The Dark Griffin (19 page)

One of them bowed to him. “Evening, sir. You’re the griffiner who caught it, right?”

The wagoner turned sharply in his seat. “You’re a
griffiner
?” he said.

Arren ignored him. “I’m Arren Cardockson.” He gestured at the cage. “I’m not sure you’ll be able to lift it; it’s a big one.”

“Not a problem, sir,” said the man, going to inspect it. “We know how to deal with this sort of thing.” He climbed up onto the wagon with several of his colleagues and lifted the cloth away.

Several of them uttered exclamations of astonishment. “Dear gods, look at the
coat
on that thing!”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said one of them. “Where’d you catch it, sir?”

“Rivermeet,” said Arren. “Near the Coppertops.”

The man grinned at him. “Well done, sir. It’s a magnificent brute. People’ll queue up for days to see this.” He glanced at the griffin again, which hadn’t moved. “Drugged, right?”

Arren nodded. “Just a sleeping draught.”

“Good idea, sir. It looks pretty healthy—got any injuries?”

“Two arrow wounds, but I’ve treated them. They’re healing. Oh, and some scratches on its face there, just above the beak, but they’re nothing serious.”

“Good, good. You’re going to get a handsome price for this one, sir. All right, just stand aside and we’ll get it down off the wagon.”

Arren went to stand by the platform while they spaced themselves around the cage and lifted it down. They were strong and well organised, and got it onto the platform with surprising speed. Once it was on, the apparent leader said, “All right, sir, you an’ me will ride up with it, an’ my mates will wait until the platform’s sent down again for them. Can’t afford to overload this thing. Up you get.”

Arren stepped onto the platform, and the man tied the rope barriers into place at the front to stop either of them from sliding off. This done, he tugged sharply on a rope that dangled by one of the thick cables that disappeared into a hole in the city platform high above. A few moments later the cables went taut and the platform slowly started to rise. Arren sat down beside the cage and concentrated on watching its occupant.

The man was also watching the griffin, with considerable admiration. “I’ve never even heard of a black griffin before. Have you, sir?”

Arren shook his head.

“I saw a green griffin once,” the man went on. “Well, it was sort of dark brown, but it had green on its neck. Belonged to an ambassador from somewhere in the east. It brought its human to the Arena to watch a fight. I talked to him. The griffiner, I mean. He said the griffin could make plants grow. Now, that’s a kind of magic I’d like to see.”

“How do you stop the griffins using their magic in the Arena?” said Arren.

“Oh, it’s simple enough, sir. We drug ’em. There’s a potion you can use that suppresses their magic. We put it in their food and water. Some of ’em figure out what’s going on, but they have to go on taking it or they starve. After a while they get so they can’t use magic at all any more. When I was a lad there was a griffin that managed to get its magic back somehow. It set half the damn Arena on fire—excuse me, sir. They had to kill it in the end. Still”—he watched the sleeping griffin—“I can’t help but be curious. What would a black griffin be able to do?”

Arren eyed it with unconcealed hatred. “I’d rather not find out.”

A
rren had met the owner of the Arena, a man named Orome, once before, and astonishingly enough he was a griffiner. Orome walked around the cage, examining the black griffin while his own griffin, Sefer, looked on.

He whistled. “Well, damn me. The thing really
is
black.”

“How much will you give me for it?” said Arren.

Orome scratched the long scar that went across his forehead. “The standard price for a good-sized wild griffin is about three hundred oblong, but for one this big and in such good shape, and with that coat, I’d be willing to raise the price to, say, five hundred. I won’t go any higher than five hundred and fifty.”

“Five hundred and seventy and it’s yours,” said Arren.

“Fine,” said Orome. “Just you wait a bit while I get it into a cage and see if it’s in as good a shape as it looks, all right?”

Orome nodded to a couple of assistants who were standing by. They came forward and cut through the ropes holding the bars on one side of the cage in place. The crude wooden bars fell away and were quickly removed, and the two of them entered the cage and snapped a set of heavy iron manacles into place around the black griffin’s wings, preventing them from opening. They put more manacles around its front legs, chaining them together, and finally put a steel collar around its neck. The griffin, which had woken up by now, tried feebly to lash out at them, but it couldn’t do anything to save itself. Once the manacles were on the men cut the ropes and dragged the griffin to its paws. It stood after several attempts, swaying and confused by the after-effects of the drug, and the two handlers took hold of the chains attached to either side of the collar and tugged it forward. Sefer, Orome’s red griffin, bit at the creature’s haunches until it started to move. The handlers slowly marched it to the far side of a large enclosure and shoved it into another cage, this one much larger and furnished with a trough and several iron rings driven deep into the walls. They attached the chains to two of these on opposite walls, and then withdrew, slamming the heavy iron door shut behind them. The griffin slumped where it stood for a time, and then abruptly started up and hurled itself at the bars. The chains went taut, stopping it in its tracks an arm’s length from the barrier. The griffin nearly fell, but recovered itself and reared up on its hind legs, screeching and wrenching at its bonds. The chains rattled and shook, and dust rained down from the rings, but they held firm.

Orome watched the screeching, struggling beast and shook his head. “Magnificent,” he said. “Just look at the muscles on it. Thing could break a man’s back with a kick.” He glanced at Arren. “How did you catch it?”

“Poison,” Arren said. “On an arrow.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s a tricky method, that. I’ve used it myself. Problem with it is, it doesn’t work straightaway, and if the thing’s too far off the ground when it kicks in, it can fall to its death.”

“Can I have my money now?” said Arren.

Orome looked at him. “You’re in a bad mood, aren’t you? You don’t look so good—why are you such a mess?”

“I have to be somewhere soon,” said Arren, ignoring the question, “so could you please just pay me now? I need the money.”

“All right, all right, I understand. C’mon.” Orome walked away, while Sefer stayed to watch the black griffin. The enclosure they were in was round, and the planks underfoot had been reinforced with metal plates and then covered with sand and sawdust. There were dozens of large cages set into the wall, and several of them contained griffins, stirring in their chains to watch the two humans pass. There was a large archway leading out, which Orome went through, with Arren in tow. “We’re going to have to give it a name,” he said. “Something impressive. Draw the crowds in.”

Arren had seen the posters advertising fights at the Arena featuring popular griffins. Plenty of people had a favourite. The names were chosen to sound melodramatic and exciting, things like Hammerbeak and Bloodrender.

“What d’you reckon, lad?” said Orome, pausing at the door to his office. “Got any good suggestions?”

“Blackgriffin?” said Arren.

Orome took a moment to spot the sarcasm. “Very funny.” He unlocked the door and they went into the office. It was a large space dominated by a battered desk. Woodcuts of fighting griffins hung on the walls, along with a notched sword and a shield with a star design on it. Orome edged around the desk and slid aside a secret panel in the wall, revealing a heavy iron box. He lifted it out onto the desk and began to flick the row of levers set into the lid, arranging them in a precise order. “Silvereyes?” he mused aloud as he worked. “No, too girly. Blackwings? Darkstar? No, doesn’t quite fit.” The last lever clicked into place, and he opened the box and lifted out a leather bag. “All right, give me your money bag.”

Arren detached it from his belt and handed it over. Orome began counting out the oblong with practised case, still running through a list of names. “Mooneye? Hmm, gotta be something that relates to the coat. That’s what everyone will remember. Blacktalon? That’s got some potential—c’mon, help me here, would you?”

“They’re not real names,” said Arren. “They’re just labels.”

“Of course,” said Orome. “That’s what people want. Labels. Something to set the blood afire. Something you can tell stories about. We’re not just here to punish criminals, you know. We’re here to entertain people. It’s a performance. Always has been. Thunderbolt? Nightwish? Night-something has got possibilities. Nightwings? Night-sky? Night—four hundred and fifty, four hundred and seventy, four hundred and ninety, five hundred, five hundred twenty, five hundred seventy. All right, all done.” He tied the pouch shut and handed it to Arren.

It was heavy, but he stuffed it into his pocket.

“Thanks.”

“My pleasure. I’ll just show you out.”

They left the office and passed through a draughty corridor that went under the high wall of the Arena itself. Up ahead was the huge iron door that led to the pen where the griffins were held before a fight, until the gate was lifted and they were let into the Arena. Orome took a right turn through a heavy iron gate set into the wall, and they followed a second passage that went around the edge of the Arena, beneath the spectators’ gallery. It ended at a small but heavy door which opened onto the street that circled the Arena. Orome stood aside to let Arren through. “There you go. If you want to come and watch your griffin fight, I’ll let you in for nothing.”

Arren rubbed his eyes and blinked in the sudden light. “Thank you. Oh—” He started to leave, but then stopped and turned back. “You’re not going to cut off its wings, are you?”

“What?” said Orome. “Oh, good gods no. That went out years ago. No, we just keep ’em chained together.”

“You don’t clip the feathers?”

“Not usually, no. We need to have them still able to fly.”

“Why?”

“What, you don’t know? Sometimes we put a cover over the pit and take the chains off, let ’em fly. People like to see ’em attack from the air.”

Arren remembered seeing the black griffin falling out of the sky toward him. It made him feel slightly sick. “Well, just—I mean—” He sighed. “Good luck with it. I’ll see you around.”

Orome nodded. “Take care.” He retreated back into the Arena, and Arren left.

Nothing had changed during Arren’s absence. He passed out of the Arena district and went through the marketplace in order to get to the Eyrie, almost bewildered by the sameness of it all. The stalls were set up and people were everywhere, buying and selling. He had to weave his way through the crowds, his ears full of the shouts of the traders advertising their wares. The air smelt of frying onions and fresh bread and the mingled sweat of hundreds of people. For him, this was the smell of home.

But one thing had changed. No-one moved aside for him. No-one even looked twice at him. There were no muttered “sir”s. Without Eluna beside him, he was nobody.

“Sir! Sir, stop!”

At first he only just heard the voice and didn’t really pay much attention to it, but then someone grabbed his arm. He turned.

“Sir, I—oh my
gods
.”

“Hello, Gern,” Arren mumbled.

Gern looked horrified. “What happened to you, sir? Where were you all this time? We expected you back days ago. Flell’s scared sick and Bran’s talking about going to look for you. What were you doing? And why are you all . . . ?”

Arren looked at the boy’s honest, friendly face and suddenly felt ashamed. “I was . . . I caught the griffin,” he said at last. “We had to—we brought it back on a wagon. I had to stay with it.”

Comprehension dawned in Gern’s face. “Oh, I get it! Of course! So, you caught it? That’s amazing, sir! Have you taken it to the Arena yet?”

“Yes.” Arren started to shove his way through the crowd again.

Gern followed him. “I can’t wait to see it fight. How big is it, sir? Is it really black? Ow! Damn it!” Someone’s elbow had caught him in the ear. “This is ridiculous,” he said, pushing his way through to catch up with Arren. “Look at the bastards! They’re not even getting out of your way!” He managed to get back to Arren’s side and was nearly knocked over by someone running past. “Godsdamnit!”

They had neared the edge of the marketplace now, but the crowds hadn’t thinned much. Arren ignored all the bodies thumping into him and forged on, stone-faced.

Gern, though, had other ideas. “Out of the way, godsdamnit !” he roared at the people in their way. “This is a griffiner!” Several people turned to stare at him. “You heard me!” he resumed. “The Master of Trade is trying to get through, so get out of his way!”

It worked; as Gern continued to shout, many people did move out of Arren’s path. He could see them staring at him, and it made him crumble inside.

“There you go, sir, that’s a bit better. Oi! Move it, you, you’re in the griffiner’s way!”

Arren grabbed him by the shoulder. “Please stop it, Gern.”

Gern stopped and looked at him. “Why, sir? What’s wrong?”

Arren started to speak, and then shook his head and stared at the ground. “I just—not now. Please.”

“Sir? Are you all right?” Gern looked upward, and then at the surrounding buildings. “Where’s Eluna, sir? Sir?”

But Arren had let go of him and was walking away. Gern tried to run after him, but he vanished into the crowd, leaving Gern to search for him in vain, frowning and confused.

A
rren could see the Eyrie looming overhead, and he sped up. Would they be expecting him?

When the guards on the door saw him they instantly came forward to stop him. “Excuse me, but what do you want?” said one of them.

Arren made an attempt to straighten his tunic. “I’m here to see Lord Rannagon.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s news to
me
,” said the guard. “Because the last thing I heard, Lord Rannagon was in the council chamber taking part in an important meeting which can’t be disturbed.”