Free Lord Toede by Jeff Grubb

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 motion- ing to the crowd, acknowledging their
     adoration, and touching the medallion around his own neck. Hopsloth occupied the bulk of