Page 49 of Astarion

“Oh, well.” The aasimar shrugged. “I figured I’d wait until they drag me in front of this inquisitor person, then, you know, break free and get to him, see if I can take him down with me in a blaze of radiant glory, die pierced by a thousand wounds, something like that.”

“So, the usual paladin thing.”

“Pretty much. May I ask what on earth you’re doing over there?”

“The usual rogue thing.” Astarion wedged one foot against the wall and twisted in a fashion that made his ribs shriek with pain.

“I’d offer to help, but I don’t think I can bend like that.”

“It is a specialized skill.” Every twist went a little farther and hurt a little more, until he finally managed to get his hands against his thigh. He snagged one broken fingernail along a particular seam. It took more wriggling to get the wire out, and afterward he had to simply lean against the wall and concentrate on not vomiting for a moment. Each individual rib felt as sharp as Violet’s knives.

“Are you all right?”

“Better than you’ll be after those thousand wounds.” Astarion began working the wire into shape. “I don’t suppose you’ve considered not dying in a heroic blaze of glory?”

“I’m afraid it’s part of being a paladin. What is it they say? The fox has a bag of tricks, the hedgehog only one.”

Astarion pursed his lips. “Do you know, there’s a type of bird near Silverymoon that specializes in eating hedgehogs. It has a very long beak, and it stabs right through the quills. Do you know what its primary predator is?”

The aasimar raised his eyebrows. “I have no idea.”

“Foxes.”

Den Suriel considered this for a long moment. “Okay. What’s your idea, then?”

Astarion held up his hands. The unlocked manacle clanged to the floor. He waved his makeshift wire lockpick gently at the aasimar. “Escape seems like a fine idea. Would you care to join me?”

Even chained to the floor, the paladin managed a bow. “It would be an honor.”

The ten years that Astarion spent studying law in Silverymoon were among the happiest of his life. He made friends among the other apprentices, and occasionally lovers, though he never told them where he came from. None of them ever came close to guessing. As an Ancunín, he was assumed to be some minor offshoot of the house, come to Silverymoon for his own amusement. He cultivated what he hoped was an air of mystery and knew was a sense of good taste. Half his money was spent on elegant clothes at the height of fashion and the other half on entertainment. “Wine, women, and song,” as Lazlo said, although there were also a great many men and very little singing.

Bajia came to check on him every now and again, bringing him news of his great-grandmother. No, she was still abroad. She planned to return soon, whatever soon meant. She sent her love. Astarion accepted this gravely and did not ask questions that he knew Bajia couldn’t answer.

And always there was the work, the delicate, twisty work of laws and rules that so often fell open like a lock if you simply poked the right bit and twisted just so.

He kept his hand in picking actual locks, though he certainly did not announce it. It was another apprentice who recognized it, one whose master had been known to represent individuals of dubious legal standing. The young halfling woman moved like a centipede and smiled like an assassin. She sat down beside him at the Cock and Warlock tavern and said, “You dropped this.”

“Oh? Thank you—” Astarion started to say, then recognized the skeleton key Bajia had given him, which he kept in a pocket next to his heart and most assuredly had not dropped.

“Interesting trinket to keep around,” she said.

“It was a gift,” he said stiffly. “From a friend.”

“Interesting friend.” She drew her finger through a puddle of spilled beer. “I’ve got some interesting friends, too.”

“How delightful for you. Perhaps you should run along and drink with them.”

“Mmm.” She propped her chin on her hand. “It can be dangerous, being too clever. Some of those interesting friends might get a little too interested, if you know what I mean.”

“Madam, I assure you that I have not the slightest idea what you mean, nor the slightest inclination to find out.”

She cocked her head and gave him a wry, amused look. “Are you drunk or just thick?”

He opened his mouth to deliver what he hoped was a devastating setdown, then something in his brain clicked belatedly. “Oh,” he said. “I see. Drunk, if you must know.”

The halfling chuckled. “Maybe don’t drink so much tomorrow,” she said. “And we can chat.”

It was thus that Astarion met the local thieves’ guild, a collection of like-minded artisans, fingersmiths, and occasional outright thugs. He was on his best behavior and, with the help of his new halfling friend, managed to navigate the guild’s political waters without falling prey to any unexpected undercurrents. It helped that no one actually cared about two junior apprentices and, in return for nominal yearly dues, continued not to care. Astarion met some people who were indeed very interesting, learned how to pick a wider variety of locks, and even picked up the occasionally torturous dialect of Thieves’ Cant, though he was never more than passingly fluent in it. He did not practice most of the things he learned, because being caught robbing a house would have had a detrimental effect on his legal career. Nevertheless, he hugged that knowledge to him like a small, secret flame.