by Jeff Grubb
Groag saw Toede's face curl into a tight ball, and was suddenly unwilling to ask his lord to share his thoughts. The innkeep returned with a pair of small vials and a short strip of cured leather.
As the scar-faced innkeeper worked the bolt loose from Toede's arm, the highmaster sat down and bit hard on the leather. Flashes of pain, like sudden, silent lightning, flickered inside his tightly shut eyes. Toede half hoped for the blackness to return and claim him, but was spared that luxury.
Then a glass vial was pressed against his lips, and a sickeningly sweet syrup oozed down his throat. The colors faded, and the blackness retreated. A second vial-load of curative potion dripped into his esophagus. The pungent aroma gagged Toede, making him think involuntarily of death by pancake syrup.
He opened his eyes and touched his wounded arm. The cloth was still sticky with his blood, but the pain had subsided. Rubbing it, he could still feel the small crater where the bolt had entered his body.
The innkeep rose. "You should go now," he said solemnly.
"We'll need some supplies," said Toede.
"You should go now," repeated the innkeep.
"You have served the minion well," intoned Toede, knowing that this seemed to command attention. "But let us consider the deviousness of my enemy, the false minion of Hopsloth, the anti-minion. His own servants will be here soon, brought by your fleeing patrons. Upon discovering you aided us, they will torture and perhaps kill you, and most definitely burn your inn to the ground. You have shown kindness to us, and I cannot allow you to come to harm. Therefore, I tell you to quickly gather a few items for us. Then we will lock you in your own cellar, if you wish, and leave, so that the agents of the false minion will find you a victim as well."
Toede did not say that, were he in charge of Flotsam once again, he would burn the entire inn to the ground just as a safety precaution, regardless of the innkeep's guilt or innocence. No sense in making the poor human worry.
As it was, the human readily nodded, and Toede rattled off a list of supplies he would need. The human said he had them available and would go fetch them.
This readiness surprised Toede, who thought that some of his requests were for items that might take some time to collect, or might cause the innkeep to leave the building, allowing Toede and Groag to rifle his remaining stocks. It occurred to Toede that the innkeep might have his own reasons for sticking to the premises and keeping his building from burning to the ground. He filed that away for future reference.
Groag had recovered his breath and was kneeling over the body of their human assailant, who was still breathing shallowly, but steadily now. "He'll be coming around soon. You want me to kill him?"
"No," said Toede. "I have a better idea."
He retrieved the heavy dagger of the dead barbarian and thumbed the point. Razor sharp, as he had hoped.
Toede then kneeled over the prostrate form of the human and opened his shirt the rest of the way, baring both chest and belly. He used the knife to inscribe two lines in the flesh of the man's chest, not cutting deep enough to severe muscle or puncture organs, but sufficient enough to break and open the skin. The first line ran from nipple to nipple, while the second ran from the
center of where this line crossed the sternum to the belly button (an "outtie," he noted).
He stepped back to admire his handiwork and heard the heavy tread of the supply-laden innkeeper. The innkeep whistled low at the hobgoblin's artistry.
The assailant had a crimson T carved into his chest.
"He said he was a messenger, eh?" Toede said to Groag. "Let this be the message he carries back to his master."
To the innkeep he said, "You can make sure he doesn't bleed to death with one of your potions. That way he will be indebted to you for rescue instead of suspecting you of aiding us.
The innkeep nodded and said in a strained voice, "You should."
"I know," said Toede. "Now, what's the quickest way to the docks?"
Chapter 7
In which Our Protagonist demonstrates his skills in not making waves, reassuring his allies, and influencing those he encounters, and in which he benefits from the nature of Evil to hire from the shallow end of the genetic pool.
Flotsam Harbor was a wavy, smoked mirror reflecting a moonless sky. Looking into it, one could see the inverted
images of Kiri-Jolith and the other constellations, small diamonds glittering against its black luster. There was a light breeze coming off the bay, smelling slightly fetid from the wastes dumped into it earlier in the day by the city's denizens. The sour wind drove small ridgeline waves ahead of it. A half dozen ships rocked slowly at the docks. The bay was otherwise empty.
The water closest to the headland sent out different ripples as a pair of small bumps broke the water and dragged themselves onto the beach. They looked like sea lions, for they were cloaked in tight, dark coverings that enveloped their entire bodies.
Almost. The lead sea lion turned to his companion and hissed for him to bring the stuff along and not dawdle. The leader's most un-sea-lionish face hovered like a pale ghost against the blackness of his shiny clothes, and had there been any moon, would have reflected it back full-force. His companion sea lion grumbled and pulled a large, black satchel behind him.
"Come on, Groag, move it," said Toede.
Groag grunted and dragged the satchel fully onto the beach. The parcel, and the two hobgoblins for that matter, were wrapped in waterproof leathers. Each hobgoblin's outfit consisted of ankle-high slippers, leggings, mittens, and long-sleeved jackets with hoods. The jackets and leggings were for larger individuals, and the sleeves and legs bunched up on the hobgoblins' short limbs. The leathers came from the hide of seals and thanoi, and were said (by the/innkeeper) to have been specially treated to retain their^suppleness. The entire ensemble closed around the wrists, legs, and face with drawstrings made of cured leather. The manner of dress was something a gnome might think up, but actually came from a tribe of isolated fishermen far to the south, in Ice Mountain Bay. Toede had been hoping only for a waterproof bag made of the material, but was delighted that the innkeep (for reasons all his own) had the full suits available.
Toede filed away his temptation to have the Jetties burned to the ground at the first possible chance after regaining his throne. This innkeeper was too ingenious to leave without proper governmental supervision.
Groag sat on the parcel, breathing heavily as Toede began stripping off his oilskin to reveal somber clothes- undershorts and a dark shirt-underneath.
"Shake a leg," implored Toede, hopping on one foot as he shed a thanoi-flippered slipper. Groag nodded, but moved slowly, puffing as he pulled the oilskin tunic over his head. By that time, Toede was already unwrapping the parcel, his stubby fingers flying over the cords.
First he pulled out a burlap bag, dry despite its recent submergence, and pulled from it a brocaded vest and a set of proper ankle-length pants. Sturdily made for dwarven miners, the pants were a bit snug in the crotch but were otherwise suitable for a pair of hobgoblin invaders. A pair of boots transformed Toede the seal into Toede the…
Well, he looked like a miner or a merchant more than anything else. Nondescript, aside from being a hobgoblin.
But, unless there were a shapechange spell available, or perhaps an improve looks cantrip, it was the best Toede could do. As Groag was grunting into his own dry clothes, Toede draped the pendant and chain taken from his would-be assassin around his neck, allowing it to hang in front of his shirt.
Toede pulled a pair of short swords, four daggers (of the proper throwing variety), and a crossbow with a small bolt case from the oilskin parcel, then two small backpacks. One clinked ominously as he hefted it. This one he set carefully down on the beach. The other billowed a small cloud of black dust as he tossed it on the sand. Toede breathed through his mouth as he swatted at the cloud, dispersing it.
Groag was not paying sufficient attention and as a result sneezed and gasped. "How did you know about this way ar
ound the Rock Gate?"
Toede began stuffing the sealskin clothing, the parcel wrapping, the cords, and the long reeds they had used to breathe underwater into the burlap sack. "When I was highmaster of Flotsam," said Toede in a sharp whisper, "I thought about how one would best sneak in and murder me in my sleep. This was the most appealing route." He followed the sealskin garb with a couple good-sized rocks.
"You figured this out?" said Groag, handing over the last of his own oilskin clothing. "And you didn't do anything?"
"Of course I did something. I told everyone that I had stocked sharks in Flotsam Bay."
Groag's eyes went wide for a moment. "But if there are sharks…" Groag paused as Toede stared at him, waiting for him to catch on.
"Oh, you told everyone you had stocked sharks in the bay," Groag said, nodding.
Toede smiled, and if Solinari had been present in the sky, it would have reflected his sharp, lupine teeth. "Head up the embankment; I'll take care of this."
Groag started to climb the headland to the upper, inhabited reaches, while Toede hefted the sack. His shoulder was a little stiff, but otherwise none the worse from its earlier piercing. He swung the bag overhand once over his head and flung it twenty feet out into the bay.
The burlap bag filled with sealskin and stones disappeared immediately, leaving a concentric bull's-eye of ripples as the only marking of its passage. Toede smiled again.
That smile died on his thin lips as a large triangular dorsal fin, as tall as Toede himself, broke water, knifing a sharp wake behind it. It moved to the impact point of the burlap bag, then dove beneath the surface.
Toede rubbed his neck. "Hope you choke on it," he said, and quickly followed Groag up the slope.
The headland of Flotsam, known in those days as the "Rock," jutted from the southern shore like a poorly mounted incisor erupting from a dragon's jaw. Cliffs on the seaward side protected the land from the bulk of the Blood Sea storms. The peninsula was about five hundred feet across at the widest, and was the home of the wealthier merchants, more moneyed travelers, and, of course, the city rulers. The Rock was cut off from the rest of the city-the Lower City, more of a financial demarcation than true elevation-by a heavily garrisoned fortification across the neck of the peninsula. This barrier was known (imaginatively) as the Rock Wall, and broken only by the (equally imaginative) Rock Gate.
The first thing Toede noticed upon reaching the top of the cliff was that many of the original larger buildings had been converted to barracks. Brackets that once held tavern signs were now empty, flower boxes were absent, and lower windows were barred or boarded over. The wrought-iron furniture of outdoor cafes had disappeared. Instead, there was the emptiness of a parade ground at midnight, when all the soldiers are either at their posts or asleep.
Toede smiled. Obviously, once Gildentongue had convinced the local dragon highlords to leave the city in his care, he had to bring his own people in to keep the peace. New troops were to the hobgoblin's advantage, since none of them would likely remember the late, departed Lord Toede, either by face or deed.
The second thing the dearly-departed Toede noted was that things had been allowed to run down a little, to a degree surprising even by Toede's slovenly standards. Perhaps it was only memory, but it seemed that in bygone days, the Rock had been a cheerier place.
Toede puzzled a moment before he hit upon the reason. Yes, that was it. There were street lamps, large iron constructs into which bundles of tarred hay could be fitted and set alight. Yet most now stood empty, and only one in three had been lit. The lamps in the Lower City were all lit. Money troubles at the top, perhaps?
Beneath these sputtering iron-held fires, small groupings of men clustered and talked in low voices.
Toede smiled. The thing about humans was that they feared the dark because it hampered their vision. One more reason that human kingdoms would never stand in the face of determined hobgoblin assaults.
"Hsst," whispered Groag from a nearby shadow. "Guards!"
"I can see that," said Toede, in a perfectly normal voice. "Now come out of there."
A pause from the shadows.
Toede, trying to be patient, shoved his hands deep in his pockets and rocked slightly back on his heels. He did not look directly at Groag's shadows. "If they see you hiding, then they'll know you're up to something. If we walk right up to them, then their first thought is 'What do they want?' as opposed to 'What are they doing here?' " With that, Toede, affecting the quick, irritated stride of a man (or hobgoblin) with important business on his mind, approached the two guards.
Groag pulled himself from the alleyway and carefully followed, noting that Toede had not offered to lug either of the backpacks. Groag's nose was already running from the dusty contents of one, and he cursed as he toted them toward the retreating backside of the former highmaster of Flotsam.
The guards, three of them, were gathered around the base of the sputtering street lamp. No trouble was expected on the Rock, and Toede timed it so that he addressed them only at the last moment, when one of them finally noticed him.
"You men! Why are you shirking about like this?" He put iron into his voice, and two of the guards immediately pulled themselves upright in an automatic response before it was clear to them who, or rather what, they were being addressed by.
The one who looked up started to say, "See here, what do you-" But Toede was already ahead of him.
"It's very important that I meet with Lord Gilden-tongue immediately!"
The guard started to say again, "What do you-"
Toede interrupted again. "I haven't time for this foolishness. Haven't you heard the news? Toede is back!"
The three looked at him as the information sunk in. The first one shook his head and said, "Toede? You mean Highmaster Toede? But he's dead."
"Would that it were so," said Toede, reverently touching the disk of Holy Hopsloth that he wore. "I fear the menace was playing a cunning stratagem. And now he's come back, and Lord Gildentongue, indeed, all of Flotsam, is in grave danger."
"Mehbeh we should get the sargant," said one human, with a northern accent thick enough to be cut and sold in slices.
"Mehbeh we should," Toede shot back, aping the human's tone and accent. "Come on, now, let's shake a leg. Every moment lost is a moment of danger."
The first guard held his hands out. "Now hold a moment…" he began.
Toede crossed his arms, tapping his foot. By this time, Groag had come up alongside him. "Yes?"
"Who are you?" asked the guard, regaining his verbal footing.
"Who do I look like?" snarled Toede.
Silence, then, "Well, you look like a hobgoblin." The voice held just the first trace of suspicion.
"Ex-act-ly!" shouted Toede, pointing a finger at the guard. "And who better to track another hobgoblin? I've been following him for months, ever since Lord Gilden-tongue first suspected Toede survived his apparent-and obviously staged-death.
"It was brilliant, I'll admit," continued Toede, "particularly tricking the kender into thinking the dragon was their idea. Turns out the dragon was in on it from the start, and Toede drove the kender in its direction so as to appear roasted and breasted, going out in a blaze of glory and not leaving much in the way of evidence."
The three guards nodded sagely at the explanation, as if that were exactly the way they would have handled the situation.
"Now," said Toede, "where is Lord Gildentongue?"
Another silence. "He's in the city," the guard with the northern accent finally replied. "Went dahn earlier t'night. He's not back yet, I dawn't think."
Toede stifled a smile behind his knitted brow and stern jaw. "And this 'sargant' you mentioned is the highest ranking officer on the Rock?" Head nods all around. "Then take me to him at once. Unless… you'd rather explain your delay to Lord Gildentongue later."
That got them moving. The trio, more than happy to dump responsibility on someone of higher rank for the loud, obnoxious and apparently important crea
ture, formed an official escort for Toede and Groag to the sergeant's office.
As they crossed the streets, walking past darkened windows and a few other guard posts, Toede whispered to Groag, who was lumbering along beside him. "Were my guards this twitchy?"
"Twitchy?" came the nervous response. "Scared," said Toede. "I almost expected them to faint when I alluded to Gildentongue's orders. Were my guards this frightened of me when I wasn't present?"
A pause for three steps. "In general," said Groag in his delivering-bad-news voice, "no, they weren't." Only because they thought you a fool and a horse's behind of the first water, the small hobgoblin added silently to himself.
"Good," said Toede. "That means the guards won't question orders, and maybe the sergeant won't either."
As it turned out, the sergeant-at-arms was another low-level hack outside the circle of influence of the local ruler-ship. This much was obvious at first glance, for he was a nondescript functionary in chain mail of little better quality than that worn by the guards, and was seated in a dingy office that had once been the entry of a feasting hall. He had a stack of paper gathered on his desk, next to a candle guttering in its holder.
He was ideal for Toede's purposes. As soon as the guards opened the doors, Toede stepped in front of them, positioning himself opposite this worthy local authority.
"Your report on the Toede situation, Sergeant," snapped Toede, in a manner that suggested he had seen the officer only moments before.
The sergeant, rising from his desk, blinked twice. Then the cogs of his human brain finally found purchase, and he asked, "Who are you?"
Toede stared at him the way one human stares at another before imparting a great secret. Then he said in a stern voice, "The dragon flies at midnight." The sergeant again blinked twice. "What?" "I said, 'The dragon flies at midnight.' " Toede seated himself across from the sergeant, elbows resting on his knees. He held his hands out, palms upward, and motioned with his fingers. A response was expected. Groag hung as close to the door as possible between two of the guards.
