Inheritance

by Simon Brown

  Yran nodded. “Well, then, close enough to a steer, I expect. If you an’ the big fellow do the dressin’, an’ the boy an’ girl reckon they can cut all the wood into cords before it gets too busy tonight, you’ll have a good meal, a comfortable bed, an’ I’ll even throw in a few ales in front of the big fire. If I’m in a good mood tomorrow mornin’, you might even get breakfast out of it.”

  The companions accepted the offer, and Yran took them out back. There was a large pile of uncut wood against the rear wall, and nearby was the outshed. “You’ll find the tools you need in the shed, includin’ an ax an’ a whetstone. Call me when you’ve finished.”

  The ax was made for someone with bigger muscles than Lynan or Jenrosa, so Kumul agreed to do the woodcutting in exchange for Lynan helping Ager with the carcass. At first, Lynan thought he had the better of the deal, but when he walked into the outshed he started having doubts. The steer had been slaughtered recently, and its hide still smelled of blood and shit. Its cut throat grinned obscenely at him, and dried gore matted the animal’s fur. Seeing the massive weight hanging from a huge iron hook on the traverse beam, he realized how big a job lay ahead of them.

  “I don’t think we’ll get this done in time,” he muttered.

  Ager ignored him. He opened the back of the shed and half-pulled, half-dragged the carcass along the traverse beam until it was outside.

  “Bring me the slop buckets and butchering knives,” he told Lynan, and pointed to two wooden buckets in one corner with three different-sized knives in them—a heavy-bladed straight-edged chopper and more finely-bladed but wickedly sharp carvers. The buckets were black with grime and gore. Lynan felt like gagging, but brought the equipment with him, together with dirty white aprons he found hanging from the shed wall. The aprons covered them from neck to knee.

  Ager, with a carver in one hand, walked around the beast a couple of times then nodded to himself. “Not too different,” he said and stabbed the knife into the steer’s groin. Lynan could not help flinching. With all his strength Ager pulled the blade down toward the neck until it met with the gash, then made quick cuts at the base of each of the limbs.

  “Right, now comes the hard part,” he told Lynan, and indicated he should take hold of the hide on one side of the long cut. Lynan did so, and on Ager’s word they both pulled away from each other. The hide slowly, tortuously, separated from the flesh for about a hand’s span. Ager then punched at the tegument connecting hide to muscle until it loosened and started peeling again; Lynan copied him on his side of the beast. Eventually the hide was taken off completely, revealing white tendon over pink muscle and ribbons of veins and arteries.

  “This is what we all look like inside,” Ager told Lynan merrily. “During the war I came across the remains of our scouts the Slavers had captured and skinned. They looked something like this.” He patted the prince on the back. “And now comes the fun part.” He used the knife again, carefully cutting around the intestines and other internal organs. The stench was overbearingly warm, as if the steer was still alive and breathing. The organs fell out together in one great glistening movement and slopped to the ground.

  With great effort they unhooked the beast from the beam, and then with something like relish Ager cut off its head and quartered the body using the chopper. Then they worked at the internal organs, putting the ones that could be used for food into one bucket and discarding the others.

  When day’s last light evaporated, Yran came out with torches so they could continue their work. He quickly checked on their progress, seemed happy enough with it, then disappeared back into his inn, taking with him some of the offal and one of the quarters slung over his back.

  An hour later, Ager, covered in sweat and flecks of fat and dried blood, finally stood up and stretched his arms. “Well, that’s as good a job as Yran would manage, I dare say,” he told Lynan. “We’ll put this lot in the safe box and then help the others stack the cords.” Lynan found the safe box tethered high in a nearby headseed tree and let it down. They loaded in the remaining quarters and offal, closed the mesh, and hauled it back up again.

  “Just in time,” Ager said, pointing to a mangy-looking dog and one very fat porker that had come around to investigate the discarded organs.

  By the time both tasks were finished, Yran had filled an old iron basin in one of the bedrooms he assigned them with hot water and next to it placed scented fatblocks and clean washers. Ager and Lynan let Kumul and Jenrosa clean first, then deliriously enjoyed wiping the gore off their own faces and hands. All the time they could smell the night’s meals being prepared, and their stomachs rumbled in hunger.

  They left their coats, cloaks, and swords in the bedroom and found Yran, who then led them into the main room and showed them to their table, already laden with large tankards of warm peach wine and wooden platters burdened with grain bread steaming from the oven. The room was still largely empty, only a few travelers present and none yet of the locals, but the main fire burned fiercely, filling the inn with the scent of sweet-smelling resin.

  The companions were thirsty and tired from hard work. They swigged down their drinks and stuffed their mouths with the bread.

  “Swinging that ax for three hours was harder than fighting,” Kumul said, pulling at his shoulder. “It’s the same action again and again, and wears your bones away.”

  “You’ll live,” Ager said without sympathy, and turned to Lynan. “I’ll bet our young friend has never gotten his hands so dirty.”

  Lynan felt his ears burn. “I’ve done hard work before.”

  “In the training arena, I’m sure. But this was different, wasn’t it? It’s the work your servants have always done.”

  “Hush,” Kumul warned them. “We know nothing of such things, remember?”

  But Lynan was not quite so ready to let the matter drop. “I’m willing to learn, Ager. You should know that by now.”

  Ager regarded him with sudden affection, his one eye bright. “Aye, that’s true. You’ve never shirked from hard lessons.”

  Any further discussion was forestalled by Yran joining their table with a tankard of his own and a huge jug. “The kitchen hands can finish off the stews an’ porridges, an’ the meat’s crispin’ nicely,” he told them, refilling their drinks. “How long have you been on the road, did you say?”

  “We didn’t,” Kumul said carefully. “But close to three weeks.”

  “You ever been to the Arran Valley before?”

  “Once, a long time ago,” Kumul replied. “I was a soldier many years back, and came through here on the way north.”

  “Oh, aye. You had that look and walk about you, I must say. Many soldiers have settled here over the years.”

  “It’s a beautiful valley,” Jenrosa said matter-of-factly.

  Yran visibly swelled with pride, and started talking animatedly about the valley. He knew all the best streams for fishing, where the choicest fruit was grown, which farms had the best soil, and where the best rabbits could be caught. When he finished with the geography, he moved on to the valley’s history. Tired from their exertions, the four visitors listened as politely as possible to family trees and accounts of great storms, but the going was heavy until Yran mentioned the valley’s annexation by a king of Chandra some five centuries before.

  “An’ more recently, of course, Chandra’s marriage to Grenda Lear.”

  “Recently?” Lynan objected. “It was over a hundred and fifty years ago.”

  Yran scratched the side of his large nose with a chipped fingernail. “Recent to some, as might be,” he said reasonably. “An’ the way things are goin’, it might not be too far in the future before Chandra’s a spinster again.”

  “What do you mean?” Lynan asked tightly, and Ager gently placed a hand on the youth’s arm.

  “Well, I’ve heard Tomar’s naught happy with the new queen. Fact is, some in the valley are sayin’ our peaches and plums would make better rulers than any of Usharna’s mixed brood.” Yran d
id not notice Lynan and Kumul stiffen, nor Ager firm his grip on the youth. “Maybe they’re right, with one murdered, one drowned, one an idiot by all accounts, an’ the girl on the throne untimely.”

  “Why is Tomar unhappy with the queen?” Ager asked.

  “There’s rumors of war. She’s callin’ in mercenaries to boost her armies, and a lot of them are marchin’ through Chandra to get to the capital, which makes Tomar feel about as comfortable as a slug on a salt lick. An’ then there’s the accusations against General Chisal’s son. The court’s sayin’ he did in his own brother! Poor little bastard drowned tryin’ to escape, they reckon. Chisal and Tomar were friends a long time ago, an’ the news hit him hard, folks say.”

  Lynan resisted the temptation to ask what the accusations said about him in detail, and instead said: “War with whom?”

  “Why, Haxus, of course. Trust those bastards to make trouble as soon as Usharna passed on. An’ if they weren’t thinkin’ of it then, Berayma’s murder must have convinced Salokan to try his luck by now. At least, that’s what everyone’s mutterin’.”

  “But surely the queen is organizing to defend all of Grenda Lear, including Chandra,” Ager argued.

  “Maybe, maybe not. An’ then there’s that bastard from Aman makin’ everyone in Chandra unsettled.”

  “The bastard from Aman?” Lynan asked. “You mean King Marin?”

  “Lord, no, he’s too far away to trouble anyone. It’s his brother, the chancellor.”

  “The man’s enough to make the dead unsettled,” Kumul agreed. “But he’s been chancellor for years now.”

  “An’ never had so much influence, folks say. Look at that mountain prince he’s fittin’ up with the queen.”

  The four companions looked blankly at one another.

  “You have been out of touch!” Yran declared. “King Matin’s son—Sendarus!”

  “What’s this about Sendarus and Areava?” Lynan had met the man briefly before Usharna died, and he had seemed halfway decent back then.

  “They’re playin’ all sweet together, and Orkid’s budgin’ them on for all he’s worth. Accordin’ to talk, the way they’re goin’ at it, Areava will have an heir by the end of next year.”

  By now the inn was filling up with customers. Yran stood to leave. Lynan wanted to hear more about the goings-on in Kendra, but Yran waved him down. “I have work to do, lad. Maybe we can talk again later.”

  Soon afterward bowls of thin beef soup arrived, and before they had finished those, plates with steak rounds and baked parsnips. The four wolfed down the food, more hungry than they could have believed possible.

  When he was finished, Lynan rubbed his stomach. “It is a long time since we have had such a meal,” he said.

  “Even longer since I enjoyed one so much,” Jenrosa added, looking reasonably content for the first time since their escape from Kendra.

  Lynan took the time to look around at the crowd. Some were travelers, garbed in riding leathers and dirt-stained coats and cloaks, but most of Yran’s guests were locals in for a drink rather than a meal, farmers dressed in the same garb he himself had once worn to fool Ager on the night when they first met. That was less than four months ago, he reminded himself, but it feels as if years have passed since then.

  Exhaustion crept over him, and he tried to shake it off. He wanted to speak to Yran again. He needed to know what was going on back in Kendra. He glanced up at his companions and saw they were equally tired. A full night’s sleep would do them all good, and who could say how long it would be before they would get another one.

  “Why don’t you all go to bed,” he suggested. “I’ll stay up a while.” Jenrosa nodded, but Kumul and Ager looked unsure.

  “One of us should stay up with you,” Kumul said. “Someone might recognize you and try something.”

  “I’ve drowned, remember? No one is looking for me anymore. And if anybody had recognized me, don’t you think they would have given the alarm by now?”

  Kumul could find no counter to the argument, and his body cried out for rest. “Well, don’t stray outside of the inn.” he warned, and then he and Ager left with Jenrosa to go to their rooms.

  Lynan finished the dregs in his tankard and refilled it with the last of the peach wine. He noticed a collection of more comfortable chairs arranged in a semicircle around the main fire, all unoccupied, and left the table to claim one. Lynan found himself watching the dancing flames like a mouse hypnotized by the movements of a snake. His exhaustion returned and he tried to shrug it off, but the warmth and smell of the fire, and the peach wine, were making it impossible to keep his eyes open. He caught himself nodding off and tried sitting up, but after a moment his eyelids drooped again and his shoulders slumped forward. In the background he could hear the voices of Yran’s guests merge into a single low drone, and sleep stole over him like night over day.

  Lynan woke with a jerk, shaking his head to clear it. Pins and needles sparkled under his thighs and he changed position. The fire was burning low and he felt colder. His empty tankard hung from his right hand. He looked over his shoulder and saw that the inn was almost empty now. A couple of travelers were sitting together, hunched over their drinks in serious conversation, and a group of farmers were telling each other stories at another table. With relief, he noted that Yran was still working, clearing tables and sweeping the floor. He caught the innkeeper’s eye, and Yran nodded back. Lynan took that as an encouraging sign and decided to wait a while longer. There was a sound on the stairs and he looked up to see Jenrosa. She came and took the chair next to his by the fire.

  “Couldn’t sleep?”

  She shook her head. Lynan liked the way the fire reflected in her sandy hair. “It’s like that sometimes, when you’re so tired you can’t even close your eyes.”

  “Especially if something is on your mind, and you’ve had your fair share of troubles since we met.”

  Jenrosa shrugged. “The truth is, things weren’t going that well for me back in Kendra. I was proving to be a disappointment to my instructors.”

  “You couldn’t do the magic?” Lynan had heard that it could take years for magickers to develop their skills and, conversely, years to discover that their latent potential was not magical at all but some other gift or ability.

  Instead of answering, Jenrosa put her hands out in front of her, palm outwards, and muttered three words. The flames in the fireplace brightened noticeably, and golden sparks shot up the flue.

  “I’m impressed,” Lynan admitted. “I didn’t know a student could do that, especially a student in the Theurgia of Stars.”

  The look she gave him was almost pugnacious. “You don’t really think Silona was scared off by nothing more than a burning branch, do you?”

  Lynan could not help shuddering at the memory of that night, but he remembered how brightly Jenrosa’s brand had burned.

  Jenrosa shrugged. “Party tricks, of course. I can’t start a fire, for example, only increase the brightness and heat of one that already exists, and then only for a short while.” Even as she said the words, the fire in front of them descended into old age again. “But my ability, for what it’s worth, does stretch across several disciplines. I think that’s why my maleficum and the theurgia’s instructors let me stay on for as long as I did.”

  “You were in trouble with them?”

  “I was bored with them,” she said. “The pointlessness of so much of the instruction, repeated from generation to generation for no other purpose than maintaining a tradition. They are never sure which bits of their rituals and incantations actually perform the magic, so they keep it all. Can you imagine how horrifying it will be for students a thousand years from now? They’ll be ninety before they graduate.”

  “Still, at least you had a home with them.”

  “Not for much longer.” She turned her head to meet his gaze. “But I would rather be here right now than back in Kendra. I know it’s easier to say this sitting in a dry and comfortable inn than i
t is in a forest inhabited by a vampire, but there you are.”

  Lynan nodded, not sure what to say in response, so he offered a thank-you. It seemed to have the right effect. Jenrosa smiled and got up. “I think I’ll be able to sleep now,” she said, and left.

  Lynan watched her climb up the stairs, a part of him wishing he was climbing up with her, and all the way back to her bed. However, another part told him it would be exactly the wrong thing to do just then, and he took the advice.

  He was not aware at first of the figures moving behind him, but when he looked over his shoulder to see where Yran was he found himself gazing into the steady brown eyes of one of the farmers. He was a light-skinned man, past middle age, with thick gray hair twisted into tight braids. He carried a paunch still kept in some control by broad muscles. His face was a macabre collection of scars and a crooked nose. Behind him were two taller men, their faces as disfigured, their hair almost as gray; they were so similar they could have been twins.

  “We told the innkeeper you were asleep, and so he’s turned in himself,” the first man said, and casually sat in the chair just vacated by Jenrosa. The other two stayed behind Lynan.

  Lynan looked at the man blankly. “What?”

  “A wonderful purifying thing, fire,” the seated man said. “Did you know that in some cultures only males are allowed to start a fire, and in others women are considered the guardians of the flame?”

  Lynan shook his head. He wanted to leave, but found himself cornered by his own uncertainty. These were farmers, that was all, he assured himself. No reason to go screaming for Kumul. I cannot spend all my life jumping at shadows and doubts.

  “Wonderful and purifying,” repeated the farmer. He cocked his head and glanced at Lynan out of the corner of his eye. “I know you, young sir, I am sure of it.”

  “We’ve never met,” Lynan replied, trying to keep out of his voice the frog that had suddenly appeared in the bottom of his throat.