The walk back to town was uneventful if not pleasant. Ellen’s bag of holding had reached its capacity rather quickly, and she refused to take anything out to make room for more gold. She also flatly refused to ruck a makeshift sack made out of an embroidered tablecloth and tied up with the rope they’d brought along.

  “Don’t you want the treasure?” Linar had asked, not comprehending her refusal.

  “Not really,” she said. “And besides, I’m carrying more than all of you.”

  Linar looked from the chests of coins to the art and tapestries and then back to Ellen, mouth agape, unable to gather the words.

  “That spellbooks worth enough that you won’t get a cut of the treasure, isn’t it?” Syril said, where he was filling a bedsheet with rolled up tapestries to serve as a sack.

  “Yup,” Ellen said, going back to her study.

  Each man of the group had a makeshift sack slung over their shoulder save for Bill who was hauling a chest filled to the brim with coins.

  “Are we okay to just walk into town with all this wealth on display?” Bill asked once the city gate came into sight. “Won’t we be painting a target for ourselves from criminals.”

  The group slowed.

  “Who would steal from people who could kill them with a thought,” Ellen asked.

  “No, it’s a good point,” Syrill said. “We should probably—”

  “Its fine,” Linar said, interrupting.

  “What?” Syril asked.

  “We’ll be fine,” he reiterated.

  “Are you sure?” Syril asked, confused by Linar’s assertion of control.

  “I’m a member of a certain…. association,” Linar said. “A group coming after a score like this would… let’s just say I’d get wind of it before it happened.”

  “You’re in an association of thieves?” Syril asked.

  “It’s not all thieves,” Linar said.

  “Pickpockets are thieves too,” Grom said.

  “Its not all thieves!” Linar reiterated.

  Regardless of what the others were thinking, Linar carried on into the city ahead of his team, forcing them to follow along or risk losing their share of the wealth that Linar held. They were stopped at the gate as was the regulation

  “What’s your pur—Hey you’re that bard that can’t sing?” The guard asked, interrupting himself when he noticed Syril.

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  “Not all bards sing,” Syril said with irritation clear in his voice. “That’s an offensive stereotype. Can we enter the city now?”

  “Can’t sing? He can—” Bill began.

  “Shut up,” Grom whispered to Bill under his breath, the twice resurrected warrior dropping the topic immediately.

  “Sure, sure,” he said. “There are standing orders from the Count to let you in. What’s in the sacks?”

  “Instruments,” Syril said, giving his a shake, the candle sticks inside giving a very unharmonious jingle.

  “But—” the guard began but Syril barged past him.

  Once through the gate, Linar appeared near their side again, only then did they notice that he’d been missing.

  “Straight to the castle or do we want to offload the treasure?” Linar said.

  “Castle,” Syril said. “Despite your vague assurances that no one will assault us for this, I think its best to keep our movements to a minimum. The Count can help us arrange for protecting out new wealth.”

  “You know,” Linar said, rubbing his chin. “The Count lives in a castle, that’s another undead giveaway.”

  Syril sighed heavily.

  “He doesn’t have a castle because he’s a…” he stopped looking around for eaves droppers. “You know what. He has a castle because he’s a count.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Linar asked. “All vampires have castles.”

  “We literally just killed a vampire that wasn’t in a castle,” Syril pointed out.

  “True,” Linar said, “But people who own castles usually own lots of property. Castles are cold and drafty. Who would want to live in one? Maybe he lives in it in the summer.”

  “It’s summer right now!” Syril yelled.

  “Hmm,” Linar said, thinking. “Maybe being nocturnal flips the seasons—like when you go far enough south the seasons change.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Syril said.

  “Magic does crazy things. I find the world often doesn’t make sense,” Linar said.

  Syril looked to Ellen for help arguing, but saw she was once more engrossed in her new spellbook.

  “Let’s just get to the castle,” Syril said, giving up.

  “Why doesn’t Syril sing in town?” Bill asked Grom in a failed attempt at a whisper on the way to the possibly-a-vampire-but-definitely-a-count’s castle.

  “We’re trying to keep a low profile,” Grom said back in an actual whisper.

  “Why?”

  Grom thought about it for a moment and then said, “It is as Cland wills.”

  Bill looked thoughtful at the words—a foreign look on the generally blank face.

  “You don’t want to be boastful of your success,” Bill said, guessing at the reason. “’The greatest laurel is humbleness.’”

  “Umm, yeah. That.”

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