The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

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Chapter 63

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The council session went exactly as badly as you would have expected. I had entered the theatre determined to keep my mouth shut and draw no further attention to myself. That determination had lasted exactly until the first prisoners were marched in to confirm Lord Herucalmo's account of their alliance with the Dark Lord of Mordor itself. They were dragged in by their chains, and you could see from the way they held themselves that they were hurt. It was clear that either these prisoners hadn't revealed their knowledge voluntarily, or that they had been tormented for the sake of punishment. Probably both. I shouldn't have cared, because they were enemies and perhaps had deserved every agonising moment of it. But the thing was, they didn't look like terrible enemies. They looked like ordinary people, sinewy and weather-beaten and very, very defeated, the youngsters as much as the man who was introduced as the chieftain of the Tash-naga. Their injuries were mostly hidden by the dirty rags they were wearing, but I expect that a learned healer like Master Randil could have drawn up a long list of burns and lacerations and luxations and all sorts of other painful things.

In short, I was reminded far too much of Lord Eärendur's trial, even though I had a safe place among the observers this time. While the others greeted the ragged, shuffling figures with jeers and boos as though they were the villains in a pageant, all I could think of was how I had been dragged into the council chamber, just a year ago. I had risen to my feet before I properly knew what I was doing, announcing that I questioned any confession that had been exacted through torment. "As far as I remember," I added, "it is unlawful to torment anyone unless the council has unanimously voted that such drastic measures are necessary. I do not recall any such vote having taken place."
There was some unrest at that, but also some expressions of agreement.
Lord Herucalmo glowered in my direction, while Lord Roitaheru raised his hands to call for silence. "I remind the council that civil law and martial law remain distinct. Under martial law, it is justified and absolutely necessary to coerce the witnesses, if it can make a difference to the course of war." He gave me a pointed look. I sat down heavily. Lord Laurilyo put a hand on my shoulder, either to reassure me or to keep me from getting ahead of myself again.

The witnesses were questioned, their answers translated by the one person who knew their language, which was apparently different from the tongue of Umbar, and then by a second translator into our tongue. As a result, it took a while until a coherent story emerged. When it did, it sounded as though the Tash-naga had not, in fact, been a threat to us. The prisoners stated repeatedly that they had never meant to attack either Umbar or our people. When confronted about the dead soldiers, they insisted that they had killed in self-defense and to free the hostages, but they had not sought battle beyond that. Although Lord Herucalmo questioned that, citing the violence of their attacks and the strategy that suggested (according to him) an intent for long-term warfare, I found that believable, and perhaps so did the councillors, because I could see Lord Herucalmo growing increasingly flustered and defensive until at last he confronted the captives about their alliance with Mordor.

They confirmed that such an alliance had existed, and the council chamber exploded into shouts of dismay and anger. It took a while until the interrogation could continue. What the chieftain said, and his compatriots agreed with, sounded rather different than the tale of betrayal and imminent threat that Lord Herucalmo had told yesterday. According to the Tash-naga, messengers had come from Mordor at a time of great need. They had been human in appearance, although they had been able to bring water from the barren ground through sorcery. They had also warned the Tash-naga of the greed and cruelty of the West-men (by which they meant us), who would sooner or later seek to conquer the desert tribes, just as they had conquered and subjected Umbar (angry muttering all around). The messengers had reminded the desert people that Mordor also had the power to do that, but instead sought their friendship. In token of that friendship, Mordor would continue to protect them when the West-men tired of the confines of Umbar. They had asked a modest price – a price that the Tash-naga did not necessarily have to pay themselves, since Mordor was happy to accept stolen treasure.
"So you willingly stole from us to buy the might of Mordor?" Lord Roitaheru summed up, to renewed jeers and whistles.

No, the chieftain tried to defend his people, they had not wished to do this. Nor had they asked for the attention, protection or friendship of Mordor. It had been offered to them – as the chieftain stressed again, at a time of need – along with a hidden threat that Mordor might change its mind about not desiring to attack the Tash-naga. Moreover, they had feared that the water would run dry again if they offended the messengers. With the threat of an attack from us, and the threat of Mordor withdrawing its goodwill as well, they feared to be crushed. So they had agreed to the arrangement. It had not been willing. It had been born of fear.
And now – the chieftain's voice had turned plaintive – now the West-men truly had attacked, just as Mordor had prophesied, yet the protection had not come.
"That's what you get for trusting the Great Deceiver," Lord Roitaheru said pitilessly.

There was some back and forth on what the Tash-naga could have done to preserve themselves from our wrath. Someone suggested that they should have sent messengers in their turn, informing us about Mordor's attempts to demand payment for protection. Personally, I couldn't help finding that suggestion ludicrous. It was just like Lord Atanacalmo, complaining that people hadn't turned to him for succour while at the same time making it forbiddingly hard for lowly folk like me to reach him. Moreover, having seen how anxious my apprentices or the villagers acted around men of Yôzayân – and having glimpsed into the reasons for that anxiety – I expected that they'd had to fear that any messengers of theirs would have been dismissed at best, and imprisoned at worst.
And indeed, that was what the chieftain said: In their experience, the Umbari were hostile to them, and the West-men also; the Tash-naga had just barely survived their last encounter with them, and were loath to risk another. Mordor, on the other hand, had held out the hand of friendship.

He then described how in the year of the great drought, his people had seen themselves forced to move closer towards the border river, which had still held a little water, to save their cattle and their lives. The Umbari had made fields on either side of the river and claimed that the Tash-naga trampled or stole their crops, which was not true, because it had been the drought that had damaged their crops. The Umbari also had not wanted to share the water from the river, afraid that it would run out for good. As a result, they had tried to drive the tribe back into the desert, but there the Tash-naga would have died for certain, and so they had resisted. After violent struggles, there had been an appeal to the local magistrates (who, as I understood it, were people of Yôzayân), and the magistrates had ruled that the Tash-naga were allowed to stay for the sake of survival, but they could not keep their large herds. Most of their animals had simply been taken away from them without delay or the chance to appeal. Without the beasts, and with hardly anything to trade with the Umbari, the Tash-naga had starved, many of them to death. They had ultimately returned to their desert a diminished people. It had been then that the messengers from Mordor had come.

"And then, instead of reporting these messengers, you stole mithril and goods from us?"
Yes, the chieftain explained, that had seemed the lesser risk.The trade goods had been easy to obtain in small amounts, but they had little worth for Mordor. On the other hand, the mine manager's grandmother was of the Tash-naga; it had not been hard to reason with him. He had sent small amounts of the precious metal by way of a cousin, who had also been sympathetic to the plight of his grandmother's people. For a long time, the theft had been unnoticed, so – the chieftain argued – it had not hurt anyone.
"It led to the mine being run even harder than it already was," Lord Herucalmo said to that, "in order to maintain productivity on paper and yet have enough mithril to deliver to you. So it most definitely hurt the people working at that mine, free and unfree, although we did not notice it at once. Have you thought of that?"
No, the chieftain admitted, his shoulders slumping lower, they had not. They did not know how mithril was mined, other than that it came from inside the mountain and had high value to West-men and Mordor alike.

I could not help thinking that although Lord Herucalmo was probably right – even I had noticed that the workers' village had looked worse than the others, and the slaves probably had led an even more wretched existences than they did, anywhere – one had to wonder if Lord Herucalmo would have given a second, or even a first, thought for the hurt of the workers at the mine, if it hadn't also incidentally hurt his business. Or the King's. Which amounted to the same thing, really.
"Ultimately, that is beside the point. Theft is always a crime," Lord Roitaheru took over. "Surely it is also a crime among savages. Have you no honour?"
The chieftain managed to straighten and gather the last scraps of his authority, and he pointed out that his people had never been recompensed for the removal of their cattle in the year of the drought. In a way, they had thought of the mithril as a repayment that they would otherwise never receive.
Scorn and laughter. "You think the theft of our mithril was justified because of some cows?"
The cattle were their life, the chieftain argued. They carried their loads and gave them milk, blood, flesh and offal to eat, skins for their clothes and tents, bones and sinews for their tools and weapons, dung for their fires, horn for vessels – everything that they needed, short of water, it came from the cattle. Therefore, they were worth far more than any metal.

There was an uproar at this explanation, as well as some scoffing at the picture of life the man painted. A whole volley of abuse came down on the prisoners, and it took a while until Lord Roitaheru had restored order. Suffice it to say that the chieftain's justification was not accepted, and that Lord Herucalmo's campaign was voted by a vast majority to have been a necessity, which exculpated him for the expenses and more over for the loss of life.
I briefly wondered what would have happened if the council had decided otherwise. Would Lord Herucalmo have been tried for manslaughter? Would he have had to pay for the cost of the war from his own pocket? I doubted it. But either way, I was glad that I had no vote and did not have to get involved in the decision. Naturally imprisonment and torture would weaken anybody, so perhaps the prisoners I had seen were not representative of the true strength of the desert tribe. But as they were, they didn't look as though they would have overrun Umbar any time soon. I wasn't certain that the campaign had been necessary at all. I was even less certain that it had been right.

I managed to keep that thought to myself. But then the discussion turned towards the question of what to do with the prisoners, now that they were no longer needed to testify. One suggestion was worse than the next. Lord Herucalmo wanted to have them executed as traitors, which plenty of councillors encouraged. However, Lord Arandur pointed out that they could not have commited treason against a state they did not belong to. In line with the teachings of Tar-Minyatur (he said), that the punishment should be proportionate to the crime, he suggested instead to send them as slaves to the mithril mines, to repay what they had stolen by their own labour.
Someone then argued that as long as they were left alive, Mordor might yet be inclined to deliver the protection it had promised, attacking on their behalf; therefore, they had to die. Captain Gohenor said that Mordor might just as well act in revenge, so if our decision was to be guided by fear of Mordor, then it made no difference whether the prisoners were alive or dead. To that, Lord Arandur said that it was well-known that Mordor did not honour its promises, as illustrated by some long-ago story that he cited, and that it was accordingly doubtful that the fate of the desert people would stir Mordor into any sort of action. But nonetheless, the majority shouted for the death of the prisoners. It was argued that they had to die as an example to any others who were coaxed by Mordor and tried to trade for the goodwill of the Dark Tower, rather than our goodwill.

Master Selcheneb spoke up. "If we want to make an example to others," I said, "would it not be wiser to show mercy, so that any others who might be coaxed – or maybe threatened is a better word - by Mordor will see that we have goodwill to trade for? Isn't now the time to send our own messengers to the remaining desert tribes, in case they have received similar… coaxing? To assure them that we will not threaten them unless they threaten us, and that we in turn offer protection against Mordor?"
I thought that he was raising an excellent point, but the rest of the council did not seem to agree.
"This isn't Andúnië," someone called, and Lord Arandur said, "Even if there were sense in speaking with the desert tribes, then still that doesn't exempt these people from punishment." At that, another great cry for punishment went up.

It was at that point that I raised my hand, and once Lord Roitaheru had restored silence, he asked me to speak my piece. "I would say that these people have been punished enough," I said then – stating the obvious, as I thought. "They have lost everything, their home and their family and their people and their cattle and their freedom. There's no need for additional punishment, really. I agree with Master Selcheneb that it would be better to be merciful."
For whatever it was worth, I thought. There was not enough mercy in the world to restore what the prisoners had lost. But surely, anything would be better than adding to their pain.
The others didn't see it that way. "There is a time to show mercy, and there is a time to show strength. This is a time for strength," said Master Talogon, and there was noisy assent from the round. "We can send messengers to the tribes, yes, but at the same time we must make it absolutely clear that we are not negotiating. They are to ally themselves with us, or to remain absolutely neutral. Anything else will end in their swift and bloody destruction."

"In fact," one of the military men spoke up, "it might be wisest not to bother speaking with them, but to remove that risk on our borders once and for all. They might already be in league with Mordor, just as that lot was. It will save us time and trouble in the long run to do away with them now."
"What-" I couldn't hold back, and stood up with no regard for protocol. "You cannot suggest killing people who haven't done anything wrong yet! With the Tash-naga, at least we had some reason to strike, and even there, from what we've heard today, it might have been possible to find a peaceful solution if only we'd had more information! You can't just murder people because they might be doing something wrong! That isn't strength, that's evil."

I was booed for that, but the soldier merely raised his eyebrows. "You seem more invested in the well-being of strangers than in the safety of your own people," he said pointedly.
My face flared up. "I am invested in the safety of my people! But I also want my people to be good and just!" I protested, but I doubt it was heard over the general din that had followed. It took a while until Lord Roitaheru had restored silence. Lord Herucalmo had narrowed his eyes at me. I suppose 'evil' was even more insulting than 'monster', and his feelings for me must be at an all-time low. But all he said, in the coldest of voices, was, "It was not your turn, and you are distracting from the matter at hand."

Captain Gohenor raised his hand properly, and was given the floor. "It must be said that the desert people have not previously been a risk at our borders. Indeed, they stand between us and any outside attackers – as long as they do not turn on us, of course. I think it is in our best interest to keep them there, frankly. For that, it is in the interest of our safety to offer them a formal alliance. But we must make it absolutely clear that our eyes are on them, and that any attempt to cross us will result in their extinction."
Master Selcheneb said, "They must be warned against the falsehood of Mordor, also. If they have been coaxed into an alliance, they can still renounce it and come to our side."
Lord Roitaheru raised his hands. "All that does not answer the question of what to do with these prisoners," he said. "We are leading two separate discussions here; let us settle them separately."

They were settled separately. The prisoners were condemned to death, though not as traitors, but instead as violent thiefs. Their execution would be done quickly, to give Mordor no time to intervene, and then their bodies would be put up along the border as a warning. Envoys would be dispatched to the other desert tribes, in as much as they could be found, to inform them about the fate of the Tash-naga and warn them to ally themselves with Mordor, both because Mordor was not to be trusted and because doing so would bring our wrath upon them; instead, they would be offered a pact of mutual support. The army would be prepared in case the desert tribes made poor decisions.

The final decision of the day was whether or not war should be made upon Mordor itself. The debate was short, and the vote unanimous. The King and Royal Council would not be petitioned to permit a campaign against Mordor. It left a stale taste in my mouth – not because I wanted war, let alone against so terrifying an enemy, but because it felt like cowardice to attack small desert tribes while ignoring the real threat. I was now certain that it had been wrong to fight the Tash-naga. Perhaps I was too inclined to be sympathetic towards people who turned thief out of necessity (or, at any rate, fear), but I could not even feel ashamed that I had spoken out against my own people. I would have choked if I had kept my feelings to myself. I was worried, however, what my people would make of that. There was more than one scornful look as people filed out of the theatre. Once again I would have preferred to ride back to the morgue, and I decided that I would ask Lord Roitaheru to give me leave to do just that. Surely he would no longer want his son to apologise, after what I'd said.

I waited until at last he emerged from the theatre in the company of his son. Lord Herucalmo gave me a whithering glare and said, "Enemy-lover."
I swallowed hard, but before I could even answer, Lord Roitaheru said, "Oh, don't be silly." Turning towards me, he said, "Look, lad, there's nothing wrong with honest conviction, but you've got to learn when to stop digging your heels in! I'm beginning to see how you were mistaken for a traitor."
I was so surprised by the way in which he said it – not angry, just exasperated – that I blurted out, "You told me not to roll over."
There was the hint of a smile (probably rueful). "So I did! But I did not expect you to take it to heart in this manner! You ought to keep that stubbornness for when it matters."

I did not know what to make of that. I would have thought that decisions of life and death, or war, did matter. Perhaps he meant that it didn't matter to me, and that was true, since I wasn't involved, not even in the vote. But I couldn't shake off the feeling that I still should do what I could to – to at least say what I thought was right, I suppose.
"It's hard to tell when it matters," I said in an attempt at diplomacy, and that made him laugh. Lord Herucalmo pursed his lips and demonstratively turned his back on me, but Lord Roitaheru smiled leniently at my ignorance.
"It matters to keep this place and our people safe. Lofty ideals are all very well, but there are limits to their usefulness. You heard Gellui – this isn't Andúnië. People here aren't naturally good and docile.You need to keep that in mind."

I nodded, chastened. "I will try, my lord. Under the circumstances, may I return to my work after all? I know you wanted me to attend the feast this evening, but after today –"
"After today, it is particularly important than ever that you are seen as part of the community! That, however you feel about the evils of war, you stand – or sit and feast – with your brethren." He wagged his finger at me. "And that you accept Calmo's apology. I have not forgotten that."
I was honestly surprised that he didn't, at this point, think Lord Herucalmo had been in the right.
Perhaps he guessed my thoughts, because he raised his finger again. "You heard how Calmo feels about your words. No doubt some of the others will have similar thoughts. They need it spelled out that you're a loyal son of the Yôzayân, just young and idealistic."
"I'm glad you see it that way," I said. And I was. I couldn't have kept silent to save my life, but I was certainly grateful that he hadn't taken offense. "I'm just anxious to finish my work."
"Yes, as I said yesterday, I understand that. But you realise it would look like you preferred the company of your workers to the company of your peers. Can't have that, especially now. I tolerate many things, but I will not have unpeace."
There was no arguing with that, but I couldn't help doubting that Lord Herucalmo would see it the same way. He was tapping his foot impatiently, signalling that he couldn't wait to get away from me.
 

However, in the evening, after the main course was cleared away and Lord Roitaheru pointedly announced that his son had something important to settle, Lord Herucalmo did in fact apologise publicly for having 'overstepped'. Mind you, he worded it in the most insulting manner possible. He talked about how it had been brought to his attention that he had mistaken naïvety for malice, when he should have known that my thoughtless words were merely a mark of my ignorance; that he should have educated, not lashed out, since wisdom could not be expected in one so young and inexperienced; and so on, and so on. At the end he held out his hand, limp like a dead fish, an expression of supreme distaste on his face.
I knew that Lord Roitaheru wanted me to accept this apology, and I figured that he hadn't been wrong about convincing the others that I was no traitor, just an idealistic fool. So I made no protest and shook hands with his son, however much I resented his words (or the way in which he wiped his hand on his tunic after our handshake). I did not want unpeace, either.

And indeed, the display seemed to have the desired effect, because the same councillors who had given me mistrustful stares and hard looks earlier in the day were now nodding indulgently as if to signal that they, too, shouldn't have expected wisdom from one so young and inexperienced, and that they forgave my naïvety. I nodded back politely, seething inside.
Lord Laurilyo, for all his frivolity, seemed to notice that something was amiss, because he took me to the side and told me not to mind the mockery. "I thought you were quite courageous, you know," he said, eyes wide with sincerity. "Besides, politics wouldn't be entertaining if people didn't disagree sometimes."
"I didn't mean to be courageous – or entertaining," I said, trying hard not to let Lord Laurilyo feel my annoyance; after all, it wasn't his fault.
He shrugged with a disarming smile. "No, it's just how you are, I expect. You care deeply. That's probably a good thing, in the long run."
"Hardly. It keeps getting me in trouble." I sighed. "I won't come to the council again. It's much too dangerous, and I shouldn't be there anyway."
"A word to the wise," a voice said behind me. Lord Arandur's voice.

I was worn out, and I had come to thoroughly detest that particular phrase, and so I didn't turn around immediately.
"I am not wise," I said stiffly.
"Nor I," said Lord Laurilyo, more cheerfully.
Lord Arandur snorted. "That much is obvious," he said, "but in the case of Master Azruhâr, there might yet be hope, so I would speak to him."
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. I could hardly afford making an enemy of Lord Arandur, even though I was in no mood to hear whatever words to the wise he intended to dispense, so I forced myself to be reasonable. I stood up and turned towards him, lowering my head. "I hear you, my lord."
"Well, I don't," Lord Laurilyo said. "I think I'll take another look at the selection of wine. Holler if you need me."
"Yes, please," Lord Arandur said, his lips pinched. "Let the adults talk amongst themselves."
Lord Laurilyo only gave him a courtly mock-bow, grinning at the insult. I bit my lips. I was probably younger than both of them, however youthful they looked.

Lord Arandur sat down in the empty chair besides mine and gestured for me to return to my seat. "I couldn't help overhearing your conversation…"
I very much doubted that. He could have been conversing with other important people, or indulged in wine, or listened to the music, or danced; nothing and nobody had forced him to come close enough to hear what Lord Laurilyo and I had been talking about.
I didn't say that, of course.
Lord Arandur went on, "I strongly advise you to rethink your decision. There are too many people who side only with their friends, or who only calculate what decision benefits them most. Your opinions, on the other hand, are genuine. The council needs genuine opinions, misguided though they may be. And you, clearly, need the experience. You ought to stay."

Some kind of reply seemed necessary, so I answered, "I doubt that, my lord."
"No, really," he said earnestly. "Defeat is bitter, I understand, but it is also an occasion to learn. And learn you should." He paused, briefly. "I take it that you haven't studied the law."
"You are right, my lord; I have not."
"Evidently. Well, that's where you need to begin. The middling sorts always seem to think that statecraft teaches itself, or that one is simply born into it. That is not true. It takes years of dedicated study, which my noble brethren and I receive, but the gentlemen of the crafts and trades rarely do. Some of my brethren encourage such ignorance, but personally I think it unwise. You may have some innate talent, I'll grant that, but that alone isn't enough. You need to hone it if you wish to become a good statesman."

I had listened in increasing bewilderment. "What makes you think," I finally said, "that I wish to become a statesman?"
He gave a soft snort. "No need to act otherwise now. Of course you want to be on the Royal Council one day. And there's nothing wrong with that, as such. You are naïve now, certainly, as is to be expected of a sheltered gentleman just off the island. I was no different when I came here. You will grow wiser as you learn more about the world." I blinked, perplexed. Lord Arandur went on, unperturbed. "I would simply recommend that you… hm… temper your youthful idealism with an accurate knowledge of the law. Begin with the current law, and once you are familiar with it, you can look into its history and development. Uncle Roitaheru will let you peruse his library, I am certain. He is always very supportive of young gentlemen who wish to improve themselves. That is, after all, why you are here - not to waste your time in the company of good-for-nothing wastrels, however charming they may be."
I very nearly protested, but thought better of it. I had no desire to discuss why I was here, let alone to correct his other misapprehensions. "I will think about it, my lord."

"Do that. You will find that a thorough study of the law will help you to understand where you are misguided, and also where the words of the law back up your convictions." He gave me a curt nod. "A pleasant evening to you, Master Embalmer."
"And to you, my lord," I said automatically. I rose and bowed as he left his seat and turned his attention to the dancers. As if on cue, Lord Laurilyo came back, a full flagon of wine in his hand and Master Selcheneb in tow.
"Did Arnur give you an earful? Don't mind the pompous ass. He thinks he knows better than everyone; it's not just you. Here, I've brought a friend to build you back up."
"It wasn't that bad," I said. "He actually meant well, I think." I looked around to make certain Lord Arandur was well out of earshot. "But he really doesn't know everything."
I told them how he had advised me to study the law in order to hone my statecraft, and only now did I realise just how absurd and how funny his assumptions had been. I could barely keep from laughing. Turning to Master Selcheneb, I said, "He thinks we are naïve idealists, I'm afraid. And sheltered gentlemen."

Master Selcheneb smiled mildly. "Guilty as charged, I'm afraid. But then, I cannot find fault with that. We cannot all be hard-nosed cynics." He put a hand on mine. "Truly, I was glad when you shared my preference for mercy. I have never known hardship or danger, so perhaps I truly am too soft. But when you agreed with me, I knew that softness or ignorance had nothing to do with it."
"I have to disappoint you there. I am both soft and ignorant, so my agreement proves nothing."
Lord Laurilyo winked at me. "We know better, remember?" Before I could protest, he went on, "But don't worry, we'll keep it secret, since that's what you prefer."
"Yes, please," I said, sobering. "Still, I can't believe he thought I was a sheltered gentleman."
"Ah, well, you can't blame him for that," Master Selcheneb said. "How should he know otherwise?"

How should he know otherwise indeed? All my life I had been reminded that my inferiority was obvious and unmistakeable, baked into my very being, as much part of myself as my coarse and artless hands, my frail shoulders, my unruly hair, or my soft and foolish heart. No one should ever have taken me for a man of good, or even just middling, birth. And yet, Lord Arandur had spoken as though convinced that I came from a line of respectable craftsmen, poised to become guildmaster and in need of studying the law like some young noble preparing for my inheritance. He thought himself wise, which meant he should have been able to recognise me for what I was. And yet, he had been fooled by the illusion created – I knew – by Lord Roitaheru's support, and by all the people who just went along with it.

Nonetheless, I was no gentleman, and never would be – no matter how much I studied the law and honed whatever talent I might or might not have. Lord Arandur wouldn't like it, but I would stay away from the council in the future. The risk that I would say something so foolish that even Lord Roitaheru wouldn't be able to overlook it, or that I would alienate my friends or make new enemies, was simply too much. I would return to the morgue and focus on my work, as I should. Ultimately, that was where I belonged. The noblemen here might not see it, not right now, but to me, the last two days had made it painfully clear that I had far more in common with my apprentices, or even with the Tash-naga prisoners, than I would ever have with the well-bred gentlemen of the council. And one day, they would find out.