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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?”