The Dark Griffin (7 page)

“I will be listening,” she said simply and sat back on her haunches.

Arren inclined his head to her and strode through the entrance hall and into the main room of the house.

A man and a woman were sitting there at a table, eating breakfast, and looked up sharply when he entered.

Arren pointed at them. “All right, you two,” he said, “don’t make any sudden moves. You’re under arrest.”

The man didn’t move, but the woman got up, so quickly she knocked her chair over. “What is this?” she demanded. “What’s going on?”

Arren glanced at Bran, who took a set of manacles from his belt and strode forward, pointing his sword at the woman. “Hold out your hands,” he said.

The woman tried to pull away, but Bran grabbed her and roughly snapped the manacles shut around her wrists. More guards hurried into the room, one leading a small girl by the hand. “We didn’t find anyone else on this floor, sir,” he said.

The man at the table still hadn’t moved. “I demand to know what’s going on!” he shouted.

“Are you Craddick Arnson?” said Arren.

“Yes, what’s happening?”

“You’re under arrest for smuggling and dealing in stolen goods,” said Arren.

The guards were already coming forward to seize him. He made a brief attempt to fight them off, but was overpowered and manacled in moments.

“You can’t do this!” he yelled. “I haven’t done anything—”

“That’s not my problem,” said Arren. “That’s up to the reeve to decide. But you can make it easier on yourself by telling us where the goods are and whether there’s anyone else in the house.”

“You’re insane!” the woman said suddenly. “This is ridiculous. He hasn’t done anything, we’re just—”

Arren waved her into silence. “Perhaps you should have had a look in your cellar recently. Could you show me where the door to it is, please? I haven’t got all day.”

The woman sagged slightly. “Fine. If it’ll convince you we haven’t done anything, I’ll do whatever you say.”

The man, Craddick, tried to get to her. “Rose—”

“What?” she said sharply. “You haven’t done anything, and the sooner we get this over with the better.” She turned to Arren. “It’s this way . . . sir.”

“Let her go,” said Arren to the guards. “Bring him, too. And make sure the child is out of the way.”

“Yes, sir.”

The woman led them into a back room, where there were a number of barrels and crates stacked. “There,” she said, pointing at a large wooden box. “It’s under that.”

“Why is that blocking the cellar door?” said Arren.

“There was no room for it anywhere else,” said the woman. “It’s not very heavy.”

Bran shoved the crate aside without much effort. There was a woven straw mat on the floor. When he lifted that away, it revealed a trapdoor. In spite of the fact that it had been covered over, it had very clearly seen a lot of use recently; the hinges were new and well oiled, and the door itself was in good condition.

“Right,” said Arren. “Get those two out of here. I’m going in.” He waited until the prisoners had been hustled out of the room and then hooked the toe of his boot into the iron ring on the trapdoor. He lifted it high enough to get his boot underneath and then kicked it open. One of the guards had handed him a lantern, and he took the covers off and stepped down into the gloom, sword in hand.

The cellar was about half as big as the house above it. Arren caught a brief glimpse of stacks of crates and sacks, and then something cannoned into him, knocking him over. He landed awkwardly on his back, dropping the lantern, and scrambled upright in time to see a man shove past Bran and bolt out of the room. Arren ran after him as fast as he could, with Bran close behind him. The guards in the dining room with Craddick and his wife ran to stop the fleeing smuggler, but Craddick suddenly rose up and shoved one of them aside, giving his friend time to get past. He ran for the front door. Arren tripped over the fallen guard and nearly fell, and then—

Eluna was there. The griffin burst through the doorway, screeching, rearing up on her hind legs. The smuggler screamed and turned to run, but Eluna’s talons slammed into his back, knocking him down; before he could even struggle, her beak struck him in the back of the neck, killing him instantly.

There was silence for a moment. The guards hauled Craddick to his feet, thumping him in the stomach to subdue him. Rose was screaming.

“Get her out of here,” Arren snapped. The guards obeyed, leading her out of the room as Eluna tore the dead man’s arm from his shoulder and threw back her head—swallowing it whole.

Arren strode toward her. “Stop it!”

Eluna turned her head toward him, beak dripping blood, and hissed warningly. Arren put his hand on her shoulder. “Stop it!” he said again. The griffin ignored him and resumed her meal. Arren smacked her in the head.
“I said stop it!”

Eluna lashed out. Her beak hit Arren in the arm, tearing an ugly wound. He hit her again. “Eluna, no!”

For a moment she stared at him, hissing and growling. He stared back, ignoring the blood running down his arm and dripping off his fingertips. No-one dared make a move.

But then Eluna looked away and sullenly abandoned the half-eaten corpse. Arren went and crouched beside her, stroking her feathers and murmuring to her. She ignored him for a while, but then turned and nudged him under the chin. He scratched her under the beak. “All right. We’re all right now.”

Eluna crooned softly, and Arren stood up. “Could you give me some bandages, please, Bran?” he asked calmly.

Bran fumbled in his pocket and handed over a roll of white cloth. Arren bound it around his arm, and then turned to Craddick. For a moment he was still, watching him with a cold calculating expression, just like the one Eluna had worn a few moments before. Then he stepped forward and punched the man in the jaw. Craddick reeled backward, only to be righted by his guards.

“All right,” Arren snarled, “how about you start telling us the truth, smuggler? How many other people are down there?”

The last of Craddick’s defiance had gone. “There’s no-one,” he mumbled. “The others don’t come here much. Just when—to bring in the new stuff, and when—”

“You will give us their names,” said Arren. “And anything else you know about them. But first you’re going to show me your cellar and everything that’s in it.” He picked up his sword from the floor. “And I’m going to be right behind you.”

Craddick went with considerable reluctance. He led Arren down into the cellar, picking up the fallen lantern along the way.

He had been telling the truth; there were no other people in the cellar. But there were boxes. Hundreds of them. They were stacked everywhere. And among them were sacks and baskets, and barrels, enough goods to stock a fair chunk of the marketplace.

Once Arren and Bran had explored the cellar and made sure there were no people hiding there, they summoned the rest of the guards down. They came, carrying lanterns and torches, many uttering exclamations of astonishment when they saw the contents.

“Search the place,” Bran told them. “We want to know what we’re dealin’ with here.”

Craddick stood by resignedly as the boxes were levered open and sacks were slit. There were all kinds of things in the cellar. Grain, dried meat, fruit and vegetables, clothes, wine and beer, herbs, pots and pans, even a bag of illegal whiteleaf, hidden in a hole in the wall.

“Well,” said Arren. “Seems you’ve got a pretty sweet business running down here. I’m surprised you managed to keep it going as long as you did. Would you care to tell me a little about your methods? I’m always happy to learn. Especially from the best.”

Craddick spat. “Go back to the North, blackrobe.”

Bran hit him. “Shut up!”

Arren laughed. “I’d rather be a Northerner than a criminal, Craddick. Last time I checked, it was smugglers who went to prison, not blackrobes.” He nodded to the guards. “Take him away.”

The guards started to haul Craddick away. But as they did, Arren thought he caught something odd. Some expression in his face. Something not quite right.

He froze.

“What is it, sir?” said Bran.

Arren held up a hand to silence him. He was listening intently. Then, suddenly, he turned and crossed the room in two long strides, to a spot in the corner, where there was a box draped in cloth. He pulled it away.

“Oh my gods.”

It was not a box. It was a cage. Inside, a pair of yellow eyes peered out at him. There was a rustle of wings, and a beak poked through the bars. “Food?” it said.

Arren turned slowly to look at Craddick. “Craddick Arnson, you’re in a lot of trouble.”

4

Rannagon

T
he rest of the raid was fairly straightforward. Once Craddick and Rose had been escorted out and taken to the prison district, Arren helped the guards to empty out the cellar. They carried the goods into the dining room, shoving the furniture out of the way, but in the end there were so many they had to carry a lot of them into the front garden. A crowd of people gathered to watch, and Bran sensibly posted a pair of guards to stop them looting the contents of the crates. Eluna stayed with them, watching the onlookers menacingly. Two other guards bundled up the dead man in a pair of sacks and quietly removed him through the back door. His body would go to the prison district to be searched and then kept safely until his family came to collect him.

The cage containing the griffin chick was one of the last things to be carried out. Arren insisted on taking it personally. The chick looked well enough: undernourished and sensitive to the light, but uninjured. He fed it some dried meat from a sack and watched as it gulped it down. “How long have they been keeping you down there?” he muttered.

Bran noticed the blood soaking through the bandage on Arren’s arm. “Yeh should see a healer about that, sir.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Arren. He straightened up. “I’m going to have to take him back to the hatchery, and fast. But I’d better have a look at some of this stuff first.”

“Don’t worry about that, sir,” said Bran. “I’ll pick out a few things for yeh and send ’em along to your place, how about that?”

Arren paused, and smiled. “Thanks, Bran.”

“I’ll make sure there’s some oranges,” Bran added, grinning.

“Thanks. And if there’s any decent leather there, I’ll take some of that, too.”

“Righto, sir.” Bran glanced at the floor, where the dead man’s blood was soaking into the wood. “There’ll be an inquiry about this, sir.”

“I know. Leave me to deal with that.” Arren picked up the cage. “But I sincerely doubt anyone will care much about what happens to a griffin thief.”

“Doubt it, sir.”

Arren left via the front door, carrying the covered cage in his arms. Eluna was waiting for him and silently fell in beside him.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To the hatchery.”

She fluttered her wings, apparently pleased. “I would like to see Keth again. Why are we going?”

Arren looked grim. “Those men stole a griffin chick. We have to take it back.”

Eluna stopped dead. Arren watched her carefully. The griffin nosed at the cage. “I can smell—”

Arren lifted the cloth, revealing the chick. It peered out at Eluna, and she laid her beak against its beak. Then she looked up at Arren. He looked back stonily.

Eluna screamed. The noise was loud and furious, and she reared up and screamed again.
“Thieves! Scum!”

Arren patted her to calm her down. “I know, Eluna, I know. It’s all right, we got them.”

“
I
got them,” Eluna rasped. “I killed the one who attacked you.”

“Yes.” Arren pulled the cloth back over the cage and walked on, trying to hold it steady as the chick shifted inside. Neither of them looked at the bloody bandage on his arm.

The hatchery was on the edge, next to the market district. Arren and Eluna both knew the way there, but even if they hadn’t, it would have been fairly easy to find. There were dozens of griffins flying over it.

The hatchery itself consisted of a collection of wooden buildings, which were some of the biggest in the city. They had to be. Around them there were pens full of animals—mostly goats—feeding on racks of hay. The griffins circled lazily overhead, enjoying the morning sun. Most of them were young, smaller than Eluna. The air was full of their screeching voices and the bleating of the goats.

Arren and Eluna went along the walkway between the pens. A man paused in the act of refilling one of the water troughs and waved. “Hello, Arren. Nice to see you here again. What’s that you’ve got there?”

“It’s a present for Roland,” said Arren. “Is he up yet?”

“I think so, yeah,” said the man. “He’s in the hatchery, or he should be.”

“Thanks.” Arren made for one of the smaller buildings. It had large windows, which had been thrown open to let in the light, and the doors opened easily when he pushed on them. He backed through, carrying the cage, and found himself in a big open room. Most of it was lined with pens, and in them were the chicks. The place rang with their piping voices and the scuffling of talons on the wooden floor. When Arren came in, the noise redoubled. He smiled to himself. He loved the hatchery. It was where he and Eluna had first met, years ago.

There was a huge griffin there, crouched in the middle of the room. She was old—her feathers greying, her beak chipped and one eye whitened—but she stood up and came toward him at once, tail swishing. Arren stood still and let Eluna go forward. She loped toward the old griffin, moving confidently, and clicked her beak. The old griffin sniffed at her and then relaxed. “Eluna.” She looked past her. “And Arren. Good morning.”

“Good morning, Keth. Are you well?”

“I am,” said Keth. She sat back on her haunches. “I am pleased to see you, Arren Cardockson. And you, Eluna.”

Arren bowed. “We’re here to see Roland. Is he here?”

“I will call him,” Keth said. She raised her head.
“Keth! Keth!”

There was silence for a short while, and then a man emerged from a back room. He was short and stocky, and his once-yellow beard was greying. There was a griffin chick nestled in his arms. “Hello, what’s this?” he said, speaking griffish. He stopped when he saw Arren. “Arren Cardockson!” he said, and beamed. “And Eluna, of course!”