The Pleasure of Memory (38 page)

Chance shrugged as he accepted it. “Suit yourself.”

As Beam climbed to his feet he realized that all the stiffness, all the aches he’d suffered over the past two days were gone. He ran an open hand across his chest. Even his ribs had stopped complaining. If this were indeed some kind of hallucination, maybe insanity was underrated.

∞

As they walked through the seemingly endless stretch of tunnel, Chance revealed to Beam his observations about the sword and the strange light he’d witnessed.

Beam forced himself to listen, though it went against his better judgment. His first inclination was to suggest that the man might be a chronic liar, but he somehow knew that just wasn’t true. Still, he wasn’t convinced the man had truly seen what he thought he’d seen. Sure there were forces at work here he couldn’t explain, but it didn’t mean there was anything supernatural about it. It only meant that there were forces at work here he couldn’t explain. Forces he couldn’t explain yet anyway.

“All I could do was watch you,” Chance finished, “I was fairly confident the Blood Caeyl wasn’t harming you. Not that it mattered. There wasn’t a thing I could do if it were.”

Beam considered his smooth palm. “There’s no denying the improvement,” he said, “I suppose it’s possible the stone may have some kind of regenerative properties, like flesca leaves.”

Chance just shook his head and said, “Flesca leaves don’t heal anything like that quickly.”

“I feel like I've slept for a week.” Beam suffered another surge of doubt that stopped him in his tracks. He looked up at Chance.

“For the last time, no!” Chance said, “You slept a night, not a week.”

Beam blew out a deep breath of relief.

They resumed their walk.

After a bit, Chance said, “I think we should talk.”

“You’ve been talking all morning,” Beam said, “You seem to have a gift for it.”

Chance laughed at that. “Are you kidding me? In a tavern full of the drunkest rogues and braggarts in the Nolands, none would outshine your talent for gab.”

“You may have a point there.”

“How did you end up at my house?”

The question reawakened Beam’s irritation. If the man thought he was going to get a journal of his activities for the last ten years, he was full of shit.

“Don’t tell me it was a coincidence,” Chance pressed, “You were there by design.”

“What difference does it make?” Beam snapped, “Gods above, I got there in time, didn’t I? What else matters?”

“Why were the Vaemyn chasing you?”

“Who said they were chasing me?” Beam growled, “No offense, Brother, but my comings and goings are most assuredly none of your business.” His face felt hot with blood. Another improving mood shot dead in its infancy. The man seemed to have a talent for breeding misery.

“Don’t play me for a fool, Beam. Your appearance wasn’t a matter of simple good timing. They were looking for you, the Vaemyn. The wyrlaerd essentially told me so. It suggested you had something Prae wanted, that I was merely a secondary target.”

Beam laughed at that. “Oh, so they were just killing you by accident, then. They stumbled across you in the woods and said, hey, there’s a monk! Let’s kill him.”

Chance stopped and looked at him.

“I’m not stupid, either, Brother,” Beam said seriously, “Don’t tell me
you
were an accidental target.”

Chance watched him a moment. Then he simply shrugged and said, “I don’t believe you’re stupid. I believe you’re a self-serving profiteer whose ambitions only stretch as far as your pocketbook. But I do not believe you’re a stupid man.”

“There you go flattering me again,” Beam said with a laugh, “I’ve never presented myself as anything more or less than the rogue I am. One thing I’m not is dishonest.”

“Fair enough.”

“Fair enough? I think you owe me an apology.”

“An apology? Blood of the gods, I concede I
may
owe you the truth, but an apology?” He laughed. “Unlikely.”

Beam considered a list of responses he’d normally enjoy slinging, but quickly realized he just didn’t have the energy for an argument. Again. Instead, he shrugged and resumed walking. “Fine, I’ll settle for the truth, then,” he said.

“Fine,” Chance said.

“Fine,” Beam said back.

“You’re right,” Chance said, “I wasn’t an accidental target. The Vaemyn were sent for me. They’re rallying for war and they didn’t want me warning the Allies. This entire event was all very carefully staged. They disabled my sentries first so I couldn’t see them coming. They essentially blinded me.”

“Sentries? What sentries? How can you afford to pay a sentry?”

“They’re not employed,” Chance said seriously, “They’re golems powered by my caeyl. They monitor the border between the north and south forests over the Boiling River. It’s a precaution leftover from the Fifty Year War.”

Beam’s snort came off exactly as sarcastically as he’d planned. “Golems,” he said, “I see.”

“One of the sentries came to warn me, but I denied its veracity. I was convinced it’d run amiss because of an energy failure. I sent Luren back to the house while I went out to inspect the others. While I was away, the demon’s trap played out. I was a fool. Let my guard down. Because of my complacency, they took…they took Luren.”

Beam felt the pinch of guilt. The man’s grief was palpable. Chance bore a burden that must be crippling in weight. The poor fool had lost his boy, his home, and probably everything else he owned as well. Yet, in spite of his pain and loss, he still felt some twisted responsibility to inform the Allies before he did anything else, including pursuing his boy. Beam didn’t understand that. It seemed to him the boy should come first, not that there was much hope he was still alive.

Then again, it was none of his bloody business. What the hell did he care about this hermit monk and his servants? The man’s angst, though tragic, had nothing to do with him or his plans. The next viable hatch they reached would be their point of separation anyway. He was heading up to the surface and due north to Parhron City at the very first opportunity, with a hearty wave and wishes of good luck to the poor fool
and
his boy.

So why did he feel so gloomy?

Because the man’s grief and chronically dour attitude was agitating his own ghosts, that’s why. His own melancholy memories were rushing past him like white in a river, one woebegone face after another. A life of loss and abandonment, of traitors and saviors, of thieving and murder and betrayals, all served up on a road of darkness. If he were to be honest with himself, if he were truly obliged to the truth, he knew he should take a higher road in this matter. He should show more generosity toward the man, maybe be more sympathetic. He should for once try to do what he’d threatened all his life, to be a better man.

He put a hand on his companion’s arm and urged him to a stop. “Chance, look,” he said seriously, “I’m sorry about the boy.” The words felt forced and sloppy, and he immediately regretted sending them.

Chance nodded, but said nothing.

“It’ll be all right,” Beam continued, “I expect you’ll probably find him. Eventually. I mean, if they haven’t—”

“I’ll probably find him,” Chance said, pulling his arm free, “Thanks, Beam. Bless me, that just bristles with confidence.”

As Beam watched the man stomping off into the grim darkness of the tunnel, he wondered just when he’d become such a social idiot. He felt as useless as a pig in a church.

He dragged his hair back, sighed, and reluctantly turned back to the march. He passed another wide brace with the usual stack of ugly, scowling Baeldons glaring down at him. How many hundreds of these faces had he passed since they began their hike through the tunnels? He’d originally written them off as primal totems raised by a culture of giantish thugs, but looking at them now, he suddenly understood. The faces had never been scowling at all. These were expressions of grief, not anger. They were the faces of those Baeldons who’d died during the war. They were the faces of the sorry dead, and the revelation only made him feel weaker and more pathetic.

Moments later, he jogged up behind Chance. “Brother,” he called, “Wait up a minute.”

Chance stopped and turned toward him. His face looked even sorrier than usual in the dancing green torchlight.

“Look, don’t get me wrong,” Beam said carefully, “I know I come off rough, but loss is something I understand better than most men. My whole life’s been a parade of grief, and the truth is that grief’s always been hardest when the source wasn’t blood kin.”

“Brother Dael?”

“Yeah, him and too many others to name.”

Chance studied him for a bit, looking as if he were trying to see the coming joke. But then he simply shook his head and said, “I know you’re trying to help, but you’re wasting your time. Luren’s been taken, and whatever comes of him…it’s my fault, and that’s the end of it.”

“That’s bullshit. It wasn’t your fault.”

“What do you know about it? I should have seen it coming. Blood of the gods, I had the
responsibility
to see it coming.”

“How could you expect the savages to break a two hundred year old agree—”

“It doesn’t matter, Beam,” Chance said, throwing up a hand, “Once I’ve notified the Baeldonians of the invasion plans I’m going after him. He’s still alive, at least for now. And when I’ve freed him, I’ll kill that motherless bastard, Prae. I swear to Calina, I will kill him dead.”

Beam had no doubt he meant it.

They stood there for a minute, caged in the oppressive silence of the corridor. The sorry faces hanging from the braces stared down at them in reverential despair.

“Damn me if we shouldn’t just drop it,” Beam said as watched the faces watching him, “This is no topic for the shadows. We’d best get moving. I’d love to see some daylight before tomorrow ends.”

He gestured into the awaiting darkness, and together they turned back into their walk, while the remains of their conversation stayed behind.

XVIII

THE HALF-BREED’S TALE

EAM WALKED OUT FROM THE SHADOWS, BUTTONING HIS BRITCHES.

Chance was stowing the remains of their meager lunch, wrapping the uneaten portions and packing them in the sack. “You must have the healthiest bladder in the region,” he said as Beam approached.

“Damn me, you say that like it’s a good thing. These bloody buttons are a pain in the ass.”

“You’d be better off with Vaemysh breeches. They favor laces.”

“They’re savages. Buttons are probably too complicated for their simple minds. The last damned thing I want to do is imitate them.”

“You wear a Vaemysh overshirt.”

“Different circumstance, that. It was a matter of necessity. I needed it, they had it, I took it. But I did boil it thoroughly before donning it. Didn’t want to catch anything untoward, you know.” He threw Chance a wink.

Chance shook his head. “I’ve known some bigots in my time, but you’re the Queen Mother.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“You’re right, I don’t. And I imagine it’s fair to say I wouldn’t understand if I did know.”

“There’s nothing to understand. They’re little more than filthy beasts. End of story.”

“Well, your bigotry’s more the norm than the exception, especially up here in the north.”

Chance tightened the cinch on the pack, then rolled over onto his rear and sat back against the wall. His hair was drawn back tightly so that his face looked almost hawkish in the torchlight. With his silver scale mail glittering against the light, his leather boots and britches, and that serious dagger on his hip, he looked more roguish than most rogues. He was studying Beam too closely.

“Just say it, Brother,” Beam said as he fastened his belt and scabbard about his waist.

“All right. Tell me something?”

Beam could practically hear the wheels whirring in the man’s head. “Go ahead,” he said reluctantly, “Ask. I promise I’ll probably try to tell the truth. In the beginning anyway.”

“How can you hold so much hatred for the people who make up half your blood?”

Beam gripped what little belt tongue was left after his encounter with the wall back at the monk’s cave, and pulled it tight. “It’s a long story, Brother,” he said as he slipped the sword into the scabbard, “Nigh on a forty-year-old story. It’d just bore you.”

“Who was the Vaemyn, your mother or father?”

The question landed on Beam like a boulder dropped from the sky. Just when his mood was finally recovering from a particularly lousy morning, too. He scooped his weapons belt with the attached crossbow and quiver from the dirt. “Doesn’t matter,” he said.

“I’m guessing it was your father.”