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 shirt-underneath.

"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 city-the Lower City, more of a financial demarcation than true elevation-by 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?