The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

Chapter 51

Chapter 51

When I asked Nêrad and his parents why they hadn't applied to Darîm for help, they took a while to answer. Finally, Nêrad explained that it wasn't quite as easy as Darîm had suggested. By no means were all necessary loans granted, least of all to people who were already in debt. And the family was already indebted, which Nêrad seemed to find very shameful. Wringing his hands, he confessed that it would take them years to pay off their previous loans as well as the money for the healer, and they had tried to avoid being indebted further. I was inclined to believe him. I suppose it was good of Darîm to offer these loans at all - in contrast, Lord Atanacalmo had made it forbiddingly hard to even speak to him, let alone receive help from him, and neither I nor any of my neighbours would have dreamed of asking him for money even in our more desperate need - and he had, after all, sent the healer. That was more than anyone had done for my father. But I suspected that Darîm knew as little about the ordinary lives and needs of the low-born people as the King's Council did. Nor could he afford to give away money indefinitely, probably. Nonetheless, I was troubled. Even if the family had been entirely honest with me, Darîm had been right; I would not be able to do something similar for everybody in need of help, and it was not my place, anyway. It was much like the copperhoods all over again, only in a strange country and among strange people. I suppose it was a useful reminder that I was unfamiliar with the place and its rules, and should tread with care.

I moved into the morgue a few weeks into the new year, once the upstairs rooms were restored and most of the furniture and fixings had been delivered. I confess I was glad to move into a house thad already had people living in it. Zâdosh - Nêrad's mother - had filled the larder and stacked firewood and bundled kindling and made soap and put the pots and pans and tankards and crockery and cutlery in their proper places, and the family had cleaned up after the builders and hung up the curtains and rolled out the carpets and all that, so the house was not merely livable but approaching comfortable. Galîr, the father, who was unable to move around much, had started sewing the tunics for the livery, so I wouldn't have to accompany Zâdosh and Nêrad to the market forever. (Remembering Lord Laurilyo's warning about having to rescue cooks from the pillory, I had so far gone along for the shopping, and indeed, one grain merchant had very nearly called the guard on Zâdosh when she had asked for the wheat that she felt my household needed. He'd relented - and sold her the wheat - only after I had intervened. I found his behaviour outrageous, but when I had reprimanded him for calling the guard on a honest customer, he protested that he couldn't risk losing his licence. I suppose it was a fair reason, although I was still angry.)

Nurdâr, at least, was genuinely happy - at least, that's the impression I got. She was making wreaths of the bright wildflowers that grew plentifully under the winter rains to hang over every door, which was not, perhaps, strictly necessary, but it spread a little cheer and at any rate did no harm. When they were wilted, she picked new flowers and started anew. She was fond of the cats and played with them, pulling a piece of wood on a string, which they hunted as though it were a mouse. She could spend hours brushing the horse and the mule. After Zâdosh had asked (and received, of course) leave to keep chicken, Nurdâr fed them and cleaned their nesting boxes and gathered the eggs, if there were any. In the morning, she informed us very earnestly of how many eggs she had found. Her mother continued to apologise for these reports, and every other strange little thing Nurdâr did. I told her that it was no trouble, as long as Nurdâr stayed out of the cellar and the storage tunnels. As yet, there was nothing poisonous or dead down there, but she could have stumbled and hit her head on a workbench or the edge of the basins, or gotten lost in the dark tunnels, or fallen into the well, and besides, it was probably better if she learned from the start that the working area was out of bounds. There was no reason for any of them to go down there, anyway, so I told the family that nobody but myself and my apprentices were allowed to go down the stone stairs, and they swore to stay out of that part of the house.
At any rate, it was good to have other people living with me. Their presence turned what would otherwise have been an empty and unsettling place into a home - not my home, to be sure, but somebody's home. It probably wouldn't have been good for me to live there by myself, but the family made pleasant company. I missed the sense of friendship I'd felt with my servants back at home, though. Of course, they had been neighbours first, and we had been on equal footing for the greater part of our lives. Here, with the exception of Nurdâr, the family acted as though I were well above them.

Lord Roitaheru would have approved, I am sure. When I had taken my leave to exchange the luxuries of his palace for the relative simplicity of my own house, he reminded me to keep my back straight and my chin up and not get too cosy with the Umbarians. "I know you're a gentle and generous spirit, but you mustn't be too indulgent. Don't allow them to forget who you are." It seemed that nobody would ever be allowed to forget who I was, however much I would've liked them to. "That doesn't just go for your servants, but all of them," Lord Roitaheru had continued. "Make sure they see a man of Yôzayân when they see you. Hold your head high. Stride confidently. Wear a belt, and keep your hair long."
I must have looked fairly stupid at that (he wore his own hair cropped in a soldier's manner and his robes were, as usually, loose like those of the Umbari). He guessed my thoughts and laughed, running his hand through his short curls. "There's no danger of people not knowing who I am! But you have to put all the attributes of our people together to remind them."

Urdad had joined us, bringing a small wooden box, and Lord Roitaheru rubbed his hands. "Ah, yes! Your house-warming gift." He gestured for Urdad to give me the box, which turned out to contain one of the Eldarin lamp-stones in a delicate wire cage. "I've been told that it might be useful when you work in the vaults," he said, while I was speechless. It was indeed a useful and unexpectedly thoughtful gift, and I wondered who had suggested it to him. Had it been Lord Herucalmo? The thought made my face grow hot. "Thank you, good lord," I managed, since gratitude was clearly in order. "It is a very generous gift. And I can use it well; much better than a candle or a torch."
"That's what he thought," Lord Roitaheru said, pointing his thumb at Urdad. "It was his idea. Clever fellow." Urdad bowed his head, the usual nervous smile on his lips. I stared at him in surprise. "You can take him along, if you want," Lord Roitaheru said.

Now I was staring from one to the other. "I can't possibly accept that, Lord," I said, while trying to figure out how Urdad felt about the prospect. Did he want to continue working for me? Was that why he had suggested the lamp to Lord Roitaheru, to win me over? That wasn't necessary; I was quite grateful to him for taking care of the repairwork and keeping track of the money, anyway. Or would he prefer to stay here in the palace, which was doubtlessly a more prestigious post?
"No, you're welcome to him," Lord Roitaheru said, waving his hand. "I have more. You'll need an accountant anyway, and he's already familiar with your project. Unless you weren't satisfied with his work so far, of course." At which Urdad bowed a little lower.
"I'm entirely satisfied with his work," I said, flustered. "I just - that's a very generous offer, my lord." Again, I glanced at Urdad, trying to see his eyes, but they were hidden from my view.
"Not really," said Lord Roitaheru. "I have number-jugglers aplenty here; one more or less makes no difference. So do take him along; make him work for his money!"

I did take him along. On the road, I told Urdad that I was pleased that he would keep working for me, and that I was hoping he was also pleased. He smiled his shy smile and said that he was, but of course he would've said that either way. I doubted he enjoyed himself much the next days, which he spent running around, taking stock of all the things I had bought and figuring out what had been paid already and what was still due and how to space out the payments so there was money left for the rest of the month. It was doubtlessly helpful work, but it made me feel rather keenly how inept I was as master of a household, or workshop, or both. I had kept the numbers in mind, to be sure, but I hadn't thought of writing them down. Of course that's what I should have done. Amraphel would have known, and I missed her more keenly than usual that night, thinking of how many things I didn't know how to do properly without her help. I thought in growing distress of the many people under me - both figuratively and literally - whom I was supposed to keep busy and fed and safe and healthy and paid, and in line, too. Urdad, and Nêrad and Nurdâr, and their parents, and the maid-of-all-works and two stablehands that I had hired at Darîm's recommendation (to mend matters), and the four guards who were sleeping, and the four who were standing watch or patrolling the grounds outside.

I had agonised over these guards, whom Darîm had likewise introduced to me - both because I wasn't sure whether eight weren't too much, and because they certainly were stronger and better at fighting than I would be, if push came to shove. I understood that they were supposed to protect me, so I shouldn't have worried about that, but I hadn't exactly made the most encouraging experiences with guards. Lord Roitaheru, of course, had found my concerns funny. "They have so much more to lose than they can possibly gain. The punishment for rising against one of us is severe - they wouldn't risk it."
"The punishment for treason is also severe, and still there are traitors," I had pointed out. "I expect they think they won't be found out."
By now, I knew to brace for Lord Roitaheru's heavy shoulder-claps, so it hadn't hurt as it once would have. "These folk know that they'll be found out. We're not afraid to hold their close ones hostage or punish the whole family. Besides, they know they're better off under our rule. Mind you, you can take guards from among our own people. You'll have to pay them more, of course!" He had paused meaningfully. "But - no offense - I think you'll find it a lot easier to command Umbarian guards. So I'd really advise you to take those. On that, you can trust Darîm - he makes sure these people stay in their place! You'll be perfectly safe."
In all honesty, I would have felt safer with no guards at all, but neither Lord Roitaheru nor Darîm seemed to allow for that.

So there I lay on my first proper night in the new house, painfully aware of my responsibility towards all these people. Lord Laurilyo might think me a responsible person, but really, I knew nothing about being responsible. I would fail them all, and they would rise against me and condemn themselves, and Lord Roitaheru would recognise how much of a failure I was, and I would be sent back in disgrace to suffer the King's displeasure - assuming my failure would not upset Lord Roitaheru so much that I'd have the doubtful honour of being the first man of Yôzayân to be publicly executed in Umbar. For a time, I might be able to fool them and stumble my way through this challenge that had been set before me, although it rose in my sleepless thoughts like the very real mountains outside. But ultimately, I would fall. It was inevitable; I wasn't made for this. The only question was whether I should bother trying at all - whether it wasn't wiser to save them all from false hope and disappear into the night.

For my own sake, I think this is what I would have done. But unfortunately, I had let myself be steered into this position in which other people's lives (or their livelihood, at least) depended on me. I had to at least pretend to run this place and teach apprentices. I would have to keep up that pretense as long as I could, for their sake. And perhaps for the sake of my family, too. What little income they now had - beyond the charity of Lord Eärendur, if he could afford it still - came from my negotiations with Lady Arancalimë, and no doubt her father would stop paying the meagre stipend to my family the very second that news of my disappearance or death reached him. So I would have to push through, to whatever end, as long as I could.
I tried to rid myself of these grim thoughts. I forced myself to get up and pace in circles, hugging my shoulders, to calm myself. But the sense of being out of my depth and on the road to ruin wouldn't lift. The only thing it achieved was that I realised how tired I was, despite my restlessness. I went back to bed and covered the Elvish lamp with a cloth and slept, though I did not sleep well.

I woke up because Nêrad knelt before my bed, saying, "The sun is rising, Master, may I wake you?"
I had indeed asked him to wake me after dawn, and the question had woken me up anyway, so I suppose it was a little silly. But I suppose he was as insecure in his new role as I was in mine. I forced myself to put on a brave face, propping myself up on my elbows and saying, "Yes, thank you." At least, I thought to myself, the months in the governor's palace had taught me what to expect from a valet, so I could prompt Nêrad, who did not really know what to do. I was determined to let him have his chance, rather than replacing him with somebody trained for the position as Darîm had suggested. It was childish and stubborn, perhaps, but I wanted to prove that day-talers were as capable of doing this job as anyone else. Hadn't Sîmar and Kâlil done perfectly well without coming from a dynasty of household servants? I missed them and their quiet and skilled and efficient ways, a little. We had said our emotional farewells the other day - well, emotional for me; I knew they had no particular reason to miss me - and I found myself wondering what they were doing now. I hoped that they were getting some rest, now that they didn't have to look after me anymore, before being given a new assignment. Not that I could do anything about it either way.

Nerâd began to wash my chest. The water was unexpectedly cold, making me flinch in surprise. I had grown used to the perfect warm water at the palace. "You need to warm the water, next time," I heard myself say, and saw Nerâd freeze in mid-motion, his face contorting in shock that he had made a mistake already.
"Beg your pardon, Master," he said, his hands shaking around the wash-cloth. "Should I--"
"No matter," I said hastily, anxious about his anxiety. "Just remember it tomorrow."
"Yes, Master," he said, bowing too low. I could have kicked myself for making him worry over such a pointless matter.
"I used to wash with cold water every day, when I was younger," I said, in an attempt at reassuring him that this was, really, an easy mistake to make - and also at reminding me of how spoiled I was, these days. "Now that I'm older I've grown used to the comfort of warm water. But it's alright for today. Now that I know it's cold, it won't shock me."

Nerâd nodded without meeting my eyes. Then he went on in his work. As he moved around towards my back, I heard a sharp intake of breath, and a pause, and then, "What happened, Master?"
Again, I cursed myself (inwardly, that is). So much for the image of the invincible, and probably invulnerable, men of Yôzayân. Since Sîmar and Kalîl had never expressed any curiosity about my scars, I had more or less assumed that the Umbari didn't care about such things. But they'd probably just been taught not to show any curiosity unprompted. Nerâd hadn't, and he was honest and direct in his shock. The only thing I could think of was obscuring the reality of it. "A misunderstanding," I said. "And a test of loyalty."
"Oh," said Nerâd, sounding puzzled. I could practically hear the questions he wasn't daring to ask - what sort of misunderstanding? what sort of test? why did your loyalty get tested? did you pass? - and the inevitable, did it hurt? But all he said was, "Oh."
"You understand, of course, that you are not allowed to gossip about this," I said, because a reminder seemed in order. "Or anything else you learn in my house. Keeping secrets is part of your work."
"Yes, I understand," he said hastily, and I told myself that this would have to be good enough.

The rest of the process went without hitches, although Nerâd needed to be shown what to do about my hair. Since all the Umbari I had met so far, men and women alike, wore their hair short, that shouldn't have surprised me - how should Nerâd have learned what to do with long hair, if it was uncommon among his people? In the end, he managed passable braids, with rather a lof of help. For the sake of knowing, I asked him whether he knew how to handle a razor knife, which he didn't. "We only cut short our beards, never off at the skin," he said, which explained why even a fellow as young as him had a bit of a beard, or such fluff as grew on his youthful face, anyway. "I can learn, of course!" he asserted hastily.
"I'm sure you can," I said, but at the same time, I knew that I didn't want to be the subject of his lessons. I felt worried enough about blades near my skin as it was - some sort of residue from last spring, I suppose - without putting a knife that sharp into the hands of someone who didn't know how to handle it (and whose hands were already shaking again). For today, the point was moot anyway, since Kalîl - whose gentle and competent hands I had been able to trust - had just yesterday made sure that my face was impeccably smooth, and the stubble had not yet grown back. When shaving would become unavoidable, I decided that I'd do it myself. Or maybe I'd just let the beard grow. I wasn't really old enough, but this wasn't home. At any rate, Lord Roitaheru hadn't said anything about beards.

So I told Nerâd not to worry about it. He nodded, in relief or resignation, and helped me into my nice new green tunic, which I could just as well have put on myself, just as I could have washed and braided back my hair myself. Ultimately, it all went to show that I should never have bothered to hire a valet in the first place. What did I need a valet for? I was no longer too weak or distraught to clean and dress myself, and whatever Lord Roitaheru said, I wasn't one of the betters who needed to have these menial things done for them, either. I was nobody in particular (Azruhâr the Nothing, the King's voice in my head helpfully supplied) and could be expected to get ready for the day on my own. But now, the harm was done, and I couldn't go back on it without making Nerâd think that it was his fault. In a few years, I told myself, he'd have acquired the necessary knowledge, and I'd be able to write him a letter of recommendation so he'd be able to find work somewhere that actually warranted a valet. Until then, I could only put my conscience at rest by reminding myself that I was employing him for his sake, not for my aggrandisement.

Being cleaned and styled (as much as could be expected) and dressed, I joined the rest of the household downstairs for breakfast. Just as at home, I had decided to follow the example set by Lord Eärendur (and, I suppose, Lord Atanacalmo, but I did not wish to think of him) of having the whole household come together for the meals. So we gathered in the hall, with the exception of those guards who were on duty at the time, and Nurdâr, who apparently was afraid of the number of people gathering at my table (later, I learned that she also didn't understand why she should sit in a chair, rather than on the floor as she was used to) and hid in her family's rooms.
Breakfast was a surprise. Zâdosh had asked me the previous night what I wanted her to prepare, and I had told her to make whatever she thought was suitable. Apparently, that had meant baking yesterday's leftovers in a mixture of gruel and cheese. It wasn't bad, as such, but it was certainly unexpected in the morning. Personally, I'd more have expected the leftovers turned into pottage, and just the gruel for breakfast (sweetened, perhaps, since I knew I had paid for honey). One of the guards said something in the language of Umbar, which I could see left Zâdosh flustered.

"What did you say?" I said to the guard, and, "Until I understand it, I'd ask all of you to use my language in my house, except for Nurdâr, of course, because she doesn't know any better."
"Apologies, sir," the guard said, bowing his head and slamming his fist on his chest. "I asked why she hasn't made your kind of food, sir."
Zâdosh continued to look worried.
"I asked her to make what she saw fit," I said, which was true, and, "I was interested to find out what your people have for breakfast," which wasn't entirely true. I mean, I wasn't disinterested, but the truth was that I simply hadn't thought about it. I hadn't thought that different peoples would have different breakfast habits. Gruel, or better yet bread if it was available, just felt so natural to me. Once again, I was tempted to despair over the extent of my ignorance.
But Zâdosh smiled a little smile of relief, and the guard said, "Understood, sir," so it seemed that I would get away with it, for the time being. Nonetheless, I couldn't avoid feeling a sense of dread and inadequacy, which did not bode well on the last day before I was to meet my future apprentices at last. At least I was too busy to brood. Urdad had questions about the money, and Darîm came to go through the list of prisoners once more before heading to the prison and arranging matters, and in the afternoon, another delivery of furniture arrived and kept us occupied with finding the right places for the shelves and chests.

And a few days later, when all was made ready, I made my way into town to the house of Darîm. I reminded myself to sit proud and upright on my horse, while Khûraz - one of my diligent new grooms - drove the cart behind me. Darîm was already waiting for us, sitting atop his mule with a confidence I could only hope to approximate. He bowed in the saddle when we approached, which unfortunately reminded me of my first encounter with Lord Vanatirmo and accordingly did nothing to make me feel less uneasy. I inclined my head in response, not managing to smile. He was smiling in his charming manner, of course. "A wonderful good day to you, Master Embalmer," he said. "I am so pleased to assist you today."
Now I did force the corners of my mouth upwards. "Thank you, Spokesman Darîm," I said, as firmly as I could. "I trust that our business today will go well."
So we set off to prison.