The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

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.