The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

Chapter 19

Another happy Andúnië chapter.

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.