Page 68 of Astarion

“You have a surprising number of lepers here,” the aasimar said disapprovingly.

“No, we’ve got the normal number, and they’re all in a colony just outside the city. That’s Spotty Peg, and she does it with dried oatmeal and bandages.”

“But we’ve passed four of them so far in a two-block stretch!”

“She is also very quick on her feet.” Astarion pitched his voice up. “That’s enough, Peg, you’ve shorn this sheep to the skin.” In hand sign, he added, The mark’s with me.

Spotty Peg grinned at him, showing stumps of broken teeth. “Can’t blame a girl for trying, eh?” She scratched at her bandaged neck, curling her fingers into her own sign. Good hunting, brother. Astarion smiled, then helped himself to den Suriel’s coin purse to keep the man from bankrupting himself with charity before they reached their destination.

Ten feet from the Rat’s Run, the paladin balked. “In there?” His voice echoed slightly because he was wearing a full helmet with the visor down.

“It’s better on the inside,” Astarion lied.

“It would almost have to be.”

Rat’s Run had been a sailor bar for decades before the most recent change of ownership, and it still retained some of the same—for lack of a better term—character. The tavern’s name was etched into an old oar suspended beneath a remarkably lifelike carving of a dead rat. The windows were grimy, the walls were grimy, and streaks of filth running down below the casements showed where chamber pots had been emptied from the upper floors. Drifts of trash had formed in the gutters. A drunk had passed out in a puddle of his own vomit, raising the cleanliness of the area by several notches.

Den Suriel reached beneath his tabard to touch his holy symbol. He murmured something. Astarion’s ears popped.

“By the Nine Hells, don’t start casting—”

“There’s evil in there,” the paladin hissed.

“Yes, well, needs must,” Astarion said, putting both hands on the aasimar’s back and shoving him forward. He prayed silently that there were no undead in the Rat’s Run tonight. “Look, if you can’t behave yourself, I’m not taking you with me.”

Den Suriel flipped up the helmet visor and turned to gaze intently at Astarion, who immediately did his best impression of an innocent but exasperated man.

Fascinating. I can actually hear his teeth grinding from here.

“And you’re sure we have to go in there?”

“The owner owes me a favor, and I need that relic. And so do you, unless you want to traipse around after me for the rest of your life.”

“Fuck,” the aasimar said, with feeling.

“Not until we’ve both had baths, darling. You’ve still got mummy wax on you, and I smell like a priest’s undergarments.”

The paladin’s sigh was loud enough to rattle his armor. “I am going to have to do so much penance for this…”

“On your knees, one hopes.” Astarion reached up and slapped the helmet visor down. “And remember, don’t say a word.”

—

“What in the Nine Hells is that?” asked the human guarding the door. Her name was Deitre, and Astarion knew her to be discreet, pleasant, and capable of using a morning star like a surgical instrument.

“It’s a golem.”

Deitre studied den Suriel at some length. Between the gauntlets, the half plate, the helmet, and some hastily acquired chain mail, there was not an inch of exposed skin anywhere. Astarion thought the line of bolts hastily shoved through the chain was a nice touch. The fence had even given him a discount because the chain was so full of holes to begin with.

“Looks like a knight in armor,” the door guard said skeptically.

“Yes, the artificers are doing amazing things these days.”

“Why do you have a golem?”

“Deitre, my darling, in all the time we’ve known each other, have I ever asked you about your personal life?”

Deitre shook her head. “Only because it’s you…Fine. If it starts breaking things, you’re paying for it.” She opened the door.