place, and he opened the box and lifted out a leather bag. “All right, give me your money bag.”
Arren detached it from his belt and handed it over. Orome began counting out the oblong with practised case, still running through a list of names. “Mooneye? Hmm, gotta be something that relates to the coat. That’s what everyone will remember. Blacktalon? That’s got some potential—c’mon, help me here, would you?”
“They’re not real names,” said Arren. “They’re just labels.”
“Of course,” said Orome. “That’s what people want. Labels. Something to set the blood afire. Something you can tell stories about. We’re not just here to punish criminals, you know. We’re here to entertain people. It’s a performance. Always has been. Thunderbolt? Nightwish? Night-something has got possibilities. Nightwings? Night-sky? Night—four hundred and fifty, four hundred and seventy, four hundred and ninety, five hundred, five hundred twenty, five hundred seventy. All right, all done.” He tied the pouch shut and handed it to Arren.
It was heavy, but he stuffed it into his pocket.
“Thanks.”
“My pleasure. I’ll just show you out.”
They left the office and passed through a draughty corridor that went under the high wall of the Arena itself. Up ahead was the huge iron door that led to the pen where the griffins were held before a fight, until the gate was lifted and they were let into the Arena. Orome took a right turn through a heavy iron gate set into the wall, and they followed a second passage that went around the edge of the Arena, beneath the spectators’ gallery. It ended at a small but heavy door which opened onto the street that circled the Arena. Orome stood aside to let Arren through. “There you go. If you want to come and watch your griffin fight, I’ll let you in for nothing.”
Arren rubbed his eyes and blinked in the sudden light. “Thank you. Oh—” He started to leave, but then stopped and turned back. “You’re not going to cut off its wings, are you?”
“What?” said Orome. “Oh, good gods no. That went out years ago. No, we just keep ’em chained together.”
“You don’t clip the feathers?”
“Not usually, no. We need to have them still able to fly.”
“Why?”
“What, you don’t know? Sometimes we put a cover over the pit and take the chains off, let ’em fly. People like to see ’em attack from the air.”
Arren remembered seeing the black griffin falling out of the sky toward him. It made him feel slightly sick. “Well, just—I mean—” He sighed. “Good luck with it. I’ll see you around.”
Orome nodded. “Take care.” He retreated back into the Arena, and Arren left.
Nothing had changed during Arren’s absence. He passed out of the Arena district and went through the marketplace in order to get to the Eyrie, almost bewildered by the sameness of it all. The stalls were set up and people were everywhere, buying and selling. He had to weave his way through the crowds, his ears full of the shouts of the traders advertising their wares. The air smelt of frying onions and fresh bread and the mingled sweat of hundreds of people. For him, this was the smell of home.
But one thing had changed. No-one moved aside for him. No-one even looked twice at him. There were no muttered “sir”s. Without Eluna beside him, he was nobody.
“Sir! Sir, stop!”
At first he only just heard the voice and didn’t really pay much attention to it, but then someone grabbed his arm. He turned.
“Sir, I—oh my gods.”
“Hello, Gern,” Arren mumbled.
Gern looked horrified. “What happened to you, sir? Where were you all this time? We expected you back days ago. Flell’s scared sick and Bran’s talking about going to look for you. What were you doing? And why are you all . . . ?”
Arren looked at the boy’s honest, friendly face and suddenly felt ashamed. “I was . . . I caught the griffin,” he said at last. “We had to—we brought it back on a wagon. I had to stay with it.”
Comprehension dawned in Gern’s face. “Oh, I get it! Of course! So, you caught it? That’s amazing, sir! Have you taken it to the Arena yet?”
“Yes.” Arren started to shove his way through the crowd again.
Gern followed him. “I can’t wait to see it fight. How big is it, sir? Is it really black? Ow! Damn it!” Someone’s elbow had caught him in the ear. “This is ridiculous,” he said, pushing his way through to catch up with Arren. “Look at the bastards! They’re