25
“What in the Nine Hells is that?” asked the human guarding the door. Her name was Deitre, and Astarion knew her to be discreet, pleasant, and capable of using a morning star like a surgical instrument.
“It’s a golem.”
Deitre studied den Suriel at some length.
Between the gauntlets, the half plate, the helmet, and some hastily acquired chain mail, there was not an inch of exposed skin anywhere.
Astarion thought the line of bolts hastily shoved through the chain was a nice touch.
The fence had even given him a discount because the chain was so full of holes to begin with.
“Looks like a knight in armor,” the door guard said skeptically.
“Yes, the artificers are doing amazing things these days.”
“Why do you have a golem?”
“Deitre, my darling, in all the time we’ve known each other, have I ever asked you about your personal life?”
Deitre shook her head. “Only because it’s you…Fine. If it starts breaking things, you’re paying for it.” She opened the door.
“I promise you that it shall be as well-behaved as a banker at audit time.” He gave den Suriel a very hard look. “Or else.”
The paladin clanked through the door. With his visor down, it was nearly impossible to see his eyes, and if anyone did, they would see only blank whiteness. Astarion could guess, however, what their expression would be.
The great hall of the Rat’s Run was a disaster, naturally.
That was fine. Sailors sang and drank and gambled.
Palm-Slicer the halfling was running his usual game of Three-Dragon Ante, deftly harvesting coin from those too drunk to know better.
Behind the bar, two dwarven sisters dispensed wine, ale, and occasional bons mots.
Astarion nodded to a well-dressed kenku at a corner table and made his way to the bar. He only had to stop once and go back for den Suriel.
“Don’t make me keep you on a leash,” he hissed. “Even if you’d enjoy it.”
“But—”
“Not now.”
A wake of puzzled silence followed vampire and paladin, but it didn’t last for long. The Rat’s Run had seen much stranger things.
“Astarion!” One of the dwarf sisters smiled at him, gold teeth flashing. “What can I get you?”
“A meeting with the mistress, if she’s in. Lief if she’s not.” Astarion knew that the mistress of the establishment knew he was a vampire spawn—he’d used the Rat’s Run as a hunting ground often enough—but he’d never been quite certain about Lief.
“Lief’s in. Give me a moment.” She waved to one of the waitstaff and murmured a few words. He nodded and scurried away.
Astarion leaned against the bar, listening to fragments of conversation around him.
“…swabbing the deck, every damn day…”
“…and then the healer starts screaming, ‘Dilute! Dilute!’…”
“…okay, one more, and then I have to get back…”
“…and I says, ‘Who the hell has a chicken familiar?,’ and the warlock says…”
“…dweomer? I hardly know ’er!”
Astarion felt something in his shoulders relax. The Rat’s Run was a dreadful place, but it was a place where he was welcome. It was far too grubby to feel like home, but it at least felt like something you might scrape off your shoe at home.
Two sailors farther down the bar began pummeling each other enthusiastically. Astarion stomped on den Suriel’s armored foot to keep him from intervening. If my hair wasn’t already white, it would be by the time we get out of here.
Fortunately, Lief was willing to see them. Five minutes later, they were ushered into her office, a room as aggressively tidy and shipshape as any captain’s cabin.
“Astarion! Come in, come in.” The enormous goliath woman looked as if she were built from slabs of granite, with broad gray cheekbones and mountainous hips.
Tattoos swirled across her forehead and vanished under her snow-white hair.
“It’s been too long. And who is your…” She paused, shrewd eyes narrowing.
“That’s no golem, no matter what you told Deitre.”
Astarion knew better than to be surprised. “No, he’s not. May I beg five minutes to explain before you throw us out?”
Lief considered this. She went to the door and said something to the man waiting outside, then closed it. “Five minutes,” she said, turning. “And if I don’t give the all clear by then, word goes to the mistress.”
Astarion nodded. “Lief Cloudswell, may I present Hahn den Suriel, who is not law enforcement but is a paladin of the Golden Ferret.”
“Argent Badger, actually,” den Suriel said, removing his helm. Sweat darkened his metallic hair to bronze.
“Never heard of it.”
Den Suriel sighed. “No one has.”
“This fine fellow has sworn to protect me with his life and soul,” Astarion said, “until I get my hands on a certain item. Then he gets to kill me.”
The goliath looked from Astarion to den Suriel, then settled back. “This had better be one hell of an explanation.”
Three and a half minutes later, Lief opened the door to inform her employee that everything was fine and to request that two dinners and wine be sent up. By the time the bowls of fish stew arrived, Astarion had just about finished a recitation of the previous night’s adventures.
“This is a lot to take in,” Lief said.
“It was a lot to experience, too.”
“And you want my help to get you this relic?”
“That’s the long and the short of it, my dear colossus.”
“Huh.” Lief gazed at the ceiling, thinking, while den Suriel fell on his food like a starving man and Astarion sipped from a cup of watered wine that contained no actual water.
He recognized the taste of pig blood. Somebody in the kitchen had probably had their preparations for black pudding set back by at least a day.
It did nicely solve the question of whether Lief knew what he was.
Astarion would have been much more worried about that if the blood hadn’t gone down so smoothly.
He could feel his muscles unknotting and a legion of tiny nicks and scratches beginning to heal.
The deep ache in his ribs that had been background noise for hours began to fall silent.
While the two of them ate, Lief began sketching out a map with thick, nimble fingers. She had a cartographer’s skill, roughing in elements as Astarion and den Suriel described them. By the time the meal had ended, she had a basic map of the cavern inhabited by the Cult of the Undying Blood.
“Hmm,” she said, mostly to the map. “I can see how to get you to the relic. I’m not sure how to get you out again.”
“Get me in there, and I’ll worry about getting me out again. Though I may need your people to cause a distraction.”
Lief raised a slate-colored eyebrow. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather pay the Guild for this?”
“Anyone in the Guild worth their salt will start thinking that the relic might be worth double-crossing me.” Astarion examined his cuffs. The embroidery had so many stray threads that it looked like he was wearing a brightly colored jellyfish. “Also, they don’t owe me a favor.”
The goliath smoothed down the map. “The mistress would be glad to see her favor discharged.”
Astarion offered his hand. “Help me acquire that relic, and the favor is returned, free and clear.”
Lief engulfed his slender white hand with her own large gray one. Astarion could feel her calluses like sandpaper against his knuckles.
“Must be quite a favor,” den Suriel said, “if you’re willing to help us with something this dramatic.”
“For some, a debt owed grows heavier with each passing season.”
The paladin shook his head. “Better to do good with no expectation of being repaid.”
Even though Lief was probably younger than the aasimar, her eyes were briefly as ancient as the sea. “Better for you, perhaps. To leave someone with a debt they have no way of repaying can be a cruel act.”
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Den Suriel frowned. “I don’t understand.”
Astarion thought of Violet and her hatred for Yousen. “I’ll explain it to you later.”
Lief tapped the map. “Give me the daylight hours to consider and to reach out to some people I know. You may have the hospitality of the house until then.” She rose to her feet, and the two men followed.
* * *
—
The hospitality of the Rat’s Run was resoundingly adequate.
Astarion knew that they were receiving the best the house had to offer, and so he did not complain.
There was plenty of room, even after another bed and washbasin were hastily dragged in, though the décor might best be described as post-nautical chic.
Frayed fishing nets were draped across the ceiling, dangling glass weights below them, and the light fixtures were shaped like a ship’s figurehead.
Astarion peeled off his jacket, checked the enchanted vials again to make sure they were still safe, and was working on a mental checklist of equipment he needed to replace when den Suriel cleared his throat.
“Hmm?”
“I am afraid I need to visit the privy.”
“Downstairs in back. Look for the black curtains.”
“Ah…” The aasimar rubbed the back of his neck, looking desperately uncomfortable. “That is…err…would you mind coming with me?”
“To the privies?” Astarion turned to stare at him. “My dear paladin, I have embraced any number of perversions, but I assure you, that is not among them.”
“No! Not for any—that is—it’s certainly not one of my—” He stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am worried that if I let you out of my sight, that will count as letting you live, and my oath will be broken.”
“Far be it from me to lecture a paladin on theology, but any god who forces you to choose between your soul and your bladder cannot possibly call Themself good.”
That wrung a rueful chuckle from den Suriel. “You make a distressingly valid point.”
Astarion made shooing motions. “Go, go. I promise that if I’m not here when you get back, it’s only because I’ve gone down to the kitchen to demand they send up hot water for a bath.”
“A bath sounds marvelous.”
“I thought it might.”
The Rat’s Run did not have a dedicated bathing area, but the kitchen was willing to send up a tin bath and heated water to fill it.
It was not precisely luxurious, but it was hot, and since Astarion was covered in dried sweat, bone dust, rock dust, and bits of mummy wax, he was not inclined to be choosy.