The Inheritance and Other Stories Read online

  “I don’t think it’s necessary. I think she was able to vent her frustration at me. I don’t think she’s a danger to anyone at this time.”

  “You sure?” the other one asked.

  I knew my response would be logged and filed under “legal culpability.” If I were wrong, the security guards would be absolved of blame. I hedged my response.

  “Reasonably sure,” I replied. I longed to push my “break” button and get out of my cubicle for fifteen minutes. But that would be an extra break right at the end of my shift, and it might prompt someone to scrutinize the transaction immediately before. Any break in a pattern was a cause for concern. I gave security a small wave to dismiss them, and green-lighted. Out in the waiting room, a young man’s face lit up with a smile and he hastened toward me.

  The rest of the afternoon went well. I handled six more clients in record time, arranging good choices for all of them. After each happy customer, I offered myself a life choice affirmation. “I am good at my job. Because I am good at my job, I increase the satisfaction other people have in their lives.” I knew it was true, and every one of my last six clients thanked me, but somehow the affirmations didn’t work as well as they usually did.

  My bus was late and filled up before I could get on, so I had to stand and wait for the next one. The early evening streets were filled with teens and twenties, some quietly studying palmscreens while they waited, others laughing and jostling and restless. I wondered who they would be ten years from now and wondered who they thought they were now. Sweet illusions of youth.

  I thought back to my precareer days, when my whole life had been Basic Individual Maintenance, a Housing Allowance, and my music. I thought I had needed nothing more. I had been convinced that I was going to be rich and famous long before society mandated that I settle on a career choice. Mikey, Cliff, and I had lived together in an efficiency, using the extra HAs we saved to buy sound equipment. We had been at the crest of the retro-rock wave. We should have made it. Damn it, we had made it, until Cliff destroyed it. Cliff, not me. Cliff, who had to be wild and crazy for the sake of being wild and crazy. He always claimed it was for the music, but that was just crap. It was for the sake of Cliff Wangle. It had nothing to do with the sounds we made; he just wanted to be the star. He wanted to be worshipped as an old-fashioned rock bad boy.

  We’d practice our set endlessly, but once we were onstage, there was no predicting what Cliff would do to us. A forty-five-second drum bridge might become a two-minute drum solo. It would throw the whole band into chaos. Mikey would improvise weird vocalizations to cover, and whatever guitar player we currently had would just about tear his fingers off trying to keep up. I’d usually get pissed and just stop playing until he was finished grandstanding and came back to the plan. Aloysius would use his bass as if it was a weapon, pointing it at Cliff and firing off chord after chord, always with this weird grin on his face. And the audience would go crazy, screaming and jumping, and Cliff would feed off it, drumming until the sweat flew from him. That was the title of our first commercial release: Spattered Sweat.

  Blood Blisters, our second one, should have assured our careers. Instead, Cliff had axed it. He’d burned all the live masters, all our notes, everything he could get his hands on, in a fifty-gallon drum down on the beach one drunken evening after calling up our label and telling them that Flat Plats no longer existed. He said he’d sue the hell out of them if they tried to release Blood Blisters. And why? Simply because I had replaced one of his live wild man solos with a studio track we had done earlier. The label had loved it, our producer was wild about it, the decreased length made it a more commercially viable track, and the sound was cleaner—hell, even Mikey and Aloysius had grudgingly admitted it gave the rest of the band a chance to shine in their own right. The fans loved it; the prerelease teaser downloads from our site were incredible. Everyone who was anyone had agreed I’d made a wise choice for the band.

  Everyone but Cliff.

  He came back a month late from his “weekend” in Mexico with Cecily, listened to what was on the site, and exploded. I’d tried to reason with him, but we’d only gotten into the same old argument.

  I couldn’t understand why he couldn’t play a piece live just the way we played it in the studio or at rehearsal. “Give the fans what they expect, what they paid for, not some unpredictable experimental . . .”

  “Give them what they expect!” he’d roared. “Then it’s theirs, not ours, you idiot! And there’s no reason to play it again, if it comes out the same every damn time. Music isn’t supposed to be ‘right’; it’s supposed to be music. Alive. Growing and changing. If it doesn’t change, then how are you going to get from ‘right’ to ‘better’?”

  I’d made one final try. “Isn’t it as likely to be ‘worse’ as ‘better’?” I’d asked him.

  “Chesterton. That’s the chance you’ve got to take. That’s how you know you’re alive.”

  And they all just stared at me. I knew then that I’d lost. I’d lost the moment that Cliff Wangle walked back into the room. When Cliff was there, none of the others could ever do things any way but his. It was just how they were. And that had been the end of the Flat Plats and my musical career.

  The bus came and I got on it.

  The apartment was dark when I opened the door. The note on the table said she’d taken the boy to the movies with his friends. Dinner was in the fridge.

  But I didn’t eat. I went to the living room and took down my keyboard. I turned on the media wall and plugged it in. I set up for video, audio, body vibes, lights, the whole show. I pulled up Blood Blisters, the studio track that Cliff had despised. I helmeted in so the sound wouldn’t disturb the neighbors, and I turned it on. Then I played along with it, keyboard in my lap, hammering every note at precisely the right moment, exactly as we’d played it that day in the studio, proving to myself that I still had it. Then I hit reset and played it again. I sounded just as great. By the time I finished the third run through, I was dripping sweat. I leaned back and cranked up the audience roar I’d spliced in at the end. I lifted my arms and held them wide until it died off into white noise.

  I took off the helmet and shook my sweaty hair loose. So much for you, Cliff Wangle. You’re dead and Chesterton is still as good as he ever was. So who’s the real musician now? I headed for the shower, grinning, triumphant. There’s nothing like knowing you can do it. I could have played it a hundred times, and each repetition would have been just as good as the first.

  PART II

  Robin Hobb

  Homecoming

  Robin Hobb. Short stories. The two seldom intersect, it seems to me. My style as Hobb loves to sprawl, to explore the incidental and to revel in details. None of those things play well in a short story setting, and I’ve seldom attempted short work as Hobb.

  But in 2002, I was approached to contribute a story to the Legends II anthology that Robert Silverberg was putting together. I was both dumbfounded and dazzled by the offer. Robert Silverberg wanted me to write a story for his anthology? Robert Silverberg!!!! Too good to resist!

  Now all I needed was a solid idea for a good story.

  Days passed and my panic level rose as I considered and rejected story ideas. This one was great but demanded a novel to do it justice; I didn’t know the ending to the next one; the third one made no sense when I considered what the characters were doing . . . but finally it came to me to take all the ingredients that I most enjoyed and stir them together and try to find a story in the mix. So I took some ancient buried cities and added some people pushed far outside their comfort zones by harsh necessity. Then I put in a foreign environment, elements of mystery, a protagonist with the potential for growth and put it all into the form of a journal.

  I also really enjoyed the opportunity to return to the Rain Wild settings of the Liveship Trader books and spell out some of the history of the region for readers. I hope you’ll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Da
y the 7th of the Fish Moon

  Year the 14th of the Reign of the Most Noble and Magnificent Satrap Esclepius

  Confiscated from me this day, without cause or justice, were five crates and three trunks. This occurred during the loading of the ship Venture, setting forth upon Satrap Esclepius’s noble endeavor to colonize the Cursed Shores. Contents of the crates are as follows: one block fine white marble, of a size suitable for a bust; two blocks Aarthian jade, sizes suitable for busts; one large fine soapstone, as tall as a man and as wide as a man; seven large copper ingots, of excellent quality; three silver ingots, of acceptable quality; and three kegs of wax. One crate contained scales, tools for the working of metal and stone, and measuring equipment. Contents of trunks are as follows: two silk gowns, one blue, one pink, tailored by Seamstress Wista and bearing her mark; a dress length of mille-cloth, green; two shawls, one of white wool, one of blue linen. Several pairs of hose, in winter and summer weights; three pairs of slippers, one silk and worked with rosebuds; seven petticoats, three silk, one linen, and three wool; one bodice frame, of light bone and silk; three volumes of poetry, written in my own hand; a miniature by Soiji, of myself, Lady Carillion Carrock, née Waljin, commissioned by my mother, Lady Arston Waljin, on the occasion of my fourteenth birthday. Also included were clothing and bedding for a baby, a girl of four years, and two boys, of six and ten years, including both winter and summer garb for formal occasions.

  I record this confiscation so that the thieves can be brought to justice upon my return to Jamaillia City. The theft was in this manner: as our ship was being loaded for departure, cargo belonging to various nobles aboard the vessels was detained upon the docks. Captain Triops informed us that our possessions would be held, indefinitely, in the Satrap’s custody. I do not trust the man, for he shows neither my husband nor myself proper deference. So I make this record, and when I return this coming spring to Jamaillia City, my father, Lord Crion Waljin, will bring my complaint before the Satrap’s Court of Justice, as my husband seems little inclined to do so.

  This do I, Lady Carillion Waljin Carrock, swear.

  Day the 10th of the Fish Moon

  Year the 14th of the Reign of the Most Noble and Magnificent Satrap Esclepius

  Conditions aboard the ship are intolerable. Once more, I take pen to my journal to record the hardship and injustice to preserve a record so that those responsible may be punished. Although I am nobly born, of the House of Waljin and although my lord husband is not only noble, but heir to the title of Lord Carrock, the quarters given us are no better than those allotted to the common emigrants and speculators; that is, a smelly space in the ship’s hold. Only the common criminals, chained in the deepest holds, suffer more than we do.

  The floor is a splintery wooden deck, the walls are the bare planks of the ship’s hull. There is much evidence that rats were the last inhabitants of this compartment. We are treated no better than cattle. There are no separate quarters for my maid, so I must suffer her to bed almost alongside us! To preserve my children from the common brats of the emigrants, I have sacrificed three damask hangings to curtain off a space. Those people accord me no respect. I believe that they are surreptitiously plundering our stores of food. When they mock me, my husband bids me ignore them. This has had a dreadful effect on my servant’s behavior. This morning, my maid, who also serves as a nanny in our reduced household, spoke almost harshly to young Petrus, bidding him be quiet and cease his questions. When I rebuked her for it, she dared to raise her brows at me.

  My visit to the open deck was a waste of time. It is cluttered with ropes, canvas, and crude men, with no provisions for ladies and children to take the air. The sea was boring, the view only distant foggy islands. I found nothing there to cheer me as this detestable vessel bears me ever farther away from the lofty white spires of Blessed Jamaillia City, sacred to Sa.

  I have no friends aboard the ship to amuse or comfort me in my heaviness. Lady Duparge has called on me once, and I was civil, but the differences in our station make conversation difficult. Lord Duparge is heir to little more than his title, two ships, and one estate that borders on Gerfen Swamp. Ladies Crifton and Anxory appear content with each other’s company and have not called upon me at all. They are both too young to have any accomplishments to share, yet their mothers should have instructed them in their social responsibility to their betters. Both might have profited from my friendship upon our return to Jamaillia City. That they choose not to court my favor does not speak well of their intellect. Doubtless they would bore me.

  I am miserable in these disgusting surroundings. Why my husband has chosen to invest his time and finances in this venture eludes me. Surely men of a more adventurous nature would better serve our Illustrious Satrap in this exploration. Nor can I understand why our children and myself must accompany him, especially in my condition. I do not think my husband gave any thought to the difficulties this voyage would pose for a woman gravid with child. As ever, he has not seen fit to discuss his decisions with me, no more than I would consult him on my artistic pursuits. Yet my ambitions must suffer to allow him to pursue his! My absence will substantially delay the completion of my Suspended Chimes of Stone and Metal. The Satrap’s brother will be most disappointed, for the installation was to have honored his thirtieth birthday.

  Day the 15th of the Fish Moon

  Year the 14th of the Reign of the Most Noble and Magnificent Satrap Esclepius

  I have been foolish. No. I have been deceived. It is not foolishness to trust where one has every right to expect trustworthiness. When my father entrusted my hand and my fate to Lord Jathan Carrock, he believed he was a man of wealth, substance, and reputation. My father blessed Sa’s name that my artistic accomplishments had attracted a suitor of such lofty stature. When I bewailed the fate that wed me to a man so much my senior, my mother counseled me to accept it and to pursue my art and establish my reputation in the shelter of his influence. I honored their wisdom. For these last ten years, as my youth and beauty faded in his shadow, I have borne him three children and bear beneath my heart the burgeoning seed of yet another. I have been an ornament and a blessing to him, and yet he has deceived me. When I think of the hours spent in managing his household, hours I could have devoted to my art, my blood seethes with bitterness.

  Today, I first entreated, and then, in the throes of my duty to provide for my children, demanded that he force the captain to give us better quarters. Sending our three children out onto the deck with their nanny, he confessed that we were not willing investors in the Satrap’s colonization plan but exiles given a chance to flee our disgrace. All we left behind—estates, homes, precious possessions, horses, cattle—all are forfeit to the Satrap, as are the items seized from us as we embarked. My genteel respectable husband is a traitor to our gentle and beloved Satrap and a plotter against the Throne Blessed by Sa.

  I won this admittance from him, bit by bit. He kept saying I should not bother about the politics, that it was solely his concern. He said a wife should trust her husband to manage her life. He said that by the time the ships resupply our settlement next spring, he would have redeemed our fortune and we would return to Jamaillian society. But I kept pressing my silly woman’s questions. All your holdings seized? I asked him. All? And he said it was done to save the Carrock name, so that his parents and younger brother can live with dignity, untarnished by the scandal. A small estate remains for his brother to inherit. The Satrap’s Court will believe that Jathan Carrock chose to invest his entire fortune in the Satrap’s venture. Only those in the Satrap’s innermost circle know it was a confiscation. To win this concession, Jathan begged many hours on his knees, humbling himself and pleading forgiveness.

  He went on at great length about that, as if I should be impressed. But I cared nothing for his knees. “What of Thistlebend?” I asked. “What of the cottage by the ford there, and the monies from it?” This I brought to him as my marriage portion, and humble though it is, I thought to see it passed to Na
rissa when she wed.

  “Gone,” he said, “All gone.”

  “But why?” I demanded. “I have not plotted against the Satrap. Why am I punished?”

  Angrily, he said I was his wife and of course I would share his fate. I did not see why, he could not explain it, and finally he told me that such a foolish woman could never understand and bid me hold my tongue, not flap it and show my ignorance. When I protested that I am not a fool, but a well-known artist, he told me that I am now a colonist’s wife and to put my artistic pretenses out of my head.

  I bit my tongue to keep from shrieking at him. But within me, my heart screams in fury against this injustice. Thistlebend, where my little sisters and I waded in the water and plucked lilies to pretend we were goddesses and those our white and gold scepters . . . Gone for Jathan Carrock’s treacherous idiocy.

  I had heard rumors of a discovered conspiracy against the Satrap. I paid no attention. I thought it had nothing to do with me. I would say that the punishment was just, if I and my innocent babes were not ensnared in the same net that has trapped the plotters. All the confiscated wealth has financed this expedition. The disgraced nobles were forced to join a company composed of speculators and explorers. Worse, the banished criminals in the hold, the thieves and whores and ruffians, will be released to join our company when we disembark. Such will be the society around my tender children.

  Our Blessed Satrap has generously granted us a chance to redeem ourselves. Our Magnificent and Most Merciful Satrap has granted each man of the company two hundred leffers of land, to be claimed anywhere along the banks of the Rain Wild River that is our boundary with barbarous Chalced, or along the Cursed Shores. He directs us to establish our first settlement on the Rain Wild River. He chose this site for us because of the ancient legends of the Elder Kings and their Harlot Queens. Long ago, it is said, their wondrous cities lined the river. They dusted their skin with gold and wore jewels above their eyes. So the tales say. Jathan said that an ancient scroll, showing their settlements, has recently been translated. I am skeptical.