There was a low table in the pavilion, and several humans were seated around it, addressing a small, hobgoblin figure. The humans were strangers, but the hobgoblin highmaster couldn't help an astonished smile as he recognized the smaller being's voice.

"I can't believe you failed to pack enough food," said Groag, in his very high, grumpy voice.

"And we can't believe you would let so obvious an omission escape your notice," said a voice, nasal, nasty and decidedly human.

"Ah. We did hire you, and, ah," said another of the humans, in a droning, sonorous, almost bored tone, "we thought you'd know best. Double-check our plans and all that."

"You hired me as a cook," said Groag, stomping a foot on the hard-packed dirt floor. "I cook the food. That doesn't mean I catch the food. For that you should have brought along a… a…"

"Foodcatcher," said Toede, walking into the tent.

"Right, a foo-" and Groag wheeled to look at the grimy, mud-spattered, torn and worn form of Highmaster Toede. "Ooooo," he said, his piggy little eyes rolling up in his head.

A few seconds later, the older, sonorous human said, "Ah. Does he always, ah, faint like that?"

"Only at reunions," Toede responded, smiling.

In which the nature of scholarly research in Ansalon is examined, Our Protagonist and his former servant compare notes and rate the merits of an early departure, and Charka returns, which the reader undoubtedly suspected would happen.

Groag awoke, his head spinning, in his small expedition tent. The pressure had finally got to him, he thought, the stress, the responsibility for feeding this lot of human apes. He had heard of such things, individuals seeing voices or spirits or…

Toede looked up from his seat across the tent and locked eyes with his former lackey.

To his credit, Groag did not faint again, but his throat tightened. "You're alive," he choked out.

"That should no longer be such a great surprise at this point," said Toede, lacing his fingers and leaning back on Groag's bedroll. "Paradise does not want me, and the Abyss is afraid I'll take over. The amazing thing is that you're alive. The last time I saw you, you were sprawled and smoking at Gildentongue's feet, if his flambeed form had feet, that is. What happened?"

Groag sighed and tried to explain, his voice slow at first, but picking up speed and surety as he went. "It was a near thing. About the time Gildentongue was smashing down your door, a mob from the Rock was smashing down the main entrance. This mob consisted of guards, concerned natives, the sergeant-at-arms, the captain, and some visitors who had audiences scheduled with Gilden-tongue the next day. They found me, burned pretty badly, inside the charnel house that had been Gildentongue's lair."

"I'm surprised that anyone in that town would care to aid an ignited hobgoblin," growled Toede.

"Well, to be exact, they didn't," said Groag, raising his eyebrows in an expression of sad bewilderment. "It was the visitors-a group of scholars from the west, looking for permits and collecting supplies for their investigation of folklore and legends in the area. A group of lesser sages, and librarians under private sponsorship."

"That wouldn't be this lot?" said Toede, motioning to the entrance of the tent at the greater world beyond, where the scribblers and scriveners had finally abandoned their work to the darkness.

Groag nodded. "They were quite decent. They rescued me and took care of me, using their own potions and poultices to bring me around. Of course, by this time, most of the seaward side of your manor had burned and collapsed, and they found Hopsloth."

"Parboiled, I hope," muttered Toede.

Again the eyebrows raised, pinched in the center. "Happy and healthy. By the time I regained consciousness, his story was on everybody's lips. You never said the creature could talk."

It was Toede's turn to shrug. "I, myself, learn new things each and every day."

"Well, he talks," added Groag. "And spins a mean tale through his own spokeshumans. Gildentongue had kept him in squalor, he said, intending to tyrannize Flotsam. He had prayed to the Dark Gods for your return, and you were sent by Takhisis herself to restore rightful order. Unfortunately, you died locked in mortal combat with Gildentongue, and the pair of you were immolated by the draconian's final destruction. Freed of such traitorous minions, Hopsloth could now take rightful control of the city. It all sounded like something you might have dreamed up, had you lived, but the idea of Hopsloth in charge made me very nervous, so I promised these scholars my assistance in the field for a while."

"The question is," asked Toede, "what are you and (by connection) they doing here? You undoubtedly realize you are on the borders of a gnoll-inhabited marsh accompanying a group with the common sense of a troop of kender?"

Again the pinched eyebrows. Toede decided that this (new) trademark gesture was Groag's alternative to the kenderish shrug he had adopted the last time Toede was alive. Toede thought to change his line of questioning. 'This time, how long was I…"

"Dead or missing?" said Groag. "Again, about six months, give or take a couple days. As to what the scholars are doing, well, how much do you know about ogres?"

"Ogres?" asked Toede, mildly surprised by the sudden change of subject. "Nasty, filthy brutes. Make gnolls look positively angelic. At least the gnolls wash their muzzles after biting the heads off kobolds."

"Right," replied Groag. "Well, the idea these scholars have is that the ogres weren't always like that. That they were once a more noble, gentle, and good race that was twisted by some foul magic or catastrophe. They believe that this area was once the home of these proto-ogres, and these stone markers were their handiwork. Work's been slow, since only Bunniswot has a handle on the proto-ogre language. Everyone else has been copying carvings, making rubbings of the stones, and minor excavations, but Bunniswot is the mastermind of the operation."

"Ogres serving the cause of good," sniffed Toede. "What a load of gorgon patties! This Bunnysnot is the older gentlemen with the sonorous voice?"

"No, that's the chief scholar, Renders," corrected Groag.

"Bunniswot is the other one, the one with the fiery red hair."

"Talks through his nostrils," said Toede. "Seems fairly unpleasant. Since he's the only one irreplaceable here, have you thought of gutting him in his sleep and just going home?"

"That would be unkind," said Groag, and Toede was surprised to see that he was sincere. "As well as unnecessary. Renders keeps Bunniswot on a short leash. Besides, I don't think the human ever sleeps. He's in the field all day, and works on translations all night. He keeps a magical stone in a box, which gives off sufficient light for his work."

At this point the front flap of the tent vibrated, and Renders poked his head in. "I heard voices. Are you awake, Groag?" Such stating the obvious was a peculiarly human trait, Toede observed silently. For all he knew, that would be the next ugly habit that Groag would pick up.

Renders entered carrying two trays heaped with the boiled vegetables in gravy that Toede had seen cooking in pots earlier. The food looked fairly gray and unappetizing, even to someone whose last real meal was raw weasel. Toede took a sniff, wondering once again if the humans were drawing their water directly from the swamp. Still, it promised to be filling (after a fashion), so he dug in.

Groag picked at his food, as Renders squatted between the two hobgoblins, his bony knees jutting up like mountains on an old map. "I hope you're feeling better. I had a few of the boys finish the cooking, but I'm afraid they haven't the hang of it." He gave a patriarchal smile that reminded Toede of Gildentongue.