Free Ghost Claws by Jonathan Moeller Page B

feet.
    Corvalis and Caina both stood, and Caina…changed.
    There was no other word to describe the process. She opened her eyes a little wider, parted her lips, stood to emphasize her hips and chest. The tension, the poise of a trained fighter, drained from her. Anyone looking at her would only see a wealthy merchant’s petulant, spoiled daughter. Years ago I had sent her to learn the arts of disguise from Theodosia, the leading lady of the Grand Imperial Opera, and she had learned them well.
    Sometimes she could even fool me. 
    Corvalis merely scowled, which made him look even more threatening. 
    We headed into the Anshani camp. I put on my best expression of imperious annoyance, walking with the dignified stride of a prosperous merchant of middle years. Anshani warriors scowled at me as I passed, and a few shot ogling glances at Caina. They were anjars, the lowest rank of Anshani noble, those with wealth enough to equip themselves with horse and armor. They wore coats of scale armor and spiked helmets, flowing crimson cloaks hanging from their shoulders, swords at their belts and spears in their hands. 
    Four of them stood in a circle around a dead man.
    The man lay in the high grass behind a tent, his body spattered with blood. He wore only a pair of trousers, and deep gashes marked his chest, belly, and face. Both his eyes stared sightlessly at the cloudless blue sky, his mouth open in a silent scream.
    “You. Merchant,” said one of the anjars in Anshani. “Be gone. This is not your concern.”
    “I say,” I said, “what has happened? All this screaming has disturbed my daughter.”
    Right on cue, Caina leaned against me, her blue eyes filling with tears. 
    “Please, sir,” she said in Anshani with a heavy Nighmarian accent, “all the screaming…I am ever so frightened.”
    The anjar’s expression softened somewhat. “This is Kamahd.” He gestured at the dead man. “I fear he was slain by a grass lion. They are numerous on the plains, and prey upon travelers.”
    “Oh, gods,” whispered Caina, staring at the corpse. “The lions will kill us all.” 
    “Fear not,” said the anjar. “The grass lions prefer lone travelers, and Kamahd must have been foolish enough to leave the camp.” He tugged at his cloak, and I saw a mantle fashioned of lion skin hanging over his shoulders. “And you are well-protected, my lady. For I have slain three lions with my own hands. They are fierce beasts, and it takes a fearless hunter to bring them down.” 
    “You must,” said Caina, eyes wide, “you must have been very brave.”
    He puffed up a bit at that. I was amused how easily Caina had disarmed his suspicions. “The Shahenshah’s warriors fear nothing, my lady. In fact, I…”
    “Thank you, noble anjar,” I said. “We have no wish to distract you further from your duties.”
    I turned to go, Caina on my arm, Corvalis trailing after us.
    “Well?” I said, once we were out of earshot.
    “No lion killed that man,” said Caina. “Kamahd was murdered.” 
    “I agree,” said Corvalis. “If a lion took him, he wouldn’t be in one piece.”
    He was observant. A point in his favor. Not as observant as Caina, but few people were. 
    “An Anshani grass lion drags its kill into the deep grass to eat it,” said Caina. “It wouldn’t have left Kamahd’s corpse there. And those gashes weren’t deep enough to come from a lion. It looks like someone hit him with a spiked mace.” She frowned for a moment. “Probably two or three blows to the head to drive him to his knees, and then the rest at his chest. The angle of the cuts suggest that the blows came from above.” 
    “So,” I said. “Murder.”
    Corvalis shrugged. “Probably an argument over a whore or a gambling debt.”
    “Perhaps,” I said, “but the Anshani are obsessed with honor. If another anjar killed him, there would have been a formal duel by now.”
    “Anshani can be dishonorable, too,” said Corvalis.
    “True,” said