The two stood there, hobgoblin and gnoll, immobile, until one by one the scholars became aware of their presence. Those involved in arguments left in midword, those making stone rubbings in midrub, and those making maps in midcartographical flourish. Bunniswot was patting down the last of his buried treasure and notes with a shovel. When he looked up, saw everyone else gazing elsewhere, he joined the silent tableaux of scholars staring at the strange pair of humanoids.
Renders set his bone pen aside and walked toward the pair. The old scholar was dressed in white and cream, as was his personal preference, and the sun bounced beams off his shining form. He stopped all of five paces away from the gnoll and hobgoblin, noting that the gnoll chieftain looked even taller close up.
The gnoll chieftain gestured imperiously. Two large gnolls strode out of the brush, each carrying the carcass of a freshly slain boar. Then two more, carrying baskets of tubers, currants, and wild grapes. Then another pair, carrying wooden platters made of sassafras bark, and heavily laden with chestnuts, walnuts, and hickory nuts. Then another pair, one with a clutch of catfish strung through the gills on a leather thong, the other with a similar string of mountain trout. Then a gnoll with a basket of freshwater eels, and lastly one with a hemp basket of live crawfish, still skittering slowly over each other.
The tall gnoll slapped his chest and cried, "Charka!"
Toede translated. "Charka begs forgiveness of the mighty wizards and offers these gifts in apology."
Renders made to hold out his hand, but Toede shot him a quick, nasty look. Instead, the scholar placed it over his heart and proclaimed solemnly, "Renders."
The gnolls bowed. "Great Chief Boils Flesh."
Renders arched an eyebrow at Toede. "Ah. Ah. Boils flesh?"
"He believes you and yours to excel in culinary abilities," Toede put in.
Renders looked cross for the first time. "Whatever gave him that accursed idea?"
"Hur?" said Charka.
"Great Chief pleased for now. Accepts gifts. Warns Charka's people to behave or curse returns." To Renders, Toede added quickly, "Fine language is not their forte. Just leave out anything that sounds as if it would stump a gully dwarf, and you'll be fine."
"But I think we should inform him that I am not such a great cook." Renders shook his head, then smiled pleasantly at the curious look he received from the gnoll.
"Some things get misunderstood in translation." Toede shrugged. "And note that this one can break you up into small pieces if he ever believes you not to be a great wizard and chef."
"Ah," said Renders. "Ah. Well then." To the gnoll Renders spread his hands out, imitating Toede. "Great Chief Boils Flesh thanks Charka for gifts. Build fire, have mighty feast!"
Then he turned to the collected scholars, who were observing the entire business. "Let's get with the program, gentlemen," Renders hissed, clapping his hands.
Fortunately for all, by the time the fire had been sufficiently banked to a good bed of coals, and the pots (still dirty from the previous day) sufficiently graveled and washed, Groag made his return, footsore and cranky. He found Charka, Toede, and Renders engaged in lively debate with a few of the gnolls in the main pavilion, Bunniswot cursing and excavating a trench furiously, and the remaining gnolls seated at the southern perimeter of the camp. A couple of Renders's "boys" were arguing about how to best boil a boar.
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.