by K J Taylor
Arren eyed it with unconcealed hatred. “I’d rather not find out.”
Arren 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 Elu
na 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.
Arren 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.”
“I can wait,” said Arren. “He told me to report to him as soon as I arrived.”
“What for?”
“That’s between him and me.”
“I see.” The guard didn’t sound particularly sincere. He looked Arren up and down. “And you’re intending to go in there looking like that, are you?”
Arren growled and barged past them into the Eyrie. One of the guards followed him for a short distance, but gave up and returned to his post. When Arren reached the doors leading into the council chamber, though, he found them shut and guarded by two more guards, these ones accompanied by their griffins. He stopped at a respectful distance, and one of the griffins came forward to sniff at him. It turned away with a contemptuous flick of its tail and returned to its partner, who lifted his spear slightly and said, “What are you doing in here?”
Arren bowed his head slightly. “Arren Cardockson, Master of Trade. I’m here to see Lord Rannagon. Will he be long?”
“Don’t know, but you can’t see him now,” said the guard. “He’s busy talking to the Mistress of the Eyrie. I couldn’t say how long they’ll be; it’s been a while already.”
“What are they talking about?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think I know,” the other guard broke in. “He’s arguing with her again. Trying to make her change her mind.”
“About what?” said Arren.
“Didn’t you hear?” said the guard. “It’s all over the place.”
“What?”
“Lady Riona’s thinking about retiring and naming someone as her replacement. Obviously Lord Rannagon thought it’d be him, what with him being her brother and all. But she said no.”
“It’s because of that bastard of his,” said the other guard. “It’s got to be.”
“What, you mean that boy who showed up claiming to be Rannagon’s son?” said Arren.
“Yeah, that’s him. Erian, I think he’s called. Rannagon gave up and admitted he was the boy’s father. He didn’t have much choice; he’s the spitting image of him. Anyway, there went his chances of being Master. You can’t have a Master of the Eyrie who goes around fathering bastards.”
Just then they were interrupted by a loud screech and a thump from inside the council chamber. The guards’ griffins started to hiss, and one of the guards opened the door behind him in order to look through and see what was going on. Arren looked over his shoulder and saw Rannagon and Riona. They were trying to restrain their griffins, which were snarling and snapping their beaks at each other. The two guards entered and approached warily. Arren hesitated a moment and then followed.
“My lady?” said one of the guards, stopping and bowing. “Is there anything you want us to do?”
Riona and her griffin looked up sharply, but then relaxed. Shree sat back on his haunches, tail lashing, and Riona carefully let go of his wing. “No, thank you,” she said. “We’re fine.”
Rannagon had a bloody tear on the front of his tunic, but he glared at the guards. “I told you not to come in here.”
“Sorry, my lord. We’ll just leave.”
Arren stepped around the guards. “Lord Rannagon.”
Rannagon looked at him, apparently noticing him for the first time. His face fell. “Arren?”
Arren paused and then bowed. “Lord Rannagon, I—”
Riona came toward him. “Arren Cardockson, explain yourself.”
Cold dismay bit into him. “My lady, I—”
Riona waved at the guards. “Get out and close the door. Don’t come back unless we call you.”
They bowed and left. Once the door had closed behind them, the Mistress of the Eyrie confronted Arren. Her griffin, Shree, stood tall with his wings half-open, still savage with anger. Riona looked a little more composed. “Where have you been? Answer quickly.”
“I—I was at Rivermeet, my lady.”
“So I heard,” said Riona. “And what were you doing there?”
“I was sent there to catch a wild griffin,” said Arren. “I caught it. It’s at the Arena now. I—” He took the bag of money from his pocket and showed it to Rannagon. “I’ve got the money, my lord. I can pay you now.”
Neither Rannagon nor Riona touched it.
“Arren, why did you do it?” said Riona. “I don’t understand.”
Arren blinked. “Why did I do what, my lady? I was following orders, that’s all.”
Riona pointed at the couch next to her seat. “Sit down.”
Arren sat. It was soft and comfortable, and he resisted the temptation to lie down. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” he said. “I only just got back.”
Riona seated herself on her own chair, and Shree crouched by her hand. Rannagon remained standing, his hand on Shoa’s shoulders. The yellow griffin’s tail was swishing, and she looked restless.
“Now,” said R
iona. “Tell me everything. Start from the beginning.”
Arren took in a deep breath. “I came here to report to Lord Rannagon after the raid on the smugglers’ den on Tongue Street. He told me I would have to pay compensation to the dead smuggler’s family, and when I said I couldn’t afford it he said he knew a way I could earn some money. He said there was a wild griffin out near Rivermeet that had started killing people, and that if I caught it I would be paid. I said I didn’t think I could do that because I’d never done it before, but he said he thought I could do it and it was easy. He gave me some poison and said that if I put it on an arrowhead it would put the griffin to sleep, and he gave me a map to the village. I didn’t want to do it, but Eluna—” He paused a moment, wincing. Just saying the name made him feel a sudden thump of pain in his chest. “She—she agreed to do it for me, and I couldn’t argue with her. Lord Rannagon said I should leave the next day and that he would take care of my affairs while I was gone. I had doubts, but I went anyway, and the day after I got there Deanne arrived.”
Riona had listened closely to this, expressionless. Beside her, Shree started to hiss.
“So, that’s your story, Arren?” she said once he had finished.
“Yes,” said Arren. “If you ask Lord Rannagon, I’m sure . . .” He looked appealingly in Rannagon’s direction, but Rannagon only stared back impassively.
“You’re sure that’s everything?” said Riona. “There’s nothing else you want to tell me? Remember,” she continued, even as Arren opened his mouth to speak, “I am your friend. I can understand that there were mitigating circumstances. Obviously, you are not well-off money-wise, and you were upset over what happened in the smugglers’ home. And I can understand that you have a thirst to prove yourself—you’re young, after all.”