Disguised as Deprimer, Duster crosses the thick carpet of the Burgomaster’s office. The walls rise around him, lined floor to ceiling with books, scrolls, and ledgers—the accumulated history of Vallaki bound in leather and parchment. His sharp eyes scan the massive book of accounts spread across Deprimer’s desk, and he spots a safe built flush into the desk’s side.
As he settles into Deprimer’s high-backed chair, a knock interrupts him. A red knight enters, his armor catching the lamplight. “I am sorry to disturb you, Burgomaster,” he says, his voice deferential. “You’ll want to put this into the city’s safe and record who has paid their taxes in Vallaki’s ledger.” He hefts four large leather bags that jingle heavily with coins. “A few have not paid… yet. We will not break too very many bones. They will pay what they owe by the end of the day. We are still… convincing them.”
From beneath his arm, the knight produces four scrolls and sets them on the desk alongside the money bags. He shows no sign of detecting Duster’s disguise, then turns and leaves.
Alone again, Duster examines the safe’s lock. His nimble fingers work quickly, and it clicks open. Inside, he finds a silver stationary set—a letter opener, pen, and inkwell, each piece bearing an ornate letter “V” and the crest of Vallaki. In the corner of the safe, a stack of letters from Count Strahd to the dead Burgomaster lies curling and brown with age. A newer parchment rests atop them, addressed to Deprimer. Duster scans its contents: the Vampire Lord chastises Deprimer for his sloppy and publicly bloody takeover of Vallaki, reminding him sharply of his responsibility to bring Ireena to Ravenloft.
Duster pockets Strahd’s letter along with the silver items and stuffs the four sacks of coins into his cloak. He presses his ear to the door, listening intently for the presence of guards. Hearing nothing, he slips into the hallway and creeps up the stairs to the attic.
At the far end of the dusty space, he locates the old Burgomaster’s son’s laboratory. In the corner sits a strongbox with a key already in its lock. Duster secures all the stolen items inside and turns the key, putting it away in his cloak. From the attic window, he spots Krieger rushing up the street toward the Burgomaster’s mansion, his stride urgent.
At the top of the attic stairs, Duster hears the front doors bang open and Krieger’s voice calling for the Burgomaster. The tone carries fear bordering on panic. Duster waits, motionless, until the sound of Krieger’s departure echoes through the building. Only then does he descend and return to Deprimer’s office.
Minutes later, Krieger returns. He storms into the office and confront Duster disguised as the Burgomaster. His face is flushed brick red with anger. “I don’t know how you got past me to return here, but you will live to regret it.” He wheels toward the door. “Guards!”
Three guards enter quickly, hands on their weapons.
“The ‘Burgomaster’ is very tired,” Krieger announces with forced authority. “See him to his room.” Only Duster can hears the slightest hitch at the honorific, and he smiles to himself in Deprimer’s face.
“Arrest Krieger and Krelldutt as traitors!” Duster countermands in Deprimer’s voice, the command sharp and final.
Two of the guards immediately draw their weapons and point them at Krieger. The third hangs back, uncertain, as his companions seize Krieger by the arms and drag him toward the door.
“I will be back, and when I am, I will cut your throat!” Krieger shouts over his shoulder, struggling against their grip.
“You will hang at sunset for that, Krieger,” one guard mutters. “You’ve threatened the Burgomaster’s life.”
Duster, impassive behind Deprimer’s face, issues the remaining guard his orders: find Krelldutt and arrest him as well. The officer departs the Burgomaster’s office with visible satisfaction at the prospect of capturing a second traitor. It has been some time since the great city of Vallaki has executed anyone, and two hangings will be something of an occasion.
⚔
In the oddly luminous room at the back of Blinsky’s attic, dozens of partially finished dolls stare down at Krelldutt, each with cascading red hair. More Ireena imagery for the now-vanquished Strazni, the tortle thinks. He notes Fish’s hesitancy at the threshold, then strides forward to stand before a long, narrow chest of scarred oak banded with iron. Burned onto the lid in elaborate gothic lettering are the words: “R. Van Richten.”
Krelldutt expects it to be locked, but the lid lifts easily. Within the chest lies a longsword glowing with silvery light—the source of the room’s illumination. It rests atop a neatly folded cloth-of-silver cloak. Krelldutt removes both items, revealing a large book beneath them. The text is written in a familiar, spidery hand in a language he cannot read—elvish, he thinks. Possibly a drow dialect.
The moment Krelldutt slides the sword into its finely tooled leather and amber scabbard, the brilliance extinguishes.
“Thank the gods you’ve put it out,” Fish mutters as he finally enters and joins Krelldutt at the trunk. “The Burgomaster is clearly not here. He must have slipped out the back, after all. Are you sure you looked carefully?”
Krelldutt assures him he saw no sign of Deprimer in the yard behind the toymaker’s shop.
Fish watches as Krelldutt stores the cloth-of-silver cloak and the massive tome back into the chest. Pointing at the scabbard nestled back into the cloak, he comments, “You aren’t taking these?” Krelldutt shakes his head. “They belong to the toymaker, Blinsky, holding them for another.” Fish shrugs and sneers, “Your loss. He won’t know you’re taking the only items of value in this cesspit of a shop, if you decide you’d like them.”
Krelldutt again shakes his head. Fish shrugs, and begins to gesture that he’d like to take them if Krelldutt won’t, but on examining the tortle’s expression, Fish shrugs and leaves to search for the escaped Burgomaster elsewhere.
Deprimer waits until Fish’s footsteps fade down the stairs, then creeps out to join Krelldutt in the room. Only dolls and their component parts litter the surfaces of the pair of rickety tables flanking the old trunk. The name inscribed upon the lid means nothing to Deprimer, the contents hidden. Neither man knew Rictavio as Van Richten, and now, with the blood hunter’s death at the lakeside tower at the hands of Duster, never will.
“Creepy,” Deprimer comments, gesturing at the red-haired dolls. “Future stock for Strazni.”
The two descend the stairs to meet a distraught Blinsky and a fiercely snarling monkey perched on his shoulder.
“Piccolo does not like Sergeant Fish,” Blinsky snivels. “He is cruel as well as rude.”
Krelldutt inquires about the trunk in the attic.
“Yes, my dear friend Rictavio left it here, as well as my little companion.” Blinsky tickles Piccolo’s chin. “I expect he will return shortly. He traveled west and did not wish to be burdened by the trunk.”
Krelldutt realizes that Blinsky knows nothing of Rictavio’s true identity or his death. He breaks the news of Rictavio’s passing as gently and with as few details as he can.
“Dead! How can that be? I only just saw him a week or two ago…” Blinsky’s face crumples. “Who will care for Piccolo now?”
The two men assure Blinsky that his friend Rictavio would wish the toymaker to have the things he entrusted to him—some of them valuable.
Weeping into the monkey’s fur, Blinsky sobs, “At least Piccolo is the silver lining of such a sad event! And now, I may be able to pay my taxes!”
A rapid trade is worked out between Deprimer and Blinsky. The city will pay the toymaker for the contents pod the chest, valuable as Krelldutt assures Deprimer it is, and return the confiscated toys from the shop in lieu of taxes paid to Vallaki. Relieved, Blinksy is happy to agree.
The Burgomaster and the tortle make their way to the Blue Water Inn, where they find Danika packing up the children.
“Urwin left a little while ago. I cannot join you until I have the children and the inn settled.” She pauses, glancing at Krelldutt. “Oh, and Krelldutt—one of the Burgomaster’s men came in maybe twenty minutes ago, looking for you. He said the Burgomaster wished to see you, but it appears he has found you.” She gestures toward Deprimer.
The Burgomaster and the tortle exchange concerned looks.
⚔
Even in the dim light, Komzin can see Doru’s wounds knitting together as the vampire spawn plunges his fangs yet again into Conwan’s throat. The assassin moans, and his eyes roll upward, showing only white.
In the tight confines of the jail’s hallway, Komzin swings mightily and misses, his blade slicing through empty air and spraying both the vampire spawn and the stricken Conwan with cold water. The assassin dangles, lifeless, from Doru’s jaws. Frustrated, Komzin growls and strikes again. This time the blade connects with a wet thud. Doru shrieks and drops Conwan into the fetid water with a splash. Komzin notes that the halfling floats face down, motionless, but he can do nothing to help him now.
From somewhere ahead in the bedlam of combat, Rakthe hears someone gasp, then the sound of a body falling into the flood. Knowing it must be Conwan, the barbarian sloshes blindly forward through the darkness, hands outstretched. Their fingers brush against the floating body. They heave Conwan’s limp form across their shoulders and retreat back up the hallway, boots churning through the water.
Doru lashes out at them in the darkness, claws raking the air inches from Rakthe’s face, but the barbarian does not see the attack. They follow the bars on their right side until they nearly collide with the stone wall at the corridor’s end. Rakthe swings Conwan forward onto the shallow steps and works to revive him, pressing water from his lungs.
Conwan’s eyes flutter open. He struggles back into the water and wades forward blindly toward the noise of combat, weapon drawn, still unsteady on his feet.
Komzin swings twice in rapid succession, driving Doru back against the bars of a far cell. The vampire spawn hisses, trapped momentarily. The knight sloshes noisily through the flooded hallway toward the jail door and finds it locked, the iron handle refusing to turn.
With a serpent-like strike, Doru breaks free and slashes at Conwan. His claws tear through cloth and flesh. The halfling gasps once, then collapses forward. He floats face down in the frigid water once more, dying.
Doru wheels to attack Komzin, but missteps, slamming one of their clawed hands into the unforgiving iron bars. He lets out a wail of agony and curses Komzin, before wading closer to attack.
