The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

Chapter 28

Work was strange that day. We cleaned things away, polished our tools and the slab and the work-benches, made sure that our stocks of resin and salts and wrappings were sufficient. We were all downcast; after all, the old King had met us, for the most part, with generosity. I had no desire to speak of the last night, even to explain my broken nose, so instead we shared memories of happier times. Other than that, we waited for a messenger or a summons or the delivery of the body, but neither came.
We left the citadel at the usual time, unapprehended, and I went to Master Sérindo's house. He had indeed returned from the palace and even taken up his daily work again. He bade me sit and wait while he looked after the last of his patients, and then took me into his study. He studied my nose intently and announced that he would have to set it, but that it would have to wait.
"Until the bruising goes down?" I guessed.
"No, no. I'll do it today, don't worry. But I may have to give you something against the pain, and that'll make you woolly-minded. I have to discuss something serious with you first."
He looked around as if worried that somebody had snuck inside the study with me, then unlocked a drawer in his desk and took out a small box that was also locked and required a minuscule key to open. From this box, he took a small glass vial, the kind of which I had seen before: Filled with a colourless liquid, stoppered and safely sealed with nondescript sealing wax.
"Here," he said. "Judging from yesterday's events, I'm afraid you should have one of these."
I felt as if I had swallowed a stone, or maybe a lump of ice. "What is it?" I asked, even though I was fairly certain that it was the same kind of vial that Lord Eärendur's steward had lent to me a while back.

Master Sérindo held it up to the light. "It is called the Draught of Walking Death," he explained. "The finest opium from the Gardens of Lórien, mixed with concentrated essence of hemp flowers. Very powerful and very dangerous, but also very useful if you're about to suffer the grisly fate of, say, a traitor. It renders the rational faculties insensate – removes the spirit, so to say – while the animal parts of the body still react to their surroundings. That way, the executioner gets his due and the crowd gets its spectacle, but the condemned is spared from actually experiencing his torment. A word of caution – the spirit is destroyed permanently, even if one is pardoned halfway through, so it should not be taken except at the last need. But should that last need arise, you are now prepared."
I took the small bottle hesitantly. "And you are certain that it works?"
"Absolutely. I have seen it in use."

Nodding despondently, I stowed the bottle in my loincloth, a little awkwardly because it was winter and I was wearing three layers on top of it. "What do I owe you? How can I thank you?" I said.
"Don't mention it. And I mean that literally. Do not mention it to anyone. Not to your friends, not to your fellow embalmers, not even to your darling wife. Keep it absolutely secret."
"My fellow embalmers thought about using arsenic, if… the need arose. We can easily get that at work."
"Hm. Can't recommend it. Messy death. Inner bleeding. Awful cramps. Probably not as bad as the torment itself, but not the best choice if you're hoping to go painlessly. Not entirely reliable either. Some people need more than others to be killed, and just end up miserable inside as well as outside. It might make you vomit and thus essentially cure yourself – long enough to be fully conscious for the punishment, at any rate. Besides, it takes too long. And it's not exactly subtle, so they may figure it out and punish you harder while they can. There's just one thing worse than a traitor's death, and that's the death of a traitor who was caught trying to cheat the executioner." He grimaced dramatically, but then conceded, "I suppose it's better than nothing. You'd have to take a lot of it to be on the safe side, though. No, the Walking Death is a lot less unpleasant. You didn't get it from me, of course. Helping a traitor to suffer less is treason in itself."
I put my hands together in a demonstration of sincerity. "I never heard or got it from you. If anyone catches me with it, I got the vial from a hooded figure in the black market, behind the brothels, for the proud sum of three Trees."
Master Sérindo actually smiled at that. "I see you've given the matter some thought. That's good. One should be prepared for the worst, and then take care that it never comes to pass. And now let's have a look at your nose."
In the end, he decided that his poppyseed concoction – the ordinary kind – would take longer to take hold than just setting my nose without any such precautions. "But I'll give you some to take home with you, and you can take it for the night – or future nights - if you need it."
The brief pressure he put on my nose brought the sharp pain back at full strength, and when he told me that it would take several weeks until it would be back to normal, I was very much tempted to cry. My face felt horrible, and my mind felt horrible, and as I left Master Sérindo's practice with a wet cloth pressed to my nose and one of his servants with a lantern guiding me home, I remembered the last night and began to wonder whether I would even last the next month, and that did make me cry. It was not a good idea. The last thing you want to do with a broken nose is sob.

Lord Eärendur had kindly already informed my household of the reason for my absence and of my injury. Nonetheless, I could not wholly avoid telling them what had happened, although I could not bring myself to tell them the shameful truth about my broken nose, which turned out to be a good thing, because Azruphel was furious when she saw me like that.
"Who did that to you, Atto?" she asked, brandishing her small fists. "I am going to punch them back!"
I had vivid, quite horrifying images in my mind of my daughter trying to punch the King's heir. "Revenge is never going to bring peace," I said, and pretended that it had happened in the general commotion following the King's death, and that I did not even properly remember the details of it.
That evening, in the warmth and merry light of the Heart, I told my household of my history with the old King. Most of them had not heard it – the true version of it, not the garbled tale of spying and private dinners that had made the rounds back in the day – and it seemed to be a riveting tale, in spite of my thick nasal voice. At any rate, they all listened intently and kept asking what happened next, and I spoke a lot more than I would have liked to.
When I lay in bed at last, I had no more words left to speak. Amraphel took me in her arms, and we wept together for the death of the old King and the terror of the new.

The next day was uneventful. The day after that, I received the summons that I had expected and dreaded. They did not wait until after work, either, but called me up from the catacombs and told me to present myself at the palace. Not knowing what else to do, I obeyed, and had to wait in the antechamber in front of the throne room for the better part of an hour, as if I needed to be reminded that I was the kind of man who could be called from his work at any time and then kept waiting at his betters' discretion. I wondered whether I should have joined the queue of mourners who filed past the dead King. He had been put on display on some sort of ceremonial table, anointed and robed all in white and crowned with a wreath of juniper, and it appeared that anyone who had ever received the least kindness from him, and probably a whole lot of people who were simply curious to see the King up close, had come to pay him their respects. They touched his feet or kissed his dead hands, and I began to worry that all this lying on display and being handled and kissed would damage the body. Already, two and a half days had passed since his death, and the longer the body was untreated – the scented oils barely counted – the higher the risk that we would not be able to preserve it properly.
But anyway, I wondered whether I should have gotten into line with the other mourners, some of whom were giving me very curious glances because I was simply standing around, doing nothing, and probably also because of my bruised face and puffed eyes. I had been given no instruction other than to wait in front of the throne room, and was beginning to think that I had understood something wrong when finally, a servant appeared to take me into the state room on the other side of the chamber.

The King – the new King, that is – was there, as well as Lord Atanacalmo and a man whom, by the coal smears on his fingers and the clothing too fine for a charburner, I identified as a painter. I was informed that he was making the sketches for the memorial tapestry of Tar-Ancalimon's life, and that my assistance was required.
I must have looked very stupid at that, because I was neither a painter nor a tapestry weaver and did not see my purpose in this. I tried to sound collected and not too badly confused. "And how exactly may I help?"
"Our father," the King announced, "desired to be remembered, among other things, for his habit of pardoning undeserving criminals like yourself, and since you are such a prime example of his mercy, we felt that you should pose for the tapestry."
I blinked hard. "Your majesty wants to have me on your royal father's tapestry?" That seemed, on the whole, a strange decision, even if the tapestry would be put up at the Noirinan where he wouldn't have to see it often.
"A depiction of you," he said dismissively, which was of course what I'd meant. "What a better way to let everybody know what kind of man you are?"
"I see," I said, not seeing a thing.
The artist spoke up. "Oh yes, he'll do very nicely; he does have the face of a prisoner-"
At that, my temper began to stir, and I interrupted him, saying, "Nobody broke my nose back then."
Lord Atanacalmo, who had so far kept quiet, seemed to find that inexplicably funny. He was dressed in mourning, of course, and had been looking uncommonly grim up to now, but at this exchange, the old smirk was reappearing on his face, which he swiftly turned away from us. Even more strangely, the King suddenly stiffened and rose abruptly from his cushioned chair.
"Before you begin, we shall have some private words with Azruhâr," he said.

Lord Atanacalmo inclined his head in acknowledgement, while the artist bowed very low. The King grabbed my wrist – fortunately, he took the right, not the bruised left – and unceremoniously pulled me into a small side-room, which was evidently where they stored the tableware for banquets. I felt very ill at ease alone with him in that small space. His eyes were hard and angry, and his jaw was clenched so firmly that it was trembling ever so slightly, and I wondered whether he would finish what he had begun on the night of his father's death. The painter would surely be no help, and I didn't dare to rely on Lord Atanacalmo, either. I should have bowed my head, but I didn't dare to lose sight of my opponent, and so I compromised on a sort of half-bow that still enabled me to keep my eyes on the King's grim face.

"It has been brought to our attention," he said, "that it would be highly unsuitable for the King's heir to unrighteously spill the blood of one of his subjects, no matter how deserving, during the hallowed Night of Passing. Extremely unsuitable. Outrageously unsuitable."
"Outrageously," I echoed just to show that I was listening. "That is... unfortunate."
He stared me down. "Therefore, such a thing cannot have happened."
I began to guess where this was going. "Your majesty excepts me to keep it secret?" I said, and could not help sounding outraged. "This is the second time!"
His chin jerked in an odd way, as if he had bit into a juicy-looking piece of meat and his teeth had come down on a hidden bone. I wondered whether he had forgotten about the concussion I had been given at his command.
"It would be easy for any subject to disappear who might claim that such an outrageous thing had happened..."
I did not doubt it. Still, I couldn't help asking, "And the council, lord King? Is it easy to let that disappear, too?"
He tossed his head back as if I had struck out. Had he truly forgotten that there had been plenty of witnesses – and men of rank and name, too? He pursed his lips and then said, "The council will be reasonable, we are sure. It is not their grievance. They will not make a case of it unless someone brings it up."
I was less certain. I remembered how disappointed some of the councillors had been when the former Crown Prince had been given the sceptre, and they might be happy to exploit my grievance in order to replace him with somebody who suited them better.

On the other hand, who would that be? Lord Atanacalmo had openly demonstrated that he would not contest his nephew's claim. Then who else would they turn to? I did not understand enough of politics to do more than guess wildly. All of the nobles were somehow related to the royal house, of course, but there must be some kind of set of rules for the succession. Lord Eärendur had already told me that he was too far removed from the main line, and besides, he was hoping to retire to Andúnië. Lord Eärengolë was even further removed, no matter that he was married to the sister of the new Queen. Lord Vanatirmo, perhaps? I had no idea, nor did I know how closely or less closely the other nobles were to the main line. The only certain candidates I could think of were Lady Calamíriel, who did not strike me as a rebel leader, and Lady Arancalimë, who would doubtlessly make a formidable Queen but might be hindered by her own father's refusal to contend for the sceptre. Perhaps Princess Vanimeldë as the direct heir of the old King's heir? But they were all women, which seemed to make some people think that they were not meant to be rulers, and that would probably make it hard to inspire a large following and unite the people. I came to the conclusion that it would be unwise to risk the former Crown Prince's ire if I didn't even know whose purpose it would serve, and whether that person had any serious hopes for the throne, and even if they did, whether they would be willing to protect me at all.

"What makes your majesty think that I will not also be amenable to reason?" I asked.
He tilted his head, his eyebrows raised in surprise or scepticism. "You defy reason constantly! There is no predicting what you will do! Reasonable? You?" He clenched and unclenched his fists rapidly, and I shrank back, fearing for my poor face. All things considered, I found it rather astounding that somebody who followed a meaningless man like me with such hatred, and who had unrighteously spilled a subject's blood within the very first minute of his reign, was accusing me of defying reason. I had to clasp my hands behind my back to keep them from balling into tight fists in turn, and I certainly spoke more sharply than one should in the presence of the King. "All I want – all I have ever wanted – is to live in peace, free from fear or hunger or harm. Everything I do is motivated from that simple desire. I do not want to cause trouble. I know that your majesty hates me, but I for my part am not your enemy, and I wish I could make you see that." I took a deep, steadying breath – since I could not breathe through my nose, it was hard to speak so much at once – and said, more politely, "I will be happy to stay out of your way, lord King. I seek no office and I don't need to be invited to the palace. I have no desire to inconvenience you. All I ask is that neither I nor anybody I love be threatened or hurt." My left hand had flown up to my nose and cheek, bruised and tender, as if the illustration was needed.

A long silence followed. The King was no longer pacing, instead standing frozen to the spot, his hands balled into tight fists, his brow creased in a frown that made him look decades older. But at last, he let out a heavy sigh, and unclenched his fists.
"So be it," he said, holding out his right hand to me.
In shock and surprise, at first I did not move at all. Then I had to fight down the well-practiced impulse to kneel and kiss the royal hand. Instead, I managed to grip it in a nervous handshake that probably turned out rather too firm; at any rate, I could feel it in my palm for a good while afterwards, and he shook his hand when we let go of each other as though his fingers hurt, although I suppose he might just have wanted to shake off the memory of touching me.
"Unless, of course, you – or they – break the law and give us reason," he added as an afterthought.
"We shall take great care not to do that, lord King," said I.

With that, the matter appeared to be settled, because the King strode out of the small room, and I followed, still confused. I was not certain whether I could trust in our agreement at all. There had been no witnesses, and what right did I have to negotiate or make deals with the King, anyway? On the other hand, I felt that I had made no outrageous demands, and I very much hoped that this would be appreciated in some way. I simply had to hope for the best.
Lord Atanacalmo, in conversation with the painter, looked at us with a complicated expression – savouring an exotic taste that might be pleasant or might be too strong, perhaps – before standing up and rolling his shoulders.
"Well," he said in my direction, "let's get this over with, shall we?"
The King sat down at the large table, ostensibly to study the heavy tome and heap of papers that had been put there, but he seemed to be very invested in the artistic process, because I noticed that he kept glancing over in our direction.

The painter explained his vision. Lord Atanacalmo was to stand in for his brother, and I was to be the criminal suing for mercy at his feet. That in itself was a familiar scenario, although I couldn't exactly say that I was eager to revisit it. I grudgingly took off my boots and warm shirt so I would look more destitute, but I very nearly balked when the painter expressed his intention of tying my hands for the sake of realism. All in all, I did not see why he needed to make me up "realistically", since Lord Atanacalmo was – despite a certain family similarity – no perfect stand-in for the late King, either, and was moreover wearing mourning greys instead of the festival white the King had worn in reality, and that seemed to be no problem. "Besides," I said grimly, "they didn't use rope back then."
The King looked up from his papers. "We can find you a pair of proper manacles, that would be no problem at all," he said, showing his teeth. "If that's what you prefer."
After that, I agreed to have my hands – losely – bound with rope, and knelt at Lord Atanacalmo's feet to pretend pleading for mercy while he pretended to graciously pardon me.

"That takes us back, doesn't it," he said dispassionately. From this close, I could see that his eyes were red and puffy, betraying a grief that he was too proud to show openly. In his voice, there was no crack, no tremour, nothing to betray the slightest weakness; indeed, I got the impression that he was mildly amused by the whole thing.
"Yes, my lord. Though I know I wouldn't be here now if you had been in that place back then."
He snorted softly – whether it was at my convoluted utterance or at its content, I do not know – but did not respond. I likewise fell silent. It seemed unwise to speak much with the already ill-tempered King present, but at the same time, I would have been glad for some distraction. As it was, unpleasant memories of the past were mingling with equally unpleasant fears about the future, and then I thought about how Kârathôn and I had once talked about how embarrassing it would be to have our lives depicted like that of Tar-Minyatur. Now part of mine really would be put in a tapestry, and of course it had to be one of the most shameful parts.

With such cheerful thoughts on my mind, it was probably no wonder that my eyes welled over, which inspired the painter to praise the conviction I put into my performance.
"Yes, it's almost as if the role comes naturally to him," Lord Atanacalmo quipped.
"Isn't it just?" said the King. He no longer sounded displeased at all, but rather satisfied, evidently enjoying my humiliation. "Oh, before we forget - you will need grey robes for the funeral procession, Azruhâr. Mourning robes. No fancy embroidery."
Now I thought that I began to understand. The tapestry would be displayed in the funeral procession, when the King's body would be brought to the Noirinan, and of course a great number of people would be watching. If I was marching behind in the same procession, they would make the connection with ease. Everyone who was still unaware of what I was, would afterwards know perfectly well what to think of me – all the merchants and shopkeepers who were as yet neutral towards me, all the polite woodworkers who merely knew me as the new inhabitant of the house in Cherry Lane, all the ordinary people who didn't give me a second glance in the street, all the city guards who had forgotten my prisoner's face and been fooled by my decent clothing into thinking that I was an upstanding citizen. I wasn't just meant to pose as a symbolic recipient of the King's Mercy; this was actually about me, personally. I felt my cheeks grow hot in annoyance, which made the bruises hurt worse. I knew that ten years ago, I would simply have accepted humiliation as an unpleasant but natural part of life, but by now, I had grown out of the habit and very much resented the return to it – especially as this wasn't some fleeting, private embarrassment that would pass in time, but a lasting impression. The funeral of the King and the crowning of a new King would be once-in-a-lifetime (or, for most of the common folk, once-in-three-lifetimes) event. It would be remembered for decades to come. People would be talking about the funny-looking embalmer lying at the King's feet for longer than I would live. I began to resent the situation in a way that had nothing to do with the increasing fatigue in my uplifted arms and the pain in my knees and nose. I wished I had asked not merely to be spared harm and threats, but also this kind of intentional embarrassment.

"If I may ask, your Majesty, what has earned me the honour of being part of the procession?" I asked, and couldn't help but sound a little bitter.
"Father has decreed that you alone shall be responsible for the preservation of his body," said the King, and I could hear that he was aware of my bitterness, and quite pleased with it. "And since you are playing such an important role, it is only right that you should march in the procession."
The prospect made the burning, and thus, the throbbing, in my face intensify.
"Oh! You are the King's embalmer, too?" the painter said excitedly. "Then I shall have to paint you again, at your work. Since Tar-Ancalimon established this new custom --"
"We're afraid that will not be possible," the King said, "since the embalming will only take place once the body is in the Noirinan."

His words took a while to register, but when they did, I could no longer hold my pose, letting my arms sink and turning to face him. "Lord King, I have to protest! With every day that passes, we risk the destruction of the body. We can only stop the process of decay once we actually start working on the body, and already three days have gone by. If we delay the embalming until after the funeral – and that's weeks away, if the tapestry still needs to be woven – then I have no hope of preserving your royal father at all."
"Really," the King said slowly, and with a sinking feeling I realised that I had shown him a direct way out of our fragile agreement. "Is that so. So you are saying that you cannot fulfil your obligation to our father?"
I struggled for breath as panic made my stomach churn. "Not if you thwart me on purpose!" I cried. Lord Atanacalmo cleared his throat, and I hoped that he might come to my rescue, but apparently it had rather been meant as a warning. Of course. I should remember my place, keep my fist in my pocket, and let him kick me if need be. I felt that I had taken enough kicking, figuratively, but I suppose it wasn't the fool's prerogative to decide when his work was done. This time, I raised my arms in true pleading and said, as meekly as my urgency allowed, "Most noble King, I understand that you are only too happy to frustrate my purposes -" there was a sharp intake of breath from the painter, so I knew I had again said something inappropriate - "but I direly beg you to reconsider. My purposes mean nothing, but your majesty would also frustrate the desire of your royal father, and that, Lord King, is surely more than my ruin can be worth."

His fists lay clenched upon the table, and I could see the nuckles stand out white from the tension in them. My heart was pounding, and I was nauseous with fear, but also with suppressed anger. The painter had taken refuge in his work, scritching furiously to capture (I assume) the desperate urgency of my performance that was no longer a performance. And to pretend that he had no part in this conversation.
Finally, Lord Atanacalmo broke the charged silence. "The embalmer has got a point," he said generously. "He is the expert in this matter; I suppose he ought to be listened to. Perhaps it would indeed be closer to my brother's Last Will if he were brought to his tomb already embalmed."
From the look on his face, the King appeared to be chewing on a rotten piece of fruit. "Yes, yes," he finally said. "We suppose so." And he added – for the sake of the bewildered painter, I must assume - "Thank you for the expertise, embalmer." And then, with a forced smile: "Well, we trust this is realistic enough, is it, master painter?"
"Perfectly, lord King," said the painter with a low bow. I bowed as well, and tried to breathe evenly over the wild gallop of my heart.

When at last the painter had finished his work, my legs had well and truly fallen asleep, and I had to steady myself on the table while the feeling came back with needle-stabs of angry nerves. If I had been alone, I would have whimpered to myself, but I did not want to give the King (or Lord Atanacalmo, for that matter) that satisfaction. I was waiting for my feet to return to normal when a touch on my back made me freeze in shock. It was Lord Atanacalmo, tracing the raised lines on my skin with his long fingers. I clenched my eyes shut. It did not hurt; he was not even ungentle; nonetheless, I found it deeply unpleasant. Amraphel sometimes traced my scars with her fingers or her tongue when we were in bed together; we jokingly called them my bridewealth. But that was different. This was a cold and probing touch, and I was already worn out from enduring the King's enmity and the reminder of my imprisonment and could bear no further testing. I ground my teeth, which did hurt, but at least it distracted me.
Lord Atanacalmo chuckled. "'Reasonable and appropriate'?" he said quietly.
I shrugged angrily, and his fingers dropped off my shoulder blade. "Those were always very vague terms, Lord."
"Indeed." To his credit, he did not touch me again. Instead, he tossed me my shirt and tunic, and I hastily put them back on.

From an artistic point of view, I couldn't deny that the painter had done good work. There was none of the stiffness in either my or Lord Atanacalmo's posture that you often saw in paintings, the kind that reminded you that someone had posed for these pictures, pretending to be something that they were not. Lord Atanacalmo looked regal and casually gracious, and the painter had made the necessary adjustments to his face so that it could have been that of the old King at his brother's age. I, the supplicant, looked every bit as desperate and frantic as the situation demanded. Unlike Lord Atanacalmo's, my face was very much my own, broken nose and bruised cheek included. People would recognise me all right.
"The body will be brought to the catacombs this evening," the King announced.
I bowed my head in acknowledgement and relief. "Thank you, your majesty."
I was already halfway to the door when he said, as an afterthought, "You will not wear your amber pendant for the procession. None shall outshine us on that day."
My hand instinctively rose to the warm piece of amber that hung from my throat. "It is not very likely that I should outshine you, lord King," I couldn't help pointing out.
He snorted dismissively. "Indeed. Nonetheless, you will not wear it. In fact, perhaps we should confiscate it. We have a mind to use it in our coronation jewellery."

My fingers had closed protectively around the pendant. I wondered whether he really could do that, simply confiscate it. There were probably rules about the exact circumstances under which property could be taken away, but I did not know them, and besides, he was the King now; he could change the rules, or make it look as if I was the one breaking them. By the greedy glint in his eyes, I knew that he genuinely wanted it, not just because giving up would hurt me – aside from its monetary value, the pendant was a precious reminder of Lord Eärendur's friendship, as he probably knew – but for what it was. I would not be able to hold on to it if the King truly wanted to take it away, agreement or no. Yet again, I hated having such a powerful enemy when I myself was so powerless, and he had certainly used today to demonstrate my lack of power. At the least, I thought, I wouldn't have him take it away from me by force; nor would I let him turn it into a reason to go back on what he had promised earlier.

Taking a deep breath, I slipped the silver chain over my head, made my way back to the table, and knelt again, holding out the pendant and its chain in my cupped hands. "Please, your majesty, accept this as a token of my goodwill and loyalty. I give it freely in tribute to your glory, and pray that you may look upon me more kindly in the future, and remember our agreement." The words came out dull and hard. I could briefly see a startled expression in his eyes, and I knew that I was defying reason yet again. For a moment, I thought that he would throw the pendant in my face, but it seemed that his greed was stronger than his pride: he snatched it from my hands. Even through my helpless anger, I marvelled at it. As King of Yôzayân, he must surely be the richest man in the world, who could have bought hundreds of pieces of Valinorean amber, however rare they were. And yet he was not above taking this one from a man who had been born a pauper, and whom he personally detested. My humiliation stung intensely, but at the same time, I felt that the King was, just now, humiliating himself more badly than me.

The painter, perhaps feeling the same, was packing up his materials too quickly to be entirely unconcerned, although he was obviously eager to affect being entirely unaware of what was going on. Lord Atanacalmo was, for the first time that I remembered, looking every bit as furious as the new King was. As if I wasn't dreading our next game of chess enough already. He would probably give me an earful for trying to outsmart – shame, even – his nephew, who was now studying the pendant with a gleam of delight in his eyes. I was missing the precious piece already. I still wished that the King would throw it in my face, simply so I did not have to give it up, but instead he seemed to have forgotten my presence completely.
Again, it was Lord Atanacalmo who spoke at last. "It is a kingly tribute," he said in a terse voice. "It will indubitably be appreciated. And now it would probably be better if Azruhâr returned to his work. There must be much to prepare if he is to take care of my brother this evening."

We had already finished all preparation while waiting for the body, of course, but I felt it was better not to say that. I waited for a sign of dismissal from the King, and indeed, he gave a curt nod. I bowed and made my way out of the room. I wished I could have run, but the file of mourners was still long, so I forced myself to walk at a dignified pace and ignore the curious looks they gave me. Daylight was still strong when I left the palace; it had felt as if a whole day had passed while I'd been inside, but in reality it was still early in the afternoon. The occasional snowflake drifted in the cold winter wind, but my face was burning. I had given my best piece of jewellery, and I could not even be certain that it had bought me the peace I wanted. I would have liked to go to Lord Eärendur's house to confess what I had done with his gift, and ideally to weep about the injustice of the world if he let me. Instead, I went back to my colleagues. After all, the last thing I needed right now were claims that I was neglecting my work.

Tar-Ancalimon's body was indeed brought down to the royal morgue that evening, which meant that I would have to work through the night and the following days as well. I did not dare to delay further, since the body had already been left untreated (save for the traditional scented oils, which were not for preservation but only for keeping the corpse presentable) for too long already. Another problem that quickly arose was that the old King had decreed that I, and I alone, should be responsible for his preservation, which the new King took to mean that I should work entirely on my own, with no assistance from my colleagues, so my colleagues would not share the blame if anything went wrong. "Nor the glory if it all goes right," Kârathôn commented tartly, but I did not find the thought reassuring. Blame seemed a lot more likely.
"I will need another pair of hands to lift the body," I told the servants who had carried the stretcher down. "I need somebody who helps me to prepare the materials. I will have to take turns with someone, because the body has already been left untreated for too long and we will need to work day and night to make up for it. I will need to send somebody to the silver-smith for the death-mask. I will not be held responsible if I am hindered in performing my duty because you refuse to let me have the help I need. You will." I was speaking rather more forcefully than was my wont, especially since the poor fellows were certainly not responsible for the new King's interpretation of his father's Will. But I was already worn to the end of my patience, and besides, I really did need a second pair of hands, and it seemed that my only hope of securing it was by pushing these people into permitting it.

And in the end, with some running to and fro and reporting the matter to their master, they informed us that I was permitted to have one of my colleagues with me for assistance, but that I would still be held solely responsible, and besides, I would have to share the alotted pay with whoever remained with me. That last part was bad news, since I was still urgently dependent on my weekly pay, but there was no helping it. So I agreed to both conditions. Master Târik freely offered to stay, and I was glad for it. I would not have dared to ask him, since I did not want to keep him away from his family for such a long time, but I was grateful for his offer; much as I trusted all my colleagues, he simply was the most experienced of us all. I gushed my thanks, at which he gave a lopsided smile and said, "Well, I do need to keep my title of master somehow, don't I?"

The next week, we lived entirely in the catacombs. Kârathôn and Mîkul informed our families, and they came back once to bring us provisions so we wouldn't starve and blankets so we would have at least some modest comfort; and then they left us, since I had only been allowed to have one assistant. In their stead, the painter came to draw us at our work. This time he omitted my injuries, making me look rather more hale and content than I was feeling. He also tried to find out what exactly had been going on the other day, irresistably curious about my history with the new King. I suppose it must have looked like an intriguing story from the outside, but I was not willing to explain lest my despair at the whole mess overwhelmed me entirely. I gave non-committal answers, pretending that my efforts took too much focus. It wasn't untrue. I was weary to my bones; sleeping in the catacombs was unpleasant, and even if I'd had a softer bed and warmer room, I doubt my troubled mind would have allowed for easy sleep. The lack of daylight was getting to me. Besides, I was terrified of making a mistake, knowing that I was dealing with an enemy who seemed to turn even my modest moments of success against me. So I double-checked every step I took, every tool and chemical I used, against the much-annotated protocol of Palatâr's preservation. Under happier circumstances I might perhaps have changed the topic and told the painter about my daughter's love of art, and asked him whether he was willing to give lessons. But the circumstances were not happy, and I was relieved when he was done and gone. If Master Târik had not been there to keep me company, I think I would have gone mad. As the old King had wanted, I did the greater part of the actual work; but it was Master Târik who reminded me to regularly take time for eating and sleeping, and also to bathe when a pause in the process allowed it, simply to wash off the sweat and incense and salts, even if I returned to the work right away after that. He gave my tense shoulders a good kneading, and talked with me about better times in the past, and generally kept my mind among the living.

At last our work was done, as well as it could be. I had washed the withered body – noting with dismay that dark bruises had already formed on the bottom side, where it seemed that the blood had pooled now that it was no longer kept flowing – with water and vinegar and glycerine; I wrapped the body in several layers of bandages, all with a layer of preservative salts in-between; I had sealed the bandages with resin, and made the plaster version of the death-mask. Having seen the encouraging effect of the smile on old Palatâr's face, I tried to recreate it, but it was difficult because the King's features were already quite rigid, and moreover we had removed his teeth – it had turned out that the lovely strong white teeth that had looked as though they belonged to some younger man had, as it were, belonged to a younger man, and had been fixed together and to the King's remaining teeth by means of gold thread. Master Târik had agreed with me that the foreign object would increase the risk of decay, and so we had taken it out, which meant that the toothless mouth crumpled and looked very dissatisfied indeed. I could only hope that it would adapt to the more friendly shape of the mask over time. I tried not to wonder too much about where the King's replacement teeth had come from in the first place.
Then Master Târik went and had the plaster mask encased in silver. I felt strangely vulnerable with him gone, as if the new King's henchmen would come rushing down the stairs as soon as I was alone. I wasn't certain whether I worried more about them arresting or hurting me, or rather about them doing something that would damage the body and blame it on me; but worry I did.

Of course, I could not guard the body forever. With the mask finished and sealed in place, it was time to return to the world upstairs, which was strangely bright and painfully bustling with movement and noise. I learned that the funeral procession – and after it, the coronation – would take place on Mettarë. It felt appropriate that Tar-Ancalimon would be brought to his tomb on the day that the old year ended, although I was inundated with a renewed surge of despair at the mere thought of his son's coronation. This information was provided by Quentangolë, who was red-eyed and very subdued himself, and I assumed that he had already suffered from the new King's dislike for anyone who had been in favour with the old King. He also told me that I would have to attend a preparational meeting on the next day, where I would learn what exactly I was supposed to do during the procession and ceremony.
At least Quentangolë had one pleasant surprise for me. Because I had been obliged to do a master embalmer's work, the old King had decreed that I should be given the money-bag that usually went to Master Târik at the end of the week. I found out that it contained fifteen silver Crowns – that was five whole Trees! - and even after giving seven of them to Master Târik (he declined my offer of the eighth), that was a very welcome relief for my ever-drained purse.

And then I hurried home to finally see my family again. Most of my household seemed to be happy to see me again, except for Palatârik, who turned his face away and acted as if I was a terrifying stranger. When I tried to speak with him, he ran away and hid behind Târinzil, bursting into tears. It was to be understood, I suppose, since I had been absent for a week, but it still hurt. Only when I looked in the mirror did I realise that he might not even have recognised me. My face looked worse than it felt. The bruises had turned from dark purple to a yellowing green, and though my nose was no longer quite so monstrous, it was still thicker than usual. Where I wasn't bruised, I looked pale and sickly, and my eyes had dark circles around them and glared out dull and red at the world. No wonder that my little son had been frightened. I thought of all the people who in the past had acted as if I, or my fellow embalmers, carried some sort of death-cloud around us. Now I really looked the part, especially once I put on the grey mourning robes Amraphel had commissioned for me during my absence. I looked like a ghastly, otherworldly figure that guided, or perhaps dragged, the spirits of the dead to Mandos. Not that I'd ever made an impressive figure or been able to pride myself on great good looks, but the thought of appearing like that in front of the gawping populace of Arminalêth was highly unappealing. But naturally, my sensibilities were not significant in this matter. At best, I could hope that parading me around as a grim ghost would satisfy the new King's desire to kick me, at least for a while.