Page 69 of Astarion

“I promise you that it shall be as well-behaved as a banker at audit time.” He gave den Suriel a very hard look. “Or else.”

The paladin clanked through the door. With his visor down, it was nearly impossible to see his eyes, and if anyone did, they would see only blank whiteness. Astarion could guess, however, what their expression would be.

The great hall of the Rat’s Run was a disaster, naturally. That was fine. Sailors sang and drank and gambled. Palm-Slicer the halfling was running his usual game of Three-Dragon Ante, deftly harvesting coin from those too drunk to know better. Behind the bar, two dwarven sisters dispensed wine, ale, and occasional bons mots.

Astarion nodded to a well-dressed kenku at a corner table and made his way to the bar. He only had to stop once and go back for den Suriel.

“Don’t make me keep you on a leash,” he hissed. “Even if you’d enjoy it.”

“But—”

“Not now.”

A wake of puzzled silence followed vampire and paladin, but it didn’t last for long. The Rat’s Run had seen much stranger things.

“Astarion!” One of the dwarf sisters smiled at him, gold teeth flashing. “What can I get you?”

“A meeting with the mistress, if she’s in. Lief if she’s not.” Astarion knew that the mistress of the establishment knew he was a vampire spawn—he’d used the Rat’s Run as a hunting ground often enough—but he’d never been quite certain about Lief.

“Lief’s in. Give me a moment.” She waved to one of the waitstaff and murmured a few words. He nodded and scurried away.

Astarion leaned against the bar, listening to fragments of conversation around him.

“…swabbing the deck, every damn day…”

“…and then the healer starts screaming, ‘Dilute! Dilute!’…”

“…okay, one more, and then I have to get back…”

“…and I says, ‘Who the hell has a chicken familiar?,’ and the warlock says…”

“…dweomer? I hardly know ’er!”

Astarion felt something in his shoulders relax. The Rat’s Run was a dreadful place, but it was a place where he was welcome. It was far too grubby to feel like home, but it at least felt like something you might scrape off your shoe at home.

Two sailors farther down the bar began pummeling each other enthusiastically. Astarion stomped on den Suriel’s armored foot to keep him from intervening. If my hair wasn’t already white, it would be by the time we get out of here.

Fortunately, Lief was willing to see them. Five minutes later, they were ushered into her office, a room as aggressively tidy and shipshape as any captain’s cabin.

“Astarion! Come in, come in.” The enormous goliath woman looked as if she were built from slabs of granite, with broad gray cheekbones and mountainous hips. Tattoos swirled across her forehead and vanished under her snow-white hair. “It’s been too long. And who is your…” She paused, shrewd eyes narrowing. “That’s no golem, no matter what you told Deitre.”

Astarion knew better than to be surprised. “No, he’s not. May I beg five minutes to explain before you throw us out?”

Lief considered this. She went to the door and said something to the man waiting outside, then closed it. “Five minutes,” she said, turning. “And if I don’t give the all clear by then, word goes to the mistress.”

Astarion nodded. “Lief Cloudswell, may I present Hahn den Suriel, who is not law enforcement but is a paladin of the Golden Ferret.”

“Argent Badger, actually,” den Suriel said, removing his helm. Sweat darkened his metallic hair to bronze.

“Never heard of it.”

Den Suriel sighed. “No one has.”

“This fine fellow has sworn to protect me with his life and soul,” Astarion said, “until I get my hands on a certain item. Then he gets to kill me.”

The goliath looked from Astarion to den Suriel, then settled back. “This had better be one hell of an explanation.”

Three and a half minutes later, Lief opened the door to inform her employee that everything was fine and to request that two dinners and wine be sent up. By the time the bowls of fish stew arrived, Astarion had just about finished a recitation of the previous night’s adventures.