Inheritance by Simon Brown

attack with such ferocity behind it.”
    Lynan nodded numbly. That his anger had so overwhelmed him made him feel nauseous. “Nevertheless, Kumul has always told me never to lose control of my emotions in a fight.”
    Ager nodded, glanced at Kumul. “Good advice, but sometimes—just sometimes—it pays to forget that rule as well.” He returned his short sword to the basket and asked to see Lynan’s. Lynan handed it over, and Ager inspected it carefully. “I thought I’d seen this blade before. Most wonderful work.” Ager handed it back.
    “It is all my father left me,” Lynan said simply.
    “You are very skilled with it.”
    “It is the only skill at the prince’s command,” Kumul said. “He has no time for any study except that of killing and war.”
    Lynan looked offended. “I am fair at geography.”
    “Like I’m fair at making pots,” Kumul replied. “You will be late for your other lessons if you don’t hurry.”
    Lynan sighed and handed the sword together with its belt and matching dagger to Dejanus, who took it to the special cabinets reserved for the war gear of Usharna’s children and returned with Lynan’s dress knife.
    Before he left, Lynan turned to Ager and said, “I’d appreciate a lesson with the short sword sometime.”
    Ager seemed flattered. “I would be honored.”
Chapter 5
    Orkid Gravespear was leaving the daily meeting of the queen’s executive council when he was intercepted by a messenger boy with the news that two visitors were waiting for him in his office. He thanked the boy and gave him a small coin for his trouble.
    Instead of heading directly to greet his visitors, he paused in the hallway and looked out over the palace’s main courtyard. He was deeply troubled. It seemed to him that day by day the queen was losing her grip on life. The skin on her face was taut around her bony cheeks and high forehead, and her hands trembled so much she had trouble signing any document placed before her. He had served Usharna for almost half of his life and had grown to love and respect her. More than that, he knew that on her death certain events, long planned, would start almost of their own accord and with such momentum that nothing would divert their course. Plans he had been putting in place for over twenty years; plans the Twenty Houses had been putting in place for even longer. As chancellor, he enjoyed almost more power in the kingdom than any other mortal except the queen herself, and yet in the face of such momentous change he knew his authority—even his own life—could be cut short as easily as a rope severed by a sword.
    He remembered he had visitors and shook his head to clear it. He entered his rooms, passed by his secretaries without a word, mumbled apologies to the two men waiting in his office, then stopped short. His mouth dropped open, and he went to one knee.
    “Your Highness! I’m sorry I kept you waiting. I wasn’t expecting—”
    “Stand up, Orkid,” said a gentle voice, and the chancellor obeyed. “There was never any such formality between us before, Uncle, and I do not expect it to start now.”
    Orkid looked in wonder at the young man standing before him, as tall as himself, slender with youth, cleanshaven, wide-eyed and grinning. “You’ve grown, Prince Sendarus.”
    “It happens, Uncle. And my father sends his wannest greetings.”
    “How is the King of Aman?”
    “Well when I last saw him, but looking forward to the day when he may see his brother once again.”
    The two men looked at one another for another moment and then embraced suddenly and fiercely. When they parted, Orkid held him by the shoulders. “I was not expecting you for another month, but I am glad you are here,” he said.
    “And no greeting for his mentor?” asked the second man.
    Orkid glanced at the second visitor and received his second shock of the morning. “Lord of the Mountain! Amemun, you old vulture!”
    Amemun, round and red-faced, his mound of hair and beard