The Pleasure of Memory (39 page)

Beam threw the belt over his shoulder and tried to resist his darker impulses. As he buckled it in place across his chest, he looked at the man. “Why in the hell would you make that assumption?”

“I don’t know. A hunch, I guess.”

“A hunch?”

“Men tend to be more generous toward their mother’s families. For some reason it’s easier to hate a father.” Chance rolled forward onto his knees and grabbed the pack.

“Well, I’ve never given it much thought,” Beam said for lack of anything better.

“What happened to make you hate them so?”

Beam considered the question. The precious few who’d ever known his story were dead, and he’d never met anyone since that he trusted enough or liked enough to share it with. But here and now? After what they’d been through together, after the emotional beating the man had taken at the hands of the savages, after being forced into the darkness a hundred feet below the rest of the world? Well, it didn’t seem to matter as much. Maybe if he handed the story off to someone, his ghosts would give him a little breathing room.

“I don’t mean to pressure,” Chance said as he stood up. He heaved the pack higher on his back and cinched the strap tighter across his chest.

Beam watched him gather his staff and torch. He looked so tired, so beaten down. In that moment, Beam realized that in all his travels, he’d never had a companion who offered less threat to him.

Finally, he just shook his head and said, “No, it’s fine. Gods know we aren’t likely to make it out of here alive for you to tell anyone anyway. But once I’ve finished, I’ll have a few questions of my own. You up for that deal?”

“Fair enough,” Chance said as if he meant it, “Let’s head out. Conversation is the only diversion we from time and tedium.”

After considering the proposal, Beam nodded. He scooped his torch up from the dirt and followed the man into the endless darkness. As he considered his story, he realized he wasn’t sure how to start. He didn’t have much experience telling it, and hadn’t ever really thought about it chronologically.

“My mother was Parhronii,” he said as a start.

Chance nodded and smiled.

Even that simple act delivered Beam a sliver of displeasure. “Don’t look so smug! You had even odds.”

“I’m not saying anything,” Chance said. He looked like he was struggling to repress a renegade laugh.

“She was a Parhronii emissary to the Vaemysh reserves. That was before the Parhronii wised up and replaced the ambassadorial policy with common reservation agents.”

“And she met your father there?”

“Good guess, scholar. Where else would they meet?” The words came off harder than he meant them to.

Chance appeared unperturbed by the comment.

“The old man...” Beam stopped. He felt the heat of his face flushing like a traitor in the ranks. What was this, shame? Regret? No, he preferred to think it was just good old fashioned resentment. “My father was from Vaemogtha.”

“Vaemogtha,” Chance repeated, “The capitol city. He must have been a man of means.”

“He was a noble of the House of Vael.”

“Vael?” Chance’s eyebrows hiked up at the name. “I know of the clan. Once a powerful family with a respectable military pedigree, if I’m remembering properly. They’re all dead now.”

“Is that right?”

Chance glanced at him and said, “Well, almost all.”

Beam snickered at that. “And we’re actively working to close that loop.”

Chance laughed.

“My given name is Be’ahm Ambix Gry’ar. Ambix is my mother’s family surname. It’s Parhronii.”

“Be’ahm,” Chance said again.

“Sadly, yes.”

“The awakened one.”

“What?”

“That’s what it means in Vaemysh.”

“It has a meaning?” Beam asked, truly surprised.

“All Vaemysh names have a meaning. Be’ahm means the awakened one.”

“Bullshit.”

Chance shrugged.

“It should mean the miserable one,” Beam said, “Maybe the angry one. Better yet, how about the one who should be avoided at all mortal costs?” He gave the statement the laugh it deserved.

“So, I would hazard to assume your parents had reason to work together, yes?”

“Right,” Beam replied, feeling less enthusiasm than before, “The old man was a Vaemysh Elder. Brother Dael told me that he and my mother had developed some grand scheme for persuading the Allies to liberate the savages from their reservations in the scrublands.”

“Your mother was a progressive. If the Allies would’ve shown enough wisdom to forgive the Vaemyn years ago, we probably wouldn’t be traveling down here in these tunnels today.”

“Fifty years of war? That’s a hard road to cross.”

“Forty-eight,” Chance said almost under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing. So, your parents came together.”

“That’s bad enough in itself, but then the old man ruffled her bundling at least once, and that was our undoing.”

He mentally kicked himself for that. He’d meant ‘their’ undoing. Why did he say ‘our’? He looked up at a passing brace stocked with the usual pile of miserable Baeldonian faces. They seemed to be growing sadder and more forlorn with every passing. It was like being followed by a mob of depressed minstrels. He forced his eyes back to the path.

“Are you all right?” Chance asked.

“They were ordered to be executed,” Beam heard himself say, “Never mind she was Parhronii. Never mind it was going to bring a world of hurt down on them from the Allies. They just didn’t care.”

“But they didn’t execute her.”

“No, she was smuggled back to Parhron before they could follow through on it. Brother Dael said there was a secret clan of Vaemysh resistors who got her out of Vaen.”

“Lamys te’Faht,” Chance said.

“Lamb’s what?”

“Lamys te’Faht. It translates roughly into the Eyes of the Faithful. It’s an ancient underground guild. It was established a dozen centuries ago during the Divinic Wars.”

“The Eyes of the Faithful,” Beam repeated, “Well, apparently they were faithful to my sire. Brother Dael said they wanted him to go, too, but he’d have no part of it. He was determined to reconcile the Elders and save his good name.”

Chance grunted as he adjusted the pack on his shoulder. “Should I ask what happened to him?” he asked as he fussed with the belt crossing his chest.

“Your guess would be right. He was Vaemysh, and noble or not, they could do as they damned well pleased with him.”

He was surprised to find that his stomach was growing a storm. He thought he’d long ago buried these emotions, interred them deeply enough in that black hole in his chest that they’d never trouble him again. Sadly, it seemed there still were signs of life down there after all.

“Are you all right?” Chance asked again.

“Yeah,” Beam whispered, “My ghosts aren’t happy with me in the best of times, but I guess telling the story has them stirred up.”

“If it’s any consolation, I think you’ve plenty of reasons to feel resentful, Beam.”

Beam felt a surprising rush of calm. For just an instant, he thought he was going to start bawling. Chance had said it in such a simple, understated manner: You’ve plenty of reasons to feel resentful. One simple statement from a near stranger and it felt like all the anger he’d brewed over his entire life was suddenly justified.

“Are you all right?” Chance said tentatively.

“Will you stop asking me that?”

“Apologies,” Chance said. He sounded like he meant it.

Beam steadied himself and pushed the story on down the years. It wasn’t necessarily a safer place, but it was at least different. “I spent my early childhood watching my mother waste away,” he said plainly, “She died when I was four, or so I’m told. Too young to remember, I guess. The seers plaguing Parhron called it divine providence.” He spit into the dirt.

“Seers are useless,” Chance said, “Most of them can’t see past the vision of a full purse.”

“Brother Dael said she never recovered from the death of the old man,” Beam said. He was suddenly good and damned sorry he’d ever brought the subject up. His ghosts were in a regular rage around him now.

“What happened then?” Chance asked. His voice was too gentle by yards.

Beam drew a steadying breath. Calm, he told himself, it’s just a stinking story.

“Take your time,” Chance said.

Beam threw him a look. “Go to hell.”

Chance offered a half smile, but said nothing.

Beam passed a dry tongue over dryer lips. This was a hell of a lot more work than he’d bargained for.

“Your mother died,” Chance said.

Beam nodded. “She did. I was passed through her family for a few years after that. First her sisters, then her cousins, then to friends of the family, then to friends of friends of the family, and finally back to her long renounced brother. Never stayed in any one place for long. No one wanted the stigma of a half-bred Vaemysh brat, not even an aristocratic one. People had their good names to protect, you know.”

“People are generally fools.”

Beam shrugged. “Well, maybe the savages had the right idea after all, just kill 'em and be done with it. Don’t leave any witnesses, just accusers. Then maybe there’s no crime, only rumors.”

“I suspect there’s a more effective solution. Perhaps they’d be better off just killing the accusers.”

Beam laughed at that. “Careful, there, Brother,” he said, “With thoughts like that, you could easily become me.”

“Calina forbid it.”

“Oh, please. When you serve only yourself, both master and slave are happy.”

“How did you end up at the priory?”

“Well, my childhood was a nightmare to that point. Actually, it was no childhood at all. I became the irresponsible, thieving, greedy rogue at age five that made me the man I am today!” He laughed harder than the joke deserved.

Chance politely said nothing.

“Anyway, by the time I was seven, they’d run out of places to store me. In the end, they dumped me at the priory in the middle of the night. Leashed to a horse post out front. Brother Dael found me the next morning and took me in without so much as a hard look. He housed me, fed me, even educated me. For all I put him through, he loved me better than my family ever had. He was the best damned man I’ll ever know.”

“What happened then?”

“What do you think? Bad went to worse. Despite his best efforts, I grew up in a perpetual state of pissed-off. I was in and out of trouble my entire youth. And it was just bad luck gone worse that I inherited my mother’s estate at age sixteen.”

“There was an estate?”

“Sure, she was well heeled. By then, of course, the good state of Parhron had absorbed the dragon's share of her wealth. Taxes, you know. Got to keep up the military, after all. The Parhronii think every nation in Calevia is plotting to overthrow them. I should be equally ashamed of both sides of my heritage.”

“Bless me, I swear I’ve never heard it put more honestly.”

“Once I got the last of my mother’s gold I left the priory and Brother Dael behind. I finally had enough money to live like the fool I was born to be. Stayed comfortable for a good five years or so. Needless to say, I wasn’t rich long.”

“Is that how you came into grave robbing?”

Beam winced. “You know, I’m not overly fond of that term. Or maybe it’s just the way it sounds when you say it.”

“Are you implying there’s a polite term for it? Because if so, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard it.”

“Do you want me to finish this or not?”

Chance bowed his head subserviently. “Clearly, yes. Please, continue.”

Beam closed his eyes and pinched at the stress saddled to his forehead. What had he done to deserve this? A couple days ago, he was winding his way along the open Nolands and minding his own damned business. And now look!

“Seriously, Beam. My apologies. Do go on.”

Beam sent him a glare, and then turned back to their walk. “I expect that’s about the time I started smuggling.” He threw Chance a challenging leer. “Do you want to comment on that line of work, too? Because this is your golden opportunity.”

“No, I do believe I’m good.”

“You’re sure?”

“Quite.”

Beam gave him a moment to reconsider, and then resumed his story. “Sometimes that line of work took me back to Parhron, and when it did I’d make a point to stop in to see Dael and give him some gold to help out in the priory. Once, when I was about twenty-seven or so, I visited the priory, and Brother Dael had a package for me.”

“A package?”

“A local magistrate had delivered it a few years earlier. My mother had apparently paid him a handsome sum to hold the package until I was twenty-five. Then he was to find me and deliver it.”

Chance stopped walking. “What kind of package?”

Beam stopped as well, and turned to face him. “Got to think about that,” he lied, like he could ever possibly forget it, “It was a wooden box that was far too well wrapped. So well wrapped, I somehow just knew she’d done it herself years before. Inside the box was a note from her. Written in her own hand. It said this was a gift, something that it’d been in the family for centuries.”