The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

Chapter 36

Warnings for the aftermath of the torment and vaguely suicidal thoughts.

After two weeks, the pain in my heart was stronger than the ache in my limbs, and I could have risen and perhaps even walked downstairs, if I had cared to. I didn't care to. Getting up would have meant facing the ruin that my life had become. It would have meant explaining to my children what had happened. (So far, they had only been told that Atto was ill.) It would have meant enduring the curious and concerned looks from my servants, the assurances of pity from my friends and colleagues that Amraphel was, as yet, shielding from me. It would have meant finding out what exactly Balakhil had told the Council, and deciding how to deal with him. It would have meant figuring out how to live on in a world where nothing was safe and things were only bound to get worse. I had come to fear and hate that world, and I hated the nobles who had drawn me into it. Like a fool, I had believed that I could navigate that world, and that - if only I followed the rules - I could control what happened to me. That belief had been thoroughly burned (and beaten, and --) away. Now that the pain was abating, what tormented me most was the sense of helplessness: The memory of how they had manhandled me, like a doll, like some lifeless thing. How I had been utterly unable to resist, unable to stop them, except by doing the unthinkable and betraying Lord Eärendur. There had been no choice, no agency, and that was the bitter truth about my life, and I hated it. I hated my fragile body, so easily hurt, and I hated my past naïvety, and I hated my life.

Unlike me, Amraphel seemed to think that there was sufficient hope, and she tried to encourage me, coaxing me to eat and drink when I didn't care to, telling me about the progress the morgue was making, or assuring me that I was healing well. She told me how much sympathy my case had garnered. People knew who she was, and who my servants were. Merchants would fall over themselves to offer favours, as they had all those years ago in the lower market, back when I had just been given the Elven ring. Better cuts, more grain for less money, complimentary spices, even a whole week's groceries at no cost at all: Amraphel had been offered it all. She had turned it down, telling the grocers to give the free food to people in need instead. Maybe they had, or maybe they hadn't.
Those hadn't been the only gifts. Some of the neighbours who had so far ignored me had suddenly sent sweets in splint boxes, as if I had newly moved in, with notes hoping for a swift recovery. And not just neighbours: One, by the emblem painted on the cover, had come all the way from Nindamos. I am sure that Amraphel told me these things to make me think of the world outside my bed as a friendly place, but instead they just made me withdraw further into myself. I did not want gifts, or sweets, or assurances of sympathy. I wanted the old King back, and the old world where wickedness was punished but good efforts were rewarded, rather than punished more harshly.

Instead, the new world came calling. One moment I had been asleep (genuinely asleep for a change, not merely pretending to be), and then I was torn out of my sleep by a loud voice in the corridor: "Well, he will make time for me. Where is he?" The voice moved into the unused master bedroom, and I could hear it exclaim, "Azruhâr! Where are you hiding?"
I could hear Enrakôr, sounding a lot less confident than usual: "Your grace, please let me at least check whether he is fit to receive visitors--"
"Don't be ridiculous," Lord Atanacalmo snapped, "it has been nearly four weeks. Where is he? Don't stand in my way, man!" The door to my bedroom was thrown open despite Enrakôr's protests, and I saw myself forced to react.
Turning my head towards the door, I said tersely, "Enrakôr, please show his lordship to the study. I shall be with him in half an hour."
"I can find the way," Lord Atanacalmo retorted. "And a quarter hour should be more than enough."
I gave him a tired look, which probably didn't impress him, and said, "Your lordship has arrived unannounced, and will have to give me time to make ready." At which he huffed, but did not argue, and strode off along the corridor. I suspect he really did know the way.

It was good that I had insisted on half an hour. Getting up out of bed made me dizzy, and I needed some time to get used to it. Getting dressed required help, due to my broken fingers and the stiff bandages Master Sérindo had used to more or less tie my upper arms to my chest so I didn't accidentally prop myself up and damage my shoulders again. The same bandages prevented me from putting on a shirt, so Rahâk, who was acting as my valet, fetched a loose vest that he usually wore in winter when he worked outside in the garden and a cloak would be an impediment. Lord Eärendur had gifted it to us a while back, so it was well made, nice and warm, lined with fleece, and the short sleeves were wide enough to fit over the bandages. There was not enough time to shave, but I let Rahâk comb my hair, embarrassing though I found it.
My legs didn't quite agree to carrying me after weeks of disuse, so Rahâk had to help me to the study while my feet reacquainted themselves with their duties. At the door, Enrakôr was waiting and informed me, in a whisper, that his lordship had asked for wine, but he hadn't been certain whether or not he should leave his post, and whether the uninvited guest should be given our wine in the first place. I sighed, decided that it was better to humour Lord Atanacalmo, and asked Rahâk to bring wine for his lordship and water for me, and then limped inside, alone.

Lord Atanacalmo had already seated himself in my good chair, drumming on the desk in apparent impatience. Awkwardly, I dragged the spare chair to the desk, more or less fell into it, and managed - just barely - not to cry out at the sudden and intense pain in my recovering bottom. Through gritted teeth, I said, "I kept you waiting. I apologise."
"And you didn't have any wine sent to me, either," he said sternly.
I felt my jaw clench more firmly in annoyance. "It's on its way," I managed to say.
"Good, good. I hope it's something decent, not the dross you give your servants."
I forced a polite smile. "I have no better wine than what all my household drinks, so I'm afraid it'll have to do."
Rahâk brought my water and the wine in question, and Lord Atanacalmo grimaced after tasting it. "Hmpf. You could at least have sent a scullery boy to the market," Lord Atanacalmo said.
"You ask a lot, Lord," I managed.
Tilting his head, Lord Atanacalmo inquired, "What, does not your lord deserve more than cold hospitality?"
I gave him another weary look. "I cannot offer more."
"I'm apalled. Here I was expecting a warm welcome and your full feudal love --"
I had to interrupt him. "You cannot be serious, Lord."
Now both his eyebrows had gone up in a wide-eyed show of hurt innocence. "Why not?"

I could keep myself in check no longer. "You tortured me! You tortured me, and now you invaded my house, you insult me, and yet you dare demand my love? I can only assume that you are having your sport with me, and I can tell you, I am tired of it." I glared at him, wishing that I could get away with having him thrown out. Enrakôr had the strength, no doubt, but I did not have the authority, and so I was reduced to clenching my good hand and glaring impotently, which was probably skirting on petty treason already.
"I did not torture you, Alcarmaitë had you tortured," Lord Atanacalmo replied pleasantly, as if I had complained about nothing worse than the weather. "I merely supervised the final stretch of it." He smirked, but I could not find his play on words funny.
"As if you didn't control everything the King does," I said bitterly.
The smirk disappeared instantly, and his eyes narrowed. "Who says that?" he said, his voice now cold and hard.
I could have blamed Lord Eärendur, who had suggested such a thing in the past, but I was angry at Lord Atanacalmp's mockery of me, so I retorted, "I say that. Just because I have no mind for strategy doesn't mean I'm too stupid to see the hand that moves the pieces."

Lord Atanacalmo was tapping his hand on my desk, slowly, still staring me down, but I was meeting his eyes squarely this time. He pursed his lips; then he smiled again. "Interesting. Other men would be subdued after your... experience, but you appear to have grown even more insolent. However, you are mistaken. Neither Eärendur's arrest nor your torment were my doing. The only action I took was instructing the torturers to avoid maiming you, which does happen on occasion, you know, and Alcarmaitë forgot to forbid it. Strange, is it not?"
I didn't bother to comment on the apparent strangeness of the King's omission, which was frightening but hardly surprising. If I could have, I would have shrugged.
Apparently, Lord Atanacalmo grew tired of my silence, because he said, "Be that as it may, why would you think that I have any interest in seeing you tortured? There's no use in that, and it isn't amusing me either."
"And all the things you do are either useful or amusing, Lord?" I said.
"Preferably both at once. Having you hurt is neither, so why bother?"
"You did supervise the... final stretch. You did his dirty work."
"I did, and I'm not proud of it. But I am the King's right hand. I have to execute his will. And you could've spared yourself all of it, if only you'd confessed early on. So what if the writ was full of lies? People lie all the time when they're tormented. And then they gainsay it. It makes absolutely no difference to the legal process; we all know that torture is a flawed tool." His lips quirked in disgust. "Resist as long as you are merely threatened, give in as soon as you are getting hurt. But no, you let it go on and on, like the fool you are. That is on you, not on me."

I wished now that I had asked Rahâk for something stronger than water. "I couldn't risk it," I said stubbornly, but I couldn't help but doubt. It made sense that the Council, too, would know that confessions under torment were bound to be unreliable. So it also made sense that you could gainsay them with no, or very little, harm done. I hadn't needed to endure all that, I thought dully. I could have signed after the first burn, and all would still have gone well. Suddenly, I could no longer sit properly; I had to put my feet on the seat to take the pressure off my buttocks, pulling my knees against my chest. And yet, and yet... I refused to believe that it had been entirely meaningless. "The King said he had reliable witnesses. I had to contradict them," I said. "You spoke of co-conspirators!"
Lord Atanacalmo gave a short bark of a laugh. "Vanatirmo and Gimluzîr, you mean? Bah. Who knows what they hoped to achieve. Ciryamacil and Pallatin contradicted them all along, and would've continued to do so. Eärengolë defended his father. You think it took you? Absurd. Eärendur had fine advocates among his peers. No, your stubbornness was a pointless display of childish loyalty, that's all."

The words were almost worse than the hot irons had been. "A pointless display of childish loyalty," I repeated, stung. And then a different kind of realisation sunk in, and I felt my eyes narrow in suspicion. I asked, "Are you jealous?"
"Of what? Of you? Don't be ridiculous."
"Of Lord Eärendur," I said. "Or of Andúnië, anyway. You are, aren't you! You've been making snide remarks all these years. And you made sure I didn't see Lord Eärendur after the King - the old King - passed away. You had me in your house on three consecutive days. And you were very angry that Arminalêth wasn't considered the greatest city in all of Yôzayan all along." I sniffed, fighting to hold my misery back, then continued, "So this whole thing was of use to you. You got revenge on a rival - though Eru knows he never wanted to be your rival - and on me, too, for preferring his kindness to your harshness!"

I was certain that I was on to something, but he just fixed me with the same sardonic look he gave me when I made bad decisions at chess. "Wrong again," he said dismissively. "I have no reason to be jealous of Eärendur. I do think he coddles you and squanders your potential, obviously, but if that's what you want, what is it to me? No, I have gained nothing whatsoever through this distasteful episode. Quite the contrary. Here I sit and have to listen to your impertinent accusations, and out in the streets I need to repair Alcarmaitë's reputation. There are really better things I could be doing with my time!"
"His majesty's reputation," I said bitterly, "was just fine, the last time I heard." Too fine, I thought, considering what kind of man he was, but I knew better than to voice that thought. True, I had heard some voices questioning the King's absence on the holiday, but that had been confusion rather than anything truly critical.

Lord Atanacalmo gave one of his scornful snorts. "That's because you haven't been out of your bed in weeks. Yes, he was popular enough before Erukyermë, but the circumstances of Eärendur's arrest didn't sit well with an astounding lot of people, and when it turned out that he had been arrested wrongly, and that a man had been tortured unjustly? Oh, that wasn't good for Alcarmaitë's reputation at all. The people are all in favour of punishment and accept the necessity of torture, but only if it happens to condemn the guilty. If it happens to the innocent? Dear me, it could happen to anybody! The people of Arminalêth do not like that thought at all. So they have no trust in their King, and precious little love for him, too. Some even question if Arnavaryo's execution was justified, or whether he was another innocent victim. That's a problem. People are susceptible to the whisperings of demagogues when they feel they cannot trust their King. In his eagerness to stamp out rebellion, Alcarmaitë has in fact made rebellion more likely. So things are a little volatile at this time, and I'm expected to help him get out of the mess he's made. You think I'm amused? I am not."
He was speaking quite passionately now, and I suppose he might even have been speaking the truth.

"So I should have lied again?" I asked. "To spare the King's reputation and prevent rebellion?"
"To spare yourself, idiot," Lord Atanacalmo said. "Nienna have patience, I honestly don't know why I'm bothering with you."
Neither did I, and I honestly didn't care much for it. Since I couldn't shrug, I said, "May I ask why you are here at all, aside from complaining about my insolence and bemoaning my lack of feudal love?"
He gave me another hard stare, and I stared back. The secret to holding his gaze, I had found, was to not so much look into his eyes (which were keen and frightening as ever) but through them. His fingers were tapping on my unpolished desk again. "One should think," he eventually said, "that you would be giving a little more thought to your future."
"No."
"No?"
"No, Lord. I've been worrying about the future for years, and it turned out to look like this." I held out my right hand with its splinted fingers, and the loose sleeve fell back to reveal the healing burn marks on my lower arm. The blisters had broken and wept foul-smelling pus weeks ago, and now the skin was flat once more, raw pink in the middle and crusted all around. Master Sérindo had said that I would keep the scars for the rest of my life, which he seemed to believe was a considerable amount of time, since he had also recommended oil of hypericum to keep the scars small and the skin supple, as if it mattered. As a result, my skin was red even where it was intact, making it all look rather messy, which I suppose illustrated my point nicely. "I really don't think I have much of a future," I went on. "And I'm tired of fighting for one. I'm tired of making plans that other people just casually destroy. I honestly can't deal with any of it anymore. So now I live from day to day, and the sooner it ends, the better. The future can happen without me."

I had not meant to say that, hadn't even fully admitted it to myself, but as I heard it spoken, I realised that this was how I felt. I couldn't go on. I didn't want to. There was a terrible dark pool of despair inside me, and I no longer had the strength to paddle.
Lord Atanacalmo tilted his head to study me, a curious gleam in his eyes. "Come on now. One day. That cannot possibly have broken you!"
"You haven't listened, Lord. It wasn't that one day. It's been the days and years and years that led up to it. All the attempts to secure my livelihood and my safety and a peaceful life, all the walls I had to climb over, the scorn I have weathered, all the scraping and bowing and pleading and negotiating. And whenever I thought I had gotten anywhere, there was a new wall and a new reason to fight. You may have found it amusing, but for me it was always desperately serious." I rested my chin on my knees. "You know I am weak - it was never a secret. So there you have it: I can't bear up anymore. I'm done. Do what you want with me, as you always have. I no longer care."
He stood up abruptly. "Well, in this case my visit here is useless. I intended to see how you were coming along, to advise you how to make the best of what has happened, and to secure your future. But since you insist on being unreasonable, I won't waste my time further. Manwë's wisdom, I should never have bothered with such a useless man."

Unexpectedly, I found myself smiling at the insult. "You cannot one moment tell me that I have potential that's being squandered, and in the next tell me that I'm useless," I said. "It's one or the other. But you are right: you should not waste your time with me. You have a rebellion to curb, after all. Good luck with that. Lord."
I fully expected some punishment to follow my brazen words, but for once, Lord Atanacalmo appeared to be too shocked even to threaten me. For a moment, the mask of indifference slipped, showing not anger but a tired old man. "Well, at least you've been paying attention," he said after a moment, and then turned and made for the door. He turned again, looked me over, and announced, "You realise that you are entitled to compensation, of course."
"Probably," I said.
"Judicial error, unjust torment, a Ship for every work-day that you were incapacitated," he said, as if dictating to a scribe. "Randil prognosticated that recovery was likely under proper care, but not without, so the Crown will have to cover the cost of your healer."
He paused, and I nodded to show that I was still paying attention.
"So that would be..." he paused to calculate, "four Trees and three Ships, plus the healer's salary, which I suggest you settle with the treasurer once you know the full extent of it." He took a small money-bag from his pouch, counted the coins, took some out, and then tossed the bag onto the desk. It landed with a healthy clink and slid a small way before it lost its momentum.

I looked down at it. I suspected that he would have made me haggle for every Star in that bag, if not for my outbreak, and couldn't help but feel bitter that I had been expected to entertain him again. Looking back up at him, I said, "There is no need to throw me breadcrumbs now, Lord. I shall apply for compensation the usual way."
"Don't be foolish, man, this is much faster."
"Perhaps, but I don't want your charity."
"Oh, shut up. Take the money, whether you want it or not. If you don't want it, I expect you can donate it to your beloved Eärendur, eh?" Giving me no chance to protest or discuss the matter further, he gave me a final and very curt nod, said, "A good day to you, embalmer." And with that, he opened the door and stepped outside.
"A good day to you, Lord," I said to his back.
I heard Enrakôr's deep, reassuring voice in the corridor: "I shall show you the way out, your lordship."
"No need for that," Lord Atanacalmo snapped, "I have known this house since well before your master was born."
He undoubtedly had. I closed my eyes and breathed deep, trying to calm myself. It was dangerous, to give in to despair, because you stopped keeping yourself in check. Nothing I had said to him was untrue, but at the same time, perhaps I shouldn't have been quite so open.

In the evening, when Amraphel slipped into bed next to me - I was no longer deemed too damaged to sleep in the same bed as my wife, although that was all we did, sleep - I could sense that she was preoccupied with something. Sure enough, after she had snuggled up behind me and cautiously put a hand on my shoulder, she said, "Lord Atanacalmo implied that you have lost the will to live. Is that true?"
Perhaps I should have been flattered that Lord Atanacalmo had, for all his annoyance, considered the matter worthy of mention. Instead I was frustrated at yet another case of meddling in my affairs. I wondered whether I would get away with pretending to be asleep. But it would have been unfair. I did owe her an explanation at least, so after a while, I turned my head in her direction.
"I suppose so," I admitted. "Or I've lost the will to struggle, anyway. I'll go on living, for the time being, but not if it takes struggling."
Amraphel's hand was stroking my shoulder, very lightly, just enough that I could feel her touch. Then it was moving on to my cheek. Her eyes were glinting in the darkness. "You realise that we need you, don't you."
"Do you?" I couldn't help asking. "I'm just a liability at this point."
"Don't say that. Don't even think that," Amraphel said fiercely. "I don't know what you think we'd do without you, but I can assure you this: we'd miss you terribly."
"Well, I won't. Kill myself. Or anything of the sort," I said, shook out of my lethargy by the anger in her voice. "I just can't fight anymore."
"But you can, love. You are so brave. I'll help you in any way you can, and so will the children, and so will your friends. We'll get through this somehow."

I didn't respond. I'd been thinking that we'd get through this somehow for too long, and it rang hollow now. Nor did I feel particularly brave.
The silence lengthened. Amraphel was still stroking my cheek, but she seemed to be lost in thought, until after a while she said, "I will write to Eärendur."
I blinked. "He has nothing to do with it." And then, I added, "I don't want to talk to him."
The hand on my cheek stopped moving. "Whyever not?" Her eyes - which, I was ashamed to notice, looked suspiciously wet - had widened. "Are you blaming him?"
"I'm not - I just don't want to talk to him." I turned my head back into the pillow, and mumbled, "I hate how he treats me."
Although I could no longer see Amraphel's face, I could hear the confusion in her voice as she asked, "Treats you? What has he done to you, love? I have only ever seen him considerate--"
"Too considerate. He treats me like a child," I said bitterly. "Someone who can't make his own decisions. Someone who needs to be protected from himself as well as the world. Someone who can't be burdened with unpleasant knowledge." Today seemed to be the day of speaking things that I would not normally have spoken about.

Amraphel sighed. "I see," she said. "I expect there is no use in pointing out that you do need protection."
"Not that kind," I said. "And a whole lot of good did it do me, anyway." I was sulking now - childishly, I suppose. A child was all I was to these nobles, anyway: easily dismissed; entertained while they cared to be amused, and then sent off to bed when the adults wanted to speak of adult things. A pointless display of childish loyalty, I thought angrily. That's all my suffering was, in their world. How sick I was of it all. How right Father had been, to warn me to stay away from the nobility.
Amraphel had sat up next to me, stroking my hair. (Like a child's, I couldn't help thinking.)
"My dear love," she said, "you should talk to him about all that."
I made a non-committal grunt, and decided to change the topic. "Where's Balakhil?" I asked.
There was a sharp intake of breath from Amraphel. "It's funny you should ask that," she said slowly, "because we haven't seen him since the day of the trial. Why?"
"I think he told the King... something. I don't know what. He was mentioned, anyway, but I wasn't at my best, so I don't recall what exactly they said." I should have asked Lord Atanacalmo, I realised. Maybe he would've told me the truth. Then again, maybe not. I was tired of trying to figure him out.
Another thoughtful silence followed my words. "Do you think they tortured him, too?" Amraphel asked.
"I don't know," I admitted. "I don't know anything. I just know that I'm too tired for any of it."
"Then you should sleep, my love," she said, kissing my neck.
Of course, that wasn't what I had meant, but it was easier to pretend that it was, so I mumbled something along the lines of "Good night, love." And I did sleep, eventually.

We didn't talk about it again, but Amraphel clearly did write to Lord Eärendur, because he sent me a long letter in which he eloquently regretted having given me any cause to think that he didn't love and respect me as a fellow competent adult. Long before your extraordinary feat of bravery, I have treasured your friendship, he went on, and now that I owe you a debt greater than I can repay, I am mortified to think that my clumsy attempts at keeping you out of harm's way have felt like a slight to you. I can but apologise. I promise that I will in the future let yourself be the judge of what you can or cannot bear. You certainly have shown yourself capable of bearing a great deal - but I should have known that. If again you feel that I am dismissing you or not treating you with the trust and respect you deserve, then I beg you to let me know at once. I have made many mistakes, and causing you additional pain is not the least of them. In this pleasant vein it went on for a while, before the letter ended in, I hope you are healing well, and that you will be able and willing to see me when I come back to Armenelos next Eärenya. Until then, I remain your true and grateful friend---
Lord Eärengolë and Lady Nolwen had added a few lines of their own, both expressing their deepest gratitude and heartfelt compassion for my sufferings. From Lady Vanimë, there was no note, and I wondered what her life would be like, after her father had testified against her father-in-law. Had she known about it? There was no point in speculating, of course, and besides, it was none of my business.
I didn't reply to the letter. If Lord Eärendur was coming back to Arminalêth next week, I'd have to respond to him soon enough - sooner than I would've liked. His letter was making me feel very awkward and unreasonable, and I would have preferred to let the matter rest in peace.

But peace, as usual, was not to be had. Early the next week, Lord Herucalmo summoned me to the Cornflower tavern. Since Amraphel had made me promise that I wouldn't deliberately throw away whatever future I had, I found myself forced to obey, and I had to leave the relative comfort of my house at last. Enrakôr came along, not so much as a bodyguard but rather to keep me on my feet. Although I had taken up walking around the house after Lord Atanacalmo's visit, my legs still weren't back to their old strength. Moreover, I was prone to stumble at every stupid uneven flagstone. I was glad for Enrakôr's presence for more than just balance, however, because as soon as we turned into the busy woodworkers' road, people were staring. I wasn't imagining it; they really were giving me the most intense stares, not necessarily hostile, but certainly very disconcerting. When I stared back, they bobbed their heads in polite little bows, but it was still unnerving. Since I couldn't go very fast, I got a lot of these stares and nods - some people even touched their fingertips to their brows or to their chest, though nobody said anything. These surreptitious demonstrations of respect stopped once we reached the central plaza, but the stares did not, and when Enrakôr and I finally reached the Cornflower tavern, I was exhausted just from putting on a brave face in front of all these people. I was drenched with sweat even though the day was no more than mild. Inside the Cornflower, the fireplace in the public room was being lit against the chill in the walls. I sat down gingerly at the table Lord Herucalmo had used previously. Of course, he wasn't there yet. In fact, the whole tavern was empty; it had only just opened for customers. Uncertain how long the way would take me, I had left home with plenty of time to spare, so I couldn't blame Lord Herucalmo for his absence. And perhaps it was for the better that I had some time to get my bearings. I leaned back - very slowly so my back could get used to the pressure - and breathed deep.

The owner of the Cornflower, once the fire was burning, got up and gave me a long look. "What can I bring you, sir?" he eventually asked, as if he had only just remembered that I should be ordering something.
I asked for a cup of ale, then blinked as he came bearing a whole pint. I hadn't intended to spend so much, but neither did I feel up to discussing what I had or hadn't said. He set the pint down in front of me, then frowned, then smiled an awkward smile, then plunked himself down in the empty chair. "Pardon me for asking," he said, "but I've heard rumours, and I must know... are they true?"
That was such a broad question that I blinked again. "That depends on the kind of rumours you've heard, I expect," I said cautiously.
He looked around the empty tavern, then leaned in and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper: "They say you've been put to the torments. That was you, wasn't it? The King's embalmer?"
"Ah." I chewed on my upper lip for a bit, wondering how to reply, and ultimately settled for, "Yes. It was. And yes, it's true."
He nodded thoughtfully. "I thought it was you. Was it very bad?"
"What do you think?" I couldn't keep my irritation out my words. "It's not exactly meant to be easy, is it."
He looked down as if chastened, wiped an imaginary speck of dirt off the table, and then said, "They say it was done to make you betray a friend, but you didn't do it. Betray your friend, I mean."

I felt my jaw clench in annoyance. Whatever I said now, I would be feeding the gossips of the town, and I didn't like the thought much. At the same time, I knew I would have to say something, since there obviously was gossip already. I took another steadying breath. "He was innocent," I said grimly.
Again, the curious owner of the Cornflower nodded his head earnestly. Then he changed the topic. "Will you be wanting to eat something for lunch? The wife's making cod chowder. Good fresh cod and mussles that were brought up from the coast this very morning. We've got proper bread, too!"
"That sounds lovely, but I'm not very hungry."
"It is lovely! You must try it. On the house, of course!"
Either, I thought, he was trying to poison me, or he wanted to do me a good turn. I wasn't certain which, and then decided that either outcome was acceptable. I sighed. "If you insist. But only a very small helping. Maybe you can bring some to my servant, who is keeping watch outside."
He smiled in apparent pleasure and jumped up from his chair. "Gladly! I'm sure you will enjoy it."
I did. I'm sure Enrakôr did, too. It was good, and so was the ale.

And thus, when Lord Herucalmo entered the tavern - which had begun to fill with customers by that time - I sat there feasting, prompting him to comment, "Ah, there you are, Azruhâr - living the best life!"
A hush fell at his entrance. I managed to swallow my mouthful of chowder along with an angry reply, although the polite "My lord" probably came out a tad sour. I tried to push to my feet, but he waved his hand. "No, no, remain seated, don't trouble yourself." Acknowledging the awkward obeisances of the other customers with a nod, he marched over to my table and sat down heavily. A servant had entered with him, carrying a document case that he now put down on the table before withdrawing back to the door.
Lord Herucalmo, in the meantime, inspected my bowl. "Is it any good?" he asked. There was something awkward about his joviality, as if he had put it on for show and it didn't quite fit. On the other hand, it suggested that the meeting wasn't intended to be majorly unpleasant. In spite of my reckless words towards his father, I was glad of it, and decided to play along. "I think so," I said.
Waving to the innkeeper, Lord Herucalmo ordered the same for himself. "So," he said when he had his ale, "I trust you are feeling better?"
"As well as can be hoped, I suppose," I said, looking down at my bandaged right hand.
"You heal slowly," he observed.
I used my newly regained ability to shrug. There was still quite a bit of soreness in it, which probably proved his point. "Not on purpose, I assure you," I said, which made him chuckle. Then his chowder arrived, and he saluted me with his spoon before beginning to eat as though he hadn't been fed all day.

I should have liked to ask him what role he had played in the events surrounding Lord Eärendur's arrest and trial, but didn't want any of the other patrons to listen in on such a painful topic. So I - very slowly - finished my own bowl, and then waited until he had finished his more significant portion.
"May I ask," I carefully said when he wiped up the last dregs of soup with the last crust of bread, "why you have called me here? I trust you did not merely want me to test the Cornflower's stew for you."
He chewed up, licked his teeth clean, and then smiled with his mouth only. "Indeed not. No, I thought I should update you on the progress of our agricultural project."
Our project, I thought. If it went well, it would be entirely his, and if it went badly, it would be mine, but right now, it could clearly still go either way.
"No need to humour me, Lord," I said, "I'm here to win the trust of the common people and to take the blame if things go wrong. It has never been our project."
Briefly, his eyes darkened into a glare; then he waved his hand. "Let bygones be bygones. It is ours now," he declared loftily. "And you will be very interested to hear, I am sure, that sowing is almost complete."
"Good," I said, because I didn't know what else to say. It was good, of course. It would be good for the former day-talers on their little plots, I thought, all these hard-working people whose lives had just quietly gone on. For their sake, I tried to care. Lótessë had begun, a good month for growth, and it was important that the seeds were in the warming ground in time for the spring rains and the bright lengthening days.
"What about Zamâl's goats?"
"Zamâl? Oh, he's the one on the penultimate plot, right? Four or five goats?"
"It was two when I last spoke with him," I said.
"Well, I expect they multiplied, then. That's good, right? Lots of goats. Milk and manure. I've been wondering if we should encourage more lifestock. Make them either buy animals or turn the other half of their field arable in time for summer crops, maybe?"
"They're hesitant to spend too much of their money at once," I said. "In case something goes wrong. They've seen things going wrong too often. Animals are expensive, and so are fences. You always say that the poor don't know how to look after their money, don't you? They do, most of them, they just don't generally have enough of it to save it. Now they do, for once, and you want to push them to spend it at once. Do you want to make them afraid of the next day again?"

There was no mistaking the glare this time. Like his grandfather, he began to drum on the tabletop when he was growing impatient, and he was drumming now. "Have a care," he said between clenched teeth, and then, with some difficulty, he regained his composure and said, "So you think they shouldn't buy lifestock?"
"They shouldn't be forced to, that's what I'm thinking. You can encourage them gently. Or make it less risky."
"A monetary bonus for those who buy animals?"
I tilted my head, because I wasn't certain what he meant by that, and he sighed at my ignorance. "Additional money," he said. "To be paid if they buy, say, a small flock of sheep."
"Or goats?"
"Whatever. They can buy a cow, too. Pigs. Camels, for all I care. Just something that'll graze on the untilled meadows, so they'll look less empty. Grandfather doesn't like that half the fields are empty."

Ah, so that was it. Lord Atanacalmo had expressed some dissatisfaction about the progress of my neighbours' farming, so now Lord Herucalmo had to find a way to make it look... what? More productive, probably.
"I think one or two have planted cuttings of fruit trees. They want to grow an orchard. If you put animals there, they'd trample the cuttings. Or dig them up. Or eat them."
He scoffed a little. "Can't be much of an orchard if it looks empty."
I blinked at his ignorance. "The cuttings are fairly small. You can see them if you're among them."
"If they're so small, it'll take a decade until they bear fruit."
"Yes, my lord. Half-grown trees would obviously be preferable, but they were too expensive."
Lord Herucalmo scoffed again. "These people are expected to produce... well, produce, within the next three years. Those tiny cuttings deserve to be trampled. Or eaten by goats. A bad investment."
I sighed. Not long ago, I would have argued against him, but now, I just couldn't muster the strength. Besides, it wasn't likely to help. So I just said, "If that's what you think, Lord."
"It is. No offense, but I am going to disregard your advice."
"That is your prerogative, Lord," I said wearily.
He studied me through narrowed eyes, perhaps suspecting that I was making fun of him somehow, but then he seemed to change his mind. "I will think about it," he declared grandly.
"Thank you, Lord," I said, because it seemed to be the right thing to say.

With that, his interest in discussing business seemed to be exhausted, because he only made some smalltalk after that, concerning the quality of the ale and the chowder (although neither of us re-ordered any), the weather (which was mild and pleasant), his hunting adventures (extremely successful) and even something so personal as his desire to settle down and marry (as yet unfulfilled). I listened politely and nodded or shook my head or "hm-hm"ed when it seemed appropriate. Neither of us commented on the glances I occasionally noticed from the other customers, nor on the rumours that, according to Lord Atanacalmo and our good host, were going around the capital. Once we had finished our drinks, Lord Herucalmo announced that it was time he got on his way. He even offered to pay for my meal and my ale, but the innkeeper told him that it was settled already.
"Well, then," Lord Herucalmo said, once again affecting the joviality that had already felt so odd at his arrival, "it's been good talking to you."
I very much doubted that it had been, but I kept those doubts to myself. I bowed to Lord Herucalmo, thanked the owner of the Cornflower, and made my awkward way to the door, rather more slowly than the nobleman. Several people nodded in parting, and one or two raised their glass as I opened the door. I nodded in return. With Enrakôr's help and under the watchful eyes of the passers-by, I got back home. I obediently answered Amraphel's question about my day, and was glad to hide under my blankets again.