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,
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,
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