The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

Chapter 8

As soon as I left the better part of town, I found myself surrounded by neighbours who had apparently waited for my return. "We would have waited before the palace, too, or in the market," Îbalad said, "but they threatened to arrest us for loitering, so we thought we'd better wait here."
"Better indeed," I said with an inward sigh. It looked as though I'd have to walk the rest of the way with an escort, something that would send all the wrong messages to all the wrong people. I marched on in silence, which was broken by Enrakôr the Smaller.
"How did it go, Lo... sir?"
"Later," I snapped. The last thing I wanted was to discuss these things on the open street. Enrakôr looked taken aback.
"Begging your pardon sir. But it went well?" He did look anxious, and I felt bad for having spoken so harshly.
"Well enough," I said. "I will tell you later."
"All right," he said. "Messengers have come, sir..."
I stopped in my tracks. Not again! "Messengers? From the palace?"
"No, from Master Amrazôr," said old Palatâr. Amraphel's father, I thought. Not really any better than guards.
"Do you know what he wants?"
"No, sir. They are speaking with your wife."

When I arrived, they were getting ready to leave - two of Amrazôr's groomsmen, Ulbar and Niluthôr. I remembered them both, particularly Niluthôr, to whom I owed a nasty beating. They no doubt remembered me as well, though they were polite this time. Only Ulbar spoke, however. Niluthôr was probably still nursing grievances. Well, so was I.
"Our master sent us to offer his help to his daughter and granddaughter," said Ulbar, explaining his presence. "But it seems that will not be necessary..."
He glanced around our combined kitchen and dining room. Once this had been the full extent of our house, and the walls had been the colour of loam and the floor had been of stamped earth. Now the walls were white-washed and we were walking on painted and glazed tiles. Only the table was still the same. There were several empty bowls standing upon it, I noticed; Amraphel had apparently fed the messengers. I was not certain that I approved. Feeding them was her father's duty, and he could certainly afford it, even if they looked rather thin and poorly dressed. They looked hardly better than my curious neighbours. I wondered whether they had always looked so shabby and I just hadn't noticed, or whether Amrazôr was in fact less rich than I thought. In that case, his offer of help was quite generous, though I could not help noticing that they had explicitly offered help to Amrazôr's daughter and granddaughter – not to me. No, he would cheerfully see me starve, no doubt. But at least he was thinking of his daughter now.
I did not voice my thoughts. In fact, I said nothing, as I did not know what to say.
"Good on you," Ulbar said, finally, and bowed his head in farewell.

"Well, that was a surprise," Amraphel said.
I nodded, looking after them. "An offer of help from your father himself," I said. "Who would have thought."
"I hope you are not angry that I did not accept it," Amraphel said. "I could not have born it."
I blinked. "Of course not, love. We don't need it." And then, with a sigh, I added, "Or so I hope."
Amraphel studied me, and I could feel the weight of my neighbours' stares as well.
"So what has the council decreed?"
I looked around, wondering whether we should really discuss this in front of all these curious people. But Amraphel only shrugged when I gave her a questioning glance. Fine, I thought. Let them know then!
"They accused me of unlawfully freeing prisoners, and of assuming authority." This was accompanied by glares at those who had insisted on the foolish 'Lord Azruhâr'. There were some embarrassed and some uncomfortable looks. Good.
"In the end they allowed that I shouldn't be punished if I payed sureties for all of you. I mean, those who were imprisoned. Or I could pay a lower fine and send you back."
I did not continue at once. I was hungry and thirsty after the long day, and in my own house I could surely expect not to be interrogated as soon as I stepped in the door! So I helped myself to some of the stew, and sat down on the table since all the seats were occupied, and ate.

"How much would it be?" Enrakôr the Smaller finally asked.
"Quite a bit," I said when I had swallowed my mouthful. "Did you know that the councillors think you make a whole Ship per week?"
I got some incredulous stares, and there was a lot of protest around the room. "I never," said Enrakôr the Smaller, and "A Ship, a whole Ship!" said Enrakôr the Taller. Aside from Zâmin and Thâmaris and maybe Palatâr, most of them had probably never held so much at once in their hands.
"I know it's not true," I assured them. "Yet that's what they think."
"How much then, all in all?" Amraphel asked.
I sighed. I really wasn't certain that we should speak about such sums with my neighbours present. But if Amraphel asked... "Five Trees," I said, setting my bowl aside.
The audience exploded in protest. Some people were close to tears, I could see, and Îbalad looked as though he wanted to murder someone. Old Palatâr stepped forwards, struggling to keep his face even - I saw his jaw tremble with the effort.
"Well, sir," he said, "I don't blame you then."
I frowned. "That's nice," I said. "What for?"
Amraphel clucked her tongue. "Don't be absurd, Palatâr. Of course he'll pay." She looked to me for confirmation. I was confused. Did Palatâr truly believe that I would send them back?
"Of course I'll pay," I said. In the stunned silence that followed, Palatâr clasped my hands and kissed them. I hastily pulled away, embarrassed.

"Five Trees!" said Târinzil, who with her splinted leg was blocking my chair.
"Yes. Three Ships for each of you, and then some because the Crown Prince wished to round the sum up."
Îbalad spoke up. "They won't be able to repay you, you know." He was watching me, I thought, like a fox watches a rabbit.
Well, even a rabbit could glare. "I know that. What of it? I don't expect them to repay me." I turned to the others. "You hear that? You don't have to pay it back. It's a gift. Now perhaps you can just leave me in peace."
They did not leave – quite the contrary, they flocked more closely than before. "That's very generous of you," Enrakôr the Taller said.
"I suppose it is," I said.
"Will you have enough to get through the winter?" Palatâr asked.
How sweet of him to worry about that, I thought. Out loud, I said, "As well as you, I'd imagine."
"Is there anything we can do?" said Zabulon, who had so far been very quiet.
I sighed. "There is indeed. You can keep out of mischief from now on, because otherwise I will be held responsible. I'm trusting you with my life, so to say."
They assured me – one louder than the other – that my trust was not misplaced. I hoped that they were sincere.

Amraphel, at any rate, thought they were. "If you were in their place, and someone had done you a good turn, would you cause them trouble?" she asked that night, when our neighbours had finally left and we were lying in bed.
I thought about the question for a while. "Of course I'll tell you now that I'd rather starve than cause them trouble. But if it came to the actual starving... I don't know. These are desperate times. And I know where despair can lead."
"Into rich Venturers' houses, for example?"
I deserved the reminder, of course, and sighed. "Yes. For example. See, I do trust them not to attack us again. I know they're decent folk. But they still need to eat something, and it's still a long time to go until Spring." And even in Spring, I thought, there would be no food. In Spring we lived on leftover grains and beans, and the last winter cabbages, until finally there were new things to harvest. There would be no leftovers this year. "I don't think they'll kindly remember me before stealing food elsewhere."
"Perhaps they will not be caught."
"That's what I thought, back then."
Amraphel sighed. "So we'll have to remind them that they owe you something. And keep a large pot on the hearth." She leaned closer to kiss my brow. "We'll get through this somehow."
I couldn't share her optimism. "Even the councillors have been discussing this, that's how bad it is. One of them suggested to slaughter most of the lifestock so the people could be fed..."
"Yes," Amraphel said after a moment's thought, "that is sensible. There would be a lot of meat, then, so it would be affordable for most people... and less provisions would be needed to keep the beasts fed, too. Do you know when this is going to happen?"
"No. They kept arguing about spices, and numbers." I couldn't quite keep my disdain from my voice, and Amraphel laughed in the darkness.
"That is important, you know. They have to make sure that there will still be enough animals left, come Spring – and you need salt at the very least to preserve meat for a longer time." She paused, and I knew that she was thinking about something. But she did not say what. Instead she asked, "You have to pay five Trees, yes?"
"Yes."
"When?"
I scratched my neck. Nobody had said anything about that. "At once, I assume. - Amraphel, we can afford five Trees, can't we?"
"Oh, easily."
"It is a lot. It's absurd, really. Two weeks' pay, Lord Atanacalmo said, but even if all of them worked for two weeks straight, they'd never earn so much."
"It is unjust, and no doubt meant to be, but you shouldn't let it trouble you. We can afford it." I could not see her face, but I could hear the smile in her voice. "Your thrift comes in handy after all."
I nodded in the darkness, staring at the ceiling.
"It is a pity, though; we surely could have put the money to much better purpose," Amraphel said. "Well, it cannot be helped."
"Indeed," I said, sighing. "And it could be worse."
Although I was tired, Amraphel made me recount the full tale of my hearing. She was less excited than I had expected about the purported fondness the King felt for me, and she outright forbade me to climb the Minultârik any time soon, saying that it was too dangerous.
"Have you ever wondered why we never go – went – to the Mountain for Yestarë?"
I had not.
Amraphel sighed. "Well, it was so because the Mountain is high enough for frost and snow. You would slip and hurt yourself, or freeze altogether – you cannot go there now. I know you weren't, but I was up there often enough for Erukyermë. More than once, it was miserably cold and windy, and I don't think we'd have dared it if there had not been so many people. My father sprained his ankle, once, on a patch of ice. So don't you even think of trying it at this time. Wait until spring at least."

The next morning, when we were alone, she unearthed one of our hoards. It was an odd moment. Of course I knew that I had been earning a lot of money, and I knew that we had not spent as much of it as we could have, but I'd had no idea that it amounted to so much by now. I stared down at the heap of silver crowns and half-crowns, lying innocently in an inconspicuous wooden box. The thought that there were more boxes like this hidden in other places around the house (so if people sought to rob us, they would hopefully count themselves well-paid after finding one of these hoards and leave the rest, never guessing that there was more) was almost too much to bear. My hands were trembling when Amraphel counted the coins into them. Ten crowns, ten half-crowns, and still there was money left in the box. It was unbelievable.

So after work I went up to the palace, and asked for Quentangolë. Master Târik had suggested that I turn to the treasurer directly, but I did not dare to do that. It seemed safer to speak with someone whom I knew reasonably well, first.
Quentangolë, at any rate, was friendly when I was led to his study - although he expressed his surprise that I wished to pay the full sum at once. "You do know that you could just pay one Tree now, and another in a month, and so on until you've paid in full?"
I frowned. I'd never heard of paying in this manner. "I don't think the Crown Prince would allow that," I said.
Quentangolë's eyebrows went up. "The state of Yôzayân is not so desperate yet," he said with a smirk. "You will pay, by and by; that is enough. It is unlikely, after all, that your income will run out any time soon. Even if the King should die-"
"He mustn't!"
"May Eru grant him many more years," Quentangolë said, sombre for once. "But even if his Majesty should, hm, receive the Gift of Men soon, you embalmers would still be needed."
"But the Crown Prince hates me," I said.
"Ah. Yes, he does that." Quentangolë tilted his head. "What did you do to him, by the way? I have been wondering, and I haven't been alone in wondering. Did you steal flowers from his garden? Or kiss his wife, perhaps?"
"No!" I was almost shouting, and glanced at the closed door. Perhaps the guard who had brought me here was still standing there, overhearing our conversation? Although the door looked quite thick, and was made of strong oak-wood; perhaps there wasn't much to hear on the other side.
Quentangolë, at any rate, did not seem to worry about listeners. "I thought not," he said, and added drily, "you are still alive after all, though the poor princess would probably have been grateful for the change." He saw me open my mouth to protest, and sighed. "I was joking, Azruhâr. Calm yourself. Some things, I suppose, have to remain mysteries. At any rate even the Crown Prince should be satisfied that you will pay – whether at once, or by and by, is of no consequence." He smiled again. "Such is the priviledge of the rich."
I snorted. "I don't think it's a priviledge that applies to me – Azruhâr the nothing."
Quentangolë actually laughed at that. "You did not take that to heart, I hope?" He peered at me, studying my face, and laughed again. "You did, didn't you. Oh, come on! You must realise you're more than that. That was just meant to intimidate you."
I felt embarrassed. "I didn't believe it, but I have no doubt that the Crown Prince does, and the council as well. Consider me suitably intimidated. And I'd rather pay at once, so I need worry about this no more."
"Well, it's your decision, of course," Quentangolë said. "An odd decision, though, I must say."

I shrugged again. "I guess I am odd, then." And with that, I took off my boots, where I had hidden the money all day – my feet were hurting rather badly by now – and counted the bright silver onto Quentangolë's desk. He watched, first with an expression of astonishment, then his mouth crept into a wry smile.
"You certainly are an oddity, and no mistake. So says the council, by the way."
"Well, they would."
"True, true; they set the norms, after all, so anyone unlike them is odd. But for what it's worth, a few of them – Father included – found you 'odd but endearing'. The Crown Prince may have hurt his purpose a little, there; after his introduction, they'd been expecting a noisy mud-spattered brute instead of your quiet little self, and you behaved yourself so impeccably that not a few councillors found it hard to dislike you. - Well!" He sat behind his desk, and took a book and a quill and a bottle of ink, and began to write. "So I certify that you have paid your debt in full, and that the matter is settled. I know that you won't dare to ask for it, but as a friend I will give you a copy in the vernacular anyway--"
I was still trying to make sense of what he had sat about the Crown Prince and the council, and did not understand. "A what?"
Another sigh. "A copy, Azruhâr, so you can prove that you gave me the money, in case I conveniently forget to hand it to the treasurer, or in case the treasurer runs away with it, or in case anyone just generally wants to cause you trouble."
"But you just wrote in your book that I gave you the money."
"Such trust!" Quentangolë turned the book around so that I could see what he had written – see, but not read, for he had used Elvish words. Of course. "As it happens, that is what I wrote down, but I am right in assuming that you cannot read it, am I not?"
"Well, yes-"
"Besides, the book might conveniently disappear... you never know. Don't rely on people's decency, not even up here."
I grimaced, opened my mouth, shut it again – what should I have said, anyway?
"So I write a copy of the receipt for you, in Adûnaic," Quentangolë concluded his lecture. And write he did. Then he handed the writ to me, and after I had checked it, he signed and sealed it. He wrote very fast – it took me more time to read the short note than it took him to produce it. But then, of course, he did a lot of writing, and had surely learned it young. Still, I was somewhat ashamed.
When I had pocketed the receipt, he smiled again. "Remember that, Azruhâr – always ask for a receipt that you can read."
"I do hope I won't ever need one again."
"It is not such a bad thing, to keep track of where your money has gone if nothing else," Quentangolë said. "You know, Azruhâr, you really need to learn thinking like a rich man."

Amraphel did not share his opinion. "It's nice that he gave you so much advice, and I suppose for a noble he's a decent fellow, but that last bit really wasn't necessary," she said when I – as usual – had reported the day's events, her lips thin and her speech curt. "There are too many people thinking like rich men already. I'd rather you keep thinking like Azruhâr."
"Well, Azruhâr is a rich man now," I couldn't help pointing out. "So I have been thinking..."
"Oh, do say. What has Azruhâr the rich man been thinking?"
There was a note of sarcasm in her voice that hurt me, and I was not entirely certain what I'd done to deserve it. I took me a moment to gather my courage.
"Well, I've just been wondering... could we afford to feed the others? I mean, until spring comes?"
For a moment, Amraphel did not reply. Then she said, "In theory, yes. I've been thinking about that myself. But it would not work. People have their pride. They don't want alms, they want to make a living. No matter how kindly meant - and of course it would be meant kindly - if we tried to invite them to more than a meal here and there, they'd soon resent us again, because it'd make them feel indebted."
"I know that!" I said. "I do know. But I've been thinking, perhaps if there were excuses...?"
She tilted her head, and I was relieved to see that she was looking more kindly now. "What do you mean by excuses?"
"Well, for example, if some of the women helped with the wool – then it would be normal that they shared our lunch, because that's how it's done, right? That way nobody's pride would be hurt."
"That is true, but I'm afraid we do not have nearly enough wool to make it feasible. Probably we can buy more if the nobles ever decide on the matter of lifestock, at least when sheep are involved, but until then..."
"Well, it was only a suggestion. Perhaps we can think of something else. Or we can find proper work, and pay them for that."
"That, on the other hand, might put a strain on our funds that would be hard to keep in check," Amraphel said. "And you'd never be able to find something for everyone who needs it."
I sighed, discouraged. "I just wish we could do something. I hate being so helpless."
Amraphel gave me a consoling smile. "We may find something. We'll just look out for opportunities, how's that? Perhaps you can ask Târik and the others whether they need any work done on their houses for a start - they can certainly afford it. A whole lot of people in that part of town could, come to think of it, but I suppose there's no hope in convincing them. With your friends, you may at least have a chance."
"I will talk to them first thing tomorrow."
"And I can offer to teach some of the youngsters to read and write – if they come to our house for lessons, they'll be expected to get lunch without anyone loosing face..."
"Yes!" I was glad that Amraphel liked my suggestion after all, and that she seemed to think we might make it work. "And surely my sister would sell us her fish cheaper, so our funds would last longer..."
"She should, she owes you enough," Amraphel said, and smiled again. "So maybe there's quite a bit we can do. Either way, I must say that I quite like how Azruhâr the rich man thinks."
Was I ever relieved.