For a great and utterly useless expense, the fine uterine vellum note had been dyed a deep purple. Some unfortunate sot had been tasked with carefully pressing a subtle web pattern into the animal membrane. A spider emblem had been embossed into the black sealing wax. Whoever had this made was incredibly pretentious.
Aestith’s lips curled in distaste. That wasn’t Arcedi’s doing.
He marched back downstairs, and wrote an order for grates on all the chimneys, then went back to his room.
He locked the door behind him and looked it over a second time. He found no traces of magic on it. He wondered if the stillborn calfskin it had come from had been a deep rothe, imported at great cost from the Underdark.
Aestith dropped it back on the writing desk and pulled off his shoes. He stretched, hung up the riding dress. Half-naked, he frowned at the note again. He should just burn it. Did he really want to keep dealing with Zanisernix and the rest of Dark Carnival? They had been no end of trouble, even the profitable sort. Even if they did make him feel less alone, was it worth the risk he put himself into? He was half-tempted to just throw it in the fire.
He rested a hand on the desk. He missed being around other drow. Arcedi was, to his core, a surface person, even more so than Eiranish. He wanted someone more like himself.
He almost laughed aloud. Now there’s a thought. If only he could find another drow with his afflictions! We’d have fantastic sex, no doubt, he thought with wry amusement.
A thin knife sliced neatly under the wax seal, cleverly taking it off without breaking it. Black iron-gall ink flowed over the smooth paper with the easy texture that came with money. The letters connected together vaguely like a spider’s web, with a kind of hurried grace learned from long practice. No blotches or smudges.
It was a dinner invitation. Incredibly mundane, considering. He didn’t recognize the name though. Zelvier Zanziric.
There was an address, a time for tonight. If Aestith started right now and took a carriage, he’d make it in time and dressed appropriately. He made a face. Was he really doing anything tonight?
The others could mind the brothel for a while, couldn’t they?
He usually liked to have long baths, candlelit for ease of reading. He let the water run while he selected his clothing choices, laid out the paint and powders. The bath was quick, but his hair didn’t need to be washed anyway. He re-braided and pinned it, carefully placing the pins with the hidden daggers into the braids. The paint and powders he applied, glad now that he had practiced. He liked to think that he would have shown up Haeltania. He already knew he looked exquisite in the dress.
Aestith, for preference, preferred riding dresses; they cut to his form well, and he could continue wearing pants. This one was similar to his normal attire, but cut in both sides instead of the front. To his delight, it perfectly framed the garter marking on his thigh, but all the same he sighed and put on a pair of tight leather leggings—some things had to be kept tucked in. The collar had originally been made to look reminiscent of a frill, but Aestith had it recut to look more like a spider’s web. Silver thread decorated the collar in a spiderweb pattern and the rest of the dress was purple with vertical silver stripes. He selected the thigh-high boots with the silver trim. Everything else was black. It felt natural to bring his rapier.
He briefly lamented that his lodestone-gray skin denoted his lowborn birth, then he shoved the thought aside with an arrogant smirk. What did it matter? He was beautiful. His skin had smoothed out over the years, his hair had grown long and silky--a good skin and hair care routine was the more likely culprit than age but that played a factor too. His nails he didn’t have time to paint, so he had to settle for neatly trimmed and cleaned. And impeccably dressed.
He looked remarkably female. No, he looked exquisite.
I look like Ondalia, he thought. Not in his skin tone, for hers was a beautiful shade of obsidian, nor of feature of course, but in the way he was dressed. He lifted his head high, back straight to his full, if meager, height.
The heels in the boots lent a prance to his step and an extra sway to his hips. He strutted toward the front door.
Dee said, “Aestith, you look nice. Are you going out?”
“Yes, and thank you.”
Tirowan sipped her tea. Her lips left a faint rosy imprint on the rim. She had arranged herself in the room so that the evening light would fall upon her and make her porcelain skin seem to glow and her dark locks shine. Every small gesture implied that she had spent decades perfecting her mannerisms and appearance to convey class and charm. “Are you meeting someone?”
“Why do you ask?”
She regarded him as if from some lofty position, as if their roles at the Traveler’s Club were reversed. “Well, your normal manner of attire is a bit more practical for your lifestyle.” The inflection she put on her words implied it was the subtlest of insults.
Kairon looked Aestith over. “We’d make more money if you worked at the brothel.”
Aestith made a silent gesture common in the surface world and the Underdark as he went out the door. He caught a carriage to the location; a posh detached townhouse somewhere north of the brothel, the driver had said. Aestith had requested to be let out a block from it, so he had time to observe the area. The streets were wide, and the alleys between the houses were too narrow for many people to lie in wait for ambush. The roofs were slanted in such a way that hiding archers on them would be difficult. The houses had been built high rather than wide.
The residential street was relatively quiet, considering how many people lived crammed so close to one another. The property itself boasted a small yard with a high stone fence. Atop the stone were metal spikes to dissuade thieves. The house was painted a soothing shade of green with a muted brown trim and white shutters. Aestith assumed four stories, and likely a cellar. Given what he knew, probably more than just a cellar. Yet somehow it didn’t properly accommodate an unconscious guest. Or perhaps bringing them back here was too obvious, or unsafe.
He headed toward the wrought-iron gate. It opened before he had quite arrived and someone met him at the gate. The human-looking man smiled. “What can I do for you?” he said, as if he already knew the answer. He was dressed like a gardener more than a butler. A Common low-born accent.
“I’m here to see Zelvier,” Aestith said pleasantly.
The man nodded and tilted his head. “Come this way.” He turned and opened the gate for Aestith. The gate clicked shut behind him. Aestith walked along the cobblestone path to the stoop. The small yard had meticulously kept grass and a small bed of purple larkspur. Colorful rhododendrons and oleander grew alongside the garden walls. On the windowsills were flowerpots with lily-of-the-valley, belladonna, and poet’s narcissus. The only reason Aestith knew the names to any of these plants were because they were all poisonous.
“I don’t believe I caught your name,” Aestith purred.
The gardener raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of mischief about his grin. “You didn’t?”
Aestith blinked. Eiranish? Why was Aestith the only drow in Waterdeep not ashamed of being a drow? Or just stupid enough to go about it openly.
The door opened before he reached it. A half-elf butler let Aestith inside, and showed him to the parlor room. It was about what Aestith might have expected from the exterior--perfectly ordinary with rather subtle hints that it wasn’t. A pair of crossed swords on the mantle were hung in such a way that they could be drawn, instead of fixed in place more practically. The screen over the fireplace locked. There were probably other small details if he cared to look, but the person in the room interested him more.
A black boot rested on a chest beside the large bay windows. The loose-fitting white linen tunic was open and pointed downward in a “V” shape to the tightness over his bulge, where the trousers tucked into the boot were fitted in a way clearly meant to be provocative. The trashy romance novels Aestith collected would have described the middle-aged human male as “ruggedly handsome” with a short-cropped full beard just beginning to gray. Aestith half-expected him to be looking at a mirror. He turned his head and flashed Aestith a grin. He had good teeth.
“You must be Aestith. Zelvier Zanziric.”
“You looked as though you were posing for a painting,” Aestith commented.
He turned, the smile broadened. “Were you going to paint it?” he asked. His voice held no trace of the accent Aestith’s did.
Aestith’s red-painted lips pulled in a grin. “Do you like stick figures?”
He laughed, pushing off from the box. When he moved, Aestith glimpsed what he had been looking at. A map of Waterdeep.
Zelvier gave an elaborate bow, the sort one gave when they were wearing a hat they didn’t want to fall off. There was no visible hat. The slight shake of his head betrayed something else, too; he cloaked the motion as if he touched the back of his neck, but he had swiped hair from his face. The other might be quite used to the human guise, but he should keep his hair braided back while he was in it. Had he been rushed for some reason? Odd, considering that he had invited Aestith and picked the time himself.
“You’re a bit late. Dinner is set.”
Aestith followed him through a doorway into the hall, then to the next room. A crystal chandelier hung over the mahogany table. Silver flatware gleamed in the candlelight. Zelvier went to a crystal decanter on a carved side table. He poured two glasses of a rich red wine. He handed one to Aestith. Aestith reached for the stem. Their fingers brushed against one another. Zelvier made no effort to keep from touching Aestith; the other’s lips twitched in the subtlest of grins. He wore a human guise like most others would wear a jacket. Zelvier’s hand dropped and he picked up his own glass. He drank deeply and without any concern of poison.
“I should thank you for what you’ve done for us.”
“You should,” Aestith agreed.
They looked at one another. Zelvier said, “Thank you.” He moved around the lacquered table. It wasn’t a particularly large table, but the sort that would easily fit six. There were only two chairs. Zelvier reclined in one of them like a cat, a boot with black stitching in a spiderweb pattern rested a heel on the expensive table. Aestith tentatively sipped the wine. He reasoned that the other had drank it quickly enough, and if it were because Zelvier had a remedy to the poison somewhere, there really were easier ways to kill Aestith right now.
The wine held flavors of the cask it had been stored in, of tobacco, and the sorts of things that implied that it had been an expensive bottle.
The image of a human tilted his head. “If you don’t mind me asking, what brings you to Waterdeep?”
Aestith leaned a hip against the table. “Would you believe me if I said that I honestly just have a poor sense of direction and got horribly lost?”
He smiled, either because he guessed it wasn’t entirely true, or because it was practically cliche. Or both. He nodded. “That’s actually a fairly common story.”
Aestith tilted his head. “Or a common lie.” He smiled to take the edge off the statement. “In my case, it happens to be true. I have no sense of direction.”
Zelvier looked up at Aestith, then shifted in the chair. He rose. His footfalls were too light for the frame he took. Aestith wondered what he really looked like. The human-guised man lifted a tray from the spread and offered it to Aestith. With his other hand, Zelvier picked up a wedge of cheese. Aestith straightened from the table.
Aestith glanced at the spread of fruits and cheeses. He pinched a single red grape between thumb and forefinger and plucked it from the vine. Without breaking eye contact with the other, he put it to his lips and drew it back with his tongue.
The man watched him, lips twitched into something almost a smile, a flash of perfectly straight teeth, then he set down the tray. Aestith watched the way his back bent. The other moved to the bay window. In infrared, the glass was a wall, but there was candlelight enough not to use it; the view into the garden was not interesting to Aestith, but the man was.
Zelvier tilted his head upwards at the night sky. “It’s a nice night.”
Aestith’s lips pressed together. “Is it? I’ll take your word for it.”
He looked at Aestith. “Beautiful, in fact.”
Aestith resisted the twinge of a smile on his lips as he slowly stepped toward Zelvier. “I wouldn’t know. Isn’t every night on the surface just as bad as the next?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” He sauntered past Aestith like a cat. He went back to the chair with a graceless flounce that somehow conveyed exactly how practiced the gesture was.
The young drow chuckled. “I certainly would. I spend most of my nights trying to distract myself enough to forget that night and day exist here.”
His smile flashed white teeth. “Am I distracting enough?”
“Are you?” Aestith knew he was supposed to sit, but he had the feeling this was somehow a powerplay. It was a game and he didn’t know all the rules. But he knew that if he sat down, the heels helping disguise his height would reveal exactly how small he was. He set the goblet down.
He looked at the large window, studying the reflection rather than the view. In the reflection, the man looked at Aestith. “What I suppose I am driving at is, do you want to be in Waterdeep?”
Aestith snorted and shook his head. “No.” He looked over his shoulder. “I actually hate it here.” He looked back at the reflection, the candlelight. His fingers twitched to snuff it out.
The man stretched. “You don’t have to stay. Where do you want to go?”
A pause, then, “Home.” Aestith turned toward him. “I want to go back to Enainsi.”
“Enainsi,” the man rolled it off the tongue like a foreign word.
Aestith shrugged one shoulder. “I think, it’s a long way from anywhere. But the Underdark would do.”
Zelvier smiled, something self-important this time. “Do you miss it that much?”
Aestith stalked back across the room toward him, glanced again at the untouched food. “I miss the faerzress. The dark. The quiet. There is not a great deal I like about the World Above. I should think I’d do most anything to go home.”
An eyebrow arched. “Really? Anything.”
Aestith nodded once. “Almost.”
He nodded, eyes flicked over Aestith. “There is a great deal that can be worked with in the simple syllables of ‘almost’.”
“Could you get me home, Zelvier?”
“I might be able to do that.” He gestured at the table. “Anything to your taste?”
Aestith looked at him. “Perhaps.”
He smiled. The boots slid back onto the table, as if this were his normal pose. “So you work at a brothel, is that right?”
Aestith laughed. “I can see where you might gather that assumption. Despite one of my associate’s best efforts, no. I’m a partial owner.”
“Ah.” His face was, for a moment, unreadable. Almost disappointed. “How do you tolerate your associates doing that?” A trace of an accent marked his words.
Aestith shrugged. “I often don’t, but I have a great deal of tolerance for bullshit, which comes with having so many sisters I suppose. Other times, I find them amusing and fascinating. Sometimes, only useful. And they can talk to people or go places I can’t.”
His lips twitched into a frown. Neither needed to say why that was. He said, “Yes, I understand that. We have a few humans and half-elves too.” He paused, as if he realized what he had admitted to. Had he, for a moment, forgotten his own disguise? He changed the subject, “I digress; we were discussing your business. If it’s not too forward, what sort of partners do you keep?”
The shortest of pauses. “Drow. Exclusively.” He lifted his chin. “But I make regrettable decisions when I drink.” Aestith’s fingers strayed to the half-drained goblet of wine.
Zelvier reached to his head, and made a gesture as if removing a hat that Aestith couldn’t see. He dropped the red cavalier hat on the back of the chair. Blue should be confined to paint, to cloth and dye, plants, some animals--and eye color; his were the shade of blue lace agate, set in skin so dark it was inky. His hair had silvered instead of grayed, or perhaps he dyed it. The drow males able to grow beards were few and far between, but it came as little surprise to Aestith that Zelvier was one of them. He didn’t look all that different from the human guise, now that Aestith could see him properly. Ruggedly good-looking, but a more agreeable height, and a smaller build, younger in appearance. The clothes were the same and Aestith wished the other were standing so he had a better view.
Aestith shivered with longing. He wanted desperately to end this farce of wordplay and climb into his lap, but he couldn’t. This drow wouldn’t be bullied into being bound and blindfolded. What could Aestith do? Hating himself, he shrugged and glanced away. He said, “I doubt I’d be to your taste.”
Zelvier pushed from the table. Boots clacked on the floor. “A great many things are to my taste. We could find out.” He cleared the distance between them as he spoke. His fingers curved over Aestith’s effeminate hips and gripped as he pulled him to his groin. Male drow were never this aggressive with a female drow; he had learned this behavior, or maybe he just knew that Aestith wanted him. Aestith could feel the other’s body heat, the promise in his touch.
The last of Aestith’s resolve melted like chocolate in a pan.
Zelvier was surprised, but pleasantly so, at Aestith’s sudden change of mind, delighted at how quickly Aestith pulled off his clothing. Aestith put up some struggle when the other tried to undress him, but Zelvier was stronger, and Aestith didn’t really want to win that fight. He wanted so badly to be touched. The dress was tossed over a chair. Zelvier rubbed Aestith’s taught nipples with his thumbs, bent his head to lick along the scar.
Aestith could not allow himself to get undressed any further. He could not risk the other’s reaction. He knew too well what drow thought of anyone imperfect--and Aestith was mutated. He could distract him though, finish him before it came to that and push him away before Zelvier could continue undressing Aestith.
And Aestith could leave, unfulfilled and wanting more, disappointed and alone. He could enjoy the other’s blatant desire for him while it lasted. He could pretend it was real. He could pretend that someone--someone more like himself than Aracnelxeth--could ever want him.
Before Zelvier could get to Aestith’s pants, Aestith dropped to his knees and took the other in his mouth. Zelvier was heavy and he struggled to fit all of him in his mouth, despite years of practice. Salty liquid dribbled over Aestith’s tongue. He scraped against Aestith’s teeth and seemed to like it.
Drow women didn’t do this for men, as a matter of social standing and pride. It simply wasn’t done. Aestith, however, loved to do it. He liked the way it felt in his mouth and he liked the taste. He liked his bed partners’ reactions to it; the initial shocked surprise, a touch of fear, and, most of all, the way they would relax and mold to his touch--or, better, how it would make them bolder. He contented himself with the knowledge that oral sex could easily distract and Aestith might evade him long enough to keep his secret. The danger was just as arousing.
“Fuck,” the other whispered, started to touch Aestith’s beautifully braided hair, and stopped. His fingers mapped the curve of Aestith’s working jaw, to trace the flash of the cleric’s throat. Aestith could have happily, contentedly, continued for a long time, and for a while it seemed Zelvier would have let him, then he shoved him back. Aestith lost his balance and tumbled on the floor. The other pushed him down, pinning one leg under a knee.
Aestith should have told him to stop. He should have demanded it, pushed him back. He wanted the inevitable rejection too. He thought that he would deserve it. Maybe, if he were rejected strongly enough, if it were scarring enough and he survived, he would stop taking these stupid risks to get laid and learn his lesson. The young cleric, idiotically, offered no resistance.
Zelvier tugged the laces of Aestith’s boots free and slid them from his feet. Aestith used his toes to pry off his own socks. The other was preoccupied with Aestith’s slender legs.
“You’re so small,” he mused, in a way that seemed both intrigued and affectionate.
Aestith glanced at his chest. “Just what a body wants to hear.”
He chuckled, kissing his way from Aestith’s naval to his breasts. He licked a nipple. “I was referring to your whole shape.” He frowned, looking up at Aestith’s terribly androgynous face. Aestith reached a hand to one of the hairpins in his hair. He slid it from the coil of braids and set it on the floor.
Zelvier’s groin, still damp from Aestith’s saliva, pressed close to his, where he was hard and uncomfortably tucked. His chest heaved.
Zelvier’s fingers curved into Aestith’s leggings. Aestith’s stomach tightened with a sudden fear. They would stop. This would end. At best, it would be awkward and uncomfortable. And at worst, it would be violent. Or the other would laugh. Nier’s horrified expression when he discovered what Aestith was. Aestith swallowed.
The disgust on Valanxal’s face, how it had bordered on hatred. Valanxal had told him that he should never have been allowed to live. What would Zelvier say? What expression would grace his features? Disgust, horror, something else?
The cleric grabbed the man’s wrist in an attempt to stay his hand. The other’s teeth nibbled along Aestith’s ribs, then licked back to his leggings. He untied the knot with his teeth, his other hand unthreading the laces.
Aestith’s throat felt dry. His arousal edged closer to fear. The other pulled Aestith’s pants down, slowly, inch by inch. The cleric’s fingers clenched around the hairpin dagger. Zelvier’s lips formed an “o” of surprise. “That’s what you’re on about.”
Aestith flinched. “I tried to tell you.”
The other drow looked up, and yanked off Aestith’s clothes. For one horrible instant, Aestith remembered the boys who had tried to hurt him when he was fourteen, how they had attempted to rip his clothes off to force him to walk home in shame; they hadn’t needed to kill him, only give others a reason to, serving the purpose of discrediting his family at the same blow.
Zelvier’s manicured fingers slid around his erection. His lips brushed Aestith’s thigh, right at the garter. Aestith let go of the dagger.
Aestith had only thrice lain with anyone even aware of Aestith’s body; he had only felt this a handful of times. His body convulsed and he twitched, pulled Zelvier to him. His other hand raked through his hair, found the second hairpin. He had left it pinned in case he needed the stiletto inside. He removed it.
The other watched Aestith, the thrust of the smaller drow’s hips. His lips brushed against Aestith’s skin as he spoke, “And you thought I wouldn’t be interested.”
Aestith, emboldened, took the other’s wrist and guided his hand back, past his balls, to the female part, wet with its own fluids. The man’s eyes widened in delectation.
Two fingers wormed into the hot cavity, his other hand on Aestith’s hip. The cleric touched him, couldn’t reach what he was after, so touched himself. Wetness soaked his thighs and one hand clung to Zelvier’s shoulder. Nails dug into flesh.
Aestith’s back twisted and he hooked his arm around the other’s neck and pulled himself upward. His legs slid around Zelvier’s waist. The other lifted him. He started to slip against him, then grunted as Zelvier dropped him down on the edge of the table. Aestith steadied himself and knocked something over. Zelvier kissed him before he saw what it was, and he forgot. He tilted, helped guide the older drow into him. He inhaled sharply as the head entered.
He was suddenly glad he had done this the first time with Arcedi.
The first thrust made his eyes widen. He somehow seemed even bigger now, though that was just perspective. He pushed Aestith apart and the cleric’s eagerness accepted him. Zelvier, feeling the tension in the smaller drow’s back, whispered, “You’d tell me if—”
Aestith arced his back, trying to find an angle that better accommodated. “Don’t be silly. You’re just bigger than I’m used to.”
Zelvier smirked, his lips finding a crook in Aestith’s neck. The sucking kiss eased the tension and he felt himself open, wetten. His cock throbbed, wet, pressed between them.
Aestith wondered if he were a sexual curiosity to the other. At the same time, he thought, what did it matter if Aestith wanted the sex anyway?
Zelvier took it slowly, pushing in a little deeper with each thrust, but paying close attention to Aestith’s reactions, the tension and arousal.
Aestith pulled himself against Zelvier, tried to pull him in deeper. His legs locked around the other. Zelvier braced against the table.
Sex, for a drow, was a near sacred act. Not because of any particular reverence for it, but because of the emotions involved; it was an act of aggression as much as passion.
It was about dominance, because what else was there for followers of Lolth?
Aestith slid against the other, his nipples pressed to the other’s lean chest.
Whatever Zelvier was to the others, he was not a fighter. His hands lacked the calluses as he caressed Aestith’s slender frame. Aestith knew nothing about him and it was beyond foolish to be doing this. Even now, someone could be aiming a crossbow at his exposed back.
Zelvier buried his hands in Aestith’s luscious curls. Aestith gasped as the other thrust deep into him, shocked that he even fit. Zelvier kissed him.
He half-expected the other to reach for one of the knives on the table, to stab it deep in Aestith’s spine. There would be so little Aestith could do to save himself, and so humiliating an end. He knew nothing about this man. Why had he allowed this to happen?
He broke the kiss, lips parted in a silent, strangled moan, the kind that drow learn by necessity. He felt full to bursting, craving violence and blood in the way that battle will make some crave sex. He kissed along Zelvier’s neck, licked over his shoulder. The muscles flexed at his touch. Zelvier’s backside moved with the erratic thrusting. The inconsistency created a variance rather than a tempo that, to a drow that craved chaos, felt better than otherwise.
He bit, nails digging in like claws to his back.
A spider, devouring her mate.
Zelver shoved Aestith down, or maybe Aestith drug him down. Food spilled over the table. A dish clattered to the floor. The table was sturdy, solid, and didn’t rock with their movements. It stayed steady, and damn Zelvier if it wasn’t sized to drow instead of humans like everything else in this city.
This space felt more like home, not because it was in any way made to look like a place in the Underdark, but because it was suited to his size and build. The table was at the perfect height.
Aestith shuddered with delight, back twisting, pinned under the other’s weight. Without anything to cast a spell with, the other could put his hands around Aestith’s neck and strangle him. There would be so little he could do about it.
Zelvier’s mouth covered his in a suffocating, brutal kiss. Whatever savagery had taken Aestith had finally swallowed the older male too, that drow desire to inflict pain. Zelvier’s thrusts went deep and deeper, making Aestith alternately cringe and pant. Aestith wrestled a hand free and slapped him, dug his fingers into Zelvier’s hair and brought him back for another kiss. Aestith’s teeth nibbled along Zelvier’s lip, threatened to bite. He tilted his head and drew the other’s tongue into his mouth, between his teeth.
A particularly hard thrust made him jerk and the other pulled back for leverage to pound all the harder into him. Aestith’s legs felt like jelly and he shivered, shook. A torrent exploded between his legs, the more powerful and not at all final female orgasm. It was an ability he coveted, and for good reason.
It left him shaking, but wanting, eager for more. He was wet and slick and Zelvier’s movements were easy. The other shivered with the feel of it. He lifted himself, drew back and rammed back in.
Aestith’s hands gripped the other’s arms, the tense muscle. He clawed his way back up the other’s torso, wrapped his arms around Zelvier’s neck. Zelvier lifted him. This was not something easily done for male drow with female drow, but Aestith was small, not wholly female nor male in a way he was still trying to understand.
Zelvier lifted him. Aestith’s legs wrapped around his waist to steady himself. One of Zelvier’s hands gripped the cleric’s buttocks. He slammed Aestith quickly against the wall, driving the breath from his lungs and himself deeper inside. Aestith grinned, something wicked in it. Aestith’s hand gripped tight into Zelvier’s hair, around the base of his neck. He pulled hard enough to cause pain, nibbled along Zelvier’s ears, bit down at the lobes.
Zelvier’s ears looked like they were pierced, but he didn’t have any of the stereotypical to Enainsi bone jewelry. He must be from elsewhere, or else had abandoned that part of his culture too.
Zelvier gasped, pushed in. Their eyes glowed red.
Zelvier carried Aestith, back to the table. Aestith writhed against him on the way there, slid, pulled himself up and back down again. Zelvier set him down, kissed him tenderly, but his hands wove into Aestith’s thick hair. Aestith was whirled around, his back thumped against Zelvier’s chest. One of the other’s hands gripped his hip and shoved the smaller drow into the table. A hard thrust back inside Aestith made the cleric moan. He slowly bent over the table to let the other work at a better angle.
Their balls slapped together and it made Aestith shiver, but never cry out. Only the wet, slapping sound of skin against skin. The occasional grunt.
Aestith’s hand groped along the table. One gripped the side, to help prevent his skinny hips from grinding against the hardwood painfully. He found a candlestick. Slowly, he pulled himself upright, on his toes. Zelvier was so intent he didn’t notice Aestith’s fingers shifting the candlestick. Aestith moved it toward him, using his body to block it, timing the movements with the slaps against his skin.
In one fluid motion, he plucked the taper from its place, curved his back and lifted the burning candle behind Zelvier. A tapir burned too hot for most to use it for this kind of play, but to a drow, it was an improvised prop and the pain was the point.
Hot wax dripped onto Zelvier’s shoulder and Aestith felt him jerk. They wrestled over it, briefly. The taller drow pried it out of Aestith’s hand. He let it go as Zelvier renewed his pounding into him. He relaxed, surprised at how good it felt to let go of his tension, to just focus on the way he felt inside him.
The wax burned and scorched along his spine, retribution for the surprise earlier. It almost drew a moan from Aestith. He twisted, jerked, pressed back against the other, but shook his head so his hair was out of the way.
He bit back a yelp as the wick touched to a sweaty patch of skin, sweat and quickness snuffing out the candle against his back. He grimaced. Zelvier leaned over him. Aestith’s lips parted as he panted.
The other, faster than Aestith could react, shoved the white tapir sideways between the cleric’s teeth, the hot wax remaining on the surface against his tongue. He cried out and jerked backwards, against Zelvier’s throbbing cock. Fingers on either side of the candle kept it fixed in Aestith’s mouth. His teeth cut into it, some combination of pleasure and anger. He scrambled for a way to amend the submissive situation, even when it made his loins ache and drip.
His eyes flicked around the table. Swiftly, his hand shot out for the half-empty goblet of wine. He tossed the contents back, toward Zelvier, drenching the other drow in the vintage. The other’s hands dropped from the unlit candle. Aestith spit it out. A hand slammed down into his back, driving the wind from his lungs, but Aestith grinned, head sideways.
Zelvier leaned down, kissed tenderly along his ear, quietly forgiving Aestith the wine—or just getting it in his hair by proxy.
An earring slipped between Zelvier’s teeth, bones of the dead between bones of the living.
The older drow was experienced, delighted in Aestith’s body in a way the cleric had dreamed of. They would finish and stop, sipping wine, rarely speaking, then one or the other would go back. A touch or a kiss, and it began again. Aestith wanted every part of him filled, and the other was determined to fill that need. And when Zelvier suggested something to Aestith, Aestith all the more eagerly climbed over him.
Arcedi liked Aestith, but in the end, Aestith knew that Arcedi only had a passing interest in the male form. Zelvier seemed to like both equally.
Eventually, they had to stop when their bodies were too sore and there was just nothing left. They had, slowly, made their way to the bedroom over the course of the last few hours.
Aestith’s eyes were closed, half in Reverie, but not in sleep. The other’s fingers played with a curl. He said that Aestith’s freckles were cute. Aestith told him to fuck himself. The other had some other ideas that were more entertaining. Then Zelvier had said, “Are you able to do that? To fuck yourself, I mean?”
Blood rose to Aestith’s cheeks, and the other had to see the sudden flow. “Once,” he mumbled. “It was weird. Never again.”
A shrug. “So you say.”
Aestith scowled.
His lips pulled into a half-smile, the sort that was pleased with himself. They were silent for a time, and the other was still for a longer time, perhaps in a trance, then his breathing changed. Aestith shifted, a stretch popping his back. He needed to get out of bed. The other said, “Would you do something for me?”
“Thought I already did that.”
A chuckle. “No. Something else.” He slid from the bed and it was suddenly cold. Aestith rolled into the spot the other had lain. The sheets fell around Aestith’s hips and the other looked, momentarily distracted before he turned back to the task at hand. He opened a chest and rummaged through the contents. He removed a smaller chest at the bottom and placed it on the table. He unlocked it with some combination and sat, slowly counting gold coins and looking over small cut gems on a black cloth. Aestith could think of little else less boring than money counting. He should get up though.
Aestith brushed his hair, listening to the steady clink of the coins.“Is this errand you want me to run the real reason you invited me to dinner, and now I’ve distracted you from your true purpose?”
A pause, then, “I wanted to meet you.” Clink, clink. “I could have had Zanisernix go to you with this.” He straightened a stack of coins. “I’d have to say, this was more fun.” His blue eyes flicked toward Aestith. “Once I convinced you to get out of your clothes.”
Aestith’s lips pursed. “I couldn’t have predicted your, I admit rather pleasant, reaction.”
“Aestith’Rix. Tith’Rix. I just thought you were being coy about a last name.”
Aestith paused. He did know about Enainsine customs. Then why the lack of bone jewelry? Unless he had disgraced his family in some way and been made outcast; they often took away the relics for that. The cleric’s eyes flicked away. “I should change it. It’s a definite tell to anyone that recognizes the house, but I can’t help but feel I’m too young to decide yet.”
Zelvier looked back at the coins. “You’re beautiful. Let no one make you think otherwise.”
“I should’ve been killed, Zelvier.”
“I could say the same about many of us here, if for different reasons.”
The door opened. Aestith grimaced, but the blanket covered him to his waist. A tray was placed on the table and the door shut again.
Without looking, Zelvier picked a pear from the tray and bit into it. Juice glistened on his lips. His tongue darted out. He bit again, absently, without even a thought as to if it had been poisoned.
He’s like their matron mother. No, more than that. They can’t poison him, not because he’s so powerful, but because they all rely on him.
You could never get drow to like other drow, not exactly anyway. Drow tolerated one another and friendships were tenacious and brittle as olivine. Trust was naive. But you could shape dependency, craft a bond of reliance, build that mutual usefulness until one or the other, or both, need the other to support themselves.
He was their keystone. And he knew it.
“A cleric of Desmaduke passed away some years ago. Her armor was given to her next of kin, but they fell on hard times. At present, it’s up for private auction. This evening.” He glanced at Aestith. “It’s an invitation only, but I do have an invitation. I’d like you to pick it up for me.” He dropped coins into a heavy purse.
Aestith reclined on the silk pillows. “Is there a reason you can’t do it yourself?”
He gave Aestith a humorless grin. “Unfortunately, I can only bring in three guests, maximum, after a fair amount of bargaining--the tables only seat so many.” He shifted as if he wanted to put his bare feet on the table. “Someone will be expecting me and I have no doubt it would be detrimental to my health if I went. So I took some precautions to advertise that I sold the ticket.” He flopped into a padded leather chair. “You, however, are unconnected to me, and have an established presence in the city, so you may very well go where you wish.”
Aestith paused. “Go on.”
He gestured at the bag. “I have quite a heavy purse there.” He gestured. “I’m not certain it will be enough, but it’s what I have on hand. Now, you could just take the money and run off and I’ll never see you again.” He tilted his head and his quicksilver hair slipped over one shoulder. “But I don’t think you will.” The tilt of his smile and his wandering eyes betrayed his reasons for his assumption.
Aestith climbed from the bed, and turned from him. Dawn threatened. He should close the curtain. He couldn’t help but wonder that, if he had just sat down and had dinner and hadn’t so quickly jumped into bed with Zelvier--half an hour of meeting one another was a personal record for Aestith--that if he would get more out of this agreement. Still, what more did he want than a good lay? How difficult could buying something at an auction really be?
“Why do you think a suit of armor will be that expensive?”
“Enamel. Enchantments. Personal value. Propensity for mischief. That sort of thing.”
“Is it very unique?”
“Not terribly, but acquiring a duplicate would be difficult.”
Aestith snorted. A Desmaduke cleric’s armor. Leverage over a paladin. Who was that guy Aestith had kept in the attic? Some acolyte? What were they planning with the church? It wasn’t really Aestith’s business, and he couldn’t say he cared beyond mere curiosity. He really only cared because it might come back to bite him. So far, none of the things he had done for Zelvier would likely have real repercussions. This could be tied back to him, especially if people knew he had purchased the armor.
“That sounds like a risk for me, depending on what you’re doing with that armor,” Aestith mused. He pulled the curtain closed.
Zelvier’s silence told Aestith all he needed to know; he wasn’t going to tell Aestith the ultimate plan. Which was fine by Aestith’s standards.
The cleric looked back over his shoulder. “I don’t care what you plan on doing with it. I’m more concerned that this is going to affect me.”
“It shouldn’t.” A pause. “Procure the armor and have it delivered to your establishment.” He smiled. “Eiranish will pick it up.”
The lilt he placed on the last few syllables implied theft. “Why not just heist it from someone else?”
His smile showed teeth. “Less risk this way.” A pause. “The auction house will have insurance, so I won’t even be out the gold.”
There was a bigger reward than the five thousand he was willing to spend. Aestith made a face. “Assuming I’m outbid?”
He shrugged. “Do what you can.”
The cleric folded his arms under his breasts. “And what will you be doing while I’m doing this?”
Agate eyes flicked toward Aestith. “Keeping anyone from Scrying on you or following you. As I’ve been doing since you started running errands for me.”
Someone knocked at the door and Zelvier turned his head toward it. Aestith cringed instinctively and hurried into the washroom before Zelvier attended to the door. He needed to wash out his mouth anyway and run a comb through his tangled hair. When he stepped back out, his clothes were sitting on the chaise lounge, neatly folded. They looked clean. The hairpins were next to them.
A tray of fruit, cheese, and a braided loaf of bread sat on the table. Zelvier wore a loose silk robe with hand-painted paisleys, open. He had his bare feet on the small table, a knife in one hand carving into an apple. He did not look up. “So you’ll help?”
“I’m not doing anything today.” He tilted his head. “Except you maybe.”
Zelvier looked up from his work, the knife pausing halfway in the apple. “Then we had best hurry, or you’ll look a mess at the auction.”
They didn’t hurry, and Aestith left with his hair washed and smelling of the spicy essences that had gone into the bathwater.
Ordinarily, Aestith would have just gone alone, but he didn’t trust that something wouldn’t go wrong and he was allowed guests, so he went back to the Traveler’s Club. Tirowan was going over some contracts with Tim and Eilora. She seemed to be negotiating her rates, and the brothel could use a madame.
He flashed the auction invitation. “Hey, it looks like all of you are terribly busy. How about a fancy auction?”
Tirowan lifted her head. The way she perched in her chair gave the appearance of elongating her already long legs. “Oo! What kind?”
Aestith dropped the invitation on the table. He disliked the high elf on principle, but she was a wizard and that could be useful if things went the way they usually did. “The variety that allows us to sample expensive food and dress up. Do you wish to join?”
She looked at the invitation. “Yes, of course.”
“It could be a good place to advertise,” Tim commented.
“Eilora?” Aestith said.
The wood elf made a face, then nodded her assent. “Yeah, all right. Cakecake can wear his bowtie.”
“Wonderful.” Aestith whisked the invitation away. He changed into slightly more practical garments, and met the others on the patio. They took a carriage to the auction house. Aestith handed over the invitation to the gatekeeper.
Tirowan preened. “They’re with me.”
The gatekeeper to the Gracehaven Auction House raised an eyebrow. “From what we know, you’re with the drow.”
Aestith smirked and Tirowan’s spine straightened as if she had been slapped. They meandered down a garden path to the front doors of the auction house, inundated by the smell of flowering plants. The doors were open to let in the fresh air. Guests mingled about the hall, looking at the dull and rather expected landscape paintings. Sound carried under the vaulted ceiling and the harpist had been placed where it would make the most effect. The groups primarily kept to themselves. More than one group had guards. A long cloth-covered table boasted a waiter pouring wine at one end, others serving small plates of cheeses and meats.
Eilora milled about on the large porch, enjoying the sunshine. Tirowan attempted to mingle with the well-to-do.
Tim eyed someone carrying a most horrifying pet. The other guests gave this one a wide berth; no one really wanted to socialize with an illithid. Aestith turned to check in and get his auction number. While the woman was fishing for it, Aestith glanced back at Tim.
Aestith said, “Tim, why don’t you go ask him about his pet?”
Tim brightened. “I will!” The warlock marched up to the eldritch horror.
Aestith gaped, then his jaw snapped closed. He shook his head in astonishment. Most of the people in the room had the dignity and social graces not to stare. Others couldn’t reign in their impulses. Aestith took his auction card without really acknowledging the woman. She said something about their table number.
Tim thrust out his hand and smiled welcomingly. “Hi, I’m Tim! I couldn’t help but notice your pet.”
“Yes, it is a rather marvelous creature.” The illithid stroked the intellect devourer and made no motion to shake Tim’s hand. Tim didn’t know how fortunate he was.
“Can I touch it?”
The illithid held out the creature. Aestith’s eyes widened. Tim reached out a hand to pet it. The intellect devourer lunged toward him, kept in check only by a thick leash. Tim, acting on whatever self-preservation instincts he still possessed, jerked his hand away. The illithid pulled his pet back to him and it calmed. Tim said, “What a, uh, cute little guy. Does it have a name?”
“It might. Some day.”
Tim nodded sagely. “Well, naming a pet is a difficult decision. It’s so calm when you hold it. How do you do that?”
“I could teach you.”
“Oh, do we have time for that?”
Eilora peered inside.
“It would only take a moment.”
He smiled broadly. “What’s it like as a pet?”
“They become very attached.”
Tim started to pet it again, seemed to remember in time, and clasped his hands in front of himself. “I can see that. Are they very difficult to take care of?”
“Not at all. They often take care of themselves, in the right circumstances.”
His idiot grin stayed in place. “So, where did you get it? I think I might want one.”
“I could introduce you to it. You’d never be apart.”
Aestith felt like he had fallen into some pocket dimension of insanity. Even the harpist had stopped playing.
Eilora whispered, “Aestith, what the hell?”
He hissed, “When I told him he should go introduce himself to the illithid, I didn’t think he actually would.”
She glared at him.
Tim continued, “Oh, that would be great! Not right now though. You can feel free to come by later to visit.” He handed the illithid a pamphlet for the Traveler’s Club.
Eilora said, “If a mindflayer comes to the brothel, it is your fault, Aestith.”
“I didn’t invite a damned illithid to the brothel,” he snapped.
A door opened and a woman stepped into the hall. She said, “All present, the auction is now beginning. Please enter the hall and take your seats. Dinner will be served shortly.”
Aestith breathed in relief and trailed into the hall, carefully waiting until after the illithid had sat down. He was pleased, though not exactly surprised, to find that the tentacled humanoid had been seated a respectful and healthy distance away from most other tables. He found his own table corresponding with his auction number and took a seat where he could see the podium, and the illithid. The others joined him.
Tirowan said to Tim, “What the hell?”
Tim blinked innocently at her. “What? I just invited my new friend to introduce me to his pet.”
Her pale fingers clenched into a fist. “Right. Tim—”
A waiter came by and offered the table a white wine. She poured the glasses and moved to the next table.
The auction began. Aestith waited through the paintings, the jewelry, and small trinkets. Tirowan enjoyed looking at the expensive items, and seemed to take note of all the high-paying buyers. Eilora was bored. Tim tried to give the person next to him a flyer for the Traveler’s Club.
An artfully decorated salad was served first. The illithid had waved such things, apparently, and the waiters seemed grateful. Aestith speared a mushroom, covered in a vinaigrette dressing, and popped it into his mouth. Surface mushrooms were bland and tasteless compared to Underdark ones, or perhaps surfacers just didn’t rely on them as much and so had never learned all the proper techniques that went in to cooking them. Aestith, with the right ingredients and some patience, could make some rather delicious dishes with even surface mushrooms, but one tended to be biased when tasting the fruits of one’s own labors.
The auctioneer rattled off numbers, almost too fast to make much sense of them, even though Aestith could read lips. She slowed only when she stopped to talk about an item, give its history to boost the price or instigate a bidding war. The skylight above the podium darkened with nightfall. Servants lit the candles, the light on the podium bright.
The salad plates were taken away, and they gave a small break in the auction to make a brief speech that Aestith didn’t listen to. He caught the odd phrase, and pieced together that it was about some percentage of proceeds going somewhere or other--a sales pitch for the services, he supposed.
A red wine was served with dinner, and after the wine was poured and plates swapped, the auction continued. Zelvier had already selected the menu--four plates of filet mignon--but other tables had chicken or fish. Aestith took small bites of it, weary of his lipstick, and envious of Tirowan’s prim ability to somehow eat as much as she appeared to like while never once smudging her lipstick. It scarcely left a print on her glass.
“What’s dessert?” Tim wondered.
Aestith picked up the small card on the table. “Raspberry tort.”
“This has been fun. Aestith, did you mention how you got tickets to this event?” Tirowan asked.
He smiled. “No. I didn’t.”
The auctioneer called, “--A beautiful blue sapphire pendant. It is just one of many identical sapphires. Together, they are called the Tears of Poseidon. Said to be the tears of the god himself, ladies and gentlemen.”
Eilora frowned. “You haven’t bid on anything all evening.”
“Who’s to say we didn’t go for the food?” Aestith said.
A bidding war was going on between several parties, then came down to the illithid and another. The other outbid the creature.It was growing angry. Aestith’s hand clenched over his fork.
The gem was sold. The illithid dropped the intellect devourer and disappeared. His pet charged in a straight line toward the podium.