Robin Hobb - The Inheritance and Other Stories

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.

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.

Day 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.