Emissary by Uvatha the Horseman

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Leaving School

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Chapter 11 – Leaving School

After the exam, Urzahil walked back to the Inn, his feet dragging. Something glittered beyond the city walls. Urzahil looked up, and the dazzling light caught him full in the face. He jerked away, blinded; purple after-images danced behind his eyelids.

The Pillar. Every time he saw it, he felt sick. It was humiliating. a constant reminder that Gondor had overrun the city, burned the Temple, and seized control of the Haven. Why hadn't anyone pulled it down?

-o-o-o-o-o-

When he reached the Boiling Frog, he crossed the courtyard and went straight to the stables to see to the horses.

He found a shovel and lifted pile after pile of manure into the wheelbarrow. He muscled the heavy barrow outside and dumped its contents onto the dung heap.

In his mind, he was at court, his silk robes sweeping the floor, the chain of office heavy around his neck. One nobleman and then another sought him out, asking a favor, spreading rumor, seeing alliance. Urzahil was in his element. He could read the ebb and flow of court intrigue with the skill of a sea captain studying ocean currents.

I always thought this is what I'd be doing when I came of age. I just assumed it would be metaphorical.

It took longer than usual to muck out the stalls, since he hadn't done it in the morning, and it was now later afternoon. When he finished, he carried bucket after bucket of water, then gave each of the horses an extra measure of oats, to make up for neglecting them this morning.

A big auburn stallion rubbed its broad forehead against his chest, either affectionate or itchy, it was hard to tell with horses. Normally that was something Urzahil liked, but today he wasn't in the mood.

"Yeah, right. I feed you, I water you, I shovel your poop, you should be grateful."

-o-o-o-o-o-

He'd been up later, his eyes were closing. When he was finished, he picked up his satchel and climbed the ladder to the hayloft for a few hours sleep before he began his shift in the tavern. The heavy satchel bumped against his hip with each rung, the noise woke the pigeons in the rafters, who stirred with a soft cooing and flapping of wings.

His head cleared the platform, and he froze. The hay was thinner near the edge of the loft, and piled up higher further back.

What if someone had seen his belongings, and realized he was living here? Or worse, found the purse with his tuition money in it? He sprinted across the loft and clawed through the hay in the corner where the ceiling was low. There were his clothes, and the school essays he had been saving. He kept digging. His fingers brushed the leather bag, fat with coins. He scooped it up and held it against his chest until his pulse returned to normal.

Urzahil emptied the leather pouch into his hand and counted the money. Tuition for the second term was due in three days. He didn't have quite enough, but he was only short by a little; two days' worth of tips on a good night, or five days on an average night.

What would bring someone up here? An amorous encounter? Ick. More likely, they just needed some hay. This was the hayloft, after all. He had no reason to think that anyone who worked in the stables was a thief, but he no longer felt comfortable leaving his money in the loft, unguarded.

What to do? He could hide it inside the feed bin, but he wasn't the only one who took grain from it to feed the horses. Sometimes a traveler low on funds who'd carry water and shovel manure in exchange for bed and board.

Urzahil hung his purse on his belt, but it had gotten so fat and round, it would show through the fabric. He put it in his coat pocket instead. He would hide his coat under the bar near the cash box where it would be safe.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil crossed the Inn yard and pushed open the door under the Sign of the Boiling Frog, jingling the door chimes as he came in. The Innkeeper stood behind the bar, rinsing tankards.

"Yule's almost here, we're going to be busy tonight. Set up some extra trestle tables in the middle of the room."

Urzahil nodded, and hung his coat on the peg near the door. He put on his apron, brought the trestle tables up from the root cellar and set them up in the middle of the common room, then brought up the long benches that went with them. He carried a keg up from the cellar, and set out extra tankards.

The dinner rush began in earnest. Urzahil took drink orders, carried heavy trays, and fetched extra loaves of bread. He set twelve tankards in front of twelve customers seated the length of one of the trestle tables.

"I didn't want the pale ale, I wanted the dark, my friend wanted the pale."

The man spoke politely, but Urzahil could tell he was exasperated. Urzahil couldn't keep making mistakes, it would cost him tips. Right now, he needed every copper. He reached over to switch the two tankards. One slipped through his fingers and struck the table, splashing ale on the scarred wood. Urzahil was lucky the whole thing hadn't tipped over.

Later in the kitchen, when he was scraping plates into the slops bucket, he looked around to make sure he was unobserved, then lifted a slice of bread and a chicken leg from a dirty plate for his own supper. Getting something to eat should help wake him up.

The Boiling Frog was busy that night, and Urzahil earned as much in tips as he ever had. One more night like this, or two more ordinary nights, and he could walk into the registrar's office with his bag of coins and register for the second term.

After closing, when all the chairs were empty and the pegs by the door were bare, Urzahil washed tankards and lined them up on the bar to dry. He took off his apron, upended the chairs on the tables, and swept the floors. For the first time all evening, he had a quiet moment to think. The tips were good tonight, but what if the next two nights were slow? What if he didn't make his tuition? He hated to think about that. He could ask Allard for a loan, but Allard was a careful businessman and tight with his money.

If he absolutely had to, he could take a coin or two from the cash box. Maybe it wouldn't really be stealing if he paid it back as soon as he could. But he couldn't get caught; he needed this job for next term, both for the tips and the meals. And Allard has always been kind to him, looking the other way when he took a piece of bread from a plate going back to the kitchen and slipped it into his pocket for tomorrow's breakfast, even though it took something away from the hogs.

He stepped behind the bar to look at the cash box. It was a heavy iron casket with a lid, bolted to the floor behind the bar, unlocked during business hours. Right now, it was locked up for the night. Something was wrong. His coat wasn't beside the cash box. He looked up and down the length of the bar. Maybe Allard had moved it when he locked the cash box.

"Urzahil, can you break down the trestle tables?" the Innkeeper shouted from the kitchen.

Almost the same words as when Urzahil came in that afternoon, right after he took off his coat and hung it on the peg by the door.

Urzahil looked at the door. The row of pegs was empty. There was a roaring in his ears, and he clutched the counter for balance. Maybe it had been taken by mistake, and would be returned tomorrow. Unlikely. But even if his coat were still on the peg, the coins might still be gone. Anyone coming through the door could have seen the bulge in the pocket. He slapped his forehead and cursed himself.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!", but it didn't make it any better.

He walked home, hugging himself for warmth. It was a small thing, considering his other troubles, but he couldn't afford to lose a coat with winter coming on, and he didn't have any money for a new one.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Tuition was due in two days. If he didn't pay it, he wouldn't be in school next term. He considered his options. He could ask Lady Lintoron again, but even if she had the money, he wasn't on speaking terms with her right now.

Urzahil considered from whom he might borrow the money. He could only think of one person, Tar-Castamir. Tar-Castamir wasn't the wealthiest man in the Haven, that would be Tar-Marös, or possibly a merchant prince like Tûlmir's father, but Tar-Castamir had been his father's closest friend, and Urzahil had known him since childhood.

Urzahil rehearsed what he would say. He was asking for a loan, not a gift. He would only asking for exactly what he needed for tuition, not a copper more, and considered the terms of repayment to propose.

He went to the Castamiri house and knocked on the door.

While he waited on the doorstep, he imagined being shown to Tar-Castamir's study, and being invited to sit, and making small talk until the servant who poured the tea left the room, and it was time to bring up the reason for his visit. His mouth was dry. He hated being here. He didn't think Tar-Castamir would refuse him the loan, but he was deeply ashamed that he had to ask.

There were footsteps inside the house, and a servant opened the door.

"Please tell Tar-Castamir that Urzahil of the house of Lintoron wishes to see him."

"I'm sorry, Tar-Castamir's been at sea for two weeks. He'll be back for the Yule banquet he hosts every year." The servant closed the door. The sound of his footsteps inside the house faded and disappeared. Urzahil stood on the doorstep, uncertain what to do next.

The Castamiri Yule banquet was always held on the first day of Yule. That was one day after the deadline to pay tuition had passed.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil left the house and went back the way he'd come to avoid passing in front of his old house. Before he reached the safety of the square, his youngest brother Êruhil ran into him coming the other way. Urzahil kept his head down and picked up the pace, hoping Êruhil wouldn't see him.

"Urzahil, wait!" His brother's eyes were filled with pity.

Urzahil knew he looked bad; he was thin, his clothes were worn, and his hands were chapped from drawing water for the horses in the cold.

"Here, take this." Êruhil held out a few coins, the whole of his childish allowance. Urzahil refused but thanked him profusely, moved and embarrassed at the same time.

These last few weeks, Urzahil had only thought of himself. Êruhil, who was just a little boy, had serious troubles of his own. He'd lost his father only six weeks ago, and since then, the family had been plunged into a desperate situation. Urzahil missed him and wished he could move back home.

-o-o-o-o-o-

It was the last day of exams, and the last possible day to pay tuition and enroll in Second Term.

The sky was clear that morning, as it often was when the days got shorter. It would be cold tonight, there might even be a hard frost on the ground by morning. Winter was coming, and he couldn't go on sleeping in the loft much longer. He hugged himself to stay warm, and hurried towards the University for an exam on Númenorian History.

Caldûr collected their essays and dismissed the class, saying, "Enjoy your time off during Yule, and I'll see you all for History of Umbar next term."

The class was in a holiday mood, talking and laughing as they headed for the door.

Urzahil gathered up his books, reluctant to go. He wasn't coming back next term. He looked around, trying to commit every detail of this room to memory: the water-stained ceiling, the maps on the wall, the broken bench in the back row. Finally he hoisted the strap of his satchel over his shoulder and got up to go. His classmates had already gone. He hadn't said goodbye to anyone, he just wanted to slip away unseen.

He'd gone the length of the corridor and almost made it to the outer door when Caldûr caught up with him and put a hand on his arm.

"We need to talk. Will you join me for coffee?"

Urzahil allowed himself to be steered towards the Philosopher's Stone. It was warm inside, and it smelled of coffee and baking. They sat on the benches built into the wall, a low table in front of them. A serving maid came over, and Caldûr gave her his order.

"I'll have a coffee. Oh, and can you bring me a honey pastry too?"

"Nothing for me," said Urzahil. His stomach cramped with hunger. Whenever he saved a piece of bread from the Boiling Frog while scraping dishes after the evening meal, he ate it for breakfast, leaving nothing to eat at midday.

The serving maid came back and set the tiny cup and the triangular pastry with green nuts in front of Caldûr. Urzahil's stomach growled; he jammed an elbow into his side to stifle the sound, hoping his teacher hadn't heard.

"I can't eat all of this by myself. Will you help me?" Without waiting for an answer, Caldûr cut the pastry down the middle and put half in front of Urzahil. They ate in silence for a few minutes before his teacher turned to face him.

"What did you want to talk about?" Urzahil said, his voice carefully neutral.

"You haven't register for Second Term. I know how much you like going to school, and how much you want to be a scholar afterwards."

Urzahil looked away to avoid Caldûr's eyes. "I decided to get an early start on the rest of my life. I want to join the diplomatic service."

Caldûr slammed down the tiny cup so hard, the sludge-like coffee slopped on the table.

"You left school after one term, before you secured a position? Don't you realize it's almost impossible to enter the diplomatic service without completing University? Do you have any idea how stupid that was?"

Urzahil turned away. The smoke from the peat fire made his eyes sting, and he wiped them with the back of his hand. Outside, the clouds were low and grey, heavy with snow.

When he looked back, Caldûr was staring at the hole in the knee of his leggings. Urzahil crossed his legs to hide it, but he couldn't hide that his clothes were faded and threadbare, and that his hair needed cutting.

"Is this about money, then? I understand the pressure to work for wages rather than sit in a classroom. I know there are costs to going to school, even if your tuition is waived."

"I know, there's also room and board." Urzahil wished Caldûr would drop the subject.

"It's not just that, I was thinking of the lost wages. On the docks, a boy of fifteen or sixteen can earn as much as a grown man. My family really needed the money I could have earned, but every morning, I gathered up my books and went to school, and when I came home, I studied.

"I was the oldest of seven. We lived in a cottage with two rooms. A space walled off at one end served as my parents' bedroom. The baby's cradle was in there, too. The rest of us, and whatever relatives were staying with us at the time, lived and slept in a large room that was also the kitchen.

"It was noisy and crowded, and sometimes it was hard to concentrate. I used to sit at the table with my books around me, writing my assignments with someone chopping vegetables across from me, the younger kids fighting over a slingshot, and the dog barking." Caldûr looked off in the distance, smiling.

"Sometime, when there was money for oil, I'd light the lamp and stay up after all the others had gone to sleep. That was my favorite time to study, it was quiet, and the yellow lamplight washed over a dozen blanket-covered kids on their straw pallets. It kept the others awake, so I was only allowed to do it during exams at the end of term.

"We barely had enough for food, there wasn't a single copper left over for tuition, I couldn't have gone to University if they hadn't waived my fees.

"Go to the Head of the University and ask for help. Do it now, you have only a few hours before school closes for the Yule break."

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil ran back to the University. The front door was still unlocked, but there were very few people around.

He leaned against the doorjamb of the Head's office, out of breath from running. After a minute, he straightened up and knocked. An aide opened the door and ushered him into the study of the Head of the University. The Head himself came in a moment later. He invited Urzahil to sit down on the far side of the massive table he used as a desk.

"I need help. My father died, and until the estate is settled, I'm without funds. I wanted to ask that my tuition be waived on the basis of hardship."

"I'd like to help you, Urzahil, but you don't have the grades for a waiver," the Head sat with his fingers tented.

Urzahil's hands balled into fists.

"Two of my teachers recommended me, Sindarin and History of Númenor. I began the term with excellent grades; it was only after I started working two jobs that my grades slipped. If my tuition were forgiven, I could focus on my studies again and do as well as I did early in the term."

"Most of the charity students have jobs, sometimes more than one. They still maintain excellent grades. But even if you had the grades, hardship waivers are traditionally for the sons of farmers and dockworkers who couldn't go to school otherwise, not the sons of wealthy noblemen momentarily strapped for cash."

Urzahil didn't want to reveal more, but unless he accepted charity, he'd have to leave school.

"I'm not a wealthy nobleman, I'm a poor relation. When my father died, I had to leave his house. I'm eating out of rubbish bins and sleeping in a barn. If you waived my tuition, my wages at the tavern would be enough for room and board at a lodgings house. I could have a desk, and an oil lamp to read by."

His face burned. He felt like an artist's model who had just undone the last fastener and let the smock drop to the floor.

"I have a confession of my own. Normally, a student in your circumstances with recommendations from two instructors would have been approved without question, but right now, we just don't have the money.

"The University is dependent on gifts from wealthy patrons and bequests in wills. We haven't received any this term, so we can't buy books for the library, maintain the buildings or grounds, or take on any new charity students. I'm sorry."

Urzahil nodded. Politeness required that he say, "That's all right" or "I understand", but the words stuck in his throat and he stumbled out of the room without saying anything.