The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

Chapter 30

Of course, I did not even get the whole free week to recover and regain my strength. Before even the left-overs from the coronation feast could have been eaten, I received a summons to Lord Atanacalmo's house. I had hoped that he would be kept busy by the King, or failing that, that he himself would want to rest and recover. I would vastly have preferred to speak with Lord Eärendur first, since we had been kept apart in the past weeks and I felt that I direly needed his advice. But I knew from Lord Saphadûl that the Council was in session during the first days, to arrange matters of government under its new head - unlike the rest of the populace, the councillors were not granted a holiday – so I felt that there was no chance of seeing him. Lord Atanacalmo, meanwhile, had no such qualms. On the evening of the third day, he insisted on my amusing company. Perhaps the courtiers did not let him win at chess. At any rate, it apparently was important enough to send two of his bodyguards to collect me. Their bulky presence behind me felt more like a prisoner's guard than a friendly escort.

As had become Lord Atanacalmo's custom, he was waiting for me in his study. He was back in the grey garb of mourning, which surprised me, since the mourning period had officially ended with the coronation. At the ceremony, I'd had the impression that Lord Atanacalmo had been enjoying himself perfectly well. Then I remembered how red his eyes had been earlier, when we had posed for the tapestry, and I chided myself for being so callous. He was human after all, and as such, he might still be grieving. He'd played his part at the coronation, as we all had.
"Let me offer my heartfelt condolences for the loss of your brother, my lord," I heard myself say.
Lord Atanacalmo accepted them with a curt nod. "And you?" he asked. "Why are you still wearing grey?"
I bit my lip, wondering whether it was safe to admit how much I was missing the old man, considering how high above me he'd stood and how little my grief meant. Then, hoping that Lord Atanacalmo wouldn't take offense, I decided to say the truth. "His Majesty was very important to me," I said, "both as King and as benefactor. It is a great loss for me, too."

Lord Atanacalmo snorted softly, sounding more like himself. "Touching. And here I thought you just couldn't afford a second winter robe."
I felt my face grow warm and regretted my honesty at once. I lifted my chin a bit. "Grey is also the colour of my craft, or so I have been told, so perhaps I should be wearing it all the time."
There was another snort, and the shadow of a leer. Lord Atanacalmo seemed to be one of those people who turned their grief into anger. "Ah. Yes. Your so-called craft. Did you know that Alcarmaitë plans to defund the Keepers of the Dead? No, of course you didn't, it is only just being discussed. Well, take it from me: the Crown will not pay for your work much longer."
"Is that so, my lord?" I said, because I didn't know what else to say.
"It is indeed, young Azruhâr. There is no point, Alcarmaitë feels, in paying you to preserve criminals who don't deserve it, now that you have established the right way of embalming and no longer need to experiment. So you shall no longer be paid for it. What will you do then, hm?"
It was a justified question, and the longer I thought about it, the more my already low spirit sank.
"I suppose I shall be executed then," I said, trying to sound nonchalant about it but hearing my voice crack. "Since I have only ever been released under condition."

He raised his eyebrows at that. "Oh, I don't think the Keepers will be dismantled – or put to their original punishment, for that matter – entirely. Yet. You just will no longer be payed by the Crown, unless the Crown specifically commissions you."
My fingers were twisting the fabric of my robe. It was solid, well-spun, tightly woven wool that provided a firm grip and didn't slip apart under my anxious fingertips, which just reminded me of how much I had won, and how much I had to lose.
"So I must find other work," I said. That in itself would not have been too bad, except that I had learned no other craft and I would never be able to maintain the house and feed my household and keep the Daytaler's Wellfare Society running as a simple daytaler. I understood that the King had outmaneuvered me. I had kept my side of the bargain, and he'd kept his. He wasn't threatening or hurting me. He didn't need to. He could simply stop paying for my work, and the work of my colleagues while he was at it, and let the relentless demands of everyday life in the capital take care of me. I dug my fingers into my thighs until I could feel my fingernails through the fabric, and tried to keep my voice even. "Now that you've given me these news, I expect you will again offer me to become your… your eyes and ears among the poor, my lord?"
"Oh, goodness me. No. Certainly not. That time has passed." His face was the very image of refusal.
That puzzled me, because I had thought that he was telling me because he wanted to press me into his service. Did he want me to plead for work at his feet? Previously he had not seemed to care for that kind of thing. But then, he had previously offered me employment, and now times had apparently changed.
I closed my eyes in resignation. "Do I have to beg, Lord?"
"What for? Money in the streets? Possibly, if you can't find a way to earn it. That, I believe, is how it usually goes."
"I mean, for work."
Again, he shrugged. "Possibly! But there is no point in begging from me. It would be highly unwise to take you into my pay now, considering Alcarmaitë's special attention to you, wouldn't it? No, as I said, that time is past."

I nodded despondently. "I see, my lord. May I take my leave, then?"
"Of course not! We haven't even played yet!"
On top of the news I had been given, a brutal game of chess was the last thing I wanted, and because I felt betrayed, I could not keep that thought to myself. "Have mercy, my lord. I don't think I can bear any more today."
"Well, you will," he said firmly, taking the chess pieces out of their inlaid ebony box. "After all, your ability to bear up against adversity is one of your few redeeming features."
I must admit that I gave him a very dirty look, which he chose to ignore. "How kind of you to say that I have any redeeming features," I said bitterly. "May I ask why you are determined to wear them down?"
He raised an eyebrow at my recalcitrant remark, but did not admonish me. He certainly seemed in better cheer than he'd been when I had arrived, so I suppose I was serving my purpose, at least.

For a while, we played in silence, and I tried to get my frustration under control and my thoughts sorted. Since I had received the house as a gift from the King, I would not be permitted to sell it, but maybe I would be able to rent it out. I'd have to return to my old house and dismiss most of my servants, of course. And I'd still have to pay for the maintenance and upkeep of the house. But at least the rent would provide a reliable income. That was a fortifying idea which helped me to endure the bad news a bit better. It did not improve my game in any way, however.
"You still have no strategy whatsoever," Lord Atanacalmo observed when he had all but defeated my little carved army.
I had no strength to do anything but shrug. "That can hardly surprise you, Lord. I've never had a strategy. If you want me to learn it, you will have to actually explain it to me."
"Well!" Lord Atanacalmo steepled his fingers, the old glint back in his eyes. "Are we feeling rebellious today?"
Too weary to argue, I bowed my head and said, "I beg your pardon, Lord. It has been a trying time."
He chuckled, then moved a piece around the board. "I expect it has been. Incidentally, how is your face?"
My head jerked up sharply. I tried to read his eyes, to understand what would be the right or the wrong thing to say, but as usual, he gave me no hint. There was still some redness in his eyes, but other than that, the mask of ironic superiority was fully back in place.
I should have liked to speak about what had happened in the night of the King's death – and about my silence on the matter – with somebody who actually understood politics, but not with him. I certainly did not want to get myself into trouble doing it, and I was not at all certain whether the question had been an invitation.
And thus, I unclenched my jaw and said, "It's not worth mentioning."

That made him laugh out loud. I looked down again, my cheeks burning, and tried to decide on my next move so I didn't have to pay attention to my host's mirth. Lord Atanacalmo's archer was threatening my king, which I could defend by putting my last rook in front of it, or by moving it onto a neighbouring field. Alternatively, I could use the rook to take a pawn that was threatening to reach the end of the board and turn into who knows what, but with the archer poised to take my king, that was out of the question. I did not want to sacrifice the rook, so I moved the king instead.
Lord Atanacalmo was still amused by my answer and did not act immediately. "'Not worth mentioning!' Aren't you a clever fellow."
My arms wrapped protectively around my chest, as if that could somehow ward off the hurt I felt at his scorn. "I know I'm not," I said tersely.
Smirking, he gave me a pointed look before returning his attention to the board. As I had feared, his pawn came to the last field of its row, and was duly promoted. Lord Atanacalmo turned it into a knight, which meant that it could reach my king in the next round, and I was forced to push my king out of harm's way again instead of actually moving against Lord Atanacalmo's pieces. Even without understanding the niceties of strategy, I knew that I'd spend the remaining rounds moving my king, in the limited way that it had, until it was surrounded and could no longer flee: a humiliating end. Once again, I wished that the rules permitted to simply capitulate, rather than forcing me to draw the end out.

Lord Atanacalmo brought one of his rooks in from the other side of the board – it would not be a very long end, at the very least – and said, without bothering to look at me, "A few days ago, a pawn was in the position to topple a king. Are you aware of that fact?"
I watched him closely as I inched my king away from its pursuers. "Yes, Lord."
He nodded, satisfied. "And yet he did not make that move. One might wonder why. It has disappointed a great many people."
Again, it took me a while to compose an answer. "Because he did not know what would happen next. He feared that it would make things worse rather than better." I finally mumbled, looking at the chess board as if I could will my chances to improve simply by staring at the pieces.
And then I raised my head again and met the watchful gleam of Lord Atanacalmo's eyes. "And because the real world is not a game of chess, my lord. Things aren't simply black and white. There are lots of colours in between, and lots of different parties involved. Everyone moves at the same time. And it never really ends. Even if the king had been toppled, that wouldn't mean that the game is over and the pieces are safely put away, would it? Someone still needs to rule the country, and who would that be? And the king might be unkinged, but he would still be in the game, and still be dangerous – more dangerous than ever, perhaps, and certainly dangerous for the pawn that dared to unking him. Who would care to protect the pawn? Nobody would, because it had served its purpose, and pawns are easily sacrificed. That much I know about strategy, at least."

I took a deep breath. It would have been safer, I suppose, to continue cloaking my thoughts in terms of chess; but I did not know how to do it, since I did not know what Lord Atanacalmo thought he was on that board – rook? queen? archer? - and thus had no way of posing my question. Accordingly, I dropped the pretense, and said, "I might as well ask why you did not make that move, my lord! You would clearly have gained from it. But I suppose it was too risky? Safer to let young Azruhâr put himself forward, was it? Well, I'm sorry to have disappointed! But then, you knew that I have no mind for strategy or politics. I can just barely think for my own safety, and for that, it was better to come to an agreement with the king, and let him have his own. If I'm supposed to act differently, then I need at the very least to be told. Especially after you pledged your support to the Crown Prince right from the start, so I had no way of knowing that you were looking for something else." I knew, even while I was speaking, that I was talking myself into dreadfully hot water. I told myself that I did not care, because I was genuinely angry. But of course I did, or would, at any rate, once Lord Atanacalmo punished me for my insolence.

For the time being, Lord Atanacalmo merely smiled to himself. "Well, well. Deep insights from a man who has no strategy!" His newly knighted pawn jumped after my king. I knew then that the game was over: wherever I moved the king, it would be taken either by the archer or the rook, or I would put it directly into the path of the knight.
"And here I thought you just didn't want me for a King," Lord Atanacalmo said leisurely, and added, "Checkmate."
I bowed my head in defeat and preferred not to answer. Lord Atanacalmo, meanwhile, swung his bell, summoning someone that (I thought) would have me taken to the stocks for my rebellious speech. But when the servant came, all Lord Atanacalmo said was, "A fortifying drink seems indicated right now. Some brandy for Azruhâr and myself, please."
"Very good, my lord," said the servant and disappeared. I kept my head lowered, but watched Lord Atanacalmo from the corners of my eyes, not that it would have helped me to see any warning signs of temper. There were none, but of course that didn't mean anything either. He was, very calmly and systematically, rearranging the chess pieces. He neither spoke nor looked at me. Then the servant arrived to bring a glass goblet of brandy for Lord Atanacalmo, and the familiar earthenware cup for me. Lord Atanacalmo gave the man a friendly nod, saying, "Thank you, that will be all for now." And to me, meeting my eyes with a perfectly level expression, "We should drink to my brother's memory."
I had no objection to that. So I obediently raised my cup, and he said a few choice words about Tar-Ancalimon the Great, and then we drank. The brandy was very good, warming my throat without burning. I began to hope against hope that maybe he had forgotten my transgression, or that perhaps he hadn't taken offense after all.

Then he set down his cup and tilted his head, smiling a smile that made the hair on my neck rise, although his voice was friendly enough. "Tell me, Azruhâr, do you trust me?"
I nearly spilled my brandy at the unexpected question. I held the cup tight, letting my hands – and the cup – sink into my lap.
"I am entirely in your hands, my lord," I said cautiously.
He waved his hand. "Of course you are! But that's not an answer to my question."
I felt my face flush. "Would you rather have a truthful answer, or one that will be pleasing to your lordship?"
Strangely, he grinned more broadly at that. "That's as good as a no. And you are right, of course. You shouldn't trust me. You shouldn't trust anybody! Not your friends, not your neighbours, not your servants, not even your darling wife. And certainly not me." He watched my face closely, spearing me with his eyes. "And yet, you seem to imply that you think I should have reached for the throne. I am flattered."
"I think nothing," I said.
That seemed to be funny, because it made him chuckle. "Oh yes, I've heard just how much you think nothing," he retorted. "Now is the time for honesty. Tell me, who are you? What are you?"
My teeth clicked on each other as my jaw clenched. Clinging more tightly to my fortifying drink, I replied mechanically. "No one, Lord. Nothing." How I hated the words.

Strangely enough, they didn't seem to be what he had wanted to hear, for he clucked his tongue and said, "Oh, nonsense. Try again."
Since he had discarded the most obvious answer, I was uncertain what he wanted to hear. Frowning, I guessed, "Your harmless fool?" He shook his head with a snort. "A pawn?" Another negative. "The King's embalmer?" Again he shook his head, looking thoroughly unimpressed, and I gave up. "I don't know what you expect me to say, my lord."
"I expect you to offer an explanation for your astute analysis of the political situation," he said. His forefinger tapped the chess board. "See here, you are not the first to ask me why I did not step forward on Yestarë. As I said, a great many people were disappointed in you. They were also disappointed in me. Because it would appear that not a few of the King's learnèd councillors are more fools than you are."
I did not know what to respond to that astonishing information, so I said nothing. Nor did I need to, because Lord Atanacalmo was already speaking again. "Obviously, we are not having this conversation. You know what that means, don't you?"
Hastily, I nodded. As it turned out, I actually did not know, because I thought he meant to say that he was not intending to discuss these matters with me. But as he promptly went on to discuss them, I understood that he rather meant that our conversation was secret – so secret that we should both pretend that it wasn't happening.

"I didn't proclaim Alcarmaitë unfit to rule – not because, as you insinuate, I am a coward, nor because, as the Wise Men of the realm seem to think, I did not realise that I could have claimed the sceptre in his place. I did not try to take the sceptre from Alcarmaitë because I am, in fact, a conscientious man."
I very much tried to keep an even face, but my scepticism must have registered somehow, and Lord Atanacalmo narrowed his eyes and declared, "Yes, doubt it though you may! What would have happened if Alcarmaitë had been deposed? You may not know, but I certainly do. Uncertainty about who gets to replace him. Struggles between the contenders. Alcarmaitë has no brothers – not even a sister. He has a daughter, however. So there's Vanimeldë. But she is a woman, and not even married. Not everybody likes that. Then there is me – but I am old, and have no son. Not everybody wants a King who can rule for a decade at the most before leaving the sceptre to a daughter!"
"Lady Arancalimë is a great lady," I said, more for the sake of signalling that I was still trying to keep up with his explanation than to reassure him. In truth, he was probably right. Lady Arancalimë was a great lady, but people always talked about the Ruling Queens with disdain, as if they were at best a curiosity and at worst a disgrace, and I could imagine that it would be even worse if she wasn't at least the established old King's daughter.

And indeed, Lord Atanacalmo merely flicked his fingers. "Arancalimë is more than capable of doing the job, but what does it matter, when they'll always reduce her to her sex? There would be too much opposition. A war to get my sceptre, and another war to keep hers? No, thank you. I prefer to fight my battles on the chess board. It would work if there were no other contenders, but there are always other contenders. Most dangerously, there is my other nephew, Mínaro, Calamíriel's son. He most assuredly is not a conscientious man, but he has his followers. Then there's Arnavaryo; he certainly isn't too far from the main line to try his luck. And while we were struggling, more others might feel encouraged to step in. Neither of us has a secure claim to the throne. Neither is without supporters, and neither without enemies. One thing only is certain: Very few would simply sit and watch. We should all fight for the throne or for the least unworthy candidate, and who knows who would win? In the meantime, Alcarmaitë would be out for revenge, not just on you, but on anyone who he feels has wronged him. Who would come out victorious? Manwë may know, but I dare not speculate! Do you realise what it would mean?"

"Unrest, my lord," I said. I had guessed as much before, but now that I had heard his explanation, I was even more terrified. "Battle, even."
"Indeed! Civil war, more likely than not! That's a high price to pay, even if one could be certain to win. Even if one thoroughly dislikes Alcarmaitë, I should think!" His eyes were glinting dangerously. "An uncertain succession is a terrible danger. Even the Eldar, despite their immortality, have found that out! No; I for my part prefer to keep the peace. It is best for all of us – not least of all, for myself – that I support Alcarmaitë. Poor fellow. He only wants to be loved, and at the same time, he is so unloveable. Except to his doting uncle, of course." The smile, if that was at all possible, intensified.

I was holding my cup too tightly; the rim of the cup was cutting into my palm, and I had to force myself to loosen my grip, afraid to shatter the vessel between my hands. I was certainly glad that I had remained silent, but at the same time I felt resentful that nobody had warned me properly, because I really shouldn't be expected to make that kind of decision on my own. So I couldn't help asking, "If so much depended on my silence, then why didn't you tell me, my lord?"
Lord Atanacalmo shrugged in his dismissive manner. "There were only two possibilities; either you'd know to keep your mouth shut, in which case no warning was necessary, or you'd decide to air your grievance, in which case I would have called you a liar – you, and anyone who had supported your complaint. Alcarmaitë has friends as well as opponents, and in the end, it would have come down to a simple matter of voting. I would be, as I am now, Alcarmaitë's trusted loyal uncle, and you?" He fixed his gaze on me, and I quailed from the merciless gleam in it. "By now, you would probably be screaming on the scaffold."
I had to set the bowl down because my hands had begun to shake so badly. "You could have told me," I repeated, stupidly.
Again, he clucked his tongue in scorn. "Even talking about these matters, even mentioning the mere possibility, is high treason until it becomes a reality," he said. "Hardly the kind of thing I'd have risked discussing with a known fool and coward, is it?"

My insides were beginning to feel hard and cold, as if the brandy had frozen inside them. "Then why are you telling me now, Lord?" I asked, and then a terrible suspicion dawned upon me, and my breath quickened. I stared at him in terror. "You will not --" I began, and could not go on.
"I will not what?" His eyes bored into mine. He knew exactly what I was thinking, I was sure of it. I felt as though I were being strangled. I wrapped my arms around myself once more, which did nothing against the dreadful frozen feeling inside.
"I will not what? What are you thinking?" He was staring me down. My entire body was shaking now.
"Cut out my tongue, Lord," I whispered. I was certain that I was right. Because then I would not be able to speak about anything I had heard tonight. Because I had stepped out of line once too often. Because the new King would have no qualms whatsoever about letting me be maimed. I had to fight down the bile that was rising up my throat, though part of my was tempted to allow it to burst forth and soil Lord Atanacalmo's carpet, but it appeared unwise to antagonise him further. I felt thoroughly sick, though, and clasped a hand in front of my mouth just in case – for whatever it was worth.

Even Lord Atanacalmor's lips curled in disgust at the suggestion, though his voice remained detached and even. "I could, couldn't I," he said, as if the possibility had just now occurred to him. "But then, I don't think such a drastic step is necessary. It is enough that you know that I could. After all, you have shown that you can hold your tongue when it really counts, haven't you?"
I nodded hastily, and he bared his teeth in a grin that did not pretend to be friendly. I was still quaking in my seat.
"Come on now, Azruhâr," Lord Atanacalmo said, more reassuringly. "Calm yourself. Take a good sip. You amuse me! How could you amuse me if you couldn't speak?"
I did not wholly believe him, and it took me quite a while to actually regain a grip on myself, and to let my hands sink back into my lap, where they knotted anxiously.
Meanwhile, Lord Atanacalmo went on, "No, you don't have anything to fear from me… at this time, anyway. But now, I really want you to answer the initial question. Who are you, and what? You profess to have no mind for strategy, but you seem to grasp enough of politics to make prudent choices – more prudent than some of the Wise Men of the realm. You say you are no-one, yet you shamed the King in his own house! And you have such entertaining ideas! Where does all that come from?"
He was leaning towards me across the desk, his chin resting on his steepled hands, and it took quite a bit of effort not to back away, which would have toppled over the chair. "I don't know, Lord," I said. "As you yourself said a while back, even a fool may blurt out some useful truths every now and then."
Again he was grinning. "Your memory continues to impress. And these delightful flares of insolence! Not what you'd expect in a man of neither birth nor breeding. It's almost as if you weren't made for the foot of the hill. Are you someone's bastard? Eärendur's, perhaps? That would certainly explain his absurd attachment..."

The remains of my fear were burned away by a growing anger, and I didn't even know which part angered me the most: the insult to my mother, the name of bastard, or the implication that paupers must be stupid. I also bridled at the suggestion that Lord Eärendur had cheated on Lady Nolwen. It was a very complicated and certainly potent mix of insults.
"I am no-one's bastard," I said grimly. I was pretty certain about that, too. I looked too much like my father had looked, back when he had still been in health. Less gaunt, of course, but that was simply because I had more to eat.
Lord Atanacalmo seemed to find my annoyance entertaining. "No, I suppose not," he said, smirking. "You don't have the Andúnië beauty. Besides, Eärendur is probably too goodly to spill his seed where it doesn't belong. And I'd know if you were one of mine. So where did you get your brains?"
"Have you considered the possibility that even paupers have brains?" I heard myself say. I should have accepted his needling with the equanimity of a humble day-taler, of course, but my tender dignity was stinging too badly by now. "We're just not expected to use them much. We certainly aren't trained to be clever. But we still have to be resourceful."
"Good grief! You mean there might be more people like you among the poor of the city?"
I glared at the desk because I did not dare to glare at Lord Atanacalmo. "Educate them and find out, my lord."

Now he was laughing genuinely. "Hah! Maybe I shall! Once I tire of you, perhaps?" I felt my cheeks colour, and he laughed again. "Drink up, Azruhâr. It has become late. Come back tomorrow. I'll be hosting a banquet then, and there's someone whom I think you should meet." He was still smirking as I rose and bowed. "I'd tell you to wear your robes of office, but you're already doing that, anyway. Good night, Azruhâr. Try to figure out what you are, lest others keep doing it for you. And don't get lost on your way home."
That last part was hardly likely, since his forbidding bodyguards escorted me back to my house. I wasn't certain whether they were meant for my protection – it had become late indeed, and the night felt charged and threatening, full of unsettling footsteps and hostile noises, although perhaps that was just my imagination after the draining evening. Of course, the guards might as well have been sent to keep me intimidated, or to make sure that I didn't take a detour to Lord Eärendur, whose advice I was now missing more badly than ever. Either way, they were there, and there was no escaping them.

The man Lord Atanacalmo wanted me to meet was Lord Roitaheru, Governor of Umbar, who also happened to be his son-in-law. Why I was meant to meet him, I do not know. Perhaps Lord Atanacalmo wanted me to amuse him, too.
"Azruhâr used to be the first man in his neighbourhood, you know," Lord Atanacalmo said as he introduced me.
Lord Roitaheru, tanned and relaxed, wearing his hair short in the manner of a soldier and patterned robes in the foreign manner of (I assumed) Umbar, gave me a reasonably polite nod. "'Used to be?' And then what happened?" he asked.
I bowed low. "I moved house, your grace," I explained. "And my lord forgot to mention that it was a very poor neighbourhood to begin with."
"I see," said Lord Roitaheru, and by the way his lips quirked, he might as well have been Lord Atanacalmo's true son; they appeared to have the same sense of humour, at any rate. "But you were the King's embalmer in the procession, weren't you? So what does that entail, really? I do not recall there being any embalmers when I was last in Yôzayân..."
"Oh, they were there, but they stayed in the catacombs at that time, rather than rising to the daylight," Lord Atanacalmo said dryly. "Things have changed in the last years."
Lord Roitaheru nodded at that. "They certainly have. But I still don't know what an embalmer does," he said.

It was evidently meant as a question, so I spent the first course – quail with dried fruits – outlining my work to Lord Roitaheru as well as I could. He seemed to find it a lot less off-putting than I would have expected. In fact, he appeared fairly interested, not in the possibility of keeping the dead for revival, but simply in the idea of preservation. In the end, he remarked, "That sounds like something we should have in the colonies, so that our people who die can be brought home and laid to rest in their native soil."
I agreed that this sounded like a useful application of my craft.
"Well then, send one or two of your journeymen over, when you can spare them," Lord Roitaheru suggested, to the obvious mirth of Lady Arancalimë.
As for me, I almost choked on the meat I had bitten off. Lord Atanacalmo's eyes were sparkling with delight as he said, "Azruhâr will do no such thing – he is merely an apprentice."
"Really?" Lord Roitaheru said, mustering me. He was probably wondering why I had been allowed to sit at the high table, in that case, but all he said was, "In that case, tell your master. Or come yourself once you've been promoted!" He laughed at his error – on second thought, he appeared more good-natured than Lord Atanacalmo – and I mumbled my thanks and didn't have the heart to tell him that I got sea-sick on the calmest waters, and the last thing I wanted to do was travel all the way to distant Umbar, even though Lord Roitaheru painted it brightly for the rest of the evening. He entertained us with descriptions and funny anecdotes from his colony while we demolished a magnificent grilled hake with salted lemons and boiled greens, and a dessert made from crispy nuts and honey.

As I came home (yet again chaperoned by Lord Atanacalmo's imposing bodyguards), I learned that Lord Eärendur had come to my house and tried to see me while I'd been away. Amraphel joked that half the nobility was itching to talk to me, but I could have wept. Not that Lord Roitaheru's stories and Lord Atanacalmo's food hadn't been reasonably pleasant, but I felt that I would have profited much more from an evening's conversation with a man whom I actually trusted, and who perhaps would have given me support and explanations instead of keeping me guessing half the time and mocking me the other half. Lord Eärendur had waited for my return for almost two hours, Amraphel said, but after that he had reasoned that at whatever time I got home, I would surely be too tired to endure further visitors, and returned to his house.
The next two days, the King took his guests and his councillors hunting, and on the final day of the week, he gave another feast at the palace before the foreign dignitaries were to depart. As a result, I was left in peace, but neither did I have opportunity to see my noble friend. In the meantime, the criers in the markets announced the first decisions of the royal council under the new King. Among other things, the ancient custom of the King's Mercy would be discontinued; private societies were no longer entitled to any of the benefits enjoyed by the established guilds; men of no rank would be taxed according to the size of their household; and the Keepers of the Dead were no longer generally paid by the Crown.

None of these came as a surprise – Lord Atanacalmo had warned me about the future lack of funding, and Amraphel had heard about this as well as the others from Lord Eärendur – but they were a heavy blow nonetheless. To be sure, there were some new laws that did not appear to be in some way related to me – among other things, it was announced that the rationing would be lifted for good by Midsummer – and most other people would not even notice where all these changes pointed. Nonetheless, I felt that Tar-Telemmaitë had shown me rather effectively just how much our agreement was worth. He didn't need to threaten or hurt me, of course. He could simply make the world in which I was trying to live ever more uncomfortable. In taking away my guaranteed income as well as the access to additional rations for my former neighbours, in raising the tax load I would have to pay if I continued to employ the servants I had, he had once again put me into bad straits. And I felt very guilty indeed at the thought that no other hapless man would be able to put his last hope in the King's Mercy, simply because I had once profited from it. Even if, as Lord Atanacalmo had said, the ability to bear up under adversity was one of my redeeming features, it was being sorely tested. I very much doubted that I would be able to bear up for long.