25 #2
He did insist on his own soap, though, as the chunk the inn provided had the color and odor of earwax.
Den Suriel returned while the bath was still being filled. A servant brought in a folding screen, and another arrived with a pile of coarse towels. Astarion tipped them both generously, then slid the screen into place and stepped behind it.
“Oath still intact?”
“Seems to be. Apparently, I’m allowed to leave so long as I still plan to kill you in the end.” A pause. “Err…sorry, that wasn’t very tactful, was it?”
“It’s fine.” Astarion stepped into the hot water with a hiss of pleasure.
An orchestra of clunks and clinks from the other side of the screen indicated that the aasimar was removing his armor. “I’ll tell you, though, I’m very glad paladins are immune to disease. That privy looked like a shrine to the Mother of Plagues.”
“Yes, they’re certainly an experience.” Astarion splashed water over his skin, wondering if the paladin was picturing him naked behind the screen. He rather hoped so. He let out a long sigh of pleasure to gauge the effect and was pleased to hear the sounds stop for a moment before starting again.
Seducing him would certainly give me an edge when it comes time to fulfill his oath. And I rather think I’d enjoy dragging him down to my level…
The thought made Astarion want to purr like a cat, though not as much as the hot water did.
His life at Szarr Palace was slow and almost languorous, in between bouts of horror.
The madcap pace of the last twenty-four hours had been an exciting change, but there was definitely something to be said for a little languor.
The water cooled all too soon. Astarion emerged from behind the screen wearing a towel around his hips and not much else, and he was pleased to see the aasimar’s pale white eyes go wide. Oh, very good. Now, what else can I do, hmm?
Den Suriel was sitting on the edge of the bed, having removed the plate on the upper half of his body, as well as the padding that went under it. His loose linen shirt was open at the throat, revealing more metallic gold freckles trailing down his chest.
“Boots giving you trouble?” Astarion asked pleasantly.
“Boots?”
“On your feet.”
“Oh, those boots.” Den Suriel dragged his eyes away from Astarion’s bare skin and stared at his feet. “Yes. Look at that. I am definitely wearing boots.”
“Sadly, there aren’t any bootjacks in this place,” Astarion said. “There used to be, but the patrons kept breaking them over each other’s heads. Allow me.” He knelt with practiced ease and began unlacing the boots in question, which were heavy leather with steel-capped toes.
“Um. Yes. Thank you.”
Astarion stole a glance from beneath his eyelashes and was amused to see that the aasimar’s face was a study in contrast. A very sexy man is taking off my boots seemed to be at war with A very sexy vampire is taking off my boots, and it was hard to say which one had the upper hand.
Dear me. If this keeps up, he may suffer permanent brain damage, and paladins have so little brain to begin with…
“I suppose you usually have someone to help with this? Some eager young acolyte of the Shiny Raccoon?”
“Argent Badger,” den Suriel said, “and they’re called squires. And you would be terrible at it.”
“I will have you know that I am excellent at getting people out of their clothes.”
“I do not doubt that in the least. I simply doubt your willingness to spend hours polishing armor afterward.”
“No, my mother always said that would make me go blind.”
Den Suriel snorted. “I still have no idea what to make of you,” he said as Astarion tackled the other boot.
“Normally, I would suggest a kept man, but I’m afraid you can’t afford me.” Astarion finished with the laces and pulled. The boot came off, and he let the momentum carry him backward, catching himself on his elbow, an act that disarrayed his towel to the point of mild indecency.
“That’s not quite what I meant,” den Suriel said, although his eyes were riveted to the towel. Astarion rearranged it decorously, and the aasimar looked immediately away.
“Could you really?” he asked abruptly. “If you wanted to?”
“Could I what?”
“Be a kept man.”
“Ah.” Astarion studied his nails. “No, not really.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
Whatever lay in the air between them—sexual tension, animosity, pity—was so thick that Astarion was surprised the windows hadn’t fogged up. Fortunately, it was interrupted by servants tapping on the door to bring in a fresh batch of hot water.
“My turn, then,” the aasimar said, getting to his feet. He picked up the bag of holding. “May I offer you a dressing gown?”
“You carry a dressing gown around with you?”
“Not at all. I carry two. You never know when you’ll need to loan one to a…friend.”
Astarion was careful not to show his glee at being referred to, even obliquely, as a friend. That was the wonderful thing about truly good people. It was so hard for them to keep their guard up.
The dressing gown from den Suriel’s wardrobe was a deep emerald green with copper dragons on the cuffs. Astarion folded them back quickly, and not just because they fell past his fingertips.
“It’s a bit large,” den Suriel observed.
“The statue of Balduran in the harbor is a bit large. This is immense.” Astarion rubbed the fabric between thumb and forefinger. Linen damask, lightweight, and not terribly expensive. The beauty lay in the weave and the way the color shifted as the fabric moved. “You could fit two of me in here.”
“Lathander forbid,” den Suriel muttered, heading behind the screen. “One of you is almost too many.”
“I heard that.”
“I meant you to.”
The hem of the dressing gown did not just drag on the floor, it was in danger of sweeping it. Astarion looked around for something to belt it with and saw that the paladin had left his bag of holding on his bed.
In for a copper…He opened it and stuck his hand in.
It was clear from the cacophony of textures that den Suriel’s organizational skills left something to be desired.
His fingertips brushed over fur, fabric, metal, leather, and glass, over surfaces rough and lumpy and sticky and smooth.
How ever does the man find anything in here?
And how are his clothes not a mass of wrinkles?
And…wait, is this cheese? My god, it is.
Astarion extracted a wheel of cheese from the bag, neatly sealed in wax.
The stamp proclaimed it as Highmoon smokerind.
The man has good taste in cheese, if not in gods. I suppose if you can only have one of the two, cheese is more important.
The floorboards creaked. “What are you doing?”
“Going through your luggage,” Astarion said, not bothering to turn around.
“So you are.” Den Suriel’s bemusement was almost tangible. “Some people would consider that an invasion of privacy, you know.”
“My dear paladin, how else will I know if you’ve got anything worth stealing?”
“You are either the worst thief I’ve ever met or one of the best.”
The aasimar was wearing an even more elaborate dressing gown of pink silk with embroidered red flowers dripping petals across his shoulders.
It made such a ridiculous contrast to the sword hanging at his hip that Astarion couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Are you planning on stealing from me?” den Suriel asked.
“You can ask me the next time you cast that truth spell, but I’ll tell you now that I have definite designs on your cheese.”
Astarion held up the ivory figurine he’d spotted earlier.
It appeared to be an exquisitely carved elephant, perfect down to the wrinkled knees and delicate trunk. “Now, is this what I think it is?”
“A wondrous creature, yes. I have to tell you, it’s less useful than you might think. The situations that are improved by an emergency elephant are surprisingly few and far between. And I always feel dreadful when the poor creature dies.”
“It seems to me that we could have used an emergency elephant when we faced that horde of undead.”
“There was no place to put it. You have to have a clear elephant-sized space without anyone in it.”
“You can’t use it to squish your enemies? What good is that?”