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 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.