'I suppose so,' muttered Groag.
'And the rock upon which it rests has not been washed out to sea?'
Groag shot back, 'I do not know, O Wise Highmaster. Perhaps the next time I get captured, I'll arrange in advance for a bard to visit with the current claque?' Groag's face tensed for a moment, then returned to its normal befuddled state. 'I mean… Milord, you must understand if I am not fully up to date.'
Toede smiled, and for once it was not a wicked smile. It was the first indication of spine Groag had shown since Toede encountered him in the kender encampment. Toede was afraid his companion had been swept away by a world of goose-cooking and poetry. Groag seemed to be regaining his old manner, now that he was restored to basking in Toede's illustrious presence.
Well enough. If Gildentongue proved unwilling to step aside, Toede might need someone with the fortitude to jam a knife between the draconian's ribs. At the moment, until he could gauge his own popular support, Toede had an army of one, and that one-Groag-had to suit.
Groag returned the smile uneasily, as if he were unsure whether the highmaster was laughing with him or at him. When no immediate rebuff came from his superior, Groag relaxed.
Toede looked out at his city, still stench-ridden but wrapped behind a new cloak of stone. Even so, he was home.
'Well, there's nothing for it, then,' he said. 'Let's go tell Gildentongue that his master has returned.'
Wrapped about a deep-water harbor on the western shore of Blood Bay, Flotsam was so named for its red- tinged beaches and proximity to the larger (and more crimson-tinged) Blood Sea. The original city was built from the ruins of Istar (and other pre-Cataclysm sites now covered by the scarlet ocean) that had washed up on the new shoreline. The city's name reflected both the original junk used to make the houses and the nature of its population: a collection of drifters, refugees, would-be warriors, fleeing fighters, leaderless mercenaries, merchants, corsairs, and all manner of middlemen.
The great majority of the city evinced a hodgepodge of styles slapped together with whatever construction supplies were available at the moment. The most noticeable exception was the eastern part of the town, where a rugged headland jutted into the sea, forming the safe barrier of Flotsam Harbor. Here on 'The Rock' were the most beautiful homes, the finest inns, the best taverns, and of course, raised just a little above all the others, the resplendent manor of Highmaster Toede himself.
During the war Flotsam had proved a haven for rebels and dragon highlords alike, under the supposedly ever-watchful eye of Highmaster Toede. Until the day of his disastrous hunt, Toede had ruled with a combination of carrot and stick, offering benefits to those who abided by his rule of law, and punishment to those who did not. All the players quickly learned what could and could not be done within Toede's city. Trade caravans from the inland territories made Flotsam their terminus for Blood Sea cities, and the city attracted those men and women looking for easy coins. Toede's court was full of them: sycophants and inventors and adventurers with all manner of honeyed words and magical maps and wonderful ideas.
In short, individuals who made Groag look like a pillar of wisdom and strength.
Except Gildentongue. He had always been a tricky one, Toede reflected, even then. Always dealing with the dragonarmies and the highlords. Always playing politics. And subtle, always subtle, such that Toede could never pin anything underhanded or treacherous on him. Toede mused about how Gildentongue ought to resign-on bended knee or with a flurry of blades.
The surrender approach would be much preferred, he reflected. He pictured himself striding into his reception hall, with Gildentongue sitting there, signing some meaningless proclamation. The pen would fall like a lead weight from Gildentongue's hand, and the draconian's scaled face would react first with shock, then anger as the consequences of his misrule sank into his reptilian brain. Reaching for a handy halberd and uttering a great curse, Toede's unworthy successor might try to charge him. Gildentongue would take all of three steps before he was cut down by the loyal guardsmen, who would then drop as one on bended knee before their master: Toede, Earl of Flotsam.
No, that's not right, thought Toede. Gildentongue should by rights be kept alive-if barely. Gildentongue was of the Aurak race, and dying draconians had a nasty habit of exploding. Yes, Gildentongue would be allowed to survive, and Toede would order the manor guards to perform a few experiments on the traitorous and falsehearted courtier. And chefs. Let's not forget the manor chefs.
Toede giggled at the thought. Groag shot him a sharp look, but seeing that the highmaster's eyes were not entirely focused, decided he was not the subject of Toede's musing. The highmaster sighed with relief as they passed the short line of caravan wagons awaiting inspection and entry to the city of Flotsam.
Or tried to, at least. The guards were letting foot traffic pass unimpeded through a smaller door alongside the main gate. When the two hobgoblins tried to enter, however, each of the flanking guards dropped his spear low, barring their path.
'And where are you going, Frog-face?' said the one on the right.
Toede looked up, surprised by this mode of address. The guard was human, of course, and had that gritty, unwashed nature that seemed an unwritten requisite for those humans in the service of Takhisis. Both the speaker and his companion were totally unfamiliar to Toede. Nothing unusual, since turnover was always high in the highmaster's service, but this one Toede would have remembered. The guard had a scar running down the front of his face, from above the right temple across the nose. The puckered line ended in an explosion of infected acne and scars on his left cheek. It looked as if someone had tried to carve a comet on his face. His eyes were cold and lusterless.
Toede returned the glare, feeling his own face flush with irritation. 'I have business within,' he said flatly, trying to brush aside the spears. The obstructing weapons held steady in front of him.
'Not here you don't, Hob-gob,' snarled Comet-face.
'Since when is Flotsam a closed city?' Toede pulled himself up to his full height and tried to stare down the guard. In his full regalia, mounted on Hopsloth-back, and backed by a unit of handpicked warriors, he was usually effective. Backed only by Groag, and the pair of them dressed in ragged, badly cut cloaks, the effect was severely lessened.
'Only closed to your kind,' snapped the guard. 'Unless you got special permission, by the regent and the will of the Water Prophet.' Toede noticed that the other guard, the silent one, touched a small disk hanging from his neck at the mention of the Water Prophet's name. 'So sod off, Shorty.'
'Excuse me a moment,' said Toede to Comet-face. He wheeled about, looking for Groag. His companion had already fallen back a few paces. 'Water Prophet? What is all this about?' hissed the highmaster.
'I don't know,' said Groag, looking honestly confused. 'I've been out of the swim for a few months, remember? Likely this Water Prophet is the cult-thingie the kender mentioned.'
Toede turned back to the guard and saw that the spears had moved from blocking their entrance to pointing directly at his chest. Toede's eyes went to small slits, and he touched the tip of the spear, showing little fear of the weapon. 'It has been a long journey for me, human, and I'll be the first to admit I don't look my best at the moment, but do you have the slightest inkling in your crenelated brain whom you are speaking with?' He attempted to push the spear aside, but the weapon did not budge even a fraction of an inch.
Toede now scowled and locked eyes with Comet-face. 'I am Highmaster Toede, Ruler of Flotsam and Master of the great Amphidragon Hopsloth! Let me pass, or I'll have you keelhauled beneath the docks!'
At last he got a reaction. The silent guard gave a sharp intake of breath and grabbed the little disk. Comet- face, on the other hand, brightened visibly at this revelation.
'Is that so,' he replied, smiling. 'Well, ain't that coincidental, since I'm really Sturm Brightblade. I just sent my armor out to be cleaned. Now get back to your lairs, Hob-gobs!'
Comet-face punctuated his sentence with a sharp jab of his spear. Toede backpedaled a few paces. Comet- face advanced again, spear lowered and shouting epithets. Toede heard faint footfalls behind him, growing softer by the second, and knew that his army of one was retreating. Summoning what dignity he could manage, Toede wheeled about, shouting, 'I will remember you, when I drag you out for judgment!'
The only answer was laughter aimed at Toede's back.
Groag was waiting for him behind the last wagon, out of sight of the guards. 'Some help you were,' grumbled Toede.
'What now?' muttered Groag.
'We wait for nightfall, then you chew through the closed gates with your teeth,' answered Toede. Groag
