Chapter 200

Obviously, the first thing we checked that morning was the boathouse.

We arrived shortly after dawn. The eastern sky burned with streaks of orange and pink, lighting the few remaining storm clouds from below. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries carrying across the water on a cool breeze drifting in from the lake.

The shoreline was rocky - a mix of polished gravel, larger stones, and thick tree roots that twisted down toward the water. Zebra mussels clung stubbornly to the larger rocks and the weathered pilings of the nearby dock.

The waves surprised me.

I'd expected a lake. Instead, Lake Aurel behaved more like an inland sea.

The water rolled steadily against the shore in long, rhythmic swells. They weren't towering ocean waves, but they were far larger than I would've thought possible. Some rose nearly four feet before breaking against the rocks and throwing fine mist into the air.

A green film coated the stones along the waterline, constantly churned by the motion of the lake.

There were few reeds here. Instead, tough grasses sought shelter among the pines, spruce, and fir growing near the shore. The trees never became dense enough to block access to the water and gradually thinned farther inland, giving way to the rolling farmland beyond.

The boathouse itself wasn't particularly large, but it had clearly seen better days. The boards were weathered and silver with age, but the structure remained sturdy enough to survive most storms the lake could throw at it.

Iolite slipped off her dress, sank into the earth, and vanished beneath the building. A few moments later the door swung open from the inside.

By the time I stepped through the doorway, she was already pulling her dress back on.

Inside I found exactly what I'd expected. Fishing nets. Oars. Boat hooks. Rope. Repair tools. Tar buckets. The sort of clutter that accumulated naturally over decades of use.

Most of it looked old. Most of it looked used. All of it looked perfectly ordinary.

At first.

As I looked more carefully, I noticed patches of dried mud covering some areas while others remained surprisingly clean, as though they'd been disturbed recently.

Near the back wall, deep scrape marks scored the floorboards - something heavy had been moved repeatedly. I couldn't tell what.

Beneath a stack of fishing nets sat a large storage chest. Locked.

I summoned my mana and hummed a quiet tune. The lock clicked open.

Inside was a weathered ledger. Dates. Names. Destinations.

I flipped through the pages. The entries seemed mundane enough.

{letter}

Dawnmere 15, 1484 - Elira Venn - Eastwater - Safe

Frostmere 02, 1484 - G. Holt - Stormwall - Redirected

Rainfall 07, 1484 - Joran Hill - Crownreach - Confirmed

Suncrest 27, 1484 - T. Marsh - Three Pines - Arrived

{endletter}

They used the traditional Imperial calendar common throughout Arvellia, Morentis, Caldris, and Esmori. The year - 1484 -supposedly marked the number of years since the First Silent War ended. The year Arthyr died.

Most names appeared only once. A handful repeated.

That ruled out merchants.

These were people. People being moved. Relocated. Sometimes alone. Sometimes in small groups.

The entries weren't daily, but they were frequent enough to suggest an organized operation. The most recent entry was only a few days old.

Nearly every entry ended with some confirmation that the person had arrived safely.

Safe. Confirmed. Arrived. Placed. Redirected.

“The handwriting changes here,” Iolite said.

I looked up. “What?”

She pointed. “The f's and r's.”

I examined the page more closely. I'd been focused on the information, not the penmanship.

But once she pointed it out, the differences became obvious. The letters were similar. Very similar. Close enough that I would've missed them entirely. But they weren't identical. The f's had shorter tails. The r's closed differently. It looked like someone trying to imitate another person's handwriting. And every discrepancy appeared beside the same word.

Redirected.

I frowned. That seemed important.

Only a dozen or so out of several hundred carried the altered handwriting. And every one of those people had been redirected.

The chest held far more than just a ledger.

There were bundles of letters. Maps. Records. Entire stacks of paperwork. Letters of introduction. Employment offers. Apprenticeship agreements. Land grants. Debt forgiveness notices. Lists of contacts.

{letter}

Elira Venn - Widow - placed with sister in Eastwater.
T. Marsh - Apprentice blacksmith - accepted by Master Harl.
J. Kells - Laborer - contract with B. Graves.

{endletter}

There were hundreds of them.

Other letters handled logistics.

{letter}

We can take two laborers before winter.
The Miller family has room for another child.
The apprenticeship remains available.

{endletter}

Mixed among the papers were maps. Western Arvellia. Southern Arvellia. Lake Aurel.

The maps were covered in notes. Locations circled. Others crossed out. Some marked Safe. Others Full. A few labeled Not Recommended.

The entire thing looked less like a smuggling operation and more like a massive relief effort.

Buried beneath everything else were two additional ledgers.

The first tracked expenses. Food. Clothing. Transport. Lodging. Medicine. The sums involved were staggering. Someone had spent an enormous amount of money helping people over the last three years.

The second focused entirely on children. Orphans. Runaways. Abandoned children. Each entry contained ages, descriptions, medical records, placements, and follow-up visits. There were dozens of them.

I sat back and rubbed my chin.

Nothing in these records screamed conspiracy. Nothing suggested slavers. Nothing pointed directly toward the Covenant.

What I found instead was evidence of hundreds of people being fed, clothed, sheltered, and given second chances.

Widows reunited with family. Orphans placed in homes. Apprentices matched with masters. Debts forgiven. Medical care provided.

Whatever operation Lady Fenwick was running, it was enormous. And expensive. The kind of undertaking that consumed years of effort and mountains of coin.

Which only made the handful of redirected names stand out even more.

But what bothered me most wasn't the records themselves - it was where I'd found them.

These weren't stored in an office. They weren't sitting on shelves in a records room. They weren't locked away in a cellar beneath the manor.

They were hidden here.

In an aging boathouse half a mile from the estate. Outside the walls. Outside the household. Outside the place anyone would reasonably expect to find them.

That wasn't where you kept important records. That was where you kept records you didn't want associated with the estate. Or records someone wasn't supposed to know existed.

I stared at the chest for a few moments longer before finally closing the lid. Then I picked up the entire thing and stepped it into my demesne for safekeeping.

When I returned, I dusted off my hands.

It was time to pay Lady Clarissea Fenwick a visit.

* * *

“Good morning, gentlemen,” I said as I approached the gate of the Fenwick estate. “I am Lord Grimm. I'm here to speak with Governorness Fenwick on an urgent matter.”

Unlike the guards at Bram's estate, these men didn't snap to attention. They weren't even wearing armor. Instead, they wore the lady's livery and carried sturdy swords at their hips.

They felt less like guards and more like attendants - gatekeepers in the literal sense. Not there to protect the lady from danger. There to protect her from interruptions.

“What is the nature of your business with Lady Fenwick?” the older of the two asked.

I put him somewhere around fifty. Salt-and-pepper hair. Steel-gray eyes. Broad shoulders earned through decades of labor rather than military training. His skin was weathered from long days in the sun, and his hands were rough with callouses.

Not what I'd expected from a secretary.

The younger man couldn't have been more than nineteen. Thin. Dark-haired. Light brown eyes. He was trying very hard to look stern and professional, but the way his gaze kept flicking toward the older man told me everything I needed to know. It was his first day.

“Private,” I said. “I hoped to discuss it with the lady personally.”

The older guard glanced at his younger counterpart and gave a slight nod.

The young man nearly tripped over his own feet turning around and hurried toward the manor.

A minute later he returned with another man.

A steward. At least, I assumed he was a steward.

He looked to be pushing seventy, yet carried himself with an ease and confidence that made him seem twenty years younger. Wisps of white hair clung stubbornly to his scalp. Sharp eyes peered at me over a pair of spectacles.

One eyebrow lifted as he approached.

“Lord Grimm,” he said, inclining his head politely. “Lady Fenwick's schedule is quite full today. May I ask what this concerns?”

“I'd prefer to discuss that with the Governorness directly.”

He considered me for a moment. “Lady Fenwick is presently occupied. If you'd care to wait, I'll inform her of your arrival.”

As he turned back toward the manor he added, almost as an afterthought, “Lady Fenwick grants an audience to anyone who waits long enough.”

I followed him inside.

The parlor was comfortable without being extravagant. The chairs were soft but practical. Small tables sat beside each one.

Paintings of orchards, fishing boats, and lakeside landscapes decorated the walls in muted colors. Sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows, scattering vibrant patches of color across the room. The effect was oddly beautiful. It looked as though the paintings were borrowing their missing colors from the glass itself.

An expensive rug covered the floor.

Several people were already waiting.

A farmer clutching a stack of documents.

A well-dressed merchant with a leather satchel resting beside his chair.

A fisherman who smelled strongly of the lake and quietly whistled to himself as he rocked back and forth absently.

I took a seat and settled in.

A woman dressed in mourning emerged from deeper in the manor, dabbing at her eyes with a kerchief.

The steward immediately fetched the fisherman.

Another man arrived shortly afterward and was escorted past the parlor without even glancing inside. The smell of healing herbs lingered in his wake.

Time passed.

The farmer was called. The merchant was called.

New visitors arrived. Some were admitted almost immediately. Others waited.

I continued waiting.

After an hour, the steward appeared. “My lady regrets the delay,” he said. Then he vanished again.

Another hour crawled by. By then I'd started to suspect I was being politely ignored.

Then the steward returned. “Lord Grimm,” he said. “Lady Fenwick will see you now.”

There were still people waiting when I rose. That fact actually made me feel better. At least I wasn't being singled out.

The steward led me through the manor and into a bright study overlooking Lake Aurel. The windows stood open despite the chill outside and somehow the room remained warm.

Lady Fenwick sat behind a desk buried beneath paperwork.

A secretary stood nearby reading letters aloud while the lady signed documents and dictated responses.

A half-finished cup of tea sat forgotten among the stacks.

She looked like she'd been working since dawn.

Maturely beautiful. Well dressed but approachable. Ink stained her fingers. A few strands of hair had escaped whatever battle she'd fought to keep them in place.

She looked up when I entered.

“Thank you, Agnes,” she said. “Please give us a moment.”

The secretary gathered her papers and departed.

Once the door closed, Lady Fenwick offered me a tired smile. “Lord Grimm. Thank you for waiting.” Her gaze drifted briefly to the mountain of paperwork covering her desk. “Unfortunately, people insist on having problems.”

“I've noticed,” I replied. “Very inconsiderate of them.”

A faint smile tugged at her lips.

As much as I hated to admit it, I was already starting to like her. She looked exhausted. She looked overworked. And unlike every other noble I'd met, she actually appeared to be doing something.

A large part of me hoped the Covenant was blackmailing her like they had Bram.

She gestured toward a chair.

I sat.

“How long have you lived in Kingsward?” I asked.

“I was born here,” she replied. “Though I studied in Crownreach. I returned after my education when my father passed.”

“My condolences.”

Her smile softened. “That was many years ago.”

I nodded. “You seem busy helping people. How long have you managed these programs?”

“My father started most of them. I simply continued his work.” She folded her hands atop the desk. “He believed nobles were stewards of their people. That we have a responsibility to care for our fellow men.”

“A noble noble,” I said. “I think that's a first for me.”

That earned a quiet laugh.

“You seem to move a lot of people.”

“Some need help,” she told me.

“Sounds expensive.”

“It is,” she confessed.

“That requires a lot of trust.”

“What does?” she asked.

“Moving vulnerable people,” I replied.

“Yes.”

“People disappear in systems like that.”

Her brow furrowed immediately. Not defensively. In concern. “Has someone disappeared?”

That wasn't the reaction I'd expected.

“Do you have a name?” she asked. “A list?”

I hesitated. “Have you heard of the Covenant of Mercy?”

“I've heard of them.”

No lie.

“How?”

She shrugged. “The same way everyone has. They offered assistance.”

“And?”

“I declined.”

Still true. I frowned.

“They never explained where their resources came from,” she continued.

“That was the only reason?”

“It should be enough.” She met my gaze. “Anyone willing to spend that much money without seeking recognition either wants something or is hiding something.”

That was... annoyingly reasonable.

“How many people pass through your network?”

“Three hundred twenty-eight so far this year.” She didn't even need to check. She simply knew.

“And every one reaches their destination?”

She paused. “I certainly hope so.”

That answer caught me off guard. Not a yes. Not of course. I hope so.

“Are you telling me they haven't?” Her voice carried a hint of concern and an edge of suspicion.

“Who oversees transportation?”

“Master Hawke.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Why?”

“And you trust him?”

“I've known him nearly my entire life.” The suspicion finally entered her voice. “What exactly are you insinuating, Lord Grimm?”

I sighed. “I'm investigating Covenant activity in the area. They traffic people. They target the desperate and vulnerable.”

Her expression hardened. “Do you know how many people we've placed in the last three years?” She paused briefly. “Six hundred fifty-five.”

Her voice sharpened. “Do you know how many arrived with nothing?” Another pause. “Five hundred three. Do you know how many children?” She barely paused this time. “One hundred forty-seven.”

She leaned forward. “Do you know how many survived because someone chose to help them?”

She let her question hang in the air between us.

She wasn't defending herself. She was defending them. The people she'd spent years helping.

Slowly, I nodded. “I see.”

I rose from my chair. “I believe I've taken enough of your time.”

I turned toward the door.

“Lord Grimm.”

I stopped.

“If someone is abusing my work to hurt people…” Her voice became very cold. Very precise. “I would appreciate knowing who.”

I nodded and left.