“Commander Grag,” she said.
“I am sorry I wasn’t on hand to welcome you properly, Highlord,” the bozak said, standing rigidly at attention, eyes forward. “We were not informed you were coming.”
“I did that deliberately, Commander,” she said. “I wanted to see the army when it wasn’t dressed up for show. Warts and all, so to speak, which terms seems appropriate when speaking of your Fewmaster.”
The commander’s eyes flickered, but he did not shift his gaze. “We have sent for the Fewmaster, Highlord. He is out in the field—”
“—practicing his thrusts and parries,” suggested Kitiara slyly.
Commander Grag finally relaxed. “You could say that, Highlord.” He paused, regarded her intently. “You speak draconic, don’t you?”
“Enough to get by. Please, sit down.”
Grag cast the fragile chairs of elf make a disparaging glance. “Thank you, Highlord, but I prefer to stand.”
“It’s probably safer,” Kitiara agreed wryly. “You know why I’m here, Commander.”
“I have a good idea, yes, my lord.”
“I’m to recommend someone to become the new Highlord. You impressed the emperor, Grag.”
The draconian bowed.
“Would you like the job?” Kitiara asked.
Grag did not hesitate. “No, Highlord, but thank you for considering me.”
“Why not?” Kitiara asked with genuine curiosity.
Grag hesitated.
“You may speak freely,” she assured him.
“I am a fighter, Highlord, not a politician,” Grag answered. “I want to lead men in battle, not spend my time groveling to those in power. No offense intended, Highlord.”
“I understand,” said Kitiara, and she sighed. “Believe me, I do understand. So you do the soldiering and this Fewmaster Toede does the groveling.”
“The Fewmaster is quite good at his job, Highlord,” said Grag with a straight face.
At this moment, the Fewmaster came blundering through the tent opening. Catching sight of Kitiara, Toede rushed up to her. The first words out of his yellow mouth proved the truth of Grag’s assessment.
“Highlord, forgive me for not being here to welcome you,” the hobgoblin gasped. “These dolts”—he cast a furious glance at the commander—“did not inform me you were coming!”
Kit had encountered hobgoblins before. She’d even fought a few before the war began. She had no use for goblins, who could be counted on to turn tail and run the minute the fighting got tough, but she’d come to respect hobgoblins, who were bigger, uglier, and smarter than their cousins.
The bigger and uglier part applied to Toede, who was short and lumpish with a flabby belly; grayish, yellowish, greenish skin; red, piggy eyes; and a thick-lipped, cadaverous mouth that tended to collect pockets of drool at the corners. It was the smarter part that appeared to open to question. Toede’s wildly grandiose, self-styled uniform bore no resemblance to any uniform Kitiara had ever seen. His clothes had evidently been thrown on in haste, for the buttons of the coat were in the wrong buttonholes and he had neglected to lace up his pants, leaving a huge gap between pants and shirt—a gap filled by his warty, yellow belly. He had run most of the way, apparently, for he was covered in dust and sweating profusely.
Kitiara had a strong stomach. She’d walked countless battlefields, stinking with the stench of rotting corpses, and been able to eat a hearty meal afterward. The reek of the perspiring Toede in the closed-in tent was too much for her to take. She moved closer to the entrance for a breath of fresh air.
Toede crowded beside her, practically tripping on her heels with his flapping feet. “I was out on a particularly dangerous scouting mission, Highlord, so dangerous I could not ask any of my men to undertake it.”
“Did you grapple with the enemy, Fewmaster?” Kitiara asked, glancing sidelong at Grag.
“I did,” said Toede with magnificent aplomb. “The battle was ferocious.”
“No doubt, since I suppose the ‘enemy’ would not take your assault ‘lying down’,” said Kitiara.
Grag made a gurgling sound in his throat and covered it with a cough.
Toede appeared slightly confused. “No, no, the enemy was not lying down, Highlord.”
“You had them up against the wall?” Kitiara asked.
At this, Commander Grag was forced to excuse himself. “I have my duties, Highlord,” he said and made good his escape.
Toede, meanwhile, was starting to grow suspicious. His pink eyes narrowed as he glared at the departing draconian. “I don’t know what that slimy lizard has been telling you, Highlord, but it is not true. While I might have been at the Red Slipper, it was in the line of duty. I was—”
“—under cover,” suggested Kitiara.
“Exactly,” said Toede. He heaved a relieved sigh and mopped his yellow face with his sleeve.
Having by now come up with a pretty good idea of the wit and wisdom of the Fewmaster, Kitiara thought he would make a perfect Highlord—one who would certainly never become a dangerous rival. While Toede continued his “battles” at the Red Slipper, the real work of running the war would be done by the capable Commander Grag. Besides, promoting this fool would serve Ariakas right.
Kitiara did not intend to apprise Toede of her decision yet. “I must say I admire you for your courage in taking on such a perilous assignment. I have been sent by Lord Ariakas to advise in the selection of a new Highlord, one to take the place of Lord Verminaard—”
She got no farther. The Fewmaster had seized hold of her hand. “I hesitate to put myself forward, Highlord, but I would be highly honored to be considered for the highly coveted high post of Highlord—”
Kitiara wrenched her hand free and wiped it on her cloak. She glanced down. “My boots need polishing,” she said.
“They are somewhat muddy, Highlord,” said Toede. “Allow me.”
He dropped down on his knees and began to scrub assiduously at her boots with the sleeve of his coat.
“That will do, Fewmaster,” said Kit when she could see her reflection in the leather. “You may get up now.”
Toede rose, grunting. “Thank you, Highlord. Could I offer you some refreshment?” He turned around and bellowed. “Cold ale for the Highlord!”
“I do have to ask you some questions, Fewmaster,” said Kitiara. Finding a camp stool, she seated herself.
Toede stood hovering over her, wringing his hands.
“I will be glad to assist you with anything, Highlord.”
“Tell me about these assassins of Lord Verminaard. I understand they have thus far escaped you.”
“That wasn’t my fault,” said Toede promptly. “Grag and the aurak bungled the job. I know where the felons are. I just… er… can’t seem to find them. They’re in the dwarven kingdom, you see. I will tell you—”
“Not interested,” said Kitiara, holding up her hand to halt the flow. “Neither is the emperor.”
“Of course not,” said Toede. “Why would he be?”
“Back to the assassins. Do you know their names? Something about them? Where they came from—”
“Oh, yes,” said Toede happily. “I had them in custody!”
“You did?” Kitiara stared at him.
“What I mean to say,” Toede gabbled, “is that I didn’t actually have them in custody. I had them locked up in cages.”
“But not in custody,” said Kit, her lips twitching.
Toede gulped. “I thought they were like all the rest of the slaves we were rounding up at the time. I didn’t know they were assassins. How could I, Highlord?” Toede spread his hands pathetically. “After all, when I apprehended them, they hadn’t assassinated anyone yet.”
Kitiara struggled to contain her mirth. She waved her hand.
Toede again mopped his brow. “I was taking the slaves to Pax Tharkas to work in the iron mines when the caravan was attacked by an army of five thousand elves.”