Lord Toede by Jeff Grubb Page B

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 citythe Lower City, more of a financial demarcation than true
     elevationby 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