The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

Chapter 48

Chapter 48

After a few days of doubt and uncertainty, I turned to the library.
I did not expect to receive answers here, but the librarian didn't even ask why I was interested in the case records of certain prisoners. Instead, he asked, "Will you need anything else, sir?" It was almost unsettling. I wasn't used to being treated with deference by people who, back at home, would have been considered superior to me - and a librarian at a great house, with the exception of Andúnië, would certainly have held themselves superior to an embalmer. I know that I should have been pleased, but my life's experience still made me suspect a trap behind the bowed heads and meek words, his and the other servants'.
Still, I got the records that I had asked for, so I could (through the court scribe's eyes, anyway) get a sort of second opinion on the prisoners. If nothing else, it was interesting to find out what sort of things court scribes wrote down. Against my will - and feeling immediately guilty about it - I couldn't help wondering what the young scribe at Lord Eärendur's trial had recorded about me. Probably better not to know, though. I could imagine well enough what Quentangolë had written about me after our first meeting, and the mere thought made me squirm in embarrassment.

It was heartening, at least, that the court scribe here had written favourably about the men Darîm had recommended - with the exception of Yorzim, who was described as hot-headed, hostile and aggressive towards the man who should have become his son-in-law, which was perhaps understandable, but also towards the councillors, bailiffs and Lord Roitaheru himself. His contempt of the court had been noted and taken into account in the judgement (whatever that meant). On the other hand, Jômar, whom Darîm had dismissed as being unable to write and not somebody he knew well, had made a good impression on the court scribe, who had written that The accused is a man of fair manners and eloquent speech, albeit poor and unclean. I decided that I would interview him after all, and unless Yorzim managed to make a much better impression on me, I probably wouldn't follow Darîm's advice in this regard. That would also allow me to obey Lord Roitaheru's command not to rely entirely on Darîm.

Of course, before I went to interview any of the people on my list, I had to find a place to live and work first. That remained challenging. Lord Roitaheru pointed me towards further addresses that he felt might fit the bill, but they didn't - one was too small, one was inaccessible by cart or hearse, the third had, again, no steady water supply. None of them had sufficiently large cellars to provide the cool space we would need to work or store bodies, either. I was beginning to worry that Lord Roitaheru would run out of patience with me and my demands - or that I would have no choice but to build my own morgue. The mere thought made me despair. It would take so much time and effort that I didn't even want to begin thinking about it. I did not have the strength for that sort of thing anymore. The feeling of futility and hopelessness, which had lifted a little during the last weeks, threatened to descend again, and once more, I had the strong urge to lie down and let the rest of the world happen without me.

But the world, as usual, had other ideas. As I entered my room, I found three letters sitting on the bureau. I stared at them, dumbfounded, for a moment. Some part of me was genuinely surprised that these letters - neatly labelled with my name and my address at the governor's palace in Umbar in three different hands - had actually made the long journey from Yôzayân to my desk. Some other part was actually afraid of what might be in those letters - news, good or bad? Or - and I dreaded this even more - useless words of consolation and reassurances of love? Much though I had wanted to receive word from my loved ones at home, now that it was there, I could not bring myself to reading it.

I pretended not to see the letters and lay down on the bed. At some point, Kalîl looked in on me and asked if I needed anything. I said no. I saw him frown, look at the letters, pause as if he wanted to say something, and then think better of it. "As you wish, sir," he said, and disappeared again.
Now I felt foolish not only for being afraid of the letters, but also for being so cold to Kalîl. He was going his best, and his job was probably unpleasant enough without worrying about my moods. I forced myself to sit up, then stand, then go to the bureau and inspect the letters. You could see that they had travelled far. The paper was worn at the edges and along the folds, and swollen from the sea air it had been exposed to. But there were no tears, and the seals were undamaged. One seal was the natural colour of beeswax, marked with a slightly decorated T, the other two were an expensive shade of blue, one marked with a simple scratched pattern and one with the elaborate crest of Andúnië.
I picked up the letter with the seal made by (presumably) Azruphel first, then put it back down again. I did not feel that I could handle a letter from my family right now. The mere presence of the letters threatened to shatter me again; I would not be able to read Amraphel's words without breaking down entirely. The dearest would have to wait for later.

In the end, I decided to begin Master Târik's letter. I felt that it might be less overwhelming than the others, and perhaps it might even provide answers.
To begin with, it provided kind wishes and thoughts, which I didn't particularly care for, and descriptions of their most recent successes (they had embalmed a late former guildmaster as well as a young sailor who had tragically fallen overboard and been crushed between ship and harbour wall) and struggles (guards had raided Master Târik's house following reports that he was still unlawfully using it as a morgue, which had been untrue). Kârathôn and Mîkul sent some tongue-in-cheek greetings and remarked that they missed having me to blame for that most recent misfortune. (As it happened, I had no doubt that I was to blame, since surely the raid had been instigated either by Lord Atanacalmo or the King himself.) There was some general information about the food situation (no shortages yet, but the prices were fairly high) and the weather (nothing out of the usual) before Master Târik expressed his hope that my teaching was going well and that I was finding it as rewarding as he did - but then, I have been blessed with extraordinarily talented and dedicated apprentices. (Mîkul had scribbled "Hear, hear!" in the margin.)

Then the letter finally reached the point I had been waiting for.
As for your father's service with my former lord, I'm afraid there is not much that I can tell you. Indeed, I did not know that he and I shared a lord for some time. I had nothing to do with the guards or their training, as I was employed in administration, and I must confess that I do not even recall hearing mention of his name. However, I am not surprised that his service did not go well. T. is a proud man, and it must have displeased him to owe something to your grandfather. If I were to speculate, I would assume that he would have made no attempt at masking his displeasure, and let your father's fellow recruits take care of the rest. In my experience, young men are often eager to have an easy target, and T. is the type who encourages that sort of behaviour even at better times. So I expect they would have treated your father very unkindly, and his lord would have done nothing to protect him. Accordingly, asking to be dismissed honourably was probably the best thing your father could do. But again, I am only speculating, and things may in fact have been otherwise. I am sorry that I cannot be of more help.

I found it helpful enough. It sounded feasible, anyway (hadn't I felt myself how much young men liked having an easy target?), and it would explain Father's mistrust of nobles in general, too. If it wasn't the truth, it was a good enough explanation to satisfy my curiosity, even if I still did not quite understand why I was wanting to know these things in the first place. I suppose that in some way, it helped me to honour Father's memory to understand that part of his life, of which he had barely spoken, but which had shaped him in ways that I had never quite grasped. For a moment, it was as though my father was with me once more; as if I was glimpsing his face once again, smiling from wherever he was now. I know that it makes no sense, but that was what it felt like. It was probably because I had recently made such a similar experience - although I had been luckier than Father, of course. After all, their lordships had not approved of the other recruits' behaviour at all, and had in fact reached out to protect me. But still, it had been similar, and thus it felt as though it had brought me closer to Father. My heart ached for him, and at the same time, it felt lighter because that secret had been lifted. If Master Târik was correct, anyway.

I now felt fortified enough to read Amraphel's letter, although naturally it reduced me to tears very quickly. She didn't write anything sad (nor anything too happy, I noted later - as if she were trying to strike a careful balance that wouldn't make me miss home too much, merely let me know that they were doing alright). It was just that the fact that she had to write at all - that I wasn't there with them. As such, even the trivialities of everyday life made me cry. They had sold Balakhil's horse (I realised that Amraphel might still not know what had become of Balakhil, and wondered whether I could write her about it without giving too much away to my enemies, before wondering if I even wanted to write about it). They were preparing for winter. Prices (as I already knew from Master Târik's letter) were high, but it had been a good summer and a good harvest. The new farms by the road had done as well as could be expected, and there had been commendations for the newly made farmers. Târazon, who had replaced me as spokesman of the Daytalers' Wellfare Society, was finding his feet. If there had been any hostility towards my family, Amraphel didn't mention it, although I had a nagging suspicion that she wouldn't tell me either way, to avoid upsetting me if anything had happened. Instead, she was expressing her hope that I was in good health, had found good company and good apprentices and was generally living a good life. The children were doing well and hoping that I was also doing well. They were in Andúnië - or had been at the time of writing - but Amraphel was returning home soon to look after the house and some important business. All our friends and neighbours sent their best wishes, and Amraphel sent her love.
I did not have the strength to read Lord Eärendur's letter after that.

When Kâlil and Sîmar came to prepare me for the evening meal, I had stopped crying, but of course they could see the traces on my face, and after a glance at the bureau, safely locked (with the letters now inside), they exchanged a glance. I saw Sîmar bite her lips.
When she stood behind me, beginning to comb my hair, she asked hesitantly, "Bad news, sir?"
I shook my head and felt the comb snag on a tangle in my hair. "No bad news. Just - news." I barely managed not to sigh. "I miss my family, you see."
"I understand, sir." There was a moment's hesitation, and then she said, "I miss my family too, sometimes."
I saw Kalîl's eyes widen in horror and felt more than heard a huff of breath, like a suppresed gasp, as Sîmar realised that she had said something that apparently she shouldn't have said. I didn't quite see why. I found it perfectly natural that she'd miss her family, living in a stranger's household and doing his work.
"Do they live far away?" I asked politely, hoping to put both of them at ease.
Sîmar did not reply, but now Kâlil seemed to feel that a question needed to be answered. "A little over a week's travel, sir."

"That's a long way," I observed. Too far to visit easily, I thought with a pang of sympathy, though not as forbiddingly far as a whole ocean away. "How did you end up here in Umbar?" I asked, genuinely curious now.
"There was a great drought a few years ago," Kâlil said. "There was nothing to eat and nothing to do. People starved. Many people went to the coast or to the capital in hopes of finding food. Our uncle went, and Mother sent us with him. It took more than a week then, of course, but eventually we made it here." Although his eyes were on my chin, I could see that he was looking elsewhere - through me, through the walls, perhaps all the way to the inland village where he had been born. "Uncle gave us to the Darîm, who taught us how to serve in a great house and found this position for us when we were ready." A pause. "We were very lucky, of course."
"Ah," I said, marvelling at the distance they had travelled. A little over a week would probably have taken you from one end of our island to the opposite end. How vast Umbar must be! "I remember that year," I observed. "Many people from the countryside came to the capital back home, too, but they only travelled for a few days. And they went back home after the winter."
"Oh, Uncle returned home after the winter, too," Kalîl said; and then he stared, wide-eyed. "There was a drought in the Yôzayân, too?"
"On the contrary. We had persistent rains," I said, "but the result was the same. Nothing to harvest. People starving."

Frowning, Kâlil said, "I did not know that such things could happen in the Yôzayân", and I remembered - too late - what Lord Roitaheru had said about the invincibility of our people, and probably the perfection of our island.
"I probably shouldn't have told you," I said awkwardly, since the damage was done now.
The corners of Kâlil's mouth twitched, as if he wanted to laugh and didn't dare to.
"We should not have complained about our family, either," Sîmar said in her meek voice. "We are very lucky. And very grateful, of course. I apologise."
I didn't feel that there was anything to apologise for. "You didn't complain," I pointed out. "Of course you're missing your family. That's natural, isn't it? Doesn't mean you're complaining."I tried a smile; Sîmar might not see it, but her brother would. "You know, you have helped to take my mind off my sorrows. So you've done me a service."
Kâlil's smile was hesitant and had a pleading quality to it. "Will you tell our lord?"
I very much doubted that Lord Roitaheru would see anything wrong with their feelings, but I suppose I didn't know enough about their situation to judge that. "There isn't really anything to tell, is there?"
Now, the smile grew a little stronger. "No, sir. There's nothing to tell."

Curiously enough, "Bad news from home?" was also the first question Lord Roitaheru asked when I joined their lordships for dinner. Even though I had been prettied up and (to some extent) consoled, there must still be evidence of my earlier tears in my eyes. I really was a pathetic exemplar of the invincible men of Yôzayân, I thought miserably.
Sighing, I shook my head. "Just news, my lord. And they reminded me how much I miss my friends and my family." Suddenly, like the servants, I found myself worrying that he might take it the wrong way. "I'm very grateful for the kindness you've shown me - please don't think that I'm not! I just - I love them so much. So I miss them, and they write me to tell me that they miss me, and it's a bit of a mess."
Lord Roitaheru gave his hearty laugh. "Must be nice to be missed like that, eh, Calmo?"
I felt my face grow hot as I thought - with some embarrassment - about the rather pragmatic nature of his marriage to Lady Arancalimë. I could only hope that he wouldn't resent me for being rather more attached to my family.
Lord Herucalmo gave a somewhat pained smile, as if he did resent it. "I wouldn't know," he said coolly. "Azruhâr doesn't seem to enjoy it much."

His father guffawed again. "True, true." He gave me a wry look. "Don't be upset, I'm not making fun of you. And I'm not offended, either. Just don't wallow in misery too much, alright? It's not healthy. You're much too serious, anyway. You should spend more time with Laurilyo!"
I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing; but I did give a pointed look to Lord Herucalmo, who pointedly did not meet my eyes, looking at his father instead. "He should, shouldn't he?" he said. I was extremely tempted to kick him under the table. (I needed to get out of this house before I actually did that.)
Instead, I forced myself to smile. "How are your battle preparations going, Lord?"
"Oh, they're going very well." He put a piece of meat in his mouth, signalling that he wasn't going to tell me more about it; but when he had chewed it and he could talk again, he added, "You're still certain you don't want to come along?"
"Extremely certain. I would be an impediment to your success," I said, which made him grin, but Lord Roitaheru looked put out. "There's that defeatist attitude again! I'm of half a mind to send you along just for that. Maybe it'll show you that very few soldiers are actually great warriors. The great majority are mediocre at best, but they're still valuable in the throng. If great warriors were all that mattered, no battle would ever be won."

I looked down at my plate. "Sorry, my lord." And, because that was important, "But I really rather wouldn't go there, either way."
"Well, then just say that, and don't invent excuses!" His brows were still very nearly meeting in the middle, so I knew that he wasn't mollified.
I felt the need to defend myself. "I can't well decline without giving a reason, can I?"
He snorted. "Your reasons are your own. Besides, 'I don't want to' is a reason; a better one than 'I'd be an impediment'."
"That is not what I was taught," I mumbled.
Lord Herucalmo spoke in a dangerously soft voice, his eyes narrowed in some strange form of amusement. "You need to unlearn a lot of the things that you were taught, I suspect."
Frustrated, I reached for my goblet. "Yes, my lord," I said. To myself, I thought that I would like a list of things I was allowed to unlearn; but I didn't utter that thought. I was pretty certain that whatever he said now, he wouldn't want me to question his commands - let alone say outright that I didn't care to follow them.

I did, however, try to mend things with Lord Laurilyo. After all, Lord Roitaheru had been present when his son had approved of spending more time with his rogue nephew. Lord Herucalmo had almost certainly not meant it, saying it only to goad me, but he'd said it. At the next council session - which was, as Lord Roitaheru had predicted, very long, dealing with predictions for the harvest based on what had already been done, and discussions of rates and rationings, and the sending of soldiers to guarantee the safe-keeping of the granaries, and the transport of grain and other goods to Umbar, and the tribute, and other tedious but vital issues - I used one of the breaks we were granted to stretch our legs and walk around the theatre or its courtyard to approach and greet him.
He looked at me down his nose. "What, are you allowed to talk to me again?" he asked in a deliberately bored tone.
"I'm not sure," I admitted. "I hope so. Let's see what happens."
He laughed at that - at least he was amused, I thought to myself - and said, "Well, in that case, a good day to you, too."

I nearly walked away at that - it had been a fairly clear dismissal - but managed to work up the courage to say, "I realised that I never thanked you for the tour of the city at night - the drinks and the food and everything. And the company. It was a very nice evening."
"Well, it's good of you to say so," he said, one eyebrow raised, "because you didn't exactly show it." Before I could answer, he looked at someone out of my field of vision. "There's someone who wants to talk to you, apparently." He nodded curtly, and turned away. I cursed myself, inwardly. Then I looked around to see what he'd meant. Darîm was standing in the aisle between seats, unobtrusive but with a certain air of urgency. Today, he had been taciturn once more, making only the occasional half-hearted attempt at bringing up the interests of the Umbari. Now, he was looking my way, bowing when I caught his eyes.

I tried to smile; after all, it wasn't his fault that things were so complicated. "Spokesman Darîmakkharin," I said by way of greeting. I had asked Kâlil to teach me the full name, and Kâlil had obliged, although he had not seen the point of the exercise.
Now, Darîm gave a brief laugh, and his lips were still twitching when he had recovered his poise. I probably had gotten it entirely wrong despite the practice. "Please, Master Embalmer, Darîm is sufficient. May I enquire after the progress of your project?"
I sighed. "You may, but there is little I can tell you. I still haven't found a place for our morgue, and before I have that, it would be wrong to raise anybody's hopes of release."
"You have already raised hopes, I'm afraid," Darîm said "But why do you have such troubles with your morgue?" He tilted his head in mock-confusion. "Is the morgue of Umbar not good enough for you?"
I looking around to make certain that Lord Roitaheru wouldn't overhear, biting my lip. Then I said, "It's perfectly adequate, actually, but it's in use, isn't it?"
Darîm seemed intent on misunderstanding. "That can hardly be a problem. You can have it for yourself within days, I am certain."
I felt my eyes narrow. "Of course I could." Lord Roitaheru had certainly said so. "Is that what you want? Your embalmers and the dead in their care turned out into the street, so I can use their morgue?"

His eyebrows performed an elaborate dance of scepticism, but his palms had risen in appeasement yet again. "No offense is meant, Master Embalmer. I am merely trying to understand the problem."
"And I am trying to understand why you'd suggest to me that I take your people's morgue away."
He mustered me for an uncomfortably long time (and without his mask of deference, too). Then he said, "Maybe this is not the time and place for this conversation. May I request the honour of your presence at my house tomorrow afternoon?"
I had no desire to visit him again; the last time had been uncomfortable enough. At the same time, his impatience was understandable. Of course he'd want to see the men we'd talked about released sooner than later. I wanted to see them released sooner than later, really. They were no more than names on a few sheets of paper, but nonetheless, I already felt responsible for their fate (the poor fellows). "You may," I said stiffly.

So there was another awkward afternoon in his beautiful sitting room with the beautiful view of the enclosed garden. After exchanging some general and insincere pleasantries, I mentioned the fountain, and the difficulty of finding a house with steady supply of clean water. That turned out to be good, because it brought us to the point of why I still hadn't found a place. He questioned me (in his overly polite manner) about the houses I had looked at and the things I was looking for, and at the end of it, he said, "It may not be the right place, of course, but I have something in mind that I would like to show you. If it is no inconvenience, would you care to accompany me on a little excursion?"
"What, right now?"
He glanced outside. "Yes, I think it is a good time now. It is late enough to be cooling down, and early enough to allow us to be back before the gates close - although they would let you back in either way, naturally, so that is nothing to worry about."
"It's outside the city gates?"
"Unfortunately, yes. At the foot of the mountains, to be precise. But I really think that you might want to look at it."
There was urgency in his voice, but more than that, he had made me curious. Besides, an excursion to the mountains would, if nothing else, pass the time. Perhaps my two guards felt the same - at any rate, they voiced no objection when I told them that we'd go on a short trip outside the city walls. I had expected questions or even an outright refusal, but instead, they said "As you wish, sir," and got the horse ready.

I had second thoughts when we had been on the road for well over an hour, though. We were approaching the mountains - we had already reached the vinyards - and I was beginning to doubt that whatever he wanted to show me had any relevance for me and my work.
"Are you certain that this is worth our while?" I asked, trying not to outright say that I felt like a fool for following him.
"I do hope so," Darîm replied evenly. "I assure you that I wouldn't want to waste your time, Master Embalmer."
I suspected that he was making fun of me again, and I just barely managed to give him the benefit of the doubt. "Well, if you say so."
"I do," he said, bowing his head, "although I am fully aware that I may be mistaken. In which case I hope my good intention will speak louder than my failure."
One of the guards snorted audibly, which did nothing to ease my mind.
"I am trying to keep that in mind," I said, with as much certainty as I could muster, "but I cannot help wondering where you are taking me, or what you hope to show me. Surely Lord Roitaheru would already have pointed me there, if it were at all suitable."

For a moment, I thought I saw something like worry in the glance Darîm gave me. "His noble lordship is very wise, and you are probably right," he conceded, speaking slowly as if weighing every word. "But it has crossed my mind - perhaps his lordship did not think outside the city walls. Or perhaps he did not think of this particular building. It is not a very important one, not the first one would think of, and its original purpose was different from what you would use it for. But I still ask you to withhold judgement until you have seen it. It is not very far now." His voice and smile were strained.
"Very well, I shall withhold judgement," I said, wondering what I'd be expected to do if he'd turned out to waste my time after all.

Fortunately, I did not have to figure it out. At last, we approached a disused winery, half-hidden by an overgrown laurel hedge and some rather sprawling fig trees. Although the gravel beneath the trees was picked clean of fallen figs, suggesting that the place wasn't fully forgotten, the perimeter was empty of people. Parts of the building had fallen into disrepair - the plaster was beginning to crumble on the corners, and some of the narrow windows were broken - but there was a well in front of the entrance, which was promising. There was an untended patch of garden, too, and an open stable at the end of the yard.
"The owner went bankrupt a few years back," Darîm broke the silence, "and while the vinyards have been sold off to the neighbours, nobody had any use for the house. Shall I show you inside?"

We went through the empty, echoing rooms - Darîm with his small lantern, myself, and one of the guards with another lantern, probably because he did not trust Darîm not to mislead me and leave me there, although I very much doubted that the spokesman was planning such a thing. The place was gloomy and dusty, smelling of rotting leaves and pigeon droppings and old wine. Whenever we turned a corner, tiny paws scurried away. There were a couple of rooms at ground level - mostly office and storage rooms, a small room that might have been the steward's, and one larger hall that might have been a shop or might have been a shared communal space - with no furniture left anywhere, it was impossible to tell. According to Darîm, there were bedchambers for the owner's family upstairs, but the stairs had been dismantled, so we did not go there. The stairs into the cellars, however, had been cut into the rock, so they were still in place.

Once we were downstairs, the house revealed its true qualities, and I understood why Darîm had felt that it was worth my while. It was much larger underground than you could see from outside. We entered a dark corridor (startling various small animals underfoot and overhead) and from there came into the cavernous room they had used to make the wine. There were several basins in which they had crushed the grapes into must. They were still partly stained purple, but also gray with mould, but if they were cleaned up, they would be perfect either for bathing or for soaking dead bodies. There was room enough to put in slabs and worktables, too; there even was another well, although it had filled with dead leaves (and probably dead bugs, too). Beyond the work rooms, a tunnel had been hewn into the rock, with artificial caves that had once held huge barrels for fermentation - the remains of them were still visible in places - and would be serviceable as catacombs, too. Once we would have driven out the bats and the rats, anyway.

"There's a lot to clean up and repair, of course," I said once we were back in the open air, warm and oppressive after the cold underground.
"There is," Darîm conceded. "It's in a worse state than I expected, I confess. But the workers can be found. Or your future apprentices can do the work. If you think it is worthwhile, that is."
"I'll have to think about it," I said. "But it's certainly the strongest contender I've seen so far. Thank you for bringing it to my attention."
He bowed graciously. "As I said, I am very interested in the success of your undertaking."

Maybe he really was. At any rate, he had done me a great service. In spite of the obvious faults - distance from the city, dirt, mould, disrepair, vermin and all - I found myself liking this place. The only question - as always - was the money. I'd have to pay for the building, and for the workers, and for the materials they would require; I'd have to buy furniture, too, and the bandages and salts and whitewash and all the other things that Master Târik paid for at home. Even though my money was worth more here than at home, I wasn't sure that I could afford all that. On the other hand, it would be no cheaper to build something new. I'd have to do some calculations. I'd probably have to petition Lord Roitaheru for monetary support, too. But presuming that these things would work out, it might well be that I had found my new working place at last.