Wrath of Lions

CHAPTER 5

“Good-bye, my love, you will be missed,” said Rachida Gemcroft, the most beautiful woman that Matthew Brennan, the richest man in Port Lancaster, had ever laid eyes on.

“As will you,” Moira, the exiled daughter of House Crestwell, said softly. “I will carry you in my heart always.”

The very pregnant Rachida eased aside a stray filament of Moira’s silver hair and then leaned forward. The women’s lips met and lingered for a long moment. Their arms were wrapped around each other’s waists, locking them in a lover’s embrace. When their lips finally did part, Moira was crying. Matthew stared at them dumbly, aroused by the display.

The night was cool as they stood atop the bobbing pier in Port Lancaster. Beside them was the dinghy set to carry Rachida and her husband to Matthew’s galley, the Free Catherine, which waited out in the harbor, her sails withdrawn, her forty oars raised. Peytr Gemcroft stood by on the dinghy, tapping his foot impatiently while the women said their good-byes.

“Let’s go, Rachida,” said Peytr. “It’s getting cold, and I don’t wish to linger.”

Rachida glared at her husband, her lips drawn down in a frown, and then brought her eyes back to Moira.

“Take care of yourself,” she said.

Moira touched the pregnant woman’s stomach. “I will. Don’t worry about me. Our child will not grow up without his second mother.”

“Enough,” said Peytr. “The galley awaits.”

Rachida placed one final kiss on Moira’s forehead, paused to give Matthew a curtsey, and then Peytr helped her climb down from the pier and into the awaiting boat. Her back was to them as the high merchant rowed out into the gradually undulating water of Port Lancaster’s inlet.

Matthew stepped to the edge of the pier, and Moira sidled in close as the dinghy became small and then smaller in the distance.

“Will they be all right?” she asked, her voice quiet, the question asked as if no answer were truly wanted.

“They’ll be fine,” said Matthew. “So far as I know-and I know much-the Free Catherine is the only fighting ship in all Dezrel. The deck is equipped with nine spitfires, and I assigned twenty of my most loyal men to the crew. They’re all experts with a sword as well. Should they find trouble once they make landfall on the Isles of Gold, your friends will be in good hands.”

“It’s not trouble on land that worries me.…”

“Pshaw,” said Matthew, throwing out his arm as if presenting the sea to her as a gift. “I own these waters. The Free Catherine is the finest ship you’ll ever lay eyes on. My father laid waste to any brigands who looted our clippers, and I’ve carried on that legacy. If there’s a sailor on this sea who’s worth his salt, it’s because I trained him. Karak has no army on these waters. Rachida and Peytr will be safe, I promise you. Only the Quellan elves possess ships that come close to ours, and the pointy-ears have no horse in this race.”

Moira stared after the fading ship, a frown on her face.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

Matthew laughed.

“By Karak, you are pessimistic.”

She passed him a spiteful glance.

“Fuck Karak,” she said.

Mist rolled in over the water, swallowing dinghy and galley alike. Moonlight turned the mist into a solid wall of glowing white.

“Well, show’s over,” Matthew said, ignoring Moira’s blasphemous words as he steered her away from the ocean and led her down the pier to join his entourage. Six hard men escorted them through the quayside and into the heart of Port Lancaster proper.

Port Lancaster was the third-oldest settlement in all of Neldar, founded in the fourteenth year of man by Matthew’s great-grandfather, Lancaster Brennan. It had begun as a quaint township, a mere thirty men and women Lancaster’s age who had scoffed at the authority of the Wardens and struck out on their own. Leaving Erznia, they had settled far south along the shores of the Thulon Ocean. It was said that Lancaster had only felt comfortable when he could hear the crash of waves or feel the sting of the salty breeze on his cheeks.

Though the settlement had humble beginnings, a short eighty years later, it had become a bustling city, the most advanced in all of Neldar. Matthew; his father, Elbert; his grandfather Ansel-and, of course, Lancaster before him-had used the great wealth and resources they’d collected over the decades to create a shipping empire. The ocean and rivers of Neldar were Matthew’s domain, and no consignment could be sent across the waters without using his ships. He was the highest of merchants, 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 rose up 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 send the 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 offer me payment, so he gave me her instead. When all of this is over, and Peytr makes good on the land he promised, she’ll be sent back to them.”

“You took her as collateral? You got a wife; you got whores. Why’s that tiny tart worth risking so much? Karak finds out you harbored them, and he’ll rub you out. He might rub the whole city out.”

“You worry too much,” said Matthew, shaking his head and slapping Bren’s shoulder. “Karak won’t know. We transport our Divinity’s goods up and down the Rigon at the expense of our other trade. He has no reason to doubt us.” He displayed his most confident grin. “And trust me, sooner or later you will find out just how much Moira is worth.”

“Like at the meeting tonight?”

Matthew nodded.

“If you say so, boss.”

“I do.”

Bren accepted his words, just as he always did. It was a good thing the man had no talent for reading body language, because Matthew was unable to stop the nervous clenching and unclenching of his fists. It wasn’t that he was being untruthful. He truly believed that Karak would never discover his role in helping the Haven survivors flee to safety. His heart was hammering in his chest for a different reason. What worried him was the meeting Bren had referenced, which was to take place later that evening, after the taverns had emptied and the city slept.

He bade his men goodnight and slipped up the stairwell, stopping to peer into his bedchambers on the third story. His wife, Catherine, was fast asleep in their giant bed, a single torch filling the room with faint light. His five children slept with her, sprawled out on the feather mattress, pictures of innocence in their slumber. His eyes lingered for a long moment on Ryan, his youngest and only male child. The two-year-old was tucked into his mother’s arms, lips puckered just below Catherine’s exposed nipple. The boy was his crowning achievement, the eventual heir to his fortune. Satisfied, Matthew shut the door and proceeded to his solarium on the top floor.

A fire was already burning when he stepped inside. Though Port Lancaster was far south and the true cold of winter never reached them, the night air held a distinct chill nonetheless. He poured himself two fingers of strong brandy and took a seat in his cushioned straight-backed chair, resting his legs on a footstool. The heat from the fire before him illuminated the giant sword that hung above the hearth. He sat quietly, sipping the bitter brew and soaking in the warmth of the fire. Matthew had been born of summer. Sun and warmth made him feel alive the same way the cold made him lethargic and uninspired. It was one reason he loathed his frequent visits to Veldaren, with its gray skies and cool clime.

The greater reason, though, was the Conningtons, the brothers with whom he was set to meet in two hours.

Two hours. He closed his eyes and leaned back, listening to the beat of his heart in his ears. His fingers crept into his pocket, touching the note hidden within. They asked for this, he told himself. And you need it. Your people are starving, and they’ve promised you food. If the brothers meant you harm, they would have just sent someone to assassinate you.

True, his inner contrarian stated. Yet they have tried before and failed. What if this is a new plan for them to be rid of you?

Matthew chuckled. Well, Moira can help with that, can’t she?

The brandy did its work, and he fell into an uneasy sleep, only to be awakened from an ill-omened dream by the creak of the solarium door. He jerked with a start and instinctually grabbed the dagger off the table beside him. The fire in the hearth had barely died down, which meant he couldn’t have been out for more than an hour. He peered across the room, past the shelves of historical tomes given to his father by the best minds in Neldar and the Quellan elves, past his display cases of stuffed oddities found at sea, until his eyes came to rest on the noblewoman standing in the light of the doorway. Her purple gown was long-sleeved and high-necked, and her bodice had been pulled tight, making her small breasts swell, bringing attention to the moonstone pendant between them. Her hair was deep brown and had been cut short, exposing the scar on the back of her neck, and her face had been painted rosy at the cheeks and light blue above her sea-glass eyes. Her thin lips were twisted into a despairing frown.

“It’s time,” Moira said.

“Is it? I should’ve known, considering how pretty my girls have made you.”

“Don’t mock me. This is horrendous.”

Matthew laughed. “You look wonderful, my dear. Much more a lady now than before.”

She glanced down at herself in contempt. “It is not me.”

“Get used to it, because if you are to hide in plain sight, this is who you’ll have to be.” He rose from his chair, tucked the dagger in his belt, and approached. “Is everything ready?”

“I saw the dimwit downstairs. He was pacing and muttering.”

“Good.”

He took hold of her hand. She flinched at first, averting her eyes from his as she brought her free arm up to cover her cleavage.

“Don’t worry, Moira,” he whispered. “You’re here to protect me, not be my concubine.”

“I know, it is just…” she began.

“You are uncomfortable. I know. Trust me, so am I.”

They exited the solarium and descended the stairs, where they found Bren pacing in front of the estate’s front entrance. The bodyguard glanced up at them and frowned.

“We shouldn’t do this,” Bren said. “Not like this, anyway. It’s not smart. We need more people.”

Matthew shook his head. “No, it has to be like this. ‘Three and no more, lest our agreement be broken.’ Those were the terms. I signed off on them.”

“Your funeral.”

“Don’t look so distraught, Bren. If they kill me, you can sell yourself to the highest bidder. Just think, this might be your chance to see just how much you’re worth on the open market.”

Bren muttered a reply under his breath that Matthew couldn’t hear. Moira sighed and rolled her eyes.

As they traversed through the darkened city with but a single lantern to light their way, Matthew couldn’t help but wish that he actually felt as flippant about this meeting as he was acting. Beneath his self-assured exterior lingered the feelings of doubt he couldn’t quite extinguish. He wrapped his fingers around his dagger’s grip and held it tight, wishing the curved and wickedly sharp steel would infuse him with its cold assurance. With each twist and turn they made, his fear grew. By the time they entered a pitch-black alley cutting between two warehouses in Port Lancaster’s fish-packing district, it was near suffocating.

And then a voice called out from above.

“Hey, Brennan, shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

Before they could react, dark shapes fell from the rooftops on all sides.

“Those bastards,” Matthew muttered. “They can’t play fair, can they?”

Moira’s slender fingers wrapped around his, pulling him out of the alley. Five men stepped into the moonlight, clothed in tattered deerhide, each holding a dirk. They smiled as they approached, and Matthew could see mostly toothless grins emerge from beneath unkempt beards. Bren drew his longsword and waved it before him, shouting for the men to desist.

Without so much as pausing, two of them leapt forward, swinging wildly with their dirks. Bren caught their attack head on, his steel clanking with theirs, the noise of the colliding swords deafening in the night’s dead quiet.

The two attackers pressed onward, forcing Bren farther down the street. Beneath the frightened chatter of his own teeth, Matthew heard his bodyguard yowl in pain. The other three men continued to advance on him and Moira from the opposite side. Matthew took a deep breath, trying to steel his nerves. His hand slipped out of Moira’s, and he moved to charge with his dagger.

Moira grabbed his shirt from behind with more strength than she looked to have, yanking him back until he struck the wall, knocking the breath out of him. The dagger fell from his hand, clinking off the slate walk. Moira fell to her knees, blocking their way.

“Please, sirs,” she said, her voice high pitched and fearful, like a child’s. “Please leave my love alone. I’ll do anything, anything, but please don’t hurt him.”

The men halted, looking from one to the other. Finally one stepped forward, fixing Matthew with a mocking stare.

“What, Brennan, got yerself a whore to beg for you? That what you’re into now?”

The men fell into a fit of laughter. Matthew wanted to scream at them, but his voice was trapped in his throat.

Moira shuffled forward on her knees while Bren continued his fight somewhere off to the side.

“Please, sirs, I’ll do anything,” she said. She was close to the one in front, and her hands reached out, clawing for the drawstrings on his ragged breeches. The man gazed down at her, his expression uncertain. He glanced from one of his partners to the other, and an expectant look crossed his filthy mug. “Anything,” she said again, giving the string a tug.

“Lookit this,” he said, laughing to his partners as his breeches came loose and slid down his hips. The arm holding his dirk slackened, and he lifted his gaze to Matthew. “The whore’s eager.”

Moira yanked the man’s undershorts halfway down his thighs, then whipped aside her dress. Matthew caught a glint of steel as she shot upward, her hands moving so quick they were blurs in the moonlight. A wicked shortsword appeared from beneath the folds of fabric and lace, and she drove the blade into the man’s groin. The screech that left his mouth was so loud that it could have shattered glass. Moira bounced to her feet and kicked him, yanking the sword from his nethers with a wet plop. Blood streamed into the air as he fell.

The remaining two gawked at their fallen companion, their jaws slack with disbelief. Moira turned on one, slicing upward with her blade. The man reacted too late, failing to parry with his dirk. The tip caught him under the chin, and he stumbled as he tried with his free hand to staunch the blood pouring from his throat. The other attacker leapt at Moira from behind as she bore down on her injured foe. Matthew tried to shout for her to look out, but his voice was faint. His heart raced out of control as he snatched the dagger from the ground and rushed forward, hoping to reach the unseen assailant before he buried his dirk in Moira’s back.

His efforts proved needless. Moira plunged her sword in the chest of the fallen man, lifted her dress with both hands, and spun away in a blur of whirling cloth. Her would-be attacker passed through the space where she’d been standing only a moment before, tripping over his own feet and falling face first to the street, his dirk scattering across the stone cobbles. A crunch followed as his remaining teeth struck stone, and the man wailed in pain. Moira stopped twirling and looked down at the man before turning to Matthew with cold eyes.

“Finish him,” she said, and then she was off again, pulling another sword from beneath her flowing dress and sprinting down the road, where Bren continued his clash with the two remaining attackers.

Matthew slowly approached the prone man, who moaned and flailed as he searched for his weapon. Matthew kicked the dirk, and it clattered away. He planted a boot in the man’s side and rolled him onto his back. The face that stared up at him had been destroyed, the teeth nothing but bloody stumps beneath a nose that lay flat against the man’s left cheek. Matthew straddled him and sat down hard on his chest, pinning his arms down with his knees. He heard a cry in the distance, followed by another, and he knew neither belonged to his companions.

He finally found his voice.

“Who sent you?” he asked. “Was it Romeo? Cleo?”

The man issued a pained laugh. “Fuck…off,” he said.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Matthew said, leaning in close enough to smell the man’s rank, liquor-infused breath. “Tell me now, and your death will be quick.”

The man leered up at him.

“It will, huh?” he asked.

The man’s leg shot up, catching Matthew in the ass. He pitched forward, freeing his opponent’s right hand. The man reached for his side and the knife sheathed there. Panicking, Matthew stabbed without thought or hesitation. His dagger plunged into the assassin’s throat, all the way up to the hilt. The man’s body began to shake as he stared up at Matthew with bulging eyes. Blood spurted from the gaping second mouth created by the dagger, and then he fell still.

Moira and Bren were by his side in moments. Moira’s dress was splashed with blood, but she looked otherwise unhurt, but Bren’s left arm was bleeding. Matthew watched silently as Moira tore her other sword from the chest of the man she’d killed and searched all of the attackers’ pockets, finding nothing but a small sack filled with silver coins embossed with the fish and hook of Matthew’s own house. She handed the sack to him. Matthew sat there for a long while, surveying the five corpses spread out before him, and bounced the clinking pouch in his palm.

The bastards had been paid with his own coin.

“Who were they, boss?” asked Bren, panting.

Rather than answering, Matthew hurled the pouch as hard as he could. It opened, spilling the silvers down the street.

“Waste of good coin,” Bren muttered.

“Shut up,” Moira whispered.

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Bren. “Boss, what’s the next move?”

Lurching to his feet, Matthew flattened out his blood-streaked clothes, took a deep breath, and then began marching down the road. Bren and Moira fell in behind him. He walked with purpose now that they were so close to their destination. He kept the bloody dagger firmly in hand as he went, constantly on the lookout for more who might wish to do them harm.

He took the path preordained by the letter in his pocket, moving through the fish-packing district, until he reached Rat Harbor, the poorest area of Port Lancaster. Whereas the streets were empty in the more civilized part of town, a few roustabouts still lingered in the streets of the Harbor. Drunk women staggered down alleys-haggard prostitutes who were useless now that nearly all the men had left the city. Matthew grinned viciously. All who saw their small, bloody crew gave them a wide berth. The only ones who didn’t were the young ladies who were already sprawled out on the ground, unconscious.

His destination came into view, an abandoned theater at the far end of Rat Harbor. Hard men, strangers to his city, guarded the entrance. They stood and drew their weapons when Matthew, Bren, and Moira approached, but then let them pass without a word of protest.

Matthew didn’t knock, instead shoving the door open with all his might. The heavy oak panel swung inward, crashing against the wall. Matthew hurried through, his protectors on his heels, walking into a wide room packed with tables and chairs. A sill filled with alcohol rested against the far wall, and casks of mead and wine were everywhere. The clamor of conversation ceased, as those inside, armed men just like those who guarded the door, turned their attention to the newcomers. They rose from their seats, every hand reaching for a weapon.

“Sit down, everyone,” a familiar singsong voice called out. “Don’t be rude. These are our guests.”

The men grumbled to one another and then retook their seats. Matthew stepped between them, head swiveling, seeking out the ones who’d requested his presence.

“Connington!” he shouted, fingers gripping his dagger so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Get the fuck out here and face me.”

“There’s no need for rudeness, Matthew,” that singsong voice said once more.

Moira grabbed his elbow, and Matthew turned toward the sound of the voice. From behind the curtain hanging along the rear wall of the tavern emerged two plump, bald men, the powder on their skin rendering them pale beyond death. Cleo and Romeo Connington wore draping frocks of crimson and gold, and their chubby fingers were adorned with expensive rings, each set with a differently colored gem. They were outlandish and horrific at the same time, and their high-pitched and melodic voices only heightened the impression. Matthew breathed deeply through his nose, trying to keep his wits against the assault of too much lilac perfume.

Romeo, the elder brother, tilted his head in a curious manner. “Why are your weapons drawn, Matthew? Do you wish to murder us?”

“Perhaps.”

“And to aid you in this endeavor,” said Cleo, the younger, “you bring a man with a wounded arm and a pretty lass with a sword. Forgive me if I am not impressed with your…um, army.”

“We only brought what you told us to,” Matthew shot back.

Romeo stepped forward, holding his hands out in supplication.

“Come now, Matthew,” he said. “Let us not be rash. You were summoned here in good faith.”

“Good faith,” Matthew growled. “Promises of food for a city in dire need of it. And you use that to try to kill me on the road.”

The brothers exchanged a look.

“That explains the blood,” Cleo said, shrugging.

Romeo approached him. “May I?” he said, lifting his frock to show he was unarmed. “Matthew, please think on what you say. If we wished to kill you, why wouldn’t we make the attempt now, when you are surrounded by dozens of our armed men? Honestly, if you believe we are behind the attempt on your life, I’m stunned that you would come here. Of course,” he snickered, “you did bring protection.”

“If not you, then who?” asked Moira, joining Matthew at his side.

Cleo’s smile grew all the wider-and more sickening.

“Could it be?” he asked. “Is this the lost Crestwell? We thought you had perished back in the delta. My dear Moira, you look absolutely ravishing. That hair color is quite fetching on you.”

“Yes,” added Romeo. “The Crestwell silver is…unsavory. Too shiny, too straight, too unseemly for a person of dignity.” He ran a hand over his own waxed and powdered head. “Hence our own decision to remain bald.”

“Dignity?” scoffed Moira. “What would you know of that word?”

“Not much, it is true,” said Cleo. “But you cannot censure us for trying.”

Matthew threw his hands up. “Enough of this!” he said. “Answer the question. If you did not try to kill me, then who did?”

Romeo’s expression darkened. “I don’t know, and frankly I don’t care. Affairs in this city are your business, Matthew. Perhaps you should tighten security and keep a more zealous eye on those closest to you. To cast blame on us is an insult.”

“Don’t feign indignation, Romeo. You’ve attempted to kill and discredit me before.”

“That is true,” said Cleo with a sigh. “We certainly have had our differences, but the world has changed.”

Matthew gritted his teeth. “How so?”

The brothers exchanged a glance, then Romeo stepped back, pushing aside the curtain from which they’d appeared. “I think some things are best discussed in private. If you would…”

Cleo stepped through the curtain. Matthew hesitated for a moment, then looked at his companions. His bodyguard shrugged, mouth dipping into a frown, while Moira scowled. All Matthew felt was confusion.

“Very well,” he said, and waved his two protectors onward.

Romeo held out a hand, halting him. “I said private. You and you alone.”

“Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of them.”

“Is that so?” He peered at Bren. “Our long-lost Crestwell I can trust, but what of the brute? Is he faithful?”

“He pays me well to be,” answered Bren.

“It’s none of your business, but he is,” Matthew said.

“It is my business, Matthew.” Romeo sighed. “However, it seems you are intent on being stubborn, and I don’t wish for this to go on all night. The three of you can come in.”

The room behind the curtain had sagging ceilings and stunk of mold. In the past mummers had used this very room to practice their lines, perfecting the illusion they would then present to the theater crowd. The brothers gestured to the round table at the center of the room, and everyone sat down. Matthew was a mess; his blood still pumped from the failed assassination, and he could not come to grips with the fact that the Conningtons had yet to play their hand. At any moment he expected one of them to pull out a crossbow and drive a dart into his chest.

Romeo and Cleo sat across from them, reapplying powder to their faces as the newcomers watched. Matthew waited, counting his breaths, while Moira spun the handle of her shortsword and Bren nervously rapped his fingers on the table. Blood from the bodyguard’s injured arm dripped to the floor.

Finally, Romeo put down his compact and lifted his eyes to his guests.

“I hope you are satisfied with this show of good faith,” he said. “We are in this room unarmed, whereas each of you carries a weapon. If you wished, you could cut us down in seconds…though our men would run you through when they found out. Do you believe now that we did not try to kill you tonight?”

“We’ll see,” Matthew grumbled. “Talk.”

“You asked for an explanation, so here it is,” he said. “These are trying times, Matthew. As I said, the world has changed.”

“Things change all the time,” Matthew said. “Like when you took over your family business.”

“Such harsh words,” said Cleo with a grimace. “True, but harsh. However, our ascension to power brought about a decade of expansion and profit for both our families, no matter the…er, disagreements between us. This new change, on the other hand, has not been lucrative for those of our ilk. In fact, it could very well mean the end of everything we’ve worked for.”

Matthew leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table. Moira mirrored him.

“I have a question for you, Matthew,” said Romeo. “In the six months since the attack on Haven, have your profits increased or decreased?”

“Why?”

“Humor us.”

“Of course they’ve lessened,” he replied, rubbing his forehead. “The realm prepares for war. It is to be expected.”

Cleo smirked. “Ah, Matthew, how very partisan of you. The sacrifices you make in the name of your god are truly admirable.”

It was impossible to ignore his sarcasm.

“Yet answer me this,” added Romeo. “Did these ‘sacrifices’ begin after the attack or before our beloved deity returned from his extended sojourn?”

Matthew thought on it a moment. His frayed nerves began to knit back together, a sense of looming dread taking its place.

“Before,” he answered. “The conscription has been going on for more than a year.”

“Oh, yes,” said Cleo, clapping his hands together. “He is beginning to see, Brother! Now tell me this, Matthew; do you love Karak?”

“Well, yes,” he said, hesitant. “Without him, we would not have all we do.”

Moira laughed from beside him.

“Have you ever met Karak?” asked Romeo.

Matthew shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Of course not. He left Neldar before I was born.”

“Yet he has since returned, has he not? Has he not come calling on you in this city, which is perhaps the greatest in the realm? When it came time for the war against his brother, did he ever formally request your services?”

“Of course not. He is a god, and my duty to him is preordained.”

The brothers glanced at each other and sighed.

Cleo switched his focus to the lithe woman with the sword. “Tell me, dearest Moira, what does Karak preach to his children? What is the greatest wisdom our loving god bestowed on his flock? You were a member of the First Families. Though your dislike for Karak is plain and you are obviously no longer ageless, surely that wisdom hasn’t left you.”

“All mankind is free to live their lives as they choose, but they must make their own way, build their own wealth, and claim responsibility for their own actions,” Moira spoke.

Matthew’s frustration grew with each additional sentence of vague innuendo. He lifted his hand, drawing all eyes to him.

“What does this have to do with anything?” he asked. “Did you really ask me to come here secretly, to make myself vulnerable without my full guard, to discuss religion? I thought this was about business.”

“Directness!” shouted Cleo with glee. “Our lovely Matthew is learning!”

“Very well,” said Romeo. He took a deep breath and continued: “Despite this talk of Karak and war, my first question to you was the most important. I will give you the honor of peeking inside the thing that matters most to us-our coffers. Since this whole sordid affair began, our well has run dry. The three armories we operate are being overseen by Karak’s young acolytes, and every ounce of steel is being molded into whatever our lovely deity’s army needs. Whereas once the kingdom-not to mention my fellow merchants-paid handsomely for our products, our smiths are now working day and night without pay. Yet we, the captains of industry, must surely receive compensation for all the resources we offer, correct?”

“Wrong!” said Cleo, picking up where his brother left off. “We who have kept the kingdom running for the last fifty years are left to suffer as our laborers and products are taken from us in the name of war. Our pockets have been emptied, yet our people have needs. Homes are in need of repair, levees are in need of advancement, ships require patching, and many of the people under our care require medicine. These goods are running low.”

“Are you telling me you have no hidden reserves?” said Matthew with a laugh. “You two don’t strike me as the sort who go unprepared.”

Romeo nodded. “Our people in Riverrun and Felwood are hardly starving, but with each passing day, the reserves we do have become ever sparser, and since most of our current laborers are womenfolk who have little experience tilling fields or raising the side of a barn, we will not be able to keep up with demand for long.” He grinned. “You know this as well as I, Matthew, for we walked through Port Lancaster on our way here. Your people, your women, are starving in the streets.”

Matthew grimaced.

“And it won’t get better, dear Matthew,” said Cleo. “This war has yet to even begin, and look how much it has cost us. Once the fighting starts, who knows how long it will last? One year? Five? Ten? And we, the most capable of all Neldar, will bear the brunt of keeping the people fed and clothed and alive. Karak will take and take until we have no more to give, and then what? When the war is over, and it is time to rebuild our nation, we will be decimated. There will be others who wish to take what we once had, and we will be in no position to stop them. If you think that unrealistic, consider the brigands who are even now running about the country. They already take what they want outside our townships. What happens when they realize we are too weak to defend ourselves?”

Matthew wrung his hands together. “What you say might be true, is true, but what are we to do about it?”

A sly grin came over Cleo’s face, but it was Romeo who answered.

“We must ensure that Karak doesn’t win,” he said.

Moira laughed aloud as Matthew pushed himself away from the table in shock.

“What?” he exclaimed.

“We are resourceful people,” Cleo said with a shrug. “In this time of strife we must set aside our differences and bond together to face a common enemy…who unfortunately happens to be our god. If we do, we just might retain the lives we have built for ourselves when all has been said and done.”

“Karak will kill us for this blasphemy,” Matthew muttered.

“Blasphemy? I think not,” said Romeo. “What we propose is directly in line with what Karak preaches. His laws are clear as day. Do not kill without reason. Do not murder the unborn. Do not take what is not yours. Do not defile the temple of worship. Do not turn away from Karak. What we will be doing is adhering to those principles, not breaking them. Yes, he would kill us if he discovered our plans, but it is certainly not blasphemy.”

“And if anyone has broken those decrees,” Cleo added, “it is Karak himself. He has turned away from his own teachings by stripping us of the freedom he promised. If his temple is his law, then he has defiled it. He is in the wrong, not us.”

Matthew dropped his head, took a deep breath. “So this is why we meet at night. You two might not have tried to kill me on the way here, but what you ask is little different. To do this, to work against our deity, would mean signing my own death warrant.”

Romeo shrugged. “Could be. But then, we would be doing the same, would we not? The fewer who know, the better.”

It seemed so surreal. Matthew couldn’t get over the fear that he was being played, that somewhere in the room was a mystical object sending his every word and action back to his deity. But even though he knew not to trust the Conningtons, their every word made sense. Had he been younger and more devout, he would have left the moment they began their profane tirade, but as a high merchant and unquestioned ruler of Port Lancaster, he owed it to his people see if there were an opportunity here.

“What is your plan?” he asked.

“Weapons,” said Romeo.

“Weapons?”

Cleo slapped the table. “Yes, weapons. Our cache is empty in that regard. The acolytes load your boats with the steel we forge.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Two seasons ago you purchased a large reserve of weaponry from us to outfit your sellswords,” said Romeo. “Two thousand swords, battle-axes, lances, mauls-you name it.”

“And?”

“And I assume you still have them. We need them.”

This time it was Matthew’s turn to laugh. “You cannot be serious? You want me to arm your populace with weapons you could very well use against me? And free of charge? Ha!”

“Silly, silly Matthew,” scolded Cleo. “We told you in our letter what our compensation would be. Right at this moment there are sixty carriages filled with grain, vegetables, and salted meats from Omnmount sitting a mile from your city gates, just waiting to hear that the deal is done. And we do not want the steel for us.”

Sixty carriages of grain, vegetables, and salted meats. That amount of food could support the remaining citizens of Port Lancaster for months. Matthew’s eyes widened.

“Ah, the deal is looking better, is it not?” asked Romeo.

He felt lightheaded. “Perhaps. But if the weapons aren’t for you, who are they for?” he asked.

“We have birdies in our god’s army,” Romeo said. “And those birdies have told us that the one who now holds Karak’s ear is wary of Ashhur’s dark-skinned children in Ker. They are physically superior to the rest, perhaps smarter, and certainly more capable. They have been independent of Paradise for some time now, and word has it that our Lord is bent on invading their lands last. The steel is for them.”

The deal was becoming more and more tempting for Matthew. Part of him tried to steer away from acceptance, but the logical part of him, the part that believed in the words of the god more than the god himself, began to sway.

“And you are willing to take this chance?” he asked. “What if Karak discovers us?”

“The way things are going, we are dead men already,” said Romeo with a shrug. “If our time is about to end, we might as well go out trying to do something to stop it.”

Matthew sat back, chin cupped in his hand. He was so deep in thought that he barely felt the tug on his blood-stained tunic. He turned to see Moira staring at him, concern in her icy blue eyes.

“A word?” she asked.

“Ah, dear Moira wishes to advise her brave Matthew!” exclaimed Cleo.

Bren rolled his eyes. “Shut it,” the burly man said. “I’m in pain, and I don’t need to listen to your squealing voice.”

“Calm yourself, Bren,” said Matthew. He stood from his chair, looked at Moira, and then gestured toward the corner. The slender woman rose to join him.

“What is it?” he asked in a whisper when they were far enough away from the table.

“I am not sure this is such a good idea,” she replied. “You brought me here to protect you, and right now, this is the best protection I can offer. Turn them down. Walk away from here.”

“I’m surprised at you, Moira.”

“Why?”

“You hate Karak more than anybody. I would think you’d be all for their plan.”

“I hate Karak, but I am not stupid,” she said. “Are you sure you can trust these two?”

He shook his head. “Of course not.”

“And yet you’re seriously considering working with them.”

“Strife makes for strange bedfellows. And besides, everything they’ve said makes sense. It’s not as if I haven’t had these very thoughts before tonight, and while I can’t trust them, I can trust their goods. Who am I to turn them away if they can feed this city? What is a cache of weapons worth when your people are dying in the streets from starvation?”

“You intend to accept.”

“I do.”

“Then I hope you’re not being an imbecile.”

He went to grab her shoulder, but she eluded his grasp.

“You don’t know me,” he said, anger churning in his gut. “Remember, you’re my property from now until Peytr pays me back. Disrespect me again, and I’ll have you cleaning the privy nightly.”

With that he swiveled on his heels and marched back toward the brothers. He bit his lip, half expecting a shortsword to plunge through his back and out his sternum. Peering over his shoulder, he met Moira’s cold stare and thanked the gods his harsh words hadn’t been met with a harsh reaction.

Stupid, Matthew. Stupid.

Romeo and Cleo both rose from their seats as he approached. Bren just stared at him, looking pale from blood loss. Romeo stepped around the table.

“Do we have a deal?” he asked. Amazingly enough, the fat man seemed nervous.

“We have a deal,” he answered, and stuck out his hand.

Cleo began clapping in that queer fashion of his while they shook.

“My only question,” said Matthew, “is how I am supposed to get the goods to the people they’re meant for?”

“Fear not,” Romeo said. “We have that covered. On the last night of spring, we shall send a boat to retrieve them. Until then, enjoy the goods we have given you, which is another great show of trust on our part.” He jutted his chin at Bren. “But do not betray us, Matthew, for I’m certain your brute will do little to defend you should we send our master of arms, Quester the Crimson Sword, to collect on your debt.”

“You will get what we discussed,” said Matthew. “When I make a deal, it is final.”

“I know,” Romeo said with a grin. “Which is why we came to you first.”

They released each other’s hands and stepped away. Cleo came up and patted his brother on the shoulder while Bren struggled to rise from his chair. Moira appeared by his side and helped him stand. Matthew hoped his bodyguard hadn’t lost too much blood to recover. Though an oaf, Bren really was the best protection money could buy. He nodded to both of them, and they started for the curtain.

“Oh, dear Matthew, one more thing,” Cleo sang out before they left the room.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Do you still have the monstrosity your great-grandfather crafted for Karak when the Mount Hailen armory first opened?”

“The sword? Yes, I have it still. Why do you ask?”

“We wish to include that huge blade in our deal. If it would please you, of course. You can pack it in the crates with the others.”

Matthew shrugged.

“Fine. It’s an eyesore anyway. But why?”

Romeo laughed. “Let us say we intend it as a gift for a giant.”