Lord Toede (8 page)

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
shirtunderneath.

“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 around 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 citythe Lower City, more of a financial demarcation than true
elevationby 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 apparentand obviously
stageddeath. “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 creature, 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. “Is this
some sort of game?” asked the sergeant, Toede slapped his knees, hard. “If only it were!”
he shouted, jumping to his feet. “I have information to give, and they seem to have left
an idiotsorry, I'm sorry, it's not really your faultbehind who doesn't know the password.”
“Password?” “Password. The response to 'The dragon flies at midnight.' Quickly now, where
is Gildentongue?” “He left for the city, er, the Lower City, an hour or so ago. Took the
captain with him. There was some sort of disturbance....” “At the Jetties, yes, what do
you know of it?” “Only that there seemed to be some sort of trouble,” said the sergeant.
“Trouble?” howled Toede. “Istar finding itself the bull's-eye for a cosmic game of darts
is trouble. Waking up to find a medusa in your bed is trouble! Toede is back, and more
dangerous than ever! That is not trouble, that spells disaster!” “Toede?” said the
sergeant, wondering just when he lost complete and utter control of the conversation.
“Wasn't he the bumbler Lord Gildentongue replaced?” Toede almost tripped over his tongue
in his desire to defend his good name, but restrained himself. “A careful ruse he
manifested. He is a being of great and subtle power. That's why he was made highmaster in
the first place. He is most displeased with the fact that Gilden-tongue has apparently
seized power from Hopsloth the Water Prophet.” Toede again touched the disk hanging around
his neck. “He destroyed an entire unit of city guards in the common room of the Jetties
this very eve- ning. 'Toede has great wizard's skills! He transforms himself at will into
a fiend from the pits, with great bloody spurs on his elbows and knees. He chewed through
those men like... like...” A brief silence fell on the room as all (even Groag) imagined
the battle-frenzied Toede-fiend tossing men around like rag dolls. Then Toede looked up
from his reverie, adding, “Tell me that at least you've sealed the city.” “Well, I have
not received ...” began the sergeant. “Dark Lady in a festhall!” bellowed Toede. “Do you
want to die in your sleep tonight? No, sorry, it's not your fault Gildentongue doesn't
trust anyone. Auraks are typically paranoid, but this is not a time for caution. Is Lord
Gildentongue living at my ... er ... the large manor house?” “Aye, with the Holy
Hopsloth.” The sergeant touched his own disk at this point. “Good, I'll wait for him
there. I want you to alert the full complement. Get as many men as you can to the main
gates and posted on the perimeter wall. Toede may have an army out there, for all we know.
Triple the guard on the gates to the Rock and the docks. Send a runner to the Jetties to
fetch Lord Gildentongue. Am I clear?” The sergeant shook his head. “By what authority do
you...” Toede stomped his foot. “By Lord Gildentongue's authority! If my actions are
inappropriate, I will take full responsibility.” Toede saw by the way the human's face
relaxed that he had struck the correct chord. Denying personal responsibility was almost
as attractive to humans as it was to hobgoblins. The sergeant nodded, motioning to two of
the guards. “Escort these two to the Manor.” He pointed at the guard who spoke with the
northern accent. “You go down to the inn called the Jetties,” he barked. “Tell Lord
Gildentongue ... what?” He turned to Toede. “Tell him”and Toede could not help but
suppress a smile at this“tell him an old friend wishes to discuss an old enemy. At his
home and at a time of his convenience.” The sergeant nodded, and the guard vaporized into
the darkness. Toede chuckled inwardly. That should bring the damned lizard running, he
thought.