INHERITANCE
Book One of Keys of Power
SIMON BROWN
DAW BOOKS, INC.
Copyright © 2000, Simon Brown
All rights reserved
DAW Book Collectors No. 1272.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
ISBN 0-7564-0162-3
This book is dedicated with much love to my nephews and nieces—Alice, Amy, Andrew, Ben, Bennett, Billy, Caleb, Christopher, Daniel, James, Jane, Kea, Kylie, Lachlan, Louise, Nate, Phillip, Rebecca, Tara and Thomas.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank Alison Tokley, Sean Williams, Jack Dann and Sara Douglass for all their advice and support during the writing of this book. I would also like to thank the wonderful work done on my behalf by Stephanie Smith, Julia Stiles, Garth Nix, Russ Galen, Betsy Wollheim and Debra Euler.
Kingdoms are but cares,
State is devoid of stay, Riches are ready snares,
And hasten to decay.
Pleasure is a privy prick
Which vice doth still provoke;
Pomp, imprompt; and fame, a flame; Power, a smouldering smoke.
Who meanth to remove the rock
Owt of the slimy mud, Shall mire himself, and hardly scape
The swelling of the flood.
—King Henry VI of England (1421-1471)
Chapter 1
Ager, still not forty, crippled by war and itinerant by nature, had sat down for a quiet drink in the visitor’s room in the Lost Sailor Tavern. He fidgeted in his seat, trying to ease the pain in his crookback but without avail; the ax blow that had cut tendons and bone all those years ago had been too deep to ever fully repair. He took a sip of his drink, a strange, sweet, and warm brew that tickled all the way down his gullet, and took in his surroundings.
The room was busy, but not crowded. Aproned staff wandered between tables, taking orders and delivering drinks. The guests were a mixed lot of merchants, sailors, off-duty soldiers, local dock workers, and a handful of whores. A couple of the women had thrown him glances when he first entered the room, but on seeing his misshapen back and his one eye had quickly turned away. He did not care. He had not slept with a woman for fifteen years, and sex was more a memory than a desire these days.
Suddenly the seat opposite his was taken. He looked up and saw a youth dressed in farming gear of woolen pants and shirt and a dirt-stained coat; his round face was arse-smooth, his eyes brown, his gaze intent. The youth nodded a greeting and Ager returned the favor, noting there were plenty of vacant tables around.
“You were a soldier,” the youth said bluntly. “I can tell. I have seen wounds like those before.”
“There’s nothing special about losing an eye,” Ager replied calmly, “and many are born with a crookback.”
“The injuries are rarely seen together. An arrow in the eye, perhaps? And a halberd or spear in the back?”
“Right about the eye, wrong about the back.”
“Judging from your age, sir, I would guess these happened during the Slaver War.”
Ager found himself increasingly curious about this strange young man. “And what would you know about the Slaver War?”
“I’m interested in everything about it,” the youth replied with surprising earnestness. “In what battle did you receive your wounds? Or were they inflicted in different battles?”
“The battle at Deep River,” Ager told him.
The youth’s reaction surprised him. His eyes seem to light up like lanterns, and he said in a subdued voice, “I have searched for you for many years.”
“Me?”
The youth shook his head. “No, no. I mean, someone who was at Deep River.”
Ager leaned forward across the wooden table, moving aside the cup he had been drinking from, and said, “What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t,” the youth replied levelly. “It’s Pirem.”
Ager nodded, trying to recall whether he knew the name. A distant memory sparked. “I knew a Pirem once,” he said quietly. “A long time ago.”
“There are many Pirems in Theare,” the youth said reasonably.
“This one was a soldier. He was in my company during the Slaver War.”
“He fought with you in the battle at Deep River?”
The man shook his head, then looked away. His single eye, as gray as a winter sky, looked as if it was searching for a memory in the drifting blue smoke that wafted from the kitchen through the common room.
“No; he died before then. Caught a sniffle that traveled to his lungs. He died in a delirium, thinking he was back with his wife and children.”
He returned his gaze to the youth. “Most of our losses during the war were to disease and not battle. Did you know that?”
Pirem blinked. “I remember reading something about it.”
“You read?” Ager asked loudly, clearly impressed. The skill of reading was rare enough to hint there was more to this boy than suggested by his farmer’s clothes. He tried to study the youth’s hands, but there was not enough light to catch that much detail.
“No more difficult a skill than ploughing,” Pirem said, keeping his voice low. The veteran’s exclamation had drawn attention to their table. “And talking of names, I don’t know yours yet.”
“Ah, now, names are not things you should pass on so easily.” He smiled easily. “Pirem.”
“I trust you.”
The statement was made with such direct simplicity that Ager was flattered. “Ager, and don’t worry about my last name. Why are you so interested in the Slaver War?”
“My father fought in the war.”
“Many fathers fought in the war.” Ager’s eye bunked. “And sons and brothers.” He rested back in his chair and a brief spasm of pain flickered across his face. Pirem looked concerned, but Ager waved a hand in dismissal.
“My father died while I was still a baby,” Pirem added.
“He fought at Deep River?”
“Yes. He fought in almost every battle of the war.”
Ager heard something like anger in Pirem’s voice. “He didn’t survive?” Pirem shook his head. “What was his name?” Pirem hesitated. “If you trust me with your name, you can trust me with that of your dead father’s. Maybe I knew him.”
Pirem opened his mouth to speak but closed it quickly. Ager waited, emptying his cup and catching the attention of one of the tavern’s bustling staff to indicate he wanted a refill.
“His name was Pirem, too.”
“God, the world is truly filled with your namesakes, isn’t it?”
Before Pirem could reply, a thin boy wearing a white apron streaked with dirty handprints was by their table and filling Ager’s cup with a warm brew, smelling of clove, different than his first drink. He tried an experimental sip and decided he liked it even more.
“An‘ who’s payin’ for it?” the boy demanded, holding out his hand. Pirem handed over a coin before Ager could dig out any coppers from his purse.
“Bugger me!” the boy cried. “That’s a whole penny! I can’t change that, sir. I’ve only got three eighths on me…”
“Keep his cup filled during the night,” Pirem ordered, clearly concerned at the attention their table was getting once again.
The boy disappeared with a smile as wide as the city walls; there was no way the cripple would ever drink through a whole penny in one night, and he would pocket the remainder.
“You don’t have to ply me with drink to talk,” Ager said gruffly. “I’m no pisspot babbler. If you really want to know about the war, I’ll talk until winter.” His face darkened. “No one wants to remember it anymore.”
“I want to know about Deep River,” Pirem said. “None of the books I’ve read can tell me much about it, and there weren’t that many… many…”
“Survivors?” Ager laughed harshly. “No, there weren’t many of us. But there were none left of the other side. None at all.”