The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

Chapter 50

Chapter 50

I didn't mention what had happened in the baths in my next letter home. (What had happened in the baths, anyway? Had it really happened? As the days went by, I began to doubt it more and more. It felt as though I'd imagined the whole thing. It did not seem like a likely thing to have happened. I felt guilty anyway.) I mentioned the battle preparations in the vaguest of terms - mostly to express my relief that I didn't have to accompany my erstwhile fellow recruits - but as I remembered Lord Herucalmo's secrecy, I didn't go into any detail. I didn't know many details, anyway. Instead, I wrote in detail about my winery-turned-morgue. That felt like a safe topic, although I left out just how much help I was receiving from Lord Roitaheru's treasury - and, most recently, from Lord Roitaheru himself.

With his son away and - for the time being - no news about how the campaign was going, Lord Roitaheru had begun to show an increased interest in my work. Whether he was worrying after all and in need of distraction, or whether he was simply bored, he questioned me about the progress of the work and even visited the site to take a good look around, much like Darîm had done. Unlike Darîm, however, he didn't express any frustration about the speed of the repairwork. When the carpenters discovered that there were more than just the two obvious ceiling beams decayed to the point of danger, he took it philosophically. "That gives you more time to figure out your household staff, and maybe start recruiting," he said - and promptly advised me on what staff I should hire. Once again, I found it dizzying how casually he provided valuable information. I didn't even have to ask, much less beg. Imagine if Lord Atanacalmo had so easily provided me with advice on what to do and whose services to hire! To be fair, Amraphel had usually been able to give me that advice, but Lord Atanacalmo hadn't known that. (Or had he? Knowing him, he probably had. But I doubted that he would have been any more forthcoming if I hadn't been lucky enough to have a wife trained in looking after an estate.) We'll see what you're really made of, his words echoed in my memory, and I had to smile when I thought how much that wasn't true. I currently had so much of my work done for me that I felt quite lazy.
Lord Roitaheru seemed to feel that I should keep it that way. "It's one of the prerogatives of better men to delegate work to lesser men," he said dismissively.

That might be correct, but I was one of the lesser men. However, I nearly laughed picturing Lord Atanacalmo's face at the suggestion that I shared the prerogatives of better men. "As far as I know, it's hardly customary for simple craftsmen to have their own stewards and agents, let alone so many guards," I pointed out.
He shrugged at that. "I wouldn't know about craftsmen in the motherland, but here, it's perfectly customary. Workers are cheap, even specialists, and if you ask the craftsfolk on the council, they'll tell you that they all have a household steward, and most of them have their own accountant, too. And you'll need guards because you're living all the way out there with your criminals. The city guard will take much too long to get out there, and who's going to call them in the first place?"
Again I found myself thinking of home, of our morgue at the very end of the road to the Holy Mountain, where the city guard would never arrive in time, if they even came when we called at all.
"I'm just worried that I'll be accused of forgetting my place," I said. I didn't expect him to level such accusations at me, but others might, and I felt that it was better, for the record if nothing else, to show him that I knew my place.
He had different ideas about that, though. "Your place, as a free-born citizen of Númenórë, is right up here," he said dryly. Apparently, that was that.

He had thoughts on my clothing, too. "Do you always have to wear that drab grey?" he asked at one point. "No wonder you're always so downcast if you walk in mourning all the time."
Personally, I felt that my exile - even if it was a kindly and luxurious exile - warranted mourning, but saying that would have been graceless, considering how much Lord Roitaheru had done to be welcoming and supportive. So I only said, "It's the colour of my craft."
He scowled at that. "Is it really? You're not a mourner. Shouldn't your colour be something reassuring, some kind of promise of preservation?" Even as I looked at him in surprise - I liked him, but I did feel that he was a little superficial, so this was an unexpectedly deep thought - he went on, "Anyway, you'll find that the natives here dye every scrap of fabric. Not even the paupers wear undyed cloth!"
"Your servants wear white, Lord," I observed.
"Very perceptive. But it's bleached! That's precious! Do you know what it costs me to import that? You don't want to know. They don't make bleached linen here. I have to bring it here from up north or from the motherland, and both costs a fortune. Can't recommend it."
"It doesn't have to be bleached, but I'll need undyed linen for the wrappings, anyway," I pointed out. "It must be possible to buy fabric before they dye it, right?"
"Sure, if you negotiate with the weavers. Doesn't mean you should wear it, though! I suppose you can buy undyed linen for your apprentices, but for yourself, it's not very flattering. Why don't you look for a nice ivy green? Ivy is for mourning, isn't it. But it's not exclusively that. Trust me, you'll be a lot happier with green."
I told him I'd keep that in mind.
"Do that! I'm going to tell Laurilyo to take you to the market. He knows his way around almost better than the natives and certainly better than I do. And it'll give him something sensible to do. He can help you get that empty place furnished - and he can take you to his tailor, too."

I was worried that Lord Laurilyo wouldn't appreciate being sent out to take me shopping, especially as the rainy season had now begun and the heavy rains fell unpredictably (to my untrained eye, at least). Indeed, he greeted me with a sour face, saying, "You're lucky that I'm too undisciplined to hold a grudge for long." But after that, he seemed to warm up to his task, because by the time we reached the craftsmen's quarter, he was as cheerful as if he'd never been offended. He was lecturing me about different choices of wood and the virtues of cotton or linen respectively, and talking about where to find the best clothmakers and joiners and whatnot, so I didn't have to worry about making conversation; polite noises of affirmation or curiosity were enough. The thought struck me that Laurilyo might have made a fine (and enthusiastic) buying agent. If he had been born to a merchant family, he wouldn't have been a disappointment at all; it was just his bad luck that he was expected to govern. It was a strange and powerful thought that sometimes, it might be bad luck to be born noble. Or, perhaps, that nobility did not necessarily make you a ruler. Fortunately, Lord Laurilyo didn't seem to notice that I was thoroughly distracted. With some effort, I managed to focus back on what he was saying and where we were going. We were entering a part of the city that I didn't know, the district where the craftsmen of Umbar had their workshops, and I felt that I ought to remember the way, in case I needed to go here on my own at a later time.

"I do hope you have the measurements of your place," Lord Laurilyo declared as we entered one of the workshops. The master joiner and his apprentices, or whoever they were, dropped everything to welcome us with many a bow and many a blessing. "I have no idea how much space you have."
I assured him that I had measured the rooms and returned the craftsmen's bow politely, at which they bowed even lower. I had to actively fight the instinct to bow lower in my turn, as I had been taught in my youth, but we'd probably have ended up falling over in our attempts to out-bow each other, and I managed to straighten my back. I was glad that Lord Laurilyo addressed the joiner, since I was too embarrassed by the greeting ceremony to even state why I was here. Much easier to answer the joiner's questions about the preferred type of wood and the measurements and so on after the introductions had already been taken care of. Lord Laurilyo made the occasional joke - whether for my sake or whether to set the Umbarians at ease, I don't know; he also threw in the occasional Umbari phrase, so it was probably the latter - and by and by, the tension that had gripped the workshop and its occupants at our entrance lifted. He helped me negotiate the payment and delivery, too, although his first attempt to suggest sensible numbers in Elvish (to keep it secret from the craftsman, I suppose) failed due to my ignorance.

When I thanked him, he just grinned. "Well, you shouldn't overindulge them and you shouldn't shortchange them, and I figured you aren't very familiar with the currency yet. So I felt it would be better to provide some guidance."
"I'm glad you did," I confessed. "You're right, I probably would've said something ludicrous."
"How do you know I didn't?" he asked, eyes glinting.
I bit my lips. In truth, I had no way of knowing. "I trust you," I eventually said. "So I assume you wouldn't mislead me in this matter."
"Well, at least someone thinks I'm trustworthy," he said dryly.

Having commissioned a bed for me, we also commissioned simpler bedsteads for my potential servants and apprentices, as well as work-tables and a dinner table and benches and (because Laurilyo insisted) a chair with armrests for myself, and then went on to a mattress-maker, and a blanket weaver. We went to the ironworkers' quarter for cooking pots and the like, and then to the potters' for crockery. At this point, I was beginning to feel dizzy. Not because the morning had progressed into mid-day and the air had grown humid and oppressive. No, it was the amount of money I was in the process of spending that made me feel uneasy. I had only made the occasional down payment as yet, so my purse was still sufficiently heavy, but I would have to pay the rest eventually, and I didn't like the idea of running out and having to borrow from Lord Roitaheru. I only received half my usual pay, after all, with the rest being paid directly to my family. True, Lord Roitaheru doubtlessly would lend me the money, but I hated the thought of proving to be as irresponsible as poor folk like me (or like I'd been, anyway) were often said to be.

But we were not done; there was still fabric to buy. Lord Roitaheru had convinced me that a livery for my servants and apprentices was vital - that way, they would immediately be recogniseable as members of my household and treated accordingly (that is, better than they'd otherwise be treated, apparently). Laurilyo confirmed this. "Otherwise, you'll have to pick up your cook from the pillory whenever he gets groceries," he said. "Well, after the third or so time they'd probably recognise his face. But it's still an unnecessary hassle, right?"
"I had no idea that it's so dangerous to buy groceries here," I said, feeling discomfited.
Laurilyo laughed at my concern. "Not for us, don't you worry! And not for anyone easily associated with us. But the Umbari in general aren't allowed to buy just anything; that's our prerogative."
I frowned. "That seems rather unfair," I couldn't help saying.
Shrugging, he said, "That's how the law is."
"Isn't the law made by us - I mean, by our people?" I asked.
"Agreed by the council, passed by the governor, ratified by the King," Laurilyo agreed, sounding as if he was quoting something (which he probably was). "Of course, you know when and where the council meets - if you want to try and change it." He smiled, but I wasn't amused. I had no intention of applying to the council for a change of law.

Be that as it may, I accepted that I would need some sort of uniform for my household, and so I followed Lord Laurilyo from the craftsmen's district and into the market streets. There were no bright awnings now, and no laundry hanging from the clotheslines between houses: at this time of the year, business was clearly conducted inside. The day-talers that we passed had wrapped their arms around their chests as if for warmth, and shifted from foot to foot as though cold, in spite of the hot and humid air. Suddenly, one of them waved, recognising my face (or so I assume). I recognised him, too - he had been a regular when we had cleaned out the old winery - so I raised a hand in greeting, and saw him break into an excited smile. I realised guiltily that I had probably given him hopes of employment, although I'd just meant to be friendly. Sure enough, he left the group and crossed over to us, splashing through a puddle with his bare feet.

"Pleasure to see you, Master," he said, bowing low, "do you have work for me?"
"I'm pleased to see you too, Nêrad," I said. He looked up at the mention of his name, his eyes shining, and I felt very guilty when I had to go on, "But unfortunately I don't have work for you today. As you can see, I'm not on the site today."
"I can help with something else?" Nêrad suggested with some urgency. "Carry your things, or take a message?"
I sighed. I knew what it was like to be turned away. Now, apparently, I'd have to learn what it was like to turn someone away.
"Look, that's hardly work for a grown man. I'm sure you can find something that pays better."
The way in which his shoulders sank suggested otherwise.
"Not much to find at this season," he muttered.
"I'm sorry to hear it," I said. And I was - oh, I was - but there was little I could do about it right now.

If I had been alone, I might have made up something, perhaps, but I was aware of Lord Laurilyo next to me. So I didn't want to show how weak-willed I was. It was Lord Laurilyo who shrugged and said, "You can come along to look after the horses and carry things if Azruhâr buys anything, but that's about it."
Looking after the horses was hardly work for a grown - or very nearly grown - man. That sort of work was done by youngsters, street urchins or junior apprentices, who either couldn't expect to earn all that much anyway, or who already had an income and just appreciated a little extra cash. Someone like Nêrad, on the other hand, would hardly be satisfied with work that generally paid badly. He must be fairly desperate to accept it, I thought.
"Thank you, Lord," Nêrad said, his tense posture easing a little, and I concluded that he must indeed be fairly desperate.

Nêrad trotted after us and looked after the horses - not that we needed someone to look after the horses, but I suppose it was kind of Lord Laurilyo to give him that opportunity, at least - while I looked at fabrics. As Lord Roitaheru had predicted, undyed and unpatterned fabric was hard to find; the Umbari favoured strong colours at the very least, and in-woven patterns of different colours if at all possible. They were cheaper than I would have thought, too. With Lord Roitaheru's advice in mind (and Lord Laurilyo's in my ear), I gave in to the temptation of a very nice fabric, green with a sort of diamond pattern in a darker shade of green. Due to the lack of strong contrasts (some of the other fabrics had brightly clashing colours), it seemed modest enough to be worn on ordinary days, while still satisfying the directive of wearing something non-drab. "Yes, I think it'll suit you nicely," Lord Laurilyo conceded when I asked him for his opinion. "Green is for hope that grows like a tree," he added in a sing-song voice.
"What?"
"Oh, you know - like in the nursery rhyme. Silver for honour, glory is gold...?"

I had to confess my ignorance, and Lord Laurilyo promptly supplied,
"Silver for honour, glory is gold,
black for the night and red for the bold.
Brown is for toil, the plough and the soil,
Purple for passion and yellow for joy.
Green is for hope that grows like a tree,
blue for the truth that is deep as the sea,
white is for purity and life's first breath,
grey is for sorrow, for mourning and death.
You already knew that last part, I'm sure," he finished, glancing at my grey tunic.
"It's the colour of my craft," I muttered half-heartedly.
Lord Laurilyo smiled. "The green fabric is nice."
"Green is for hope," I repeated softly. That gave me an idea. "Would it be possible to send some fabric home - I mean, to Yôzayân?"
"Are you planning to trade in fabrics?" Lord Laurilyo asked, grinning. "Yes, of course it's possible."
"Actually, I just wanted to send a gift to my wife." I wasn't certain that Amraphel would make the connection between green fabric and hope, but if she did, it would be a good way of telling her that there might be hope for my return without letting my enemies know about it. Surely a man could be expected to send some nice fabric home to his family without any deeper thoughts, especially if it was an uneducated man like me, who hadn't even considered the symbolic significance of colours until a few moments ago.

So I bought the fabric. I bought rather a lot of it, enough to make tunics for me and nice gowns for Amraphêl and the children. Or so I hoped. So far, I had left that sort of business to Amraphêl, so I needed the Umbarian weaver to tell me how much I would need. I had to hope that his estimate would be correct. At any rate, Lord Laurilyo didn't protest, so I trusted that it wouldn't be too far off the mark. I bought some simpler (but still patterned) fabric for curtains and sheets and so on, too. I tried to find undyed fabric, but as Lord Roitaheru had predicted, that was uncommon and not available in significant quantities. After visiting several weavers, Lord Laurilyo suggested turning directly to a dyer, buy the wool there, and then commission the fabric. That would mean going back to the craftsmen's district, however, so we went to see the tailor first. Nêrad walked behind us the whole time, patiently carrying the rolls of fabric, and I was glad when Lord Laurilyo paid him in the end - generously, too, from the way Nêrad took his money.

Lord Laurilyo seemed to notice that I noticed, because he sighed and said, "I know, I know, I'm too soft-hearted. Don't tell Uncle. I just hate seeing sad faces. He's probably putting on a sad face because they all know I'll fall for it, and he doesn't really need the money, but I can't help it."
"I'm the last person who'd reproach you," I said. "And I'm sure he does need the money."
Lord Laurilyo smiled. "Uncle thinks otherwise. He says there can't possibly be as many sick fathers and hungry little sisters as they make out to be. So who is it in your family?" That last question was directed at Nêrad, who frowned.
"What, Lord?"
"Who's sick and hungry in your family, I mean?"
Nêrad lowered his head. "Father hurt his leg working, Lord. Hungry, we all are."
"Only you to earn money for the family, then? No brothers or sisters?"
"Yes, Lord, but my brothers' pay goes to the Darîm and my sister is - she has - she cannot work. And mother has to look after her. So only me, until Father is better."

"See?" said Lord Laurilyo, looking at me. "Always such dreadful stories. But the thing is, what if it's true? I figure that if I get fooled, it doesn't hurt me, I have money enough. But if it's true and I don't believe it, it'll hurt him a great deal, right?"
"My lord," I said, slightly alarmed by the way in which he clung to the topic, "you really don't have to justify yourself to me."
Nêrad, in the meantime, looked from me to Lord Laurilyo with an expression on his face that suggested, indeed, hurt. "I would not lie about such things," he said, in barely tamed anger. "Or fate would make them true."
"I did not doubt you," I said. Indeed, I had not. Misfortunes had a tendency to add up, I knew that from personal experience. And at some point, you were desperate and your life really depended on that one afternoon of work, or that one loaf of bread. And the better-off always said that they'd heard that kind of story before; and it never occurred to them that this might be because it happened to many people, rather than because many people used it as an excuse. I suppose it was good of Lord Laurilyo to be willing to pay even at the risk of being fooled; yet somehow I felt resentful because he was assuming that he was being fooled at all. Nêrad, meanwhile, probably resented the both of us, and no wonder.
"You know what," I told him. "When I move into my new house, I'll need some staff. Would you like to work for me permanently? I am only just starting to look, so you could pretty much choose your position."

A man's face rarely displayed so many emotions in such short order as Nêrad's did. First his eyes and mouth widened in astonishment, then his lips spread into the most excited smile, and then their corners dropped and he bowed his head again in misery. "That is very kind," he said, "but I must not leave my family."
I frowned, confused. He was, as I said, a grown man, or on the very cusp of being considered a grown man - I did not know how these things were reckoned in Umbar, but he had an unruly little beard and everything - so one wouldn't think it unusual for him to leave them, either to work in somebody else's household or to start his own. I was fairly certain that he must be older than Sîmar and Kâlil, for instance. "Well, you don't have to," I said at last. "Forget that I asked."
Nêrad put his hands together in a pleading motion. "Can I remember in four weeks? When Father is healed?" He was now looking up at me with an intensely unhappy expression, and I remembered what he'd said about the rest of his family being dependent on his income right now.
"I can't promise that I'll still be hiring in four weeks," I said, since both Lord Roitaheru and Darîm were likely to push me to fill any positions in my household soon.
He nodded, rather despondently. I glanced at Lord Laurilyo, who drew a sympathetic grimace but also shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, What can you do?

What can you do? I could, of course, have left it at that. I had made an offer, Nêrad hadn't taken it, and that could have been it. Nothing more could be expected of me. In truth, I had already offered more than could be expected.
But the thing was, of course, that I saw myself in the young man. I saw my younger self, desperate to make ends meet, and if I had just turned away, it would have felt like betraying that younger self, leaving the young man I'd once been to scramble from odd job to odd job until his luck ran out, and he'd turn to dishonest means. Or starve.
"Maybe we can work something out," I heard myself say. "But maybe not here and now. I should like to see you tomorrow, if that's alright? And your family?"
Nêrad's eyelids fluttered in confusion. "We should visit you?"
"Yes, certainly. Or maybe it's easier if I come to see you. If you tell me where to go? Then we can see if anything can be done." Again, I risked a sideways look at Lord Laurilyo. He probably thought that I'd lost my mind. But he seemed to be distracted by the view across the city, and didn't comment when Nêrad gave me his address and a description of the way to his home, still looking thoroughly confused and disbelieving.

Lord Laurilyo only commented when we had made our way back into the palace. "Well, I'm glad I'm not the only soft-hearted fool." He said it in a good-natured voice and with a kindly smile on his face, but it still made me feel defensive. "Wouldn't have expected something so unreasonable from you, though," he added.
"I don't think it's unreasonable," I said, keeping my voice even with some difficulty. "As you put it, it doesn't hurt me. And it might help someone else a great deal."
The smile turned into a grin. "You'd think so, from looking at him, right? Who would've thought that someone would be so excited about being offered a job as a servant?"
"Who wouldn't?" I said before I could stop myself. "I'd have felt the exact same way."
Lord Laurilyo stopped in his tracks and gave me a curious look. "You'd have what?"
"Felt the same way," I repeated, wondering what about it had been unclear. "I mean, if someone had offered me that sort of position, when I was young."
He laughed out loud. "No offense, but you were never in that sort of position!"
At my silence, he looked me over again, apparently sorting his thoughts. "Are you telling me that you used to be a man like that? I mean -" He seemed to be looking for the right word, eventually settling on, "A pauper? Surely not."

Now it was my turn to laugh. "That's exactly what I am, Lord Laurilyo. I thought you knew!"
His eyes went almost comically wide. "I had no idea!" He studied me from head to toes, then shook his head. "No, I'd never have guessed. You're much too --" again, he cut himself off.
"What?"
"No, never mind. It was a stupid thing to think. Shouldn't have thought it, certainly won't say it."
Somehow, that irritated me more than whatever unflattering - surely it had been unflattering - thing he had thought. "I'm sure I've heard worse," I said.
"I'm sure you have, but not from me," he said, spreading his hands in a gesture of peace. "And I'd prefer to keep it that way."
I suppose that was a fair reason, although it was strangely unsatisfying. Grudgingly, I nodded.
"Well, I guess it explains a few things," Lord Laurilyo mused in the meantime.
"Like what?"
"Like you not knowing any Sindarin. And my-lording me all the time. Nobody does that! Except for the Umbari, of course, and I bet they wouldn't if they didn't have to. And being so worried about displeasing Herucalmo, that stuck-up idiot." He heard my sharp intake of breath and grinned again. "See? Don't worry, I can call him that if I want. He's a cousin, remember. And also a stuck-up idiot."

A stuck-up idiot who had kissed me in the baths. Probably. If I hadn't imagined it. Even without that memory, I would have felt uncomfortable just listening to that sort of talk, and tried to change the topic. "What did you think I was?"
He raised his eyebrows and made a show of giving the matter some thought. "Oh, I don't know. Some ambitious politician in the making, like most of the young fellows who wash up here. I mean, you clearly weren't sent here for punishment, so -" he stopped himself again. I hadn't been able to control my face and had bared my teeth at the mention of punishment, just a second, but he had clearly noticed it. "Wrong again, I see. Really? You?" Yet again, he looked me over before smiling disarmingly. "Well. Still waters run deep! You really must tell me more about your fascinating past." After another look, he amended, "If you want to."
I managed a weak smile. It was sort of sweet, the way he tried - what, exactly? to be respectful, I suppose, in his own disrespectful way. I probably wouldn't tell him about my fascinating past. But I felt that, although he certainly couldn't be described as still waters, he ran deeper than our first acquaintance had suggested, too.

The next evening, I went to visit Nêrad's family, and they went out of their way to make their humble abode welcoming. It truly was a humble abode. They were renting a windowless cellar that might be reasonably pleasant and cool in summer, but was now damp and muddy with the water that came running in through the crack under the door. They had spread reeds on the floor to make it less damp to step on. All through my visit, I could hear the dripping of the water down the walls. I felt very sorry for Nêrad's father, confined to his bed down here. He did indeed have his leg broken, and it was only some small consolation that it had evidently been splinted and bandaged by somebody who knew what they were doing (a healer, sent by the Darîm, they told me). Of course he looked gaunt and pale, and although he had broad shoulders and probably could lift heavy weights, normally, it was clear that he wouldn't do any of that for many weeks to come.

The sister distracted me by trying to gift me flowers, or so Nêrad explained to me - I didn't understand her, for she spoke no Adûnaic at all. I saw now why she couldn't help Nêrad to earn money for the family: although she was a grown woman in body, in mind she seemed to be more like a small child, excitable and friendly and quite absorbed in her game, which apparently included gifting flowers to the visitor. Her mother kept apologising for her behaviour, although she was no trouble. It was a little disconcerting to have a grown-up woman act like a little girl, of course, but once I had understood that she was not acting up or making fun of me, it was no different from having someone's little daughter play her own games while you were trying to keep up a conversation with her parents. Since I didn't know her language, just as she didn't know mine, I wasn't quite sure what I was expected to do, but I accepted the flowers (poor, half-wilted things) and praised them for their scent and beauty, as you do when you humour a child.

I did not have to affect politeness to praise the meal. It was a stew of chickpeas, vegetables and herbs, a lot like the dinner we'd been provided at the mines, but this time, the chickpeas were cooked all the way through, and that made all the difference. Of course, the company was rather more friendly, too. Nêrad went out of his way to be serviceable, almost too much so (he stopped just short of spoon-feeding me the stew), and his parents continued to praise his reliability and diligence and general goodness. It was only because he was such a loyal son and brother, they assured me, that he hadn't long since been apprenticed. If he hadn't had to help his father to feed the rest of the family, such a fine fellow would easily have found good employment. It reminded me of the way prospective husbands or wives were advertised by their parents to the parents of the partner they were hoping to secure. It could have been embarassing, but fortunately Nurdâr - the sister - kept intervening with her own stories or observations. Although I did not understand what she was saying, the other summarised it when I asked, and it eased the atmosphere just enough and kept them from abasing themselves too much. (I wondered whether they would have behaved in this manner regardless of why I was here, or whether they were particularly eager to please because I had offered to give Nêrad work.)

I repeated that offer. As I had expected, Nêrad was torn between looking after his parents and sister, currently depending on the money he brought in, and the desire not to pass up what evidently was a good opportunity. "Well," I said, "I cannot hire you all."
And then I realised that this wasn't true, because I had a whole empty house, and I could employ whom I saw fit. Even if it happened to be a whole family of people I'd only just met. Granted, it probably wasn't the wisest thing to do. But then, I wasn't exactly known for my wisdom. I liked them; I felt sorry for them; I particularly felt sorry for Nêrad, dutiful fellow that he was, kept from better employment because his family never saw any of his brothers' payment. Of course, I was also reminded of my own father's injury, which ended up killing him.

I did end up hiring them all. Four days later, when the family's weekly rent would have been due, they put their belongings and furniture in my cart, and we drove out to the new morgue in the middle of another rainstorm. Although we had put a tarpaulin over the bedding and furniture, we couldn't keep it entirely dry, so their new home - two rooms next to the kitchen - started out just as damp as the old had been. The things I had ordered from the craftsmen of Umbar were not yet finished, so we had no replacement for the wet bedding and blankets. They would dry in time, of course, but it felt like a bad start.
It wasn't made better by the fact that I had evidently angered Darîm in bypassing his expert advice and arbitration. He was, as ever, polite, but his displeasure was evident from the set of his jaw and the way his eyes narrowed when he asked whether I truly had taken Umbari workers into permanent employment all by myself.

"I have taken that liberty, yes," I said warily. "I wasn't aware that I should have asked permission."
He paled noticeably at that. "It is not about permission. Merely, it is customary that such employment happens through my person."
"I shall remember it the next time."
"That would be good," he said stiffly.
"Well," I said, feeling my own eyes narrow, "it would not have been necessary if my new valet's brothers didn't have to pay all their money to you, rather than being able to forward it to their family in need."
Darîm tilted his head, honest confusion on his face. "I do not understand what you mean."
"Aren't you getting the pay of all the servants and apprentices you put into the houses of my people? Is that why you're angry with me, because you're not going to get these people's pay?"

Darîm breathed in slowly, then let his breath out in a hiss. "I receive the wages of people whose employment I have secured, yes," he said. "What does it have to do with your new servants?"
"Nêrad wouldn't have been so desperate for work if he wasn't the only one feeding his family after his father's injury," I retorted. "And that's how I first got the idea, and that's why I didn't hire just him alone, either."
Passing his hand in front of his eyes, Darîm sighed. "Let us not misunderstand each other, Master Embalmer. I do not take my people's money simply for my own pleasure. I do it so that I have funds to help those in need. If he was desperate, he should have applied for a loan. I would have looked into the situation, and if necessary, I would have lent them money."
That deflated the sails of my anger. "You... use the money to make loans to people who need them?"
"Among other things. It also pays for healers when needed. I paid a healer for the father, did I not? And it provides for the families of prisoners, and other such things," he said, now back to his amiable self. "Which is why I require it in the first place. I invest in my people; they pay me back, or forward, whichever applies. In the meantime your charity, while doubtlessly springing from a generous heart, will waken desire and envy. There are many needy families here, Master Embalmer. Will you take them all into your service?"

Much though I resented what felt like mockery, I couldn't deny that he had a point. "I didn't know that," I confessed.
He smiled. "No, and why would you? It doesn't concern you. And they -" he indicated Nêrad's mother, stacking wood for the kitchen, with a twitch of his shoulder - "naturally had no interest in telling you. I'm afraid that they did not tell you that you aren't getting entirely what you paid for, either."
"What do you mean?"
He wagged his head sorrowfully. "The young woman. She is not right in the head, you see. I know that you do not have such people on your island, but it is an affliction that occasionally appears here, and --"
"I know about Nurdâr's condition," I cut him off. That, at least, hadn't been kept from me. "We've talked about it. She will help her mother in such ways as she can. That's good enough for me."
He raised his hands appeasingly. "Ah. I am glad that you have not been tricked." Again, he smiled. "Do not be angry with me, Master Embalmer. I merely worry that you may not be happy with the service of the people that - well, didn't go through my usual selection process."
My dignity rankled at the suggestion that I'd be so incapable of choosing my own servants, even though he was probably right. "And I'd be happier with the people you've selected?"
He dipped his head into a modest bow before smiling at me again. "I should hope so. At any rate, I would know that they have been trained to serve in a house like yours."
"My house may be very different from other houses of Yôzayân," I retorted.
What I should have said, for the sake of the truth, was that I had no idea how to run such a house, and that I was making things up as I went along. But I didn't feel of disclosing so much about myself - I still remembered Lord Laurilyo's disbelief about my humble origins in embarrassment - least of all to Darîm, and least of all when he reproached me for what was, ultimately, my own business.