Chapter 206

I finished making breakfast, checked on Nyssira, and stepped back to Kingsward.

I left Iolite at home. If I needed her, I could call. Especially now that I'd finally experimented with the threads connecting me to my family.

A short walk brought me to the gates of Fenwick Estate, the guards, and the steward.

“Lord Grimm,” the steward. “This is Master Hawke. Lady Fenwick has offered his services to answer your questions, though she reiterates there are to be no disruptions.”

He bowed with practiced dignity. “I leave you in his capable hands. Should you require anything, please let me know.”

Then he departed.

Master Hawke looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties. Weathered rather than old. Broad shoulders sat atop a lean frame forged through decades of work rather than battle. He stood nearly Ashlara's height - perhaps six foot one or six foot two - though time had stolen a little from his posture.

His iron-gray hair hung slightly too long around his ears and collar. A short beard framed his jaw, neatly trimmed but not meticulously maintained.

Practicality defined him. Gray tunic. Dark breeches with more pockets than seemed strictly necessary. A dark purple wool coat with reinforced elbows and an ink stain on the right cuff. Sturdy boots. A satchel slung over one shoulder.

His Faith burned blue with compassion, rigid lines of silver threading through it like roads crossing a vast landscape.

“Master Hawke,” I greeted, offering my hand.

He shook it firmly. “Lord Grimm. It isn't often the governess offers someone a look into the inner workings of our operation. How may I be of service?”

I wasn't sure how much Fenwick had told him, but starting our relationship with a lie seemed unlikely to help.

“Let's walk,” I said. “You can show me around.”

“Certainly.”

We started down one of the estate's winding paths.

“I'm curious about what you've built here,” I said. “It sounds like you help a great many people.” I smiled. “I'm told you oversee transportation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How do you ensure people actually reach their destinations?”

“Correspondence and word of mouth.” His answer came immediately. “We work with established caravans. Captains we trust. Teamsters we've known for years. We speak with them when they return. The governess requires letters of confirmation from employers. Follow-up visits when practical.”

He glanced toward me. “We account for every person.”

We passed a gardener trimming a hedge.

“Morning, Bren.”

The gardener looked up and smiled. “Morning, Master Hawke.”

The exchange lasted barely a second, yet it carried the familiarity of two men who'd known each other for years.

Ahead, Lake Aurel glittered beneath the morning sun.

The private pier stretched into the water where a single-masted vessel rested against the docks. Fifty feet or so in length. Twice as large as most of the boats I'd seen on Earth - sturdy enough to handle the lake.

Several people worked nearby.

“Those traveling to Morentis, Caldris, or Iilvarion often depart by ship,” Hawke explained.

He raised a hand toward one of the men. “Ready to go, Syrron?”

The fellow was utterly unremarkable. Late thirties. Receding hairline. Average height. Average build. The sort of man you'd forget five minutes after meeting him. Yet Hawke clearly knew him.

“Yes, sir,” Syrron replied with a nervous smile. “Thanks again for this chance. I'd never a found work in Iilvarion on my own.”

“We're happy to help.” Hawke's smile was warm and genuine.

“When you arrive, one of Batuun's people should meet you. If they're delayed, stay with Captain Joruun until they arrive. He'll see that you reach your destination safely.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come,” Hawke said. “Let's meet the captain.”

The three of us made our way down the pier.

The crew had just finished securing the vessel. They all shared the olive skin, dark hair, and dark eyes common among the horse lords of Iilvarion.

One man vaulted over the rail and landed lightly on the dock. “Master Hawke.”

“Captain Joruun.”

The two men shook hands.

Hawke reached into his satchel and produced a packet of papers. “Everything should be in order.” He handed them over.

“Syrron, this is Captain Joruun. Any questions, concerns, or problems, he's your man.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The captain turned. “Temurak!”

One of the sailors looked up.

“Help Syrron aboard. Get him settled.”

Then he clapped Syrron on the shoulder. “You'll be aboard for a few days, son. Best start finding your sea legs.”

“Yes, sir.” Syrron hurried off after the sailor.

“Lord Grimm,” Hawke said, “this is Captain Joruun. I'm giving him a tour of our operation.”

The captain raised an eyebrow. “Can't say I've ever seen Aldren give a tour before.” Then his gaze settled on me.

A grin spread across his face. “Say... you wouldn't happen to be a Hearth-Brother of the Red Steppe, would you?”

Hawke looked between us in confusion.

I smiled. “That's what I'm told.”

Joruun slapped his hands together and barked a laugh. “Wait till I tell the lads back home!”

He pointed at me. “I've heard all about you! Hell, when my cousin Nomin came home from the war, that squirrelly husband of hers couldn't shut up about you. Thought the man had a crush on you!”

“That's Jackob,” I laughed. “It's great meeting some of Nomin's family. I've known her for years and somehow still know almost nothing about her.”

“That's because she doesn't tell anybody anything.”

We both laughed.

“Have you met Altara yet?” I asked.

“I haven't. Work's kept me busy. Hoping to visit in the spring.”

“Good plan. Tark's getting huge.”

“I bet.” The captain grinned. “Little tike’s a spitfire like his mother.”

“That he is.”

I offered my hand again. “It was good meeting you, Captain. I won't keep you from your work.”

“Safe travels, Lord Grimm.”

“Safe voyage.”

The captain sprang back aboard with surprising agility. Then he turned toward his crew. “Lads! You know who that is?”

Every head turned.

“Seth Grimm! Hearth-Brother of the Red Steppe! Hero of the Second Silent War!”

The ship immediately erupted into excited chatter.

I shook my head and smiled. Then turned back toward Hawke.

“Shall we continue?”

* * *

From the pier, we made our way into Kingsward, where Hawke maintained an office.

We passed the old boathouse along the way.

He never looked at it. He didn't avoid it. Didn't consciously turn his head or steer his gaze elsewhere. Standing to my left, it simply never entered his field of view.

I wasn't sure what to make of that. Part of me expected a guilty man to notice it. To glance toward it without meaning to. To subconsciously check on the place where he'd hidden something.

But I wasn't a criminal psychologist. For all I knew, that only happened in television dramas.

As we walked, we talked.

About the number of people moving through the program. About housing shortages. Employment opportunities. The current state of Kingsward and the troubles facing the region.

Hawke had an exceptional memory for people. Not names on paper. People.

He greeted nearly everyone we passed by name. Asked after their children. Remembered illnesses, jobs, and family troubles. Not ‘How's your wife?’ but ‘How's Helen doing? Is her leg healing properly?’ Not ‘How are the kids?’ but ‘Did Marla ever decide whether she's taking that apprenticeship?’

And when people answered, he listened. Actually listened.

Everyone seemed happy to see him. The smiles weren't forced. The conversations weren't cautious. People stopped to talk because they wanted to. Because they trusted him. Because they liked him.

And that made everything more complicated.

No one saw him as a villain. Not a single person. Which made me wonder if maybe it wasn't him. Maybe the problem was farther down the chain. Someone handling placements. Someone updating records. Someone taking advantage of a system built by people who genuinely wanted to help.

An operation this large had to involve dozens of people. More if you counted the caravan masters, ship captains, employers, and local contacts.

Dozens of opportunities for someone to manipulate records. Dozens of places where things could go wrong.

Hawke's office sat near the docks. Three modest rooms - well maintained but practical. A waiting area and workspace for his secretary. His office. And a locked records room.

Accessible. Central. Positioned where people could easily reach him.

It looked less like a government office and more like the headquarters of a man who solved problems.

“Who has access to the records room?” I asked.

“Lady Fenwick and myself.”

“That's all?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered.

“You ever loan the key out? Let your secretary file something?”

“No, sir.” The answer came immediately. “I'm the only one who goes in or out.”

“Are these the only copies of the records?”

He shook his head. “No, sir. Lady Fenwick maintains duplicates at the estate. All placement records are stored both here and there.”

“Nowhere else?”

He hesitated - just for a moment. “No, sir. Just here and there.”

A lie.

“I'd like to see the placement records from the last month.”

Another hesitation. Then, “Of course.”

He stood, unlocked the records room, and disappeared inside. A minute later he returned carrying a ledger. He locked the door behind him and set the book on the desk between us.

I slid it toward myself and opened it. “What makes someone unsuitable?” I asked absently.

“Sir?”

“What makes someone unsuitable for the program?”

“Most people aren't unsuitable.” His voice remained steady. “Usually it means there isn't an appropriate placement available. Certain medical needs. Behavioral concerns. Criminal histories. Things that make placement difficult.”

I turned the page. “Where do redirected people go?”

This time the pause was longer. “To groups that specialize in difficult placements.”

“Which groups?”

“It depends on the case.” His fingers folded together. “We work with several organizations. Houses of healing. Settlement programs. Shipping guilds.”

I found the name I was looking for - G. Holt.

I turned the ledger around and tapped the entry. “Tell me about this one.”

Hawke's eyes settled on the page. His reply came slowly. “Young man. No surviving family. Had difficulty maintaining employment. Several incidents involving violence. No successful placements.”

“Says he arrived in Stormwall.” I looked up. “Did you verify that?”

“No.” His jaw tightened. “Not personally.”

He paused. “Mister Holt exhausted the options available to us. We had no family to place him with. No employer willing to take him. Several communities declined him outright.”

Another pause, longer this time. “We referred him to another organization.”

“Which organization?”

He sighed. “The Covenant of Mercy.”

His eyes lifted to mine. Watching. Measuring. Trying to gauge how much I knew.

I gave him nothing. No reaction. No accusation. No triumph. Just silence.

“Lord Grimm...” he said cautiously. “Why did you ask about Mister Holt?”

I closed the ledger. “I spoke with Lady Fenwick.”

His expression didn't change, but his shoulders stiffened.

“She told me she declined the Covenant's offer. She didn't trust them.” I met his gaze. “So it makes me wonder why the man she trusts more than anyone else would go behind her back and use an organization she rejected.”

I let the silence hang. “And not only that.” My voice softened. “Why he would cover it up.”

The color drained from his face. For several long moments he said nothing. His eyes dropped to the desk. Not the ledger - the desk. Someplace safe. As though the battle unfolding in his mind was too heavy to meet head-on.

When he finally looked up again, his voice was low. “Because she would have said no.”

The words seemed to hurt coming out. He actually flinched.

“She saw risk where I saw opportunity.” His voice strengthened - not angry, defensive. “She believes caution protects people. I believe sometimes caution leaves them with nowhere to go.”

He stood and began pacing. “Mister Holt had nowhere.” His hand clenched. “No family. No work. No community willing to take him.”

He stopped. “What was I supposed to do?”

For a moment I wasn't sure whether he was arguing with me or himself. Maybe both.

The worst part was that I didn't think Hawke knew what the Covenant really was. I didn't think he understood what he'd helped facilitate. Telling him might break him.

Taking this to Fenwick might break her.

The entire situation felt like a collection of decent people trying to do the right thing and getting taken for a ride.

But it couldn't continue. Not when so many people stood to be hurt.

“How many others didn't receive follow-up confirmations?” I asked quietly.

His pacing stopped.

“How many others moved outside the system?” I held his gaze. “How many others disappeared?”

I chose my words carefully. Not ‘How many did you fail?’ 'How many were failed?’

It was a subtle distinction - one I'd learned years ago managing projects.

Something always went wrong. Always. Pointing fingers rarely fixed anything. Finding the problem did. Fixing the problem did. Learning from it did.

But this wasn't about budgets. Or timelines. Or lost revenue.

These were people. Actual people. And as much as I wanted a villain I could punch, I also understood what was at stake.

This operation mattered. It helped people. Hundreds of them. If it collapsed overnight, the people who suffered wouldn't be Hawke. Or Fenwick.

It would be the people who relied on them. The people with nowhere else to go.

Hawke stopped in front of the window and stared out across Lake Aurel. “The Covenant has helped hundreds.” His voice sounded fragile. “But I never received confirmation for Mister Holt.”

A long pause. “Or the others.” His shoulders sagged.

I exhaled slowly through my nose. “It stops now.”

He didn't turn around.

“You break every outstanding agreement with them.”

Silence.

“Every scheduled relocation.”

Still silence.

“You cut them off completely.”

I stood. “And you never work with them again.”

I walked toward the door.

Behind me, Hawke spoke. “What will you tell the governess?”

My hand settled on the handle. “That depends,” I said, “on how well you follow directions.”