Chapter 3 – Red Sky in the Morning

Astarion stared down into the beady eyes of the little red kobold. Who, for all intents and purposes, was looking up at him with a beam of gleeful expectation. Or, at least, that's what he guessed it was since lizard expressions were somewhat ambiguous to him in that regard. For all he knew, he was actually about to be pulling teeth out of his knees.

"Yes!" Popper was saying. "You come back! You want good treatos? Popper has treatos!"

The repetitive song of a nearby calliope gave all the ambiance the Circus of the Last Days needed. Colorfully disorganized, subtly threatening, and annoyingly festive all in one. But the kobold junk peddler was something else, from his tooth-and-claw necklace to the painted porkpie hat that barely balanced on the curve of his horns. Under other circumstances, Astarion might have almost called him cute if not for the fact that he had wrestled a severed hand in a clown's ruffled cuff away from him just the day before.

Halsin appeared equally perturbed as he too took stock of the piles that comprised Popper's wares. Some bits of trash, a few trinkets picked up in the carnival's travels no doubt, and an oddly healthy supply of scales, skins, and other dried animal parts. At that moment, the druid worried that the kobold's idea of "treatos" really was something in the vicinity of a rawhide dog chew but just…unidentifiably outer planar.

Astarion, for his part, was simply happy that neither Lae'zel nor Shadowheart were there to remind him of the last time he'd encountered a kobold….as erstwhile stew meat in the Lamb's Head. He could almost hear the githyanki now…

Rousing the vampire spawn with a snap of his fingers, Halsin scowled and returned their attentions to the bouncing dragoncrumb who was trying, with all his tiny charismatic might, to sell them a pet chicken leash that looked like it had been made from discarded rug fringe.

"I wish to ask you about yesterday, Mister…uh…Popper." He stated, all the while the little red kobold was attempting to demonstrate the leash by wrapping it around the end of his tail and pulling. "You were in possession of a hand. One that formerly belonged to…"

"Dribbles!"

Halsin coughed. "Yes, Dribbles. Can you tell us how you came of it?"

Popper looked momentarily confused before offering a toothy grin and responding. "Dribbles drop it! Popper pick up. All Popper wares pick up because people leave them. Or forget."

Astarion chuckled, earning him a narrowed sideways glare from the druid.

"You didn't happen to see who it was that made Dribbles 'drop' his hand, by any chance?"

The kobold paused in thought. "No no. Popper not see anyone. All dark. Daaaaark. Just hear. And smell."

Halsin tensed and tried to phrase his next question as carefully as he could. "Alright. What was the sound, what did it feel like? And the smell, was it high in the nose or low?"

"Shiver sound. Yes. Very high, with flesh cuttingchewing round and round. Num nums but wet. And then stinky like old eggies. Make Popper taste fish on a fire burn up too long."

Astarion blinked. "I'm sorry but, did…did that make any sense to you at all?"

Halsin straightened and glowered over the kobold's head at his vampire companion with a momentary sense of pride. "I realize that the speech of Nature's beasts eludes you, but I figured you otherwise cleverer than that, my friend. The riddles of small, scurrying, things and all."

"Oh, ha ha." The other replied sarcastically. "Just tell me what it's supposed to mean if you're so in tune."

The druid crossed his arms. "Where in this city might we find someone or something adept with a notched knife meant for boning, who carries the components for unquenchable fire, and who leaves a scent that is faintly of old fish?"

"You seriously got all that from 'num nums but wet'?

"That and having examined the hand last night, yes."

"Fine." Astarion stated with a typical note of bother. "Then it sounds like the lower docks is our next point of arrival. Not that I'm surprised really. It just seemed, oh I don't know, a bit obvious? Here we are, at a circus, and the man we most suspect, an experienced maritime privateer, is going to leave us a glittering marquis that says: Look right here! It was definitely me! I did it! Come on down and collect your prize!"

Halsin smiled at Astarion's aggravated theatrics. "No. From what you've told me, our prey is far savvier than that and, save perhaps one obvious loose end he's currently attempting to tie up, has never even so much as raised the slightest suspicion around himself. At least not in the public eye."

"Exactly. So why would he allow anyone to leave a trail straight to the dockside? It would be foolish."

"Not if he's leaving us a trail to someone else just close enough to him to erase all uncertainty. You don't think Olivet would personally kill a clown, do you? Doesn't seem like his…type."

Astarion frowned as he grit his teeth in irate concentration. "Please tell me we're not being set up for some kind of ridiculous goose chase…"

Halsin simply patted him on the shoulder and turned back to Popper, who had, of course, been closely paying attention to whatever it was that the two men were talking about. He didn't quite understand the specifics, but always knew the look of moist-skins that wanted something they didn't have. And that was his specialty!

"Thank you for your time, my dragonish friend. But I am afraid that we will have to seek our fortunes elsewhere today."

The kobold nodded. "Oh well. Want a treato?"

The dining room was small and intimate. Not the grandiose kind of catered ballroom that one might use for a large promenade, with dangling chandeliers and ivory floor inlay, but an out-of-the-way sort of room that a noble family would have to keep their more hazardous dinner conversations completely private. That didn't mean it wasn't ridiculously opulent though and Lyric couldn't help but gag somewhat at the memories it invoked.

She remembered a time when a much younger elf-maiden had sat at tables not unlike this one. Or had worn dresses of tulle and silk that felt similar to the ensemble she had on now. Those hadn't exposed her in the way that this one certainly did, with its dramatically plunging side-splice perfectly tailored to the size and shape of her left scar. But they had exposed her, none-the-less. Revealed her to the cold eyes of predators prowling the margins of the aristocratic jungle, even though she had thought herself then as too cunning and aloof to fall prey to their hunts.

What an idiot that girl had been.

Cazador's brutishly refined taste in formal wear also reminded her of Olivet. He seemed to favor the same plush fabrics and gold embroidery of the master seafarer but without the looser fit and draping coats her commander tended towards. Regardless, he was just as haughty, just as arrogant, and just as full of self-righteous glee because it spread to every corner of his face in the same ways. That's not what surprised her the most though. What truly surprised her, and had for several minutes occupied her thoughts entirely, was that Cazador Szarr, power-drenched all-mighty immortal Vampire Lord of Baldur's Gate, was…. really disappointing.

As in…Utterly. Laughably. Pathetic.

The figure that had loomed so impossibly large in Astarion's mind and in the stories he had told her of his life, was a small pinched man with an unsightly sneer, a few dorky mannerisms, and a kind of perversely voyeuristic demeanor. She almost expected him to be rubbing his palms together while monologuing about his plans for world domination. Where was the imposing and regal figure with cloak billowing and voice booming so loud that it shook the very pillars of the city? Someone so towering as to put all of his weaker, servile, spawn into vivid perspective? She had almost initially mistaken the creature before her for another thrall, or a decoy.

But then, Lyric had had an unexpected, and unmooring, thought. Why was she so surprised that a greedy, selfish, enslaver cowering in a heap of inherited wealth was anything other than…underwhelming? Wasn't it true that abusers always loomed larger in their victims' memories than they truly were? Wielding unearned and undeserved power over those who had none, only because they stood no chance against someone their own proverbial size? This was why, whenever they were exposed to others on the outside, they often crawled away; weak as they had been all along. Sunlight, in this case, being something that would not only metaphorically reveal the hidden truth of their crimes but would actually take care of the problem entirely. Even so though, this man appeared to have chanced into true vampiredom only because some bored aristocrat had taken pity on an overdramatic loser with eccentric tastes in home décor and not because he had laid low a great elder or eldritch ancient. Cazador Szarr, as far as Lyric could see, was less a looming Circle of Death and more of a persistent fart cloud.

Even his voice made her itchy.

"You know," he was saying. "When Ailil told me about you, I thought he was exaggerating. But I must admit, he has good taste. Maybe I should have expected as much, what with such a position that he holds now. You ought to be pleased that you're his 'one that got away.'" He then laughed at his own joke.

She didn't respond. Opting instead to continue peering down at the china plate that had been set before her. It was old, hardly used, but chipped around the edges. She then glanced to her right, at the goblet filled with red wine. The scent wafting from the rim was musty and thick with the sour sting of vinegar. Dust coated the bottom of the stem, as if the glass had been hastily wiped but never really cleaned.

With no response forthcoming, Cazador scraped his pointed nails irritably against the tablecloth, nearly shredding the fragile threads as he did. She could hear him intentionally take in a sharp breath. "Now, now. There's no reason to be such an ungrateful little whore. You were willing enough to use that mouth in pleasuring my wayward child through his temper tantrums, but you won't even muster a few decent table manners for his master? What disgraceful whelps, the both of you."

Beneath the table, she slipped off one of the predictably impractical shoes she had been given to drag her toes across the rug. It had been patched recently and not well. The floor underneath it was wood though, and not stone as she had been worried it might be. Dust welled up into the air at the passing of her heel. Unfortunately, the shoe then fell over and she was forced to cover the sound with a reply.

"Your insults are about as intimidating as your flatware, lord." She said with a sarcastic curl to her upper lip. "If you want to curse at a pirate, I'm afraid you're going to have to do better than shame-scold. What'll it be next? Harlot? Floozy?"

"Ah, yes." He leaned forward. "I do know that I have a marauder in my midst this night. One whose treachery is a thing of legend from the Moonshaes to the Sword Coast! I, however, think it a delicious treat. A rather ingenious planner, your old lover is. Bring under his control, and into his bed, an exquisite sea captain. A daring waverunner with red hair whipped into a tempest by the trade winds. And then, turn her against the merchant fleets. She raids the convoys coming out of the islands laden with goods bound for Baldur's Gate, all the while you ascend the ranks of the Merchant's Guilds on promises that you can stop this terror on the high seas. And when you do finally achieve the highest station in all of House politics and they name you the Admiral of Argentaamn, you guarantee the safety and prestige of your own fleet by then turning her against the competition."

The scar down her chest began to ache; irritated by the repetitive chafing of the dress's decorative trimming. His words weren't exactly untrue and she could feel the rasping of old memories on the inside of her ribs. But they weren't completely accurate. Flawed, but in Olivet's own voice imitated back to her through a pair of yellowed fangs.

"Explain to me, then." He purred. A sound made even more irritating to her by Cazador's pitched, reedy, voice. "How ever did you get a name like Six-Tell Témalíre? That one certainly seems like there's a fascinating story behind it. Olivet wouldn't say when I asked him."

Lyric finally raised her head but only just enough to meet the vampire lord's eyes with an expression of listlessness and contempt.

"Do you know what a tell is, Cazador?" she asked blandly.

"A what?" He tilted his head and pursed his lips, clearly uninterested in following her down a tangent.

"A tell." She went on. "Because everyone's got one. These harmless little habits you pick up here and there. Completely unconsciously. A bit of a twitch. The way you pronounce a certain word. What you do with your hands when you're nervous. They're ingrained, carved into your psyche...like… like a scar. Most people never even realize they have them and that makes them invaluable. Better than pirate treasure even. Because they give you away. They give you away every time."

The elder vampire scoffed. "I see. And, let me guess, that's what you think you've discovered about me? That I have a tell?"

She smiled, a lovely, gentle, smile with a just a bit of a wrinkle to the top of her nose. "That you have six."

Astarion skulked quietly along the wall overlooking the lower berth of the city's main wharf. As it was still mid-morning, the piers were busy with fishermen unloading their catch and middlemen inspecting cargo containers. As he was far more proficient in moving around without garnering too much attention, both Astarion and Halsin had agreed that he should go on ahead, leaving the other to walk the upper wall. An elven druid with the stature of a forest ox would only ensure that absolutely everyone would remember they'd been there and why, he'd told him. Halsin had reluctantly understood.

After their terse exchange on the circus grounds however, Halsin had also spent the majority of the walk into the Lower City questioning Astarion about what he hoped to find. If, as they both agreed, the trail from Dribbles's hand to the fish market was a set-up, everything even marginally out in the open would be suspect. This, Astarion conceded though he was not about to reveal his actual plan. He didn't offer the druid specifics, but the truth was, the young vampire had no interest in the artistically posed body parts Orin and her disciples were spreading around for them. He had already met so many maniacal devotees like her. What she loved most about what she was doing was the attention and shock value. She adored being looked upon with fear and disgust. It's what made her happiest in matters of faith. Conversely, what interested him was the devotee who truly had no attraction to the spotlight whatsoever, nor, in all honesty, to the Gods at all.

In fact, it was exactly this particular part of his theory that Astarion had kept from Halsin. Orin the Red was a servire of Bhaal; a deity who reveled in the act of murder. But not just as an insane frolic out of a badly written penny-dreadful; rather more often as a transaction where lives and souls became the currency by which power was exchanged. Orin did what she did, gruesomely and over-the-top, in order to intentionally flaunt her talents and get Bhaal's attention. But what about, as he surmised, the truly exceptional killer who had perfected his craft to such a degree that he had gotten Bhaal's attention inadvertently? A practitioner pursued by divinity and not the other way around.

This was why Olivet Ingen Ailil had been impossible to unmask.

An unexpected shout forced Astarion to momentarily take shelter beneath a low eave jutting out of the dockside wall but once he was certain that no one was paying him any mind, he sauntered on. Here and there he sidestepped box-laden laborers and their tag-a-long accountants, glancing at the ship names printed at the top of the manifests in their hands. Some were clearly Guild ships; The Sultana, The Sweet Briar, and The Zealous Vittoria. Others he recognized as foreign merchant vessels tied in temporarily to meet their quotas for the Collections House; The Halstarr, The Wivenhoe, and The Arabis. But then, finally, he began to pass through well-kept lantern posts with name plates announcing the holdings of the Argentaamn fleet. First, there was The Ursula; a ship of four great masts festooned with streaming banners, but which almost never actually left Baldur's Gate. Except, of course, for festivals and river parades. Then, there was The Castor. An all-around sturdy ship that had been in regular service for the better part of twenty years. But neither of these exemplars were what Astarion knew he must find and must find soon.

Halsin would already be nervously pacing the streets, checking the sun and likely calling him every name in the Elven book. But the sly rakish vampire simply walked on, his head held high and his posture confident, as if he had every right in the world to be striding down the long pier towards The Water Queen's House with the bottom of his jacket open to the wind. He ignored the priestesses' singing of course and said nothing to the weary sailors coming up to pay their respects in hopes of another safe voyage. There was only one thing Astarion wanted, and it was anchored just a few hundred meters out into the harbor.

Three masts. A red mahogany hull cut from the old-growth wood of the High Forest. The figurehead of a spiral-shelled Kraken looping its tentacles over the bow. And white sails, scraped clean of the blue-vine markings that had once adorned them.

The Bellewether.

Her ship.