The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

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.