Page 54 of Astarion

Was under totally different circumstances. No need to dwell on it. And anyway, he was an innocent. Den Suriel is quite obnoxiously wholesome, but nobody who grins like that is an innocent.

Well, two could play at that game. Astarion let his fingertips trail down den Suriel’s wrist as he released the aasimar’s arm, and was rewarded with a sharp inhalation. Or perhaps he was only out of breath from having just decapitated a mummy.

“Right,” the paladin said, with a little more gravel in his voice than before. “It won’t stay dead for more than a day. Let’s see if we can find my holy symbol.”

Astarion was very glad to discover that the jailor’s bedroom no longer felt like a private dwelling. Apparently, the cult’s leader did not particularly care about it, so now that the mummy was temporarily dead, it was merely a room.

He slid his daggers back into their hidden sheaths and examined the rest of the furniture. The trunk he’d noticed before contained bedding. It was strange to think of a mummy wanting blankets, but after looking at the cold cement box that dominated the room, Astarion could understand it. It had none of the molded charm of a true sarcophagus. He’d have put down a layer of blankets, too.

The only other object of interest was a narrow wooden chest against one wall. It was locked, at least technically.

“Precision instruments indeed,” den Suriel said as Astarion cracked it open as easily as flipping a latch.

Astarion let a slow smile spread across his face. “I’m flattered you noticed. Still, I must admit that locks like these are only to keep honest people out. Or honest mummies, I suppose.”

“It would have kept me out.”

“I believe that is what I just said.” Astarion swept out the contents, which included his lockpicks, his coin purse, a handful of loose change, a leather sack, and what appeared to be a set of erotic woodcuts featuring bipedal elephants. “Are these yours?”

“The bag is. The woodcuts definitely aren’t.” Den Suriel’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know what’s more disturbing: a mummy keeping loxo erotica or the thought of someone storming a cultist stronghold armed with loxo erotica.”

“It’s not even good loxo erotica. You can tell that the artist didn’t know how to draw a prehensile—”

“Oh look, my holy symbol!” Den Suriel picked up the bag and unwrapped a leather thong coiled around the mouth, then hung it on his neck. Astarion caught a glimpse of a small silver pendant in the shape of a badger crowned with the sun. “That’s better. I was afraid they might have chucked it into a pit or something.”

No, Astarion thought, I wouldn’t be that lucky.

Den Suriel riffled through his bag, pulling out small objects as if to reassure himself they were still there. Astarion noted several scrolls, a small ivory carving, and a set of crudely printed pamphlets titled Is the Order of the Badger Right for You?

“Ready?” he asked before the paladin could try to inflict a pamphlet on him.

“Half a moment…there!” Den Suriel pulled on a pair of gauntlets, then removed a large mace from the bag, cementing Astarion’s impression that it was a bag of holding. “Let’s go smash some tanks.”

“Tanks? I was thinking of skeletons.”

“And let them keep raising those mummies under the city?”

Astarion, who had stopped thinking about the tanks as soon as they were out of sight, shrugged. “This is Baldur’s Gate. As long as they bribe the right people, they’ll be accepted as valuable members of the workforce.”

“Undead are never valuable members of the workforce.”

That stung a little, even though Astarion preferred to think of himself as a gentleman of leisure in temporary straits rather than a member of the workforce. “What about archliches?”

The aasimar grunted. “I suppose they’re fine. They give me the creeps.”

“One of my maternal relatives became an archlich.”

“I’m sure they’re lovely, but they’d still give me the creeps. Sorry.”

Astarion shook his head. “Regardless, may I suggest that we make our escape and leave the soggy mummies to the professionals?”

“I am the professionals.”

“Then you can bring back others later. I don’t know how much time we have until this inquisitor wants to talk to us, but I doubt it’s very long.”

Den Suriel heaved a mournful sigh that seemed to travel up his entire six-foot-plus frame. “I suppose.”

“Think like a fox, not a hedgehog.”