The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The wet summer gave way to a wet autumn, and the harvest rotted in the fields. Where normally our neighbours might have gone to the countryside in autumn to earn some coins and food as farm-hands, now poor people from the countryside came to the city and put up residence in the outskirts of already poor neighbourhoods or right at the city walls. To what purpose they came I cannot say. After all, there was nothing to harvest in Arminalêth either, and no more work for day-talers than there usually was – rather less, for few people longed to build houses or pave streets anew while the pelting rain came down; even less could afford to hire builders. There was, of course, a lot of building of ramshackle huts in our neighbourhood, as the new arrivals needed to live somewhere - accordingly, wood and other building materials grew more expensive, and several people were caught and punished for felling trees without permission – but none of that was paid work.
Moreover, soon the new huts began to spill out into the streets, which had always been hard to navigate in this part of the city anyway. Now they grew narrower yet. People were forced to wade through the puddles with no chance to evade mud or water. At that point it was decided that no new people would be allowed to enter the city, and the guards turned all hopefuls off at the gate, advising them instead to go to the coasts, where at least food from the sea would be somewhat more plentiful. As for those who were already in, they had to be housed by those lucky enough to have their own hovel.
We were assigned a family of six: the parents, two sons and one daughter, and the father's old mother. They normally lived off their own patch of land in a village near Ondosto, we learned. They did not know what a Keeper of the Dead was and what he did, and I did not care to explain it to them.
I had grown used to having a proper house to myself, and found it strange enough to have another family lodging with us; but Azruphel, who was too young to remember that we had once shared a small room that was at the same time a kitchen, was seriously angry that she had to give up the room she had come to consider her own.

I tried to explain the situation to her. "Look, my darling, Îbalad and his family had to leave their house in Forrostar behind so they will not starve this winter. Their whole home! Don't you think it is all right when we give them one room? We get to keep the rest of our home after all."
"But it is my room! Why can't they go live somewhere else?"
"Because there are already other people living there. All our neighbours have lodgers in their houses, love – and much smaller houses, too!"
"But I don't want them here."
I sighed. "But imagine if we had to leave our house, and go somewhere else with almost nothing! Imagine everybody living in the new place said 'No, I do not want you here.' We would be quite desperate then, wouldn't we? It's the same for Îbalad."
Azruphel frowned. "But it wouldn't happen to us," she said with a pout, "because we are not poor."
"No, we are not," I agreed. "But we used to be as poor as they, not so long ago."
She laughed at that; my child laughed at the idea that her parents should have been poor once.

I should have been happy that my little daughter knew nothing of poverty, that to her a well-built house and clean, warm clothing and several meals per day were natural. Is not that what we all wish for our children? Yet somehow it made me feel sad. Azruphel would never feel how important these things were, I thought, because she had never missed them.
But she eventually – if grudgingly - agreed that it would not be nice to turn Îbalad's family away and that they should live under our roof for the time being.
"I won't let Khibil have my toys, though," she insisted. Khibil was our lodger's daughter, almost a young woman already, and I was fairly confident that she was too old to desire a small girl's toys.

During the first weeks Îbalad and Baladûn, his eldest son, would walk with me as far as the market every day, where they would then try to find employment; but markets were a sad affair in that year. Even when there was work, it was more likely given to the Arminalêth day-talers whom the merchants knew than to total strangers. Only rarely did my lodgers bring a few copper coins back home. It seemed, in hindsight, that I had been positively wealthy even before I had become a Keeper: At least I had always been able to make sure that both Amraphel and I had something to eat. Îbalad was less fortunate, for his meagre income rarely sufficed even for unground corn - which had at any rate grown ridiculously expensive. There was grain to sell yet because the years before this had been plentiful enough, but everybody was scared that the provisions would run out before the end of winter. Where before bakers had sold the remains of the old day cheaper, enabling even the less well-to-do to buy decent (if no longer perfectly fresh) bread, now there were no remains left. Instead queues of hopefuls formed in front of the bakeries every day.
Soon Îbalad did not even bother trying to find work and just stayed at home all day or went out to visit neighbours similarly afflicted. Only his son persevered, mostly without success. Not that they strictly needed the money: They simply shared our meals, for we could afford to feed ten just as well as four. But it took its toll on Îbalad's courage that he was entirely dependent on our charity, I think.

Back when my parents were still alive and there was a little spare money, my mother would buy a fleece or two of raw, unspun wool which she would then comb and spin to fine threads which could be sold again in spring for somewhat more than the raw fleeces had cost.
That was exactly what Amraphel did now, reasoning that even with food and housing rare, people would still need clothing – especially with the cold, wet weather. She did not stop at two fleeces, however. Of course she did not need the additional work, for I continued to be paid very well. Even with the higher prices, Amraphel assured me that we had more than enough to get through the winter, and another and another if it came to that. But it gave Îbalad's mother and wife and daughter something useful to do, so they at least could feel that they were earning their keep. And Amraphel found it easy enough to spin a little wool while Nimmirel was sleeping. She also taught Azruphel how to help Khibil with the cleaning and combing of the clotted wool. Azruphel wrinkled her nose at the rank, oily sheep-smell of the unwashed wool, but Amraphel told her that she was after all a big and reasonable girl, which apparently made Azruphel think of her new task as a privilege rather than a chore. She even allowed Asattamîk, Îbalad's youngest, to play with her carved farm animals while she 'worked'.
Îbalad, on the other hand, grew more taciturn and discontent as the days went on, and more than once he came home drunk on the wine someone – I never learned who – had distilled from parsnips. Roots, it seemed, were still in sufficient supply, as was cabbage. We did not eat much of either: Amraphel mostly bought better fare, because she did not wish to make it yet harder for our neighbours to procure their meals. They all had lodgers too, after all, and hardly any of them had work as reliable as mine.

This should have been taken into account by the King and his council, I think. Indeed I had assumed that it had been: But I learned from my colleagues that all the new citizens had been placed with families in the poorer quarters, none with the rich. I found that very strange.
"Wouldn't it be far more reasonable to put them up with people like you, who have a lot of spare room and enough money to feed another family if none of them manages to earn something?" I couldn't help musing.
Master Târik shrugged. "Perhaps; but I don't think you could get the wealthy citizens to suffer penniless lodgers in their halls."
I remembered the way Amraphel's parents had treated me, back in the day. Master Târik clearly had a point.
"Of course I couldn't," I said, "but surely the King could. He made all the people who were already poor take other poor people in, after all."
"He could, naturally - if he chose to do so," said Master Târik without sounding too convinced.
"He won't choose to, though," Kârathôn said. "It doesn't pay to offend the well-to-do, even for a King."
I found that unjust. Surely the King simply did not know how dire things could get in the poor quarters – how should he, having ever lived in plenty? If he knew, he would wisely have eased the load of the poor. I said as much, but only got a doubtful look from Master Târik, and a snort from Kârathôn and Mîkul.
I wish I could have proved them wrong. Perhaps I even would have dared to inform the King of the trouble brewing in the lower quarters - under other circumstances. But the King had fallen ill earlier in the month, and our weekly audiences were suspended. The council, headed by the Crown Prince, currently fulfilled the King's duties; and they saw no need to hearing more of any of us Keepers than was strictly necessary, through the mouth of Quentangolë. Therefore there was no way of letting his Majesty know – not that I would have bothered him, cursed with trouble as he already was. Perhaps it was better for him to be bedridden: That way he did not have to hear the ugly things people said in the street. No, I for my part would not speak a word against him.

"It's better the way it is, I think," Mîkul said when he saw my unhappy expression. "The poor won't steal from the poor, seeing as there's nothing to steal – if their hosts were rich, they might be tempted to take their money."
"Indeed," Kârathôn said, picking at his unruly hair. "I am surprised that you are not worried about that. You should sell the house down there and come uptown before one day you get your throat cut and your savings stolen."
"Nobody who can afford a house at the moment would want to live down there," Mîkul pointed out.
Kârathôn smirked. "No one but Azruhâr, you mean? But Azruhâr probably has saved enough to buy a grand house without even selling the old one."
"Not if I want to feed my family through the winter," I said, though in truth I couldn't be certain of that. I left our money entirely in Amraphel's care; she was far better with numbers and planning than I was. "At any rate, why should my lodgers do me harm? I'm keeping them very well, without taking payment or anything."
Master Târik sighed. "The two of them have a valid point, however," he said in his soft, thoughtful voice, "little though you want to hear it. Do think about it. Your neighbours may not care for your reasons to stay among them, and your guests may find it wiser to take matters into their own hands, rather than hoping that your goodwill lasts."

I told Amraphel about this, in secret. I had hoped that she would laugh, but instead she nodded. "Yes, I have worried about that myself. That is why the children are sleeping behind us, and why I am keeping this in reach." She showed me then that she had hidden a dagger and a heavy wooden cudgel at the end of our bed. I was shocked – both because she thought that there truly might be danger, and because she had not told me before. She grimaced. "Will you sleep easier now, knowing that I took these precautions?" she said.
"No," said I, frowning deeply. "I hate having those weapons in my bed."
"So it was kinder not to tell you before," she said, and kissed me. I suppose she was right; but I still wasn't happy.

In Ringarë (1) the Venturers brought two ships laden with provisions to our shores – tribute from the colonies in Endorë. When they brought the food to Arminalêth, we learned that the year had been no kinder in Endorë (which certainly showed that it had nothing to do with our King, as some foolish Elf-friends had claimed), where there had been droughts in some parts and rain-floods in others. Still, they sent us millet and onions and nuts of various kinds. The goods were auctioned off to the merchants and nobles, and the next day's market was overrun with eager buyers. Young Baladûn earned a sack of onions for carrying crates and barrels to and fro all day. Îbalad snorted disdainfully. He was right, of course, in that onions alone were bad payment; but in these times, I thought, one could not be too picky. Besides, onions were a welcome addition to the menu, and they kept long, and we could use the shells to dye the wool the women were spinning. And Baladûn, at least, had earned something at all.

The tribute from Tharbad eased the situation a little, for a couple of weeks; but the goods didn't last forever, and when they ran out, even the prices of parsnip and celery and salcifer rose absurdly. And a loaf of bread – normal grey bread, not the fine white bread of the nobility – came to cost all of a Ship, more than an apprentice craftsman could hope to make in a week (unless he was, like I, apprenticed to a Keeper or a Raiser). I was glad that our money was hidden (though the house was too small to keep it forever hidden from someone willing to do a thorough search), and even glad of the weapons Amraphel kept in reach, for I was beginning to be nervous about gruff, hostile Îbalad and his strong first-born, who came home increasingly bitter. They certainly ate their share at our table, and the women of the family were friendly as well as diligent; but I no longer dared to trust that they wouldn't raise a hand against us. I was torn between staying at work forever, to escape their presence, and staying at home, to make certain that Amraphel and my daughters were safe.

But when the attack on our house came, I was at home anyway.
It was late in the evening on a cold, rainy day. We were sitting at dinner with only Îbalad's mother and youngest son for company, as the others had been invited to some kind of gathering in the neighbourhood, when Khibil came running in as if driven by wild beasts. She struggled for breath before she burst out, "They're coming, they're coming, you must--" and then she began to cry.
Amraphel reacted better than I – I merely stared – and sat Khibil down in a chair, telling her to calm down and explain what she meant.
From what Khibil managed to tell us, we gathered that the cold and rain and lack of food and work had finally managed to overthrow all reason, and now the people in turn wished to overthrow those who kept their wealth from them. Some of the younger men were marching on the bakers' district, while others had remembered their old grudge towards me, and had decided to pay us a visit. Even now, Khibil said, they were preparing the assault, and would likely be here within the hour.
"Mother told me to slip away and warn you, so you can run and hide while there is time," she finished her tale.
"And your father didn't?" Amraphel said, glancing at Îbalad's mother and the little boy who had climbed onto Khibil's lap to try and console her.
Khibil did not meet my wife's gaze. "Father is very angry, and there was a lot of wine…"
"I will ask the guards for help," I announced, finally recovering from my shock. "That's what they're there for, after all. Protecting citizens."
"Yes," Amraphel said, "if they have time. If indeed all the poor decided to rise today, the guards may have more important business than venturing to this neighbourhood."
I looked down, and Amraphel continued, "Of course you must try to bring them to our help. I am just saying that we shouldn't rely on them." Already she had thrown open the chest that held our good robes, taking out my finest. I frowned in confusion. Despite the dire situation, Amraphel smiled.
"You may be better able to convince the guards to help if you look like you can reward their help," she explained. "If other houses are under attack as well as ours, and you want them to pay attention to you anyway, you must look like someone worth listening to. Now hurry."

I gave my festival robes a doubtful look. To be honest I did not like them much. They were certainly very fine, but I felt like a stranger whenever I was forced to wear them. But Amraphel was surely right. I hastily put on the robes over my simple shift while Amraphel helped me with the buttons and clasps.
"Meanwhile, you must hide somewhere safe," I said, my speech partially muffled by fabric. "If the guards take too long to arrive…" If they come at all, I thought. Amraphel's caution had smashed my brief confidence.
"Somewhere safe?" said Îbalad's mother, drily. "Where would that be? Out in the streets, where the angry men have gathered?"
"Master Târik's house," I told Amraphel. "You'll be safer there, and he can lock the garden gates, that should slow anyone down - for a while at least."
"We won't get there if the streets are running with angry people," Amraphel said curtly. "Khibil, please put another pot on the hearth. Perhaps our... visitors... can be placated by dinner. Azruphel, can you bring some bacon and onions?"
I, meanwhile, found myself in the rich cloak that went with my robes, the winter cloak, fur-lined and hooded and fashionably closed on the left shoulder with a glittering brooch. Amraphel pressed my pair of riding gloves into my hand.
"They'll know at once that I'm one of their enemies," I said unhappily, meaning the protesters.
"Yes, of course," Amraphel said; and she produced the cudgel from behind our bed. "I hope you won't need it, but to be on the safe side… you will ride, of course," she said, throwing my riding boots and the cudgel over to me before taking the vegetables from Azruphel and putting them down, with a knife, before Khibil.
I put on the boots and picked up the cudgel. It felt cold and heavy in my hands. I hated the idea of being the kind of man who rode around, armed, in fine robes, while around him people went mad with hunger. But I had little time for reflection.
"Off with you, foolish man," Amraphel cried, pushing me towards the door, and the next thing I remember is that I was stumbling through the mist towards the stable.

It was very dark, and too quiet. There was none of the usual murmur of conversations in thin-walled houses, no people returning from the well or from a visit to their neighbours. Higher up in the city there was yelling and shouting, but where I was, the sloshing of my horse's hooves on the mud-soaked street was the only sound. When I reached the paved streets, the hoofbeats rang unnaturally loud in my ears. Everything was unnatural, unreal, more like a nightmare than like waking life.
I soon found that Amraphel had been right: The guards had plenty of work in the upper city, where (from the sound of it) houses were already being plundered. Glass was breaking somewhere, and people were fighting and screaming. I shuddered, and tried to avoid the fights as well as I could.
It was easier than expected. They were like bubbles of noise in the fog-muffled night, and the streets that held no shops or warehouses were empty and silent. The only problem was that I soon got lost. Even on foot I did not know this part of the city well, still less so at night. I was certain that there must be a way to the watch-house that didn't lead across the besieged market, but I was less certain where to find this way; and because I had often turned away from streets to avoid the battles, I was no longer even sure where to find the market. Hot panic seized me - I would never be able to procure help for my family if I kept on like this. My mare shook her head in discomfort, and I realised that I was pulling the reins much too hard, partly because I was so nervous and partly because I could only use one hand, holding the cudgel in the other. I cursed, and cursed again for having cursed, and let a prayer follow the curse just to be safe. Then I turned, and rode back towards the shouting and the thumping. I spurred the horse on as I hoped that people would be less tempted to stop a fast rider than one that only moves at a trot; and then I rounded a corner and found myself in chaos.

It was no longer dark. There were lanterns and torches, and the smoke and the drizzle broke their dancing light to fill the street. The cobblestones were caked with a white pulp, and I realised that a baker's storeroom or shop must have been broken open. A lot of precious flour had been wasted and spilled, and in a corner I actually saw people who were down on their knees to scrape the soaked stuff off the ground. Then, seemingly from nowhere – my eyes still hadn't adjusted properly to the light – there were watchmen, and while one of the scavengers gave a warning cry the guards reached their little group and struck, turning the warning cry into a scream of pain.
I had no time to pay them any more attention, for now I had reached the thick of the battle, and my horse reared up to avoid two scuffling men, and it took all my focus to stay in the saddle. I clung to the rein stupidly, convinced that I would be pulled into the fight as soon as my feet touched the ground, and I called out without even knowing what I said. The storehouses had their doors broken and their windows smashed, and the white pulp on the ground here and there bore traces of red; and everything was noise and panic. I realised that something much like this might already be going on at my own house, and despair came over me like a dark wave.

Here, at least, the guards were doing their best to control the situation - and indeed they were already gaining the upper hand, as far as I could determine. If anyone had managed to win anything from the broken storehouses at all, they must already be gone, for now everybody who was present was involved in a fight and nobody was left to carry things away. And the guards were armed, though many did not even need to draw swords: They were used to fighting, and their opponents weren't. Probably the insurgents had thrown stones and carried kitchen knives and cudgels and the like, but when they tried to carry sacks of flour or crates of bread away, they had to let go of their weapons, and so they were overwhelmed.
I called out again, but nobody heeded me - and then my horse was so maddened by the cries and smoke and lights that I had to ride away from the tumbling crowd to calm her. When finally she stopped prancing and shaking her head, the fight was all but over. Five men were guarding the open gate; the others were taking the insurgents away.
"My house is under assault," I called to the watchmen, "I need your protection!"
One of them raised his lantern to see who had spoken, and I was blinded again, raising my hand to shield my eyes.
"We can protect you if you stay here, lord," said one of the guards, whom I could no longer see. "But we cannot leave our post, lest more thieves arrive."
"But my wife, my children – they're still in my house," I said. If my house still stood, I thought to myself, looking at the yawning opening that had been the storehouse gate. If I wasn't already too late.
"Begging your pardon, lord," said one of the guards, "but we must stay. Try at the watchhouse, perhaps they can send men out to your house."
"And if they don't have men to spare?" I said. Already my voice was trying to break. Another voice, one in my head, kept repeating too late, too late, too late. The guards exchanged glances.
"Then I wish you the best of luck, lord," the guard said defiantly, and I thought I heard a trace of fear in his voice. But I had no time to argue with him. If I had the slightest hope of finding help at the watch house, I had to go there at once.
"And to you," I said, and rode off. I tried to keep my eyes straight ahead, but they were drawn to a large, red spot in the road.

The streets had grown more quiet, though I passed several guarded buildings with broken doors, and the streets were full of debris and cabbage leaves, trampled vegetables and blood. I could have sworn that I was now taking the direct route to the guard house, but I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, for suddenly I found myself in the aftermath of another fight. Some men were running, and some were dragged away, and one was still in the process of being beaten by a watchman. I had almost passed them by when the insurgent, after a vicious kick to his ribs, threw his head back; and I saw his face.
"Baladûn!" I called, and had jumped off my horse before I knew what I was doing. The guard paused and raised his fist to deal with me, and I clenched my eyes shut, bracing myself for the blow - but it didn't come. Instead, the watchman asked, "Do you know this man, lord?"

I was deeply grateful to Amraphel for thinking of the good robes. Baladûn, meanwhile, had rolled out of the guard's immediate reach, giving both of us an anxious stare while struggling for breath. One of his eyes was blackened, and he had blood on his face, and from the way that he held his left wrist I assumed that it was broken or at any rate badly sprained. I remembered the beatings I had received, years ago, when I had been arrested in a rich Venturer's house, and I shuddered. The guard had to tear me out of my memories. "Lord?" he said, and I remembered his question.
"Yes," I said softly; and then, in as confident a voice as I could, I repeated, "Yes, I do."
"He has broken the peace," the guard said, glancing down at Baladûn who promptly curled up small, "and I will take him to the watch house."
"No," said I. "He will come with me." I had no idea where the words came from, and I regretted them as soon as I had uttered them. How foolish, to argue with a watchman! I should never have brought attention to myself, I thought. Probably I'd be arrested as well now, for hindering the guard. And meanwhile my family...
But the guard did not arrest me. Instead he gave me an uncomfortable look. "But my lord, he rebelled against the King's peace…" His voice trailed off. He was apparently intimidated, perhaps thinking me a nobleman or at least a guildmaster. I noticed his discomfort, I saw him cringe, and something took hold of me again.
"Do you know who I am?" I said through clenched teeth.
"No, my lord," said the guard, sounding increasingly nervous. I pushed ahead.
"I," I said, "am Azruhâr, the King's Embalmer. This man has surely been mixed up in this evening's events unwittingly. He will come with me."
The guard gave up at once. I could hardly believe it. "As you wish, Lord Azruhâr," he said hurriedly, bowing his head. Then he turned to Baladûn. "Get up, you wretch," he said, and made to give him another kick.
I put my hand on his shoulder. "None of that," I said. "My house is under assault; I have no time for this." Too late, too late, said the voice in my head that felt more like myself.
"Oh, no," muttered Baladûn, who had by now raised himself to his knees. "Father…"
"He is your son?" The guard's eyes had now taken on a look of horror.
"Do I look old enough for a grown-up son? He is the son of my… groundkeeper," I said, holding out a hand to help Baladûn up. I listened to my own voice in horror. Baladûn stood, but he was swaying on his feet. I tried to steady him. "Everything all right?" I asked him. He nodded without meeting my eyes.
"Good," I said. "We must hurry then."
"Please, Lord Azruhâr," Baladûn burst out. Inwardly I groaned at the title. It was useful that the guard thought me a nobleman, of course, but I really had no right to the title, and I realised that it might cause me further trouble.
"My mother…" Baladûn continued, and I groaned aloud.
"She was arrested?"
Baladûn nodded, and finally looked at me. His left eye was beginning to close with the swelling; the right was wide open, giving me an imploring stare. "Please, you know she wouldn't do anyone harm..."
I looked at the guard. "Where did you take the insurgents?" Of course I did not truly need the answer. I knew it already.
"They have been taken to the watch-house," he said, looking thoroughly unhappy. I felt thoroughly unhappy myself. I was loosing time, precious time! But I remembered my own incarceration. I could not in good conscience leave Baladûn's mother to the fears and pains of imprisonment. I was foolish and failing in my duty towards my family and overstepping my bounds, but I knew I no longer had a choice. I could not turn away now. The dark wave of that night had swept me off my feet, and now the currents were pulling me into deep waters. I could struggle against the currents, and drown; or I could try to swim.
"You will take me there," I told the guard.

It had been summer when I had been imprisoned, and my prison had felt dark and cold and dank even then. When we arrived it was well-lit, and from outside it looked inviting enough against the cold of the night; but suddenly I found it hard to keep my back straight. I shivered when I passed through the door. Yes, there was the familiar hall where the guards had sat and eaten and chatted when they had nothing better to do. There was the door to the long corridor with the cells, and there the other door that led to the courtyard where the King had pardoned me. Both were shut. The hall was full of people, most of them not belonging to the watch. I assumed that, if the uprisings had been as bad as Khibil's story suggested, the watch had arrested so many people that there was not in fact room enough in the cells. Or maybe the guards were just waiting until there were no new arrivals before they ushered people off into the dark cells?
For the moment, at any rate, the newly arrested sat on the floor of the hall in orderly lines, their hands tied with rope (perhaps there were not enough shackles for so many people, either). Behind them, leaning against the tables or sitting on the benches that had been pushed against the walls, were the guards in their dark livery, with spears that they used when one of the prisoners spoke or moved too much. On the far end, a few watchmen were eating stew from earthenware bowls. It smelled of chicken and of too much fat. I thought of my interrupted dinner, and of Amraphel, and for a moment I thought I could not breathe for fear - fear for my family, but also fear for myself, for when I had last entered through this door I had not expected to leave alive. Wasn't I pushing my luck a bit too much to return here?
It's too late to turn back, I told myself sternly, and again heard the voice go too late, too late in my head. I took a deep breath and tried to procure that part of me that had intimidated the guard into submission, that had defied Amrazôr - but I could not find it now. I would have to make do with my normal self, apparently.

Some people had looked up when we had entered, and I was shocked by how many familiar faces the room held, both among the prisoners and among the guards. I removed my hood reluctantly, and my neighbours narrowed their eyes and gave me hostile or at any rate sullen stares, though they did not speak. The guards, on the other hand, showed no sign of recognition. They looked at their comrade, and then at me in my cloak of rich green wool, with its bright clasp and its fur lining. I saw heads inclining politely to acknowledge me. There was the guard who had first interrogated me – my hand wanted to rise to my face as I remembered his blows – and there was the one who had called me a thing. Here was the man who had flogged me even after I had already confessed everything, and there the one who had spat in my face. Oh, how well I remembered! But they, apparently, did not. They bowed to me.
"The lord Azruhâr wishes to have one of the prisoners released," my guide said to his captain. I held my breath, but even now that they had heard my name, nobody seemed to recognise me.

And the current had me again. "Not one," I interrupted, in a voice so measured and superior that I hardly realised it was my own. "Several. My house is under attack, and I need people to defend it. Unless of course you can spare a few men...?"
There was some discussion among the guards while I tried not to show my unrest. I felt Baladûn's eyes on my back and the stares of the prisoners on my face. I wondered what a real lord would do if he were in my place now. I had no idea. I assumed that real lords did not get into situations like this in the first place. Real lords had their own guards, and did not have to go off at night to find someone to protect their house – oh, sweet Eru, my house! If only nothing had happened to Amraphel and my children yet. And to Îbalad's family, either. I tried to distract myself. Baladûn was shivering slightly, every now and then. Some of the prisoners, wet and motionless, also looked very cold. I heard snatches of the guards' whispered discussion. Too many anyway. Not for us to decide. Released sooner or later. His responsibility. I forced myself to resist the urge to look at my feet. Noblemen never looked at their feet.
"Very well, Lord Azruhâr," the captain eventually said, while I felt another guilty pang at being so addressed. "Indicate those whom you want released."

Truth be told, I would have liked to free them all, whether they were innocent or not, whether I knew them or not. I felt sorry for each and everyone of them as I walked between the lines of downcast, frightened people, pointing at familiar faces. I wondered what would happen to the others. I assumed that, after a certain term of imprisonment, they'd eventually be set free. But I knew well enough how long even three days in this place could be.
But it would be too dangerous, I thought, to take them all with me. I couldn't even be certain that all my neighbours were trustworthy. I could only hope that they would be grateful enough to leave me in peace after today, and that they'd refrain from getting into further trouble. I couldn't risk adding dozens of strangers.
So I stuck to my neighbours and their kin as I marched down the lines of prisoners. I tried to ignore the stares and glares. I tried to ignore the embarrassing rustle of my fine robes. And I tried not to feel triumphant while the guards bent behind me, untying the hands of my neighbours after I had passed. How childish, I told myself, to be proud of fooling others! But I could not quite help it. What power there was in brocades and confident speech!

If only it would not turn ill, I thought while the guards crossed out the names of the people I freed from their watchbook. I had to give them that: They were very correct in their book-keeping. Nobody disappeared without trace; there were books and lists for everything. Yet today I wished they could be less correct. My name (with the wrongful title, too) was noted down with the crossed-out names, released at the pleasure of Lord Azruhâr the Embalmer. So now there was a record of my presumption, I thought. And if any of those set free now joined another little rebellion, I might end up accused of aiding the rebels. I couldn't say I was thrilled. Breaking the peace, the crime Baladûn had been accused of, seemed to me dangerously close to treason; aiding rebels, I suspected, was accordingly close to aiding traitors, and might likewise end in a lengthy death. I wondered whether there was a way of getting my name erased from the watchbook. Perhaps I could bribe the guards...?

But a real lord would have no fear of appearing in a watchbook, I told myself, and all this farce was only working because the guards believed that I had authority. I could either give up on the spot, condemning my neighbours and possibly myself, or continue the game and hope that no ill would come out of it. Drown, or swim, I told myself. I decided to try and swim.
And I decided to push my luck further yet. In for a lamb, in for a ewe, I thought, and asked the captain, "And these are all the prisoners you made tonight?"
He shrugged. "Yes, lord. Well, except for those who haven't yet been brought in," he said. Baladûn, now reunited with his mother and the silent, sullen crowd, winced conceivably.
"And two are currently being questioned, but-"
"Their names?" I said. I hoped I would not know them.
"My lord, I do not know whether..."
"Their names," I repeated. I have no idea whence I took the courage.
The captain consulted first with his fellows, then with the book. "One Pharzuhâr son of Kâduz," the name meant nothing to me, "and one Zâbulon son of Lasbêth." Him I knew – him and his poor mother, whose rich merchant lover had left her when she had been pregnant with Zâbulon, who had thus grown up fatherless. I sighed.
"Bring me Zâbulon," I said, and this time the captain did not even bother to protest.
The account-keeper with his book moved closer while I waited. "We have stronger men than those you chose," he observed. He was doubtlessly right. Few of my neighbours had fighters' physiques, and likely their struggle with the guards had already cost them most of their strength.
"Yes," I said under my breath, "but are they trustworthy?"
He shrugged, giving me a look that clearly said that he wasn't convinced of the trustworthiness of my neighbours, either. "Your call, my lord."

The voice in my head was screaming at me to get myself home quickly, but most of my followers were at least mildly injured and not fit for swift movement. I did not dare to ride ahead, fearing that they might get into mischief again – or be arrested again even if they did nothing but march home slowly. After watching Zâbulon limp along pitifully, and a young woman named Târinzil being carried in turns by her brother and other strong men because her right leg hurt too much to carry her, I gave up my place on the horse entirely. I told myself that there was no point in rushing. Probably everything was over already. I could but pray that they had only taken our possessions and not injured (or worse) the people in my house. I shivered despite my cloak.
One of the older men, Palatâr, finally broke the silence. "Where are you taking us, Lord Azruhâr?" He sounded rather petulant, I thought, considering that I'd gained him his freedom. And he, too, used the foolish title. My patience, already worn thin by the past hours' events, ran out entirely.
"Stop calling me that," I snapped. "You know that I am no lord."
"Well, the guards called you lord, and you did not stop them," Palatâr pointed out.
"Yes," I said tersely, "and I'll probably have to pay for that. But do you think they'd have released you at the humble request of a common citizen?"
Palatâr was silent for a while. Then: "So where are you taking us, Master Azruhâr?"
"I'm just an apprentice, Palatâr. No titles. Just Azruhâr, all right?"
He said no more. I answered his question anyway. "Where do you think I'm taking you? We're going home." And I couldn't help adding, reproachfully, "If I still have a home, that is."

Chapter End Notes

(1) Ringarë: Roughly equivalent to our December. Roughly. I could find no mention of Adûnaic month-names, so I have assumed that (at this point in history, at any rate) they continued to use the Elvish terms. Our names of the months are Latin, so it's not too strange an idea...