Anthology - Once Around the Realms

Once again Marks signed that Volo was right on the nose.

Volo carried the exchange to its most meaningful question. "Can you help us?"

Marks paused for a moment as if for dram effect, then smiled and vigorously nodded. He then motioned to the traveler, rubbing first his own stomach and then that of Volo, then pointing to the set table as if to say, "C'mon, let's eat!"

Volo graciously complied.

The next morning, after the steeds had once again been cared for, Marks took out a map that he had annotated.

"It's a shortcut to Hillsfar," Volo observed out loud for the benefit of his bond servant, who was still stuffing himself at the table.

"Mmmmphlgh," Passepout replied with cheeks still bulging.

Marks pantomimed a spy skulking as if in shadows.

"It's a secret road."

Marks nodded.

Passepout joined the two, who had finished their breakfast at least an hour ago.

"What about once we get to Hillsfar?" he asked.

Marks extracted a packet from inside his robe and handed it to Volo.

"It's two tickets for a riverboat, sailing along the coast from Hillsfar to Harrowdale."

Again Marks nodded and then led them over to a slate that was hung on the wall. He wrote, Alas, this is all I can do.

"You've done more than enough." Volo replied, reaching to shake his hand.

Marks shook his head of blond locks, indicating that he wasn't finished. Using the sleeve of his robe he erased what he'd previously written and replaced it with Remember: Dare amp; Beware, and then offered his hand to Volo.

Volo shook it firmly, adding, " "Tis the battle cry of the Moonsea Region."

Both nodded at each other, while Passepout simply shook his head in anticipation of the dangers to come.

The sign before the crowded community gate read Welcome to Hillsfar and then below it Elves, Dwarves, and Halflings, Enter at Your Own Risk, and then below that someone else had scrawled We don't want you here!

Passepout turned to Volo and said, "I take it you only visit really friendly places."

Volo was not amused. "I've traveled Toril over, and have enjoyed most elements of its diversity and variety, and for that reason I will never understand racism," he replied regretfully. "At least it doesn't apply to us and shouldn't interrupt our appointment with the riverboat Greenwood Twain.

Passepout stopped in his tracks, and pointed to a recently posted notice. It read, Access to non-citizens only with governmental permission, below which someone had written, and you better have it or else.

"Or else what?" asked the wary thespian.

"Not much," Volo replied, "probably just a trip to the arena as a gladiator-in-training."

The thespian shivered. "There are some lengths which even I won't go to for the sake of pleasing an audience. How do you plan on getting us past the guards at the gate?"

Volo watched the crowds at the gate. "Observe," he said. "Do there seem to be any exceptions to their spot-checks?"

Passepout studied the people. "Well, yes," he answered, "the guys in the funny helmets with the big red feathers."

"Correct."

"Who are they?"

"The Red Plumes of Hillsfar," Volo replied, slipping into his gazetteer voice. "They were mercenaries hired by Maalthier to defend the city. As mercenaries, they were free to wear their own insignia and uniforms, or lack thereof, so long as they wore their plumed helms-and who wouldn't want to, given the treatment those bearing the red plumes receive?"

"Too bad we don't have a pair of helms like that."

"Follow me," Volo ordered, venturing farther on, past the gate and behind a hedge that obscured easy viewing of the road from the gate guardhouse.

"What are you doing?" Passepout asked.

"You," he replied, not answering the question, "are going to tell a joke to those two gentlemen who are now leaving the city gate."

"A joke!"

"More than one if necessary," Volo replied, and with that scurried into a break in the hedge.

"A joke," Passepout repeated to himself, shrugged, marshalled his minute capacity of courage, and stepped out in front of the two oncoming Red Plumes.

"Hey!" called the thespian, doing a convincing job of not appearing scared. "How many halflings does it take to feed a wolf? Only one if he's fat enough."

The Red Plumes slowed, and then stopped to listen to the plump comedian.

"Uh… here's another," he sputtered, trying to think of a different one fast enough. "What is the difference between loading a cart with bricks, and loading a cart with dwarves?"

One of the Red Plumes raised his hand, and said, "Wait! I think I know this one!"

Thud!

With the sound of a makeshift bludgeon meeting the base of a skull, both Red Plumes went down, revealing Volo standing behind them, two stockings filled with coins swinging from each hand. A well-placed blow beneath their helms had succeeded in knocking the mercenaries out.

"Quickly!" Volo ordered. "Help me tie them up. I'm sure they won't mind if we borrow their helms. Where did you get such horrible jokes?"

"An entertainer must be prepared for any sort of audience," Passepout replied, and pitched in immediately with the divestiture of the mercenaries' headpieces. "And where did you ever learn that coins-in-the-sock maneuver?"

"At one time I was thinking of doing a book on self-defense for the common man called Volo's Guide to Street fighting, but my publisher was afraid that it would become a how-to book for brigands. Oh, and one more thing," Volo added. "What is the difference between loading a cart with bricks, and loading a cart with dwarves?"

Passepout smiled.

"You can use a pitchfork when you're loading dwarves," he replied.

Volo just rolled his eyes. With the Red Plumes' helms upon their heads, they passed into Hillsfar without incident and immediately headed to the harbor, where the Greenwood Twain had just announced its final boarding call.

The trip eastward and south was uneventful but depressing. The riverboat that Marks had booked them passage on also trafficked in the slave trade, and once a day the poor unfortunates were brought on deck for their exercise. This jumping up and down would last for about twenty minutes, at which point they would be returned to the crowded, unsanitary hold.

Volo couldn't stand to watch, and would turn his back to look at the cold, clear, deep, almost purplish waters of the Moonsea.

"There but for the grace of Eo go I," he muttered, sickened by the inhumanity of it all.

Passepout was just sickened by the voyage itself. The cold north wind rocked the vessel on the unforgiving Moonsea. He wasn't able to keep down any solid foods until they reached the River Lis. He would only venture from their cabin to, at the proper time, throw a red gem overboard, or to heave the contents of his delicate stomach into the watery darkness below.

When the Greenwood Twain finally reached its destination of Harrowdale, Volo and Passepout quickly disembarked, leaving behind the depressing memory of the rolling waters and human chattel.

"Where to now, Master Volo?" Passepout asked. "It's good to be back on dry land."

"I'm afraid that I have bad news for you, son of Idle and Catinflas," Volo answered. "We will be booking passage on the first available ship heading south."

Passepout sighed with hapless resignation.

"But first," the master traveler added, "we will find a cleric who can cure you of your propensity for seasickness."

The thespian brightened a bit at hearing this, and responded, "Well, in that case, I guess another voyage won't be too bad. Thank you, Master Volo."

Volo braced at hearing the word "master," in light of his shipboard observations.

"And another thing," he added, "consider the debt that you owed me to be filled."

"But, Master Volo…"