Frays In The Weave 38 Warmongering: 2

"I mean," Mairild started, "that your precious little propaganda gem has vanished. Harbend de Garak is no longer in Verd."

Glarien blanched at her choice of words. Good for him. They were true.

"We don't know where," she continued. So, that wasn't the answer he wanted. "I don't know where." So, there it was. The spy master of Verd had not the slightest idea where the figurehead of Keen's first caravan to Braka in a hundred years had gone. She didn't care. Anyone caught up in Minister de Verd's games were probably better of gone. Anyone caught up in hers as well, she admitted ruefully.

"That is unfortunate," Glarien said after a while. "Still salvageable though."

You would use that expression. How I hate being right about some people! "If you say so. Trade is your area of expertise" If you could turn a corpse into money I'm certain you would know where to make the best profit. Oh, almost forgot, you already did!

She had known he was a master merchant when they elected him to take the seat of Commerce. She just hadn't calculated just how ruthless he was when money was involved.

His last idea of good business took the prize though.

Small temples and shrines in the capital were hidden away for more than a lifeyear. Sometimes behind store fronts selling trinkets you had to be a believer to recognize. Now they had all opened up for the public again. With a new G.o.d staring down at them at nights not even the Holy Inquisition were stupid enough to go on a slaughtering rampage. They would remember, and doc.u.ment, and eventually arrest and execute, but that would be long years into the future.

And enter Glarien de Verd, Minister of Commerce. He auctioned out the rights to bury the unknown dead to the temples. That made it officially sanctioned. Priests and monks of most every kind who eightdays ago had been delivering their services in secret were suddenly best friends with the traders of death. With a war looming the greedy monsters had even sanctioned a new house dedicated to the new trade.

Not all priests were friends with the traders though. Whenever one from Chach was found, Magehunting usually never even had a chance to get a squadron there before he was lynched.

Mairild suspected they weren't in a hurry. She suspected Minister de Gelven knew about that, and that he silently agreed. She kept those suspicions close to heart. She agreed as well.

The Midland church. They stabbed at Keen's very heart. In so doing they had caused misery and death, and they had almost broken the only person she still hoped was a friend of hers. Something in Trindai was still broken.

She hoped it would heal after he had done what needed being done.

Give me any pretext, Minister de Saiden had asked. He had received it. General de Markand was already marching south with the North Gate Regiment. Gelven and Krante would supply their regiments.

Dagd and Roadbreak had received message by farwriter. Two companies from each town were on their way to reinforce the city watch in Verd. A full regiments worth of professional soldiers. Ha.s.selden had responded to their message by sending two of their finest to Krante.

Trindai, he trained his recruits. More arrived by the day. Olvar de Saiden ruthlessly marched any arriving refugee strong enough and healthy enough straight into one of the new units he was setting up.

And of course several fled the city. Mairild didn't even want to think about how the outworlders handled that problem around the sky port. And they had new problems of their own if the news Tenanrild sent her were correct.

#

Harbend rode east. The day before he had stolen the horse. Bought it, really, but the farmer didn't want the money. He accepted the coins, twice the value of the horse, at sword point. That made it theft, or robbery? Harbend didn't care. He didn't care about much any longer.

Throat still raw from screaming he had searched for his uncle some days after Gring's message. Or an eightday, memories of time came dizzy to Harbend. He vaguely recalled being told Uncle Garak had been killed during the riots. He'd find out who had done it, but not now.

He distinctly remembered sending couriers to Ha.s.selden to find a mindwalker.

In a port, or anywhere where ships made to, there was always someone who could be bought to find anything you looked for, even a mindwalker and even with the Inquisition around. Maybe not in Ha.s.selden, but in the countryside, or even across the inland sea. Somewhere close to Ha.s.selden at least one hid away, and he'd sent enough money to find him, or her. One who could reach Khanati, or reach one who could reach Khanati.

He needed Khar Escha for the next step, and to take that step he also needed to leave Keen behind him. Anywhere east of Roadbreak would do. Anywhere the Inquisition didn't come looking for him.

Escha could find him with the help of a mindwalker. He had done so when they rescued Arthur. Half a year ago? Less? It mattered little. It had worked then. It would work again. Escha would find him, and then they would find Gring, wherever she was, and jump there. Then he would kill those who had killed Nakora and then he would kill their families and then he would kill those who had paid those who had killed her and then he would kill their families, and friends, and the families of the friends.

To do that he needed Escha, because only Escha had the power to jump anywhere, anytime No jump towers, no mage sending a temporary receiving beacon. Escha could jump directly to where Gring was, and then Harbend could begin killing. Gring would help him. He had felt her fury when she told him what had happened.

He understood he was hating, and he understood that he was barely sane, and he didn't care. He fed from his hate. It kept him going, or since yesterday, riding.

Somewhere, deep inside of him, a remnant of the man he once had been called vainly for attention. It tried to tell him that Nakora wouldn't have wanted this, that she wanted him to love, as they had loved.

Harbend pushed that man deeper into the darkness of his soul. For now he only needed his hate, and so he rode on. East.