Page 67 of Astarion

“I’m not sure. It doesn’t feel evil, though.” Den Suriel unslung his pack and knelt down, brushing dust aside with his hands.

“One wouldn’t expect a god of drains to be evil. A trickster, possibly.” Astarion considered. “Though it occurs to me that a priest who could lay hands on plumbing would rapidly become wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice. Clearly you specialized in the wrong thing.”

Den Suriel snorted but continued to clean. Now that some of the crumbled stone was cleared away, Astarion could make out a niche and what might long ago have been a font of some sort. He was astonished that the paladin had spotted it, but perhaps if you were a servant of the divine, you developed a sense for things like this.

“It’s been here a long time,” den Suriel said, tracing his fingers along a worn carving. “I don’t recognize the god.”

“Looks rather snakelike. Snake gods are hardly ever good news.”

“True, but not always. Centuries ago, serpents were considered a symbol of healing. And this is at least that old.” Den Suriel sat back on his haunches. “A little local god, I think. Perhaps a forgotten aspect of a larger one.”

“Wonderful. We have struck a blow for archaeology this day. Can we go?”

“One moment.” The aasimar reached into his bag of holding, fished around for a moment, then extracted several objects.

Astarion rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall. Nine Hells, why did it have to be a paladin? Sure, they’re good at smiting undead, but then they have to make friends with every scrap of a god between here and the abyss. Even snakes—if it is a snake, and not a worm or a shoelace or a symbolic representation of death to all who gaze upon it.

From where he was standing, the snake looked cross-eyed. That was probably just damage to the carving, but with its tongue sticking out, it had a distinctly unintelligent expression.

Den Suriel, undaunted, broke off a piece of waybread and set it in the niche, then poured a palmful of salt atop it. A stub of candle followed. “I offer this gift freely, ancient one,” he said, lighting the candle. His voice was calm and completely unselfconscious. “If you have a blessing to impart, I ask that you give it. If not, I ask only that you continue to endure.”

Astarion was working on a complicated punch line about snakes and getting on one’s knees when the candle flame wavered, and something happened.

It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t much of anything, to be honest, except that there had been two people in the hallway, and for just a moment, there were three. The third was invisible and voiceless, but Astarion felt them nevertheless, there and gone, along with a scent so faint that it might have been the ghost of incense.

It was hardly a miracle. A miraclet, perhaps. It also made Astarion irrationally angry.

I went on my knees to any god that I thought might have me and begged them for help after I was turned. Not one answered. Not one so much as glanced in my direction. And this thick-skulled, muscle-bound bastard, with his earnestness and his conviction, casually calls up a god that barely even exists anymore?

He stalked away, heading toward the river stairs. Like the old god, he had no power of belief in him, no blessings to be given. All he had left, all he had had for many years, was the power to endure.

—

“Right.” Astarion nodded as den Suriel joined him at the top of the river stairs. Together, they looked out over the Chionthar, which was doing its best impression of the sea. “There is someone who I believe can help us.”

“Are you sure you still want to go back down there?”

“I don’t exactly have a choice in the matter, do I?” Astarion put his hands on the railing. It was still early evening, and the streets were full of people getting off work and visiting the cafes. The smell of cooking filled the air, temporarily drowning out the river’s perfume of brackish water and dead fish. “You’re welcome to leave, of course. I have no hold over you.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

Astarion shrugged. He wouldn’t have made the suggestion if he’d thought the aasimar might take him up on it. As an ally against the undead, he could hardly do better than a paladin, and as a gift for Cazador in case their assault failed…well, there was a reason that he was feeling remarkably pleased with himself, even if he was filthy, dusty, and in desperate need of a bath.

“In that case, we need to visit a place where I do business. A place that, shall we say, does not usually entertain paladins.” He looked over den Suriel’s battered armor and frowned. “Do you think you can look inconspicuous?”

“I am six and a half feet tall, metallic gold, and glowing.”

This was undeniably fair. Passersby were looking at the aasimar with definite interest. In Baldur’s Gate, people usually only paid that much attention if you were the main attraction at a public hanging.

“Do you have a cloak?” Astarion asked. Perhaps if den Suriel pulled the hood low and didn’t talk to anyone…

“Yes, of course.” The paladin rummaged through his bag of holding and pulled out a length of fabric. It did indeed have a hood. It was also bright white and had a silver badger picked out in metallic thread.

“Put that away. I hope your tailor has been suitably punished for his crimes.” Astarion rubbed his temples. “I’ll think of something.”

—

Two hours and some haggling later, they turned down a particular street in the Lower City. It should have taken substantially less time, but den Suriel kept stopping and giving alms to beggars. In Baldur’s Gate, being a beggar was a respectable profession that rewarded ingenuity, so Astarion wasn’t surprised to see familiar faces surround them and familiar hands on the begging bowls.