12
The guest was a tall wizard wearing crimson robes, which might have meant that he was a Red Wizard of Thay or wanted people to think he was.
Alternatively, of course, he could have been one of those wizards who styled himself “So-and-So the Red” or “the Scarlet” or whatever color hadn’t already been taken.
Most of the good colors had been. Astarion had met a wizard once who called himself “Arroz the Ecru,” and he had nodded politely, asked him how he was enjoying the party, then excused himself, gone to the back room, and laughed like a werehyena on a bender.
Unlike the unfortunate ecru wizard, this one looked the part.
He was lean and ascetic, head shaven, fingers folded inside his sleeves.
His eyes were dark and flat as river stones.
The candles on the table woke no reflection in them.
If Astarion had encountered him on the street, he would have suddenly remembered a pressing errand on the other side of the city.
The spawn took their places as Cazador directed.
Five sat down to the table. Petras, in his pale hound mask, was to kneel beside Cazador’s throne.
This put his head below the level of the table, which Astarion found hilarious.
“Perhaps the master will throw you some bones?”
he murmured, just loud enough for the other man to hear.
“Don’t start.”
“Or what? You’ll be a bad dog and widdle on my shoe?”
Whatever Petras would have done was lost as Cazador took Astarion’s wrist in a grip that looked delicate but could easily have crushed bone. “And you, Astarion, my dear child…you will wait on our guest particularly. See to his every need, won’t you?”
Astarion knew full well what that would entail.
The wizard was already watching, his air of asceticism marred by the expectant tongue against his lips.
He turned his head to meet Astarion’s gaze, and the flat gray stones of his eyes suddenly reflected a narrow flash of gold, pupil as vertical as a snake’s.
Whatever the wizard was, they were only playing at being human.
Before Astarion could even speak, he felt Cazador’s will close over his, just a taste of pressure, enough for him to know that even a hint of disobedience would cost him dearly.
Very well. It was just as it always was. Avoid pain and feel as little as possible. It was astonishing the things you would do of your own free will simply to avoid being forced to do them.
His lips curved into a smile honed by a century of practice. “Of course,” he purred, stepping forward. “It would be my pleasure.”
The red-robed wizard might have been a master of magic, but he had all the subtlety of a rutting boar. They had barely made it through the soup course before Astarion found himself bent over the table while Cazador made conversation over his head.
The cups and plates weren’t silver, of course, but they had been polished to a mirror shine. He set his elbows on the table, watching the reflection of the white fox mask as the wizard thrusted and grunted behind him. The mask’s eyes were cool and aloof, and behind them was nothing, nothing at all.
* * *
—
After dinner, and a reviving cup of blood, Astarion was waved away with the rest of the spawn. The creature pretending to be a wizard lifted a cup in salute in Astarion’s direction. He wondered if it was a demon or something more exotic.
If it was a demon—and one powerful enough that Cazador was willing to play host to it—was it a connection worth pursuing? It had enjoyed his body, and this would hardly be the first time Astarion had traded sex for something he wanted.
He thought about it, absently rubbing the spots on his hips where the creature had gripped him. Its touch had been cold, and the skin burned now, awakening memories of stamping his feet when he came in from the snow.
No, it probably wasn’t worth it. Devils were dangerous, and their bargains were rarely straightforward.
The last thing Astarion wanted was to be in thrall to two masters.
Even if he could negotiate for something like “Force Cazador to make me a true vampire,” would it be worth it if he was then chained somewhere in the Nine Hells, dancing to the whims of a truly immortal master?
He came to a corner in the hallway, still deep in thought, and heard Violet’s voice saying, “But we could have so much to talk about.”
Astarion immediately froze, then backed away. Judging by the footsteps, Violet was coming this way, along with…
“And what would that be, my dear?” The thin, sinuous voice could have come only from the faux wizard.
Astarion lost Violet’s reply as he slipped down the hall to an alcove with an ornamental urn. Ridiculous things, urns, but this one was large enough that a slim elf could slide down into the space between the urn and the wall and be largely hidden.
Of course, he’d look completely ridiculous if Violet happened to spot him, but he was betting that Violet was focused entirely on her quarry.
“Surely your…father…would have something to say? I am much older than you,” came the thin voice. By the sudden increase in volume, they must have turned the corner.
“I’m over a hundred years old,” Violet said. Even though he couldn’t see her, Astarion would have bet diamonds to dog turds that she had just tossed her head.
“Ahh…” purred the thin voice, like a snakeskin being dragged over gravel. “So young. I can no longer recall my first century. They pile up, you know. You forget things…places…people…”
“I bet you’ll never forget me.”
Their footsteps were right on top of him. Astarion leaned to one side in time to see Violet with her hands on the faux wizard’s arm. The creature turned slightly, looking over her head, and its gaze speared into the shadows of the alcove, directly into Astarion’s face.
It winked at him, and then Violet, still prattling, led it past.
If it had been one of the other spawn, Astarion might have considered causing a distraction or at least warning them that they were playing an incredibly dangerous game. But it was Violet, and Violet, frankly, deserved everything she got.
There was a spring in his step as he found his way to Dalyria’s laboratory. He saw a light on under the door, which meant that she, at least, was still awake and working.
She looked up when he entered and nodded. If she noticed that his hands were empty of the usual mending, she didn’t comment. Instead, she handed him a bowl and said, “Watch this potato.”
“Watch it do what, exactly?” Astarion tilted his head. He had never given a great deal of thought to raw potatoes, but the specimen in the bowl seemed bog-standard to him.
“That’s the question, isn’t it? I can’t watch them both.” She turned her attention back to another bowl, which appeared to contain a turnip.
“Are the root vegetables restless tonight, then?”
“They may be.” She rested her chin in her hand, watching the turnip like a vulture waiting for something to die.
For lack of anything better to do, Astarion watched the potato.
It did nothing. His mind began to wander.
“What were you saying you needed?” he asked after a while.
Dalyria didn’t look away from the turnip. “What?”
“The other night, before we were interrupted by our charming sister Violet. You started to say that you required something.”
“Ah.” The thin line between her eyebrows deepened. “I doubt you can help me.”
“You never know unless you ask.” He waited until she glanced away from the turnip, then gave her a carefully curated smile, charming without being so charming that it would arouse suspicion.
“Why would you help me?”
“Because I’m bored senseless,” he said, which was true.
“You have your laboratory to occupy you during the long daylight hours, but I’ve read every book in the palace that the old man doesn’t keep under lock and key, I’ve hand-embroidered three entire coats,
and I am at risk of going to the archives and digging through old property deeds to see if I can swindle money out of widows and orphans. Or for widows and orphans. I haven’t decided yet.”
Dalyria’s lips curled in a hint of a smile, but the line between her eyebrows didn’t fade. She went back to watching the turnip. Eventually, she seemed to come to some conclusion. “Unicorn’s blood,” she said.
Astarion choked, swallowed wrong, and started coughing. Dalyria picked up a beaker full of water and handed it to him without taking her eyes off her turnip. When he could breathe again, he said, “Blood?”
“Horn is easy enough to come by. I’ve experimented with it a fair amount already. But vampirism is blood-borne, and I am beginning to think that blood must be used to cure it. Innocent blood. Blood with healing properties. What better?”
“Unicorns can think,” said Astarion. “You can’t drink it.”
“I don’t plan to drink it. The sample I have in mind is too old to be potable anyway. By this point, it is likely nothing but a jar-shaped scab.”
“How very appetizing.”
Dalyria shrugged. “Blood doesn’t keep if you don’t renew the spells on it. You know that.”
Astarion did indeed know that. The goblets in Cazador’s house all had minor charms on them to keep the blood from clotting up too quickly, but every one of the spawn had had the experience of being thrown a dead rat and having to practically chew the blood out of its veins.
Most of them had also tried to get clever at some point early on and stash blood in their room, only to find that the enchantments on the goblets weren’t terribly strong and the contents either dried up or separated into a putrid mess within hours.
He was about to ask where she’d learned about the unicorn blood in the first place, but his potato suddenly lurched. Astarion almost dropped the bowl in surprise, but he caught it before it crashed to the floor. “Your potato is doing something.”
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“Already?”
The potato had a dozen eyes, which slowly opened into a myriad of tiny mouths lined with infinitesimal teeth.
“…mama?” it said in a small, breathy voice.
“This is disturbing,” Astarion said. “I am disturbed. What in the Nine Hells did you do to this vegetable?”
“I filled several pots of dirt with moss supposedly excavated from the body of the dead god Moander, watered them with an infusion of various unwholesome herbs, and fertilized them with composted otyugh dung.”
“As one does.”
“…mama!”
“Take your evil god-potato,” Astarion said, holding out the bowl. “I am not babysitting it.”
Dalyria took the potato, picking it up with tongs—the tiny mouths bit at it ineffectively—and dropped it into a jar of liquid. It settled slowly to the bottom, thrashing as well as a root vegetable could. She screwed the lid onto the jar and set it on a shelf, muttering to herself.
“Is your turnip going to do that?”
Dalyria sighed regretfully. “I don’t think so. The potatoes are the only ones that change. The turnips don’t do anything, and the carrot seeds didn’t even germinate, although that might be faulty seed. Do not ask me about the kohlrabi.”
“Darling, I assure you that I have never asked anyone about kohlrabi in my life, and I do not intend to start now.” He shuddered theatrically. “Somehow, the unicorn scab is less disturbing. What do you plan to do with it?”
“I plan to place a drop of my blood in it and see what the results are.” She abandoned her turnip to look at him. “Think of it. Innocence in concentrated form. If there is anything that could cure vampirism…”
Astarion shook his head slowly. “You don’t think small, I’ll give you that. And where might one find your…err…jar of scab?”
She told him.
* * *