The Dark Griffin (29 page)

“Was it in the South?” said Aeya. “I came from the South.”

She had taught him about the four directions. He looked up at the sky and tried to remember. Which way had he come? The journey had passed in a haze. Now, looking back on it, it felt like a dream or like something that had happened to some other griffin in another place and another time. “South,” he said eventually, hoping this would be enough.

“I lived in the Coppertops,” said Aeya. “On the edge. I had a nest. But I built it too close, too close, too . . .” She trailed off. “I built it too close,” she said again. “Humans saw it. When my chicks went to the ground, they took them away. I could not stop them. I chased them; they were fast. I looked for them for days, but I never saw my chicks again. So I killed the human chicks. And the adults. Killed and ate them. They were good. Good food.”

She had told him this before. It was a kind of litany she recited when the mood took her, and she said it as if she had said it so many times that she didn’t even remember what the words meant any more. Darkheart half-listened.

“Why did
you
do it?” Aeya asked suddenly. “Why did you kill humans?”

Darkheart tried to think. “Was looking,” he said slowly. “For human.”

“For human? What human?”

“I wanted—a griffin told me she had human. One who spoke. I looked for one. I speak. They not speak. So I killed them. Then saw a griffin. White griffin. Calling me. Griffin with . . . with human. Dark human. I chase human. The griffin . . . want . . . stop. Kill her. And then . . . could not fly. Went to sleep. Dark human there. Speak. Dark human speak. He speak, I speak. He wanted . . . dark human want kill. Smell it. Watch me. Always watching. Come here, with him. Dark human. Arren.”

“Arren Cardockson?” said Aeya.

Darkheart almost didn’t hear her. He had been concentrating so hard on his speech that it had exhausted him, but the sound of the name caught his attention. “Arren . . . Card . . . k . . . son?” he ventured. “What that?”

“The human’s name,” said Aeya. “I have listened to Sefer and Orome talking. Arren Cardockson. The human who caught you and brought you to this place.”

“Dark human?” said Darkheart.

“He is a blackrobe,” said Aeya.

“What . . . blackrobe?”

“I do not know. Something bad. But you must surely hate this man. He put you in that cage. It is his fault you are here and not free.”

“Arren Cardockson,” Darkheart repeated. “Arren . . . Cardockson. Blackrobe. Cardockson. Dark human.” He remembered the eyes. Black and cold, and full of hatred. Not like other humans’ eyes. The memory made him shiver slightly.

A
rren sat at his usual table in the Red Rat and waited. He’d arranged to meet Flell, Bran and Gern, but they were late.

He rubbed his ear. It had taken a while to heal, but it was all right now. It was ragged, though, just like the other. The wounds left by Shoa’s talons had more or less healed, too, but they had left scars, which still ached from time to time.

Arren took a mouthful of cheap mead. Well, it didn’t matter. No-one but Flell was likely to see them, and she didn’t mind.

It had been nearly a month since he had returned from Rivermeet, and by now his life had settled back into a kind of normality. He continued to work at the hatchery every day and was doing fairly well. He’d requested to work only in the hatchery itself, with the chicks, which Roland had agreed to without argument. Whenever he went into the adult quarter now, he was greeted with mocking screeches from Senneck and some of her fellows. The brown griffin was positively gleeful over having put him in his place and would snap her beak at him every time she saw him. Only Keth was able to keep her out of the chicks’ quarter, and there Arren could have some peace and quiet to get on with his duties. The chicks, at least, had grown used to him, and would happily start up a raucous chorus of “Food! Food! Food!” whenever they laid eyes on him. That always cheered him up a little.

“Hey, you.”

Arren looked up. He’d been approached by a pair of heavy-set young men, both of whom were standing uncomfortably close to his table. “Yes?”

“Are you the Master of Trade?” one of them demanded.

Arren picked up his drink. “No.”

“But you used to be, didn’t you?” said the man.

“Who cares?” said Arren.

“You’re Arren Cardockson,” the second man interrupted. “You’re the blackrobe bastard who used to be Master of Trade.”

Arren drank deeply and put down his mug. “And you’re the idiotic loudmouth who comes up and shouts at people in bars. Pleased to meet you.”

The first man flicked the mug off the table with the back of his hand and grabbed hold of the front of Arren’s tunic. “Listen to me, you snobby little shit,” he snarled. “You talk to either of us like that and we’ll break your kneecaps, get it?”

Arren looked pointedly at the hand holding on to his tunic. “Yes, I think I can grasp that idea. What do you want?”

The man let go of him. “D’ you know the name Norbit Tamson, blackrobe?”

“I can’t say I do, no,” Arren said carefully.

“You killed him,” the man said.

Arren looked at him, bewildered. “No, I didn’t. I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve never heard of him.”

“You son of a bitch!” the man roared, so loudly that people turned to stare at him. “We got him back with one of his arms torn clean off! And a bag of money.
Compensation
. You murdered my brother, and you give us
money
? You think you can
pay us
not to say anything, you piece of shit?”

Arren stood up. “Your brother’s death was an accident,” he said calmly. “He was caught in a smugglers’ den and was killed when he assaulted me and several of the city guards and then tried to run away. I’m sorry for what happened to him, but it was out of my hands.”

The man hit him in the face. Arren fell backward, knocking over his chair. As he scrambled to get up, the two men advanced on him. The foremost of them kicked him, knocking him over again. “That’s for Norbit,” he snarled, ignoring the shocked stares of the onlookers. “You’re gonna pay for this, blackrobe. You think that just because you had a griffin you were special? That you were as good as us? That you weren’t a blackrobe bastard howling at the moon like a dog? You thought
that
?” He spat on Arren’s tunic. “You think you can live like us and wear our clothes an’ that makes you one of us. Riona shouldn’t’ve taken your collar off, slave.”

It happened in a heartbeat. One moment Arren was lying on his back and the next he had hurled himself straight at the man with a wild scream.

He hit him hard in the chest, and in spite of his light frame, caught him by surprise and bowled him over. The man landed hard on his back, and Arren’s long fingers closed around his neck.

The man hit him as hard as he could, in the face and chest, but Arren did not let go. He held on with all his might, squeezing the man’s windpipe until his knuckles went white. His face, once impassive, had twisted itself into an insane, animal snarl.

The man’s friend came to his rescue after a moment’s frozen shock. He seized Arren by the hair and dragged him off. Arren screamed, half in pain and half in fury. His hand went to his belt and pulled out his dagger, and he whipped around and buried it up to the hilt in the man’s leg, just above the knee. The man bellowed and fell over, blood soaking into his trousers, and Arren turned and kicked the first man in the face, knocking him over again. Then, utterly heedless of the shouts and the people running over to intervene, he started to rain blows down on the man’s face, hard and fast, shouting incoherent curses at him all the while. The man’s resistance quickly gave way in the face of that, and he started to drag himself away, but Arren scrabbled after him and slammed the heel of his boot into the man’s groin. As the victim curled up, screaming, Arren picked up a fallen chair and raised it over his head, ready to strike.

Someone grabbed him from behind and snatched the chair out of his hands. He twisted in their grip and swung a punch at them, but a hard blow caught him on the chin, stunning him, and he sagged to the ground.

A pair of strong hands dragged him away; he tried to break free and resume his assault, and received a stinging blow to the top of his head for his trouble. After that he calmed down a little and allowed himself to be taken out of the tavern.

He was led to a nondescript corner in an alley, and his captor sat him down on a crate.

“There,” said a voice. “Are yeh gonna calm down, or do I have to hit yeh again?”

Arren blinked. He had the strange feeling of having just woken up, and he squinted vaguely at the bulky shape in front of him. “Bran?” he managed.

Bran was still wearing his uniform and had his arms folded. “Yeah, that’d be me.”

Flell and Gern appeared behind him. Both of them looked horror-struck.

“Arren!” Flell exclaimed. “What in the gods’ names?”

Arren rubbed his head. “Who hit me?”

“That was me,” said Bran. “Hope I didn’t hurt yeh.”

“I think I’m all right.”

“Good. Now what in Gryphus’ name was that all about?” said Bran.

“That was
incredible
, sir,” Gern interrupted. “I had no idea you could fight like that! You would’ve killed that man if Bran hadn’t pulled you off him.”

Bran thumped him on the ear. “Shut up. Arren, what were yeh playin’ at?”

“I’m sorry,” said Arren, suddenly embarrassed. “I—well, he hit me first. He was saying things, calling me a blackrobe. I don’t know what happened. I just snapped.”

“Well, I could see that,” said Bran. “It was a bit hard to miss.” He exchanged an uneasy glance with the others.

Flell laid a hand on his arm, somewhat hesitantly. “Arren, I—”

Arren stared at the ground. “I’m sorry, Flell. I don’t know what came over me.” They were silent, but he knew what they were thinking. “It wasn’t my fault,” he insisted. “I was defending myself. You
know
I’m not like that.”

“I thought I knew,” said Bran.

“To be honest, sir, I thought you were a bit of a—well, not a fighter,” said Gern. “I’ve seen people insult you before, but you never said anything. You just ignored them. Some people reckoned you were violent because you’re a Northerner, but I always said, ‘No, Arren’s not like that. He’s too nice for that sort of thing. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.’ But you—I got your dagger back, by the way. That poor sod pulled it out of his leg and I picked it up.” He was holding it wrapped in a corner of his tunic and removed it rather gingerly, holding it between two fingers. “It’s—uh, it probably needs a bit of cleaning, sir.”

Bran waved him into silence. “Yeh ain’t been yerself lately, Arren. Flell said—”

“I told them I had a feeling you weren’t as well as you kept saying,” said Flell. “I knew you couldn’t be. Not after what happened. I know you had to be depressed and feeling guilty, but . . . you’re so
jumpy
all of a sudden. Haven’t you realised it? You keep looking at corners and doorways and things, and you won’t talk about what happened at Rivermeet. I’ve seen you walking around. You’ve got a—well, a
hunted
look. What is it, Arren? Have people been harassing you or something? You know we can help you with that sort of thing.”

Arren shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

Flell paused to restrain Thrain, who was looking rather jittery. “No, it’s not,” she said firmly, almost sternly. “There’s something going on, and I want to know what it is. You’re hiding something.”

Arren said nothing, but his eyes darted toward the alley’s entrance.

“I’m here, Arren,” said Flell. “There’s no-one there.”

“Please, sir, you can trust us,” said Gern. “We trust you, right?”

“Course we do,” said Bran.

“I
can’t
tell you,” Arren blurted. “Please, just believe me. If I tell you, something awful will happen.”

Bran touched the hilt of his sword. “Arren, for gods’ sakes, if yer in danger—”

“I’m not,” said Arren. “But I will be if I tell you, and so will you.”

“Did someone threaten you?” said Flell.

Arren hesitated. “Yes. They said that if I told anyone, I would die and so would the person I told. No matter who they were.”

“Who was it?” said Bran. “Can yeh tell us?”

“No.”

Flell took hold of his hand. “But Arren, for gods’ sakes, you can’t let someone get away with this! It’s criminal! My father has to know about it, I’m sure he can do something.”

Arren grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her into his arms. As he held on to her, he laid his head on her shoulder and whispered, “It
is
your father.” He spoke griffish and kept his voice so low that even he could scarcely hear it, but he felt Flell stiffen as he said it and knew she had heard.

He let go of her and she pulled away, staring at him. She opened her mouth to speak and stopped, half-reached toward him and then turned abruptly and left the alley, carrying Thrain under one arm.

“Flell, where are you going?” Gern called after her, but she didn’t look back.

Arren got up. “I should go home,” he said.

“But Arren—”

“No, Bran,” said Arren. “I can’t. I won’t. And it doesn’t matter any more. It’s too late for anyone to do anything. If you ask me about this again, I’ll pretend I don’t know what you’re talking about. Goodnight.” He left the alley at a quick stride, and as soon as he was back in the street he broke into a run. He didn’t stop until he reached his own home, and then he slammed the door behind him. But he didn’t relax until he had locked and barred it, and blocked up the windows.