Page 41 of Astarion

He kept an ear cocked as Yousen led him through a maze of passageways. The gnome had been right: Astarion couldn’t possibly have found his way there alone. At least, not without a map. And given how frequently we’ve ended up backtracking, I don’t think I’d trust any map he’d be able to draw.

“Are you certain you know where you’re going?”

“It’s been a while,” Yousen said, shoulders hunching defensively. “We’ll get there.”

“How ever did you find it in the first place?”

“I asked an old halfling treasure diver where the skeletons were in this part of the Undercity. He told me what to avoid, and I did the exact opposite.”

“So why hasn’t some other clever gnome done this before,” Astarion asked, watching Yousen plaster himself flat against the rough-hewn wall, “if this maze of tunnels is such common knowledge?”

“Those gnomes haven’t been undead.”

“It makes a difference?”

“There are wards set to keep out the living. Would you mind not talking? I’m trying to feel the vibrations in the stone.”

Astarion rolled his eyes but held his peace. The gnome worked his way down the wall, tapping and stopping, tapping and stopping, then finally murmured something inaudible and set his palm against a particular stone. It shifted soundlessly aside, revealing another passageway.

Fine, I admit it. That was impressive…and was that a footstep behind us, or an echo? He listened carefully but couldn’t be sure.

“Something wrong?”

If they were being followed, Astarion would prefer that their shadow didn’t know they’d been spotted. “Whatever could be wrong in this delightfully skeleton-infested sewer?” he asked, and followed the gnome into the shadows.

—

The corridor split and split again, but Yousen seemed to know where he was now, or perhaps the rocks were being more cooperative. Astarion had no idea if Yousen’s claims were true or a pathetic attempt to make himself seem mysterious. Then again, if you were a rock gnome, maybe other rock gnomes found an air of mineral mysticism to be irresistible. This led Astarion perilously close to contemplating Yousen’s sex life, a line of thought he murdered with extreme prejudice. So far as he knew, the gnome didn’t have one, and that was fine by Astarion. He’d certainly never been tempted. Yousen seemed like the type who would cry afterward. Or apologize. I’m not sure which is worse—wait, what was that?

He was careful not to let his stride change as he listened. Did the echo of their steps conceal someone else’s muffled footfalls? Had someone followed them from the Guild? Was one of the cult’s tame corpses slinking after them? Or was it someone else entirely?

“Ward,” Yousen said, coming to a halt.

It was indeed a ward. Tiny runes were carved into the stone, anchoring it permanently. It didn’t glow, exactly, but if you turned your head just right, you could see a very faint shimmer, like air rising from a hot road. The graffiti stopped abruptly, too.

“And this keeps the living out?”

“Yes. I tested it with a mouse the first time. It couldn’t pass through, but I could.” Yousen stepped through confidently. When he failed to fall over, explode, or turn into a weasel, Astarion followed. The ward passed over his skin like a sigh, leaving a vague queasy feeling in its wake.

And that should take care of anyone from the Guild following us. So far as I know, I’m the only undead on the rolls. Granted, he would have been surprised if no one in the Guild had guessed that the very pale elven rogue was not an albino but something rather more predatory. Still, the code of silence held—you paid your dues and you didn’t pry, and other people extended the same courtesy.

Astarion was very careful to stay current on his dues.

Their path changed repeatedly, sometimes running along ancient roadways, sometimes cutting directly through stone. Few of the denizens of Baldur’s Gate realized that it was built atop the ruins of its former self. The city had sunk over the centuries, two-story buildings gradually becoming one-story buildings with a basement, then basements with a storm drain, and likely a couple more stories built on top. Streets were elevated so that runoff might be managed more effectively, and old structures in the depths of the Undercity were walled up like anchorites.

Astarion was old enough to have seen one such cycle. From what Cazador had said, he had seen many. The vast underground holdings of Szarr Palace had once been mostly aboveground, but time had sunk them deeper into the grave. Which is safer for us than having big picture windows everywhere, I imagine. All it takes is one careless servant, and we’d be vampire spawn charcoal.

There were two more wards placed at intervals throughout the tunnels. Astarion wondered how the Guild elf’s informant had gotten into the place, but perhaps they, too, had been undead. Or perhaps there are more entrances. Once you hit the ruins of the old city, all bets are off.

Then Yousen stopped before a particular bend and held up his hand. He inched forward, peered around the corner, then pulled back and nodded to Astarion.

Astarion also peered around the corner. His eyes widened slightly at the sight.

The passage dead-ended at a door. It was a large door, and it had been designed by someone who felt that black iron and skulls were integral parts of any décor. Astarion would not have wanted something like that in his bedchamber, but he could see the appeal for, say, a guest bathroom.

Two skeletons stood before it, unmoving. They carried swords, which probably meant they were the smarter sort. Although a single skeleton or even two wasn’t much of a threat, it was possible they were sharp enough to sound an alarm.

He turned to ask Yousen a question, but the gnome was already moving back along the passage, tapping and listening. “Up there,” he finally whispered, pointing up.