Lord Toede (6 page)

“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 looked pale, and Toede added, “That is a joke. We both know
your head would be a much more efficient battering ram. Lef s try another entrance.” It
was about a half mile to the Southeast Gate, and the pair took a wide swing that cut
across a number of fields. To the north, the wall continued in an unbroken line, and even
Toede had to admit that Gildentongue had done a fair job mobilizing the local population
to repair the old structure. When they at last came within sight of the Southeast Gate,
Toede turned to Groag and said, “Right, then. You try to walk in. Don't mention me or your
own name. If they give you any trouble, come right back. ”But what are you ... ?“ asked
Groag. ”I'll be making a contingency plan,“ said Toede sweetly, and walked off toward the
end of the caravan line, where an ox-drawn wain laden heavily with wheat waited its turn.
The farmer, a thin whipping pole in hand, was standing by the oxen's yoke. He was already
staring at the pair. The rest of the wagon crews were scrupulously ignoring the
hobgoblins. Toede bowed low, at the waist, to the farmer. The farmer smiled, the sun
catching the few remaining teeth in his mouth. Groag shrugged and padded off toward the
main gate. If anything, the second attempt went more poorly than the first, no doubt
because Groag lacked even Toede's skills of bluff and bluster. Specific mention was made
of what body parts Groag would lose if he ever darkened the gate again. A duly chastened
and threatened Groag quickly beetled to the back of the caravan line, only to find Toede
waiting there, in pleasant conversation with the human farmer. Toede looked over at Groag
and said brightly, ”In you go.“ He patted the side of the hay-laden cart. Groag stared at
Toede until the highmaster had to motion jerkily with his head. Groag climbed uneasily
into the wagon. Toede looked around to see if they were being observed, then followed.
Both hobgoblins burrowed into the wheat, and the farmer took his position up next to the
oxen. The wain smelled slightly of rot. The wheat was obviously the last of the winter
crop. There was a rustle of hay and a low whisper from Groag. ”What next?“ Toede hushed
him. There was a sharp crack of the whip on oxen backs, and the wagon began to creak
forward, the noise nearly drowning out conversation. ”The farmer recognized us, at least
as being part of the previous administration. More brains than teeth, that one.“ ”What?“
said Groag Toede snarled as quietly as possible. ”I told the farmer you were a former
“hob- gob” notable, seeking to visit your poor, sainted mother. That sob story, and the
promise of a pouch of coins, bought us this passage.“ The cart stopped, and both
hobgoblins fell silent. Then it rumbled forward again, and Toede resumed. ”Actually, I
think it was the promise of the coins that got us this far. It's nice to know some things
in Flotsam haven't changed. I was also gathering information. Apparently our regent,
Gildentongue, has set up some kind of church. What do you know of the Water Prophet?“
”Only the name,“ came the answer. Another stop. This time they heard an official voice
loudly questioning the farmer. The words were indistinct, but Toede and Groag both felt
the hay shift around them. Toede felt something definitely long and spearlike slide
against his leg. The guards were no fools. They were poking spears into the hay to look
for riders. The only question was if the guards were thinking in terms of human or
hobgoblin size. It appeared to be the former, since the wagon soon lurched onward. After
about twenty seconds or so, Toede said again, ”We should be clear, let's drop away.“ Groag
whined quietly, ”My bones ache. Can't we just ride a while?“ Toede whispered back, ”Of
course. Just remember that we promised the farmer a pouch of coins.

Why don't you pay the man? I seem to be fresh out.“ There was a silence, then. ”I see your
point. We should be off.“ The pair scrabbled their way to the back of the hay pile,
dropping as carefully as possible from the wagon, so as not to alert the drover. They were
aided by the murkiness that was part and parcel of Flotsam's existence, at least in the
lower city. There could be an army of dragon high-lords forty feet away, and no one would
notice. If anyone saw them (and there were several on the street who might have noticed a
hay wain extruding a pair of hobgoblins), they decided to keep it to themselves. That,
too, was the nature of Flotsam. As the pair scurried into the lengthening shadows of an
alleyway, Toede was laying out his makeshift plan. ”Right, from here on in, it should be
easy. We find Gildentongue and demand he hand the city back over to me. Threaten popular
revolt. Threaten to bring the dragon-armies back if we have to. You may have to take a
message to the highlord, but they should remember you. First we find Gildentongue.“ He
looked up and saw that Groag was staring down the alley. There was a crowd of people
standing there, their backs to the hobgoblins, watching something in the street beyond.
They were shouting, like fans at a cockfight. Toede frowned, and the pair stalked
carefully down the alley, picking their way among the debris and waste. Toede found a few
crates near the entrance, and climbing them raised the pair slightly above the human
heads, but close enough to the walls to remain unnoticed. The crowd lined both sides of
one of Flotsam's market streets, where normally there would be vendors' stalls and
merchants hawking their wares. Some sort of pageant or parade? thought Toede. The crowd
was in good voice, at least. Perhaps a public execution? Peering around the corner they
saw the cause of the excitement. A great, wagonlike bier thundered along on heavy, solid
wood wheels. Twenty strong men and ogres, naked to the waist, sweated and strained against
anchor-cable-sized ropes to lug it forward. Atop the bier was a whip-master and some gent
in priest garb that Toede had never seen before. And Hopsloth and Gildentongue. ”Somehow I
don't think finding Gildentongue is going to be the problem,“ said Groag quietly. The
draconian caught Toede's eyes first, his scales glittering like ancient coins in the
westering sun. His head was like that of a human-sized dragon, all spikes and whiskers and
teeth, with red, cunning eyes. Most of his body was wrapped in garb similar to that worn
by the priest, but of obviously finer cut and fabric: a brocaded undergarment covered by a
crimson apron running from neck to ankles, bound by a sash of woven gold. Gilden-tongue's
thin, clawlike arms were free, and he was motion- ing to the crowd, acknowledging their
adoration, and touching the medallion around his own neck. Hopsloth occupied the bulk of
the bier and accounted for the majority of the weight. He was a huge, hulking abomination,
more frog than dragon, save for thin wings situated a third of the way down his back. And
his eyes. Hopsloth had dragon eyes, the type of eyes in which was revealed a malicious,
independent intelligence. Hopsloth looked miserable, Toede thought. He hated anything dry,
and those sea breezes that reached this far inland couldn't be enough to comfort his
brooding hulk. They were within earshot now, and the voice of the gent in priest's garb
could be heardragged and ravaged from trying to outshout a multitude. ”Cheer, O Flotsam!“
he bellowed. ”Cheer in honor of the great Regent Gildentongue, First Minion and High
Priest of the Faith of the Water Prophet Holy Hopsloth. All hail to their wise and
wondrous rule!“ The words all ran together in a chanted litany. ”Hopsloth?“ said Groag, a
chuckle catching in his voice. ”Hopsloth is this Water Prophet?“ ”A front for
Gildentongue's takeover.“ Toede nodded sagely. ”More than I expected from a draconian. And
I'm disappointed in Hopsloth. But let's see how they react when the real Lord of Flotsam
appears!" Toede would have jumped down from his perch and pushed his way through the
crowd, were it not

for a sudden cobblestone sailing through the air, striking the chanting human priest full
in the face. The human dropped to his knees, his face a mask of blood, spitting teeth.
“False prophet!” came the shout with the rock. “False god!” Toede froze. “Trouble in
paradise,” he noted quietly.

Gildentongue was not taken aback by this in the least. “Let the accuser step forward and
show himself.” The rock-thrower did nothing of the kind, but the other Flotsam citizens
gladly stepped back to reveal him. He was a tall, beet-faced man, and Toede wondered how
much of the bravery in his blood had been fueled by grog. Groag gurgled next to Toede, “I
know that one. Used to be your cook.” Toede nodded as if he had recognized the human as
well.“ His eyes darted from the human attacker to Gildentongue and back again. ”Step
forward,“ said the draconian, his voice cold and level. The human remained immobile, his
eyes staring at the stones before the bier. ”False prophet,“ he said, more quietly this
time. ”Step forward,“ repeated Gildentongue. ”Look at the face of the true prophets.“ The
human remained in place, eyes down. ”Look at us!“ Gildentongue bellowed, and raised his
hands. Twin balls of greenish flame erupted from his clawed paws and exploded, one to
either side of the human. The human looked up suddenly, staring the draconian full in the
face, and froze again, like an insect caught in ice or amber. ”Step forward,“ said
Gildentongue. The human began a slow, lurching walk forward, as if his legs were newly
made and as yet untried. His face, still locked with Gildentongue's gaze, contorted in
pain. ”Kneel,“ said Gildentongue calmly. The human swayed, then dropped to his knees on
the pavement, hard. ”Bow,“ said Gildentongue. ”Touch your head to the pavement in honor of
the Water Prophet.“ The human dipped forward and rapped his head, hard, against the
pavement before the bier. Next to Toede, Groag winced. ”Again,“ said Gildentongue. The
human dipped again, and a sharper rap resounded along the parade route. No one shouted
now; no one breathed. ”Again,“ said Gildentongue ”Faster.“ This time the human bobbed
forward, and there was the sound of something breaking as he slammed his head against the
pavement. Then back, and forward again, bashing his face into the blood-colored spot
forming before him. By the sixth repetition, the human's face was a bleeding smear. By the
twelfth, it was an unrecognizable slab of red meat. After the twenty-first repetition, the
man slammed his head against the pavement and lifted it only a few inches above the street
before striking the ground again as his entire body collapsed. ”Such is the fate of those
who doubt the Water Prophet,“ proclaimed Gildentongue. He nodded to the whip master, who
snapped his instrument over the backs of the slaves. With a grunting groan, they resumed
their tugging. The bier rolled over the bloody human, one wheel crunching a leg in the
process. The crowd shouted, though to Toede's ears their enthusiasm sounded a little more
strained than before. Then they surged forward after Hopsloth's passing, the first ones
thinking of looting the body, the ones farther back of looting the looters. Toede leaned
against the wall. Gildentongue was flashier than the highmaster had remembered him, and
crueler as well. But just as short-tempered, it seems. Toede looked over at his companion.
Groag was paler than normal, almost a greenish shade, and his hands shook slightly as he
brushed the hair out of his face. ”Any thoughts?“ asked Toede. ”I think,“ said Groag in a
wavering voice, ”that this is not going to be as easy as you think."

“I think,” said Toede with a scowl, “you may be right.”

In which Our Protagonist realizes that his reputation and social status has slipped
downward, considers the nature of life, and demands to be taken seriously. By the time
dusk claimed Flotsam fully, and the small lamp urchins scurried from light post to light
post with their long-handled wicks, Toede and Groag had retreated to the common room of a
rundown inn near the south wall. The inn was called the Jetties and had seen better days,
none of them, Toede wagered, during his lifetime. The exterior stairs and porch were
rotting away, and the walls were dirty stone, the grit of the city only barely covering
scrawled graffiti. The interior was little better, the lathe and plaster walls pitted from
numerous brawls. The graffiti artists had moved inside as well, and switched from paint to
knives, incising new designs on the dusty woodwork. Still, the owner, a wide,
battle-scarred gentleman, had not spit at them when they asked about rooms. That alone put
this dive leagues ahead of the last three places they had stopped. Apparently Gildentongue
had issued some decree that this was an acceptable mode of treating non-humans, at least
when addressing anyone who looked like Toede. it was abundantly clear that Gildentongue
held the city in the grip of fear. If the protester at the parade was any indication, the
choices were death or belief in Holy Hop-sloth, the Water Prophet. The Water Prophet.
Toede rolled the name around in his mouth as if it were a wafer made of hard salt. He had
pieced together the entire story from a few people on the streetat least those who would
talk to them. There were three types of humans in Flotsam nowadays. First and foremost
were those who would flee when Toede approached, as if he carried a blood-drenched dagger
and wore nothing more than a lunatic grin. From these he got nothing. Several seemed to
recognize him, and fled all the faster, clutching their small medallions as they scurried
off. The second group of humans were even more insulting. They treated both Toede and
Groag as if the two had been recipients of a sudden spell of invisibility cast by a
slightly demented wizard. Their eyes seemed to lock on something slightly to the right or
left of the hobgoblins, and they breezed past, oblivious to their existence. Toede tried
to commit their faces to memory for eventual revenge, but had to abandon this idea after
the dozenth such incident. Not to mention, to a hobgoblin all humans look alike. But there
were a few in the city who would dare being seen talking to a hobgoblin. These were
beggars, sailors, layabouts, and similar dredges, along with a handful of nonhuman
servants who were working toting bales and sweeping streets. They would talk to anyone.
Indeed, a few seemed to be talking to themselves when Toede joined their conversations. A
one-eyed goblin servant with a straw broom told him that the story of Lord Toede's death
had swept through the city like a smoldering fire in dead, wet brushslowly jumping from
bard to bard, and from bar to bar, met with toasts and small smiles. An ogre that was
carrying rusted metal to the dock told him that at first the tale was disbelieved. People
thought it part of some plot of the highmaster's to draw out dissent. When a week passed
without Toede's reappearance, all assumed that, whatever the cause, Toede was gone. A
woman who looked half sea elf told him about the carnival that followed, a week-long
celebration that ended in a series of bloody confrontations between the townies and the
local detachment of the dragonarmy. It was then that Gildentongue, Toede's “faithful”
liaison with the highlord armies,

stepped forward to calm the troubled waters and announce his own revelations. A street
preacher said Gildentongue revealed that Hop-sloth, a unique and divine creature, had been
sent by the True Gods to lead Flotsam to greatness. Toede had been Hopsloth's first
student and minion but grew greedy, and sought to keep that power and wisdom for himself.
Gildentongue, being sensitive to the true nature of Hop-sloth the Water Prophet, shared
this revelation with all, and had proved to work wonders for the city in the few months of
his reign. Gildentongue had made good his promise, acting as the Second Minion (the late,
unlamented Toede being the first) of the Holy Hopsloth. The city wall was rebuilt, said
one beggar. The nonhuman trash of hobgoblins and kender that roamed the streets was
exiled, said another. The green dragons and their riders were sent inland to a new base,
and Gildentongue's Flotsam was granted a degree of autonomy, said another. About this time
the medallions appeared. Holy Hopsloth had cured the sick. Holy Hopsloth drove the sharks
from Flotsam Harbor. Holy Hopsloth was an agent of the were- insects from Nuitari. Toede
took it all in, discounting the bulk of it. Hopsloth was about as bright as a bag of
lampreys and incapable of communicating any advanced theology beyond a desire for his next
meal. The former highmaster originally thought he had been given the beast as a joke, a
satire of the highlords' own elegant dragon mounts. For Hopsloth was no more a servant of
the greater gods than Toede was king of the kender. No, Toede thought, Gildentongue has
proved himself as politically astute and slime-ridden as ever. Gildentongue would have had
a hard time following Toede's illustrious (if apparently misunderstood) reign. So the
draconian borrowed a page from before the war and set up his own church, of which he was
the mere spokesman. Give the people a few bones and musty miracles, and you're set for
life. The pair of hobgoblins had shuffled from inn to inn looking for quarters, or at
least recognition, until they had reached the Jetties. Now Toede surveyed the room. A
drunken barbarian sprawled on a nearby bench, snoring softly. A trio of domino players
lazily laid down their tiles with occasional clicks. An old man with a pipe was immersed
in a musty tome. A few sailors chatted and lied over drinks. A hooded priest in a
voluminous, ragged robe, worshiper of some abandoned god, was propped against a far wall.
The serving girl had vanished soon after the hobgoblins' arrival, and had not reappeared
since. And lastly Toede and Groag, a pair of ragged, ratty-looking hobgoblins with no
appearance of nobility, or even adequacy. Toede sighed. The good news was that it was
unlikely to get any worse. The bad news was it was at the moment unlikely to get any
better. The smaller hobgoblin had vanished fifteen minutes earlier, abandoning Toede to
the cold stares of the other patrons and his own dark thoughts. Toede had wrapped himself
up in his tattered cloak and sulked. If sulking had a sound, it could be said that he was
sulking loudly, but as it was a (mostly) silent practice, the only noise being the
crinkling of his forehead skin, that dry flesh crinkled more tightly. Groag brought a pair
of ales to the table, smiling. “Where did you get those?” said Toede sharply. “Comes with
the room,” said Groag, clambering up onto the bench across from the former highmaster.
Neither hobgoblin's legs touched the floor, but Groag swung his back and forth, while
Toede's limbs hung motionless like pieces of dead meat. “Ah, so we caught the tavernmaster
on 'leave-your-brains-at-the-door day,' ” sneered Toede, “or have you forgotten that we
have no money?” Groag gave that kenderish shrug again. Toede wished his companion would
lose that habit and lose it quickly. “I... ah ... have taken care of that, Highmaster,”
said Groag. “I showed the master of this house that I was not at a total loss in the
kitchen, and he offered a trade of services for quarters.” “What you're saying,” said
Toede, “is that you got a job.” Groag looked hurt. “Well, if you're going to get technical
about it...” Toede took a pull on the ale, which slid down his throat like hot grease. His
last meal (lizard tartare)

had been before they had entered the city, and the liquid splashed on an empty stomach. He
ran a pointed finger over the puddle left by the mug's sweat. Groag sighed, bracing
himself for another hobgoblinish blowup. Instead Toede sighed and said, “Do you remember
the old days, Groag? Before the coming of the dragon high-lords?”

“I remember them being cold and unpleasant,” said Groag flatly. “Bracing,” corrected
Toede, “and challenging.” “Violent,” said Groag, “and primitive.” “Exciting,” replied
Toede, the ale warming him now, “and dynamic.” “Deadly,” said Groag. “Nasty. Bloody.”

“Untamed,” said Toede. “Primal. Challenging.” “You already said challenging.” “It deserves
to be said again,” said Toede, slamming the now-empty mug down on the table with a hollow
metallic clang. “It was a challenge. What happened to us as a people, that we have been
reduced to serving as lackeys for other races, used as dragon-fodder for battles, banned
even from proper cities now? What happened, I ask you?” Groag was silent for a moment and
swirled the ale in his mug without drinking it. At length he said, “Perhaps what happened
was ... you.” Toede looked long and hard at Groag. The smaller hobgoblin continued to
surprise him at every turn. Meekly accepting kender masters, learning to cook, getting a
job, and now this. It seemed to Toede that at any moment Groag would grow wings and fly
away. As it was, all he could grunt out was a surprised, “Eh?” Groag leaned forward, as if
to tell Toede a mighty secret. “Not you in particular. You in general. A lot of chiefs,
shamans, petty ogre lords, and the rest joined up with the dragonarmies, coming out of the
cold wilderness and discovering that fireplaces and cooked meat had a lot to recommend
them.” “Of course, the thinkers, that would be you,” Groag went on, “and me, kept
themselves from the battlefield and let the warriors go out and fight. And die. Those that
survived would have been great warriors indeed, but the masters we served used our forces
as soak-offs. Throw-away troops. Units to keep the opponents' wizards busy while the real
troops mopped up their throwaway troops.” Groag sighed and continued. “So our best, most
savage warriors were thrown into a meat grinder. Those of us who talked them into it got
soft, and those that went the furthestyou, me, your honor guardgot soft faster than the
rest.” Groag, with a small smile, sat back. “Then we found out that the same bloody
backstabbing rules applied in the cities as in our own corner of the world. But we found
it out after everything fell apart on us.” He took a long, satisfied pull on the mug.
“Another?” Toede grunted as his companion pushed himself off the bench, weaving his way to
the back. Toede thought of asking for something more filling, but let the thought slip
away. He scanned the room again, a habit ingrained in him back in the “dark old times”
Groag talked of. The common room remained the sleepy paragon of an inn that had seen
better times. The old sage had fallen asleep; his pipe had gone out, sliding into the
front of his robes. When Groag returned with another pair of foaming mugs, Toede took a
long pull on his drink and felt the warmth flow into his fingers and toes. He looked at
Groag and asked, “Since when did you get so smart?” “Not smart, Highmaster,” said Groag
with a small smile. “A-dap-tive. When I was in the old tribe, I worked with the old ways.
When I joined up with you in your court, I adapted to the new ways. When I was caught by
the kender, I picked up their ways. Now I'm back with you.” Again the shrug. “The good
news is that while we were out playing human games, our wilder, more savage cousins were
breeding hardier warriors, so at least there's hope for the race, if not for us.” Toede
was silent for a moment, feeling the blood rush through his temples like rampaging
dragons. “That's the answer, of course.” “Eh?” Groag looked confused.

“Our wild brothers,” said Toede. “We go back into the wild and gather a horde of them and
lead them back here. Take the town by force. Gildentongue will never give it up. Abyss and
Takhisis, he won't even find out that I'm in the city. Nobody recognizes me, and his
guards won't even let me get close!” “Easy, milord, you're shouting,” cautioned Groag.
“And I should shout!” bellowed Toede, standing up on his bench. “I expect people to pay
attention, to realize who they're dealing with! I am not some 'minion' of a fake god, in
whose name one should paw one's collarbone in reverence!” All heads in the common room
turned to watch the commotion. The sage snorted and blinked up from his book. The dominos
stopped, and the hooded priest rose from his seat, stopping briefly by the sleeping
barbarian. The innkeeper poked his head into the room and frowned. Groag smiled weakly at
his new employer and grabbed at Toede's robe. It was like trying to close the door on a
hurricane, and about as effectual. “Citizens of Flotsam!” cried Toede, stepping onto the
table itself and elevating himself to human level. “I have returned to my city to find it
laboring under delusions of my death! Delusions that have been put in place by a false
prophet and his draconian manipulator! Tell the world that Lord Toede is back, and demands
that someone pay attention!” There was a silence in the room as all froze. Then one of the
domino players nudged his companion, and the companion laid down another tile. The sage
fished his pipe out of his shirt front and returned to his book. The others returned to
their aforementioned drinks. Toede's face flushed an almost-human shade of pink. “Do you
not hear me?” he shouted. “I am Toede, your rightful ruler! Let us storm the gates and
bring down the false lord Gildentongue! Spread the word that Toede has returned!” Again
silence. Then the reprise of clacking dominos and normal conversations. “Toede's
complexion darkened to a still-redder shade, ”Doesn't anyone care? Isn't anyone
listening?“ he bellowed. The silence following Toede's shout was broken by a sharp twang,
then Toede's left shoulder exploded in pain. The highmaster clutched his arm and found
that a smooth, feathered cylinder protruded from midway in the upper arm. From where the
cylinder met his flesh, a growing smear of blood stained his ragged robe. A crossbow bolt,
said one part of his mind. You've fallen to your knees, said another part. Someone is
talking to you, said a third; you'd best pay attention. ”Hobgoblin,“ said the hooded
priest, dropping the spent crossbow and pulling a sword, ”I hereby arrest you in the name
of Lord Gildentongue and Holy Hopsloth the Water Prophet, blessed be their names. You are
charged with insurrection, heresy, blasphemy, and“the human smiled at this ”imitating the
First Minion, the departed Lord Toede. You are guilty of all these crimes. The sen- tence
is death.“ Toede heard Groag say, in a voice that seemed to be at the far end of a tunnel,
”Of all the times for someone to listen to you."