24
“Right.” Astarion nodded as den Suriel joined him at the top of the river stairs. Together, they looked out over the Chionthar, which was doing its best impression of the sea. “There is someone who I believe can help us.”
“Are you sure you still want to go back down there?”
“I don’t exactly have a choice in the matter, do I?”
Astarion put his hands on the railing. It was still early evening, and the streets were full of people getting off work and visiting the cafes.
The smell of cooking filled the air, temporarily drowning out the river’s perfume of brackish water and dead fish.
“You’re welcome to leave, of course. I have no hold over you.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
Astarion shrugged. He wouldn’t have made the suggestion if he’d thought the aasimar might take him up on it.
As an ally against the undead, he could hardly do better than a paladin, and as a gift for Cazador in case their assault failed…
well, there was a reason that he was feeling remarkably pleased with himself, even if he was filthy, dusty, and in desperate need of a bath.
“In that case, we need to visit a place where I do business. A place that, shall we say, does not usually entertain paladins.” He looked over den Suriel’s battered armor and frowned. “Do you think you can look inconspicuous?”
“I am six and a half feet tall, metallic gold, and glowing.”
This was undeniably fair. Passersby were looking at the aasimar with definite interest. In Baldur’s Gate, people usually only paid that much attention if you were the main attraction at a public hanging.
“Do you have a cloak?” Astarion asked. Perhaps if den Suriel pulled the hood low and didn’t talk to anyone…
“Yes, of course.” The paladin rummaged through his bag of holding and pulled out a length of fabric. It did indeed have a hood. It was also bright white and had a silver badger picked out in metallic thread.
“Put that away. I hope your tailor has been suitably punished for his crimes.” Astarion rubbed his temples. “I’ll think of something.”
* * *
—
Two hours and some haggling later, they turned down a particular street in the Lower City.
It should have taken substantially less time, but den Suriel kept stopping and giving alms to beggars.
In Baldur’s Gate, being a beggar was a respectable profession that rewarded ingenuity, so Astarion wasn’t surprised to see familiar faces surround them and familiar hands on the begging bowls.
“You have a surprising number of lepers here,” the aasimar said disapprovingly.
“No, we’ve got the normal number, and they’re all in a colony just outside the city. That’s Spotty Peg, and she does it with dried oatmeal and bandages.”
“But we’ve passed four of them so far in a two-block stretch!”
“She is also very quick on her feet.” Astarion pitched his voice up. “That’s enough, Peg, you’ve shorn this sheep to the skin.” In hand sign, he added, The mark’s with me.
Spotty Peg grinned at him, showing stumps of broken teeth.
“Can’t blame a girl for trying, eh?” She scratched at her bandaged neck, curling her fingers into her own sign.
Good hunting, brother. Astarion smiled, then helped himself to den Suriel’s coin purse to keep the man from bankrupting himself with charity before they reached their destination.
Ten feet from the Rat’s Run, the paladin balked. “In there?” His voice echoed slightly because he was wearing a full helmet with the visor down.
“It’s better on the inside,” Astarion lied.
“It would almost have to be.”
Rat’s Run had been a sailor bar for decades before the most recent change of ownership, and it still retained some of the same—for lack of a better term—character.
The tavern’s name was etched into an old oar suspended beneath a remarkably lifelike carving of a dead rat.
The windows were grimy, the walls were grimy, and streaks of filth running down below the casements showed where chamber pots had been emptied from the upper floors.
Drifts of trash had formed in the gutters.
A drunk had passed out in a puddle of his own vomit, raising the cleanliness of the area by several notches.
Den Suriel reached beneath his tabard to touch his holy symbol. He murmured something. Astarion’s ears popped.
“By the Nine Hells, don’t start casting—”
“There’s evil in there,” the paladin hissed.
“Yes, well, needs must,” Astarion said, putting both hands on the aasimar’s back and shoving him forward. He prayed silently that there were no undead in the Rat’s Run tonight. “Look, if you can’t behave yourself, I’m not taking you with me.”
Den Suriel flipped up the helmet visor and turned to gaze intently at Astarion, who immediately did his best impression of an innocent but exasperated man.
Fascinating. I can actually hear his teeth grinding from here.
“And you’re sure we have to go in there?”
“The owner owes me a favor, and I need that relic. And so do you, unless you want to traipse around after me for the rest of your life.”
“Fuck,” the aasimar said, with feeling.
“Not until we’ve both had baths, darling. You’ve still got mummy wax on you, and I smell like a priest’s undergarments.”
The paladin’s sigh was loud enough to rattle his armor. “I am going to have to do so much penance for this…”
“On your knees, one hopes.” Astarion reached up and slapped the helmet visor down. “And remember, don’t say a word.”
* * *