The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

Chapter 21

There is a lot of crying in this chapter, some of it justified. -- Warning for the death of a supporting character.

Of course, there was no hope of forgetting it. On Valanya that week, the council convened, and Lord Atanacalmo's motion was passed into law. It was posted in the markets and read out in the streets, and even if I had not been forced to hear the criers proclaim all about the new punishments for thieves and rioters, beggers and loiterers, street urchins and Good Men, I would still have noticed the subdued mood that gripped my neighbourhood. I would certainly have heard the discussions of the new law at my table, and in my front yard, and by the well. Mind you, my neighbourhood wasn't the worst off. Thanks to Lord Eärengolë's road, they had come out of the winter with some savings, and though many had used those to take care of long-overdue repairs on their houses or to invest in new clothing and boots or maybe a chicken or two, things were not nearly as bad as they had been a year ago. Nonetheless, everybody realised that it could easily fall apart again, and if it did, that there were even fewer chances of holding it together this time around. And we did not even dare to consider what it might be like for people in other quarters, who maybe had made it - just barely - through the last winter and were now facing a repetition of that dire time, but under even heavier restrictions.

"I tried to argue against it," Lord Eärendur said when we next dined at his house. "But there was very little I could say when Atanacalmo cited the security of the city as his main reason. I am very sorry indeed."
"It's not your fault, your Grace," I said.
"Maybe not. But considering that Nolo's efforts are also among the forbidden actions now, I cannot help but feel that this is somehow pointed at me as well as you. And of course, it was I who told him that we called you the Good Man of Armenelos. That seems to have touched a sore spot."
"Indeed," I couldn't help saying, recalling the man's anger. The candlelight was gleaming on the silver cutlery and the wine glasses and the rich gravy on the meat on my plate, but I could already feel my gloomy mood returning. "Why did you tell him, Lord?"
Lord Eärendur grimaced in a way that was almost apologetical. "He wanted to know why I was supporting you. You recall how Têrakon confronted me about that, during the Eruhantalë feast? Him I could deflect with a clever throw-away line. But Atanacalmo isn't fended off so easily - he may appear indifferent and cynical, but there is a lot going on in his head - and clever lines are his own weapon, so I resorted to telling him the truth."
"The truth," I repeated, looking down at my plate. My nervous fingers had found the silver chain around my neck and started toying with it. "Why didn't you just tell him that it's purely a business relationship?"
Lord Eärendur's eyes widened. "Is that what you think we have, Azruhâr? A business relationship?" He spoke lightly, but there was a strange undertone to his voice - one of hurt, unless I was much mistaken. Lady Nolwen's conversation with Amraphel had come to a sudden stop, and I could feel that both women were staring at me, as well as the steward (who, as usual, had greeted us with perfect politeness and let us in with no bartering whatsoever) and the Keeper of the Heart, who were both sitting nearby.
"Is that what you believe, Azruhâr?" Lord Eärendur asked again.

My face had grown so hot that I wouldn't have been surprised if steam had started to come out of my ears. Suddenly, a thousand little things fell into place. It was not business. He actually meant it. I could have screamed at myself. How could I believe the Crown Prince more than a man who had shown me nothing but generosity? How had I been so misled? Certainly, the idea of a business relationship made more sense than the idea of actual friendship. Except that I now realised that the offer of friendship had been there well before the opportunity of business had arisen. Hadn't Lord Eärendur mentioned the possibility of friendship even in spring? Hadn't I been invited to his very house well before I'd ever thought about amber and resin - indeed, hadn't that been pure chance, and a result of Lord Eärendur's inredible offer rather than the other way round? And yet, like the fool that I was, I had taken the Crown Prince's analysis at face value. Yes, it fit into my understanding of the world. Yes, it appeared to make sense if you did not know the order of events. But I should have known better.
"I did believe it," I whispered, feeling thoroughly ashamed. My hand had clenched around the amber pendant, but its familiar warmth only added to my shame. "Now I realise that I was foolish." I forced myself to raise my head and look Lord Eärendur in the eyes, where I saw confusion and hurt and quite possibly anger. But if it was anger, it was the quiet sort, not a fire that would flare up suddenly, but the kind that smoldered under a seemingly harmless surface. I did not know how to deal with that, and so I just bowed my head again and said, "I am sorry." The silence now seemed to have extended to the whole table, hushing the conversation between the other members of the household at either end of the room. I wished I could get away with hiding under the table like a child afraid of a scolding.
But there was no scolding, either. "We will speak about this later," Lord Eärendur said quietly and returned to eating. After Amraphel had kicked my foot underneath the table, so did I.

Later, I was sitting on the couch and staring into the Heart of the House, which was flickering brightly as always. There was a goblet of fine dessert wine in my hands as always. But Amraphel was not by my side; Lady Nolwen had taken her to the music room. The Keeper of the Heart had put on another log, and then withdrawn discretely. I was waiting, and worrying, and wondering whether things were broken beyond repair.
At last, Lord Eärendur came into the room and sat down next to me. I did not dare to look at him, instead busying myself with setting down the wine glass carefully on the low table so it would not get into the way of whatever lay ahead. I felt Lord Eärendur shift his weight as he settled down more comfortably, but I still did not manage to turn my head. There was a moment's silence, broken only by the merry cackling of the wood in the Heart. I chewed on my lip and knotted my fingers in my lap.

"Business, hm?" he said at last.
I was tempted to burst into tears, and my voice betrayed it easily. "My lord..."
"Eärendur."
That stopped me short. "What?"
"So far, I have assumed that you found it easier to use honorifics, since you clearly did not feel comfortable addressing me as your equal. But now, I realise that it may have made you think that you were no more than a client. So -- my name is Eärendur, and you are welcome to use it."
I had to swallow hard. That was not at all what I had expected. I had fully expected him to withdraw his offer of friendship, since I had more or less renounced it anyway. But if I understood him right, he still wanted me to be his friend - to address him by his name, even? Yet again, I was very nearly reduced to tears.
"I -- I don't know if I can," I admitted, and that was true. It felt as though there was some kind of wall rising in front of me, as impenetrable as it was invisible. Calling him Eärendur, as if he were no more than one of my neighbours, was very much on the other side of that wall. "But I thank you - I cannot even say how much I thank you. I am dreadfully sorry if I have offended you."
"I am not offended, merely disappointed. If it was not the name, what other reason have I given you to mistrust me?"
I shook my head violently. "None, Lord, never. You have shown me the utmost kindness, and I trust you absolutely. It's my own luck that I didn't trust. I couldn't believe that a man like you would truly offer me his friendship, which I know I do not deserve."
"Well, I think you do."

That made me tear up for good, and for a while there was no hope of talking while I struggled to regain what little composure I'd ever had. Lord Eärendur put an arm around my shoulders, which only made me cry harder. I hated myself for my weakness, but at the same time I couldn't deny that there was also a certain delight in being held and consoled by the Lord of Andúnië himself. Even that part of my mind that insisted that I was deluding myself had to concede that there was no reason for him to let me soak his expensive tunic with my tears, unless he was indeed my friend. The realisation wore down my last feeble attempts at pulling myself together, and I was reduced entirely to helpless weeping.
"My goodness,"Lord Eärendur said when I continued to sob against his shoulder. "That has been building up for a long time, it seems. Well, cry as much as you must; and then, maybe, you can tell me the cause of your tears."
And thus, with many a sob and a profound feeling of shame, I recounted my audience with Lord Atanacalmo. Even Amraphel had, so far, heard only a heavily abridged version of that evening; but now it all came out. "It was so... demeaning," I concluded miserably. "And I know it's not my place to mind, but I can't help it. Why can't he just leave me alone? I never did anything to him! I wouldn't even have spoken to him if he hadn't summoned me, and then wasted my time and made me pay for the privilege! I hate being so helpless and having to take whatever he decides to deal out. How is that just?"

"It isn't," Lord Eärendur said simply. "And I am glad that you mind. I'm glad that you stood up for yourself - and for your neighbours. It is good that you no longer accept such injustice. It's been high time that you developed some pride."
"Pride?" Now it was alarm that made me cry out. I had grown up in the secure knowledge that pride was a horrible sin in a day-taler, and it had been beaten out of me at a young age. "People like me cannot afford pride, and I want nothing of it."
Lord Eärendur heaved a heavy sigh. "Pride is not about forgetting what's above you, but about knowing what is beneath you," he said. "Such as being punished for speaking the truth when you were asked for it. Such as being pushed around by those stronger than yourself." Giving me a wry sideways glance, he added, "Or such as breaking into someone else's house to steal his valuables. I firmly believe that people who have no pride are much easier misled. If nothing is beneath them, they aren't above anything. No, people should have some pride in themselves - all of them, including you."
I shook my head, squirming unhappily.
Another sigh. "Very well, let us call it by another name if pride makes you so uncomfortable. How about dignity?"

I gave the matter some thought. Dignity was probably all right, although it definitely wasn't a word that could be applied to myself. "I would like some of that," I confessed.
"There you go, then!" He gave me a warm smile. "I think you're beginning to find it. And a good thing, too, because I suspect that Atanacalmo was testing you, and if you hadn't stood up to him, he would have gone on simply to see how far you would let him. Not that he would have cut out your tongue, naturally -"
"There's that word again, naturally," I mumbled. "He certainly seemed to mean it."
Lord Eärendur shook his head. "That was what he wanted you to think, no doubt. But it is unlawful to maim a man without the king's leave - and I for my part am certain that Ancalimon would not have permitted it, least of all for such a petty offense. The rest of it Atanacalmo could have done, unfortunately. He is, after all, the Lord of Armenelos."

I was squirming again. Lord Eärendur went on, after a grim pause, "And yet he did not, in the end. That, to me, suggests that he was measuring you, rather than truly intending to hurt you. Mind you, if you had not protested, then perhaps he would have taken it further. Which is why it's a good thing that you had pride - pardon me, dignity - enough to speak out against it then and there." He heaved another sigh, then said, "Even so, I can certainly see why it was a harrowing experience. I would have thought better of Atanacalmo, really. I never thought of him as unnecessarily cruel - this is something that should be beneath him."
"He probably didn't think that it was unnecessary," I said, still feeling bitter.
"No," Lord Eärendur agreed soberly. "Probably not. Well, he said some interesting things. There is a lot to think about." We sat in silence for a while, hearing the wood crackle in the Heart. Its warmth was beginning to seep into my weary body, making me feel comfortable and sleepy and strangely calm.
Lord Eärendur went to inform the ladies that it was now safe to join us. After one brief look at me, Amraphel stopped in her tracks and gave our host a rather dangerous-looking stare.
"You made him cry," she said sternly, and for a second I thought she was going to give him an earful. I opened my mouth to protest, but Lord Eärendur was already replying.
"I let him cry, madam," he replied in his mild voice. "He needed it. All should be well now."

All was not well. Still, my heart was lighter now. Work was busy as usual, and now that Master Târik was no longer angry with me, it actually became a source of contentment again. My colleagues were as relieved as I was, I think. There were no great breakthroughs, although the resin method was still looking promising. But it needed more time to prove itself - and we needed proper bodies. We had parts of criminals, and the occasional starved beggar or drowned drunkard whose family did not claim him, but it had been a long time since we'd had occasion to practice on the better kind of deceased. So we could only hope that whatever results we achieved could actually be replicated on them - and that anything that worked on emaciated beggars would equally apply to a member of the royal house. Above all, we had to hope that we would not have to experiment on Tar-Ancalimon himself, for as autumn progressed, the King's fragile health deteriorated again. Soon, our regular reports at the palace were cancelled for the time being, and not long after that, the Crown Prince had to stand in for his father during council and for other public duties. It did not seem at all unlikely that the King would pass before my method could prove itself, and none of us knew how we should proceed then.
"There will be new bodies in winter," Kârathôn reasoned glumly, but that was hardly reassuring.

Everybody was stocking up for winter now, in as much as that was possible under the rationing laws. With typical indiscretion, sacks of grain and beans and onions were given to the guilds for re-sale among their members - not considering (or maybe not caring) that folk like my neighbours had no fixed profession, meaning no guild membership, meaning no access to the cheaper-than-usual and more-than-usual provisions. Master Târik quietly gave part of the allocation for his small household to me so I could in turn distribute it among my neighbours, and Amraphel eked out as much as was possible from our own, but of course it couldn't possibly be enough.
"What we need," I said to no-one in particular, "is a Day-talers' Guild."
"You should apply to Lord Atanacalmo with that excellent idea," Amraphel said.
I did not know whether she was serious or not, nor did I ask. I would not have been able to follow up on it either way.
"Well, the poor wouldn't be able to pay for more food, anyway," Balakhil pointed out. He was probably right, but it was nonetheless annoying. People could forage for acorns and beechnuts, rosehips and mushrooms and the like, of course, but there were plenty of people and not enough wild fruits to go around.

I made my peace with Master Amrazôr. Well, I tried to. I did not feel easy in his presence and I suspected that he still was not fond of me. We treated each other with wary respect and agreed that they should come to dinner at our house for Mettarë, but that we would not tell the girls that these people were their grandparents. I planned to host a proper feast for Mettarë this year - Lord Atanacalmo's law had said nothing about neighbourhood gatherings - because it seemed that the least we could do was give the year a good send-off to hope that it would never return, and stuff everyone's stomachs at least that one time. The planning took up most of my mind when I was not at work, which was probably well enough.
In the meantime, the Guards of the Road were reassembled to secure safe passage for the fishmongers from the coast, and the City Guard recruited more men to help them enforce the harsh new laws Lord Atanacalmo had introduced. That opened new, decently paid positions for unlearned workers, but neither group would hire anybody who was in any way associated with the Copperhoods, and I feared that the opinion of my neighbours would turn against me once more.
"Don't be silly, Azruhâr," Old Palatâr said, "we all know what we owe you. And if those folk from other quarters don't recall, well, I'm fairly sure your neighbours will teach them." It was kindly meant, but I felt very much that a fight between my neighbours and other poor folk was not desirable, either, and would probably reflect badly on me.

Winter came. It was drier than last year's, but colder than it had been in a long time - so cold that what rain we got came down in soft white flakes, enough to cover the ground for a day or two. Elzahâr's straw boots came into fashion once more, this time for the insulation they provided rather than the protection from mud. My hopes that I would be able to host part of my Mettarë feast outside in the barren garden were swiftly crushed. It would be very crowded in my small house, and Master Amrazôr would surely not be impressed - I had to admit to myself that I did want to impress him after all. At least my house was in an excellent state, as I had been giving repair jobs to capable neighbours throughout the month. The ceiling beams had been sanded and polished, the walls had been freshly whitewashed, there was no more broken furniture, and the fleeces that Amraphel had bought once again to provide a source of income to herself and the women who helped her card and spin had been removed, safely bagged, to the hayloft. The floor tiles had been scrubbed until they gleamed, and their colours shone nearly as good as new. We had plenty of candles - they were cheaper than bread this year - and new rugs and actual cushions for the chairs. My neighbours brought additional chairs and tables and benches, and Lord Eärendur had lent me a whole pile of embroidered tablecloths. I had invited him even though I knew he would not be able to attend - he would be celebrating with his own people over in Andúnië, of course - but he seemed pleased nonetheless, and he gave me the tablecloths and sent a barrel of wine and a sack of sweet chestnuts and a saddle of beef to treat my guests.

It was therefore set to be a very splendid feast, even though we had to split the party into three small rooms. Master Amrazôr and Mistress Râphumil arrived early, bringing dolls and wooden horses for the children and a leg of cured ham for Amraphel and me, which ended up being carved for the feast. Master Târik came with Lômenil and Lômenil's mother (who had long since given up her resistance to Master Târik and was in fact quite fond of him, now that he was her son-in-law and she was living in his fine house) and little Azruhâr (who looked a lot healthier and happier than his namesake had been at that age). My sister agreed, reminiscing, "You were always weakly and sullen." She had come with her husband and my nephews, who seemed to have grown yet more since the summer. "People never expected you to amount to anything," Nardûril went on, smirking a little.
Yes; I had been a weak and sullen child, had grown into a weak and fearful youth, and then into a weak and foolish man. I did not take offense. I doubtlessly would have been a healthy and happy boy with fair prospects for the future, if I'd grown up in a house like Master Târik's, with a cook to prepare my meals and a nurse to keep me entertained. Said cook and nurse were present, too, as well as Beliâr, Master Târik's faithful servant. Mîkul and Kârathôn had brought more wine for the celebration. And then of course there were Balakhil and Enrakôr the Taller, and also our friends among my neighbours, such as Palatâr the Old and his son and daughter, Lasbêth and Zâbulon, Enrakôr the Smaller and Zâmin, Elzahâr and Yôris, and Thâmaris the midwife and Râhak the One-eyed and all the others, and plenty of children who slipped underneath the table or into the stable to play after eating their fill. It was a feast all right, and it warmed my heart to see how much people appeared to be enjoying themselves. There was many a toast - some of them to me, which was as embarrassing as it was gratifying - and a great deal of music, even though we had barely room to get up and walk to the outhouse, let alone to dance. Spirits were high, and eventually I stopped caring what my in-laws thought - whether they were secretly or openly impressed, or whether they were unomfortable in the company of all these people whom they must think far beneath themselves. If they did not get into the festive spirit, I felt, it was their own fault.

And at the last, the midnight bells were rung, and the trumpets were blown up in the citadel, and drums sounded, and people were singing all over the city; and in this manner, the year 2383 of the Second Age ended, and the year 2384 began.

It began badly. Two weeks after Mettarë, I came home to an empty house, with a hastily scribbled note left by Amraphel on the table: Palatâr had suffered a stroke. I rushed to Palatâr's house, Balakhil in tow, where we found Thâmaris and a teary-eyed Târinzil, but neither Amraphel nor Enrakôr. "They've gone off to fetch a doctor," Thâmaris said, thin-lipped.
"Well, maybe a doctor can do something to help."
"I have already done what can be done. They should be fetching his son, that would be a lot more useful."
I asked Balakhil to find Târazon, who had been lucky enough to find employment as a stablehand up in the merchant's quarter. Then, not without dread, I took a look at Palatâr. He appeared to be conscious - at least his eyes were open - but he did not respond when I spoke to him; indeed, he seemed to be looking right through me. The left half of his face was sagging, and his left hand lay motionless while the right kept kneading his blanket.He had been brought into a sitting position that did not look entirely comfortable, wedged in with pillows and a stool so he did not fall over.
"Shouldn't we let him lie down?"
"No. That would surely kill him. Mind you, it might well kill him either way. But this way, at least he's got a chance," said Thâmaris. She busied herself with her mortar and pestle, grinding meadowsweet and willowbark into a powder. "I do know what I'm doing. There's no need to go running for some fancy healer as if he could do anything more."
"I'm sure Amraphel knows that you're doing good work," I said, trying to mollify her. "She just wants to help Palatâr as much as she can."
Thâmaris snorted in disdain. "As if a doctor has ever done anything useful down here."
Privately, I was forced to agree. "I don't trust them either," I admitted. "When I had my concussion in summer, Master Sérindo wanted to drill a hole in my skull."
To my surprise, Thâmaris was a lot less scandalised than I had been. "Yes. That's what you have to do to relieve the pressure, if it doesn't get better by itself," she said matter-of-factly.
I grimaced and tried to think of another example of the strange ideas doctors got up to. "He wanted to shove a silver pipe up my -- you know. To keep me fed."
Thâmaris shrugged again. "I would've used a reed."
I shut up.

We waited in the intensifying gloom. Târinzil had lit a single tallow lamp at her father's bedside, and was sitting beside him, holding his restless right hand and talking to him, but getting no answer. I sat at the table with Thâmaris. "We didn't always see eye to eye," I said. "I never understood how he could cling to his faith when it didn't seem to do him any good. But I respected him a lot. He was as much of a mentor as I ever had -"
"Stop talking as if he's dead!" Târinzil shouted at me, and I shut up again. It was true, though. Aside from my parents, Palatâr had been my most frequent teacher, and what little lore I had, I had learned from him. He had seemed old even when I'd been a boy, and now he was the oldest man in the neighbourhood, but somehow I had felt that Palatâr, that pillar of our community, would be there forever.

Amraphel returned with none other than Master Sérindo, with his serious beard and an equally serious expression. At least he put in more effort than the healer Amraphel had found for me after Master Amrazôr had let me off barely alive. He gave a satisfied nod when he saw Palatâr propped up on his narrow bed, took his pulse and felt his chest and shone his Noldorin stone-lamp in the old man's eyes. He struck up conversation with Thâmaris, who answered grudgingly at first, but it evidently satisfied both of them, because they started working together on mixing a concoction to pour down Palatâr's throat when it had cooled down enough. (I observed that the famed silver pipe - or a different one, I suppose - was used in the process, because Palatâr couldn't be trusted to swallow properly.)
"Is he going to get better now?" Târinzil asked, tearfully.

I could see Master Sérindo work on a diplomatic answer, but Thâmaris, in her straightforward way, cut directly to the point. "Sometimes they do. Sometimes they don't. We'll have to wait and see."
Master Sérindo nodded at that. He walked over to the hearth, took the pot of boiling water to the table, and began cleaning his instruments. "Your grandfather?" he asked me with a sympathetic raise of his dark eyebrows.
"No," I said. "No relation. But don't worry, I'm going to pay."
"That won't be necessary; I didn't do much," Master Sérindo said generously. "Mistress Thâmaris has already done most of the work. Incidentally, how does a midwife know how to deal with a stroke, madam?"
"Oh, I served a fine learnèd healer like yourself, when I was younger," she said. "And I learned a lot from him, too, until I was no longer willing to lift my skirts, which was when he kicked me out. They don't let women be healers in their own right, of course, so I became a midwife. Doesn't mean I forgot."
Master Sérindo bowed is head. "For what it's worth, I apologise on behalf of my colleague, madam - whoever he may have been."
"Callo." Thâmaris spat out the name like a rotten piece of fruit.
"Never liked him," Master Sérindo said, which was probably worth very little, but Thâmaris didn't need to reply because Târazon came rushing in that moment.
"Where is he? What's happened?" he asked, breathless and wide-eyed. "Atto, can you hear me?"
"If he can, he can't answer you," Thâmaris said, but in fact, it seemed that Old Palatâr was trying to turn his head at the sound of his son's voice, and Târinzil gasped in mingled hope and fear.

"We should leave them in peace, for the time being," Amraphel said, and thus we took our leave of the family and went out into the unlit street and a flurry of snowflakes. I reached for my money-bag, but Master Sérindo shook his head firmly. "No, truly, you should give the money to Mistress Thâmaris," he said. "If you get me home safely, I'll just consider this a strengthening evening walk." I sent Balakhil and Enrakôr with him, and decided that he was probably not too bad, for a healer.

Old Palatâr regained consciousness and, after a while, the ability to speak, although his words came haltingly and sounded slurred as though he were drunk. His left side remained paralysed, but Târinzil and Târazon could not have cared less, as long as he was alive. Târazon of course lost his work, his lodgings and his board for having left his post on short notice. At least that meant he could help his father get around the house. But their joy at his recovery was short-lived, for Palatâr, being of the old faith, decided that his time to depart this life had come, and that he would merely use the respite he had been granted to set his things in order. He went about this in his usual meticulous fashion, inviting his friends to say his farewells and splitting his belongings between his two children (and comforting them while he still could, I suppose). One evening after work, he invited me too. The siblings greeted me at the door, red-eyed and puffy-faced, and then busied themselves outside so they would not have to witness our conversation.

"Azruhâr," Palatâr greeted me, and I had to strain my ears to hear him. The slurred speech was hard enough to understand as it was, and he spoke very softly on top of that. He sat on his bed, more comfortable than the last time I'd seen him, but still looking terribly unhealthy.
He knew it, of course, and went on, "This is farewell."
I bit down hard on my lip. "Maybe you'll get better," I heard myself say. "It would mean a lot to your children."
Palatâr actually laughed at that, feeble though he was. "No, Azruhâr, it is time. Deep in their hearts, they know it too. There is nothing to be gained in stretching it out." He had sobered, leaning back against his pillows. "You've never understood the concept of courage, of course."
I was hurt, although I knew he was not wrong. But I did not protest, bowing my head instead, although I raised it again when he continued speaking. It helped to see his mouth move, because that way I could guess what sounds he was aiming for.

"But you're a decent fellow," Palatâr said now, "and I owe you for the last year. You've done well for yourself. And you haven't kept it to yourself. I respect that. You may be a coward, but you've got a good heart."
"Thank you, sir," I managed, and because it seemed that this was my last chance to say so, I added, "I owe you, too. You've taught me a lot."
"Not enough," Palatâr said. "But it'll have to do. Be a dear and give me something to drink." There was a bowl of tea on the stool at his bedside. It had gone tepid in the cold room, but he still drank deeply and gave a happy sigh afterwards. "Better. Now, sit down." He struck the thin mattress with his good hand, and I obediently sat. The mattress provided very little comfort, if you had grown used to well-stuffed beds and soft cushions, and I wondered whether I should offer him one of the good mattresses at my house.

But the moment passed, and Palatâr had his mind on other things, anyway. "There. Because I owe you, I feel that I should give you a parting gift that's worthy of the good you've done us."
"You don't have to," I started, but my throat constricted painfully and I had to fight down tears.
"Yes I do," Palatâr countered. I couldn't help reflecting that he was a lot more composed than I would have been - than I could be right now, in fact - as if it was I who was staring death in the eye, not he.
"Unfortunately, as you know, I have very little of value," Palatâr said, "and naturally I am going to give the house to Târinzil and the smoking hut to Târazon. He lost his job, did you know that? Of course you did. You know what it's like. He shouldn't have run off; there was nothing he could have done, anyway." Once again, my mouth opened to protest, but I thought better of it.
"Be that as it may, you don't need my house. But I have been thinking, would you have use for my body? It's old and not going to do much anymore, but from what I've gathered, you don't mind that at your work."
I struggled to reply. "Actually, it would be of great use, but I cannot possibly accept that!"
"Why not? I won't be needing it anymore." He laughed a little, and then said, "I've really made up my mind, Azruhâr. I am not going to turn back at the gates of Mandos, you know."
Swallowing hard, I managed to say, "You really don't have to do that. You have always been a faithful man, and I respect that, even if I don't understand it. You don't have to break your rules for my sake."

Palatâr now laughed so hard that I was afraid he'd forget to breathe, and wondered whether I should alert his children. But he caught himself in time, his eyes wet with tears of laughter. My eyes were brimming with sadness, and here Palatâr was laughing on the threshold of death. I clamped my trembling lips between my teeth to keep from crying. "Azruhâr, Azruhâr, if I had taught you better, then you would know that what happens to my body is of absolutely no consequence. There are no rules against your work, you know. Besides, if the Lord of Andúnië doesn't object, then who am I to disagree?" He sobered at last. "Because I am a little selfish and not as courageous as I'd like to be, I would ask that you treat me well. I don't want to be torn limb from limb or roasted or anything of the sort, even after death. But you won't do that, right?"
I shook my head, and some of the unshed tears dislodged themselves from my eyes and flew across the room. "We will treat you like a king," I whispered.

Palatâr passed away - peacefully, from what I heard; he simply went to sleep and did not wake up again - three days later. I attended the wake, as did everyone else in the neighbourhood, and plenty of folk beyond. I discovered that a lot of people had considered Palatâr as a sort of mentor, and during his long life - two hundred and seven years, an impressive sum for a day-taler - he had seen a lot of young people reach adulthood. He had been my age when my own father was born, which was a strange thought. We helped Târinzil and Târazon decorate the house with the ivy and juniper of mourning, and I paid for the unguents although I knew that we would have to wash them off in the catacombs later on. But I wanted Palatâr's children to be able to part from their father in the traditional manner, and besides, I did not know whether they were going to follow through with Palatâr's decision.

But they did. I expressed my sincere gratitude and offered them to watch, to make certain that we weren't doing anything untoward with their father's body. To my surprise, Târinzil took me up on it. I hope she took some solace from the fact that he was cleaned and anointed with the utmost care, and that we wrapped him in the finest linen, although in her place I would probably have felt resentful that he had to die first before being granted such luxuries. But she did not say so, only watching, pale-faced and resolute, as her father's abandoned body was turned into the prototype for the king's future funeral. At the last, his still face disappeared underneath a silver death-mask - the solution we had come up with to avoid the constantly slipping bandages had been a plaster mask, but the Crown Prince had intervened and declared that this was unworthy of a king, and Master Târik had paid from his own pocket to have the mask for Palatâr covered in silver. Târinzil kissed the smooth silver brow, shook our hands, and left without a word. My heart was heavy with sympathy, and with gratitude to her father. He had given us the perfect body to practice on - old and dead, but otherwise inviolate - and as I had promised, we treated him exactly as we were planning to treat the king. Palatâr was even entombed in the Noirinan so the conditions under which the new method was tested would be exactly as they would be for the king. There were, of course, no tapestries and no sculptures for Palatâr, but he was laid to rest in a sarcophagus made from the glittering granite imported from Middle-earth, like the nobles and royals who occupied that place. After that, there was nothing left to do but wait whether the resin and bandages and mask would work as we hoped they would. But I felt that we had given Palatâr the care he deserved, and I hoped that, wherever his spirit was now, he would feel the same.