Chapter 4 – Red Sky at Night

The deck of the Bellewether had been scraped and buffed until it shone like red glass. Whorls of wood knots swirling beneath its placid surface like the swells of a tempest-tossed sea that broke against the wheel column in oil-waxed waves. As he stood at the edge of the gangway, Astarion couldn't help but give in to haughty admiration. The slim, three-masted, interceptor was a marvel of craftsmanship that could only have come from the great islands far across the sea. The rails were made of single timbers with carved nautilus shells at each end. The captain's quarters had lanterns hung in the hands of intricate wooden mermaids and the tentacles of the great Kraken masthead at the bow curled around the sides to form the portholes hiding an arsenal of cannons few knew the old broad had. But it wasn't just the ship that Astarion had come down all this way to see. He was looking for someone he hoped would still be on it.

As he awaited the permission call to step aboard, Astarion's mind flitted back through some of his most privately cherished memories. He felt the warmth of her skin against his, the heat of her breath in his ear. The way she would always turn her head to the side when he pressed his mouth against her neck; no doubt expecting a nip or a small bite to follow. In truth though, he often did it just because he liked the feeling of being completely enveloped by her. So much so that he could, for a moment, forget that anyone else had ever touched him.

And afterwards, they would talk. Whispering and sighing through their words so as not to wake anyone who might be tossing and turning nearby. One such night, on their last encampment before the battle at Moonrise Towers, Lyric had finally told him the story of her scar. It had come somewhat unexpectedly and certainly not at a time when he thought she trusted him deeply enough to lay such a wound bare before him. But she had and he had not missed a moment of it.

"I was a pirate." She said. "A straight-up freebooter in every sense, but you already know that. We raided all up and down the coast for years under the Bellewether's banner. Two skulls facing away with crossed swords through the eyes and out the teeth. Not my design, mind. I inherited it from Rogue Garside, the captain before me. Ugh, I was such a kid then; I think it pains me worse than the cuts and bruises that I used to be so reckless. So naïve. Wild and uncontrollable from stem to stern. That is, until I met him."

In his own way, Astarion knew this part of the story. It mirrored his own in so many details. From his murder at the hands of the hired Gur, to encountering Cazador, and then waking up dead and buried in a plot no one had ever visited. Well, maybe not the actual dead and buried part but still similar in a metaphorical sense.

"I met Olivet the hard way." She continued. "He was captain of the Argentaamn flag ship, the Turamarth, back then. And while his family had not taken much of a liking to my crew's successes in the marauding business and wanted us taken out the old-fashioned way, he had other ideas. It was meticulously planned and over the course of a few weeks, he ran us down. Cornered the Bellewether in a shoal by boxing us in with three of his most maneuverable fleet ships. I figured we were done for. That the Argentaamn aristocracy had finally decided to sink us and be done with it and with our under-the-weather Guild trade, so to speak. Imagine my surprise when he boarded us himself. All blue-brocade and windswept cloaks and whatever medals they give to captains who get their commissions from their rich relatives."

Astarion remembered how sad Lyric had looked, even though she had been trying to hide her expression in the crook of his arm as he carded his fingers through her hair. How a touch of defeat had tinged her voice. He had quietly pulled her closer then, hoping against hope that the strength in his hold would reach down to that frightened, angry, place inside her and ease some of the weight that was simply growing far too heavy now.

"We made a deal. A deal for me, for my crew, for my ship, for everything. Turned out to be worse than a literal deal with a devil though." Lyric took a slow breath and burrowed further into her lover's embrace before she went on. "He let us live. Let me keep the Bellewether. Let me do all the things that I had already been doing even. But now, it would be by his orders. Secretly, of course. We were to target the trade routes of his competitors and guarantee the safety of any ship flying the Argentaamn flag. This would force the other companies into longer routes to avoid our interceptor's speed and make his fleet the fastest to the Moonshaes and back. We got to keep our loot, with the Guild's cut halved and going to the House, which the crew liked. And he got…. well…. he got…"

"You."

Lyric fell silent for a time.

"At first, it seemed ok. He was handsome and charismatic. Everyone liked him and thought him just the epitome of charm and class. Even my family eventually got wind of the whole thing and, let me tell you, they beamed with pride. Their wayward daughter might not only finally settle down but with the Scion of Argentaamn in Baldur's Gate no less. I would turn legitimate, go into the shipping business, and everything would be respectable again. Also rich."

"But?" Astarion prompted softly into her hair.

"But it was just a mask. A really good mask, of course. One he could wear as easily as his own skin, if I'm being ironic. Gods, was he cruel though. It started off in small ways. Without being noticed he could and would just casually maim someone for no other reason than to slow them down. Make them make mistakes. And when they inevitably did, the punishment would come. Their fault of course, for messing up. But he was also…maliciously patient. His favorite tactic was to poison the drinks of his least favorite crewmen with a toxin that isn't lethal but causes chronic pain all over your body. Feels like your joints are on fire twenty-four hours a day. For sailors especially, this tended to mean that they would drink even more ale and whiskey, trying to dull it. More that he could poison. He'd watch as they then slowly succumbed to fatigue or depression or alcoholism over months and sometimes years, believing that they were just too old or too worn out to be seafarers anymore. Then he'd start on the seduction. Not for sex. For suicide. He'd pick them apart little by little until it appeared that the only rational choice left was to consign yourself to the sea. And when they did, he would hold up their memories as offerings to the spirits of wind and water. Drawing the remaining crew ever closer to him in a cult of merciful release."

Astarion shifted so that he could better see Lyric's face; downturned frown and all. "Yet I am guessing that this was not the fate to which you were invited?"

She laughed, darkly and without mirth. "Oh, fuck no. As much as he enjoyed my bed, he enjoyed my obedience even more. No matter how he had to win it. Within six months, I was out to sea longer and longer just wanting to be away from him. Thinking that, as long as I was alone with my crew on the Bellewether, at least there I would be free of him. Safe on the treacherous waves, if you can imagine that paradox. It became pretty obvious though that he could reach me wherever I was, at any time of his choosing. Whether through magic or his own navigational acumen, I was never as far from him as I wanted to believe I was. And that's when his "talents" turned to me."

Lyric felt the tips of Astarion's fingers then begin to gently trace the nearly invisible lines of older scars on her arms, on her hip, and along the back of her neck. "You don't have to say it, you know." He replied. "You've told me more than I have ever asked of you just by accepting my touch."

She smiled, grateful for the warmth in his caress. Astarion only really ever showed this particularly gentle side of his personality at moments like this one. Within earshot of anyone or anything else, he would never speak this way nor offer such openly sincere comfort, bordering on true empathy.

"I know." She sighed. "But I also already know that you've figured out what my scar means, even if I've never told you exactly how or why I got it."

"Yes. I've seen it before, though not often. Usually on corpses after they've washed up near the docks. That you survived it…"

"He meant for me to survive it." Lyric rolled onto his chest to face her lover more fully. "Astarion, you have to understand what you're dealing with when it comes to Olivet for the same reasons you need me to understand what I'm dealing with in Cazador. Nothing he does is unintentional. He doesn't "slip up" like that. The Traitorous Trust is a mark that every sea hand knows, and he fully intended to make sure that I would not only live but never safely step foot aboard any boat ever again. It's why I turned to the forests, to the wilds, to learning the ranger's craft as far away from the coast as I could possibly manage. The arrival of the nautiloid was really just some kind of universal poetic injustice like that. I mean, seriously. Like a sky kraken."

"You crossed him then?" Astarion asked, his tone remaining low and quiet. "Hence the Betrayer's Cross? One blade drawn across the left side of the chest. One blade drawn across the right hip. And the third dragged down the middle. Or, in this case, a bit off center so that he wouldn't kill you outright."

"Yeah." She sniffed, almost indignantly though her voice was tinged with sarcasm and regret. "And with all that merry joy in his heart, he dragged me up from the brig, tied me to the central mast in front of his entire crew, and used his boot knife to first strip me of my clothes and then to strip me of blood, skin, and a few body parts. Slowly and carefully, too. The pain was like nothing any living being should ever experience. You've been there. I counted it a blessing when his lieutenant threw me overboard."

"And the Bellewether?"

"He took her. But by then she was a ghost ship. He'd already decimated my crew. Slit the throat of my old boatswain just to terrify the cabin boy into peeing himself in the corner of a crate. The rest he either had run through or drowned with anchor weights. There was no way he was going to leave the possibility of an organized mutiny. Not after…. not after what I did."

Here, Astarion simply couldn't contain his curiosity and his usual sly demeanor showed through. "Oh? And what did you do, darling?"

With a groan, Lyric flopped onto her back and stared up at the weave pattern on the ceiling flap. "The right thing."

Astarion chuckled. "Well, that was definitely you're first mistake."

"Olivet had started employing Zhentarim skiffs. Fast-water gun ships designed to take out larger vessels just as they were making the transition from full-sail into port. Initially, I thought it was because he wanted to ramp up the terror aspect. Make it look like the harbors were under siege from all sides so that he could, once again, swoop in and save the day. But then I found out that wasn't the case. He was paying the Zhent for prisoners. Prisoners he was then selling as slaves as far as Calimshan and Ankhapur. Holds would be stuffed with them. Humans, elves, gnomes, hobgoblins, didn't matter. Wherever the Zhent could find them, he had a ship that could move them. And since the Bellewether had speed on her side…"

"I take it that his suggestion for a cargo change didn't exactly meet with your approval then? What did you do? Spit on his shoe the next time you saw him?"

"I sunk his ship."

Astarion blinked back a tear and his chest tightened. Not out of sorrow but out of the sheer fact that he was suddenly in very real danger of bursting out laughing. He tried to cover it with a few dramatic swallows and a heave of breath.

"You…" He composed himself again. "You… sunk…. the Turamarth?"

"Yep."

"I…."

"Straight up broadsided the bitch with a full cannon volley. Boom-cracka-lacka and down she goes."

"But…"

"And I mean dead duck, balls up, confetti on the water no-hoper."

He couldn't hold it in and within seconds, Astarion had gone from a few choked giggles to a peal of laughter, both hands clenched over his ribs for fear of actual side-splitting. When finally, an angry, half-asleep, githyanki curse emanated from the direction of Lae'zel's tent, he was able to pull himself together enough to form recognizable words again.

"But how could that be possible? I remember the Turamarth. It was a beast of a galleon with Foundry-forged armor. Pride of Baldur's Gate for more reasons than one. Unsinkable."

Lyric smirked with the memories that still flowed through her as surely as blood and scars. "Yeah." She snorted. "Funny thing about being the captain of your own pirate ship though. Turns out you don't have to tell anybody when you upgrade your cannon balls in a trade deal with the Ironstar Dwarves."

Astarion turned and zealously pinned her to the bed. "Lyric." He said, with only partially mock seriousness. "Are you telling me that the Bellewether has Dark Steel cannons? Dunchalcor. Invisible in sunlight but glows in darkness. Half the weight of iron-steel for twice the distance, maybe more. That Dark Steel?!"

Lyric just shrugged. "Every good story begins with a shipwreck, right? Or was it that every good shipwreck begins with a story? I can never remember."

The sound of the boarding whistle roused Astarion from his thoughts and brought the habitual liar's smile back to his face. As he stepped out onto the deck, he was immediately met by a grizzled man in a blue tricorn whom he could only guess was likely to be the ship's current commander.

"First mate, Nesbitt Sweete." He announced. "What can I do for you, saer?"

With a posture of panache and sophistication, Astarion looked the man up and down with bland appraisal before loudly stating. "Yes, I am Master Astarion Ancunín of House Szarr and I am here to speak with one of your officers. Chief Mate Arlo Keats is his name, I believe."

The Commander scowled. "And what might you be needing Keats for, saer? I'm sure I can adequately handle whatever cargo needs Lord Szarr might have. If this is just a check-in, I can assure you that all is well in order per saer's instructions."

Huh. That answered one of his questions.

"Oh yes, I'm sure it is." Astarion responded blithely waving his hand in dismissal. "But I am afraid that this particular business has to do with the manner of Mr. Keats' commission on the Bellewether. It is a message I am here to handle personally."

Again, the Commander didn't quite seem to know what to make of strange man in his midst. He certainly had the look of Cazador Szarr's usual minions, but he knew the names and faces of the three that typically did this kind of work and he had only ever seen any of them in the dead of night. Not haughtily glaring him down with the full height of the sun at his back. Which is what made it confusing. Part of this interaction seemed completely routine and yet it wasn't. Something was off but he couldn't quite figure out what. In the end though, he decided against potentially angering the capricious vampire lord and his ever-revolving stable of servants.

"Very well, saer. He'll be just below at this hour, nearest to the galley."

Astarion offered nothing more than a curt nod and strode onwards towards the stairwell to the lower deck. Once more, as if he had the complete confidence of someone who belonged there.

Thankfully, the aforementioned Mr. Arlo Keats was not a challenge to find in the cramped quarters of the under-deck. In fact, when Astarion came upon him, he was sitting slightly hunched on an overturned bucket, marking a sheaf of papers with a piece of charcoal too small for his fingers.

"Arlo Keats." He stated. "Or…." And here he paused for his favored kind of dramatic effect. "Mr. Arlwood Thackeray Keating."

The brown-haired man with the bushy beard and greying temples didn't even bother to look up.

"S'not me name no more, friend. I dun ansah in that. S'not me name since…"

"Since you were a cabin boy pissing himself on the rails of a death trap."

The charcoal stopped scratching and the bushy beard crinkled over a terse chin. As the man looked up, Astarion could see the damage left in the wake of quiet torment. The blue eyes that had seen too much and could never look upon anything with innocence again.

"I dun know ya, friend. Whatchya down here fer? Usin' that name and lookin' like them."

"I've come to ask." Astarion rocked back on his heels and pretended to inspect his fingernails in the dim lighting. "Does your deep hold happen to still contain a rather uncanny set of armaments? Armaments that no one really wants to talk about or, for that matter, even mention on the manifest? Looks a fair bit like a pile of lightweight ballast, rather purplish though, that just seems to vanish whenever it comes up out of the depths." The vampire spawn even took that moment to smile rakishly as he leaned forward. "Cannons of a ghost ship, I'm sure they call them. All those sea-wives' tales ensuring that anyone aboard is too afraid to even look at them now."

Arlo worked his jaw as he studied Astarion's face. His impish smile. The subtle but cunning tone that would ensure that all regular hull creaks and wave breaks would drown out their conversation. His really clean shoes.

"What's it to ya?"

"Well," Astarion barreled on gleefully. "You know that big, ugly, mansion up there at the top of the hill? With the brown-stone ramparts and, ugh, just, let's be honest, hideous red carpets? The one that just takes up the whole view from the crow's nest up there, as if it just walked over the horizon one day, squatted down, and took a shit on the whole city?"

The Chief Mate sat in wide-eyed shock for several seconds but then his concern grew strong enough to override his discontent.

"You want somefin' wit it?"

"Yes! Oh, yes, my sweet, darling, boy. I want to know when you turn this ship portside and line it up, if your ghostly little cannons can hit the roof of that castle? And I mean drop a twenty-four-pound round shot straight into Lord Cazador's broom closet. With, well, let's say about thirty feet on either side for the margin of error."

The old ship's hand stood up from his bucket, dropping his papers as he clenched both fists. At a fair few inches above the pale elf, and at least twice his weight, he figured he could take the little bastard in a fight. Maybe even throw him clear through the stern's porthole for even suggesting that the Bellewether should lodge a volley against the literal high houses. After all, he had vowed, years ago, that anyone who came asking after that terrible day would…

"Why you sayin' all this, eh? You got beef wit summun up there? You got beef wit me? Who sent ya! Some Guild twat?"

Astarion once again merely leaned back as if evaluating an especially farcical piece of art.

"Eh, elf? I say who sent ya!?"

With a dark glint against both bared teeth and hooded eyes, the vampire emerged from the shadow.

"Six-Tell Témalíre."