The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

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Chapter 60

This is a grim one. Warning for (non-graphic) mentions of childbirth going pear-shaped. If that's a touchy subject for you, I recommend skipping this chapter.

Warning for dark-ish themes and background character death.

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Chapter 60

 

It was the middle of the night, and we were on the road to some village that I had never heard of, and had no idea where to find. Because that was where Yorzim's daughter was.

Yorzim's daughter was having a child - the same child that Darîm had told me about, fathered by the man of Yôzayân who had promised to marry the daughter and then had gone back on his promise when she had lain with him before the wedding. I'd had the impression that these events had happened long ago, well in the past, but as it turned out, it had only been last summer. Yorzim must have been imprisoned not long before I had arrived in Umbar. The insignificant farming village where his family lived was where Yorzim had gone on the day when he had first disappeared, to look after his wife and his daughter. In spite of his abrasive behaviour, I began to regret that I'd had him beaten for it. At the spring festival, a young fellow from the village had sought him out and told him that there had been signs that his daughter was about to go into labour.
And that, apparently, the money from Darîm was not enough to pay for the midwife. Or the midwife did not want to help Yorzim's daughter for some other reason; Sidi was not quite clear on that.

It was Sidi who explained these things. Nothing sensible came from Yorzim, who kept his stony silence except for huffing angrily. But Sidi, now that he no longer felt bound by the promise he had given Yorzim, was more forthcoming. They had agreed to help Yorzim, all of them. Yorzim had intended to bring the money to his wife and daughter and to negotiate with the midwife. After that, he had fully expected to be imprisoned again, or even sent off to the mines, but his hope had been that at the least his daughter would be given the necessary care. "Yorzim thought," Sidi had concluded carefully, "that if it goes wrong, then his life is worthless either way."
"Won't the neighbours help?" I had asked, because that was what poor people at home would have done if they couldn't come to an agreement with Thâmaris or some other midwife.

Yorzim, absurd man that he was, had given me his most disdainful stare yet. "It is not so easy."
"I know that," I'd said coldly, "but it is better than nothing, surely? Obviously it's better to have a professional midwife present. Or a father who happens to be a surgeon, maybe!" I was too upset to stand still; I had to pace once more. "I must wonder why you didn't explain things to me earlier. I would've understood. Good grief, if you'd asked me before running away, I'd have lent you the horse so you could get there faster!"
"We are not allowed to ride a horse," Sidi said, as though that was the most important point just then.
"The mule, then," I said. "The point is, you should have asked."
Clenching his fists, Yorzim said, "What for? To give you more power over me? To threaten my daughter's life if I did not obey?"

That stopped me short. He might as well have struck me. "Is that what you think I would do?" I asked, hearing my voice flat and hurt.
Yorzim shrugged.
"I should hope that you know me better than that, at this point," I said bitterly. "I'm not cruel. And I have children myself. You could have turned to me for help."
Apparently, that was too much to ask. "So speaks a man who has never known hurt," Yorzim said scornfully. "Real men know better."
In spite of everything, I was compelled to laugh out loud for the second time that night. "You don't know everything, either," I said.
Yorzim took a deep breath, apparently ready to make an angry reply, but Sidi elbowed him into silence and said, "Then will you help now, Master?"

After that, it had been a matter of saddling the mule for Yorzim and the horse for myself. Yorzim was in no state to go alone - they'd probably arrest him again, thinking that he'd stolen both the money and the mule - so I saw myself forced to accompany him. I woke Urdad to give him instructions for the next two days, and told Sidi to begin guiding the other apprentices through the cleaning of the new bodies with the help of the books, and exhorted both of them to make sure that nobody got up to mischief. I had dressed and taken some provisions so we could have a very early breakfast indeed. And then, with Yorzim as my grudging guide, I had set off.

 

At first, there had been a certain thrill of adventure to the nightly ride. Everything was peaceful, quiet except for the noises of nocturnal beasts (small, harmless ones), and we made good speed. A mere three days after the full moon, the road was well lit, and we could ride as easily as if it were day. We reached the first wall, and although the guards stopped us, as soon as they saw my garb and my long hair and heard me declare my purpose, they bowed and agreed to open the gate for us. At the second gate, Yorzim was recognised, but since I declared that he had been on my errand and they had delayed it, they even apologised for arresting him, falling over their feet to open the gate and let us pass through.

Yorzim said nothing. I suppose he was concerned for his daughter and her child, which was understandable, so I could not reproach him for it. Indeed, as we were riding along and night began to turn into dawn, I was beginning to worry myself. The errand-boy had spoken to Yorzim two days ago, and he must have travelled half a day at the least, and he probably had needed further time to find Yorzim in the crowd. Perhaps everything was over already. Firstborn children often take long to be born, of course, and perhaps it had been the premonitory pains rather than true labour that had made Yorzim's wife send a messenger, but it was still a worrysome thought. I wished Yorzim had asked permission, and done so immediately after his return - or even during the festival. Soft-hearted fool that I was, I would have given him the money and the horse (or mule), and leave to go at once. As it was, I could only hope that it had not begun yet, or else that it was over already and that it had gone well, midwife or no midwife.

At long last - it must have been approaching mid-day, and there were now plenty of people in the road and in the fields - we reached the village that we had been aiming for. Our arrival caused quite a surprise, even fear. I could see that in the eyes of the people before they hastily made way and bowed low as we rode through. This probably wasn't a place where non-Umbari came often. Although their discomfort and the hurried genuflections were distressing, I suppose it was helpful that the road was cleared so we could cross the village quickly.

The house - hovel, really - where Yorzim's family lived was at the very end of the village, one of several hovels in a row on a little hill, well off the main road. Much like my childhood home before I had begun to add to it, it was shabby and small - it couldn't have more than two rooms - and had been built from cheap materials, with unpainted loam walls and a simple straw roof. The narrow strip of garden that went around it was reasonably kept, but there was a desolate air to the place that the pretty peaseblossoms and bright poppies couldn't dispel. All was quiet. The life of the village was elsewhere, and the people living in the house were showing no sign of their presence.

"Will you wait outside," Yorzim said through grit teeth before he jumped out of the saddle. It was not really a question, more like a command, which I suppose he noticed, because he appended, "please."
I should have objected, to his tone if not to the request itself, but in truth I had no desire to rush in alongside him and find, well, whatever there was inside to find. Nothing too bad, I hoped. Maybe Yorzim's daughter was resting. Or maybe she was down in the village, at the market, because her labour had not even begun yet. Maybe that was why everything was so quiet. It would not have been an eerie quiet, in the bright sunshine and with the everyday noises carried up from the village below, if I hadn't feared the worst.

Having nothing better to do, I unhorsed. I teethered horse and mule to the skewed wooden fence around the garden. I went to the well at the other end of the lane and drew some water for the animals. All of these things would have been my apprentice's duty, I realised, but as he was otherwise occupied, it seemed more sensible to do them myself. There were no street urchins around to assign to the care of the animals, either - they were doubtlessly down in the busier parts of the village or out in the fields. I looked for some dry grass to brush down the horse.

Yorzim re-emerged, looking pale and resigned. There were dark shadows around his eyes - probably they had been there all along, after the sleepless night, but I had not noticed them before - and his shoulders were more slumped, his jaw more grimly set than usual.
I hesitated for a moment, but it seemed like anything I did would be wrong: if I kept silent to respect his privacy it would come across as indifference, and if I asked in order to show empathy it would come across as prying. I decided in favour of prying. "How - how is it going?" I asked, wincing inwardly at the awkwardness of the question. But what else could I say? Is all well? Is anything wrong? How, on the whole, felt safest.

Yorzim gave me a stare that bordered on murderous. "It is not going," he said in a flat voice. "The child is not coming."
That, I thought, should have been good news. "So we got here before she went into labour?"
"No."
"Then what--" I began to ask, and then realised that she must have gone into labour, and that the child must be stuck somehow. "Oh." I bit my lips. "What about the midwife...?"
"Is also not coming."
Despite the finality of his statement, I couldn't help saying, "But you are here with the money now. Maybe there is still time --"
His eyes narrowed. "She will not come. She will not risk it." He spat those last words out as though it was my fault somehow.
"Can't you help? You're a surgeon."
He spat out for real. "It is not my field of work. I do not know how to do it."

I was surprised. A healer back at home would be expected to have knowledge of all the things that could go wrong with bodies. There were specialists for different fields, obviously, but in a pinch, a learned surgeon would certainly be able to help with the birth of a child, and a midwife with a broken arm. As long as the payment was right, of course.
But if Yorzim said it was different, then I suppose it was. I wouldn't have trusted myself to help with childbirth, either, despite knowing how it worked in theory.
"We can offer the midwife more money," I suggested. "I will pay for it."
Yorzim scowled. "It is not about your money. Your money cannot pay for the risk that the child is damaged. Least of all when you are there."

Again, I was confused. Midwives surely were no strangers to risk, although undoubtedly the risk was higher after Yorzim's daughter had already been in labour for who knows how long, without success. I couldn't help thinking that that risk could have been avoided if she had come earlier, though. Perhaps the midwife was worried that she would be blamed if her help came too late now?
"Well, you will assure her that you will forgive her if she cannot help, I am certain," I said, "even if it feels unforgivable."
"Me?! You think she is worried of me?"
Now he'd lost me for good. I began to wonder if this was some new Umbarian belief about being haunted or sacrificed or whatnot. "What else, then?"
"Your people! You accursed masters of the world, who go around and make laws and destroy my life. And my daughter. She worries of you!"
"Yorzim," I said, trying to stay calm in the face of his anger and my confusion. "Yorzim, I know this is hard, but I really don't understand - what do my people, or I, have to do with the midwife?"

Yorzim did not answer, but somebody in the house had heard our conversation - we had not exactly been quiet - and came out. A woman, roughly of Yorzim's age, her face every bit as pale and desperate as his. Yorzim's wife, I suspected. Her shift was crumpled and smeared with blood and other fluids, which were also on her hands, and she moved like a dreamwalker, but she answered my question. "The child is also of your people. She worries that you will punish her when the child is damaged, of course."
She went on to wash her hands and arms at the well, then made her way back to us. "We are being very inhospitable," she said in a weary tone, half to Yorzim and half to me, "I apologise very much. I am honoured to meet Yorzim's master. I would invite you inside, but it is not a place for men at this time. Please forgive me."

"I understand," I said - I wouldn't have expected a warm welcome at any time, but least of all now - "but I still do not understand why the midwife will not come. If she is worried about damage to the child, surely more damage will be done by doing nothing? Surely she can be blamed for that, too?" I rubbed the bridge of my nose, feeling lost and overwhelmed. "Would it help if I went to speak with her? If someone shows me the way, I could do that."
Yorzim continued to scowl, but his wife - assuming that was who she was; in the modest fashion of the Umbari, she hadn't introduced herself - seemed to find the idea worth considering.
"Will you tell her that, Master?" she asked, tilting her head at me.
"Tell her what?"
"That you will blame her if she does nothing."
"Oh. Yes, I suppose so, if you think it will help." I did not like the idea of threatening people - it must be a potent threat in their culture, if she thought it would change things - but I did not like the idea of doing nothing, either. I would also tell her, I thought guiltily, that I would not blame her if things went ill despite her help.
The woman said something in the language of Umbar, and although I could hear from Yorzim's response that he didn't appreciate whatever she said, he turned his angry eyes on me when he had finished it, and then said, "Very well, Master. If you will follow me." Again, he added, "please," as if it were an afterthought. If the situation had been less dire, I would've suspected that he was doing it on purpose.

The midwife's small house was - of course - close to the centre of the village. She was at home, and when she saw Yorzim, she closed the door in his face. Despite my earlier misgivings, I found myself growing angry, and I hammered on the door rather more forcefully than I usually would have. "You will open this door," I heard myself shout, "and you will listen to us."
She did indeed open the door, bowing low to me after casting an anxious glance at Yorzim.
"How may I help you, Lord?"
"I'm no lord," I said. "I'm Azruhâr, and it has been brought to my attention that you are refusing to assist my apprentice's daughter in childbirth. You may help me by packing all your necessary things as quickly as you possibly can, and accompany us to Yorzim's house, and by doing your job." I realised that I had spoken rather impolitely - I was, as I said, getting angry - so I added, to soften the blow, "I will repay you."

She stared at me as if incomprehending, then turned to Yorzim and asked something in his language. He replied in the negative, and said something else that I did not understand, at which she turned back towards me. "It is possible that I will not be able to help," she said in the way of somebody who already knew that she would not be able to help. I felt a hard, bitter lump form in my stomach. Anger and dread are awful companions, and they can make the softest man turn cruel.
"Then you should have come sooner," I said, teeth clenched, "and I will hold you personally responsible for the loss of either life unless you try your damndest best right now."
There was a strange look in her eyes as she turned to Yorzim again. Whatever she asked, he did not seem to like it one bit, because he spat on the ground instead of replying.
She sighed heavily. "If I try my damndest best," she asked slowly, "will you protect me?"
"If you truly do your best, that is all that can be asked for," I acknowledged, grudgingly, and because she didn't seem to be satisfied with that answer, I said, "I will protect you, as long as I have the impression that you did your best."

I wasn't certain what she wanted to be protected from, nor was I certain what sort of protection I could hope to offer, but I figured that these were things to figure out after - well, after the whole thing was over, one way or another.
Nor did I have any actual way of knowing that she did her best. I knew as little about childbirth as Yorzim did (less, probably, in spite of what he'd said) and besides, I wasn't seeing what she was doing, since I was staying outside the house, wearing grooves in the road with my pacing. Yorzim was sitting on the doorstep. The midwife had not allowed him to come inside, either.

Time continued to creep by, and I continued to pace. I was beginning to feel the sleepless night, but there was no way of catching up on that sleep, and at any rate, walking in useless circles at least occupied my body, though not my mind. There was the occasional howl from inside, but it wasn't the regular sounds of pain and encouragement in intervals that you'd expect when a child was being born. Those were bad enough - I felt guilty all over again for putting Amraphel in that position, three times at that - but the gurgling, almost animal-like screams that rang into the otherwise quiet street reminded me of nothing so much as Lord Arnavaryo's torment, towards the end, when he had already been maimed beyond survival. That did not bode well, though I didn't dare to say so, not to Yorzim, who sat with that terrible empty look in his eyes and his fists clenched so tightly that I feared the skin over his knuckles might tear.

As the afternoon passed, the other inhabitants of the neighbourhood began to return, giving us anxious looks and Yorzim's house a wide berth. They gave no sign of greeting or sympathy to him, but bowed their heads to me before disappearing hurriedly into their own huts. Those that had to fetch water practically ran to the well and back, without speaking to anyone.
The midwife poked her head out the door. I hoped against all reason that she would ask one of us to fetch water, that the happy sound of a newborn's first cries would be audible any second now, but instead, she spoke to Yorzim urgently. Yorzim punched the doorframe - now the skin did tear - so I knew that she must have said something upsetting. My heart sank, even more so when Yorzim called out, "Master?"
His voice was raw with unshed tears. I hurried over.
The midwife gave me a very tired look. "The child is not coming out," she said.
"Well, that's not helpful," I said before I could stop myself. We had known that for hours; I had rather hoped that the midwife would be able to make progress. "Is there any way," I said, struggling for composure, "that you can get it out?"

Yorzim had wrapped his arms around himself, the way I had done so often when I had been scared or hurt or both. He was quaking and had his eyes tightly shut. A drop of blood was running down from his torn knuckle.
"There is a way," the midwife said tersely. I could see that her hands were shaking, as though this were the first time she had to deal with that sort of situation. Maybe it was. Maybe that was why she had been so reluctant to come.
"Well, then what are you waiting for? Do it," I said, "or do you need another midwife to assist you?"
There was something like wounded pride in her eyes, but there was also fear. "I can do it. But it is very likely that the child will not live. If it is still living. I cannot say for certain."

I swallowed hard. I couldn't say that I was surprised at this point, but it was still a devastating thing to hear.
"So the child may be beyond saving," I said, the lump in my stomach growing harder and heavier. "But the mother is living?"
"As yet," she cautioned.
"So you try to save her," I said. "And if you need further assistance, you must tell us. Yorzim is a medical man, I'm sure he'll be useful if you tell him what to do." In his current state, Yorzim was probably less competent than usually, but he would surely do anything to save his daughter.
"It is a woman's matter," the midwife said, sounding scandalised. "Maybe you can send one or two of the neighbours' wives."
"They will not come," Yorzim said between gritted teeth.
"They will come when he commands them," the midwife said, matter-of-factly. "Like I did." Her eyes flitted to my face before she lowered them again. "For the record, Master, I have to remind you that the child is of your kin."

In my fear and weariness, I did not see what she meant. "Did you tell her that I'm the father?" I asked Yorzim, incredulous.
"She means that it's of your people," Yorzim ground out. "Not of you."
"We are not allowed to lay hands on your people," the midwife said slowly, as if concerned about my intellectual capacity (which really wasn't at its best, for whatever that was worth). "It is a bad crime. Bad punishment. I need your assurance that you will not accuse me of hurting your kin, if I try to save the mother."
"That's absurd," I said, "the child isn't even born. Won't ever be born, if you keep doing nothing. You're not - you're not laying hand on anyone, not in the sense the law means it."

At the same time, I was beginning to have doubts. I did not actually know the law to the letter. Maybe it did include unborn children. Maybe the fact that the baby had been fathered by a man of Yôzayân meant that the midwife would be accused of rebellion if it wasn't born alive and well. Absurd - all the more so since the child's Adûnaic father had claimed that he hadn't in fact fathered it. I felt reminded of the fate of Master Târik's master and fellow apprentice, when the dead body of a noblewoman had been held of greater worth than the lives of two commoners. It had appeared unjust to me then, and I found it unjust now that the life unborn (whatever its parentage, really) should be allowed to destroy the life of the mother, and the midwife too.

"As I understand it," I said, grasping at straws, "the father - I mean, the purported father, has disowned the child. So we don't really know that it is of my people, do we?" Yorzim hissed at that, and in that moment, I was grateful for it, because it suggested that there was still some of the old Yorzim underneath the grief. Although it wasn't helpful just then. "At any rate, you said that you didn't even know that the child was still alive," I went on. "But the mother is. So you should try to save the life that still can be saved." And because she still didn't move at that, I put on my commanding voice again. "Do what you can to save Yorzim's daughter."

And then I went and knocked on some doors and intimidated some of the neighbours' wives into helping. Because that was apparently all that I was good for, that day.
 

The evening progressed uncomfortably. Yorzim sat in the doorway, and I sat next to the garden, leaning against a fence pole because I was too weary to hold myself up anymore. Unworldly moans and shouted commands in the midwife's voice - she seemed to have quite the sharp tongue when she wasn't talking to me - tore the peaceful lull. Nonetheless, I found myself nodding off. The sky had turned red, heralding the swift sunset of Umbar. I nodded off again, and woke in the dark because somebody addressed me. It was a young lad with a tallow lamp.
"Apologies that you have been left in the street, Lord," he said. "May I invite you to spend the night in our house."
I rose stiffly. "I'm no lord. But I'm grateful for the invitation." I looked over at the house. There was a dark lump in front of the door, telling me that Yorzim was still sitting there. "What about Yorzim?"
The boy's eyebrows contracted in a moment of thought. Then he said, "If it pleases you, he is also invited."

But Yorzim, when we went to wake and tell him, shook his head. "I stay here," he said, "until it is over."
I bit my lips. "Should I keep you company?" Of course it was unlikely that my company would give him any comfort, but it still felt wrong to leave him alone.
Another shake of the head. "You go, Master." He went on grudgingly, "Hospitality is important. I cannot give it to you, but they should."
Of course. A sacred law. I sighed. "Fine. But if there is anything I can do, I want you to get me at once, alright?" He didn't answer, so I said, "Promise. This is more important than your pride."
Yorzim bared his teeth; I expect he didn't like the accusation that he was letting his pride get in the way of things, but neither could he deny it. "I'm bound to obey you anyway," he said flatly.
"And we've seen how well that works," I pointed out. "So I want you to promise this specifically. If there's any way in which I can help, you will tell me. At once. Even if I'm asleep. No excuses."

He didn't answer, but he nodded, and I felt that I had to be satisfied with that.

It was a relief, in truth, to go into a house that, although it was just as small and simple as Yorzim's house looked, was at any rate warm and full of people. I felt guilty about my relief - shouldn't I have sat in vigil with my apprentice? - but I couldn't deny that I was cold and hungry and weary, both physically and in my spirits. Ohdîr - that was the young fellow's name - and his family were welcoming, and soon I was seated on a cushion by the fire with a bowl of steaming millet-and-onion soup (I asked Ohdîr to take a bowl of the soup to Yorzim, too; at the very least, he should eat something). The other inhabitants of the house - Ohdîr's father and grandparents, and Ohdîr's younger sister; the mother was one of the women I had recruited to assist the midwife - were watching me with unabashed curiosity, making me feel worried that I'd do something stupid, if I hadn't already. "So," I said, with a cautious smile, "may I have the honour of knowing my hosts' names?"

Ohdîr's grandfather gave a toothless laugh until Ohdîr's father silenced him with a shove of his elbow. Embarrassed, I asked, "Did I say something wrong?"
"You said honour," Ohdîr's grandfather said in the high-pitched, fragile voice of the very old. "The honour is ours."
I couldn't argue with that sort of logic. "Alright. But may I still know your names?"
In that manner, I learned that Ohdîr's grandfather was also named Ohdîr. His wife was Numâr. Ohdîr's father was Urron, and the little girl was Êlin, although none of the others called her that, instead using what I assumed was some form of nickname. "And I am Azruhâr," I said.
Again, the grandfather laughed. "We cannot call you that, Lord!"
"Well, you shouldn't call me Lord, either. It's not a title I can claim." It wasn't likely that there would be any repercussions here, but I still felt uncomfortably reminded of that night when my neighbours had attacked the bakers' district. I could see that the distinction was lost on them, so I said, "You can call me Master Embalmer, if you like." Another title that I had no right to, but it was already in common use, so it wasn't likely to cause any new harm.
They nodded at that. Master Embalmer, it appeared, was acceptable.

Other than that, they were surprisingly willing to answer questions. When I wanted to know why they - or the mother and grandmother, at least - hadn't helped Yorzim's daughter earlier, Urron explained, "The Darîm came around to tell us what the child was. So we were afraid."
I felt the anger return. "The Darîm warned you off helping her?"
"No, Master Embalmer, he just let us know that the child was of your people. We knew it was too dangerous, then.
Taking a deep breath, I asked, "And if you hadn't known?"
Numâr, the grandmother, spoke up, "We do not know the family very well. We thought that the young woman was - it was not good that she had a child and no husband. Very bad luck. It was better to stay away."
"As far as I know, she had been made promises of marriage. The father of the child went back on them, but at the time, they were engaged to be married." Granted, it had been a little pre-emptive to beget a child before they were married, but that sort of thing wasn't exactly uncommon.

Urron glanced at the little girl, who was listening avidly. "You know more than we do, Master Embalmer."
That was unfortunate, I thought, considering that I knew very little. "So you didn't know the family before any of this happened?"
"Oh no. They only came here a few months ago. From the capital. At the time we thought that they were hiding from the shame. They never explained." Ohdîr the older gave a regretful smile. "We never asked."
"Ah. So they haven't been living here all that long. That explains the small house," I mused out loud, then realised in embarrassment that these people were living in a house just like that, and might take offense. Surely it was bad form to insult the house of one's hosts. They had no way of knowing that I had lived in a house much like this for the longest time, and had fond memories of it. (All too fond. I felt my throat constrict at the memory of my father's little house.) "I mean, I thought a surgeon's family would live in a bigger house. Not that there's anything wrong with a small house. But surgeon is a job that pays well, at least where I come from, so I expected Yorzim to live... in a more prestigious kind of place."

Ohdîr the older nodded sagely. "Maybe he did. But now the family is needing the Darîm's charity, isn't it. He pays enough for living, the Darîm, but not for luxury."
That made sense. I couldn't blame Darîm for that, although I did blame him for telling the neighbours about the child's parentage. Surely at least some of them would have overcome their scruples about a child without a father (at least, without a father married to the mother), as people at home would have, but of course once he'd gone around to warn them, they had been too scared of what my people would do to them. That was something else to chew on. And to address with Lord Roitaheru, probably. If I saw a chance and found the courage.

For the time being, I was grateful for the family's hospitality and the warmth of their fire and their soup and, later, a place on the straw mats that covered the ground in the small room next to the kitchen that they all shared. They apologised for the discomfort, as if the alternative wasn't lying out in the street wrapped in my cloak. I told them that I had, not too long ago, been perfectly used to sleeping rough. That evening, I didn't care what they made of that (although I did not take off my shirt). I fell asleep at once in my exhaustion, in spite of the grave events that were happening a few houses further down the road. The wollen blanket was scratchy like the blankets of my childhood, and that was strangely reassuring.

When I woke up in the morning, I was alone. My joints had gone stiff and my limbs numb from sleeping on a fairly unyielding surface (I had grown all too used to comfort). For a moment, I lay in the semi-dark, confused and disoriented. Then I managed to sit up and recognised my surroundings and remembered what had brought me here. The others had folded their blankets and shaken out their pillows, so I did that, too, before I got dressed. Then I went into the kitchen to see if the family was there.

Ohdîr was sitting next to a bucket of greyish water, scrubbing a cooking-pot. He half rose when I entered. "Good morning, Master Embalmer," he said. "You seemed very tired, so we let you sleep."
"Thank you," I said. "A good morning to you, too. You're right, I was very tired." I wondered whether it would be impolite to ask for something to drink and dispel the foul dry taste of sleep in my mouth. "Where are the others?" I asked instead.
"They went to work. With apologies to you, but they cannot stay home easily."
"I understand," I said, because I did. "Do you know how - how the birth went?"
"Oh," Ohdîr said earnestly. "Yes. Mother came back earlier. It --" he paused, looking for words. "The child is out. But it did not live. I am sorry."
So was I. "Unfortunately, that was to be expected," I said. "What about Yorzim's daughter?"
He shrugged, a little helplessly. "I don't know."

I had a modest breakfast (probably not modest by Ohdîr's standards). Then I asked him to relate my gratitude and best wishes to the other members of his family. I tried to pay him - for the food I had consumed, if not the roof over my head - but he was scandalised by the very idea. "Oh no, you mustn't pay," he said, "it is a matter of course." I asked whether there was some other way to repay them, he studied me for a moment as if trying to figure out whether I was asking in earnest.
"When we have need of a favour," he said finally, cautiously, "maybe you can remember us."
I promised that I would, though I couldn't help admitting that I couldn't actually offer a whole lot of favours (as Yorzim would doubtlessly have pointed out, if he had been present).

Speaking of Yorzim, he was nowhere to be seen when I approached his house, and I thought at first that he had used the night to run away for good. Then I chided myself for the uncharitable thought. Yorzim surely would not leave his wife and (hopefully) his daughter alone, not after everything he had risked to get to them. I did not like him, but I knew he wasn't selfish. He had probably been allowed to go inside, after the women had finished their work. Perhaps he was getting some dearly earned rest.

Which I had to interrupt. I needed to return to the morgue. It had been irresponsible to leave my inexperienced apprentices alone with three new bodies that needed to be given the correct treatment. Even assuming that they hadn't used my absence to rebel, and that Sidi had been able to decipher my notes and guide the others through the process, I could not risk staying away for longer. So I knocked on the door, and when nobody opened, I knocked again.

After the third knock I heard footsteps within. Yorzim came to the door. He didn't look pleased to see me (not that I'd expected him to). Instead, he gave me a bleary-eyed stare.
"My condolences," I said awkwardly. "I heard of the death of your grandchild. And..." I hesitated and couldn't finish my sentence.
Yorzim shrugged. "It should not have happened." I wasn't sure whether he meant the death, or the child itself.
Either way, I agreed, "It shouldn't." Again, I hesitated, but then I managed to say, "Your daughter...?"
"She sleeps. She is very tired and weak." Yorzim rubbed his eyes, as though they were also very tired (they probably were).
"But she's alive?" I said to make certain.
"For now."
"That's good. I - I hope she makes a full recovery."
"Yes. So do I."
"If there's anything more I can do to help..." I said uselessly.

As expected, Yorzim didn't take me up on it. "Do you want the child?" he asked instead.
I must have looked very confused, because he clarified at once, "For embalming."
"Oh. Yes, I suppose so." I tried to sort my thoughts. "I understand that it is difficult to put a price on bereavement --"
"There is no price. I have debts enough."
"That's not what I meant." I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. Surely, Yorzim was still in a lot of emotional turmoil; I must not hold that against him. "It is customary--"

Yorzim's wife had appeared, perhaps woken by our talk (if she had been asleep in the first place).
"Good morning, Master," she said with a smile that did not touch her eyes. "Will you come inside." Although it sounded like a statement, it was apparently meant to be an invitation, because she nudged Yorzim and, with her chin, gestured at him to open the door further.
"Briefly, thank you," I said, stepping in. The house was much like that of Ohdîr's family, except that there was a smell of blood and sickness on the stuffy air. Yorzim's wife bade me sit on a cushion in the kitchen, where one of them must have slept earlier, because a mattress and a mussled blanket were still lying next to the hearth. She gave me a cup of peppermint infusion and another strained smile. "We have been very bad hosts."
"You've had a lot to take care of. Really, I understand. I am sorry that it - that it went this way."
An awkward silence fell.
"I will bring the child," Yorzim's wife said hastily, and shuffled into the other room.

Again, silence. To break it, I told Yorzim, "I will have to return to the city today."
Yorzim said nothing.
"I understand that you cannot easily leave your wife and daughter alone, under the circumstances, but I cannot leave work for longer."
Still no answer.
"I can give you a week's leave without repercussions, probably," I went on. "After that, though, I'll have to answer uncomfortable questions. So if you don't plan to return at the end of the week, I suggest you find a good hiding place."
He snorted at that. "I cannot find a good hiding place. Lîdosh cannot be hidden, not before she is healthy again. If she - " he cut himself off. Lîdosh, I gathered, was the daughter's name. "I have to keep them safe, don't I."
"I will not hurt them," I said. "I know you do not trust me, but this I swear to you. I will not hurt your family in order to get to you. It is between you and me only."

Yorzim shrugged. "You will tell the Darîm, and that is as good as killing them. What happened..." he jerked his head towards the other room. "It is the Darîm's revenge. Because you told him that we thought we could be sacrificed, he told the people here that the child was of your people. He made them too frightened to help."
That was a dreadful thing to consider. "I'm sure he meant to protect his people from - you know - charges of treason. Or running afoul of the law in some other way."
"That is what he tells himself to sleep at night, I am sure."
I reminded myself that Yorzim might not be the most reliable judge of anyone's motivations. After all, he had severely misjudged me, too.
"You are a bitter man," I said. "But I cannot blame you today. However, when you return to my house, I have to demand that you stop challenging me. It is wearing me out, and it poisons the atmosphere."

After a half-hearted guffaw, Yorzim replied, "Oh, no worries. I am deep in your debt. A personal debt, now. I do not like it, but I will be very obedient." He clenched his fists briefly, then stretched his fingers. "I swore that I would never do business with your blessed people again, you know." Another joyless guffaw. "That worked well."
"I release you from your personal debt," I said, feeling the softness in my heart bleed away, "but from your bond of apprenticeship I cannot release you without my lord's and the council's permission, which I will not receive."
"Yes. Of course." He was hunched over now, staring at the ground between us.
"I must wonder why you ever agreed to work for me, if you made an oath not to," I could not help saying.
Yorzim looked up and met my eyes. "I had to, of course. The Darîm would have stopped paying the upkeep for my family if I had refused."
You may tell him, in that case, I heard Darîm's voice in my head, that I do not hold it against him. It may help him make a clearer decision. That had been about Bâgri, of course, but now I wondered whether it had also referred to some threat Darîm had made against his loved ones so that he would work for me. I was no longer shocked that the apprentices had expected terrible things of me. If they'd been made to agree to the arrangement under duress, it was only natural that they'd fear the worst.

I was spared from voicing these thoughts by the return of Yorzim's wife. She said something in the tongue of Umbar to Yorzim which made him relax a little. I hoped that it was something good about their daughter's state. That was a very brief ray of hope before she handed me the tiny bundle that she had brought with her. My heart, already aching from the heavy conversation, felt painful and raw. Newborn children should be warm and soft, with that strange sweet smell of the vernix, with fine golden-brown skin covered in the softest of fluff. This baby was grey and cold and stiff, as though somebody had carved an infant from stone. It had been cleaned and swaddled in a soft cloth, the way you did with living children, but it was clear that it must have been dead well before it had been brought into the world, probably well before Yorzim and I had arrived here. Around its neck and one shoulder, there were dark marks, like the bruises left by the hangman's noose on the necks of thieves. I brushed them with a finger, questioning.
"The... how do you say. The hose?" Yorzim's wife pointed at where her navel must be, then mimicked a rope. "It was wrapped around his throat."
"The umbilical cord," I said, and she nodded. "Yes, yes. The cord. One, two, three times."

I looked down at the small dead creature. "So it was nobody's fault. It was just... bad luck. Poor little thing." I pulled the cloth back a little. It would, indeed, have been a he. "Poor little fellow. I am sorry for your loss. I hope your daughter can be saved." I tried to look at Yorzim, but he kept his head turned away from me, so I turned to his wife instead. "If there is anything I can do to aid her recovery, please tell me. Money, or medicine... is there a good healer in this village? I will leave some money so you can pay them. And --" I paused, but then I decided to go ahead anyway. "Madam, I know that your husband is too proud to accept my help, so I am making this offer to you directly. If you think that you and Lîdosh are not safe in this place, you are welcome to come to my house. When Lîdosh is fit to travel, of course. I will do my best to protect you." What was I doing, offering protection to people? How much protections could my walls and my few guards even offer, against serious dangers or - if Yorzim was right - against Darîm? Very little. But I could not stop myself.
She held my gaze, but her eyes gave nothing away. "It is a generous offer, Master," she said tonelessly. "We will keep it in mind." Yorzim, as so often, said nothing.

I gave the money for the body, and some extra for the healer, to his wife. She was also proud, but she seemed to be more pragmatic about it than her husband, and I dared to hope that she would use it for her daughter's benefit even though it came from me, hateful man of Yôzayân though I was.

And then I made my lonely and defeated way back to my proper duties.