10
The journey to Lady Erikinia’s home took four days, during which Astarion peppered the messenger, whose name was Bajia, with endless questions, and Astarion’s mother either fretted or flew, as the mood took her.
They were the best four days of Astarion’s life to date.
The air was crisp, and the innkeepers were friendly, and he was on an adventure.
He fell even more madly in love with Bajia than he had with his teacher back home.
The teacher had been kind and beautiful and good, but Bajia carried a sword, and goodness simply could not compete.
Granted, she was a good bit older than he was, but he was an elf, and she was a human, which meant that in twenty years or so, he would have caught up.
From Bajia, Astarion learned that the Lady Erikinia was his some-number-of-greats-grandmother, that she had an estate on the far side of Silverymoon and a townhouse in the city, and that she was a great lady, a high elf noble of the Ancunín family.
“Does that make me an Ancunín, too?”
“Possibly,” Bajia said.
Astarion considered this at great length.
His surname had always been Ra’tchashar, the same as his father, which meant vine-keeper in some obscure Elvish dialect.
Children at school occasionally called him “Rat Catcher,” but usually not for very long.
He did not fight—was quick as a weasel at wriggling out of them, in fact—but he had an amazing natural gift for picking pockets.
Where respect might have failed, bullies quickly learned that if they would like to keep their coppers, their chalk, and their homework, it was better not to get on Astarion’s bad side.
He liked Ancunín better than Rat Catcher.
What Bajia never said to him, but which he learned from what she said to his mother, was that there had been some kind of bargain. A bargain that involved Astarion.
When he tried asking her about it outright, Bajia clammed up. “It’s not for me to say.” Nor would any amount of wheedling pry it out of her. Eventually Astarion gave up—or, rather, filed it away to go after from another angle—and went back to asking her about the city.
This, at least, she was happy to talk about.
In fact, she had been to more than one city, to Neverwinter and Baldur’s Gate and even Waterdeep, and she told him about the soaring temples and palaces of marble and the dark alleys and the docks where waves slapped endlessly against the pilings.
He soaked up every word, building images in his head that were impossibly bright and colorful, full of people in silk moving among buildings that rose to touch the clouds.
On the last night before they reached the estate, they stayed at an inn.
The innkeeper looked strangely at the regal messenger and the little blond boy in rough clothes but did not comment.
They ate a meal that was better than anything Astarion could ever remember eating: fish coated in a sauce that held flavors he didn’t even have words to describe.
He felt as if his tongue had suddenly learned to see in color.
“This is amazing. This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life.”
Bajia grinned and reached over to ruffle his hair. “Wait until you try dessert.”
When he went to his small room under the eaves, something rapped on the shutters.
Astarion opened them, and his mother came flying through his window.
She turned elven in midair, dropped onto the bed, and grabbed his shoulders.
“Astarion, my dear, my love, you must listen to me. This is incredibly important.”
Astarion had never seen her in such a state. She was always flighty, always quicksilver swift, but it took the form of distraction, not terror. “I’m listening,” he assured her.
“When we meet your grandmother, she will ask you what you want to do. You must tell her that you want to work the vineyard like your father.”
He looked at her blankly. “But that’s not what I want.”
His mother made a noise then, a ragged sound like a word that didn’t exist, and her fingers tightened on his shoulders like the talons of a hawk. “Of course it is.”
“But I don’t—”
“I know, I know. You and your father don’t always get along. I know.” This was an understatement for the ages, but she hurried on. “You know your father loves you.”
It was an old refrain, and Astarion knew his part well.
“I know he does.” Which was…oh, not a lie, exactly.
His father did love him, with the baffled but determined love of a bird for a cuckoo’s egg.
He loved Astarion, not because he thought Astarion was lovable, but because loving your children was what you did, and it would have tarnished his image of himself not to love his son.
His mother’s eyes were fever bright. “You have to tell her that you want to work in the vineyard, or she’ll take you away from me.”
Astarion blinked. “What?”
“The bargain—the stupid bargain—oh, it doesn’t matter now!” She took a deep breath. “What are you going to tell her?”
“That I want to work in the vineyard,” he lied dutifully.
“Yes. All right.” She released him and put her hands to her cheeks, breathing deeply. “That horrible woman. Who would have thought she’d find out?”
“Find out what?” Astarion asked, but she was already shifting, an owl this time, lunging out the window into the dark sky beyond.
It was all so strange, he thought as he climbed into bed. Strange to see his mother so panicked, strange to sleep in an inn. The sheets were linen, softer than the ones on his bed at home. He could still remember the taste of the sauce on his tongue, like nothing he’d ever experienced before.
It came to him that he could be happy traveling like this forever, hearing stories of cities and eating food with exotic spices and sleeping on soft sheets—and never, ever going home again.
* * *
Astarion went out to hunt that night already knowing that he would fail.
That was fine. Most hunting nights ended in failure.
One or two victims a tenday was perfectly acceptable.
It was when you went a fortnight without dragging something home to the old man that he began to think your heart wasn’t sufficiently in it.
A few days in the kennels under the businesslike care of the skeleton Godey was generally enough to make one a very keen predator indeed.
But Boris’s blood was probably still coating Cazador’s throat, so Astarion had the freedom of the city, and a single errand that he needed to run.
The fog was not so thick tonight. It lay over Baldur’s Gate like a veil, not a smothering blanket. Once he reached the docks, Astarion climbed up to the rooftops to search for his target.
The woman from Waterdeep wasn’t easy to locate from above, even with the lighter fog.
He scanned from red lantern to red lantern until he finally spotted her.
She had put her back to a stack of crates, which made things easier.
Astarion dropped soundlessly from the roof onto the uppermost crate and crept downward until he was crouched directly above her.
The gold dolphin pinged off the cobblestones at her feet. She frowned and reached down to scoop it up. He saw the moment she realized what it was, and she whirled around, searching the fog, and finally saw him.
She was a cool one, he’d give her that. Her eyes narrowed, and if he hadn’t been able to hear her blood thrumming under her skin, he would have thought she was annoyed, not frightened. Good. The woman deserved a scare if she thought to blackmail him.
“The job is done,” he said.
“Boris is dead?”
“As dead as a priest’s love.” Astarion’s smile had too much tooth in it. “Now, let me be very clear, my darling. That man was a dreadful ass, and I quite see why you wanted him gone. But if you think to continue to use me as your personal enforcer, think again.”
The woman’s eyes flickered. Clearly, she had been thinking that, at least on some level.
“This is a large city. Large enough for me to hunt elsewhere for a long, long time.” He leaned forward, one hand on the edge of the crate between his feet, using the extra height to loom over her. “But it is not large enough that I can’t find you again, if I hear that you’ve been…indiscreet.”
She tried to rally. “My friends know—”
“I’m sure they do, darling. Will that be much comfort to you in the grave?”
Her lips pressed together in a thin line.
“I give you Boris’s death as a gift,” Astarion said, beginning to enjoy himself.
“The world is undoubtedly better for it. I can even admire how you arranged it.”
He leaned forward until she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.
“You were clever, and you were lucky. But darling…”
He smiled then, showing her the last half inch of fang. “You won’t be lucky twice.”
* * *
—
Astarion climbed down from the roof a few blocks away, feeling pleased with the night’s work.
He’d left the waif unharmed but unlikely to bother him again.
If it turned out that she was unwise enough to do so…
well, he could probably bribe a guard to lock her away long enough for her to see the error of her ways.
If worse came to worst, he would kill her, but it would be a dreadful waste of effort, not to mention blood.
He was strolling down an alley when a door opened in front of him.
He jerked back from the sudden wash of light.
A heavily muscled arm emerged from the doorway, dangling a small form by the collar before dropping them unceremoniously into the alley.
A moment later, an accordion came flying out of the doorway, hit the opposite wall, and collapsed to the ground with a gurgle of chords.
“Get your miserable caterwauling out of my bar!” roared the owner of the arm (and presumably the door).
The door slammed shut.
Slowly, with shaking hands, the halfling bard sat up and replaced their hat.
The hat was very large and very purple and had three kinds of feathers on it, including pheasant and peacock.
Astarion gazed at it in fascinated horror.
It was so tacky that it had somehow transcended, or perhaps metastasized, into art.
The halfling stood up. They did not seem to be wearing the hat so much as steering it. Halfling and hat began groping around for their accordion.
And then again, sometimes the gods do smile on you. Astarion picked up the damaged instrument. “Pray let me help,” he said.
The halfling started with surprise, then drew themself up with as much dignity as they could muster. “Some people,” they said, “have no appreciation for music.”
“Tragically, that is true.” Astarion handed over the accordion. It made a sad hwAAh noise as the musician took it. “I beg you not to judge all of us by that lout, however.”
The hat tilted back, revealing a small, hopeful face. “Are you, by chance, a musician?”
Astarion had learned to play one song on the lute two hundred years ago, expressly for the purpose of getting into the pants of a beautiful young man, and had thrown the instrument out the window during their inevitably tempestuous breakup.
“A lover of music only, I fear. I greatly admire those who can play, but I have no such talent myself.”
He paused then, just long enough for hope to swell in the bard’s heart and then start to fall.
“Forgive me for my presumption, but do you by chance play private parties?”
Deep brown eyes that would not have been out of place on a cocker spaniel went wide. “But of course,” the halfling said, and swept a small bow. (The hat swept a rather larger one.) “Buttercup, master of the musical arts, at your service.”
Astarion put his hand over his heart. “Truly, fate has brought us together this night. For my friend is holding a dawn revel, and I fear that our musician has come down with a fever, leaving us woefully short of musical talent. It is too much to ask, I know,
and you have already played tonight and are doubtless exhausted, but I can promise that we will pay very well indeed.”
“In that case, I would be delighted,” Buttercup said, tucking the accordion under their arm with another choked-off hwAAh. Their puppylike eyes searched his face. “Ah…do you know your eyes are bright red?”
“Part of my costume for the revel.” Astarion struck a pose so overdramatically menacing that the bard laughed.
“The eyes are a cantrip. I’m already regretting the hair dye, though. I was assured that it would wash out easily, but I have my doubts.”
He clapped his hand to his forehead. “Forgive me, I am keeping you here talking instead of taking you to the palace.”
“Palace?” Buttercup said. “Lead the way.”
Astarion turned toward Szarr Palace. It appeared the night’s hunting was not going to be a failure after all.
* * *