The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

Chapter 9

My sister Nardurîl visited us each week after having sold her husband's catch on the market, so we soon had a chance to make our request. She immediately had bad news for us, however.
"To be honest, I am not certain whether I'll continue to come to Arminaleth," she anounced. "The road has been getting more and more dangerous; as long as enough of us fishmongers dare to make the journey, I suppose I'll go along, but I don't know how much longer that'll be."
"Dangerous?" I asked, frowning. "How so? The road to Rómenna is paved; surely it hasn't been washed away?" In our part of town, there were no roads anymore: Instead, you had channels of fat dark mud through which you had to wade if you had any business down here. I wore knee-high overshoes made of straw and sealed with wax, as did anyone else who could afford them, but other than that, there was no way of reaching our house with your feet dry and your legs unsmeared. But the paved streets in the better parts were perfectly fine, if glistening with water, so I could not imagine that the trade route to the coast was worse off.
Nardurîl snorted. "It's awash with muck and leaves, but no, not washed away. It's not the road, Brother, it's the people out there. They're hungry, and we're bearing food."
That was how I learned how desperate people were outside my little pacified neighbourhood: Some had apparently banded together to roam the forest for food, and while they had so far done nothing worse than grumble and block the way and stare at the traders who passed them, my sister and her fellow fishmongers were certain that it was only a matter of time until the hungry people outnumbered their small caravan, or until they were so desperate that they would take greater risks.
"It's not a nice feeling, making your way through people you know would strike you down or worse for the fish in your cart," Nardurîl went on.

"But you have to continue coming," I said, feeling absurdly cold in my snug and warm house. "Fish and seafood are the only things we can still rely on, these days. If you stop coming to the capital, the capital will starve."
"Well, then the capital should make sure the roads are safe to travel on," Nardurîl said. She had a point, I had to admit. If I were her, I wouldn't risk life and limb to bring food to a place that didn't at least offer protection in return. Still, I felt miserable. My great and magnanimous plan of feeding my neighbours hinged on Nardurîl's fish. And, well, life in the city really depended on deliveries from the coast right now, too.
"The city guard have so much on their hands with keeping the peace within the walls, I don't think they have enough men to keep the roads safe," I tried to reason.
"Plenty of men looking for a way of feeding their families," Nardurîl pointed out. "If they don't have enough men, they need to hire more. That'll contribute to peace within the walls, too, I'm sure."
"Indeed," said Amraphel, who was wearing a facial expression that didn't seem to fit the depressing turn our conversation had taken. "And maybe they would, if someone suggested the possibility – and the need – to the responsible people."
Enrakôr the Taller gave a snort. So far, my neighbours had listened in silence – they insisted on being present, however – but now they had emptied most of the fish stew, so they would probably not remain silent for much longer. "I wouldn't even know who that is," Enrakôr the Taller said, "and if I did, I wouldn't speak to them and they wouldn't listen."
My sister nodded grimly.
Amraphel looked at me directly. "Quentangolë must know," she said.
"Who's Quentangolë?" Nardurîl asked.
"The King's scribe," I said with a sigh. "Yes, he should know."
"And you can speak to him."
I nodded. "Probably."
"And the Nobs would listen to a scribe?" my sister sneered.
Old Palatâr spoke up. "King's scribe is a position for a Noble's second son, so the scribe could at the very least speak to his father, and the father could then bring it before the council."
I had to admit that this sounded reasonable. "I will speak with Quentangolë, but even if he is willing to help, that is going to take a long time. See how long the Council is arguing about the lifestock!"
"Of course it is going to take a while," Amraphel agreed cheerfully. She looked as if she'd found a piece of silk among the rags, I thought, as if she'd found some hidden treasure.
"That's not good news," I couldn't help pointing out.

She actually laughed. "No, it isn't. But I'll give you some good news. While the roads are unsafe, the traders are free to employ additional men to protect their goods. Nardurîl, you say that your caravans don't feel safe? Then have them accompanied by your own guards. There are weapons that any free man may bear, if sheer numbers are not enough to deter robbers. I mean, they're just desperate people, not hardened thieves. They'd probably shy away from a few strong men with no weapons at all. They'll certainly shy away from strong men with knives and cudgels."
"That can't be allowed," Târinzil said. "Is it? You can't just hire armed men and call them guards."
"Any merchant may hire up to eighteen workers at any given time, for whichever purpose his business demands," Amraphel said calmly. "Including protection. If you need more, you have to exceed a certain income and get permission from the King's council. But eighteen should quite suffice; I expect most of the fishmongers only have an assistant or two, and most of those will be family members, so they don't count as hired work." She turned to my sister again while Târinzil sat open-mouthed. "So if only five of you still dare to go to the capital, in theory you could take a host of ninety guards with you." Further mouths fell open; mine, I must admit, was among them. Ninety guards!

Nardurîl did not look convinced. "Where would you find such guards?"
Amraphel shrugged and glanced around the room. "I see a couple of suitable men right here, right now. Who among you can wrestle?" she called, and got a couple of cheers in response – the loudest came from Enrakôr the Taller, unsurprisingly. Enrakôr was not merely tall, but also firmly built; if he found work, it generally was heavy lifting.
"Who among you can handle a knife?" Amraphel went on. "Who can handle a spear? Who can hunt with bow and arrow?" Further cheers, and some fists raised triumphantly.
"There you go, Nardurîl," Amraphel said with a smile. "Already we have more than eighteen: You can pick and choose."
My sister stared at her without moving. She did not look as if she was about to pick eighteen of my neighbours (seventeen, I reminded myself, for she had a young fellow with her who helped her with the cart and the stall and the cleaning) for her protection.
Accursed Îbalad spoke up. "And you think you can send eighteen armed men – or more – through town and along the roads without any talk of breaking the peace?"
"They'll need some sort of uniform, I'll grant you that," said Amraphel. "But a hat or a tabard would do – nothing we can't make ourselves."
"And how do you know they'll actually do what you want, instead of robbing the traders themselves?" Îbalad went on. I felt a little guilty because I always thought of Îbalad as a criminal – he was just another desperate man after all – but really, that question was typical for him.
"Azruhâr trusts them," Amraphel said, which was not entirely true. I trusted my neighbours to be, on the whole, decent people – on good days. But these weren't good days.
"And I," Amraphel continued, "trust them not to be bloody fools. If they're getting paid for protecting merchants and their goods, they have nothing to win and everything to loose if they don't do their work."
"What would such guards be paid?" Enrakôr the Smaller asked.
"That is a very good question," Amraphel said. "Let me see. They would have to make the journey to Rómenna and back again twice for every trip the fishmongers make, possibly in the dark and in inclement weather. They'll have to bring their own cloaks and boots, or else go without; we can't equip all of them. They'll also have to bring their own weapons, if they have any. There'll be tear and wear and such. Well, we can't be too generous, but half a Ship, and maybe a Star or two? And a meal by the coast and one when you've brought your charges safely to the market, of course."

I looked around, judging people's reactions. Half a Ship was what a daytaler could normally expect to make in a week, but if it meant walking to Rómenna and back and to Rómenna again and back again, and possibly facing hungry robbers, would they think it worth the trouble?
I wouldn't have; but then, I was no longer one of them. They, from what I could read on their faces, were quite willing to make that journey twice and twice over, if it meant secure payment and a couple of free meals.
"A half-Ship and a Star or two? Who, pray tell, is going to pay that?" my sister asked.
"You and the other merchants," Amraphel stated in a matter-of-fact voice. "Craftsmen may only hire up to twelve, and apprentices none at all – and nominally, Azruhâr is merely an apprentice. But he'll give you the money, of course."
"While I can," I hastily specified.
"That is never going to work," Îbalad said; but the rest of us thought that it was worth a try.
"I just cannot believe that this is really allowed," I admitted later on, when we had discussed the particulars.
Amraphel shrugged. "I am reasonably certain that it is," she said. "But you can ask Quentangolë – you have to see him anyway, after all."

"It is quite legal," Quentangolë told me the next day, "although nobody in their right mind would want to be in your place. Besides, you're going to hurt your purpose."
"How so?" I asked, confused.
"Well, if you want the Council to be convinced that the roads are so insecure that they have to give permission to open the treasury to pay more guards if they do not want trade from the coast to come to a standstill, then it is unwise to make the roads safer."
"It is only meant to be a makeshift solution!" I said. "To tide them over until the Council has come to a decision."
Quentangolë grimaced. "I suspect your makeshift solution will make it look like no other solution is needed. You can do what you want, of course; it's your money, and you're free to waste it in whichever manner you wish."
"I do not consider it a waste, if it keeps people from starving – or from making other people starve."
"That is noble of you, but I am not sure whether the Council will want to share the sentiment."
Now it was back – the feeling of desolation that had gripped me before Amraphel had announced her bold plan.
"Do you understand it, at least?" I asked, biting back the bitter thought that had jumped into my mind: If the Nobles do not share a noble sentiment, what makes them noble? "And will you try to help me?"
Quentangolë seemed to realise how important this matter was to me; he put a hand on my shoulder and looked straight into my eyes, the usual cheer gone from his face. "I understand it very well, I admire your determination, and to some extent, I wish I were as courageous as you are. But I fear that I would bite more than I can chew – I certainly fear that you are about to break your jaw." He sighed. "But very well: I will try to get the Council to agree to a long-term solution that will not drain you of every last Star you've got. I cannot promise that it will be fast, as I'll have to tread carefully and the Council is never swift when it's about money. But I'll try."
"That is all I can ask for," said I, moved by the earnestness in his voice (and somewhat flattered that he thought me determined and courageous). "Thank you."
He gave me a lopsided smile. "Just look after yourself, Azruhâr. I'd hate to see you broken."
"You mean broke."
"I mean both."

In the end, there were only fifty-three, not ninety of my neighbours who passed Amraphel's and the fishmongers' muster; but fifty-three was a proud number already, almost enough to make an unbreakable wall around the carts and mules. It took quite a while to convince the fishmongers to agree to the arrangement in the first place – Amraphel and Nardurîl must have shown endless patience – but once everybody understood that the largest part of the expenses would be born by me, and all they had to do was provide a meal when the fifty-three arrived in Rómenna. As they were genuinely convinced that the road was full of robbers these days, they eventually accepted the fish stew it would cost them as the price they had to pay in order to continue making good money in Arminaleth, where people paid a lot more for fish than they did by the coast.
Amraphel then bought many yards of wool dyed a bright golden orange with onion peels, from which she and several women and girls made fifty-three hooded collars so everybody would see that the fishmongers' guards belonged to some sort of group and didn't just loiter around.
Baladûn – unlike his father, he had passed muster – tried his on with a satisfied air. "We'll be like an army," he said proudly. "Azruhâr's Men."
"Please, no!" said I.
"The Protectors of the Trade?" Enrakôr the Taller suggested. "That makes us sound quite important."
"Too important – and too official," Amraphel said. "This is a private arrangement."
"Well, we should have some sort of name," insisted Baladûn. "We can't just be 'the guys hired by the fishmongers but really paid by Azruhâr to make sure the fish reaches the market'."
Îbalad rolled his eyes. I wondered whether he really thought his son silly, or whether he was secretly angry that we did not trust him enough to send him along. "That would be honest, though," he said. "Be honest and call yourself Onion-hood, at least."
I found it funny that Îbalad should preach honesty (although to be fair he had given me no true cause for grief ever since that fateful night), but he had a point.
"Onion-hood is good," I said. "Or Copper-hood, if you want to be poetic. I mean, it's almost copper-coloured. And you'll be paid in copper, too. So it makes sense, sort of."
"Copper-hood," said Baladûn, "that sounds like a snake or something." Then he grinned. "I like it. All right, let's be the Copper-hoods."
I could not care less, really. All I cared about was that they didn't run around calling themselves Azruhâr's Men. I had no desire to face the Council ever again, and certainly not because someone didn't know how to keep their foolish mouth shut.

They didn't know how to keep their mouths shut, anyway; after a couple of market-days, the news about the Copper-hoods had spread both among the poor of the city and those who were making the roads unsafe. Several of them were willing to change sides, it seemed, for a half-Ship and two stars. They had not initially set out to be robbers, anyway, I was told when they applied for a position among the Copper-hoods: They had gone out to the woods to find roots and beech-nuts and the like. The most criminal thing they had done, their spokesman said, was peel the bark off trees to grind it to flour, or cut branches for firewood.
"You mustn't be caught doing that," Amraphel said. "Trespass against the Vert is a serious thing. All the woods belong to the King."
"Hunger is a serious thing, lady," the spokesman said dourly. "And are we not the King's subjects?"
"The King cannot feed everybody with his own hands," I interrupted, but Amraphel gave me a glance that suggested it was my turn to keep my mouth shut. I swallowed the rest of my words.
"Hunger is a serious thing indeed," said Amraphel. "But that does not make it just to steal food from another, who will then likewise go hungry."
"We never stole from the fishmongers," said the spokesman. "We were just hoping they'd throw us a fish or two. We were begging, like – that is not a crime!"
"That depends on the manner of your begging," Amraphel said, and there were some coughs and some averted faces. Surely it had been the aggressive kind of begging.
"We're starving, and they're parading whole carts full of fish under our noses," someone mumbled. "That's tempting, that is."

In the end, I was compelled to add another thirteen men to the ranks of the Copper-hoods. The women made twenty new hoods (just in case), and I paid for the fabric, and I paid for their journey to the coast and back, twice or even four times per week. I also paid for the additional fleeces Amraphel bought. I had not expected there to be any, at this time of year, at least not before further sheep were slaughtered; but it appeared that many of the poor women who would normally buy fleeces in fall had saved the money for food this year. Now they came to our house to do their usual cleaning and combing and spinning, and I paid them for their work, and I paid for the boys who brought us news from the market and from other parts of town, and for the food they all ate, spinsters and Copper-hoods and errand-runners and the girls who filled our house each afternoon, learning to read and write.
"Why only girls?" I asked Amraphel, who shrugged.
"I offered it to all of them, but they seem to think it only makes sense for young women. The agreement seems to be that a pretty girl who has knowledge above her station may be married above her station." She smirked a little. "My father thought so, too, and look where it got him. At any rate, the others would rather work then learn. It's their decision."
It was that, and it made sense, I supposed. The girls seemed to be reasonably good students, because after a few weeks they stopped struggling with the exercises that had given me so much trouble back in the day. Some also wanted to learn how Amraphel kept our account-book (which I must admit I did not understand, even though I always nodded sagely when Amraphel showed me the numbers to put my fretful mind at ease), whether from curiosity about our wealth or from an actual desire to learn calculation and book-keeping (which was no doubt useful if you dreamed of being, say, a merchant's wife). And then Amraphel brought a storybook home from the market. They took turns reading it out loud to each other and to the older women who were doing their spinning on the other side of the room. I heard bits of it whenever I came home, and found it exceedingly silly. It was about a young Noble who lost the love of his life because he had written a piece of tasteless poetry, and who then had to prove that he was worthy after all by proving his impeccable taste in a number of pointless feats, like arranging flowers or composing perfume.
"That's the most absurd thing I have ever heard," I told Amraphel and the girls when I had listened to the silliness long enough. "Nobody would scorn a nobleman just because he writes bad poetry. And why would he need to arrange flowers? What does it matter?"
Amraphel sighed and said that it was a famous Vanyarin love-story, and in Vanyarin society, nobility mattered less than other accomplishments, which were highly treasured by people who did not die and had nothing more pressing to do with their time.
"Arranging flowers?" I asked incredulously. "Really?"
"Yes, really, you unlearned barbarian," said Amraphel.
"You knew I was unlearned when you married me," I pointed out, "and I hope you won't expect me to arrange flowers for you now, because I have no mind for that sort of thing."
"We'll talk about it later," she said in a gentle voice, so I knew she was not angry because I was an unlearned barbarian, she just didn't want to stop reading the book now.
"It is quite a foolish story," said Khibuleth, our lodger's wife, glancing up from her spindle. "But it's lovely to imagine a place where a common woman can reject a nobleman if he doesn't meet her expectations, and where the nobleman will then do the silliest things to win her back."
Put like that, I could understand the attraction of the book. But it was absurd nonetheless.

Quentangolë had no news for me concerning the safety of the roads, but he did tell me that the Council had finally decided about how many chicken and geese and pigs and oxen and sheep could be slaughtered without leaving the land without any lifestock to breed, or without milk and eggs. He advised me to send anyone in search of work to the butcher's district on Isilya next week, early in the morning, and to buy my share of the meat early before the prices rose again. "They'll also sell stored vegetables, but that'll be the kind that, well, normally goes to the pigs," he said. "I'd stick to the grain and the meat."
"A carrot is a carrot," my mother used to say when I complained about the wrinkled, rubbery vegetables we got in winter, "and an apple is an apple". I kept that to myself. Quentangolë was a fine fellow, but he probably wouldn't understand that some people were grateful for the dry and misshapen vegetables that his kind saw fit only for swine.
I felt a little guilty that I only alerted my own neighbours about the impending chance of work in the butcher's district, because I knew there were other daytalers desperate for such news. But my charity had already gotten me into a mire; I really had to be careful now. At any rate, the news would surely travel fast enough.
Those who had left for the butcher's district early that morning did not return until late in the evening, which was a good sign. Meanwhile, Amraphel and the other women went to the meat-market with buckets and wheelbarrows, accompanied by a couple of boys with slings and cudgels to deter other greedy folk. When I returned from work that evening, our kitchen smelled like a butchery too, because they were busy making sausages and curing ham and boiling cut apples in lard. There were whole half pigs dangling from the ceiling beams, and jars of spices and dried herbs all over the place.
And I paid for the meat and fruit and vegetable, and I paid for the assistance Amraphel had received, and I paid for the use of Old Palatâr's smoking hut so all that meat could be preserved. At least I did not have to pay those who had found work with the butchers. They were mostly paid in kind, not in coin, but nobody complained, since the kind in question was sheep's heads and hams and other nourishing things.

Together with the regular supply of fish, the newly-acquired roots and apples and oats that no longer had to feed the pigs, the sored onions and beans, and the acorns that some of the Copper-hoods brought back from their travels – with all these things to fill our larder and my neighbours' bellies, one might think that I no longer needed to worry about the winter. But I did; oh, I did. Money was running through my hands; I had still not grown familiar with the idea that I had so much of it to go around, and I certainly had never learned to spend money with open hands. Amraphel assured me that there was no danger of exceeding my income yet, as we still had about a quarter of my savings left and I continued to bring in money each week. But although I trusted her with all my heart, I still couldn't help feeling that I was looking at an uncontrollable and unstoppable flood of coins that would eventually sweep us all away into some dark and horrid abyss. A quarter left, that meant three quarters gone!
"Erukyermë is but seven weeks away," she said, putting a cool hand onto my cheek. "Soon after, there will be spinach and radishes and turnip tops, not to mention wild herbs; and not longer after that, peas and strawberries will follow..."
"You're making my mouth water," I said. "But we'll have to hold out until all these fine things are really ripe for the harvest."
"And we will, Azruhâr, we will. Don't give up now."
"I don't want to give up. I'm just terrified that it'll all break down before we're ready for it."

Quentangolë's news should thus have filled me with joy, but they only added to my terror. "The Council has agreed at last to replace your Copper-hoods with guards of their own choosing to patrol the road and safeguard the trade," he said with a smile. "The Crown Prince does not want a certain individual to win fame by making the merchants of Rómenna dependant on his vigilantes; that eventually helped to open the treasury."
The certain individual, I understood, was me. That meant that the Crown Prince knew all about my role in that scheme and had decided to put an end to it. "Why did he wait until now, then?"
Quentangolë shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe he was hoping that you were going to go bankrupt first."
"He didn't wait long enough, then."
"I am glad to hear that," said Quentangolë. "I really am. But he had to do something now, really, because you've acquired quite a reputation."
All my blood seemed to flow into my stomach at once: There was a sickening clump in there, and everything else felt empty and cold. I wrapped my arms around myself. "I don't want a reputation," I said.
"It's not a bad reputation. More along the lines of 'that fellow who keeps the moneyless out of trouble', and 'at least someone is doing something about the situation'."
I groaned, shaking my head. I should have waited for my breakdown until I was alone, I knew, but I could not, I simply could not. Oh, that meant so much trouble! I crouched down and buried my head between my knees, hearing my voice muffled: "Too much, too much! They are going to kill me!"
Kindly Quentangolë did not tell me to get out of his office and stop stealing his time, nor did he point out that I was being ungrateful, after all, I no longer had to keep the Copper-hoods in pay, and he'd probably worked hard to get the Council to that point. Instead, he left his distant position behind his desk, and squatted down next to me, putting an arm around my shoulders.
"Nobody is going to kill you - just yet," he said. "And Prince Alcarmaitë was hating you anyway; it's not like anything got worse."
That was no consolation at all. "I gave him more reason," I explained to Quentangolë. "And I brought more attention onto myself."
"This is what I meant," he said with a sigh. "But for what it's worth, killing you would raise too much of a fuss. Your name is too well-known, in a good way. Trust me, your reputation is a shield!"
"It's a beacon – it's making me a target! It can't be hard to drag my name into the dirt, and then kill me. And I can't guarantee my neighbours that they'll have an income until food is easier to get by, either – they'll hate me too! Oh, I am never going to get out of this-- "
Quentangolë listened to me, and tried to reassure me, though I cannot remember whether anything he said made sense. In the end, he resorted to stroking my back and letting me ramble and weep on until I regained some modicum of control over myself – enough to let him return to his work.

Not long after that, the Copper-hoods sat in my house and discussed the injustice of it all. I came back from work exhausted and frustrated – there had been a series of fruitless experiments again – and learned that the city guards had sent them back to the foot of the hill in the morning, when they had wanted to leave for Rómenna as they always did.
"We're no longer needed, they say," Baladûn said grimly. "The Guards of the Road are more suited for the task, they say."
"Their task is going to get harder, if we have to return to foraging," muttered Dâran, one of those who had been a threat to the trade earlier.
Enrakôr the Taller snorted. "They've got real weapons, you fool. They'd just cut you down if you come too close."
"And they'll probably blame it on Azruhâr," Îbalad said. I expected some sign of satisfaction on his face, but to my great surprise, he looked worried instead. His fingers were drumming on the table (my table). "You mustn't endanger yourself, and you mustn't get him into trouble."
"Thank you!" I heard myself say; I also heard that I couldn't mask my surprise at his sudden considerateness. He just nodded, but I thought I detected a glint of defiance, or maybe hurt, in his eyes.
"Maybe you can apply to join the Guards of the Road," suggested Khibuleth.
Enrakôr shook his head. "Already tried that. Seems they're explicitly ordered not to accept anyone from this part of town."
That, I thought, was the Crown Prince's revenge. Whatever Quentangolë said, it had gotten worse.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Don't be absurd," Îbalad said in a shockingly reasonable tone. "We all knew it wasn't going to last. It worked for longer than I would've thought, leastways."
"Not long enough," I said.
"Six weeks," Amraphel said. Erukyermë had become a magical fixture in our plans, as if everything would be all right again just because a certain date had passed; but I needed to cling to some hope, however foolish it was.
"Six hungry weeks," Enrakôr sighed.
"Most of us are still getting paid, aren't we," Târinzil spoke up, sounding a little smug. That was right; I was paying some women to clean our house, and others to help with the laundry, and others to mend everyone's clothing, and of course all those who continued to turn the enormous heap of fleece that Amraphel had obtained after the butchering days into yarn.
"Indeed," Amraphel affirmed, and the women at least smiled and looked relieved.
"I don't like to be dependent," said Îbalad between clenched teeth, as if it made any difference whether he was dependent on my money or Khibuleth's or both.
"I'll try to find something new," I promised nonetheless.
And I got Master Târik to pay a couple of men to tame his garden, and I got Kârathôn to hire someone to clean away the half-rotten leaves and old birds' nests that were blocking his roof rail, and Mîkul decided that his walls could need some new paint.
But that just wasn't enough.