and rose abruptly from his cushioned chair.
"Before you begin, we shall have some private words with Azruhâr," he said.

Lord Atanacalmo inclined his head in acknowledgement, while the artist bowed very low. The King grabbed my wrist – fortunately, he took the right, not the bruised left – and unceremoniously pulled me into a small side-room, which was evidently where they stored the tableware for banquets. I felt very ill at ease alone with him in that small space. His eyes were hard and angry, and his jaw was clenched so firmly that it was trembling ever so slightly, and I wondered whether he would finish what he had begun on the night of his father's death. The painter would surely be no help, and I didn't dare to rely on Lord Atanacalmo, either. I should have bowed my head, but I didn't dare to lose sight of my opponent, and so I compromised on a sort of half-bow that still enabled me to keep my eyes on the King's grim face.

"It has been brought to our attention," he said, "that it would be highly unsuitable for the King's heir to unrighteously spill the blood of one of his subjects, no matter how deserving, during the hallowed Night of Passing. Extremely unsuitable. Outrageously unsuitable."
"Outrageously," I echoed just to show that I was listening. "That is... unfortunate."
He stared me down. "Therefore, such a thing cannot have happened."
I began to guess where this was going. "Your majesty excepts me to keep it secret?" I said, and could not help sounding outraged. "This is the second time!"
His chin jerked in an odd way, as if he had bit into a juicy-looking piece of meat and his teeth had come down on a hidden bone. I wondered whether he had forgotten about the concussion I had been given at his command.
"It would be easy for any subject to disappear who might claim that such an outrageous thing had happened..."
I did not doubt it. Still, I couldn't help asking, "And the council, lord King? Is it easy to let that disappear, too?"
He tossed his head back as if I had struck out. Had he truly forgotten that there had been plenty of witnesses – and men of rank and name, too? He pursed his lips and then said, "The council will be reasonable, we are sure. It is not their grievance. They will not make a case of it unless someone brings it up."
I was less certain. I remembered how disappointed some of the councillors had been when the former Crown Prince had been given the sceptre, and they might be happy to exploit my grievance in order to replace him with somebody who suited them better.

On the other hand, who would that be? Lord Atanacalmo had openly demonstrated that he would not contest his nephew's claim. Then who else would they turn to? I did not understand enough of politics to do more than guess wildly. All of the nobles were somehow related to the royal house, of course, but there must be some kind of set of rules for the succession. Lord Eärendur had already told me that he was too far removed from the main line, and besides, he was hoping to retire to Andúnië. Lord Eärengolë was even further removed, no matter that he was married to the sister of the new Queen. Lord Vanatirmo, perhaps? I had no idea, nor did I know how closely or less closely the other nobles were to the main line. The only certain candidates I could think of were Lady Calamíriel, who did not strike me as a rebel leader, and Lady Arancalimë, who would doubtlessly make a formidable Queen but might be hindered by her own father's refusal to contend for the sceptre. Perhaps Princess Vanimeldë as the direct heir of the old King's heir? But they were all women, which seemed to make some people think that they were not meant to be rulers, and that would probably make it hard to inspire a large following and unite the people. I came to the conclusion that it would be unwise to risk the former Crown Prince's ire if I didn't even know whose purpose it would serve, and whether that person had any serious hopes for the throne, and even if they did, whether they would be willing to protect me at all.

"What makes your majesty think that I will not also be amenable to reason?" I asked.
He tilted his head, his eyebrows raised in surprise or scepticism. "You defy reason constantly! There is no predicting what you will do! Reasonable? You?" He clenched and unclenched his fists rapidly, and I shrank back, fearing for my poor face. All things considered, I found it rather astounding that somebody who followed a meaningless man like me with such hatred, and who had unrighteously spilled a subject's blood within the very first minute of his reign, was accusing me of defying reason. I had to clasp my hands behind my back to keep them from balling into tight fists in turn, and I certainly spoke more sharply than one should in the presence of the King. "All I want – all I have ever wanted – is to live in peace, free from fear or hunger or harm. Everything I do is motivated from that simple desire. I do not want to cause trouble. I know that your majesty hates me, but I for my part am not your enemy, and I wish I could make you see that." I took a deep, steadying breath – since I could not breathe through my nose, it was hard to speak so much at once – and said, more politely, "I will be happy to stay out of your way, lord King. I seek no office and I don't need to be invited to the palace. I have no desire to inconvenience you. All I ask is that neither I nor anybody I love be threatened or hurt." My left hand had flown up to my nose and cheek, bruised and tender, as if the illustration was needed.

A long silence followed. The King was no longer pacing, instead standing frozen to the spot, his hands balled into tight fists, his brow creased in a frown that made him look decades older. But at last, he let out a heavy sigh, and unclenched his fists.
"So be it," he said, holding out his right hand to me.
In shock and surprise, at first I did not move at all. Then I had to fight down the well-practiced impulse to kneel and kiss the royal hand. Instead, I managed to grip it in a nervous handshake that probably turned out rather too firm; at any rate, I could feel it in my palm for a good while afterwards, and he shook his hand when we let go of each other as though his fingers hurt, although I suppose he might just have wanted to shake off the memory of touching me.
"Unless, of course, you – or they – break the law and give us reason," he added as an afterthought.
"We shall take great care not to do that, lord King," said I.

With that, the matter appeared to be settled, because the King strode out of the small room, and I followed, still confused. I was not certain whether I could trust in our agreement at all. There had been no witnesses, and what right did I have to negotiate or make deals with the King, anyway? On the other hand, I felt that I had made no outrageous demands, and I very much hoped that this would be appreciated in some way. I simply had to hope for the best.
Lord Atanacalmo, in conversation with the painter, looked at us with a complicated expression – savouring an exotic taste that might be pleasant or might be too strong, perhaps – before standing up and rolling his shoulders.
"Well," he said in my direction, "let's get this over with, shall we?"
The King sat down at the large table, ostensibly to study the heavy tome and heap of papers that had been put there, but he seemed to be very invested in the artistic process, because I noticed that he kept glancing over in our direction.

The painter explained his vision. Lord Atanacalmo was to stand in for his brother, and I was to be the criminal suing for mercy at his feet. That in itself was a familiar scenario, although I couldn't exactly say that I was eager to revisit it. I grudgingly took off my boots and warm shirt so I would look more destitute, but I very nearly balked when the painter expressed his intention of tying my hands for the sake of realism. All in all, I did not see why he needed to make me up "realistically", since Lord Atanacalmo was – despite a certain family similarity – no perfect stand-in for the late King, either, and was moreover wearing mourning greys instead of the festival white the King had worn in reality, and that seemed to be no problem. "Besides," I said grimly, "they didn't use rope back then."
The King looked up from his papers. "We can find you a pair of proper manacles, that would be no problem at all," he said, showing his teeth. "If that's what you prefer."
After that, I agreed to have my hands – losely – bound with rope, and knelt at Lord Atanacalmo's feet to pretend pleading for mercy while he pretended to graciously pardon me.

"That takes us back, doesn't it," he said dispassionately. From this close, I could see that his eyes were red and puffy, betraying a grief that he was too proud to show openly. In his voice, there was no crack, no tremour, nothing to betray the slightest weakness; indeed, I got the impression that he was mildly amused by the whole thing.
"Yes, my lord. Though I know I wouldn't be here now if you had been in that place back then."
He snorted softly – whether it was at my convoluted utterance or at its content, I do not know – but did not respond. I likewise fell silent. It seemed unwise to speak much with the already ill-tempered King present, but at the same time, I would have been glad for some distraction. As it was, unpleasant memories of the past were mingling with equally unpleasant fears about the future, and then I thought about how Kârathôn and I had once talked about how embarrassing it would be to have our lives depicted like that of Tar-Minyatur. Now part of mine really would be put in a tapestry, and of course it had to be one of the most shameful parts.

With such cheerful thoughts on my mind, it was probably no wonder that my eyes welled over, which inspired the painter to praise the conviction I put into my performance.
"Yes, it's almost as if the role comes naturally to him," Lord Atanacalmo quipped.
"Isn't it just?" said the King. He no longer sounded displeased at all, but rather satisfied, evidently enjoying my humiliation. "Oh, before we forget - you will need grey robes for the funeral procession, Azruhâr. Mourning robes. No fancy embroidery."
Now I thought that I began to understand. The tapestry would be displayed in the funeral procession, when the King's body would be brought to the Noirinan, and of course a great number of people would be watching. If I was marching behind in the same procession, they would make the connection with ease. Everyone who was still unaware of what I was, would afterwards know perfectly well what to think of me – all the merchants and shopkeepers who were as yet neutral towards me, all the polite woodworkers who merely knew me as the new inhabitant of the house in Cherry Lane, all the ordinary people who didn't give me a second glance in the street, all the city guards who had forgotten my prisoner's face and been fooled by my decent clothing into thinking that I was an upstanding citizen. I wasn't just meant to pose as a symbolic recipient of the King's Mercy; this was actually about me, personally. I felt my cheeks grow hot in annoyance, which made the bruises hurt worse. I knew that ten years ago, I would simply have accepted humiliation as an unpleasant but natural part of life, but by now, I had grown out of the habit and very much resented the return to it – especially as this wasn't some fleeting, private embarrassment that would pass in time, but a lasting impression. The funeral of the King and the crowning of a new King would be once-in-a-lifetime (or, for most of the common folk, once-in-three-lifetimes) event. It would be remembered for decades to come. People would be talking about the funny-looking embalmer lying at the King's feet for longer than I would live. I began to resent the situation in a way that had nothing to do with the increasing fatigue in my uplifted arms and the pain in my knees and nose. I wished I had asked not merely to be spared harm and threats, but also this kind of intentional embarrassment.

"If I may ask, your Majesty, what has earned me the honour of being part of the procession?" I asked, and couldn't help but sound a little bitter.
"Father has decreed that you alone shall be responsible for the preservation of his body," said the King, and I could hear that he was aware of my bitterness, and quite pleased with it. "And since you are playing such an important role, it is only right that you should march in the procession."
The prospect made the burning, and thus, the throbbing, in my face intensify.
"Oh! You are the King's embalmer, too?" the painter said excitedly. "Then I shall have to paint you again, at your work. Since Tar-Ancalimon established this new custom --"
"We're afraid that will not be possible," the King said, "since the embalming will only take place once the body is in the Noirinan."

His words took a while to register, but when they did, I could no longer hold my pose, letting my arms sink and turning to face him. "Lord King, I have to protest! With every day that passes, we risk the destruction of the body. We can only stop the process of decay once we actually start working on the body, and already three days have gone by. If we delay the embalming until after the funeral – and that's weeks away, if the tapestry still needs to be woven – then I have no hope of preserving your royal father at all."
"Really," the King said slowly, and with a sinking feeling I realised that I had shown him a direct way out of our fragile agreement. "Is that so. So you are saying that you cannot fulfil your obligation to our father?"
I struggled for breath as panic made my stomach churn. "Not if you thwart me on purpose!" I cried. Lord Atanacalmo cleared his throat, and I hoped that he might come to my rescue, but apparently it had rather been meant as a warning. Of course. I should remember my place, keep my fist in my pocket, and let him kick me if need be. I felt that I had taken enough kicking, figuratively, but I suppose it wasn't the fool's prerogative to decide when his work was done. This time, I raised my arms in true pleading and said, as meekly as my urgency allowed, "Most noble King, I understand that you are only too happy to frustrate my purposes -" there was a sharp intake of breath from the painter, so I knew I had again said something inappropriate - "but I direly beg you to reconsider. My purposes mean nothing, but your majesty would also frustrate the desire of your royal father, and that, Lord King, is surely more than my ruin can be worth."

His fists lay clenched upon the table, and I could see the nuckles stand out white from the tension in them. My heart was pounding, and I was nauseous with fear, but also with suppressed anger. The painter had taken refuge in his work, scritching furiously to capture (I assume) the desperate urgency of my performance that was no longer a performance. And to pretend that he had no part in this conversation.
Finally, Lord Atanacalmo broke the charged silence. "The embalmer has got a point," he said generously. "He is the expert in this matter; I suppose he ought to be listened to. Perhaps it would indeed be closer to my brother's Last Will if he were brought to his tomb already embalmed."
From the look on his face, the King appeared to be chewing on a rotten piece of fruit. "Yes, yes," he finally said. "We suppose so." And he added – for the sake of the bewildered painter, I must assume - "Thank you for the expertise, embalmer." And then, with a forced smile: "Well, we trust this is realistic enough, is it, master painter?"
"Perfectly, lord King," said the painter with a low bow. I bowed as well, and tried to breathe evenly over the wild gallop of my heart.

When at last the painter had finished his work, my legs had well and truly fallen asleep, and I had to steady myself on the table while the feeling came back with needle-stabs of angry nerves. If I had been alone, I would have whimpered to myself, but I did not want to give the King (or Lord Atanacalmo, for that matter) that satisfaction. I was waiting for my feet to return to normal when a touch on my back made me freeze in shock. It was Lord Atanacalmo, tracing the raised lines on my skin with his long fingers. I clenched my eyes shut. It did not hurt; he was not even ungentle; nonetheless, I found it deeply unpleasant. Amraphel sometimes traced my scars with her fingers or her tongue when we were in bed together; we jokingly called them my bridewealth. But that was different. This was a cold and probing touch, and I was already worn out from enduring the King's enmity and the reminder of my imprisonment and could bear no further testing. I ground my teeth, which did hurt, but at least it distracted me.
Lord Atanacalmo chuckled. "'Reasonable and appropriate'?" he said quietly.
I shrugged angrily, and his fingers dropped off my shoulder blade. "Those were always very vague terms, Lord."
"Indeed." To his credit, he did not touch me again. Instead, he tossed me my shirt and tunic, and I hastily put them back on.

From an artistic point of view, I couldn't deny that the painter had done good work. There was none of the stiffness in either my or Lord Atanacalmo's posture that you often saw in paintings, the kind that reminded you that someone had posed for these pictures, pretending to be something that they were not. Lord Atanacalmo looked regal and casually gracious, and the painter had made the necessary adjustments to his face so that it could have been that of the old King at his brother's age. I, the supplicant, looked every bit as desperate and frantic as the situation demanded. Unlike Lord Atanacalmo's, my face was very much my own, broken nose and bruised cheek included. People would recognise me all right.
"The body will be brought to the catacombs this evening," the King announced.
I bowed my head in acknowledgement and relief. "Thank you, your majesty."
I was already halfway to the door when he said, as an afterthought, "You will not wear your amber pendant for the procession. None shall outshine us on that day."
My hand instinctively rose to the warm piece of amber that hung from my throat. "It is not very likely that I should outshine you, lord King," I couldn't help pointing out.
He snorted dismissively. "Indeed. Nonetheless, you will not wear it. In fact, perhaps we should confiscate it. We have a mind to use it in our coronation jewellery."

My fingers had closed protectively around the pendant. I wondered whether he really could do that, simply confiscate it. There were probably rules about the exact circumstances under which property could be taken away, but I did not know them, and besides, he was the King now; he could change the rules, or make it look as if I was the one breaking them. By the greedy glint in his eyes, I knew that he genuinely wanted it, not just because giving up would hurt me – aside from its monetary value, the pendant was a precious reminder of Lord Eärendur's friendship, as he probably knew – but for what it was. I would not be able to hold on to it if the King truly wanted to take it away, agreement or no. Yet again, I hated having such a powerful enemy when I myself was so powerless, and he had certainly used today to demonstrate my lack of power. At the least, I thought, I wouldn't have him take it away from me by force; nor would I let him turn it into a reason to go back on what he had promised earlier.

Taking a deep breath, I slipped the silver chain over my head, made my way back to the table, and knelt again, holding out the pendant and its chain in my cupped hands. "Please, your majesty, accept this as a token of my goodwill and loyalty. I give it freely in tribute to your glory, and pray that you may look upon me more kindly in the future, and remember our agreement." The words came out dull and hard. I could briefly see a startled expression in his eyes, and I knew that I was defying reason yet again. For a moment, I thought that he would throw the pendant in my face, but it seemed that his greed was stronger than his pride: he snatched it from my hands. Even through my helpless anger, I marvelled at it. As King of Yôzayân, he must surely be the richest man in the world, who could have bought hundreds of pieces of Valinorean amber, however rare they were. And yet he was not above taking this one from a man who had been born a pauper, and whom he personally detested. My humiliation stung intensely, but at the same time, I felt that the King was, just now, humiliating himself more badly than me.

The painter, perhaps feeling the same, was packing up his materials too quickly to be entirely unconcerned, although he was obviously eager to affect being entirely unaware of what was going on. Lord Atanacalmo was, for the first time that I remembered, looking every bit as furious as the new King was. As if I wasn't dreading our next game of chess enough already. He would probably give me an earful for trying to outsmart – shame, even – his nephew, who was now studying the pendant with a gleam of delight in his eyes. I was missing the precious piece already. I still wished that the King would throw it in my face, simply so I did not have to give it up, but instead he seemed to have forgotten my presence completely.
Again, it was Lord Atanacalmo who spoke at last. "It is a kingly tribute," he said in a terse voice. "It will indubitably be appreciated. And now it would probably be better if Azruhâr returned to his work. There must be much to prepare if he is to take care of my brother this evening."

We had already finished all preparation while waiting for the body, of course, but I felt it was better not to say that. I waited for a sign of dismissal from the King, and indeed, he gave a curt nod. I bowed and made my way out of the room. I wished I could have run, but the file of mourners was still long, so I forced myself to walk at a dignified pace and ignore the curious looks they gave me. Daylight was still strong when I left the palace; it had felt as if a whole day had passed while I'd been inside, but in reality it was still early in the afternoon. The occasional snowflake drifted in the cold winter wind, but my face was burning. I had given my best piece of jewellery, and I could not even be certain that it had bought me the peace I wanted. I would have liked to go to Lord Eärendur's house to confess what I had done with his gift, and ideally to weep about the injustice of the world if he let me. Instead, I went back to my colleagues. After all, the last thing I needed right now were claims that I was neglecting my work.

Tar-Ancalimon's body was indeed brought down to the royal morgue that evening, which meant that I would have to work through the night and the following days as well. I did not dare to delay further, since the body had already been left untreated (save for the traditional scented oils, which were not for preservation but only for keeping the corpse presentable) for too long already. Another problem that quickly arose was that the old King had decreed that I, and I alone, should be responsible for his preservation, which the new King took to mean that I should work entirely on my own, with no assistance from my colleagues, so my colleagues would not share the blame if anything went wrong. "Nor the glory if it all goes right," Kârathôn commented tartly, but I did not find the thought reassuring. Blame seemed a lot more likely.
"I will need another pair of hands to lift the body," I told the servants who had carried the stretcher down. "I need somebody who helps me to prepare the materials. I will have to take turns with someone, because the body has already been left untreated for too long and we will need to work day and night to make up for it. I will need to send somebody to the silver-smith for the death-mask. I will not be held responsible if I am hindered in performing my duty because you refuse to let me have the help I need. You will." I was speaking rather more forcefully than was my wont, especially since the poor fellows were certainly not responsible for the new King's interpretation of his father's Will. But I was already worn to the end of my patience, and besides, I really did need a second pair of hands, and it seemed that my only hope of securing it was by pushing these people into permitting it.

And in the end, with some running to and fro and reporting the matter to their master, they informed us that I was permitted to have one of my colleagues with me for assistance, but that I would still be held solely responsible, and besides, I would have to share the alotted pay with whoever remained with me. That last part was bad news, since I was still urgently dependent on my weekly pay, but there was no helping it. So I agreed to both conditions. Master Târik freely offered to stay, and I was glad for it. I would not have dared to ask him, since I did not want to keep him away from his family for such a long time, but I was grateful for his offer; much as I trusted all my colleagues, he simply was the most experienced of us all. I gushed my thanks, at which he gave a lopsided smile and said, "Well, I do need to keep my title of master somehow, don't I?"

The next week, we lived entirely in the catacombs. Kârathôn and Mîkul informed our families, and they came back once to bring us provisions so we wouldn't starve and blankets so we would have at least some modest comfort; and then they left us, since I had only been allowed to have one assistant. In their stead, the painter came to draw us at our work. This time he omitted my injuries, making me look rather more hale and content than I was feeling. He also tried to find out what exactly had been going on the other day, irresistably curious about my history with the new King. I suppose it must have looked like an intriguing story from the outside, but I was not willing to explain lest my despair at the whole mess overwhelmed me entirely. I gave non-committal answers, pretending that my efforts took too much focus. It wasn't untrue. I was weary to my bones; sleeping in the catacombs was unpleasant, and even if I'd had a softer bed and warmer room, I doubt my troubled mind would have allowed for easy sleep. The lack of daylight was getting to me. Besides, I was terrified of making a mistake, knowing that I was dealing with an enemy who seemed to turn even my modest moments of success against me. So I double-checked every step I took, every tool and chemical I used, against the much-annotated protocol of Palatâr's preservation. Under happier circumstances I might perhaps have changed the topic and told the painter about my daughter's love of art, and asked him whether he was willing to give lessons. But the circumstances were not happy, and I was relieved when he was done and gone. If Master Târik had not been there to keep me company, I think I would have gone mad. As the old King had wanted, I did the greater part of the actual work; but it was Master Târik who reminded me to regularly take time for eating and sleeping, and also to bathe when a pause in the process allowed it, simply to wash off the sweat and incense and salts, even if I returned to the work right away after that. He gave my tense shoulders a good kneading, and talked with me about better times in the past, and generally kept my mind among the living.

At last our work was done, as well as it could be. I had washed the withered body – noting with dismay that dark bruises had already formed on the bottom side, where it seemed that the blood had pooled now that it was no longer kept flowing – with water and vinegar and glycerine; I wrapped the body in several layers of bandages, all with a layer of preservative salts in-between; I had sealed the bandages with resin, and made the plaster version of the death-mask. Having seen the encouraging effect of the smile on old Palatâr's face, I tried to recreate it, but it was difficult because the King's features were already quite rigid, and moreover we had removed his teeth – it had turned out that the lovely strong white teeth that had looked as though they belonged to some younger man had, as it were, belonged to a younger man, and had been fixed together and to the King's remaining teeth by means of gold thread. Master Târik had agreed with me that the foreign object would increase the risk of decay, and so we had taken it out, which meant that the toothless mouth crumpled and looked very dissatisfied indeed. I could only hope that it would adapt to the more friendly shape of the mask over time. I tried not to wonder too much about where the King's replacement teeth had come from in the first place.
Then Master Târik went and had the plaster mask encased in silver. I felt strangely vulnerable with him gone, as if the new King's henchmen would come rushing down the stairs as soon as I was alone. I wasn't certain whether I worried more about them arresting or hurting me, or rather about them doing something that would damage the body and blame it on me; but worry I did.

Of course, I could not guard the body forever. With the mask finished and sealed in place, it was time to return to the world upstairs, which was strangely bright and painfully bustling with movement and noise. I learned that the funeral procession – and after it, the coronation – would take place on Mettarë. It felt appropriate that Tar-Ancalimon would be brought to his tomb on the day that the old year ended, although I was inundated with a renewed surge of despair at the mere thought of his son's coronation. This information was provided by Quentangolë, who was red-eyed and very subdued himself, and I assumed that he had already suffered from the new King's dislike for anyone who had been in favour with the old King. He also told me that I would have to attend a preparational meeting on the next day, where I would learn what exactly I was supposed to do during the procession and ceremony.
At least Quentangolë had one pleasant surprise for me. Because I had been obliged to do a master embalmer's work, the old King had decreed that I should be given the money-bag that usually went to Master Târik at the end of the week. I found out that it contained fifteen silver Crowns – that was five whole Trees! - and even after giving seven of them to Master Târik (he declined my offer of the eighth), that was a very welcome relief for my ever-drained purse.

And then I hurried home to finally see my family again. Most of my household seemed to be happy to see me again, except for Palatârik, who turned his face away and acted as if I was a terrifying stranger. When I tried to speak with him, he ran away and hid behind Târinzil, bursting into tears. It was to be understood, I suppose, since I had been absent for a week, but it still hurt. Only when I looked in the mirror did I realise that he might not even have recognised me. My face looked worse than it felt. The bruises had turned from dark purple to a yellowing green, and though my nose was no longer quite so monstrous, it was still thicker than usual. Where I wasn't bruised, I looked pale and sickly, and my eyes had dark circles around them and glared out dull and red at the world. No wonder that my little son had been frightened. I thought of all the people who in the past had acted as if I, or my fellow embalmers, carried some sort of death-cloud around us. Now I really looked the part, especially once I put on the grey mourning robes Amraphel had commissioned for me during my absence. I looked like a ghastly, otherworldly figure that guided, or perhaps dragged, the spirits of the dead to Mandos. Not that I'd ever made an impressive figure or been able to pride myself on great good looks, but the thought of appearing like that in front of the gawping populace of Arminalêth was highly unappealing. But naturally, my sensibilities were not significant in this matter. At best, I could hope that parading me around as a grim ghost would satisfy the new King's desire to kick me, at least for a while.

Chapter 29

Aaand we have a new King.

Read Chapter 29

We were waiting for the twilight to end and the day to begin.
As yet, the gates to the citadel were closed, and the city beyond seemed to be holding its breath. Although I knew that a large crowd must be waiting outside – there had been people lining the street even when I had arrived with Lord Saphadûl and the other participants in the procession some hours previously, in the middle of the night – it was deadly silent. The important people further back in the procession were all safe and snug inside the palace with the King, of course, but those of us who had to pass through the gate first stood shivering in the morning air. I had put on my warm work clothing underneath my mourning robe, which was of thick wool itself, but already, all the warmth had been leeched out of my body. I would have liked to wrap my arms around myself, but I did not dare to set down the bundle of juniper branches in their starched linen wrappings lest they slipped out of the cloth and stung me, nor the sealed amphora filled with carbolic salt lest it topple over and disturb the silence. I was supposed to carry these, one in each arm, as insignia of my profession; the master of ceremonies had thought long and hard on the symbolism. So I was just shifting from foot to foot, since I did not want to break the silence by stamping, either, and felt generally miserable. The guards who would have to lead the procession and clear the way in case any onlookers got too far into the road, the heads of their spears hidden among the evergreen branches that had been tied to the staffs, huddled together; their woollen cloaks did not seem to be enough to ward off the bitter cold, either.

Next to me, the old King's valet, who would lead the horses that pulled the hearse, tried to stifle a yawn, but it proved more powerful than the straining muscles of his jaw. He was wearing a heavy grey cloak over his livery, but he was nonetheless standing between the horses for warmth. I would have liked to join him, but I was worried that I'd accidentally touch one of the horses with my juniper, and that the horse would rear or bolt and disrupt the whole line-up. They were anxious enough as it was. So I stayed where I was and just exchanged sympathetic glances with the valet. Then I glanced up at the hearse behind the horses. Tar-Ancalimon had been laid out there on a bed of more juniper upon white sheets that covered some hidden structure, and since he was already wrapped and couldn't be dressed in finery anymore, a great ceremonial cloak had been spread over him. That cloak was so heavily embroidered with silver thread that it didn't fall like a cloak should, and instead domed over the dead body like a very flat tent. The silver death-mask suited it very nicely, I felt, and since they had wreathed the head in ivy and yew and yet more juniper, you could not see that the rest of the it was wrapped and sealed and hairless. He no longer looked like a real person, but he looked certainly very beautiful, like an actor in the mask of a Vala. The master of ceremonies had initially been very unhappy that the King's body was already embalmed and therefore no longer visible, but I thought that he had found a very good way of nonetheless presenting it in a manner befitting a king.

Finally, the dawn-drum rolled, announcing that the day was officially beginning, and two torch-bearing guards threw back the bolts and opened the gate. They walked ahead, followed by nine guards marching triple-file at a solemn pace. The valet made the horses pull, and the hearse began to rumble after them. I drew my shoulders up. Amraphel had said that however much the new King wished to embarrass me in front of the city, I nonetheless did not have to embarrass myself, and as usual, she had a point. So I told myself that I could be happy and honoured to be part of the procession, and that I would play my part with as much dignity as I could muster. I took a deep breath, and braced my highly symbolic burdens, and stepped through the gate after the hearse had passed through. Behind me, I could hear the unfolding of the heavy tapestry as the household servants stretched it out once through the gate. The drum continued to roll mournfully all the time.

The small crowd that had already lined the streets in the night had grown into a massive crowd, all warmly wrapped in cloaks and furs and blankets, staring eagerly at the parade that unfolded before their eyes. I could see some of them holding the primers that had been sold in the past week, outlining the different parts of the procession and their significance, and they were pointing us out to their less well-informed neighbours. I imagined them whispering "Who is that? Who is he? What is he doing there? Why does he look like that?" and felt my face grow warm in spite of the icy air.
I could see precious little of the procession myself, of course, except for the back of the hearse and the ears of the horses and the spears of the guards that marched ahead, but I knew from the rehearsals what was going on behind me. The tapestries with Tar-Ancalimon's life story on them were being carried after me. The household servants chosen for the job wore, like the valet, grey cloaks and ivy wreaths on their heads. After them there was another troup of palace guards, who were followed by the guild-masters, cloaked in mourning greys but wearing the colours of their guilds underneath, carrying the tools that marked their trades. The spokesmen of the different merchants' and farmers' and citizens' societies and factions came behind, as did the venerable teachers of the various academies, and there were also some Elvish embassadors and delegations from the colonies, their exotic dress again hidden under grey cloth. They were followed by two carriages laden with tribute that was, as yet, hidden under heavy blankets. Behind the carriages marched drummers and musicians who were singing dirges; I could not understand the words, but the notes were drifting sadly down to the beginning of the procession.

Behind the musicians, Lord Saphadûl was leading the veteran foot soldiers of the last campaign in Middle-earth, dressed as a soldier himself. I had seen him earlier, and he had looked entirely unfamiliar and certainly very heroic in chainmail and armour. The foot soldiers were followed by the archers, and behind them rode the cavalry. The nobility were trailing them, likewise on horseback. Their mourning cloaks were lined with grey fur so I expected they would be rather more warm than I, and they had been permitted to wear gloves, too. They had artificial lilies in their mourning wreaths – there were no real lilies to be had at this time of the year, of course - but wore no jewellery. Lord Atanacalmo and Lady Calamíriel and their families were coming last among the nobles, who were followed by the master of ceremonies and a carriage which hid more treasure, among it the crown and sceptre of Yôzayân. Behind it rode Princess Vanimeldë with her mother. On foot came the Keeper of the Palace's Heart, carrying a lantern that had been lit with a flame from the Heart of the House of the King. And then, in a silver-plated chariot drawn by white horses, came the new King himself, as yet crownless and wrapped in mourning greys, with a hood hiding his head. At the very end of the procession, the remaining household guards were marching to ensure the safety of the King, although I doubted that the awe-struck citizens would have presumed to attack him. Besides, the streets were lined with ordinary city guards, who let nobody step in the way of the procession, anyway. I knew that some dozen day-talers had been hired to shovel away the horse-shit as soon as the procession was out of sight, so that the streets would be clean again when we returned, altogether less grimly, as the new King's coronation parade; but as yet, they were kept out of sight.

In this manner, we proceeded – very slowly – towards the Holy Mountain. I was glad to be moving, although I would have preferred to walk a lot faster to get warm again. Still, at least the wait was over. If not for the sad occasion, it could have been a beautiful day: The frosty sky was blue and clear, and once the winter sun had fully risen, it shone brightly, painting the snow-cap on the Minultârik golden and warming our backs. In the city itself, people were watching from every bit of available space. I had heard that people with property along the route had been selling access to their windows or balconies or rooftops for hefty prices, and seeing the crowds, I could well believe it. Even once we had left the city behind, the crowds were jostling for a view on either side of the road. The less well-dressed among them had climbed into the barren trees. I felt very exposed, walking by myself rather than in a protective throng and watched by what must be thousands of pairs of eyes. I told myself that with all the more interesting people behind me, I would barely be noticed or, at any rate, quickly forgotten. Many people were bowing their heads and touching their hands to their brows as the hearse went past them, so they might not even see me. I tried to keep my back straight and my eyes firmly ahead and ignore the watchful crowd, even though I was tempted to look down instead. I certainly did not try to spot any familiar faces in the crowd, although I knew that Master Târik, Mîkul and Kârathôn, my parents-in-law, much of my household, and other people of my acquaintance must be among the masses. Dignity, I told myself. If I had to show my bruised face in front of the whole citizenry, I should at least bear it with dignity. But that didn't come naturally to me, and I had to ceaselessly remind myself not to let my shoulders curl into their more familiar hunch, and not to look at my feet as they carried me slowly but steadily ahead. At least I would be able to stand at the entrance to the Noirinan, with no crowds behind me, for the coronation ceremony. That was some solace.

By the time we actually reached the Mountain, the sun was high in the sky - as high as it would get in winter - although the air was still cold – so cold, in fact, that the unchanging temperatures of the Noirinan, so frosty in summer, felt quite mild in comparison. The procession stopped and lined up in their assigned places around the scaffold that had been especially erected for the coronation ceremony. The drums rolled grimly. Into the tomb went the servants bearing the tapestries, to hang them up in the vault that had been prepared for the King. Into the tomb went I to wait next to the sarcophagus and to gaze, with mixed feelings, at my artfully rendered face on the wall. Nobody would ever want to depict my life in a tapestry, I remembered saying to Kârathôn, and yet there I was, twice, woven into the life of Tar-Ancalimon. How strange. There were plenty of other scenes in the tapestry, of course – there was Tar-Ancalimon as an infant in the arms of his royal parents, dead for over a century; here he was as a studious child, reciting lore to an impressed-looking teacher (who were the boy, I wondered, and who the teacher who had posed for the painter?); here he was as a daring rider and military commander; there he stood with the young Queen and a small, beautiful child who was surely meant to be the Crown Prince, except that Tar-Ancalimon himself had been the Crown Prince in those days, of course; there he sat enthroned, with the silver circlet and golden sceptre; here he embraced the soon-to-be King, who was presenting him with bright treasure; here he was writing laws or some other important document; here he was arranging the rationing of grain as dark lines of rain made the harvest rot in the fields behind him. The King dispensing mercy on the pleading criminal, and the King being embalmed by the evidently reformed criminal, were only two elements of the large tapestry that made up Tar-Ancalimon's life, but it still felt like an uncomfortably prominent place for me to me. I could only hope that my execution would not form part of the next King's tapestry, since it was commonly said that both good and bad things tended to come in threes. Fortunately, I did not have to dwell on that thought for long at this time, since now the King himself – the old King, that is – was finally carried in by the household guards who had marched first in the procession. They lowered him into the waiting sarcophagus on the immaculate sheet that had been spread on the stretcher; I sprinkled the salts from my amphora on him; we spoke a prayer as the heavy granite lid was pushed shut. And that was the final step of Tar-Ancalimon's journey upon this earth (or so I thought at the time, at least). Again, I was weeping, and I was relieved to see that some of the servants and guards were also teary-eyed as we bowed our heads in reverence before returning to the outside world.

There, from the safety of the stone arch into the Noirinan, I saw the new King for the first time on that day. While we had been inside the tomb, he had divested himself of his mourning robes, and was now clothed in pure white. The robe itself was simply cut, but he wore a collar of silver of some foreign design that reached all the way down his chest, with jewels of many colours in it. From my vantage point I could discern three bright spots hanging from the lowest row of the collar – pieces of Valinórean amber, undoubtedly. I suspected that one of them was the one that Quentangolë and the old King had mentioned, with a bee preserved in the amber, and another was the one that Lord Eärendur had given to me. I wondered where the third came from, whether it had been in the treasury all the while, or whether it had been bought for the occasion, or whether it had been confiscated from some other unfortunate fellow. The precious pendant certainly looked rather more impressive on the King's chest than on mine, but nonetheless I wished I could have kept it. The King had jewellery enough, after all. There was plenty of silver braided into his hair and silver vambraces on his wrists and silver rings on his fingers and silver and gems on his belt, and finally, the servants – now in their regular livery, without their grey cloaks and mourning sashes – carried the stiff silver-embroidered cloak that had previously covered the old King's body and draped it over the new King's shoulders.

It was so heavy that he could not even move in it. But Lord Saphadûl and three officers had been appointed to carrying the train behind him, and with their assistance, he climbed the carpeted wooden stairs to the highest tier of the scaffold, so that the people further in the back would still be able to catch some glimpse of the new King as he came into his power. At a respectful distance, Princess Vanilotë – I suppose I should think of her as the Queen now – and Princess Vanimeldë, similarly robed in white with silver embroidery and silver jewellery, though not quite as splendid as the King's, followed. Then came Lord Atanacalmo, carrying the blue and silver velvet pillow with the royal coronet on it, and the old Queen carrying the sceptre, and Lady Calamíriel with the lantern with the Heart's flame in it. Quentangolë walked behind, dressed in inky black and carrying an ancient-looking book, together with the master of ceremonies (who was none other than Lord Marapoldo of Hyarnastorni, husband to Lady Calamíriel), also in black. On the lower tier of the scaffold, the royal council – nobles and guild-masters alike – stood in the bright liveries of their houses or trades, and besides them stood the governors of Pelargir and Umbar and Tharbad, wearing the foreign costumes of their principalities (although as governors, they were of course men of Yôzayân themselves), and the Elven embassadors from both East and West. They made a colourful spectacle beneath the silver, white and black that governed the King's platform. On the lowest tier of the scaffold stood the covered carts, brought up with the help of a ramp and a complicated-looking pulley. The whole construction was surrounded by guards, some with spears and some with trumpets, and by the choir, although they were no longer singing. The horses had been tethered in pavillons well behind the scaffold, and were surrounded by the military folk, in case anyone was tempted to steal them while most people were distracted by the ceremony.

As the King came into view, a great cheer rose from the gathered crowd. People were clapping their hands and hollering their approval, a strange sound after the mournful silence and solemn dirges of the past days, and stranger yet to me, who had already spent years trying to dodge the enmity of this man and had no reason whatsoever to cheer his ascension to full power. I tried to look at him as somebody who'd had no such dealings with him. One had to admit that he looked very kingly. Most commoners had not seen the old King in years, and even then, he had been frail and bent over, a picture of ill health and approaching death. In contrast, the people now saw a tall, broad-shouldered man, shining white and silver underneath the pale winter sun. His eyes, far from being clouded with age, were dark and piercing. He was not frowning today, so the bitter lines I had previously seen on his face were barely visible. (In truth, his face had been made smooth with the same paste that some elderly folk used to hide the wrinkles in their skin, and silver make-up had been applied to his eyelids and cheekbones to make them stand out more strikingly.) I suppose people who didn't know him as I did might be well-pleased, seeing somebody who looked powerful and trustworthy, full of youth and vigour, somebody who would take care of the state's business and be visible and attractive to the public eye. Now, the corners of his mouth rose a little – I assume he enjoyed the noisy approval of the onlookers, as well he might – and I could almost have believed him capable of benevolence. The two princesses, mother and daughter, stepped up behind him, and the cheer grew louder yet until Lord Marapoldo stepped to the edge of the platform, holding up his hands.

Quentangolë held his book open for Lord Marapoldo, who began to speak. He had a powerful voice, but nonetheless I doubted that most the crowd could hear him; there were simply too many people, and I could see them stretch out all the way along the road. The words carried over to me well enough – I had a splendid view of the proceedings, too – although I could not understand them, since they were in Eldarin. From the preparations, I knew that it was an ancient prayer for the passage of power from one King to his heir, and I also knew that it had been printed in the primer so that the people who had bought one could explain it to the people around them, or speak along if they wished. The closing words asked for blessings for the new King's reign, peace and prosperity for the realm and wisdom and good judgement for the ruler himself, and I had made certain to memorise the alien words so I could mouth them along. After all, these were all things that we direly needed.

After the prayer, the trumpets were sounded again for the first time since the old King had died before Lord Marapoldo addressed the crowd. "People of the Yôzayân, your King – Eru rest him – has passed away, but he has not left you leaderless. He has appointed Alcarmaitë, his only son and child, to be his heir. Alcarmaitë is in his two hundred and fiftieth year and well suited to be King: healthy and strong in body and mind, wise in judgement, powerful in his wrath, great in mercy, victorious in battle..." A long list of accomplishments followed. I had reason to doubt one or two of them, but it obviously was not my place to comment on them. Or so I thought, when I heard Lord Marapoldo proclaim, "Behold! Here is Crown Prince Alcarmaitë, son of Ancalimon of the line of Tar-Minyatur, son of Eärendil. He is ready to take the sceptre and become your King. If there be any among you who know of a reason that he is unsuitable for the office, let them speak now, or hold their peace ever after!" He held out his hands in an exaggerated gesture of invitation.

The word unsuitable struck me like lightning. I cannot describe it in any other way. In spite of the frozen day, heat was surging through my veins, and my face was burning. I could barely breathe. Highly unsuitable, I thought. Extremely unsuitable. Outrageously unsuitable. I stared up at the King, who was no longer smiling. He was not looking at me, or at anyone else. He had lowered his proud head, ostensibly to show his acceptance of whatever grievance his subjects might raise, although I knew from experience that bowing one's head was also a good way of hiding the expression on one's face, lest anyone see doubt or fear. He stood perfectly still, waiting. In contrast, there was quite a bit of shifting on the councillors' platform, and I found that several faces had turned ostensibly towards the entrance of the Noirinan, as if expecting Tar-Ancalimon to protest from the grave, but conveniently also me, specifically. There could be no doubt about it. They were actively meeting my eyes, and instead of being able to lower mine and escape the intense inquiry in their looks, I felt compelled to stare back. I noticed that Lord Atanacalmo, up on the King's platform, was also looking at me, his expressive eyebrows raised, as if curious to see what I would do. Closer to me, the palace servants and guards who had helped to bury the old King were shifting and whispering, and I could feel their eyes on my face. The silence lengthened, and I did not break it.

I suppose I could have spoken out then and changed the course of history. Maybe I should have. I could have announced that Crown Prince Alcarmaitë son of Ancalimon of the line of Tar-Minyatur had broken my nose and spilled my blood in the hallowed Night of Passing with the hallowed sceptre. That last past was probably the relevant bit – I did not delude myself that anybody would be particularly bothered about my blood, spilled unrighteously or not. The King's problem was that he had spilled it at that particular time, and that he hadn't simply used some ordinary staff or his plain fists, which I could see were clenched tight. He was still not looking in my direction, but I had no doubt that his thoughts were certainly fixed on me. I could feel them bearing down on me, a mighty pressure intent to make me crumble. I bit down hard on my lower lip to distract myself.
Lord Marapoldo repeated his question, loud and clear. Some of the councillors were now widening their eyes in encouragement, and someone even made an impatient gesture with his hands as if to say Go ahead, why won't you? Speak!

Yes, perhaps I should have spoken. I think if I'd known who exactly would profit from it then I might have done it, handshake or no. If I had known that Lord Atanacalmo would take the sceptre, I might have thrown in my lot with him – I did not trust him, but I couldn't deny that he'd done me a couple of good turns, which was more than could be said for the proper heir to the throne. If anyone had approached me beforehand and asked me to open my mouth and cause an uproar, I might have done it. There was no guarantee that the King would feel bound by our brief agreement in the storage room. Hadn't he forced me to give up my best piece of jewellery pretty much immediately afterwards?
Yes, if somebody had made me a better offer, I might have taken it. But nobody had. And Amraphel had pointed out that even if the council decided to veto the Crown Prince's ascension based on my complaint, he would still be alive, and still be powerful, and still be my mortal enemy. Unless whoever replaced him put a lot of effort into my protection – and why should they, once I had served my purpose? - he would make sure that I regretted speaking out for every second of the doubtlessly brief but agonising rest of my life. Besides, I had given him my hand. I did feel bound by that, even if the King probably didn't.

For the third and last time, Lord Marapoldo's voice rang out: "If there be any among you who know of a reason that Alcarmaitë is unsuitable for the office, let them speak now, or hold their peace ever after!"
My breath was coming fast, so fast that my lungs could barely use the air before it went out again, and I was tasting blood from my lip. I clenched my eyes shut so I no longer had to see the councillors stare at me, but before I did, I caught Lord Eärendur's gaze, sorrowful and kind, and I could see that he gave just the tiniest shake of his head. That was all the reassurance I got before I refused to look further at all these people, who seemed to expect that I took the whole task of toppling the King's designated heir onto my narrow, oft-beaten shoulders. My uncertainty was beginning to turn into annoyance. I was relieved that Lord Eärendur, at the very least, agreed that I should not take the risk.
I forced my breath into a steadier pattern with great effort and kept my eyes shut until at last Lord Marapoldo spoke out again: "Then, people of Yôzayân, I present you with your King, the fifteenth of his house: Alcarmaitë son of Ancalimon, son of Atanamir the Great, son of Ciryatan, son of Minastir, son of Isilmo brother of Telperien, daughter of Súrion, son of Anárion, son of Ancalimë, daughter of Aldarion, son of Meneldur, son of Elendil, son of Amandil, son of Vardamir Nólimon, son of Elros Tar-Minyatur, son of Eärendil himself; and he shall take onto himself the name of --"

"Tar-Telemmaitë," announced the King, raising his silver-braced and silver-ringed hands. On the lowest platform, the servants pulled the sheets off the carts, and the amassed tribute on them shone bright under the winter sun: jewelled chalices and goblets and plates, chandeliers and sculptures, chests of coins, coronets and collars, Elven lanterns and all sorts of beautifully crafted, sparkling things the purpose of which I did not even know. There were carpets as well and rolls of silk and brocade, but most impressive was the sheer amount of glittering silver. He had to pay precious silver for his birthright, I remembered Lady Vanimë saying, although this precious silver had been newly brought from the colonies and could not be the same silver that had bought the former Crown Prince this moment. Nonetheless, I felt a wave of pity for him– not that he needed it now. The crowd gasped at all the splendour on display, while Lord Marapoldo solemnly repeated, "-- Tar-Telemmaitë, the Silver-handed!" The trumpets sounded in triumph, and a mighty cheer arose, and for a while, nothing else happened upon the scaffold because nobody would have heard a word, even in Lord Marapoldo's mighty voice, anyway.

Then Tar-Telemmaitë, smiling, raised his hands again, and by and by, the jubilant crowd fell silent to listen. But it was not the King who spoke; it was instead the old Queen who stepped forward, holding up the sceptre with both hands. My healing face chose that moment to itch inexpliably, and I was very much tempted to scratch or at least touch my cheek. I tried to push the annoying feeling aside and fixed my attention on the scene ahead.
"The ancient sceptre of Númenórë," the Queen intoned, "passed by my husband, Tar-Ancalimon, to my son, Tar-Telemmaitë, I lay into his capable hands to govern the fortune of the realm." With these words and with great formality she turned towards her son, who had likewise turned to face her. He lifted his hands to take the sceptre, bowing his head for a moment; then his mother's hands sank, and she dropped into a low curtsey before returning to the back of the platform.
Lord Atanacalmo gave her the velvet pillow he had been holding, and took from it the slender coronet with the single large diamond in its middle. Stepping forward, he held it aloft, and his voice rang out: "The silver fillet of Tar-Elestirnë, gifted to her by Tar-Aldarion our forebear, I pass from my brother, Tar-Ancalimon, to his son, Tar-Telemmaitë, to crown him as our King." Again, the King bowed his head, briefly, and Lord Atanacalmo set the fillet upon his brow (not quite without difficulty because of the silver and gems already in the King's hair). Then he sank onto one knee, remained there fore a moment, and then returned to his place at the back. The old Queen gave him back the pillow, and the two exchanged some whispered comments, or so I assumed because their lips were moving, though of course nothing was to be heard.

Now Lady Calamíriel came to the front of the stage, raising the lantern. In the brilliance of the mid-day sun, the little flame inside the lamp was barely visible and certainly not very bright, but nonetheless the audience listened in awed silence as Lady Calamíriel announced, "The sacred flame of the Heart of the House of Elros, lit from the same fire that warmed our forebear in Middle-earth, having nurtured the reign of my brother, Tar-Ancalimon, shall now nurture the reign of his son, Tar-Telemmaitë." She lifted the lantern up higher, and her nephew bowed to the dancing flame before taking the lantern into his free hand. Lady Calamíriel curtseyed formally before retiring to her brother and her sister-in-law.
Then Lord Marapoldo returned to the front of the platform. "People of Yôzayân, behold your King! He is your country! He is your law! Pay him tribute, and swear him fealty!" Again the trumpets sounded. Lord Marapoldo went down onto his knees, and Queen Vanilótë and Princess Vanimeldë and the old Queen and Lady Calamíriel and Lord Atanacalmo and Quentangolë the scribe all were down on their knees; on their knees were Lord Saphadûl and the other officers in their polished armour; on their knees were the heads of the noble houses and the guild-masters of the royal council and the governors of the colonies; on their knees were the soldiers and the servants and the musicians and the onlookers, all the way back along the street, as far as the eye could see. I imagined all the many, many people we had passed, back unto the city walls, kneeling down. Lord Marapoldo led the people in the oath of fealty, and a great murmur arose as many onlookers spoke along. I moved my lips but did not speak. I could not bring myself to say the words out loud. Not that it mattered, of course. By this moment we were all bound in fealty to Tar-Telemmaitë, whether we swore it or not. Even those who were not attending the ceremony, in the snow-swept mountains of Forrostar or the leafless forests of Hyarrostar, in busy Rómenna or blessed Andúnië, owed him allegiance; even in the distant colonies, all people were bound to his command; even children as yet unborn (or, for that matter, unconceived) would, as soon as they entered the world, be bound by the same oath. I was kneeling, too, of course. The only people still on their feet were the King himself, and the Elven emissaries, who had their own kings and did not bend the knee to ours.

After the oath, the trumpets were sounded again, and the drums were beaten, no longer in a grim, mournful roll but in a bright, vivacious rhythm. People returned to their feet, clapping along with the drums or cheering in joy, and then the choir began to sing a triumphant tune, barely audible over the exultations. The carts were hoisted down from their platform. I worried that one of them might keel over, raining silver treasure on the guards and musicians and servants, but fortunately, none of them did. With the carts out of the way, the council and embassadors evacuated their platform; and then, the master of ceremonies and the royal family also returned down to ground level. Only the King and his train-bearers remained up on the scaffold while the rest of us began to shuffle back into marching order. Servants brought the proud banners of the nobility that had so far been hidden in the pavillion. I looked up the high platform as I tried to get to the back of the line and out of the way of the preparations, and saw that Tar-Telemmaitë had his head slightly tilted back and his eyes closed, drinking in the accolades of his subjects. His right arm cradled the sceptre, his left hand held up the lamp, and the silver of his jewellery and cloak and the diadem were sparkling bright. The crowds, on the whole, must have liked what they were seeing, for the jubilation did not stop for quite a while, even when the trumpets and the drums had fallen silent – even when the King had basked enough, when he turned and gave a sign to his cloak-bearers and they made their cautious, cumbersome way down the make-shift steps, they were still cheering.

Having reached solid ground, and hidden from the gaping crowd by the backs of the guards and veterans and musicians, the King was eager to hand the lamp back to the Keeper of the Heart and to shrug off the silver cloak. He actually let out a small groan of relief and rolled his shoulders, and I couldn't stop myself from staring in surprise at so ordinary a gesture from someone I struggled to see as a human being (both because he loomed in my nightmares as – I cannot deny it - a sort of monster, and because of his lofty lineage).
Of course, he caught me at it, and his face closed up at once. He snapped, "What are you looking at?!"
I bowed my head. Instinct demanded that I hastily say "Nothing", but I realised just in time that this was a dangerous thing to say, since I had obviously been looking at him and he might feel that I meant to say he was nothing. So I said the second best thing that came to mind, which was, "You look magnificent, your Majesty."

It was certainly true; and it also seemed to be the right thing to say, because he made "A-ha" in a pleased-sounding way, and continued without interrogating me further. His chariot had been brought to the foot of the platform, and the horses must be very well-trained indeed because their ears twitched at the noise and the crowds, but they did not shy. Two large sacks of silver coins had been placed inside the chariot: the first shiny new Crowns – half-Crowns would have been bad luck, of course – minted with the likeness of the new King, which he would dispense along the road. That would undoubtedly raise his popularity among the poorer of his subjects, considering that an apprentice would have had to work at least three weeks for a full Crown, if their master's workshop was doing well and their master was inclined to share. As for the day-talers in the crowd, they'd would be extremely lucky to make the equivalent of a Crown in two months of hard work. Even I, with my steady income, wasn't entirely certain that I would be above scrambling for a Crown that somebody tossed my way, though I assumed I'd be able to restrain myself if too many people were watching.

Be that as it may, the King stepped into his silver-plated and silver-laden chariot, and the guards made the crowd clear the way and stand to the side of the road again, and the return parade began. I was at the very end of it, just before the final troup of guards and behind the hearse that no longer had to carry a body, and had therefore been stuffed with the discarded grey cloaks of the courtiers and councillors. I felt like a stray dog or a street urchin running after a merchant's cart, hoping to be taken into service - or like a disorderly drunk rounded up at the fair and brought into custody by the guards that were coming after me. It was harder now to walk with my back straight and my eyes ahead, especially since, after the King's chariot and the treasure-carts and the cavalry officers and the nobility with their horses had gone through, the street was naturally littered with horse droppings once more. Further ahead, people were shouting "Long live the King!" at the top of their voices, and throwing rose petals cut from white and pink fabric – there were no real roses to be had at this time of year, except for a bouquet I had seen at the palace which had apparently been brought by the Eldarin embassador of Tol Eressëa. In return for being showered in praise and fabric petals, the King was throwing silver, and I hoped that nobody would get hurt in the resulting scuffles.

Here, at my end of the procession, the rose petals had been trampled into the road and shat upon by horses, and since I was not at liberty to pick my way around the steaming heaps of horse dung, I couldn't avoid brushing them with my robes or even stepping into some of them. Some of the onlookers, no longer awed into silence but rather exhilarated by the grand show and (perhaps) the free money they'd received, laughed, and one of them shouted "Right on target!"
I tried to pretend that I didn't care. I tried to take my mind from the long, embarrassing march home by picturing, somewhat vengefully, how much trouble it would cost the guild-masters and guards and servants to sort out their cloaks from the messy pile on the erstwhile hearse. I thought about the silver coins, and how they would have been minted with the wrong profile if I hadn't held my tongue. I thought about the ancient flame in the Keeper's lamp, and wondered whether it could really still be the same fire that had warmed Tar-Minyatur all those long centuries ago in Middle-earth. It seemed unlikely that the same fire had been kept going endlessly for more than two thousand years. Not impossible, I suppose, as long as you kept feeding it on time, but surely some Keeper of the Heart had, at some point, fallen asleep on duty and hastily rekindled the Heart of the King's House using ordinary flint and steel like every common housewife whose cooking fire had gone out by morning. Surely that must have happened at least once. Considering the staggering number of mistakes I had made in my still relatively young life, it was unimaginable that not a single mistake should have happened in what must have been thirty generations of Keepers. It must simply be that nobody wanted to admit it. At any rate, that was how I felt when I just barely managed to evade another heap of horse shit.

After the succesful parade, the other attendants had been invited to a great banquet at the palace, but I had explicitly been told not to attend. I understood the insult for what it was. In truth, it was a relief to be sent home instead of having to endure the rest of the day among unsufferably superior councillors and gruff soldiers and the rest of the court. As for the King, the less time I spent in his presence, the better. Besides, a feast was being prepared at my own home. In celebration of the ascension, all citizens had been given free rations for three days according to their status. From my friends in my old neighbourhood, I knew that they had received oats, dried beans, onions and offal. As a house-owner of middling rank, I had been given millet, root vegetables, onions, and shank meat with the bones. Together with the wine from Andúnië that I had been gifted by Lord Eärendur, this would allow us to have some very nice braised beef this evening, and a decent stew in the coming days. Accordingly, I didn't mind that I was not permitted at the proper banquet. What I did mind was that I had to go home before the cheerful crowds had dispersed. Even though most people were doubtlessly cold and growing hungry, even though the sun was beginning to set and the air was getting colder yet, there were plenty of small groups still standing around and discussing the spectacle they'd witnessed when I had gotten rid of the symbolic amphora and my bundle of juniper and left the citadel behind.

Sure enough, several recognised me. Some simply pointed while talking to their peers, while others paused in their conversation to call out to me:
"Hey, aren't you the King's embalmer?"
With a sigh, I said, "I am indeed."
"Shouldn't you be at the banquet with all the nobs?"
I tried to make light of the question and forced a smile onto my lips. "Why would they need an embalmer at the banquet?"
They laughed at that and let me go, until the next cheerfully chattering group stopped me.
"You're the King's embalmer, aren't you?"
"I am."
"I thought I recognised you! Hey, what happened to your face?"
I couldn't help pursing my lips in annoyance at their brash curiosity. "I had an accident," I said, nodded to them, and went on my way.

I had already reached the large square when a group of respectable-looking merchants and their wives stopped me.
"Here, he will know," one of the women said to another, and turning to me: "You're the King's embalmer, right?"
"Yes, madam."
"How was he?"
Surprised, I tilted my head. "Who, madam?"
"The old King, of course!"
"He was very gracious, madam. Gracious and wise." My throat constricted, and I hoped I would not have to speak with them for so long that I'd burst into tears again.
"Hmm," said one of the men, sounding doubtful, "I never saw much of him."
The younger woman reasoned, "He was very old in the end, of course." As an afterthought, she added, "Eru rest him." It sounded dutiful rather than heartfelt. I assumed that they saw little reason to mourn the old man overmuch.
"Well, the new King certainly is very gracious as well!" the third woman in the group declared, looking at me for confirmation.
I barely managed to keep my face blank. "I think it is a bit too early to tell," I said in what I hoped was a neutral tone.
"Oh!" one of the men laughed. "The voice of reason!" The others joined in his amusement.
I forced myself to smile and to bow politely, and then I simply turned around and left them standing. I wanted nothing more than to get home. I needed my dinner, I needed a good long soak in my lovely hot bath, and I needed rest. A nation-wide holiday week had been declared so that all but servants and paupers would be able to celebrate the new King at leisure, which meant that I would not have to work during the next days. But right now, I felt that a whole year of holidays would not be enough time to come to terms with the events of the past weeks, nor to figure out how to move on.

Chapter 30

Read Chapter 30

Of course, I did not even get the whole free week to recover and regain my strength. Before even the left-overs from the coronation feast could have been eaten, I received a summons to Lord Atanacalmo's house. I had hoped that he would be kept busy by the King, or failing that, that he himself would want to rest and recover. I would vastly have preferred to speak with Lord Eärendur first, since we had been kept apart in the past weeks and I felt that I direly needed his advice. But I knew from Lord Saphadûl that the Council was in session during the first days, to arrange matters of government under its new head - unlike the rest of the populace, the councillors were not granted a holiday – so I felt that there was no chance of seeing him. Lord Atanacalmo, meanwhile, had no such qualms. On the evening of the third day, he insisted on my amusing company. Perhaps the courtiers did not let him win at chess. At any rate, it apparently was important enough to send two of his bodyguards to collect me. Their bulky presence behind me felt more like a prisoner's guard than a friendly escort.

As had become Lord Atanacalmo's custom, he was waiting for me in his study. He was back in the grey garb of mourning, which surprised me, since the mourning period had officially ended with the coronation. At the ceremony, I'd had the impression that Lord Atanacalmo had been enjoying himself perfectly well. Then I remembered how red his eyes had been earlier, when we had posed for the tapestry, and I chided myself for being so callous. He was human after all, and as such, he might still be grieving. He'd played his part at the coronation, as we all had.
"Let me offer my heartfelt condolences for the loss of your brother, my lord," I heard myself say.
Lord Atanacalmo accepted them with a curt nod. "And you?" he asked. "Why are you still wearing grey?"
I bit my lip, wondering whether it was safe to admit how much I was missing the old man, considering how high above me he'd stood and how little my grief meant. Then, hoping that Lord Atanacalmo wouldn't take offense, I decided to say the truth. "His Majesty was very important to me," I said, "both as King and as benefactor. It is a great loss for me, too."

Lord Atanacalmo snorted softly, sounding more like himself. "Touching. And here I thought you just couldn't afford a second winter robe."
I felt my face grow warm and regretted my honesty at once. I lifted my chin a bit. "Grey is also the colour of my craft, or so I have been told, so perhaps I should be wearing it all the time."
There was another snort, and the shadow of a leer. Lord Atanacalmo seemed to be one of those people who turned their grief into anger. "Ah. Yes. Your so-called craft. Did you know that Alcarmaitë plans to defund the Keepers of the Dead? No, of course you didn't, it is only just being discussed. Well, take it from me: the Crown will not pay for your work much longer."
"Is that so, my lord?" I said, because I didn't know what else to say.
"It is indeed, young Azruhâr. There is no point, Alcarmaitë feels, in paying you to preserve criminals who don't deserve it, now that you have established the right way of embalming and no longer need to experiment. So you shall no longer be paid for it. What will you do then, hm?"
It was a justified question, and the longer I thought about it, the more my already low spirit sank.
"I suppose I shall be executed then," I said, trying to sound nonchalant about it but hearing my voice crack. "Since I have only ever been released under condition."

He raised his eyebrows at that. "Oh, I don't think the Keepers will be dismantled – or put to their original punishment, for that matter – entirely. Yet. You just will no longer be payed by the Crown, unless the Crown specifically commissions you."
My fingers were twisting the fabric of my robe. It was solid, well-spun, tightly woven wool that provided a firm grip and didn't slip apart under my anxious fingertips, which just reminded me of how much I had won, and how much I had to lose.
"So I must find other work," I said. That in itself would not have been too bad, except that I had learned no other craft and I would never be able to maintain the house and feed my household and keep the Daytaler's Wellfare Society running as a simple daytaler. I understood that the King had outmaneuvered me. I had kept my side of the bargain, and he'd kept his. He wasn't threatening or hurting me. He didn't need to. He could simply stop paying for my work, and the work of my colleagues while he was at it, and let the relentless demands of everyday life in the capital take care of me. I dug my fingers into my thighs until I could feel my fingernails through the fabric, and tried to keep my voice even. "Now that you've given me these news, I expect you will again offer me to become your… your eyes and ears among the poor, my lord?"
"Oh, goodness me. No. Certainly not. That time has passed." His face was the very image of refusal.
That puzzled me, because I had thought that he was telling me because he wanted to press me into his service. Did he want me to plead for work at his feet? Previously he had not seemed to care for that kind of thing. But then, he had previously offered me employment, and now times had apparently changed.
I closed my eyes in resignation. "Do I have to beg, Lord?"
"What for? Money in the streets? Possibly, if you can't find a way to earn it. That, I believe, is how it usually goes."
"I mean, for work."
Again, he shrugged. "Possibly! But there is no point in begging from me. It would be highly unwise to take you into my pay now, considering Alcarmaitë's special attention to you, wouldn't it? No, as I said, that time is past."

I nodded despondently. "I see, my lord. May I take my leave, then?"
"Of course not! We haven't even played yet!"
On top of the news I had been given, a brutal game of chess was the last thing I wanted, and because I felt betrayed, I could not keep that thought to myself. "Have mercy, my lord. I don't think I can bear any more today."
"Well, you will," he said firmly, taking the chess pieces out of their inlaid ebony box. "After all, your ability to bear up against adversity is one of your few redeeming features."
I must admit that I gave him a very dirty look, which he chose to ignore. "How kind of you to say that I have any redeeming features," I said bitterly. "May I ask why you are determined to wear them down?"
He raised an eyebrow at my recalcitrant remark, but did not admonish me. He certainly seemed in better cheer than he'd been when I had arrived, so I suppose I was serving my purpose, at least.

For a while, we played in silence, and I tried to get my frustration under control and my thoughts sorted. Since I had received the house as a gift from the King, I would not be permitted to sell it, but maybe I would be able to rent it out. I'd have to return to my old house and dismiss most of my servants, of course. And I'd still have to pay for the maintenance and upkeep of the house. But at least the rent would provide a reliable income. That was a fortifying idea which helped me to endure the bad news a bit better. It did not improve my game in any way, however.
"You still have no strategy whatsoever," Lord Atanacalmo observed when he had all but defeated my little carved army.
I had no strength to do anything but shrug. "That can hardly surprise you, Lord. I've never had a strategy. If you want me to learn it, you will have to actually explain it to me."
"Well!" Lord Atanacalmo steepled his fingers, the old glint back in his eyes. "Are we feeling rebellious today?"
Too weary to argue, I bowed my head and said, "I beg your pardon, Lord. It has been a trying time."
He chuckled, then moved a piece around the board. "I expect it has been. Incidentally, how is your face?"
My head jerked up sharply. I tried to read his eyes, to understand what would be the right or the wrong thing to say, but as usual, he gave me no hint. There was still some redness in his eyes, but other than that, the mask of ironic superiority was fully back in place.
I should have liked to speak about what had happened in the night of the King's death – and about my silence on the matter – with somebody who actually understood politics, but not with him. I certainly did not want to get myself into trouble doing it, and I was not at all certain whether the question had been an invitation.
And thus, I unclenched my jaw and said, "It's not worth mentioning."

That made him laugh out loud. I looked down again, my cheeks burning, and tried to decide on my next move so I didn't have to pay attention to my host's mirth. Lord Atanacalmo's archer was threatening my king, which I could defend by putting my last rook in front of it, or by moving it onto a neighbouring field. Alternatively, I could use the rook to take a pawn that was threatening to reach the end of the board and turn into who knows what, but with the archer poised to take my king, that was out of the question. I did not want to sacrifice the rook, so I moved the king instead.
Lord Atanacalmo was still amused by my answer and did not act immediately. "'Not worth mentioning!' Aren't you a clever fellow."
My arms wrapped protectively around my chest, as if that could somehow ward off the hurt I felt at his scorn. "I know I'm not," I said tersely.
Smirking, he gave me a pointed look before returning his attention to the board. As I had feared, his pawn came to the last field of its row, and was duly promoted. Lord Atanacalmo turned it into a knight, which meant that it could reach my king in the next round, and I was forced to push my king out of harm's way again instead of actually moving against Lord Atanacalmo's pieces. Even without understanding the niceties of strategy, I knew that I'd spend the remaining rounds moving my king, in the limited way that it had, until it was surrounded and could no longer flee: a humiliating end. Once again, I wished that the rules permitted to simply capitulate, rather than forcing me to draw the end out.

Lord Atanacalmo brought one of his rooks in from the other side of the board – it would not be a very long end, at the very least – and said, without bothering to look at me, "A few days ago, a pawn was in the position to topple a king. Are you aware of that fact?"
I watched him closely as I inched my king away from its pursuers. "Yes, Lord."
He nodded, satisfied. "And yet he did not make that move. One might wonder why. It has disappointed a great many people."
Again, it took me a while to compose an answer. "Because he did not know what would happen next. He feared that it would make things worse rather than better." I finally mumbled, looking at the chess board as if I could will my chances to improve simply by staring at the pieces.
And then I raised my head again and met the watchful gleam of Lord Atanacalmo's eyes. "And because the real world is not a game of chess, my lord. Things aren't simply black and white. There are lots of colours in between, and lots of different parties involved. Everyone moves at the same time. And it never really ends. Even if the king had been toppled, that wouldn't mean that the game is over and the pieces are safely put away, would it? Someone still needs to rule the country, and who would that be? And the king might be unkinged, but he would still be in the game, and still be dangerous – more dangerous than ever, perhaps, and certainly dangerous for the pawn that dared to unking him. Who would care to protect the pawn? Nobody would, because it had served its purpose, and pawns are easily sacrificed. That much I know about strategy, at least."

I took a deep breath. It would have been safer, I suppose, to continue cloaking my thoughts in terms of chess; but I did not know how to do it, since I did not know what Lord Atanacalmo thought he was on that board – rook? queen? archer? - and thus had no way of posing my question. Accordingly, I dropped the pretense, and said, "I might as well ask why you did not make that move, my lord! You would clearly have gained from it. But I suppose it was too risky? Safer to let young Azruhâr put himself forward, was it? Well, I'm sorry to have disappointed! But then, you knew that I have no mind for strategy or politics. I can just barely think for my own safety, and for that, it was better to come to an agreement with the king, and let him have his own. If I'm supposed to act differently, then I need at the very least to be told. Especially after you pledged your support to the Crown Prince right from the start, so I had no way of knowing that you were looking for something else." I knew, even while I was speaking, that I was talking myself into dreadfully hot water. I told myself that I did not care, because I was genuinely angry. But of course I did, or would, at any rate, once Lord Atanacalmo punished me for my insolence.

For the time being, Lord Atanacalmo merely smiled to himself. "Well, well. Deep insights from a man who has no strategy!" His newly knighted pawn jumped after my king. I knew then that the game was over: wherever I moved the king, it would be taken either by the archer or the rook, or I would put it directly into the path of the knight.
"And here I thought you just didn't want me for a King," Lord Atanacalmo said leisurely, and added, "Checkmate."
I bowed my head in defeat and preferred not to answer. Lord Atanacalmo, meanwhile, swung his bell, summoning someone that (I thought) would have me taken to the stocks for my rebellious speech. But when the servant came, all Lord Atanacalmo said was, "A fortifying drink seems indicated right now. Some brandy for Azruhâr and myself, please."
"Very good, my lord," said the servant and disappeared. I kept my head lowered, but watched Lord Atanacalmo from the corners of my eyes, not that it would have helped me to see any warning signs of temper. There were none, but of course that didn't mean anything either. He was, very calmly and systematically, rearranging the chess pieces. He neither spoke nor looked at me. Then the servant arrived to bring a glass goblet of brandy for Lord Atanacalmo, and the familiar earthenware cup for me. Lord Atanacalmo gave the man a friendly nod, saying, "Thank you, that will be all for now." And to me, meeting my eyes with a perfectly level expression, "We should drink to my brother's memory."
I had no objection to that. So I obediently raised my cup, and he said a few choice words about Tar-Ancalimon the Great, and then we drank. The brandy was very good, warming my throat without burning. I began to hope against hope that maybe he had forgotten my transgression, or that perhaps he hadn't taken offense after all.

Then he set down his cup and tilted his head, smiling a smile that made the hair on my neck rise, although his voice was friendly enough. "Tell me, Azruhâr, do you trust me?"
I nearly spilled my brandy at the unexpected question. I held the cup tight, letting my hands – and the cup – sink into my lap.
"I am entirely in your hands, my lord," I said cautiously.
He waved his hand. "Of course you are! But that's not an answer to my question."
I felt my face flush. "Would you rather have a truthful answer, or one that will be pleasing to your lordship?"
Strangely, he grinned more broadly at that. "That's as good as a no. And you are right, of course. You shouldn't trust me. You shouldn't trust anybody! Not your friends, not your neighbours, not your servants, not even your darling wife. And certainly not me." He watched my face closely, spearing me with his eyes. "And yet, you seem to imply that you think I should have reached for the throne. I am flattered."
"I think nothing," I said.
That seemed to be funny, because it made him chuckle. "Oh yes, I've heard just how much you think nothing," he retorted. "Now is the time for honesty. Tell me, who are you? What are you?"
My teeth clicked on each other as my jaw clenched. Clinging more tightly to my fortifying drink, I replied mechanically. "No one, Lord. Nothing." How I hated the words.

Strangely enough, they didn't seem to be what he had wanted to hear, for he clucked his tongue and said, "Oh, nonsense. Try again."
Since he had discarded the most obvious answer, I was uncertain what he wanted to hear. Frowning, I guessed, "Your harmless fool?" He shook his head with a snort. "A pawn?" Another negative. "The King's embalmer?" Again he shook his head, looking thoroughly unimpressed, and I gave up. "I don't know what you expect me to say, my lord."
"I expect you to offer an explanation for your astute analysis of the political situation," he said. His forefinger tapped the chess board. "See here, you are not the first to ask me why I did not step forward on Yestarë. As I said, a great many people were disappointed in you. They were also disappointed in me. Because it would appear that not a few of the King's learnèd councillors are more fools than you are."
I did not know what to respond to that astonishing information, so I said nothing. Nor did I need to, because Lord Atanacalmo was already speaking again. "Obviously, we are not having this conversation. You know what that means, don't you?"
Hastily, I nodded. As it turned out, I actually did not know, because I thought he meant to say that he was not intending to discuss these matters with me. But as he promptly went on to discuss them, I understood that he rather meant that our conversation was secret – so secret that we should both pretend that it wasn't happening.

"I didn't proclaim Alcarmaitë unfit to rule – not because, as you insinuate, I am a coward, nor because, as the Wise Men of the realm seem to think, I did not realise that I could have claimed the sceptre in his place. I did not try to take the sceptre from Alcarmaitë because I am, in fact, a conscientious man."
I very much tried to keep an even face, but my scepticism must have registered somehow, and Lord Atanacalmo narrowed his eyes and declared, "Yes, doubt it though you may! What would have happened if Alcarmaitë had been deposed? You may not know, but I certainly do. Uncertainty about who gets to replace him. Struggles between the contenders. Alcarmaitë has no brothers – not even a sister. He has a daughter, however. So there's Vanimeldë. But she is a woman, and not even married. Not everybody likes that. Then there is me – but I am old, and have no son. Not everybody wants a King who can rule for a decade at the most before leaving the sceptre to a daughter!"
"Lady Arancalimë is a great lady," I said, more for the sake of signalling that I was still trying to keep up with his explanation than to reassure him. In truth, he was probably right. Lady Arancalimë was a great lady, but people always talked about the Ruling Queens with disdain, as if they were at best a curiosity and at worst a disgrace, and I could imagine that it would be even worse if she wasn't at least the established old King's daughter.

And indeed, Lord Atanacalmo merely flicked his fingers. "Arancalimë is more than capable of doing the job, but what does it matter, when they'll always reduce her to her sex? There would be too much opposition. A war to get my sceptre, and another war to keep hers? No, thank you. I prefer to fight my battles on the chess board. It would work if there were no other contenders, but there are always other contenders. Most dangerously, there is my other nephew, Mínaro, Calamíriel's son. He most assuredly is not a conscientious man, but he has his followers. Then there's Arnavaryo; he certainly isn't too far from the main line to try his luck. And while we were struggling, more others might feel encouraged to step in. Neither of us has a secure claim to the throne. Neither is without supporters, and neither without enemies. One thing only is certain: Very few would simply sit and watch. We should all fight for the throne or for the least unworthy candidate, and who knows who would win? In the meantime, Alcarmaitë would be out for revenge, not just on you, but on anyone who he feels has wronged him. Who would come out victorious? Manwë may know, but I dare not speculate! Do you realise what it would mean?"

"Unrest, my lord," I said. I had guessed as much before, but now that I had heard his explanation, I was even more terrified. "Battle, even."
"Indeed! Civil war, more likely than not! That's a high price to pay, even if one could be certain to win. Even if one thoroughly dislikes Alcarmaitë, I should think!" His eyes were glinting dangerously. "An uncertain succession is a terrible danger. Even the Eldar, despite their immortality, have found that out! No; I for my part prefer to keep the peace. It is best for all of us – not least of all, for myself – that I support Alcarmaitë. Poor fellow. He only wants to be loved, and at the same time, he is so unloveable. Except to his doting uncle, of course." The smile, if that was at all possible, intensified.

I was holding my cup too tightly; the rim of the cup was cutting into my palm, and I had to force myself to loosen my grip, afraid to shatter the vessel between my hands. I was certainly glad that I had remained silent, but at the same time I felt resentful that nobody had warned me properly, because I really shouldn't be expected to make that kind of decision on my own. So I couldn't help asking, "If so much depended on my silence, then why didn't you tell me, my lord?"
Lord Atanacalmo shrugged in his dismissive manner. "There were only two possibilities; either you'd know to keep your mouth shut, in which case no warning was necessary, or you'd decide to air your grievance, in which case I would have called you a liar – you, and anyone who had supported your complaint. Alcarmaitë has friends as well as opponents, and in the end, it would have come down to a simple matter of voting. I would be, as I am now, Alcarmaitë's trusted loyal uncle, and you?" He fixed his gaze on me, and I quailed from the merciless gleam in it. "By now, you would probably be screaming on the scaffold."
I had to set the bowl down because my hands had begun to shake so badly. "You could have told me," I repeated, stupidly.
Again, he clucked his tongue in scorn. "Even talking about these matters, even mentioning the mere possibility, is high treason until it becomes a reality," he said. "Hardly the kind of thing I'd have risked discussing with a known fool and coward, is it?"

My insides were beginning to feel hard and cold, as if the brandy had frozen inside them. "Then why are you telling me now, Lord?" I asked, and then a terrible suspicion dawned upon me, and my breath quickened. I stared at him in terror. "You will not --" I began, and could not go on.
"I will not what?" His eyes bored into mine. He knew exactly what I was thinking, I was sure of it. I felt as though I were being strangled. I wrapped my arms around myself once more, which did nothing against the dreadful frozen feeling inside.
"I will not what? What are you thinking?" He was staring me down. My entire body was shaking now.
"Cut out my tongue, Lord," I whispered. I was certain that I was right. Because then I would not be able to speak about anything I had heard tonight. Because I had stepped out of line once too often. Because the new King would have no qualms whatsoever about letting me be maimed. I had to fight down the bile that was rising up my throat, though part of my was tempted to allow it to burst forth and soil Lord Atanacalmo's carpet, but it appeared unwise to antagonise him further. I felt thoroughly sick, though, and clasped a hand in front of my mouth just in case – for whatever it was worth.

Even Lord Atanacalmor's lips curled in disgust at the suggestion, though his voice remained detached and even. "I could, couldn't I," he said, as if the possibility had just now occurred to him. "But then, I don't think such a drastic step is necessary. It is enough that you know that I could. After all, you have shown that you can hold your tongue when it really counts, haven't you?"
I nodded hastily, and he bared his teeth in a grin that did not pretend to be friendly. I was still quaking in my seat.
"Come on now, Azruhâr," Lord Atanacalmo said, more reassuringly. "Calm yourself. Take a good sip. You amuse me! How could you amuse me if you couldn't speak?"
I did not wholly believe him, and it took me quite a while to actually regain a grip on myself, and to let my hands sink back into my lap, where they knotted anxiously.
Meanwhile, Lord Atanacalmo went on, "No, you don't have anything to fear from me… at this time, anyway. But now, I really want you to answer the initial question. Who are you, and what? You profess to have no mind for strategy, but you seem to grasp enough of politics to make prudent choices – more prudent than some of the Wise Men of the realm. You say you are no-one, yet you shamed the King in his own house! And you have such entertaining ideas! Where does all that come from?"
He was leaning towards me across the desk, his chin resting on his steepled hands, and it took quite a bit of effort not to back away, which would have toppled over the chair. "I don't know, Lord," I said. "As you yourself said a while back, even a fool may blurt out some useful truths every now and then."
Again he was grinning. "Your memory continues to impress. And these delightful flares of insolence! Not what you'd expect in a man of neither birth nor breeding. It's almost as if you weren't made for the foot of the hill. Are you someone's bastard? Eärendur's, perhaps? That would certainly explain his absurd attachment..."

The remains of my fear were burned away by a growing anger, and I didn't even know which part angered me the most: the insult to my mother, the name of bastard, or the implication that paupers must be stupid. I also bridled at the suggestion that Lord Eärendur had cheated on Lady Nolwen. It was a very complicated and certainly potent mix of insults.
"I am no-one's bastard," I said grimly. I was pretty certain about that, too. I looked too much like my father had looked, back when he had still been in health. Less gaunt, of course, but that was simply because I had more to eat.
Lord Atanacalmo seemed to find my annoyance entertaining. "No, I suppose not," he said, smirking. "You don't have the Andúnië beauty. Besides, Eärendur is probably too goodly to spill his seed where it doesn't belong. And I'd know if you were one of mine. So where did you get your brains?"
"Have you considered the possibility that even paupers have brains?" I heard myself say. I should have accepted his needling with the equanimity of a humble day-taler, of course, but my tender dignity was stinging too badly by now. "We're just not expected to use them much. We certainly aren't trained to be clever. But we still have to be resourceful."
"Good grief! You mean there might be more people like you among the poor of the city?"
I glared at the desk because I did not dare to glare at Lord Atanacalmo. "Educate them and find out, my lord."

Now he was laughing genuinely. "Hah! Maybe I shall! Once I tire of you, perhaps?" I felt my cheeks colour, and he laughed again. "Drink up, Azruhâr. It has become late. Come back tomorrow. I'll be hosting a banquet then, and there's someone whom I think you should meet." He was still smirking as I rose and bowed. "I'd tell you to wear your robes of office, but you're already doing that, anyway. Good night, Azruhâr. Try to figure out what you are, lest others keep doing it for you. And don't get lost on your way home."
That last part was hardly likely, since his forbidding bodyguards escorted me back to my house. I wasn't certain whether they were meant for my protection – it had become late indeed, and the night felt charged and threatening, full of unsettling footsteps and hostile noises, although perhaps that was just my imagination after the draining evening. Of course, the guards might as well have been sent to keep me intimidated, or to make sure that I didn't take a detour to Lord Eärendur, whose advice I was now missing more badly than ever. Either way, they were there, and there was no escaping them.

The man Lord Atanacalmo wanted me to meet was Lord Roitaheru, Governor of Umbar, who also happened to be his son-in-law. Why I was meant to meet him, I do not know. Perhaps Lord Atanacalmo wanted me to amuse him, too.
"Azruhâr used to be the first man in his neighbourhood, you know," Lord Atanacalmo said as he introduced me.
Lord Roitaheru, tanned and relaxed, wearing his hair short in the manner of a soldier and patterned robes in the foreign manner of (I assumed) Umbar, gave me a reasonably polite nod. "'Used to be?' And then what happened?" he asked.
I bowed low. "I moved house, your grace," I explained. "And my lord forgot to mention that it was a very poor neighbourhood to begin with."
"I see," said Lord Roitaheru, and by the way his lips quirked, he might as well have been Lord Atanacalmo's true son; they appeared to have the same sense of humour, at any rate. "But you were the King's embalmer in the procession, weren't you? So what does that entail, really? I do not recall there being any embalmers when I was last in Yôzayân..."
"Oh, they were there, but they stayed in the catacombs at that time, rather than rising to the daylight," Lord Atanacalmo said dryly. "Things have changed in the last years."
Lord Roitaheru nodded at that. "They certainly have. But I still don't know what an embalmer does," he said.

It was evidently meant as a question, so I spent the first course – quail with dried fruits – outlining my work to Lord Roitaheru as well as I could. He seemed to find it a lot less off-putting than I would have expected. In fact, he appeared fairly interested, not in the possibility of keeping the dead for revival, but simply in the idea of preservation. In the end, he remarked, "That sounds like something we should have in the colonies, so that our people who die can be brought home and laid to rest in their native soil."
I agreed that this sounded like a useful application of my craft.
"Well then, send one or two of your journeymen over, when you can spare them," Lord Roitaheru suggested, to the obvious mirth of Lady Arancalimë.
As for me, I almost choked on the meat I had bitten off. Lord Atanacalmo's eyes were sparkling with delight as he said, "Azruhâr will do no such thing – he is merely an apprentice."
"Really?" Lord Roitaheru said, mustering me. He was probably wondering why I had been allowed to sit at the high table, in that case, but all he said was, "In that case, tell your master. Or come yourself once you've been promoted!" He laughed at his error – on second thought, he appeared more good-natured than Lord Atanacalmo – and I mumbled my thanks and didn't have the heart to tell him that I got sea-sick on the calmest waters, and the last thing I wanted to do was travel all the way to distant Umbar, even though Lord Roitaheru painted it brightly for the rest of the evening. He entertained us with descriptions and funny anecdotes from his colony while we demolished a magnificent grilled hake with salted lemons and boiled greens, and a dessert made from crispy nuts and honey.

As I came home (yet again chaperoned by Lord Atanacalmo's imposing bodyguards), I learned that Lord Eärendur had come to my house and tried to see me while I'd been away. Amraphel joked that half the nobility was itching to talk to me, but I could have wept. Not that Lord Roitaheru's stories and Lord Atanacalmo's food hadn't been reasonably pleasant, but I felt that I would have profited much more from an evening's conversation with a man whom I actually trusted, and who perhaps would have given me support and explanations instead of keeping me guessing half the time and mocking me the other half. Lord Eärendur had waited for my return for almost two hours, Amraphel said, but after that he had reasoned that at whatever time I got home, I would surely be too tired to endure further visitors, and returned to his house.
The next two days, the King took his guests and his councillors hunting, and on the final day of the week, he gave another feast at the palace before the foreign dignitaries were to depart. As a result, I was left in peace, but neither did I have opportunity to see my noble friend. In the meantime, the criers in the markets announced the first decisions of the royal council under the new King. Among other things, the ancient custom of the King's Mercy would be discontinued; private societies were no longer entitled to any of the benefits enjoyed by the established guilds; men of no rank would be taxed according to the size of their household; and the Keepers of the Dead were no longer generally paid by the Crown.

None of these came as a surprise – Lord Atanacalmo had warned me about the future lack of funding, and Amraphel had heard about this as well as the others from Lord Eärendur – but they were a heavy blow nonetheless. To be sure, there were some new laws that did not appear to be in some way related to me – among other things, it was announced that the rationing would be lifted for good by Midsummer – and most other people would not even notice where all these changes pointed. Nonetheless, I felt that Tar-Telemmaitë had shown me rather effectively just how much our agreement was worth. He didn't need to threaten or hurt me, of course. He could simply make the world in which I was trying to live ever more uncomfortable. In taking away my guaranteed income as well as the access to additional rations for my former neighbours, in raising the tax load I would have to pay if I continued to employ the servants I had, he had once again put me into bad straits. And I felt very guilty indeed at the thought that no other hapless man would be able to put his last hope in the King's Mercy, simply because I had once profited from it. Even if, as Lord Atanacalmo had said, the ability to bear up under adversity was one of my redeeming features, it was being sorely tested. I very much doubted that I would be able to bear up for long.

Chapter 31

Read Chapter 31

"I wonder whether he is hoping to drive a wedge between us," Lord Eärendur said when at last we met again. I had told him about what had been spoken during my visits to Lord Atancalmo's house, even the distasteful and outright treasonous parts - Lord Atanacalmo had told me that I shouldn't trust anyone, but I had decided to trust both my darling wife and my noble friend. If I could not trust them, then life was hardly worth living anyway. I wasn't weeping this time, although I had been tempted once or twice. But the fire in the Heart was warm and bright, and the wine was good, and Lord Eärendur had been as attentive and kind as my bruised dignity could ask for.
"Sometimes I almost feel that Atanacalmo is trying to claim you for himself," Lord Eärendur continued to muse.
Frowning, I shook my head. "He could have had my service, the last time we spoke," I said, "and he told me that he didn't want it anymore. So that can't be it. Besides, he isn't even particularly friendly to me."
Lord Eärendur weighed his head thoughtfully. "Perhaps it is not so much directed towards you, as rather against me. I do have the impression that he is jealous of me or of Andúnië, at any rate. Just a few days back he announced that Armenelos - and no other place - should be the foremost city in the world, a place in which there are neither poverty and despair. That is how he argued in favour of the Day-taler's Welfare Society, incidentally. Telemmaitë wanted to put an end to it, but Atanacalmo insisted that it was useful to his great plan."

That was news to me, but it also helped to make more sense of things. So I was useful to Lord Atanacalmo in other ways than just providing some meagre amusement. In a way, that was reassuring: I was far more confident that I could tell him how to make poor people less desperate, if that was what he wanted, than I could rely on my abilities as a jester. If he felt that this contributed to the glory of Arminalêth, so much the better. Less reassuring was the fact that he certainly didn't need to employ me for that purpose, because he knew by now that I'd blurt out whatever he needed to know if only he needled me enough. I had told him myself that I was already giving him all the information that was relevant to the Society, and thus the betterment of my erstwhile fellows. I grimaced in displeasure, and saw my expression mirrored on Lord Eärendur's face.
"I wish I could advise you to stay away from him," he said, "because he is certainly ruthless, and because I know how much he wears you out. But unfortunately, I must say the opposite: that you should seek his patronage, and please him as well as you can. Atanacalmo is now easily the most powerful man next to the King - Telemmaitë listens to him; he feels that his uncle is giving him all the affection and support that Ancalimon withheld from him, and he basks in it. So Atanacalmo can protect you far better than I can, as long as he cares to." He sighed heavily. "Stay in his favour, Azruhâr; it's the best hope for safety that you have, at this time. If that means cutting ties with me, I will not hold it against you--"

I shook my head violently. "No. I'll do my utmost to earn Lord Atanacalmo's goodwill, but I can't do it without you. I need you to counsel me and - to build me up again after he has worn me down." My face had grown hot with embarrassment. I felt very greedy - did I not have a loving and competent wife? Did I not have three wonderful children? Was I not, on the whole, surrounded by people who treated me well and even, on occasion, looked up to me? - but I suppose I was desperate to be loved, just like the new King, by those whose love I did not deserve.
In his boundless kindness, Lord Eärendur merely gave an indulgent smile at my demand, and even said, "I am glad if I can do that much, at least." He reached out to pat my shoulder. "And I shall be glad to lend you the money you need, too - for however long you need it. Do let me know before things get desperate." He gave me an uncomfortably earnest look, suggesting that he knew perfectly well that I wouldn't want to ask until things were desperate, but then seemingly changed the topic. "That was your amber pendant Telemmaitë was wearing for the coronation, wasn't it?"
I nodded, my face burning. "I tried to buy his favour with it, but I don't think it worked. I am very sorry. I assure you that I didn't give it away easily -- it has always been precious to me! But he threatened to take it by force, and I thought I'd be able to make things better if I gave it freely." I rubbed forehead with my fist, then forced myself to meet Lord Eärendur's eyes. "Are you very angry with me?"
Briefly, his lips twitched into another sad smile. "I am not angry - not with you, at any rate! I regret that you saw the need to give it up, without negotiating for a fair price. I hope you will get the value you bargained for." He sighed, and I bit down hard on my lip, at which he shook his head. "No, don't do that!" Taking both my hands in his, he said, "We'll get you through this. We'll find a way." He smiled again, lopsidedly. "What do you say, should we try to improve your chess? I am not as much of a player as Atanacalmo, but I'll do my best."
His best was certainly better than mine; he beat me just as easily as Lord Atanacalmo did. But he explained what he was doing, and pointed out where my choices had turned wrong, so that at the end of the game, it felt like a learning opportunity rather than a humiliating defeat, for which I was deeply grateful. Above all, it occupied my mind enough to keep me from bursting into tears.

To my relief, my income did not dry up right away. We were given the rest of the month at our usual pay to clear out the catacombs. Our tools and materials went to Master Târik's house after he had bought an additional strongbox to lock up the potentially dangerous or even poisonous salts. We discussed what to do with the remaining body parts. It had been a while since we'd worked with intact bodies - for the first time, I wondered whether the guards had merely stopped bringing the bodies of starved or frozen beggars to us, or whether fewer people had in fact died in that manner, alone, in the open, and unclaimed by family whose objections to embalming couldn't be assuaged with a few coins - and it seemed wasteful to preserve the heads or arms or legs of dead criminals, now that we no longer needed to find out how to do it well. At the same time, it felt respectless to throw them out, criminals though they had been. In the end, we settled for a compromise: We preserved the heads, but the other parts we brought to the refuse pits behind the tanners' quarter. It kept us busy, and although we didn't dare to drag our feet, we certainly did not hurry unduly, lest we were done too soon. Knowing the King, he'd happily have stopped paying right then and there, even if there was still a week of the month left.

"You are aware hat you are not allowed to use a private house as a morgue, of course," Lord Atanacalmo said in his dismissive manner when we were next playing chess. I did not know who had told him that we were storing the boxes of old experiments and newly embalmed heads at Master Târik's house, but then, we had not exactly worked in secret, and I suppose it was Lord Atanacalmo's job to know what was going on in his city.
I, meanwhile, had not known that there was any law in place that did not allow the storing of dead people, or their parts, in a private house. Not that I expected that to be a common occurance - but I had not expected it to be explicitly forbidden, and I said so.
"I was not aware of that, Lord. Thank you for bringing it to my attention. I shall tell my master."
"Do that! You will need to find some other lodgings for your- specimens."
I nodded.
"I expect you will not find it easy," Lord Atanacalmo continued with his trademark smirk.
"Probably not, your Grace," I agreed unhappily. Yet again, my focus was very much not on the chess board. To be fair, my game would not have been much better if I had been allowed to think about it undistractedly; but at any rate, it certainly wasn't improved by giving me unpleasant news to chew on. "Maybe we can rent a cellar somewhere in the butchers' district."
"Dear me! I doubt that the good butchers of Armenelos would approve. And even if they do, I don't think I would. What kind of message would that send, dead human bodies in the same quarters as the meat that we eat? Hardly good for one's appetite."
I could not well contradict him. The mere idea was enough to put you off meat forever.
Lord Atanacalmo's eyes were glinting. "No, if you asked me, I should rather advise you to look outside the city walls," he said.

Staring at him in confusion, I asked, "In Arandor?" I was certain that I had misunderstood him, but then, perhaps he wasn't looking at things from my perspective. "I don't think his Majesty would be at all supportive, your Grace," I explained in case he didn't see the problem.
But he evidently saw it, and found it very funny, because he threw his head back and laughed out loud. "Indeed not! No, Arandor would be a very bad idea." He sobered, or at any rate stopped laughing, although his eyes were still gleaming with mirth. "But the land on either side of the road from the city to the Mountain is counted as part of the city, and thus under my authority." His stare seemed to intensify. Discomfited, I had to struggle against the urge to squirm.
"Is it? I did not know that, your Grace," I said for the sake of politeness. I was not certain what he expected of me. Even if the land was under his authority, that didn't make it useful for us. "Does that mean it belongs to you, Lord?"
"It means that, yes," he said, looking very satisfied with himself. I suppose he had reason to be satisfied, if he owned the city of Arminalêth and the pastures on either side of the road. I tried to keep my thoughts together. There must be a reason why he was telling me these things. Was it an offer? "Would it be possible, in theory, to rent that land?" I asked cautiously.
"Ah!" he said, sounding pleased. It appeared that I had guessed correctly. "Yes, it so happens that it would be possible. In theory. For the right price."
I was worrying my lips once more. "And what price would that be, Lord?"
Lord Atanacalmo simply smiled. "Are you authorised to enter into this kind of negotiation, Apprentice Azruhâr?"
That stopped me short. I had not actually intended to negotiate anything - I had merely asked because I needed to know what to do with the information he had given me - but it appears that he intended to understand it differently. "No, your Grace," I said meekly.
"Then we shall not negotiate." He was still smiling, and his voice sounded indifferent, but I was still worried that I had crossed yet another line that I should have stayed well away from.

But once again, I found that there was no turning back. Five days later, I was in Lord Atanacalmo's house again, armed with some good advice and with Master Târik's written authorisation to try and negotiate for a plot of land that we could use to build our own morgue. We had agreed that it was a pity to invest our own money into a business that was no longer encouraged, but since our lives depended on our work as embalmers, it was an investment that had to be made. Fortunately, Master Târik and the others had been able to save rather more money than I, and they were willing to pay without me. "You'll negotiate for us," Kârathon had said, patting my back, "that'll be your share of the debt."
"Mind you to negotiate a good deal," Mîkul had added, "or we might charge you for the difference after all!"
I knew that Mîkul was joking, but I couldn't find it funny. "I hate to disappoint you, but Lord Atanacalmo can and will shortchange me, and if you want to avoid that, you can go and talk to him yourself," I announced.

In the event, we did not even enter into negotiations. When I was shown into Lord Atanacalmo's study, he was studying a sheaf of papers with his daughter, clearly preoccupied. I was greeted, I was told to sit, and then I was ignored while they discussed the papers in hushed voices and what appeared to be the Eldarin tongue. I sat and waited, as unobtrusively as I could. I had not come unannounced - I had asked for an appointment and been told to come at this specific time of the afternoon, in fact - so I told myself that I was not truly inconveniencing them, or if I was, that it was their own fault. Nonetheless, I felt rather uncomfortable. I told myself that this was doubtlessly intended. Perhaps I should have been flattered that Lord Atanacalmo thought he needed the additional advantage. But then, he knew me well enough to know that I was not a strong negotiator, and that he would easily outwit me. Something else must be afoot. I resigned myself to waiting until they deigned to let me know what it was.

The time came - or I assume it came - when Lord Atanacalmo switched to Adûnaic, speaking so I could understand him. "Did you know that the rate of petty crime in Arminalêth has gone down significantly in the last three years?" he asked me, smiling languidly.
I tried to smile in return. "That is good, isn't it?"
"It is good indeed."
Lady Arancalimë also spoke - ostensibly, to her father, because she was pointing out something I couldn't see in the papers he was holding, but she was clearly saying it for my sake. "Look, the rate of untimely death has also gone down during that time," she said.
"Hmmm," Lord Atanacalmo agreed, and then looked at me again. "I have been governing well, haven't I?"
I tried to discern the trap in his words, but wasn't sure where to find it. "That is hardly for me to judge, my lord?" I said.
He rolled his eyes in response.
"You have doubtlessly been governing well, Atar," Lady Arancalimë said, her eyes never leaving my face. I hoped that my expression would be read as unassumingly affirmative.
"So what did it? Was it my new laws?" Lord Atanacalm said, likewise staring me down. "Those did not go without criticism. But even though we have more people now, we have less crime. Surely that is due to the stricter laws..."
Now the trap was obvious, and yet I couldn't help but step into it. "Then there might be less crime, but more death. Perhaps, instead, you successfully combated the afflictions of the poor that lead to both crime and untimely death?"
"Ah!" Lord Atanacalmo exclaimed. "You think it was my patronage of the Daytaler's Welfare Society, then?"
I glanced from him to his daughter nervously. "It might as well have been." I was certainly hoping that it had been, at any rate.
Lord Atanacalmo appeared to accept my suggestion, which made me suspect that he'd already thought of it himself. "That should be celebrated!" he announced. "Arancalimë, what should we do to celebrate?"

"I think one would usually have a feast," said Lady Arancalimë. "Or maybe we should make an investment?"
Lord Atanacalmo was smirking now. "Ah, yes, another investment. Azruhâr, if I were minded to pay a little reward to some deserving members of the Day-talers' Welfare Society - let us say, the sum you paid as surety for your neighbours? How much was that again?"
"Five Trees, my lord," I said, barely believing my ears. Something was very wrong, I was certain, but I did not know what to do about it.
"Ah yes, that's right, five shiny silver Trees." He had known the answer before I had given it, I was certain of that. Clearly, I wasn't the only one with a fair memory. "Let's say five Trees for the five most deserving day-talers, then. Who would that be?"
Once again I found myself looking anxiously from Lord Atanacalmo to his daughter and back. I was getting more and more worried about my role in the strange play they were performing - surely it was a play; they were not about to give away five Trees, even if that was a paltry sum for nobles like them. More likely, awful things would happen to the five people I was expected to name.

As a result, I named no-one. "I would have to check with our book-keeper to answer that question," I said. "I cannot simply say who is the most deserving; there are plenty of deserving people among them. Let me discuss this matter first and I will come back to you--" Above all, I would have to discuss it with Lord Eärendur, I felt, to help me see where the trap was.
"No, no, I am not minded to wait. Why don't we find out ourselves? Arancalimë, dearest, the people trust you. Go among them and ask what they'd do with our money; we shall decide based on their answers." He grinned even more broadly. "After all, everybody knows that the poor don't handle money responsibly. That's why they stay poor - they never save anything, let alone invest it wisely. We must make sure that we don't give it to such people."
I thought to myself that the poor people I knew never had so much money that they could put something on the side. Otherwise, they would do it - as I had done, before I'd seen myself forced to spend so much of it. But I did not voice that thought, especially as Lady Arancalimë was already rising. I rose as well, ready to tag along. At once, Lord Atanacalmo's eyes hardened. "Sit down, Azruhâr; I am not finished with you."
Frowning, I said, "I thought as the spokesman --"
"As the spokesman, you were unable to give us names. There is no need for you to go and put words into other people's mouths now. Let them speak for themselves. Arancalimë will take Fuinil along to take notes, so you needn't worry about her forgetting anything." He smiled with his lips only. "Sit."
I sat.

I could not help fidgeting in worry, however, and once Lady Arancalimë was gone, Lord Atanacalmo accosted me about it. "You do not trust our neighbours to answer wisely, I see," he said. "Interesting."
"I trust them," I protested. "But I do not trust noble folk to necessarily understand them right. Sometimes we seem to be talking at cross-purposes."
"We do, don't we! Even though we speak the same language." He leaned back and studied me, his lip quirking scornfully.
"When you choose to," I couldn't help saying.
"Hmm. Indeed." The smirk intensified. "Either way, it's out of your hands. But you had your own business to discuss with me, anyway. Let's hear it; I'm all ears."
Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I tried to focus on my original purpose. "Yes, Lord. The last time we spoke, you mentioned land by the road that you might be willing to let, but you would not say any more because I didn't have the rights to negotiate with you. Well, I do now. I have my master's written authorisation right here." I handed him the letter Master Târik had given me.
He read it leisurely. "So you're spokesman of the embalmers as well now! You gather responsibilities faster than a dead body gathers flies!"
My cheeks grew hot with embarrassment. "My colleagues think that you will be more forthcoming with me, since you know me already. But you need not worry - I'm not expecting much. I know perfectly well that you will drive a hard bargain. After all, it's not like we're friends."
Once again, his lips twitched. "That would be asking a bit much, wouldn't it," he said. "Very well. You know I have lands by the main road that I am, in theory, willing to let. So, what's your idea?"

I needed another deep breath before I could answer. I had rather hoped that he would begin the negotiations by telling me what was possible. As it was, I was afraid that I would give away too much, too soon. But apparently, it could not be helped. "Well, my lord, we do not need a large plot since we only need ground enough for a workshop, but the ground must not be too rocky because we will need a deep cellar to protect our... specimens... and we don't have much time to do it. We shall need a well to keep things clean, also. So we shall have to dig deep, and quickly."
Lord Atanacalmo had steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. "Well, I can't help you with that. You can't ask for deep ground free of rock in the Tarmasundar* of all places."
Again, my face flushed. "Then we cannot pay too much for it. After all, we will have no reliable income after this month, and if the ground is tough, then we shall have to pay for more workers, and employ them for longer, to get our morgue built."
I was very pleased with that, because I felt it gave me a basis on which to start bargaining, but Lord Atanacalmo merely shrugged. "You will realise that your financial limitations are not my concern," he said.
"They are if you want our business, Lord," I couldn't help saying, at which he shrugged again.
"I do not want it; I merely mentioned it as a way out of your current difficulties. I do not need to let that land at all; it may be of little use to me, but since you have use for it, that obviously raises its value."
Chewing my lips a little, I tried to figure out whether I should try to argue, or whether I should just skip to the haggling right now. I decided for the latter. "Be that as it may, we absolutely cannot offer more than two Crowns per month." Master Târik was, in truth, ready to pay as much as four Crowns, but obviously I would not begin with that.
"Ridiculous," Lord Atanacalmo duly responded. I had expected nothing else. "Permitting you to build at all is a great mercy, and I want to see something in return. Five Crowns."
"You will have our gratitude, and we shall glorify you as much as you like," I said, "but we cannot pay in coin. Two and a half."

I received a joyless smile in return. "My dear Azruhâr, maybe you have not realised it, but you are in no position to bargain. You have no alternatives, so you shall have to take what I offer you."
Taking another deep breath, I said, "As it happens, we have been exchanging letters with the dean of the Academy at Andúnië, and it is entirely possible that we will be able to store our specimens there, for use in their studies of anatomy and other sciences."
As it happened, we had written a single letter, and not yet received an answer. Still, Lord Eärendur had advised me to put more store in that single letter than it might hold (after first suggesting that we wrote to the dean in the first place). And I felt that with Lord Eärendur behind us, it was in fact quite likely that the dean would agree to help us. So I wasn't lying. It was entirely possible.
Lord Atanacalmo clearly didn't like hearing this, because his smirk was replaced by a very thin-lipped expression, and his gaze hardened to a glare. "I see," he said after a short pause. "Well, good luck with that, then. You may go."
Confused, I protested, "We have not yet reached an agreement, my lord...?"
He drew a very deliberate breath through his nose. "I said, you may go."
I bowed and made my escape.

I didn't dare to go down to the foot of the hill and find out what Lady Arancalimë was talking my neighbours into because that would doubtlessly annoy her father even more, but I went the next evening so I at least knew what to expect. (I had no doubt that Lord Atanacalmo would eventually summon me again, and I wanted to make sure that I knew what had truly been said.) So I asked around who had spoken with the grand lady the previous evening, and also what they had spoken about.
"She asked what I'd do if I had five Trees," said Khôrazon, whom I met at the well.
"And what did you say?"
"Well, I told her that I wouldn't have five Trees, right? I'm not a thief or anything of the sort. But she said I should imagine that someone gave me five Trees as a gift, which in all honesty is a bit ludicrous, isn't it? Still, I said that in the unlikely event that someone gave me five Trees, I'd use them to rebuild my house. I mean, it's not breaking down, but I'd like a proper house. Maybe with one or two separate rooms that we can rent out, because there are plenty of people these days who need a home. She laughed. But I was serious! Perhaps five Trees wouldn't be enough for that, though? What do you think?"
"It should be enough, if you don't get too fancy," I said. I did not see the joke, either.
"I would buy some farmland," said Zamâl, who had overheard our conversation. "Not a big farm, mind, but an acre or two. And seeds, of course. And a plough. The lady asked whether I was going to buy an ox, too, but I was thinking of a simple hand-held plough, really. I'd like to save the rest of the money in case I need it later."
"I would've bought the ox, too! It would make the ploughing so much easier. And the shit is good for the soil." That was Râpharil, sister of my gardener Râhak.

Others said they would have bought a vegetable patch, or a herd of goats, or some sheep. Indeed, growing food or raising lifestock were common desires. Some folk had other ambitions - for instance, Lîmar, who did a lot of weaving, would sensibly buy a proper loom, the kind that would allow her to weave patterned fabrics with ease; Thâmaris, of course, wanted guest rooms for the sick people who visited her; Obal, who had twin sons, would have tried to buy apprenticeships in respectable crafts for both of them; Mâkil wanted a horse and cart to transport goods from the capital to the havens at Rómenna and back. Some, like Khôrazon, wanted to add to their houses to rent out rooms, or add a dairy kitchen, or open a tavern. But on the whole, lifestock and food seemed the most popular choice. I felt that it made a whole lot of sense, remembering the shortages in the markets and the eternal plight to get enough food on the table, anyway. I felt that my neighbours had all proven that poor people could handle money just fine, provided they had enough of it in the first place. As long as Lady Arancalimë continued to be benevolent towards us, she could hardly find fault with these wishes. In all honesty, I was a bit worried that I'd have to help pick the five worthiest, because I would have found that very hard indeed.

But clearly, my expertise (such as it was) wasn't required, for Lord Atanacalmo did not summon me all week. I began to fear that he was seriously angry over the way our negotiations had gone, and that I had lost whatever goodwill he'd had for me.
I said as much to Lord Eärendur when he visited us that Valanya, bringing - among other things - a letter from Master Salquendil, the Academy's dean. "I am not sorry that I told him about it, because I really don't want him to think that I'm utterly dependent on him," I said, "but at the same time I'm frightened of the consequences."
Lord Eärendur nodded sagely. "You are not obliged to answer to him exclusively," he said, "and indeed, as long as he refuses to offer you any security outright, it seems to me dangerous to make yourself too dependent on him. But I understand your fear." He sighed. "Read your letter. I hope it can alleviate your worries at least a little."
I read, and found out that Master Salquendil had spoken to the heads of several departments of natural sciences and they had all expressed an interest in our specimens, which we were welcome to send to the Academy at our convenience. That was some small reasurrance - at least we did not have to risk arrest or worse over using Master Târik's house as a makeshift morgue - although the mere thought of procuring boxes and packing up the bodies and heads, then carting them to Rómenna and putting them on a ship made me break out in a cold sweat. Still, it seemed our best hope. Master Salquendil further urged us - well, only Master Târik, probably - to give a series of lectures about the purposes and means of our experiments in the Academy itself, which I was certain Master Târik would like.

Reassured on that point, I managed to tell Lord Eärendur about the rest of my conversation with Lord Atanacalmo, and about my neighbours' answers to Lady Arancalimë's queries. To my surprise, Lord Eärendur did not seem shocked or worried by what I told him: his eyes widened, but at he same time his lips twitched into a smile, as if he'd just had some kind of revelation. Frowning, I stopped to talk.
"This actually explains quite a lot. I think I am beginning to understand!" he said. "You see, Azruhâr, we've had a very interesting council session today, in which Atanacalmo announced his plans to turn much of the unused land by the road into farmland. He wants to hand these plots out to the poor folk of the capital to let them turn the land into fields and pastures. Apparently, this will help both to feed the growing city, and weaken the power base of a certain demagogue. That would be you, I believe."

He might be beginning to understand, but I couldn't claim the same. I was as confused as I'd been before.
"What's a demagogue?" I asked wearily.
"Somebody who influences the opinions of great numbers of common people."
"Huh," I said. "Is that a crime?"
"It would be if it turns into sedition," Lord Eärendur replied, "but I don't think that's what Atanacalmo is playing at. You see, Azruhâr, after this explanation there was quite a bit of enthusiasm for his plans, which might otherwise have seen more opposition. True, it's his land, and in theory, he can do with it what he wants - but it would be unwise to do so against the will of the King, right? And a King might question whether it is right to change the purpose of land that has been ornamental for centuries, and given to Atanacalmo merely to soothe the hurt of being second-born. And then, why give it to poor city-dwellers? Why not have enterprising peasants from other parts settle there? Plenty of lords on the council would like to rid themselves of their agricultural labourers with no property but plenty of agricultural experience. But in saying that putting the poor of the capital onto these plots, you would lose supporters - he won the immediate support of the King, and of those councillors who disapprove of your past successes. Oh, he is clever indeed!"
I sighed. "He is much too clever for me, and one day it'll be the death of me."

Lord Eärendur put a hand on my shoulder. "I think - though I cannot be certain - that he is not truly set against you; not, at any rate, like the King is. I think this is an elaborate move on his chess board. Let me see if I can unravel it." He closed his eyes and thought for a good while while I chewed on my lips in fear and confusion.
"Let me see," Lord Eärendur said again. "Unused land is turned into farmland, and given - free of charge, as I understood it - to paupers. What happens as a result?"
"Friends of mine will leave the city, apparently," I said.
"Maybe so - but will they stop being your friends? I think this is not about your friends, and their presence or absence, at all. I think Atanacalmo is planning something else entirely. Azruhâr, up until now his title has been meaningless. He was the King's brother, and he didn't marry an heiress, so he had to be given something; but Armenelos is the city of the King, and did not truly need a Lord to govern it besides. True, he was made responsible for the roads - and given just enough land outside the city to justify making him responsible for the road to the Noirinan, too - and for the guilds and markets. But all of that could have been done by a royal official, too. The taxes go to the Crown as always, and the city cannot even provide for itself! In all, Atanacalmo's was a purely decorative title, with little more power than your neighbour Saphadûl's lordship, albeit more prestigious. Atanacalmo was essentially invisible, and was expected to remain so until he died. But then, something unexpected happened." He paused as if inviting me to continue the tale, but I didn't know what I should have said.
So I just asked, "What happened, then?"
"Ancalimon didn't relinquish the sceptre," Lord Eärendur promptly replied. "He grew old - and ultimately, lost his power - without making place for the younger generation. The King could no longer look after his realm. For the most part, that load was borne by us lords. But what of Armenelos? Suddenly, Atanacalmo had to do something he was never meant to do - he had to actually govern! Suddenly, it was his fault if people in the capital starved - or rioted. Suddenly, it was his responsibility to keep them fed - and in line. But also, he could suddenly make and enforce the laws that had previously been his brother's prerogative. At first, it caught him on the wrong foot, but later on? If you ask me, he came to like it."

That sounded reasonable, but I still didn't see what it had to do with farmlands, or with my so-called power base.
"If I am correct, then it's his own power base that Atanacalmo is concerned with." Lord Eärendur tried to explain. "Aside from some market gardening, Armenelos doesn't grow its own food. Everything has to be brought in from Arandor or beyond. But if Atanacalmo turns these lands by the roadside into farms, then the capital is a little less dependent, and his fief is rather more valuable. I suspect he's setting his House up to stay! Strange that he has discovered such ambitions at his old age... but then again, maybe not."
"Is it... important?" I had to ask. "Does it make a difference?"
Lord Eärendur shrugged. "No and yes. No, in that it does not change his own role much. It will not harm him, of course - otherwise he wouldn't do it - but it won't gain him all that much, either. He won't grow much richer, nor more powerful. But his heirs... the House of Armenelos was always supposed to die with Atanacalmo. His daughter would traditionally be expected to rejoin her husband -"
"Lord Roitaheru of Umbar," I said, to appear a little less clueless.
"Yes, exactly. She would be expected to go to Umbar, or else to retire to some quiet place in the country. But now? I'm suspecting that he wants her to inherit Armenelos. With or without her husband? That is the question, I suppose! Roitaheru has no title if he resigns as governor - he is a second son just like Atanacalmo himself - so it would make sense to secure something for him. A fiefdom... and the farms to feed it... I wonder if Roitaheru is eager to return to the motherland, and to his lady?"

I recalled Lord Roitaheru, in the curiously loose, brightly patterned garments that were perhaps common in Umbar, but certainly not here. He had appeared very content to me, not at all like somebody who was unhappy with his lot and hoping to change it. He had sounded proud and happy when talking about Umbar, as if he was already looking forward to returning there. He had not even appeared particularly sad about the prospect of leaving his wife behind again, a thought that would have made me weep for days. Of course, Lady Arancalimë had never seemed sad to be without her husband, either. I suppose it was a political marriage without love.
"I didn't get the impression that he was eager to stay in Yozayân when I met him," I said out loud. "Mind you, it wouldn't be hard to fool me, but he rather seemed eager to go back to Umbar."
"Well, perhaps it isn't about him. Perhaps it's about Arancalimë after all. Perhaps she has no intention of going to Umbar, now or after her father's death? She could have gone there already, of course. Perhaps she has no intention of retiring, either. Perhaps she wishes to become Lady of Armenelos in her own right."

I still couldn't claim that I was fully understanding what was going on, but that last bit sounded like good news to me. Lady Arancalimë was shrewd as her father, of course, but she also seemed to be fair-minded. Not that I had any doubt that she'd sacrifice me as easily as Lord Atanacalmo sacrificed pawns on his chess board if she needed to, but until she needed to, she might protect me from the worst of the King's wrath. (As her father had been doing so far, I couldn't deny that.)
"That would be a good thing," I said fervently. "I hope you're right."
"So do I," Lord Eärendur said, "because it would mean I have understood Atanacalmo's plans at last - at least a little. It would fit beautifully, at any rate. And it would also mean that all that talk about weakening your position was a very, very clever distraction, and no attack on you." Seeing my frown, he explained, "Ancalimon would never have permitted his brother to extend his possessions in this manner, and even Telemmaitë would probably have been suspicious, even of his beloved uncle. But once it was presented as an opportunity to harm you... Telemmaitë probably began seeing it as his own idea, or at any rate in his best interest! Yes, Atanacalmo is clever indeed." With a heavy sigh, he added, "But I do not like that he uses Telemmaitë's hatred of you as a tool for his advancement. It's a terribly dangerous thing to do. I really wish I could take you with me to Andúnië - and keep you there."
"I really wish I could come - and stay," I said, and meant it, too. "But they'd find me."
"Yes. They would."Again, he sighed. "Try to get back into Atanacalmo's good graces," he told me. "Offer more money if you have to. I'll pay for it - though you shouldn't tell him that!"
"I'll never be able to repay you," I said automatically. I believed by now that he wouldn't ask me to, but that almost made it worse.
"It won't ruin me," he said, squeezing my hands. "Stay safe, Azruhâr. Don't tell him that we know - or suspect, anyway - what he's up to. It's not such a bad thing, and I see no reason to stop him even if I could, but I don't think he'd like it either way."
No, he probably wouldn't like it one bit. I couldn't help shuddering. Then I remembered the letter. "What about Master Salquendil?" I asked. "Isn't he expecting an answer?"
"I will explain the situation to him," Lord Eärendur said. "You have enough to do in dulcifying Atanacalmo."
That was true. Indeed, explaining the whole mess to Master Salquendil sounded infinitely preferable to dulcifying Lord Atanacalmo - whatever 'dulcifying' meant.

---

Chapter End Notes

*Tarmasundar, the "roots of the Pillar", is the name of the softly sloped grasslands at the foot of Mt. Meneltarma.

Chapter 32

Story warnings apply to the second half of this chapter. Not a happy one, I'm afraid.

Read Chapter 32

Chapter 32

I did not go to Lord Atanacalmo's house in a hurry, I must confess. I waited a week, hoping that his anger (if it was anger after all) would abate in time, and that he'd summon me for our customary game of chess. Much though I usually dreaded it, now it would have been a welcome sign that he was not really cross with me. But the summons did not come. Instead, it was announced that a golden opportunity awaited "poor folk of the city with no fixed occupation": as yet unworked lands by the road to the Mountain were waiting for "diligent hands" that would turn them into good farmland. The promise was exciting indeed: one acre per family would be given free of rent, and additionally, the lucky applicants would receive a whole three Trees to set them up (though they would also have to pay the fifth part of their harvest in taxes, rather than the usual tithe). After three years, if they had turned their acre into a successful farm, they were allowed to keep it, although their tax load wouldn't be reduced to the tenth part of their harvest until seven years later. Still, it was land and money for free up front. My neighbours were exulting, even those whose ambitions had not pointed towards agriculture before, and many of them were planning to apply. If I had not been so worried about my immediate future, I would have been exulting with them. As it were, it was hard to smile when they enthusiastically planned their application so they would be among the lucky chosen ones. I smiled as well as I could, and tried to make my own plans, and waited to be called for.

Eventually, I could wait no longer. I was getting desperate. The month was drawing to an end; either, we would have to find a captain willing to ship our specimens to Andúnië, or I would have to come to some kind of agreement with Lord Atanacalmo. Since I was not being summoned, I had to summon my courage and ask for another audience with him of my own accord.
I half feared that the steward would pretend not to know me and demand money for his trouble, as he had done on our first meeting - or send me away altogether. Instead, he greeted me with perfect civility when I asked to see his master. That at least suggested that Lord Atanacalmo's anger wasn't running so deep that his house was locked to me.
I tried to cling to that thought as I waited in front of the study, preparing my plan as well as I could. I tried to cling to it as Lord Atanacalmo's first words to me were, "Have you come to bring me the applications of the day-talers, Spokesman? We do not require your services; they have been told to apply directly to Herucalmo, whom I have put in charge of this operation." He didn't even bother to look at me.
I wished I didn't flinch so easily, but I couldn't help it. My first impulse was to accept his rebuff, bow and run off. But I tried to keep a level head. If he hadn't told the steward to send me away at the door, that must mean that he didn't actually want me to go. He just wanted to put me on the defensive, as usual. Things weren't lost yet. Probably.
"Actually, I was hoping to apply for one of these acres myself," I said, trying to speak lightly.
I had hoped that he would find that at least mildly amusing, but instead, his face contorted in disgust. "Apply for a patch of farmland? You disappoint me, Azruhâr. You don't have a farmer's mind."

My eyes narrowed before I could help it. People always said that kind of thing about us. Too stupid to make assistants, too unsteady to become craftsmen, too uncouth to be servants, too unskilled, too plain-spoken, too this, too that. Not long ago, I had taken that kind of judgement at face value, but by now, it felt too much like an excuse to refuse people like me -- like my neighbours -- even just a chance to improve our situation. With enormous effort, I dipped my head into a polite bow and said, "If your lordship trusts my neighbours to learn it, then I do not see why I should not do the same. I did not have an embalmer's mind, either, but I managed to pick it up well enough."
Lord Atanacalm, still occupying himself with his reading, heaved an exasperated and exaggerated sigh, as if it was too much to ask that he explain something so obvious.
"Well, you are not qualified," he said in his dismissive tone. "I am doling out land to folk without fixed occupation - and however questionable your occupation may be, you've got one."
"I currently do, Lord, but only in name. But in order not to encroach on your charity, I would suggest that I pay rent for the land, whereas my neighbours do not."
A deeply skeptical expression crossed his brow, but at least he was looking at me now. "I wasn't aware that you had enough money for that, Azruhâr."
"My colleagues would contribute to the fund," I admitted.
Lord Atanacalmo's eyebrows rose, if that was at all possible, even further. "And in return, they would build their morgue on the land you rent off me?"
"That is indeed the plan, Lord," I said.
"And you think you can grow food on the same land where you keep your dead people?"
I bit my lips. "They would be put in a deep cellar, where they cannot get out. I'm sure they make very quiet neighbours, my lord."
"While poisoning the ground!"
"Unlikely, my lord. We would make the walls strong. Besides, there are plenty of dead things - and people, often enough - in the refuse pits, and those are actually worked into the fields on purpose when they've broken down a bit. I know that, because as a day-taler I sometimes had to load the carts --"
"Very well, very well. I believe you. No need to go into detail." I saw his jaw work; maybe he had to swallow some bile. No wonder. It had been stomach-turning work, much worse, in retrospect, than preserving the recently deceased who still had their human shape and none of the stench. It had been bearable only because you could take your mind out of it, letting it dream of pleasant things or dwell on the words of songs.

This, however, was no time to let my mind wander. Lord Atanacalmo's fingers were drumming on the desk, letting me know about his impatience. "I take it that your negotiations with the dean of the Academy have failed, then," he said.
"On the contrary, Lord. Master Salquendil has expressed great interest in our specimens and our knowledge. But to be honest, we would prefer not to send them so far away; and it would be good to have a place of our own, anyway."
"Hmm." Lord Atanacalmo seemed to have recovered from the nauseating thoughts, and the old gleam was returning to his eyes. "Well, as you know, the land is available for development. But of course it is more valuable now than it was when we last spoke. After all, it is now potential farmland."
I took a steadying breath. "One acre would be worth two Trees for three years, I figure." That was, of course, a lot less than the two Crowns per month I had offered the last time, which would amount to twenty-four Trees in three years; but I had thought long and hard about this daring move.

Lord Atanacalmo gave me a very hard stare indeed. "How do you figure that, Azruhâr?" he said.
"When we last spoke, you spoke of giving five Trees to certain day-talers. Now you are offering one acre of land, and three Trees. Therefore I assume that the land is worth the two missing Trees."
I was fairly proud of that feat of logic, but Lord Atanacalmo looked disgusted once more. "Your calculations are faulty. I offered twenty-five Trees, divided by five. Now, I am giving less money to more people. The land itself is free." Before I could speak, he added, "Not, of course, for you! You cannot be serious about becoming a farmer!"
"I would do my very best, Lord," I said fervently.
"Ridiculous."
"Then please, your Grace, give me some other hope! An apprentice embalmer with an expensive house and no work has very little hope of feeding his family. An apprentice embalmer with a smallholding has somewhat better prospects." I held out my palms in pleading. "My lord, haven't I earned a small favour at least?" This was a desperate gamble, but I was beginning to feel desperate.
It clearly gave him pause. "What for?" he asked after a long moment, looking at me down his nose.

I forced myself to hold his gaze, and tried to remember his exact words. "A few years back, I gave you advice - unsolicited advice, but advice nonetheless - concerning mass employment for poor citizens, which you ended up taking, to your own and the city's profit. Do you recall? And a few weeks back, you suggested that the Day-taler's Welfare Society which I founded with your gracious permission might have helped to lower the rates of both crime and untimely death..."
"Two favours, even?" Lord Atanacalmo interrupted me. "Are you certain that you want to be collecting favours at this time?"
"When else do you think I should collect them, Lord?"
"Why, when you're in desperate need!"
Privately, I thought that I hardly wanted to rely on Lord Atanacalmo's favour when I was in desperate need - he would hardly help me unless it benefited himself - but it seemed unwise to say that, so I merely said, "I am feeling fairly desperate, Lord."
For a moment, the expression on his face might almost have been pity. "You have no idea."
"Frightening me will only make me feel more desperate, Lord."
Another dramatic sigh. "Well, either way I shall not let you become a farmer! Good grief. You can assist Herucalmo when he alots the farmsteads and coordinate the necessary labour and tools. In return, you may have your own strip of land by the road - not a whole acre, of course! but something suitable - to use in whichever way you see fit."

Once again, I found myself desperately trying to find the trap behind his words, because it sounded too good to be true. "That sounds... challenging," I said cautiously.
"What, no longer so confident that you can pick up new knowledge? Come on, rise to the challenge! Here's your chance to prove yourself - and get the land you so desire, too! Take it or leave it; to me, it is all one."
I thought hard. "Will I receive no pay, your Grace?"
"Now, don't be greedy! Charge the other embalmers if you allow them to have their morgue on your ground. I am already giving you more than is reasonable."
That, of course, was exactly why I was feeling so uneasy about it. "You did not say how long I'd be allowed to keep the land," I pointed out.
He shrugged, as if he didn't particularly care. "As long as this enterprise lasts, I suppose. Then you should be well motivated to make sure that it lasts, isn't that right?"
"If I can," I qualified. "In the meantime, where shall we put our materials and the embalmed bodies until we have completed our building, your Grace?"
"Hm." His fingers were toying with his signet ring while he thought. "I suppose I shall have to give you a permit to keep them where they are, for the time being. How long do you think you'll need to dig your cellar? A month should suffice, don't you think?"
I could only assume that this was some kind of test, because a month was certainly not enough for the excavation and building we'd have to do. "I'm afraid not, my lord. I don't know how tough the ground will be, but as you said, it's the Kulbî 'nTârik*. There will be rock. And I won't be able to afford employing a great number of builders."

Lord Atanacalmo gave me a hard look, but then he nodded. "Fine. You have until Spring. Go to Fuinil with this; he'll write up your permit, your deed, and your duties." He took a piece of paper and swiftly wrote some notes on it, then shoved it across the table at me. I reached for it slowly. Something felt very, very wrong, and it was exceedingly frustrating that I couldn't figure it out.
"Are you setting me up for failure, Lord?" I asked.
He had already begun to busy himself with new papers; now he glanced up at me, and again, I might almost have thought I could see something like pity in his eyes. It was probably disdain, though. "I am setting you up for either failure or success, Azruhâr. What will it be? That's in your own hands. You shall simply get what you deserve. I can live with either outcome."
I was quite willing to believe that he could live with either outcome! But I? My hand lay on the note he had scribbled, and I probably should just have accepted his answer and gone my way. But foolish as I was, I couldn't help pointing out, "But you are expecting me to fail, aren't you. Earlier, you wouldn't even trust me to manage my own farm, and now I'm supposed to help manage a whole lot of them?"
Lord Atanacalmo heaved one of the long-suffering sighs he seemed to be reserving for me. "Get out of my sight, idiot, before I regret my generosity," he said.
I grabbed the note and got out of his sight. Fuinil the scribe turned the scribble into an official-looking promise of a patch of land and employment as assistant reeve. I was indeed gathering responsibilities like a dead body gathered flies, I thought. I could only hope that I wouldn't end up as a dead body before my time.

The month ended, and our time in the catacombs - as well as our pay - ran out. Master Târik continued to give us our customary pay out of his own pocket, for the time being, but he cautioned that he wouldn't be able to do that forever. As yet, neither Lord Atanacalmo nor his grandson had called upon me, so I had neither the promised occupation nor the promised land. I barely slept at night, and my house felt once more highly discomfiting, too large for me and my increasingly doubtful future. I tried to find work in the market, but I faced the same problem that Balakhil had run into all those years ago: I didn't look meek and needy enough, and had fallen out of the habit of demonstrating my eagerness to do unpleasant work for meagre pay. Besides, my face was known these days. Employers were suspicious when they saw me among the day-talers, and ended up hiring none of us. I was damaging the others' prospects, and after the third attempt, I gave up and stayed home.

Accordingly, when at last I was summoned to come to the West Road on the morning of Eärenya in a particularly grey and miserable week, my relief was stronger than my fear. I rode out to the first milestone, as requested. I passed two surveyors who were busy measuring the land by the roadside with ropes and yardsticks, but otherwise, there was no-one to be seen, which was not surprising. It was no day to be travelling.
After about an hour in the drizzle, just when I felt that I was being led on and was making up my mind to return home, I saw a rider approaching from the direction of the Mountain. As he came closer out of the grey mist, I recognised Lord Atanacalmo's colours. His face was hidden by the hood of his winter cloak, but I decided to err on the side of caution and dismounted, going down on one knee as he reached me. That turned out to be the right decision, since it was Lord Herucalmo himself. He jumped off his horse - quite elegantly, I suppose - and came to stand before me, looking down at me with displeasure. On earlier occasions when we had met, he had shown no particular hostility, but today he was clearly in a bad mood.

"So you are supposed to assist me," he said without further greeting. "Unbelievable. My grandfather must be testing me."
"I thought he was testing me, my lord," I said.
He huffed at that. "Then I suppose he is testing both of us."
I attempted a smile. "We have something in common, then."
I had hoped that the shared load would help us to get along better, but instead, it seemed to offend him. "We have nothing whatsoever in common, Azruhâr. Let me make one thing clear. You are not my steward. You're not my advisor. You're certainly not my deputy. You're just here to win the trust of the common people and to take the blame if things go wrong."
After swallowing hard, I bowed my head. "Understood, Lord."
"Good," he said, somewhat less abrasively. "Get up. Nasty day today, isn't it? But we need to get started." He rubbed his hands - whether to demonstrate determination or because they were cold despite his gloves, I didn't know - and looked around. "Not much here, is there? And it needs to be turned into farmland in time for spring sowing."
I agreed that it would be a good deal of work. "But I thought that would be done by the people who get the land?"
"Well, obviously," said Lord Herucalmo. "But I'm supposed to tell them how to go about it. I don't know the first thing about farming! How about you?"
Hoping to prove myself of value, I said, "I have been doing plenty of work in the fields since I was a youth, Lord. Harvesting, mostly. Some ploughing and digging."
"Administration?"
"Of course not," I said.
"Nienna have pity. So you have no idea where to start, either."
I looked at the sodden grass around us. "Well, I expect one would have to prepare the soil first. Take the grass and the weeds out. Plough. That sort of thing. An experienced farmer would be able to tell us."
"That's no use. I can hardly go around asking common farmers for advice," Lord Herucalmo scowled.
Privately, I wondered why he shouldn't ask for advice on a topic that he couldn't be expected to know much about, but I suspected that it would be unwise to ask.
"But I could, Lord," I suggested instead.
There was a pause. I thought he was trying to think of a scathing reply, but then he said, a bit grudgingly, as I thought, "That is true. Nobody would expect you to know these things. Well, go and find a farmer then. And make a schedule. We'll meet again on Aldëa." Already, he was mounting his horse again; our meeting was over, it appeared.

As far as I was concerned, until Aldëa was a rather short time to interview a farmer and come up with a schedule, but I didn't dare to complain. I had a more pressing request on my mind. "Um, I was promised some land of my own...?" I said, trying to keep the desperate note out of my voice.
Again, Lord Herucalmo gave me a long, calculating look before he answered. "The last plot before the Noirinan," he said at last. "That's yours. The land immediately around the Mountain must remain untouched, obviously, so your bit is shorter than the rest. But it will do. See you on Aldëa." He gave a decisive nod, and then rode off. I should have liked to ask more questions, but I decided against running or shouting after him. Part of me feared that it would annoy him even more, and the other part felt that it should be beneath me, anyway. I suppose Lord Eärendur had succeeded in instilling me with some sense of dignity after all. Instead, I returned to my horse. Even though the drizzle had begun to harden into rain, I decided to survey my patch of land, and rode all the way to the mountain.

I don't know what I had expected. Of course they had given me the plot that was furthest away from the city, where the road was longest and help would be last to arrive. Moreover, the land wasn't merely shorter than the rest, but also much narrower - less than half the size of the other fields, as I discovered when I measured the markings in my strides. I stood in the rain in my soaked cloak, looking up into the grey clouds that shrouded the top of the Mountain, and wondered whether I should pray or curse. I was tempted to move the pegs and ropes that delineated the fields - I doubted that they would go to the trouble of measuring again before they officially handed out the land - but then decided against it. It was the sort of thing they'd expect me to do, and I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of stooping to it. Even if they never found out, I would have known it in my heart, and I did not much like the feeling of guilt.

Instead, I put myself to work. I ventured into Arandor to ask for farming advice from the provost of a hamlet that I remembered from my day-taling time. It wasn't the closest to the capital, but I had liked the work on the couple of occasions that I'd secured employment there. The farmers had shared their meals with us and let us sleep in their barns so we did not have to travel back and forth between the city and their fields, and we had been allowed to participate in their harvest feast, too. Their provost was as generous with information as I remembered his workers being during the harvest, so that must be worth something. I figured that if they could afford generosity, their way of running their farms must be working well.
My research done, I returned home and discussed the whole matter with Amraphel. Although she had not been trained in agriculture, she had at the least been taught how to run a hypothetical estate and was therefore more likely than I was to assign the different tasks wisely. At her suggestion, I also visited a plough-maker who had been recommended to me in order to commission two ploughs. The price was reasonable, since it was not the season for ploughing, but I still had to hope that the whole endeavour would go ahead. Otherwise, I would end up with two ploughs I did not need and debts I could not pay.

On Aldëa, I met Lord Herucalmo. This time he did not summon me to the road, but rather to the aptly named Cornflower Tavern, a clean but decidedly common public house in the second ring. I was rather surprised that Lord Herucalmo would patronise such a place, but then I learned that he intended to interview the applicants for those precious acres by the roadside today, and this place was expected to be less discouraging than Lord Atanacalmo's grand house. Lord Herucalmo took my notes, skimmed them without comment, and eventually gestured for me to sit next to him at the sturdy table. "Right. I'll find out if they have the faintest idea what they think they'll be doing. You just keep your mouth shut and look friendly. Don't give anything away, you hear me? If I get the impression that you're helping any of these fellows, I'll decide against them on principle. You're just here to set them at ease."
I very much doubted that anyone would be set at ease if I sat silent, but of course I obeyed. I forced my face into a noncommittal smile, nodding in greeting and farewell but not saying a word, and very much wondered why I had to be present at all. If I had nothing to do with the selection - which I did not mind, since I would have found it hard to decide - then I felt I should have stayed away altogether, rather than smiling until my cheeks ached, without ever speaking, while Lord Herucalmo questioned the applicants concerning their experience, their priorities and their plans for turning the meadows arable quickly.

The day after, several of them reproached me for it. "You could at least have indicated whether my answers were going in the right direction," Zamâl said grimly. "Then I could have amended them. Instead, you just sat there like you didn't give a damn."
"I wasn't allowed to say anything or give any other sign! Believe me, I would have liked to help. But his lordship would immediately have used it against you."
Zamâl huffed at that, unconvinced. I wondered whether my silent presence had been part of Lord Atanacalmo's plan of weakening my so-called power-base, since it had certainly lost me some sympathies. My misery might not be Lord Atanacalmo's primary goal, as Lord Eärendur had said, but nonetheless he was surely working against me. But I did not tell Zamâl, of course. If he thought I had intentionally left him hanging, he wasn't likely to believe anything else I said, anyway.
At any rate, he had no reason to complain, because he ended up being among the chosen few, and at last, our work could begin.

To my surprise, Lord Herucalmo followed the list I had made pretty much exactly. It was gratifying - at least my efforts had not been in vain - but also worrying, because anything that went wrong would certainly be blamed on me, and rightly so. The work progressed slowly, even though the newly-made farmers spent all day in their fields. When they did not dig drainages or turn the turf, they cut shrubs or made low walls from the stones they dug up, or built small houses for themselves. They had decided early on that it was better to live where they would work, and timber was comparatively cheap at this season, since it was a poor time for building. So, using such timber and wattles made from the cut bushes and the loamy earth, they soon had put up huts that were hardly worse than what they'd had in the city, once the roofs had been firmly covered in the reeds that grew aplenty by source and tributaries of Siril. It was good now that these people were day-talers, who had worked in a variety of different jobs: There were two who had experience in thatching, and the others were used to picking up new skills quickly. A professional thatcher and his team of assistants would have been faster, no doubt, but at least we were getting the roofs tight.
On my patch, digging the cellar had begun despite the inclement weather. Lord Eärendur had lent me some of the tents he and his retinue had used on campaign in Middle-earth, and under their protection, we embalmers and our hired workers were digging as deep as the roots of the Mountain and the limited space permitted.

Accordingly, I was too busy with the present to think much about the future, and a summons to appear in front of the Council that arrived in late Nénimë caught me entirely wrong-footed. After several days of fretting, I found out (or rather Amraphel found out, by asking Quentangolë) that it wasn't actually about anything that I had done, but that I was expected to stand witness in the trial of Lord Arnavaryo of Ondosto.
Since Lord Arnavaryo was of the highest birth - his grandfather had been Tar-Atanamir's brother - his arrest on the charge of high treason had not been made public. Thanks to Quentangolë, I now heard that Lord Arnavaryo stood accused of conspiring against the new King, having sought to overthrow him and claim the throne for himself. I was puzzled what I was expected to know about that. I knew that Lord Atanacalmo had mentioned the name of Arnavaryo as a potential rival, but I could not even put a face to the name.

However, I recognised him when I was called into the council chamber and I saw him stand in the middle of the circle, with chained hands but otherwise unbowed. Naturally I had seen him in council before - on one of the throne-like chairs of the nobles, not in a defendant's position - but more than that, I recognised him as the man who had gestured at me to finally speak during the coronation.
And thus, when Lord Atanacalmo - who was acting as the King's mouthpiece, just as he had done all those years ago when I had been questioned and pardoned - told me to state whether Arnavaryo had ever approached me concerning any matter that might have cast doubt onto the rightfulness of Tar-Telemmaitë's ascension, I had to answer, "It is possible, Lord."

I saw the King lean forward. Strangely, he was not glaring at me today. He was by no means looking friendly, but fairly neutral, which was saying something. I suppose next to a suspected traitor, I wasn't quite as deserving of his hatred as usual.
Lord Atanacalmo, meanwhile, shook his head impatiently. "That is no answer. Did he approach you, yes or no?"
Being under oath and, at any rate, too scared to lie, I said, "I cannot give such a clear answer, Lord. He may have approached me, but I am not certain."
"Explain."
Feeling myself break out in a sweat, I tried to do that. "He never said anything to me. But he waved at me, during the coronation, as if he wanted me to speak out."
"Speak out about what?" That was the King himself. I stared at him, dumbfounded for a moment. He of all people should know what I could have spoken about - and he of all people had the least reason to want me to mention it! My throat constricted as I began to suspect that this might be a trap set for myself. Perhaps the only purpose of this trial was to make me break the promise I had made to the King. Perhaps even Lord Arnavaryo, displeased though he was looking, was complicit in it.
"Concerning an injury I received when the old King, Eru rest him, passed away," I heard myself say over the pounding of my heart.

There were chuckles all around the circle, and for a second, I saw the King's eyes widen before he got himself back under control. That small part of me that did not quake with terror wondered whether he had honestly forgotten about that.
"I see," the King said. To my ears, his voice sounded more strained than before, which made his next words all the more confusing to me. "And why did you not speak out?"
I glanced at Lord Eärendur, who was wearing a pained expression. I glanced at Lord Arnavaryo, who was red with suppressed anger. I glanced at Lord Atanacalmo, hoping against reason that he would interfere. But he was looking back calmly, his head slightly tilted, as if he was curious what I would do.
Raising my chin and clasping my trembling hands behind my back, I said, "Because I trusted you, your Majesty." I could hear, over the tremour in my voice, a note of reproach, and I dearly hoped that the King would not notice it, and above all, that there would be no further inquiry.
At least, he did not respond; and after a while, Lord Atanacalmo resumed his role. "Very well. What have you to say to that, Arnavaryo?"
"He lies," Lord Arnavaryo promptly replied. "I would never approach a man like that - " he spit the words out like rotten fruit - "whatever he might have to say."
Lord Atanacalmo calmly went on. "Azruhâr, when you say he gestured at you, what exactly did it look like?"
I mimicked the impatient beckoning motion as well as I could, glad that I did not have to speak again.
"I may have flexed my hands a little," Lord Arnavaryo conceded grandly, wriggling his hands in demonstration, which made the chain jingle. "It was a long and arduous day. If I did, it meant nothing."
On Lord Atanacalmo's face, I could see that he did not believe the man - his eyebrows had risen slightly, and his head was tilted backwards just the tiniest bit, always a sign of scepticism with him - but apparently he wasn't interested in following the matter further. "Hmmm. Very well. Do you have further questions for the witness, Majesty?" he asked in a bored voice.
The King stared at me for a long moment, and again I felt cold sweat on my brow as I held his gaze. Then he made a shooing motion with his hands.
"Do any of you have further questions for the witness?" Lord Atanacalmo asked, again in a disinterested tone that suggested that his question was a mere formality.

Nonetheless, I could hear a rustle of fabric, and Lord Atanacalmo, raising his eyebrows again, announced, "Vanatirmo, please."
"When exactly do you say did Arnavaryo... hm... gesture at you, Azruhâr?"
"After Lord Marapoldo had asked for the second time whether anybody knew of a reason why the Crown Prince might be unsuitable for the office," I said. I did not turn to look at Lord Vanatirmo, because I was hoping to see any sign of appreciation, or at least recognition, on the King's face. Nothing, of course.
"You are certain about that?" Lord Vanatirmo insisted.
"Yes, Lord. Shortly after Lord Marapoldo asked for the second time."
"I am satisfied," Lord Vanatirmo announced. Lord Atanacalmo sighed. "Têrakon, please."
There was unmistakable malice in Lord Têrakon's voice as he asked, "How did you receive the injury you mentioned?
My face was burning. Again, I kept my eyes ahead, so I could hope that Lord Têrakon did not see my embarrassment. Ashamed and resentful at the same time, I said, "If you have no memory of the incident, my lord, then you must forgive me for not recalling it either."
It sounded as though Lord Têrakon intended to ask more, but the King cut him short. "Enough," he announced. "Call the next witness." It was the first time that I was relieved to hear his voice.

I sat down on one of the stone benches at the back of the chamber. Next to me sat two other men who had evidently been questioned already, then there was an empty bench, and then there were two intimidating guards who stood at the ready with the yoke, in case Lord Arnavaryo would be judged guilty. I doubted that my feeble statement would be sufficient to condemn him; for all I knew, he could just have been stretching his hands. But what some of the other witnesses had to say was certainly more powerful. One Rimbetur, apparently a bosom friend of Lord Arnavaryo, initially refused to answer at all, but when he was threatened with torment, he confessed that Arnavaryo had spoken to him about gathering allies and rallying for the throne in the chaos that would follow "the embalmer's testimony" at the coronation (my face flared up again). Other friends (some of them freely, others in chains and showing signs of coercion) said that Arnavaryo had tried to buy their support with gold and the promise of high office once he was King. Most damning of all was the evidence given by Lord Arnavaryo's own son, Lord Varyamir, who confirmed everything the other witnesses had said and added further details about his father's greedy ambitions, about the way in which he had foul-mouthed both the old King and the new, and how he had forced his poor, dutiful son into acting as a go-between among the conspirators despite Varyamir's reservations and protest. "And why did you not secure... the embalmer's testimony, if your father's plan hinged on that?" Lord Atanacalmo asked, frowning deeply, and several people turned to look at me on my bench.
"It was not deemed necessary," Lord Varyamir said dismissively. "Father was certain that it would happen."

I looked down to avoid the curious stares. I had little thought to spare for my embarrassment this time, because I was so shocked how easily Lord Varyamir was betraying his own father. There is no bond of loyalty more sacred than that between a child (however old) and its parents (however guilty), and I found it hard to watch how Lord Varyamir was volunteering information that wasn't even asked of him. Rimbetur I could forgive for betraying his friend to avoid the rack, but Varyamir was condemning his father without even the vaguest threat. Of course, Lord Atanacalmo roundly declared me a fool, when - much later, over chess - he asked what I thought about the whole thing. Lord Varyamir was Lord Arnavaryo's direct heir, and by cooperating with the Crown, he was clinging to the hope of being granted his inheritance, whereas the slightest sign of siding with his father would be held against him when the King decided whether Arnavaryo's entire house was untrustworthy. Indeed, if the King decided that Lord Varyamir had been a willing participant in his father's plan, he might well be judged guilty of treason himself. "You know how Alcarmaitë can hold a grudge," Lord Atanacalmo said with the indifferent shrug of a man who had nothing to fear.

But for now, I was merely listening in horror and growing astonishment to the accounts of Lord Arnavaryo's sinister plans (although of course he interrupted the witnesses to claim that none of these claims were true, and instead accusing the other men of conspiring against the King and himself). Plans had been made for the fortification of villages and the taking of hostages; there had been weapons commissioned and lawless men hired. Some such men, indeed, had betrayed Lord Arnavaryo to the King's spies, and now gave testimony. More trustworthy, perhaps, was the testimony given by the weaponsmiths who had been asked to make suspicious numbers of spear-heads, and the provosts who had been ordered to dig trenches and fell trees for palisades. I realised that Lord Atanacalmo had not exaggerated when he had spoken of civil war, and was once more glad that I had kept my peace on that day. The mere thought of what might have happened otherwise was enough to make my stomach turn.

With such evidence, it was hardly surprising that the council ultimately judged the former lord Arnavaryo guilty of high treason. At this point he lost all dignity and pleaded for mercy, prostrate, but since he had not merely plotted but already begun to set his plans into motion and would surely have gone through with them, had not the realm been saved by pure chance, he was condemned to the most horrid punishment the law code knew: Not the three days of public punishment, followed by hanging, that common traitors suffered, but the seven days and burning reserved for the vilest of the vile.
As he was stripped and the yoke put on his shoulders, I turned away so I did not have to watch. Knowing that he had lost his case, Arnavaryo had recovered his pride and, instead of begging further, thundered against the false friends who had betrayed his secrets and the worthless thieves who had taken his money and then sold him to his nephew, who was unfit to rule and would betray our trust, condemning us all in our turn. He cursed his faithless son. "And you, Embalmer," he hollered in my direction, "you, too, will rue this day! If you think that Alcarmaitë will show the least gratitude for your silence, you are sorely mistaken!" At first, I thought to answer, but then I felt it was better to stay silent and study my feet. At any rate, he was already accusing other councillors of having been in on the plan, which they denied vehemently, prompting further curses from Arnavaryo.
In this manner, he continued until he was gagged. Then the guards pushed and pulled him outside, down the broad stairs to the citadel's main gate, and the criers were instructed that he was a criminal condemned for high treason, for plotting against King and country, for threatening to bring civil war upon its people, and so on. That would ensure that his humiliation, and the ordeal that would follow it, would be watched by great crowds of onlookers.

I thought that my part in this distasteful business would be over at last, but I had no such luck. Instead, the King ordered that I should be standing beside him when he observed Arnavaryo's punishment, alongside Lord Varyamir. For him, it was meant to be a test of his loyalty; and for me, apparently, it was a reward. So said the King.
I preferred the kind of reward that his father had handed out - horses, jewellery, houses - although I suppose it was generous that he acknowledged that some kind of reward was in order at all. But standing under the royal canopy on the terrace of the watch house, however much of a honour it might be, was the last thing I wanted. Even as a callous youth, when the torments had been a form of free entertainment, I had never been able to watch for long. No matter what the criminals on the scaffold had done, I could not forget that they were people first and foremost. Arnavaryo's punishment, dragged out over seven days and with no intention of letting him survive, was more brutal than anything I had stomached before. Each of these days, the King took several hours out of his day to observe, and every time, I had to stand on the left of the throne and keep my eyes on the horrible scene. I suspected that even if it was truly meant a reward on the surface of it, it was a threat underneath. More than once, I felt the King's eyes on me; I was certain that he was imagining what it would be like to see me broken on the scaffold in this manner, and that he was delighted whenever he saw me flinch or grit my teeth. It was doubtlessly a threat for Lord Varyamir, who wore a stony expression on his face while his father was, by and by, reduced to a writhing and screaming mess that was barely recogniseable as a man. I wondered, privately, whether he had been able to take the Draught of Walking Death. (I half considered sneaking to the marketplace at night to slip him my phial, just in case he hadn't, but of course there was a close guard on the scaffold even when the prisoner was granted something akin to rest, and the risk was much too high; easing a traitor's lot was treason as well, after all.) I concluded that nothing I had endured at the command of Master Amrazôr, or at the hands of the guards in the watchhouse, had come close to torment, whatever Amraphel thought.

By the third day, the first people from Forostar arrived to watch the punishment of their former lord, and more arrived later. I suspected that he had not been popular. One day I thought I saw my erstwhile lodger Îbalad in the crowd, but I did not care to take a closer look. I wondered what Lord Varyamir made of these people who were gaping and jeering at his father's agonies: whether he accepted it as a natural result of the crime, or whether he would pursue it with vengeance. We did not speak, of course. I was afraid that as soon as I opened my mouth, I would throw up (I regularly parted with whatever food I had been able to force down in the morning on my way back home), and Lord Varyamir, however pragmatic his attitude, was doubtlessly shaken on the inside. I, too, tried to compose my face into a mask of grim indifference and think of other things, but I was not particularly succesful. I remember that I was musing, one of these horrid afternoons, at how long a body could cling to life, even when it was clear that there was nothing left to live for and recovery would be impossible. If Eru had intended for us to die, as the Elf-friends say, then surely he would have made it easier for a body tried beyond bearing to give up its grip on life. But Arnavaryo did not die until the last day, when his shrieking remains were allowed to be consumed by the vengeful flames of the pyre. I meant to talk to Lord Eärendur about this observation. He, like the other councillors, attended one dutiful day watching the torment, but unlike some others, he did not come back for a second day. Princess Vanimeldë, too, was present on the first day, but not after. I wish I, too, could have been excused from the gory spectacle. I certainly did not wish to revisit the scene, and so I did not raise the question with Lord Eärendur or Master Târik to hear their thoughts on the matter.

At last, it was over, and I returned to my work with renewed vigour, hoping to drive out the evil memories by exhausting myself. But though I managed to make myself too tired to dream, the bloody visions haunted me by day, unbidden. Lord Eärendur went to Andúnië to look after his business (or to recover from the haunting episode in the peace and calm of his home, some vengefully jealous part of me thought). But Lord Herucalmo kept me busy, and Lord Atanacalmo had me over for playing chess. We even had an uncommonly serious conversation about the necessity of punishment, and the regrettable weakness of the human character in general and of men tempted by power in particular. I was half minded to ask him about his own ambitions, and my role in them - there was an honesty between us on that day that very nearly overcame my reservations. The words were already on the tip of my tongue. Then I held them back after all. Whatever his answer would have been, it was probably better not to know. In these days, I often remembered my father's warning not to get into the way of noblemen, not for all the glory or riches of the world; and oh, I wish I could have followed his advice. Still, I wonder. If I had asked him, would he have told me the truth? Maybe I would have been able to make some wiser decisions, if I had known what the future held.

---

Chapter End Notes

- - -
* Kulbî 'nTârik is (I hope) a direct Adûnaic translation of Tarmasundar. Though in theory, kulbî might refer to edible roots only. Oh well!

²Eärenya would be Thursday in our calendar, and Aldëa is Tuesday. Nénimë , the "watery month", corresponds to our February.

Chapter 33

It's not getting better. >_>

Read Chapter 33

"Hey! Hey there, Embalmer! A word with you!"
It was a firm if somewhat hoarse voice that hailed me in the market, making me jump. My first instinct was to run away and hope that the crowd would swallow me. My second thought was that he evidently knew who I was, which meant that he could find out where I lived if he didn't know it already, which meant that running was pointless. At any rate, the determined-looking man striding towards me was wearing the clothes of a wealthy merchant, not a guard or soldier (as had been my first suspicion) - although of course a merchant who was displeased with something he thought I had done would bring guards quickly enough. Either way, there was no use in trying to escape, so I waited and tried to look unperturbed. The man who had by now caught up with me was looking very self-important, the kind of man who was used to people doing what he wanted, but he still had the grace of saying, "Thought I'd recognised you! Sorry to holler at you across the market-place. But you're just the man I've been looking for, and it was too good an opportunity to pass up. Do you have a moment?"
This did not sound like the prelude to major unpleasantries, so I allowed my shoulders to unclench just a little. "Yes, certainly," I said, and only then remembered to ask, "what for?"

He pursed his lips, then stretched them thin. I could not decide whether he was annoyed - and if so, whether it was my fault - or distressed, until he spoke again. "I have need of your service. I have tried to go to your office, but I have been unable to locate it."
"Yes," I replied, still wary and also fairly puzzled, "we are just in the process of building a new morgue."
"Expanding your business, eh? Good for you." He briefly brightened up, as if this was familiar ground, unlike whatever else he wanted from me. "Good for you," he said again, and then he evidently remembered his original purpose and sobered. "Well, I hope you'll be able to do business regardless. My mother is dying, and it is her wish to be preserved in the manner of the old King. I cannot say when exactly, but the healer says it will be soon. Possibly before your new morgue is complete, I'm afraid. Will that be a problem?"
I held up my hands to slow him down. "Wait, wait." Uncertain that I had understood him correctly, I asked, "Your mother wants to be embalmed?"
"It is her dying wish," he repeated, emphatically. "After the manner of the old King." With a sudden grimace, he said, "I realise that you may not be working for common folk, but if it is at all feasible -- we will pay you well --"

By now, I felt so far out of my depth that I needed a boat to save me. "I shall have to discuss this with my master, I'm afraid, before I can enter into negotiations," I said.
Now it was his turn to tilt his head in confusion. "Your master? But I thought... you were the master?"
I managed not to laugh. "Far from it."
"But you are the King's Embalmer?"
"Yes. It's a bit of a long story." I hesitated, then suggested, "I shall speak with my master. So far, we have only worked for the royal house-" and for criminals who had known nothing of their posthumous fate, and for Old Palatâr, but I kept that thought to myself - "but perhaps we can offer our services more widely. Where can we find you, Master...?"
"Dear me, I have not even introduced myself! I must apologise. It is all rather distressing, and in my eagerness to ensure Mother's last wish -- well. My name's Yadrahil. We live right above our depot - the big one in East Street."
"East Street." I frowned, trying to picture East Street in my head. There were plenty of big stores and depots there, since it was the street that led out of the city and all the way to the havens of Rómenna, making it attractive to merchants who imported or exported goods. "Wine? Furniture?"
"No, no, fine fabrics," Master Yadrahil declared. "We buy and sell fabrics."
I nodded. I still did not know the exact place, but had no doubt that I'd be able to find it. "Then I suggest that I'll send a messenger once I've had the chance to settle my questions, and we can meet again," I said.
"A messenger? Why go the long way round? Just come yourself - with or without your master." A short pause, then he spoke with a note of urgency: "When can we expect you? As I said, I do not know how much time she has left, and I would very much want to see her reassured." I wondered whether his inheritence depended in any way on her reassurance; I could not decide whether his composure was hard-won and his business-like tone a testament to long training, or whether he wasn't actually all that distressed. Of course, it did not ultimately matter. The important part was that Yadrahil's mother apparently wanted, of her own account, to commission us; and that, in the current situation, was a ray of hope.

Master Târik agreed, and thus we went to the Master Yadrahil's house that very afternoon, to speak with him and (more importantly) with Mistress Nîluphêr, the dying mother. She was the kind of matriarch who had run the family's business behind the scenes, and even now that she was nearing the end of her life, she was still an iron-hard negotiator. She wanted to be treated like a king, but at the same time she did not want to pay like a king. Another difficulty was that even once she was embalmed, she clearly could not be put in the Noirinan, and she expected us to find a solution to that problem. But Master Târik managed to convince her that the family would need to apply to Lord Atanacalmo for that purpose, and that we could be responsible for the embalming and nothing else. He also managed to negotiate an agreement that would allow Mistress Nîluphêr to be embalmed in the manner she wanted, and us to make a reasonable profit from it, although of course neither would happen until she had actually passed away. I wondered - and felt guilty about it - whether we would be able to complete our new morgue first, or whether we would have to do the work in the family's house.

We were making some modest progress on our building, at least: a subterranean work-room and the storage-room were now clearly recogniseable, and the work on the vaults that would cover them had begun. Even using bricks, as we were, it was expensive work, and afterwards we would have to pay for plaster to cover it all, too. I envied my neighbours who could, for the most part, make do with what they found, marking their borders with walls made from turf or such stones as they dug out of their fields. The month of Súlimë had come with a dry spell and the typical winds, so the fields were no longer sodden. The ploughs I had commissioned were delivered (and my neighbours, to my great relief, agreed to split the cost) and over the course of one week, with everybody helping, half of the fields were ploughed. Our plan was to prepare only half the land at this time, and let the other lie fallow or feed animals for those who planned to buy them. Although this might mean a smaller harvest, it also meant a smaller investment of seeds, and moreover it allowed people to prepare the rest of the land as they found the time, rather than rushing through it. As it was, the turned land could rest a few weeks before it was time to sow. I had been told that this was highly beneficial, and that was how I had explained our approach to Lord Herucalmo. To my relief, he had accepted it.

A group of builders unexpectedly turned up one fine morning, and at first we feared that they had been hired by the men who were working on the cellar of the morgue, and that we would have to pay yet more. But instead, they began working on the other side of the road; and because the day was nice and they were in a talkative mood, we soon learned their purpose. They were preparing a tomb, they explained, commissioned by Master Yadrahil the Draper for his dying mother. Apparently, Lord Atanacalmo had sold him a plot on the Mountain's side of the road willingly enough. I remembered how I'd had to plead, and how Lord Atanacalmo had claimed to be worried about dead bodies poisoning the ground, and couldn't help but feel bitter. Though to be fair, the workers made sure to seal the walls well, creating a fine artificial cavern entered by narrow steps from a small house, rather like the ice-house in my garden. Using cut stone slabs, they progressed more quickly than our bricklayers, and the building was much smaller, anyway. "Well, we'll be able to work there even if our morgue isn't ready yet, "Master Târik said, eager to see the bright side. He was right, of course, but I was still feeling thoroughly frustrated.

Our own walls grew more slowly, and the holiday week was now approaching. Although there would be little building at that time, with all the professional workers enjoying their time off, I did not dare to go to Andúnië that spring. I was still planning to grow some food on my own plot of land, narrow and dug up though it was, and since I hadn't been able to prepare the soil earlier, I was hoping to catch up on it during the free week. Moreover, I had neglected the Welfare Society, and Lord Herucalmo wanted reports that I had yet to write. Lord Eärendur had been understanding, although he had also warned me against working myself too hard. "You do need a holiday," he had said, "so even though you stay at home, make sure to get some rest." I had agreed that I would. Part of me was touched by his concern, while the other part was annoyed that he thought me too weak to do my work. Amraphel and the children, however, travelled to Andúnië to stay with our friends with my blessing; it would have been selfish to keep them in town, just because I could not go. We agreed to meet again on Erukyermë eve, and then go to the hallow together on the holiday proper.

That first Erukyermë under the new king had become a matter of some speculation. What would it be like? Some people expected Tar-Telemmaitë to introduce something new to the rites, to make his own mark, while others insisted that any change to the tradition would be bad luck and therefore avoided. Either way, it had now been long enough since the last pilgrimage that the mere revival of the official custom caused excitement enough. Master Yadrahil, when he inspected the construction of his mother's tomb (accompanied by a host of curious friends and business partners also interested in the building), happily boasted of the loads of white silk he had been selling in the past weeks. I assumed that this meant that the holiday robes were again becoming ostentatious and that my old robes would look second-rate once more, because of the out-dated cut alone. But as I didn't feel I could afford to buy new ones, they would have to do.

I managed not to cry too much when Amraphel and the children left for Andúnië. To be honest, I had seen precious little of them during the past weeks, being busy all day and sometimes sleeping on the construction site because I was too weary to hurry back to the city walls before curfew. The only difference now was that even if I did come home at the end of the day, the big house was half empty. Only Rahâk's family and Balakhil were there, with the others either accompanying Amraphel or visiting their own relatives. I remembered my first visit to Master Târik's house, silent and only half-used, and felt discomfited. Balakhil seemed to feel it too, and he was distracted and downcast. After the first night, I decided not to return until my family had come back. I did my business in the city the next day, and afterwards took my writing material with me, so I could work on my reports in the cold vault of our half-built morgue, in the ghostly light of Master Târik's Noldorin lamp, before sleeping fitfully and waking still exhausted.

My neighbours by the roadside, on the other hand, were in high spirits, looking forward to spring and their first year as farmers. Zamâl had bought lifestock after all, although it wasn't an oxen but rather two goats. He invited me to show off his precious acquisitions. Both goats were pregnant and expected to give birth soon, so they had been expensive, but Zamâl reasoned that all the money would come back once he could milk the goats and sell butter or cheese. And the baby goats would grow up, so in a year or two, he could take them to be covered and raise yet more goats and get yet more milk. "It's an investment," he announced proudly.
"What if they're all billies, though?" Karathôn asked. He had been helping me in the field, and had decided to come along to find out why Zamâl was so excited.
Zamâl thought for a moment, then shrugged. "I'll sell them as roast meat, and try again next fall," he said. "If I make less profit, I'll have to pay less to his lordship, right?"
"Then you should pray that all the kids are billies," Karathôn suggested, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

Once again, I felt pangs of jealousy towards my neighbours. The lengthening days were looking bright for them, full of opportunity, while I felt heavily shadowed by my worries about the future and the responsibilities I had been laden with. Once again, I stood at the foot of the Mountain with a forced smile on my lips and the flower-garland of joy on my head, but with apprehension gnawing at my heart. The children danced around me, exuberant after a week by the coast, and I was almost annoyed by their joy. I knew that it would be better after the ceremony, as it had been in the past, but just then, the young sunlight and laughter and the chatter of the other attendants felt like a mockery. The meadows were packed with pavillons and proud banners and, above all, with people - some in splendid robes lined with Yadrahil's silk, others in less costly attire - and more kept coming as the morning progressed. There were nobles and rich merchants, honorable shopkeepers and craftsmen, and plenty of the less well-to-do, all eager to worship or at any rate eager to be present when the new King ascended to the Mountain for the first time.

Except that the King wasn't there. Morning turned into mid-day, and still he was missing. The crowd had swelled to some thousand people, yet there was no sign of their sovereign. I expect most of them had not noticed it yet, since they would expect the King to be somewhere among his Nobles, but they were starting to get restless. I wondered whether the King meant to make a dramatic appearance, eagerly awaited by the masses, rather than waiting for the people to arrive as his father had done. It seemed like the kind of thing that he would enjoy. I would have liked to share my observation with Amraphel, but I did not dare to mention it within hearing of Lord Eärendur, who was somewhat out of spirits himself. Lady Nolwen was feeling unwell, and although Lord Eärendur told me not to worry, Lord Eärengolë had remained behind to look after his mother, and Lord Eärendur himself was clearly worried. "I wish we could get going," he said to me. "All this waiting makes me uneasy."
"That's why I like to keep busy all the time, my lord," I confessed, and he half smiled, half frowned at that.
"Well, we have nowhere else to be today," Master Târik said by way of reassurance, and that was true. There was no festival at the palace, not even for the nobility; rumour had it that Tar-Telemmaitë wanted to save money after the huge cost of his coronation. Be that as it may, we had the entire day for ourselves, or would have once we had returned from the hallow, at any rate.
"Still, if we don't go up soon, the pedestrians won't be able to get home before nightfall," Amraphel observed.
Lord Vanatirmo, who had once again joined Lord Eärendur on the road to the Mountain, agreed. "We should go soon. I don't know what's keeping Alcarmaitë, but the people won't wait much longer." Indeed, the chatter of anticipation had turned into a less content noise, and sure enough, one of the lesser counsillors pushed towards us through the crowd.

"Begging your pardon, my lords, but we are all wondering when the ascent will begin. Some people have a long way home."
"We are still waiting for the King, Master Gimluzîr," Lord Eärendur said kindly. "Let us wait another hour."
The hour passed with no King in sight. The crowd was now audibly angry, and there were loud chants of "Up! Up!" from the people who had to fear that the city gates would be locked on them by the time they returned from the Mountain.
Lord Herucalmo had joined us, first to ask me about the progress of my reports - I was very happy indeed that I had completed them during the holiday week - and then to converse with his noble brethren. Now he was looking alarmed. "One of us will have to tell them that we won't be going."
Lord Vanatirmo's round eyes went even more round. "They'll tear us to pieces. Listen to them."
"They are mostly people of Armenelos," said Lady Fáninquë, "so it should be up to Atanacalmo to speak with them."
"My grandfather is not here," Lord Herucalmo replied coldly. "He is not feeling young enough for the ascent. His knees are troubling him enough as it is."
"Well, then, you should talk to the people."
"Don't be absurd, Fáninquë, they don't even know who he is, let alone why they should listen," Lord Pallatin said. By now, most of the present nobles had flocked around us, and I wished I could have snuck away from their august circle, but I was caught in the middle, and the nobles in their turn were walled in by the people who were still, or again, chanting "Up! Up! Up!"

"Did the King announce that he would not go to the hallow?" asked Lord Ciryamacil of Nindamos.
"Not that I know," said Lord Herucalmo, "or I would not be here, would I?"
"Your grandfather would have known, I expect," Lady Fáninquë commented sourly.
"I expect so, and I expect he would have told me." Lord Herucalmo wouldn't be riled, but Lady Fáninquë was clearly still not convinced. "Well, what can possibly keep Alcarmaitë? He can't have forgotten what day it is."
"Who knows," Lord Ciryamacil quipped, but very quietly.
The chanting was growing louder. "Up! Up! Up!" I marvelled at the crowd's courage. I would have been afraid that this might already count as a riot, although of course we weren't in the city just now. But crowds often draw courage from numbers, and a few foolishly brave individuals suffice to pull the others along. At any rate, none of the nobles made a move to stop the people from chanting; no-one even suggested such a thing. They did not, for the most part, seem to be frightened, but they certainly seemed confused and at a loss.

"The people want to go up," Lord Vanatirmo said, as though anyone hadn't realised that.
"Well, they can go," Lord Eärendur pointed out. "There is no law that they have to wait for the King, even on this day."
Lord Ciryamacil frowned. "They expect to be led - in the ascent, and in the prayer."
"You can lead them up the Mountain," Lord Vanatirmo suggested. "And you have led us in prayer before, Brother." That was addressed at Lord Eärendur, of course, who looked less than happy about it.
"In a semi-private ceremony," he said. "But this is half the populace of Armenelos."
"Nonetheless, you could do it. If the King doesn't come, then somebody else has to take his place," said Lord Vanatirmo.
"Nobody has to," Lady Fáninquë said sternly. "We should send the people home, or tell them to go on their own."
"They want to be led," Lord Vanatirmo echoed. "And they want to go. It should be done."
"Then lead on, Vanatirmo," Lord Pallatin said testily, making Lord Vanatirmo raise his chin angrily. "Very well, I shall do it!"

Lord Eärendur put a hand on his shoulder, and looked around with a frown. The crowd continued their chant, and it was clear that some kind of action needed to be taken. With a heavy sigh, Lord Eärendur said, "If it is done at all, we should do it together, as the King's Council. No one should step forward in the King's place, no matter why he isn't here. Let us stand together, and lead the people that way."
"I am not afraid," Lord Vanatirmo announced, as if he hadn't worried about being torn to pieces earlier.
"You aren't?" Lord Ciryamacil promptly queried, eyebrows raised. "You should be. I hear your son-in-law is less than happy in his marriage--"
Lord Vanatirmo's face turned red at these words, and he opened his mouth to protest or counterattack, but Lord Eärendur said, "Peace. Do not endanger yourself. And let us show unity in the face of confusion. Either we led them together, or none of us leads. What shall it be?"
A quick show of hands revealed that most of the nobles wanted to go (if only so they hadn't travelled to the Mountain in vain, I suspected). With the exception of Lady Fáninquë, Lord Pallatin and Lord Herucalmo, they voted in favour of Lord Eärendur's suggestion, and he solemnly said, "Very well. Then let us alert the other councillors."

As if on cue, Master Gimluzîr reappeared, wringing his hands. "My lords and ladies, I'm afraid the people will wait no longer..."
"They need wait no longer," Lord Vanatirmo said brightly, giving Lord Eärendur an encouraging look.
Lord Eärendur forced a tired smile. "We have decided that the Council will lead the people. Try to find as many of us as you can, and tell them to meet us in the middle of the hallow."
And thus, with a delay of several hours, the ascent was finally begun. When it became clear that the Nobles were moving towards the path up the Mountain, the people responded with cheers and applause. I couldn't deny that I myself was relieved to be moving. The crowd's eager response clearly strengthened the resolve of the King's Council, too, because a fair number of them managed to make their way to the middle of the summit. I, in the meantime, had succeeded in falling back by carrying Palatârik, who was heavy enough to slow me down. I did not want to be too close to the centre of attention.

It was strange to be upon the Mountain with so many people once more. The crowd made the holy silence feel unnatural, unsettling. During my first and only Eruhantalë with Tar-Ancalimon in the centre, his voice and the prayer, unintelligible though it had been to me, had made for a focus that justified why nobody else spoke. Now, as the council silently went through the motions, their unspeaking audience gave off an almost resentful air, although their faces were cheerful and enthusiastic enough. Now that we had finally gone up, the atmosphere was one of peace and unity, as befitted the holiday, yet that peace did not reach my heart this time. Perhaps it was just my inner shadows, making me feel darkness where there was none.

Or maybe it was a premonition. For when we came back down, there was a whole troop of guards waiting. At first, I thought that the King had arrived after all, for they were wearing the livery of the palace guard, not the black of the city watch. But the King was not there. The guards had formed a semi-circle around the entrance of the path, and as the members of the Council stepped off the path, they approached, levelling their spears at chest-height. The common councillors stepped back on instinct, while the nobles, confident in their rank and purpose, simply stopped. I was behind them still, but I was close enough to hear when the leader of the guards stepped forward and announced,
"In the name of the King! Eärendur of Andúnië, you are arrested under suspicion of sedition, sacrilege and high treason."

For a moment, it was very nearly as silent as it had been on the Mountain-top. Then Lord Eärendur asked, incredulously, "What?"
"Why him?" Lord Ciryamacil demanded, equally incredulous. He had stepped in front of Lord Eärendur as if to shield in, and some of the others had instinctively taken the same step, while the common councillors had simply stopped walking, forcing the walkers behind them to stop in their turn.
"You have taken command of the King's Council in the King's absence and unlawfully led the people in prayer," the chief guard declared, ignoring Lord Ciryamacil. "Are you going to come peacefully, or do we have to use force?"

I wondered how the guards knew about these things at all. Had Lord Herucalmo informed them, or had it been the noble couple of Rómenna? But no; that would have taken too long, unless the guard had already been well on its way here. Which suggested that somebody had known, or hoped, that this would happen. Which meant that we had all been set up. I tried to follow that line of thought, but somebody behind me muttered, "What did he say? What has he done?", distracting me.
"Nothing," I snapped, returning my attention to the events ahead of us. Lord Eärendur had spread his hands outwards, peaceably, and although I could see that he had gone very stiff and very pale, he spoke in a clear, even voice. "There has been a mistake, surely, and I will be happy to help clear it up."
"The mistake appears to be yours," the chief guard announced while two of his spear-bearing minions stepped forward, and I could stay safely at the back no longer. I dropped Palatârik in Amraphel's arms, and started forwards. "No!" I shouted. "It was a trap!"
I was stopped short not by any physical obstruction, but by Lord Eärendur's voice. It was no longer calm, but sharp, harsh like the crack of a whip. "Stay back," he barked at me without even bothering to turn around. "Shut up. You have nothing to do with this."

That was certainly clear enough. I stood back and shut up. When Lord Eärendur spoke to the guards, his voice was mild once more. "I am certain that there has been a misunderstanding," he repeated. "I am confident that we can settle it. I am coming peacefully."
"Why him?" Lord Ciryamacil spoke up again. "What has he done that we haven't?"
"That's not for us to determine, my lord. We have been ordered to arrest him specifically," the chief guard responded. "Do not obstruct us."
"I am not obstructing you, I am merely asking questions," Lord Ciryamacil said belligerently while the guards stepped further into the circle.
"It is good, Ciryamacil," Lord Eärendur said in spite of all evidence to the contrary. "You can speak for me on the Council."
"In the name of the King, stand out of the way," one of the guards said, for Lord Ciryamacil and his supporters were still standing squarely in front of Lord Eärendur, although they did make room now. I expect they would not normally have given way so quickly, but they probably all remembered Lord Arnavaryo's grisly fate. Lord Vanatirmo's brow was beaded with sweat, and his bulging eyes gave him an almost comically shocked look. I could not see the other faces, but I expected they were similarly shaken.

The crowd behind me was watching in stunned silence as the guards took Lord Eärendur's arms and led him from the circle. I remembered how, just a little over a month ago, Lord Arnavaryo had been arrested in secret, to protect his good name until his guilt had been ascertained. No such care was taken for the reputation and dignity of Lord Eärendur, who was now manacled in front of everyone present. He stood tall as ever, unflinching, and complied readily as the guards asked him to mount one of their horses. He didn't look back, not at Lord Ciryamacil, not at Lord Vanatirmo, not at his servants, not at the watchful crowd. Not at me, either. Amraphel had closed the short distance I had jumped, standing reassuringly at my back, and that was the only thing that kept me from bursting into tears right then and there. Under the eyes of the crowd and the remaining councillors, the guards mounted and rode off towards the city, their captive in the middle. There was a great deal of muttering now as people processed the event, but I did not bother to listen. The noblemen made for their pavillons, presumably to pack up. None of them paid me further heed.
"What is going to happen now, Atto?" Nîmirel asked, peering up at me with wide eyes.
"I don't know," I confessed, feeling more lost than ever. "I don't know." I pulled myself together, but it was hard work. After a moment, I said, "We should go home."
And we went home.

Chapter 34

Torture warning applies.

Read Chapter 34

"He meant to protect you," Amraphel told me for the third or fourth time. "What good would it have done for you to interfere and get arrested as well?"
I had to admit that it would have done no good at all, yet it had hurt to be whistled back like a dog that was getting ahead of itself. It irked me that I had been treated as if I couldn't decide for myself whether or not to get involved. I knew that there was nothing I could have done, but still it would have felt better to try. That was my decision, and I was a grown man and should have been allowed to go through with it. And yet, I had been whistled back. It would have been different if some else - Lord Vanatirmo, or Lord Ciryamacil, or someone like that - had told me to stay well away. But from my friend, it had hurt.

And I would be involved anyway, since I had to appear as witness at the trial. Yes, there would be a trial. Amraphel had at first said that it was unlikely - that Lord Eärendur would surely be free within a few days, as soon as the situation had been cleared - but it appeared that things weren't as simple as that. I could not believe that there truly was anything to the allegations of sedition or treason (high or otherwise), yet they had clearly found enough to justify a trial, which suggested that there was more to it than an ill-advised ceremony for Erukyermë. After all, as Lord Ciryamacil had already said during the arrest, that was nothing that the others hadn't done, too. I wondered whether Lord Eärendur had perhaps schemed and plotted in secret, never letting me in on his plans. I suppose if he had been scheming, keeping it secret from me would have been a logical choice, for a variety of reasons. But again, the thought hurt. I had liked the illusion that Lord Eärendur trusted me.

On the other hand, maybe he really hadn't done any secret plotting behind my back, and he was as innocent as I still wanted to believe. I wondered who else would be at the trial. Lord Eärengolë, no doubt. What would he say? With Amraphel's help, I had sent him a letter, asking for advice and reassurance. But so far, there had been no answer.
"If you stick to the truth you know, you won't say anything wrong," Amraphel said reasonably. "Absolutely nothing we have heard or seen from Eärendur suggests that he was involved in anything treasonous. The whole arrest is a mistake, and the trial should make that perfectly clear."
I hoped with all my heart that she was right. Yet I could not help asking, "What if it doesn't?"
I had, after all, very vivid memories of what happened to a nobleman condemned for treason, and I was afraid.

When you are afraid of something, time tends to move even faster than it usually does, yet I was surprised when guards appeared on our construction site on Eärenya to take me to the citadel.
"I thought the trial was tomorrow," I said, horrified that I might have missed it.
"It is," the leader of the troop said. "You are needed for preliminary questioning."

The words were harmless enough, but I certainly did not like the way in which Master Târik's face lost all hue. Karathôn and Mîkul exchanged the kind of glance you share when someone had said something that they really shouldn't have said, and you really wish you hadn't heard.
I swallowed a sudden lump that was rising in my throat. "I see," I said, because I could not think of anything better to say. "Then I suppose I had better come."
The soldier agreed, "Yes, that would be better." His tone was neutral, so I hoped that maybe my colleagues were wrong to look like they did. It helped me to maintain a veneer of calm as I washed my hands, and put on my cloak over my work clothing, although I could barely keep my hands from shaking.
"See you later," I told Master Târik and Karathôn and Mîkul, who seemed to stand transfixed. I tried to affect bravery, and forced a smile.
"Eru keep you," Master Târik said, very nearly shattering my composure.

I tried to keep my thoughts together on the way back to the city, up to the citadel, and then not to the palace, but into a dark and gloomy place that, much like the catacombs and the old laboratories of the Raisers, had been tunnelled into the rock. It wasn't easy, because they wanted to scatter like pigeons who flock around some morsel dropped in the street one moment, but flutter away in all directions when you approach them. What did they want to know? What would I have to say? What would happen if I said the wrong things? How long would it take?

The guards brought me into a room that didn't look too threatening, with only a table and two chairs in it, lit by two elven lamps. "You may sit down," they told me, and then most of them left, except for one elderly guard who stood at attention by the door. I could probably have tried to overwhelm him and run away, but he had done me no harm (yet, anyway), and I probably would not have gotten far anyway. I wondered if I should bribe him. "What can I do," I said, trying to keep my voice even, "to get out of here quickly?"
He did not answer at once, merely raising an eyebrow, and I thought that perhaps he wasn't supposed to speak with me at all. But then he said, "Tell them what they want to know."
"I don't think I have anything to tell," I said cautiously.
"They'll tell you what they want to hear," he said flatly, and I thought I could hear something like pity in his voice. I swallowed hard.
"What would happen if I ran away?" I asked, as if I was interested in the question merely on a theoretical level.
"Same as when you don't cooperate in any other way, really."

That was ominous, and I decided not to pursue the question further. I sat in the simple chair, the kind you might put in the kitchen for a servant to sit on while shelling beans, and tried not to speculate on what would happen. Somewhere outside, there was a high-pitched squealing noise, and I hoped very much that it was just the sound of a rusty hinge. I wondered who else was here. Other friends of Lord Eärendur? Lord Eärendur himself? I wondered who would do the questioning, and what they would ask, and what they would make of my answers. I wondered if I would have the strength not to tell them what they wanted to hear, if what they wanted to hear would condemn Lord Eärendur. "Stick to the truth," Amraphel had said, and that was all very well, but what would I do if they threatened me with torment? What would they do if I did stick to the truth? I told myself that it did not matter, because I would have to endure it somehow. The trial was tomorrow in the afternoon, so they only had one day to interrogate me. But if I said the wrong thing, it would mean death for Lord Eärendur, and a gruesome death too, which he did not deserve. If that was what they wanted, then I could not cooperate. Except that they would doubtlessly make me. The thought made me feel sick to my stomach.

"They'll be with us soon," the guard said, perhaps mistaking my fidgeting for impatience.
I replied, "I don't mind waiting," and meant it. Waiting, unsettling though it was, was preferable to anything else. Waiting did not hurt, although the chair could perhaps have been more comfortable. The more time passed, the less time they would have to hurt me. Maybe they would not hurt me at all, I told myself. Maybe they just wanted to make me think they would, letting me flinch at the awful screaming noise that came through the wall - there it was again - and waiting for me to grow so restless and anxious that I would tell them what they wanted to hear just to get out of the small, bare chamber with its eerie blue light. That was not so bad, I told myself. I could handle that.

Then two broad-shouldered men with hoods over their faces came, carrying a brazier full of coals and iron rods between them. They simply put the brazier down close to me, and then stood back against the wall, without a word, but the message was clear enough. I knotted my fingers underneath the table and tried to sit upright, as if it mattered at all whether or not they could see my fear. I tried to distract myself. The coal was heating the small room quickly, and with my eyes closed, I could pretend that it was a nice summer day and that I was sitting in some pleasant place, resting. I tried to judge how long I had been here. An hour? Two? Without daylight and no activity that allowed me to figure out the passage of time, it was impossible to say. Still, more time was passing, which was the important thing. Once again, I tried to calm myself by daydreaming. Then I heard the door open and people moving and fabric swishing and the guard's armour clinking, and I opened my eyes to see that the guard and the hooded torturers had gone on one knee. I got out of my chair and hurried to copy them, because the man who had just entered the room was none other than the King himself.

"Get up," he said carelessly, "be seated." He himself sat down in the interrogator's chair opposite me, although it was no more comfortable than mine. He waved a hand, and a servant brought a rolled-up sheet of paper, and an inkwell and quill, setting it on the table before me.
"We can make this quick," the King said. "We've already had your statement written up, and all you need to do is sign it, and be done," he said, unrolling the paper and turning it around so that the bottom of the page pointed towards me.
That was not what I had expected. I had not expected him, and I had not expected him to talk to me in a very nearly civil manner, and I didn't know what to make of it.
"You can write, can't you?" he said when I didn't move, and still there was very little venom in it.
"I can write, your majesty," I confirmed before I could even think. My hand, almost without my volition, had moved towards the inkwell, and I felt awkward as I pulled it back. "I, um. May I read it first?"
There was a smile on his face now, and I could nearly convince myself that it only looked unpleasant because of the unnatural light of the stone-lamps. "Yes, certainly. Study it well."

I took the sheet and began to read it, and in spite of the heat emanating from the brazier, it felt as though my stomach was turning to ice. I, Azruhâr son of Narduhâr, confess and confirm the following: That Eärendur son of Elendur has spread slander and lies about the rightful King of Númenórë, it began, and after that it only got worse.
That he has conspired to wrest power from the rightful King;
That to this purpose he has interfered in the affairs of the King,
and recruited supporters to his cause by gifts and promises;
That he has presumed to command the Council in the King's absence;
That he has sacrilegiously led people in prayer upon the Holy Mountain;
That he is therefore guilty of high treason against the King and the realm.
My heart was beating so hard that I thought my chest might burst. "I cannot sign this, your majesty," I heard myself say.
"You certainly can," the King said. "You have quill, ink, and the skill to write. Go ahead."
"None of it is true, your majesty," I protested.
His majesty gave me a pointed stare. "That's just the sort of thing a conspirator would say. And you know what happens to conspirators. Spare yourself the trouble and sign."
I was silent for a moment, because I needed to gather up the shreds of my courage. Then I said, "No."

The King leaned forward. Over the perfume in his clothes, I could smell the fish and white wine he'd had for his mid-day meal. "We know that you are a man of very little wit, Azruhâr, so we shall assume that you have not properly understood your position. If you do not sign this document, we shall have your fingers broken, and that is only the beginning." He smiled again. "Now, is that clear enough?"
"We had an agreement, your Majesty," I said bitterly. I wasn't certain that it was a good idea to bring our strange conversation after his Father's death up, but on the other hand, I doubted that it could make matters worse.
Strangely, the smile intensified at the reminder. "Unless you give us reason," he said happily. "So go ahead, Azruhâr. Give us reason."

My fingers had clenched into fists, as if that would protect them, and I looked at the paper again. That he has presumed to command the Council in the King's absence; that he has sacrilegiously led people in prayer upon the Holy Mountain... "Who says that he has done any of these things?" I asked.
"You will say it," the King retorted, "once you have signed."
"But you had it written before you showed it to me, your Majesty," I said.
There was another smile, and this time there was no mistaking the unpleasant quirk in it. "We have reliable sources," he said, "who have given me the necessary information. Eärendur's religious fanatism is common knowledge, and we have been informed about your little ceremonies on the Mountain..."
"By whom?" I asked, stupidly, as if it mattered.
"That need not concern you," the King consistently said. "All that needs concern you is that you can do your King a service by helping to condemn a traitor."
"Lord Eärendur is no traitor," I said stubbornly.

The King waved with one hand, and the next thing I knew was that my forehead was slammed into the table while my arms were twisted behind my back so that I couldn't struggle without dislocating my own shoulders. The torturers began to strip me, rather roughly, pulling my head up by my hair to remove my shirt and tunic, which was bad enough, and then they pressed one of the hot irons against the tender skin in the bend of my elbow. I screamed as I felt my skin burn, and then they removed the iron and put it back on the brazier and let go of me. The searing pain remained, and I looked down at my arm, at the long angry blister that had risen under the heat of the brand. I was breathing fast and trying not to sob audibly, though of course the King knew how badly it must hurt, anyway.
"That was a taste, Azruhâr," he said, "just a tiny taste of what will happen if you don't comply. Now, sign the damned thing."

I looked down at the document, now rumpled. My eyes had welled up with tears, making the accursed letters on the paper blur. Reliable sources had told the King that Lord Eärendur was guilty of treason. Whoever they were, whatever had been done to them, they had already condemned him. Did it even matter what I did? What should I do? What would Lord Eärengolë do when his choice was between defending his father or protecting his inheritance? Was he, in fact, one of the reliable sources? My arm was burning and my head was throbbing and I did not doubt for a second that much worse lay in store for me. Was it worth risking that? Could it make any difference?
Yes, I told myself. Yes, it did make a difference, because otherwise I would not be sitting here. Lord Eärendur had friends on the Council, who would demand proof before condemning him. True, some of them had probably been friends to Lord Arnavaryo as well, and still they had voted him guilty; but then, he had been guilty. I was still convinced that Lord Eärendur must be innocent. Reliable though the King's sources might be, they clearly weren't enough, and he needed my statement, and I must not give it. I must not.

But I would sign, because I was no hero. I knew that. My only hope was time, that I would not sign the paper until the trial began. One day, I told myself. I had to hold out for one day only. But they would know that as well, and they knew how to make men change their mind. I would not be able to hold up against that. They would hurt me, badly; and I, sooner or later, would sign.

There was just one thing to do. I took the sheet of paper. I took the quill. And then, very quickly, before I could have second thoughts about it, I turned and dropped them both on the brazier. The coals were very hot indeed; the paper flared up before it even touched the glowing embers. The quill lasted a little longer; first the vane burned with a rush and a sizzle, and then the shaft blackened and shrivelled, stinking like burning hair. Like my skin would burn, I thought. Because I had given him reason.
"I cannot sign," I heard myself whisper.

For a moment, nothing happened, and I knew that my deed had taken them by surprise. Then the King struck me. Although he did not have the bulk of the torturers, there was enough strength in the blow to make my ears ring and my vision momentarily go dark. Then I saw the King shake his hand, and derived some desperate satisfaction from the knowledge that he had hurt himself, too. It was a very, very short moment of satisfaction before the torturers stepped in again.
"You realise that we do not need the document," the King said coldly, and I screamed because the torturer had, with a brutally efficient movement, broken my index finger. I tried to pull away, but of course they were stronger than I, and my middle finger was snapped as effortlessly as if it had been a twig. Then they set another iron to my arm, and I could not even decide in which direction to twist to escape the awful burning sting.
"An oral confession will be perfectly sufficient," his Majesty continued, maybe to me and maybe to the tormentors. "Whenever you are ready."
"I - will not - lie," I managed to spit out between groans, and very much hoped that it would be true.

The King stayed to watch as I writhed under the red-hot irons, and then as they took me to a larger chamber where they hung me up by my ankles to beat me. I think I fainted a few times, but they woke me again so I didn't miss the worst of it. I screamed and howled and pleaded for mercy, and on occasion the King, or one of the torturers, would tell me about a crime Lord Eärendur had supposedly committed, demanding that I confirm it, and I had to say no, and then they hurt me more. I had known, of course, that it would be painful, but no foreknowledge in the world, not the punishments I had been subjected to in my youth, not even the sight of Lord Arnavaryo's ordeal, could have prepared me for the agonising reality of torment. Of course, it was designed to be more than one could endure, meant to break much stronger men than me, and it very nearly did break me. I was aware, dimly, that the King left at some point, perhaps because he tired of my screams after all, or perhaps because night had come at last. It made no difference to me; the torturers worked through the night, or maybe they were replaced at some point by equally bulky men wearing the same hoods.

I do not care to recount in detail all the things they did to me. Suffice it to say that I did not take it well. The heroes in the plays and pageants, when they are subjected to torture, grind their teeth and screw up their faces but bear their torment in stoic silence; maybe there are some groans when it is particularly bad, or a short single scream as a hand is severed. I was not like that. I screamed, as the saying goes, my lungs out. Occasionally, I could hear other people cry and plead, so I knew that I was not suffering alone, but I could not see any of them. Nor did I try very hard, being rather more than occupied with my own pain. Every now and then, the torturers reminded me what they needed to hear, but I could not give it to them, and so the pain continued.

They had put me on the rack, not yet stretched out but well aware of what would happen next, and then they seemed to be waiting for something. That was a brief respite, so I tried to pull myself together. I was face-down between the barrels that would tighten the chains around my wrists and ankles. My muscles were shaking incontrollably, not with fear (although I was terrified) nor with cold (although I was cold) but with sheer fatigue. And then I heard a familiar voice.
"Well, how far have you got? Has he talked?"

It was Lord Atanacalmo. I don't know why his appearance shook me so much. I knew, after all, that he was close - very close - to the King. I had never assumed that he would protect me. Nonetheless, I had hoped that he would at least remain neutral, yet here he was, side by side with my torturers. I clenched my stinging eyes shut.
"No, my lord," one of the torturers said. "Still insisting on his version."
"How odd. Everybody knows he's a coward. So, why have you called me down here, then?"
"Instructions, my lord. We can break him, obviously, but if it's the truth you want, I suspect we've heard it," the torturer said, and against all reason, I felt a surge of gratitude towards the man who had hurt me.

"Hm," Lord Atanacalmo made. He had come closer while they had spoken, and I expect that he was inspecting my prone form, but I did not want to waste whatever strength I had left on looking at him. "There's plenty of time to break him," he said, "the trial has been postponed."
I groaned at that. I had hoped that my ordeal would be over soon, but if the trial had been postponed, then clearly I would have to suffer for longer. Already, I could take no more.

Lord Atanacalmo heard me, and squatted down before me. "Ah, you're listening! My goodness, Azruhâr, you look terrible."
I should have liked to respond something clever, like the heroes in the stories would have done. I should have liked to spit out some blood, and maybe say "I am not feeling too great, either", but even that small effort would have been too much, so I did nothing except tremble under his gaze. Then his hand gripped my hair and pulled my head up, just far enough to look me in the eyes, or in the one eye that hadn't swollen shut, anyway. "There's no need for this, you know," he said. "Your co-conspirators have made their confessions already. Save yourself."

The shaking in my limbs intensified as despair set in. "There are no co-conspirators," I felt compelled to choke out, "because there is no conspiracy."
"Eärendur says the same," said Lord Atanacalmo. "He knows that you are being tortured, but he still denies all charges."
I understood, on some level, that this was supposed to turn me against Lord Eärendur, and indeed, I did feel some resentment. Maybe noblemen weren't tortured, but their ignoble friends certainly were. I sniffed, but said nothing. Lord Atanacalmo let go of my hair, and my head fell back to the planks with a thunk.
"I really do not understand you," he said, his voice moving away from me: he had straightened, and from the sound of his steps and his robes, was now pacing around me. "Why are you still here? We know what you are. You need not play the hero. You have betrayed men before. You have condemned men before."
It took several deep breaths until I trusted myself to answer, since an answer was apparently expected. "They weren't innocent," I said. I was speaking, or rather rasping, into the planks, but apparently he understood me well enough, because he asked,
"And Eärendur is?"
"Yes."

He sighed dramatically. "Stretch him," he said to the torturers, which they did; not yet far enough to make my arms and legs pop out of their sockets, but nearly so, or at any rate that was what it felt like. I hung suspended between the barrels, terrified that my limbs would simply come off, that the spasms of my own muscles would tear me apart, and when I heard Lord Atanacalmo say, "Alright. No more," I could have kissed his feet in gratitude.
"Please, Lord, please," I spluttered, uselessly and desperately, and then I had to pause to struggle for breath because the strain was so enormous.
He leaned in again. "Has Eärendur slandered the King?" he asked, and I moaned, "No, no, never, please ---"
"Has he conspired to wrest power from the King, and interfered in the affairs of the King?" Lord Atanacalmo went on relentlessly, and I shook my head and felt something in my shoulders slide out of place in response, and I howled, "No! No!"
"Has he recruited supporters to make himself King?"
"Never! Please, I beg you--"
"Has he led people in prayer upon the Holy Mountain?"
"In silence! He didn't speak! Lord, I can't --"
"Has he taken command of the Council?
"No, no! They went together! No!"
"You are saying that it was a joint decision?"
"Yes! Yes!" I was running out of breath even though I was gasping for air, but not enough of it seemed to reach my lungs. "Lord..." I pleaded, and was once more cut short.
"Is Eärendur guilty of treason, then?"
I could bear it no longer. I was certain that I would be torn apart, that my joints would simply give way, that my lungs would tear, and I was at the end of my strength.
"No!" I managed to howl, and after that, articulation was beyond me and I was reduced to making small keening noises against the pain.
"I suppose you're right, Master Torturer," I heard Lord Atanacalmo say, over my whimpering and the pumping noise of the blood in my ears. "Release him."
They released me.

On instinct, my body curled up small as soon as my limbs were my own to command. I wouldn't have had the strength to move intentionally. I think I may have passed out; at any rate, my world certainly went black for a while. Then they roused me again, to what purpose I cannot say, since they left me where I was, with my arms wrapped tighly around my knees, grateful that they were no longer in immediate danger of being torn off. I was retching and moaning and shivering. I did not dare to believe that my torment was over, but the blissful respite lengthened, and at some point, the torturers must have gone away. It grew quiet, aside from my tearless sobbing. A guard came, bringing my clothing. Another guard brought a cup of broth, the first thing to eat or drink I had been offered since I had been brought here, but I could not enjoy it; I had barely emptied the cup when I was violently sick, vomiting broth and bile and whatever I hadn't already thrown up earlier. The guard helped me to sit up so I did not lie with my face in the vomit. I hated him, but at the same time, I was desperately grateful to him. I was still shaking, still hurting all over, and the smallest friendly gesture carried great weight.

"Get a move on," Lord Atanacalmo said coldly, and I flinched because I hadn't realised that he was still there. I was physically incapable of getting a move on, so I ignored his command, hoping that I wouldn't be punished as long as he thought I hadn't heard him in my pain.
"We are needed at the trial," Lord Atanacalmo went on, perhaps to the guards rather than me, since I wasn't reacting, but I lifted my head at that.
"I thought it had been postponed," I gasped with what was left of my voice.
He gave me a smile that was all teeth. "No, it hasn't. It will begin as soon as I am upstairs to take my seat."
I pondered that, and came to the conclusion that he had tricked me. "You tricked me," I whispered.
I don't even know why it surprised me, and Lord Atanacalmo didn't bother to comment on my observation. He merely said, "You are recovering, I see. So get a move on. Put on some clothes. Clean your face. Make yourself presentable. We should not keep Alcarmaitë waiting."

Chapter 35

Trial time!

Read Chapter 35

I was not presentable. With a lot of help from the guards, I had managed to get into my breeches - yesterday's working breaches, stiff with mortar and plaster - but the pain in my upper body, especially when I tried to lift my arms, was so bad that I had immediately abandoned the attempt to put on a shirt or tunic. Lord Atanacalmo insisted that we had no time to wait, so in the end, the guards had simply draped my cloak around my shoulders. They'd had to carry me because I hadn't managed to walk the steps. I was too exhausted even to weep.
I thought of my elaborate plans for the trial. I had wanted to spend Valanya morning rehearsing likely questions and good answers with Amraphel. I had wanted to bathe and have my hair braided and wear respectable clothing in order to make a good impression. Instead, I was bruised and burned and bloodied, my hair in a dirty tangle, my face smeared with tears and snot, and my clothing in disarray. I could barely walk, barely hold my head up, and barely speak.

Yet I would have to appear in front of the Council. For now, I had been left in the antechamber with the guards, and I had crumpled to the cool marble floor as soon as Lord Atanacalmo had shut the door behind him. In spite of the insistent trembling, I felt as though my limbs and back were on fire. Inside the throne room, the trial was beginning. I just wanted it to be over. No: I wanted to wake up and find out that this had all been a bad dream.
"You should lie on a bench, sir, it is more comfortable," one of the guards suggested.
The benches were made from the same marble as the floor, and not cushioned at all; the comfort or discomfort would be the same. What he surely meant was that it would look somewhat less undignified. I ignored him.
The proceedings did not yet require my presence, which suited me well. After a while, I managed to push myself into a sitting position, trying to convince myself that I might have some dignity left after all. A servant asked whether I wanted a refreshment. I wasn't at all certain that I would be able to keep it down - my stomach was still badly upset - but at the same time my throat was stinging, and I still had the foul taste of vomit in my mouth, and so I asked for water. It was clean, sweet water, not like the foul-smelling swill the torturers had dunked me into. I did not want to remember, but of course I did. I took tiny sips and hoped for the nausea to pass.

Then - I do not know when exactly - the door opened, and it was announced that the Council would hear the testimony of Azruhâr, apprentice embalmer. One of the guards helped me to my feet, and then steadied me as I limped towards the throne room. "For what it's worth, sir, I think this is all wrong," he whispered in my ear. I wasn't certain whether he meant Lord Eärendur's arrest or the trial or my torment, not that it mattered. It was worth exactly nothing, but of course I did not say so. I felt that I could not afford rejecting anyone's sympathy. "Thank you," I mumbled, without much conviction.
And then I was inside the throne room, bright and airy and ostentatious as always. Lord Eärendur stood in the middle, still dressed in the white robes he had worn on the Mountain. The fabric had begun to grey. Overall, Lord Eärendur looked as if he'd had a few sleepless nights, his beard was unkempt, and his hands were chained, but otherwise he appeared to be well enough. I, on the other hand, stumbled into the middle of the large circle leaning heavily on the guard, my face puffed and my eye blackened. From the outside, it must look as if I had got drunk and forgotten about the trial and had needed to be torn from a bar fight in order to testify.

"Do you have no more reputable witness than the embalmer?" Lord Ciryamacil promptly said in disgust, while Lord Eärendur gave me a sorrowful, confused frown: What have you been up to? Lord Atanacalmo had said that he'd known about my torment, but maybe that had been a trick as well. Not that it mattered. I looked away from Lord Eärendur and to the King, who was leaning forward, eagerly watching my disgraceful arrival. I realised that he enjoyed it, not just because he liked that I was in pain but also because even though I hadn't made the confession he had wanted, my refutations would hardly have much credence: Who would believe a man who was dragged in like this? Bile rose in my throat, and I had to let my eyes sink. Next to the King, there was a young scribe whom I did not know. At least Quentangolë wouldn't have to write the minutes of his own father's trial, I thought.

At last I had reached the place marked for the witness, and the guard stepped back. I caught my balance and my breath. I should have knelt in greeting, but I knew that I wouldn't be able to get up again, and so just dipped my head forward into a bow that was already enough to nearly topple me over. Then, just so everybody present would know exactly why I was walking like this and swaying like this and sounding like three days' heavy carousing, I fumbled with my left hand on the tangle of my cloak until it fell to the floor, exposing the marks of my torment.
I did not know how bad it looked - I had not seen a mirror, nor did I care to; I knew that it felt awful, which was more than I wanted to know - but there were some shouts of alarm behind me, so I knew that it must look bad enough.
"I gainsay any testimony exacted through torture," Lord Eärendur said hotly, and the brief triumph I had felt at the councillors' shock and surprise dissipated at once. He was very certain that I'd made a testimony worth gainsaying, I thought, feeling the sour boil of resentment in my stomach. I ground my teeth and hugged my throbbing shoulders, still worried that they might come off. There was a great deal of heated whispering behind me, but eventually, Lord Atanacalmo called for silence. The mutterings died down obediently at the cold sound of his voice.

"We have heard the charge of the prosecution. We have heard the testimony of Vanatirmo and Gimluzîr. We have heard the accused's and Ciryamacil's conflicting versions. We have heard a petition of the people of Andúnië. We have heard from Eärengolë and Balakhil." I blinked at that. Balakhil? Balakhil, my supposed bodyguard? Lord Atanacalmo spoke on dispassionately. "We shall now hear a purported friend of the accused, who has been implicated in the conspiracy."
Lord Vanatirmo interrupted. "Do we really need to hear him?" he asked, sounding bored. "I thought there was a written statement."
Lord Ciryamacil scoffed. "A written statement? He can write?"
Resentment was turning into cold dark hatred. I wished I could have gotten away with punching their smug faces. Not that I would have done much damage, weak as I was, but it would have been so very satisfying to try. It would also have been folly, of course. But I was angry, and anger is a bad councillor, though at the same time, there is a hidden strength in it.
"I can write," I rasped, "but it was full of lies, so I burned it."

My statement provoked some shocked laughter, and an outcry of disbelief from Lord Vanatirmo:
"You what?"
"He burned it, Vanatirmo," Lord Atanacalmo said with a twitch of his lip. "So we shall have to hear him. Azruhâr, you are charged to speak the truth and nothing but the truth, and failure to do so will be treated as perjury." Whereas he had previously sounded mildly amused, he was now speaking in the bored tone of a man who had said the same thing a hundred times on a hundred occasions. "Do you understand?"
"I understand," I muttered. It was so very hard to keep myself upright. I was sore all over, stinging all over, and the urge to curl up small was very powerful indeed, but I managed to pull myself together and stay on my feet, though I could not stand as proud as I would have liked. There was a fierce stabbing pain in my spine if I straightened my back too much, so I didn't try it more than once.
"We have been told that Eärendur has been plotting to put himself on the throne," Lord Atanacalmo continued in his dispassionate tone,"and recruited followers to help him wrest power from Tar-Telemmaitë. What do you know about that?"
I was fairly certain that no such plot existed, but I with the threat of perjury over my head, I just croaked, "I know nothing of it."
"For pity's sake, at least let him drink something," Lord Eärendur interfered, his voice full of worry, and my anger turned against him. He should worry about himself!
"I'm not thirsty," I rasped.

Lord Atanacalmo raised an eyebrow, shrugged, and continued. "So you have not been recruited for the purpose of garnering support for the house of Andúnië among the lower classes?"
I thought to myself that if I had been garnering support for anyone, it had been for the house of Arminalêth. But I did not say so. It was probably unwise to provoke Lord Atanacalmo, any further than he already was provoked by my refusal to cooperate, and so I just said, "No."
"But you have been invited into the inner circle of Eärendur's..." He paused, searching for the right word, and ultimately went for, "... familiars?"
"I had that honour," I ground out. An honour that I had enjoyed while it lasted, to be fair, but it had come at the price of yesterday's ordeal, which made it look rather stale at the moment.
"You still have it," Lord Eärendur said in what was probably meant to be reassurance.
"If you speak out of turn again, Eärendur, we shall have you gagged," the King snapped from his high seat.
"Now, now," the voice of Lord Pallatin said behind me, disapprovingly. It was probably uncommon to threaten a nobleman with such indignities, at least until he was declared actually guilty of whatever. I had the impression that the trial might be getting away from the King. That, at least, was a reassuring thought, and I managed to draw myself a little more upright.
Lord Atanacalmo didn't comment on the interruption, instead continuing to question me. "Nonetheless, you say you have never heard the slightest suggestion of... shall we say... dissatisfaction with the reign of Tar-Telemmaitë?"

Now this was a loaded question. As far as I was concerned, there were plenty of reasons to be dissatisfied with the reign of Tar-Telemmaitë, and I had heard such suggestions in other houses, not least of all that of Lord Atanacalmo himself, so the truthful answer would have been "Not from Lord Eärendur," but that would have required clarification, so I just said, "No," glaring at Lord Atanacalmo in case he wanted to pursue the question further. One day, I thought, I hoped he would fall from grace, and it would be his turn to stand in the circle and be judged, and perhaps I would live long enough to see it, although that did not feel likely right now. But for now, I had to keep him on my side, as far as that was possible.
He chose not to pursue the question further, instead moving on to the next item.
"Tell me about the secret ceremonies on the Holy Mountain. You have attended these ceremonies, is that correct?"
I could not well deny that. "Some of them." Then, as an afterthought, in case that was important, I added, through gritted teeth, "But I don't know if they were secret."
"They were not," Lord Ciryamacil supplied flatly. "Everybody knows when the holy days are, even those who conveniently forget to attend."
His statement was followed by a moment of awkward silence. Then the King asked, "What is that supposed to mean?"
"You know full well what it means," Lord Ciryamacil said belligerently, and although it was nice that he had scorn for more people than just me, I couldn't help wondering if the man was, perhaps, insane.
Lord Atanacalmo looked pained, as if he had to perform a distasteful duty. "It is not your turn, Ciryamacil," he said. "You can comment on Azruhâr's statement later on. So, Azruhâr. You were at these ceremonies, secret or otherwise. Are you a faithful man, then?"
"No," I rasped, "but I had reason to pray."
"Really? What for?"
"A good harvest. Success at my work. Expressing gratitude." Commonplace things, I felt, that were perfectly inoffensive. For good measure I added, "The King's health." That was completely true, too, although it had been the old King I had been praying for.

Lord Atanacalmo raised his eyebrows at that, but he did not ask me to specify. Instead, he asked, "And in these prayers, did Eärendur take up the King's role?"
"No," said I.
"Hah!" Lord Ciryamacil exclaimed, in triumph this time, and I concluded that in spite of everything, he might be on Lord Eärendur's side.
"Ciryamacil, please," said Lord Atanacalmo, as if speaking to an inattentive child. "Azruhâr, how do you figure that?"
"He never spoke."
"Really? Then how did he lead the prayer?"
"In silence," I rasped, frowning, both because it was hard to explain and because all the talking was taking its toll on me. "Just setting the rhythm, I suppose." I wasn't sure whether that had been a good thing to say, and my courage was sinking.
"Vanatirmo says that Eärendur spoke the words of the prayer."
"He must have misheard," I croaked.
"He lied," Lord Ciryamacil supplied helpfully.
"You lie!" Lord Vanatirmo retorted hotly.
"Order!" the King snapped, glowering at his misbehaving councillors. "You behave like squabbling children! Even if Vanatirmo... misheard, there is still the matter of last Erukyermë! Uncle, please."

Lord Atanacalmo steepled his long fingers and breathed out very slowly. "Yes. Even if Vanatirmo's memory of these ceremonies is incorrect, what happened last Erukyermë? Eärendur did lead more than a couple of faithful worshippers then, did he not?"
I closed my eyes so I could focus better. My anger had worn off and left weariness in its place. I was now acutely aware of the throbbing and stinging of my many burns and cuts and bruises, the ache in my drawn joints, the rawness in my lungs and throat, the vicious stabs of pain in my broken fingers. "No," I whispered, "the Council did."
"We cannot hear you," Lord Atanacalmo said mercilessly. "Who did?"
"The present councillors," I ground out, and, taking up his own words, "It was a joint decision."
The Council had gone very quiet, and Lord Atanacalmo's voice sounded uncommonly fierce as he went on. "Very well. Azruhâr, I know that you think you have a good memory. Recount, then, exactly what happened."

I did not have the strength to protest his allegation and focused on my answer instead. I kept my eyes closed, trying and failing to breathe evenly. "People were excited for the ceremony," I said slowly. "There had been no information to the contrary, so it was assumed that the new King would lead it, but he did not come. The crowd demanded to go up. Master... Gimluzîr... told the noblemen about their impatience. Soon after they started to shout, 'Up! Up! Up!'. The people, I mean." I had to pause for breath. The trembling had begun again, worse than ever, which prompted someone to pick up my cloak and put it back on my shoulders; I suspect it was Lord Saphadûl, who could risk the displeasure of the King. It was kindly meant, but even that light touch seemed to set my skin on fire, and I whimpered. The heroes in the plays, when they are rescued from their torment, go on to lead armies and vanquish dragons, but I wasn't one of them. Instead, I began to weep, struggling to keep it quiet at least.
"Have mercy, Lord King, let him rest," Lord Eärendur said quietly, his voice thick as though he were close to tears.
"He will not rest until he has replied to our satisfaction," the King said, and it was evident that my struggle was part of the satisfaction.
"We would let him write up an account," Lord Atanacalmo's indifferent voice rang above my shuddering breath, "but as his fingers are broken, he will have to speak."
I wondered why he was drawing attention to my fingers. By now, I had the impression that some of the councillors were beginning to pity me, and that would colour their judgement; they would give my words more credence than they might otherwise have. If he wanted them to dismiss my statement, it seemed unwise to give them reason to pity me more, and it was not like Lord Atanacalmo to be unwise.
Lord Pallatin spoke up, "I was there at the beginning of it; I can answer."
"I was there for the whole thing, and have already answered," Lord Ciryamacil growled.
"I want Azruhâr's answer," the King snapped.

I wondered whether he really did. He might enjoy seeing me suffer right now, but I doubted he would like the story I would tell. Normally, that thought would have been intimidating, but that day I was well beyond fear. Like the King, I gave no thought to the future, only to the present. In the present, I wanted revenge. I wanted to have my revenge, even if all I could do was spoil his afternoon. Everything hurt, and nothing mattered, and I tried to stop sobbing so I could articulate my story.
"The people... wanted to go up," I repeated, keeping my eyes shut to drown out the light and the faces. "Some suggested to tell them that we would not go, but Lord Vanatirmo wanted to go up instead." I frowned as the pieces began to come together. "He suggested that Lord Eärendur could lead the ceremony. He said, ' If the King doesn't come, then somebody else has to take his place.' Lord Vanatirmo said that." I opened my eyes so I could look at Lord Vanatirmo, who was staring back with a wide-eyed look of innocence. Dark waves lapped on the edges of my vision, invitingly, but I could not give in to them yet.

Lord Ciryamacil took over from me. "You did say that! Eärendur said that if anyone did it, it should be the whole Council, and then you said you would do it yourself, and he held you back - to protect you." The last words were spoken in deepest scorn; evidently, Lord Ciryamacil did not find Lord Vanatirmo worthy of protection.
"This is not about Vanatirmo, but about Eärendur," the King interrupted. "I will have order! Speak on, embalmer! What happened next?"
"For pity's sake --" Lord Eärendur was pleading again.
"You should let the embalmer speak," Lord Atanacalmo cut him short.
The embalmer spoke, as well as he could. "There was a vote among the nobles. Lord Pallatin and Lady Fáninquë and Lord Herucalmo were against going. The others agreed to lead the people together. We went up. Some common councillors joined them in the middle. Master Gimluzîr, too. We prayed. We went down. Then the guards were there." Again, I had to pause for breath. I could no longer identify the body parts that were hurting; they were all screaming in unison, drowning each other out. My surroundings had blended into an unreal blur of light and colour. I suspected that I might be dying on my feet, and was so exhausted that the thought didn't even scare me.

There was some whispering around me, but it took a moment until Lord Atanacalmo spoke again. "Who called the vote?"
"I did that," Lord Eärendur said soberly, sparing me from replying.
"So you confess it!" the King exclaimed triumphantly. "I call my councillors to the vote, not you! Yet you confess that you did it!"
"You were not there, Majesty," Lord Eärendur said, and I could hear the strain in his mild voice. He was keeping himself in check - he had to, of course - but clearly, he found it hard.
"Then there should have been no vote!"
There was a heavy sigh from Lord Atanacalmo's direction. "In an emergency, it is legal for the highest ranking councillor to call for a vote in the King's absence. Was it an emergency, Azruhâr? Wake up, man!"

I hadn't been sleeping, I had merely closed my eyes again. Too many things were clamouring for my attention at once, but even if I had not been distracted by my pain, how should I know? I had not studied the law, and found it very unfair that I was expected to decide on such a thing. "There was a noisy and impatient crowd," I forced out, "Lord Vanatirmo thought they might tear the nobles to pieces."
"A riot?" Lord Atanacalmo asked.
"Not a riot yet, but on its way there," Lord Ciryamacil interjected.
"But was Eärendur the highest-ranking present?" That was the King, still clinging to what he clearly felt was a weak spot in Lord Eärendur's defense.
"Maybe we can discuss these niceties while the witness is given over to the healer," Lord Atanacalmo said in a rare show of humaneness. "Are there any further questions for the witness?" He sighed. "Têrakon?"
If I had been in a better state, I might have laughed. Of course Lord Têrakon felt the need to try me further. "I seem to recall that the embalmer received a precious gift of Valinórean amber from Eärendur. Is the embalmer certain that he wasn't given that gift to buy his loyalty?"
"He is certain," I whispered. "It was a gift, not payment."
"And where is it now?"
"I gave it in tribute to the King." At that, the whispering grew so loud that Lord Atanacalmo had to call for order again before he could ask, "Further questions?" Apparently there were none, because he continued, "In that case, I suggest the witness is taken outside." There must have been assent and some kind of signal, because the guards came to pick me up and half lead, half drag me out of the chamber. I tried to walk along as best as I could while the councillors began to exchange whispered opinions again.

A healer and his assistant were already waiting in the antechamber. It wasn't Master Sérindo, who would have been a welcome familiar face, but a stranger, who made them cut off my dirty breeches and put me down on a stone bench. It had by now been covered with a blanket, a small display of consideration, I suppose. There I lay shivering, worn out and hurting, trying to figure out whether I had done harm or good. I was dimly aware that the healer was dictating something to his assistant as he was checking me over. "Injuries include multiple second-degree burns to the arms, chest, stomach and legs, multiple lacerations of the back, buttocks and thighs, advanced bruising--"
"Will you help me at all?" I whimpered, because he seemed to consider my injuries a subject for study, rather than something that ought to be healed.
"Patient is awake and responsive," the healer said to his assistant, and then to me, "You know, the Council will require a list, to ascertain that you have not been faking things and to judge the extent of the damage." His fingers prodded the swelling around my shoulders, making the vicious stabbing intensify a hundredfold, and I shrieked at the sudden agony. "Partial luxation of both shoulders," the healer told his assistant, matter-of-factly. "I shall reduce them forthwith," now he appeared to be talking to me again, "do you want something against the pain?"
I certainly did.

He gave me a concoction of wine and poppy, which blurred my senses and numbed my nerves and finally sent me into a merciful slumber. When I woke up again, my muscles had stiffened so much that I could not move. I could feel that I was no longer on the marble bench, because I was lying on a yielding surface, and I realised that I must have been carried someplace else in my sleep. I could not tell where, though, because I was lying on my belly and could only see the mattress. I felt strangely numb, though by and by the fog lifted and let through persistent stabs of pain. Muted voices, at once familiar and strange, drifted over me, and with some effort I focused on them to understand what they were talking about.
"... really cannot apologise enough," a man was saying.
"I did not realise you did it on purpose," a woman replied. Amraphel. I knew her voice so well that I could hear that she had been crying, and was now forcing a smile through the tears. I felt that I ought to let her know that I was awake, but I could not get my jaw or tongue to move.
"You know what I mean," said the man, and I thought I recognised Lord Eärendur's voice. If it was his, I thought, he had not been executed. I should have been happy, but instead, there was only a vast emptiness in my heart. I tried to speak again, and managed an inarticulate gurgle.

"Hush," Amraphel said to Lord Eärendur (if it was him), and then, ever so tenderly, "Azruhâr? Azruhâr, love, can you hear me?"
I gurgled again, and there was a shift on the mattress that made the burns on my chest and belly flare up. I whimpered in protest.
"Oh love, I would so like to hold you, but I'm afraid it would hurt you more," Amraphel cried, and I couldn't disagree with that assessment. She touched my hair, which should have been fine, but apparently my skalp was tender from all the tearing the torturers and Lord Atanacalmo had done, or maybe my nerves were just generally overexcited; at any rate, I flinched at the touch.
"My dear Azruhâr," it definitely was Lord Eärendur's voice, thick with emotion, "I can never thank you enough, and I shall never forgive myself. This is my fault, and I do not know how to atone for it."
I grunted in response. I would not have known what to say even if my tongue had cooperated, really.
Amraphel said that they wanted to move me as little as possible, but at the same time, I needed to take some nourishment, and so I would have to be brought upright. It hurt. Being helped to sit up hurt, and forcing my jaw to unclench hurt, and swallowing the broth that the healer had recommended hurt, too. My throat was raw from screaming, and although the broth was no more than luke-warm, it burned like fire going down. Everything was on fire, from my head to my ankles, until they administered poppy-infused wine again to send me back into a senseless, and supposedly healing, sleep.

In this manner - sleeping, groaning, drinking and using the bedpan - I spent the next days, until Master Sérindo (who had by now been entrusted with my care) decided that more of the sedative would be harmful to my health and I would have to endure the rest of my recovery without it. I cannot deny that I would have preferred to spend those days in a daze, my health be damned. I did not particularly care for my health. In truth, I had despaired of life. Everything seemed pointless. Things had gotten so bad, and did not promise to get better; trying to heal and push onwards against the tide of troubles was foolish. My very veins felt as if they were filled with liquid fire, and surely Master Sérindo's attempts at speeding my recovery only prolongued the inevitable. I hated myself for my weakness, and I pitied myself, too. All I had wanted was a peaceful life, a life without fear, and for a short time, Lord Eärendur had nurtured the futile hope that such a thing might be possible. But instead, I had found the exact opposite, and I felt a great deal of resentment towards him for ever letting me think otherwise.

He came to my house again, assuring me of his horror and regret. I found out how the trial had ended. After my testimony, the Council had ultimately voted to drop the charges of sedition, sacrilege and high treason, but to save face, the King had insisted on punishing Lord Eärendur for assumption of authority. "It isn't even clear whose authority I assumed, since none of the obvious candidates were present and the seniority does not usually just pass to their nephews or grandsons. It might have been my own. But what does it matter?" He gave a rueful smile. "I must be grateful that it was only that, and not treason."
Since he was of the nobility, his punishment was a hefty fine and none of the usual public embarrassments. I asked how much he had to pay, but he only said, "That needn't concern you. You paid a much higher price, and I do not know how I can ever repay you."
His words hurt. It needn't concern me. I had done my part: no need to think about the rest. And repay me? I had not done it to be repaid, but because it had been the right thing to do. "Let us not speak of it," I said stiffly, closing my eyes to hide my sudden tears.
I could hear concern in his voice. "Am I taxing you too much? I am most dreadfully sorry." With a sigh, he said, "I must leave for Andúnië, to reassure Nolwen and to raise the money. But we should meet as soon as you are mended, and then we can see what can be done." He kissed my hands in parting, taking great care to avoid the broken fingers on my right, now firmly bandaged. "Most loyal friend, I hoped I could offer you protection, and instead you had to protect me. I cannot thank you enough."
I kept my eyes closed and made no reply, and after a while, perhaps thinking that I had dozed off, he quietly left the room.

Chapter 36

Warnings for the aftermath of the torment and vaguely suicidal thoughts.

Read Chapter 36

After two weeks, the pain in my heart was stronger than the ache in my limbs, and I could have risen and perhaps even walked downstairs, if I had cared to. I didn't care to. Getting up would have meant facing the ruin that my life had become. It would have meant explaining to my children what had happened. (So far, they had only been told that Atto was ill.) It would have meant enduring the curious and concerned looks from my servants, the assurances of pity from my friends and colleagues that Amraphel was, as yet, shielding from me. It would have meant finding out what exactly Balakhil had told the Council, and deciding how to deal with him. It would have meant figuring out how to live on in a world where nothing was safe and things were only bound to get worse. I had come to fear and hate that world, and I hated the nobles who had drawn me into it. Like a fool, I had believed that I could navigate that world, and that - if only I followed the rules - I could control what happened to me. That belief had been thoroughly burned (and beaten, and --) away. Now that the pain was abating, what tormented me most was the sense of helplessness: The memory of how they had manhandled me, like a doll, like some lifeless thing. How I had been utterly unable to resist, unable to stop them, except by doing the unthinkable and betraying Lord Eärendur. There had been no choice, no agency, and that was the bitter truth about my life, and I hated it. I hated my fragile body, so easily hurt, and I hated my past naïvety, and I hated my life.

Unlike me, Amraphel seemed to think that there was sufficient hope, and she tried to encourage me, coaxing me to eat and drink when I didn't care to, telling me about the progress the morgue was making, or assuring me that I was healing well. She told me how much sympathy my case had garnered. People knew who she was, and who my servants were. Merchants would fall over themselves to offer favours, as they had all those years ago in the lower market, back when I had just been given the Elven ring. Better cuts, more grain for less money, complimentary spices, even a whole week's groceries at no cost at all: Amraphel had been offered it all. She had turned it down, telling the grocers to give the free food to people in need instead. Maybe they had, or maybe they hadn't.
Those hadn't been the only gifts. Some of the neighbours who had so far ignored me had suddenly sent sweets in splint boxes, as if I had newly moved in, with notes hoping for a swift recovery. And not just neighbours: One, by the emblem painted on the cover, had come all the way from Nindamos. I am sure that Amraphel told me these things to make me think of the world outside my bed as a friendly place, but instead they just made me withdraw further into myself. I did not want gifts, or sweets, or assurances of sympathy. I wanted the old King back, and the old world where wickedness was punished but good efforts were rewarded, rather than punished more harshly.

Instead, the new world came calling. One moment I had been asleep (genuinely asleep for a change, not merely pretending to be), and then I was torn out of my sleep by a loud voice in the corridor: "Well, he will make time for me. Where is he?" The voice moved into the unused master bedroom, and I could hear it exclaim, "Azruhâr! Where are you hiding?"
I could hear Enrakôr, sounding a lot less confident than usual: "Your grace, please let me at least check whether he is fit to receive visitors--"
"Don't be ridiculous," Lord Atanacalmo snapped, "it has been nearly four weeks. Where is he? Don't stand in my way, man!" The door to my bedroom was thrown open despite Enrakôr's protests, and I saw myself forced to react.
Turning my head towards the door, I said tersely, "Enrakôr, please show his lordship to the study. I shall be with him in half an hour."
"I can find the way," Lord Atanacalmo retorted. "And a quarter hour should be more than enough."
I gave him a tired look, which probably didn't impress him, and said, "Your lordship has arrived unannounced, and will have to give me time to make ready." At which he huffed, but did not argue, and strode off along the corridor. I suspect he really did know the way.

It was good that I had insisted on half an hour. Getting up out of bed made me dizzy, and I needed some time to get used to it. Getting dressed required help, due to my broken fingers and the stiff bandages Master Sérindo had used to more or less tie my upper arms to my chest so I didn't accidentally prop myself up and damage my shoulders again. The same bandages prevented me from putting on a shirt, so Rahâk, who was acting as my valet, fetched a loose vest that he usually wore in winter when he worked outside in the garden and a cloak would be an impediment. Lord Eärendur had gifted it to us a while back, so it was well made, nice and warm, lined with fleece, and the short sleeves were wide enough to fit over the bandages. There was not enough time to shave, but I let Rahâk comb my hair, embarrassing though I found it.
My legs didn't quite agree to carrying me after weeks of disuse, so Rahâk had to help me to the study while my feet reacquainted themselves with their duties. At the door, Enrakôr was waiting and informed me, in a whisper, that his lordship had asked for wine, but he hadn't been certain whether or not he should leave his post, and whether the uninvited guest should be given our wine in the first place. I sighed, decided that it was better to humour Lord Atanacalmo, and asked Rahâk to bring wine for his lordship and water for me, and then limped inside, alone.

Lord Atanacalmo had already seated himself in my good chair, drumming on the desk in apparent impatience. Awkwardly, I dragged the spare chair to the desk, more or less fell into it, and managed - just barely - not to cry out at the sudden and intense pain in my recovering bottom. Through gritted teeth, I said, "I kept you waiting. I apologise."
"And you didn't have any wine sent to me, either," he said sternly.
I felt my jaw clench more firmly in annoyance. "It's on its way," I managed to say.
"Good, good. I hope it's something decent, not the dross you give your servants."
I forced a polite smile. "I have no better wine than what all my household drinks, so I'm afraid it'll have to do."
Rahâk brought my water and the wine in question, and Lord Atanacalmo grimaced after tasting it. "Hmpf. You could at least have sent a scullery boy to the market," Lord Atanacalmo said.
"You ask a lot, Lord," I managed.
Tilting his head, Lord Atanacalmo inquired, "What, does not your lord deserve more than cold hospitality?"
I gave him another weary look. "I cannot offer more."
"I'm apalled. Here I was expecting a warm welcome and your full feudal love --"
I had to interrupt him. "You cannot be serious, Lord."
Now both his eyebrows had gone up in a wide-eyed show of hurt innocence. "Why not?"

I could keep myself in check no longer. "You tortured me! You tortured me, and now you invaded my house, you insult me, and yet you dare demand my love? I can only assume that you are having your sport with me, and I can tell you, I am tired of it." I glared at him, wishing that I could get away with having him thrown out. Enrakôr had the strength, no doubt, but I did not have the authority, and so I was reduced to clenching my good hand and glaring impotently, which was probably skirting on petty treason already.
"I did not torture you, Alcarmaitë had you tortured," Lord Atanacalmo replied pleasantly, as if I had complained about nothing worse than the weather. "I merely supervised the final stretch of it." He smirked, but I could not find his play on words funny.
"As if you didn't control everything the King does," I said bitterly.
The smirk disappeared instantly, and his eyes narrowed. "Who says that?" he said, his voice now cold and hard.
I could have blamed Lord Eärendur, who had suggested such a thing in the past, but I was angry at Lord Atanacalmp's mockery of me, so I retorted, "I say that. Just because I have no mind for strategy doesn't mean I'm too stupid to see the hand that moves the pieces."

Lord Atanacalmo was tapping his hand on my desk, slowly, still staring me down, but I was meeting his eyes squarely this time. He pursed his lips; then he smiled again. "Interesting. Other men would be subdued after your... experience, but you appear to have grown even more insolent. However, you are mistaken. Neither Eärendur's arrest nor your torment were my doing. The only action I took was instructing the torturers to avoid maiming you, which does happen on occasion, you know, and Alcarmaitë forgot to forbid it. Strange, is it not?"
I didn't bother to comment on the apparent strangeness of the King's omission, which was frightening but hardly surprising. If I could have, I would have shrugged.
Apparently, Lord Atanacalmo grew tired of my silence, because he said, "Be that as it may, why would you think that I have any interest in seeing you tortured? There's no use in that, and it isn't amusing me either."
"And all the things you do are either useful or amusing, Lord?" I said.
"Preferably both at once. Having you hurt is neither, so why bother?"
"You did supervise the... final stretch. You did his dirty work."
"I did, and I'm not proud of it. But I am the King's right hand. I have to execute his will. And you could've spared yourself all of it, if only you'd confessed early on. So what if the writ was full of lies? People lie all the time when they're tormented. And then they gainsay it. It makes absolutely no difference to the legal process; we all know that torture is a flawed tool." His lips quirked in disgust. "Resist as long as you are merely threatened, give in as soon as you are getting hurt. But no, you let it go on and on, like the fool you are. That is on you, not on me."

I wished now that I had asked Rahâk for something stronger than water. "I couldn't risk it," I said stubbornly, but I couldn't help but doubt. It made sense that the Council, too, would know that confessions under torment were bound to be unreliable. So it also made sense that you could gainsay them with no, or very little, harm done. I hadn't needed to endure all that, I thought dully. I could have signed after the first burn, and all would still have gone well. Suddenly, I could no longer sit properly; I had to put my feet on the seat to take the pressure off my buttocks, pulling my knees against my chest. And yet, and yet... I refused to believe that it had been entirely meaningless. "The King said he had reliable witnesses. I had to contradict them," I said. "You spoke of co-conspirators!"
Lord Atanacalmo gave a short bark of a laugh. "Vanatirmo and Gimluzîr, you mean? Bah. Who knows what they hoped to achieve. Ciryamacil and Pallatin contradicted them all along, and would've continued to do so. Eärengolë defended his father. You think it took you? Absurd. Eärendur had fine advocates among his peers. No, your stubbornness was a pointless display of childish loyalty, that's all."

The words were almost worse than the hot irons had been. "A pointless display of childish loyalty," I repeated, stung. And then a different kind of realisation sunk in, and I felt my eyes narrow in suspicion. I asked, "Are you jealous?"
"Of what? Of you? Don't be ridiculous."
"Of Lord Eärendur," I said. "Or of Andúnië, anyway. You are, aren't you! You've been making snide remarks all these years. And you made sure I didn't see Lord Eärendur after the King - the old King - passed away. You had me in your house on three consecutive days. And you were very angry that Arminalêth wasn't considered the greatest city in all of Yôzayan all along." I sniffed, fighting to hold my misery back, then continued, "So this whole thing was of use to you. You got revenge on a rival - though Eru knows he never wanted to be your rival - and on me, too, for preferring his kindness to your harshness!"

I was certain that I was on to something, but he just fixed me with the same sardonic look he gave me when I made bad decisions at chess. "Wrong again," he said dismissively. "I have no reason to be jealous of Eärendur. I do think he coddles you and squanders your potential, obviously, but if that's what you want, what is it to me? No, I have gained nothing whatsoever through this distasteful episode. Quite the contrary. Here I sit and have to listen to your impertinent accusations, and out in the streets I need to repair Alcarmaitë's reputation. There are really better things I could be doing with my time!"
"His majesty's reputation," I said bitterly, "was just fine, the last time I heard." Too fine, I thought, considering what kind of man he was, but I knew better than to voice that thought. True, I had heard some voices questioning the King's absence on the holiday, but that had been confusion rather than anything truly critical.

Lord Atanacalmo gave one of his scornful snorts. "That's because you haven't been out of your bed in weeks. Yes, he was popular enough before Erukyermë, but the circumstances of Eärendur's arrest didn't sit well with an astounding lot of people, and when it turned out that he had been arrested wrongly, and that a man had been tortured unjustly? Oh, that wasn't good for Alcarmaitë's reputation at all. The people are all in favour of punishment and accept the necessity of torture, but only if it happens to condemn the guilty. If it happens to the innocent? Dear me, it could happen to anybody! The people of Arminalêth do not like that thought at all. So they have no trust in their King, and precious little love for him, too. Some even question if Arnavaryo's execution was justified, or whether he was another innocent victim. That's a problem. People are susceptible to the whisperings of demagogues when they feel they cannot trust their King. In his eagerness to stamp out rebellion, Alcarmaitë has in fact made rebellion more likely. So things are a little volatile at this time, and I'm expected to help him get out of the mess he's made. You think I'm amused? I am not."
He was speaking quite passionately now, and I suppose he might even have been speaking the truth.

"So I should have lied again?" I asked. "To spare the King's reputation and prevent rebellion?"
"To spare yourself, idiot," Lord Atanacalmo said. "Nienna have patience, I honestly don't know why I'm bothering with you."
Neither did I, and I honestly didn't care much for it. Since I couldn't shrug, I said, "May I ask why you are here at all, aside from complaining about my insolence and bemoaning my lack of feudal love?"
He gave me another hard stare, and I stared back. The secret to holding his gaze, I had found, was to not so much look into his eyes (which were keen and frightening as ever) but through them. His fingers were tapping on my unpolished desk again. "One should think," he eventually said, "that you would be giving a little more thought to your future."
"No."
"No?"
"No, Lord. I've been worrying about the future for years, and it turned out to look like this." I held out my right hand with its splinted fingers, and the loose sleeve fell back to reveal the healing burn marks on my lower arm. The blisters had broken and wept foul-smelling pus weeks ago, and now the skin was flat once more, raw pink in the middle and crusted all around. Master Sérindo had said that I would keep the scars for the rest of my life, which he seemed to believe was a considerable amount of time, since he had also recommended oil of hypericum to keep the scars small and the skin supple, as if it mattered. As a result, my skin was red even where it was intact, making it all look rather messy, which I suppose illustrated my point nicely. "I really don't think I have much of a future," I went on. "And I'm tired of fighting for one. I'm tired of making plans that other people just casually destroy. I honestly can't deal with any of it anymore. So now I live from day to day, and the sooner it ends, the better. The future can happen without me."

I had not meant to say that, hadn't even fully admitted it to myself, but as I heard it spoken, I realised that this was how I felt. I couldn't go on. I didn't want to. There was a terrible dark pool of despair inside me, and I no longer had the strength to paddle.
Lord Atanacalmo tilted his head to study me, a curious gleam in his eyes. "Come on now. One day. That cannot possibly have broken you!"
"You haven't listened, Lord. It wasn't that one day. It's been the days and years and years that led up to it. All the attempts to secure my livelihood and my safety and a peaceful life, all the walls I had to climb over, the scorn I have weathered, all the scraping and bowing and pleading and negotiating. And whenever I thought I had gotten anywhere, there was a new wall and a new reason to fight. You may have found it amusing, but for me it was always desperately serious." I rested my chin on my knees. "You know I am weak - it was never a secret. So there you have it: I can't bear up anymore. I'm done. Do what you want with me, as you always have. I no longer care."
He stood up abruptly. "Well, in this case my visit here is useless. I intended to see how you were coming along, to advise you how to make the best of what has happened, and to secure your future. But since you insist on being unreasonable, I won't waste my time further. Manwë's wisdom, I should never have bothered with such a useless man."

Unexpectedly, I found myself smiling at the insult. "You cannot one moment tell me that I have potential that's being squandered, and in the next tell me that I'm useless," I said. "It's one or the other. But you are right: you should not waste your time with me. You have a rebellion to curb, after all. Good luck with that. Lord."
I fully expected some punishment to follow my brazen words, but for once, Lord Atanacalmo appeared to be too shocked even to threaten me. For a moment, the mask of indifference slipped, showing not anger but a tired old man. "Well, at least you've been paying attention," he said after a moment, and then turned and made for the door. He turned again, looked me over, and announced, "You realise that you are entitled to compensation, of course."
"Probably," I said.
"Judicial error, unjust torment, a Ship for every work-day that you were incapacitated," he said, as if dictating to a scribe. "Randil prognosticated that recovery was likely under proper care, but not without, so the Crown will have to cover the cost of your healer."
He paused, and I nodded to show that I was still paying attention.
"So that would be..." he paused to calculate, "four Trees and three Ships, plus the healer's salary, which I suggest you settle with the treasurer once you know the full extent of it." He took a small money-bag from his pouch, counted the coins, took some out, and then tossed the bag onto the desk. It landed with a healthy clink and slid a small way before it lost its momentum.

I looked down at it. I suspected that he would have made me haggle for every Star in that bag, if not for my outbreak, and couldn't help but feel bitter that I had been expected to entertain him again. Looking back up at him, I said, "There is no need to throw me breadcrumbs now, Lord. I shall apply for compensation the usual way."
"Don't be foolish, man, this is much faster."
"Perhaps, but I don't want your charity."
"Oh, shut up. Take the money, whether you want it or not. If you don't want it, I expect you can donate it to your beloved Eärendur, eh?" Giving me no chance to protest or discuss the matter further, he gave me a final and very curt nod, said, "A good day to you, embalmer." And with that, he opened the door and stepped outside.
"A good day to you, Lord," I said to his back.
I heard Enrakôr's deep, reassuring voice in the corridor: "I shall show you the way out, your lordship."
"No need for that," Lord Atanacalmo snapped, "I have known this house since well before your master was born."
He undoubtedly had. I closed my eyes and breathed deep, trying to calm myself. It was dangerous, to give in to despair, because you stopped keeping yourself in check. Nothing I had said to him was untrue, but at the same time, perhaps I shouldn't have been quite so open.

In the evening, when Amraphel slipped into bed next to me - I was no longer deemed too damaged to sleep in the same bed as my wife, although that was all we did, sleep - I could sense that she was preoccupied with something. Sure enough, after she had snuggled up behind me and cautiously put a hand on my shoulder, she said, "Lord Atanacalmo implied that you have lost the will to live. Is that true?"
Perhaps I should have been flattered that Lord Atanacalmo had, for all his annoyance, considered the matter worthy of mention. Instead I was frustrated at yet another case of meddling in my affairs. I wondered whether I would get away with pretending to be asleep. But it would have been unfair. I did owe her an explanation at least, so after a while, I turned my head in her direction.
"I suppose so," I admitted. "Or I've lost the will to struggle, anyway. I'll go on living, for the time being, but not if it takes struggling."
Amraphel's hand was stroking my shoulder, very lightly, just enough that I could feel her touch. Then it was moving on to my cheek. Her eyes were glinting in the darkness. "You realise that we need you, don't you."
"Do you?" I couldn't help asking. "I'm just a liability at this point."
"Don't say that. Don't even think that," Amraphel said fiercely. "I don't know what you think we'd do without you, but I can assure you this: we'd miss you terribly."
"Well, I won't. Kill myself. Or anything of the sort," I said, shook out of my lethargy by the anger in her voice. "I just can't fight anymore."
"But you can, love. You are so brave. I'll help you in any way you can, and so will the children, and so will your friends. We'll get through this somehow."

I didn't respond. I'd been thinking that we'd get through this somehow for too long, and it rang hollow now. Nor did I feel particularly brave.
The silence lengthened. Amraphel was still stroking my cheek, but she seemed to be lost in thought, until after a while she said, "I will write to Eärendur."
I blinked. "He has nothing to do with it." And then, I added, "I don't want to talk to him."
The hand on my cheek stopped moving. "Whyever not?" Her eyes - which, I was ashamed to notice, looked suspiciously wet - had widened. "Are you blaming him?"
"I'm not - I just don't want to talk to him." I turned my head back into the pillow, and mumbled, "I hate how he treats me."
Although I could no longer see Amraphel's face, I could hear the confusion in her voice as she asked, "Treats you? What has he done to you, love? I have only ever seen him considerate--"
"Too considerate. He treats me like a child," I said bitterly. "Someone who can't make his own decisions. Someone who needs to be protected from himself as well as the world. Someone who can't be burdened with unpleasant knowledge." Today seemed to be the day of speaking things that I would not normally have spoken about.

Amraphel sighed. "I see," she said. "I expect there is no use in pointing out that you do need protection."
"Not that kind," I said. "And a whole lot of good did it do me, anyway." I was sulking now - childishly, I suppose. A child was all I was to these nobles, anyway: easily dismissed; entertained while they cared to be amused, and then sent off to bed when the adults wanted to speak of adult things. A pointless display of childish loyalty, I thought angrily. That's all my suffering was, in their world. How sick I was of it all. How right Father had been, to warn me to stay away from the nobility.
Amraphel had sat up next to me, stroking my hair. (Like a child's, I couldn't help thinking.)
"My dear love," she said, "you should talk to him about all that."
I made a non-committal grunt, and decided to change the topic. "Where's Balakhil?" I asked.
There was a sharp intake of breath from Amraphel. "It's funny you should ask that," she said slowly, "because we haven't seen him since the day of the trial. Why?"
"I think he told the King... something. I don't know what. He was mentioned, anyway, but I wasn't at my best, so I don't recall what exactly they said." I should have asked Lord Atanacalmo, I realised. Maybe he would've told me the truth. Then again, maybe not. I was tired of trying to figure him out.
Another thoughtful silence followed my words. "Do you think they tortured him, too?" Amraphel asked.
"I don't know," I admitted. "I don't know anything. I just know that I'm too tired for any of it."
"Then you should sleep, my love," she said, kissing my neck.
Of course, that wasn't what I had meant, but it was easier to pretend that it was, so I mumbled something along the lines of "Good night, love." And I did sleep, eventually.

We didn't talk about it again, but Amraphel clearly did write to Lord Eärendur, because he sent me a long letter in which he eloquently regretted having given me any cause to think that he didn't love and respect me as a fellow competent adult. Long before your extraordinary feat of bravery, I have treasured your friendship, he went on, and now that I owe you a debt greater than I can repay, I am mortified to think that my clumsy attempts at keeping you out of harm's way have felt like a slight to you. I can but apologise. I promise that I will in the future let yourself be the judge of what you can or cannot bear. You certainly have shown yourself capable of bearing a great deal - but I should have known that. If again you feel that I am dismissing you or not treating you with the trust and respect you deserve, then I beg you to let me know at once. I have made many mistakes, and causing you additional pain is not the least of them. In this pleasant vein it went on for a while, before the letter ended in, I hope you are healing well, and that you will be able and willing to see me when I come back to Armenelos next Eärenya. Until then, I remain your true and grateful friend---
Lord Eärengolë and Lady Nolwen had added a few lines of their own, both expressing their deepest gratitude and heartfelt compassion for my sufferings. From Lady Vanimë, there was no note, and I wondered what her life would be like, after her father had testified against her father-in-law. Had she known about it? There was no point in speculating, of course, and besides, it was none of my business.
I didn't reply to the letter. If Lord Eärendur was coming back to Arminalêth next week, I'd have to respond to him soon enough - sooner than I would've liked. His letter was making me feel very awkward and unreasonable, and I would have preferred to let the matter rest in peace.

But peace, as usual, was not to be had. Early the next week, Lord Herucalmo summoned me to the Cornflower tavern. Since Amraphel had made me promise that I wouldn't deliberately throw away whatever future I had, I found myself forced to obey, and I had to leave the relative comfort of my house at last. Enrakôr came along, not so much as a bodyguard but rather to keep me on my feet. Although I had taken up walking around the house after Lord Atanacalmo's visit, my legs still weren't back to their old strength. Moreover, I was prone to stumble at every stupid uneven flagstone. I was glad for Enrakôr's presence for more than just balance, however, because as soon as we turned into the busy woodworkers' road, people were staring. I wasn't imagining it; they really were giving me the most intense stares, not necessarily hostile, but certainly very disconcerting. When I stared back, they bobbed their heads in polite little bows, but it was still unnerving. Since I couldn't go very fast, I got a lot of these stares and nods - some people even touched their fingertips to their brows or to their chest, though nobody said anything. These surreptitious demonstrations of respect stopped once we reached the central plaza, but the stares did not, and when Enrakôr and I finally reached the Cornflower tavern, I was exhausted just from putting on a brave face in front of all these people. I was drenched with sweat even though the day was no more than mild. Inside the Cornflower, the fireplace in the public room was being lit against the chill in the walls. I sat down gingerly at the table Lord Herucalmo had used previously. Of course, he wasn't there yet. In fact, the whole tavern was empty; it had only just opened for customers. Uncertain how long the way would take me, I had left home with plenty of time to spare, so I couldn't blame Lord Herucalmo for his absence. And perhaps it was for the better that I had some time to get my bearings. I leaned back - very slowly so my back could get used to the pressure - and breathed deep.

The owner of the Cornflower, once the fire was burning, got up and gave me a long look. "What can I bring you, sir?" he eventually asked, as if he had only just remembered that I should be ordering something.
I asked for a cup of ale, then blinked as he came bearing a whole pint. I hadn't intended to spend so much, but neither did I feel up to discussing what I had or hadn't said. He set the pint down in front of me, then frowned, then smiled an awkward smile, then plunked himself down in the empty chair. "Pardon me for asking," he said, "but I've heard rumours, and I must know... are they true?"
That was such a broad question that I blinked again. "That depends on the kind of rumours you've heard, I expect," I said cautiously.
He looked around the empty tavern, then leaned in and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper: "They say you've been put to the torments. That was you, wasn't it? The King's embalmer?"
"Ah." I chewed on my upper lip for a bit, wondering how to reply, and ultimately settled for, "Yes. It was. And yes, it's true."
He nodded thoughtfully. "I thought it was you. Was it very bad?"
"What do you think?" I couldn't keep my irritation out my words. "It's not exactly meant to be easy, is it."
He looked down as if chastened, wiped an imaginary speck of dirt off the table, and then said, "They say it was done to make you betray a friend, but you didn't do it. Betray your friend, I mean."

I felt my jaw clench in annoyance. Whatever I said now, I would be feeding the gossips of the town, and I didn't like the thought much. At the same time, I knew I would have to say something, since there obviously was gossip already. I took another steadying breath. "He was innocent," I said grimly.
Again, the curious owner of the Cornflower nodded his head earnestly. Then he changed the topic. "Will you be wanting to eat something for lunch? The wife's making cod chowder. Good fresh cod and mussles that were brought up from the coast this very morning. We've got proper bread, too!"
"That sounds lovely, but I'm not very hungry."
"It is lovely! You must try it. On the house, of course!"
Either, I thought, he was trying to poison me, or he wanted to do me a good turn. I wasn't certain which, and then decided that either outcome was acceptable. I sighed. "If you insist. But only a very small helping. Maybe you can bring some to my servant, who is keeping watch outside."
He smiled in apparent pleasure and jumped up from his chair. "Gladly! I'm sure you will enjoy it."
I did. I'm sure Enrakôr did, too. It was good, and so was the ale.

And thus, when Lord Herucalmo entered the tavern - which had begun to fill with customers by that time - I sat there feasting, prompting him to comment, "Ah, there you are, Azruhâr - living the best life!"
A hush fell at his entrance. I managed to swallow my mouthful of chowder along with an angry reply, although the polite "My lord" probably came out a tad sour. I tried to push to my feet, but he waved his hand. "No, no, remain seated, don't trouble yourself." Acknowledging the awkward obeisances of the other customers with a nod, he marched over to my table and sat down heavily. A servant had entered with him, carrying a document case that he now put down on the table before withdrawing back to the door.
Lord Herucalmo, in the meantime, inspected my bowl. "Is it any good?" he asked. There was something awkward about his joviality, as if he had put it on for show and it didn't quite fit. On the other hand, it suggested that the meeting wasn't intended to be majorly unpleasant. In spite of my reckless words towards his father, I was glad of it, and decided to play along. "I think so," I said.
Waving to the innkeeper, Lord Herucalmo ordered the same for himself. "So," he said when he had his ale, "I trust you are feeling better?"
"As well as can be hoped, I suppose," I said, looking down at my bandaged right hand.
"You heal slowly," he observed.
I used my newly regained ability to shrug. There was still quite a bit of soreness in it, which probably proved his point. "Not on purpose, I assure you," I said, which made him chuckle. Then his chowder arrived, and he saluted me with his spoon before beginning to eat as though he hadn't been fed all day.

I should have liked to ask him what role he had played in the events surrounding Lord Eärendur's arrest and trial, but didn't want any of the other patrons to listen in on such a painful topic. So I - very slowly - finished my own bowl, and then waited until he had finished his more significant portion.
"May I ask," I carefully said when he wiped up the last dregs of soup with the last crust of bread, "why you have called me here? I trust you did not merely want me to test the Cornflower's stew for you."
He chewed up, licked his teeth clean, and then smiled with his mouth only. "Indeed not. No, I thought I should update you on the progress of our agricultural project."
Our project, I thought. If it went well, it would be entirely his, and if it went badly, it would be mine, but right now, it could clearly still go either way.
"No need to humour me, Lord," I said, "I'm here to win the trust of the common people and to take the blame if things go wrong. It has never been our project."
Briefly, his eyes darkened into a glare; then he waved his hand. "Let bygones be bygones. It is ours now," he declared loftily. "And you will be very interested to hear, I am sure, that sowing is almost complete."
"Good," I said, because I didn't know what else to say. It was good, of course. It would be good for the former day-talers on their little plots, I thought, all these hard-working people whose lives had just quietly gone on. For their sake, I tried to care. Lótessë had begun, a good month for growth, and it was important that the seeds were in the warming ground in time for the spring rains and the bright lengthening days.
"What about Zamâl's goats?"
"Zamâl? Oh, he's the one on the penultimate plot, right? Four or five goats?"
"It was two when I last spoke with him," I said.
"Well, I expect they multiplied, then. That's good, right? Lots of goats. Milk and manure. I've been wondering if we should encourage more lifestock. Make them either buy animals or turn the other half of their field arable in time for summer crops, maybe?"
"They're hesitant to spend too much of their money at once," I said. "In case something goes wrong. They've seen things going wrong too often. Animals are expensive, and so are fences. You always say that the poor don't know how to look after their money, don't you? They do, most of them, they just don't generally have enough of it to save it. Now they do, for once, and you want to push them to spend it at once. Do you want to make them afraid of the next day again?"

There was no mistaking the glare this time. Like his grandfather, he began to drum on the tabletop when he was growing impatient, and he was drumming now. "Have a care," he said between clenched teeth, and then, with some difficulty, he regained his composure and said, "So you think they shouldn't buy lifestock?"
"They shouldn't be forced to, that's what I'm thinking. You can encourage them gently. Or make it less risky."
"A monetary bonus for those who buy animals?"
I tilted my head, because I wasn't certain what he meant by that, and he sighed at my ignorance. "Additional money," he said. "To be paid if they buy, say, a small flock of sheep."
"Or goats?"
"Whatever. They can buy a cow, too. Pigs. Camels, for all I care. Just something that'll graze on the untilled meadows, so they'll look less empty. Grandfather doesn't like that half the fields are empty."

Ah, so that was it. Lord Atanacalmo had expressed some dissatisfaction about the progress of my neighbours' farming, so now Lord Herucalmo had to find a way to make it look... what? More productive, probably.
"I think one or two have planted cuttings of fruit trees. They want to grow an orchard. If you put animals there, they'd trample the cuttings. Or dig them up. Or eat them."
He scoffed a little. "Can't be much of an orchard if it looks empty."
I blinked at his ignorance. "The cuttings are fairly small. You can see them if you're among them."
"If they're so small, it'll take a decade until they bear fruit."
"Yes, my lord. Half-grown trees would obviously be preferable, but they were too expensive."
Lord Herucalmo scoffed again. "These people are expected to produce... well, produce, within the next three years. Those tiny cuttings deserve to be trampled. Or eaten by goats. A bad investment."
I sighed. Not long ago, I would have argued against him, but now, I just couldn't muster the strength. Besides, it wasn't likely to help. So I just said, "If that's what you think, Lord."
"It is. No offense, but I am going to disregard your advice."
"That is your prerogative, Lord," I said wearily.
He studied me through narrowed eyes, perhaps suspecting that I was making fun of him somehow, but then he seemed to change his mind. "I will think about it," he declared grandly.
"Thank you, Lord," I said, because it seemed to be the right thing to say.

With that, his interest in discussing business seemed to be exhausted, because he only made some smalltalk after that, concerning the quality of the ale and the chowder (although neither of us re-ordered any), the weather (which was mild and pleasant), his hunting adventures (extremely successful) and even something so personal as his desire to settle down and marry (as yet unfulfilled). I listened politely and nodded or shook my head or "hm-hm"ed when it seemed appropriate. Neither of us commented on the glances I occasionally noticed from the other customers, nor on the rumours that, according to Lord Atanacalmo and our good host, were going around the capital. Once we had finished our drinks, Lord Herucalmo announced that it was time he got on his way. He even offered to pay for my meal and my ale, but the innkeeper told him that it was settled already.
"Well, then," Lord Herucalmo said, once again affecting the joviality that had already felt so odd at his arrival, "it's been good talking to you."
I very much doubted that it had been, but I kept those doubts to myself. I bowed to Lord Herucalmo, thanked the owner of the Cornflower, and made my awkward way to the door, rather more slowly than the nobleman. Several people nodded in parting, and one or two raised their glass as I opened the door. I nodded in return. With Enrakôr's help and under the watchful eyes of the passers-by, I got back home. I obediently answered Amraphel's question about my day, and was glad to hide under my blankets again.

Chapter 37

Read Chapter 37

Chapter 37

On Valanya, having returned to the capital the previous evening, Lord Eärendur made public supplication to the King and gave over the first instalment of the fine that had been fixed at the trial. All in all, he would have to pay three thousand Towers, an unimaginable sum. To make sense of it, I did some maths and came to the conclusion that even at my fairly generous pay, I would have to work for two thousand and three hundred and eight years to meet it, assuming that I had no other expenses, which of course I would have. It was more than could be made in a lifetime, or even several of them, and I was certain that even for a nobleman, it must be a ghastly amount of money.

I did not go to watch, but Amraphel went and later told me about it. Apparently, Lord Eärendur's humiliation had been met with stony silence on the part of the audience (who would normally be expected to jeer and whistle). "I think the King was hoping to convey that Eärendur hadn't been arrested without reason, even if he hadn't committed quite the crime he was arrested for," Amraphel said, "but I don't think the crowd was all that convinced. Mind you, it's a rather abstract crime, all things considered." Even when the King had tossed some of the coins - silver Crowns and even half-Trees - into the crowd, nobody had cheered, and more astonishingly, nobody had at first moved to pick them up. According to Amraphel, that was a powerful demonstration of what the people thought about the judgement, a silent act of rebellion. (Although later, when the crowds dispersed, the money was apparently gone. Some people must have picked it up in secret, and who can blame them?)
It made for a heartwarming story, but I remembered what Lord Atanacalmo had said about rebellion and civil war, and my stomach clenched in fear. Times were already frightening enough, I felt, without further upheavals.

Later in the day, Lord Eärendur had asked whether I would rather have him visit my house, or attend dinner at his house. In all honesty, I wasn't enthusiastic about either option, but it seemed less of an effort to invite him here. Since I didn't want him to think me incapable of looking after myself, I even cleaned myself up and dressed properly, as I hadn't bothered to do since my conversation with Lord Herucalmo, although I didn't shave again; the proximity of a knife to my skin had been rather hard to endure the last time, and I didn't care to repeat it too soon. Then I sat in my study feeling restless and irritated, wondering whether I could send Tîmat to Lord Eärendur's house, telling him that I was feeling too unwell. But Amraphel would probably not have let me get away with it. Besides, it would make me look like a child hiding from an unloved chore, and while that was very much how I felt, it was not how I wanted others to think of me.

So when I heard a muffled knock on the door and equally muffled voices in the corridor, I forced myself to get up and make my cautious way downstairs, past the watchful Valar in the corridor, just in time to hear Azruphel proclaim, "... just such a shame that Atto is so weak."
I had to steady myself against a pillar before I could go on, feeling as though I had been dunked into the barrel of icy water in the cellars of the catacombs again. She wasn't wrong, of course, but still I was overwhelmed by despair. Even my daughter had by now realised what sort of man I was, and I hated myself a little bit more for it. Taking a deep breath, I managed to march on.
"Child," I could hear Lord Eärendur's firm voice, "you should know that your father is one of the strongest men I know."
"You should not say such things," I said, having reached the entrance hall.
Lord Eärendur met my weary look with his warm, bright eyes. "Why not? I doubt it will make her conceited; surely she has inherited your modesty. Hello, Azruhâr. I am glad to see you on your feet again. The beard suits you." Then, in a fluid motion, he went on both knees at the foot of the stairs, as though I was the nobleman and he was the supplicant. The man could make even a genuflection look elegant, but it was still an absurd display, and I felt my face flare up at it.
"Don't do that," I said, my throat suddenly dry. "It really isn't necessary." I was glancing sideways at Azruphel, who was watching with curiosity, but no apparent surprise. I suppose she didn't understand how inappropriate the situation was.

Lord Eärendur, meanwhile, looked up at me. He was much taller than me, normally, and it was strange to see his face tilted back to see mine. "Oh, but it is necessary, if you have the impression that I do not hold you in the highest esteem," he replied, sounding entirely unperturbed. "I owe you firstly an abject apology - or many apologies, really - and secondly, my abject gratitude, and I must ask you to allow me to express them."
"If you must," I said rather gracelessly, "but I wish you would stand up for it."
He replied, quite earnestly, "I can, if you insist, but I don't think it would properly show the extent of either my shame or my gratitude."
"Sweetheart, can you please go and tell your mother that our guest has arrived?" I told Azruphel, and when, after a little pout, she had run off, I said to Lord Eärendur, "Let's take it as given. You do not even want your subjects to pay you homage - yet you expect me to accept yours?"
A genuine-looking frown of confusion appeared on his face. "But that is not the same thing. I do not want people to abase themselves simply because of a difference in birth. There is no particular merit in that. But you have done something truly praiseworthy, and for that --"
"I didn't do it for the praise, and Lord Atanacalmo already informed me that it was unnecessary and didn't make much of a difference either way," I interrupted him. "And I really wish people could stop acting like it's a miracle. Yes, everybody knows that I'm a coward, but that doesn't mean I'd betray you."

"Azruhâr," Lord Eärendur said with a strange look on his face, half-way between tears and a smile, "I don't think anyone in their right mind still believes that you're a coward." But he got to his feet at last, continuing, "It grieves me that you should speak so lowly of yourself, and that your daughter thinks you weak for your pain. You should tell her what happened. She is old enough, I think."
"I think not," I said flatly. "Anyway, I don't see what good it would do. I'd rather have her think me weak than realise what a rotten place this world is."
The corners of his mouth drew back in a pained grimace. "It is your decision, of course," he said in the gentle tone one would use to address a child that hurt themselves playing, careful not to startle them further. I grit my teeth and tried to swallow my annoyance.
"Well," I said when I had regained something akin to self-control. "Why don't you come inside."
Again, he looked at me with a pained expression, but he came up the stairs - now he was towering above me again, which at least was familiar. For a moment, his hand wanted to reach for my shoulder. I stiffened in anticipation, and maybe he noticed; at any rate, he let his hand drop. "We shall talk about it later, I hope," he said, still in that kindly tone of voice.

Amraphel came and welcomed him more warmly than I had been able to. She made pleasant conversation throughout dinner, too, which allowed me to take my attention off things. I found it unpleasant to focus on things for too long, since it made me constantly worry about the right thing to do or say. That in itself wasn't new to me, but since the trial of Lord Eärendur, it was more stressful than before, as if my mind was still somehow convinced that a wrong word would have disastrous consequences. Reassured that Amraphel would take care of the right things to do, I kept out of the conversation. I couldn't prevent hearing a couple of things - at Amraphel's prompting, Lord Eärendur spoke about Lady Nolwen's return to health, and told us how difficult it would be to extract the sum of money he was forced to pay. It transpired that in spite of his riches he didn't have a ready hoard of Towers upon Towers, but that a great deal of the money was loaned out and invested somewhere. The first instalment had been paid from his personal assets, but for the next, he would have to withdraw investments and raise rents and cut grants. "It's quite against my usual way of governing, and entirely against my father's wisdom," he said with a sigh. "And it's going to cripple Andustar for years to come. Which is the point, of course."
Before my mind's eye, I saw Andustar personified, hobbling through the formerly fair streets of Andúnië on unsteady legs with a walking stick and a begging bowl, like a beggar unable to earn his keep through work. That could have been my fate, if my life hadn't taken such an unexpected turn, and I grieved at the thought that Andúnië had been brought to such an unhappy state; that the place where I had previously found rest and peace was so badly reduced. With a sudden flash of clarity, I was certain that this was why it had been reduced: to close that harbour of peace to me. That was why Lord Eärendur had been arrested in the first place, to damage me, to rob me of a friend who had money and power, at least more power than I had by myself. Surely, that had been the true point. What was worse, the plan had been succesful: maybe not in the way the Crown Prince had intended, but still very much in his favour. There was no winning against him.

I was torn from my horrified realisation by Amraphel and Lord Eärendur, one of them holding my hand, the other saying my name in a soft but urgent voice, and I blinked at them. "Yes, what is it?" I said, embarrassed that I had evidently missed a cue.
"You were staring into space for a good quarter of an hour and responding to nothing," Amraphel said. There was no mistaking the worry in her voice, and I felt helplessly guilty.
"I am sorry," I said, and the words made me realise just how sorry I was. I stood up abruptly. "Excuse me for a moment," I managed to say. "Do continue your meal."
Amraphel was also getting to her feet, but I said, "No, no need." Then I rushed out, first to the latrines where I divested myself of what little I had eaten that day, then out into the garden. While the courtyard was already pleasantly warm, storing the day's gentle warmth until well into the night, the garden still cooled down quickly as soon as the sun was down, and it was the cold night air that I was craving now. I paced up and down the lawn, clenching and unclenching my good fist, breathing deep to fight the urge to cry, then sobbing as I succumbed to it. It was pointless, everything was pointless and hopeless and useless, and it took me a long time - or so it felt - until I stopped sobbing. If any of my venerable neighbours were out, they must have lost whatever esteem they ever had for me, but I did not have the strength to contain my tears until they had exhausted themselves. Only then could I calm my breathing and regain some modicum of dignity. I washed my face and took a drink of water, and went back to the hall.

The others had the good grace of pretending that I had only been away for a moment, as if they weren't already well into their dessert of white cheese, sorrel and woodland strawberries. In my turn, I pretended not to notice the worried looks I received and sat back down in my place. After a moment, Lord Eärendur's hand moved towards mine in a gesture of encouragement, but I said "No." It came out hard and flat, and much faster than I had intended, but I did not trust myself enough to explain. His hand stopped on the beautifully embroidered tablecloth - yet another gift from him - and he looked down at his plate. I breathed deep and forced myself to empty my plate without looking up again. Somehow, dinner passed. I think it passed in awkward silence, but in all honesty I didn't have enough fortitude to pay attention to my surroundings as well as keep myself in check, so perhaps there was spirited conversation and I just didn't hear it in my state. I think Amraphel ended the dinner and invited our guest to the room of the Heart; at any rate, I became aware of people rising from their chairs and benches, and dutifully followed.

"How are you, Azruhâr?" Lord Eärendur asked once we were sitting by the Heart, nursing our drinks (the same dross that all my household drank).
"Fine," I said instinctively. "Great." Then I decided that such an obvious lie was even more childish than the urge to bawl in the dark garden, and amended, "Miserable, actually."
Lord Eärendur bowed his head. "I thought so, and I wish I could help you-"
"But you can't," I said flatly.
He was looking back at me, his eyes suspiciously wet, and said, "I would like to try, with everything that's in my power."
I said, "There's no point, because it's nothing you can do." I took a deep breath, and went on, "I realised something. This was never about you. Well, maybe a little. But mostly, it was about me. Against me. You just happened to be in the way. Because you helped me." I stared at him trembling, hoping that he would understand. "You need to leave. Get yourself away from me. It's all my fault; they only punished you in order to get to me."
Instead of getting away, he knelt on the carpet before me, very gently taking my shaking hands in his own warm hands. "I certainly won't abandon you!"
"You must, Lord. Think of Andúnië. Denounce me in public, rid yourself of me - maybe the King will waive the rest of the fine once we are no longer friends."
"Rid myself of you? What are you talking about? My dear fellow, I am going to do no such thing. You deserve the same loyalty that you have shown me. Besides," a lopsided smile crept over his face, "if you are right, and it was all done to harm you, then we must not let them win."

I shook my head. "But they will win. They already have won. There's no point in fighting against them. It will only get worse and worse. Who knows what the King will dream up next?"
Lord Eärendur sighed. "I should hope that whatever he dreams up, he will not act on it. The council is paying attention now, and so are the people. Just today, the council - without my doing, I should add - made an urgent petition to the King to return his attention to 'the true priorities of the state' instead of wasting attention and resources on private feuds. Your name was not mentioned, but it was clear that they were thinking of you. In the past, and at the turn of the year, they were happy enough to turn a blind eye, but now, several of them have noticed that it's always you who ends up injured when the King is anywhere near, and that it's never quite clear what you did wrong."
I could no longer resist the urge to shrug. It still felt strange, albeit no longer painful. "What of it? They must have noticed that before."
"Perhaps, but they had no reason to care. You had been introduced to them as a convict, a liar, a weakling, a coward who had betrayed his friends and agreed to do the distasteful work of embalming to save his hide, an upstart who meddled in the King's business and pandered for my favour - I apologise for saying these things, but that is how they were speaking of you -"
"No need to apologise," I said sourly. "I've heard it all before. And you believed it, too, because you wanted to gainsay my confession before you even knew what I'd said. You don't have to pretend now."

I received a wide-eyed stare in response. "Azruhâr, that has - I did not say that because I thought you were weak! I said it because I could not have expected such endurance of anyone! Not my sworn servants nor any of my friends, not even those whom I have known, loved and trusted for well-nigh a century. I know, in theory at any rate, how insidious the pain must be. It is too much to bear for anybody."
"Yet I bore it," I pointed out.
"So you did." His hands were wandering up to my elbows, gripping them gently. "Which proves to the world and, I should hope, to yourself that you are not at all the weakling and coward some people thought you were."
"But I am."
Lord Eärendur heaved a sigh. "I must wonder why you find it so much easier to accept insults than to accept praise," he said.
"Decades of practice," I said without thinking.
"That," he responded, "is rather sad."
Once again, I could not resist the urge to shrug unhappily.
"Which reminds me of what you said earlier, though," he went on. "I don't know why Atanacalmo told you that your bravery was unnecessary, or that it didn't make a difference --"
"He explained that I could have withdrawn any confession I made -- I made while they hurt me. So I wouldn't have had to endure it all. As you thought I had done." I tore my arms free so I could wipe my eyes: they were dry, but they were stinging as if they were waiting to flow over again. "So it was pointless, like everything else."

Lord Eärendur's eyes and lips contorted in a brief expression of barely suppressed rage. "Oh, I should like to shake him! Your pain was certainly pointless, because it should not have happened in the first place! But it still made a difference, and he knows it. Parts of the council are now taking your side. They would never have done that if you had confessed and then gainsaid, would they? Yes, confessions can be withdrawn, but nonetheless, what's said is said. Doubt would always remain. But when a man refuses to lie even under torment - especially a man held in such low esteem - that is a potent demonstration, both of your bravery and of the repugnancy of the entire process." Once again, his hands were seeking mine, gently, reassuringly. "The council is paying attention now. And the people? Rumours have gotten around. You make a fine unexpected hero in them, and Telemmaitë has to take great care not to become the villain. If Atanacalmo has any sense at all, he'll have told his nephew that if anything else befalls you, the populace might revolt."
"Perhaps," I said dully, "but that will only make the King hate me more."
"He doesn't have to love you, if only he leaves you alone."
"I suppose." I did not know what else to say. Behind him, the flames in the Heart were dancing, mesmerisingly. Amraphel sat silent, and I could feel that she was frustrated, not with Lord Eärendur but with me. I could not blame her, really; I could not stand myself, either, but I didn't know how to change myself.
Lord Eärendur was stroking my hands, and I forced myself to tear my attention from the flames and back at him.
"So you see, there is hope," he said, and in order not to upset him - or Amraphel - I made no protest.

So far, there had been no question of returning to my work, but as Lótessë drew to an end, Mistress Nîluphêr died after all. Master Târik brought me the news and asked, after some awkward conversation, whether I would be able to honour my agreement with her family. The idea was ridiculous. Master Sérindo had still not taken the bandage off my hand and had furthermore told me in no unclear terms that I was not allowed to put any strain on either my back or my shoulders. I wasn't allowed to lift anything heavier than Palatârik, nor would I be able to use more than one hand. I could not even write. At best, I would be able to hand Master Târik the necessary materials, and to observe the process.
"Do that, then," Master Târik said, his posture a little too tense. "I'm sure it's enough if you are present; nobody can ask more, under the circumstances."
So I agreed to go. At first, Amraphel was entirely against it, but after a night's sleep she had changed her mind and said that perhaps it was a good idea. I suppose she must be glad to get me out of the house for a while.

The morgue had made a great deal of progress since I had last seen it; the underground part of it was entirely finished, and the only thing missing to the work-rooms above the earth were the truss and roofing. We could therefore use our own cellar and did not have to work in the tomb Mistress Nîluphêr's family had finished a month back, which gave us more space to move and store our things (and more room to sit, for me). Similar tombs were springing up elsewhere on that site of the road. It appeared that Mistress Nîluphêr had started a fashion. If things had been otherwise, I might have been happy about it, because it would mean work for us embalmers. As it was, I just remembered in bitterness how I'd had to argue with Lord Atanacalmo to get permission for our morgue. Of course, I had to expect the rich folk who were building tombs for their elderly relatives paid well for the privilege. That probably had put Lord Atanacalmo's qualms about poison in the ground to rest far more easily than anything I could ever have said.

We collected the body at Master Yadrahil's house together, so nobody could later claim that the King's Embalmer had not been personally involved. All I did was exchange some sombre words with Master Yadrahil, and then walk next to the bier with a grave expression, but Master Târik felt that it would be enough. Or so he said. I had no idea how anyone truly felt; they were all acting cautious around me, as if I was a volatile salt that might explode if shaken, or if a single drop of water fell into it.
So we set to work, or rather, my colleagues did. I tried to pay attention without commenting on anything, since it would have been inappropriate to comment on work that I wasn't doing myself. At any rate, they knew perfectly well what to do; although the procedure had been my idea, we had developed it together, and the whole "King's Embalmer" thing was nonsense anyway. I found it hard to watch and do nothing; it made me feel quite useless. Not that it made much of a difference to my useless existence in the past weeks, but I had vaguely hoped that going back to my work would give me some sense of normality. Now I had to accept that normality simple wasn't available anymore.

Still, I dutifully rode to work in the morning, and back to the city in the evening. By the third day, I had grown used enough to the uncomfortable pressure on my backside that I took in something more of my surroundings. There were goats and sheep in several of the far fields now, but in others I could see rows of supporting poles, and between them young trees - not the tiny cuttings my neighbours had tentatively stuck into the ground in fall, but proper young trees that must have been grown for five years at the least, and probably hadn't been any less expensive than the animals. I wondered whether Lord Herucalmo had promised the people who had planted them a bonus, too. Must have. Otherwise, there wouldn't be so many trees. Even in my half-numb state, I couldn't help but heave a sigh. I suppose it was too much to ask for anyone of that house to tell me "Good point, thank you for your insight," or something of the sort. Of course, Lord Herucalmo wasn't likely to acknowledge that I'd done anything remotely useful. However jovial his behaviour on our last meeting had been, I had not forgotten what he had said about taking the blame if things went wrong.

And I was certain that I was about to take the blame when I was summoned to the palace the following Valanya. I could only assume that I had neglected some duty that I had forgotten about. Or word had gotten around that I wasn't properly working on Mistress' Nîluphêr's preservation, and now I was going to be brought to book for shirking at my work, as Lord Atanacalmo had threatened all those years ago. At this point, it was almost a relief to think that it might end like this. I prepared mechanically, letting Amraphel shave my face, putting on my good grey robes, a little too warm now. To be on the safe side, I put the vial in my loincloth. I would not make the mistake of leaving it in my strongbox again.
"I doubt he would send a formal summons if he meant to kill you," Amraphel said, indubitably meaning to reassure me.
"Better safe than sorry," I said. She didn't argue, and when I left, she hugged me more tightly and kissed me more deeply than usual. Clearly, she wasn't wholly certain that I was not in immediate danger after all.

Still, I managed to make my way up to the citadel in a fairly calm and detached mood. I had at that point grown used to the way people turned away from their business and their conversation to stare at me. I ignored them. The guards at the gate greeted me civilly enough, and let me proceed on my own. Nonetheless, as I crossed the ornamental moat-street that led to the Raisers' former laboratory and our former morgue on the left, and the torture chambers on the right, I began to tremble, and my breath was coming much too fast for the simple effort of going up the broad stairs to the palace. Even as I sat on the marble benches, waiting to be admitted to the state room where the King was apparently doing his business today, my heart would not return to a normal rhythm, and it was all I could do not to gasp for air noisily. I felt myself breaking into a cold sweat. I told myself that I no longer cared what happened to me, that it did not matter either way, but my body would not believe me. As the door was opened for me and I could see the King, sitting at the long table where he had gone through his correspondence back when I had posed for the painter - mere months ago; it felt like a lifetime - it felt as though somebody had punched me in the stomach with full force. I actually doubled over, and I very nearly would have thrown up. I shut my eyes tightly and waited for the feeling to pass, but it didn't pass, not fully. When I had regained enough self-control to enter the room, I had to hide my hands behind my back because they were shaking so badly and I didn't want the King to see my terror right away. He rose and came closer, and I felt a powerful revulsion, an urge to either charge at him screaming or run away (also screaming). With great effort, I locked myself in place, clenching my jaw and looking through him rather than at him.

"Azruhâr, Azruhâr," he said, in that cold voice of his, "the bane of my existence."
Somewhere underneath my terror, a rebellious little voice wanted to laugh. It was laughable, really. Here I was, powerless as always and even weaker than usual, and there he was, King of Yôzayân, calling me the bane of his all-powerful existence. I felt my lips twitch, but I kept my teeth firmly gritted so neither laugh nor protest escaped.
He seemed disappointed by the lack of response, and studied me for a while, even walking around me in an uncomfortably close circle. There was no hiding my hands now, and he spotted them right away. He grabbed my right hand in its bandages, inspecting it, and I gasped out loud, not because it hurt that much, but simply because he startled me so badly.
There was a small sound from further back in the room - a cough, or maybe a rustle of precious cloth - and I noticed now that the old Queen, the King's mother, was sitting at the table also. Otherwise, we were alone, except for a single servant at the wall behind the Queen, and the guards at the doors on either end of the room. They did not look threatening at this time, simply standing to attention, but of course that meant nothing; they could become a threat to me at a moment's notice. I swallowed hard and tried to get my breathing back under control.

The King let my hand drop. Either he had satisfied his curiosity, or he did not want to touch me for too long. "How slowly you heal," he announced.
I avoided meeting his eyes by continuing to stare ahead, but the half-buried voice at the back of my mind took control of my tongue, and I said, "I have been told that it was not a clean fracture. These things take time, apparently." My voice was hoarse, straining against the tightness of my throat.
"Obviously," the King said dismissively, "but it has been eight weeks..." he trailed off. "But then, of course, you are common as dirt."
"Precisely, your Majesty," I heard myself say. "Not a single drop of Elros' blood in my veins. Mortal through and through. From the foot of the hill. That's the kind of man you've chosen to be the bane of your royal existence." The words came out, dripping with anger, before I could stop them, before I was even aware that I was thinking them - although I certainly was thinking them. I was angry. When he had accused me of hating him, in another life, another world, I had told him that I would never be able to hate him, my future King; but now I found myself perfectly capable. I hated him with every ounce of my feeble being. Of course, I was hating the entire world, and I was also hating myself, but if there was a focus to my hatred, he certainly was it. I was boiling inside - I could feel the heat of it behind my eyes - and I was now no longer avoiding to look at his face out of fear, but rather because I half believed that one of us would drop dead, the moment our eyes met. I clasped my right hand in my left behind my back so that neither hand would rise against him.

"One should think," he said, turning his back at me and taking a few steps away, as if feeling the heat of my anger, "that you were entirely beneath my notice, but somehow you are a thorn in my side. A constant itch. I see you, I have to scratch at it." He turned back to face me, his eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted into an ugly jeer. "Your mere existence infuriates me. Like a midge, you should be swatted."
"Alcarmaitë," the old Queen said sternly. I remembered how Lord Atanacalmo had addressed him like that, admonishingly, when he had still been the Crown Prince, and already wanted to swat me. Where was Lord Atanacalmo, anyway? I had not seen him since his visit to my house, and I cannot say that I missed him, but at least he seemed to have known what was going on. It had been reassuring to believe that at least one person had some sort of plan. But I suppose I was no longer a part of that plan. I wondered whether I should be relieved or disappointed.
Without acknowledging his mother's intervention, the King went on, "Some people appear to think that my justified distaste for you is..." he paused, clearly searching for the right words, "an irrational feud threatening the stability of the state. Absurd, but there we are. So something must be done."
My thoughts had begun to drift off again, still occupied with the question of what Lord Atanacalmo was doing behind the scenes; I had to force myself to pay attention to the unpleasant reality of listening to Tar-Telemmaitë.

"Obviously, I should like to simply execute you-"
"That would be nice," I heard myself say. I had not meant to interrupt him; the words simply slipped out, and I didn't even realise that I had really said that until I became aware of the Queen's irritated stare, until the King asked, in utter disbelief, "What?!"
"A simple execution," I explained. "Clean. Quick. Nothing messy or drawn out." Behind my back, I was gripping my right hand so tightly that I was probably setting the healing process back by several weeks, although I didn't feel anything.
"Oh, good grief," the old Queen muttered, while the King's eyes had widened in absolute exasperation. "You see how impossible he is, Mother," he exclaimed. "How can I not strangle him?"
"You are not making it easy, either," she said, which from my point of view was putting it very charitably. "Maybe I should deal with him while you do something more pleasant?"
I could see his fists clench and unclench rapidly while he was making up his mind, perhaps uncertain whether it would be more pleasant to strangle me on the spot, or to leave my impossible person to his mother. "Yes," he finally said, "that would be better."
He turned and strode away without another glance at me, but I bowed low nonetheless, until the door slammed shut. I had some difficulty regaining my balance; my mind didn't seem to be working properly.

"So, Azruhâr," the Queen said, and I bowed again. "Yes, yes, very well," she said, almost irritably. "Why don't you sit?"
I obviously did not sit because I had not, so far, been invited to do it. But it was the sort of question that was really a command, so I didn't reply, instead sitting down in the chair she was indicating. She studied me, unmovingly, for a while. I tried to be inoffensive. I was unreasonably hurt by the King's claim that I was impossible. Until recently, I had tried so hard to please him, yielding whenever I could, conceiling the truth for his sake. Yet he acted as if I was the impossible one. I really hoped that the old Queen would somehow accept that I wasn't impossible, just at the end of my wits and out of my depth.
She raised her hand in a beckoning motion, and when the servant hurried to her side, exchanged a few whispered words with him. The servant bowed and left, leaving us under the indifferent eyes of the guards at the doors.

"I expect you are still not wholly recovered, and should be in your bed," the Queen said, not unkindly. "So I shall try to make this brief." She briefly glanced to the side, where the King's papers lay abandoned, and selected a folded sheet of paper. "My son has received a letter from his governor in Umbar. Apparently your embalming impressed him when he came over for," she paused briefly, evidently struggling with emotion, "the funeral." Another pause. I said nothing.
She went on, clearly reading from the letter, "This craft of embalming appears to me immensely useful for those people of Yôzayân who die in the colonies. If their bodies can be preserved incorrupt, we could send them back to their families and their native soil, which is not possible under the current circumstances. Therefore, I humbly request the services of one of your Majesty's embalmers at your earliest convenience for the purpose of teaching the craft in Umbar. Ah, yes, thank you." That last part was addressed to the servant, who had come back with a tray bearing a glass of wine, which he set down in front of the old Queen, and a cup of something steaming, pale and gold-green, which he set down on the table in front of me. It smelled of honey, lemon balm and meadowsweet. Apparently, the Queen thought that I might be running a fever, or that my nerves were badly frayed. She probably wasn't wrong.

I thanked the servant, and tilted my head at the Queen, waiting for what was coming. Not that I couldn't guess. Lord Roitaheru of Umbar had written to the King requesting the services of an embalmer. The King wanted to get rid of me. Since he could not kill me, he would send me off to Umbar. I remembered Lord Roitaheru, cheerful and noisy, at Lord Atanacalmo's feast. Now I knew what Lord Atanacalmo had been doing. He had devised a new punishment for me: exile.
The old Queen raised her glass, and I tried to control myself, lifting my cup in response. My hand was shaking so badly that I spilled some of the hot liquid on the table. "Calm yourself," she said, "I have no intention of poisoning you. To your health."
I had to clear my throat again. "To your health, your Highness," I said obediently, taking a cautious sip, not because I thought it was poison but because it was hot. It was also sweet, and it would have been pleasant, if my throat had not constricted with misery. I set the cup down cautiously.
"But you intend to send me into exile," I heard myself say.

She raised her eyebrows. "I would not necessarily think of it as exile. You will be given a prestigious appointment in the colonies. The first to teach your craft! It could be the cornerstone of a great career. Many would jump at such an opportunity. Especially at your young age."
"At my young age," I repeated, feeling old.
"Yes, indeed," she said earnestly, ignorant of my feelings. "More importantly, it will get you away from my son. You two are like two dogs that hate each other, and I needn't tell you that he'd rip your throat out easily. Get yourself out of the way. Do your work in the colonies. Build a new life. It will be better for everybody - not least of all, for yourself."
"Yes, your Highness," I said. No doubt many would jump at the opportunity of a post in the colonies, but unfortunately, I wasn't one of them. I did not want to go to Umbar. I did not want to cross the ocean, that was part of it, but I also didn't want to leave home. It had been hard enough to leave my old small house; moving to an entirely different part of the world was horrifying. I had considered the possibility once, to save myself from the King's wrath; but in all honesty, I would never have done it, not then, not now.
Something more important crossed my mind, and I raised my head and asked, "Can I hope for any monetary support for re-settling my family? I'm rather short of funds at the moment."

Her brow creased in a pained frown. The creases were there all the time, of course - she was very old, after all - but they contracted further as she considered my request. "I'm afraid that there is no question of re-settling a family. Journeymen who travel to their appointments typically travel alone. Even nobles who go to the colonies do not take their wives along. It is not done."
"I'm only an apprentice," I said dully, as if that made anything better.
"And you will be working as a master in your own right!" she said with forced enthusiasm, as if trying to distract me.
"My family," I repeated, undistracted. "My wife. My children. I cannot go without them."
She grimaced - sympathetically, perhaps - and then said, "In theory, you could try asking for dispensation, to allow you to take your family along."
I nodded. "Whom do I ask?"
She occupied herself with the letter, folding it back up. "My son," she replied.
I stared at her, but she did not look in my direction. "Do you think he would grant such dispensation?" I asked, against better wisdom.
Briefly, she pursed her lips, and I wondered whether she was displeased by my question. Personally, I did not think it was all that unreasonable. Then she met my eyes again, and her expression was one of pity. "I wouldn't bother. In fact, I would advise you not to call attention to your family at all, if you understand what I mean."

I understood. I felt my eyes well up, and then flow over. Lord Roitaheru had appeared perfectly happy, clearly not too worried about being far away from his family and his native soil. But me? I could not imagine living so far from Amraphel or the children. Even now, I felt as though I was living worlds apart from them, a wall of misery between myself and their life, and it was hard to endure. Being physically apart, with a whole ocean between us, was unthinkable.
"Then it is exile," I said through my tears, "whatever the prestige." And bitterly, I added, "You might as well put me on the rack again."
Again, her lips thinned as if in anger, but her voice wasn't unfriendly when she replied. "Please do not think that I do not understand your plight. But I need you to understand that there is very little choice. Being sent to Umbar, even alone, is the best thing that can happen to you. Let Alcarmaitë forget that you exist, or forget his anger, at any rate. He is reaming himself on this petty obsession with you, and while I do not doubt that you suffer from it the most, at this point the entire realm is affected. We need stability, and that means that you need to go. For the good of the realm. And, of course, for your own good. If you stay, I must warn you nothing will be simple; it will get messy, in every possible respect."

"You ask a lot," I could not help saying, and to her credit, she said, "I know."
I looked down into my tea, so liberally honeyed to make me swallow the bitter medicine. I thought of Amraphel, and of my children. Already, they were the only thing keeping me alive. How should I live without them?
I struggled with myself. I would have liked to scream, to shout, to throw the cup in her face, although it was probably not her fault; she seemed perfectly understanding, perfectly reasonable. In a way, that made it worse. But she was right. There was no choice. The King would rip out my throat eventually. Already, Lord Eärendur and the citizens of Andúnië were paying the price of having been friends with me. Who knew what would come next? No; I would have to go. It would be better for everybody; though not, I felt, for myself.
I dug my fingernails into my thigh until I managed to stop crying. I took the tea-cup and emptied it. I set it down very carefully. I said, "I am at his Majesty's disposal, of course. If he sends me, I shall go." The words rang out, to my miserable ears, like hammerfalls.
The old Queen smiled a joyless smile. "Brave fellow. I knew that you would be reasonable."
I bowed my head while my eyes welled up again. "I have unfinished business," I managed to say. "I beg leave to settle my affairs before I depart."
"Yes, naturally," she said. "It will take a while to make arrangements for your journey, too. You have until early Úrimë. Then you will be expected to take sail."
"Yours to command and mine to obey," I responded mechanically. It was the easiest thing to say.

Chapter 38

Read Chapter 38

Chapter 38

I don't remember how I got home. I know that at first my feet carried me aimlessly through the city. At some point, I became aware that I was on the way to my old neighbourhood, so I went the rest of the way on purpose.
For a while, I stood at the fence of my old house. The garden was well-kept. Young pea-pods were hanging plentifully from their twines. The house had been given a new coat of whitewash. It must have been fairly recently because it was still gleaming, unsullied by the winter's wet woodsmoke or by mud flung up by heavy boots or overshoes. Clearly, the Daytalers' Welfare Society had been doing well enough in my absence. I suppose I was no longer required. The sun was bright in a sky that already had the colour of summer, and the world had moved on without me, and would happily continue to do so; if I lived or died, stayed in Arminalêth or went to Umbar, was entirely inconsequential.
I suppose my feet must have taken me back to my new home, or perhaps Târazôn or some other old neighbour had chanced to see me and guided me on my way. But I remember nothing, no faces, no conversation, no streets that I passed through. Earlier, I had burned inside; now I felt frozen in the warmth of that Lótessë afternoon, and I seemed to be walking through a thick fog of despair.

The fog surrounded me for another day or two, and then it lifted. The sun was bright. My house was beautiful. Amraphel, warm and patient and indefatigable, was lovely. My children, gifted and full of life, were treasures, and I had to say farewell to them. I was seeing them for the last time, and I felt that I had to make that time count. They deserved to remember a father who loved and cherished them, who shared their joys and their sorrows - not a man who stole away in secret and hid in his bed-chamber.
So I made myself be there. I rode home from my work at the morgue as fast as I could, so I had sufficient time to hear about my children's lessons and games, to let them teach me the steps of a dance they had learned or made up, to admire Azruphel's paintings (which were, under the patient guidance of a retired painter, improving in quality), to hear about slights perceived and arguments had. I could not play horse with Palatârik as I had done for my daughters, and I made a dismally bad fencing partner for Nimmirel, but I hope they still appreciated my efforts. At any rate, Palatârik stopped behaving like I was a stranger, and instead began to greet me with clumsy warm hugs when I came home in the afternoon.

I explained to them that I would have to go away in the summer, and stay away for a long time. In the manner of children, for whom time is still a vague and shifting phenomenon, they accepted this without much protest. Only Azruphel objected that I would not take her along. "I can be your assistant," she declared grandly. "I will sketch your work, or make paintings of your customers' lives, like the tapestry for the old King."
"That is a wonderful idea," I said. "Maybe I will be able to call upon you -- later." I did not have the heart to tell her that my family was not allowed to come by design; even now, I did not want to sow resentment or brook rebellion.
Amraphel explained to Azruphel that the first years of my work would consist in building and making arrangements, which would be arduous and boring, and that it would be much better for the children to stay here, in our comfortable house, and complete their learning. She made it sound almost as if she believed it.

We dined at Lord Eärendur's house before he returned to Andúnië. In truth, he said, he was considering retiring from the council and the city. Although his reputation had been barely tarnished except among those who had already opposed him before, the King no longer deigned to listen to him for long, and he feared to do more damage than good by speaking up on matters that were dear to his heart. "It is time for Eärengolë to take over," he said. "He is young and patient. Maybe he will be able to make up with Vanatirmo, too; I haven't got the strength for it."
I wondered, not for the first time, why Lord Vanatirmo had turned against him in the first place. It made no sense for him to covet Andúnië; he already had Eldalondë, and his daughters were well-married, and his grandson was bound to inherit Andúnië, anyway. When I posed the question to Lord Eärendur, he said, "Because Vanatirmo was a neighbour and a friend, but first and foremost, he is a father. Vanilótë's marriage is not a happy one, and I expect Vanatirmo thought he might ease her lot by endearing himself to the King. I can only hope that it worked out for the poor girl." The poor girl, I thought, was easily three times my age, although I suppose we were both like children to a man of Lord Eärendur's age.
"What of Lady Vanimë?" I could not help asking. After all, Lord Vanatirmo was also Lord Eärendur's brother-in-law.
Lord Eärendur sighed. "I do not hold her responsible for her father's deeds, and besides, he knows that I am not vengeful," he said. "Telemmaitë is."
I thought of the pretty blue-eyed Crown Princess - no, the young Queen, she was now - who had been so out of sorts at the feast for Lord Vanimon's birth, and felt an unexpected surge of pity. "Does he hurt her?" I said, as if I needed another reason to detest the King.
"There are rumours," Lord Eärendur said tersely. "But we should not gossip."
We changed the subject.
He tried to encourage me about Umbar - he had passed through the city during his service in the colonies, a few centuries ago, and remembered it as a prosperous and orderly place - but I asked him not to remind me of my impending departure, and so we spoke about other things instead.

Lord Atanacalmo, too, invited me for dinner (and chess) at his house, but I had no desire to speak with him. I knew that I would only lose my temper, and whatever he wanted to do with me, it would almost certainly weaken my determination to be happy and present during my last weeks at home. So I sent word that I was indisposed.
I should have known that he would not be satisfied with that, but somehow I had expected him to just send another summons that I might be able to postpone again. Instead, he simply came walking into my courtyard one afternoon as I was watching my children perform a play of Azruphel's own invention. I didn't notice his presence until he laughed and clapped heartily at the end of the act, then announced to the children that their father would be occupied for a while.
I rose from my make-shift seat on the stairs dutifully and knelt stiffly. "Pardon me for not greeting you sooner, my lord," I said, but could not help adding, "I do not remember inviting you."
He continued to smile at the children who had lined up at the foot of the stairs for a respectful bow. "The good thing about being your lord is that I need neither invitation nor permission," he said, and I could hear the steel underneath his words. "Your study, if you please," he said, no longer smiling.
I did not please at all, but of course, I had no choice.

He had brought the chessboard and pieces, and he had brought a bottle of what he considered decent wine, and he dropped both on my desk, on top of my books and papers, as if to demonstrate how unimportant my puny work was. I offered him the more comfortable chair, asked Enrakôr to bring him a cup for his wine, and water for myself, and sat down in the other chair. I extricated my rumpled paperwork from underneath the chessboard. I watched as he arranged the pieces. I did not ask what he wanted; in all honesty, I didn't care. Besides, he would tell me, sooner or later.
And he did, once the pieces were set and the cup was filled with wine. "You can have some of it too," he said carelessly. "I have more of it at home."
"Oh, I would not want to impose," I said.
He smirked, evidently hearing what I had not said: that he was imposing himself on me.
"Of course you wouldn't," he said. "Not even when I explicitly invite you."
I felt my fists clench. The fingers on my right hand were still stiff and awkward, but they were no longer restrained by bandages, and they managed to curl into my palm firmly enough. "Your lordship will understand that I am not at my best health. And I have many pressing matters on my mind. As your lordship is doubtlessly aware, I will have to journey to Umbar in a few weeks' time. There is much to prepare."
"Hmmm," he made. Perhaps he was savouring my answer, or perhaps he was savouring his wine. "And yet you have the time to watch childish performances in the middle of the day." He pointed at the board. "Make your move."

"That is different,"I said. "You cannot blame me for spending as much time with my children as I possibly can, since I will not be seeing them again after the summer." I could feel my hands begin to shake again, and I set the pawn down with unnecessary force. The carved piece had been cushioned with a sliver of felt so it wouldn't scratch the precious ivory and wood of the board, but it still made enough of a pang to convey my anger.
"Ah, yes. Of course. You really love them, don't you?"
"Of course I do," I said.
He raised an eyebrow at that. "Oh, many people don't love their children. Beyond the call of duty, that is. They're quite a bother, aren't they? Especially when they're still so young and labour-intensive. They're a necessary evil, obviously - we don't live forever - but it takes them terribly long to become tolerable company." He pushed his pawn ahead gently, smiling to himself.
"That is not how I feel," I said.
"Good for you," he retorted. "Or rather, bad for you, since you can't take them with you. I shall tell my nephew that you're heart-broken, shall I? He'll like that."
I felt the small hair on my neck stand up. "You leave my family out of this."

He smiled more fully now. "Ah, so you still have a little fight left in you. I'm glad." His eyes met mine, keen, perhaps not cruel, but certainly mischievous. "Don't worry; I will look after them."
"Is that a threat?" I said, feeling my throat constrict and my stomach grow cold.
"Oh, Azruhâr, you wound me. It's a promise, of course! How can you think anything else."
I ground my teeth. "How indeed."
Lord Atanacalmo sat more upright, no longer smiling, which strangely enough made him look less frightening to me. "Now, young man, be reasonable. I am not your enemy, and you would do well not to treat me as one. I assure you that worse things could happen to you than being sent to Umbar to teach embalming. Technically, your probation has not ended. Yet you need to get out of the King's way, far away. Roitaheru's request makes that possible."
"You arranged it, didn't you," I said bitterly.
"Of course I did," he said. "But you needn't thank me. I owed you a second favour, after all."
I suppose he did, at that, but I couldn't think of my appointment in Umbar as a favour. "Couldn't you rather have spared me the torments?" I suggested.
He steepled his long fingers and rested his chin against them. "Unfortunately not," he said, "but you are in one piece, aren't you? Mostly, anyway. Believe me, it could be worse." He nodded at the board. "Come on. Your turn."

I dutifully moved a rook, then watched as one of his pawns advanced. "I am heart-broken, you know," I said, feeling the grey fog rise again as soon as I put the feeling into words. "Just trying not to show it so much."
"Good, good," he said. "Keep your feelings under lock and key. They're an impediment to greatness."
A bitter laugh came from my mouth. "Greatness! Your lordship must be confusing me with your nephew." I pushed at another piece.
He looked taken aback for a second; then the smirk returned. "I suppose I must be," he agreed. "I have to think for him all the time, after all. How do I repair his reputation? It is a thankless task. It would be easier to replace him with his heir, but poor Vanimeldë is not ready for that. She's never been raised to be a ruler, only a trophy wife. He was always counting on a second child. Vanilótë really should have given him a son. It can't be that hard, can it? Her sister managed. Arancalimë managed. Even your wife managed to have a son, and you're not much of a man!"
Not much of a man, I thought. Of course. I would have liked to see him on the rack or under the lash. That would show us how much of a man he was.

Hopefully unaware of my thoughts, he made his move, then returned his attention to me. I studied the board with some displeasure. The situation had become confusing and overwhelming; now every move could have unexpected consequences, and I did not like being faced with so many choices that would probably all turn out to be disastrous. I tentatively moved an archer.
Lord Atanacalmo was still fixing me with his keen, cold gaze. I had done something wrong. Maybe he had sensed my thoughts after all. I tried to meet his eyes innocently. "I hear you, my lord?" I said with strained politeness.
His eyes narrowed, briefly; then he chuckled softly. "Never mind," he said.

Perhaps I should have asked again, but then, I didn't really care to understand what he was aiming at. I just wanted to navigate his visit without making things worse. Preferably, I wanted him gone before supper. So I did not ask, instead focusing on the game. If he wanted to talk, I thought, he'd do so by himself.
For a while, however, he kept his silence, until at one point I tried to end the game more quickly by exposing my king to an attack by his archer. As soon as I began to move the shielding pawn away, he slapped my hand irritably. It was not a very strong blow - like the warning slap you give to a child trying to snatch a fruit that is not theirs to eat - but he hit me right on the tender knuckles of my right hand, which at any rate was not up to its old strength. To make matters worse, it slammed onto the chess pieces underneath. I snatched it away, cradling it in my good hand, but the damage was done. It hurt. It hurt far more than it should have, and I barely managed to stifle a stream of profanities by sucking in a long, slow, deliberate breath between clenched teeth.

Lord Atanacalmo looked surprised for a split second, then realisation dawned, and then he raised his chin and looked indifferent and superior once more. "That is what happens when you cheat," he said. "You know it is forbidden to jeopardise your king. Do something else."
I did nothing, just held my hand and fought the urge to cry. I had known that the fingers were still weak - no wonder, after the injury and then the long period spent in tight wrappings - but they had been back in working order, and I was shocked not merely by the intensity of the pain, but also by the reminder of my fragility. Through the rushing of blood in my ears, I heard Lord Atanacalmo's cold voice, "You will never amount to anything if you do not play by the rules."
Like a cornered dog, I bit back. "I amount to nothing when I stick to the rules," I snapped, "so what does it matter?" I had to get up and walk to the window to distract myself. When I came back, he had put the toppled-over pieces back into their proper place and smiled up at me expectantly.

I think it was that smile that pushed me over the top. If he had at least pretended to be sorry, if he had uttered a half-hearted apology, however insincere, I am sure that I would have swallowed my frustration. I would have sat down and tried to end the game, angry but obedient. But that smile and his patronising phrases about the rules of the game, after he had hurt me again, after he had told me that he was not my enemy: that was too much. His hand lay on the table with the palm upwards, indicating the board. I remembered how these long fingers had gripped my hair and pulled my sore head up at the end of my torment. In his place, I would have been thoroughly ashamed, but I expect such a feeling was wholly alien to him: his great game justified everything.
I held my stinging hand in my left, close to my gallopping heart, as if that would somehow protect it or make it better, and said, "I no longer care to play by the rules of your game."
He raised his eyebrows in a silent reprimand. "They are not my rules," he stated, "they are the time-honoured rules of the game everywhere." His forefinger started to tap on the desk, showing that he was displeased.
Well, so was I. "Then maybe I am playing a different game, with different rules. One where it's just as condemnable to jeopardise pawns." I took a deep breath, but it did nothing to calm me. "You know, if there is one, just one good thing about my exile, it's that I will no longer have to play your game."
In response, he bared his teeth in what might have been a grin. "I shall write to Roitaheru and tell him to challenge you to a round of chess every now and then," he announced. "You clearly need it."

Perhaps it was a peace offer - a joke - but it might as well have been a threat. At any rate, it was a potent reminder that I would be far away, but not outside his sphere of influence.
I was too angry to be scared. "Yes, I am certain you shall send him a list of all my weaknesses," I retorted, "just in case I ever manage to find my feet."
He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
"That is, if I get there in the first place," I went on bitterly. "If my ship doesn't sink, to make sure that I never come back."
Lord Atanacalmo yawned exaggeratedly to show what he thought about my diatribe. "Highly unlikely. Ships are expensive."
I sucked in another slow breath. "Maybe I will jump into the sea," I said between gritted teeth.
He pursed his lips, thoroughly displeased. "Now you're being melodramatic. I despise melodrama. Besides," he said sternly, "you mustn't do your enemies' work for them."
I gave him an impotent glare. "You said you were not my enemy."
He smiled. "That is true. I am not. So stop being obstinate. Calm yourself. Finish the game. You will never master others if you cannot even master your own feelings."

I couldn't bear the sight of him anymore. I turned my head away, staring at the wall without focussing on it. The strengthening anger was dissipating, leaving weariness in its place. After the initial pain, my fingers had gone numb, and I let the useless hand drop. I would have liked to curl up and cry, and I struggled against the urge, not because he had told me to calm myself but because I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me break down. I do not even know why I cared. Because I did consider him my enemy, I suppose, and I did not want to do his work for him.
"What you do not understand," I heard myself say, "is that I have no desire to master others."
He shrugged at that, continuing to smile serenely. "Then you may as well sit down and finish the game."
I ground my teeth, but I could no longer sustain my resistance. Like a straw fire, my anger had burned itself out, and the smoke that was left from it was much like the fog of despair. He was right. There was no point. I might as well stop being obstinate and finish the game.
I sat down, resting my right hand in my lap. I took a sip of my water. I studied the chessboard, and finally moved an inoffensive piece with my left hand.
"Good boy," Lord Atanacalmo said, as if I were his dog. I would have liked to throw the chessboard in his face, but I had by now remembered who he was and what he could do, so I merely clenched my left fist and studied the wall again as he made his move in return.

"A word to the wise," Lord Atanacalmo began, and then he cut himself short. "Do you remember what I told you, a few years back?"
I forced myself to look at him. "That I am walking on thin ice?"
He tossed me a grin like a reward. "Precisely. Or rather, you were walking on thin ice, very thin ice. By now it has broken. You're in the deep and the cold now, among currents and floes that are perfectly capable of crushing you, and all you are doing is flailing your arms and spluttering and swallowing water. Stop doing that. You need to heave yourself onto one of those floes and go with the current."
"Or maybe I should just give up and sink," I pointed out.
He raised his eyebrows as if to say that he did not expect me to have the courage, but what he said was, "You could do that, naturally. But what a waste. What a waste."
I clenched my fist again, then slowly forced it open and towards the board. "At what point, my lord," I said, moving my archer, "is it no longer worth the struggle?"
He raised his eyebrows, took his wine cup, leaned back as if he had to consider the question at leisure. I was half surprised that he didn't put a foot on my desk. Instead, he blew up his cheeks, then let the air out through lips stretched thin. "Phhhhh! With that kind of philosophical question, you'd better turn to Eärendur. Me, I'm more interested in worldly matters."

I thought that that was all he'd have to say on the matter - brushing it off with an oblique remark, as usual - but after drinking deeply from his wine, he spoke on. "Look here, Azruhâr. I know you're not an idiot. So stop behaving like one. Let this be an occasion to test your courage -"
"One should think," I said testily, "that I have sufficiently proven my courage. Ah, no, I forgot. That was just a useless display of childish loyalty."
He chuckled at that. "I was rather thinking of emotional courage. Fortitude. Self-control. Those things you lack. But yes, very well: you have shown yourself capable of enduring physical pain. That takes some sort of courage, I suppose."
"How grudgingly you acknowledge it, Lord," I observed. "Does it cause you pain to say something friendly?"
With a shrug, he said, "It might. Best not to risk it, hm? Besides, friendliness will get you nowhere. Endurance grows in adversity."
"What do you know about adversity?" I couldn't help asking.
The easy grin disappeared from his face. "I am the second son of a King. The spare. What do you think?" He took my last knight and practically threw it to the side. "My battles may be different from yours, but that does not mean they are easier. Check."
I let my king take a pathetic step back, and said, "You dragged me into your battles, on top of my own. You needn't have done that."
"No," he agreed, "but I thought you had it in you. I suppose I was wrong." His rook moved into a killing position. "Check."

Again, I dutifully pushed my king out of immediate danger. Little morsels of generosity, I thought. That takes some courage, I suppose. I know you're not an idiot. I thought you had it in you. What a waste. Just enough for a good boy to lap up and go on.
But I did not care to go on. I wanted more than morsels - or nothing. Right now, nothing was perfectly acceptable. I was tired of trying to guess his meaning, tired of trying to please to protect myself. So I made no reply, just pushed my king away from his pursuit until he had it cornered.
"Checkmate," he said, stating the obvious.
"As always," I couldn't help noting.
He raised his eyebrows at me while he collected the pieces. "You really need to work on that defeatist attitude of yours."
I felt my lips purse. "That's hard in the face of all that adversity."
"Oh, stop whining. You can go to your darling wife, or to Eärendur, if you want to have your courage stroked; they'll build you back up in no time, I am sure."
"Not in Umbar, they won't."
"That is true." He smirked at me. "We will see what you are truly made of, won't we?"

I would have liked to make a scathing reply, or any kind of reply, but I was struck dumb with rage and misery. Evidently, he noticed, because he went on, "Cheer up, man. It could be much worse than Umbar. Much, much worse. Roitaheru runs the place well enough; it's much like Arminalêth itself. But as a man of Yôzayân, you'll immediately be part of the elite. That should be a new experience, shouldn't it? No-one will know your past. Your money will count twice as much, and there are plenty of pretty things to take your mind off your lost love. As long as you keep your apprentices in control, you'll be just fine. So stop moping. I don't see why you're acting as if I were dragging you there in chains, which, as you surely realise, is also something that could happen."
My cheeks burned. "Of course you don't see," I said, tight-lipped and narrow-eyed. "After all, I expect you have never loved anyone besides yourself in your entire life."
Far from insulted, he raised his cup. "I'll drink to that. Love is a childish fancy that you, too, will outgrow."
"I will not," I said; and after that, I said nothing more, except for bidding him a pleasant life when he bade me a pleasant evening. I later reflected that, as far as parting words went, I could have done worse. Still, the whole encounter left me moody and morose, and when I found that he had left his bottle of fine wine on my desk, more than half full, I was sorely tempted to empty it all by myself. Instead, I sent Tîmat to Lord Atanacalmo's house the next day, to return the bottle (and its contents) to their rightful owner - whether he wanted it or not.

The closer Úrimë came, the harder it got to keep my misery secret. I now frequently found myself staring at something - the garden, a familiar street corner, the Cornflower tavern - as if trying to commit it to memory, however trivial or even unattractive it seemed. The street urchins started to make fun of me for my habit of stopping in the street for the better part of a half hour, staring and muttering to myself.
At work, Mistress Nîluphêr was now safely entombed and new customers were not yet in sight, so my colleagues, with the help of a roofer hired with Master Yadrahil's money, completed the slate roof for the morgue, while I made copies of our most important documents so I would be able to take them along to Umbar. My writing fingers were still clumsy and, on occasion, painful, especially after a long day's writing; but I had to assume that they would not get better except through practice, and in a way, the hurt in my hand was a good distraction from the constant screaming at the back of my mind.
Lord Herucalmo occasionally looked in on me when he went on an inspection of 'our' agricultural project, but his grandfather I didn't see again. Even when I went to his house for the unpleasant but necessary negotiations for my travelling papers, for my upkeep in Umbar and my family's upkeep in my absence, he would not receive me, but told me - through his steward - to speak with Lady Arancalimë instead. I was actually grateful for that. Even though she was intimidating, she hadn't hurt me nor pushed me beyond my breaking point. I could keep my wits and my temper around her, even when she insisted that my status as apprentice would remain unchanged. I had not expected her to agree to my promotion, anyway; it had been Master Târik's idea. So I wasn't particularly disappointed, and I left with the impression that I had done what I could to secure the future - if I had one, that is. I probably would not have accomplished that with Lord Atanacalmo. Perhaps his indisposal had been supposed to be a slight, but I perceived it as a mercy.

Then again, perhaps it was neither insult nor mercy; perhaps he genuinely was too busy.
That summer, we were treated to a series of splendid theatrical performances and public dances. The merriment felt as if it was designed to mock me, although I expect it was rather meant to lift the spirits of the general populace. The spectacles were patroned by none less than Princess Vanimeldë, and she made regular appearances, not merely as a spectator in a high seat, but as a performer herself. The princess was as charming and graceful as her father was abrasive. She might not have been raised to be a ruler, but she was a splendid entertainer; it was impossible not to cheer for her, not out of deference but out of true admiration. I stayed away from these events after the first times, since the delight and cheer made me chafe painfully against my impending departure, but I did not forbid my family to participate in them, and anyway, they were the talk of the town. Occasionally, the King himself would be in the audience, showing his appreciation for the arts (or, more likely, for his daughter's involvement) and regaining the trust of his people. I suspected that I was seeing Lord Atanacalmo's hand at work once again.

The midsummer prayer on the Mountain had been officially cancelled, but the holiday week preceding it, with its fair and further plays and dances, was kept. Lord Eärendur had invited us to Andúnië for one last visit as a family, and in spite of my worries that it would cost him too much, I had agreed to go. I hoped to make a few more good memories, I suppose, and I suppose I did. The region and the city were beautiful as ever, unmarred by the change in its fortune. True, the grand house was emptier, and meals were more limited than they had been even under the rationing. But the harbour and market were still bustling, and people still went to the beach at low tide, to build ephemeral sand castles or play in the waves. It was beautiful and painful at once. Even in those happy moments, the knowledge that I would not come here again was like a brutal fist that squeezed my heart together. I do not exaggerate: I could barely breathe at the thought that soon I would be on a wholly foreign shore, the alien coast of Middle-earth, alone. Lord Eärendur tried to offer what consolation he could. We would write many letters back and forth to keep each other in each others' lives. He would visit in person, as soon as he could. My family, too, might be permitted to visit, once the King's mind was no longer bent so firmly on hurting me. When I had been younger, I might have clung to these faint hopes. Now, they were too frail to bear my weight.

And then it was Úrimë. I finished my business as best as I could. Amraphel had taken care of most of the travel preparations, so all I had to do was go through her lists to learn what had been arranged. I said farewell to the newly-made farmers by the road to the Mountain, now preparing for the first major harvest which I would no longer see. I said farewell to Târazôn and Thâmaris and the members of the Daytalers' Welfare Society, who now had to elect a new spokesman. I sent polite notes to my new neighbours. At Amraphel's suggestion, although there was nothing to celebrate, I hosted a farewell feast at my house, to gather all my friends and colleagues and the in-laws in one place. It was a fine feast, and we did not use the word exile, so the occasion was cheerful enough for those who did not know me quite so well. Lord Saphadûl, who had been in Umbar before, listed its many amenities and the riches of its Adûnaic inhabitants, making it sound as if I was heading into affluence and luxury; some of the guests even expressed envy. For me, it was hard to endure, and I stole away to the quiet of my study repeatedly, there to lean against the wall or stare out into the dark street. Once, I thought I saw a shadow darker than the shadows of the cherry trees, hiding, watching; but when I looked again, it was gone. At any rate, nobody attended the feast uninvited.

And in the next morning, we packed my bags and my travelling chests onto the hearse, which would serve as our coach, and the younger children sat next to Master Târik, who was driving, while Azruphel very proudly rode on the horse that had been Balakhil's, behind Amraphel and me on our own horses. The misery had settled in my stomach like a lump of poison ice despite the summer heat; yet to my own surprise, my eyes remained dry. They stung so badly that it would have been a relief to cry, but no tears were coming.
In Rómenna, we stayed at my sister's house until it was time to board. There was another feast with exceptionally fine wine. It had been a gift, I learned, from Lord Pallatin and Lady Fáninquë of Rómenna themselves, not for any service my sister or her husband had rendered, but specifically to 'sweeten my departure'. I thought of the venerable noble couple who had never shown the slightest interest in me. Not that I wanted it - I had quite enough on my plate with the noble acquaintances I already had - but it was nonetheless strange that they should be interested in sweetening my departure. However, I did not think too much on the matter. I did not even have the heart to get drunk on that night. As on my earlier visit to Nardurîl's house, plenty of people dropped in to toast me, and quite a few of them seemed to think that I was going on a delightful adventure, but I drank sparingly, for fear of spoiling these last hours with my family. When at last it was time to sleep, I lay awake, staring into the dark and clinging to Amraphel until at last I succumbed to my exhaustion.

Chapter 39

Warning for discussions of suicide, and the off-screen suicide of a supporting character.

Read Chapter 39

Chapter 39

The ship that would take me to Umbar belonged to a merchant who imported clay and pigments and exported tiles and pottery, and there was some accomodation for paying passengers also: four berths with wooden shutters that you could close for the illusion of privacy, which was more than the mariners had in their hammocks. Inside my berth, there was room just for a mattress and one travelling chest, and the rest of my luggage was stored deeper inside the belly of the ship where I was told not to go, so as not to put the fragile cargo at risk. Furthermore, I had to take care not to get in the way of the mariners, was warned very sternly against touching the ropes, the anchor or the sails, and I was not allowed even near the captain's cabin unless I had been explicitly invited. I was told these things by the sour-faced captain himself as he took up residence in the berth across from mine, because his cabin was going to be occupied by a noble passenger. "Beats me why he don't use his own ship, because he sure must have one," Captain Tamrubên grumbled, "but I suppose he's too mean to pay his own crew. Don't tell him I said that, though!" I promised not to pass the captain's understandable criticism on to the nobleman, not that I expected that the man would deign to talk to me in the first place. But when I went on deck so I would be able to wave to my family and such friends as had come to Rómenna to see me off - quite a few of them, Master Târik and Lord Eärengolë not least among them - I found out that the nobleman was none other than Lord Herucalmo, accompanied by four burly bodyguards who reminded me of the torturers. I expect the Bough of Return that had been fixed to the prow by Lady Arancalimë was there for his sake, too. It certainly wasn't there for mine, and humble merchants' vessels did not usually receive a bough, or else there would be no oiolairë left on the island.

The unexpected company startled me so much that I did not, as the ropes were hauled in and the anchor lifted and the ship began to drift on the tide, break together and cry. Part of me, I think, was still convinced that this had to be a bad dream, and that, if only I went along with it long enough, I would wake up to the real world. So I went along with it. I waved and pretended to catch the kisses that Amraphel and the children pretended to throw my way and managed to keep the corners of my mouth forced into a smile even though my eyes were wide with horror. There were creaking and splashing sounds from the oars as the mariners began to work them, and the crowd and the fishing boats and the buildings in the harbour grew smaller. Then the sail was hoisted and the ship jumped forward like a dog that had strained against its leash and was released at last. In spite of its bulk, it cut through the waves at a most unwelcome speed. Soon, I could no longer make out the people on the pier. The houses of Rómenna, grey and white, turned from individual buildings into a single compound at the foot of the rising Mountain, while the cliffs of the firth of Rómenna widened on either side of the ship towards the open see.
It was then that the dream-like numbness in my mind lifted, and the tears began to flow. Half-blind, I managed to make my way into my berth, where I pulled the shutters closed with shaking hands before casting myself down onto the narrow mattress and crying in anguish and fear.

One should think that my misery was quite sufficient without the additional punishment of seasickness, yet it assailed me mercilessly. After a while, I could no longer hide my shame in my berth; I had to rush on deck and managed to lean over the rail just in time before (as it felt) everything I had eaten in the past two days came back up again. "Never puke against the wind," one of the mariners commented, good-natured (although I did not need the advice); but when I was still green in the face several days later, when the Holy Mountain and the whole island of Yôzayân had become a diffuse mass in the west, the comments began to turn disdainful. In the beginning of the journey, two of Lord Herucalmo's bodyguards had been taken sick also; but they recovered quickly enough. Only I continued to suffer, at best feeling weak and nauseous and at worst hanging over the rail to divest myself of what little food or drink I had taken in the meantime. In time, I was tempted to lean just a little bit further and end my miserable existence. One day, I did work up the courage to push off the planks. With my head and most of my upper body on the seaward side, my exhausted body slid over the rail easily. I could have caught myself yet, but the thought of falling filled me with relief rather than regret, and I let it happen. Then I felt a powerful grip on my belt. One of the bodyguards had apparently stood close enough to notice what was happening, and he heaved me back onto the planks with no apparent effort. I thanked him, shame-faced, pretending that it had been an accident.

That night - a night full of splendid stars that shone down on us, cold and ancient, impartial in their heavenly glory - I stumbled on deck to throw up plenty of bile and the rusk I had managed to nibble that evening. After that, I contemplated the darkness of the night and the vastness of the ocean, in which the ship was but a tiny piece of driftwood, and on which I was no more than an ant: utterly insignificant. I thought of my children and of Amraphel, looking at the same stars, perhaps. I could see those stars, but I would not see my loved ones again. The stars would shine on, whatever happened; they would not betray to my family that I was no more. The waves below were black and glossy, hiding unfathomable depths. I could disappear in them. I would simply be swallowed by the darkness, erased, purged. It was tempting. The cooler night air helped to make me feel less sick, but not less miserable. The voice of reason told me that the water would be cold, and that drowning would be exceedingly unpleasant. The feeling of almost-drowning during the torments had been painful and terrifying, and no doubt it would be worse to drown for real. But I had gone through the last weeks feeling half-strangled, and the thought of being unable to breathe held less horror than it otherwise might have. I told myself that Amraphel would write letters and expect answers; she would find out and grieve. I told myself that if I held on, maybe I might be allowed to return, in a couple of decades. But maybes were no longer good enough. Without certainty, I no longer had the strength to hold on. I had, after all, always been weak.
I put one leg over the rail.

"Now, what would you be doing up here at this dogs' hour?" a gruff voice behind me said in that moment, and I whirled around guiltily. It was one of the mariners, a tall fellow whose name I didn't know, thin except for his broad shoulders. Someone always had to be awake on a ship, of course, to ensure that it was sailing in the right direction and not meeting any obstacles, and this mariner apparently was among those who had the misfortune of keeping watch in the middle of that night - the dogs' hours, as they called it.
I pulled my leg back, awkwardly, hoping that the darkness had obscured the movement.
"I was sick," I said, which was true enough. "Again."
"Uinen's scaly tail! I've never seen a man of Yôzayân taken seasick for so long," the sailor declared as he walked over to me. He moved with perfect ease on the swaying deck, whereas I still stumbled around like an infant that had only just learned to walk. "The people of Umbar, they spew all the time when you take them to sea, but our people, we get used to it after a day or two."
"Not me."
"No, not you. I wonder what that signifies?"

I shrugged, not that he was likely to see it. The darkness on deck was interrupted by the occasional Elven lamp, but I had chosen a dark and secluded corner, where none of them shone.
"All well, Abrazân?" a voice rang from the other side of the ship.
"All well, Heledir," the mariner - Abrazân, apparently - called back. "Just our seasick passenger."
The other voice laughed softly.
"You shouldn't be stumbling around in the dark," Abrazân said to me. "People might think you're getting into mischief. Or you might fall overboard."
"Oh. Yes. I suppose I might," I said, as if the possibility hadn't crossed my mind before. "Unfortunately, the sickness comes at any time of the day. Or night."
"Get yourself a bucket," Abrazân suggested. "And go back to bed. The vastness can do strange things to a man's mind."
It had nothing to do with the vastness, of course, but I saw no point in arguing, so I bid him a good night. I bumped my head on the hatch as I made my way back under deck, then slipped on the steep ladder and landed on my heels with a painful jolt. I managed to stifle a curse, but just barely. I hoped that the noise I had made hadn't alerted the other sleepers. I snuck back into my berth, expecting to be accosted with every step. Afterwards, I lay in the pitch blackness, hearing Captain Tamrubên's snores and the unavoidable sloshing of the indifferent sea. I was exhausted beyond description, but unable to fall asleep.
In the morning, Captain Tamrubên gave me a bucket and dispatched a young boy to empty it at regular intervals.

That afternoon, I was invited to Lord Herucalmo's cabin. So far, our interaction had been limited to polite greetings (from my side) and acknowledging nods (from his side) when our paths had crossed, which had not been often. I had been preoccupied with my feelings of deprivation and misery, and he had done whatever noblemen did aboard a ship that wasn't their own.
But now he sent one of his bodyguards to show me to the captain's cabin, and so, once the spinning in my head had abated enough to allow me to walk, I went. The cabin was not actually much larger than my berth, but it had room for a slightly broader bed, as well as a desk big enough to double as dinner table. It was a heavy-looking thing, but it had still been bolted to the floor. I surmised that I had to be grateful not to have experienced waves strong enough to make such a large piece of furniture wander.
I was swaying on my feet, so I was grateful when Lord Herucalmo bade one of the bodyguards to bring me a chair. Chairs were as mobile here as they were in any house, and I briefly pictured them flying through the room when the sea was wild. That was probably why they had been stacked and secured in a nook between the bed and the wooden wall, and were only taken out at need. I sat down, but the swaying sensation got no better, since the floor, and the whole ship around us, continued to heave gently with the rhythm of the waves. I held on to my seat with both hands, but that didn't help, either.

Lord Herucalmo gestured dismissively to his bodyguards, and they withdrew and closed the cabin door behind them. I wondered whether I should worry. Without further preamble, Lord Herucalmo said, "You are accident-prone, I hear."
"I'm afraid so, Lord," I said. "I cannot seem to find my sea-legs."
"That is not what I mean," he said. He was lounging back, perfectly at ease, although his chair was no more spacious than the one I had been given, nor did the ship sway any less around him. Yet he looked as comfortable as if he had sat in a nice armchair on solid ground. It was frustrating.
"Yesterday, you almost fell overboard while sick," Lord Herucalmo mused. "And one of the mariners told me that he was worried for your safety this night."
I grimaced in dismay. So I hadn't fooled the man, and what was worse, he'd reported me to Lord Herucalmo. To the captain, too, probably. Hence the bucket.
I cleared my throat. "Abrazân surprised me," I said. Lord Herucalmo raised his eyebrows in challenge. I could see that he was guessing what I did not want to admit.
"And your head?" he asked.
Without my volition, my hand rose to touch the sore spot on my temple where a bump had risen. It hurt more when I touched it. I suspected that it must be discoloured, too, but I hadn't seen a mirror since the morning of my departure, and had no desire to see it now.
"I hit it against the hatch when I went back to my berth," I said.
His lip twisted in displeasure. "You should be confined to your berth. You're a danger to yourself when you stumble about. And I do not wish to appoint one of my guards to tag after you. I'm not here to babysit you, after all."

I stopped chewing on my lips for long enough to answer. "I didn't think you were, my lord," I said, and then I couldn't help asking, "Why are you here?"
"Because I am travelling to Umbar, obviously."
"But why?"
He raised a reproachful eyebrow. "I did not realise that I was answerable to you."
Once again, I bit down hard on my lip. "I was just wondering. Lord."
He chuckled at that. "If you must know, I am visiting my father. He is governor of Umbar, you may remember. He has long desired my company, and it is customary for those of the blood of Elros to prove themselves in the colonies for a while - not that you'd know anything about that, of course." He smiled, evidently pleased with the reminder of my ignorance. I was not offended. I could hardly be expected to know anything about the customs of the nobility, although I was aware of this particular custom, thanks to Lord Eärendur.

Lord Herucalmo went on, "I'd rather get that duty over and done with now, before I found a family. After all, I would not want to be an Aldarion, abroad while his wife languishes alone. That sort of thing never ends well, does it? So now is the time."
For a man who was not answerable to me, he had said a lot, I thought. But then, it seemed that he was quite proud of himself - both of being of the noble blood, expected to prove himself in the colonies, and of intending to be a better husband than Tar-Aldarion, whose story I recalled from one of the plays I had recently seen. My stomach clenched painfully at the thought that I, too, was going to be an absent husband who sailed abroad and did not hurry back to his family. I wasn't doing it out of selfishness, yet I felt that there was some accusation in Lord Herucalmo's words. Or was it directed at his own father, ruling in the colonies while his wife and son had to stay behind?

Rather than allowing my thoughts to follow that painful path, I tried to fix them on what he hadn't quite said, but what seemed to lie beneath his words. "Your lordship is planning to get married soon, then?" I asked.
"I do hope so!" he said, sounding very pleased, as one could at such plans. "All is settled, really - except for the Council's approval, but that should be a mere formality."
"Then I should offer my congratulations," I said.
"Hmmm. You should indeed."
"I wish you much happiness," I said, without much feeling. It wasn't that I didn't wish him happiness; it just reminded me more keenly of what I'd lost.
He noticed, of course. "You sound rather like you begrudge me my happiness."
"Not at all, my lord. I do hope that you and your betrothed will be happy. It's just that I'm missing my wife so much." I had to struggle against a lump in my throat and only managed to swallow it down with difficulty. I made my lips smile. "Congratulations. I am certain it is a most auspicious match. Do I know the lucky lady?"
It was inane babble, nothing more, and I expected him to tell me that it was none of my business, but he smiled - perhaps it even was a genuine smile - and said, "I'm sure you do." Then he leaned forward so quickly that I started and almost slid off my chair. "But enough of me. I didn't call you here to talk about my future."

There it was again. I felt my smile, which had been faint and forced in the first place, drop. "My apologies, Lord. Why did you call me?"
For an uncomfortably long moment, he studied me. His gaze did not have quite the same indimidating keenness of his grandfather's eyes, but in my current state, it was disconcerting enough. I was certain that he was deciding on his angle of attack, and once he had found it, he struck.
"Do you know what became of your man Balakhil?"
The question surprised me, so I just shook my head.
"Of course, he never truly was your man, was he? My uncle placed him in your house to betray your secrets to him. Still, you must have inspired some kind of loyalty, because he became reluctant about his errand, and only ever reported harmless bits and pieces - nothing that warranted your arrest - for years and years. Is not that curious?"
"Maybe it's because I have become an honest citizen, and there was nothing to report," I said, my throat dry. I remembered Balakhil begging for work in my house, abasing himself at my feet, even. At the time, I had thought he was truly desperate. Instead, apparently the King - Crown Prince, at the time - had told him to do it. Sadly, that made rather more sense, and I could have kicked my past self for not suspecting it. I had always been too soft-hearted. Perhaps, I had also been too proud. How else could I have believed that a former palace guard was desperate enough to enter my service? I would never ally myself with your enemies, he had said, and like an idiot I had trusted his word. Fool that I was, I had thought that he would honour his promise, when he had surely felt that a promise to someone like me didn't need to be honoured.

Lord Herucalmo raised an eloquent eyebrow. "Be that as it may," he said in a tone that left sufficient room for doubt, "he did mention your doubts about your embalming method. And then, this spring, he spoke of your secret ceremonies on the Mountain, and that gave my uncle a chance to attack. And he did, didn't he?"
I nodded. I had trusted the man, I thought bitterly. I had rescued him from ruin and hopelessness - or so I had thought, at least - and he had given the King a weapon against Lord Eärendur and myself. Then I frowned. "But it didn't go according to plan, did it?"
"Indeed, it did not," Lord Herucalmo agreed readily. "Still, Balakhil was taken back into royal service, so he got what he wanted. Except he couldn't live with what he felt he'd done. He took his own life, four days after the trial."
I opened my mouth, and then I shut it again. There was nothing to say. I hadn't known that. Of course, I had been unconscious at the time. But I hadn't made enquiries later on, either. Not that it would have changed anything - but it still made me feel as if I had failed as an employer, whatever else had happened. I should at least have tried to find out what had happened to Balakhil.

"The question," Lord Herucalmo continued, since I didn't speak, "is: are you as weak as that? I should hope not."
"Balakhil was always stronger than me," I responded without thinking. Really, I should have suspected that he wouldn't have served me without good reason. He had even asked me whether I wasn't afraid of wasting kindness on someone. Maybe he had started to feel reluctant, then, and tried to give me a hint. And I hadn't figured it out. What a fool I had been.
"Did you know it?" I couldn't help asking.
He raised an eyebrow. "About Balakhil? Why should I? I was never concerned with any of this. I didn't even know the name before Grandfather told me the story - after the body was found."
I was tempted to ask just how Balakhil had died. Then I asked myself why I wanted that information. For inspiration? To reassure myself that it hadn't been painful - or maybe that it had? I decided that I didn't need to know.
"So Lord Atanacalmo knew about it."
"Grandfather knows about everything worth knowing, I daresay. And he says he even tried to warn you. Told you not to trust anyone."
Despite my weariness, I couldn't help laughing. "He should have been more specific."
Lord Herucalmo gave a soft snort. "He couldn't, could he? You're much too honest."
"That's funny," I said, "considering how often I have been accused of dishonesty."

Now Lord Herucalmo heaved a sigh, the sort you use to signal to someone that they are being slow on the uptake. "You must realise," he said, "that not all accusations are necessarily true, and that in fact they may be entirely untrue - deliberately so, even."
It was no longer funny; it was sad, and deeply painful. I sobered, and said, "I am aware."
He smiled knowingly. "I'm sure you are."
I buried my face in my hands. This was all too much. Whatever point there was behind Lord Herucalmo's story, it only served to show just into how much of a mess I had gotten myself. There was no way out. I felt that I could take no more. I raised my head again. "Well, my lord, thank you for telling me. I suppose. May I go now?"
He had sobered, watching me very earnestly. "You may go," he said, "but you may not go overboard."
Even though I hadn't had any immediate plans to try that again, my cheeks grew hot. "What is it to you?" I asked, feeling defensive.
He said, "Oh, it would look awfully inconvenient if you died while travelling on the same ship I was on, wouldn't it? People might blame me."
"Ah. Especially the parents of your betrothed, I expect."
That made him chuckle. "Oh, my father-in-law would be perfectly delighted. No danger there. The Council and the people, however..."
I accepted that, but I couldn't stop myself from asking, "Why are you on the same ship, anyway? One should think you have your own."
"As it happens, I do not. Yet, anyway. Grandfather has ships, of course, but he's thrifty, isn't he? Why send his own ship and crew if merchants are making the journey all the time, anyway? It is not a visit of state, after all."

Something was eluding me, but I wasn't certain what it was. "I don't believe it," I said.
He shrugged. "I don't care. But I do expect you to arrive in Umbar alive and well, or as well as your constitution allows. You look dreadful. You need to eat more."
"So I can throw up more?" I said, at which he looked displeased.
"So you can keep your strength."
I might have laughed if I hadn't been so weary. "I've never had much of that. But don't worry, Lord. I will not inconvenience you."
"Good!" he said with more energy than I could imagine ever again having. "You're too young to take the Gift of Men, anyway. You're what, a hundred? A hundred and ten?"
"Sixty-one, actually."
I could see his eyes widen slightly. These nobles never seemed to grasp that us common folk aged rather more quickly than they did. Then he caught himself and said, "Well, then, much too young. It is graceless to unwrap a gift before its time."
That was either so childish or so profound that I didn't know how to respond. I managed to smile politely - or at any rate, to make the corners of my mouth move vaguely up and back - and said, "Yes, Lord." And since he had earlier permitted me to go, I stood up and bowed. As he did not tell me to sit down again, I concluded that I was free to leave and made my uncertain way back to the cabin door. But just as I reached it, I finally realised what had confused me earlier, and things fell into place. Well, some things, anyway.
I turned around again. "Are you going to marry the Crown Princess, my lord?"

He hadn't left his comfortable seat behind the desk, only leaned back again as if my unsteady walk was a sight to watch at leisure. Now, he tilted his head with a curious smile. "What makes you think so?"
"You said that it was somebody I knew. And that her father would be perfectly delighted if I drowned. There are probably plenty of people who wouldn't mind to see me drowning, but the King surely is the most prominent one. And you also said that the Council had to approve, which seems unusual. I mean, I'd expect that even a nobleman like you is free to marry whom he choses, as long as the parents agree. But if the lady were the Crown Princess, then it's a matter of state, so it makes sense for the Council to have a say." I stopped, embarrassed. "But she's your cousin."
"Second cousin," he said dismissively. "Besides, Father is from a fairly distant branch of the line. And before her mother, Eldalondë hasn't intermarried with the royal house in generations. So that should not be a problem." His smile bordered on beatific. "However, I am not going to marry the Crown Princess. There is no Crown Princess."

Confused, I frowned at him, until I remembered that the King himself had not been Crown Prince until his Father had appointed him. The King's daughter probably hadn't been appointed yet, either. "But there probably will be a Crown Princess."
He nodded approvingly. "Once she marries."
I felt my eyes widen. "You are going to make her Crown Princess?"
He clapped his hands in mock-applause. "Look at that! You do have a mind for politics after all!"
It felt very much like an insult. Nonetheless, I took it as confirmation of my question. In all honesty, I was surprised that I had connected the pieces correctly. Maybe my tired mind wasn't entirely useless after all, burned out though I felt. Once again, I forced myself to smile. "Congratulations again. She seems very lovely. And it's a great match, of course."
"She is, and it is indeed," Lord Herucalmo agreed, sounding very pleased. I hoped that Princess Vanimeldë was also pleased. At least her future husband wanted to be better than Aldarion, I thought. Then again, that wasn't exactly hard. Still, it might be a good beginning.
The future husband was still smiling, self-satisfied, and nodded in parting. "A good day to you."

It was not a good day, but it passed, and then another and another and another, until the coast of Middle-earth came into sight, at first as a grey haze rising above the shimmering sea, then growing more solid by the day. The end of the voyage and the promise of solid ground should have filled me with relief - if only the journey hadn't only just begun. With loneliness and a world full of strangers ahead, all I could feel was apprehension.

Chapter 40

Read Chapter 40

Chapter 40

The first thing that struck me about Umbar was the heat. Úrimë was a hot month in Yôzayân as well, but here, it was worse. The sun beat down mercilessly, and as soon as I was away from the harbour, the clay walls of the city felt like an oven. My weary body was boiled in its own juice as I trotted through the streets behind the carriers I had hired for my sea chest. I had been told that there was no point in waiting for my bags and the second chest, since they wouldn't be unloaded until the rest of the cargo was out of the ship, but Captain Tamrubên promised that he would dispatch it to the governor's palace once he was done. The governor's palace was the first address I had been told to turn to, so I had hoped that I would be able to join Lord Herucalmo, his bodyguards and the mule-drivers who were transporting his (plentiful and already unloaded) luggage. But he had turned me away, pointing out again that he wasn't here to babysit me, and that there were plenty of day-talers in the harbour who would surely be happy to show me the way to the palace and carry my belongings. That part was certainly true. They would have carried me on a litter, too, but even in my weakened state, I felt uncomfortable with the idea. Besides, I wasn't certain how long my money would have to last, and it seemed wiser to keep it well together.

So I followed the carriers on unsteady feet, through streets that all looked the same to me. They were lined with two- or three-storied houses made from reddish loam, with narrow windows to keep out the worst heat. Clotheslines hung above the street, stretched between houses, full of colourful clothing already stiff and dry. A couple of trees had been planted between houses, but their leaves looked shrivelled. They were covered in dust the same colour as the houses. I wondered if they were even still alive. There were shops with brightly dyed awnings, but there were no wares underneath, and the doors and windows were closed up as if all the shopkeepers had gone suddenly bankrupt. Aside from myself and the day-talers sweating under the load of my chest, the streets were empty. The bright colours of the fabrics couldn't shake my feeling that there was no life here. Although I had always imagined that death would be cold as the catacombs, I was nonetheless beginning to suspect that we had strayed into the realm of the dead. Maybe I had in fact drowned. At other times, I would have laughed at such a thought, but just then, it didn't feel unlikely at all. In my dazed state it did not occur to me that the inhabitants of the city were simply sheltering from the midday heat, in which even the awnings of the shops and the dusty tree-crowns provided very little shade and no relief.

Finally we left the stifling air of the city and made our way up a hill. Although the road was steep and arduous to go and the only shadows here were our own, at least there were no clay-oven walls to intensify the heat, and a light breeze was blowing from the sea, cooling my sweaty skin. Nonetheless, I was wheezing as if I had run all the way up when we finally reached the palace at the top of the hill. I felt light-headed and dizzy, and I noticed that the carriers were giving me anxious looks, as though worried that I might faint and they would be blamed for it (although it was my own fault that I hadn't hired litter-bearers, or at least a third man to carry a parasol or fan). I felt guilty, especially as they had to carry my chest on top of their own weight. I did not faint, and when they left me in the shade (at last) of a sort of pillared patio, I gave them an additional Ship in payment. The price we had agreed upon had seemed fair in the harbour, but realising that they would have to walk all the way back there through the same heat - albeit downhill and unloaded - made me think again. They kissed the coins and thanked me with many words in a mixture of my language and theirs. I watched them retreat down the hill while I still struggled to catch my breath. Every gasp of hot air hurt. The dusty city stretched out underneath, baking in the glare. If I hadn't felt so parched, I might have cried at the thought that I would have to live here from now on.

In contrast to the stifling heat outdoors, the tiled inside of the palace was downright chilly (I shivered in my sweat-drenched clothing). My welcome, also, was somewhat chilly. The doorman let me in, but looked at me in mistrust as if I were a ghost; the servants seemed to compete to stay out of my way. At last, one of them approached me, probably having no-one below her in the order of passing on unpleasant duties. She was very young, almost still a girl with a boyishly flat chest and a pretty face framed by short curls. She was clearly Umbarian, but her Adûnaic was flawless when she spoke to me. His lordship was in conversation with the young lord, who had arrived earlier this day (which I already knew, of course). He would probably not have time to see sir before dinner, which was served late. Surely sir wished to rest and refresh himself in the meantime. She would show sir to his room, if that was agreeable. All this was delivered in an urgently pleasant tone underlaid with anxiety, as though I were some terrifying nobleman rather than an exile. I smiled in what I hoped was a non-threatening way, although she had her head bowed and couldn't see it anyway, and agreed that rest and refreshment sounded very good. As she showed me the way - I felt like a lumbering brute walking after this graceful maiden - we were joined by an equally young, equally handsome Umbarian who might have been her brother (as I later learned, he was). He walked behind me in a manner that felt nearly threatening. But as he was wearing the same white livery ribboned with green and gold, except his was a knee-length tunic instead of her floor-length robe, I decided that he either meant me no harm, or if he did, that it was sanctioned by their lord so I would not be able to stop it.

For the sake of my sanity (which was shaky at best), I decided to assume that neither Lord Roitaheru nor his servants intended to hurt me. I felt that it would make things easier either way. At any rate, there was a room for me. That was a relief. Part of me had expected that I would be told to find a place to stay in this alien city on the very first day, just to add to my trouble. The other part had feared that all this 'teaching embalming in the colonies' had merely been a ruse to make me go quietly, for the sake of public order, and that I would in fact be imprisoned or worse as soon as I got here. Instead, there was a generous room waiting. Although the window was covered with a heavy curtain with the exception of a narrow gap that let through very little light, I could see that the bed was spacious. I could have fit Amraphel and all three children in there as well as myself with ease (my stomach clenched at the thought). It had pillows enough for six, and at least three blankets, although I couldn't imagine needing even one. The walls were tiled, which I found unusual, but it probably accounted for the bearable temperatures. The same tiles could be seen on the floor, underneath lavish knotted carpets. There was a chest of drawers, and the sort of writing desk that is called a bureau and has secret compartments that can be locked. Additionally, there was a round little table, and several cushioned chairs around that. Apparently, I was allowed to be comfortable in exile. Outwardly, anyway.

Inwardly, I was anything but comfortable. I still hadn't quite regained my breath, and my throat and lungs felt sore, like a sunburn on the inside. I was grateful when the young serving-girl poured some Umbarian drink from an earthenware jug into a pretty clay cup. The drink had a milky colour, but it didn't leave the unpleasant aftertaste of milk. It was sweetish and tasted strangely fragrant, like flowers. My stomach was nowhere near appeased, but it didn't seem to object to this drink, and it did me well. "That is lovely," I said, "thank you." She curtsied and smiled in a manner that looked almost embarrassed.
"Would sir like to have a light meal, or would sir rather bathe first?" the young man asked politely.
I frowned. "You don't have to 'sir' me all the time," I said. "I won't take offense if you say you. Actually, I'll feel much better if you say you." I tried a friendly smile. "I am Azruhâr. Nice to meet you."
The servants exchanged nervous glances. I was probably violating some sort of protocol. I remembered my inability to address Lord Eärendur by his name, and said, "Never mind. Whatever works best. But I should like to know your names at least, if that's alright."
"Kâlil, sir," the young man said, and after another glance at the young woman, "and Sîmar."
"Pleased to meet you," I repeated, and when that was met with awkward silence, I said, "And I think I should bathe first, if it's no trouble." In truth, what I would have liked most was to sleep - really sleep, not the shaky patches of rest I had managed to get on the journey - but at the same time, I felt sticky with grime and salty with my sweat and the sea-water we had used aboard ship to maintain some modicum of cleanliness. Bathing certainly wasn't the worst of ideas. Eating, on the other hand, could wait until my stomach had settled. If it ever did that. I still had the sensation of swaying on my feet, not from exhaustion but because some part of my body still seemed to think that it was at sea.

I watched uncomfortably as Sîmar opened my sea-chest, which contained mostly used and generally messy clothing. I had made one half-hearted attempt at scrubbing some things in saltwater a few weeks ago, but the result hadn't been convincing. "The rest of my luggage is still on the ship," I said defensively, "including my clean things."
"We shall have these laundered," Sîmar said gently, and with no apparent judgement. "If you would just choose something to wear after the bath, sir?" I was relieved that at least I was no longer a third person sort of person.
I found a loincloth and a tunic that still looked reasonably clean, and then followed the two of them to the baths of the palace. The baths proper were being used by Lord Roitaheru and his son, we were told, but I could use what they called the lovers' bath. It was a smaller, secluded hall with a perfectly comfortable basin in it. The servants insisted on helping me to undress, as though I were a child (or, I suppose, some sort of noble). They sponged me down, too, and only then did they invite me to climb into the basin. I saw my reflection in the water and grimaced. No wonder that the carriers had looked scared, and no wonder that the servants hadn't wanted to address me. My face was grey, and my body, thin like after a long sickness and full of ugly scars, looked hateful to me. I felt doubly embarrassed in front of these beautiful young people.

But it couldn't be helped, and so I let my repulsive body sink into the depth of the basin. The water was hot enough to make me break into a sweat again, and had the same flowery scent as the drink I'd had earlier. Once I had grown used to it, it wasn't unpleasant. I leaned back and tried to relax, although the alert presence of Kâlil and Sîmar made me nervous - I constantly felt as though they would expect something that I didn't know to deliver. I heard them whisper, almost but not quite drowned out by the water that moved around me. I submerged myself, ostensibly to let the salt in my hair dissolve, but really so I was out of earshot for a moment. Not that I understood anything they said as long as they spoke the language of Umbar - but it must still be a relief for them to speak freely without worrying about causing offense by the tone of their voices.

Whatever they thought or said about me, they treated me with the utmost care, and although it was not my custom to let myself be pampered like that, I had neither the strength nor the inclination to protest. So I let them wash and trim and comb my hair until it was no longer stiff with salt and snarled from the wind. I let Kâlil shave my face and rub attar of roses into my skin - that latter part was a luxury I would never usually have granted to myself, even with less precious oils, and felt guilty indulging in even now, especially as Kâlil turned it into a very gentle yet very thorough massage. It was undeniably pleasant. My treacherous body had deserved no such indulgence, but I couldn't deny that it was quite enjoyable to be anointed and kneaded in this manner. No wonder that rich folk spent money on it. I tried to put my conscience at ease by telling myself that I should make a good impression when meeting Lord Roitaheru later on, since I was very much dependent on his goodwill, and for that purpose, I could use all the help I could get. I certainy felt more like a human being once I was cleaned up and scented and orderly and towelled dry; not just because I was looking somewhat more respecable than I had been after the nauseating voyage and the sweaty climb up the hill, but also because it lifts one's spirits to be looked after and cared for, even when one hasn't earned it. Even my appetite had made a tentative return from wherever it had been hiding, and I could now accept the offer of a light meal with only minimal worries about whether my stomach would cooperate.

The so-called light meal had three courses, which were served on the little round table in my room: A bowl of cold cucumber soup, flat white bread and cold skewered meat with a very spicy sauce, and huge fleshy figs so sweet and sticky as if they had been dipped in honey. The soup was strange, but very refreshing; the bread was a pleasant surprise, and it helped to take the worst edge off the spices in the sauce. I did not dare to eat the figs right away, in case I would be sick again, and asked the servants to leave them for later.
"You can have something fresh delivered whenever you wish, sir," Sîmar said with a slight frown.
"Is that so?" I asked, genuinely surprised. I would not have presumed to order things unless they were offered first.
"Oh yes, sir," Sîmar confirmed. "You are his lordship's guest, after all."
"I see," I said. "But I'd still like to keep those fruit for later."
"As you wish, sir."
I glanced at the bed, which was looking rather inviting. With the curtains in front of the window drawn, I had no idea how late in the day it might be. "Do you think there's enough time to take a nap? Before his lordship wishes to see me, I mean?"
Sîmar tilted her head. "Yes, certainly. Dinner is not served until nightfall. Is there anything else you need from us?"
"No, thank you." For some reason, I still felt the need to explain myself. "I did not sleep well on the journey, so I'm very tired. Some sleep is all I want right now."

Of course, I didn't fall asleep after I had laid down in the spacious bed atop the generously provided blankets. I lay there, my eyes closed, waiting for the dim light in the room to turn into the blackness of unconsciousness, but it didn't happen. In spite of the cool floor tiles, in spite of the drawn curtains, I was sweating once more, albeit less profusely than earlier in the day. After a while - it might have been half an hour or several hours - my missing luggage arrived, somewhat noisily, and I felt obliged to get up and unpack, or rather, to supervise the unpacking. I tried to help Kâlil and Sîmar, but I suspect I stood in the way more than I helped. When I apologised, they assured me that it was no matter, but of course they would have said that anyway. I sighed, feeling awkward and frustrated. Kâlil put a letter into my hands that he had found between the light linen robes that Amraphel had wisely provided for me. Since I didn't know what else to do with myself, I sat down at the bureau to read it.

My dearest Azruhâr, it said in Amraphel's handsome writing, when you read this letter, you have arrived in Umbar and found the time to unpack your chest. I hope that you had a safe and comfortable journey. But even if it was an unpleasant journey, it is over now, and you can put it behind you and look ahead. Here, we have been missing you every day that you are gone, but we must also pull ourselves together and look ahead.
My eyes were stinging already.
I hope that you are finding Umbar more agreeable than you feared, and that you will have the necessary help as you build your new life. If you can, take your time. It will surely be different from home, so do not rush things if you do not have to. Maybe you can find somebody who can advise you - there must be other craftsmen or maybe merchants who know the local customs. I unfortunately know nothing about Umbar, although I will try to educate myself. You, also, must educate yourself. Use whatever resources you are offered. If I am reading the situation right, Lord R. will not be hostile. I dare not speculate more. This letter should be safe if you keep it so, but we cannot be certain. When you write to us (and I trust that you will write as often as you can, so we can be close to you in words, at least), you must also be mindful that others than the recipients might read the letters. Do not write anything that can be used against you or anybody else, nor anything that you do not want your enemies knowing.
I sighed. She had warned me about the risk of spies reading our letters even before the journey, and I didn't find the reminder any more helpful now than it had been then. Once, I thought, had been quite enough; I was worried enough on my own.
It is terribly sad that we will not be able to confide in each other fully, but that is how it is. Fortunately, there are sufficient things that we can share: the little harmless joys of life. This is a short letter because I am writing it while you are still here, and know what we are doing, and we know what you are doing. It feels strange to write as though you were far away already, but you will be by the time that you read it, and I try to keep that in mind as I write. I also began to write with the intention of cheering you up, not lecturing you, and I suspect that I have so far failed to do that. So let me turn to lighter matters...

It made no difference. By the end of the letter (a short greeting from the children, written by Azruphel), I was struggling with tears. I read it again, and then for a third time, which did not help. I buried my face in my hands and tried to fight back the sobs, but they were stronger, and before long, I was weeping openly. Startled, the servants asked what was wrong and how they could help, and I had to explain through my tears that it had nothing to do with them, and that they wouldn't be able to do anything about it. "I'm missing my wife and my children, that's all," I said, feeling at the same time resentful that they were intruding, and ashamed of burdening them with my grief, after they had worked so hard to make me feel comfortable. "It's not your fault. Can you leave me alone for a moment?"
They exchanged worried glances, but went outside (I assume they waited right next to the door, but I did not check). I read the letter one final time, then locked it in the little strongbox I had bought for my exile. After all, Amraphel wanted me to keep the letter safe. How safe it really would be was anyone's guess - I carried the key on my person, but of course it wouldn't be hard to take it from me - but at least I had made an effort. Then I lay down on the bed again to cry properly and unashamedly.

I must have fallen asleep over that, for when Sîmar was knocking on the door and telling me in a muffled but urgent voice that it was now time to prepare for dinner, it had gone dark. Disoriented, I stumbled to the window and drew back the curtains to reveal swiftly fading daylight. The sun was setting fast in this place. "Yes, please come in," I called in answer to the persistent knock.
The servants were looking at me with unabashed concern when they had lit the candles. Kâlil had brought warm water (again, it was heavily scented), and Sîmar washed my face and then my shoulders and chest with great care and gentleness. She stood a little too close, as if to make up for the loved ones I was missing, which made the procedure even more embarassing than it would otherwise have been. Kâlil, meanwhile, braided my hair. Then they helped me slip into one of the clean new linen robes and buttoned it up, as if I were unable to do that myself. I hastily put on the belt before one of them felt obliged to embrace me for the purpose, but I couldn't keep them from lacing my sandals. These were not new - we had bought them for one of the first visits to Andúnië - but I had worn them only rarely. I was still more in the habit of going barefoot in summer, unless I had to make a good impression. Today, I very much doubted that I would make a good impression whatever I wore.
Their work done, Kâlil held up a mirror and said, "Satisfied, sir?"
I forced myself to smile. "You've done your best," I said. I was shaved impeccably, and my hair had been styled in a professional manner so that it looked quite neat. That was the best that could be said for me. Other than that, my face was still gaunt and unhealthily grey, except for my eyes, which were red from crying, with purple blotches underneath.

Accordingly, the second thing that Lord Roitaheru said to me was, "Good grief, but you look awful." (The first thing was "Oh nonsense, get up; leave the grovelling to the natives.") Once I had gotten up, he studied me with his brow creased in displeasure. "I knew you came here for the sake of your health, but Calmo didn't tell me that you were on the way of turning into one of your corpses." Calmo - Lord Herucalmo, already comfortably seated at the dinner table - raised his goblet in my direction with the slightest of smirks. "I think you actually looked better with that broken nose," Lord Roitaheru continued, evidently unable to get over my unhealthy appearance.
"My apologies, your Grace," I said for the sake of saying something. "It has been a trying year."
"So it appears! Well, never mind, we'll get you back to health sooner or later." Another probing look. "Later, from what it looks like."
I managed a tense smile. "I shall do my best to recover quickly," I promised. After all, I did not want him to get the idea that I might not be able to fulfill the task that I was here for. But he did not seem to worry about that. "No undue rush," he said. "That's something you can learn from the people of Umbar. Things get done - eventually. When the time is right. Sometimes that's the next day, and sometimes it's a month later. It can be infuriating when you're in a hurry, and sometimes you have to kick them into action; but in this case, there's no hurry. We've done without embalmers so far; we'll do another month. Or longer, if it comes to that."

I wondered whether I should be relieved that I wouldn't be expected to start training apprentices the very next day, or rather worried because what he had said meant, ultimately, that I wasn't actually needed.
"That is kind of you, my lord, but I am ready to do my duty," I said hastily, for which he whacked me on the shoulder in what was probably supposed to be a gesture of masculine joviality. There was no hiding my clenched teeth from Lord Herucalmo, who smirked again, though his father appeared oblivious.
"Commendable!" he said, "But really, no rush. This week, you won't have the time anyway. On Valanya, you'll introduce yourself to the local council so they know who you are. And of course, I'll take you hunting with us, up in the mountains..."
As prey? The question lay on the tip of my tongue. Fortunately, I managed to keep it there.
"In the meantime, you need to build some muscle," Lord Roitaheru went on, giving my shoulder (disappointingly weak, apparently) a demonstrative squeeze. "You'll need strength if you are to teach the natives on your own. Right now, you don't look the part. So." His hand left my shoulder, prodding me in the chest instead. I managed not to stumble backwards and even bit back the cough that wanted to escape. "First duty is to eat, drink, get to know the community, build strength. Then we'll talk about other duties."
I figured that there was no point in protesting. "As you wish, your Grace."
He grunted in acknowledgement. "Would you like something to drink? They're making decent wines here, both white and red. I recommend the red. We're having tuna tonight, which can do with something hearty."

The tuna was huge and fatty and did indeed tolerate the red wine (which, to my taste, was far more than decent). It was served with carrots, herbs and onions, and the white bread that I had already enjoyed at lunch. Back at home, I had not been among the fortunate elites who qualified for sufficient quantities of wheat, and Lord Eärendur had foregone white bread on his table first out of solidarity with his subjects and later to save money. Accordingly, I had eaten white bread only on rare occasions, and now expressed my delight at it.
Lord Roitaheru replied, "Yes, well, wheat grows well in the climate of Umbar. And there's a lot more space for fields than on the Island, as long as you manage to keep them irrigated. Naturally, we have to send half our harvest to the motherland, but even so, there's enough left for us." He smiled, satisfied with himself, before he sobered. "Mind you, a few years back there was a drought, and there was almost nothing to harvest. A lot of people starved back then. None of our own, of course!"
"I'm sure Azruhâr remembers that year well," Lord Herucalmo observed with another smirk. "It's when his rise to glory began."
My face flared up. "I'm pretty sure I never rose to glory," I said stiffly, "and I certainly remember that year."
Lord Roitaheru laughed. "Don't take Calmo so seriously! He's just teasing you."
I barely managed to keep my hands from shaking. I glanced at Lord Herucalmo sideways to see how he was taking his father's words. The idea of not taking him seriously seemed rather perilous to me; the mere suggestion would have bordered on treason if it hadn't come from Lord Roitaheru. It was probably safest to pretend that it hadn't happened. Lord Herucalmo was taking a deep swig of his wine, and apparently saw no need to comment. With any luck he would have forgotten about this exchange by tomorrow, I thought.

With much food and much drink and much talk of little substance, the evening passed. I had the impression that Lord Roitaheru was actually trying to put my mind at ease. My mind resisted and suspected a trap. Nonetheless, I obediently expressed my gratitude for his generosity and hospitality when it was time to retire for the night. "Of course, of course," he replied in his jovial manner. "After all, I've torn you from your home and hearth! You shall have whatever you need." I did not believe him, but I thanked him all the same.
I was truly tired when I returned to my room (dutifully accompanied by Kâlil and Sîmar, of course). The swaying sensation still hadn't subsided, but at least I felt no longer sick. Maybe I would be able to regain some strength, I thought. Whether or not Lord Roitaheru had been genuine, taking some time to rest would doubtlessly be a good thing. For the time being, I was undressed and put into my nightshirt like a helpless child. Sîmar even asked in her meek voice whether I wanted one of them to warm my bed. I nearly laughed, but I did not want to embarrass her by explaining what that phrase implied in my language, so I merely answered (perfectly truthfully) that it was quite warm enough. I could only assume that the blankets were for decoration, or maybe so the bed didn't look quite so empty.

At night, however, I awoke shivering. The room had grown surprisingly cold, and I realised that the blankets were there for good reason after all. Before I curled up underneath them, a flicker of light between the curtains drew my attention. I walked over to the window looked outside. The palace's surroundings were dark except for the torches of the guards standing in the street, and for the lamps of the night watchmen patrolling the grounds. But the streets of the city below were now ablaze with the golden light of lanterns. In spite of the late - or early - hour, there must be droves of people out and about. Considering the drop in temperatures, I suppose it was sensible. I watched the wandering lights for a while; they were warm and soothing somehow, telling of ordinary people going about their ordinary business (even if it was an extraordinary hour as far as I was concerned). When it became too cold to keep standing at the window, I crawled back into bed. This time, I had no trouble falling asleep, and if I dreamt at all, I didn't remember any of it by morning.

Chapter 41

Read Chapter 41

Chapter 41

The Council of Umbar convened once every month, unless some extraordinary event called for an additional meeting. The arrival of Lord Roitaheru's only son was such an extraordinary event, so the honourable councillors had been summoned for an extraordinary session that Valanya. As I learned on the way to the council chamber (tagging behind the Lords Roitaheru and Herucalmo), the councillors were for the most part those sons of the noble houses that were currently cutting their teeth in Umbar, as well as whatever Númenórean craftsmen had nothing better to do on the day. Accordingly, the council was a changeable entity. There were no guilds and thus no guildmasters; most crafts didn't have enough representatives for that. If there was more than one master for a craft, they tended to take turns, if they showed up at all. The only people whose presence was mandatory were the captain of the city guard (the guards themselves were Umbarian, but the higher ranks were filled by men of Yôzayân), the spokesman of the native populace, the scribe who took the minutes, and Lord Roitaheru himself. "I've had council sessions with only four or five people in attendance," Lord Roitaheru said dryly, "but today should be a full house because they don't want to offend me."

Indeed, the council chamber - or rather, the theatre, which was what they were using as a council chamber - was filled well. In the centre space where the actors would normally play their roles, there were two cushioned chairs for Lord Roitaheru and (I assumed) his son, and a less grand chair where the court scribe was already seated, although he rose and bowed as the lords entered. The other councillors sat in the stone seats for the audience and had brought their own cushions. I had none.
"What are the seating arrangements?" I asked Lord Roitaheru, remembering the strict division between noble and common councillors, not to mention between casual observers, witnesses and other nonvoting attendants that I had observed at the royal council.
"Just sit wherever," he said with his usual nonchalance, "preferably at the front so I can point you out easily."
I managed to get one of the last seats in the second row, where I sat down under the curious looks of the men in the neighbouring seats. I smiled and bowed awkwardly, and the young man on my right held out his hand with a smile of his own. "I haven't seen you before, have I? I'm Laurilyo," he introduced himself. I shook his hand, and said, "Azruhâr. Pleased to meet you. I arrived the day before yesterday." The man on my left introduced himself as Zainabên, and then we hushed because Lord Roitaheru had raised his hands to call for silence.

Lord Roitaheru greeted all present, expressed his pleasure at the number of people who had made it to this meeting, and promised that it would be short. "Only two items on the list, so if you don't argue for too long, we'll be out of here within the hour." Appreciative laughter.
"To the first point. I ask you all to give a warm welcome to my son Herucalmo. His grandfather could finally spare him for a year, so here he is." He gestured at Lord Herucalmo, who rose and nodded politely. He gave a short speech in which he told everybody how happy he was to join the Númenórean community of Umbar, how pleased he was to meet everybody, and how much he was looking forward to his stay and the many things he would learn here. The councillors applauded with great enthusiasm, and Lord Herucalmo sat down again with a smile.
His father went on, "Also welcome to Azruhâr, the King's Embalmer, who will teach the new craft of embalming here in Umbar." I stood up and bowed. The expectant silence let me know that I would have to say something. "Thank you." I could not well tell them that I was happy to be here - I was not - but I managed, "I am honoured to meet you all," and then, remembering what Lord Roitaheru had written to the King, said "I hope that my work here will make it possible for those people of Yôzayân who die here to be preserved and laid to rest in Yôzayân itself." I was tempted to ask them to treat me kindly, but I doubted that it would be of use, so I just repeated, "thank you." I bowed to less enthusiastic but perfectly polite applause, and sat back down, my face burning with embarrassment.

"You can get to know both of them better at the banquet tonight," Lord Roitaheru took over. "Now, to the second point. News from the capital." He held out his hand to the scribe, who handed him a scroll that he unrolled under the watchful eyes of the councillors. "Our brethren of the royal council inform us of their recent decisions. Firstly, the rationing that was in place in the motherland has been lifted, and shall remain so after the harvest and throughout winter. It is up to the colonies to ensure that sufficient provisions will be available, which may mean a higher tribute than usual. Yes, Talogon?"
"Does that mean that we shall have to ration our provisions, your Grace?" asked an elderly man, standing up.
"That depends on the harvest, I'd say," Lord Roitaheru said, "but calm yourself; I'm sure we shan't starve." Talogon nodded, and sat back down.
"Yes, Darîm?"
Darîm appeared to be the spokesman of the Umbarians. Although many of the councillors and even Lord Roitaheru himself wore robes made of the colourful patterned fabrics I had seen just after my arrival, his were cut differently in what must be the local fashion. Although he still looked fairly young - younger than I was - he had a full beard. He was frowning as he stood up to ask, "Shall there be rationing for my people?"
"We'll see about that. Again, it depends on the harvest. We'll discuss the matter when the time comes," Lord Roitaheru said, and although I could see that Darîm was frowning more deeply, he still sat down again without saying more.
"Further questions?" Lord Roitaheru asked, looking around to see a general shaking of heads. "Very well. Second. Her royal highness the princess Vanimeldë desires to promote artistic exchange between the motherland and the colonies, so if any among you feel inspired to coordinate the exchange of artists or actors or whatnot, let me know." He looked around expectantly, noting the occasional show of hands. "Very good. Let us meet up and discuss further details at some time. No need to bore everyone else. Minluzîr will notify you." Those last words were accompanied with a nod at the scribe, who nodded back, then looked around and wrote down (I assume) the names.

"Right. Finally, a change in law, concerning the coercion of witnesses in the court of law. Henceforth, no citizen of Númenor may be put to torment for the sake of confession or condemnation unless the full council has unanimously agreed to the measure." With a raise of his eyebrows, he rolled the paper back up, then looked into the round. "Yes, Arandur?"
Arandur was a young man in neat formal robes, with jewelled clasps in his hair. He stood up and asked, "This seems to suggest that the old law, that only the King himself had the right to decide on such a measure, is no longer applicable. Do I understand correctly?"
Lord Roitaheru unrolled the scroll again, re-read the sentence, then nodded. "Yes, that seems to be the idea."
Frowning deeply, Arandur said, "But that law hailed from the days of Elros Tar-Minyatur himself, on the grounds that the King alone could be trusted to judge fairly!"
I very nearly laughed.

Lord Roitaheru merely shrugged, but Lord Herucalmo rose to reply. "There have been some questionable cases where the torment of witnesses either led to no new insight, or turned out to be unjustified and based on incorrect assumptions," he said in a calmly authoritative voice that he must have learned from his grandfather. "It has therefore been decided that one man, even if he be King, can be misguided in such matters, for which reason it must from now on be agreed by the full council that torture of a witness is justified. It is to be hoped that if so many men agree on one thing, it is more likely to be accurate."
He didn't look at me, instead meeting the eyes of Arandur, but I felt my face grow hot nonetheless. I hoped that nobody would notice.
"Our council, or the royal council?" Talogon now asked. "In the unlikely case that we need to put someone to the torments, could we decide it - provided that we agree unanimously - or would we have to request a vote from the royal council?"
"Good question," Lord Roitaheru said. "It would make more sense to let us decide here in such a case, since we would be familiar with the case and the royal council would not be. But the bill doesn't say. I shall write and request clarification. Further questions?"

Talogon sat down, and Lord Roitaheru gave the word to one Lotherín. By his military-style tunic and the breastplate he wore, I assumed that he must be a guard or soldier. Lotherín asked, "Does this only concern trials, or does it also apply to torment as punishment?"
"As I understand it, it's only about trials," Lord Roitaheru said. "It explicitly talks about witnesses. - Yes, Darîm?"
"What about the people whom I represent? Does it apply also to them?" Darîm asked.
Lord Roitaheru looked back down at the scroll, and said, "It only mentions citizens of Númenor," he said, "so this is of no relevance to you."
"In that case, may I request that in this place, it is also applied to my people?" Darîm said.
"That seems rather cumbersome," Lord Roitaheru said, looking around. "Thoughts?"
There were a couple of comments along the line of keeping things fair, but also of keeping them simple; of sticking with the procedure as it had always been, and of seeing no need to extend the law of Númenor to include Umbarians.

I made the mistake of muttering, "Wouldn't it be more just to apply the same law to them, though?"
And Laurilyo raised my hand. "Azruhâr here has something to contribute!" he said brightly.
"No, don't," I hissed, but Lord Roitaheru had already heard him. He raised an eyebrow, but he said, "Yes, Azruhâr?"
Laurilyo gave me a nudge and a smile. "Go on, don't be shy!" he said.
Again, my face was flaming hot. This time, there was no hoping that nobody would notice. I rose, as I had seen the others do, and cleared my throat. "For the sake of justice, I would think that the law should be applied to the people of Umbar as well. I don't see how that could be cumbersome. After all, you're talking about torture. If you want to inflict such pain on somebody, the least you can do is make certain that everybody agrees it's necessary." The words came out more hotly than was appropriate - I could not have softened them if I'd tried - and I sat down hastily afterwards. I avoided looking at anyone, least of all Lord Roitaheru. My pulse was loud in my ears; I could barely listen to the rest of the debate. Ultimately, there was a vote, which narrowly followed the motion that Torment of Witnesses, whatever their place of origin, had to be agreed upon by the full local council (response from the capital pending). I was glad of the outcome, but I still left the council chamber downcast. I had meant to be inobtrusive and agreeable, and instead, I had managed to call attention to myself and openly oppose my noble host.

"I didn't know you had political ambitions!" Lord Herucalmo duly proclaimed, sounding thoroughly amused, as we made our way back to the palace. The day had grown warm and was well on its way to unbearably hot, and I was sweating profusely under my woolen robes of office, which I had felt compelled to wear for my introduction to the councillors.
Ambitions, I thought. That was something the King had accused me of, when he had still been the Crown Prince. Perhaps Lord Herucalmo was just teasing me again, but then again, he might also be reporting back to the King - his father-in-law, after all, if his own ambitions came true.
"I do not," I said.
"For the sake of justice!" Lord Herucalmo parroted me, and his father said, "True, true. Spoken like one of our eager young nobles."
Yet again, my cheeks were burning in a way that had nothing to do with the sun. "I beg your pardon for speaking out of turn, your Grace. It was a matter close to my heart, so I forgot myself."
"Is it?" Lord Roitaheru sounded surprised. "What stakes do you have in the Umbarians?"
"Not that," Lord Herucalmo explained before I could react. "Azruhâr has been... shall we say, the most recent case of unjustified torment." I suppose I had to be grateful about the concession that it had been unjustified.
Lord Roitaheru gave me an astonished look. "Really! Well, that explains a few things. Why didn't you say so?"
Embarrassed, I said, "I thought you knew all about it. Lord Atanacalmo wrote to you, didn't he - I mean. Concerning me."
"He did, but he mostly just wrote that it would be beneficial to your health and safety if you could leave the island for an extended period, and whether I was still interested in your services. No mention of unjustified torment. I expect he thought you'd tell me yourself!"

I found this all rather hard to believe, but I didn't know what to say about it. So I shrugged awkwardly.
"Anyway," Lord Roitaheru went on, "You weren't out of turn. Or only barely so. You're entitled to a seat on the council once you start working in your craft, after all."
I was certain that he was making fun of me now. "I'm hardly qualified, my lord," I said, which appeared suitable.
He laughed at that. "Precious few people are!" Sobering, he said, "Look, young man, we've got different types of councillors here. Some are the firstborn sons of noble houses sent here to practice their statecraft before they come into their inheritance, like our bright little Arandur. Then there's the other noble sons, the second- and third-borns and the sons of sisters, who have nothing to inherit but still want a comfortable office. Over here, no post is hereditary, so you can achieve a lot by merit and bribery! Look at me: I'm a second son, and would never have accounted for much on the Island. Here, I'm essentially King in all but name, and so will my successor be. That's why I said that you were only here for a year, incidentally," he was turning to his son, "so nobody would see you as a rival to his ambition."
"I assumed as much," Lord Herucalmo said pleasantly.
Lord Roitaheru returned his attention to me. "So that's the second type. Then there's the third type, still noble, but something of a disappointment to their family, and they're sent here to redeem themselves, or simply to get them out of the way before they get hurt. Laurilyo, for instance - he's well-meaning, but completely unsuited to hold office. Here, he can't do much damage, so it's of no consequence."

Surprised, I asked, "Laurilyo is the son of a noble house?"
"Hm-hm. My nephew. Should by rights be my brother's heir, but he's much too frivolous, isn't he? Right now, anyway. Maybe he'll grow up someday, but for the time being, it's safer to keep him here out of harm's way and hope that his sister marries wisely."
I wondered what Lord Roitaheru meant by frivolous. The way in which Laurilyo had volunteered me? From my point of view, it hadn't felt different from the way in which other nobles had directed my fate before, but maybe this was exactly the sort of damage Laurilyo - Lord Laurilyo, I corrected myself - could be expected to do. I vowed to myself to stay out of his way in the future.
Unaware of my musings, Lord Roitaheru went on, "Anyway, qualified or not, they're all entitled to a seat and a vote. So you can hardly be the worst." Another laugh. "Besides, the rest of our councillors are honourable craftsmen. You'll fit right in with them. And don't worry about attendance, you don't have to be there all the time. Only when there's a matter close to your heart, hm?"
He was mocking me again, but that was hardly the most pressing matter. Lest they accuse me of assuming authority again, I pointed out, "But I'm not a master craftsman." After all, Lord Atanacalmo (or his daughter, which amounted to the same) had been adamant on that point.
But Lord Roitaheru just gave me a stare that might have been scorn or might have been pity. "Azruhâr, nobody here gives a damn."

The feast that evening was, in the words of Lord Roitaheru, the perfect occasion to make acquaintances. I very much doubted that anyone would want to make my acquaintance, once they learned more about my craft, but as it turned out, nobody here gave a damn about that, either. In fact, nobody wanted further information on what my craft even was. Instead, they were eager for tales from the capital. Over the course of the evening meal, I described the coronation ceremony four times, recounted several of the plays Princess Vanimeldë had staged to various lords and masters, described the character of the King as charitably as I could, and spoke about the discontinuation of the rites on the Holy Mountain to a few faithfully inclined councillors (although I left out certain details). After the banquet, dancing followed. Due to the lack of ladies - aside from a few master craftsmen and the captains of the city and palace guard, most men here were either unmarried or had left their wives in Yôzayân - Lord Roitaheru had hired a troupe of Umbarian dancers. They first performed for us, then danced with those who wanted to dance. I did not. I was glad to recognise the steps of two (possibly three) dances that Azruphel had learned and proudly showed me, but most of the dances were unknown to me, and at any rate, I was in no mood for dancing. So I watched from the side and nursed my wine.

After a while, Lord Laurilyo sat down next to me. So much, I thought, for keeping out of his way. "You're not much of a dancer, are you," he observed.
"Never got the hang of it," I admitted.
"You should try it. You need some distraction. You're much too serious."
"I suppose so, my lord," I said, and he grimaced as if his wine had suddenly gone sour.
"Ugh! So formal! Relax, man. We're all friends here. You may be here to preserve the dead, but that shouldn't keep you from enjoying life." He was leaning in a little too close, smiling sweetly. Perhaps he'd drunk to much.
I didn't know how to answer, so I watched the proceedings instead. By now, the hall had grown noticeably more empty; several councillors and dancers appeared to be missing, and when I looked at the dais with the high table, I saw Lord Roitaheru getting ready to retire, flanked by two of the dancers. I wondered where his valet had gone. Then I wondered what Lord Roitaheru and the dancers would get up to. Suddenly, I realised that the ladies might possibly be offering other services than just dancing. I don't think I worded that thought, but perhaps my eyes had said enough, because Lord Laurilyo looked in the same direction and said, "See? There's a man who knows how to have fun."
I bit down hard on my lip, and Lord Laurilyo grinned. "Oh, you disapprove!"
"It's none of my business," I said awkwardly, "I merely wonder what Lord Herucalmo will think."
Lord Herucalmo was as yet busy dancing, but presumably, he would go to his father's suite eventually. I did not want to be in the vicinity when Lord Herucalmo found out that, perhaps, his father wasn't entirely faithful to his mother.

Lord Laurilyo was now looking positively mischievous. "What should he think? You don't suppose he believes that his father has been celibate all these years? I very much doubt it." He leaned in closer yet - by now, his head was very nearly resting on my shoulder - and his hand was gripping mine in a conspiratorial manner. "Truth be told, I don't think his mother cares much. It's all part of their agreement, isn't it? Arancalimë doesn't ask how many lovers he takes over here, and he doesn't ask what she gets up to with her handmaidens over there, and everyone's happy."
I frowned at that new intelligence. "I can't imagine Lord Atanacalmo would approve, though."
"You know Atanacalmo?" Lord Laurilyo wiggled his eyebrows. "Well, the shrewd old bastard knows everything and then some. But he's not nearly as ruthless as he pretends to be, is he? Anyway, he's got the grandson he wanted. As long as Roitaheru doesn't father any bastards, why should he care what happens beyond that?"
I opened my mouth to protest, then shut it again, then went for, "We shouldn't gossip."
"My, but you're dull!" Lord Laurilyo laughed. "Well, I'll leave you to your prim and proper thoughts, then." He ruffled my hair (playfully, I am sure, but it still set my teeth on edge) and returned to the dancefloor with a spring in his step. Awkwardly, I tried to brush my hair back down with my fingers.

"Not your type, is he?" Lord Herucalmo asked, evidently needing a break from dancing. I had not even noticed that he had come so close, and was now very glad that I hadn't continued to discuss his parents with Lord Laurilyo. I shook my head guiltily.
"Nor are the twins," Lord Herucalmo said as he sat down. It was a statement, not a question.
"Twins?" I asked, genuinely confused.
"Your appointed servants," Lord Herucalmo said, pointing into the shadows of the collonade at the side of the hall. Squinting, I could see Kâlil and Sîmar close to the door, presumably waiting until I took my leave.
"I did not know they were twins," I said, more guiltily.
"Hm-hm. And Father says they can't tempt you. Nor can the dancers. So what can tempt you? Who's your type?" The question made me blink. I had probably drunk more than I should, too.
"My wife," I said without thinking, which seemed to take him aback.
"Ooooh," he then made. "Well, that's awkward."
"Is it, your Grace?"
"She's not here, right? So that's awkward for you."

Awkward was not the word I'd have chosen, I thought. Tough, perhaps. Sad. Cruel. The only thing awkward was that apparently Lord Roitaheru had meant to assuage my homesickness by giving me two handsome servants. To look after me. And to warm my bed. I grimaced as I realised that Sîmar had known exactly what she'd been saying (in which case Lord Roitaheru really had no business accusing Lord Laurilyo of frivolity, I felt). And I hadn't understood a thing.
"I'll manage," I heard myself say.
He smirked. "I'm sure you will. Or else you will lower your standards, eh?"
Standards had nothing to do with it, I thought, and the sick feeling in my stomach had nothing to do with too much wine, either. It was a relief when at last I could retire to my room without being impolite. I didn't have the heart to look either Kâlil or Sîmar in the eye, and was glad when I lay in my lonely bed and the candles were extinguished.

Chapter 42

Warning for animal death. It's a hunting trip, after all.

Read Chapter 42

Chapter 42

After a couple of uneventful days, Lord Roitaheru made good on his threat of taking me hunting (as a fellow hunter, apparently, but that didn't make it much less intimidating.) I said that it was not at all necessary to include me, but he insisted that it was customary to take one's guests on a hunting trip. I pleaded ignorance. As a result, I was subjected to an afternoon of target practice under the watchful eyes of Lord Roitaheru himself. Part of me wondered whether he had given the same lessons to Lord Herucalmo, many decades ago, and told myself to feel honoured. The other part cursed these noblemen and their customs while I struggled with the bow. Although I had been given (supposedly) an exercise bow, strung less powerfully than the regular hunting bows, it still put up a fight in my inexperienced hands. Lord Roitaheru had a lot to say about my bad posture, the weakness of my pull, the way I stuck out my elbow and my lamentable lack of accuracy. Nonetheless, he was in excellent spirits at the end of the lesson. I, meanwhile, could barely move my shoulders.

But they took me along regardless - equipped with a horse from Lord Roitaheru's stables, a leather cuirass from the armoury, a hunting knife from Lord Roitaheru's collection, and the light bow and gear that I had practiced with yesterday. The other members of our hunting party were the lords Herucalmo and Laurilyo and a gaggle of their retainers, Captain Gohenor of the palace guard with two promising young soldiers and a small host of guards to look after us. Additionally, there were servants to look after the horses and tents and the animals, and local scouts who knew where the animals could be expected to hide. We left just after sunrise, while it was still reasonably cool, and rode up into the mountains, where I was told it would be less hot than the city below even in the afternoon. We passed rows upon rows of vines. Then the vinyards gave way to steep slopes where the only growth were stunted olive trees and pines, some thorny scrubs, and coarse mountain grass amid the sharp rocks.

"These mountains are the wealth of Umbar," Lord Roitaheru explained grandly. "Not so much because of the silver in them, but mostly because they make it rain." On the other side of the mountains, I was told, there were vast deserts, but on the coastal side, it rained regularly enough to farm successfully and harvest plentifully. I could see the fields from up here, large rectangles between thin lines that were the irrigation channels: golden wheat, different types of green, gourds between their twines that were large enough to recognise even from up here.
"What sort of beast will we be hunting up here?" I asked. In spite of the reasonable temperatures, our surroundings didn't look like the sort of environment that invited lots of animals. Not the kind you wanted to encounter, anyway.
"Leopards, if we're lucky," Lord Roitaheru promptly said, and then laughed at the face I made. "Not likely. They're usually smart enough to avoid hunters, unless they're very hungry. At this season, they usually aren't. No, there's a type of red deer that we're most likely to find. And goats. Or sheep. Don't worry about the leopards. Mind your step though. There are vipers here, and scorpions."
For the time being, however, I only saw small birds much like nuthatches, and lizards that scuttled away as we came too close.

By the early afternoon, we reached a stony patch of relatively level ground that, aside from offering room enough for the tents, also had a small natural spring that could provide us with water, and thus would be our campsite. We sat in the shade of an impressive rock formation for refreshment. Then, the hunters and their scouts went onwards, while the servants stayed behind to set up the tents and the guards stayed to make sure no animals or outcasts raided our provisions. I wouldn't have minded staying behind, either; I didn't feel that I would have much to contribute to the hunt. But Lord Roitaheru insisted that I belong to the hunting party. "Don't worry, you don't have to shoot anything," he said. "Just watch and learn."

So I crept after the scouts and the hunters, trying to make no noise as we left the path (which had already been narrow) and followed tracks that I would never have recognised as such. Everything was dust and lose rocks and glaring sunlight. I wondered why I had to be here, rather than sitting in the shade back at the campsite, or making myself useful by helping to put up tents. I felt very much out of place. What business did I have to follow these nobles at their sport? If I wasn't even required to shoot anything - which was just as well, because I could barely lift my arms after yesterday's training session - then why was I there? Watch and learn, Lord Roitaheru had said, but to what purpose? So they could test me on it later, and laugh at my incompetence? I couldn't say I was keen on that. Not that I had any say in the matter, of course. I resigned myself to being attentive, just in case, and also as inobtrusive as I could, hoping that they would more or less forget me.

And they did forget - or at least, ignore - me, for the time being. I managed not to slip on the rocks, I managed to remain silent, and they were intent on sneaking up on a herd of deer, smaller and darker than the reddish deer I knew from Yôzayân. They knew what they were doing; they barely needed to exchange signals to take different positions and release their arrows at the same time. The bowstrings twanged in unison. Two deer lay dead before I had even realised what was happening; another, fleeing, took an arrow to the haunch. It tried to escape with the rest of the herd, but it stumbled on its injured leg and tumbled down a ravine, coming to lie on a narrow ledge between the ravine and the even steeper slope underneath.
"Should we send someone to recover it?" Lord Laurilyo asked, sounding doubtful.
"Maybe later," Lord Roitaheru said. "I'm afraid it's lost, though. That slope is looking treacherous."
I could see the deer twitching sadly, unable to get back to its feet or even just raise its head.
"Someone should release it, at least," I heard myself say.
Captain Gohenor said, "Waste of a good arrow. It won't last long, anyway. But go ahead, dispatch it if you must."
That wasn't what I had meant, and of course my attempts went awry. One arrow disappeared into thin air as I shot it over the edge of the slope; the other broke on the rocks next to the poor animal. It was one of Captain Gohenor's young soldiers who finally shot an arrow deep into the deer's trembling chest. It crumpled in on itself, dead.
"Waste of three good arrows," Captain Gohenor said, shaking his head.

I was ashamed and determined to make up for my blunder. "I'll recover the last one, at least," I promised. "And the deer." And I started down the ravine before I could think better of it.
It hadn't looked too bad from up there, but Lord Roitaheru had been right: it was treacherous. The stiff quiver hanging from my hip obstructed one leg, and the seemingly solid rock field was moving under my feet; several times, I sank knee-deep into the sharp rocks, and more than once the rocks simply slid a fair distance down the ravine, taking me with them. The mountain walls were ringing with the grinding and clanging of the shifting rocks. I realised that my helpless sliding movement might well turn into an incontrollable rock slide that would easily drag me over the edge of the slope. I would end like the deer - not with an arrow in my haunch and another in my chest, that is, but as a broken body at the foot of a steep slope. I tried to figure out how I felt about the prospect, and couldn't make up my mind.

At last I reached the ledge, battered and struggling for breath. From down here, the ravine looked far more forbidding than it had from above; scrambling back up would be hard work. The ledge I was on offered no way out: it went on a little both ways, but then it ended in sheer rock walls on either side. Cautiously, I risked a glance over the edge. The slope went down all the way to the distant vinyards. There were no footholds worth mentioning, although the occasional tuft of vegetation suggested that there must be cracks in the steep walls. At any rate, climbing down there was out of the question. I would have to brave the ravine again. I felt light-headed already.
Still, I would somehow have to finish what I had started. So I squatted down by the deer. Its head lay at an awkward angle; it had clearly broken its neck in the fall, and what had looked like a struggle to get back up from above had more likely been the final spasms of death. Waste of an arrow indeed.

I looked up again. The hunting party were waiting for me in grave silence. I could picture the disapproval on their faces without seeing them. This was no way of redeeming myself in their eyes. I had wanted to show that I wasn't entirely useless, but instead, I was slowing them down with a dangerous and useless fool's errand. Infuriating. I cursed myself while I removed the arrows with the same motion I had been taught yesterday. Pulling them out of muscle and skin was rather tougher than pulling them out of a straw target. I wiped the congealing blood off the tips and stuffed the arrows into my quiver. I retrieved the broken arrow, too; the tip and the fletching might still be salvageable. Then, with a final look upwards, I heaved the body of the deer onto my shoulders. Considering how lightly these animals moved on their thin legs, it was surprisingly heavy. It would make the climb even more difficult than it already was. How stupid I had been. I should've listened to the experienced hunters. And yet, if I set it back down and scrambled up the ravine without my load, I would feel like even more of a fool. It would make my failure complete.

I began the cumbersome ascent. The sharp rocks threatened to crush my ankles - at least, that's what it felt like - and grazed my shins and knees. It would have been easier without the additional load - aside from the weight, I also had to use at least one hand, and occasionally both, to keep it in place. Once or twice I very nearly landed flat on my face when the rocks I was standing on slid away underneath me. I was reminded of the humiliation of convicted traitors, dragged through the streets on their knees under the yoke of shame. That probably felt much the same. The thought didn't exactly make things easier. I tried to tell myself that I had brought this upon myself and that it was just punishment for my stupidity, but I resented it all the same. It was all I could do not to curse out loud. I crossed the final stretch back up towards the path in an undignified crawl. Lord Herucalmo held out his hand, and when I took it, pulled me up to my feet. The two soldiers relieved me of my burden. Nobody wanted their arrows back. Lord Roitaheru was shaking his head at me.
"You were right, Lord," I said in a desperate attempt at making light of the whole thing. "The slope is treacherous."
"If I had wanted it that badly," he said grimly, "I would have sent a servant."

The rest of the deer had gotten safely away in the meantime, of course. As a result, we spent what felt like hours sneaking through the mountains at a painfully slow pace, freezing at every sign of the scouts, but we couldn't find them or any of their kind again. Nobody said so, but I knew they were blaming me and my delay. The sun was beginning to sink when the scouts found some wild sheep, at least. They were deftly making their way across a mountain wall that looked too steep to climb, like a consolation prize - or a challenge. Only one of them was directly killed by the arrows of the more ambitious hunter; some others more likely misjudged their steps in their surprise at our attack, and plunged down from the wall, there to die of arrows that caught them before they had recovered their footing. Most got away, but it was no matter; they day was saved, at least to some extent, and there was noisy chatting and the one or other song as we made our way back to the campsite. I trotted behind the others, ashamed and miserable.

While we had been gone, the servants had put up various tents and filled pots and buckets with water from the spring. They had also already retrieved and prepared the deer, but I joined them as they took the sheep some way away from the camp for further processing. It was clear that we wouldn't be able to use so much meat in one evening, so I was interested in how they would preserve the surplus. Flies were buzzing around us, and although the night would doubtlessly be cold, it was still too warm to store meat without taking precautions. Perhaps, I thought, it would be relevant to my work. I also felt that I had to serve some kind of purpose, to justify my presence. An additional pair of hands surely wouldn't hurt, even though they had to tell me what to do at first (and seemed reluctant about it).

So I spent the first part of the evening gutting and draining sheep under the watchful eyes of the Umbarian servants. I probably needed twice as long as they did, and of course the process had nothing whatsoever to do with the methods we used in embalming, but I felt a little better afterwards: at least I had done something useful. My hands were smeared to the elbow with blood, however, and Lord Roitaheru duly ordered me to bathe when I returned to the camp with the servants. I thought he was joking, but they had actually prepared a bathtub in one of the tents. Halfway through my soak, a guard came in to take a look at my legs and leave some healing unguents at my disposal. Apparently Lord Roitaheru was worried that I had hurt myself. He wasn't wrong - there was plenty of bruising and the occasional graze - but it was nothing serious, so I was almost amused. At least, I thought, he seemed to be more worried than angry, or else he would have let me suffer in silence.

I was told that I would share a tent (a different one) with Lord Laurilyo. Looking inside, I found two camp beds with sheepskins and blankets on them, and even a woven carpet on the ground between them. Grandfather, in his tales from the war, had spoken about sleeping on the bare ground with nothing but a bedroll and his cloak. Clearly, I would be more comfortable this night, although my resolution to stear clear of Lord Laurilyo was again being tested. (As it happened, he was perfectly friendly and reasonable and tried - as far as I could tell - to put my mind at ease; he expressed concern for my bruises, and even declared that he wasn't much of a hunter himself, and only came along for the company.)
When darkness had fallen, we feasted on roast deer while the servants fried the offal and boiled the sheeps' blood and the lesser cuts so they wouldn't spoil until tomorrow. The lords and Captain Gohenor were rehashing the day's events by the fire, and I was relieved that my misadventure had already begun to turn into one of those funny hunting stories that nobles seem to love. "There he went - crashing down the ravine - as though his life depended on that one deer!" Laughter all around. I forced a smile and I tried to convince myself that I hadn't ruined their hunting trip through my ignorance after all.

Still, when Lord Roitaheru summoned me a day after we had returned, I was fully expecting a reprimand. Instead, he suggested to go for a walk. We went to the palace garden - a huge enclosed space between the buildings with some kind of secret water supply, as verdant and lush as you could wish - and walked on the trimmed lawn. The air was heavy with humidity, the buzzing of bees and the scents of ripening dates and roses with enormous blossoms. I had not been to the garden before, so it could have been a pleasant place to explore, if I hadn't been so worried about the purpose of this walk.
I was just beginning to chew on my lips when Lord Roitaheru finally spoke. "So. Tell me. What are you so afraid of?"
The question was unexpected, and I wasn't certain what he was getting at, so I tried to deflect it. "Where should I begin, my lord?"
He clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder, and I shrank a little more. "That's exactly what I mean. You walk like a man afraid of everything. Look at how you tuck your head between your shoulders! Your entire body is screaming 'Don't hurt me'."
Guiltily, I tried to straighten my back. "Well, to be honest, Lord, I don't want to be hurt."
He gave a sort of half-grunt at that. "Obviously! But the thing is, Azruhâr, you're not just telling people that you don't want to be hurt. At the same time, you're telling them that you can be hurt with impunity, and that's not the message you want to send, is it?"
"I haven't considered it like that, my lord," I confessed. I wondered whether I would've taken fewer beatings in the past if I had been less humble. I doubted it. I'd been punished often enough for displaying anything remotely like pride or for forgetting my place.

But before I could explain that, Lord Roitaheru was talking again. "Well, clearly you haven't, but I assure you that you should! Right now, you're among friends. But once you start working out there, you'll meet all kinds of people. Including people who will take your plea to not be hurt as an invitation to hurt you, and we can't have that."
I stopped biting my lip for long enough to say, "I am touched by your concern, my lord --"
"Don't be touched. Be unafraid!" I nearly laughed at the impossibility of his command, and perhaps he noticed, because he amended, "Or at the least, stop showing that you're afraid. Confidence, Azruhâr!" He stopped, facing me directly. "Look here. It doesn't matter what you were back in Númenor. Here, you are Númenor. You, like the rest of the community, represent our grand island nation-" he was sounding as if he was quoting something - "and as such, it's your duty to represent it rightly. Númenor is not afraid! Númenor doesn't beg others not to hurt it; others fear to be hurt! That's what you need to keep in mind. You need to project confidence. You have the power and authority of Númenor behind you, and people need to see that when they see you. Instead, they will see fear. Fear and doubt. We can't have that."

I was trying to follow his line of thought. Was he telling me that I wouldn't be able to stay here, since I was afraid? Much though I had hated to come here, it was clear that I couldn't return home, either. I wasn't even certain that I was safe here - out of sight wasn't necessarily out of mind, after all, although Lord Atanacalmo seemed to think that it would suffice - but clearly, it was safer than Yôzayân. If Lord Roitaheru cast me out, then where could I go?
In spite of the impulse to curl up small and start crying, I forced myself to stand more upright and raise my head. "I'm sure I can learn to hide my fear, Lord. I just have to ask you for a little time. You are right; I am afraid of everything. I'll try not to be, if that is needed, but old habits die hard." I felt my lips twitch into an awkward, pleading smile. "Surely I alone will not do too much harm to the reputation of Yôzayân? The rest of you have power and authority enough for two or three men, I am sure."

Lord Roitaheru laughed, briefly, but then he sobered. "It's not so much about your everyday business," he said, "it's about rumour." He began pacing again, putting an arm over my shoulders to march me forward with him. "You may not be familiar with the history of this place, so I'll explain something to you. In the past, Umbar and its adjacent settlements have regularly been raided by bands from beyond the mountains - and worse. A century ago, we went to war and dealt them a crippling blow and fortified Umbar against future attacks. We gained a reputation for invincibility in those campaigns, and it has served us well! It doesn't hurt that our people live longer and are stronger than the locals, of course. Nobody risks fighting against an opponent who is so obviously superior! That has maintained the peace and safety of Umbar for over a hundred years. We cannot have a single one of us allowing people to suspect that perhaps Númenor is not as all-powerful as they've been told. Who knows what rumours will reach the remnants of those war-bands? Who knows what they will encourage? We would vanquish them again if they were to attack again, but at what price?"

I pondered that. The politics eluded me, so all I could think of saying was, "I knew about the war, actually. My grandfather served in it."
"Did he? Then maybe I knew him! What was his name?"
"Hârukhil, Lord." I was fairly certain that Grandfather had been well beneath Lord Roitaheru's notice, and indeed, he said, "Can't say I remember anyone of that name. But he'll be in the records! I'll look him up later on. Then we'll know what division he was in and what he did, eh?" Lord Roitaheru had brightened significantly. "You know what, that gives me an idea how we can break that unfortunate habit of yours."
I didn't like the sound of that at all. Unfortunate or not, I did not want anything about me to be broken. I'd had quite enough of that. Lord Roitaheru went on, "You can train with the guards for a while. That'll help you build muscle, improve your posture, and give you the confidence that you're lacking, too. I shall speak with Gohenor this very evening - then you can begin your training tomorrow!"

That wasn't as bad as what I'd feared, but it was still intimidating - and undesirable. "My lord, I don't think I'm cut out to be a soldier."
"No need to worry, you don't have to become one. You've got your embalming to do, after all. But some basic training will be exactly the right thing just now, I think!"
"Won't the other recruits see that I'm not invincible, though?"
Lord Roitaheru laughed at that. "They will, but they're all men of Númenor themselves! I'm talking about the palace guard, Azruhâr, not Lotherín's band of Umbarians, of course. No danger in showing weakness in front of them. They've all been there." He was clapping my shoulder in delight. "Yes, I like this very much!"
I had to fight for balance. I'm sure he hadn't intended to hurt me, but he had a powerful grip and a hard hand, and my instinct was to shrink under its pressure. I was glad that he was so enthusiastic, but at the same time, I was afraid what would happen if I couldn't live up to his grand expectations.
"I must warn you that I am not at all warlike," I said cautiously, "and moreover not very strong."

He simply laughed at me. "I would have believed that when you arrived, but after I've seen you climb down and up that ravine? With a damned deer on your back? How many men do you think would've done that, without help - and without complaint? It was completely irresponsible and stupid as well, of course, but at the same time, it was an impressive display of strength. No need to pretend, young man. You're either stronger than you admit, or you've got tenacity enough to make up for it. Either way, you should be fine."
"Captain Gohenor won't like it," I made a final attempt.
"Well, that's his problem," Lord Roitaheru said dryly, as if that wouldn't make it my problem as well. "You'll just have to show him that he's wrong." He was glancing at me sideways, almost mischievously. "Atanacalmo wrote that you're desperate to prove yourself. So it'll be a good challenge for you. Prove yourself. Impress Gohenor. Learn to fight. And above all, stand upright and hold your head up, damn it."
And so, whether or not Captain Gohenor - or I, for that matter - liked it, I was assigned to start training with the recruits of the palace guard.

Chapter 43

Read Chapter 43

Chapter 43

My days in Umbar had so far - with the exception of the hunting trip - been days of rest and leisure, but the new arrangement put an abrupt end to that. Whereas I had so far slept until it grew uncomfortably hot underneath my blanket, Sîmar now woke me at the crack of daylight. Half-awake, I gulped down a cup of almond milk (which was what the sweet draught I had liked so much after my arrival was), and then hurried to the second courtyard where the members of the palace guard assembled before their morning run around the palace grounds. That run took an hour, during which the sun rose steadily. Afterwards, the proper guards went to their breakfast while the raw recruits - with whom I had been sorted - continued with their training. Before lunch, that training was mostly of the athletic kind - running, jumping, climbing and tiresome exercises of endurance that were probably meant to take us to our limits and make us earn our mid-day gruel. On other days, we just had to stand to attention, in our practice armour and weaponry, for hours on end, which was worse than any of the other exertions.

In the afternoon it was time for combat practice, which meant swordplay, javelin-throwing, archery and unarmed fighting (on different days, of course, not all at the same time), or, three times a week, horseback riding. I had been thinking of myself as a sufficiently competent horseman, at home, but what we had to practice now was entirely different - riding blindfolded so we had to trust the horse and our sense of balance entirely; riding one-handed or even with both hands occupied, having to rely entirely on our legs to guide the animal, which was often being spooked by the instructors or older guards who made plenty of noise, banging iron rods on shields or yelling war-cries, or threw pieces of wood at us. Unlike me, the horses had already been trained for the battlefield, but they still grew skittish or even reared up when the racket grew too much. They did this more often with me than with the other recruits, and I fell off quite regularly. I assumed that my lack of practice was to blame for this, but the instructors claimed that I was frightening the horse because I was frightened myself, and that I needed to conquer my own fear so I could conquer the horse's fear. Easy for them to say, I suppose.

Grandfather had always claimed that he had taken to soldiering like a fish took to water (especially when he had upbraided either Father or me for our softness). I had found that hard to imagine. What I did discover, now that I went through the training myself, was that my day-taler's experience stood me in good stead for getting it done at all. Although I hadn't had any of the preliminary training the other recruits had already gone through, I did know a lot of the things that were apparently considered important in guards, such as taking orders, disregarding my body's exhaustion, and completing tasks I had been given no matter what. Having been told to learn soldiering, I tried my best. It was tough going; sometimes I suspected that I was already too old for it. The other recruits were far ahead of me, and besides, they were a lot younger, with the grace and energy that young men have. They recovered in a single afternoon from exertions that took three days to fade from my muscles. There was no way around that, so I had to grit my teeth and return to the guards' court still hurting from yesterday and the day before that. I suppose Lord Atanacalmo hadn't been wrong in claiming that I was desperate to prove myself (although it was infuriating to know that he knew such things when I wasn't even properly aware of them myself). Even though I didn't even want to be a guard, and even though it was probably impossible in the first place, I tried my hardest to catch up with the other recruits.

In some ways, my lack of heroism was not a problem (as long as we did not have to fight actual enemies, at any rate). In spite of my mistakes - and I made a lot of them in the beginning - I wasn't ever beaten, as I had been in the lumberyards and construction sites and sawmills and fields of my youth. I was yelled and frequently laughed at, but nobody laid a hand on me (except accidentally, in training, when I was too slow to avoid or parry a blow that came my way). When I fell off the horse yet again, someone caught it, and someone else helped me back to my feet. The hardest part was to unlearn cowering and apologising when I had done something wrong. Soldiers were expected to stand proud and silent and straight-backed while they were yelled at, to listen and acknowledge, but never to apologise or explain. I knew this, on the surface, but the habit of decades is hard to break.

In time, I got somewhat better at the exercises and also at holding my head up, and the yelling grew less. Nonetheless, I never came to enjoy the training. It was clear that I was an outsider in the group, and although they weren't openly hostile, the other recruits treated me as such. I did not share their evening duties, their dormitory, or their jokes. I was older than they were and less competent. My habits were different. For me, there was none of the cameraderie that grandfather had often waxed lyrical about. I also found it hard to warm up to the warrior life in general. I suppose I should have been excited to be permitted to use a sword (we mostly used wooden swords when we practiced with a partner, but we used real swords during drills) - as a child, I surely would have been - but instead, it made me uncomfortable. Part of me hated the thought of having to use it; the other part was simply afraid that I was getting out of my place once more. Day-talers weren't permitted to use anything more sophisticated than an axe (and only for wood-chopping, that). Even Grandfather hadn't been allowed to use a sword, or fight on horseback, in the actual battles that he'd been in. One day, I thought, Lord Roitaheru would realise what I was, and I did not want to imagine the consequences.

After combat practice, I was released to return to gentler company, to soak in the bath and have Kâlil try to knead the pain from my muscles if I wasn't too bruised for that. If there was still time, I slept before taking dinner with the lords, making civil conversation as well as I could, or, more often, listening and looking attentive. Along with the hunting trip, all this gave me enough to write home about, although it took me several drafts until I dared to believe that my letter to Amraphel was harmless enough, should it be read by my enemies. Moreover, Lord Roitaheru took me to his library on one of the first days, firstly so I knew the way and secondly so he could show me the ledger of records of the war. In this way, I learned that Grandfather apparently hadn't exaggerated the tales of his soldiering success. Lord Roitaheru showed me the entry that declared that Hârukhil son of Zadankhil, citizen of Arminalêth had served with distinction, achieved the highest rank possible for a soldier of base birth, and been honourably discharged after severe injury. It recorded where Grandfather had lodged, what skirmishes he had been involved in, and what Lord his troup had been assigned to. The name, Lord Ortaron, meant nothing to me, and I asked Lord Roitaheru if the nobleman in question was still alive. "Ortaron of Sirilyanta*? Of course he is. He isn't even that old. Nasty bugger, though. Calls himself Têrakon these days to sound more modern, but I doubt it has made him any less nasty."

I was stunned. The fact alone that my grandfather's life - or part of it, anyway - was recorded here in distant Umbar was strange; it was stranger yet to hear that he had served under Lord Têrakon of all people. So far, I had assumed that Lord Têrakon despised me because I was an apprentice to Master Târik, or possibly simply for being an embalmer, a former criminal, or even just plain low-born. Those were reasons enough, after all. But if Lord Têrakon was the nobleman who had been guilted into employing my father after grandfather had been crippled, the man whose service Father had left as soon as he had been able to do so, then perhaps he had more personal reasons to dislike me. It was a lot to think about. As I thought about it, I realised that Master Târik and my father might have known each other. That meant another letter home was unavoidable, and this time, there was no way of wording things cautiously. Father hadn't told me anything about his time in Lord Têrakon's service (if that truly had been who it was) except that he had hated every second of it, and that it hadn't been worth the pain and I should stay well away from great lords, but Master Târik might be able to tell me more. I didn't even know why I wanted to know things that my father clearly hadn't wanted me to know. It was unlikely that the knowledge would help me, least of all here and now. And yet, I couldn't stop myself.

In the meantime, I acclimatised to life in Umbar as far as that was possible. I grew somewhat more accustomed to the heat and to the different rules of behaviour. I learned the drills and ignored the pointlessness of it all. I learned to parry most attacks (unless they surprised me too much). I didn't learn to master my own fear, but I learned to fall off the horse without hurting myself too much. On the appointed day, I sat through another council meeting, and this time, I managed to keep my mouth shut. That evening, there was a lot less interest in my person (or, more likely, in stories from the capital, which were no longer as hot as they had been right after my arrival), but Lord Laurilyo nonetheless sat down to chat with me while the others were dancing again. I caught a warning look from Lord Herucalmo (himself involved in the dancing, and looking quite proficient at it, too), so I told Lord Laurilyo, as diplomatically as I could, that I was not interested in love-making. He smirked almost from ear to ear in response. "Did my uncle warn you about me? You needn't worry. Contrary to what he seems to believe, I don't actually seduce every man who comes my way. Even though you have very nice lips, I must say. Quite kissable. Hmm." He gave me a mischievous stare, then laughed at my blush. "No, calm yourself. I like my fellows rather more dominant, if you know what I mean, and you're not that. So you needn't fear that I'll try to get in your bed. I'm just being sociable. Feeling sorry for you sitting here all alone and foregoing the joy of dancing, you see."

"I see," I said, although I wasn't sure that I did. I was relieved that he hadn't taken offense, though.
"I'm glad," Lord Laurilyo said, still smirking. He made himself comfortable and waved to a servant to bring more wine. After a generous sip, he said, "So, what have you been up to these past weeks? I trust you've recovered from the journey and the hunt? You look less pasty, at least."
"Lots of fresh air and exercise," I couldn't help saying - with, perhaps, less enthusiasm than I should have shown. "Lord Roitaheru assigned me to train with the guards."
Lord Laurilyo chuckled. "Ah yes. Military training. Been there, done that. Uncle's cure-all for disappointing young men - though I find it hard to imagine that you'd disappoint. So what did you do to earn yourself the displeasure?"
There was something disarming about his irreverence, I suppose. Or maybe it was that he reminded me of Mîkul in some ways. I answered truthfully. "Apparently, I'm inviting doubts about the strength of Yôzayân by being, well, a very weak man of Yôzayân. His lordship thinks that training with the guards will make me look stronger." And then, worried that I wasn't displaying the right amount of appreciation, I said, "I expect he's right."
"Hmm," Lord Laurilyo said. "Possibly. He feels that he is, of course. And you, no doubt, are already feeling the positive effects on your courage?"

I bit my lips and made no reply, which of course was answer enough. "Yeah, it didn't make me a better person, either," Lord Laurilyo observed, watching the wine as he swirled it in his glass. "I thought it would suit you fine, though. You're the responsible type, after all. Happy to serve and to protect and all that."
I wasn't certain whether it was a compliment or further mockery, but then again, it didn't matter much, anyway. "But I am not fond of violence," I said.
He studied me, half-smiling, for an uncomfortably long time. To break the unsettling silence, and to distract from myself, I said, "If I may ask, how did you disappoint his lordship?"
The half-smile turned into a full grin. "Can't you guess? I'm too irresponsible for his tastes! Well, not just his tastes. Laurilyo of the three Ls, they call me behind my back - loud, lazy and lascivious. They're not wrong. Also, I'm unrepentant, but that doesn't alliterate, so maybe that's why they're leaving it out." He shrugged; he did not seem to find these terms offensive. "Uncle was hoping that I'd be converted to the way of the warrior by being among handsome shirtless young men and the rigor of training, but I hated it too much to go along with it."
"How did you get out of it?" I asked, hoping that he might have some useful advice for me.
"Oh, I threatened to seduce all his precious recruits, one after the other, and to openly disobey orders - after all, it's not like Gohenor or his underlings could've punished me. What a shocking example for the other soldiers, right? So Uncle saw reason and released me."

Although I was fascinated by his brashness, I knew that this path wouldn't work for me. "Good for you," I said dutifully. "I'd probably be court-martialled if I tried that, though."
"I doubt it. Uncle likes you, doesn't he?" The mischievous glint was back in his eyes, but the conversational tone of his voice hadn't changed. "I wouldn't have tried that with Father, either. He'd have tried to whip me into submission. But Uncle? He pretends to be that gruff general, but he's got a heart of gold. And if he has patience with me and my dissolute ways, then I'm sure he'll look kindly on you, virtuous as you are."
I flinched at the mockery. Nor did I believe him. After all, Lord Roitaheru wasn't my uncle. To use Lord Atanacalmo's picture (and wasn't it frustrating that he kept intruding on my exile?), I might be back on the ice for the time being, but it was still creaking, and I could easily fall back into the freezing water; I had to take great care to stay afloat. "I'm really not virtuous," I said defensively. "But if his lordship is so kindly disposed, then that's all the more reason not to disappoint him."
"See? So responsible! You could take over as my father's heir any day!"

The idea was absurd enough to make me laugh. "That would be very irresponsible indeed," I said. "I'm not cut out for governing."
"Well, neither am I," Lord Laurilyo observed. "But I've got the feeling that you, at least, would try your damndest to make a good job of it. Me? Having to figure out taxes and judgements and crop rotation and property disputes? What an absolute nightmare. I'd leave them all to their own devices and probably run the place down within months. No; it's pleasure I seek, not power. So it's much better for me to be here." He gave me a wry sideways glance. "I'd be tempted to bet whether you can convert me to the path of virtue, or whether I can turn you to hedonism, but I expect you're not the gambling kind."
"I'm really not."
"I thought not. Pity. You could have my province as a prize. Orrostar isn't too shabby, if you're into that sort of thing. Lots of grain. Wealthy. Or you could have my sister's hand in marriage, which amounts to the same thing, really."
I couldn't laugh anymore. "That is hardly yours to give away, least of all to me, and besides, I'm already married."

Lord Laurilyo threw up his hands in exasperation. "Well, I hope for her sake that you're more fun in the sheets than you are in conversation!" he exclaimed, making me flush red once again.
"She has never complained," I said stiffly.
"And if she had, you would have amended your behaviour at once, of course." He gave a winning smile and even bowed his head, although his eyes remained on my face, sparkling with what looked like laughter to me. "Don't be offended. It would be a grave mistake to take me seriously. I know I don't." His voice, at the least, sounded quite contrite. "I touched a sore spot, I see. Do forgive me. Let us remain friends."
I pursed my lips briefly, but of course there was no use in refusing an offer of friendship, and besides, some of what he'd told me might be useful in some way or another. "You are forgiven," I said, forcing myself to unclench my jaw.
"Very kind," he said with another winning smile. "Always keep in mind that I might be jealous of you and your steady ways. I expect life is a lot easier like that."
"It really isn't," I couldn't help saying, more tersely than I would have liked.

I saw Lord Laurilyo freeze for a second. Then he said, "Another sore spot. Looks like I should shut up for a while, except I won't make a promise I can't keep."
"So responsible," I said, which made him laugh.
"Yes, looks like you're rubbing off on me already! Another evening in your company and I'll probably start studying agriculture or fiscal law." He shook his head with a horrified expression. "Quick, let us speak of something else. How do you like Umbar so far?"
I chewed my lips. "It's not too bad," I acknowledged finally. "I'm -- I'm missing home. And the heat took a lot of getting used to. But I mustn't be ungrateful. I've been treated very kindly, so far."
"Treated very kindly!" Lord Laurilyo laughed out loud. Lord Herucalmo turned into our direction mid-dance to give us a furious glare, which made me swallow hard. Lord Laurilyo ignored it entirely. "What did you expect, being tossed about by savages? No, Umbar is a perfectly civilised place."

That wasn't what I had meant, but I felt that it would be too complicated to explain. Instead, I hastened to agree, adding, "Especially in the day-time."
Lord Laurilyo snorted at that. "In the day-time, it's dead! But it's still perfectly civilised at night. Have you been down there often?"
"Not at all - not ever, in fact."
He gave me a wide-eyed stare. "Never been to the city at night?"
"No. I haven't been there since the day I arrived."
"And I can see that it didn't leave a favourable impression - but aren't you curious at all?"
I rubbed my nose, embarrassed. "A little. But the occasion didn't arise."
"Didn't arise? Just make the occasion yourself!" He shook his head, exasperated. "You know what - let's go."
"What, right now?" I looked around. The hall had begun to grow somewhat emptier, but there was still dancing going on, not to mention conversation at various ends of the table.

Lord Laurilyo didn't seem to care. "Sure, why not? It's not like you're using any of the amenities this festivity offers. Aside from the wine. There's wine down in the city, too. Let us go!"
"That can hardly be proper."
He made a face. "Bah. In fact, Uncle has already retired, so it's perfectly proper for everyone else to retire as well. Nobody cares if you go to bed after that, or down into the city."
Once again, I was chewing my lips. "I should still prefer to ask his lordship's permission."
"You really are no fun at all, are you?"
"I really am not keen on punishment, that is all."
He tilted his head and studied me with unaccustomed earnesty, and I suppose there must have been something in my eyes or whatever that made him relent. "Fine. I assure you there's no need to be afraid, but if you want to be all proper, do ask Uncle's permission, which I know he will give, and I'll pick you up tomorrow. Just don't eat too much; you wouldn't want to spoil your appetite."

Lord Roitaheru did, indeed, give his permission readily. In fact, he seemed quite enthusiastic about the idea. "Yes, of course you should explore the city! You'll have to know it when you start working there, after all."
Lord Herucalmo appeared rather less enthusiastic. His forehead had creased as I'd made my request, and his jaw had worked as if he'd had to swallow a whole bunch of reasons why I should not be permitted to go. But all he said was, "Is that prudent?"
His father laughed. "Prudent? With Laurilyo involved? Hardly." He patted Lord Herucalmo's shoulder. "But it's perfectly safe, if that's what you're worried about. Laurilyo won't go causing trouble - he hates inconvenience - and the natives are tamed, anyway."
"I am not worried," Lord Herucalmo said, though the way that his brows met in the middle and his shoulders had stiffened suggested that he was not relaxed, either.
"If it displeases you--" I began, but Lord Roitaheru shushed me with a wave of his hand. "Nonsense! Why should it displease us? Just remember to behave suitably. And, of course, not to miss your training tomorrow. No excuses!" On newly acquired instinct, I slammed my fist on my chest in acknowledgement, which he seemed to like, because he smiled broadly at that. Lord Herucalmo, on the other hand, was still glaring.

"Maybe he's envying us for our little night-time stroll," Lord Laurilyo suggested as we made our way down to the city - on horseback, and accompanied by six bodyguards. I had suspected that perhaps it wasn't as safe as Lord Roitaheru had said, but when I voiced that thought, Lord Laurilyo said that it had nothing to do with safety, merely with rank. I had then told him about Lord Herucalmo's reaction to our plans, and he said, "Might be getting bored with his father's company. I mean, they barely know each other, right? He's Atanacalmo's grandson more than he is Roitaheru's son. He probably needs to plot and scheme to be happy. No plotting going on here. Just keeping order and enjoying life. He's probably desperate for a distraction, and getting none, or not the right sort. Mind you, he could just have come along. I don't mind playing guide for two."
"That would be beneath him, I am sure," I couldn't help thinking, and saying as well.
"Well, that's his own problem, then," Lord Laurilyo grinned. "You got Uncle's permission, right? That's the important thing. You're not doing anything forbidden. So forget Herucalmo."
I did not forget Herucalmo, of course, but I tried not to worry about his opinion, at least.

Accordingly, I reached the city of Umbar with mingled anxiety and anticipation - a bit like the uneasy but excited tingle you feel when your parents first take you along to a night market or bonfire. Nighttime is just different from daytime, and it feels unnatural to be out and about when you are accustomed to being tucked up in bed at the time. Mind you, nighttime in Umbar was quite unlike being awake at night in Arminalêth. It was warmer, of course - not unbearably hot as by day, but so warm that the cloak I had brought was uncomfortable, with the buildings and the streets still retaining much of the day's heat. But more than that, the whole city seemed to be on its feet. In Arminalêth, the streets - with the exception of the night market - were empty at night, and you walked uneasily, in fear of thieves or thugs or the nightwatch, or maybe all three. The night market existed purely to feed people who had to work late or very early, or those who had no fireplace of their own. But here, we rode through crowded streets, and every business seemed to be part of one big night market. The people weren't hurrying about furtively, but walking at a leisurely pace, with lanterns that announced their presence and lighted their way held high. Some of them were wearing no more than simple kilts or shifts, walking barefoot, but others were dressed in elaborate (albeit ungirded) robes, so it wasn't just poor people, either. Children walked by the hands of their parents or rode on their fathers' shoulders; adolescents were strolling around or giggling with their friends; there were young women with (I assumed) chaperones, and old folk with crutches. Evidently, it was entirely customary - and entirely safe - to walk these streets at night.

But then, there was reason enough to be out and about at this time. The spaces underneath the colourful awnings I had seen empty and abandoned on my first day were now filled with goods. There were stalls that sold ready-made food - bowls of soup, stacks of flat bread, fried meat or fish on skewers, sticky-looking cakes - as you would expect on a nightly market, but there were all other types of wares as well. Besides stores of food, such as sacks of beans or peas or grains or nuts, live fish and crabs and snails and sea urchins in buckets of water, clucking chickens in make-shift enclosures, huge bowls of dried fruits or herbs or powdered spices, trestle tables full of lettuce and gourds and artichokes, barrels of oil or vinegar or wine, you could buy pottery and tiles, cloth, gemstones, jewellery, tools, even furniture was on display right in front of the houses in the streets, and craftsmen were working in the open courtyards of their houses. Customers and merchants were haggling and arguing and laughing in the language of Umbar. Everything smelled of spice and perfume - rose-water and jasmine and orange blossoms and cedarwood and other scents I couldn't identif - and I concluded that these scents must be much cheaper here than they were at home, because even the less well-dressed people that we passed gave off some sweet scent or other. It was sensible, I supposed, to make perfume attainable, because people must be sweating a lot in these parts.

In spite of the crowds and the stalls all over the streets, we had no difficulty getting around. Lord Laurilyo evidently knew where he was going, and people politely made way for us. Occasionally, he pointed out a landmark or told me where a particular street was headed, and I tried to fix it in my mind. But for the most part, I simply took in the sights and the smells, the noise and the colours. Although I hadn't realised that I had been missing something while secluded with the nobles and the guards in their palace, it was good to be among normal people again - even if they were the normal people of an alien place. In spite of the unnatural hour, it was familiar in many ways - the crowds, the haggling, the shouts and cries and laughter of small children, the occasional beggar pleading with the passers-by to spare a coin or some of their food. There were day-talers at the busy street corners too - even without understanding their words, I could guess that there were offering to carry people's purchases or sweep their courtyard or look after their children or whatever else needed to be done, because I recognised the posture, the hopeful expressions when they saw someone who might be in need of their service, the pleading gestures as they negotiated their pay.

"Do people here not sleep at night?" I asked my guide.
"Oh, they sleep - they sleep at night, and they sleep in the day. But not yet." Lord Laurilyo had to turn around and shout so I could hear him. His horse went on unperturbed. "Around the second hour, as we count it, they pack up and go to bed for a few hours. Then shortly after dawn, they get up again and do their business until it gets too hot. Then they hole up again and only come back out around the eighth hour, when it starts to cool down. That's why the city feels like dead in the afternoon. It's different in winter, of course, but that's then, and now is now."
"I see," I shouted back, probably louder than necessary. Unlike him, I felt I had to pay attention to the street and to my horse - well, not really mine, the horse I had been given by Lord Roitaheru, which might be part of the difficulty - because I didn't know how it would react in crowds, even as well-behaved crowds as the ones we passed. That said, I did feel reasonably safe. Even if the horse tossed me off, it did not look as if these people would take advantage of me. It struck me as strange, that I should feel safer in this alien city at night than I would have at home, where I knew my way around. But I did not think about it for long, because I was distracted by music - the trilling of pipes and the mesmerising rhythm of a drum - that drew nearer, or rather, that we were approaching. It had a beckoning quality; I might have followed the sound even without Lord Laurilyo riding ahead.

As we came from the street into a broader, open place, I could see the musicians. The pipers stood on barrels, while the drummer was on the ground between them. They were apparently playing for the patrons of - well, I assume it was the local equivalent of a public house, except that it was in the open just as the shops had been. Benches and tables had been put up underneath a couple of sweet-smelling trees that were flowering despite the arid days. The branches had been hung with paper lanterns, which looked very pretty. A couple of young lads came running and offered to watch our horses as soon as we entered the space. "This is a very nice spot," Lord Laurilyo called to me, "mind if we have a drink or two?"
"Not at all," I said. He shook his head at the young Umbarians and pointed at the bodyguards, who took the reins as he and I unhorsed. They disappeared into a side street so the horses wouldn't be in the way, and I briefly wondered how I would make my way back if, for some reason, I lost Lord Laurilyo in the crowd. I told myself that surely people would be able to point me the right way, and that I had made it to the palace on foot under worse conditions, and besides, I probably wouldn't lose my guide anyway.

The benches were packed, but a group of three appeared to have finished their drinks just as we looked for a place to sit, so we could quickly take their warmed seats. I looked around at the other patrons as unobtrusively as I could. The audience was of mixed origin: men of Umbar, with short hair and lose, but elaborately patterned robes, and young men and the occasional woman with the features and fashion of Yôzayân. I assumed that these must be the journeymen, or young wives, or the grown children of whoever had been fortunate enough to take their family along. Lord Laurilyo was clearly known to them, because several people waved or shouted a greeting over the warbling of the pipes.

In spite of the music, nobody was dancing, which I observed out loud. Lord Laurilyo laughed. "Well, dancing is somewhat questionable. Only folk of - hm - negotiable integrity do it among the Umbari. And certainly not in public." He gave me a keen stare. "Funny that you should miss dancing, since I have yet to see you dance."
"Not for myself," I said hastily. "It's just that in Arminalêth, so many people and music would naturally have led to dancing."
"Yes, but for the Umbari, it's rather more intimate. And we don't want to give them the wrong impression, right? We can go to a house of dancing later, though, if you want. I know a couple of nice ones. You don't have to dance, either. You can just watch."
I did not want to find out just what exactly I would be watching, and quickly said, "No, no, that's not necessary. I was just wondering."
"Hm-hm," Lord Laurilyo said, smiling, while waving to someone at my back, and a few moments later a server brought two tiny bowls, hardly larger than a thimble, full of a milky liquid. Lord Laurilyo gave him a coin I didn't recognise, and I dutifully dug for my purse, but he shook his head. "No, no, it's on me." He raised the bowl towards me. "To your health. And, I hope, to you easing up a bit."

I dutifully raised my own little bowl back at him and took a cautious sip because I expected that the drink would be alcoholic. It was. It was sweet and delicious and heated my throat as it went down. "What is this?" I asked.
"Khoosh," Lord Laurilyo said. "Nice, isn't it? They make it from goats' milk and date pulp, I think. Very good idea, if you ask me. Milk doesn't keep for long in this climate, so you can't store it, but you can turn it into khoosh. Or cheese, of course, which is also very nice."
I couldn't help thinking that perhaps he was a little interested in agriculture after all, if he thought about these things. Then again, perhaps he only cared about the end product. Which was fair enough. I hadn't known a lot about tilling and crop rotation, either, until I had been forced to find out things for Lord Herucalmo.

The khoosh, when it was gone, was quickly replaced with a local wine, less potent but still strong enough to make me regret that I hadn't had dinner yet, due to Lord Laurilyo's warning. I told him that I felt I needed to eat something or risk falling off the bench if I drank any more wine. "I'll pay for it myself," I assured him hastily.
"Nonsense, I said it's on me!" he declared grandly. "Let me think. They're not selling food here, of course-"
"They're not?"
He shook his head. "Different type of license. No, we'll have to get it at one of the stalls, but we've only just sat down. Oh, I know!" He waved to one of the enterprising youngsters at the entrance of the square, who weaved his way to our table with a hopeful look on his face. "Be a dear," Lord Laurilyo told him, "fetch us some..." he looked back at me. "Well, what would you like?"
"Whatever is available," I said, awkwardly, making him laugh.
"Everything is available!" he said. "Well, most things. But let's be reasonable. Some meat skewers, maybe. The good ones, not the kind that's half gristle. Oh, and those eggplant fritters. And some chickpea paste. And maybe some olives? The big, green ones? With cheese?"
"You choose," I said. "It all sounds lovely."

Lord Laurilyo said something in a mix of Adûnaic and the language of Umbar to the day-taler and handed him a couple of coins. The young fellow scampered off, and for a good while (time enough to empty our wine-cups and have them refilled), he didn't return; I assume he had to find the respective stall first. Or stalls, rather. When he came back at last, he was balancing a whole pile of cabbage leaves filled with foodstuffs, with some skewers on top. It seemed that Lord Laurilyo hadn't chosen just one thing, either, but had asked the young man to get all of it. He put the food down on our table, laid the small change before Lord Laurilyo, and stepped back with his hands behind his back and an expectant look. Lord Laurilyo looked over the change, pushed it back in the lad's direction, and laid another coin on top of it. The young fellow smiled a broad smile and performed the familiar displays of gratitude. He returned to his post at the corner with a spring in his step, so I assumed that he had been paid well, which made me glad. In another time, in another place, that could have been me.

We feasted on huge, juicy olives, the cubed white cheese and crispy eggplants and spicy meat and chickpea paste. As the people next to us finished their drinks and left their places, some of Lord Laurilyo's acquaintances came over to our table. "Who's your new friend?" one of them asked, so Lord Laurilyo introduced me and told them that I had only recently come over from the motherland. Unlike the councillors, these young folk were starved for news from Yôzayân, even if these news were several months old by now. Before long, I found myself surrounded by eager listeners as I recounted once more the story of the king's coronation and the changes the capital had gone through in the past years and the plays staged by Princess Vanimeldë. There was more wine, so I no longer remember just what exactly I told them. I remember that there was a lot of cheer and laughter, though. At some point, someone sensibly suggested that we relocate to a tea house, which was not in fact a house but an open courtyard, where we sat (if I recall correctly) on pillows directly on the ground and ate honey-dripping almond cakes with our tea. I was glad for my cloak now; it was growing very late. Somebody was reciting poetry that I barely understood, but it was pleasant to listen to. All in all, it was a very enjoyable evening, although I regretted it in the next morning, when I was jogging under the glaring sun with my eyes burning from lack of sleep, and a splitting headache on top of that.

---

Chapter End Notes

*Sirilyanta appears on no map of Númenor because I made it up. There are, according to "A description of the island of Númenor", many unnamed settlements in the Hyarnustar and Hyarrostar, and Sirilyanta ("bridge over the river Siril") may as well have been one of them.

Chapter 44

Time to explore the darker sides of Umbar (and of Lord Herucalmo). Violence/torture warning applies, I guess.

Read Chapter 44

Chapter 44

A couple of days after my night-time visit of the city, Lord Herucalmo told me to accompany him on an inspection of the mines. Why he thought that I should come along to inspect the mines was a mystery to me, but after the displeasure he had shown at my venturing out with Lord Laurilyo, I feared that I could not question his decision without annoying him further. There were three mines within a day's distance, I was informed, and it was planned that we would visit all three today, sleep at the furthest, and then make our way back to the city of Umbar tomorrow. So I asked (and received) leave to miss my training and borrowed a horse from Lord Roitaheru's stables again, and at the appointed time, I met with the guards assigned to go with us (I did not ask whether they were purely for rank or actually for protection this time) and an accountant who doubled as a guide, and Lord Herucalmo, the noble head of the operation. Lord Roitaheru himself would not come along; he had announced that he was perfectly confident in his son's ability to negotiate whatever needed negotiating. He didn't even see us off, as one might have expected. I suppose he preferred to sleep longer. We left early, both to make it to the shadow of the mountains before it got too hot, and because we apparently had to cover a long distance.

For the first hours, however, we rode through the fields that I had seen from above during the hunt: first the accountant, then two guards, then Lord Herucalmo, me behind him, and several guards on either side of us, and more behind. After an hour or so of silence, I attempted conversation.
"May I ask what the purpose of this journey is, my lord?"
I saw his shrug from behind. "Inspection, obviously. How much do they mine, how can they mine more, how long do they think they can keep the mine running. That sort of thing. The king's business," he added, which sounded sufficiently important.
"I wish I knew how I will be expected to help," I confessed.
Either he snorted at that, or his horse did. "You are not expected to help."
I felt my mouth opening in confusion, and hastily shut it again; my teeth clicked on each other. "Then why --"
"I'm taking you along for company," he said curtly. "And perhaps so you can learn a thing or two."

Privately, I felt that he could hardly care for my company that much, but I only said, "I will do my best. To learn, and to be good company."
Another snort. This time, it definitely wasn't the horse. I fell silent, confused and disheartened.
"It's more about keeping you out of certain company than about keeping me company," Lord Herucalmo eventually said - rather grudgingly, as I thought.
"Is this about Lord Laurilyo?"
"Stay away from him."
I took that as confirmation. "I tried, my lord," I said in my defense. "He doesn't stay away from me."
"You shouldn't encourage him. Don't forget who you are and why you are here." After a moment's pause, "He's a distraction."
I did not see how that made sense - I wasn't here due to dallying away my time with irresponsible lordlings, after all, nor were there any pressing demands on my time just now - but did not deem it wise to argue that point. "I shall take care not to be distracted," I said instead.
"I would certainly advise that," Lord Herucalmo said curtly, and again I wondered what his problem was. He did not like me. Very well; he didn't have to. But begrudging me the comfort and entertainment of someone who had taken pity on my loneliness, and - so far, anyway - had not distracted me from anything important? That seemed petty. I bit my lips to keep that thought to myself, but I couldn't help saying, "A few weeks ago, my lord, you did not seem to worry about it."
"A few weeks ago, he did not seem to be your type," he retorted, and this time my mouth fell open for good.
"It's not like that!" I managed to protest, once I was no longer dumbstruck. "I mean, he still isn't. We're not -" I tried to figure out what was going on. Was he interested in Lord Laurilyo? It wasn't impossible, I suppose. They were probably of a similar age, as far as one could tell with these nobles, and perhaps they were well suited to each other, except I couldn't help thinking that Lord Herucalmo already - or very nearly - had a betrothed back at home. Even if his parents had found some kind of arrangement that permitted them to love whoever and wherever they wished, I very much doubted that the King would accept such an arrangement for his son-in-law. Still, it seemed unwise to question the wisdom of whatever Lord Herucalmo was looking for. So I didn't, and instead defended myself. "We're not seeing each other in that way. He's just pitying me."
No reply. I waited a while, then concluded that he wasn't interested in hearing more from me. I kept silent and let my mind wander. Once we had left the fields behind and the road grew broader, we spurred the horses into a brisk trot, which made conversation impossible anyway.

The mine that we reached around mid-day was near a small village; or rather, a village of ramshackle huts and small fenced gardens had sprung up by the side of the road, which led up to a high guarded wall. There had been many such walls along the way, a reminder that Umbar and the surrounding countryside still expected attacks from southern tribes or remnants of Orcs, but we had been let through without impediment. As we made our way towards the wall, children stopped in mid-play to stare at our company. They were dirty and thin, and some of them held out their hands for alms before elder children slapped their arms out of the way and gestured for them to bow. Attracted by the hoofbeats and the protesting cries of the small children, their mothers came out of their hovels, pulling their children back from the roadside while bowing low. I felt a lump in my stomach and a stinging sensation in my eyes.

The gate in the wall opened for us, and we passed into the forecourt, if that is the right word, of the mine. It was even more grim than the village of the miners had been. The tower-like structure of the furnace, and a barracks-like building, could have been handsome, if their walls hadn't been caked with soot and ash and stone dust. Wood was piled up high next to the furnace (I wondered where it came from, since I had seen no trees for miles) and huge piles of discarded rock littered the side of the mountain, where the entrance to the mine proper gaped like a hungry mouth. Like the wall, it was heavily guarded. Every now and then, it spat out underfed men dressed in simple kilts, most of them going barefoot. They were carrying buckets full of stones (and, presumably, ore), which they brought to the furnace under the watchful eyes of overseers with a sword by their side and a whip in their hands. Lord Herucalmo unhorsed and marched towards one of them, the accountant in his tow. Since he hadn't given me any instructions, and the others remained on their horses, I did not go with him.

Lord Herucalmo and the accountant were pointed towards some official - or so I assume; at any rate, a very obsequious overseer took them into the barracks, and after a short while they reappeared in the company of a well-dressed Umbarian. His erstwhile guide came towards us and told us that his lordship would be a while, and he would send for refreshments from the village. The refreshments arrived quickly, brought by what were probably the wives and children of the miners. They gave us an unsweetened infusion of peppermint, thin wafers of what might have been oatmeal, some berries that the children had probably foraged in a hurry, and buckets of water for the horses. None of them spoke. I heard no conversation or song from the miners, either; the only people talking were the guards, both our own and the ones who had been at the mine, exchanging gossip and opinions.
At last - the shadows had by this time dwindled almost to nothing - Lord Herucalmo reappeared, as grim and silent as everybody else. He downed a cup of the tea, then declared that it was time to move on. We mounted our horses, rode back out of the gate through the sad little village and back onto the main road.

"Miserable business, mining," he said once we had put a safe distance between ourselves and the villagers.
I agreed, but couldn't help observing that perhaps it didn't have to be quite that miserable.
Lord Herucalmo gave a grunt-like laugh. "Unfortunately, mithril won't be sung out of the mountain."
"I know that," I said, absurdly annoyed by the snide way in which he dismissed whatever I said. "But I expect it doesn't object to being mined with singing - or at least conversation."
His shoulders rose in a shrug. "They're not permitted to speak or sing so they don't conspire with the slaves."

In this manner I learned that in addition to the free workers we had seen (who had already looked pretty miserable to me), the mines were also worked by slaves, criminals condemned to hard labour until the end of their lives. Although they were chained, the foremen and overseers apparently lived in fear of rebellion, and thus none of the workers were allowed to communicate with each other, so they couldn't secretly collude with the slaves and help them to free themselves. "It's an Umbarian custom," Lord Herucalmo concluded his summary, "but it's quite useful."
"It seems fairly ineffective to me," I couldn't help saying, "since people can work together better when they. You know. Agree on who does what and give each other advice and tell someone to get out of the way."
"And yet, strangely enough, it works."
"But surely it could work better," I protested.
"You are not here to lecture, but to learn," Lord Herucalmo cut me off. I had to bite my lips to keep from saying something angry and stupid.

We were now following a riverbed without a river deeper into the mountains. Once upon a time, a lot of water must have rushed down the middle of a narrow valley, wearing out a deep track between the rocks. Now it was all gasping and dry. Some sad-looking trees and dead rushes grew from the rocky ground, and the occasional lizard or beetle scuttled away from the track by the riverbed. Our hoofbeats rang harshly between the mountain walls. Other than that, there was no sign of life. Unlike the surroundings of the first mine, which had looked unlovely but inhabitable, the place we were now heading to promised to be entirely desolate.

And it was. The hovels of the workers were even smaller and even less inviting. Like those at the mine we had seen earlier, they were surrounded by small patches of what might have been meant to be gardens, but they looked barren and fruitless. A few scrawny chickens were scratching and picking their way around a pen made from thorny branches. Whatever trees had grown nearby had long since been cut down; even the few dry bushes had been severely cut back to provide fuel or building materials. Shockingly enough, people were still living here, or attempting to live, anyway: another gaggle of begging children, their skin as dusty as the ground; another hasty group of women holding them back. I couldn't help but wonder what they feared we might do to the little ones.

Again, Lord Herucalmo and the accountant went on their inspection alone, while one of the foremen pointed us to the well so we could water the horses and refill our canteens. I noticed that I had seen no well between the houses outside, and wondered if their only source of water was here, inside the enclosure; and if so, whether they could access it freely. In the time we were there, at any rate, nobody else came through the gate in the wall.
Lord Herucalmo seemed to be taking a long time, and when at last he returned, he looked very grim indeed. The accountant - with a very serious look on his face, too - spoke to one of the overseers, who listened with a severe frown first, and then a look of open concern. He waved his hands defensively, and the accountant spoke more intensely. Other overseers were summoned and spoken to, looking alarmed and (from their gestures and the expressions on their faces) protesting ignorance or innocence.

Meanwhile, Lord Herucalmo came over to us and spoke to the guards. "The manager here has been - hm - messing with the yield," he said. "We'll have to figure out how much the others knew about that, and where the missing mithril went."
"Embezzlement?" one of the guards asked.
"Something like that. Or something more sinister." Lord Herucalmo looked towards the group of foremen, his lip quirked in disgust. "That, and mismanagement. Of course they all claim that they know nothing about anything untoward. Damned cowards." His eyes met mine. No doubt he was including me among the damned cowards, although I had nothing to do with anything untoward or toward at this mine. I felt a pang of guilt anyway, and looked down at my hands.
"It'll take weeks to get to the bottom of this," Lord Herucalmo complained. "That really isn't what I expected."
"Are you planning to close the mine, Lord?" the leader of the guards asked, business-like, and Lord Herucalmo's eyes widened in horror.
"No! We can't afford that. The Crown has made it very clear that the mining is to be increased, not lessened under any circumstances. There's mithril missing already; no need to make it more."
"In that case, we can just arrest the main suspect, confiscate the accounts and appoint a new manager," the leader of the guards said appeasingly. "Then send a commission to investigate the whole thing once we're back in the city."

After a moment's thought, Lord Herucalmo nodded. "Yes. Yes, that's good. Arrest him; we'll take him with us - for the rest of today's journey, anyway." He smiled in a rather nasty manner. "I expect they will have some spare manacles around here. You and you, see to it."
The two guards saw to it. The others went into the main building to collect the accounts. The free miners (if free was the right word) stopped and looked on, curiously, but they were quickly driven back to their work. Meanwhile, the manager was dragged off somewhere by the guards; we could hear his protests, both in Adûnaic and in the tongue of Umbar, all the way from where they took him. None of the other men in authority spoke up in his defense; in fact, they already seemed to have washed their hands of him, and once Lord Herucalmo had appointed a successor, they returned to their posts in a hurry. Only the new manager stayed, helping the guards to stow the records into empty burlap sacks. None of the Umbarians seemed to feel particularly interested in the fate of their former master, let alone sorry for him. Perhaps he had not been very popular. Then again, perhaps the others were simply afraid to end in the same way and thus wanted to avoid our attention.

After a short while, the noisy protests stopped, and when the guards returned with their prisoner, he had been gagged with a filthy rag that had probably been used to wipe the soot off some part of the furnace earlier. He had also been divested of his nice robes, which one of the guards tossed to the new manager; he caught them, and though he did not put them on right away, I expected he would wear them with pride very soon. Again, I found myself wondering how he felt about the downfall of the old manager. I could not see through his behaviour, which might have been indifferent or rather accepting the inevitable, satisfied or just relieved to have escaped arrest himself, eager to see the man gone or eager to escape further trouble. I suppose he was a coward, too, but I could think of a dozen good reasons for his cowardice.

We left him behind once the sacks of evidence had been stowed on the back of one of the horses, which meant that one of the guards would have to go on foot. The prisoner would also have to walk, since we hadn't expected to need any spare horses and there were no horses, not even ponies, we could have borrowed at the mine or in the village. Accordingly, our progress for the rest of the day was slow, and as the shadows lengthened and the light on the mountain walls turned golden, I began to worry that we would have to sleep in the open. So far, we hadn't encountered any dangers, but I still had Lord Roitaheru's warnings about warlords in mind, and all the protective walls that we had passed on our journey were bound to have a purpose. Besides, as far as I knew, we hadn't packed tents or any provisions except for water and some oats for the horses. I didn't dare to ask, but I was trying to reconcile myself to a nigh's rough camping. Then, when the sun had already disappeared below a mountain chain that now blocked off our view to the coast, another wall came into sight.

Compared to the last mine, this one was downright welcoming; there was a trickle of water still in the riverbed, and perhaps as a result, the gardens of the miners' huts still sported some growth. We could hear conversation and laughter through the thin walls, and occasionally, we caught sight of a miner wiping himself with a wet cloth (I assume bathing would have used too much water) or playing with the children he hadn't seen all day.
I also got to see the slaves here, since it was evening and they were brought out of the depths of the mountain. I suppose one had to be grateful that they weren't made to sleep inside the mine, but that was about the only good thing I could think of. They looked frightening and pitiful at the same time: pale, meagre, silent parodies of men, with their heads shaved and their hands shackled and their bodies covered in bruises and sores. I reminded myself that they must have - according to Lord Herucalmo - committed a variety of horrible crimes in order to end up here, but even so, my soft heart was aching. This wasn't one-time punishment; it was perpetual, until the end of their lives, and that felt dreadfully cruel to me. I turned in the saddle to look at our prisoner (who, wearied by the road, had given up struggling a while ago) and could see that his eyes had welled up, his chest was heaving, and when Lord Herucalmo dismounted and took the chain that was fixed to his manacles from the guard who had dragged him along so far, he cast himself at Lord Herucalmo's feet. He could not plead, of course, due to the gag in his mouth, but it was clear that he was trying to plead for mercy.

I had to turn away, my cheeks hot with embarrassment; then I forced myself to speak. "Are you absolutely certain that he is behind the missing mithril, my lord?" I suppose I should have asked that question hours ago.
"Quite. At any rate, he was in charge. Not that it's any of your business." He didn't even bother to look at me.
"I'm just trying to learn," I said, trying (not quite succesfully) to keep my voice even. "It seems like very harsh punishment to me, so I would assume that it should be investigated properly. And that there would be some kind of trial. I don't know." I remembered my own - thankfully short - imprisonment, and the execution of my friends. Paupers like us didn't get their own trial, of course, but at least the council must have spoken about our cases and voted in favour of execution before we had gone to the scaffold (or, in my case, before the King had released me under condition). But this man had only just been arrested, and whatever evidence there might be in the sacks we had taken with us, so far the only reason he was here was that Lord Herucalmo and the accountant had declared him guilty. On such short notice, it seemed particularly horrid to condemn him to a life of slavery.

At the same time, he had previously profited from the work of slaves (and not looked particularly well after his free labourers, either), so I wasn't even certain why I was defending him. Softness, as usual. That, and a sort of shock at how quickly, and with how little protection, his downfall had happened.
Lord Herucalmo gave me a disparaging look. "He's Umbarian," he said flatly, "it's different here. Besides, I am here as the representative of my father, and he is the representative of the King, and thus, my word is currently law. You should not question it, either."
"Understood, Lord," I said, because there was nothing else to say.
"And you, stop blubbering," Lord Herucalmo snapped at the man at his feet, dragged him up - or forward, really, but the man managed to scramble to his feet in time - towards the manager of this mine, who had naturally been alerted about our arrival and clearly rushed from his dinner table to greet us. There was a smear of gruel or somesuch in his beard, which was somewhat detrimental to his authority.

Lord Herucalmo explained the purpose of our journey in general, demanded beds and board for our company, explained the presence of the prisoner, and arranged his future in the mine. The manager clearly knew better than to argue (I suppose even if he had otherwise been inclined to protest, the example of his disgraced colleague served as a stark warning). He said that he and his foremen would naturally vacate their rooms for us, that he would tell the kitchen staff to provide fit meals as quickly as possible, and that we were welcome to drop the new worker with the rest of them (he gestured in the general direction of the barracks). He spoke fluent, if slightly accented, Adûnaic. If he was distressed or even just surprised, he hid it well.

We brought the prisoner to the barracks. He was struggling again, straining against the chain, shaking his head emphatically, falling on his knees - anything to delay his final enslavement. I thought it was quite understandable - he would know better than any of us just how bad it would really be - but it clearly annoyed Lord Herucalmo, who was in a bad mood already. Accordingly, when the warden at the gate (entirely unsurprised, as if new criminals were brought here by an escort of guards and a representative of Lord Roitaheru every day) said, "It is custom to beat them, when they are new, so they know how it is," Lord Herucalmo agreed almost too readily. Perhaps he needed some kind of revenge because the man had turned what should have been a simple inspection into something more complicated. I suppose he also needed some kind of revenge on me, for questioning his judgement. At any rate, when the warden handed him the whip, he held it out to me and told me to administer the punishment.
"No," I said.
He simply countered, "Yes."
I tried to talk my way out of it. "I'm no good at - that sort of thing, Lord."
"Then you will have to learn. You're eager to learn, right?" There was something smug about his voice now. "It's a skill you'll need at some point when you're training your Umbarian embalmers."

I did not like that thought very much. "I'm very soft-hearted, my lord," I pointed out. "I'm sure I won't do it right."
"No need to go soft on that one; I bet he's done it to others a thousand times. Haven't you?" Our prisoner shook his head, but he must have realised that nobody would believe him, because he stopped after a moment's thought and then gave a very small nod.
"There you go," Lord Herucalmo said, now almost encouraging. "You can practice until you get it right." A smirk. "If you're feeling soft-hearted, I suppose you should get it right quickly."
"He has already been condemned to slavery, Lord," I said, "to hard work and to chains and to silence - surely there is no need to hurt him more? I - I expect he knows already how it is." I said that last bit in the direction of the warden, because he had suggested the whole thing in the first place.
Lord Herucalmo leaned in close. "You are making a scene," he hissed, "and you are putting my authority in question, again. This will have consequences."
"Just give him the damned lash so we can go and have supper," the head guard told me, probably thinking that he was being helpful.
I gritted my teeth, but I was at the end of my courage. There was no good way out of this situation, or at any rate, I couldn't see one. Briefly, I considered pretending to faint - oh, the heat, oh, the long journey - but it was doubtful that Lord Herucalmo would fall for it, and even if he did, he'd probably wait until I came to, and then I'd still have to go through with it.

So I gave in. I took the whip and stepped up behind the formerly proud manager of the second mine. I told myself that he had stolen mithril from the mine, and thus from the King, which was very nearly treason. Maybe it was treason. I told myself that he had let his workers and their families live in miserable hovels, without even enough water to tend their gardens and grow their own food. I reminded myself how hungry and dirty the children had looked. I tried to picture the slaves at his mine, no happier than the ones I had seen here, no doubt. I imagined that he had shown them no kindness, either. But I still hated to be in this place. Being on the giving end was obviously preferable to being on the receiving end, but I nonetheless found it hateful. I suppose I wanted to live in a world where people simply didn't have to get beaten, or beat others.
I was taking too long to begin. "Get going," Lord Herucalmo said, still with that threatening note to his voice. "No need to keep count. I'll tell you when it's enough."

Predictably, it wasn't enough for quite a while. I had been right when I had expected that I didn't know how to do it properly. You'd think that it's mostly intuitive, like punching someone in anger, but it really wasn't. First I judged the distance wrong, then the angle, then the strength. The first attempts landed ineffectively: some barely connected; then the middle rather than at the end of the lash touched his skin. Then I overcompensated and struck so hard that a thin trail of blood blossomed on his shoulders immediately and the poor man (I was pitying him still, or rather, again) shrieked behind his gag. I was tempted to apologise. As I tried to figure out the proper technique, I meditated on the origin of the phrase 'a bloody beginner'. I certainly made a bloody mess of it. Eager to be done, I had begun too fast; I could not keep up the speed and slowed down, only to be told to hit faster, and I expect the lack of a rhythm allowing him to prepare and pace his breathing also made it worse than it would have been anyway. At last - it was now fully dark, and the wardens had brought lanterns - Lord Herucalmo said, "That'll do."

I let the whip fall as if it was a poisonous snake. Preoccupied with the logistics, I hadn't paid much attention to the damage I had done, but now I was forced to acknowledge it. I expect I must have looked somewhat like that when Master Amrazôr's groom had been done with me, although my victim hadn't lost consciousness; he was very much awake, and I could hear his muffled sobs and gasps. I was gasping for air myself, and although it was beginning to grow cool, I was drenched in sweat. I wasn't entirely certain whether it was from the exertion (because, althought it felt twisted to think of it like that, it had been hard work), or whether it was from repulsion. When the wardens, with the help of two guards, dragged the former manager into the barracks, I could just barely turn aside before I was sick.
"Your friend is not a soldier," I could hear one of the wardens observe.
"He really isn't," Lord Herucalmo said, sounding smug once more. I thought to myself, and he really isn't your friend, either, although Lord Herucalmo left that thought unvoiced.
To me, he said, "You'll get used to it." And then, in an almost reconciliatory way, "Sometimes, punishment is unavoidable. You should know! You didn't become a decent person yourself until after you were imprisoned and punished!"
I did not particularly appreciate the reminder, although I suppose it was good to hear that I was being considered a decent person at all. I felt far from decent just now. "He won't have a chance to become a decent person, though," I said, "if he's enslaved for life."
Lord Herucalmo just shrugged. "Not my concern. Nor should it be yours." After a moment's thought, he conceded, "If it turns out that someone else is responsible for the disappearance of mithril at that mine, he can still be released." And with that, I had to be content.

The dinner that had been prepared for us was a sort of stew made from chickpeas, onions and salted meat. It smelled appetisingly, but my stomach had closed up and refused to entertain the mere thought of eating. I sat back and brooded while the others ate, which, for some reason, provoked Lord Herucalmo into anger once more.
"Eat," he told me, and when I tried to explain that I wasn't feeling hungry, he slammed the bowl on the table before me and snapped, "Eat!" in a way that made most of the people around us flinch.
"You really should eat," the guard next to me said, perhaps as a joke and perhaps in earnest, "who knows what you'll get tomorrow."
"Shut your mouth," Lord Herucalmo told him, and I concluded that he must be very annoyed indeed if he was lashing out indiscriminately. I forced myself to eat. It was probably reasonably nice - better than what the slaves got, no doubt - but all I remember of it was the meat, which was tough and chewy and should have been boiled a lot longer.

To add to my misery, the space in the foremen's lodgings above the slaves' dormitory was limited, and although they vacated four of the six rooms to our company, that still meant that there were more people than beds. I assumed that I would be assigned to share with some guards, but for some unfathomable reason Lord Herucalmo decided that I was to join him, the accountant and the leader of the guards. With the exception of the accountant (who might yet be neutral), my roommates would thus be men who despised me, and that did nothing to lift my spirits. The two beds in the (fairly small) room looked reasonably comfortable, and I felt tired to my bones. Still, I suggested, "I can sleep in the corridor outside; it's no trouble."
"You can sleep downstairs with the slaves," the head guard suggested in his charming manner.
"Don't be absurd," Lord Herucalmo snapped. "We'll put two to a bed. For one night, it will be fine. You can share with me; you two can take the other bed." With 'you two', he meant the accountant and the guard.
"You don't have to do that," I said.
"Oh, really? Go on, tell me what I have to do," he retorted. I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood.

They had given us a bucket of lukewarm water to wash with, and after the others had cleaned themselves and made ready to sleep, I followed suit. I could feel Lord Herucalmo's glare, and it was hard to pretend that I didn't notice, let alone care. He had not undressed yet, and when I put my shirt back on and awkwardly slipped into the bed after my ablutions, he clenched his hands once, then declared, "I have forgotten, there's something I still have to do. I'll join you later. No need to wait up." He marched out, leaving us confused (and me a little relieved that perhaps I would be able to fall asleep before he came back).
"Something I still have to do!" The guard scoffed. "That's a lot of words for taking a dump."
Neither the accountant nor I answered.
"Well, I have no intention of waiting up. Night," he said, maybe disappointed by our silence.
"Good night," I said, turned towards the wall, and tried to sleep.

Of course, sleep was hard to come by. I kept thinking of the mine manager - in a respectable position of authority one day, and now condemned to the lowest of the low within hours. Again, I wondered whether he truly was guilty (and if he was, whether his crime justified such punishment), but I had to believe it just to make the thought bearable at all. I still felt ashamed for the part I'd had in his punishment. Aside from that, I had plenty of selfish worries, too. For starters, I kept wondering about the consequences Lord Herucalmo had threatened me with. I kept thinking about the whole uncomfortable journey and the unsatisfying attempts at finding out why I was here. Suddenly, I remembered that I, too, was still officially a criminal, and that it had been a long time since I had satisfied the conditions under which I had been released. I kept thinking of the guard's oblique remarks. Who knows what you'll get tomorrow. And, You can sleep downstairs with the slaves.

The more I thought about it, the more likely it felt that he knew more than I did about my fate. Perhaps Lord Herucalmo had no intention of teaching me anything (except perhaps my place and my manners), and he himself had said that we were here on the King's business. I suppose my punishment was more important business to the King even than the mining of silver, or mithril, or whatever it was that they scratched from the mountains here. I suppose that was why Lord Roitaheru had had me assigned to the guards, too - so I would recover enough strength to be of use in the mine. It all added up. The only thing that I didn't understand was why I hadn't already been chained alongside the former mine manager. That would have seemed like a good moment to do it. But perhaps Lord Herucalmo wanted to savour it. Perhaps he wanted to lull me into a false sense of security, to make the revelation more torturous. Or perhaps there were things that needed to be prepared first, arrangement to be made, which was why Lord Herucalmo had gone outside again? (Maybe the King himself was on his way here, so he could witness my reduction? That, at least, seemed a little too far-fetched.) I suppose I should have tried to run away; but surely he was prepared for that, and it could only make things worse. I tried to tell myself that Lord Roitaheru would not permit my being treated in this manner, since it would damage the myth of the powerful and invicible men of Yôzayân. Then I realised that it wouldn't. If they cut off my long hair and took away my good clothing and forbade me to speak, there was nothing that would set me apart from the men of Umbar. I didn't have the Elven beauty of the noble houses, and I certainly wasn't much taller than the people here. Nobody would know. The reputation of Yôzayân was perfectly safe.

Despite these dreadful thoughts, I must have slept a little. I awoke in the small hours of the night, no longer alone, shivering because Lord Herucalmo had pulled the blanket over to his side of the bed. Since I didn't dare to get up to get my cloak (what if I woke him up?) and dared even less to take at least some small part of the blanket back, I curled up to warm myself and tried to fall asleep again. I did not achieve more than an uneasy slumber. Lord Herucalmo was a restless sleeper; at some point, he nearly fell out of the bed and grumbled, half awake, as he pushed back towards the middle. At another point, he wrapped an arm around my chest, pulling me close as a child cradles their doll. Goodness knows what he was dreaming. It could even have been comforting, that - it had now been two months since someone had last embraced me - if he hadn't been who he was. I found myself wondering if he always slept like that, or if his conscience was particularly heavy today. I just hoped that he would move away again before he woke up. If he woke up with me in his arms, he'd doubtlessly blame it on me, although I wasn't the one rolling through bed as if pursued by demons and clinging to whatever happened to lie in the way.

In the morning, I felt worn out and apprehensive, as if I hadn't rested at all. The morning gruel wasn't cooked through, and the handful of raisins that had been tossed in as an afterthought gave no more than the tiniest hint of flavour. After that joyless breakfast, I was not surprised when Lord Herucalmo told me to accompany him and the accountant on their tour of the mine this time - so I could learn something, he said. So he could leave me there, I felt. I nodded dully and walked after them. The old despair had descended upon me again; there was no point in trying to refuse, and certainly no hope in trying to escape. (Where should I have gone, anyway? Even if I managed to make it beyond the wall, there was nothing there for miles, except for the miners' village, and I certainly could not expect them to risk their freedom or livelihood to help me.)

The mine was an oppressive place, even without the horrors that lay ahead. The tunnels were mostly just large enough to walk through (Lord Herucalmo, taller than the rest of us, had to tuck his head between his shoulders) side by side, occasionally broader when a vein of ore had run deeper. The air was cold, but stuffy. We were first shown an older part of the mine, still near the surface, which had long since been exhausted; the manager who guided us explained how you could see that there was no more mithril available here; how they had continued to mine for iron, which often accompanied it and was more plentiful, but had then delved deeper into the mountain to find more of the precious mithril. We passed through a cavernous space that contained a little shrine to the natives' mountain god. It was disused now, but you could still see the traces of wax candles that had been lit for the deity once upon a time, and smears of chicken blood (at least, our guide said that it was chicken blood) on the walls and floor.

Then he took us deeper into the mine, warning us to stay together because nobody knew just how long the tunnels were, or how they linked together; if you knew where you were going, you were fine, but if you didn't, you might as well get lost and not be found until you had starved. I thought he was exaggerating, but after the distances we walked down increasingly winding tunnels that occasionally crossed other tunnels, I believed him. We had to squeeze into the walls occasionally, as miners carrying buckets full of stone outside came towards us or returned with their empty buckets from outside. Sometimes, there was a suspiciously hollow sound to our footsteps, as if there were further tunnels underneath, and suddenly I realised that if nobody knew where exactly the tunnels were, you wouldn't know just how close you were to breaking through somewhere, either.
"Are the tunnels safe?" I couldn't help asking, and the manager shrugged. "For the most part," he said. "The rock is solid. Of course, sometimes mistakes are made. Sometimes tunnels collapse. But not very often."
"Do people get killed?"
"Sometimes. But not very many."
"I would appreciate if that doesn't happen while we are here," Lord Herucalmo said sternly.
"Oh no, do not worry, Lord. It does not happen very often. And we are very careful while you are here, Lord."
I worried nonetheless. The rock itself might be solid, but the mountain clearly wasn't solid any longer; and, as he had said, sometimes mistakes were made.

After what felt like an hour's walk into the bowels of the mountain, we reached the place where they were currently mining. This was where the slaves were working, taking pickaxes or chisels to the solid rock. I learned that the precious mithril rarely occured in proper veins, and that it was rather hidden in small amounts inside the ordinary rock. The furnaces outside served to melt it out of the rock and purify it, and it took a lot of these lumps of rock to get a single ingot of pure mithril. In this part of the mine, it was stuffy and hot. You would expect it to be cold, so deep inside the mountain, but I suppose the lanterns and the many bodies heated the confined space up quite quickly. I could barely breathe. It wasn't just the heat and the used feeling of the air; it was the clanging of the tools and the chains, the clatter as the rocks hit the ground and were collected into buckets, the cracking of the whip when the overseers felt that someone needed a reprimand, the laboured breathing of the poor fellows. I felt myself breaking into a cold sweat.
"I marvel that they can work in these conditions," I managed to say, in the smallest of voices.
Lord Herucalmo heard me anyway. "Well, they have to," he said matter-of-factly. "I hear they aren't fed unless they fill a certain minimum of buckets, and the three laziest men are punished in the evening. That keeps them all well-motivated." The light was too bad to recognise his face properly, but I was certain that I could hear a smirk in his voice. "Remember that, Azruhâr. Motivation is everything."
I did not trust myself to answer.

The manager shouted something in the language of Umbar, and the clanging stopped as the slaves paused in their work and half-turned towards us, lowering their heads. I tried to discern yesterday's prisoner among them - even if they had shorn off his hair and taken his tunic by now, he would still look better-fed than the rest of them - but I could not see him. Our guide spoke to Lord Herucalmo, "Would you like to try your hand, Lord? It is harder than it looks."
"Then I can only make a fool of myself, can't I?" I thought there was a bit of an edge in his voice.
"It does them well to see that outsiders cannot do it," the manager explained. "Makes them feel good for a moment."
Motivation is everything, I thought to myself, but I don't think I said it.
"Well, in that case," Lord Herucalmo said. From the way he moved, I could see that his entire body revolted against the idea. He did not want to take the sweaty chisel and mallet from the slave who offered them to him like some sort of sacrificial gift. He did not want to get on his knees in front of the rock wall, lit unsteadily by the flickering lanterns. He made himself take the tools to the rock, but he did not want to do it. He didn't know how to do it, either. Even in the bad light and shifting shadows, I could see that he had no idea how to hold or hit the chisel. The mallet bounced off its end fruitlessly while the chisel itself slipped from Lord Herucalmo's grip. I suspected that he had hurt his hand quite badly, as most of the energy of the blow must have gone into his fingers instead of the rock. The slaves watched in silence. They did not laugh; indeed, they made no sound, except for their breathing, but I hoped that they were taking at least a little amusement from it.

I don't know if I made a sound, or whether Lord Herucalmo would've passed the tools to me anyway. At any rate, he pushed back from the wall, and between grit teeth said, "I've done my part; now it's your turn." He thrust the chisel and mallet at me, and I caught them awkwardly because I was unprepared. I tried to call myself to order. If this was where he wanted me to be, buried inside a foul mine in this distant barren land, then I wouldn't do him the satisfaction of snivelling or looking as though I would easily be broken (although goodness knows I would be). I wouldn't show how betrayed I felt, how much it stung. I wouldn't act shocked or surprised. I would pretend that it didn't matter, and at the earliest opportunity, I would get lost in the mines or have an accident that would end my miserable existence.

I made myself walk to the rough patch in the wall, and knelt there. I was painfully aware of the good riding boots on my feet, the soft fabric of my tunic, the weight of the purse on my belt. I would miss these things, I thought, although I suppose they were irrelevant compared to liberty itself. I tried to breathe evenly even as my eyes welled up. I felt rather than saw a tiny groove in the rock, where I could set the chisel. I lifted the much-used mallet.
Many years ago, long before I met Amraphel, I had managed to secure work in a mason's stoneyard for a week. Because I didn't have the bulk to move the big blocks of marble or granite that came from the quarry, he had put me to work removing the rough edges once the stones had been split, which required technique rather than strength. The key was holding the chisel just firmly enough that it couldn't swing uselessly, but not so tight that your hand absorbed most of the energy. I told myself that this must be easier than cropping quarrystone. After all, I just had to remove any rock from the wall; it didn't have to be a perpendicular edge, nor did the rock have to be smooth afterwards. I tried to recall the right way to hold the chisel, and took a deep breath, and struck.

The angle was too steep. The chisel went into the stone with surprising ease (I suppose I had gained a little strength after all), and there it stuck and refused to budge. That could happen, of course. I struck the chisel's side from above and below until it was lose enough to remove and start over. This time, I took care to hold the top of the chisel closer to the wall, and this time, I managed to losen some of the rock. More confident, I struck again, and a few lumps of rock fell free and rolled to the ground with a satisfying clatter. Mechanically, I picked them up and put them into the bucket. Over the resentful silence, I heard the manager's surprised voice, "Well! Your friend has talent! Maybe we should keep him!"

Now, I thought. Now Lord Herucalmo would say something like "Yes, what a splendid idea", as if he hadn't planned it all along. Now he would give a signal to the wardens. Now they would grasp me and shear off my hair and put me in chains and probably whip me, too, so I knew how it was (as if I didn't know). Now I would be condemned to stay here, in this hateful place, not to see the light of day except at the end of a gruelling day's work. Now the King, through his future son-in-law, would have his final revenge on me. I said nothing. I was holding my breath. I had clenched my eyes shut. I tried to keep my fingers from trembling as I searched for the next little groove that would allow me to chip off enough rock so at least I would not be among the three laziest men tonight. (It was unfair; the others had a headstart of several hours. Impossible to catch up with them.)

"Yes," I heard Lord Herucalmo say, "it would appear he's stronger than he looks." A meaningful pause. Another little shower of rocks came free from the surface. One of them hit my knee; from the bruise I saw there later on, it must have hit it quite hard, but in that moment, I barely registered it. My head was spinning; I had to draw breath, and tried to do it silently. I put the lose rocks in the bucket. I wondered how many of these buckets I needed to fill so that I would be given food. Or maybe it was better to starve? But surely they would not allow that, either. It would cost them workers. At some point, they were bound to make you eat. There was no way out.
Over the hammering of my pulse in my ears, Lord Herucalmo said, "But I'm afraid I'll have to take him back with me. He has duties in the capital." And the mine manager laughed, and Lord Herucalmo laughed, and the accountant laughed. The slaves were standing there in angry silence, and I was staring at the mountain wall, and the three of them were laughing. It was all just a joke to them. I couldn't move. I was petrified, as if the rocks did not want to let me go, or as if I was still expecting a reversal. Then Lord Herucalmo called in his usual brisk tone, "Come on, Azruhâr, time to be on our way." Somehow, I managed to get up. I laid the tools on the ground, very deliberately. I wiped my trembling hands on my tunic. I couldn't speak. I couldn't look anyone in the eye.

The air outside felt mild, although the sun was nearly at its zenith, and although it was smoky from the furnaces, it tasted sweet to me. I breathed deep, but I still could not shake off the sense of helpless misery. My hands were shaking when I saddled my borrowed horse. I longed to lean against the strong, warm, reassuring body of the animal and have a good cry. Instead, I pretended that nothing had happened and nothing was wrong. Nothing had happened, and if it had, it didn't matter. Around me, the miners were going about their business and the guards were joking, eager to be gone, and Lord Herucalmo made some last-minute arrangements and the horses snorted impatiently. And then we were on our way. This time, the children from the village were outside, and like the others, they interrupted their play and ran by the roadside, at a respectful distance, with some of them raising their open hands before them. Following a sudden impulse, I fingered for my purse and fished out all the small coins and tossed them over my shoulder. I could hear the eager squeals of the children and the surprised shouts of their mothers behind us as we returned to the open road.

"You shouldn't have done that," Lord Herucalmo said in disapproval, "You'll ruin the mine. Their fathers must keep working."
I laughed, and felt tears shoot into my eyes at the same time. "Their fathers will keep working whether I give them a few small coins or not."
"Those weren't small coins - a Star is a lot of money in this place. A week's pay, easily!"
"And yet they still need work when the week is over, and they know it," I said. "At the most, they can buy a chicken, or some food, or some fabric for clothing. It will not ruin the mine. If anything, they can work more if their stomach is less empty. If the mine paid the workers better, I expect they would all be working better. And more people would want to work there, too."
"What do you know?" he said, scornfully, and because nothing mattered anymore, I retorted, "About poverty? A lot."
He was quiet, which suited me well. I did not want to talk. I didn't know whether I was angry or whether I was sad. It was probably both.
After a while, Lord Herucalmo said, "Do you understand why I have taken you on this journey?"

I could not answer at once, but I couldn't worry my lips forever, either. (They still hurt from yesterday, anyway.) "Since you did not leave me there after all," I said cautiously, "I assume it was meant as a warning. What could happen to me. If I fail to do what is expected of me." I looked down on my hands, clutching the reins unnecessarily. The road was leading steadily downhill, and we were not going fast. I just needed to hold on to something, I suppose.
The strange tone in his voice made me look up at him. "Leave you there? What are you talking about. How dare you suggest something like that." His eyes had widened in shock or confusion, his brow had creased, and his jaw was working as though yesterday's tough meat was stuck between his teeth. Either he was nearly as good an actor as his bride-to-be, or he truly hadn't entertained the thought even for a second. "Leave you there," he repeated. "Did you really think that?"
Not trusting my voice, I nodded.

"How can you think something so horrible of me," he said. His entire demeanour had changed - the angry set of his jaw had softened along with his voice, and there was a genuine look of hurt in his eyes - if I hadn't been so scared and so unhappy, it could have been funny. If he had spoken to me like that before, I probably wouldn't have thought something so horrible.
"You despise me, Lord," I pointed out. "No need to deny it, you've made it clear enough often enough. And you were angry with me. You probably think me no better than the men who labour there. And you are the King's son-in-law, or will be soon, anyway. I thought maybe you were going to do him a favour, now that the council won't hear about it. You said we were here on the King's business."
"Inspecting the mines," he said, still in that strange new tone, "not dropping you there." Again, he frowned. "I took you along so you could learn how to run your business - for when you begin to teach your Umbarian embalmers. How to maintain discipline and keep them in check." Slowly, the hurt was turning into anger; his jaw was jutting forwards again. "Leave you there. How dare you." He spurred his horse on, apparently unable to bear the sight of me any longer.
"I would've left you there," the guard next to me quipped.
"I know," I said darkly.
"It's not too late to go back."
"I know."
"Shut up," Lord Herucalmo snapped, probably at both of us, and then he didn't talk to me - or anybody else - for the rest of the ride back to the city.

Chapter 45

The trip to the mines has unpleasant consequences. Help comes from an unexpected quarter.

Read Chapter 45

Chapter 45

The next day, these two guards - both the head guard and the one who would have left me at the mine - were punished for insubordination in a gruesome military ritual that they called the gantlet (so soldiers were beaten after all, just not for everyday mistakes). Although there was no official announcement concerning whom they had insubordinated against, soon enough word got around among the guards and recruits that I'd had something to do with it. I wasn't certain what, because I knew that I hadn't told Lord Herucalmo about the head guard's comment after his dramatic disappearance in the evening. But the rumour persisted. As a result, my standing among the recruits turned from ridiculous but tolerable stranger to hateful enemy, and they closed ranks against me. Henceforth, they treated me with exceeding politeness to my face - a politeness so brutally exaggerated that the mockery was obvious. And as soon as my back was turned (and while they knew I could still hear them) they said the ugliest things. They never named my name, but they made it perfectly clear that they were talking about me - just subtly enough to be deniable, should anyone in authority overhear and object, but not so subtle that I could miss it. It was childish stuff for the most part - on what sort of animal my father had whelped me, or why my mother had not succeeded in strangling me in my sleep, or how often and in what ways I might have pleasured certain nobles - but it stung nonetheless.

There was a strange rise in accidents, too. Although I had by know learned the order of the different blocks and attacks in the weapons drills, now suddenly it was my opponents who got them wrong and thus ended up whacking me with their practice weapons - entirely by accident, of course. But even with a wooden practice sword, it hurt. Then the cinch on my horse's saddle tore during training, and not at one of the seams where you might expect such a thing to happen, but in the middle of what should have been solid leather. Nobody hurried to catch the horse, either, and I'd had to run after it still winded from the fall. During archery practice, I found that the odd fletching had been cut off all my arrows, as if I had nocked and shot each of them the wrong way round, which naturally earned me a reprimand and two afternoons of repairwork. Another day, we had only just embarked on our morning run when I felt the first agonising sting, and there were more of them with every step. By the time we had finished the run and I could finally sit down, I found several large thorns that had evidently been shoved into my boots just before the run and were now embedded in my bloodied shins and calves and (that had been the worst) the soles of my feet. I pried them out with grit teeth and said nothing.

I said nothing when someone - ostensibly by accident - swept my bowl of mid-day gruel off the table every other day, or upset the bench I happened to be sitting on. I said nothing when the recruit I'd had to carry on my back during training turned out to have several heavy stones in his pockets. I managed not to say anything when my change of clothing was mysteriously found down a latrine one day (though I admit that I cried in the baths that day, to Kalîl's alarm. I felt that I could not well burden him with my troubles, so I only told him that there had been an accident during training and that I was hurt from it, which was not untrue). I said nothing because I knew that it would not help. Our superior officers already knew what was going on and turned a blind eye. Of course, they had known the two guards far longer than me; even if they were not their friends, they had been comrades for years, while I was an outsider. If I had complained - and been able to actually prove that there was malice, not clumsiness, behind the unpleasant events, or that the nasty remarks indeed concerned me and not the hypothetical civilian my fellow recruits pretended to be talking about - then they would probably have taken action. But that would only have caused more punishment, and after that, the others would have felt more justified in their hatred of me. I hoped that, if I endured their scorn and their little cruelties and showed that I was not actually the snitch they claimed I was, they would eventually allow things to return to normal. Surely they would tire of thinking up these petty little torments at some point. Besides, at some point they must feel that their revenge had been achieved. After all, the two guards had also been allowed to return to their normal service after they had healed from their ordeal.

But for me, that time had not yet come, and it was hard not to break down under the daily hostilities. In all honesty, I would rather have run the gantlet myself; painful though it might be, it was over after a gruesome hour, and then I would have been permitted to recover. As it was, there was no recovery. Kalîl and Sîmar were gentle and helpful as ever, but they were not friends - in truth, they had succesfully resisted every attempt at befriending them. I told myself that it was propriety, not hatred of my person, that made them close up whenever I asked them to sit with me or tried to make conversation that went beyond "Please do this" or "Thank you". But perhaps they did resent me. At any rate, I felt lonely and beset by enemies. Lord Herucalmo was still wroth with me, too; he had not forgiven me for what he had perceived as an attack on his character and treated me very coldly. The atmosphere at the dinner table - I still dined with him and Lord Roitaheru, an honour that I would gladly have foregone - was fraught, and it was only the presence of Lord Roitaheru that kept it civil. He was still on my side, I suppose, but I did not dare to turn to him for help. Against his son's enmity, I could hardly expect him to support me; and against the guards, his solution would probably been to punish the perpetrators, which again would have achieved nothing except more hostility. I doubted that he would have permitted me to quit the training. Besides, I felt that I should be able to handle these problems on my own. It would be shameful to ask for help like a child unable to resolve a conflict with its playmates or to endure the disapproval it had earned. Again, I said nothing. I said very little in those days, anyway.

I expect I could normally have endured it better, but the trip to the mines had worn down the thin layer of confidence I had been able to gain since my arrival. Now I felt raw and fragile once more. I could not even commit the feeling to a letter because I did not want to alarm Amraphel (the mere thought of her made my eyes flow over). Besides, any letter would take weeks until it reached her, so where was the point? I still had not heard back from anyone at home. Not that letters were what I wanted. I needed to cry on someone's shoulder, but that was impossible. Perhaps Lord Laurilyo would have permitted it, but in the light of Lord Herucalmo's annoyance, I had asked Lord Laurilyo to leave me alone. It had annoyed him, of course, and when I had tried to explain that it didn't have anything to do with him personally, and everything with the disapproval of his more powerful relatives, he had scoffed at me for letting them control me like that. I had pointed that he had no idea what it was was like to be at the mercy of people like him and the other Nobles, and maybe shouldn't talk until he understood. We had not parted on good terms. Now I lay on my bed, looked at the ceiling and pitied myself. I felt like the loneliest person in the world. Unbidden, Lord Atanacalmo's smug face rose before my mind's eye to tell me that I was being melodramatic, and remind me that he despised melodrama. You're acting as if I were dragging you there in chains, I recalled, and indeed, shouldn't I count myself fortunate? I could have ended in that mine, so I should have been grateful and happy to be free and clothed and well-fed and comfortable. But I couldn't summon happiness. More than once, I wondered what would happen if I simply did not get up in the morning. But that would probably have caused difficulties for Kalîl and Sîmar, who were after all tasked with getting me up and keeping me entertained. For the same reason, drowning in the baths or jumping from the window was not an option. I resigned myself to hoping that perhaps I would break my neck the next time I fell off the horse, or that one of the other recruits would "accidentally" crack my skull open. (And then, I thought in vengeful pettiness, perhaps they would be sorry.)

They did not do me the favour. Instead, something else happened. On Valanya, since I had no other demands on my time, I had withdrawn to the library. I hoped that reading about Grandfather's exploits in the army would raise my spirits, but instead, the contrast to my own situation - without even the danger of war and injury! - just made me feel more miserable. Soon, I had to put the ledger aside for fear of my tears smearing the ink. I tried to be as quiet as possible so the servant who acted as librarian wouldn't hear me, but then I heard something that made me freeze in terror.
"I need to read up on the desert tribe that calls itself the Tash-naga," a familiar voice commanded. Lord Herucalmo, of all people.
"We have not much about the desert tribes, your lordship," the librarian replied.
"Well, fetch me what little you have," Lord Herucalmo told him. He didn't appear to have noticed my presence, and I would have liked to keep it that way. For a second, I considered diving under the table and hiding until he had left again. But that would have been childish, and if he discovered me hiding somewhere, the consequences would doubtlessly be worse than if I left at once, regularly, as if I had a right to be here (which, technically, I did - Lord Roitaheru had given me the freedom of his house - but who knew how much that was worth to his son.)
"Yes, your lordship," the librarian said. "Does your lordship wish to wait, or do you wish to return later?"
I prayed that he would chose to leave and come back later, but he said, dismissively, "How long can it take? I'll wait."
I wiped my eyes and summoned the dregs of my courage. Then I picked up the ledger and brought it back to the librarian, saying, "I am done for today, thank you very much," as evenly as I could.
"Very good, sir," the librarian said, while Lord Herucalmo asked, "Have you been crying?"
The librarian was very quick to withdraw and put the ledger back in its proper place.

I didn't trust myself to reply, but then I didn't need to; Lord Herucalmo simply tilted my face up and studied it. I suppose my red eyes confirmed what my raw voice had already betrayed. "Why have you been crying?" he asked in his usual tone of disapproval.
"It's nothing, my lord," I said, because he was the last person in the world I wanted to share my grief with.
Of course, he didn't believe me. "You wouldn't have been crying for nothing," he said sternly, and, "We should talk." To the librarian, he called, "I've changed my mind. Prepare the accounts; I'll come back later. You -" he was turning back to me - "outside."
I obeyed. I would much rather have run away, but of course there was nowhere to run. So I went outside and waited until he had closed the door to the library, and then I let him steer me to a part of the palace I didn't know. Feeling down on my luck and thoroughly out of sorts, I thought at first that he would take me to some sort of prison, but our surroundings were too pompous for that, and instead, we ended up in a lavish suite of rooms that I assumed were his own quarters. He told me to sit and the servants to bring some wine and then go outside and prevent anyone from entering.
I sat in one of the dainty chairs he had indicated with as much composure as I could manage and waited for whatever lay in store.

"Make yourself comfortable," Lord Herucalmo commanded when we had been provided with wine and the servants had withdrawn and closed the door behind them. "This is not an exam." He did not sit; instead, after raising his glass - I dutifully raised mine back - and drinking from it, he began to pace, as if he himself wasn't quite certain what to do.
When he had paced, and I had sat, in silence for a while, I decided to distract him from the embarrassing subject of my tears. "What's the Tash-naga, my lord?"
He stopped pacing and stared at me, eyes narrowed, and I regretted my words at once. "I couldn't help overhearing -" I mumbled, and to my relief, he seemed to relax.
"One of the desert tribes," he answered.
I had gathered as much, but I didn't say so, instead asking, "Allies or enemies?"
"Enemies, I think. Not very powerful ones, though - or at least, they didn't use to be." He came over and sat down in the other chair. "They're who the misplaced mithril went to, apparently. So who knows? They might be arming themselves, or buying soldiers, or some other devilry for all we know." Now he was looking at me with a curious expression on his face. "It'll be a relief to you, I expect."
I felt my eyes widen in alarm. Was he suggesting that I was siding with a hostile desert tribe? "Why would I be relieved to hear about our enemies arming themselves, Lord?" I asked, my heart racing.

He snorted at that. "Nonsense. To hear that the manager we punished was sending the mithril to our enemies. Since you were so worried about punishing him too harshly. I expect that'll allow you to sleep more peacefully now." There was a pause. I thought to myself that I wasn't the only one who had trouble sleeping peacefully, if the night at the mine had been any indication. Then he spat, "And perhaps you'll stop thinking of me as some sort of monster."
Again, my eyes widened. "I never said you were --"
He interrupted me, and now his voice and eyes were cold and hard. "You thought I'd leave you at that mine," he said. "As a slave. You thought I was prepared to do something so horrible."
By now, I was so confused that I didn't even know how to appease him. "You did it to the mine manager! I knew you were prepared to do such a thing!" I pointed out.
"He was a thief!" Lord Herucalmo cried. "And a traitor!"
I heard myself burst into laughter in spite of myself. "I was a thief once," I couldn't help saying, "and I have been accused of treason, and a good friend of mine, too." The thought of Lord Eärendur made my eyes well up, and the memory of my torment made them flow over, and still Lord Herucalmo was looking at me perplexed and angry as though I were out of my mind. "But that's different!" he protested.
"Is it?" I cried, at the end of my strength and the end of my wits. "Is it?"
"Of course!" He had jumped up and begun to pace again. I tried to regain something akin to composure, but there was none to be found. Instead, I pulled my knees up against my chest and tried to sob a little more quietly, at the very least.

"You have to put that behind you," he said at last, and in my fragile emotional state, that was the funniest thing I had ever heard.
"You say that as if I hadn't had it carved into my very skin," I said, now in a strange place between tears and laughter, and again he was staring at me. He stared for a long time, so long that I managed to wipe my eyes and pull myself a little more upright, in spite of shuddering a little whenever I had to suppress another sob.
"But that's not why you're here," Lord Herucalmo eventually said - in a tone of helpless frustration that, I thought, should have been my prerogative. "Look, Azruhâr." He sat back down. "You'll have noticed that I didn't punish you after our journey, in spite of our disagreements. Right? You're not stupid. You noticed that. I punished the guards who disrespected you," his fists clenched by his side, "even though that was at least in part your own fault! But I didn't have you punished."
"Yes, Lord," I said wearily, "but you will be glad to hear that the other guards are punishing me for it every day."

He did not look glad. In fact, his brow creased, and his already square jaw set into an even more severe scowl. "But you're not here to be punished!" he exclaimed. "That's the exact opposite of why you're here!"
Now I was so confused and so tired that I did not understand anything anymore. "Why am I here, Lord?" I asked.
I had not expected an answer - at least not a useful one - but it appeared that Lord Herucalmo had not yet regained his self-control, either. "To keep you safe, obviously," he said, in a detached, almost distracted manner, "to protect you from further damage." Suddenly, his eyes met mine. They had softened strangely, although his mouth and jaw were still set in a scowl. "So you can put yourself back together before -" abruptly, he stopped himself.
"Before what?" I asked weakly. I was probably asleep and dreaming this conversation, I told myself. Nothing made sense at all, unless it was a dream, which didn't have to make sense.
He shook his head irritably. "Before you can return, of course."
"Return," I said, thoroughly drained. "But I'm not allowed to return."

I could see his frown deepen: now it was his turn to be confused. "Maybe I misremember," he said eventually. But in that moment of confusion, that lapse of attention, I had glimpsed something that had previously been beyond my grasp: hope. There was a chance that I would be allowed to return. Somebody must have told Lord Herucalmo that I would be allowed to return eventually, and he hadn't been supposed to tell me, but now he had let it slip, and though he was pretending to be uncertain now, he had been certain of it when he'd said it. It was as if the sun had broken through the clouds after a month of heavy rain: suddenly there was a light in the sky, and a whole wide world that had previously been shrouded in mist, shimmering with the promise of a journey home.
"You think I am going to return," I said, incredulous. I could have fallen at his feet at the mere thought. "You think I can go home - one day."

By now, Lord Herucalmo had recovered his mask. His chin had risen, and there was no more softness in his gaze. He shrugged his broad shoulders. "I wouldn't know," he said in a tone of indifference. "It's not my concern." He refilled his wine glass. Mine was still untouched, except for the obligatory first sip taken at the beginning of this strange conversation.
"I will speak to Father concerning the guards," he announced after taking a generous sip.
"Please don't, Lord. I don't want anyone else to get punished."
His face contorted in disgust. "Oh, don't be ridiculous."
"They'll just take revenge on me again," I insisted.
"Well, we can't let it go on." He took his glass and again drank deeply, frowning to himself.
I felt that I should probably drink something as well and took another sip from my glass, although with my nose still stuffy from crying, I could barely taste the wine.
"Maybe it is time that I began to teach embalming?" I said when I had swallowed my mouthful. "Supposedly, that's also why I'm here." Supposedly, it was why I was alive at all.

Again, he studied me for an uncomfortably long time. "I'm not sure you're ready for that," he said.
"If I wait until I am ready, I shall need an embalmer's services myself." The words had slipped out before I had been able to stop myself, and I was surprised - and relieved - to see his lips twitch into a half-smile.
"A good point. Very well. I shall speak to Father. And then you can speak for yourself."
"Thank you, my lord," I said, although I wasn't even sure what he was going to tell his father. It seemed like a good thing to say, though. At any rate, this conversation had gone far better than I could have expected. I felt better, certainly, or would have if I hadn't been so exhausted.

He nodded but didn't respond, which I took as a signal that our conversation was over. "May I go?" I asked.
Another nod, along with a dismissive little shake of his hands. "You may go."
I rose, bowed, and made my way to the door.
"Azruhâr," Lord Herucalmo said when I had already crossed half the room. It sounded like a command, so I turned around, standing to something akin to attention.
"Yes, my lord?"
His face was entirely inscrutable. "I shall say this only once, so you better remember it."
I tilted my head, listening.
"I do not despise you. Do you understand that? I honestly don't. But it is safer this way."
I wasn't certain that I did understand, but of course I said, "Understood, Lord," and because it seemed to be the right thing to say, I added, "Thank you."
He gave a curt nod, and when I didn't leave at once, he said - by now, his voice was back to its usual haughty tone - "You may go."
I bowed again and left his presence.

He must have spoken to his father that very day, because Lord Roitaheru addressed me about it over dessert. "So, Azruhâr. Calmo says that you want to begin teaching your craft?"
I could hear that he didn't think it was a good idea, so I hesitated for a moment. I remembered what Herucalmo had said, concerning my readiness, and his father doubtlessly shared these concerns and would think me unfit to represent Yôzayân on my own. But I knew in my heart that no matter how long I trained with the guards, even if they turned more friendly towards me, I would never be as strong and proud as they were; and I did not want to continue that training. Embalming, at the very least, would be a familiar activity in this strange land, and perhaps I would grow into the teaching part, too.
"Yes, Lord," I said.

"Well, I'm not generally opposed to the idea. After all, that's why I brought you here in the first place. But I need to make something clear to you. I expect you to come to me at once when there is trouble. Doesn't matter what kind of trouble. Ran out of money, poisoned a stream, punched someone in the face, put a baby in another man's wife, whatever, come here and tell me. I promise I won't get angry. Well, I might get a little angry, if it's particularly stupid trouble. But I'll get it sorted out, too. Understood? It's a lot easier to sort these things out early. Much harder when you've already made debts or killed the neighbours' cows or have an angry cuckold come after you with an axe. We don't want trouble like that."
I felt my face flush. "I wouldn't--"
He interrupted me, "Just examples, Azruhâr, these are just examples. Not saying these things are going to happen to you, but they've happened to others, and I assure you that the longer you try to hide it, the messier it gets. So don't hide things. No matter what, if there's trouble, tell me about it, let me sort it out. Understood?"
"Yes, Lord."
"Are you sure?"
I frowned. "Yes, Lord. If there's trouble, come to you, tell you about it, let you sort it out."

"Good." I thought he would be satisfied, but instead, he gave me a pointed stare. "Now, is there any trouble you should be telling me about?"
The heat in my cheeks intensified. I glanced at Lord Herucalmo, who was taking his time savouring the fruit cake we had been served and doing his best to look thoroughly disinterested. I wondered how much exactly he had told his father. It was probably better to assume that Lord Roitaheru was already fully informed, and using his knowledge to test me, so honesty was the only way out.
"As a matter of fact, my lord, these past weeks I've been having trouble with my training." I had to look down at the tablecloth. "The other recruits are blaming me for the punishment of two guards, and they've let me feel their displeasure."
"Well, you are to blame, to some extent! You shouldn't have allowed those two to disrespect you in the first place. It gets out of hand much too easily."
Guiltily, I began to chew on my lips.

"Truth be told, it's my fault," Lord Herucalmo said in a sudden show of self-awareness. "I expect they took their cues from me, and I didn't exactly treat him as if he required respect."
"Good grief, Calmo, you really need to get rid of that Armînaleth snobbery as long as you're here," Lord Roitaheru said, sounding exasperated.
"Yes, Father."
"They all know me as a raw recruit," I said in a strange urge to defend Lord Herucalmo, since he had gone to the trouble of defending me. "So of course it's hard for them to treat me with respect all of a sudden."
"Be that as it may, it's not up to the common soldiery to decide who they do or don't respect! In private, they can think whatever they please, but they've got to show respect to their superiors, or they aren't suitable as guards. And that includes their superior's companions, whoever they may be." He shook his head. "You should have come to me at once."

I bowed my head lower. "I thought they would stop after a while, once they felt that I had atoned for it."
"These things never stop by themselves," Lord Roitaheru said sternly. "Once they've grown used to picking on you, they'll forget the reason, and eventually they'll just continue out of habit and because they like having a common enemy."
"All the same, I ask you not to mete out further punishment," I said, "because that'll just set them more strongly against me."
"That is true," Lord Roitaheru conceded, to my great relief. "But there need to be consequences. Well, I'll think about that later. Now, of course you'll have to give up your training anyway if you start teaching. But I suppose you won't miss it too much, eh?"
I looked up cautiously. "No, Lord."
"I thought not. Pity. It did you well, I'm sure. But I suppose you're more the intellectual type."
I had to bite my lip again, and I couldn't help sneaking another look at Lord Herucalmo, who was pretending to have something stuck in his teeth to cover up for the grimaces he was cutting at the thought of me, an intellectual type.

Lord Roitaheru appeared to be oblivious. "So. You won't have to put up with the guard any longer. But of course that doesn't bode too well for your work, right? You realise that you'll have to stand your own among the natives," he said.
"How many of them will I be teaching?" I couldn't help asking, because he made it sound as if I would be surrounded by a dozen strangers.
"That's a good question, actually! How many were you planning to take on?"
"Well - two or three. That should be manageable." I bit my lip, and added, "Even for me."
He raised an eyebrow. "Really? I was thinking five at the least - after all, there are no embalmers to begin with!"
That was a scary thought. "I've never taught apprentices before, my lord; surely five at once are too many."
"Hmm." To my relief, he gave a thoughtful nod. "In that case, three are probably enough for the start. And then you'll need a housekeeper and a valet or something of the sort, I expect. But those will be easy to find. How do you plan to go about recruiting your embalmers? I expect the Umbarians are more squeamish about death than our people are, since it hits them more frequently."

Briefly, his question threw me off-balance. I had thought that this was already settled; I had not considered that it might be even more difficult to convince the people of Umbar to work with the dead. "In Arminalêth, the embalmers were recipients of the King's Mercy," I thought out loud, "so I expected that I would also recruit them among prisoners here. Or maybe among the slaves from the mines. People who are willing to do the work, even frightening work like preserving the dead, to regain their freedom."
"The mines are important to the King," Lord Herucalmo interrupted. "If anything, they need more workers, not less."
I had to bite my tongue, because once more I was tempted to point out that more people might work there (willingly, even) if the work wasn't made so deliberately miserable. "Prisoners, then," I said.

"You trust yourself to control people who've had to be imprisoned?" Lord Roitaheru asked, tilting his head. "You do realise that these people may be dangerous."
"Well, I wouldn't chose violent murderers or other people like that," I said, somewhat embarrassed. "I expect there are prisoners who made foolish mistakes, and would be grateful to make up for them." As I had been, I thought. I didn't say it; if Lord Roitaheru wasn't aware of my past - unlikely, since Lord Atanacalmo had surely told him all the ugly things about me - I wasn't going to spell it out.
"That might work, I suppose," he said. "You'll have to get the council's permission, of course."
"Oh. I thought your permission would be enough."
"No - I can condemn them, but not pardon them on my own, funnily enough. And there's no King's Mercy anymore, of course. So we'll have to let the council vote on it. Don't worry, I'm sure you can convince them. It's just a formality."

I was tempted to reconsider my request and wait longer, but of course I'd still have to put it to the vote then, so it was probably better to get it over with. "Can I have it put on the schedule for the next council session?"
"I expect so. Shouldn't be a terribly long discussion, as long as you can explain your plans clearly."
"I'll do my best," I said. "I should like a look at the prison records, if that's alright. So I can make a list of candidates."
"Oh, no need to name specific names. You just need the authority to take a certain number of prisoners out of prison. As I said, it's a mere formality."
Smiling, I said, "But I'll still need a list of candidates - for myself." And sobering, I added, "Is there a morgue or something like that, where we can work?"
"Yes. You can take a look at it tomorrow. See if it suits your purposes. Otherwise, we'll have to find something else. Or build a new one." He clapped his hands, and the servants began to remove the remains of our dinner. "Well! That's enough work for one evening, I'd say. I don't know about you, but I'm getting tired. Let's talk further when we've slept on it."
I had no objection to that; and I slept well that night. In the next morning, I woke easily and ate with good appetite. My only regret was that I couldn't write to Amraphel that I might not be exiled forever. If I wasn't allowed to know it, then of course I couldn't commit it to writing. It was very hard not to share the happy news, though, and I could only hope that I would find some way of getting the message across in some other way.

Chapter 46

Read Chapter 46

Chapter 46

The Númenórean morgue in Umbar was tiny, smaller than Mistress Nîluphar's tomb. It was purely a storage place for the herbs, unguents and coverings used in a traditional wake, with just enough space for the gravedigger to move around and take the necessary items out. You might have managed to put in a work table for a dead body, but any embalmer attempting to work on it would've had to climb along the shelves. It was, in short, not at all what I needed. Lord Roitaheru accepted that and recommended for me to take a look at the Umbarian morgue instead; if it suited my purposes, it could be mine by the end of the week, he said. Accordingly, I went to look at it determined to find it unsuitable. The Umbarian embalmers watched in wary silence as one of their own showed me around using as few words as he could, and I was fairly certain that their taciturn manner wasn't due to the language barrier. They made no move against me and said nothing impolite - in fact, they bowed very low and stood aside with the utmost show of respect - but their mistrust was tangible. Still, I heard and saw enough to find out that the Umbarian style of embalming was very different from what my colleagues and I did - they removed anything from inside the body that might spoil, and then dried it thoroughly before wrapping it and laying it to rest in the rambling catacombs hewn into the bedrock. It was doubtlessly quite reliable and highly efficient, since not much could go wrong, but there was no hope of bringing these eviscerated bodies back to life. (Not that the Raisers had succeeded even with our superior bodies, so far, but that was still the goal after all.)

I reported back to Lord Roitaheru that due to these differences, the Umbarian morgue wouldn't do. In truth, it would have done well enough, and the missing vats and tables could easily have been added. But I remembered well enough how devastating it had been to be turned out of the royal morgue, and we'd had more time than just a week to adjust. In spite of their coldness, I did not wish that fate on my Umbarian colleagues.
Lord Roitaheru was unworried. "You can just look at other buildings until you find one that's useful. And if you don't find one, we'll just build you a new one."
"I expect I should wait with my application to the council, then," I said, not entirely disappointed, but he shook his head at that.
"I'd get that out of the way now, to be honest. Next month's meeting will be all about distributing the harvest. That's going to be a lengthy discussion, anyway, and people will be very impatient if you add another topic to the list. No, much better to get permission now. You don't have to use it at once, but you'll have it."
I must have looked very anxious at the prospect, because he hastened to reassure me at once. "Don't worry, I don't expect you'll have to work hard to get that permission. Just explain why you need the people and the council will agree." He grinned at me. "Courage, Azruhâr!"
I tried to take courage.

On the appointed day, I nonetheless felt rather nervous as I sat on one of the stone seats in the half-empty council chamber. Lord Laurilyo was nowhere to be seen, so at least I could avoid that confrontation for now, but that didn't help much to assuage the heavy feeling of fear in my stomach. I tried to tell myself that with most of the councillors absent, I probably wouldn't have to say a lot. On the other hand, those who were present probably were the most ambitious - or, at any rate, politically interested - of the lot, so it might not actually make that much of a difference. I didn't look at anyone, instead trying to recall the words I was intending to use in making my application.

When it became clear that no further councillors would arrive, Lord Roitaheru started the session. The first item on the list was a surprisingly familiar topic: a motion to authorise a punitive expedition against the hostile Tash-naga, who had appropriated some of our mithril through dishonest means and ought to be neutralised before they could become a more dangerous threat. After Lord Roitaheru's introduction, Lord Herucalmo stood up and gave a summary of what he knew about the desert tribe, which, aside from their nomadic lifestyle, their presumed numbers and the region in which they were expected to be found, wasn't much more than what I had heard a few days earlier. Accordingly, when some of the councillors (especially young Arandur) asked more in-depth questions, Lord Herucalmo merely shrugged his shoulders. "That's all I know about them, unfortunately," he said, "so that makes it difficult to estimate the exact extent of the threat. Unless perhaps our Umbarian spokesman has further information?"

All eyes turned to Darîm, who had stiffened a little, his lips quirked in displeasure as he rose from his seat at the side of the theatre. "They are not of my people," he said, "so I do not know any more about them than you already do, my lords. All I can say is, the desert tribes are not known to have great strength of arms. That is why they live in the desert."
"Well, maybe they want to change that," one of the older councillors observed.
Darîm replied evenly, "Maybe." He sat back down, signalling that he didn't intend to say more on the matter, and nobody asked him to.
"Either way, I feel that it is better to counter this threat before it grows," Lord Herucalmo declared. "Therefore I ask permission to lead a military campaign into the desert to nip it in the bud."
"And recover the missing mithril, if possible?" That question came from a portly merchant.
"If possible," Lord Herucalmo agreed peaceably.

They argued a little more - in a friendly manner - whether the priority should be on the retrieval of the lost mithril or the elimination of the hostile tribe, and how many regiments would be required for the purpose. Lord Herucalmo appeared to be of the opinion that it would be a fairly easy battle, a good opportunity for experienced troops to shake off some rust and for young recruits to test themselves in action. The crushing of the threat had the top priority, but if a chance to regain the mithril offered itself, they would certainly use it. In the end, the council voted in favour, both of the campaign as such and of Lord Herucalmo as its leader (accompanied and advised by an experienced general, and taking along both seasoned and young warriors).
And then it was my turn. Lord Roitaheru briefly introduced the item - the purpose of establishing the craft of embalming - and then held out his hand, indicating that I was expected to explain the rest.

I stood up slowly, discomfited by the expectant silence and the attention on my person. Keeping silent would have been even more embarrassing than opening my mouth and talking to them, so I did speak, but I'm sure my face was flushed red all the way through it. "Honoured councillors," I said, as I had practiced, "I am preparing to begin teaching my craft in earnest. But it is not to be expected that I will find apprentices who volunteer to work with the dead. Most people find it off-putting-"
"And who can blame them," one of the tradesmen quipped.
I gave a defensive smile. "Indeed. So I will need your permission to take my apprentices from among men who will be less picky - such as prisoners, who would be willing to do any work if it gets them free more quickly. Three or four of them. Not any dangerous prisoners, of course. Petty thieves or something like that."
"Dangerous prisoners go to the mines, anyway," remarked the councillor who had introduced himself as Zainabên on our first meeting. Other than that, there was a moment of silence after I had spoken my clumsy piece.

Then, another councillor - a carpenter, from his colours - spoke up. "Let me see if I understood this right," he said. "You wish to train petty criminals in embalming, is that correct?"
"I wish to recruit my apprentice embalmers from among petty criminals, yes," I said.
He stroked his chin. "And you intend to teach them in prison? In that case, I don't see how it concerns us."
"No, sir, I intend to take them out of prison and keep them at the morgue." Which did not exist yet, but I figured that truly wasn't their concern. "It is a chance for them to earn their freedom."
There was some muttering. Then, young Arandur stood up. "In general, I am not opposed," he announced, "but you have used the word 'apprentices'. An apprenticeship in one of our crafts comes with considerable privileges; I don't feel these privileges should be easily conferred onto criminals, even petty ones."

I bit my lips. I didn't quite know what privileges he meant. Obviously, it was good to be an apprentice - far better than being a day-taler or a servant - but I didn't feel that the relative security and the prospect of being a master craftsman some day were privileges, rather than just good fortune. "I am not certain I can follow you," I said.
Arandur gave me a look somewhere between pity and condescension, letting me feel that I should have prepared better. "These criminals are bound to be Umbarians," he said flatly. "An Umbarian apprenticed to a Númenórean master is treated under the law as our own youngsters are, and can hope to achieve full citizenship if he completes his apprenticeship and is accepted as master of his craft."
"If," the tradesman who had interrupted me earlier observed, smirking. I concluded that not many Umbarian apprentices had become masters.
Arandur ignored him, keeping his attention fixed on me. "You would reward these prisoners for their crime," he stated. "That seems unwise to me."

I cast a helpless look at Lord Roitaheru, who (I felt) really could have told me about this. "His lordship did not seem to see a problem with it," I said weakly, hoping that he would support me.
"They would have to be accepted as masters first," Lord Roitaheru said with a shrug. "That's years away, if they manage it at all."
"Nonetheless," Arandur was not deterred so easily, "it is a possibility. And in the meantime, the law will treat them more kindly - and that after they've already needed to be imprisoned. Isn't that paradoxical?"
I couldn't deny that. I hadn't immediately seen it - at the time, it had simply felt like a different horror - but of course my own apprenticeship had been an enormous reward. A fixed occupation, money to spare, food on the table, a horse and nice clothing, everything had come with it. Even my ability to help my neighbours, not to mention the friendship of Lord Eärendur, had been consequences of the King's Mercy. Mind you, it had also bought me the former Crown Prince's, now King's hatred - and the questionable attention of Lord Atanacalmo. Perhaps that evened it out.
But of course, most of these things were unlikely to occur to my own apprentices.
"It is, to some extent," I confessed. "But they will be confronted with death everyday; they shall have to treat our dead better than most of them may have been treated all their lives. I feel that they will earn their reward in this manner."

Arandur was frowning, but before he could say something, the carpenter had risen again. "I see no need to dilute our precious apprenticeships in this manner," he said. "If these men are taken out of prison, that should be reward enough."Another craftsman - a stonemason, perhaps, or a sculptor - nodded his agreement.
I felt my face grow hot once more. "I do not intend to dilute anything," I said. "I merely wish to offer a strong incentive for them to overcome the fear of death."
Lord Herucalmo rose, a (very thin) smile on his lips. "Is any incentive needed? Since they are prisoners, they shall have to do as you tell them, anyway. Indentured folk don't get to choose their work."
Arandur was on his feet once more. "Indeed. As I said, I am not opposed to your project, merely to excessive generosity."
Your majesty has already been most generous, I remembered saying, and the answer: I like to be that, when I can. Suddenly, it struck me that Lord Herucalmo had been wrong when he'd said that I hadn't become a decent person until after my punishment. Punishment had turned me, in the words of Lord Atanacalmo, into someone who was weak of character, unfixed, unreliable, and not the brightest, either. It had been generosity - Amraphel's, and the King's, and Master Târik's, and Lord Eärendur's - that had made me something akin to a decent person. And although Lord Atanacalmo had claimed that courage grew in adversity, I was fairly certain that mine - what little I had of it, anyway - had grown under the generosity of those rare and precious people who had treated me better than I deserved.

"I like generosity," I heard myself say, in a voice thick with emotion. "You would be surprised how much it can change a man. Every good thing in my life has been brought about by generosity."
For a moment, they said nothing. I could read doubt in their faces, though. Arandur in particular was looking deprecative, and so were the craftsmen I could see. This wasn't going too well. I tried again, still feeling rather emotional about the whole business. "Honoured councillors, I regret to inform you that I am wholly mortal. I will not be able to work forever. And there aren't many embalmers to take my place --"
I was interrupted once more. "How many are there?"
"Four, all in all," I said. "And two of them are older than me. So I shall have to train apprentices, not just assistants - people who can continue my work when the time comes. If you know any young men of impeccable record who wish to become embalmers, by all means send them my way." There was some laughter at that. I very much doubted that any such young men existed, and so, clearly, did the councillors.

Then Zainabên raised his hand, and, when Lord Roitaheru gestured at him, stood up. "Let me suggest a compromise," he said. "Let your criminals serve as indentured assistants or whatever you want to call it for a certain period of time - five years, say - and if they acquit themselves perfectly during that time, then we shall consider them worthy of becoming apprentices."
I thought about it. "Three years, perhaps," I conceded. I could treat them as apprentices right from the beginning, whatever their legal status. But I did not want it to take too long. Aside from the injustice of it - we were still talking about petty crimes, after all - I had selfish reasons. If I was permitted to go back home, as Lord Herucalmo had suggested, then surely that wouldn't be before I had at least one apprentice ready to continue the work. With a ten-year apprenticeship and, now, three additional years, that would be thirteen years at the very least - assuming that a journeyman would be permitted to become my successor in the first place. Otherwise, it would be seven more years on top of that, and while two decades were no eternity, it certainly looked like a long time from this end. No need to lengthen it further.

"I feel that five years are more appropriate," Arandur said (I began to rather dislike his smug face). "We are talking about a significant honour, which should not be earned easily."
"Three years," I insisted. "Five are too long."
The carpenter got up again. "That is true. We mustn't forget that the Umbarians have shorter lifespans. I am in favour of three years, but I suggest that we limit the rights of apprenticeship for them even beyond that. Basically, if they break the law, even in a minor way, they go back into prison, or straight to the mines, whether it's in two years or in nine."
There was some nodding, and even Arandur seemed to accept this argument, because he didn't protest again. Lord Roitaheru said, "Right. Any further questions or remarks?"
Darîm raised his hand, and was given the floor. I was honestly surprised that he hadn't spoken up earlier - one should think that he would have had something to contribute to the legal treatment of his people, even if they were prisoners, but he had chosen to remain silent so far. Even now, he was sounding slightly bored. "May I ask that I will be consulted about these people?" he asked without much enthusiasm. "I expect that I would be able to help in their selection, and in explaining the situation to them."

I saw some raised eyebrows, which surprised me, because his request sounded quite reasonable to me. "Yes, certainly," I said. "You will know them much better than I do; I would be glad to have your advice."
Darîm's eyebrows briefly went up, as if that answer was unexpected. Maybe it was. Maybe I should have insisted that I didn't need his help. I hoped that I hadn't called the strength of Yôzayân into question by acknowledging that he might know more than I did. On the other hand, what shame was there in admitting something so obvious? Of course he knew his people better than I, just recently arrived from far away, did.
Either way, I had said what I'd said; and he bowed (very gracefully, it must be said) and sat back down.
"Anything else?" Lord Roitaheru said, frowning a little. Perhaps I really had brought Yôzayân into discredit. I tried not to worry too much. When nobody else had anything to say, he looked at me again. "Vey well. In that case, I suggest we put it to the vote. Azruhâr, can you bring forward your amended motion?"

I took a deep breath. "I request permission to take up to five prisoners as apprentices - no." I sorted my thoughts and tried again. "I request permission to release up to five prisoners under condition, to take them under my tutelage, first as assistants and, after three years of good conduct, as apprentices. Um, with limited rights. For the purpose of establishing the craft of embalming in the colony of Umbar."
"Those in favour, rise now," Lord Roitaheru proclaimed matter-of-factly, looking around the theatre. "Thank you. Sit down. Those against, rise now." Nobody rose, and I heaved a sigh of relief. "Those abstaining, rise now." Arandur stood up, and so did two of the craftsmen, but I didn't care; my motion was through. Lord Roitaheru nodded in my direction, announced the result, and moved on to the next issue.

On the way back, Lord Roitaheru said, "It was clever, I suppose, to let Darîm feel that you appreciate his input. But don't let him control your decisions. Yes, he can be useful, but don't forget that ultimately he's one of them. He's bound to prioritise their interests over ours. So don't rely on him too much."
Truth be told, I was just relieved that he wasn't angry with me. I nodded. "I shall keep that in mind."
"Good. And remember, their good conduct is vital. If they misbehave, they've blown their chance. No excessive generosity and no second chances. Just put them back into prison and find someone better."
"Don't worry, Lord," I said, surprised at the firmness in my voice. "I shall not let them misbehave."
He grinned and clapped my shoulder; it no longer hurt as much as it would have a few weeks ago. "That's the right attitude!"
I suspected that he had rather different ideas than I had, but I figured that as long as it worked, it didn't matter how it worked. I changed the topic. "So there is going to be war, my lord?" I said, recalling the first discussion of the meeting.

"War? No." Lord Roitaheru laughed. "Nothing so dramatic. Calmo will just put down these upstart desert people before they can grow into a threat, isn't that right?"
Lord Herucalmo smiled as if he didn't have a worry in the world. "That is the plan."
"So it's just a little campaign," Lord Roitaheru explained. "A punitive expedition, as we military folk call it. It's important, of course - we can't let them thieve our mithril and gather strength on our doorstep! So naturally, they need to be punished. That'll also discourage any other tribes, in case they're having similar ideas. But it isn't war."
"But there is going to be fighting," I insisted, because that was what I had meant.
"I should hope so," Lord Herucalmo said. "There's not much honour to be won if they surrender right away, is there?"
Lord Roitaheru added, "There should be just enough fighting to make for a nice challenge, but not so much that there's going to be any real danger. Of course, it's going to feel like real danger to our naughty little recruits! We're going to go about it with all the rigour of a real battle, of course. That should remind them of their true purpose and take their minds off bullying harmless embalmers, isn't that right? And of course, the experience will do them good either way."

I began to understand. So that what all this 'testing themselves in action' talk had really been about. The expedition wasn't just meant to punish the Tash-naga; it was also a punishment for my fellow recruits. Some real battle - or at least, the pretense of a real battle - to make them fear for their lives just enough to regret their petty cruelty towards me. It might even work, I suppose, but I cannot say I liked the idea much.
"I would hate for any of them to get killed," I heard myself say. "That's going too far."
With a chuckle, Lord Roitaheru said, "They're guards, Azruhâr! Unlike you, they signed up for the fighting life. They absolutely have to be ready to lay down their lives, either in battle or in the protection of whoever they end up serving. If they're unwilling to risk that, they're unsuited to the job. Mind you, we're going to invite them to end their service without dishonour if they cannot face the thought. They're young fools, after all. Until they ride out, they can still quit and return home - it's only going to count as desertion after the campaign has begun. So you really don't need to lose any sleep about it."

I suspected that I would lose sleep about it, anyway. "They haven't even finished their training, Lord!" I couldn't help pointing out.
"Exactly! That should show you how little danger there is to them," he said. "Do you think I'd send my own son into battle, accompanied mostly by veterans and raw recruits, if there was any serious risk? Of course not! No, as we've told the council, it's mostly an opportunity for the soldiers to unsheathe their swords and see some action, and for the young fellows to get some battlefield experience." He grinned more broadly. "And for Calmo to establish himself as a leader. Those desert folk are brave enough, but they stand no chance against our weaponry. Our men will all return as heroes, and we'll act as if they fought great battles against fearsome desert warriors, of course! But in truth, it won't be more than a little skirmish or two. - You'll keep that to yourself, of course."
"Of course," I said, a strange warm glow in my belly. That, I thought - with a gratification that felt entirely inappropriate - was new. Normally, I wasn't told things. Or I was told things that turned out not to be true. And then I would be told that they hadn't let me in on the truth because I wouldn't have kept my mouth shut. Lord Roitaheru's simple words suggested a different view. Apparently, I could be told things. Apparently, I could be trusted to understand if something needed to be kept secret. I hated to admit to myself how good it felt.

Lord Herucalmo was watching me with a curious smirk, and I was certain that he knew exactly what I was thinking. I realised that I was smiling, and hastily rearranged my features into a more serious expression. "They could have bought better weapons," I said, "with the stolen mithril. I expect it'd buy a lot of weapons. Then they'll be armed better than you expect."
"You're not wrong. But even if they bought swords and armour aplenty, they'd still have to learn how to use them! Which is why Calmo is going to smash them now. They'll hardly have time to prepare. Once they'll find out that their supply of mithril has run dry, they may figure out that something is going to happen. But right now, with any luck, they won't even expect their just punishment."
Lord Herucalmo nodded at that. He was no longer smirking, but he was still watching my face intently. "You worry too much," he observed, "about people who don't even deserve it."
I felt my mouth briefly grow thin at that. "I always worry about people, my lord," I admitted. There was no denying it. I was even worried about him, a little, although I knew better than to tell him. The mere suggestion that he might not come out of the skirmish ahead would probably have been a deadly insult. I left it at that.
"Well, don't," he said dismissively, thankfully unaware of my thoughts.

"Calmo is right," Lord Roitaheru said, "you have enough to take care of without worrying about these foolish fellows. They'll be fine." Which, I suppose, was a kindly way of saying that it was none of my business. "Speaking of your own cares, how would you like to look at another house tomorrow? It's just an ordinary city-house, not a morgue, but perhaps you can turn it into one."
I understood perfectly well that he was trying to distract me. On some level, I felt that I ought to insist on discussing the campaign. On the other hand, it was unlikely that I could change anything about it, especially now that the council had authorised it. At the most, I'd get them annoyed. I let it go. "Yes, of course," I said. "Perhaps I can make it work."

Chapter 47

Read Chapter 47

Chapter 47

The house Lord Roitaheru had spoken of would have been a perfectly nice place to live and run a shop, but I felt that it would make a very poor morgue. For one, it did not have its own well. There was a communal well further down the street, but with the amount of water we used in embalming (and bathing afterwards), going there over and over would have been tedious indeed. I suppose I had been spoiled by the ready water supply at the royal morgue at home, and also at our new morgue, where we had dug into the groundwater that accumulated at the foot of the Holy Mountain. I guess water was harder to come by in this place, generally, but since the palace up the hill managed to water its gardens just fine, I felt that a reliable - and nearby! - water supply wasn't too much to ask. Moreover, the house did not have a proper cellar, either, which seemed rather necessary for storage. Finally, it was located in a fairly busy street (in the mornings and at night, anyway). With regard to people's sensitivity, it did not seem like a wise choice to locate a morgue right in the middle of a living quarter. The angry shopkeepers of Arminalêth had been quite enough. Even if the Umbarians were less haughty, it would have felt like courting trouble. Unfortunately, it appeared that I would have to search further.

Before I made any further efforts on finding a place to work and live, I went to see Darîm once I had gone through the account-books and made a list of prisoners who might be suitable. I had sent Kâlil to make an appointment with the spokesman, making Lord Roitaheru laugh. "Darîm should be free whenever you are - he's the one who wanted to get involved! Besides, he'd fail in his duties if he didn't see you, and pass up business opportunities, too." Nonetheless, I was fairly certain that the spokesman wouldn't sit in his house waiting for me to come by every hour of every day, and I didn't want to embarrass or inconvenience him.
Kâlil came back and related that Darîm, "naturally", would be delighted to welcome me whenever it pleased me, though he would be especially delighted if I had time on Aldëa or Menelya in the late afternoon. I suspected that this meant that any other time would be inconvenient. On Aldëa, once the worst of the heat was over, I borrowed a horse from Lord Roitaheru's stables and made my way to Darîm's house near the harbour. Lord Roitaheru insisted on sending two guards along. I didn't bother asking whether they were for protection or for rank.

Darîm lived in a large house, unassuming on the outside but lavishly and expensively decorated on the inside. That was a surprise. I suppose I had expected Darîm to be someone like me, but judging by the house, he must be quite rich. Exquisite wall and floor tiles in bright, untarnished colours; elaborate carpets; furniture made from a hard, dark wood, which must surely be rare and costly. Darîm himself appeared relaxed and at ease here, not at all like the tense and tired man I had seen at the council sessions. He came to greet me while his servant was still washing my feet, and led me through the spacious rooms himself. I expected a study, but instead, he guided me into a sort of sitting room, reasonably cool and fairly dark. Like the tea court I had visited with Lord Laurilyo and his friends, it was furnished with large round cushions instead of chairs, but they had been laid out on such a fine silk carpet and were made from such precious fabrics - dyed in dark reds and bright gold, and with a clever pattern woven in - that it was clear that the lack of chairs wasn't for a lack of funds. The heavy curtains were woven in the exact same pattern, so Darîm must have bought a lot of the expensive material, too.

Bowing slightly in my direction, Darîm gestured at one of the cushions and invited me to sit. My bottom had barely touched the cushion when servants came in with tea and tiny bowls of khoosh and larger bowls of spiced nuts. From the looks of them, all the bowls had been driven from silver, with delicate patterns engraved into the polished surface. The servants put their hands together when I thanked them and, at a gesture from Darîm, pulled back the splendid curtains to reveal the view into the house's courtyard, which was more of a walled garden, with a fountain and some lush, evidently well-watered greenery (so really, I told myself, wanting to have my own well at the morgue wasn't unreasonable even in hot Umbar). At another gesture from Darîm, the servants withdrew. He sat down opposite me, smiling in a perfectly charming way. I was uncertain what to do. Should I open the conversation? Should he?

I figured that some small talk never went amiss. "You have a beautiful house, Spokesman Darîm," I said.
"Yes, it is comfortable enough," he agreed pleasantly. I thought he might talk a little about how much it was worth, or how much the beautiful fabrics had cost, as someone like Master Amrazôr would have done, but instead, he said nothing more.
I tried a different angle. "You must be a very important man."
For a moment, his smile wavered. "Not very." I thought he would again leave it at that, but after a moment, he said, "My ancestors used to be rulers of this place, you see. Compared to them, I am nothing."
"Rulers?" I asked. "You mean, like - kings?"
"Much like that, yes," he said in the most modest tone, "although it worked a little differently. And then," he spread his arms, "they became spokesmen."
I did not know how to respond to that. I had spoken to kings, and to lords descended from kings, before (which, really, was strange enough); but somehow this felt different. Awkward. I wondered whether I should use some kind of title for him - other than Spokesman, that is.
"So you still speak for your people," I said for the sake of saying something at all.

"A vestige of former glory," he said, still smiling. "But enough of me, Master Embalmer; we are here to discuss your business, after all."
"Oh, actually, I'm not -" I stopped myself. "My name is Azruhâr."
His smile intensified. "Yes, I know. Darîmakkhârin, at your service."
"Darîmakkh--" I stumbled over the many syllables. "I thought your name was Darîm."
"It is part of it." The corners of his mouth went further back, briefly turning his smile into a grimace. "Do not trouble yourself. I am Darîm to most people."
I found myself frowning. It was doubly awkward - him using a honorific for me that I hadn't earned, and me not knowing how to properly address him, and the whole situation: him, descended from something like kings, treating me, descended from paupers, as his superior. "Don't you mind?"
He tilted his head. "Does it matter?"
Frowning more deeply, I said, "Well, I do not wish to give offense."
"It matters not." His smile was back to normal. He handed me one of the small khoosh bowls and raised his own. "You need not fear that I shall give you bad advice. May your business be profitable."
"Thank you," I said, and since I did not know what the proper answer was, I simply said, "To your health."
He bowed once more, and we drank.

"So, Master Embalmer," he said when we had emptied the little cups, and he had poured tea into the somewhat larger tea-bowls. "Can you explain to me what the work for you will entail? In short, naturally. I know that I will not understand your craft in one afternoon."
"Yes," I said, "but you really don't have to call me Master Embalmer." I hadn't wanted to get into the niceties of my situation, but apparently it was unavoidable. "Technically, I'm not even a master craftsman."
"Yet you have the ability to teach."
My face grew hot. "Apparently. But I haven't been examined or given the title or anything of the sort." I forced myself to smile in the manner that he smiled - politely, encouragingly - and said, "Do call me Azruhâr."
He tilted his head once more, an expression of professional regret on his face. "I'm afraid not. You might permit it now, but you might change your mind later, and then where will I be? Or I shall grow into the habit and address you so in public, and those who overhear will not know that you have permitted it. Then I shall be in trouble. It is safer for me to - how do you say? - to err on the side of too polite."
I bit my lips. This was absurd. "Surely you could explain that you have permission, should someone overhear and take offense in my place," I argued.
There was a pause during which he seemed to think about what to say. Eventually, he decided to go for, "You overestimate the patience and open ears of your guards, Master Embalmer."
My guards! I nearly laughed at the thought. Still, I suppose he had a point. Guards usually weren't interested in explanations. Besides, I remembered my difficulty in addressing Lord Eärendur by name, even though we were friends. Yet it was strange to be treated in that way - as if I were somewhere above him and approachable only with wary respect - particularly considering who we both really were. The whole thing was absurd. But there was probably no way of untangling it - not here and now, anyway. However, I determined to learn his complicated full name as soon as I could.

For now, we returned to the topic of my craft. I summarised the work as well as I could. I tried to be honest about the distastefulness of it. As I heard myself talk, I wondered what Darîm was making of me. He was too polite to ask, and was smiling amiably all the while, but surely he had guessed by now that I myself had been a criminal, and that I, too, had been forced to take up this craft to save my life. At home, people knew that anyway, but it had not been an issue here so far. But now Darîm must have realised. How he must resent me!
Moreover, I had grown so accustomed to it that I no longer shuddered at touching dead people (or their parts), nor felt resentment that they were considered more worthy of care and expensive materials than most of the living. But describing these things to a stranger brought back the horror and revulsion I had felt when I had begun my apprenticeship. "I realise how it sounds, but it is possible to get used to the work," I said awkwardly. "And I shall make sure that there will be good sides to it, to balance out the terror of death."

Darîm was now studying my face intently, as if trying to read between my words. His smile, when it returned, looked somewhat strained. "You will find many willing workers in prison. But you realise that they have all transgressed against your people and your laws, not ours?"
As it happened, I had not realised.
"Imprisonment is not a punishment my people use," Darîm explained matter-of-factly. "We put people in prison before they are tried and punished. It is not the punishment in itself and doesn't last so long."
There seemed to be something like a reproach in his voice, and I felt defensive. "Your punishment is enslaving people!" I pointed out.
"Very bad people, yes. And your people profit off it. But smaller crimes are punished in the marketplace, a day or two. You lock small crimes up for years and years." His voice was still polite, soft, but it seemed to cover a great deal of resentment. I felt my brow crease once more. At home, petty crimes were punished right on the spot, or in some sort of public display, which sounded much like what Darîm described, but apparently things were done differently here. Indeed, I had been surprised what the people on my list had been locked up for - things like debt or hand-to-mouth theft or just plain insolence, things that would have been resolved, for the most part, with a few days of pain and shame - but I had assumed that it was the law of Umbar, not of my people, that accounted for the difference.

Either way, I certainly hadn't come up with it. "I am not locking anyone up," I said stubbornly. "In fact, I intend to take people out of prison, which is why I'm here in the first place."
Darîm bowed. "That is true. If I understood correctly, you will take them out of prison to make them work for you - rather like slaves."
I stared at him wide-eyed. Perhaps, I thought dimly, this was why Lord Herucalmo had gotten so angry when I had suspected him of planning to leave me at the mine. It was a rather horrid accusation - particularly as it wasn't at all what I'd had in mind. Nonetheless, I could see where he got the idea. (Hadn't I gotten the same idea, back when the King had pardoned me under condition?)
"Technically, I suppose they will be bondservants," I said. "But I do not intend to treat them as such. Certainly not like I saw the slaves treated at the mines."
Darîm smile was unperturbed. "I am glad. They have only done small crimes, after all."

For a moment, I felt guilty. They had only done small crimes. I, condemned for burglary and theft and murder, although I hadn't committed the latter, was probably a worse criminal than any of them.
But I was supposedly a decent person now, I reminded myself. Lord Herucalmo had said so, and who was I to question that? Besides, I would treat my workers gently. I had been treated gently, after all, when I had become an embalmer. Treated gently and taught patiently and received generous pay on top of all that. "I will pay them, too," I said. "Not much, since they won't be proper apprentices yet and it's probably not allowed. But they will be paid a modest sum, so it won't feel - won't feel like slavery."
At that, Darîm's eyebrows rose in obvious skepticism, but all he said was, "Your generosity knows no bounds. I am sure they will appreciate it very much."
They better, I thought to myself, because if they didn't, then what would I do? But I didn't say that. Instead, I said, "No need for flattery."

Once more, Darîm was smiling his winsome smile. "As you wish. So you are still resolved that your workers will become apprentices in three years' time?"
"Since the Council insisted," I said, slightly annoyed. The delay hadn't been my idea after all. "It's a formality, though. I will treat them as apprentices from the start, as long as they behave themselves."
"I shall stress the importance of behaving themselves," Darîm said, and I wasn't certain whether he was making fun of me or not.
"Good," I said, deciding to take him at face value. "You know the conditions, after all. If they cause trouble, I am to send them back to prison at once. No second chances."
"I understand, and so, I am sure, shall they," Darîm said, bowing his head again. "Now, aside from not causing trouble, what else will you be needing from them?"
Now I couldn't pretend not to notice the irony anymore. Narrowing my eyes, I asked, "Do you think this is funny?"

His reaction was quite disproportional. He bowed low, nearly to the ground, spreading his open palms appeasingly. "I apologise if I have given offense, Master Embalmer," he said in a mild voice. "I assure you that I am taking it as seriously as you are."
"You exaggerate," I said, feeling annoyed and embarrassed at the same time. "Please, sit up. No need to act like I'm some kind of lord. Anyway, I'm entirely serious about it."
Straightening his back but still keeping his head bowed - I could not see his eyes - he said, "So am I. Let us not misunderstand each other, Master Embalmer. I am probably more interested in the success of your enterprise than you are yourself."
"Are you," I said, still suspecting that he was secretly laughing at me. Son (or grandson?) or kings, begging forgiveness from me. It could only be a joke.
But he said earnestly enough, "Absolutely. If it fails, my people will again be accused of being undeserving of trust or generosity. If it goes well, then perhaps - although I may expect too much - perhaps you will think more kindly of my people."
"I never thought unkindly --" I began, but Darîm held up his hands. "Let us not argue," he said. "What we think is our own business. I merely told you so you would believe me that I do wish to help."
"Hm," I said, not entirely mollified.

Darîm poured new tea, perhaps to tide over the awkward moment, and I reached for a handful of nuts for the same purpose. When he met my eyes again, the winsome smile was back on his face. "Truly, I apologise. So, Master Embalmer, what are you looking for in your future apprentices?"
I swallowed the nuts (sweet and salty at the same time, quite delicious). "Well, they need to be willing to overcome their natural disgust of the dead. It is hard, I know, but if they cannot do that, then they cannot work as embalmers."
"That stands to reason," Darîm said. "And I assume that they must know your language."
I nodded. "Yes, that is true. Well enough to understand my instructions, at least for the time being."
"For the time being?"
"Well, until I understand your tongue well enough, I suppose."

The fixed smile was still on Darîm's face, but his eyes had widened, giving him a very intense and somewhat unnerving look. "You are learning our language?"
"If I find someone to teach me."
Darîm raised his eyebrows, but did not comment. "We shall assume, for the time being, that they need to understand your language. Of course, most of us already do. Anything else?"
"I will need people who can write, too. I suppose it's alright if not all of them know how to do it, but some of them do need to write protocols and accounts, and take dictation from those who can't write."
"Ah. I expect you shall want them to write in your language also."
"Yes." And because I didn't like the reproach that seemed to underlie his question, I said, "That is the language of the craft."

For a moment, the corners of his mouth stretched further back, turning his smile into a grimace. "That is a less common skill. I expect I could find you a dozen men capable of writing in our language, but yours? That is more rare. Among prisoners, even more so."
"I am willing to settle for people capable of learning." Anything else, I thought, would have been unjust. I myself hadn't learned to write until I'd needed to, and I was still far from being a professional scribe. "If they can write in one language, then I expect they'll be able to pick up a second one."
Darîm shrugged. "It is possible. I can write in both languages, certainly, but I must warn you that they are very different."
"But they already know the words, don't they?"
"Well, yes. But they have to learn the signs, don't they."
"The letters are different, too?" I hated revealing my ignorance to Darîm, but I couldn't help it.
"Oh, yes. We have our own signs." Again, I thought I suspected a note of reproach in his voice - whether at me for not knowing this, or for my people in general for using different letters, I wasn't sure. Or was it pride, because they had come up with their own letters - unlike us, who had adopted ours from the Eldar?
"They will learn," I reiterated, both because I had nothing better to say and because I truly believed it. Even I had managed to learn, hadn't I? If I could do it, then surely everybody else could do it, too.

Nodding, Darîm said, "They will learn. Given time."
I had to smile at that. "We have three additional years, don't we."
"And then, how many years of apprenticeship?"
"Ten are customary," I said. Even as I said it, I was forced to acknowledge (to myself, anyway) that nothing was customary when it came to embalming. Mîkul had been apprenticed for almost twelve years, and still not promoted to journeyman. I didn't even know how long it had taken for Karathôn and Master Târik to leave the stage of apprenticeship behind them. Still, ten years were the traditional length of an apprenticeship in normal crafts, and supposedly, embalming was becoming one of those.
"So you will need young men of some intelligence, capable of understanding your craft in a language not their own, and moreover of writing their learning down. Yes?"
"And not afraid of the dead."
Darîm briefly stared at me. I wondered if he had forgotten about that. Then he said, "Yes. Naturally. Well. It limits your choice of prisoners."

He said it as though it was a bad thing, but I was glad to hear it. Having gone through the accounts, I had found it hard to pick out the right people. There had been a lot of petty criminals. Since I did not know any of these people and the specifics of their character, I had pitied them all.
"I hope so. I only intend to take on three apprentices. Maybe four. At the most." I wondered whether I would be undermining the authority of the Yôzayân again by outright asking for advice, but I decided to do it, anyway. He might know more about these people, and I certainly didn't. "I have begun to make a list of prisoners whom I'd like to ask, but it is too long. I expect not all of them are likely to be suitable. I should like you to look at the list and help me narrow it down."
Again, Darîm's head tilted in a show of attentiveness. "I would be happy to."
I took the list out of the document case Lord Roitaheru had lent to me. I had made a nice copy, as Amraphel had taught me, from my initial, much-crossed out notes. I offered it to Darîm, then realised that I hadn't brought a second copy for taking notes. Awkwardly, I said, "I only have the one, so it would be best if we both looked at it."
"Yes. If I may sit beside you...?"An eyebrow had risen, almost in challenge.
It was a strange thing to challenge me about, I felt, and also a strange thing to ask permission for, all things considered. Not knowing what to say, I just gestured at the pillow beside me in what I hoped would come across as encouragement. "Oh, and perhaps some ink and a quill would be good, in case I need to take notes," I said.

Dârim rose and clapped his hands sharply, making me flinch. A servant appeared as if from thin air. He bowed at Darîm's Umbarian words - I assume the spokesman asked for writing materials, though he only used two or three words as far as I could discern it - and flitted out of the room, returning moments later with a silver inkwell and silver-tipped pen, not unlike the one Lord Atanacalmo was using. Having put down the materials in front of us, the servant put his hands together while bowing again. Darîm waved his hand in a shooing motion, and the servant disappeared once more.
The whole thing hadn't taken more than a few minutes - no longer than it had taken to chew another helping of nuts, and wash them down with some tea - but Darîm still said, "I apologise for the delay. Now. Let us look at your list, if you please."
I pleased. He read it (I'm sure he read it much faster than I could, and probably had some thoughts on my poor handwriting, too), appeared to give the matter some thought, and then said, "Bâgri is a good choice. You will be satisfied with his work, I am sure. I am not sure about Yarûz. He is very unsteady."

I had been called unsteady, too, so I couldn't help asking, "What do you mean by that?"
He gave me a sideways glance, as if trying to judge my reaction. "Not always doing his best. Often lazy, in fact. Or maybe not lazy?" He seemed to think about the man for a moment, then said, "Maybe not on purpose. But he is not reliable. Not in control of himself, maybe."
I nodded, slowly. "Alright. Thank you for telling me." I drew a line through Yarûz' name (poor fellow) and moved on to the next. "What about -" I stumbled over the unfamiliar sounds - "Shômar?"
"Jômar. Hmm. He certainly cannot read or write. Maybe he can learn; I am not sure. I do not know him well." This was said dismissively; perhaps Darîm felt that if he didn't know the man well, he couldn't be particularly important. "Sidi. That is an interesting choice. You saw that he is over sixty years old?"
"Yes, I noticed." I wasn't sure what he was getting at.
"Is that not too old?"

I shrugged. "That depends on the man, doesn't it? Not everybody is fixed in their ways and unable to learn new things at that age."
Yet again, he gave me a rather sceptical look. "I suppose," he said in a cautious tone that suggested plenty of doubt.
"You know the man better than I do, I expect," I said. "If you think he's unsuitable, do tell me."
Darîm seemed to give the matter some thought; then he said, "Well, in most ways, he is what you are looking for. An intelligent man. He speaks your language very well. Probably writes it sufficiently well, too. Very sophisticated. But he is not the youngest."
"I think I'd still like to speak with him," I said. After all, I had been nearly sixty when I'd begun my apprenticeship.
"As you wish," Darîm said with a little bow of his head. "Now, there is a name missing from your list that I would like to call your attention to." He paused, apparently waiting for permission.
I nodded. "By all means."
"Yorzim. A very decent man. He will not disappoint you."
I tried to remember the record I had seen. "Wasn't he imprisoned for fraud and defamation?"

Briefly, Darîm's smile faltered, and his brow creased. "The judgement was not - how can I say this politely - entirely just."
Frowning, I said, "Can you make that clearer?"
After a moment's hesitation, and with a pained expression, Darîm explained, "His daughter was made promises of marriage, but she foolishly lay with the man before any vows were made. After a while, it turned out she was with child, and the man abandoned her. The daughter swears that the child is the prospective husband's, but he wanted nothing to do with the matter anymore. Yorzim tried to take him to court, but was imprisoned instead. The future husband had more authority than him; Yorzim should not have bothered." Darîm spread his hands. "That aside, he is not usually foolish. And he is - or was - a physician, which surely is a little like your craft?"
"I suppose," I said, "as long as he doesn't expect to heal our clients." Although, I thought to myself, if he managed it, he could start a new career as a Raiser.
Darîm did not seem to understand the joke. "You can explain it to him, I am sure."
"I will talk to him," I promised. Although Darîm couldn't know it, the story of Yorzim's unjust imprisonment was moving my soft heart. If the man was willing, then I would certainly have him released.
"Much obliged," Darîm said evenly as I added the name of Yorzim to the list. "Now, Mârud is not a good choice," he continued. "I would not trust him..."
I struck another name out.

In this manner, we went through the list, paring it down, and then we went through it for a second time until there were six names left. Two or three of them would still have to go, but I figured that this could wait until I had spoken to the prisoners themselves. Surely a few of them wouldn't be willing to work for me, anyway.
I'm certain that was mere politeness that made Darîm offer me to stay for dinner, when our work was done, so I declined, saying that Lord Roitaheru was surely expecting me back for dinner, and that I had doubtlessly imposed on him for long enough. Once more, his smile briefly wavered before it was back. "Oh no, not at all. And his lordship doubtlessly expects you to dine with me. He knows that hospitality is sacred among my people, and that I take my sacred duties very seriously."
A sacred duty, I thought to myself, not something that he did because he liked having me as a guest.

But of course I stayed for dinner. The food, albeit unfamiliar, was excellent; the atmosphere, less so. At my request, Darîm had extended his sacred hospitality to the two guards, who had spent the afternoon waiting for me and were probably both tired and hungry (not to mention bored). I could tell that he was displeased with that, although his polite smile remained in place. His own staff did not share the family's table; maybe it annoyed him to have my (that is, Lord Roitaheru's) guards in that place of honour, but at the same time, he said that he could not send them to the servants' hall. In spite of his tangible displeasure, he talked charmingly during dinner, of the city and the countryside and the approaching harvest. In contrast, his wife and their adolescent children - a son, who was already growing a fluffy beard, and a daughter who blushed deeply whenever I accidentally caught her eyes - barely spoke, aside from a few polite phrases. I don't know whether they were silent because the guards and I were present and they did not want to offend us, or whether they would have been quiet even without us there, but either way, I found it disconcerting, and I was relieved when the sacred duty of hospitality apparently didn't require further entertainments and we could make our way back to the palace.

Lord Roitaheru had indeed expected me to dine at Darîm's house. "That's a custom he's allowed to cling to," he declared grandly. "I hear he's got the second-best cook in Umbar - I assume he needs to show him off sometimes."
I rose to the bait. "The second-best?"
"Well, I've got the very best, haven't I!" Lord Roitaheru said, as expected.
I gave a dutiful smile. "Did you know that Darîm's ancestors used to be kings?" I asked then.
With a snort, Lord Roitaheru replied, "Obviously - we've replaced them, after all! Though 'kings' is an exaggeration. Governors, more like. Less, in fact. They controlled only the city of Umbar - if city is even the right word for what it was back then. And they weren't particularly effective, either. Did Darîm brag about them?"
"No, he was very modest about it," I said. "It just struck me as strange. I'm -" I had to pause to sort my thoughts. "I'm not even a master craftsman, but he addressed me as Master Embalmer all the time. Whereas he's nobility, of a sort, but I just address him by name?"
"Oh, as I understand it, Darîm is technically his title. They were all called Darîm something-or-other, anyway. We let them keep it because it means nothing to us, and a lot to them." He chuckled. "You see, there's no need to feel bad about it. You really feel guilty about everything, don't you?"

I was used to being treated as though I were guilty of everything, of course, but since I didn't want him to decide that perhaps there was good reason for that, I didn't say so. All I did was shrug, and fortunately, that seemed to be enough.
"Don't let Darîm guilt you," Lord Roitaheru advised me. "If anything, he should feel guilty - he's perfectly comfortable, he has a voice on our council so he's still involved with the government, and he makes a fine profit off it, from what I hear. He didn't tell you about that, did he?"
I shook my head, and he smiled triumphantly. "There you go. Don't let him play you for a fool just because you have a generous spirit! There's no reason to pity him. Pity his clients, if you must. Speaking of which, did he do anything useful at all?"
"I believe so," I said, frowning as I tried to make sense of all this new information. Once again, I felt acutely how much I was out of my depth. "He helped me with my list."
Lord Roitaheru nodded. "Well, that's something. Don't hesitate to look left and right of that list, though. Remember that Darîm has his own interests in mind."
I nodded in turn, promising to remember. Darîm clearly hadn't been entirely forthright about his name, letting me believe that I was denying him his proper title when the title was right there in the name. And hadn't I felt that he was secretly having a laugh at my expense? Clearly, Lord Roitaheru's warning wasn't unjustified. At the same time, I couldn't help thinking that Darîm surely knew his people better than anyone in Lord Roitaheru's household. If I couldn't trust his advice, then where else could I turn to?

Chapter 48

Read Chapter 48

Chapter 48

After a few days of doubt and uncertainty, I turned to the library.
I did not expect to receive answers here, but the librarian didn't even ask why I was interested in the case records of certain prisoners. Instead, he asked, "Will you need anything else, sir?" It was almost unsettling. I wasn't used to being treated with deference by people who, back at home, would have been considered superior to me - and a librarian at a great house, with the exception of Andúnië, would certainly have held themselves superior to an embalmer. I know that I should have been pleased, but my life's experience still made me suspect a trap behind the bowed heads and meek words, his and the other servants'.
Still, I got the records that I had asked for, so I could (through the court scribe's eyes, anyway) get a sort of second opinion on the prisoners. If nothing else, it was interesting to find out what sort of things court scribes wrote down. Against my will - and feeling immediately guilty about it - I couldn't help wondering what the young scribe at Lord Eärendur's trial had recorded about me. Probably better not to know, though. I could imagine well enough what Quentangolë had written about me after our first meeting, and the mere thought made me squirm in embarrassment.

It was heartening, at least, that the court scribe here had written favourably about the men Darîm had recommended - with the exception of Yorzim, who was described as hot-headed, hostile and aggressive towards the man who should have become his son-in-law, which was perhaps understandable, but also towards the councillors, bailiffs and Lord Roitaheru himself. His contempt of the court had been noted and taken into account in the judgement (whatever that meant). On the other hand, Jômar, whom Darîm had dismissed as being unable to write and not somebody he knew well, had made a good impression on the court scribe, who had written that The accused is a man of fair manners and eloquent speech, albeit poor and unclean. I decided that I would interview him after all, and unless Yorzim managed to make a much better impression on me, I probably wouldn't follow Darîm's advice in this regard. That would also allow me to obey Lord Roitaheru's command not to rely entirely on Darîm.

Of course, before I went to interview any of the people on my list, I had to find a place to live and work first. That remained challenging. Lord Roitaheru pointed me towards further addresses that he felt might fit the bill, but they didn't - one was too small, one was inaccessible by cart or hearse, the third had, again, no steady water supply. None of them had sufficiently large cellars to provide the cool space we would need to work or store bodies, either. I was beginning to worry that Lord Roitaheru would run out of patience with me and my demands - or that I would have no choice but to build my own morgue. The mere thought made me despair. It would take so much time and effort that I didn't even want to begin thinking about it. I did not have the strength for that sort of thing anymore. The feeling of futility and hopelessness, which had lifted a little during the last weeks, threatened to descend again, and once more, I had the strong urge to lie down and let the rest of the world happen without me.

But the world, as usual, had other ideas. As I entered my room, I found three letters sitting on the bureau. I stared at them, dumbfounded, for a moment. Some part of me was genuinely surprised that these letters - neatly labelled with my name and my address at the governor's palace in Umbar in three different hands - had actually made the long journey from Yôzayân to my desk. Some other part was actually afraid of what might be in those letters - news, good or bad? Or - and I dreaded this even more - useless words of consolation and reassurances of love? Much though I had wanted to receive word from my loved ones at home, now that it was there, I could not bring myself to reading it.

I pretended not to see the letters and lay down on the bed. At some point, Kalîl looked in on me and asked if I needed anything. I said no. I saw him frown, look at the letters, pause as if he wanted to say something, and then think better of it. "As you wish, sir," he said, and disappeared again.
Now I felt foolish not only for being afraid of the letters, but also for being so cold to Kalîl. He was going his best, and his job was probably unpleasant enough without worrying about my moods. I forced myself to sit up, then stand, then go to the bureau and inspect the letters. You could see that they had travelled far. The paper was worn at the edges and along the folds, and swollen from the sea air it had been exposed to. But there were no tears, and the seals were undamaged. One seal was the natural colour of beeswax, marked with a slightly decorated T, the other two were an expensive shade of blue, one marked with a simple scratched pattern and one with the elaborate crest of Andúnië.
I picked up the letter with the seal made by (presumably) Azruphel first, then put it back down again. I did not feel that I could handle a letter from my family right now. The mere presence of the letters threatened to shatter me again; I would not be able to read Amraphel's words without breaking down entirely. The dearest would have to wait for later.

In the end, I decided to begin Master Târik's letter. I felt that it might be less overwhelming than the others, and perhaps it might even provide answers.
To begin with, it provided kind wishes and thoughts, which I didn't particularly care for, and descriptions of their most recent successes (they had embalmed a late former guildmaster as well as a young sailor who had tragically fallen overboard and been crushed between ship and harbour wall) and struggles (guards had raided Master Târik's house following reports that he was still unlawfully using it as a morgue, which had been untrue). Kârathôn and Mîkul sent some tongue-in-cheek greetings and remarked that they missed having me to blame for that most recent misfortune. (As it happened, I had no doubt that I was to blame, since surely the raid had been instigated either by Lord Atanacalmo or the King himself.) There was some general information about the food situation (no shortages yet, but the prices were fairly high) and the weather (nothing out of the usual) before Master Târik expressed his hope that my teaching was going well and that I was finding it as rewarding as he did - but then, I have been blessed with extraordinarily talented and dedicated apprentices. (Mîkul had scribbled "Hear, hear!" in the margin.)

Then the letter finally reached the point I had been waiting for.
As for your father's service with my former lord, I'm afraid there is not much that I can tell you. Indeed, I did not know that he and I shared a lord for some time. I had nothing to do with the guards or their training, as I was employed in administration, and I must confess that I do not even recall hearing mention of his name. However, I am not surprised that his service did not go well. T. is a proud man, and it must have displeased him to owe something to your grandfather. If I were to speculate, I would assume that he would have made no attempt at masking his displeasure, and let your father's fellow recruits take care of the rest. In my experience, young men are often eager to have an easy target, and T. is the type who encourages that sort of behaviour even at better times. So I expect they would have treated your father very unkindly, and his lord would have done nothing to protect him. Accordingly, asking to be dismissed honourably was probably the best thing your father could do. But again, I am only speculating, and things may in fact have been otherwise. I am sorry that I cannot be of more help.

I found it helpful enough. It sounded feasible, anyway (hadn't I felt myself how much young men liked having an easy target?), and it would explain Father's mistrust of nobles in general, too. If it wasn't the truth, it was a good enough explanation to satisfy my curiosity, even if I still did not quite understand why I was wanting to know these things in the first place. I suppose that in some way, it helped me to honour Father's memory to understand that part of his life, of which he had barely spoken, but which had shaped him in ways that I had never quite grasped. For a moment, it was as though my father was with me once more; as if I was glimpsing his face once again, smiling from wherever he was now. I know that it makes no sense, but that was what it felt like. It was probably because I had recently made such a similar experience - although I had been luckier than Father, of course. After all, their lordships had not approved of the other recruits' behaviour at all, and had in fact reached out to protect me. But still, it had been similar, and thus it felt as though it had brought me closer to Father. My heart ached for him, and at the same time, it felt lighter because that secret had been lifted. If Master Târik was correct, anyway.

I now felt fortified enough to read Amraphel's letter, although naturally it reduced me to tears very quickly. She didn't write anything sad (nor anything too happy, I noted later - as if she were trying to strike a careful balance that wouldn't make me miss home too much, merely let me know that they were doing alright). It was just that the fact that she had to write at all - that I wasn't there with them. As such, even the trivialities of everyday life made me cry. They had sold Balakhil's horse (I realised that Amraphel might still not know what had become of Balakhil, and wondered whether I could write her about it without giving too much away to my enemies, before wondering if I even wanted to write about it). They were preparing for winter. Prices (as I already knew from Master Târik's letter) were high, but it had been a good summer and a good harvest. The new farms by the road had done as well as could be expected, and there had been commendations for the newly made farmers. Târazon, who had replaced me as spokesman of the Daytalers' Wellfare Society, was finding his feet. If there had been any hostility towards my family, Amraphel didn't mention it, although I had a nagging suspicion that she wouldn't tell me either way, to avoid upsetting me if anything had happened. Instead, she was expressing her hope that I was in good health, had found good company and good apprentices and was generally living a good life. The children were doing well and hoping that I was also doing well. They were in Andúnië - or had been at the time of writing - but Amraphel was returning home soon to look after the house and some important business. All our friends and neighbours sent their best wishes, and Amraphel sent her love.
I did not have the strength to read Lord Eärendur's letter after that.

When Kâlil and Sîmar came to prepare me for the evening meal, I had stopped crying, but of course they could see the traces on my face, and after a glance at the bureau, safely locked (with the letters now inside), they exchanged a glance. I saw Sîmar bite her lips.
When she stood behind me, beginning to comb my hair, she asked hesitantly, "Bad news, sir?"
I shook my head and felt the comb snag on a tangle in my hair. "No bad news. Just - news." I barely managed not to sigh. "I miss my family, you see."
"I understand, sir." There was a moment's hesitation, and then she said, "I miss my family too, sometimes."
I saw Kalîl's eyes widen in horror and felt more than heard a huff of breath, like a suppresed gasp, as Sîmar realised that she had said something that apparently she shouldn't have said. I didn't quite see why. I found it perfectly natural that she'd miss her family, living in a stranger's household and doing his work.
"Do they live far away?" I asked politely, hoping to put both of them at ease.
Sîmar did not reply, but now Kâlil seemed to feel that a question needed to be answered. "A little over a week's travel, sir."

"That's a long way," I observed. Too far to visit easily, I thought with a pang of sympathy, though not as forbiddingly far as a whole ocean away. "How did you end up here in Umbar?" I asked, genuinely curious now.
"There was a great drought a few years ago," Kâlil said. "There was nothing to eat and nothing to do. People starved. Many people went to the coast or to the capital in hopes of finding food. Our uncle went, and Mother sent us with him. It took more than a week then, of course, but eventually we made it here." Although his eyes were on my chin, I could see that he was looking elsewhere - through me, through the walls, perhaps all the way to the inland village where he had been born. "Uncle gave us to the Darîm, who taught us how to serve in a great house and found this position for us when we were ready." A pause. "We were very lucky, of course."
"Ah," I said, marvelling at the distance they had travelled. A little over a week would probably have taken you from one end of our island to the opposite end. How vast Umbar must be! "I remember that year," I observed. "Many people from the countryside came to the capital back home, too, but they only travelled for a few days. And they went back home after the winter."
"Oh, Uncle returned home after the winter, too," Kalîl said; and then he stared, wide-eyed. "There was a drought in the Yôzayân, too?"
"On the contrary. We had persistent rains," I said, "but the result was the same. Nothing to harvest. People starving."

Frowning, Kâlil said, "I did not know that such things could happen in the Yôzayân", and I remembered - too late - what Lord Roitaheru had said about the invincibility of our people, and probably the perfection of our island.
"I probably shouldn't have told you," I said awkwardly, since the damage was done now.
The corners of Kâlil's mouth twitched, as if he wanted to laugh and didn't dare to.
"We should not have complained about our family, either," Sîmar said in her meek voice. "We are very lucky. And very grateful, of course. I apologise."
I didn't feel that there was anything to apologise for. "You didn't complain," I pointed out. "Of course you're missing your family. That's natural, isn't it? Doesn't mean you're complaining."I tried a smile; Sîmar might not see it, but her brother would. "You know, you have helped to take my mind off my sorrows. So you've done me a service."
Kâlil's smile was hesitant and had a pleading quality to it. "Will you tell our lord?"
I very much doubted that Lord Roitaheru would see anything wrong with their feelings, but I suppose I didn't know enough about their situation to judge that. "There isn't really anything to tell, is there?"
Now, the smile grew a little stronger. "No, sir. There's nothing to tell."

Curiously enough, "Bad news from home?" was also the first question Lord Roitaheru asked when I joined their lordships for dinner. Even though I had been prettied up and (to some extent) consoled, there must still be evidence of my earlier tears in my eyes. I really was a pathetic exemplar of the invincible men of Yôzayân, I thought miserably.
Sighing, I shook my head. "Just news, my lord. And they reminded me how much I miss my friends and my family." Suddenly, like the servants, I found myself worrying that he might take it the wrong way. "I'm very grateful for the kindness you've shown me - please don't think that I'm not! I just - I love them so much. So I miss them, and they write me to tell me that they miss me, and it's a bit of a mess."
Lord Roitaheru gave his hearty laugh. "Must be nice to be missed like that, eh, Calmo?"
I felt my face grow hot as I thought - with some embarrassment - about the rather pragmatic nature of his marriage to Lady Arancalimë. I could only hope that he wouldn't resent me for being rather more attached to my family.
Lord Herucalmo gave a somewhat pained smile, as if he did resent it. "I wouldn't know," he said coolly. "Azruhâr doesn't seem to enjoy it much."

His father guffawed again. "True, true." He gave me a wry look. "Don't be upset, I'm not making fun of you. And I'm not offended, either. Just don't wallow in misery too much, alright? It's not healthy. You're much too serious, anyway. You should spend more time with Laurilyo!"
I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing; but I did give a pointed look to Lord Herucalmo, who pointedly did not meet my eyes, looking at his father instead. "He should, shouldn't he?" he said. I was extremely tempted to kick him under the table. (I needed to get out of this house before I actually did that.)
Instead, I forced myself to smile. "How are your battle preparations going, Lord?"
"Oh, they're going very well." He put a piece of meat in his mouth, signalling that he wasn't going to tell me more about it; but when he had chewed it and he could talk again, he added, "You're still certain you don't want to come along?"
"Extremely certain. I would be an impediment to your success," I said, which made him grin, but Lord Roitaheru looked put out. "There's that defeatist attitude again! I'm of half a mind to send you along just for that. Maybe it'll show you that very few soldiers are actually great warriors. The great majority are mediocre at best, but they're still valuable in the throng. If great warriors were all that mattered, no battle would ever be won."

I looked down at my plate. "Sorry, my lord." And, because that was important, "But I really rather wouldn't go there, either way."
"Well, then just say that, and don't invent excuses!" His brows were still very nearly meeting in the middle, so I knew that he wasn't mollified.
I felt the need to defend myself. "I can't well decline without giving a reason, can I?"
He snorted. "Your reasons are your own. Besides, 'I don't want to' is a reason; a better one than 'I'd be an impediment'."
"That is not what I was taught," I mumbled.
Lord Herucalmo spoke in a dangerously soft voice, his eyes narrowed in some strange form of amusement. "You need to unlearn a lot of the things that you were taught, I suspect."
Frustrated, I reached for my goblet. "Yes, my lord," I said. To myself, I thought that I would like a list of things I was allowed to unlearn; but I didn't utter that thought. I was pretty certain that whatever he said now, he wouldn't want me to question his commands - let alone say outright that I didn't care to follow them.

I did, however, try to mend things with Lord Laurilyo. After all, Lord Roitaheru had been present when his son had approved of spending more time with his rogue nephew. Lord Herucalmo had almost certainly not meant it, saying it only to goad me, but he'd said it. At the next council session - which was, as Lord Roitaheru had predicted, very long, dealing with predictions for the harvest based on what had already been done, and discussions of rates and rationings, and the sending of soldiers to guarantee the safe-keeping of the granaries, and the transport of grain and other goods to Umbar, and the tribute, and other tedious but vital issues - I used one of the breaks we were granted to stretch our legs and walk around the theatre or its courtyard to approach and greet him.
He looked at me down his nose. "What, are you allowed to talk to me again?" he asked in a deliberately bored tone.
"I'm not sure," I admitted. "I hope so. Let's see what happens."
He laughed at that - at least he was amused, I thought to myself - and said, "Well, in that case, a good day to you, too."

I nearly walked away at that - it had been a fairly clear dismissal - but managed to work up the courage to say, "I realised that I never thanked you for the tour of the city at night - the drinks and the food and everything. And the company. It was a very nice evening."
"Well, it's good of you to say so," he said, one eyebrow raised, "because you didn't exactly show it." Before I could answer, he looked at someone out of my field of vision. "There's someone who wants to talk to you, apparently." He nodded curtly, and turned away. I cursed myself, inwardly. Then I looked around to see what he'd meant. Darîm was standing in the aisle between seats, unobtrusive but with a certain air of urgency. Today, he had been taciturn once more, making only the occasional half-hearted attempt at bringing up the interests of the Umbari. Now, he was looking my way, bowing when I caught his eyes.

I tried to smile; after all, it wasn't his fault that things were so complicated. "Spokesman Darîmakkharin," I said by way of greeting. I had asked Kâlil to teach me the full name, and Kâlil had obliged, although he had not seen the point of the exercise.
Now, Darîm gave a brief laugh, and his lips were still twitching when he had recovered his poise. I probably had gotten it entirely wrong despite the practice. "Please, Master Embalmer, Darîm is sufficient. May I enquire after the progress of your project?"
I sighed. "You may, but there is little I can tell you. I still haven't found a place for our morgue, and before I have that, it would be wrong to raise anybody's hopes of release."
"You have already raised hopes, I'm afraid," Darîm said "But why do you have such troubles with your morgue?" He tilted his head in mock-confusion. "Is the morgue of Umbar not good enough for you?"
I looking around to make certain that Lord Roitaheru wouldn't overhear, biting my lip. Then I said, "It's perfectly adequate, actually, but it's in use, isn't it?"
Darîm seemed intent on misunderstanding. "That can hardly be a problem. You can have it for yourself within days, I am certain."
I felt my eyes narrow. "Of course I could." Lord Roitaheru had certainly said so. "Is that what you want? Your embalmers and the dead in their care turned out into the street, so I can use their morgue?"

His eyebrows performed an elaborate dance of scepticism, but his palms had risen in appeasement yet again. "No offense is meant, Master Embalmer. I am merely trying to understand the problem."
"And I am trying to understand why you'd suggest to me that I take your people's morgue away."
He mustered me for an uncomfortably long time (and without his mask of deference, too). Then he said, "Maybe this is not the time and place for this conversation. May I request the honour of your presence at my house tomorrow afternoon?"
I had no desire to visit him again; the last time had been uncomfortable enough. At the same time, his impatience was understandable. Of course he'd want to see the men we'd talked about released sooner than later. I wanted to see them released sooner than later, really. They were no more than names on a few sheets of paper, but nonetheless, I already felt responsible for their fate (the poor fellows). "You may," I said stiffly.

So there was another awkward afternoon in his beautiful sitting room with the beautiful view of the enclosed garden. After exchanging some general and insincere pleasantries, I mentioned the fountain, and the difficulty of finding a house with steady supply of clean water. That turned out to be good, because it brought us to the point of why I still hadn't found a place. He questioned me (in his overly polite manner) about the houses I had looked at and the things I was looking for, and at the end of it, he said, "It may not be the right place, of course, but I have something in mind that I would like to show you. If it is no inconvenience, would you care to accompany me on a little excursion?"
"What, right now?"
He glanced outside. "Yes, I think it is a good time now. It is late enough to be cooling down, and early enough to allow us to be back before the gates close - although they would let you back in either way, naturally, so that is nothing to worry about."
"It's outside the city gates?"
"Unfortunately, yes. At the foot of the mountains, to be precise. But I really think that you might want to look at it."
There was urgency in his voice, but more than that, he had made me curious. Besides, an excursion to the mountains would, if nothing else, pass the time. Perhaps my two guards felt the same - at any rate, they voiced no objection when I told them that we'd go on a short trip outside the city walls. I had expected questions or even an outright refusal, but instead, they said "As you wish, sir," and got the horse ready.

I had second thoughts when we had been on the road for well over an hour, though. We were approaching the mountains - we had already reached the vinyards - and I was beginning to doubt that whatever he wanted to show me had any relevance for me and my work.
"Are you certain that this is worth our while?" I asked, trying not to outright say that I felt like a fool for following him.
"I do hope so," Darîm replied evenly. "I assure you that I wouldn't want to waste your time, Master Embalmer."
I suspected that he was making fun of me again, and I just barely managed to give him the benefit of the doubt. "Well, if you say so."
"I do," he said, bowing his head, "although I am fully aware that I may be mistaken. In which case I hope my good intention will speak louder than my failure."
One of the guards snorted audibly, which did nothing to ease my mind.
"I am trying to keep that in mind," I said, with as much certainty as I could muster, "but I cannot help wondering where you are taking me, or what you hope to show me. Surely Lord Roitaheru would already have pointed me there, if it were at all suitable."

For a moment, I thought I saw something like worry in the glance Darîm gave me. "His noble lordship is very wise, and you are probably right," he conceded, speaking slowly as if weighing every word. "But it has crossed my mind - perhaps his lordship did not think outside the city walls. Or perhaps he did not think of this particular building. It is not a very important one, not the first one would think of, and its original purpose was different from what you would use it for. But I still ask you to withhold judgement until you have seen it. It is not very far now." His voice and smile were strained.
"Very well, I shall withhold judgement," I said, wondering what I'd be expected to do if he'd turned out to waste my time after all.

Fortunately, I did not have to figure it out. At last, we approached a disused winery, half-hidden by an overgrown laurel hedge and some rather sprawling fig trees. Although the gravel beneath the trees was picked clean of fallen figs, suggesting that the place wasn't fully forgotten, the perimeter was empty of people. Parts of the building had fallen into disrepair - the plaster was beginning to crumble on the corners, and some of the narrow windows were broken - but there was a well in front of the entrance, which was promising. There was an untended patch of garden, too, and an open stable at the end of the yard.
"The owner went bankrupt a few years back," Darîm broke the silence, "and while the vinyards have been sold off to the neighbours, nobody had any use for the house. Shall I show you inside?"

We went through the empty, echoing rooms - Darîm with his small lantern, myself, and one of the guards with another lantern, probably because he did not trust Darîm not to mislead me and leave me there, although I very much doubted that the spokesman was planning such a thing. The place was gloomy and dusty, smelling of rotting leaves and pigeon droppings and old wine. Whenever we turned a corner, tiny paws scurried away. There were a couple of rooms at ground level - mostly office and storage rooms, a small room that might have been the steward's, and one larger hall that might have been a shop or might have been a shared communal space - with no furniture left anywhere, it was impossible to tell. According to Darîm, there were bedchambers for the owner's family upstairs, but the stairs had been dismantled, so we did not go there. The stairs into the cellars, however, had been cut into the rock, so they were still in place.

Once we were downstairs, the house revealed its true qualities, and I understood why Darîm had felt that it was worth my while. It was much larger underground than you could see from outside. We entered a dark corridor (startling various small animals underfoot and overhead) and from there came into the cavernous room they had used to make the wine. There were several basins in which they had crushed the grapes into must. They were still partly stained purple, but also gray with mould, but if they were cleaned up, they would be perfect either for bathing or for soaking dead bodies. There was room enough to put in slabs and worktables, too; there even was another well, although it had filled with dead leaves (and probably dead bugs, too). Beyond the work rooms, a tunnel had been hewn into the rock, with artificial caves that had once held huge barrels for fermentation - the remains of them were still visible in places - and would be serviceable as catacombs, too. Once we would have driven out the bats and the rats, anyway.

"There's a lot to clean up and repair, of course," I said once we were back in the open air, warm and oppressive after the cold underground.
"There is," Darîm conceded. "It's in a worse state than I expected, I confess. But the workers can be found. Or your future apprentices can do the work. If you think it is worthwhile, that is."
"I'll have to think about it," I said. "But it's certainly the strongest contender I've seen so far. Thank you for bringing it to my attention."
He bowed graciously. "As I said, I am very interested in the success of your undertaking."

Maybe he really was. At any rate, he had done me a great service. In spite of the obvious faults - distance from the city, dirt, mould, disrepair, vermin and all - I found myself liking this place. The only question - as always - was the money. I'd have to pay for the building, and for the workers, and for the materials they would require; I'd have to buy furniture, too, and the bandages and salts and whitewash and all the other things that Master Târik paid for at home. Even though my money was worth more here than at home, I wasn't sure that I could afford all that. On the other hand, it would be no cheaper to build something new. I'd have to do some calculations. I'd probably have to petition Lord Roitaheru for monetary support, too. But presuming that these things would work out, it might well be that I had found my new working place at last.

Chapter 49

Read Chapter 49

Chapter 49

In the event, money was not an issue. Lord Roitaheru, when I cautiously mentioned the topic, immediately declared that embalming was obviously of public interest, and therefore public money - that is, taxes and rents and such - would pay for it. Most of it, anyway. The building itself didn't even have to be paid for, because the former owner had been unable to sell it, and had therefore been forced to give it over to the governor in order to pay for his debts.
"I am astonished at your choice, though," Lord Roitaheru said when he surveyed the place himself. "You'd have half built a new morgue before this place is back in order, I daresay. And I really would've thought you'd want to be within easy reach of the city! You're more adventurous than I thought." After breathing deep, he conceded, "Although I suppose the air is more pleasant out here. And you'll hire guards to ensure your safety, of course." He looked around the run-down building, wrinkling his nose. "Well, you're welcome to the place. It's always better for buildings to belong to people. People look after buildings. Will you want the vinyards, too?"
I blinked at that. "I'm not intending to make wine here, my lord."
"Obviously not! But you can still grow the grapes, can't you, and sell them to people who make wine. As a sort of second income."
That sounded reasonable, but I felt that I was already biting far more than I could chew. "I doubt I'll be able to run a morgue and look after the vinyards, Lord."
"That's what stewards are for," he said dryly. "Well, suit yourself. I can see that you aren't ready just yet. But the vinyards aren't going to go anywhere, so just keep it in mind for later."
"I shall," I promised.

Within the week, I had the deed to the place. After that, things began moving in strange ways. Lord Roitaheru's guards put a sign on the broken door, stating that entry was forbidden without the leave of Azruhâr the Embalmer. While I was still trying to figure out the necessary order of the repair works, and the workers and materials and time I would need, and so on, Lord Roitaheru assigned me a fresh-faced, eager accountant-in-training who went through my list (not all of it was wrong), ran around all day making inquiries, added the numbers he had found out, and made estimates. With these estimates, he went to the treasurer and came back with two full money bags. "This is an advancement, of course, so if you turn out to require more, you will easily be given more," he announced shyly.
"Thank you," I said, and, "What did you say was your name?"
From the way he tensed, you could've thought I'd struck him. "Have I done something wrong, sir?"
"Not that I know of. But if we're working together, I should know your name - and I confess I did not catch it earlier."
"I didn't say it." He gave a sort of nervous half-smile, and then added, "Urdad, at your service."

Urdad did the calculations. Urdad explained that while repair works and materials and wages were covered by the treasury, any furniture or other moveable things, including beasts, would be paid for by myself - "but naturally you can deduct them from your tax at the end of the year," he said by way of consolation. I nodded and tried to look as though I knew what he was talking about. I felt rather guilty about being unable to figure these things out for myself, but I couldn't keep up with the way in which Urdad threw the numbers around, and I was terrified of what I'd do once the young man would return to his proper work, leaving me alone with his indecipherable papers.
But when I told Lord Roitaheru that perhaps I should receive some basic training in accountancy, he just laughed. "What for? If you don't trust the little Umbarian fellow, I'll find you a better one."
I tried to explain that I had no reason to mistrust Urdad, but that I felt that I should be able to keep track of my accounts on my own.
"But why?" Lord Roitaheru said, genuinely puzzled. "Leave that to an accountant. They don't have to understand your craft, and you don't have to understand their books. Nobody does everything by themselves." I thought back at how many things I'd had, so far, had to figure out by myself, and couldn't help frowning.
He put a heavy hand on my shoulder. "If you're worried about the lad's wages, don't be. He's just a trainee, he doesn't cost much. Besides, I'm paying him anyway, so you may as well borrow him for a while! And later, an accountant will be essential for the good running of your business, so you may consider that part of your accomodations."

I thought, not without resentment, about how much easier the past year (and the years before that, too) would have been if Lord Atanacalmo had granted such accomodations for the building of the new morgue. Mind you, he surely wouldn't approve of the way in which I was being positively spoiled with support here. Luxury, servants, and now, an accountant and nearly unlimited money as long as it was for my work - it was enough to go to one's head. Lord Roitaheru sent his own equerry into town to help me buy a good horse, and also a cart and two mules to pull it. He allowed me to use his stables until those at the morgue were fit for their purpose, and continued to house me and feed me and let me enjoy all of the amenities of his palace until I had a decent room to stay in. I was worried what my enemies back at home would make of all that, once they heard of it - and surely they were still keeping their eyes on me. If I was lucky, those eyes belonged only to Lord Herucalmo, who was, perhaps, sufficiently distracted with his preparations for war - but I didn't dare to rely on it. I was certain that if Lord Atanacalmo got the impression that things were too easy for me, he'd take it upon himself to provide the adversity that he valued so much.

As there was nothing I could do about it, however, I focused on something that I could do and began to set the new morgue in order. Or rather, let others set it in order. My work consisted mainly of selecting and picking up such day-talers as weren't needed in the fields, sitting them in the back of the cart, and taking them out to the house in the morning, and then, after a day's work, returning them to the city. Urdad made sure that a vendor brought something to eat out to our site at lunchtime, and he also took care of the wage negotiations and the payment at the end of the day. I told him to be generous, and I suppose he must have been, because my workforce grew from the original three day-talers on the first day to eight and finally twelve men as the word got around. Initially, they simply removed the debris and the dirt and dead leaves and animal droppings out of the building. Then, Urdad hired a fumigator who made sure that all the beasts who had taken up living inside took flight or were killed; and lastly, the day-talers scrubbed the rooms and the cellars, the basins and the caves until the red-brown floor tiles of the ground-level rooms and the rock of the cellar gleamed and the kitchen no longer looked like a pigeonry.

Except for commissioning and occasionally supervising it, I had little to do with the actual work. I meant to do more, but Urdad organised most of it, and when I reached for a shovel or cleaning rag, somehow there already was another pair of hands. Besides, I kept being distracted by visitors. First the owners of the neighbouring wineries (the people who had bought or rented the vinyards that had once belonged to my building) came to pay their respects and make polite conversation. I suspected that they were very relieved that they got to keep those vinyards, because they gave me quite generous welcoming gifts - amphorae of wine, sweet raisin cakes, rolls of fabric for curtains and, in one case, a litter of kittens to keep any returning rodents in check - and went out of their way to assure me of their friendship and their readiness to lend me whatever help I needed. It was such a stark contrast to the cold welcome I'd received in my new neighbourhood at home that it made me feel somewhat suspicious (and moreoever worried what would happen once they realised what I was going to do here).

Darîm, too, came for a visit. Underneath his polite words and the flattery at how much better the place was looking, I thought I felt frustration that the prisoners were still in prison.
"You realise, of course, that your apprentices could help with these efforts," he said at last, confirming my suspicions.
"I realise that, of course," I replied. "But first, they'll need a place to sleep, don't they?"
He shrugged and surveyed the bare hall in eloquent silence, as though he felt that it would be perfectly sufficient. "They don't need much."
"Two of the ceiling beams need to be replaced," I pointed out, "lest they break and the ceiling falls down."
It seemed to take him a moment to understand or accept this. "I know a good carpenter," he said finally.
"I'll let you know when I need him," I said. Perhaps I was being unjust, but I did not much appreciate being put under pressure. After all, I was trying to do this right.

During my bath that evening, I tried to learn more about Darîm. After the brief conversation we'd had over the news from home, Sîmar and Kâlil had become somewhat more willing to say more than just polite phrases when we were in each other's company. At my request, they had explained about Umbar's farming seasons, of which there were two. I had already wondered why there was a harvest going on right now, at the end of the year, when it would already be barren winter at home. I had learned that 'winter' did not exist here, except up in the mountains. Instead, there would be some cooler, rainier weeks for a while, and then some warmer rainy weeks, enough to make the seeds in the ground germinate, but the most part of the year would be as hot, and as dry, as the weather I had experienced here so far. "Behind the mountains, it is like that all year," Kâlil said. "So we all live between the sea and the mountains."

I had learned a little about Sîmar and Kâlil themselves, too. I now knew that they were the youngest of six children - "when we left, that is" - and hadn't been in contact with their family since their uncle had returned home. The rest of their family were farmers in a small village to the south-east. They'd been expected to work as farmhands for one of their older brothers, or at a neighbouring farm, so serving in Lord Roitaheru's household was a giant leap for them, just as such a position would have been a huge step forward for myself, when I was still a day-taler.
I hadn't told them that. But I had told them of my children and of Amraphel, the wisest, kindest and best wife a man could have. It was hard to speak of them - even the abstract 'my family' threatened to bring tears to my eyes, and naming their names and describing them was so much worse - but I couldn't well ask them to answer my questions if I wasn't willing to answer theirs. I was glad that my voice would be distorted by the echoing water, so perhaps it didn't sound quite as raw as it felt, and that I could surreptitiously wipe my eyes, blaming the steam.

As for Darîm, they couldn't or wouldn't tell me much except that he was important and (to them) very powerful, and that he had saved them when they had been starving. "We owe everything to him," Kâlil said, nervously rubbing his fingertips against each other. As for why he had chosen to help them in the first place, they were not themselves certain. "He receives our payment until a certain time," Sîmar explained, but that didn't seem to explain much; a man of Darîm's wealth could hardly be depending on the wages of a pair of servants, even at the governor's house.
"Oh, not just ours. All the positions he found for people," Sîmar said. "Servants, and also craftsmen, and assistants, and apprentices."
"Apprentices, too? Are you certain? He didn't mention that to me." Nor had Lord Roitaheru, who - I thought - really should inform me about such things.
The twins exchanged glances. "Maybe it is different with you. But normally, if he finds work for one of us with your people, then their payment for the first years goes to him," Kâlil said, and Sîmar added, "And normally, if one of our people works for your people, it goes through the Darîm."

That was interesting. I wondered whether Darîm would expect to receive the modest wages I'd been planning to pay my apprentices, too (and if so, for how long). Although a man as rich as he was couldn't possibly need the money - it wouldn't be that much, anyway - perhaps it was a matter of principle. Perhaps that explained his haste. I regretted telling him about it. At the time, I had thought that he was worried about these people's well-being and their status as technically indentured workers. Now, I had to assume that they wouldn't actually see the money either way. (What if I gave it to them in secret? What if I told him that they got less than I actually gave them, so they could at least keep some of it? But I hated the thought of having to construct, and then uphold, such a deception.)
"How exactly-" I began, and then the opening and slamming of the grand door to the baths made all three of us flinch and turn towards the entrance. Striding in purposefully came Lord Herucalmo, already half-undressed, and two servants carrying the usual assortment of towels and sponges, soaps and scented oils. Kâlil and Sîmar sank to one knee at the side of the basin; I bowed awkwardly, my nose almost touching the water.

"My apologies, Lord," I said, assuming that time had passed more quickly than I'd realised. "I didn't mean to inconvenience you. I'll be gone in a moment."
"No, you can stay," he said in an indifferent tone. "You two, go," he told Sîmar and Kâlil, who quickly collected my discarded clothing and used washcloths before retreating.
Lord Herucalmo carelessly tossed his under-tunic onto a stone bench. I was done bathing, and I felt rather guilty over having lost track of how long I'd stayed in the baths. So far, I had always made sure not to bathe during the nobles' bath time, or used the smaller basin - the lovers' bath - if I couldn't avoid being in the baths at the same time, but I suppose it had been unavoidable that I'd mess up at some point.
"Really, I am done," I said.
Lord Herucalmo gave me the briefest of glances before gesturing at his servants to start with the cleaning. "I said, you can stay," he said, more sternly now.

Since I didn't know what else to do, I stayed. I tried to swim a little - the basin was big enough for that - although I wasn't much of a swimmer, but it seemed a better choice than just standing around and looking at him, or looking away, both of which could be construed as rude. Of course, I did occasionally glance over, simply so I would be forewarned in case he got angry. He didn't seem angry or even just tense right then, but you never knew. I noticed that the servants were giving him the exact same treatment that I received from Kâlil and Sîmar, nothing more. Somehow I had expected that more effort would be given to one of the noble house. Perhaps they were using more expensive soap or softer sponges? I had no way of knowing that, of course.
What I could see was that Lord Herucalmo didn't have quite the grace and beauty of the Andúnië family. Not that he was ugly - he did have the flawless skin, good posture and muscled frame of the well-to-do that I'd always envied in the bath houses at home - but he wasn't extraordinarily handsome. You didn't see at a glance that he had Elven blood.
I had studied him for too long; he looked my way and caught me at it, raising an eyebrow in challenge. I hastily turned away and resumed my pathetic swim.
"Thanks," Lord Herucalmo said to the servants once they were done, and, "leave us alone."
They did.

Without further ado, he stepped into the basin, pushing off the last steps and cutting through the water with expertly-looking strokes. He swam one length of the basin and then another, then stopped abruptly and declared, "This is too warm for swimming, really." He turned onto his back to drift.
I saw myself forced to react. "I suppose. I was just bathing, anyway, to be honest," I admitted. "I apologise for infringing on your time. It won't happen again."
The sound of his laugh echoed off the walls and the water. "You're not infringing. There's room enough for two, isn't there? Anyway, it certainly won't happen again, because I'm leaving tomorrow."
"Oh. Into battle?"
He raised a finger to his lips, looking around as if expecting spies behind every pillar. "Hush. No need to let the nosy buggers know. Who knows where their sympathies lie?" He spoke on softly, as though the servants were likely to listen in on us from wherever they'd withdrawn to.
"But yes. Into battle. To smite the enemies of our glorious island nation, and get myself some heroic battle scars." With a wry glance at me, he said, "Not as impressive as yours, of course."

My stomach clenched at the reminder. "Those aren't battle scars."
"I know." Abandoning his leisurely drift on the water, he stood and ploughed through the basin until he was no more than an arm's length away. "Still impressive, though. I keep forgetting what you are. You act so soft and innocent all the time-"
"I'm not acting soft and innocent," I protested, which made him laugh. I bit down hard on my lip.
"You look so soft and innocent... and then again, you're like that."
If he found it funny, I didn't see the joke. "I didn't deserve all of them," I said between grit teeth.
"I didn't say you did." He ran a finger over one of the leathery lines. "That must have hurt."
I didn't bother to answer. Of course it had hurt; that had been the point, after all. I was tempted to sink lower into the water, to hide, but Lord Herucalmo seemed intent on studying the old damage on my shoulder, now half behind me, his hand still brushing over the scars. His touch was surprisingly gentle, but nonetheless it was hard not to squirm under his curiosity, particularly as it reminded me of how his grandfather had examined my shoulder, back when we'd had to pose for the artist. Maybe Lord Herucalmo noticed, because he asked, "Is it hurting still?"
I forced myself to hold still. "No. Just the memory."
He nodded. I could feel his breath on the water on my skin. "I'm sorry," he said, making me turn my head in surprise.
"What for?"
Vaguely, he waved the hand that wasn't on my shoulder. "The whole mess, I suppose."
My brain was slow and sluggish. Was he trying to tell me that it was his fault somehow? Frowning, I asked, "Are you apologising on your grandfather's behalf or --"
Again, his laugh rang out over the sloshing of the water. "I wouldn't dare!" And, more seriously, "I doubt he'd apologise. That's not his way, is it? And I'm not apologising, either; I'm not responsible, after all. I'm merely trying to sympathise."

I nodded, slowly. Something very strange was going on, and I couldn't put my finger on it, which was unsettling.
"I shouldn't be doing this," Lord Herucalmo went on, "but who knows if we shall meet again?"
My throat was very dry, suddenly. "I'm sure your father wouldn't send you into battle if he thought you wouldn't come back."
He raised his eyebrows. There was a strange light in his eyes all of a sudden. "Some fathers do that, you know! And some have no choice! But you're right; it's fairly likely that I'll come back. But you never know for sure, do you?"
I wondered whether he was scared. That would have been perfectly natural, of course, considering that there would be fighting. Even against a weak enemy, the risk of being injured or even killed remained - and accidents could always happen. But he had sounded so confident, even dismissive of the danger, when I had mentioned it earlier. I had assumed that he felt no fear. Maybe he had changed his mind, now that the fight was imminent, but it was strange that he was confiding in me of all people. Because he knew that I was weak and often frightened, perhaps? Because he thought that I'd understand? I glanced down at his arm, still on my shoulder: did he need to steady himself?

I looked back at him, trying to think of something helpful to say. "No, you never know for sure. There's always some danger." That wasn't helpful, I thought. He knew that already. But that, really, was all I could do - acknowledge that yes, there was danger, yes, he might be hurt, or worse. "I'd be scared witless. I'm glad I don't have to go," I confessed - not that he wouldn't know that already, but perhaps it helped to hear it spoken.
Or maybe not. "So you're certain you're not going to come along," he said.
"No." Very nearly, I would've said something self-deprecating again - it was true, anyway - but I remembered his father's aversion to that.
Another nod. "Pity. It would be nice to have you there."
I very much doubted it. I remembered how well our trip to the mines had gone, after all. "To what purpose? I don't seem to learn the things you want me to learn."
There was a little chuckle. "Maybe not. Still..." Suddenly, the palm of his free hand was on the side of my face - for a surprisingly gentle touch, not for a slap, but I flinched anyway. "I suppose you've grown on me."
"What do-" I began, and that was as far as I got before he had leaned in to kiss me.

There was nothing chaste or formal about it. It was a real kiss, the sort I had used to exchange with Amraphel, firm lips and a soft but insistant tongue, mingling breath, the excitement of exploring someone else's mouth. The hand on my face had slipped to my neck and up into my wet hair, cupping the back of my head; the hand on my shoulders was slowly working its way downwards, underwater, pulling me close. Now it was at my buttocks, first stroking, then gently squeezing, and a probing finger slipped - still gently - into the cleft between them. And all the while he continued to kiss me. My body was beginning to respond almost instinctively. Having been lonely and unheld and unkissed for many months, the thought that I did not actually want this took a while to register.

He evidently wanted it. I was pressed so close to him that I could feel his arousal, hard against the softness of my belly, and the drumming of his heartbeat against my chest. I was forced to conclude that he might not simply be mocking me. My brain didn't know what to do with this conclusion. Was it lust, or something more? Again, I thought of our awkward journey to the mines. Had he had taken me along not to teach me something, but because he had wanted me near him? If so, he'd certainly had a poor way of showing it. And yet, and yet... suddenly his anger about my night about town with Lord Laurilyo appeared in a whole new light. Suddenly I wondered whether he had embraced me on purpose, that night, merely pretending to be asleep. Suddenly the harsh punishment of the guards, too, looked very different. How long had I 'grown on him', as he said? Had he already had these feelings aboard ship? Was that why he'd watched over me to make sure I didn't drown myself? But if so, why hadn't he at least hinted at it? Why had he acted as though I was little more than dirt to him? Couldn't the House of Arminalêth behave like normal human beings with normal human feelings for once?
Ultimately, however, it didn't make much of a difference, because whatever his feelings were, I didn't want him; I didn't want this.

It took me a moment to work up the courage to bring up my hands and work them between his chest and mine. In truth, I probably wouldn't have had the strength to push him away if he hadn't let me. But he did, pulling his head back far enough to give me a questioning look. We were both breathing hard. The light in his eyes was all warmth now, but then he glanced down at my palms, placed against his chest, and when he looked up again, the light was fading. "No?" he asked.
Relieved that this option appeared to exist, I managed to confirm, "No."
He was disappointed. He didn't try to mask it. His lips thinned, his eyes dulled with true hurt. His shoulders sagged a little even before he stepped back, withdrawing his hands and folding them across his chest. I stumbled backwards, at once relieved and miserable. He gave a short, sharp nod, and then, a bitter little laugh. "Of course. I forgot. You think I'm some kind of monster."
"I don't. I just - " I didn't want to go on, then said it anyway, "I'm married." I cursed myself. With his connections, he could easily hurt my family, and I was giving him another reason to do that. In an attempt at drawing his attention - and his revenge, I suppose - back to me, I said, "And I don't love you. And you don't love me." Surely he didn't. Maybe my presence had grown on him, maybe he even found me desirable just now, on the eve of riding away, but love? Unthinkable.

Silence. The silence lengthened, giving me sufficient time to worry about what would happen next. We stood face to face, sweating from the heat of the bath and the passion, or whatever you wanted to call it, and also, in my case, from fear. Now he would point out that love on either or both sides was not a requirement. Maybe he would remind me of who and what I was, and who he was, and what consequences my refusal could have. (I was already picturing these consequences, or some of them, and didn't even dare to imagine how far they might reach.) Would he threaten my loved ones? Would he punish me for his disappointment instead? Or would he simply step in and take by force what tenderness had failed to achieve? My every muscle tensed in anticipation. I could see his fists clench before he let his ams sink back into the water.
He raised his chin, and the old haughty look was back on his face. "Leave me alone," he said flatly, and then, as an afterthought, "please."
Not trusting myself to speak, I bowed, waded up the stairs, and fled with as much dignity as I could muster. Halfway across the hall, I heard the water splash as though something heavy had been dropped into it, but I didn't turn to see what had happened. I was nearly at the door when I remembered that I was still naked.

By dinnertime, Lord Herucalmo had recovered his composure, and if conversation was somewhat more tense than most evenings, that could easily be explained away with the impending departure. Even Lord Roitaheru seemed a little more thoughtful than usual. He called for an early night - Lord Herucalmo would leave before dawn tomorrow - and marched off to his chambers soon after bidding us to sleep well, and assuring his son that he would see him off in the morning. I stood in the corridor awkwardly, waiting for Lord Herucalmo to follow his father so I could withdraw to my own room. That is, if he allowed me to. If he wasn't about to try again, perhaps more tenacious this time. I might not be obliged to indulge him, but at the same time, how would I feel if he didn't come back and I'd refused him? That was a question I wouldn't know how to answer, and that I worried he might ask.
He gave me a long look. His eyes were dark, but I didn't detect any immediate signs of anger. On the other hand, I had clearly misread his feelings before, so didn't dare to trust my assessment. I didn't dare to leave first, either, so I held his gaze, biting my lips, trying to figure out what my options were.

Eventually, he nodded - whether to me or to himself, I wasn't sure - and said, "Good night."
"Good night, my lord," I said, and hoping to pre-empt any renewed attempts, I added, "Stay safe."
He snorted, but instead of the scathing reply I'd expected, he just replied, "You too."
In spite of everything, I felt guilty. "We will meet again," I said.
"I expect so, one way or another. Hopefully not in your morgue."
I felt my face flush, cursing myself yet again. "That's not what I meant."
"I know." He held out a hand. I took it and raised it to my lips, but he stopped me half-way, gripping my fingers and shaking my hand instead. Something about the gesture made my heart ache and my eyes sting.
"Thank you, Lord," I said before I could stop myself.
He tilted his head, one eyebrow raised. "What for?"
"For not taking advantage of me, Lord."
He heaved a sigh that rivalled his grandfather's long-suffering displays of exhaustion. "You really do think I'm a monster, don't you."
Unable to think of a reply, I just bowed my head.
He sighed again. "Good night, Azruhâr," he said, turned around, and marched off to the noble family's part of the palace.
By the time I woke up in the morning, he was gone.

Chapter 50

Read Chapter 50

Chapter 50

I didn't mention what had happened in the baths in my next letter home. (What had happened in the baths, anyway? Had it really happened? As the days went by, I began to doubt it more and more. It felt as though I'd imagined the whole thing. It did not seem like a likely thing to have happened. I felt guilty anyway.) I mentioned the battle preparations in the vaguest of terms - mostly to express my relief that I didn't have to accompany my erstwhile fellow recruits - but as I remembered Lord Herucalmo's secrecy, I didn't go into any detail. I didn't know many details, anyway. Instead, I wrote in detail about my winery-turned-morgue. That felt like a safe topic, although I left out just how much help I was receiving from Lord Roitaheru's treasury - and, most recently, from Lord Roitaheru himself.

With his son away and - for the time being - no news about how the campaign was going, Lord Roitaheru had begun to show an increased interest in my work. Whether he was worrying after all and in need of distraction, or whether he was simply bored, he questioned me about the progress of the work and even visited the site to take a good look around, much like Darîm had done. Unlike Darîm, however, he didn't express any frustration about the speed of the repairwork. When the carpenters discovered that there were more than just the two obvious ceiling beams decayed to the point of danger, he took it philosophically. "That gives you more time to figure out your household staff, and maybe start recruiting," he said - and promptly advised me on what staff I should hire. Once again, I found it dizzying how casually he provided valuable information. I didn't even have to ask, much less beg. Imagine if Lord Atanacalmo had so easily provided me with advice on what to do and whose services to hire! To be fair, Amraphel had usually been able to give me that advice, but Lord Atanacalmo hadn't known that. (Or had he? Knowing him, he probably had. But I doubted that he would have been any more forthcoming if I hadn't been lucky enough to have a wife trained in looking after an estate.) We'll see what you're really made of, his words echoed in my memory, and I had to smile when I thought how much that wasn't true. I currently had so much of my work done for me that I felt quite lazy.
Lord Roitaheru seemed to feel that I should keep it that way. "It's one of the prerogatives of better men to delegate work to lesser men," he said dismissively.

That might be correct, but I was one of the lesser men. However, I nearly laughed picturing Lord Atanacalmo's face at the suggestion that I shared the prerogatives of better men. "As far as I know, it's hardly customary for simple craftsmen to have their own stewards and agents, let alone so many guards," I pointed out.
He shrugged at that. "I wouldn't know about craftsmen in the motherland, but here, it's perfectly customary. Workers are cheap, even specialists, and if you ask the craftsfolk on the council, they'll tell you that they all have a household steward, and most of them have their own accountant, too. And you'll need guards because you're living all the way out there with your criminals. The city guard will take much too long to get out there, and who's going to call them in the first place?"
Again I found myself thinking of home, of our morgue at the very end of the road to the Holy Mountain, where the city guard would never arrive in time, if they even came when we called at all.
"I'm just worried that I'll be accused of forgetting my place," I said. I didn't expect him to level such accusations at me, but others might, and I felt that it was better, for the record if nothing else, to show him that I knew my place.
He had different ideas about that, though. "Your place, as a free-born citizen of Númenórë, is right up here," he said dryly. Apparently, that was that.

He had thoughts on my clothing, too. "Do you always have to wear that drab grey?" he asked at one point. "No wonder you're always so downcast if you walk in mourning all the time."
Personally, I felt that my exile - even if it was a kindly and luxurious exile - warranted mourning, but saying that would have been graceless, considering how much Lord Roitaheru had done to be welcoming and supportive. So I only said, "It's the colour of my craft."
He scowled at that. "Is it really? You're not a mourner. Shouldn't your colour be something reassuring, some kind of promise of preservation?" Even as I looked at him in surprise - I liked him, but I did feel that he was a little superficial, so this was an unexpectedly deep thought - he went on, "Anyway, you'll find that the natives here dye every scrap of fabric. Not even the paupers wear undyed cloth!"
"Your servants wear white, Lord," I observed.
"Very perceptive. But it's bleached! That's precious! Do you know what it costs me to import that? You don't want to know. They don't make bleached linen here. I have to bring it here from up north or from the motherland, and both costs a fortune. Can't recommend it."
"It doesn't have to be bleached, but I'll need undyed linen for the wrappings, anyway," I pointed out. "It must be possible to buy fabric before they dye it, right?"
"Sure, if you negotiate with the weavers. Doesn't mean you should wear it, though! I suppose you can buy undyed linen for your apprentices, but for yourself, it's not very flattering. Why don't you look for a nice ivy green? Ivy is for mourning, isn't it. But it's not exclusively that. Trust me, you'll be a lot happier with green."
I told him I'd keep that in mind.
"Do that! I'm going to tell Laurilyo to take you to the market. He knows his way around almost better than the natives and certainly better than I do. And it'll give him something sensible to do. He can help you get that empty place furnished - and he can take you to his tailor, too."

I was worried that Lord Laurilyo wouldn't appreciate being sent out to take me shopping, especially as the rainy season had now begun and the heavy rains fell unpredictably (to my untrained eye, at least). Indeed, he greeted me with a sour face, saying, "You're lucky that I'm too undisciplined to hold a grudge for long." But after that, he seemed to warm up to his task, because by the time we reached the craftsmen's quarter, he was as cheerful as if he'd never been offended. He was lecturing me about different choices of wood and the virtues of cotton or linen respectively, and talking about where to find the best clothmakers and joiners and whatnot, so I didn't have to worry about making conversation; polite noises of affirmation or curiosity were enough. The thought struck me that Laurilyo might have made a fine (and enthusiastic) buying agent. If he had been born to a merchant family, he wouldn't have been a disappointment at all; it was just his bad luck that he was expected to govern. It was a strange and powerful thought that sometimes, it might be bad luck to be born noble. Or, perhaps, that nobility did not necessarily make you a ruler. Fortunately, Lord Laurilyo didn't seem to notice that I was thoroughly distracted. With some effort, I managed to focus back on what he was saying and where we were going. We were entering a part of the city that I didn't know, the district where the craftsmen of Umbar had their workshops, and I felt that I ought to remember the way, in case I needed to go here on my own at a later time.

"I do hope you have the measurements of your place," Lord Laurilyo declared as we entered one of the workshops. The master joiner and his apprentices, or whoever they were, dropped everything to welcome us with many a bow and many a blessing. "I have no idea how much space you have."
I assured him that I had measured the rooms and returned the craftsmen's bow politely, at which they bowed even lower. I had to actively fight the instinct to bow lower in my turn, as I had been taught in my youth, but we'd probably have ended up falling over in our attempts to out-bow each other, and I managed to straighten my back. I was glad that Lord Laurilyo addressed the joiner, since I was too embarrassed by the greeting ceremony to even state why I was here. Much easier to answer the joiner's questions about the preferred type of wood and the measurements and so on after the introductions had already been taken care of. Lord Laurilyo made the occasional joke - whether for my sake or whether to set the Umbarians at ease, I don't know; he also threw in the occasional Umbari phrase, so it was probably the latter - and by and by, the tension that had gripped the workshop and its occupants at our entrance lifted. He helped me negotiate the payment and delivery, too, although his first attempt to suggest sensible numbers in Elvish (to keep it secret from the craftsman, I suppose) failed due to my ignorance.

When I thanked him, he just grinned. "Well, you shouldn't overindulge them and you shouldn't shortchange them, and I figured you aren't very familiar with the currency yet. So I felt it would be better to provide some guidance."
"I'm glad you did," I confessed. "You're right, I probably would've said something ludicrous."
"How do you know I didn't?" he asked, eyes glinting.
I bit my lips. In truth, I had no way of knowing. "I trust you," I eventually said. "So I assume you wouldn't mislead me in this matter."
"Well, at least someone thinks I'm trustworthy," he said dryly.

Having commissioned a bed for me, we also commissioned simpler bedsteads for my potential servants and apprentices, as well as work-tables and a dinner table and benches and (because Laurilyo insisted) a chair with armrests for myself, and then went on to a mattress-maker, and a blanket weaver. We went to the ironworkers' quarter for cooking pots and the like, and then to the potters' for crockery. At this point, I was beginning to feel dizzy. Not because the morning had progressed into mid-day and the air had grown humid and oppressive. No, it was the amount of money I was in the process of spending that made me feel uneasy. I had only made the occasional down payment as yet, so my purse was still sufficiently heavy, but I would have to pay the rest eventually, and I didn't like the idea of running out and having to borrow from Lord Roitaheru. I only received half my usual pay, after all, with the rest being paid directly to my family. True, Lord Roitaheru doubtlessly would lend me the money, but I hated the thought of proving to be as irresponsible as poor folk like me (or like I'd been, anyway) were often said to be.

But we were not done; there was still fabric to buy. Lord Roitaheru had convinced me that a livery for my servants and apprentices was vital - that way, they would immediately be recogniseable as members of my household and treated accordingly (that is, better than they'd otherwise be treated, apparently). Laurilyo confirmed this. "Otherwise, you'll have to pick up your cook from the pillory whenever he gets groceries," he said. "Well, after the third or so time they'd probably recognise his face. But it's still an unnecessary hassle, right?"
"I had no idea that it's so dangerous to buy groceries here," I said, feeling discomfited.
Laurilyo laughed at my concern. "Not for us, don't you worry! And not for anyone easily associated with us. But the Umbari in general aren't allowed to buy just anything; that's our prerogative."
I frowned. "That seems rather unfair," I couldn't help saying.
Shrugging, he said, "That's how the law is."
"Isn't the law made by us - I mean, by our people?" I asked.
"Agreed by the council, passed by the governor, ratified by the King," Laurilyo agreed, sounding as if he was quoting something (which he probably was). "Of course, you know when and where the council meets - if you want to try and change it." He smiled, but I wasn't amused. I had no intention of applying to the council for a change of law.

Be that as it may, I accepted that I would need some sort of uniform for my household, and so I followed Lord Laurilyo from the craftsmen's district and into the market streets. There were no bright awnings now, and no laundry hanging from the clotheslines between houses: at this time of the year, business was clearly conducted inside. The day-talers that we passed had wrapped their arms around their chests as if for warmth, and shifted from foot to foot as though cold, in spite of the hot and humid air. Suddenly, one of them waved, recognising my face (or so I assume). I recognised him, too - he had been a regular when we had cleaned out the old winery - so I raised a hand in greeting, and saw him break into an excited smile. I realised guiltily that I had probably given him hopes of employment, although I'd just meant to be friendly. Sure enough, he left the group and crossed over to us, splashing through a puddle with his bare feet.

"Pleasure to see you, Master," he said, bowing low, "do you have work for me?"
"I'm pleased to see you too, Nêrad," I said. He looked up at the mention of his name, his eyes shining, and I felt very guilty when I had to go on, "But unfortunately I don't have work for you today. As you can see, I'm not on the site today."
"I can help with something else?" Nêrad suggested with some urgency. "Carry your things, or take a message?"
I sighed. I knew what it was like to be turned away. Now, apparently, I'd have to learn what it was like to turn someone away.
"Look, that's hardly work for a grown man. I'm sure you can find something that pays better."
The way in which his shoulders sank suggested otherwise.
"Not much to find at this season," he muttered.
"I'm sorry to hear it," I said. And I was - oh, I was - but there was little I could do about it right now.

If I had been alone, I might have made up something, perhaps, but I was aware of Lord Laurilyo next to me. So I didn't want to show how weak-willed I was. It was Lord Laurilyo who shrugged and said, "You can come along to look after the horses and carry things if Azruhâr buys anything, but that's about it."
Looking after the horses was hardly work for a grown - or very nearly grown - man. That sort of work was done by youngsters, street urchins or junior apprentices, who either couldn't expect to earn all that much anyway, or who already had an income and just appreciated a little extra cash. Someone like Nêrad, on the other hand, would hardly be satisfied with work that generally paid badly. He must be fairly desperate to accept it, I thought.
"Thank you, Lord," Nêrad said, his tense posture easing a little, and I concluded that he must indeed be fairly desperate.

Nêrad trotted after us and looked after the horses - not that we needed someone to look after the horses, but I suppose it was kind of Lord Laurilyo to give him that opportunity, at least - while I looked at fabrics. As Lord Roitaheru had predicted, undyed and unpatterned fabric was hard to find; the Umbari favoured strong colours at the very least, and in-woven patterns of different colours if at all possible. They were cheaper than I would have thought, too. With Lord Roitaheru's advice in mind (and Lord Laurilyo's in my ear), I gave in to the temptation of a very nice fabric, green with a sort of diamond pattern in a darker shade of green. Due to the lack of strong contrasts (some of the other fabrics had brightly clashing colours), it seemed modest enough to be worn on ordinary days, while still satisfying the directive of wearing something non-drab. "Yes, I think it'll suit you nicely," Lord Laurilyo conceded when I asked him for his opinion. "Green is for hope that grows like a tree," he added in a sing-song voice.
"What?"
"Oh, you know - like in the nursery rhyme. Silver for honour, glory is gold...?"

I had to confess my ignorance, and Lord Laurilyo promptly supplied,
"Silver for honour, glory is gold,
black for the night and red for the bold.
Brown is for toil, the plough and the soil,
Purple for passion and yellow for joy.
Green is for hope that grows like a tree,
blue for the truth that is deep as the sea,
white is for purity and life's first breath,
grey is for sorrow, for mourning and death.
You already knew that last part, I'm sure," he finished, glancing at my grey tunic.
"It's the colour of my craft," I muttered half-heartedly.
Lord Laurilyo smiled. "The green fabric is nice."
"Green is for hope," I repeated softly. That gave me an idea. "Would it be possible to send some fabric home - I mean, to Yôzayân?"
"Are you planning to trade in fabrics?" Lord Laurilyo asked, grinning. "Yes, of course it's possible."
"Actually, I just wanted to send a gift to my wife." I wasn't certain that Amraphel would make the connection between green fabric and hope, but if she did, it would be a good way of telling her that there might be hope for my return without letting my enemies know about it. Surely a man could be expected to send some nice fabric home to his family without any deeper thoughts, especially if it was an uneducated man like me, who hadn't even considered the symbolic significance of colours until a few moments ago.

So I bought the fabric. I bought rather a lot of it, enough to make tunics for me and nice gowns for Amraphêl and the children. Or so I hoped. So far, I had left that sort of business to Amraphêl, so I needed the Umbarian weaver to tell me how much I would need. I had to hope that his estimate would be correct. At any rate, Lord Laurilyo didn't protest, so I trusted that it wouldn't be too far off the mark. I bought some simpler (but still patterned) fabric for curtains and sheets and so on, too. I tried to find undyed fabric, but as Lord Roitaheru had predicted, that was uncommon and not available in significant quantities. After visiting several weavers, Lord Laurilyo suggested turning directly to a dyer, buy the wool there, and then commission the fabric. That would mean going back to the craftsmen's district, however, so we went to see the tailor first. Nêrad walked behind us the whole time, patiently carrying the rolls of fabric, and I was glad when Lord Laurilyo paid him in the end - generously, too, from the way Nêrad took his money.

Lord Laurilyo seemed to notice that I noticed, because he sighed and said, "I know, I know, I'm too soft-hearted. Don't tell Uncle. I just hate seeing sad faces. He's probably putting on a sad face because they all know I'll fall for it, and he doesn't really need the money, but I can't help it."
"I'm the last person who'd reproach you," I said. "And I'm sure he does need the money."
Lord Laurilyo smiled. "Uncle thinks otherwise. He says there can't possibly be as many sick fathers and hungry little sisters as they make out to be. So who is it in your family?" That last question was directed at Nêrad, who frowned.
"What, Lord?"
"Who's sick and hungry in your family, I mean?"
Nêrad lowered his head. "Father hurt his leg working, Lord. Hungry, we all are."
"Only you to earn money for the family, then? No brothers or sisters?"
"Yes, Lord, but my brothers' pay goes to the Darîm and my sister is - she has - she cannot work. And mother has to look after her. So only me, until Father is better."

"See?" said Lord Laurilyo, looking at me. "Always such dreadful stories. But the thing is, what if it's true? I figure that if I get fooled, it doesn't hurt me, I have money enough. But if it's true and I don't believe it, it'll hurt him a great deal, right?"
"My lord," I said, slightly alarmed by the way in which he clung to the topic, "you really don't have to justify yourself to me."
Nêrad, in the meantime, looked from me to Lord Laurilyo with an expression on his face that suggested, indeed, hurt. "I would not lie about such things," he said, in barely tamed anger. "Or fate would make them true."
"I did not doubt you," I said. Indeed, I had not. Misfortunes had a tendency to add up, I knew that from personal experience. And at some point, you were desperate and your life really depended on that one afternoon of work, or that one loaf of bread. And the better-off always said that they'd heard that kind of story before; and it never occurred to them that this might be because it happened to many people, rather than because many people used it as an excuse. I suppose it was good of Lord Laurilyo to be willing to pay even at the risk of being fooled; yet somehow I felt resentful because he was assuming that he was being fooled at all. Nêrad, meanwhile, probably resented the both of us, and no wonder.
"You know what," I told him. "When I move into my new house, I'll need some staff. Would you like to work for me permanently? I am only just starting to look, so you could pretty much choose your position."

A man's face rarely displayed so many emotions in such short order as Nêrad's did. First his eyes and mouth widened in astonishment, then his lips spread into the most excited smile, and then their corners dropped and he bowed his head again in misery. "That is very kind," he said, "but I must not leave my family."
I frowned, confused. He was, as I said, a grown man, or on the very cusp of being considered a grown man - I did not know how these things were reckoned in Umbar, but he had an unruly little beard and everything - so one wouldn't think it unusual for him to leave them, either to work in somebody else's household or to start his own. I was fairly certain that he must be older than Sîmar and Kâlil, for instance. "Well, you don't have to," I said at last. "Forget that I asked."
Nêrad put his hands together in a pleading motion. "Can I remember in four weeks? When Father is healed?" He was now looking up at me with an intensely unhappy expression, and I remembered what he'd said about the rest of his family being dependent on his income right now.
"I can't promise that I'll still be hiring in four weeks," I said, since both Lord Roitaheru and Darîm were likely to push me to fill any positions in my household soon.
He nodded, rather despondently. I glanced at Lord Laurilyo, who drew a sympathetic grimace but also shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, What can you do?

What can you do? I could, of course, have left it at that. I had made an offer, Nêrad hadn't taken it, and that could have been it. Nothing more could be expected of me. In truth, I had already offered more than could be expected.
But the thing was, of course, that I saw myself in the young man. I saw my younger self, desperate to make ends meet, and if I had just turned away, it would have felt like betraying that younger self, leaving the young man I'd once been to scramble from odd job to odd job until his luck ran out, and he'd turn to dishonest means. Or starve.
"Maybe we can work something out," I heard myself say. "But maybe not here and now. I should like to see you tomorrow, if that's alright? And your family?"
Nêrad's eyelids fluttered in confusion. "We should visit you?"
"Yes, certainly. Or maybe it's easier if I come to see you. If you tell me where to go? Then we can see if anything can be done." Again, I risked a sideways look at Lord Laurilyo. He probably thought that I'd lost my mind. But he seemed to be distracted by the view across the city, and didn't comment when Nêrad gave me his address and a description of the way to his home, still looking thoroughly confused and disbelieving.

Lord Laurilyo only commented when we had made our way back into the palace. "Well, I'm glad I'm not the only soft-hearted fool." He said it in a good-natured voice and with a kindly smile on his face, but it still made me feel defensive. "Wouldn't have expected something so unreasonable from you, though," he added.
"I don't think it's unreasonable," I said, keeping my voice even with some difficulty. "As you put it, it doesn't hurt me. And it might help someone else a great deal."
The smile turned into a grin. "You'd think so, from looking at him, right? Who would've thought that someone would be so excited about being offered a job as a servant?"
"Who wouldn't?" I said before I could stop myself. "I'd have felt the exact same way."
Lord Laurilyo stopped in his tracks and gave me a curious look. "You'd have what?"
"Felt the same way," I repeated, wondering what about it had been unclear. "I mean, if someone had offered me that sort of position, when I was young."
He laughed out loud. "No offense, but you were never in that sort of position!"
At my silence, he looked me over again, apparently sorting his thoughts. "Are you telling me that you used to be a man like that? I mean -" He seemed to be looking for the right word, eventually settling on, "A pauper? Surely not."

Now it was my turn to laugh. "That's exactly what I am, Lord Laurilyo. I thought you knew!"
His eyes went almost comically wide. "I had no idea!" He studied me from head to toes, then shook his head. "No, I'd never have guessed. You're much too --" again, he cut himself off.
"What?"
"No, never mind. It was a stupid thing to think. Shouldn't have thought it, certainly won't say it."
Somehow, that irritated me more than whatever unflattering - surely it had been unflattering - thing he had thought. "I'm sure I've heard worse," I said.
"I'm sure you have, but not from me," he said, spreading his hands in a gesture of peace. "And I'd prefer to keep it that way."
I suppose that was a fair reason, although it was strangely unsatisfying. Grudgingly, I nodded.
"Well, I guess it explains a few things," Lord Laurilyo mused in the meantime.
"Like what?"
"Like you not knowing any Sindarin. And my-lording me all the time. Nobody does that! Except for the Umbari, of course, and I bet they wouldn't if they didn't have to. And being so worried about displeasing Herucalmo, that stuck-up idiot." He heard my sharp intake of breath and grinned again. "See? Don't worry, I can call him that if I want. He's a cousin, remember. And also a stuck-up idiot."

A stuck-up idiot who had kissed me in the baths. Probably. If I hadn't imagined it. Even without that memory, I would have felt uncomfortable just listening to that sort of talk, and tried to change the topic. "What did you think I was?"
He raised his eyebrows and made a show of giving the matter some thought. "Oh, I don't know. Some ambitious politician in the making, like most of the young fellows who wash up here. I mean, you clearly weren't sent here for punishment, so -" he stopped himself again. I hadn't been able to control my face and had bared my teeth at the mention of punishment, just a second, but he had clearly noticed it. "Wrong again, I see. Really? You?" Yet again, he looked me over before smiling disarmingly. "Well. Still waters run deep! You really must tell me more about your fascinating past." After another look, he amended, "If you want to."
I managed a weak smile. It was sort of sweet, the way he tried - what, exactly? to be respectful, I suppose, in his own disrespectful way. I probably wouldn't tell him about my fascinating past. But I felt that, although he certainly couldn't be described as still waters, he ran deeper than our first acquaintance had suggested, too.

The next evening, I went to visit Nêrad's family, and they went out of their way to make their humble abode welcoming. It truly was a humble abode. They were renting a windowless cellar that might be reasonably pleasant and cool in summer, but was now damp and muddy with the water that came running in through the crack under the door. They had spread reeds on the floor to make it less damp to step on. All through my visit, I could hear the dripping of the water down the walls. I felt very sorry for Nêrad's father, confined to his bed down here. He did indeed have his leg broken, and it was only some small consolation that it had evidently been splinted and bandaged by somebody who knew what they were doing (a healer, sent by the Darîm, they told me). Of course he looked gaunt and pale, and although he had broad shoulders and probably could lift heavy weights, normally, it was clear that he wouldn't do any of that for many weeks to come.

The sister distracted me by trying to gift me flowers, or so Nêrad explained to me - I didn't understand her, for she spoke no Adûnaic at all. I saw now why she couldn't help Nêrad to earn money for the family: although she was a grown woman in body, in mind she seemed to be more like a small child, excitable and friendly and quite absorbed in her game, which apparently included gifting flowers to the visitor. Her mother kept apologising for her behaviour, although she was no trouble. It was a little disconcerting to have a grown-up woman act like a little girl, of course, but once I had understood that she was not acting up or making fun of me, it was no different from having someone's little daughter play her own games while you were trying to keep up a conversation with her parents. Since I didn't know her language, just as she didn't know mine, I wasn't quite sure what I was expected to do, but I accepted the flowers (poor, half-wilted things) and praised them for their scent and beauty, as you do when you humour a child.

I did not have to affect politeness to praise the meal. It was a stew of chickpeas, vegetables and herbs, a lot like the dinner we'd been provided at the mines, but this time, the chickpeas were cooked all the way through, and that made all the difference. Of course, the company was rather more friendly, too. Nêrad went out of his way to be serviceable, almost too much so (he stopped just short of spoon-feeding me the stew), and his parents continued to praise his reliability and diligence and general goodness. It was only because he was such a loyal son and brother, they assured me, that he hadn't long since been apprenticed. If he hadn't had to help his father to feed the rest of the family, such a fine fellow would easily have found good employment. It reminded me of the way prospective husbands or wives were advertised by their parents to the parents of the partner they were hoping to secure. It could have been embarassing, but fortunately Nurdâr - the sister - kept intervening with her own stories or observations. Although I did not understand what she was saying, the other summarised it when I asked, and it eased the atmosphere just enough and kept them from abasing themselves too much. (I wondered whether they would have behaved in this manner regardless of why I was here, or whether they were particularly eager to please because I had offered to give Nêrad work.)

I repeated that offer. As I had expected, Nêrad was torn between looking after his parents and sister, currently depending on the money he brought in, and the desire not to pass up what evidently was a good opportunity. "Well," I said, "I cannot hire you all."
And then I realised that this wasn't true, because I had a whole empty house, and I could employ whom I saw fit. Even if it happened to be a whole family of people I'd only just met. Granted, it probably wasn't the wisest thing to do. But then, I wasn't exactly known for my wisdom. I liked them; I felt sorry for them; I particularly felt sorry for Nêrad, dutiful fellow that he was, kept from better employment because his family never saw any of his brothers' payment. Of course, I was also reminded of my own father's injury, which ended up killing him.

I did end up hiring them all. Four days later, when the family's weekly rent would have been due, they put their belongings and furniture in my cart, and we drove out to the new morgue in the middle of another rainstorm. Although we had put a tarpaulin over the bedding and furniture, we couldn't keep it entirely dry, so their new home - two rooms next to the kitchen - started out just as damp as the old had been. The things I had ordered from the craftsmen of Umbar were not yet finished, so we had no replacement for the wet bedding and blankets. They would dry in time, of course, but it felt like a bad start.
It wasn't made better by the fact that I had evidently angered Darîm in bypassing his expert advice and arbitration. He was, as ever, polite, but his displeasure was evident from the set of his jaw and the way his eyes narrowed when he asked whether I truly had taken Umbari workers into permanent employment all by myself.

"I have taken that liberty, yes," I said warily. "I wasn't aware that I should have asked permission."
He paled noticeably at that. "It is not about permission. Merely, it is customary that such employment happens through my person."
"I shall remember it the next time."
"That would be good," he said stiffly.
"Well," I said, feeling my own eyes narrow, "it would not have been necessary if my new valet's brothers didn't have to pay all their money to you, rather than being able to forward it to their family in need."
Darîm tilted his head, honest confusion on his face. "I do not understand what you mean."
"Aren't you getting the pay of all the servants and apprentices you put into the houses of my people? Is that why you're angry with me, because you're not going to get these people's pay?"

Darîm breathed in slowly, then let his breath out in a hiss. "I receive the wages of people whose employment I have secured, yes," he said. "What does it have to do with your new servants?"
"Nêrad wouldn't have been so desperate for work if he wasn't the only one feeding his family after his father's injury," I retorted. "And that's how I first got the idea, and that's why I didn't hire just him alone, either."
Passing his hand in front of his eyes, Darîm sighed. "Let us not misunderstand each other, Master Embalmer. I do not take my people's money simply for my own pleasure. I do it so that I have funds to help those in need. If he was desperate, he should have applied for a loan. I would have looked into the situation, and if necessary, I would have lent them money."
That deflated the sails of my anger. "You... use the money to make loans to people who need them?"
"Among other things. It also pays for healers when needed. I paid a healer for the father, did I not? And it provides for the families of prisoners, and other such things," he said, now back to his amiable self. "Which is why I require it in the first place. I invest in my people; they pay me back, or forward, whichever applies. In the meantime your charity, while doubtlessly springing from a generous heart, will waken desire and envy. There are many needy families here, Master Embalmer. Will you take them all into your service?"

Much though I resented what felt like mockery, I couldn't deny that he had a point. "I didn't know that," I confessed.
He smiled. "No, and why would you? It doesn't concern you. And they -" he indicated Nêrad's mother, stacking wood for the kitchen, with a twitch of his shoulder - "naturally had no interest in telling you. I'm afraid that they did not tell you that you aren't getting entirely what you paid for, either."
"What do you mean?"
He wagged his head sorrowfully. "The young woman. She is not right in the head, you see. I know that you do not have such people on your island, but it is an affliction that occasionally appears here, and --"
"I know about Nurdâr's condition," I cut him off. That, at least, hadn't been kept from me. "We've talked about it. She will help her mother in such ways as she can. That's good enough for me."
He raised his hands appeasingly. "Ah. I am glad that you have not been tricked." Again, he smiled. "Do not be angry with me, Master Embalmer. I merely worry that you may not be happy with the service of the people that - well, didn't go through my usual selection process."
My dignity rankled at the suggestion that I'd be so incapable of choosing my own servants, even though he was probably right. "And I'd be happier with the people you've selected?"
He dipped his head into a modest bow before smiling at me again. "I should hope so. At any rate, I would know that they have been trained to serve in a house like yours."
"My house may be very different from other houses of Yôzayân," I retorted.
What I should have said, for the sake of the truth, was that I had no idea how to run such a house, and that I was making things up as I went along. But I didn't feel of disclosing so much about myself - I still remembered Lord Laurilyo's disbelief about my humble origins in embarrassment - least of all to Darîm, and least of all when he reproached me for what was, ultimately, my own business.

Chapter 51

Read Chapter 51

Chapter 51

When I asked Nêrad and his parents why they hadn't applied to Darîm for help, they took a while to answer. Finally, Nêrad explained that it wasn't quite as easy as Darîm had suggested. By no means were all necessary loans granted, least of all to people who were already in debt. And the family was already indebted, which Nêrad seemed to find very shameful. Wringing his hands, he confessed that it would take them years to pay off their previous loans as well as the money for the healer, and they had tried to avoid being indebted further. I was inclined to believe him. I suppose it was good of Darîm to offer these loans at all - in contrast, Lord Atanacalmo had made it forbiddingly hard to even speak to him, let alone receive help from him, and neither I nor any of my neighbours would have dreamed of asking him for money even in our more desperate need - and he had, after all, sent the healer. That was more than anyone had done for my father. But I suspected that Darîm knew as little about the ordinary lives and needs of the low-born people as the King's Council did. Nor could he afford to give away money indefinitely, probably. Nonetheless, I was troubled. Even if the family had been entirely honest with me, Darîm had been right; I would not be able to do something similar for everybody in need of help, and it was not my place, anyway. It was much like the copperhoods all over again, only in a strange country and among strange people. I suppose it was a useful reminder that I was unfamiliar with the place and its rules, and should tread with care.

I moved into the morgue a few weeks into the new year, once the upstairs rooms were restored and most of the furniture and fixings had been delivered. I confess I was glad to move into a house thad already had people living in it. Zâdosh - Nêrad's mother - had filled the larder and stacked firewood and bundled kindling and made soap and put the pots and pans and tankards and crockery and cutlery in their proper places, and the family had cleaned up after the builders and hung up the curtains and rolled out the carpets and all that, so the house was not merely livable but approaching comfortable. Galîr, the father, who was unable to move around much, had started sewing the tunics for the livery, so I wouldn't have to accompany Zâdosh and Nêrad to the market forever. (Remembering Lord Laurilyo's warning about having to rescue cooks from the pillory, I had so far gone along for the shopping, and indeed, one grain merchant had very nearly called the guard on Zâdosh when she had asked for the wheat that she felt my household needed. He'd relented - and sold her the wheat - only after I had intervened. I found his behaviour outrageous, but when I had reprimanded him for calling the guard on a honest customer, he protested that he couldn't risk losing his licence. I suppose it was a fair reason, although I was still angry.)

Nurdâr, at least, was genuinely happy - at least, that's the impression I got. She was making wreaths of the bright wildflowers that grew plentifully under the winter rains to hang over every door, which was not, perhaps, strictly necessary, but it spread a little cheer and at any rate did no harm. When they were wilted, she picked new flowers and started anew. She was fond of the cats and played with them, pulling a piece of wood on a string, which they hunted as though it were a mouse. She could spend hours brushing the horse and the mule. After Zâdosh had asked (and received, of course) leave to keep chicken, Nurdâr fed them and cleaned their nesting boxes and gathered the eggs, if there were any. In the morning, she informed us very earnestly of how many eggs she had found. Her mother continued to apologise for these reports, and every other strange little thing Nurdâr did. I told her that it was no trouble, as long as Nurdâr stayed out of the cellar and the storage tunnels. As yet, there was nothing poisonous or dead down there, but she could have stumbled and hit her head on a workbench or the edge of the basins, or gotten lost in the dark tunnels, or fallen into the well, and besides, it was probably better if she learned from the start that the working area was out of bounds. There was no reason for any of them to go down there, anyway, so I told the family that nobody but myself and my apprentices were allowed to go down the stone stairs, and they swore to stay out of that part of the house.
At any rate, it was good to have other people living with me. Their presence turned what would otherwise have been an empty and unsettling place into a home - not my home, to be sure, but somebody's home. It probably wouldn't have been good for me to live there by myself, but the family made pleasant company. I missed the sense of friendship I'd felt with my servants back at home, though. Of course, they had been neighbours first, and we had been on equal footing for the greater part of our lives. Here, with the exception of Nurdâr, the family acted as though I were well above them.

Lord Roitaheru would have approved, I am sure. When I had taken my leave to exchange the luxuries of his palace for the relative simplicity of my own house, he reminded me to keep my back straight and my chin up and not get too cosy with the Umbarians. "I know you're a gentle and generous spirit, but you mustn't be too indulgent. Don't allow them to forget who you are." It seemed that nobody would ever be allowed to forget who I was, however much I would've liked them to. "That doesn't just go for your servants, but all of them," Lord Roitaheru had continued. "Make sure they see a man of Yôzayân when they see you. Hold your head high. Stride confidently. Wear a belt, and keep your hair long."
I must have looked fairly stupid at that (he wore his own hair cropped in a soldier's manner and his robes were, as usually, loose like those of the Umbari). He guessed my thoughts and laughed, running his hand through his short curls. "There's no danger of people not knowing who I am! But you have to put all the attributes of our people together to remind them."

Urdad had joined us, bringing a small wooden box, and Lord Roitaheru rubbed his hands. "Ah, yes! Your house-warming gift." He gestured for Urdad to give me the box, which turned out to contain one of the Eldarin lamp-stones in a delicate wire cage. "I've been told that it might be useful when you work in the vaults," he said, while I was speechless. It was indeed a useful and unexpectedly thoughtful gift, and I wondered who had suggested it to him. Had it been Lord Herucalmo? The thought made my face grow hot. "Thank you, good lord," I managed, since gratitude was clearly in order. "It is a very generous gift. And I can use it well; much better than a candle or a torch."
"That's what he thought," Lord Roitaheru said, pointing his thumb at Urdad. "It was his idea. Clever fellow." Urdad bowed his head, the usual nervous smile on his lips. I stared at him in surprise. "You can take him along, if you want," Lord Roitaheru said.

Now I was staring from one to the other. "I can't possibly accept that, Lord," I said, while trying to figure out how Urdad felt about the prospect. Did he want to continue working for me? Was that why he had suggested the lamp to Lord Roitaheru, to win me over? That wasn't necessary; I was quite grateful to him for taking care of the repairwork and keeping track of the money, anyway. Or would he prefer to stay here in the palace, which was doubtlessly a more prestigious post?
"No, you're welcome to him," Lord Roitaheru said, waving his hand. "I have more. You'll need an accountant anyway, and he's already familiar with your project. Unless you weren't satisfied with his work so far, of course." At which Urdad bowed a little lower.
"I'm entirely satisfied with his work," I said, flustered. "I just - that's a very generous offer, my lord." Again, I glanced at Urdad, trying to see his eyes, but they were hidden from my view.
"Not really," said Lord Roitaheru. "I have number-jugglers aplenty here; one more or less makes no difference. So do take him along; make him work for his money!"

I did take him along. On the road, I told Urdad that I was pleased that he would keep working for me, and that I was hoping he was also pleased. He smiled his shy smile and said that he was, but of course he would've said that either way. I doubted he enjoyed himself much the next days, which he spent running around, taking stock of all the things I had bought and figuring out what had been paid already and what was still due and how to space out the payments so there was money left for the rest of the month. It was doubtlessly helpful work, but it made me feel rather keenly how inept I was as master of a household, or workshop, or both. I had kept the numbers in mind, to be sure, but I hadn't thought of writing them down. Of course that's what I should have done. Amraphel would have known, and I missed her more keenly than usual that night, thinking of how many things I didn't know how to do properly without her help. I thought in growing distress of the many people under me - both figuratively and literally - whom I was supposed to keep busy and fed and safe and healthy and paid, and in line, too. Urdad, and Nêrad and Nurdâr, and their parents, and the maid-of-all-works and two stablehands that I had hired at Darîm's recommendation (to mend matters), and the four guards who were sleeping, and the four who were standing watch or patrolling the grounds outside.

I had agonised over these guards, whom Darîm had likewise introduced to me - both because I wasn't sure whether eight weren't too much, and because they certainly were stronger and better at fighting than I would be, if push came to shove. I understood that they were supposed to protect me, so I shouldn't have worried about that, but I hadn't exactly made the most encouraging experiences with guards. Lord Roitaheru, of course, had found my concerns funny. "They have so much more to lose than they can possibly gain. The punishment for rising against one of us is severe - they wouldn't risk it."
"The punishment for treason is also severe, and still there are traitors," I had pointed out. "I expect they think they won't be found out."
By now, I knew to brace for Lord Roitaheru's heavy shoulder-claps, so it hadn't hurt as it once would have. "These folk know that they'll be found out. We're not afraid to hold their close ones hostage or punish the whole family. Besides, they know they're better off under our rule. Mind you, you can take guards from among our own people. You'll have to pay them more, of course!" He had paused meaningfully. "But - no offense - I think you'll find it a lot easier to command Umbarian guards. So I'd really advise you to take those. On that, you can trust Darîm - he makes sure these people stay in their place! You'll be perfectly safe."
In all honesty, I would have felt safer with no guards at all, but neither Lord Roitaheru nor Darîm seemed to allow for that.

So there I lay on my first proper night in the new house, painfully aware of my responsibility towards all these people. Lord Laurilyo might think me a responsible person, but really, I knew nothing about being responsible. I would fail them all, and they would rise against me and condemn themselves, and Lord Roitaheru would recognise how much of a failure I was, and I would be sent back in disgrace to suffer the King's displeasure - assuming my failure would not upset Lord Roitaheru so much that I'd have the doubtful honour of being the first man of Yôzayân to be publicly executed in Umbar. For a time, I might be able to fool them and stumble my way through this challenge that had been set before me, although it rose in my sleepless thoughts like the very real mountains outside. But ultimately, I would fall. It was inevitable; I wasn't made for this. The only question was whether I should bother trying at all - whether it wasn't wiser to save them all from false hope and disappear into the night.

For my own sake, I think this is what I would have done. But unfortunately, I had let myself be steered into this position in which other people's lives (or their livelihood, at least) depended on me. I had to at least pretend to run this place and teach apprentices. I would have to keep up that pretense as long as I could, for their sake. And perhaps for the sake of my family, too. What little income they now had - beyond the charity of Lord Eärendur, if he could afford it still - came from my negotiations with Lady Arancalimë, and no doubt her father would stop paying the meagre stipend to my family the very second that news of my disappearance or death reached him. So I would have to push through, to whatever end, as long as I could.
I tried to rid myself of these grim thoughts. I forced myself to get up and pace in circles, hugging my shoulders, to calm myself. But the sense of being out of my depth and on the road to ruin wouldn't lift. The only thing it achieved was that I realised how tired I was, despite my restlessness. I went back to bed and covered the Elvish lamp with a cloth and slept, though I did not sleep well.

I woke up because Nêrad knelt before my bed, saying, "The sun is rising, Master, may I wake you?"
I had indeed asked him to wake me after dawn, and the question had woken me up anyway, so I suppose it was a little silly. But I suppose he was as insecure in his new role as I was in mine. I forced myself to put on a brave face, propping myself up on my elbows and saying, "Yes, thank you." At least, I thought to myself, the months in the governor's palace had taught me what to expect from a valet, so I could prompt Nêrad, who did not really know what to do. I was determined to let him have his chance, rather than replacing him with somebody trained for the position as Darîm had suggested. It was childish and stubborn, perhaps, but I wanted to prove that day-talers were as capable of doing this job as anyone else. Hadn't Sîmar and Kâlil done perfectly well without coming from a dynasty of household servants? I missed them and their quiet and skilled and efficient ways, a little. We had said our emotional farewells the other day - well, emotional for me; I knew they had no particular reason to miss me - and I found myself wondering what they were doing now. I hoped that they were getting some rest, now that they didn't have to look after me anymore, before being given a new assignment. Not that I could do anything about it either way.

Nerâd began to wash my chest. The water was unexpectedly cold, making me flinch in surprise. I had grown used to the perfect warm water at the palace. "You need to warm the water, next time," I heard myself say, and saw Nerâd freeze in mid-motion, his face contorting in shock that he had made a mistake already.
"Beg your pardon, Master," he said, his hands shaking around the wash-cloth. "Should I--"
"No matter," I said hastily, anxious about his anxiety. "Just remember it tomorrow."
"Yes, Master," he said, bowing too low. I could have kicked myself for making him worry over such a pointless matter.
"I used to wash with cold water every day, when I was younger," I said, in an attempt at reassuring him that this was, really, an easy mistake to make - and also at reminding me of how spoiled I was, these days. "Now that I'm older I've grown used to the comfort of warm water. But it's alright for today. Now that I know it's cold, it won't shock me."

Nerâd nodded without meeting my eyes. Then he went on in his work. As he moved around towards my back, I heard a sharp intake of breath, and a pause, and then, "What happened, Master?"
Again, I cursed myself (inwardly, that is). So much for the image of the invincible, and probably invulnerable, men of Yôzayân. Since Sîmar and Kalîl had never expressed any curiosity about my scars, I had more or less assumed that the Umbari didn't care about such things. But they'd probably just been taught not to show any curiosity unprompted. Nerâd hadn't, and he was honest and direct in his shock. The only thing I could think of was obscuring the reality of it. "A misunderstanding," I said. "And a test of loyalty."
"Oh," said Nerâd, sounding puzzled. I could practically hear the questions he wasn't daring to ask - what sort of misunderstanding? what sort of test? why did your loyalty get tested? did you pass? - and the inevitable, did it hurt? But all he said was, "Oh."
"You understand, of course, that you are not allowed to gossip about this," I said, because a reminder seemed in order. "Or anything else you learn in my house. Keeping secrets is part of your work."
"Yes, I understand," he said hastily, and I told myself that this would have to be good enough.

The rest of the process went without hitches, although Nerâd needed to be shown what to do about my hair. Since all the Umbari I had met so far, men and women alike, wore their hair short, that shouldn't have surprised me - how should Nerâd have learned what to do with long hair, if it was uncommon among his people? In the end, he managed passable braids, with rather a lof of help. For the sake of knowing, I asked him whether he knew how to handle a razor knife, which he didn't. "We only cut short our beards, never off at the skin," he said, which explained why even a fellow as young as him had a bit of a beard, or such fluff as grew on his youthful face, anyway. "I can learn, of course!" he asserted hastily.
"I'm sure you can," I said, but at the same time, I knew that I didn't want to be the subject of his lessons. I felt worried enough about blades near my skin as it was - some sort of residue from last spring, I suppose - without putting a knife that sharp into the hands of someone who didn't know how to handle it (and whose hands were already shaking again). For today, the point was moot anyway, since Kalîl - whose gentle and competent hands I had been able to trust - had just yesterday made sure that my face was impeccably smooth, and the stubble had not yet grown back. When shaving would become unavoidable, I decided that I'd do it myself. Or maybe I'd just let the beard grow. I wasn't really old enough, but this wasn't home. At any rate, Lord Roitaheru hadn't said anything about beards.

So I told Nerâd not to worry about it. He nodded, in relief or resignation, and helped me into my nice new green tunic, which I could just as well have put on myself, just as I could have washed and braided back my hair myself. Ultimately, it all went to show that I should never have bothered to hire a valet in the first place. What did I need a valet for? I was no longer too weak or distraught to clean and dress myself, and whatever Lord Roitaheru said, I wasn't one of the betters who needed to have these menial things done for them, either. I was nobody in particular (Azruhâr the Nothing, the King's voice in my head helpfully supplied) and could be expected to get ready for the day on my own. But now, the harm was done, and I couldn't go back on it without making Nerâd think that it was his fault. In a few years, I told myself, he'd have acquired the necessary knowledge, and I'd be able to write him a letter of recommendation so he'd be able to find work somewhere that actually warranted a valet. Until then, I could only put my conscience at rest by reminding myself that I was employing him for his sake, not for my aggrandisement.

Being cleaned and styled (as much as could be expected) and dressed, I joined the rest of the household downstairs for breakfast. Just as at home, I had decided to follow the example set by Lord Eärendur (and, I suppose, Lord Atanacalmo, but I did not wish to think of him) of having the whole household come together for the meals. So we gathered in the hall, with the exception of those guards who were on duty at the time, and Nurdâr, who apparently was afraid of the number of people gathering at my table (later, I learned that she also didn't understand why she should sit in a chair, rather than on the floor as she was used to) and hid in her family's rooms.
Breakfast was a surprise. Zâdosh had asked me the previous night what I wanted her to prepare, and I had told her to make whatever she thought was suitable. Apparently, that had meant baking yesterday's leftovers in a mixture of gruel and cheese. It wasn't bad, as such, but it was certainly unexpected in the morning. Personally, I'd more have expected the leftovers turned into pottage, and just the gruel for breakfast (sweetened, perhaps, since I knew I had paid for honey). One of the guards said something in the language of Umbar, which I could see left Zâdosh flustered.

"What did you say?" I said to the guard, and, "Until I understand it, I'd ask all of you to use my language in my house, except for Nurdâr, of course, because she doesn't know any better."
"Apologies, sir," the guard said, bowing his head and slamming his fist on his chest. "I asked why she hasn't made your kind of food, sir."
Zâdosh continued to look worried.
"I asked her to make what she saw fit," I said, which was true, and, "I was interested to find out what your people have for breakfast," which wasn't entirely true. I mean, I wasn't disinterested, but the truth was that I simply hadn't thought about it. I hadn't thought that different peoples would have different breakfast habits. Gruel, or better yet bread if it was available, just felt so natural to me. Once again, I was tempted to despair over the extent of my ignorance.
But Zâdosh smiled a little smile of relief, and the guard said, "Understood, sir," so it seemed that I would get away with it, for the time being. Nonetheless, I couldn't avoid feeling a sense of dread and inadequacy, which did not bode well on the last day before I was to meet my future apprentices at last. At least I was too busy to brood. Urdad had questions about the money, and Darîm came to go through the list of prisoners once more before heading to the prison and arranging matters, and in the afternoon, another delivery of furniture arrived and kept us occupied with finding the right places for the shelves and chests.

And a few days later, when all was made ready, I made my way into town to the house of Darîm. I reminded myself to sit proud and upright on my horse, while Khûraz - one of my diligent new grooms - drove the cart behind me. Darîm was already waiting for us, sitting atop his mule with a confidence I could only hope to approximate. He bowed in the saddle when we approached, which unfortunately reminded me of my first encounter with Lord Vanatirmo and accordingly did nothing to make me feel less uneasy. I inclined my head in response, not managing to smile. He was smiling in his charming manner, of course. "A wonderful good day to you, Master Embalmer," he said. "I am so pleased to assist you today."
Now I did force the corners of my mouth upwards. "Thank you, Spokesman Darîm," I said, as firmly as I could. "I trust that our business today will go well."
So we set off to prison.

Chapter 52

Azruhâr finally meets the apprentices. Intercultural communications are harder than expected.

Read Chapter 52

The prison was an old place, hewn for the most part into the cliffs right by the sea. Going inside was a challenge, not because anyone stopped us - on the contrary, we were expected and welcomed by perfectly polite guards - but because just as during my last audience with the King, my legs locked and my lungs went empty and it took me an embarassingly long minute to regain the will to move. I tried to mask it by looking at the view and remarking on the spray, but I suspect Darîm noticed, since he was watching me closely anyway. There wasn't even a good reason to be so terrified of the prison; I only had to enter the most superficial, and least grim, part of it. That had been built by my people, Darîm reported, atop the ancient tunnel structure made by his forefathers, to give the guards and other staff more comfortable quarters. We were led to a chamber which even had a large window, albeit barred, and held a table and seats enough for the prison's overseer, Darîm, and myself. The overseer - a somewhat intimidating one-eyed veteran called Thilior - welcomed us and came straight to the point. If I had no objection, his guards would bring the prisoners I had inquired about up here, one by one, so I could interview them. I agreed. I was struggling hard enough not to let my unpleasant memories overwhelm the non-threatening reality; I had no mind to make objections or different plans.

I sat down in the provided chair (which even had a cushion on it) and gratefully accepted the offer of khoosh and tea. I was a guest here, I told myself. An honoured guest, even. It was nothing like my imprisonment, either one; it wasn't even like the one time I had tricked the city guard into releasing my neighbours. This time, I was here with full approval of the lord of the city and the actual authority to take people with me. On the surface, I knew all that. But beneath the surface I was still the person who had been arrested and beaten and, only last year, taken to an even worse place, and it felt as though that person were hammering his fists against my ribs from within and yelling at me to run while I could. It was distracting, to say the least, and keeping my breath even and my hands from shaking took an inappropriate amount of self-control. Darîm looked at me sideways with a smile that, in my current state, I perceived as rather smug. "Are you worried, Master Embalmer?" he asked, his own voice perfectly calm. "No need to be. Captain Thilior will ensure our security, I have no doubt."
I forced my lips into a tense smile. "I am not worried about that. I simply do not like prisons very much."
"Well, that's something you have in common with your future workers," Captain Thilior observed. "You can build on that."
I managed to nod and force a smile.

Captain Thilior told his guards to bring the first prisoner - Bâgri - and Darîm asked, "How shall we go about it? Shall I explain your offer to them directly, or should I only translate after you have spoken?"
"Ideally, they shouldn't need translation," I said. "Unless there is something that needs clarification. But you must translate truly."
"Naturally," Darîm said, his brow creasing a little. "I assure you that I understand your language well enough."
"No doubt. But you might also be tempted to say what you think I want to hear, or perhaps leave out little distasteful things they say. I can't have that; if they say something I don't understand, then I need you to pass that on to me directly."
Chuckling, Captain Thilior said, "Very wise, Master Embalmer. But don't worry; I know their language a bit, and I'll let you know if they keep anything from you."
Darîm's lips went very thin at that, but all he said was, "I have no intention of keeping things from you."

Bâgri came in manacled and with four guards (two more stood on either side of the table, hands on their swords, ostensibly to protect us), and I couldn't help but remember the day I had been granted the King's mercy. They had thoroughly outmanned me, too, as if'd I had the strength to overwhelm or outrun even one of them. Bâgri had his eyes narrowed, not in the way that you narrow your eyes before attacking someone, but rather like someone who was suddenly brought into a bright room after a long time spent in the dark. He was swaying slightly, too, and when the guards let go of his elbows, dropped to the ground rather unceremoniously (but I recalled that I hadn't exactly cut an elegant figure back then, either).
"Stand up, please," I heard myself say. Bâgri stood up slowly, helped by two of the guards. I looked at Captain Thilior. "Are you certain that so many guards are needed?"
"Goodness, no," he said. "But protocol demands it."
That made sense, I suppose. I turned back to Bâgri, who was blinking, still adjusting to the light. His head sported a dark stubble that could be no more than a few days old. It appeared that the prisoners had their hair shorn off - somebody here evidently knew how to handle a razor - like the slaves at the mines, but Bâgri looked to be in better health than them. He was pale, but not gaunt, so at least he seemed to be fed sufficiently. He had caught his balance now, and the swaying had stopped. His loose shift was rumpled and somewhat stained, but his hands, legs and face were clean. Unlike me back then, he had evidently been allowed to wash before the interview.

Darîm cleared his throat, and I realised that I would have to start talking.
"You are Bâgri, is that correct?" I asked, remembering how Lord Atanacalmo had begun back in the day.
Bâgri nodded, his head lowered.
"So," I said. "For what crime are you here?" I had read both the prison records and the trial accounts, of course, but I figured it would be useful to hear how the prisoners themselves spoke about their misdeeds.
Bâgri bowed his head lower and took a while to answer. "I stole, Lord," he said after a moment.
"I'm no lord. I'm Azruhâr," I said instinctively, prompting him to mumble an apology. I bit my lip before I remembered that I wasn't supposed to show uncertainty. "Why did you steal, Bâgri?"
"I needed money, Master."
I waited, but since he didn't explain further, I feld the need to ask. "What for?"
Another long pause. "For eating."
I felt my eyebrows grow up. "Then why didn't you steal food?" I probably shouldn't have asked that. I should have said that theft was wrong, period.
Peering up, Bâgri explained, "I did not want to hurt baker."
"But you hurt someone else, even if you didn't hurt the baker."
"Yes, Master. I am ashamed of it. But I was hungry. Very hungry."

"From what I understand, you could have applied to Darîm for a loan," I said with a sideways glance at the spokesman. "Why did you not do that, instead of stealing?"
"I did," Bâgri said, with an imploring look at Darîm, who cleared his throat. "In all fairness, Master Embalmer, that was during the great drought. In that time, I could not support everybody."
"I see," I said, and decided that there was nothing more to be found out on this topic. "What was your craft before you came here?" The trial account had listed him as domestic help, but that could mean anything.
"Craft?"
"Well, what work did you?"
"Oh. I cleaned stables, looked after horses."
"I see," I said again. "Do you have family, Bâgri?"
Again, he gave me a confused look, as if the question was in any way complicated. I sighed and asked Darîm to help. He translated, and Bâgri's eyes cleared in understanding.
"I am married, Master. And father of a son."
I felt that it was safe to give a friendly smile in response. "How nice. How old is he?"
"Five years now, Master." Bâgri lowered his head once more, and I suspected that he was trying to hide his emotions at the thought of his little son. No wonder. I had to fight down my own emotions, thinking of Palatârik and my daughters, far away and fatherless.
"You speak my language well, Bâgri," I said, to distract the both of us.

"I try," he said, looking up with another little frown.
"Yet when I asked whether you had family, you needed Darîm's help. Why was that? It's not a difficult question."
Bâgri's eyes flitted from me to Darîm and back to me. "I thought, everybody has a family, because everybody is born from a mother, and she has a mother, and ever so on. What is this question? The Darîm explained me that it meant, Am I married? Am I a father?"
"Ah." He had a point, I suppose. If you looked at it like that, then the question was pretty nonsensical, and it was no wonder that he hadn't known what to say about that. I decided to word it differently with the other candidates. Now, it was time to come to the point. Bâgri seemed, as far as I could discern it, a decent type of fellow who didn't deserve to be locked up for years to come.
"Well, Bâgri, do you know why I'm talking to you?"
He was biting his lower lip for a moment. "They said perhaps you would take me to work for you, Master."
"Basically, yes. I am establishing a morgue for the people of Yôzayân here. I'm looking for apprentices - well, ultimately apprentices, although you'd start out as unskilled assistants - to teach the craft of embalming. And I-" I could see that his eyes had once again taken on that confused look, and his brow had creased, so I turned to Darîm. "Maybe you can explain it better. If he has any questions that you don't know the answer to, you can translate it for me."

I listened (if you can call it listening when you don't actually understand a word) and used the chance to drink some of the tea. And to watch Bâgri's expressions. In spite of Darîm's explanations, he was still looking thoroughly puzzled, occasionally glancing over at me as if trying to read my face (I suppose he was). He asked questions, which Darîm was apparently able to answer, but as their private conversation lengthened, I couldn't help turning to Captain Thilior for help.
The old man shrugged. "He seems to think that there's a catch. He keeps asking things like, 'Is it dangerous? Is it painful? What will I really do?''"
Of course, Darîm and Bâgri had stopped talking. Somewhat stiffly, Darîm said, "That is indeed what he has asked. Maybe you can explain it to him better than I can, Master Embalmer."

I nodded, slowly. Those were natural questions to ask, so I wasn't irritated, not yet. "It's a little dangerous. We need to use poisonous substances for some things. But I will teach you how to handle them safely. It isn't painful, normally. Unless you fall down the stairs or bump your head, I suppose, but that can happen anywhere, right?" I paused, because I realised that I might be talking too quickly (and too much), but Bâgri merely nodded, his eyes searching my face. He didn't believe me, I thought. "We're working with dead people," I said, because that was the catch, after all. "What you will have to do is learn how to preserve their bodies from decay. That's grim and unsavoury work, I can't deny that."
The intense searching look - with a good side helping of worry - still hadn't left Bâgri's face. "Is that all?" he asked after a while.
I couldn't help frown. "Well, obviously you'll have to do other work surrounding that. Prepare and clean the workplace, and the like." I wondered what it was that Bâgri was trying to hear. "We write accounts of our work, so I suppose if you don't know how to read and write my language, you'll have to learn that, too."
"I have to learn it," Bâgri said. "Is that all?"

"Look," Captain Thilior interrupted, impatiently, "you can either leave today with Master Azruhâr, or you can wait another-" he glanced down at his lists- "three and a half years to leave freely. That's all there is to it."
Darîm said something I didn't understand, probably to the same effect, since Captain Thilior didn't bother to translate.
"You don't have to come with me if you don't want to," I said, in what I hoped was an encouraging manner. For my part, I could understand well why Bâgri was hesitating - hadn't I hesitated, too? And for me, it had been embalming or death, not embalming or three and a half years' imprisonment. "I'm not forcing you. Merely making an offer."
"No, I want, I want," Bâgri said, wringing his hands a little. "Merely I do not understand."
I smiled for his sake. "But you can learn, right?"
"Probably," he cautioned. "I will try."
"And I will let you think about it a little longer," I said. He did not seem convinced, and I didn't want to make him feel pushed to make a decision. I wanted my apprentices to come freely, so they would be motivated to work well, after all.

The next candidates - Dârujan (imprisoned for brazen insolence, in which he still felt wronged) and Êlal (brawling) - certainly were more motivated. They agreed at once, genuflections and assurances of loyalty and good service included; I ultimately had to stop them because it was getting embarrassing. Jômar, whom the court scribe had described so charmingly and whom Darîm hadn't considered worth knowing, said yes before I had even finished asking the question. I wondered whether I had done something wrong when interviewing Bâgri, though aside from changing the wording of a few questions, I wasn't doing anything different now. Maybe these men simply suffered more under their imprisonment, particularly Jômar, a lanky youth who didn't show even the slightest shadow of a beard and probably had a hard time holding his own against the older, stronger men.

In contrast, Sidi was old. Although Darîm had tried to warn me, I was honestly unprepared for how old fifty was in Umbari terms. By the looks of him, he could easily have been my father - perhaps even my grandfather - even though technically I was older than him. It was disconcerting to say the least. I suppose I hadn't realised that even commoners such as me had an uncommonly long lifespan compared to the people of Middle-earth (or, at any rate, of Umbar). Now I saw what Darîm had meant. There was no point in apprenticing Sidi. I questioned him nonetheless, since I didn't have the heart to dismiss him right away. He was well-spoken - sophisticated, as Darîm had said, but not in an arrogant manner - and had lively expressions; you could immediately imagine how entertaining he must have been before his imprisonment, in pleasant company. Even when I finally found it in me to explain that I had expected him to be younger, and that he wasn't suitable for the purpose I'd had in mind, he nodded understandingly. "It is right that younger men should have the opportunity; they have a life ahead of them," he said, making me feel horribly guilty about sending him back.

There was just one more name on my list now: Yorzim, the physician, whom Darîm had recommended and about whom I was in two minds. On the one hand, I felt sorry about the injustice he was suffering. On the other hand, he sounded like a forceful and belligerent man who might easily become a problem, and I wasn't certain that I could risk taking someone like that into my house.
But the man who was brought in by the guards wasn't forceful at all; in fact, he made a very meek impression and gave me no good reason to reject him. When I asked him about the aggressive behaviour in court, he lowered his head and said, "I was a fool, Master. I've learned my lesson." And when I asked whether he, a former physician, had no qualms about becoming an embalmer, he looked me in the eye and said, "I wish to come out of prison, Master." Which I could understand only too well.

I thus had to think about my decision for a good while. Darîm still thought that Jômar had no particular virtues; I was conflicted about Yorzim. Darîm said that in that case, I should worry more about Êlal, who had a short temper and a powerful physique - probably a fair point. Bâgri, I felt, might still change his mind, but Darîm thought that he would not ultimately refuse the offer. I turned to Captain Thilior for help. The old warrior had so far occupied himself with his own reading and kept out of our discussion, but now he looked up and said, "You'll do a good turn taking Jômar with you. Poor lad is wilting here. Personally, I doubt Yorzim and Êlal will be troublesome. They're both reasonable fellows, really. Strong, but not stupid." He shrugged his shoulders. "Can I make you change your mind about Sidi? He's a fine man. Deserves better."
I sighed. "I only wanted to take on three or four apprentices," I said.
"Well, Sidi doesn't have to be an apprentice, does he? Give him some other job. As for the rest of them, let them draw lots or something - or take all of them."
"I don't have the council's permission to take so many men, actually."

"That can be amended, I'm sure. The council is sick of hearing my complaints about the number of prisoners I'm supposed to stack on top of each other. Frankly, the more you take along, the happier we'll all be." He gave a sage old smile. "I can write some more letters to the council, both of recommendation and of complaint, to soften them up."
Shaking my head, I said, "I don't have room for that many, actually."
Captain Thilior spread his hands in acceptance. "Oh, well. Worth a shot. Lots it is, then. But do think about Sidi again." His good eye narrowed, giving his smile a wry look. "You can use a translator, right? The Darîm has his own business, he can't always sit by your side." Darîm's jaw worked as though he felt the need to reply, but Captain Thilior was already talking again. "Your work is bound to be unfamiliar to the Umbari. Sidi has travelled far and wide, he has words for everything. He can teach them to write, too, so you can focus on your craft. And they'll learn it more easily from one of their own, who understands what they're struggling with, I'm sure."
"You seem concerned for them," I observed, and Captain Thilior laughed.
"You seem surprised! I'm their jailor, not their enemy."

That was true, I suppose, but I couldn't help saying, "And yet they seem eager to leave your care."
Another laugh. "Of course they are! All men love their freedom, Master Embalmer - in Umbar as much as on the Yôzayân. And if they cannot have freedom, well, then servitude is still preferable to imprisonment."
"And imprisonment is still preferable to death," I said without thinking.
He gave me another wry look, and I felt my face grow hot, realising that I might have given away too much. But all Captain Thilior said was, "Just so."
"There is security in servitude, too," Darîm said, sounding a little strained, and Captain Thilior turned his eye on him. "I'm glad you think so, Spokesman Darîm," he said dryly. Then he looked back to me, smiling. "What do you say, Master Embalmer? May I send for Sidi again?"

Sidi came, blinking against the light and tilting his head. "Dare I hope that you have reconsidered, sir?" he asked.
"Is that what you hope? You didn't seem too disappointed when I decided against you," I said.
"You had your reasons. Understandable reasons. And there is no sense in raging against things we cannot change. But I cannot deny that I would prefer to spend my last years in the open air."
I considered this, and also considered what to say next. I went for, "I need you to take some dictation," and pushed the inkwell that had been set before me in his direction.
His eyes widened in surprise or maybe fear, but he nodded. "Very well. May I approach?"
"Please." One of the guards brought a stool and a sheet of paper. Sidi sat down a little awkwardly, as though his joints pained him, and laid his arms on the table very deliberately before picking up the quill. Then he gave me an expectant look.

I, in the meantime, had tried to remember one of Master Târik's complicated sentences from the collection of notes I had copied in the summer, and settled on one of the first. "In the preservation of the deceased, the embalmer has to counteract various disadvantageous processes: first the decomposition of the flesh, which sets in swiftly after death of its own accord; second, external damage of the subject, either through natural agents such as mould and insects, or through mechanical injuries caused through inappropriate handling or storage, or finally through the chemical substances and physical techniques of embalming itself. For this reason--"
So far, Sidi had kept up without apparent difficulty, but as he reached out to dip the quill in the inkwell once more, the chain between his manacles dragged over the paper and through the still-wet ink, rendering his previously neat writing into an unintelligible smear.

Sidi pulled back his hand and let out a heavy sigh. There was a moment's silence, then he said, "Shall I start over?"
"Thank you, that won't be necessary; I've seen enough," I said, and he set down the quill carefully.
"Did you understand what you have just written?"
Sidi tilted his head to the side while studying my face for a moment, and then said, "I believe so - for the most part."
"Would you be able to explain it to somebody in your language?"
"Would I be allowed to ask you for clarification, if I am uncertain?"
The question took me by surprise. "Certainly."
He nodded slowly. "Then yes, I could do it."
I nodded in return. "And would you be able to teach other people to write in my language?"
"I expect so," Sidi said. "Presuming they have the intellectual and physical capacity, and the necessary materials."
"Are you making fun of me?"
He froze, looking at me intensely, and then waved his hands as if to shoo the mere thought away. "No, sir, merely stating the limits of my ability."
"I'd like you to assume," I said, still suspecting that he was mocking me, "that I don't expect you to do the impossible."
"I am glad to hear it," Sidi said in a tone of utmost sincerity, "since I cannot be expected to do the impossible."

I felt a little irritated by all the exceptions and mitigations, frankly - as though I couldn't be trusted to have reasonable expectations. "You're not expected to do anything at all - it's an offer, not an obligation."
Sidi bowed his head. "It is an offer I would happily accept, but I wish to make certain that I will not disappoint."
Pursing my lips to contain my displeasure, I said, "And would you be able to teach me your language? Assuming that I have the intellectual capacity?"
For some reason, the question made him smile. "I am optimistic about that," he said smoothly. "But I feel that you are offended. Please, I am not saying these things to offend you. On the contrary. It is a sign of respect to show that I am thinking about what you are saying - following your thoughts with mine, so to say."
"Is that so?" I turned to Darîm, who gave a pained smile. "It is customary among our people, yes."
"You could have told me."
"I did not think it would help, Master Embalmer. I apologise if I erred in that."
I rubbed my forehead in frustration. "Was that why Bâgri kept asking, too?"
"In part. But mostly, Bâgri is afraid."
"Of me?!"

Sidi spoke up unbidden. "Of a repetition of his previous misery, I expect. He was mistreated very badly, you see."
So was I, I thought to myself, but I managed to say only, "I see." And, after some more thought, "You know much about your fellow prisoners?"
"As much as they chose to share," Sidi said modestly.
"And you know my language well - in word and writ." I had to admit that. "Are you willing, then, to translate between me and my apprentices, and to teach them to write, and to teach me to speak in your tongue? And to avoid misunderstandings? If possible, obviously."
"If possible," Sidi agreed, smiling in what looked like genuine cheer, "I am very willing."
I sighed. "So be it, then."

Taking Sidi with me meant that I would have to leave one of the others behind. As Captain Thilior had suggested, I took on Jômar and let the remaining four draw lots. I had hoped that this would rid me of Yorzim without offending Darîm, but it was Dârujan who drew the shortest straw. He wept openly about it, making me feel even more conflicted, but all I could do now was promise that I would remember him if one of the others forfeited their chance - or that, if possible, I might apply for the council's permission of taking a sixth prisoner into my service. He nodded, but it was in a dejected manner, as though he didn't believe that either thing would come to pass. Still, he kissed my hands before he was taken back down to the cells, although I had done him no favour. It ought to be said that the Umbari were very quick in their displays of subservience, anyway, even by the standards of paupers and day-talers. I had noticed that in my free servants already, so I suppose it was no wonder that these prisoners were even quicker to bend knees and kiss hands. Lord Eärendur would have disapproved heartily, no doubt, and I found it embarassing, too. Having been told to represent the Yôzayân, however, I tried to accept it gracefully and as if it were my due, rather than a source of discomfort. Darîm seemed to have no such trouble; he acknowledged their abject gratitude for the part he had played in a condescendingly careless manner that rather reminded me of Lord Atanacalmo. For that alone, I almost made up my mind not to thank him for his help (not even in a dismissive manner).

But I was too much myself, and as we left the austere hallway and stepped out into the afternoon haze, the words came out before I properly knew that I was going to utter them.
Darîm half-turned and bowed obsequiously. "Always happy to offer advice," he said. "I pray that you will be well-pleased with your choices." Glancing over to the men, who were being directed to climb onto my cart by their guards, he said, "If I may offer some further advice?"
"Certainly," I said. I wasn't sure that I wanted to hear it, but at the same time, I couldn't rule out that it might be useful advice.
"Since you say that your household is different from other houses of Yôzayân, and certainly of Umbar, then it would be good to tell the rules of your house to all your people together. I know that it is not my place to tell you, but I only wish to help. Otherwise, they will follow their expectations as to who is authorised to command whom, and who may expect what services from whom, and who may discipline whom, and so on, and you may not agree and will be displeased. That is better to avoid, is it not?"

"Better indeed," I agreed. "I'll keep it in mind." In truth, I was glad that he'd told me. I hadn't considered that some servants might feel authorised to command others, or (good grief) discipline them, although I suppose the difference in status between free folk and bondservants, or just better and lower types of servants, invited such distinctions. Ironically, most of my 'better' servants had not actually been trained to be servants, and Urdad - doubtlessly the most high-ranking servant in my house - didn't strike me as the type who wanted to lord it over others. But the stablehands or the guards - themselves low in the order of things - might be tempted to take out their frustration on those even lower than them. I mean, I was trying to give them no reason to be frustrated, but in all fairness, I couldn't really hope to succeed.

For now, however, my first concern had to be the frustration of my new apprentices. They had managed to sit down by now - Sidi at the head, leaning against the box, and the other four along the length of the cart, two on each side, their legs folded up against their chests so they didn't get in each other's way. With the exception of Sidi, who had his eyes closed and his head slightly tilted back as if using the respite for a short nap, they did not look comfortable. Their hands, still manacled, lay in their laps or between their knees, but not in a relaxed manner; I could see fingers clenched into fists or, in the case of Bâgri, kneading the fraying fabric of his shift.
"I think you can remove those shackles now," I told one of the guards.
"We can do that once we've reached your grounds, certainly," he agreed peaceably.
"Why not now?" I forced a smile. "I doubt they're going to rebel."
"Probably not, sir. But it's the regulations. Prisoners must be chained during transport."
There was no point in arguing against regulations, so I nodded. Then I realised something else. "I take it you're going to accompany us, then?"
He nodded in return. "Since you didn't bring any guards, sir, we'll have to provide security until the prisoners are at their destination."
I sighed. Again, there was no use in arguing (and I'm sure these regulations were in theory very sensible). "Very well," I said. "Then let us be on our way."
All along the road back to my house, I heard the jangling of the chains behind me over the clattering of the horses' hooves and the rattling of the cart. It set my teeth on edge.

At last, the high hedge and behind it, the roof of the old winery came into sight, and I half-turned to my silent passengers, smiling in encouragement and announcing, "Almost there. That's your new home over there."
They looked up at me glumly. Only young Jômar leaned out a bit so he could see. Sidi showed no reaction at all; perhaps he really had fallen asleep.
He had to wake up once we had rolled to a halt in the yard and my new apprentices climbed off the cart. The guards made them line up by the side of the path, where they stood motionlessly, heads slightly lowered. You'd have expected some curiosity, perhaps even some enthusiasm (surely the house wasn't too shabby? I certainly found it more inviting than the ominous stairwell down into the royal morgue back at home), but they showed no emotion at all. I told myself that the situation must be daunting. They didn't know the work ahead, they only knew that it involved dead people, and I knew how worrying that thought had been back in the day. For me, the horror had been mitigated by the fact that the only alternative was execution; but for them? I had to hope that once we knew each other better, they might grow more enthusiastic and forthcoming. A little, anyway.

For now, there was nothing to be done about whatever thoughts they hid behind their silence. All I could do was turn to the guard I'd talked to early and say, "You can unchain them now, surely."
He shrugged, as if he didn't care either way, and said, "As you wish, sir." The men were still looking at the ground a few feet ahead of them, even after their wrists were released. The guard put the discarded shackles together and handed them to one of my own guards, Rophâr, who had come out to welcome us (or to make sure that the former prisoners didn't get up to anything, I suppose). "You can keep them, for the time being," he said matter-of-factly. "And I recommend you use them, for the nights. You can send someone to bring them back once you've had your own made."
I nodded dutifully, and I nodded again when Rophâr asked if he should bring them to the study. "Bring the rest of the household outside, please, so everybody is here," I told him, and then amended, "except Galîr, I suppose, unless he can manage it."

The prison guards were now eager to take their leave. "Rain's coming," one of them said, glancing up. "I'd like us to be back in town before it."
Indeed, the haze had risen and thickened into clouds; the rain wasn't yet imminent (otherwise, I expect the guards would've asked for shelter in my house), but it would come soon enough. I nodded my agreement. "Thank you for your help," I said, at which he saluted.

Meanwhile, my household staff came pouring out, looking concerned or curious according to their temperament. Galîr was with them, using crutches Nerâd had been working on yesterday. Seeing the five men lined up on one side of the path, they lined up on the other side. They were talking in low voices and glanced from one to the other and shifted, so they brought a little liveliness to the scene. Nurdâr, of course, was dancing more than she walked, and I couldn't help smiling, even if all the others were looking ever so serious. (Most of the others. Urdad gave his quiet, gentle smile when our eyes met, which was a little relief.)
I beckoned to the guards to join us, too - if I had to lay down my uncommon house rules, then they probably needed to hear them as much as the others. As they lined up with the others, a hush fell, and I did not like that I had to be the one to break it. I didn't even know what to say. I'd probably do it all wrong.

I took a deep breath. "Well. Now that we are complete, let me welcome you all to my household." I spread my hands in the welcoming gesture I had observed in the houses of the great and the good at home. "I hope that-" I broke off. Hope was too weak. I tried again. "I trust that we shall work well together and come to like each other." Wrong. We didn't have to like each other. We just had to work with each other, and for that, respect would be enough. I did want to be liked, though. But I probably shouldn't have said it. This was going exactly as badly as I'd feared. "I expect that we'll all treat each other with common courtesy, at any rate," I said, and added, as firmly as I could, "that goes for everyone. We all have our different pasts and different places, but we mustn't make each others' lives difficult." Especially not mine, I thought privately. But not theirs, either. "That means that you will be kind to each other. You are all part of the same household now, and that's almost like a family. So. Be kind to each other. Absolutely do not harm each other. Not in punishment, and certainly not for any other reason." I glared at the guards in particular, since I suspected them of being the most likely to hurt others in what they perceived to be their duty. "If anyone is caught doing something they shouldn't, or being somewhere they shouldn't be, bring them to me, and I decide what is to be done. Not any of you."

Zâdosh's hand went up hesitantly, and when I asked her to say her piece, she said, "What of small things? For example, what if somebody steals from the kitchen? Should we disturb you for that, too?"
"Nobody will steal from the kitchen." The words came out rather forcefully than Zâdosh's cautious question deserved, so I forced myself to take another deep breath and go on more calmly. "Look. I trust that everybody will get enough food during meals, so there's no need to steal any. And if for some reason anyone needs more, they can ask. In general, if there's anything you think you need, please ask. Maybe something can be arranged." One should have thought that this was good news, but I could see several frowns, as if I'd said something I shouldn't. At any rate, I realised I hadn't properly answered the question. "Anyway, if you think that it warrants punishment, then yes, you should disturb me for it."

No protest, but no agreement, either. Sighing inwardly, I went on. "Right. So you all know who everybody is and who you can ask about what, I'll introduce you to each other." Originally, I'd planned for everybody to introduce themselves, but with all of them looking uncomfortable and the new men still resolutely silent, that probably wouldn't have gone well. It seemed simpler to do that part myself, so I stood next to Urdad - he was closest to me already - and put a hand on his shoulder and said, "This is Urdad. He's --" and here I had to pause, because we hadn't actually talked about what position he took. In Lord Roitaheru's palace, he had been a minor accountant, but here, he was also a sort of secretary, and perhaps what you would call a steward, if I had felt entitled to a steward. Accountant, at any rate, was too weak. Since joining my house, Urdad had worked virtually day and night to catch up with the money and the planning and the shopping. Just yesterday, he had made several useful arrangements - for instance, he had organised for a shoemaker to come by to take measurements for shoes from everybody, and he had come to agreements with a grocer who would stop by my house with his goods before delivering to the market, and he had also negotiated with the city watch so they would send a runner in case they had a dead body that wasn't claimed by family. In short, Urdad had already become more than a mere accountant, minor or otherwise. I ended up saying, "my right-hand man," which made Urdad turn his head sharply and stare, eyes wide in disbelief. At the same time, his back straightened - I could feel it under my hand - and the corners of his mouth twitched as if they wanted to break into a broader smile, so at least it seemed to be pleased disbelief. I gave his shoulder an encouraging squeeze, the way Lord Eärendur did. (How frustrating it was that I could not be my own person, only a poor attempt at copying better people!)

I moved on to Nerâd's family. Galîr had been standing for a long time already, and Nurdâr was getting restless, so they needed to stop being forced to stand around and wait. So I hurried to say their names and their function, and tried to explain Nurdâr's condition so the new members of my household wouldn't be confused or alarmed. "Think of her as your little sister, maybe," I suggested, "or the small daughter of a neighbour." I introduced Talmar, the young maid who was to assist Zadôsh, and the two stablehands, and the guards, and then went over to the five new men. "This is Sidi," I said, "who will teach writing and translate, if necessary. So if you need to talk to me about something and you think I won't understand you properly, ask Sidi to help you. That goes for the rest of the household too, of course." Sidi raised his eyebrows a little, as if surprised, before bowing his head politely.

"On the whole," I said, "I'd appreciate if you could speak in my language when I'm around, so I know what is happening. I'll try to learn your language, but it'll take a while, and you already know mine fairly well, so that seems easiest. When you're amongst yourself, you can talk in whichever way you prefer, of course." Now, I had several pairs of surprised eyes on my face. "Did I say something wrong?" I couldn't help asking.
After a moment's awkward silence, Sidi said, "You want us to talk, Master?"
"Well, clearly I said something confusing, but I don't know what it is. So yes, please tell me what it is I said. I mean, that just applies in general. If you're confused about something, ask."
Sidi gave a lopsided, almost apologetic smile. "It is uncommon that people in our position are permitted to speak much. You seem to encourage it."

I had to swallow hard. "Why shouldn't you-" I began, and then I remembered the uncanny silence of the workers and slaves at the mines, and some sort of realisation dawned. If that was how they saw themselves, then it certainly was no wonder that they had been so quiet and sullen. It also made me wonder why they had agreed to the whole arrangement at all. Servitude was better than imprisonment, perhaps, but what they seemed to expect was just another sort of imprisonment, improved only (perhaps) by being in the open sun - or, as it were, under the gathering rain clouds - instead of locked up underground. That, of course, wasn't what I had in mind, and so I started anew, "You're not slaves." I turned around to the rest of the household, in case they had the same idea. "They're not slaves, is that understood?" I turned back to Sidi and the others. "You're my assistants, for the time being, and if all goes well you'll become my apprentices, and that's how you will be treated - by me, at least, if not by the law." I had to clench my jaw after that because Êlal had bent over and clasped my hands and now was kissing them, fervently. It was terribly embarrassing.

"Glad we could clear that up," I managed once Êlal had let go of my hands, and I had stepped back just in case one of the others got the same urge. "Yes, good grief, by all means, talk freely. Sing, if you want to. I don't mind. - I just need you to listen when I'm talking," I added as an afterthought, in case that wasn't clear.
There was a rumble of thunder overhead, so I hurried to present Êlal and Yorzim and Jômar and Bâgri to the rest of the household. I didn't know much about them - and I didn't feel that the rest of the household needed to know about their crimes, since this was supposed to be a fresh start - so that went fast.

"My apprentices -- assistants -- are the only ones permitted to go downstairs into the morgue," I announced, "the rest of you stay away from it. Unless I explicitly tell you to go, obviously. And only Urdad and Nerâd are permitted upstairs in my room, or in the study. Unless I explicitly give someone else permission, that is. The stables are out of bounds for all of you except for the stablehands and Galîr and Nurdâr. And Nerâd if I need a message delivered, I suppose. Nobody goes into the kitchen except Zâdosh, Nurdâr and Talmar, unless told to. And of course you stay out of each other's quarters, unless invited. You may all use the hall and the common room and the yard. Oh, and the outhouse, of course; it's over there. If you aren't where I'd expect you to be, tell someone, though, so I can find you if I need to." I paused, realising that I was talking too much. The whole assembly was getting awkward, and there was another rumble of thunder, anyway, so it would be best to move inside. "I'm going to show you around the house," I told my new apprentices. "And the rest of you, go back to your work, please."

So I showed the men around - the well outside and the outhouse and the stables first, so we could stay inside afterwards, and then the morgue and the catacombs inside, to get the worst out of the way. I tried to give them an overview of what we would be doing in the coming week, while we didn't yet have any bodies to take care of - there were still some repairwork and some cleaning to be done down here, and besides, I figured the men could help in the making of their clothing. After that, I showed them where they were not allowed to go unless invited, such as the larder and the kitchens and the study and the doors to the other servants' quarters. By this time, the rain was drumming heavily on the roof, and I had to raise my voice to explain things even though my audience was perfectly quiet. Finally, we came to the communal hall, with its large table and benches and, at the back of the room, behind a row of curtains, the beds for the apprentices.

Again, I was somewhat disheartened by their subdued reaction. I was fairly proud of that sleeping area, to be honest. Like the regular servants in my household, my apprentices were to have decent beds, with good mattresses and well-stuffed pillows, not just the boxes with horse-blankets that were common for servants and apprentices in ordinary households, if they got actual beds at all and not just a straw mattress on the floor. Each bed had a chest beside it for personal belongings, too - not that they had anything to put in there, just now, but they might acquire some by and by. In short, I had spent rather more money than would be expected (Urdad had expressed his surprise) because I had wanted my apprentices to be comfortable. Instead, they stood tense and uneasy. Bâgri brushed over a blanket with his hand, as if testing its quality, but his face didn't show his verdict. Yorzim looked around, frowning, and I tried to figure out where the problem was.

"Is anything wrong?" I finally asked, and Yorzim looked at me. His eyes had narrowed in distrust, although he lowered them quickly when they met mine.
"It is good," he said, although there seemed to be an unspoken 'but' behind is words. "Who will sleep here also?"
"The five of you, obviously," I said, frowning myself. Later, I learned that it was common in Umbar to put several servants to one bed, even in 'better' houses, while in prison the cells had been so crowded that even with three men sharing a bunk at a time, they'd still had to sleep in shifts throughout the day, so what looked like discomfort to me was rather confusion at what made no sense to them. But just then, I was slightly annoyed that my generosity didn't seem to register properly. Not that I wanted overflowing thanks and demonstrations of gratitude, but the one or other appreciative smile, perhaps, wouldn't have been amiss.
"On our own?" Yorzim duly asked, and at the time, I thought he was being absurd.
"Feeling lonely?" I countered, wondering whether it would have been wiser to put the guards in here, too. True, they weren't supposed to sleep while watching the grounds and - I suppose - the former prisoners, but having them sleep in the same room might still have been useful. I had decided against it because it seemed to communicate more distrust than I liked, and it hadn't seemed necessary. Now I was having second thoughts.

Since Yorzim didn't reply, I turned to Sidi. "Can you explain the problem to me?"
Sidi looked around at the others. Whereas he had been perfectly amiable back at the prison, now he seemed strained and uncertain. "There is no problem, Master. Only - many things to learn and understand."
That was fair, of course, but I couldn't help feeling dissatisfied. Still, I doubted that I would get anywhere by asking further if even Sidi didn't want to elaborate further, so I said, "Alright." And, "Well, I'll leave you to acclimatise until dinner, then. You can ask questions later, too." I smiled without feeling it. "See you."
They bowed, and I nodded, and I left with just enough decorum to (hopefully) not appear like I was fleeing.

Urdad was waiting just outside, making me jump and apologising immediately.
"May I have a word?" he asked, making me fear that we had already run out of funds.
I passed a hand in front of my eyes, exhausted for no good reason. "Yes. Of course."
Urdad looked up at me, his dark eyes wide and expressive. (Fortunately, they were brown, not blue.) "Your right-hand man, sir?"
"Well, it seemed appropriate," I said, and then realised that perhaps the words made no sense to him. "Do you know what's meant by right-hand man?" Suddenly, I worried that it meant something different in Umbari. Knowing my luck, it was probably something offensive.
"I know," Urdad said, and from the amazed way in which he said it, it didn't sound like it had negative connotations. I heaved an inner sigh of relief. "It's an honour, but -" he hesitated for a moment, "an unexpected honour."
"You deserve it," I said. I was fairly certain that he did, too.

He smiled cautiously. "Thank you, sir, I - I hope I will not disappoint you. I have-" again he broke off, working up courage, apparently- "not so much experience. I don't know that I will do it right."
That makes two of us, I thought; and then I actually said so. Lord Roitaheru wouldn't have approved, I'm sure, but if I couldn't trust my newly-appointed right-hand man, then what was the title worth? "Tell you a secret, Urdad, I'm not always sure how to do things right, either. We'll just do our best, the both of us, won't we?"
In truth, I was fairly certain that Urdad would do a lot better than I could hope to, but I managed to keep that to myself. As it was, he nodded eagerly, reassured for the moment. I squeezed his hands before he could kiss mine, and watched him return to his work with a spring in his steps before I retired to my own room upstairs. Well, at least he appeared genuinely pleased now. I felt less conflicted now about having accepted Lord Roitaheru's 'gift' of him. I also felt a bit more at ease now, having unburdened myself at least a little. Once everything came crashing down, there was at least one person who had been forewarned and couldn't say that I'd deceived him.

Dinner was another awkward affair. I had asked Zâdosh and Talmar to prepare a little welcome feast, and they had obliged in the manner of Umbar. Here, a feast apparently meant dozens of different dishes, rather than a large roast or something of the sort, and I was reminded of the various treats Lord Laurilyo had ordered back when he had shown me the city at night. There were even more different things to choose from today, however, and more of everything, too. The table was laden with platters and bowls - Zâdosh and Talmar must have been worked all day on this, and I felt quite guilty about the interruption in the afternoon, although fortunately, they had managed to finish everything regardless. As far as I was concerned, it looked very inviting, and I was fairly certain that everybody should find something they liked, whether that was the salad of tuna and pomegranade, or the marinated cheese, or the salad of olives and onions, or the skewered chicken, or the quail eggs, or the nut cakes, or the chickpea fritters, or the various types of fried vegetables, or the spiced gruel, or the little white flat breads (made from the precious wheat that ordinary Umbarians apparently weren't allowed to buy, no doubt).

But what should have been an occasion for pleasure and relaxation turned out to be another cause for glum confusion. Even Sidi did not quite manage to explain what was wrong, except that it was "so much". Still, we sat down as one household and had something akin to conversation on my end of the table, and if my new apprentices ate sparingly and in silence, I had to hope that they would be more at ease tomorrow. Usually, I'd have kept sitting and talking with the others, but I didn't have the impression that there was anything to be gained by attempting to talk tonight, so I just asked the former prisoners to help Zâdosh and Talmar to put away the leftovers and clean the dishes afterwards. Jômar asked - through Sidi - for permission to relieve himself, which of course he was free to do, but apparently he hadn't dared earlier. I reminded them (and the guards) that they were free to go outside as long as they didn't stray outside the grounds or into the stable. The others used the occasion to follow Jômar and wait their turn, using the time to look up at the stars, but they didn't talk, neither to me nor to each other - not while I was there, anyway. I hoped they'd talk among themselves once they felt unobserved.

"Should I fetch the chains, sir?" Urdad asked dutifully, reminding me of what the guard had said before leaving. I groaned out loud. The last thing I wanted to do, honestly, was put manacles on anyone, least of all after telling them that they were not slaves. Already they had shown unmistakeably how uncomfortable they felt. They didn't trust me, I got that, and I suppose I had no reason to trust them, either, but I wanted them to trust me. Chaining them to their beds seemed rather counterproductive.
"I've been told to shackle you for the night," I told Sidi, at which he sighed but offered his wrists without protest. The others did the same, looking - for once - entirely unsurprised. I felt my stomach twist unpleasantly. "Actually, I do not think that will be necessary, will it?"
Sidi tilted his head, trying to read in my face once more. "That is for you to decide, Master."
I shook my head. "No, actually it's up to you. If I can trust you to harm no one and destroy nothing and certainly not run away, then there's no reason why you need to be chained. Can I trust you?" I gave them all a pointed look.
Sidi looked back at the others. "I cannot tell you to trust me, or us, Master. As for myself, I do not intend to cause harm or destroy anything or run away, if that helps."
I had to clench my fists for a moment. "What about the rest of you?"

Asked separately, they all agreed that they would cause no trouble, and I wondered why they hadn't simply nodded agreement or something from the start. Was it another case of 'following my thoughts with theirs'? If it was, I didn't see it. In that case, surely they would have been more forthcoming with questions, or, just now, reassurances. Instead, there was awkward silence. I massaged the bridge of my nose, tired.
"Well, then let's try it without shackles," I said. "I do hope you won't abuse your liberty. Don't disappoint me, please." As an afterthought, I added, "If one of you misbehaves, I'll have to put you all in chains, so keep an eye on each other, perhaps." There were nods and bowed heads and words of thanks, so at least, they appeared to have understood. Clearly, there was nothing more to be gained on that day, so I said, "Good night, men." I for my part felt infinitely weary. Sleep would no doubt do us all good; and perhaps tomorrow would be easier.

Chapter 53

Read Chapter 53

Chapter 53

In the middle of the night, I woke up to shouting and screams, followed by a loud bang and what sounded like a scuffle. Since I hadn't wanted to leave a flame with my sullen apprentices - even a tiny candle flame could set a house ablaze, after all - I had left the Eldarin lamp with them, and I had extinguished the candle I had taken with me when I had gone to bed. Now, alarmed, I was stumbling through the darkness, bumped my toes on the leg of my bed, nearly tripped over the carpet, and took - unintentionally - the first three stairs at once. I landed painfully on my heels, cursing. I was half-way into the hall before I even realised that I should probably have called upon one or two of the guards. Unarmed and sleepy, I could hardly expect to achieve anything against five of them - not to mention that I was hardly representing the proud men of Yôzayân well, rushing into the fight clad only in my nightshirt.
And if my apprentices had indeed been up to mischief, it would surely have ended ill for me - and for them, too, though of course that would have been of no use to me, personally, after the fact.

As it was, they weren't. Although it certainly looked like it at first. In the pale blue light of the stone lamp, I could see that one of the benches had been pushed over - presumably, that had been the bang - and that Bâgri was lying face-down on the floor; Yorzim was sitting on his back, pinioning his arms to his side, and had clamped a hand in front of his mouth, which was producing muffled noises. Êlal was holding Bâgri's legs down. Bâgri struggled against the two of them in a rather desperate-looking manner. On instinct rather than intentionally, I raised my fist as I rushed towards them, at which Sidi - who had so far sat on his bed - pushed himself up towards me, then fell on his knees (effectively blocking my way) and raised his arms in pleading. "Please, Master, he means no harm," he said.
I paused, nonplussed. "He?" I said, after trying to puzzle out his meaning and failing. "Who?"
"Bâgri, Master," Sidi said, frowning as though it should have been obvious.
"I rather thought Bâgri was being harmed," I couldn't help saying, confused for good.
"They mean him no harm, either," Sidi began, although I couldn't imagine how Bâgri's position could be anything but harmful, and Bâgri, from the way in which he squirmed and tried to shake off his opponents, seemed to feel the same.
"It looks otherwise," I duly said, and, to Yorzim and Êlal, "Let go of him - you're hurting him, I'm sure!"

Rather than letting go, they exchanged a glance, and then Yorzim said something to Sidi, who raised his hands higher. "It is for protection, not hurt! To keep him from harming himself!"
I was unreasonably annoyed - because of the late hour, I suppose, and also because Bâgri's distress was so obvious. "So, now you need no invitation to speak," I snapped. Sidi's mouth fell shut, and he bent forward, placing his hands on the ground.
I struggled to regain whatever self-control there was available in the dead hours of the night, closing my eyes and breathing deep before I spoke again. "I did not mean to say that you shouldn't speak now, but that I would've preferred if you had said more in the afternoon. Come; get up." I turned to Yorzim and Êlal. "I meant what I said, though. Let go - or at the very least, give him some space to breathe."

Reluctantly, Yorzim removed his hand from Bâgri's face and got to his feet, head lowered. Bâgri continued to kick - or try to, fruitlessly - against Êlal's grip, but I observed that the only thing he did with his arms, now that they had been released, was wrap them around his head as if to protect it. It did not look as though he intended to attack anyone or push further furniture over. He was moaning the same thing over and over - ninnaleh, ninnaleh - and rocking on his belly with the effort of trying to get his legs free, but whatever the others were thinking, I didn't have the impression that anyone had to be protected from him. I told Êlal to release his legs as well. Far from encouraging Bâgri to jump up and attack, or whatever danger the others had expected, he fell very nearly still after that, although he was shaking and continuing to gasp his breathless ninnaleh against the floor.

I pushed the toppled-over bench back upright and sat down on it, heavily. "What is he saying?" I asked Sidi.
Sidi had knelt up, sitting on his feet, looking as tired as I felt. "Mercy," he said. I couldn't help pursing my lips as I glanced at Êlal and Yorzim, though it was wasted on the latter, who was looking resolutely at the floor. Jômar, astonishingly enough, was still fast asleep, or at any rate laying motionlessly, curled up under his blanket as though unaware of the chaos around him. Either he had a blessedly deep sleep, or he had decided to pretend to be fast asleep to avoid getting mixed up in the struggle. I couldn't blame him.
Bâgri's voice had faded into a whisper now, but he kept pleading persistently, ninnaleh, ninnaleh, lying on the cold floor in nothing but his loincloth, arms wrapped around his head as if to ward off invisible blows. "Yes, yes," I said without thinking. "Mercy. Ninnaleh." It didn't seem to register. Sighing, I turned towards Sidi. "So. Explain to me what was going on."

Bâgri had had a nightmare. That was how it had begun, or so Sidi said. Bâgri had often had such nightmares in prison, too, and when he was in their grip, he would jump up and shout and try to run who knew were, all without waking, throwing over what came in his way and running into walls and punching anyone who tried to stop him. Yorzim and Elâl, trying to keep him from hurting either himself or anyone else (and, though Sidi did not say it outright, probably to keep his outbreak hidden from me, too), had wrestled him down and kept him down until his panic had exhausted itself and all he could do was shiver and beg for mercy from a tormentor who wasn't even real.
"Poor Bâgri," I said.
"He is damaged in the brain," Sidi observed, knocking his knuckles against his own skull, "he means no harm."
"I can see that."

"We also mean no harm," Yorzim said in his gruff voice. "We tried to keep Bâgri from harm or destroying or running away."
"Yes," I said, "I can see that now, too." I went over to Bâgri and squatted down next to him.
"What's 'don't be afraid' in your language?" I asked Sidi.
"Daph orilakh", Sidi said - that's what it sounded like, anyway - and so I told Bâgri, "Daph orilakh. Ninnaleh, huh?"
"You would say, ninnam," Sidi said quietly. "Ninnaleh is asking."
"Oh. Alright. Ninnam, then," I said, not that it made any difference; Bâgri was still very much lost in his own mind. I reached out carefully, patting his head - the stubble on it was drenched with cold sweat - but he showed no reaction, neither for the better nor for worse.
The other three looked on in silence.
"Is it safe to put him back to bed, would you say?" I asked Sidi, who spread his hands to demonstrate ignorance.
"I do not know," he said, sounding embarrassed. "The question never came up."
"What do you mean, it never came up?"
"Somebody else took his place in bed. We only made sure he was silent. Never put him back."

There was a commanding voice from the door, "Stop talking in there! Go back to sleep!" One of the guards had heard us, it appeared.
I stood up, feeling guilty on instinct. Since the guard stood outside the circle of light from the Elven lamp, I could not see his face, but I heard the change in his voice when he said, "Oh. Begging your pardon, sir. I did not know you were there. Just heard voices on my way outside."
I managed to square my shoulders. "Not to worry; all is well. You can go to your post." I heard rather than saw the thump of his fist against his padded chest.
"Is all well?" Sidi asked, and I was so far out of my depth that I said, entirely honestly, "Damned if I know," before I remembered that I wasn't supposed to show uncertainty. "I hope so," I said, which was perhaps marginally better. Looking back down at Bâgri, who had stopped muttering, I said, "Let's try to carry him back to bed, since he seems to have calmed down. Êlal, can you take his feet again? And Yorzim, you can help me with his shoulders. Let's turn him over first. Sidi, you take care of his blanket, please."

Bâgri neither protested nor struggled as we turned him onto his back; perhaps he had really found his way back to restful sleep. At any rate, we managed to put him back into bed, and I tried not to think too hard about what had caused this nightmare in the first place, and who Bâgri had thought he'd been asking for mercy. Clearly, something was haunting him, and I felt that I should have been warned about that kind of haunting. It was evidently no surprise to Sidi or Yorzim or Êlal, so I felt a little resentful that nobody had felt the need to tell me in advance. Bâgri, I suppose, had good reasons to keep it secret, and his companions might feel that it wasn't their place to talk about it, but Darîm at the very least must be aware and should have told me. It would've been helpful to have been forewarned, both about Bâgri's past and about the extent of his damage, as Sidi had put it. (Would Sidi consider me damaged in the brain, too? I expect that he would, and that added a whole new level of concern about what would happen once they found out.)
For now, the others settled down again, and I returned back upstairs. Bâgri seemed to sleep quietly for the rest of the night, or at least I didn't hear anything untoward from below again, but of course I did not sleep well anymore.

And yet, the first thing I foolishly asked when it was time to assemble for breakfast was, "Have you slept well?"
Yorzim ignored the question, and Êlal glumly shook his head, but Bâgri of all people said "Yes, thank you," making me stare at him in disbelief.
"What about your nightmare?" I asked, wondering if he was trying to joke.
His eyes went wide and his brow creased, suggesting that he wasn't. "My..." he trailed off. "Did I...?" he looked at his companions, who nodded, then back towards me. "Oh. No. I am sorry." He looked down.
"We need to talk about that," I said, because it seemed like the kind of thing I should say, as a responsible master, although in all honesty I had no idea how to go about that talk. Either way, I could see that Bâgri didn't like the thought at all, because his shoulders started shaking again.
"Don't be scared," I felt compelled to say, and, trying to recall my impromptu language lesson from the last night, "daph orilakh - am I saying this right? I don't intend to punish you or anything. I just think that, since this seems to happen regularly, I have a right to know all about it."
He nodded without raising his head, and I heaved another sigh. "Well, let us have breakfast first."

After breakfast, which did not seem to be entirely to my apprentices' tastes, I took Bâgri to the study. I didn't ask Sidi along. Although he might know more about Bâgri's condition, he hadn't warned me about what had happened last night. Accordingly, I wasn't inclined to trust that he would tell me everything in this matter. I figured that Urdad knew the language just as well and might be more helpful. I explained to Urdad what had happened last night - he had slept through the whole thing, lucky fellow - and then turned towards Bâgri. He sat despondently, head and back bowed, and I felt the need to reassure him that I saw no occasion (so far, at least) to punish him. "However, I must wonder what you were thinking," I said. "Imagine if you had made it outside and run into the guards! They wouldn't have been as considerate as Yorzim and Êlal. And if one of the guards had brought you to me telling me that you had tried to run off, instead of Sidi explaining the situation, I would probably have been very angry. That was a huge risk. And you can't tell me you weren't aware of it."
Bâgri rubbed a hand against his ribs, perhaps unconvinced that his companions had truly been considerate. "I hoped it would not happen, out of prison." He hesitated, then said, pleadingly, "It is not every night."

"But you couldn't rule it out, could you?"
He shrugged miserably, and I felt compelled to ask, "What would you have done if you had managed to get outside and one of the guards had caught you?"
Another shrug. I felt myself getting impatient. "Look, Bâgri, I'm trying to work with you here. I'm trying to understand. But you've got to help me. So, please. Explain to me. Why didn't you at least forewarn me that something like this might happen?"
Instead of answering, he bowed lower over his hands, which had knotted in his lap again. His shoulders were shaking. At last, he began to speak, but it was in the tongue of Umbar, and I had to turn to Urdad for help. "What is he saying?"
Urdad said, "He asks forgiveness for wasting your time."
"No harm done," I said, irritably, "as long as he stops wasting it now. Can you ask him why he didn't tell me, in your language? Perhaps he can explain it better that way."
Apparently, he couldn't. "He is still apologising," Urdad said, frowning, "but I am not sure that he is really talking to us."

I didn't ask how he got that idea. In truth, the thought had crossed my mind as well, because Bâgri was quaking and whispering his apologies in a way that (I felt) was not at all appropriate in response to what I considered a reasonable question. Once again, he was acting as though expecting a severe beating or some other painful punishment. I was torn between annoyance and pity. I fought hard not to let annoyance win.
"Do you have any idea how we can reassure him?" I asked Urdad, hoping that he'd know what to do, but he shook his head.
The only idea I had was to say, "Bâgri, calm yourself, I'm not going to hurt you", trying to keep my voice friendly and reaching out for his trembling shoulders. He showed no sign of hearing me, but he gave a mighty flinch when I touched him, although I swear I was not ungentle. Frustration began to gain the upper hand; I had to breathe deliberately to keep from gripping Bâgri's other shoulder and shaking him.
"Surely I'm not that terrifying," I said. And when Urdad said nothing to that, I asked, "Am I?"
"No, sir," Urdad said, "but I was scared of you at first, too. Not that scared, of course."
"You were scared? What did I do to scare you?"

I thought back to our first few meetings - how incompetent I had felt, and how intimidating his quietly efficient way had been to me. I hadn't realised that he had been intimidated by me. I had to twist uncomfortably to be able to look at Urdad because I didn't want to take my hand off Bâgri's shoulder - he seemed to have recovered from the initial shock, and I didn't want to renew it by changing anything - and I expected that he would be smiling and telling me that he had been joking, of course, but his face was entirely serious.
"You asked my name," Urdad said, "and I thought you were going to report me to my lord."
"Report you? For what?"
Urdad gave a slight shrug. "Something I did wrong, I suppose."
"But you didn't do anything wrong."

With his nervous little smile, he said, "I thought I had offended you somehow. I did not know why else you would need my name."
"Oh." I thought about it, then asked, "Is it offensive in your culture? To ask people their name?"
"Offensive, no. Uncommon, yes."
Confused, I asked, "Don't people usually want to know who they're working with?"
Urdad shrugged again. "Not when who they're working with doesn't matter."
"That sounds impolite. I find it hard to be impolite."
He seemed to find that funny, because he made a noise half-way between a cough and a giggle. "Your people normally don't worry about being impolite to us," he said. Then he grimaced, as though he had said something inappropriate, and bowed his head. "Sir."

My stomach lurched unpleasantly. "I thought you weren't scared of me anymore."
"It is complicated," Urdad said. "I do not want to offend."
"You haven't offended. I hope you're not offended because you've just been sent off here." I remembered how Lord Roitaheru had talked about him - you're welcome to him - as though he were no more than a commodity to be handed around.
"Oh, no," Urdad said, which I suppose he would have said either way, but then he added, "I was hoping for it." His shy smile flashed up again. "I like being useful. And it's nice to be thanked."
I felt a smile tug on my own lips. "I'm glad. I was worried that you were sent here against your will." Urdad shook his head emphatically.

"Bâgri, on the other hand, is here against his will. I can see that now," I said. "I should have left him in prison; it really looks like he was happier there."
"No," Bâgri said quietly. He still hadn't raised his head, and his breath was still laboured, but he seemed to be responding to me again. "No. Please. I can do the work. I will..." he broke off and then started over, dully. "I will do what you tell me to."
I withdrew my hand from his shoulder. (At least it hadn't done further harm, I suppose.) "That's not the point, Bâgri. I don't doubt that you can do the work, and I'm sure you're willing to do as you're told. Alright? That's not in question. But clearly, you're helpless when the nightmares come. And now it happened in broad daylight, too. And I don't understand why it happens, and perhaps I don't need to, but I should have been told that it does happen. I need honesty now. And I need to know how we can deal with it, or this isn't going to work." I waited for Urdad to translate and watched Bâgri's head sink lower. "Please make clear to him that this doesn't have to be the end. Alright? If he really wants to stay, we can try. But we need to figure out what to do about his - his fears. He can't up and run every night, or every other night. And the others can't look out for him every night, either; they need their sleep, too."

Bâgri had by now bent double, his face hidden in his hands. I knew that if I had any sense, I should arrange for his return to prison right then and there. There was no good reason for keeping him, especially since - in spite of his protests - I did not have the impression that he wanted to be here.
But then he spoke, first in the language of Umbar, and then in mine. "I do not know how to answer," he said. His voice was hoarse, and he swallowed repeatedly before he went on. "I do not always know that I have a nightmare. And even when I know, I cannot stop it. I am sorry." His shoulders started shaking again. "But it is not every night. I really - " he returned to his own language.
"He wants to show that he is not too broken," Urdad translated. "It's his only chance, he says."

My soft heart constricted painfully. Wearily, I put my face in my hands before I remembered that I wasn't allowed to show weakness. I stapled my fingers, as Lord Atanacalmo so often did, to keep them from covering my eyes again and to look (hopefully) more businesslike.
"I want to give you that chance, I really do," I said. "And I will warn the guards about your predicament, and tell them not to be too hard on you if they see you outside at night, but clearly, it would be preferable if you didn't run outside at night in the first place."
Urdad glanced at something behind me. "Perhaps it would help to chain him to his bed," he said.
He meant well, I'm sure, but the thought nearly made my stomach turn. "Well, I can't magine that'll cure him of his nightmares," I pointed out.
"Cure him, sir?"

I wasn't certain whether he hadn't understood the word or whether he didn't understand what I meant by it. "Help him get better."
Urdad was still frowning. Bâgri, meanwhile, had lifted his head and was staring at me with such loss and confusion in his eyes that I was forced to suspect that I had said something extremely stupid.
"Never mind," I said, embarrassed. "At any rate, he'd still wake the others, and that would be unjust to them, too. So that strikes me as a bad solution."
"I am sorry," Bâgri said again.
"Well, so am I," I said, which was true, though there was little use in assuring each other that we were sorry. "But we still need to find a solution."

For a while, none of us said anything. At last, Bâgri spoke up again. "Perhaps -- perhaps." He seemed to sort his thoughts once more, and then started over, "Perhaps I can sleep in another place. Downstairs. In the caves. Perhaps."
"You think you won't have nightmares down in the catacombs?" Personally, I found that highly unlikely. Even unused, as they were now, the narrow tunnels and caves were an unsettling place; and once we had bodies to put there, it would be even creepier. Even a person not inclined to have nightmares would get them down there, I felt. I certainly would.
Apparently, Bâgri saw the point; he even smiled a little, in a helpless and uncertain way. "I will have nightmares," he said, "but I will not disturb."
"I'm not sure," I said, although in all honesty I didn't have any better ideas myself.
It was Urdad who suggested, "The tool shed, maybe?"

The tool shed was not actually a tool shed. It had probably been one back when this house had been a winery, but after the bankruptcy, it had been stripped of every sickle, every piece of string, every last basket or bucket. It was big enough for a man to sleep in, just barely - I knew this because we had used it to store Nêrad's family's old mattresses, after the new furniture was delivered, and they had flopped over and unrolled on the floor. Being a storage place, it could be barred from the outside.
I still didn't like it, but short of giving up on Bâgri entirely, I didn't have a better idea. "I suppose it's better than the cellar. Bâgri can have a look at it and say if he agrees."
Bâgri, I suspect, would have agreed to pretty much everything; he was now in control of himself again, and despite his earlier horror, he appeared eager now to stay.
"And I," I told Urdad, "will go and see Darîm this afternoon. Or is there anything that I'll be needed for?"
"The shoemaker will come for the measurements," Urdad said. "But I can manage that, with your permission."
"Permission granted," I said. In all honesty, Urdad would have discussed business with him, either way; I would merely have nodded it off. I felt slightly guilty leaving the responsibility in his hands entirely now, but I needed answers from Darîm, and I felt that waiting longer would only deepen the rift between myself and my apprentices.

Darîm appeared rather surprised when I asked to see him, although he welcomed me with the utmost friendliness, as usual. Yes, of course he would make time for me immediately. No, it was no trouble at all. He led me into the sitting room with the pleasant view of the shaded garden and had his servants deliver refreshments. Only then did he say, "I confess I had not expected you today, Master Embalmer. How may I help you? Is there a problem with your new workers already?"
"As it happens, yes."
His mien changed immediately; whereas he had been all charming host, polite but very much in charge, he now bowed obsequiously and assured me, "I very much regret to hear it." There seemed to be genuine concern in his voice as he asked, "What happened?"
I told him of Bâgri's nightly outbreak, and the way in which he had frozen up when I'd tried to talk to him this morning. Darîm nodded and made sympathetic noises as I described the trembling and crying and pleading. I finished my account by describing Yorzim's and Êlal's and Sidi's unsurprised - indeed, fairly practiced - reaction, and concluded, "I must say, after you have shown such concern about the suitability of some of the others, I can't help but wonder why you didn't at least warn me about Bâgri's nightmares."

"You are right to wonder, Master Embalmer, and I have failed in my duties, for I did not know that he had such nightmares." Darîm had spread his hands placatingly and bowed his head in contrition. "Bâgri expressed concern about his bad memories, but I did not realise that they manifested in this manner. I must apologise. I would never have encouraged you to take Bâgri if I had not thought him competent."
"I don't even know whether or not he's competent. All I know is that he's terrified of something beyond my knowledge and certainly beyond my control. And beyond his own control, too. I haven't harmed him - there's no need to be so terrified of me - and it doesn't seem to me like a good foundation for his apprenticeship if half of the time when I ask a question or talk about a mistake he ... he starts seeing terrors that aren't even there. What happened to him?"

Darîm had straightened again, although he did not meet my eyes. He sighed deeply. "I am not familiar with all the details. There is a former employer of Bâgri who was... needlessly cruel. Excessively so. I have heard some dreadful stories, although I do not know in how far they apply to Bâgri. But whatever happened, perhaps it has damaged him permanently. His last employer did not complain about nightmares, however. He said that Bâgri was hard-working, obedient and honest. He spoke for him when he was arrested after his theft, too. I truly did not know."
"Then why did he not keep him employed, if he liked him so much?" I latched onto what I felt was a weak spot in the story.
"He could not afford it when the drought came," Darîm said, spreading his hands in regret. "Food was very expensive then, you see. People could no longer pay workers and feed their family, so they sent the workers away. It is why Bâgri stole, too. He would not have done it otherwise, I am sure. But the hunger in that year was terrible."

"I see," I said. Everything kept coming back to that accursed drought, it seemed. "But I don't see what I can do to help Bâgri, frankly."
Darîm had his head half-tilted, a quizzical expression on his face. "You help him by giving him new work, I think," he said. "A new purpose. But if you decide that he is damaged beyond repair, you can send him back to prison, of course." His brow creased in regret. "You may tell him, in that case, that I do not hold it against him."
I frowned in turn. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Bâgri will understand," Darîm said. "It may help him make a clearer decision. I worry, perhaps, that he is too afraid of you."
At that, I couldn't help but give a little snort. The idea of being afraid of me - of all people! - was ridiculous. "I haven't even done anything to frighten him," I pointed out. My fingers were playing with the tassels on the cushion, nervously; I had to clench my hand to make them stop.

Darîm smiled - not his usual charming and slightly arrogant show of teeth, but a cautious twitch of the lips. "You personally are very friendly, but Bâgri does not know you well. He only knows what power you have." I nearly snorted again - me and power - but remembered in time that with Lord Roitaheru's support, I was not as powerless as I was used to being. Unaware of my thoughts, Darîm continued, "And he has made very bad experiences. That can leave a lasting impression, you see. It can make people afraid of people who remind them of other people. Or of places that remind them of some old danger." Was I mistaken, or was he now studying my face intently? I was convinced that he was alluding to my short spell of panic before we had entered the prison. At least, I thought it had been short. I thought I had masked it reasonably well. Had it in fact been longer? The thought made my face grow hot. Had I been staring into nothing without noticing it, until I had become aware again and pretended that it was nothing? I tried to read the answer in Darîm's eyes, but as soon as I met his stare directly, he lowered his head modestly.

"Many men do not have the strength to master such fears. In fact, very few men do," Darîm went on evenly, and I concluded that it might have been coincidence. "If you decide to have patience with Bâgri, maybe he will learn the strength. But naturally, it is your decision. I apologise that I brought it before you. As I said before, I would not have recommended Bâgri if I had known this. I assure you he was a fine man before he was broken. Such a pity." He shook his head, at himself or at Bâgri, I do not know.
"I'll have to think about it," I said. Poor Bâgri, I thought, not for the first time. I doubted I would have the heart to send him back, but I also doubted that he'd have occasion to learn strength. "He did not seem to be so afraid when I questioned him in prison," I observed, "although I would have thought that it was a more frightening situation."
Darîm gave a soft shrug and a regretful smile. "Strange though it may seem, it was a familiar place. He knows Captain Thilior. He knows the rules and the consequences. Now, everything is different. Maybe it is too much."
I had no answer to that. My fingers began messing with the tassels again. "Were there any consequences for Bâgri's employer - I mean, the one who tormented him?" Torment of some kind seemed to me the likeliest explanation for Bâgri's state.

"In a way. He was killed by two of his servants, some years back," Darîm said in a matter-of-fact tone, still smiling. "That was when his treatment of his workers came to light. It is how they justified the murder, and there was sufficient evidence to keep them from being put to death themselves. It was after Bâgri's time, and Bâgri did not speak about it, but I assume that he also suffered when he was there." The smile grew strained. "There is a great deal of suffering on this side of the sea, you know."
There was a great deal of suffering on the other side of the sea, too, I thought; but I did not say so. I merely nodded and said, once more, "I see." And then I frowned. "Was he - was he one of my people?" That certainly would have shone a new light on Bâgri's terror.

Darîm shook his head. "No. He was one of mine. If he had been one of yours, the servants surely would have been put to death." Again, the smile he gave was more like a grimace. "But I expect that such wanton cruelty is unknown among your noble people."
I could not bring myself to lie. I suppose I should have said nothing, but I couldn't do that, either. Instead, I said, "I'm afraid that cruelty is known on either side of the sea," hating how hoarse my voice sounded.
Darîm bowed his head, although I thought I saw a glint in his eyes before they disappeared from view. "Your words, Master Embalmer. Not mine."
I rode back to the winery feeling every bit as frustrated as I had come.