20
Two days after the successful conclusion of the begonia incident, Astarion signed papers of apprenticeship with his cousin to become a junior law clerk, not merely a scribe.
He celebrated by purchasing an elegant pair of boots, getting falling-down drunk, and deepening his acquaintance with a server at the Cock and Warlock tavern.
When he staggered into the house two hours past dawn, his cousin looked at him, sighed, and said, “You know, when I was an apprentice and went out drinking and whoring at all hours, I at least remembered to bring a bottle home for my master.”
* * *
“Don’t pretend you knew who it was,” Violet said sullenly, rubbing her hand where Astarion had struck it.
“Petras sounds like a peacock in iron boots, and we’d never have heard Aurelia at all.”
She made a rude gesture, then clutched her hand. “Fuck, that hurts. I’m telling Father you broke my hand!”
“Why don’t you run along and do that, then?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I could tell him other things. Like the fact that you went into the Thieves’ Guild.”
Astarion stifled a yawn. “I know it’s difficult, but try to use your brain for something other than keeping your ears apart. Do you think he doesn’t already know I’m a member?”
Violet’s lips curled. She clearly hadn’t known.
“I am more curious as to why you followed us in the first place.” Astarion leaned against the wall, folding his arms. How much does she know?
She shrugged, unrepentant. “Dalyria and Yousen were clearly up to something. All that lurking and looking over their shoulders. I wanted to know what.”
Astarion glanced around for Yousen, but the gnome had vanished. Either he had found a wall to blend into or, more likely, he was scurrying back out of the Undercity as quickly as he could.
Well, I’ll find my way back eventually. I remember the graffiti, if nothing else.
“Anyway, I wasn’t expecting all this.” Violet leaned over the stone wall, looking down onto the mass of undead. “Pretty impressive.”
“Yes, yes.” Astarion waved a languid hand. “I suggest you leave, but if you want to swan dive into their midst, I certainly won’t stop you.”
“Let me guess…whatever you’re after is in that big black blob over there.”
Astarion wasn’t certain whether she truly didn’t know what he was looking for or she was simply lying to throw him off the scent.
It was entirely possible that Dalyria and Yousen had discussed the whole plan without bothering to check the door for eavesdroppers.
Plausible, even. Tymora, why must you surround me with incompetents?
“My dear Violet,” he said, “why would I share anything about my plans with you?”
She turned to study him through narrowed eyes.
When she wasn’t doing her artificial childlike act, her gaze was alarmingly shrewd.
While Astarion was taller and stronger—not to mention smarter—than Violet, and he was reasonably sure he could take her in a fight, he didn’t feel that a small ledge over a sea of skeletons was the best place to test that hypothesis.
“I could tell everyone else what you’re up to,” she said.
“Since I doubt you’ll find Aurelia, that leaves, what, Petras? Please, feel free.” He made shooing gestures. “Run along home and tell your big brother.”
He could actually hear Violet’s teeth grinding.
He was increasingly certain she didn’t know that the blood of a god lay below.
She had probably seen Yousen and Dalyria acting secretive and followed them impulsively, hoping to learn more.
Astarion was a trifle annoyed with himself that he hadn’t spotted her sooner, but if Violet had a single skill, it was turning up at the most inconvenient possible time.
Though I suppose it could be more inconvenient. She could have appeared while I was dangling on a rope over the plaza, for example.
No, there had to be a better way down than that.
Leaving aside that all the skeletons would see him descending like a foolhardy spider, ropes were much too easily cut.
If he watched for long enough, he could likely spot a useful pattern—areas that were less heavily patrolled, guard shifts that changed on a regular basis.
Unfortunately, that would require him to watch the skeletons, not Violet, and he certainly wasn’t going to take his eyes off her.
“Maybe I’ll climb down there and steal it myself,” she said.
“Please, feel free. I’ll tell Father you died as you lived: grossly overestimating your own abilities.”
“What’s that thing there?” She leaned outward, pointing to something on the ground.
Astarion, being at least a century too old to fall for that, kept his back firmly against the wall. “Describe it to me.”
“You’re no fun at all.” She turned and flounced away. Over her shoulder, she snapped, “I’ll find something better than yours. Just you wait.”
Astarion rolled his eyes but didn’t move from his position. He certainly wasn’t going to turn his back on her until he was very sure that she was gone.
Unfortunately, this meant that he was still standing in the same place five minutes later, when she dropped the thunderstone on his head.
* * *
—
The explosion knocked Astarion to his knees. His ears were full of a high-pitched keening sound. He shouted, “Fuck!,” but couldn’t hear himself and wondered if he’d actually said it out loud or only thought it. For that matter, he could barely hear himself think.
Dust rattled down from the ceiling, pebbles bouncing on the ground in front of him.
Through the horrible sound in his ears, he managed to think of cave-ins and tunnel collapses, and that sent him crawling out onto the ledge.
It might break away from the wall, but at least it wouldn’t crush him under a million tons of stone.
The ringing seemed to be affecting his balance.
He clutched the low wall for support, shaking his head, waiting for his inner ear to sort itself out.
Violet. That miserable little bitch. Behind the bratty exterior lay the soul of a…
a…shit. Something awful. He couldn’t think of anything quite awful enough.
More importantly, he couldn’t believe he’d underestimated her so badly.
He was in mid-recrimination when a much more immediate thought worked its way through the ringing. Astarion pushed himself up, very slowly, and peered over the wall.
The cavern was still full of hundreds, maybe thousands, of skeletons. But they were no longer milling about. The ruined streets were utterly still. Every one of them had stopped in their tracks. And every single one was looking up at him.
* * *
—
The cultists who came for him were led by a soap mummy, and the man at the Guild had been right—they were nasty.
Astarion had only ever met one mummy, a mummy lord who had come to Szarr Palace, but it had been a tall, gaunt creature wrapped in linen, its desiccated flesh pulled tight against the bone.
Its voice was as dry and whispery as a desert wind, and a scarab crouched in its mouth where other beings had a tongue.
It had also, as Astarion recalled, been a bit of a snob.
This mummy looked like a half-melted candle. It bulged out of its wrappings, waxy flesh partially engulfing them, and its fingers had fused together into lumpy mittens.
“Hello,” Astarion said, waving. His ears were still ringing faintly, but he’d made a stab at escaping.
Unfortunately, the mummy and a number of skeletons were waiting for him in the corridor.
As soon as he saw them, he tried to make it up a wall, but the mummy gestured, and three skeletons raised crossbows, all of them pointed in his direction.
“Get down,” ordered the mummy. Its voice was deeper and thicker than that of the other mummy Astarion had encountered, cold water instead of desert wind.
Vampire spawn were hard to kill, but an arrow directly through the heart would do the job nicely. Astarion decided that perhaps it was time for diplomacy. He climbed down the wall and turned, putting on his most charming smile.
“How nice to meet you all. I had no idea you had such a marvelous place down here.”
The mummy gazed at him. At least, Astarion thought it did. Its left eyelid had melted into its cheek, and its right was covered by linen.
“Trying to bring down the ceiling won’t work.” Buried in that cold-water voice was a distinctive accent. Astarion was betting that in life, it had been a dockside bully rather than the scion of a noble house. The mummy lord would doubtless have been appalled.
“I wasn’t trying,” Astarion said. “I was minding my own business, and someone dropped a thunderstone on me.”
The mummy made a scoffing noise that sounded like something splattering inside its chest.
“I realize it sounds fantastical, but I assure you that it is true.” Seeing that this wasn’t helping, Astarion tried a different tactic. “Actually, perhaps you can help me. I was wondering how I would arrange an audience with your leader. Perhaps I could speak to their secretary?”
The mummy shook its head, possibly in disbelief. “Bind him.”
Two skeletons advanced on Astarion. One still wore the ragged clothes of a sailor. Brass knuckles gleamed on the other’s bony fist.
“Now, I’m certain we can talk about this,” Astarion said, taking a step back and hitting the wall. “Surely we can come to some kind of mutually beneficial arrangement?”
There was a long moment, presumably while the mummy worked out the long words, then it said, “Nah,” and struck Astarion across the face.
Its hand might look melted, but it hit like an ogre.
One did not survive Szarr Palace for long without learning when fighting back was futile.
Astarion let the blow crumple him to the floor and went limp as a dishrag.
The two skeletons bashed him around a bit in the process of removing his daggers and tying his hands.
Fortunately, the one’s brass knuckles cut open his forehead, which poured blood everywhere and made the beating look much more impressive than it actually was.
He moaned dramatically, and the mummy said, “That’s enough. The Inquisitor will want a word with this one.”
Of course they have an inquisitor. It’s always an inquisitor. Hells, I hope my nose isn’t broken.
The skeletons dragged him upright and kicked him into motion.