by K J Taylor
“Maybe.” Arren gave up when he saw Gern’s expression. “All right, yes. I’ll tell you about it later if you keep it quiet. I’m going to go and meet up with Bran once Eluna gets here.” He glanced skyward. There were plenty of griffins circling up there, but he thought he could spot Eluna’s white wings among them. “Hold on a moment; I’ll just call her.”
Gern stood back, and Arren cupped his hands around his mouth. He lifted his head and let out a loud, harsh scream. It was an approximation of a griffin’s call, and he repeated it several times, completely ignoring all the people staring at him. “Arren! Arren!”
After a few moments, Eluna’s reply echoed back. “Eluna!”
Arren lowered his hands. “Watch out,” he said, rather hoarsely.
Bystanders had already picked up on what was going on. They hurried to get out of the way as Eluna came down to land. She hit the wooden planks lightly and came to Arren’s side, claws clicking. The people stayed well away from her, openly frightened and awestruck, as if they were looking at a queen. Eluna ignored them. She sat down on her haunches beside Arren, and he stroked her shoulder. “There you are.”
Gern came back, moving very slowly and carefully. He kept his eyes on Eluna, who had turned sharply to watch him, and bowed low. She stared at him, sizing him up, and then looked haughtily away.
Gern relaxed. “I’ll see you later, then, sir,” he said to Arren.
Arren smiled. “I’ll be down at the Red Rat tonight, probably. I’ll keep an eye out for you.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll see you then, sir,” said Gern. He bowed to Eluna again and left.
Eluna rustled her wings and got up. “Time to go and meet Bran,” she said, and set out along the street with Arren by her side.
The two of them moved sedately, keeping pace with each other. People hurried to get out of their way, bowing and greeting Arren with murmured “sir”s. Arren acknowledged them with nods and a cheerful smile. Eluna barely looked at them. Once, when someone ventured too close to her, she lashed out at them, her beak snapping shut inches away from their leg. The unfortunate darted out of the way, to the laughter of the onlookers.
The sun was well up by the time they reached their destination. Another fine day.
The guard tower was right on the edge of the city, not too far from Arren’s home. There weren’t any direct routes to it from his place, though; the city planners had wanted to discourage too many people from travelling around the edge. The city’s platform was extremely strong and was constantly being reinforced, but there was no sense in risking it collapsing. This meant most of the buildings on the platform were built to be lightweight, and those who lived on the very edge, like Arren, were forbidden to own more than two or three pieces of heavy furniture.
The guard towers, however, were too essential to Eagleholm’s security to be built anywhere other than on the edge. There were at least twelve of them, spaced around the boundary of the city, and they were constantly manned by lookouts. Cymria was not a united country, not by any yardstick, and neighbouring powers were quite capable of attacking if they wanted to.
Arren’s arrival was promptly spotted by the guards on the lookout post at the top of the tower, one of whom immediately went inside to alert the others. By the time Arren reached the tower a group of guards had already come out to meet him.
“Mornin’, sir!” said one of them, bowing to Eluna. “Yeh got here early.”
“Hello, Bran,” said Arren. “Yes, Eluna woke me up. Everything ready?”
“Just about, sir,” said Bran. He was a little older than Arren, and three times as heavy. He had broad shoulders and powerful muscles and a square jaw which was only slightly softened by a short beard. Like his colleagues, he wore a red leather breastplate decorated with a black eagle. A short sword hung at his side, and there was a steel helmet under his arm. “How’re yeh doin’, sir? Nervous?”
Arren laughed. “Me? When I’ve got Eluna to look after me?”
Bran glanced cautiously at the griffin. “Yeah, of course, I didn’t mean—”
“Of course I’m nervous,” said Arren. “But if I were that lot I’d be even more nervous. Shall we go?”
Bran put his helmet on. “I hate this thing,” he muttered. “Yeah, ready as I’ll ever be, sir.” He looked at the other guards. “All right, you lot, let’s get goin’. Just follow Arren.”
Arren nodded to them and left. Eluna walked beside him, and Bran followed on the other side, keeping well away from the griffin, though he wasn’t as afraid of her as other people were. The rest of the guards followed in a neat rank behind them.
“How many d’you think there’ll be?” said Arren.
“Oh, probably not too many, sir,” said Bran. “There’d be more’n enough of us to take care of ’em even if we didn’t have yeh with us. Anyway, they won’t be interested in fightin’. They’ll try to run off before they try anything like that. I mean, they’d have to be bloody stupid to try and fight a griffiner. An’ afterwards”—he grinned, showing a couple of missing teeth—“it’ll be rich pickings, I’ll bet. Always is with this sort.”
Arren nodded. “I hope so. I could do with a few luxuries. I haven’t had an orange in months.”
“Oooh, a few oranges would be nice,” Bran said. “Last time I had one of them was at my sister’s wedding.”
“We’ll just have to wait and see, I suppose,” said Arren.
They knew where they were going. The place had already been scouted out, and Arren had seen it several times in the past. It was in the large residential area that backed onto the market district. Thousands of people lived there: traders, craftspeople, guardsmen, anyone and everyone the city needed. Since the house was on the solid part of the city rather than on the platform, it was built out of stone and was significantly older than most of the buildings on the edge, which had to be replaced or repaired much more frequently. This one looked as if it belonged to someone fairly wealthy. The windows were glass, and the doors and frame were freshly painted. There was even a little bit of a garden out the front.
“Huh,” said Bran, seeing it. “Bloody bastard thinks he’s a lord, does he? Must’ve had this racket goin’ pretty long.”
“Yes, and he’d be able to keep it going a lot longer if he hadn’t decided to spend some of the profits on his house,” said Arren. “Let’s go in.”
Some of the guards had already detached themselves from the group and moved around to the back of the house, to block any other doors. Arren and Bran made for the front door, not troubling to avoid trampling the flowerbeds. Eluna took up position next to the door, and Bran glanced at Arren. “Yeh goin’ in first, sir?”
Arren drew his sword and tried the handle. It turned and he went in. There was no-one in the entrance hall, and he silently beckoned to Bran. The big guard joined him, moving surprisingly quietly, and several other guards came, too. “Spread out through the rooms,” Bran told them in an undertone. They nodded and separated, drawing their weapons. Once they had gone, Eluna stepped into the entrance hall. Arren stroked her head. “Will you come with me?” he asked in griffish.
“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
The rest of the raid was fa
irly 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.