Page 50 of Astarion

By the time he was twenty-seven, Astarion Ancunín had completed his apprenticeship to become a journeyman barrister; could pick an eight-tumbler lock armed with both curse powder and poisoned needles; and knew twenty-seven things he could do with his tongue, eleven he could do with his cock, and fifteen he could do with someone else’s.

And then his great-grandmother came home to die, and everything changed.

—

Astarion heard voices coming from the office he shared with his cousin. The door was closed but not locked, so he knocked lightly and waited.

When Lazlo opened the door, his face was pale and set. “Thank the gods,” he said. “You’re here.” He hustled Astarion inside and locked the door behind him, then crossed to his table and began to write.

Bajia sat in one of the chairs. She lifted a hand in greeting, but her face was grave.

“Something’s wrong with Grandmother,” he guessed.

“She’s dying,” Bajia said. “She did not come home sooner because she was not well enough to travel. She still isn’t, but she knew that it was time. I’ve come to take you to the manor house.”

Astarion nodded. He was surprised to feel a pang for the old lady, given how long it had been since they had seen each other. But she had lifted him out of the wretchedness of his childhood and given him a chance at a better life.

“Lazlo,” he said, “I’m working on the gnomish guild case. It’s not urgent, so if you can tender my apologies for the delay, I’ll be back as soon as—”

“No, you won’t,” Lazlo said.

Astarion blinked at him. “Say again?”

“Pack everything you mean to keep,” Lazlo said. He picked up the page he’d been writing and thrust it at him. “Here’s a letter of introduction to an old friend of mine in Baldur’s Gate.”

“Baldur’s Gate? But that’s hundreds of miles—”

“And the gods willing, that will be far enough.” Lazlo shoved more papers at him. “You are now the last scion of the obscure Baldur’s Gate branch of the Ancuníns, just returned from legal work abroad.”

“I’m what?”

Lazlo startled him by catching him in a brief, savage hug. “I’ll try to keep the dogs off, but you have to get away.”

“What? What dogs? What are you talking about?”

His cousin laughed mirthlessly. “I’m sorry, Astarion. The old lady made you her heir.”

—

“She meant it kindly,” Bajia said as he frantically flung clothes into a pack. “She’s slipped rather a lot, I’m afraid.”

“Why didn’t you stop her?”

“I did stop her, the first two times. Then she did it while I was traveling. I don’t think she understands quite what she’s leaving you.”

“She’s not in her right mind,” Astarion said. “Surely I can challenge the will on those grounds.”

“Lazlo will do his best. Most likely it will work, once it comes before the Silver Lady, and the creditors will have to be content dismantling the estate. But it’s best that you’re far away by then.”

“Otherwise they’ll seize everything I own to pay her debts,” Astarion said grimly. “Possibly including me.” He had learned how these things worked in his years as both a lawyer and a Guild member. Debts were things that could be bought and sold, and the respectable creditors who had loaned money to Lady Erikinia had likely been dissolved and their debts sold to other, less respectable individuals who would try to collect. In Silverymoon, of course, it would be entirely illegal for someone to grab Astarion off the street and sell him, but that would be cold comfort if he found himself hog-tied and bound for an auction block in Skullport.

It was cold comfort now, as he looked at his small jewel box of an apartment. It had a balcony that overlooked a park, and it was exquisitely tailored to his needs. He had furnished it lovingly over the course of years, trading out the battered castoffs of his apprenticeship for lacquered wood and embroidered silk. Every surface you trailed your fingertips over was a sensual delight.

In a matter of hours, it would likely be pulled apart by vultures. The law was slower to react than the creditors, and even in Silverymoon, possession was nine-tenths of the law.

Astarion paused in front of a large oil painting. A market scene, rendered so lovingly by the artist that you could almost smell the spices and hear the clink of coins changing hands. He had spent nearly a month’s salary on it and never regretted a copper of it. Sometimes in the evenings, he would stare at it, a cup of wine clasped loosely in his fingers, inventing stories for each of the figures, even the ones in the far distance that were little more than a blob of paint.

Losing it felt like losing a friend. But he could hardly load it onto the back of a packhorse. It was five feet long, and Bajia was already jittering with impatience.