Wrath of Lions by David Dalglish, Robert J. Duperre Page B

and the king came to beg favors of
him
, not the other way around.
    He glanced sidelong at Moira as they strolled along the streets of the city, the soles of their boots clicking on the slate that lined the walk. Superb buildings crafted of stone, clay, and wood roseup around them—shops, lodges, and warehouses that reflected the light of the moon and cast a pale bluish glow over her features. Though not as exquisite as Rachida, Moira was still quite beautiful in the statuesque Crestwell way, her flowing silver-white hair complementing the soft tone of her flesh. She was more than half a century old, but she looked only slightly older than Matthew, a byproduct of the First Families blood that ran in her veins. Feminine and thin, yet exuding quiet strength, she was strangely resplendent in her mannish tight black leather blouse and leggings. Her crystalline blue gaze was intoxicating. The only blemish on her otherwise perfect skin was a thin scar that ran behind her right ear and circled around the back of her head. She told him the injury had been given to her by her sister Avila, without explaining the particulars.
    Not that Matthew required the details. He knew of her exile from her family, knew she’d taken up residence in Haven prior to its destruction at the hand of Karak. It was his business to know these things, especially as it had been Matthew’s boats that had ferried Karak’s weapons from the stoves of Felwood to the Omnmount staging grounds.
    That fact had made for an uncomfortable irony when the surviving citizens of Haven came to him for help. They’d arrived by sea, on rafts and ferries owned by Peytr Gemcroft. The quest had been Peytr’s idea, the merchant being one of the few residents of Haven who had left Neldar by his own choice, seeking to mine the valuable jewels and minerals that hid beneath the delta’s marshy soil. The two merchants had grown close over the last decade, and Matthew respected much about the other man, his eccentricities and sexual appetites notwithstanding. So when Peytr had shown up at his doorstep, pleading to use the walls surrounding Port Lancaster to hide his reviled, exhausted people, Matthew had surprised himself by agreeing.
    He’d sheltered them for as long as he could, until the tides of war began to flow too close to his doorstep. Then it was time to sendthe survivors west to the Isles of Gold aboard his clippers
Twilight
and
Karak’s Wind
, while Peytr and Rachida had taken their closest confidants aboard the
Free Catherine
. The Isles was an uninhabited archipelago off the coast of Ashhur’s Paradise that he’d discovered during his teen years. Ashhur’s children had not claimed the various islands, which hopefully meant that Karak would not think to search there when he stormed through the west.
    They approached his estate, a four-story mansion that was the tallest building in Port Lancaster, with a turret that climbed high enough to overlook the wall surrounding the city. His six escorts ushered him up the front walk and into the foyer, where his maids, Ursula, Penetta, and Lori, awaited. The young women gestured for Moira to join them. One held a bottle of saffron and a wineskin; another, a small crate filled with squid dyes.
    “Your transformation begins now,” Matthew told Moira. She nodded her head to him and accompanied his maids down the corridor, heading for the opposite end of the estate.
    “What’re they doing, boss?” asked Bren, the head of his household guard. Bren was a rough and fiercely loyal man, his huge biceps and skill with a sword more than making up for what he lacked upstairs. He leaned against the foyer’s bookcase, tapping his fingers on the wood.
    “Making her look like anything but a Crestwell,” he said.
    “Why go through the trouble? Why not send her off with the queer and his wife?”
    Matthew grinned. “Collateral.”
    Bren tilted his head, confused.
    “Peytr’s well has run dry,” Matthew continued. “He could not