Grand Theft Griffin

by Michael Angel

  “That would be a fair appraisal of the situation,” Galen agreed. He pushed a third cup over to me. The froth that made up the head slopped over the side. “In case you are less than familiar with this libation, it is a very good grade of ale. Fashioned from fermented wort of barley.”

  While the tankard in question fit Shaw and Galen’s grip well, I needed two hands to lift my own portion. I swirled the contents, revealing a cloudy brown liquid and a heady, beer-like scent. Tipping it back, I gave it a healthy swig.

  The taste was dense, malty, with a hint of apple peel and toasted grain. But it was the texture that got me. Instead of the easy-pour liquid I was familiar with, Andeluvian ale had a curious thickness, as if one were drinking a heavily diluted bowl of porridge. I swallowed and let out a cough.

  “Not to your liking?” Galen inquired.

  I shook my head as I coughed again. “No, it’s actually pretty good. Just caught me off guard there.”

  “The good stuff always catches thine attention,” the griffin chimed in. “‘Tis part of its charm, methinks.”

  “So, what exactly are we celebrating?” I took another cautious sip and felt warmth rush to my face. I wasn’t a heavy drinker, but this surprised me. I resolved to find out exactly how much alcohol came in a tankard of Andeluvian ale.

  “It has to do with our Fayleene brethren,” Galen supplied.

  I put my drink aside. “Then I really want to hear this.”

  Chapter Seven

  Ever since the destruction of their forest, the Fayleene had made a slow, careful journey across the northern reaches of Fitzwilliam’s kingdom to reach their new home in the Grove of the Willows. I’d spent a good portion of my time during my recent visits to Andeluvia helping Liam shepherd the weak or wounded members of his people across the rougher parts of the terrain. My experiences with the Fayleene had, until that point, been decidedly mixed. However, during the trek they were unfailingly polite and helpful. I suppose that surviving disaster gave one a great deal more humility.

  “Liam is still busy making sure that his people are settling in well at the Grove of the Willows,” Galen explained. “Compared to their original forest the grove is warmer and easier to find forage in. Yet, for a time it seemed that they merely traded one hazard for another.”

  “That sounds ominous. What do you mean?”

  The centaur clacked one of his hooves on the stone floor in annoyance. “That thrice-damned Lord Behnaz. The man grudgingly gave his consent to let the Fayleene dwell on his lands, but he says he lacks the power to control the lawless elements that ride roughshod outside his demesne.”

  I chose not to comment. Behnaz and I had locked horns more than once before. The only reason he granted the grove to the Fayleene had been pressure from his wife. And that same lawlessness he claimed to be unable to prevent had been the justification for King Fitzwilliam springing him from a richly deserved dungeon cell.

  Shaw let out a burp, which he muffled with one furry paw. “Thus we come to the erstwhile problem: Fayleene poachers.”

  “Poachers?” My voice jumped a half-octave on that one. “Why would anyone purposely harm a Fayleene? They’re supposed to be good luck!”

  The griffin shrugged. “Doth one expect common sense from a brigand?”

  “No market exists for Fayleene meat,” Galen put in. “But folk healers and snake-oil vendors imply that their horns could be powdered and turned into phials of luck.”

  That made about as much sense to me as the ridiculous rabbit’s feet that some people carried around. But as Shaw has said, logic wasn’t part of the equation here. And a not-so-small part of me was surprised that, at least in this world, snake-oil salesmen really did exist.

  “Grimshaw and I got wind of a band who were planning to sneak into the Grove of the Willows and bag a brace of horns.” Galen went on. “We tracked them to just inside the wood’s boundary, and then decided that the time was right to do a little teaching…of the corporal variety.”

  “And teach thine adversaries we did!” Shaw cackled. “Thou wouldst have been proud, Dayna. The wizard tickled their bottoms with lightning whilst I corralled them and beat them into the ground with wing and claw.”

  “Our griffin friend here put on an excellent show,” Galen affirmed. “When I made my appearance, I made it clear that I was only barely able to restrain my bestial friend from eating them and sucking out the marrow from their bones.”

  “Thy efforts were most effective, wizard. At least three of the ruffians soiled their breechcloths. None shall return to the woods, I wager.”

  And that was good enough for me to laugh and join in a third sip with my friends. I wiped the foam away from my lips and enjoyed the moment while it lasted. I hated to break the mood when it was so chipper, but I really didn’t have a choice.

  “I’m glad that you two are here,” I began. “I’m afraid that I have a new case back in Los Angeles, and it’s one that I need help on.”

  “Thou hast but to ask,” Shaw dipped his head regally.

  “I concur,” Galen agreed.

  I outlined the basics of the happenings at the Natural History Museum. Though this time, I saved the best for last. At the end of my tale, I drew out the specimen bag and held it up for both of them to see.

  Galen’s breath came out in a hiss. “A…griffin feather? From your home world?”

  Shaw shook his head, almost in denial. “Thou must be mistaken, Dayna. Thou must! Only a griffin who has completely fallen from honor would stoop to theft.”

  “Maybe I am mistaken,” I admitted. “Shaw, are you telling me that there has never been a griffin who’s fallen from grace, so to speak?”

  My friend looked away. “Thy words pry a shameful truth from my beak: there have been griffins who have lost their way in the past. Their deaths were painful, and richly deserved.”

  Galen finished his ale and set his tankard down on the table with a clank. “I remain more concerned about the purpose of this theft. Crystals often have a magical use. And I am puzzled as to the agency behind this creature’s appearance in your world. A wizard powerful enough to open a gate there should be known by my guild.”

  I didn’t roll my eyes, but I came close. “You know how I feel about the usefulness of that wizard’s guild. They didn’t predict Magnus Killsheven’s arrival in my world. And they didn’t know about the Old Man of the Mountain’s ability to transport beings, either.”

  “Do you believe that we have another wizard or demon on our hands, then?”

  “I’m not sure. But I’m willing to bet that who-or-whatever is behind this isn’t human. At least, this isn’t a being who can change into human form.”

  That got Shaw’s attention. “Pray tell, enlighten us.”

  “A human – or a human-shaped magical being, at any rate – could have simply teleported into the museum directly. Then, if they had enough magic to transport themselves to my world, I’m pretty sure they could have figured out a way to get through a couple of steel hinges to grab their quarry. Sending in a griffin is a like holding up a neon sign in my world, announcing ‘Something strange is going on here’.”

  Galen stroked his chin in thought. “Say that you are right. Who does that leave, at least among the beings that we know?”

  “There is the Fayleene princeling, Wyeth,” I suggested. “He claimed that he’d learned how to use fey magic in especially dark ways.”

  “True enough. He did claim that he had acquired more power, but it doesn’t necessarily mean he can move between worlds. And he is a being of fey magic. Fey is based on living creatures and their energy. Crystals would imply a different type of magic.”

  “Thou speakest true,” Shaw said. “Crystals are naught more than pretty rocks, methinks.”

  “Think back to what was stated in the Codex of the Bellum Draconus.” Galen cleared his throat as he recited the words. “And the Creatures of Light placed as many of the Dark Ones as they could into the earth, sealing others inside the great s
tones that lay athwart the mountains.”

  My heart felt like lead as I let that thought sink in. “Another earth demon, like ‘Rocky’? Now I’m truly worried. That ‘last great war of Andeluvia’…could still be on.”

  Shaw let out a snort. “After we smashed their ‘Old Man’? After we vanquished their foul dragon, Sirrahon? I think little of their chances!”

  “We neutralized one of the ‘spirit’ stones, but only after much loss. And a lot of help from our pooka friend. As for Sirrahon, we didn’t exactly ‘vanquish’ him. Liam convinced him to leave, that was all. We’d be foolish not to consider–”

  A knock at the door stopped my train of thought right in its tracks.

  Galen answered for us. “Enter, kind sir.”

  To my surprise, the door opened to reveal a tall young man in the robin’s-egg blue outfit of a royal page. He bowed to us courteously, though he didn’t take his eyes off of Grimshaw’s massive leonine form.

  “Greetings, kind sirs,” he said, in a prissy voice. “I am here to summon Lady Chrissie to court. She is wanted in the throne room.”

  Galen and Shaw turned and looked at me speculatively. I shook my head; I didn’t know what was up either. I decided to ask a question of my own. “Who sends this summons?”

  “Why, King Fitzwilliam, of course! He wishes to speak with you in all haste!”

  “I’ll come, of course. Did he say on what matter?”

  “One such as I is never privy to his Majesty’s thoughts,” the page demurred, though he scrunched his face up in thought as he added, “however, if it is about what he and the other lords were just discussing…it may be about whether you are allowed to remain in Andeluvia. Or not.”

  Chapter Eight

  The part of the palace that held Fitzwilliam’s throne was about as large as a good-sized ballroom. Even more impressively, it came complete with a set of stone columns decorated with the coils of some stylized reptile and a polished black-and-white marble floor that made all but the softest step echo. At least, when it was empty.

  That was hardly the case right now. As a matter of fact, there were enough angry mutters, curses, and shouts to drown me out even if I’d dropped a metal tray full of autopsy tools. Inwardly, I had already started to cringe.

  Galen and Shaw had been politely asked to wait just outside, so the only person I had by my side was the page who’d summoned me in the first place. The blue-tinged light from the alcoves we passed on the way up to the throne tinged his pale skin the color of a corpse fresh out of the chiller room.

  I could only imagine how ghastly I looked. At least I had a warm tingle radiating from my insides, courtesy of three sips of Andeluvian ale. And based on the comments I was hearing from the lords up ahead, that was the last warmth I was going to be feeling for a while.

  King Fitzwilliam, the son of the late Good King Benedict, wore his usual regal garb of a fur-trimmed silvery robe topped off with the golden circlet of his crown. I guessed his age to be mid-thirties, though his shoulder-length blond hair had started going prematurely gray around the temples. His expressions while holding court from the throne typically ranged from mildly amused to profoundly bored. However, for now he wore a bland expression that would’ve done a poker player justice as he listened to the running dialog around him without comment.

  Fitzwilliam’s right hand lay on the arm of his throne, fingers drumming. His left foot did a soundless tap in counterpoint. On the whole, the King resembled nothing so much as a twitchy tomcat who was getting tired of waiting by the mouse hole for something to tear into.

  The throne room was set up in what I thought of as ‘conference mode’. That meant the court pages, or whoever did the Royal Event Planning, had set up a pair of curved oak tables extending out from either side of the throne itself. According to Galen, this was a tradition from the earliest reign of the kingdom’s monarchs. The lords of the Western Reaches sat at the curved table to Fitzwilliam’s right, while those from the Eastern Reaches sat in counterpoint on the left. There was also some type of pecking order as to who sat closest to the King which had to do with an arcane mix of seniority, wealth, and power.

  All I knew was that the entire setup made whoever was summoned feel like they were being cross-examined by a hostile grand jury. Which, of course, was probably the point. At each table sat around a dozen nobles, each clad in fur or velvet-trimmed outfits that made them look rich – though not as rich as the King. A couple of the attendees were women, but the loudest voices belonged to the men.

  I recognized the most obnoxious jibes as coming from the red-faced, potbellied man sitting at Fitzwilliam’s right elbow. The recently restored Lord Behnaz didn’t seem any worse for wear after his stay in the dungeons. If anything, his baby-food green mantle stretched even tighter over his midsection. His eyes glittered with something close to revulsion as he gazed at me.

  The looks I got from the King’s immediate left weren’t much better. As matter of fact, I’d gotten warmer inspections from my local IRS auditor. Where Behnaz was florid and portly, this man was pale and gangly looking, as if he’d been grown somewhere dark and moist. His face had a grim cast, made darker by a fringe of black beard and shaggy hair. Unlike the other lords, this noble had eschewed a fur-trimmed mantle for a set of armor made up of small steel plates. The segment above his heart bore the emblem of a pale half-moon.

  I got a queasy feeling as I recognized the sigil. That was the sign worn by Sir Ivor, the knight who’d refused to help equip me and Galen when we’d set off to find the Old Man of the Mountain. At least until his senior officer, Commander Yervan, had showed up and upbraided him for his ungallant behavior.

  On cue, Sir Ivor appeared at what had to be his father’s side. He leaned forward, not taking his eyes off of me, and whispered urgently in his lord’s ear. Immediately, the elder Ivor’s face crinkled into a scowl of dislike. Great. Another one for the Chrissie Fan Club. At this rate, I was going to have trouble finding a room large enough to hold the meetings.

  “May it please the nobles of the court,” the page announced, “I present Lady Dayna Chrissie, of the Land of the Angels.”

  I blinked. Land of the what?

  Apparently my description of what ‘Los Angeles’ meant had gotten interpreted rather liberally by the court. Though I hadn’t even opened my mouth before Lord Behnaz got the first jab in.

  The heavyset man guffawed as he heard my introduction. “Land of the Angels? Likely they kicked this one out for soiling the place’s name.”

  I kept my expression carefully neutral as the combined nobles let out a collective laugh. The laughter wasn’t quite as venomous-sounding as when I’d first met the assembled nobility, courtesy of the ersatz Duke Kajari. But I’d be damned if I was going to let it pass.

  “Apologies, my lord, but you misremember,” I said evenly, thinking back to Galen’s advice on how to address the court. “I wasn’t kicked out, I was summoned here to Andeluvia without my prior consent. If I may remind you, I was brought in to solve the King’s murder. A murder which some of the lords in this very room knew about, but declined to act in the name of justice. I suppose that, for some men, discretion is worth more to them than valor.”

  To my surprise, the reaction wasn’t all one-sided against me. About half the lords muttered ominously under their breath. But the other half laughed at my comeback, and one even let out a small cheer. Apparently Fitzwilliam didn’t mind if his court wore their emotions on their collective sleeves. Behnaz scowled and began to speak, but Fitzwilliam cut him off with a wave of his hand.

  “Please, Lord Behnaz, let us cease this joust at the last tilt,” he stated firmly. “Lady Chrissie, you have been the main subject of discussion just now. Frankly, I am surprised by the level of contention your presence has caused. Both by those present here, and by the others who plainly want you gone.”

  Another dumbfounded blink on my part.

  “The…others, your Majesty?”

  “Yes. The owls of our Parl
iament. They have thrice now rejected my requested budget for the kingdom. Curiously, it is over a single issue: my request to add a salary for an official Court Forensics Examiner.”

  “They object to a position you’ve offered to me? One which I haven’t even accepted yet?”

  “The very same.”

  My mind raced at this development. Obviously, Xandra and company were not happy about my repeated attempts to see Thea. That they were now working behind the scenes to get rid of me told me one thing: they were getting worried.

  But why? What could I possibly learn from the Albess that had them so afraid?

  One of these days, I was definitely going to have to find out what game the kingdom’s owls were playing.

  Chapter Nine

  I thought back to Galen’s lessons on royal court etiquette. Luckily, he’d also drilled me on how the executive and legislative processes worked in Andeluvia.

  “Your Majesty,” I started, “while the ruler of the land must traditionally defer to the Parliament, doesn’t he have the ultimate, final say over how the monies raised are spent?”

  King Fitzwilliam nodded. “You are correct. But the ruler must, as you note, defer unless there is a truly pressing reason. I will admit that I am puzzled by this development. While our Parliamentarians have always had a reputation for grasping at coins like a hawk snatching up a hare, this is something new and strange.”

  A stern, yet strangely whispery voice cut the air as Lord Ivor spoke. His armor clinked as he shifted position in his chair. “Your Majesty, this may be a strange development, but it is hardly worth our trouble. This woman’s employment stands in the way of the funds you promised me to restore the Royal Highway that leads from your palace to East Port’s docks. Unless the crown wishes that the road leading my people here resemble a cow path more than a highway of the King?”

  “And your Majesty has promised me at least three sacks of golden crowns,” Lord Behnaz added quickly. “My problems with bandits and roving gangs of brigands have only gotten worse. I need more men, more swords, more armor. Elsewise I cannot guarantee the stability of the Western reaches.”