The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

Chapter 39

Warning for discussions of suicide, and the off-screen suicide of a supporting character.

Chapter 39

The ship that would take me to Umbar belonged to a merchant who imported clay and pigments and exported tiles and pottery, and there was some accomodation for paying passengers also: four berths with wooden shutters that you could close for the illusion of privacy, which was more than the mariners had in their hammocks. Inside my berth, there was room just for a mattress and one travelling chest, and the rest of my luggage was stored deeper inside the belly of the ship where I was told not to go, so as not to put the fragile cargo at risk. Furthermore, I had to take care not to get in the way of the mariners, was warned very sternly against touching the ropes, the anchor or the sails, and I was not allowed even near the captain's cabin unless I had been explicitly invited. I was told these things by the sour-faced captain himself as he took up residence in the berth across from mine, because his cabin was going to be occupied by a noble passenger. "Beats me why he don't use his own ship, because he sure must have one," Captain Tamrubên grumbled, "but I suppose he's too mean to pay his own crew. Don't tell him I said that, though!" I promised not to pass the captain's understandable criticism on to the nobleman, not that I expected that the man would deign to talk to me in the first place. But when I went on deck so I would be able to wave to my family and such friends as had come to Rómenna to see me off - quite a few of them, Master Târik and Lord Eärengolë not least among them - I found out that the nobleman was none other than Lord Herucalmo, accompanied by four burly bodyguards who reminded me of the torturers. I expect the Bough of Return that had been fixed to the prow by Lady Arancalimë was there for his sake, too. It certainly wasn't there for mine, and humble merchants' vessels did not usually receive a bough, or else there would be no oiolairë left on the island.

The unexpected company startled me so much that I did not, as the ropes were hauled in and the anchor lifted and the ship began to drift on the tide, break together and cry. Part of me, I think, was still convinced that this had to be a bad dream, and that, if only I went along with it long enough, I would wake up to the real world. So I went along with it. I waved and pretended to catch the kisses that Amraphel and the children pretended to throw my way and managed to keep the corners of my mouth forced into a smile even though my eyes were wide with horror. There were creaking and splashing sounds from the oars as the mariners began to work them, and the crowd and the fishing boats and the buildings in the harbour grew smaller. Then the sail was hoisted and the ship jumped forward like a dog that had strained against its leash and was released at last. In spite of its bulk, it cut through the waves at a most unwelcome speed. Soon, I could no longer make out the people on the pier. The houses of Rómenna, grey and white, turned from individual buildings into a single compound at the foot of the rising Mountain, while the cliffs of the firth of Rómenna widened on either side of the ship towards the open see.
It was then that the dream-like numbness in my mind lifted, and the tears began to flow. Half-blind, I managed to make my way into my berth, where I pulled the shutters closed with shaking hands before casting myself down onto the narrow mattress and crying in anguish and fear.

One should think that my misery was quite sufficient without the additional punishment of seasickness, yet it assailed me mercilessly. After a while, I could no longer hide my shame in my berth; I had to rush on deck and managed to lean over the rail just in time before (as it felt) everything I had eaten in the past two days came back up again. "Never puke against the wind," one of the mariners commented, good-natured (although I did not need the advice); but when I was still green in the face several days later, when the Holy Mountain and the whole island of Yôzayân had become a diffuse mass in the west, the comments began to turn disdainful. In the beginning of the journey, two of Lord Herucalmo's bodyguards had been taken sick also; but they recovered quickly enough. Only I continued to suffer, at best feeling weak and nauseous and at worst hanging over the rail to divest myself of what little food or drink I had taken in the meantime. In time, I was tempted to lean just a little bit further and end my miserable existence. One day, I did work up the courage to push off the planks. With my head and most of my upper body on the seaward side, my exhausted body slid over the rail easily. I could have caught myself yet, but the thought of falling filled me with relief rather than regret, and I let it happen. Then I felt a powerful grip on my belt. One of the bodyguards had apparently stood close enough to notice what was happening, and he heaved me back onto the planks with no apparent effort. I thanked him, shame-faced, pretending that it had been an accident.

That night - a night full of splendid stars that shone down on us, cold and ancient, impartial in their heavenly glory - I stumbled on deck to throw up plenty of bile and the rusk I had managed to nibble that evening. After that, I contemplated the darkness of the night and the vastness of the ocean, in which the ship was but a tiny piece of driftwood, and on which I was no more than an ant: utterly insignificant. I thought of my children and of Amraphel, looking at the same stars, perhaps. I could see those stars, but I would not see my loved ones again. The stars would shine on, whatever happened; they would not betray to my family that I was no more. The waves below were black and glossy, hiding unfathomable depths. I could disappear in them. I would simply be swallowed by the darkness, erased, purged. It was tempting. The cooler night air helped to make me feel less sick, but not less miserable. The voice of reason told me that the water would be cold, and that drowning would be exceedingly unpleasant. The feeling of almost-drowning during the torments had been painful and terrifying, and no doubt it would be worse to drown for real. But I had gone through the last weeks feeling half-strangled, and the thought of being unable to breathe held less horror than it otherwise might have. I told myself that Amraphel would write letters and expect answers; she would find out and grieve. I told myself that if I held on, maybe I might be allowed to return, in a couple of decades. But maybes were no longer good enough. Without certainty, I no longer had the strength to hold on. I had, after all, always been weak.
I put one leg over the rail.

"Now, what would you be doing up here at this dogs' hour?" a gruff voice behind me said in that moment, and I whirled around guiltily. It was one of the mariners, a tall fellow whose name I didn't know, thin except for his broad shoulders. Someone always had to be awake on a ship, of course, to ensure that it was sailing in the right direction and not meeting any obstacles, and this mariner apparently was among those who had the misfortune of keeping watch in the middle of that night - the dogs' hours, as they called it.
I pulled my leg back, awkwardly, hoping that the darkness had obscured the movement.
"I was sick," I said, which was true enough. "Again."
"Uinen's scaly tail! I've never seen a man of Yôzayân taken seasick for so long," the sailor declared as he walked over to me. He moved with perfect ease on the swaying deck, whereas I still stumbled around like an infant that had only just learned to walk. "The people of Umbar, they spew all the time when you take them to sea, but our people, we get used to it after a day or two."
"Not me."
"No, not you. I wonder what that signifies?"

I shrugged, not that he was likely to see it. The darkness on deck was interrupted by the occasional Elven lamp, but I had chosen a dark and secluded corner, where none of them shone.
"All well, Abrazân?" a voice rang from the other side of the ship.
"All well, Heledir," the mariner - Abrazân, apparently - called back. "Just our seasick passenger."
The other voice laughed softly.
"You shouldn't be stumbling around in the dark," Abrazân said to me. "People might think you're getting into mischief. Or you might fall overboard."
"Oh. Yes. I suppose I might," I said, as if the possibility hadn't crossed my mind before. "Unfortunately, the sickness comes at any time of the day. Or night."
"Get yourself a bucket," Abrazân suggested. "And go back to bed. The vastness can do strange things to a man's mind."
It had nothing to do with the vastness, of course, but I saw no point in arguing, so I bid him a good night. I bumped my head on the hatch as I made my way back under deck, then slipped on the steep ladder and landed on my heels with a painful jolt. I managed to stifle a curse, but just barely. I hoped that the noise I had made hadn't alerted the other sleepers. I snuck back into my berth, expecting to be accosted with every step. Afterwards, I lay in the pitch blackness, hearing Captain Tamrubên's snores and the unavoidable sloshing of the indifferent sea. I was exhausted beyond description, but unable to fall asleep.
In the morning, Captain Tamrubên gave me a bucket and dispatched a young boy to empty it at regular intervals.

That afternoon, I was invited to Lord Herucalmo's cabin. So far, our interaction had been limited to polite greetings (from my side) and acknowledging nods (from his side) when our paths had crossed, which had not been often. I had been preoccupied with my feelings of deprivation and misery, and he had done whatever noblemen did aboard a ship that wasn't their own.
But now he sent one of his bodyguards to show me to the captain's cabin, and so, once the spinning in my head had abated enough to allow me to walk, I went. The cabin was not actually much larger than my berth, but it had room for a slightly broader bed, as well as a desk big enough to double as dinner table. It was a heavy-looking thing, but it had still been bolted to the floor. I surmised that I had to be grateful not to have experienced waves strong enough to make such a large piece of furniture wander.
I was swaying on my feet, so I was grateful when Lord Herucalmo bade one of the bodyguards to bring me a chair. Chairs were as mobile here as they were in any house, and I briefly pictured them flying through the room when the sea was wild. That was probably why they had been stacked and secured in a nook between the bed and the wooden wall, and were only taken out at need. I sat down, but the swaying sensation got no better, since the floor, and the whole ship around us, continued to heave gently with the rhythm of the waves. I held on to my seat with both hands, but that didn't help, either.

Lord Herucalmo gestured dismissively to his bodyguards, and they withdrew and closed the cabin door behind them. I wondered whether I should worry. Without further preamble, Lord Herucalmo said, "You are accident-prone, I hear."
"I'm afraid so, Lord," I said. "I cannot seem to find my sea-legs."
"That is not what I mean," he said. He was lounging back, perfectly at ease, although his chair was no more spacious than the one I had been given, nor did the ship sway any less around him. Yet he looked as comfortable as if he had sat in a nice armchair on solid ground. It was frustrating.
"Yesterday, you almost fell overboard while sick," Lord Herucalmo mused. "And one of the mariners told me that he was worried for your safety this night."
I grimaced in dismay. So I hadn't fooled the man, and what was worse, he'd reported me to Lord Herucalmo. To the captain, too, probably. Hence the bucket.
I cleared my throat. "Abrazân surprised me," I said. Lord Herucalmo raised his eyebrows in challenge. I could see that he was guessing what I did not want to admit.
"And your head?" he asked.
Without my volition, my hand rose to touch the sore spot on my temple where a bump had risen. It hurt more when I touched it. I suspected that it must be discoloured, too, but I hadn't seen a mirror since the morning of my departure, and had no desire to see it now.
"I hit it against the hatch when I went back to my berth," I said.
His lip twisted in displeasure. "You should be confined to your berth. You're a danger to yourself when you stumble about. And I do not wish to appoint one of my guards to tag after you. I'm not here to babysit you, after all."

I stopped chewing on my lips for long enough to answer. "I didn't think you were, my lord," I said, and then I couldn't help asking, "Why are you here?"
"Because I am travelling to Umbar, obviously."
"But why?"
He raised a reproachful eyebrow. "I did not realise that I was answerable to you."
Once again, I bit down hard on my lip. "I was just wondering. Lord."
He chuckled at that. "If you must know, I am visiting my father. He is governor of Umbar, you may remember. He has long desired my company, and it is customary for those of the blood of Elros to prove themselves in the colonies for a while - not that you'd know anything about that, of course." He smiled, evidently pleased with the reminder of my ignorance. I was not offended. I could hardly be expected to know anything about the customs of the nobility, although I was aware of this particular custom, thanks to Lord Eärendur.

Lord Herucalmo went on, "I'd rather get that duty over and done with now, before I found a family. After all, I would not want to be an Aldarion, abroad while his wife languishes alone. That sort of thing never ends well, does it? So now is the time."
For a man who was not answerable to me, he had said a lot, I thought. But then, it seemed that he was quite proud of himself - both of being of the noble blood, expected to prove himself in the colonies, and of intending to be a better husband than Tar-Aldarion, whose story I recalled from one of the plays I had recently seen. My stomach clenched painfully at the thought that I, too, was going to be an absent husband who sailed abroad and did not hurry back to his family. I wasn't doing it out of selfishness, yet I felt that there was some accusation in Lord Herucalmo's words. Or was it directed at his own father, ruling in the colonies while his wife and son had to stay behind?

Rather than allowing my thoughts to follow that painful path, I tried to fix them on what he hadn't quite said, but what seemed to lie beneath his words. "Your lordship is planning to get married soon, then?" I asked.
"I do hope so!" he said, sounding very pleased, as one could at such plans. "All is settled, really - except for the Council's approval, but that should be a mere formality."
"Then I should offer my congratulations," I said.
"Hmmm. You should indeed."
"I wish you much happiness," I said, without much feeling. It wasn't that I didn't wish him happiness; it just reminded me more keenly of what I'd lost.
He noticed, of course. "You sound rather like you begrudge me my happiness."
"Not at all, my lord. I do hope that you and your betrothed will be happy. It's just that I'm missing my wife so much." I had to struggle against a lump in my throat and only managed to swallow it down with difficulty. I made my lips smile. "Congratulations. I am certain it is a most auspicious match. Do I know the lucky lady?"
It was inane babble, nothing more, and I expected him to tell me that it was none of my business, but he smiled - perhaps it even was a genuine smile - and said, "I'm sure you do." Then he leaned forward so quickly that I started and almost slid off my chair. "But enough of me. I didn't call you here to talk about my future."

There it was again. I felt my smile, which had been faint and forced in the first place, drop. "My apologies, Lord. Why did you call me?"
For an uncomfortably long moment, he studied me. His gaze did not have quite the same indimidating keenness of his grandfather's eyes, but in my current state, it was disconcerting enough. I was certain that he was deciding on his angle of attack, and once he had found it, he struck.
"Do you know what became of your man Balakhil?"
The question surprised me, so I just shook my head.
"Of course, he never truly was your man, was he? My uncle placed him in your house to betray your secrets to him. Still, you must have inspired some kind of loyalty, because he became reluctant about his errand, and only ever reported harmless bits and pieces - nothing that warranted your arrest - for years and years. Is not that curious?"
"Maybe it's because I have become an honest citizen, and there was nothing to report," I said, my throat dry. I remembered Balakhil begging for work in my house, abasing himself at my feet, even. At the time, I had thought he was truly desperate. Instead, apparently the King - Crown Prince, at the time - had told him to do it. Sadly, that made rather more sense, and I could have kicked my past self for not suspecting it. I had always been too soft-hearted. Perhaps, I had also been too proud. How else could I have believed that a former palace guard was desperate enough to enter my service? I would never ally myself with your enemies, he had said, and like an idiot I had trusted his word. Fool that I was, I had thought that he would honour his promise, when he had surely felt that a promise to someone like me didn't need to be honoured.

Lord Herucalmo raised an eloquent eyebrow. "Be that as it may," he said in a tone that left sufficient room for doubt, "he did mention your doubts about your embalming method. And then, this spring, he spoke of your secret ceremonies on the Mountain, and that gave my uncle a chance to attack. And he did, didn't he?"
I nodded. I had trusted the man, I thought bitterly. I had rescued him from ruin and hopelessness - or so I had thought, at least - and he had given the King a weapon against Lord Eärendur and myself. Then I frowned. "But it didn't go according to plan, did it?"
"Indeed, it did not," Lord Herucalmo agreed readily. "Still, Balakhil was taken back into royal service, so he got what he wanted. Except he couldn't live with what he felt he'd done. He took his own life, four days after the trial."
I opened my mouth, and then I shut it again. There was nothing to say. I hadn't known that. Of course, I had been unconscious at the time. But I hadn't made enquiries later on, either. Not that it would have changed anything - but it still made me feel as if I had failed as an employer, whatever else had happened. I should at least have tried to find out what had happened to Balakhil.

"The question," Lord Herucalmo continued, since I didn't speak, "is: are you as weak as that? I should hope not."
"Balakhil was always stronger than me," I responded without thinking. Really, I should have suspected that he wouldn't have served me without good reason. He had even asked me whether I wasn't afraid of wasting kindness on someone. Maybe he had started to feel reluctant, then, and tried to give me a hint. And I hadn't figured it out. What a fool I had been.
"Did you know it?" I couldn't help asking.
He raised an eyebrow. "About Balakhil? Why should I? I was never concerned with any of this. I didn't even know the name before Grandfather told me the story - after the body was found."
I was tempted to ask just how Balakhil had died. Then I asked myself why I wanted that information. For inspiration? To reassure myself that it hadn't been painful - or maybe that it had? I decided that I didn't need to know.
"So Lord Atanacalmo knew about it."
"Grandfather knows about everything worth knowing, I daresay. And he says he even tried to warn you. Told you not to trust anyone."
Despite my weariness, I couldn't help laughing. "He should have been more specific."
Lord Herucalmo gave a soft snort. "He couldn't, could he? You're much too honest."
"That's funny," I said, "considering how often I have been accused of dishonesty."

Now Lord Herucalmo heaved a sigh, the sort you use to signal to someone that they are being slow on the uptake. "You must realise," he said, "that not all accusations are necessarily true, and that in fact they may be entirely untrue - deliberately so, even."
It was no longer funny; it was sad, and deeply painful. I sobered, and said, "I am aware."
He smiled knowingly. "I'm sure you are."
I buried my face in my hands. This was all too much. Whatever point there was behind Lord Herucalmo's story, it only served to show just into how much of a mess I had gotten myself. There was no way out. I felt that I could take no more. I raised my head again. "Well, my lord, thank you for telling me. I suppose. May I go now?"
He had sobered, watching me very earnestly. "You may go," he said, "but you may not go overboard."
Even though I hadn't had any immediate plans to try that again, my cheeks grew hot. "What is it to you?" I asked, feeling defensive.
He said, "Oh, it would look awfully inconvenient if you died while travelling on the same ship I was on, wouldn't it? People might blame me."
"Ah. Especially the parents of your betrothed, I expect."
That made him chuckle. "Oh, my father-in-law would be perfectly delighted. No danger there. The Council and the people, however..."
I accepted that, but I couldn't stop myself from asking, "Why are you on the same ship, anyway? One should think you have your own."
"As it happens, I do not. Yet, anyway. Grandfather has ships, of course, but he's thrifty, isn't he? Why send his own ship and crew if merchants are making the journey all the time, anyway? It is not a visit of state, after all."

Something was eluding me, but I wasn't certain what it was. "I don't believe it," I said.
He shrugged. "I don't care. But I do expect you to arrive in Umbar alive and well, or as well as your constitution allows. You look dreadful. You need to eat more."
"So I can throw up more?" I said, at which he looked displeased.
"So you can keep your strength."
I might have laughed if I hadn't been so weary. "I've never had much of that. But don't worry, Lord. I will not inconvenience you."
"Good!" he said with more energy than I could imagine ever again having. "You're too young to take the Gift of Men, anyway. You're what, a hundred? A hundred and ten?"
"Sixty-one, actually."
I could see his eyes widen slightly. These nobles never seemed to grasp that us common folk aged rather more quickly than they did. Then he caught himself and said, "Well, then, much too young. It is graceless to unwrap a gift before its time."
That was either so childish or so profound that I didn't know how to respond. I managed to smile politely - or at any rate, to make the corners of my mouth move vaguely up and back - and said, "Yes, Lord." And since he had earlier permitted me to go, I stood up and bowed. As he did not tell me to sit down again, I concluded that I was free to leave and made my uncertain way back to the cabin door. But just as I reached it, I finally realised what had confused me earlier, and things fell into place. Well, some things, anyway.
I turned around again. "Are you going to marry the Crown Princess, my lord?"

He hadn't left his comfortable seat behind the desk, only leaned back again as if my unsteady walk was a sight to watch at leisure. Now, he tilted his head with a curious smile. "What makes you think so?"
"You said that it was somebody I knew. And that her father would be perfectly delighted if I drowned. There are probably plenty of people who wouldn't mind to see me drowning, but the King surely is the most prominent one. And you also said that the Council had to approve, which seems unusual. I mean, I'd expect that even a nobleman like you is free to marry whom he choses, as long as the parents agree. But if the lady were the Crown Princess, then it's a matter of state, so it makes sense for the Council to have a say." I stopped, embarrassed. "But she's your cousin."
"Second cousin," he said dismissively. "Besides, Father is from a fairly distant branch of the line. And before her mother, Eldalondë hasn't intermarried with the royal house in generations. So that should not be a problem." His smile bordered on beatific. "However, I am not going to marry the Crown Princess. There is no Crown Princess."

Confused, I frowned at him, until I remembered that the King himself had not been Crown Prince until his Father had appointed him. The King's daughter probably hadn't been appointed yet, either. "But there probably will be a Crown Princess."
He nodded approvingly. "Once she marries."
I felt my eyes widen. "You are going to make her Crown Princess?"
He clapped his hands in mock-applause. "Look at that! You do have a mind for politics after all!"
It felt very much like an insult. Nonetheless, I took it as confirmation of my question. In all honesty, I was surprised that I had connected the pieces correctly. Maybe my tired mind wasn't entirely useless after all, burned out though I felt. Once again, I forced myself to smile. "Congratulations again. She seems very lovely. And it's a great match, of course."
"She is, and it is indeed," Lord Herucalmo agreed, sounding very pleased. I hoped that Princess Vanimeldë was also pleased. At least her future husband wanted to be better than Aldarion, I thought. Then again, that wasn't exactly hard. Still, it might be a good beginning.
The future husband was still smiling, self-satisfied, and nodded in parting. "A good day to you."

It was not a good day, but it passed, and then another and another and another, until the coast of Middle-earth came into sight, at first as a grey haze rising above the shimmering sea, then growing more solid by the day. The end of the voyage and the promise of solid ground should have filled me with relief - if only the journey hadn't only just begun. With loneliness and a world full of strangers ahead, all I could feel was apprehension.