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 motioning 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 heard-ragged 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."