Page 14 of Astarion

“When we meet your grandmother, she will ask you what you want to do. You must tell her that you want to work the vineyard like your father.”

He looked at her blankly. “But that’s not what I want.”

His mother made a noise then, a ragged sound like a word that didn’t exist, and her fingers tightened on his shoulders like the talons of a hawk. “Of course it is.”

“But I don’t—”

“I know, I know. You and your father don’t always get along. I know.” This was an understatement for the ages, but she hurried on. “You know your father loves you.”

It was an old refrain, and Astarion knew his part well. “I know he does.” Which was…oh, not a lie, exactly. His father did love him, with the baffled but determined love of a bird for a cuckoo’s egg. He loved Astarion, not because he thought Astarion was lovable, but because loving your children was what you did, and it would have tarnished his image of himself not to love his son.

His mother’s eyes were fever bright. “You have to tell her that you want to work in the vineyard, or she’ll take you away from me.”

Astarion blinked. “What?”

“The bargain—the stupid bargain—oh, it doesn’t matter now!” She took a deep breath. “What are you going to tell her?”

“That I want to work in the vineyard,” he lied dutifully.

“Yes. All right.” She released him and put her hands to her cheeks, breathing deeply. “That horrible woman. Who would have thought she’d find out?”

“Find out what?” Astarion asked, but she was already shifting, an owl this time, lunging out the window into the dark sky beyond.

It was all so strange, he thought as he climbed into bed. Strange to see his mother so panicked, strange to sleep in an inn. The sheets were linen, softer than the ones on his bed at home. He could still remember the taste of the sauce on his tongue, like nothing he’d ever experienced before.

It came to him that he could be happy traveling like this forever, hearing stories of cities and eating food with exotic spices and sleeping on soft sheets—and never, ever going home again.

Astarion went out to hunt that night already knowing that he would fail. That was fine. Most hunting nights ended in failure. One or two victims a tenday was perfectly acceptable. It was when you went a fortnight without dragging something home to the old man that he began to think your heart wasn’t sufficiently in it.

A few days in the kennels under the businesslike care of the skeleton Godey was generally enough to make one a very keen predator indeed.

But Boris’s blood was probably still coating Cazador’s throat, so Astarion had the freedom of the city, and a single errand that he needed to run.

The fog was not so thick tonight. It lay over Baldur’s Gate like a veil, not a smothering blanket. Once he reached the docks, Astarion climbed up to the rooftops to search for his target.

The woman from Waterdeep wasn’t easy to locate from above, even with the lighter fog. He scanned from red lantern to red lantern until he finally spotted her. She had put her back to a stack of crates, which made things easier. Astarion dropped soundlessly from the roof onto the uppermost crate and crept downward until he was crouched directly above her.

The gold dolphin pinged off the cobblestones at her feet. She frowned and reached down to scoop it up. He saw the moment she realized what it was, and she whirled around, searching the fog, and finally saw him.

She was a cool one, he’d give her that. Her eyes narrowed, and if he hadn’t been able to hear her blood thrumming under her skin, he would have thought she was annoyed, not frightened. Good. The woman deserved a scare if she thought to blackmail him.

“The job is done,” he said.

“Boris is dead?”

“As dead as a priest’s love.” Astarion’s smile had too much tooth in it. “Now, let me be very clear, my darling. That man was a dreadful ass, and I quite see why you wanted him gone. But if you think to continue to use me as your personal enforcer, think again.”

The woman’s eyes flickered. Clearly, she had been thinking that, at least on some level.

“This is a large city. Large enough for me to hunt elsewhere for a long, long time.” He leaned forward, one hand on the edge of the crate between his feet, using the extra height to loom over her. “But it is not large enough that I can’t find you again, if I hear that you’ve been…indiscreet.”

She tried to rally. “My friends know—”

“I’m sure they do, darling. Will that be much comfort to you in the grave?”

Her lips pressed together in a thin line.

“I give you Boris’s death as a gift,” Astarion said, beginning to enjoy himself. “The world is undoubtedly better for it. I can even admire how you arranged it.” He leaned forward until she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. “You were clever, and you were lucky. But darling…” He smiled then, showing her the last half inch of fang. “You won’t be lucky twice.”