Groag waded in to save the "boys" from culinary disaster. In short order, the boars were properly skinned, the nuts shucked, the fish deboned, and the grapes and currants properly rinsed. A pot bubbled as the crawfish boiled, turning a brilliant shade of blue.

After about an hour, Toede broke away from the pavilion group and padded down to the cooking fire, where Groag was still puffing and shouting. From what Toede had learned of swamp-gnoll rituals, as long as dinner wasn't burned too badly, the visitors would be happy. Cooked food was still a novelty, apparently, in the swamp.

"Nice of you to show up at last," said Toede.

Groag wheeled and shot a nasty look at the former highmaster. "I've nothing to say to you," he said, turning back to tending the impromptu boar-spit that had been rigged up for the occasion.

Toede rocked back on his heels slightly. "That's no attitude to take," he sputtered, "after all I've done for you!'

"All you've done?" Groag hissed. The "boys" looked up from their tasks, but none of the gnolls seemed to notice, or care. "Every time…" Groag continued, "every time I hook up with you, something horribly unpleasant happens. Dragons. Assassins. Exploding draconians. And this time, you left me hostage and ran off."

"I came back," Toede hissed, "and saved Bunniswot and Renders and all the rest of the mentally impaired."

"And that worries me even more," said Groag. "Why? You always have a scheme, some angle on things. What is it? Are you after Renders for money, or what?"

Toede shoved a hand in his pocket, stroking the large gem that Renders had given him in payment. He flinched from its warmth, as if the stone had been recently pulled from the fire. "I told you," he said firmly, "I'm trying to live in a noble manner. I'm surprised that you of all people have trouble believing that."

"I have trouble believing it because I know you," grumbled Groag. "I'll be watching you, just keep that in mind.

Now sod off, I'm cooking dinner." With that, Groag turned his back on Toede.

Toede fumed, briefly considering hobgoblicide. However, they did need Groag to cook. And the fact was that Groag was probably right. He did know Toede too well, and he probably ought to be worried.

So instead of braining his companion, Toede stomped back to the white fabric pavilion, where Renders was translating the War of the Lance into short, pidgin common. "Then Great Flower-Warrior Heavy-Rain Shining-Sword swung Dragonlance, and kill dragon! But dragon kill Heavy-Rain, too!" said Renders. Charka and the gnolls present nodded.

Toede had discovered that the common ground between scholar and gnoll was extremely limited, primarily to war stories and alcohol, and not having much of the latter, he had steered the socializing toward the chronicles. As long as Renders was holding their attention, there seemed little danger of flare-ups between the two groups.

Toede himself had been mentioned in passing, early on, though not by name (thank the Dark Lady) as an "Evil Slave-keeper, Master of Few."

"Master of Few caught the Companions and did not know who they were," Renders had explained, "so Master of Few put them in a cage-wagon. Master of Few was to take them to his master, Worm-Guts"-or at least that was how Verminaard was translated, to Toede's amusement-"but the great wizard Doesn't-Bubble and the elves helped them escape. The cage-wagon was burned, and Master of Few fled into the night."

He had met these "Heroes of the Lance" early on, before anyone knew anything about them. And they had proceeded to escape from under his very nose-not once, but repeatedly. Not the brightest spot on his resume, Toede thought, reflecting on how far he had advanced since those days.

If he had advanced at all, he fumed. Groag didn't seem to think so, but then that was the problem with longtime acquaintances. They seemed to only see the part of you that they knew from before, and ignored the fact that you might have developed into a better being over time.

In the old days, back when Toede ruled Flotsam, he could have had Groag killed. It seemed that Groag was developing a spine. He, too, was changing. Adapting.

Well, Toede could change just as much. He was quite proud of his newfound nobility. True, he had been doubtful, even challenging the fates, but once he made up his mind, he had stuck to his choices. He saved Groag, saved the scholars, and saved himself. And had got a ready supply of good food in the process.

So why did he feel displeased with the entire turn of events? Not just Groag, but the fact that both Renders and Charka failed to recognize his heroic efforts. The gem Renders had given him was a nice touch, but instead of making him feel as though he had been rewarded, he felt as though he had been cheapened, almost insulted.

Apparently there was more to this nobility thing than just acting in a self-destructive manner.

Was all nobility just a scam, then, an excuse to advance one's own case and position, and then have people thank you for it? That didn't seem right, from what he knew of the noble heroes Renders was babbling on about. If anything, the Dragonlance heroes seemed to settle for far less than their actions had earned them, but perhaps that was only to gain some greater advantage later on. His reward for doing the "right and noble" thing was more tangible: the feast.

It was finally ready by midafternoon, and turned out to rival the best of the halls of the Silvanesti, though served on cruder dishware than elves would ever tolerate. Groag proved to be an expert chef once given proper ingredients, and the boar had been roasted to the point where the meat fell off at a touch and melted on the tongue. It had been seasoned in a gravy with herbs and nuts. Scholar, gnoll, and hobgoblin ate until they could eat no more, and afterward Groag threw spiced potatoes wrapped in wet burlap onto the coals to cook for dessert, while Renders continued the tales from the War of Lance for the entire assemblage.

"And so our heroes passed through this very land, on the way to the town of Floating Junk. And there the Master of Few reigned, but he was so afraid of the heroes that he hid from them, and let the Dragon Highlord Small-Cat-Crown seek them out…"

"I wasn't hiding," muttered Toede, "I was busy." He wandered a little way off from the main group, sated but far from satisfied. The boar was the first good meal in how many months? Over a year, really, unless he counted the goose sandwiches the kender girl had packed. And that had been six months ago.

The former Evil Slaver, former Master of Few, former Highmaster of Flotsam, perhaps future Lord of some place unknown and unrevealed, sat at the base of a tilted pillar and tried to sort out the various conflicting feelings that jousted in his head and heart. Or at least tried to, for the combination of a full belly and over a day without sleep finally caught up with him, and within moments he was snoring softly.

Toede dreamed, and it was more than a standard dream of hobgoblins. His dreams (at least the ones he remembered) were usually monochromatic nightmares, the color blood red or deathly gray. Old fears rising, old enemies returned, old battles fought or fled.

But this dream was different. It had the soft texture of a well-rendered oil painting, a glow that seemed to diffuse in all directions. The color of ghosts walking in the evening light.

He awoke in the dream and knew in a moment that it was a dream, for reality did not possess this fairyland beauty. He was still in the forest of stone, but things had changed.

The inscribed plinths were there, but the birch trees around them were gone, and the tilted and overturned pillars had been righted. Now they glowed with an eldritch power all their own. There was laughter in the air, from voices unseen in the darkness, and lithe ghosts moving and dancing at the edges of his vision. Toede could not look directly at them, for they reveled just beyond his conscious grasp and melted into darkness as soon as he focused on them. Yet what little he saw of them, from the corners of his eyes, told him they were fair of form. Toede knew he was dreaming, for this beauty did not immediately turn his well-fed stomach.