Free Ghost Thorns by Jonathan Moeller Page A

release me at once,” said Marcus, his voice a whine. “I am a son of House Orian, and…”
    “Lord Marcus,” said Caina, keeping her Szaldic accent in place. “It grieves me to see you so distressed.”
    Marcus looked her up and down, his lip curled with contempt. That was as Caina expected. She wore a brilliant gold gown with black trim, jewels upon her throat and ears and fingers, and too much makeup. She looked exactly like a wealthy merchant’s young mistress, a commoner with more money and beauty than brains and sense. 
    “Master Anton has me thrown out of his establishment,” said Marcus, “and sends his mistress to calm me down?”
    “Anton’s mistress I may be,” said Caina, “but I did not just make a scene in front of the richest merchants of Malarae, no?”
    That deflated him. “Well…yes, that was rather…beneath the dignity of a lord of the Empire, yes, but…” He made a fist, and the footmen tensed, but Marcus only slammed his hand against his leg. “But no one will listen to me! My father is going to kill them, and no one will believe me.” He slumped. “No one will listen.”
    “I am listening,” said Caina.
    Marcus gave a bitter laugh. “What good will that do?”
    “You might be surprised,” said Caina. “Sonya Tornesti has many friends. And I am a very good listener. For instance, in the coffee house you said that the flower was going to kill them, and yet here you claim your father shall kill someone.”
    He blinked. “You were listening?”
    “Why, clearly,” said Caina, making a dismissive wave, the rings glittering on her fingers. “Perhaps you should explain. Is your father going to kill someone with a flower?”
    “Well,” said Marcus, “yes, he is.”
    One of the footmen snickered, but fell silent when Caina glanced at him. They did not know that she was a nightfighter of the Ghosts, but they did know that Anton Kularus listened to her, and Master Anton employed them.
    “Perhaps you should return to the doors,” said Caina. “I am quite safe with Lord Marcus.” 
    The footmen released Marcus, bowed, and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Caina alone with the young lord.
    “I don’t understand,” said Marcus. “Why are you listening to me?” He sounded bitter. “I tried going to the magistrates, even to the Magisterium, but they all laughed at me.”
    Caina shrugged. “Perhaps I am simply curious. Perhaps I have friends who can help you. Now. How is your father going to kill a man with a flower?”
    Marcus rubbed his face. “Have you ever heard of a carrion flower?”
    Caina had, and she recalled the rumors she had heard about Morius Orian.
    “It’s a giant flower from the jungles south of Anshan,” said Caina. “It only opens every few decades…”
    “Thirty-seven years, to be precise,” said Marcus.
    “And when it does, it emits a stench similar to that of a rotting corpse,” said Caina. “I do not understood the appeal.” She had smelled more than one rotting corpse in her life, and had no wish to smell another, let alone a giant flower that mimicked the odor.
    Marcus shrugged. “The odor attracts flies, which the flower then traps and digests.”
    “A corpse-reeking flower crawling with flies?” said Caina. “What a pleasant prospect.”
    “Botany always interested Father,” said Marcus. “And I understand an opened carrion flower is really quite lovely. Very colorful. Perhaps I shall write an epic poem about it.”
    Marcus fancied himself a poet? Suddenly his overwrought reaction made a great deal more sense. 
    “Your father’s carrion flower. Is that the flower you meant?” said Caina.
    Marcus nodded.
    “I didn’t think the stench was lethal,” said Caina.
    “It’s not,” said Marcus. 
    “Then how is your father going to use it to kill someone?” said Caina.
    “I don’t know!” said Marcus, his frustration bubbling over. He began to pace back and forth. “But he is, I’m sure of it. He’s going to use the