Tan believed it, too. He scrubbed his hands across his face again, then pushed himself to his feet, all his joints complaining, and looked at young Tenned.
“Bath and bed, says my lord,” the guard said earnestly, answering all of Tan’s hopes. “Or supper first, if you like. Whatever you like, esteemed sir.” He gave Tan an uncertain look. “Teras son of Toharas? Or is it, uh, Tan?”
Lord Bertaud lifted an amused eyebrow.
For once, Tan honestly could not think of a single reason to claim a false name. Istierinan’s men knew very well who he was and would not care what name he used. And to the people on this side of the river, it should matter even less. “Tan will do,” he told the young man. “A bath, bed, supper… I can’t think of anything better. You’ll attend me?”
“Yes…” Tenned did not quite seem to know whether he thought this was a better assignment than standing guard in the prison or not.
Tan smiled. “Well, you look strong enough to catch me if I collapse on the stairs rather than making it all the way to that promised bath. Good. Hold high the lamp, then, and light well the path!”
The young man nodded uncertainly, clearly missing the reference. Lord Bertaud, however, caught the allusion. He smiled, though a little grimly.
Tan grinned and declared, “Wishing no one any ill in the world, my lord! Or no one who ought properly to be on this side of the river. By now, Istierinan’s agents will have realized it’s far too late to stop all that”—he waved a vague hand at the growing stack of paper—“from getting out, and away home they’ll go, feathers well ruffled and plucked. Then all good little boys will sleep safe in their beds, which is just as well.” He paused, suddenly realizing that he was speaking far too freely. “Bed,” he muttered. “Yes. Tenned—”
“Esteemed sir,” the young man said, baffled but polite, and held open the door for Tan.
He had, later, only the vaguest memories of the bath or of finding a wide bed swathed in linen and lamb’s wool, in a warm room lit by the ruddy glow of a banked fire and smelling, oddly enough, of honeysuckle. He must have felt himself safe, or else he was exhausted beyond caring, because he sank into the darkness behind the fire’s glow and let the scent of honeysuckle carry him away.
CHAPTER 2
Mienthe had been feeling odd for days: restless and somehow as though she ought to be doing something urgent. But she had no idea what that should be. Before King Iaor had brought his household to Tiefenauer, she had longed to travel north to meet them. She’d longed to leave the Delta, which was not a new feeling, but something was different about it this spring. It seemed both stronger and more urgent this year, and she didn’t know why. She’d expected the feeling to go away after the king arrived. Yet, even after the great house was filled to the roof tiles with Iaor and Niethe and the little princesses and all their attendants—and Erich—the restlessness had lingered. Mienthe didn’t understand it. Usually the best month of the year was the one in which the king and his family and Erich visited the Delta.
Erich had been a stocky, rather small boy of twelve when King Iaor had compelled the King of Casmantium to send him to Feierabiand. As a guarantee of civility between the two countries, Iaor had said. Erich was supposed to stay in Feierabiand for eight years. Mienthe supposed King Iaor thought that was long enough to make his point.
Erich had come to the Delta with Iaor every year since the king had begun making his annual progress through the south of his country, so he and Mienthe had met when they were children. Mienthe had been new to the great house, uncertain of her cousin, shy of strangers, frightened of King Iaor and all his retinue. Erich had been new to Feierabiand, awkward with the language, excruciatingly conscious that he was supposed to honorably represent his father and country, and glad to find one person in the great house he didn’t need to be wary of. They’d become friends at once.
The year after that, during the awful period of Tef’s illness, Bertaud had asked Iaor to send Erich to the Delta, and the king had permitted him to come. Mienthe had been so grateful. Erich had not been at all shocked at Mienthe’s grief for a man who had not even been kin, a man who had been only a servant; indeed, it had been Erich who had persuaded Bertaud to let Mienthe help dig Tef’s grave, even when her hands blistered and bled. She had been so grateful.
Now the eight years of Erich’s residence in Feierabiand were almost past. He was eighteen now. He’d changed a great deal since last year’s visit. Last year, he’d suddenly become taller than Mienthe. But though he’d come into his height, he’d been as angular and ungainly as one of the storks that nested on the rooftops of the town. His hands had seemed too big for his bony wrists and his elbows had stuck out and he banged into the furniture and dropped plates. But this year he seemed to have turned all his growth into brawn. He’d filled out and got some weight on his bones, and he now looked very much the young man and not a boy at all.