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Authors: K. J. Taylor
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belt.
“Well, we’ve caught them,” said Arren. “We might not find out who stole it, though. Some of the smugglers weren’t there, and one of the others was killed trying to escape. Hopefully one of the ones we caught will talk.”
“They may as well,” Roland growled. “They’ve got nothing left to lose. I don’t condone the use of wild griffins as punishment, but anyone who does what they did deserves the worst Rannagon can offer them.”
“One of them already had the worst Eluna can offer,” said Arren. “She killed him.”
Roland’s expression changed. “Ah.” He looked at Eluna. She looked back calmly.
“I’d better go. I have to report to Rannagon,” said Arren. “He’ll want to hear it from me first.”
“Don’t worry, lad,” Roland said gently. “You won’t be in trouble for this. The man was criminal scum of the first order. He deserved worse, and he would have had it, too.”
Arren nodded. “He attacked me. Eluna saw it.”
“Ah. Then the case is clear-cut. I doubt you’ll have to do more than explain yourself to Rannagon. He’ll believe you. He’s fond of you, you know. In fact he told me—no, never mind.”
“What?” said Arren.
Roland shook his head and smiled. “No, no, I’ll leave you to find out on your own. It’s not my place to say. Now, off you go.”
Arren bowed to Keth before he left. “See you later, Roland.”
“Right you are, lad. And say hello to Flell for me.”
“I will.” Arren left the hatchery.
R annagon Raegonson was the Master of Law in Eagleholm, though he was generally referred to as “the reeve,” an old word for a judge or sheriff. Where Arren ruled the marketplace, Rannagon was master of the prison district. It was his responsibility to judge and sentence criminals—hard work, and frequently unpleasant. Arren didn’t envy him. In fact, he had been offered the chance to work as Rannagan’s apprentice but had turned it down. Rannagon was old, and if he died before retiring, his apprentice would be given his position. That was something Arren didn’t want.
The prison district was on the far side of the city, but Arren made instead for the very centre of the city. That was where the Eyrie stood. Riona, the Mistress of the Eyrie, lived there, along with many of the more senior griffiners. Arren had visited the Eyrie many times, mostly on official business; he had to deliver completed paperwork there and report anything important that happened in his sector.
The Eyrie was a tall stone building, but it wasn’t quite a tower. It had a squat shape to it, and its walls were festooned with large balconies. Each one was attached to the room of a senior griffiner, and there were indeed griffins perched on many of the balconies, haughtily watching Arren’s approach. Others were flying overhead.
There were two guards in front of the gate in the stone wall surrounding the Eyrie. These weren’t ordinary guards, though, like Bran and his comrades. Each had a griffin beside him and wore a heavy, polished steel breastplate.
Arren nodded formally to them. “Good morning. Arren Cardockson, Master of Trade. I’m here to see Lord Rannagon.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“He should be, yes.”
The guards stood aside. “Go in, then,” said one. “Lord Rannagon should be in his office.”
“Thank you,” said Arren.
The Eyrie was grandly decorated inside. Fans of dyed griffin feathers hung from the walls, along with fine wooden carvings and painted shields. Lanterns hung from the ceiling, made from glass tinted red and yellow. The corridors were wide, to allow easy passage for a griffin, and the doors, too, were big. Arren and Eluna passed through them without any trouble. They met a few other people along the way, nearly all griffiners accompanied by their griffins; most of them recognised Arren and greeted him pleasantly.
Rannagon’s office was on the other side of the building, and the quickest route was to go through the huge
“Well, we’ve caught them,” said Arren. “We might not find out who stole it, though. Some of the smugglers weren’t there, and one of the others was killed trying to escape. Hopefully one of the ones we caught will talk.”
“They may as well,” Roland growled. “They’ve got nothing left to lose. I don’t condone the use of wild griffins as punishment, but anyone who does what they did deserves the worst Rannagon can offer them.”
“One of them already had the worst Eluna can offer,” said Arren. “She killed him.”
Roland’s expression changed. “Ah.” He looked at Eluna. She looked back calmly.
“I’d better go. I have to report to Rannagon,” said Arren. “He’ll want to hear it from me first.”
“Don’t worry, lad,” Roland said gently. “You won’t be in trouble for this. The man was criminal scum of the first order. He deserved worse, and he would have had it, too.”
Arren nodded. “He attacked me. Eluna saw it.”
“Ah. Then the case is clear-cut. I doubt you’ll have to do more than explain yourself to Rannagon. He’ll believe you. He’s fond of you, you know. In fact he told me—no, never mind.”
“What?” said Arren.
Roland shook his head and smiled. “No, no, I’ll leave you to find out on your own. It’s not my place to say. Now, off you go.”
Arren bowed to Keth before he left. “See you later, Roland.”
“Right you are, lad. And say hello to Flell for me.”
“I will.” Arren left the hatchery.
R annagon Raegonson was the Master of Law in Eagleholm, though he was generally referred to as “the reeve,” an old word for a judge or sheriff. Where Arren ruled the marketplace, Rannagon was master of the prison district. It was his responsibility to judge and sentence criminals—hard work, and frequently unpleasant. Arren didn’t envy him. In fact, he had been offered the chance to work as Rannagan’s apprentice but had turned it down. Rannagon was old, and if he died before retiring, his apprentice would be given his position. That was something Arren didn’t want.
The prison district was on the far side of the city, but Arren made instead for the very centre of the city. That was where the Eyrie stood. Riona, the Mistress of the Eyrie, lived there, along with many of the more senior griffiners. Arren had visited the Eyrie many times, mostly on official business; he had to deliver completed paperwork there and report anything important that happened in his sector.
The Eyrie was a tall stone building, but it wasn’t quite a tower. It had a squat shape to it, and its walls were festooned with large balconies. Each one was attached to the room of a senior griffiner, and there were indeed griffins perched on many of the balconies, haughtily watching Arren’s approach. Others were flying overhead.
There were two guards in front of the gate in the stone wall surrounding the Eyrie. These weren’t ordinary guards, though, like Bran and his comrades. Each had a griffin beside him and wore a heavy, polished steel breastplate.
Arren nodded formally to them. “Good morning. Arren Cardockson, Master of Trade. I’m here to see Lord Rannagon.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“He should be, yes.”
The guards stood aside. “Go in, then,” said one. “Lord Rannagon should be in his office.”
“Thank you,” said Arren.
The Eyrie was grandly decorated inside. Fans of dyed griffin feathers hung from the walls, along with fine wooden carvings and painted shields. Lanterns hung from the ceiling, made from glass tinted red and yellow. The corridors were wide, to allow easy passage for a griffin, and the doors, too, were big. Arren and Eluna passed through them without any trouble. They met a few other people along the way, nearly all griffiners accompanied by their griffins; most of them recognised Arren and greeted him pleasantly.
Rannagon’s office was on the other side of the building, and the quickest route was to go through the huge
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