The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

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Chapter 66

Some letters home are in order.

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Chapter 66

I have been fooled into joining the Council of Umbar, as an actual councillor, I was complaining in a letter to Amraphêl. It wasn't my idea and I didn't want to do it. But they wouldn't have listened to me otherwise. Now everybody thinks I want to be a politician even though that's the last thing I want to be. I just wanted them to take an injustice back, but it was a stupid thing to get involved and even more stupid to take the oath. I know that. Now everything's a mess and I don't know how to get out of it.

For once, there was no need to be secretive. After all, my involvement was in the council minutes, which would be sent home for the official record. It was probably too much to ask that they'd never be seen by anyone but Quentangolë. More likely, they would be read by the King himself, or at the very least by Lord Atanacalmo, who would tell the King, so they would know perfectly well that I'd stepped out of my place yet again. All I could do was write home that it hadn't been my ambition at all, and that I was perfectly aware that I didn't belong there (as evidenced by the very fact that I had let myself be tricked into joining the council – properly joining, not just attending meetings – without realising what was happening until it was too late to withdraw).

I did feel tricked. When Lord Roitaheru had encouraged me to raise the matter before the council, he hadn't mentioned with a single syllable that I needed to be a sworn-in member of the council in order to achieve my end. What he had said was that I needed to prove that new developments warranted a change of the law, and so I had put all my feeble wits into constructing an argument that would – hopefully – satisfy that technicality. But then, instead of addressing any of the points I'd raised (that we – meaning the Númenórean community – hadn't previously known just how many people would have to be arrested under that law; that it had turned out that proving the innocence of so many people was taking too long, and in the meantime the innocent (for most of them must be innocent, surely) were suffering unjustly; that suffering, particularly of the unjust kind, was a danger to peace; and that therefore the law needed to be rescinded or at the very least amended), Lord Herucalmo (who else!) had asked why anyone should listen to a man who hadn't even been there when the law had been passed in the first place.

Master Selcheneb had risen in my defence and pointed out that sometimes laws were changed after having been in practice for decades or even centuries, and that it was neither possible nor required for anyone to have been present at the making of the law. And then, Lord Arandur – Lord Laurilyo had been right to call him a pompous ass – had said that might be all good and well, but nonetheless there was no reason to listen, since only councillors were qualified to introduce motions concerning the law. "Observers may be permitted to offer opinion and expertise, when asked," he had said, looking down his nose at me, "but no more. The embalmer could have offered opinion or expertise two months ago; he chose not to exercise that right."

I felt my face grow flaming hot, but that hadn't been the worst. Someone had chimed up, "Well, not everybody can attend all the time, and that doesn't mean they shouldn't be heard at a later point – " and then they had begun to argue whether I was an observer or whether I should be considered a councillor after all.
"He can hardly be that," Lord Herucalmo said in his most haughty tone, "he's no master craftsman."
"Well, whether or not, he is the sole representative of his craft here, which technically makes him guildmaster by default," Lord Arandur conceded with a flick of his chin. "But I do not recall that he has taken the councillor's oath, and I am fairly certain that I have not missed a single session in the past year."

"There are many councillors in this round who haven't taken the oath," Lord Roitaheru said, involving himself at long last. He looked around at (I assume) other offenders. If it was an offense. I was too far out of my depth to really see Lord Arandur's problem. He was evidently angry that I hadn't taken his advice, which I could understand to some extent, but I still felt treated unfairly. He hadn't brought up that I wasn't a councillor previously.
"They've had the good grace to remember their place and stay out of law-making, so far," Lord Arandur said coldly, and I bit down hard on my lips, ashamed and annoyed at the same time.

Lord Roitaheru only laughed. "Fair enough. Well, that's easily redressed." He gestured for one of the guards, and I thought he was going to have me bodily removed from the theatre, since I hadn't had the good grace to stay out of law-making. But instead, he told the guard, "Find me that damned cushion, will you," and when after a few moments the guard brought him the cushion in question (a plump velvet thing with silly golden tassels on its sides), Lord Roitaheru rose from his seat and went to the middle of the round, where he dropped the cushion on the floor.
"Azruhâr, be so kind and take a kneel," he said, pointing down.

I didn't move at once, but Master Selcheneb patted my shoulder and given me a gentle shove and an encouraging little smile. Not knowing what else to do, I got up and was halfway to the middle - though when I saw that Lord Roitaheru had taken up his governor's staff I very nearly balked and run away. I really thought he'd hit me for my presumption, and though the staff looked nothing like the sceptre (it was a simple staff, painted white but otherwise unadorned) it brought back some very unpleasant memories. A broken nose seemed the likeliest outcome of the whole absurd situation. But instead of slamming it into my head, he held the staff out to me once I knelt on the cushion (I suppose I ought to be grateful that there was a cushion) and told me to hold it up with both hands. "Don't bend over like that, lad," he said, almost gruffly, "I don't want to crouch, do I?" I obediently straightened my back, and he laid his right hand in the middle of the staff. Then he cleared his throat and said, "Fine. Speak after me. I, Azruhâr son of –" he broke off.

"Narduhâr," I replied automatically.
He nodded, but didn't speak on, and gave me a pointed stare when I remained silent as well.
"I, Azruhâr son of Narduhâr," I said, my face once again flaring up in embarrassment.
"Do hereby solemnly swear –"
At this point I finally realised what was going on, and I tried to protest, "I can't do that, my lord!"
He didn't even let me finish. "Come on now, you're not going to wimp out now, are you?"
"I'm not wimping out, Lord, it simply isn't my place –"
Again, he cut me short. "You heard Arandur. Guildmaster by default. May as well do it properly. Come on, let's get it over with."
I looked around for help, but no help was forthcoming. My friends were watching solemnly, and my opponents were looking grim and angry, but none of them were kind enough to intervene, not even Lord Herucalmo.

I got it over with. So Eru help me.

(I rather doubted that he would.)

Once I'd returned to my seat and the cushion had been returned to wherever the guard had found it, I was told to repeat my argument. So I started over, explaining how at the inception of the law it had clearly been thought that it would concern only a handful of people who had taken refuge in Umbar during the year of the great drought, but instead, it had turned out that the Umbari and the desert people had mingled and intermarried for centuries and that plenty of people in Umbar had some ancestor from the desert, and that it was unjust to lock people up for crimes that only a few of them – if any – could have committed, and that this sort of injustice would sooner or later threaten the peace.

Lord Arandur had apparently been satisfied by my unceremonious swearing-in because he let me get this far, but now he raised a hand. Frankly, I was surprised that he'd been silent for so long. "You say that the law in question is endangering the peace," he said, his head tilted back sceptically. "How do you figure that?"
Still unbalanced, I said, "If people are arrested without having done anything wrong, it looks like it doesn't matter whether they obey the law or break it." One should've thought that it was obvious what followed from that, but apparently it wasn't, because he frowned and said, "So?"
"So if it doesn't matter whether they obey the law or break it, sooner or later they're going to break it."
"In that case, we needn't worry, since they people who might break the law are already imprisoned." He gave an infuriating little smile.

It was that smile that made me stop worrying – for the time being – about the oath I'd just been made to swear. I remember thinking that I could as well make it count.
"That's a very shortsighted thing to say, my lord," I retorted. "For one, the prison is overcrowded, and there's neither enough space nor, frankly, sufficient guards for so many prisoners. Right now the new prisoners are still trusting the promise that they'll be let go as soon as their innocence is proven, probably because they know perfectly well that they're innocent, but at some point they'll question whether there's any hope in waiting, or whether perhaps they should try to overwhelm their guards and take their freedom back by force. And they could do that, as Captain Thilior's letters to the council confirm."
I knew that because I had spoken with Captain Thilior when I had prepared for this day.
"And for two, don't you realise that the Umbari are also seeing what's happening? One day, these people were their neighbours or even their family. The next day, they're being arrested, not for anything they've done but for something that perhaps they might have done, for no other reason that they belong to one of the desert tribes. If they even really do. I have it on good authority -" Darujân's, for instance, and Captain Thilior's, which would perhaps count for more in this place – "that some of them aren't even of the desert people, just married to someone from the desert or perhaps descended from someone who lived in the desert long ago. And they've been arrested just the same. Don't you realise that it makes people feel like anyone could be next, without even having done anything wrong? So this is about far more than the people who have been imprisoned. It's about Umbar as a whole. In my experience, if people are sufficiently desperate, if they get the impression that they have nothing to win by being good citizens, they're much more likely to rebel. At some point, nothing to win turns into nothing to lose."
"In your experience!" one of the other councillors scoffed. "And what experience would that be?"

Lord Herucalmo raised his hand, his mouth contorted in a sneer. "I assume the embalmer refers to the hungry winter of 2383," he said when he was given the floor. "There were riots in various parts of the island, particularly in Arminalêth, over the prices of food and the lack of work."
"Is that relevant in this context?" someone asked.
Shrugging, Lord Herucalmo said, "Well, I assume so, since he brought it up." He gave me a rather smug glance.
"My lord is assuming correctly," I said stiffly. "I believe it is relevant because it shows to what lengths people – good people, or at any rate reasonably decent people – can be driven by fear and despair. Back then, they were afraid that they'd starve, that they'd see their families starve, and that they had no hope of stopping it, at least not honestly. They were being punished simply for the crime of being poor and hungry, and eventually the situation reached breaking point and they rioted, on the very streets of royal Arminalêth."

"From what I heard, those riots were put down immediately," said someone in the back.
"Yes, but I assure you they would have re-emerged again and again, if--" here I stopped myself, realising how much I had been about to give away.
"If…?" Lord Arandur asked mercilessly.
"If there hadn't been counter-measures," I said, forcing myself to speak evenly. "And I don't mean more force, my lord. I mean things that helped the people to avoid starving and the fear of starving."
"Such as?" That was Master Zainabên.
"There were various employment schemes, private and official," Lord Herucalmo provided in his dismissive tone. I didn't care for the tone, but I couldn't deny that he was supporting my argument and sparing me from having to answer myself, which was probably a favour. "I believe one was even run by Azruhâr himself. That is no longer relevant to this discussion, though."
"I do not see how any of this is relevant at all," Master Talogon said.

"The riots ended not once the rioters were imprisoned and punished, sir, but once the people no longer had reason to fear for their lives," I said angrily. "When they had something to win by following the law instead of losing more and more. I'm convinced that riots can be avoided from happening here in the first place - when people see that they have something to win by following the law. Our law. But when people are being imprisoned in spite of following the law, on mere suspicions, that's a dangerous situation."
Lord Arandur was frowning deeply, whether in doubt or in thought I couldn't fathom. "Well, employment schemes are not going to be of use here. And if the situation is as dire as you claim, the damage is already done, and by rescinding the law, it will only be made worse."

At this point, a lively discussion sprang up, and for a while I could sit down and listen as the others argued amongst themselves whether it was better to release prisoners who might be bearing a major grudge against us and turn towards evil doings in revenge, or whether it would be safer to send them to the mines and other cruel work to give them no chance to riot, or whether it could be hoped that their relief to be released would outweigh their anger at having been imprisoned in the first place (which was what I thought). I cannot remember every single argument, and at any rate, all of it was written down by Minluzîr, the court scribe, and you can look it up in the records if you really care for it. As Lord Roitaheru had suggested, opinion was divided, and not all of the councillors had been in favour of the harsh law in the first place. I did my best – for whatever that was worth – to argue that the damage wasn't done at all, and that the prisoners would be grateful for their freedom rather than vengeful that it had been taken away in the first place.

That's how I would've felt, at any rate – although I couldn't well say that. I was surprised that Lord Herucalmo didn't bring it up, in all truth.
"Well, what do you say, Darîm?" Lord Roitaheru asked at one point – Darîm had been strangely disinterested in joining the discussion. "You know your people best, after all. Can we expect them to go back to their lives quietly, or must we expect ingratitude?"
I saw Darîm purse his lips briefly – and no wonder – but when he answered, it seemed that his offense hadn't been caused by the suggestion that reacting poorly to two months imprisonment was ingratitude. "The desert tribes are not my people," he said in a strained voice, "and I cannot speak for what they would do. As for my people, they humbly accept your judgement, whichever that may be."
I found that thoroughly unhelpful, and indeed, Master Talogon promptly said, "In that case, it seems that the danger of riots has been grossly exaggerated." I could have kicked the both of them, because there were nods of agreement, and it looked as though my motion wouldn't even be put to the vote.

It was Lord Laurilyo of all people who saved the day. He raised his hand languidly, and I don't think anyone expected him to make anything but a joke. But when he rose to speak, he said, "From what I'm hearing, you all are missing the point. The principle of all law, I seem to remember, is that the innocent have nothing to fear from the law, and are in fact protected by it. But currently, the innocent are imprisoned alongside the guilty. Call me naïve, but that strikes me as wrong. It's a wrong that this council has caused, and now we could set it right. But some people here seem unable to admit that they were wrong in the first place..."

Master Talogon didn't like that at all, but Lord Arandur looked thoughtful for a moment. And Captain Lotherín, head of the city guard, spoke up to report that his men had also felt uneasy about the number of arrests they'd performed, and he explained that they found it incredibly hard to prove people's innocence. "Guilt is easily proven when incriminating material is found, but how do you show that someone is innocent? It is impossible to find out who someone hasn't spoken to or what they haven't told. At best, we can believe that they didn't know anything worth telling. But how do you prove that?"

Lord Arandur shrugged. "Well, that is why we generally assume that people are innocent, unless we have proof of their guilt." He look across the room at Lord Laurilyo. "My cousin is right; we have made a law in direct violation of the very principles that are at the foundation of the law." Lord Laurilyo smirked and gave a mock-bow. I, in the meantime, could barely believe what I heard. I had at that point begun to understand the wider implications of the oath I'd taken earlier, and felt thoroughly discomfited, and the lengthy discussion had made me fear that I wouldn't even achieve what I'd meant to achieve today, which meant that the whole thing was worse than pointless. Instead, now it was Lord Arandur who called for the vote to rescind the law on the grounds that it was in itself against the law.
"What happens," Master Gellui asked, frowning, "when we release all these people and they promptly think of revenge?"
Captain Lotherín gave him a wide-eyed look of disbelief, suggesting that he found the question very stupid indeed. "Well, if they're released and turn to criminal deeds out of anger, they're no longer innocent, are they."

After that, the vote went in favour of scrapping the law.

I was pleased with that outcome, but I really wished the council (or Lord Roitaheru for that matter) had thought of that principle of the law first, because it would have spared me a whole lot of hassle and – above all – my sudden elevation to councillor. "You really don't know what's good for you, do you?" Lord Herucalmo duly hissed at me as soon as he had the chance, and I couldn't blame him.
Lord Arandur overheard, and misunderstood. "Well, I congratulate you on your new position," he said.
"Really, my lord," I replied faintly.
"Oh, absolutely! Do not think that I disapprove of you, personally. I merely disapproved of your lack of commitment. I told you that you should remain on the council, didn't I? Now I'm sure you will." He held out a reconciliatory hand. "May you prove worthy of your new responsibility."

I shook his hand, but I couldn't help saying, "Thank you, but I rather doubt I will."
At once, Lord Arandur withdrew his hand and raised his chin. "Well! What sort of attitude is that?"
"A realistic one, my lord." I could no longer hold back my frustration.
"I don't think so - but if that is what you believe, then you should not have sworn."
As if I didn't know that myself. I felt my lips go thin and said, "I did not exactly have a choice, did I."
He narrowed his eyes at that. "Of course you had a choice. You could have been satisfied with being an observer and advisor. You were not, and there is nothing wrong with that, but do not now pretend that it was anyone's decision but your own."
Tired of arguing, I said, "As you say, my lord," and bowed, and left him standing. He looked as though he wanted to say more, but then he shook his head and turned away.

My friends, of course, saw nothing wrong with my new office. "Well, councillors, that calls for a celebration," Master Belzimir said cheerfully. "Let's go to the Lemon Tree. I'm paying."
The others agreed enthusiastically, but all I managed was a feeble smile. "I don't exactly have cause for celebration."
"Don't let Cousin Calmo get you down," Lord Laurilyo said dismissively, "nor Arandur for that matter. They're just salty because they aren't the only clever politicians around here."
"That's not the point," I managed. "And I'm not a politican, let alone clever."
"You're too hard on yourself," Master Zainabên said. "You were right to raise the issue, even if your arguments were insufficient."
"That's not the point, either," I said glumly.
"Is it because you were sworn in more or less in passing?" Master Selcheneb asked in his kindly manner. "I agree that a proper ceremony would have been preferable. But ultimately, it doesn't matter. You have sworn on the sceptre and his lordship has given you your seat and your voice; it is perfectly valid, even if it was a little undignified."
"I wish it weren't," I couldn't help saying, and seeing raised eyebrows and puzzled looks, I tried to explain, "I really should have kept my head down. I'm sure the --- the enemy I have at home will hear all about this, and he'll find a way to punish me." My face was burning hot again. Almost I had said too much.

The others exchanged meaningful glances. I had said too much. "If you want to talk about it…" Lord Laurilyo said, uncommonly serious, but I cut him off.
"No. I don't." And because I was being rude and he didn't deserve it, least of all today, I tried to change the topic. "You did really well in there today. You made them change their minds. Thank you for that."
There was an awkward pause, and I could see that he wasn't quite ready to let the matter go. But then he thought better of it. He gave a slightly unconvincing grin. "Don't remind me! I hope Uncle won't think I've acquired a taste for governing. He'd use it against me." He spoke lightly, and I forced myself to return the smile. It turned out rather shaky. Whatever Lord Roitaheru might do if he thought Lord Laurilyo had a taste for governing wouldn't be nearly as bad as what the King would come up with for me. But of course I couldn't say that.
"Well, celebration or no, I think we could do with some cake and tea and perhaps something stronger, too," Master Belzimir said. "My offer is still good."
And so we went to the Lemon Tree, and I tried to be pleasant company so they could stop giving me concerned sideways glances.
 

As I have foolishly sworn myself to this position, I suppose I must try to do it justice.
I was writing a second letter, this time to Lord Eärendur. Embarrassing though it was to confess it all again, I might need him to take action to look after my family. If he was in any position to do so, of course. I had no idea what the situation was like at home, but he still was my best hope.
I went on, Of course, I don't have the slightest idea what I'm doing. I have been told to acquaint myself with the law, so I will try to do that, in what little spare time I have. I had many reasons to be annoyed at Lord Arandur, but his advice was unfortunately sound. The Lord Governor has kindly permitted me to use his library – in fact, Lord Roitaheru had been positively enthusiastic, and had even offered to let one of his scribes make copies of the law code for me, but I had reasoned that I would remember it better if I copied it for myself – so I guess that's where I'll spend my free days from now on. I can't say that I'm looking forward to it. It probably won't do any good since I don't have a mind for it. But now I must do my best even though it feels very pointless.
I called myself to order. Lord Eärendur had troubles enough without listening to my whining. But I have written enough of myself. I hope you and your family are well - as well as the circumstances allow, at any rate. When this letter reaches you it will probably be the height of summer. I pray that it will bring gentle winds and a plentiful harvest and that you and Andúnië will prosper and thrive. Please give my regards to all who might want them, if there are any who remember me fondly. I remain, for whatever that is worth, your humble and obedient friend,
Azruhâr.