37
“I knew it was just another mind game,” Petras said. “I knew it.”
“You did not,” Violet said crossly.
Astarion took another slug of blood-mixed wine.
“I damn well did, you little—”
Aurelia set her cup down with a sound like a judge’s gavel. “Enough,” she said. “Truce. For tonight, anyway.”
Everyone, even Violet, was a little frightened of Aurelia. “Truce,” the other spawn muttered. Astarion grunted into his wine.
Cazador had left to see how Dalyria was faring in Godey’s skeletal hands. The remaining spawn huddled around one end of the table in a little knot.
“We all knew it was probably a mind game,” Aurelia continued, “but can any of you say you weren’t hoping?”
No one met her eyes, which was admission enough.
“Where did you get the blood of a dragon, anyway?” Petras asked.
Aurelia shrugged. “I called in a favor.”
Astarion was about to ask if the favor involved a woman named Bajia, then throttled the question.
The name hardly mattered when a copper dragon was involved.
And if there wasn’t at least one somewhere in Baldur’s Gate right now, playing at being human, he’d eat the fabulous hat that was still somewhere in his bedroom.
“And where did you get the blood of a god?”
Astarion set down his now-empty cup and wondered if he should get another.
He wanted one, but he had almost managed to become inebriated.
Much more, and Violet could follow him down the hallway and make sure he tripped and fell on something pointy and silver.
He had no illusions that Aurelia’s truce would hold for long.
“Astarion?”
He blinked blearily at Petras. “Right, right. The skeletons in the sewer were worshipping it.”
“Oh, them,” Aurelia said.
“Why does everyone say it like that?”
“There are skeletons in the sewer?” Petras looked mildly appalled. Astarion took some comfort in the fact that at least Petras hadn’t known about them, either.
“I had to break into a menagerie,” Violet said sourly, “and kill two zookeepers and a bear.”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t at least taste the bear on the way out,” Petras said.
“Oh, I did. It was amazing. But you can’t believe how that thing smelled.”
“Don’t talk to me about smells.” Yousen shook his head gloomily. “I had to burn my clothes after the otyugh.”
“How did you manage that, anyway?”
“A tannery just outside the city uses one as a garbage disposal. Do you know how bad something has to smell if it makes the tannery smell better by comparison?”
The other spawn grimaced.
“Really, though,” Violet said, “even you can’t have thought he’d like otyugh blood.”
Yousen shrugged. “I thought he might not have tried it. And he said he was tired of normal blood.”
“No one’s that tired of normal blood.”
The gnome sighed. “I suppose not.” He scratched absently at his chest. Astarion could see the edge of a bruise showing above his collar, in a curious shape, almost like a cloven hoofprint.
Did he…?
No. No, tonight is horrible enough without picturing that.
They all sat in silence, staring at their respective drinks.
“Do you think he’ll ever make one of us a vampire?” Petras asked finally. He tried to sound cynical, but it came out plaintive instead, like a small child asking if he would ever grow up.
“He says he will,” Violet said uncertainly.
“Why would he?” Astarion looked at Aurelia as he spoke. “When he’s got all of us doing exactly what he wants, whenever he wants it? What use is another vampire to him, compared to an immortal slave?”
The tiefling’s eyes flickered at his words. Even through the haze of wine and disappointment, Astarion knew she agreed with him.
“Why do any of us bother trying, then?” Petras asked bitterly.
“Dear brother, how do any of us have a choice? You know what happens if you don’t go along.”
Another silence, this one longer and bleaker. Petras reached out and snagged another cup of wine.
“Everything under the sun dies eventually,” Aurelia said. “And everything changes, one way or another.”
“Was that meant to be encouraging?” Astarion got unsteadily to his feet.
“Merely an observation.” The tiefling rose and pushed back her chair. “You should all go to bed before you pass out on the table and Dufay uses you for a centerpiece.”
“Yes, Mother,” Petras said snidely. Aurelia gave him her cool red gaze, and he looked away, unable to meet her eyes.
Astarion picked up a last cup, saluted her with it, and went to bed while he still knew where to find it.
* * *
—
If Mask’s blood had not bought him vampirehood, it had certainly bought him grace. Astarion found himself moved into the favored consort chambers next to Cazador. He did not appreciate that, but he pretended to, both so the old man would not become irate and because it made Violet mad as fire.
When Dalyria finally emerged from Godey’s kennels, she walked with a limp. A day later, she tapped on Astarion’s door.
“If you’ve come to apologize, darling, don’t bother,” he said. “I wouldn’t believe you, and I wouldn’t forgive you if I did, so there’s no point in wasting our time.”
“Actually, I was wondering if you’d like to break my leg.”
He put an eyebrow up at that. Dalyria pulled up one trouser leg to reveal a calf that twisted grotesquely halfway down. Astarion made a noise of mild disgust.
“Godey made certain it healed up like that,” Dalyria said. “I have to break it and set it properly now.” She sounded more annoyed by the prospect than anything else. “At any rate, I know you’re angry with me, so I thought I’d offer, in case it would make you feel better.”
Astarion stared at her for so long that she looked away. “You can say no,” she said.
“No. Get Yousen to do it.” He massaged his temples wearily. She hurt me, so she thinks that if I hurt her, we can go back to the way things were? He wondered if there was any point in holding a grudge against someone who clearly understood so little about anything outside her laboratory.
Perhaps there wasn’t, but he didn’t feel like letting that grudge go just yet.
Dalyria no longer had a limp the next day. Astarion noticed this as he sipped wine in the alcove where he was least likely to be discovered. Cazador probably noticed as well but didn’t see fit to comment.
It was another evening like so many thousand evenings before, then suddenly it wasn’t. Dufay entered the room, moved toward the throne, and bowed. Cazador looked up. “Yes?”
“Someone is storming the gate, my lord,” the chamberlain announced in his dry, dusty voice.
“Storming…the…gate,” Cazador repeated slowly. He marked his place in his book and set it aside. “Dufay, I was not aware that Szarr Palace currently had a gate that one could storm.”
“Perhaps it is more accurate to say that he is storming a small side entrance, my lord.”
A knot of dread suddenly pulled tight in Astarion’s stomach. Surely it wasn’t…but who else could it be?
How did he find me? He can’t possibly have followed me from the Rat’s Run. Did someone tell him? But who would have done that?
“Go and see what he wants, Dufay.”
Astarion drained his cup of blood and leaned against the wall with studied nonchalance. None of the other spawn seemed to be paying much attention.
The chamberlain returned some minutes later. “He is a paladin of something called the Argent Badger, my lord. He wishes to—and I quote—‘pull your den of wickedness down around your ears.’?”
Cazador shook his head. “Paladins. They would almost be a nuisance if they were not so foolish. Very well, have him killed and drained—”
“Wait!”
Astarion briefly wondered who had said that until he saw that every eye in the room had fixed on him.
Oh.
Oh, I see.
* * *