26
“I hate this,” Astarion said. “I hate this, I hate the entire plan, I hate Lief for coming up with it, I hate you, I hate these undead, I hate that druid, and I’m not feeling very well inclined toward the god Mask, either.”
Unfortunately, what came out was an agitated, almost mechanical buzz. “Sorry,” den Suriel said, stroking Astarion under the chin with one fingertip. “I don’t speak Bat.”
“I said I hate you. In fact…no, wait, keep doing that. That feels wonderful.” Astarion craned his neck so that the aasimar could scratch under it. “Gods, why did I never consider the benefit of having fur before? Though I’d have been a cat. Or perhaps an ermine. Not a mouse with wings.”
When Lief had laid out the plan, Astarion had been skeptical but forced to admit that it was better than anything he’d come up with.
It even had a moderate chance of success.
And den Suriel must have noticed that there was a large opportunity in there for Astarion to simply bolt, but he hadn’t objected.
Is he hoping that I’ll get away and it won’t be his fault? Does he think his god won’t blame him if he’s been deceived by the tricksy vampire?
It wouldn’t surprise him. Den Suriel had been subdued after they woke, and Astarion caught him sneaking glances his way several times, with an expression like a man trying to pick a complicated lock.
They’d eaten either an early dinner or a very late breakfast and gone to the river stair to find Lief’s associates waiting for them.
There had been no undead blocking their way, though Astarion found and disarmed a rather simple set of trip wires, the sort that a skeleton might set up under orders.
And then they had reached the first staging point, and it was time to put the plan into action.
Being polymorphed hadn’t been that bad. He’d seen his mother change to wild shape often enough that he hadn’t worried about that part. He just hadn’t expected his brain to feel so squashed. His thoughts felt sluggish and strangely distant, the way they did after an enthusiastic round of torture.
“I never realized bats were so cute,” den Suriel said.
“I will bite your fingertips off, you gigantic celestial bastard.”
“May I suggest that you get moving?” said the druid, whom Astarion currently hated. “The spell only lasts an hour.”
“Can you understand what he’s saying?” The paladin’s voice boomed like thunder. Nine Hells, why were they all so loud?
“I’d need to cast Speak with Animals, and I think you would prefer that I concentrate on your friend not turning back at an inconvenient moment. Mid-flight, for example.”
The druid was a catlike young man with hair dappled like a leopard’s spots.
Astarion didn’t know what he was doing in the city or why Lief had called on him in particular, and he hadn’t asked questions.
Now he rather wished he’d asked a few more questions, like Is there a way to stop this? and Are you sure you couldn’t have turned me into something better? He wouldn’t have minded being a cat. Cats had style. Bats had weird little membranes between their fingers and hardly any feet.
The trio that Lief had picked out to assist him were crowded together in yet another of the ruined buildings that made up the Undercity. Astarion hadn’t bothered to learn any of their names. He trusted adventurers even less than he trusted regular people, which was to say not at all.
“Does he understand what we’re saying?” den Suriel asked.
The druid nodded. “At the moment, yes. The longer he stays in that form, the more it will influence his thoughts. I have shaped the spell as kindly as I can, but his mental powers are decreased simply because his brain is so much smaller.”
“That’s hardly polite. Do I make personal comments about the size of your brain?”
“Fortunately, I do not think he will be required to solve complex mathematical equations,” den Suriel said gravely, although there was a twinkle in his eye.
“Trust the bat when you need to fly,” the druid said, looking directly at Astarion. “But don’t become too comfortable, or you are likely to forget your purpose. And don’t get into a fight with any real flying creatures, because they’ll make a meal out of you.”
“Squeak once for yes and twice for no,” den Suriel suggested. “Are you ready?”
Astarion let out a single grim squeak.
“We’ll be there when you need us,” said one of the druid’s associates.
If the druid was catlike, the barbarian guarding him reminded Astarion of a shaggy mountain dog, all jowls and bluff good nature.
She also smelled like she’d been rolling in something.
Astarion the elf hadn’t smelled anything, but to Astarion the bat, the odor poured off her in waves.
The druid smelled strongly of herbs. Den Suriel smelled like sweat and metal polish and the soap he’d used last night.
The last member of the group, a gnome even shorter than Yousen, stank of explosive powders, but Astarion had been able to smell that even as an elf.
She’d promised she wasn’t going to do anything to bring the cavern ceiling down on them, which would have been reassuring if she hadn’t added, “At least, not intentionally.”
Den Suriel saluted the trio and strode out, Astarion clinging to his shoulder like a grumpy pauldron.
Although Astarion had been through these ruined halls more times than he wanted, they looked totally different now.
The sound of den Suriel’s footsteps went out like a pulse of light, briefly illuminating each individual stone.
When Astarion chirped experimentally, the light seemed to expand farther down the hallway.
There was even less color than in his usual darkvision, but he could make out the most extraordinary textures.
The pockmarked stone and den Suriel’s armor were suddenly as different as silk and sand.
When the aasimar’s hair brushed against Astarion’s ears, it caused a visual explosion akin to pressing against his closed eyelids.
It was fascinating and also made him slightly queasy.
“Right,” murmured den Suriel. He had reached a narrow crack in the stone that looked out over the cavern. Astarion had overlooked it in their earlier retreat because it was barely wide enough to slide a hand through. “We’ll get into position and wait for your signal.”
“Squeak.”
The paladin lifted him carefully with one hand and brought Astarion’s tiny wrinkled face level with his own. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Astarion was increasingly sure he didn’t, but damned if he was going to suffer the indignity of being a winged mouse and not have something to show for it. “Squeak.”
“You can back out, and we’ll find another way.”
With my luck, the other way will involve being turned into a millipede or something equally dreadful. “Squeak-squeak.”
Den Suriel’s lips turned up in a smile. “And, Astarion?”
“Squeak?”
“Your little scrunchy face is adorable.”
“Darling boy…fuck you.”
That came out as another buzzing chatter. Den Suriel laughed and put his hand to the crack in the stone.
At Astarion’s current size, the opening was as broad as a carriage road. His miniature lungs inflated as he took a deep breath. Trust the bat. What a remarkably druid thing to say.
He launched himself into space.
* * *