The Pleasure of Memory (23 page)

“Biological,” Beam repeated. Sounded like so much bullshit to him.

“Doesn’t matter at this point anyway,” the monk said, “Sarrigh would never sell to the Vaemyn. He hates them as much as you do. Someday, once I’ve perfected the formula, I’ll take it to them myself.”

Once I perfect it, Beam thought. He remembered his days in the tombs. How many hours had he spent retching himself silly thanks to Sarrigh’s greed? “The miserable bastard!” he said, “I’ll break a couple fingers next time I see him.”

“It’s a good sized vial,” the monk said, “What were you doing that you needed so much of it?”

The question irritated Beam. There was a limit to how far he’d let the monk barge into his affairs. “Frankly, Brother, that’s none of your business.”

The monk blew the dust out of a couple stone mugs and then uncorked a generously sized clay jug. “Take some wine,” he said as he filled the mugs, “You’ll feel better.”

Those were the single finest words Beam had heard in months. He wasted no time getting to the table. He stood between the sitting monk on his right and the other vacant stool, and he grabbed the nearest mug. Hoisting it up to his new companion, he said, “Brother, you’re not much of a dresser, but you’re a fine host.” He then drained the mug and slammed it down on the table in proper Notown style.

“I’m glad you approve,” the monk said. He didn’t sound like he meant it.

Beam happily poured himself another round. The last thing he remembered eating was the beggarberries back at the cave that morning and whatever nuts and berries he foraged along his journey. The wine was going down like nectar.

“My apologies for the action of the door,” the monk said, “I didn’t believe I’d find another way to convince a half-bred Vaemyn into the confinement of this cave. I was acting for our future.”

“Our future?” Beam said, laughing, “No offense, but we don't have a future. This arrangement’s perfectly temporary.”

“I suspect you may analyze it differently in the morning.”

Beam bit off a piece of jerky. “Don’t count on it.”

The man shrugged. “I don’t believe I’ll be counting on anything anymore. Not after today.”

“And another thing,” Beam said seriously, “You ever deceive me again and it’ll be the last time you deceive anyone.”

“Is that right?” the monk asked without looking at him.

“That is exactly right.”

With that, the man’s eyes drifted over and seized Beam. “Well, you just listen to me, you little pissant,” the man said too carefully, “If not for my courtesy and high tolerance for associating with dirty scoundrels, you’d still be curled up over there on the floor quivering in a puddle of your own urine.”

“Dirty?” Beam said. The words stung. He sent the monk as hard a glare as he could summon, but the truth was his heart just wasn’t in it. He was too tired to fight tonight.

The monk slid a new vial across the table toward him. “Here,” he said, “You may keep this.”

It was a nondescript ceramic vial with a thin rawhide string securing the cork to the flask’s neck. Beam looked at him. “What's this, then?”

“It's the tonic I mixed for you. The one I gave you earlier. It’s safe, not like the toxin Sarrigh sold you. There's enough medicine in there to keep you underground a year. After that, you’ll need a refill.”

Beam examined the flask. It was similar to the one he’d bought from Sarrigh. He wondered what expectations came with the gift, though even as he thought it he knew there wouldn’t be any expectations. Despite the hijinks with the cave door, the honesty in the monk was nearly palpable. He really didn’t believe the man meant him harm, not intentional harm anyway.

Then again, honesty wasn’t always the best characteristic in a traveling partner. With lecherous men, he always knew where the cards lay. He expected deceit from them and they were usually reliable for it. It was unlikely they’d suddenly turn honest on him, and even if they did, what of it? It’d only benefit him. But, men like the monk? Men for whom honesty was the driving force? It was a harder road. If they suddenly changed, it could only go very badly.

“Are you all right?” the monk asked.

Beam shook his head to clear his mind. “Yeah, sure. Guess I drifted off. Damn me if I’m not prone to that.”

“I’ll write that down.”

“Comes from spending so much time alone. Of course, I expect a hermit would know that better than I would. Isn’t that right, Brother?” Beam winked over his grin.

“And just why exactly do you keep calling me ‘Brother’?” the monk said, frowning.

Beam didn’t understand. “What do you mean? It’s a title of respect.”

“Respect? You call people you respect Brother? Where do you come from?”

“Of course not,” Beam said, “That’s ridiculous. I mean, not people in general. Only monks.”

“What are you saying? You think I’m a monk?”

Beam shrugged.

“Blood of the gods, why on earth would you think I’m a monk?” The man looked perfectly indignant.

Beam considered the man’s long, disheveled brown hair, and his tattered robe with its rough robe belt, and his bare, dirty feet, and then he started laughing. “Are you kidding me?”

“Seriously?” the man said, “I’m a monk because I live in the mountains and don’t get dressed up for the remote possibility of company?”

Beam tried not to laugh.

The monk was staring at him like he had two heads. But then the man only lifted his drink, paused with the mug at his mouth, and said, “Forget it. I’m too tired to care what you think.”

“Well, damn me, it’s no wonder you’re tired,” Beam said, “The stinking savages nearly killed you back there. And that strange soldier pretty much burned down your priory.”

The monk slapped the table. “It wasn’t a priory! I told you, I’m not a goddamned monk!”

“Okay, okay. Don’t have a fit.”

“For the last time, my name’s Chance Gnoman. Say it with me. Chance.”

“Chance,” Beam said dramatically, “Chance. Chance. Chance. All right, I’ve got it now. Damn me if you’re not one irritable bastard.”

Beam again wondered if he’d be better off sleeping outside. He took another drink as he watched the man. Closely. The fool seemed likely to go into a rant at the drop of a hat.

Chance took another long drink as well and then put his mug down empty. He wiped his mouth with his filthy sleeve, and said, “Apologies. I don’t mean to be so short tempered. It’s been a difficult day.”

“So you’ve said.”

“I’m tired.”

“I can see that.”

“I’m simply...I’m trying to say sorry, that’s all.”

“Good enough. It has indeed been a long day,
Chance
.”

The man watched him a beat, and then said, “What’s your name?”

“Beam.” He held his hand out.

The man examined the proffered hand, but made no move to accept it. “Beam?” he said, looking up at him, “Peculiar name, that. Is it diminutive of something longer? Moonbeam? Sunbeam, perhaps?”

Beam steadied himself against another surge of irritation. “No,” he said very carefully, “It is not. My full name is Beam Ambix Gry’ar.”

“Gry’ar,” the man said thoughtfully, “Well, I’d have to say that sounds vaguely Vaemysh, wouldn’t you agree?”

As Beam chewed back his annoyance, he considered the strategy of hitting back. And yet, much against his truer nature, he again found a lack of energy to pursue it. He was just too damned tired for it. He opted for compromise, just for tonight.

“My manners have gotten a mite sloppy,” he said, extending his hand again, “Suppose I’m not much used to company.”

The man finally accepted his grip. “Too much time alone in caves?”

Beam recognized the bait immediately. It was a teaser to get him to talk. Nevertheless, the delicious wine had him feeling more amiable than usual, and it’d been a damned long time since he shared anyone’s camaraderie. If nothing else, he figured it’d be a more stimulating conversation than talking to Gerd. Or himself.

“No,” Beam said as he refilled his mug, “Not caves, friend. Darker places. Places where you’re not likely to run into another soul. Not a living one anyway.”

“I see,” Chance said.

Beam picked up the new vial and examined it. “I was using this stuff for some work I’d been doing these past couple years. Takes the edge off the confinement. It’s hard to find relics if you can’t go down in the holes after them.”

“I see,” Chance said again.

Beam didn’t like the way he said that. “Oh, you see, do you?”

“Well, of course. I’m not blind. You’re a grave robber.”

“Grave robber?” Beam tried for a look of indignation, but couldn’t pull it off. “That’s a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”

“There’s another term for it?”

Beam laughed at that. “Yeah, well…probably not. Anyway, gold’s a pretty much useless commodity to the dead, don’t you think? I could never abide wasting resources.”

“Hm. Pardon my insensitivity.”

“Don’t expect it takes an astronomer to figure out why the bastards are after me, yeah? Seems they disapprove of my means of income.”

“I imagine they would. Defiling the dead is serious taboo to them.”

“Well, for the record, I never defiled anybody. Not the dead anyway. I only picked their pockets.”

“There’s a difference?”

Beam just looked at him. The conversation had taken yet another frustrating turn, and he’d rather eat dirt than explain his motives to a monk. He decided instead to change the subject. “Why were the bastards after
your
head?” he asked as he surveyed the man’s tattered robe, “Unlike me, it obviously wasn’t for gold.”

The man seemed to turn inward. He didn’t reply.

“Surely they weren’t beating on you for exercise,” Beam said with a snort.

“I’m not sure,” the monk said with obvious hesitation.

“You’re not sure? No offense, but that’s a little hard to believe.”

“I’m telling you, it came out of the blue,” the man said, “They disabled my sentries, they abducted Luren, they…” He stopped and looked down at his hands. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter.”

“Who’s Luren?”

Beam immediately regretted asking. The man suddenly looked like he was about to start crying. Beam wasn’t quite comfortable enough to share a good bawl with him yet, and he sure as hell wasn’t drunk enough. He needed to head off the heart pouring before it started.

“Forget it, Brother,” he said quickly, “It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have pried.”

He was too damned late. The monk was already looking at him with a monsoon swelling in his eyes.

“No, really,” Beam pressed, “It’s none of my business. It was wrong to ask.” He had no idea how wrong.

“Luren’s my apprentice,” the monk said as he fought the emotions, “He’s like…he’s like a son.”

Son? Great, Beam thought. This was going to be painful.

“The Vaemyn abducted him and I don’t know why. I mean, I do know why, I just don’t understand. I...I don’t know, I just…”

Beam cursed himself. He was really stuck now, and consoling the grieving wasn’t a tool he typically kept sharpened. It was more his style to be the cause of the grief. Still, he had to do something.

“Brother,” he said carefully, “This is going to sound hard, and I apologize in advance for it. But the sorry damned truth is, if the savages took him? Well, you’re best off to just bury him in your heart right now.”

“He’s not dead,” the man said softly.

“The savages don’t take prisoners, my friend,” Beam continued, “Not for long, believe me. And even if he is a prisoner, you can bloody well believe he’d be better off dead.”

“No, I can sense his caeyl force. He’s still alive.” The man wiped a sleeve across his eyes.

Caeyl. Beam stared down at his plate. Caeyl. He knew the word, and it wasn’t good. He suffered a sudden dread that things were about to spiral out of control. He glanced back at where he’d last seen the door. Still just a wall. He seized his mug and tipped it into a deep drink.

“He only has a Bloodlink so far,” the man continued, “He’s still young. He’s an apprentice Caeyl Mage.”

Beam choked in mid-swallow. He put the mug down, coughing.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just...well, damn me if you didn’t take me by surprise.” The surprise being he was locked in the cave with a lunatic.

“Take another drink. You don’t look so well.”

Beam needed no encouragement to do just that. When he returned the empty mug to the table, he said, “You said caeyl mage, right? Mage? Like in magic? Like in magician?”

“Oh, I understand now,” Chance said with a single nod, “You’re a skeptic.”

“Well, let’s just say I’m the victim of a scientific mind.” Beam proffered a smile every bit as sincere as he could fake. “No offense meant.”

“What about the wyrlaerd you dispatched?” the man said, “The demon was housed in a body of tar, for Calina’s sake. You can explain that with your scientific mind?”