The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

Chapter 49

Chapter 49

In the event, money was not an issue. Lord Roitaheru, when I cautiously mentioned the topic, immediately declared that embalming was obviously of public interest, and therefore public money - that is, taxes and rents and such - would pay for it. Most of it, anyway. The building itself didn't even have to be paid for, because the former owner had been unable to sell it, and had therefore been forced to give it over to the governor in order to pay for his debts.
"I am astonished at your choice, though," Lord Roitaheru said when he surveyed the place himself. "You'd have half built a new morgue before this place is back in order, I daresay. And I really would've thought you'd want to be within easy reach of the city! You're more adventurous than I thought." After breathing deep, he conceded, "Although I suppose the air is more pleasant out here. And you'll hire guards to ensure your safety, of course." He looked around the run-down building, wrinkling his nose. "Well, you're welcome to the place. It's always better for buildings to belong to people. People look after buildings. Will you want the vinyards, too?"
I blinked at that. "I'm not intending to make wine here, my lord."
"Obviously not! But you can still grow the grapes, can't you, and sell them to people who make wine. As a sort of second income."
That sounded reasonable, but I felt that I was already biting far more than I could chew. "I doubt I'll be able to run a morgue and look after the vinyards, Lord."
"That's what stewards are for," he said dryly. "Well, suit yourself. I can see that you aren't ready just yet. But the vinyards aren't going to go anywhere, so just keep it in mind for later."
"I shall," I promised.

Within the week, I had the deed to the place. After that, things began moving in strange ways. Lord Roitaheru's guards put a sign on the broken door, stating that entry was forbidden without the leave of Azruhâr the Embalmer. While I was still trying to figure out the necessary order of the repair works, and the workers and materials and time I would need, and so on, Lord Roitaheru assigned me a fresh-faced, eager accountant-in-training who went through my list (not all of it was wrong), ran around all day making inquiries, added the numbers he had found out, and made estimates. With these estimates, he went to the treasurer and came back with two full money bags. "This is an advancement, of course, so if you turn out to require more, you will easily be given more," he announced shyly.
"Thank you," I said, and, "What did you say was your name?"
From the way he tensed, you could've thought I'd struck him. "Have I done something wrong, sir?"
"Not that I know of. But if we're working together, I should know your name - and I confess I did not catch it earlier."
"I didn't say it." He gave a sort of nervous half-smile, and then added, "Urdad, at your service."

Urdad did the calculations. Urdad explained that while repair works and materials and wages were covered by the treasury, any furniture or other moveable things, including beasts, would be paid for by myself - "but naturally you can deduct them from your tax at the end of the year," he said by way of consolation. I nodded and tried to look as though I knew what he was talking about. I felt rather guilty about being unable to figure these things out for myself, but I couldn't keep up with the way in which Urdad threw the numbers around, and I was terrified of what I'd do once the young man would return to his proper work, leaving me alone with his indecipherable papers.
But when I told Lord Roitaheru that perhaps I should receive some basic training in accountancy, he just laughed. "What for? If you don't trust the little Umbarian fellow, I'll find you a better one."
I tried to explain that I had no reason to mistrust Urdad, but that I felt that I should be able to keep track of my accounts on my own.
"But why?" Lord Roitaheru said, genuinely puzzled. "Leave that to an accountant. They don't have to understand your craft, and you don't have to understand their books. Nobody does everything by themselves." I thought back at how many things I'd had, so far, had to figure out by myself, and couldn't help frowning.
He put a heavy hand on my shoulder. "If you're worried about the lad's wages, don't be. He's just a trainee, he doesn't cost much. Besides, I'm paying him anyway, so you may as well borrow him for a while! And later, an accountant will be essential for the good running of your business, so you may consider that part of your accomodations."

I thought, not without resentment, about how much easier the past year (and the years before that, too) would have been if Lord Atanacalmo had granted such accomodations for the building of the new morgue. Mind you, he surely wouldn't approve of the way in which I was being positively spoiled with support here. Luxury, servants, and now, an accountant and nearly unlimited money as long as it was for my work - it was enough to go to one's head. Lord Roitaheru sent his own equerry into town to help me buy a good horse, and also a cart and two mules to pull it. He allowed me to use his stables until those at the morgue were fit for their purpose, and continued to house me and feed me and let me enjoy all of the amenities of his palace until I had a decent room to stay in. I was worried what my enemies back at home would make of all that, once they heard of it - and surely they were still keeping their eyes on me. If I was lucky, those eyes belonged only to Lord Herucalmo, who was, perhaps, sufficiently distracted with his preparations for war - but I didn't dare to rely on it. I was certain that if Lord Atanacalmo got the impression that things were too easy for me, he'd take it upon himself to provide the adversity that he valued so much.

As there was nothing I could do about it, however, I focused on something that I could do and began to set the new morgue in order. Or rather, let others set it in order. My work consisted mainly of selecting and picking up such day-talers as weren't needed in the fields, sitting them in the back of the cart, and taking them out to the house in the morning, and then, after a day's work, returning them to the city. Urdad made sure that a vendor brought something to eat out to our site at lunchtime, and he also took care of the wage negotiations and the payment at the end of the day. I told him to be generous, and I suppose he must have been, because my workforce grew from the original three day-talers on the first day to eight and finally twelve men as the word got around. Initially, they simply removed the debris and the dirt and dead leaves and animal droppings out of the building. Then, Urdad hired a fumigator who made sure that all the beasts who had taken up living inside took flight or were killed; and lastly, the day-talers scrubbed the rooms and the cellars, the basins and the caves until the red-brown floor tiles of the ground-level rooms and the rock of the cellar gleamed and the kitchen no longer looked like a pigeonry.

Except for commissioning and occasionally supervising it, I had little to do with the actual work. I meant to do more, but Urdad organised most of it, and when I reached for a shovel or cleaning rag, somehow there already was another pair of hands. Besides, I kept being distracted by visitors. First the owners of the neighbouring wineries (the people who had bought or rented the vinyards that had once belonged to my building) came to pay their respects and make polite conversation. I suspected that they were very relieved that they got to keep those vinyards, because they gave me quite generous welcoming gifts - amphorae of wine, sweet raisin cakes, rolls of fabric for curtains and, in one case, a litter of kittens to keep any returning rodents in check - and went out of their way to assure me of their friendship and their readiness to lend me whatever help I needed. It was such a stark contrast to the cold welcome I'd received in my new neighbourhood at home that it made me feel somewhat suspicious (and moreoever worried what would happen once they realised what I was going to do here).

Darîm, too, came for a visit. Underneath his polite words and the flattery at how much better the place was looking, I thought I felt frustration that the prisoners were still in prison.
"You realise, of course, that your apprentices could help with these efforts," he said at last, confirming my suspicions.
"I realise that, of course," I replied. "But first, they'll need a place to sleep, don't they?"
He shrugged and surveyed the bare hall in eloquent silence, as though he felt that it would be perfectly sufficient. "They don't need much."
"Two of the ceiling beams need to be replaced," I pointed out, "lest they break and the ceiling falls down."
It seemed to take him a moment to understand or accept this. "I know a good carpenter," he said finally.
"I'll let you know when I need him," I said. Perhaps I was being unjust, but I did not much appreciate being put under pressure. After all, I was trying to do this right.

During my bath that evening, I tried to learn more about Darîm. After the brief conversation we'd had over the news from home, Sîmar and Kâlil had become somewhat more willing to say more than just polite phrases when we were in each other's company. At my request, they had explained about Umbar's farming seasons, of which there were two. I had already wondered why there was a harvest going on right now, at the end of the year, when it would already be barren winter at home. I had learned that 'winter' did not exist here, except up in the mountains. Instead, there would be some cooler, rainier weeks for a while, and then some warmer rainy weeks, enough to make the seeds in the ground germinate, but the most part of the year would be as hot, and as dry, as the weather I had experienced here so far. "Behind the mountains, it is like that all year," Kâlil said. "So we all live between the sea and the mountains."

I had learned a little about Sîmar and Kâlil themselves, too. I now knew that they were the youngest of six children - "when we left, that is" - and hadn't been in contact with their family since their uncle had returned home. The rest of their family were farmers in a small village to the south-east. They'd been expected to work as farmhands for one of their older brothers, or at a neighbouring farm, so serving in Lord Roitaheru's household was a giant leap for them, just as such a position would have been a huge step forward for myself, when I was still a day-taler.
I hadn't told them that. But I had told them of my children and of Amraphel, the wisest, kindest and best wife a man could have. It was hard to speak of them - even the abstract 'my family' threatened to bring tears to my eyes, and naming their names and describing them was so much worse - but I couldn't well ask them to answer my questions if I wasn't willing to answer theirs. I was glad that my voice would be distorted by the echoing water, so perhaps it didn't sound quite as raw as it felt, and that I could surreptitiously wipe my eyes, blaming the steam.

As for Darîm, they couldn't or wouldn't tell me much except that he was important and (to them) very powerful, and that he had saved them when they had been starving. "We owe everything to him," Kâlil said, nervously rubbing his fingertips against each other. As for why he had chosen to help them in the first place, they were not themselves certain. "He receives our payment until a certain time," Sîmar explained, but that didn't seem to explain much; a man of Darîm's wealth could hardly be depending on the wages of a pair of servants, even at the governor's house.
"Oh, not just ours. All the positions he found for people," Sîmar said. "Servants, and also craftsmen, and assistants, and apprentices."
"Apprentices, too? Are you certain? He didn't mention that to me." Nor had Lord Roitaheru, who - I thought - really should inform me about such things.
The twins exchanged glances. "Maybe it is different with you. But normally, if he finds work for one of us with your people, then their payment for the first years goes to him," Kâlil said, and Sîmar added, "And normally, if one of our people works for your people, it goes through the Darîm."

That was interesting. I wondered whether Darîm would expect to receive the modest wages I'd been planning to pay my apprentices, too (and if so, for how long). Although a man as rich as he was couldn't possibly need the money - it wouldn't be that much, anyway - perhaps it was a matter of principle. Perhaps that explained his haste. I regretted telling him about it. At the time, I had thought that he was worried about these people's well-being and their status as technically indentured workers. Now, I had to assume that they wouldn't actually see the money either way. (What if I gave it to them in secret? What if I told him that they got less than I actually gave them, so they could at least keep some of it? But I hated the thought of having to construct, and then uphold, such a deception.)
"How exactly-" I began, and then the opening and slamming of the grand door to the baths made all three of us flinch and turn towards the entrance. Striding in purposefully came Lord Herucalmo, already half-undressed, and two servants carrying the usual assortment of towels and sponges, soaps and scented oils. Kâlil and Sîmar sank to one knee at the side of the basin; I bowed awkwardly, my nose almost touching the water.

"My apologies, Lord," I said, assuming that time had passed more quickly than I'd realised. "I didn't mean to inconvenience you. I'll be gone in a moment."
"No, you can stay," he said in an indifferent tone. "You two, go," he told Sîmar and Kâlil, who quickly collected my discarded clothing and used washcloths before retreating.
Lord Herucalmo carelessly tossed his under-tunic onto a stone bench. I was done bathing, and I felt rather guilty over having lost track of how long I'd stayed in the baths. So far, I had always made sure not to bathe during the nobles' bath time, or used the smaller basin - the lovers' bath - if I couldn't avoid being in the baths at the same time, but I suppose it had been unavoidable that I'd mess up at some point.
"Really, I am done," I said.
Lord Herucalmo gave me the briefest of glances before gesturing at his servants to start with the cleaning. "I said, you can stay," he said, more sternly now.

Since I didn't know what else to do, I stayed. I tried to swim a little - the basin was big enough for that - although I wasn't much of a swimmer, but it seemed a better choice than just standing around and looking at him, or looking away, both of which could be construed as rude. Of course, I did occasionally glance over, simply so I would be forewarned in case he got angry. He didn't seem angry or even just tense right then, but you never knew. I noticed that the servants were giving him the exact same treatment that I received from Kâlil and Sîmar, nothing more. Somehow I had expected that more effort would be given to one of the noble house. Perhaps they were using more expensive soap or softer sponges? I had no way of knowing that, of course.
What I could see was that Lord Herucalmo didn't have quite the grace and beauty of the Andúnië family. Not that he was ugly - he did have the flawless skin, good posture and muscled frame of the well-to-do that I'd always envied in the bath houses at home - but he wasn't extraordinarily handsome. You didn't see at a glance that he had Elven blood.
I had studied him for too long; he looked my way and caught me at it, raising an eyebrow in challenge. I hastily turned away and resumed my pathetic swim.
"Thanks," Lord Herucalmo said to the servants once they were done, and, "leave us alone."
They did.

Without further ado, he stepped into the basin, pushing off the last steps and cutting through the water with expertly-looking strokes. He swam one length of the basin and then another, then stopped abruptly and declared, "This is too warm for swimming, really." He turned onto his back to drift.
I saw myself forced to react. "I suppose. I was just bathing, anyway, to be honest," I admitted. "I apologise for infringing on your time. It won't happen again."
The sound of his laugh echoed off the walls and the water. "You're not infringing. There's room enough for two, isn't there? Anyway, it certainly won't happen again, because I'm leaving tomorrow."
"Oh. Into battle?"
He raised a finger to his lips, looking around as if expecting spies behind every pillar. "Hush. No need to let the nosy buggers know. Who knows where their sympathies lie?" He spoke on softly, as though the servants were likely to listen in on us from wherever they'd withdrawn to.
"But yes. Into battle. To smite the enemies of our glorious island nation, and get myself some heroic battle scars." With a wry glance at me, he said, "Not as impressive as yours, of course."

My stomach clenched at the reminder. "Those aren't battle scars."
"I know." Abandoning his leisurely drift on the water, he stood and ploughed through the basin until he was no more than an arm's length away. "Still impressive, though. I keep forgetting what you are. You act so soft and innocent all the time-"
"I'm not acting soft and innocent," I protested, which made him laugh. I bit down hard on my lip.
"You look so soft and innocent... and then again, you're like that."
If he found it funny, I didn't see the joke. "I didn't deserve all of them," I said between grit teeth.
"I didn't say you did." He ran a finger over one of the leathery lines. "That must have hurt."
I didn't bother to answer. Of course it had hurt; that had been the point, after all. I was tempted to sink lower into the water, to hide, but Lord Herucalmo seemed intent on studying the old damage on my shoulder, now half behind me, his hand still brushing over the scars. His touch was surprisingly gentle, but nonetheless it was hard not to squirm under his curiosity, particularly as it reminded me of how his grandfather had examined my shoulder, back when we'd had to pose for the artist. Maybe Lord Herucalmo noticed, because he asked, "Is it hurting still?"
I forced myself to hold still. "No. Just the memory."
He nodded. I could feel his breath on the water on my skin. "I'm sorry," he said, making me turn my head in surprise.
"What for?"
Vaguely, he waved the hand that wasn't on my shoulder. "The whole mess, I suppose."
My brain was slow and sluggish. Was he trying to tell me that it was his fault somehow? Frowning, I asked, "Are you apologising on your grandfather's behalf or --"
Again, his laugh rang out over the sloshing of the water. "I wouldn't dare!" And, more seriously, "I doubt he'd apologise. That's not his way, is it? And I'm not apologising, either; I'm not responsible, after all. I'm merely trying to sympathise."

I nodded, slowly. Something very strange was going on, and I couldn't put my finger on it, which was unsettling.
"I shouldn't be doing this," Lord Herucalmo went on, "but who knows if we shall meet again?"
My throat was very dry, suddenly. "I'm sure your father wouldn't send you into battle if he thought you wouldn't come back."
He raised his eyebrows. There was a strange light in his eyes all of a sudden. "Some fathers do that, you know! And some have no choice! But you're right; it's fairly likely that I'll come back. But you never know for sure, do you?"
I wondered whether he was scared. That would have been perfectly natural, of course, considering that there would be fighting. Even against a weak enemy, the risk of being injured or even killed remained - and accidents could always happen. But he had sounded so confident, even dismissive of the danger, when I had mentioned it earlier. I had assumed that he felt no fear. Maybe he had changed his mind, now that the fight was imminent, but it was strange that he was confiding in me of all people. Because he knew that I was weak and often frightened, perhaps? Because he thought that I'd understand? I glanced down at his arm, still on my shoulder: did he need to steady himself?

I looked back at him, trying to think of something helpful to say. "No, you never know for sure. There's always some danger." That wasn't helpful, I thought. He knew that already. But that, really, was all I could do - acknowledge that yes, there was danger, yes, he might be hurt, or worse. "I'd be scared witless. I'm glad I don't have to go," I confessed - not that he wouldn't know that already, but perhaps it helped to hear it spoken.
Or maybe not. "So you're certain you're not going to come along," he said.
"No." Very nearly, I would've said something self-deprecating again - it was true, anyway - but I remembered his father's aversion to that.
Another nod. "Pity. It would be nice to have you there."
I very much doubted it. I remembered how well our trip to the mines had gone, after all. "To what purpose? I don't seem to learn the things you want me to learn."
There was a little chuckle. "Maybe not. Still..." Suddenly, the palm of his free hand was on the side of my face - for a surprisingly gentle touch, not for a slap, but I flinched anyway. "I suppose you've grown on me."
"What do-" I began, and that was as far as I got before he had leaned in to kiss me.

There was nothing chaste or formal about it. It was a real kiss, the sort I had used to exchange with Amraphel, firm lips and a soft but insistant tongue, mingling breath, the excitement of exploring someone else's mouth. The hand on my face had slipped to my neck and up into my wet hair, cupping the back of my head; the hand on my shoulders was slowly working its way downwards, underwater, pulling me close. Now it was at my buttocks, first stroking, then gently squeezing, and a probing finger slipped - still gently - into the cleft between them. And all the while he continued to kiss me. My body was beginning to respond almost instinctively. Having been lonely and unheld and unkissed for many months, the thought that I did not actually want this took a while to register.

He evidently wanted it. I was pressed so close to him that I could feel his arousal, hard against the softness of my belly, and the drumming of his heartbeat against my chest. I was forced to conclude that he might not simply be mocking me. My brain didn't know what to do with this conclusion. Was it lust, or something more? Again, I thought of our awkward journey to the mines. Had he had taken me along not to teach me something, but because he had wanted me near him? If so, he'd certainly had a poor way of showing it. And yet, and yet... suddenly his anger about my night about town with Lord Laurilyo appeared in a whole new light. Suddenly I wondered whether he had embraced me on purpose, that night, merely pretending to be asleep. Suddenly the harsh punishment of the guards, too, looked very different. How long had I 'grown on him', as he said? Had he already had these feelings aboard ship? Was that why he'd watched over me to make sure I didn't drown myself? But if so, why hadn't he at least hinted at it? Why had he acted as though I was little more than dirt to him? Couldn't the House of Arminalêth behave like normal human beings with normal human feelings for once?
Ultimately, however, it didn't make much of a difference, because whatever his feelings were, I didn't want him; I didn't want this.

It took me a moment to work up the courage to bring up my hands and work them between his chest and mine. In truth, I probably wouldn't have had the strength to push him away if he hadn't let me. But he did, pulling his head back far enough to give me a questioning look. We were both breathing hard. The light in his eyes was all warmth now, but then he glanced down at my palms, placed against his chest, and when he looked up again, the light was fading. "No?" he asked.
Relieved that this option appeared to exist, I managed to confirm, "No."
He was disappointed. He didn't try to mask it. His lips thinned, his eyes dulled with true hurt. His shoulders sagged a little even before he stepped back, withdrawing his hands and folding them across his chest. I stumbled backwards, at once relieved and miserable. He gave a short, sharp nod, and then, a bitter little laugh. "Of course. I forgot. You think I'm some kind of monster."
"I don't. I just - " I didn't want to go on, then said it anyway, "I'm married." I cursed myself. With his connections, he could easily hurt my family, and I was giving him another reason to do that. In an attempt at drawing his attention - and his revenge, I suppose - back to me, I said, "And I don't love you. And you don't love me." Surely he didn't. Maybe my presence had grown on him, maybe he even found me desirable just now, on the eve of riding away, but love? Unthinkable.

Silence. The silence lengthened, giving me sufficient time to worry about what would happen next. We stood face to face, sweating from the heat of the bath and the passion, or whatever you wanted to call it, and also, in my case, from fear. Now he would point out that love on either or both sides was not a requirement. Maybe he would remind me of who and what I was, and who he was, and what consequences my refusal could have. (I was already picturing these consequences, or some of them, and didn't even dare to imagine how far they might reach.) Would he threaten my loved ones? Would he punish me for his disappointment instead? Or would he simply step in and take by force what tenderness had failed to achieve? My every muscle tensed in anticipation. I could see his fists clench before he let his ams sink back into the water.
He raised his chin, and the old haughty look was back on his face. "Leave me alone," he said flatly, and then, as an afterthought, "please."
Not trusting myself to speak, I bowed, waded up the stairs, and fled with as much dignity as I could muster. Halfway across the hall, I heard the water splash as though something heavy had been dropped into it, but I didn't turn to see what had happened. I was nearly at the door when I remembered that I was still naked.

By dinnertime, Lord Herucalmo had recovered his composure, and if conversation was somewhat more tense than most evenings, that could easily be explained away with the impending departure. Even Lord Roitaheru seemed a little more thoughtful than usual. He called for an early night - Lord Herucalmo would leave before dawn tomorrow - and marched off to his chambers soon after bidding us to sleep well, and assuring his son that he would see him off in the morning. I stood in the corridor awkwardly, waiting for Lord Herucalmo to follow his father so I could withdraw to my own room. That is, if he allowed me to. If he wasn't about to try again, perhaps more tenacious this time. I might not be obliged to indulge him, but at the same time, how would I feel if he didn't come back and I'd refused him? That was a question I wouldn't know how to answer, and that I worried he might ask.
He gave me a long look. His eyes were dark, but I didn't detect any immediate signs of anger. On the other hand, I had clearly misread his feelings before, so didn't dare to trust my assessment. I didn't dare to leave first, either, so I held his gaze, biting my lips, trying to figure out what my options were.

Eventually, he nodded - whether to me or to himself, I wasn't sure - and said, "Good night."
"Good night, my lord," I said, and hoping to pre-empt any renewed attempts, I added, "Stay safe."
He snorted, but instead of the scathing reply I'd expected, he just replied, "You too."
In spite of everything, I felt guilty. "We will meet again," I said.
"I expect so, one way or another. Hopefully not in your morgue."
I felt my face flush, cursing myself yet again. "That's not what I meant."
"I know." He held out a hand. I took it and raised it to my lips, but he stopped me half-way, gripping my fingers and shaking my hand instead. Something about the gesture made my heart ache and my eyes sting.
"Thank you, Lord," I said before I could stop myself.
He tilted his head, one eyebrow raised. "What for?"
"For not taking advantage of me, Lord."
He heaved a sigh that rivalled his grandfather's long-suffering displays of exhaustion. "You really do think I'm a monster, don't you."
Unable to think of a reply, I just bowed my head.
He sighed again. "Good night, Azruhâr," he said, turned around, and marched off to the noble family's part of the palace.
By the time I woke up in the morning, he was gone.