The Dark Griffin

by K J Taylor

“And yeh ain’t told anyone else about it?”

  “No. I couldn’t even leave the house.”

  “Well, I’m gonna find out,” said Bran. “I’m gonna find those sons of bitches and get them thrown into the Arena. And after that yer going to tell me who threatened yeh, and I’m gonna to tell Lord Rannagon about it.”

  “But—”

  “Shut up. Yeh wanna wait until yeh get yourself killed? Well, I ain’t lettin’ yeh. I already lost one of my mates; I ain’t gonna lose another one.”

  They had reached the craftspeople’s quarter, and Bran led the way to a low-roofed stone building, built near the centre of the city rather than on the platform, as building regulations dictated. The windows were lit up.

  “Knew he’d still be open,” Bran said in satisfied tones. “Let’s go have a word with him.”

  They pushed open the door and went in. It was a fairly typical blacksmith’s workshop; there was a long workbench against one wall, and various tools hung on the walls. The forge itself was in the middle of the floor, its coals glowing brightly. The blacksmith was standing by it, clad in a large leather apron, busy repairing a chain-mail shirt with a pair of pliers, but he looked up when the door opened.

  “Yes? How can I help you?”

  Bran pulled the strip of blanket away from Arren’s neck, exposing the collar. “We need yeh to take this off.”

  The blacksmith reached for his hammer. “What’s this all about? Who is he?”

  “He’s a mate of mine,” said Bran. “Look, what’ll it cost to take it off?”

  “I’m not going to help you hide a runaway slave, if that’s what you’re trying to do. I’ll take the collar off, but I’ll have to report it as well.”

  “He ain’t no slave!” Bran roared. “He’s Arren Cardockson, the old Master of Trade. Godsdamnit, yeh probably bought yer bloody licence off him!”

  The blacksmith peered at Arren. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

  Arren strode forward and slammed his hand down on the brick top of the forge. “Can you see a brand anywhere? Well, can you?”

  The blacksmith backed off slightly. “All right, all right, you’re not a slave. I’m sorry. But why are you wearing that collar?”

  “Someone put it on me by force,” said Arren.

  “Well, I never heard of anyone who’d put on a slave collar by choice,” said the blacksmith. “All right, sit down and I’ll have a look at it.”

  Arren sat down on the anvil, gritting his teeth at the pain this caused him, and the blacksmith examined the collar. He tapped it gently with his hammer and felt around the edges, looking for the join, frowning in concentration.

  “Well,” he said when he was done, “I’m really not—” He sighed and sat down on the forge, apparently not noticing the heat it was giving off. “I’ve only ever seen a slave collar once before, but—I’m really not sure what I can do.”

  “Can’t you saw it off or something?”

  “You see, the problem is that these things aren’t designed to be taken off,” said the blacksmith. “They have a locking mechanism inside and once it’s snapped shut and the mechanism is engaged there’s no way to unlock it. You’re supposed to wear it for life. They made them so that the only real way to get one off was by cutting off the poor bastard’s head. If it had a lock I could pick it, or if it was a different kind of hinge I could take out the pin, but it’s made from very hard metal, you see. Normally I’d heat it up before I cut it, to soften it up a bit. But I can’t do that without giving you a very nasty burn. If I chiselled it off, it’d drive the spikes right into your neck—it could kill you. I really wouldn’t want to risk it.”

  “So, what can we do?”

  “The only thing I can really think of is to saw through it, but I’d need a better saw than the one I’ve got, and even then it would take a long time. We’d have to do it in instalments—once every week.”

  “Why?” said Bran.

  The blacksmith looked grim. “Well, you’ll probably bleed to death if I keep it up too long. We’d have to wait for you to heal.”

  “But you could get it off?”

  “Yes. It’d tear you up pretty badly, though.”

  “I don’t care,” said Arren. “I want this thing off me.”

  “All right, then,” said the blacksmith. “But I’ll have to send off for a better saw first. The nearest place I know of that makes them is Norton; I know someone who’s about to go there, so I’ll send him along with a note.”

  “How long before it gets here?” said Bran.

  The blacksmith sighed. “At least six months.”

  Arren groaned. “Don’t any of the other smiths around here have one?”

  “I doubt it,” said the blacksmith. “There’s three other smiths in the city, and I know all of ’em. A few months back one of us had a tricky bit of cutting to do and was asking for a better saw to do it with, and he came to me last. Said the others hadn’t been able to help. But I can ask them anyway, if you’d like.”

  “Yeah, do that,” said Bran. “What d’yeh reckon, Arren?”

  “Well, it doesn’t look like we have any other choice,” said Arren, carefully getting down off the anvil. “How much is this going to cost?”

  “I’m not sure,” said the blacksmith. “But the saw won’t be cheap, and I’ll have to pay the courier . . .”

  “I’ll borrow money,” said Arren. “I’m not letting you pay for this, Bran.”

  “We’ll see how it plays out,” Bran said diplomatically. “Now”—he looked at the blacksmith—“yer gonna keep this to yerself, got that?”

  “Can I ask why?”

  “No.”

  “Fine. But can you tell me where the collar came from? Who put it on you . . . sir?”

  “I don’t know,” said Arren. “Someone.”

  “I just want t’ know why,” Bran said later, when they had left the blacksmith’s workshop and were walking back toward Arren’s home. “Why’d they do that to yeh? Who were they?”

  “I know why they did it,” Arren said bitterly. “They wanted to humiliate me. Break me. Make me give up.”

  “It’s them smugglers again,” said Bran. “Must’ve been.”

  Arren turned the idea over in his mind, and then dismissed it. “I would have recognised them. This was someone else. Bran, I—you’re wrong. It’s not my imagination. There are people trying to hurt me, and they did this to me. And I’m afraid—I’m afraid they’ll do worse. I’m afraid for you. What if they go after you? I mean, Gern can’t have died by accident. It can’t be just a coincidence. They had him murdered because they know I told him something I shouldn’t have.”

  “But why?” said Bran. “What are yeh hidin’ that’s so important?”

  “I can’t tell you,” said Arren. “I already told you why. But you’ve got to protect yourself. Don’t go anywhere on your own.”

  Bran touched the hilt of his sword. “I can look after myself. But look, is there anyone else who could’ve done it?”

  Arren remembered the two men from the Rat. Maybe it had been connected with them. “I—I don’t know.”

  “Look,” said Bran, “I can’t do nothin’ unless I got more. Unless I know where t’ look, who t’ question, I’m out. If yeh really need protection, then for Gryphus’ sake, just tell Lord Rannagon. He can help yeh.”

  Arren said nothing.

  “Well,” said Bran, “meantime, I’m takin’ yeh to a healer.”

  “No,” said Arren. “I don’t need it. I’m fine.”

  Bran gave him a slightly irritated look. “Arren, yeh look like yer half-dead. Don’t tell me yer all right; I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  Arren stopped and leant against a wall, covering his face with his hand. “Bran, please, I can’t. I can’t let people see me like this. I’m—I only left my house at all to make sure you were all right. I thought someone had come and killed you while I couldn’t walk properly; I had to know you were alive. But if—I can’t stand it
, Bran. I just can’t. People staring at me. Calling me things. They don’t treat me like I’m human. Since Eluna died I’ve—I’ve been thinking about killing myself.”

  Bran grabbed his arm. “Arren, for gods’ sakes!”

  “Don’t make me do it, Bran,” said Arren. “Being called a slave everywhere I go—I just can’t cope with it. Not now. I have to go home and rest. I’ll be fine.”

  “Arren, yer sick. If yeh don’t get help . . .”

  “I’m going to get better,” said Arren. “I really am. The bruising’s gone down, and there’s no way to treat broken ribs anyway. They heal up on their own. As long as I take it easy for a bit, I’ll be fine. If I went to a healer, she’d just poke me for a while and then say I have to take it easy for a few months.”

  “Look me in the eye an’ say that.”

  Arren looked him in the eye. “I’ll get better on my own. Honestly. And if I don’t start getting better, then I’ll go to a healer. All right?”

  “Well, fine,” said Bran. “But I’m gonna come by tomorrow and visit yeh. I’m goin’ to keep an eye on yeh till I’m sure yer all right. Go ahead and say no if yeh want to, but I ain’t listenin’.”

  “I won’t,” said Arren. “That would be—well, I’d appreciate it.”

  17

  Unspeakable Crime

  True to his word, Bran came to visit next day around noon, and brought a large box of food with him. He looked horrified when he saw what was left of Arren’s home.

  “Oh holy gods, I never thought it’d be this bad. There’s not a damn bit of furniture left!”

  “It’s been tidier,” Arren said dryly. “Come in.”

  “I brought food,” said Bran, putting the box down on the table. “Ain’t much, but I figured yeh could use it. How are yeh feelin’?”

  “Not too bad,” said Arren, who’d spent half the night lying awake, trying to find a position to lie in that wouldn’t make his neck hurt.

  There was fresh bread and dried meat in the box, along with some apples, carrots and cheese, and some wine. Arren took a large helping and ate ravenously. After days of virtual starvation, it felt like the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted in his life.

  Bran left him in peace and began trying to clean up some of the mess, muttering swearwords under his breath when he saw the slashed hammock and broken windows. “Gods damn them, those sons of bitches, if I could get my hands on them . . .”

  “Bran?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You don’t really think I’m mad, do you?” said Arren.

  Bran paused. “No, not really, but I can’t say I—well, I’m a little worried about yeh, I’ll say that. I mean, yer changing, yeh know. Yeh ain’t like yeh used to be.”

  “How d’ you mean?” said Arren.

  Bran took some time to think about that. “Well, yer . . . I dunno, just different. I just keep hopin’ . . .”

  “Hoping what?”

  “Hoping that one day we’ll get our old Arren back,” said Bran, with touching sincerity.

  For some reason that gave Arren a pang of guilt. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what—I don’t know how I’m changing. But I can’t help it. Now Eluna’s gone, I just feel . . . lost. I haven’t stopped feeling lost since the day she died. She wasn’t just my partner; she was part of me. And now I don’t know what to do any more.”

  “I know,” said Bran. “Everyone knows.” He looked grim. “After she died, that’s when yeh stopped bein’ the Arren I knew. An’ now I don’t think that’s ever gonna change.”

  Arren shook his head and stared at the floor. “You’re right, Bran. Eluna was everything to me, you know that. But she’s gone, and she isn’t coming back. I have to accept that. I know I have to move on, and I’m trying.”

  “Yeh’ll manage,” Bran said encouragingly. “What about Flell? Have yeh been to see her yet?”

  “No. I want to see her. More than anything. But I don’t want to go anywhere near the Eyrie. You couldn’t—you couldn’t take a note to her for me, could you?”

  “Sure,” said Bran. “I’m off-duty today. Yeh got any paper?”

  “Uh . . . no.”

  “Well, use a bit of the wrappin’ off the bread,” said Bran.

  Bran couldn’t write and could read only a few words. He watched with a kind of fascination while Arren carefully wrote a message on the scrap of cloth, pausing occasionally to sharpen the piece of charcoal on the edge of the table.

  Flell,

  How are you? I am not very well. I had an accident a few days ago. I can’t come and see you just now; can you come and see me? I need company, and miss you.

  I love you very much.

  Arren

  “I’ll take it to her,” Bran promised once it was finished. “What are yeh gonna do today?”

  Arren sighed. “I really should go to work.”

  “What? Are yeh mad?”

  “Apparently. But I’ve already missed a week. If I don’t go in today I’ll be sacked, assuming I haven’t been already. Don’t worry, Roland will probably send me home again when he finds out why I didn’t come in sooner.”

  Bran rolled his eyes. “Yeh really don’t believe in lookin’ after yerself, do yeh?”

  “Maybe, but I do believe in being practical. It’s not that far to go. We probably went that distance last night, and I managed that.” Arren finished eating and stood up. “May as well make a start now. Could you pass me that piece of blanket?”

  He covered up the collar again, and he and Bran left together.

  “Be careful,” Bran said before they parted. “I’ll come and see yeh again tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Bran.”

  Arren walked to the hatchery, taking back streets and alleys and staying away from crowds as much as possible. Inevitably, though, plenty of people saw him. He pretended not to notice them staring and pointing.

  Roland was out the front of the hatchery, helping to feed the goats, and ran to meet Arren as soon as he saw him. “Arren! There you are, thank Gryphus! I was beginning to be very worried. Where have you been? And what’s that around your neck?”

  “I’m sorry, Roland,” said Arren. “I’ve been . . . sick.”

  “Sore throat?”

  “You could say that. Have I—I haven’t lost my job, have I?”

  “No, no, not at all. We’ve been coping well enough. I’m assuming you’ve recovered enough to come back to work?”

  Arren started to say no and then changed his mind. He needed the money too badly for that. “Yes, I think so. But I can’t do any heavy lifting for a while.”

  “That’s all right. You can just help with the feeding for now. I won’t push you too hard.”

  “Thank you,” Arren said, and went inside.

  Nothing had changed much. The moment he entered, the chicks started shrieking for food, and he crossed the room to the cage of rats.

  Work that day wasn’t too strenuous. He fed the chicks and changed the straw in the pens and went home that evening with his pay, tired and sore but feeling oddly relieved. Work took his mind off his troubles, and being paid cheered him up. It would take a long time, but he’d be able to buy some new furniture in the end.

  Roland had agreed to let him work for only half the day for a few weeks, and the next day Bran came to visit again shortly before he was due to leave. He’d brought more food, and some blankets, a pillow and a new tunic. He’d also brought news.

  “Took the note to Flell. She wasn’t at home, but I gave it to her housekeeper. So how are yeh? Better?”

  “I will be, Bran.”

  And he was. As the days and weeks slowly passed, he recovered. The broken ribs grew less and less painful as they healed, and his headaches went away altogether. Only the collar remained and it was a constant torment.

  Bran kept on bringing him food and also supplied him with a new hammock and a chair. There were no more problems; no-one attacked or threatened him, and he slowly lost the feeling of being watched. And, gradually
, he started to relax. Maybe it was all over now. Maybe.

  Flell, though, still hadn’t contacted him. He went to her house several times, only to be told she was out, and she hadn’t sent a message. But other people who’d seen her assured him she was well.

  Deep down, Arren knew she was avoiding him. But he tried to convince himself that it was better this way. She deserved better than him. She always had. All he could do now was be grateful that she was safe, and hope that she might decide to contact him again.

  At the end of two months he was able to go back to working all day. His ribs had completely healed, though they still twinged occasionally, and he was putting on weight.

  But the collar still would not leave him alone. It was always there, hurting him, a constant, secret reminder, humiliating and degrading, even though he kept it covered. Roland started to ask him why he kept his neck wrapped up, and looked suspicious when he evaded the question; other people kept staring and saying things. “Why’re you wearing a scarf?” “You’re not in the North now, blackrobe.” “Covering up your collar, are you, blackrobe?” “Hey, blackrobe! When you’ve finished wrapping your neck up, come and clean my floor.” “I could use a slave to help around the place.” “What are you looking at, blackrobe?” “I don’t sell to blackrobes, get lost.” “Go back to the North, blackrobe.”

  Stupid things. Mindless things. Cruel things. But they went on and on, every day, all the time, following him everywhere like a disease.

  Arren’s face became gaunt, his eyes cold, his mouth set into a hard, bitter line. He stopped talking to people unless it was necessary. He stopped smiling. He forgot how to laugh. Not even Bran could cheer him up any more. He stopped caring that Flell had abandoned him. Perhaps she was ashamed to be seen with him.

  Roland noticed. “What’s wrong, Arren?” he asked in kindly tones, about three months after the assault. “You’re not yourself any more.”

  Arren paused in sweeping the floor and leant on his broom. “Aren’t I?” His voice was flat and dull.