He would be nineteen in midsummer, three weeks before Mienthe’s birthday, and the year after that he would turn twenty, and then he would go home. Mienthe didn’t like to think about that. She was almost certain his father would never let Erich come back to Feierabiand, and almost as certain that her cousin Bertaud, reluctant as he was to leave the Delta, would never again find it necessary to visit Casmantium.
She could ask Bertaud whether she might accompany the king’s household when King Iaor left Tiefenauer. Erich would like that—she would like that. Or she thought she would. She ought to. Bertaud might let her go, even if he refused to leave the Delta himself. She wanted to ask him for permission—or at least, she felt as though she ought to want to ask him. But somehow the idea of joining the king’s progress didn’t exactly feel right. Mienthe had wanted so badly to go north just a day or so ago, but now she just didn’t. Neither feeling made any sense!
Probably it was just the spring making her so restless. Probably it was watching the swallows dip and whirl through the sky and fly north, toward the higher country where they nested.
She found that she welcomed the distraction that her cousin’s astonishing new guest had brought. She even found herself at once disposed to like him—even though she’d seen him only during that first strained interview, and even though he had clearly not wanted her there. She’d liked him and been glad he’d made it safely to the great house, for all he’d seemed to bring an echo of violence and fear with him. And of course, it had been fortunate he’d come to the Delta, since he’d found the king so much faster than if he’d gone to Tihannad.
Tan had an air of having lived, of having been out in the world. She liked that, even given just the little glimpse she’d had of him. She’d liked the slightly mocking quirk to his mouth when he’d said, I have a good memory. She had admired the way he’d spoken with such confidence to the king and to her cousin, even though he was clearly exhausted and maybe even a little frightened.
She would never have guessed, if she’d seen him in town, that he was actually Feierabianden. He looked pure Linularinan. No doubt that had been very helpful to him in his… profession. One expected Casmantian people to be broad-boned and clever with their hands; some of the artisans in town were Casmantian and one could spot them a mile away and by torchlight, as the saying went. The folk of Linularinum weren’t quite so distinctive, but they were born with contract law and an inclination for poetry in their blood to go along with their straight brown hair and their prim expressions. That was what people said. There were plenty of people with mixed blood along the river, especially in the Delta, but Tan didn’t look like he’d been born of mixed blood. In fact, he looked exactly like Mienthe’s idea of a Linularinan legist, except not as old and stiff as most legists. And friendlier. And, oddly, less secretive.
Well, again, that was probably because he was a spy. He could probably look friendly and openhearted and honest no matter what he was thinking or feeling. Probably seeming sincere was part of being a confidential agent. You seemed ordinary and normal and people told you things. That wasn’t very nice. Probably Mienthe should be cautious of trusting him. But she didn’t feel cautious. She felt concerned. They said Tan had written out all the information he’d brought and then collapsed in exhaustion. He’d been either asleep or unconscious for two days now, which could happen when somebody overused his gift. Nevertheless, Mienthe felt strongly that she should go look in on him, make sure he was well. That was foolish. She’d already looked in several times this very day, once this very afternoon. Of course he was perfectly well.
Nevertheless, she found herself wandering restlessly toward his room, even though she had no real business to take her in that direction.
“Mie!” said Erich as she passed the kitchens—of course he had been in the kitchens—and swung out the door to stride along beside her. He handed her a sweet roll, wrapped in paper to keep the honey and butter from dripping onto the floor. “Where are you going?”
Mienthe hesitated.
“To see if the spy is awake,” Erich said cheerfully. “Yes, I thought so. You should let me come.”
“I ought to ask one of my maids to come,” Mienthe muttered. “I meant to, Erich, truly, but Karin wasn’t handy just now.”
“And Emnis might worry and fuss,” Erich said comfortably. “So she might. I will go with you. Wait a little and I will get a plate of sweet rolls. Nobody would be surprised if you brought the spy some rolls.” His voice was deeper and somehow grittier than it had been even last year, which was when his voice had finally broken. His slight accent seemed to have become a little more pronounced with that change.