Private Lessons

Er-Mûrazôr dunked his shirt in the washbasin and lifted the dripping garment, then dunked it again. Even by the light of a single candle, it was obvious the water was too grey to do any good. He twisted the fabric until the trickle turned to drips, then shook it out and draped it over a rafter that cut through the slant-ceilinged room.

He owned exactly one shirt, which he wore every day. The cuffs were beginning to fray, and threads hung from the edges of the sleeves. And when his shirt was drying on the rafter, he had to sleep in his skin. It was immodest, and his shoulders got cold.

He tipped the basin of grey water out the tiny window, He refilled it from the pitcher beneath the washstand and bent over to wash his hair. He didn't have money, cleanliness was his only luxury.

The next morning, he browsed through the stalls and tents in the marketplace near the city gates. A number of the booths displayed the light cotton clothing the local people wore, most of it in vivid colors and heavily embroidered.

He sifted through the folded stacks and found something plain white and similar in cut to what he'd wore at home. Silk would have been better, it was what he was used to, but it wouldn't last as well. As he was paying the merchant, he dug through his purse for his last large copper coin, then realized he'd already spent it. He paid for the purchase with a handful of coppers instead.

With nothing to do for the rest of the day, he ducked into a coffee shop. The aroma was stronger than at home, and it came in more varieties. His eyes adjusted, and he found a private corner at the back. The serving maid brought him a miniature cup, steaming hot, with as much rich tasting sludge as liquid. He paid her with a copper farthing.

After she left, he spilled his remaining coins into his hand. His room was paid through the end of the week, but he barely had enough for food.

Several doors from the coffee shop was a merchant who bought and sold second-had goods. A man behind the counter looked up. His eyes were hard, like one accustomed to dealing with people forced to sell the thing they thought they'd never part with.

Er-Mûrazôr laid his dagger on the counter. It had been expensive and was finely made, although he used it as an all-purpose utility knife.

"What would you give me for this?" He relaxed his body and spoke slowly, trying to look like someone who wasn't desperate.

The man turned it over in his hands. "Five coppers."

"Another day." Er-Mûrazôr replaced the dagger in his belt and turned toward the door.

The man called after him, "Come back tomorrow. I'll give you four coppers for it."

-o-o-o-o-o-

At the end of the week, Er-Mûrazôr returned home from a particularly long lecture on the movement of the wanders through the celestial sphere. When he reached the Boar's Head Inn, thinking only of supper and bed, he encountered a wall of noise that seemed to explode from the common room.

He paused near the doorway, breathing in the smell of freshly-baked bread.

Through a veil of smoke, it appeared that every table in the room was filled. Today was the day laborers and tradesmen were paid It appeared that every one of them in the city was here, celebrating with an evening out. In addition, a large caravan must have arrived earlier in the day, because a group of turbaned merchants with their servants and bodyguards had claimed the largest table.

Something hit the floor a crash, followed by boos and catcalls. A boy bent to collect the overturned plates and scrape the food from the bright-colored tiles. Er-Mûrazôr was tired. He wasn't in the mood for crowding and commotion. He considered going straight to his room, but he was starving.

He dodged behind people who were standing and holding their plates in their hands and found a vacant space at a four-man table, wide enough to accommodate his large frame. He squeezed between two tradesmen just before someone else claimed the spot.

Conversation with strangers was exhausting for him. He would have preferred a quiet corner by himself, but failing that, he looked off in the distance and retreated into his own thoughts. The barmaid offered him wine but he waved her off. He was saving his last coin for a piece of bread.

The others at the table mentioned they were already on their second round but still waiting for the barmaid to bring their suppers. She brought a bowl of rice and skewers of lamb to next table.

The landlord loomed over him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Master Tindomul, seeing as it's the end of the week, could I trouble you for the rent?"

Er-Mûrazôr stiffened. "Can you wait a day or two? And I'll need to take meals on credit until then."

The man frowned. "One day for the rent. No credit."

The other men at the table stared openly. Embarrassed, he shoved back his chair and pushed his way out of the room.

Going to bed supperless was hard on someone who slept as lightly as he did. He wasn't looking forward to it. He climbed the narrow stairs, considering his options. He had a few things he could sell, like his dagger or Magic's saddle.

He could hire out his sword and defend the caravans traveling from the capital to outlying towns, although it would take him away from the capital for weeks at a time and he wouldn't be able to attend class.

He could go to the Númenorian embassy for money. They'd almost surely give it to him. But after what happened at the Haven, he'd gone into hiding. If he took their money, they'd know where he was.

Magic's saddle should fetch a good price. He'd replace it with something utilitarian and worn, but not too uncomfortable. A hired sword spends long hours in the saddle.

He reached his room and pushed open the door. He spoke the fire-starting charm. Candlelight filled the room. A folded square of paper sat on his bed, sealed with red wax. The address read Tindomul, the Boar's Head Inn, Haradwaith. The handwriting was his mother's.

He sucked in his breath. They'd found him. Here in Haradwaith, on the far side of the desert, when he didn't want to be found. However, a major function of any embassy, after diplomacy, is espionage. They wouldn't have to work very hard to connect Tindomul, who arrived three weeks ago, with Prince Tindomul who'd gone missing last month.

He broke it and unfolded the letter, and immediately recognized his mother's handwriting.

You can't imagine what a scare you gave us, disappearing like that. But we know you're safe now, so none of that matters. Don't write to your father just yet. Give him a chance to calm down, and let me handle him.

I'm not able to send you any money as your father forbids it. However, it seems that the allowance you've always received is still on the books. I've arranged for it to be diverted to the Embassy at Haradwaith. I've asked Tar-Meneldur, Ambassador to Haradwaith and also my second cousin, to handle the details.

I feel like you're here in the room with me, and I can almost hear your voice, saying you're too proud to accept the money. But will you do it for me? If you came by the Embassy every week, I'd know you were safe and wouldn't worry so much.

Er-Mûrazôr pressed the letter to his heart, then folded it and put it away in his saddlebags.

As a member of the royal family, he was entitled to a small allowance for pocket money. He never gave it much thought. Back in Númenor, it covered incidentals like wagering on dice or tipping a servant, but here, it would be enough to live on. He could even afford private lessons if he was careful.

Tomorrow morning, he would present himself at the Númenorian Embassy. It would be awkward. They'd badger him with questions, or press him to give an official statement explaining himself. It would be unpleasant but it wouldn't kill him, and he'd leave with enough money for private lessons.

He was still awake when dawn arrived and the sky began to get light.

He waited until the Embassy was sure to be open, then dressed in the silver-green robes which marked him as high among those who belonged to the Númenorian nobility.

Er-Mûrazôr dragged himself to the building in the Sultan's compound where the embassies of the foreign nations were housed.

The space occupied by the Númenorian embassy was large and ornate, reflecting the status and importance of the island nation. Er-Mûrazôr entered the lobby. Intricately patterned carpets muffled his footsteps. The walls and ceiling were paneled in white marble, and each of the windows was screened by alabaster filigree, translucent white. The darkened space offered no respite from the heat, even this early in the day.

A junior official, apparently tasked with greeting visitors, got to his feet.

"I am Prince Tindomul," and waited for it to sink in. Here before you stands a member of the Royal House of Númenor. "Please tell Ambassador Meneldur I wish to see him."

"I'm afraid the Ambassador is unavailable, but I could take a message. You're welcome to wait." The clerk went back to sorting papers.

Er-Mûrazôr tried again. In the voice he used to command the troops, he said, "Ask again. I believe the Ambassador would want to know I'm here, even if it takes him away from other duties."

The youth scurried off, and Er-Mûrazôr sat down to wait. A small bird landed on the windowsill beyond the alabaster screen and flew away again. He watched a patch of sunlight move from a stylized animal to a pattern of flowers and vines. Finally, an interior door swung open. Er-Mûrazôr stood up, expecting to see cousin Meneldur. In his place was an official Er-Mûrazôr didn't know.

"I am Tar-Ciaran, Ambassador Meneldur's second-in-command," said a middle aged man in high caste robes.

Er-Mûrazôr drew himself to his full height, his face a mask. "I am Tindomul, son of Ciryatan the Shipbuilder."

The official's expression remained blandly pleasant. "Yes, I know who you are. You arrived three weeks ago, and you've been taking classes."

Er-Mûrazôr blinked with surprise. They must have been following him since he arrived.

"I wish to see the Ambassador on a personal matter." Er-Mûrazôr expected to be shown to a private chamber and offered tea and sweets before he revealed the reason for his visit, but the emissary seemed to be waiting for him to speak, right there in the open lobby. So be it.

"I'll be her in the capitol of Haradwaith for the next several months, and I need to arrange a living allowance. The sum I received at the Palace for incidentals will be sufficient."

"You're staying at the Boar's Head Inn? Have them to send us the bill."

"Gold would be better. Two gold coins should cover my immediate needs, if you'd be good enough to issue them before I leave." It was a reasonable request, equivalent to a week's allowance.

The Ambassador's assistant raised an eyebrow. "Gold? We prefer your creditors send the bills to us. That way, the Embassy knows it's paying for room and board. Not dicing or women. Not buying the house a round."

Er-Mûrazôr's jaw dropped. He struggled to control his temper. "I'm a famous mariner and explorer, not some reprobate who embarrassed the family," like cousin Anducal in Pelegir, who was being paid to stay there.

Tar-Ciaran kept his face carefully neutral. "No, of course not,"he said, after far too long a delay.

Er-Mûrazôr curled his hand into a fist, but thought better of it. Punching an emissary was, maybe not wrong, but probably a bad idea. He uncurled his fingers, breathing hard.

"I'd planned to take a private lesson tomorrow. There isn't time for a request to be approved."

The man smiled and patted Er-Mûrazôr's arm. "I don't care what people say about Master Gulon, that old blowhard. I think it's great you've found something to keep yourself busy. Just think, you'll be able to do tricks at the Yule banquet. What fun!"

Er-Mûrazôr thought his head would explode. He plunged out the outer door, shoving it so hard that it struck the wall with a splintering crack. Fragments of alabaster rained to the pavement.

-o-o-o-o-o-

That afternoon, when Er-Mûrazôr inquired at the registrations table about the possibility being extended credit for the next day's private lesson, he learned his name had already been entered on the list and marked "paid in full". He was pleased and furious at the same time.

He arrived early the next day and was admitted to a barrel vaulted chamber. Eight stools surrounded the table, and a throne-like chair sat at the end. Several places were already occupied. Travaran, the young scholar from the caravan was there, and he recognized two other advanced students.

Er-Mûrazôr took an empty place two seats away from Gulon's chair. The door opened and more scholars joined them. Er-Mûrazôr scowled. This had been advertised as a private lesson. He knew there'd be a few other students, but for this price, he hadn't expected a crowd.

Master Gulon swept into the room. "Good afternoon, gentlemen. It's just us, so let's tackle some advanced topics." He draped a white linen cloth over the end of the table. "I'm going to show you a concealment charm. I don't exactly make the object invisible, but I make it much less noticeable. Use this when you want to bury a cache and make the disturbed earth less noticeable."

He brought over a small box the size of a jewelry box. He placed it on the cloth, where it stood out sharply against the pale fabric. Er-Mûrazôr kept his eyes fastened on the little casket. It was plain wood with iron hinges, and dark in color. Gulon spoke the words of a charm in the low measured voice, then stepped away from the table with his hands behind his back. The box was still there.

"Now, I'd like everyone to look at the floor, then look back at the table."

Er-Mûrazôr looked away and looked back. There was nothing on the white cloth. He studied the spot where the box had been. He scanned the whole top of the table, he looked on the floor. It was not there.

Er-Mûrazôr said, "Let's see your hands."

The old magician held his hands away from his body. No box. "It still on the table. It's not invisible, but it's much less noticeable. I'd like to have someone come up, close enough to touch it."

Travaran touched the spot where it had been. "It's not there it's, oh wait! That must be the lid. It's right where it was. Now I see it."

Now that he knew where to look, Er-Mûrazôr could see it, too. He wondered how he'd missed it. It could be a street conjurer's trick, but it might also be real.

Master Gulon stepped back from the table. "Let's see if one of you can do it. Who wants to try?"

Er-Mûrazôr jumped to his feet and elbowed past someone else. The court astrologer told him the words to speak, what intonation to use, and how to hold his hands. Er-Mûrazôr performed the motions to cast the spell, and the box vanished.

It was real magic, but he wasn't sure it was of his own doing. Gulon might have enchanted the box before the lesson.

"Can I try it with a different object?" Er-Mûrazôr unsheathed his dagger and placed it on the cloth. He spoke the words of the spell and looked away, then back. The dagger was gone.

"Can you make a person invisible?" As a general, he might need to send an unseen spy into an enemy commander's tent, or an assassin into a rival's bedchamber.

"On living creatures, it's a hard spell to cast. But yes, it's possible." Gulon scanned the faces around the table. "We have a little more time. What else shall we do today?"

After that, Gulon showed them a spell to see through walls. Er-Mûrazôr paid close attention. If the same spell could help him find the Lodestar through the thick fogs that formed at sea, he'd never be lost again.

Er-Mûrazôr was thrilled. In a single private lesson, he'd learned to do more magic than he had in all the large lectures combined. With the Embassy picking up his tuition, he'd be able to take private lessons all the time. His face creased in an unaccustomed smile.

"Can you show us how to mix a love potion?" asked a middle-aged man with pockmarked features.

Gulon's face, already red, turned crimson. "You may not know this, but love potions are a form of mind control, which is dark magic. Dark magic is illegal and wrong, and I do not teach it."

A chill crept up Er-Mûrazôr's limbs. A good deal of what he wanted to learn was dark magic, magic Gulon didn't or wouldn't teach.

"If I thought that any one of you was interested in dark magic, I would personally seize him by the arms and frog-march him out the door."

Master Gulon must not read his thoughts, or Er-Mûrazôr was finished. He picked a crack in the floor and fixed his thoughts upon it. He envisioned a still, bottomless lake, the impenetrable walls of a fortress, a heavy box lined with lead. If he read the situation correctly, Master Gulon wouldn't teach him how to ignite a cottage or wreck a ship, either.

Gulon started to wind down, and his face softened. "I don't normally tell this story, but when I was a young man, I loved a girl who didn't know I existed. I thought if she were my wife, I'd be the happiest young man alive.

"I mixed a love potion and found a way to add it to her glass. It worked. She returned my affections, and for a while, we spent all our time together. But we were ill-suited for each other, and the flirtation ran its course. I tried to break it off, but the girl followed me everywhere. I began to be afraid of her. In the end, I had to go to the city and pay a famous practitioner to broke the spell for me, but it was humiliating to have to confide in him and reveal my mistake. "

Er-Mûrazôr raised his hand. He dreaded the answer, but he had to know.

"What about a spell to extend one's life?" In all of magic, it was the thing he cared about the most, not just for himself but for his people. Even if Gulon wouldn't teach him to use practical magic for war, life extension justified the entire price of admission.

Gulon looked grave. "Necromancy, magic related to death, is the blackest of all. Most people think it means communicating with the dead, but it also includes trying to predict the date of one's own death, or hastening the death of another. Even life extension spells, which are meant to cheat death, originate from death magic. So while they sound innocent, only someone well-versed in death magic can cast them."

Life extension. It's real, but it's based on death magic. Er-Mûrazôr felt like he'd been sucker-punched.

A student across the room raised his hand. "What about Atelic, the court physician? They say he added years to his life through supernatural means. Certainly, he's very old."

"How did he do it, is it a potion?"

"Is there a spell?"

"Have you learned it from him?" Everyone in the hall seemed to be talking at once.

Gulon paced back and forth. "He may be the royal physician here at court, but he studied under Tar-Mairon who teaches nothing but dark magic. I expect Atelic learned death magic from him in his student days. More likely, his old teacher cast the spell for him. If you know what's good for you, you'll stay away from him."

Tar-Mairon, the sorcerer-warlord his uncle defeated at Tharbad, who'd escaped after the battle. Er-Mûrazôr's uncle had let him go, saying he was too dangerous to try to capture, that soldiers who'd gotten too close to him had gone mad.

The lesson came to an end, and the students filed out into the lecture hall, echoing an empty. The doors at the back of the hall were flung wide, letting the bright afternoon sun into the stone chamber.

The student ahead of him nudged his neighbor. "I heard Atelic's back in town. He occasionally gives private lessons, too."

"That old poisoner? Good luck to him. He'll have to find someone brave enough to be alone in the same room with him."

"Could Atelic really be a poisoner?" asked a third student.

"I doubt it. He's physician to the Sultan's family. Gulon hates him because he dabbles in dark magic."

"Gulon hates him because he's a better magician." They all laughed.

"And he's a good physician, too. They say he won't treat anyone but the royals unless they come in with a really interesting ailment. Complaints that any other healer would call easy money, like loose bowels or the pox, don't interest him."

It was the best possible news. Atelic, a sorcerer who'd studied dark magic including a spell to extend life, gave private lessons, too. Whatever it took, Er-Mûrazôr would find a way to meet him.