He wondered how many of them had fallen to their deaths from the mountainside. Hundreds, probably.
Arren shivered and turned away.
Someone, probably Tamran, must have gone ahead and alerted the winch operators, because the platform had already been lowered, ready to receive the cage. A group of large, hefty men were waiting on it. The wagon stopped alongside, and Arren got down and went to meet them.
One of them bowed to him. “Evening, sir. You’re the griffiner who caught it, right?”
The wagoner turned sharply in his seat. “You’re a griffiner ?” he said.
Arren ignored him. “I’m Arren Cardockson.” He gestured at the cage. “I’m not sure you’ll be able to lift it; it’s a big one.”
“Not a problem, sir,” said the man, going to inspect it. “We know how to deal with this sort of thing.” He climbed up onto the wagon with several of his colleagues and lifted the cloth away.
Several of them uttered exclamations of astonishment. “Dear gods, look at the coat on that thing!”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said one of them. “Where’d you catch it, sir?”
“Rivermeet,” said Arren. “Near the Coppertops.”
The man grinned at him. “Well done, sir. It’s a magnificent brute. People’ll queue up for days to see this.” He glanced at the griffin again, which hadn’t moved. “Drugged, right?”
Arren nodded. “Just a sleeping draught.”
“Good idea, sir. It looks pretty healthy—got any injuries?”
“Two arrow wounds, but I’ve treated them. They’re healing. Oh, and some scratches on its face there, just above the beak, but they’re nothing serious.”
“Good, good. You’re going to get a handsome price for this one, sir. All right, just stand aside and we’ll get it down off the wagon.”
Arren went to stand by the platform while they spaced themselves around the cage and lifted it down. They were strong and well organised, and got it onto the platform with surprising speed. Once it was on, the apparent leader said, “All right, sir, you an’ me will ride up with it, an’ my mates will wait until the platform’s sent down again for them. Can’t afford to overload this thing. Up you get.”
Arren stepped onto the platform, and the man tied the rope barriers into place at the front to stop either of them from sliding off. This done, he tugged sharply on a rope that dangled by one of the thick cables that disappeared into a hole in the city platform high above. A few moments later the cables went taut and the platform slowly started to rise. Arren sat down beside the cage and concentrated on watching its occupant.
The man was also watching the griffin, with considerable admiration. “I’ve never even heard of a black griffin before. Have you, sir?”
Arren shook his head.
“I saw a green griffin once,” the man went on. “Well, it was sort of dark brown, but it had green on its neck. Belonged to an ambassador from somewhere in the east. It brought its human to the Arena to watch a fight. I talked to him. The griffiner, I mean. He said the griffin could make plants grow. Now, that’s a kind of magic I’d like to see.”
“How do you stop the griffins using their magic in the Arena?” said Arren.
“Oh, it’s simple enough, sir. We drug ’em. There’s a potion you can use that suppresses their magic. We put it in their food and water. Some of ’em figure out what’s going on, but they have to go on taking it or they starve. After a while they get so they can’t use magic at all any more. When I was a lad there was a griffin that managed to get its magic back somehow. It set half the damn Arena on fire—excuse me, sir. They had to kill it in the end. Still”—he watched the sleeping griffin—“I can’t help but be curious. What would a black griffin be able to do?”
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