"Mystia and Mandy?" he queried. He knew Storm had six sisters but couldn't recall the names Mandy and Mystia being among them.
Storm elaborated, removing any doubt of the females' identities, "My horse Mystia and my donkey Mandy will more than keep you warm."
"But the barn?"
"Yes!"
"What about the smell?" he insisted as she ushered him out the door.
"Don't worry," she replied, "they'll get used to it."
With that she closed the door and turned her attentions back to the master traveler, who had been conspicuously silent during this exchange.
Volo had fallen asleep, at the fireside, his head on his pack, his cloak as his blanket, and a smile on his lips.
He's probably already solved his immediate problem. The loss of his magics won't stop the master traveler.
Storm carried herself off to bed, vowing that she would be up in plenty of time to fix them a true innkeeper's breakfast.
After all, tomorrow they would be back on the road.
Chapter 8
North on lightning-hoofed steeds or Horse, Harbor, and Boat
In addition to Mystia and Mandy, the barn was also the home of other creatures, many noisy and nocturnal. Specifically, Storm never mentioned to Passepout about Roget the rooster, who decided to introduce himself to the ill-slept thespian with the dawn's early light.
Less than thrilled to be awakened by fowl crowing, Passepout stretched, brushed himself off, and headed back to the house. Well, at least there's breakfast, he thought as he tried to remove the kinks that had set into his joints during the chill of the past night.
The door had been unbolted from the night before, and a fresh fire raged in the hearth. Volo seemed to have been up for hours, despite his rested condition, his disposition was bright and sunny. In front of him were various charts and maps, plus the parchment that had been given to him when the thespian received the bag of jewels.
"Oh, you're already up, good Passepout," he said sunnily. "I was just about to call you. Storm had mentioned that you desired accommodations other than her guest room."
"Something like that," the thespian grumbled, wondering if his master had slumbered in the bower that Passepout had assumed was to be for himself.
"I don't even remember you leaving. I must have fallen asleep in midconversation, or something. But the hearth kept me warm, and the crackling of the flames serenaded me the way my mother used to, and now I feel well-rested and ready to go."
"Great," the thespian replied, less than enthusiastically.
"I've been studying the parchment that Khelben gave me."
"Where's breakfast?"
"Storm's fixing it. It should be ready momentarily. Now look at the parchment," Volo ordered. "Notice how the vague outlines of the lands that we've passed through have become clearer as the red dots that represent the discarded gems become more numerous."
"Great," Passepout replied. "A map whose detail of a place is only usable once we've left there."
Volo ignored the remark. "Notice the zigzag route we followed from Suzail to here. Up to Myth Drannor, over to Shadowdale…"
"I was there. Remember?" the thespian interrupted, loud enough to be heard over the rumblings of his stomach.
"Quite. Now if I remember correctly, we weren't told not to double back…"
"But…"
"Shush!" Volo continued as before. "We were told never to 'set foot' on the same land more than once. See, here is the dot for Elminster's tower, and when we leave here another dot should appear right around here."
"So you mean we could have returned to the Old Skull Inn last night," said Passepout growing more and more impatient.
"So the trick is to never set foot on the same general area once we've left there. This does not rule out other methods of transportation."
"But you can't control the gates…"
"I was referring to conventional methods of transportation."
"I don't understand."
"Until now I had only considered land-bound routes, but examining my other maps, other options seem to be open to us."
"Liker
"Sea. Air."
"But…" Passepout sputtered, even more afraid of the implications that were being made.
Storm set down a large tray of buns, jams, and meats, at the hearthside. "I see what you mean," she interjected. "So what you really want to do is get to the open sea as soon as possible so as to minimize your risk of doubling back."
"Well, actually I was figuring on heading to the Moonsea, and from there down the River Lis, and farther south to the Sea of Fallen Stars."
"Not a bad plan,' Storm replied, "but you have to watch out for the Zhents. If you venture too close to Zhentil Keep, your journey might stop there-for good."
"Zhents!" Passepout coughed, spitting out crumbs from his too-full cheeks.
"I am aware of the dangers, but such is the life of a traveler."
"But not of a thespian," the bond servant protested. "Why can't we…"
"There are things that can be done to minimize the risks," answered Storm before the question was even formed. "Through the Harper network I have contacts all over Faerun, even in the Moonsea region. In fact, I have a delivery that must be made to a certain Harper in that region. Here's an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone."
"I wish you hadn't said 'kill,' " Passepout replied, as the conversation lulled to allow for a fuller enjoyment of the meal at hand.
After the morning meal, Storm escorted the two travelers back to the barn in which Passepout had passed the night. She indicated two horses.
These are lightning steeds," she said. "They are the fastest mounts in all Faerun. Marks lent them to two fellow agents who had escaped from Zhentil Keep, and they need to be returned to him. He'll be able to help you book passage on some trade ship heading in the right direction."
"Perfect." Volo replied.
"Great," said Passepout unenthusiastically.
"That's all I need, another sanctimonious Harper bending my ear."
"You won't have to worry about that with Marks. He's mute."
Storm outfitted both travelers with a full stock of provisions for the journey, and also a magical sack that could be used to render the pouch of necromancer's gems invisible to all eyes save Passepout's and Volo's. She then turned to Volo.
"I wish you well on your journey," she said honestly, "and should you ever pass this way again, be sure to stop by. There will always be a warm place for you to rest near my hearth."
"I assure you," Volo said with certitude, "I will pass this way again. As I am the master traveler of the Realms, I guarantee it."
For the most part, the trip north was uneventful. The steeds set an almost inconceivable pace, slowed down only by the needs of their riders to rest occasionally and, more infrequently, eat.
The ever-present rumblings of Passepout's stomach seemed to provide a chorus of thunder to accompany the steady drumming of the lightning steeds' hoofbeats. As they headed farther north, as if on cue, the sky darkened to an overcast blanket of storm clouds, reflecting the troubles and oppression of these non-Daleland residents living in the shadow of the Citadel of the Raven and other Zhent strongholds.
The steeds required neither urging nor directions to find the quickest and easiest paths home. They steered well clear of hostile outposts while still providing their riders with as easy a journey as possible.
Much to the saddle-sore thespian's relief, they soon arrived at the home of the mute Harper Marks.
Nightfall had arrived, and Marks had apparently already turned in for the night.
Volo approached the entrance to his domicile, looking for a bell cord that could be rung to summon the master of the manor… but none existed. Instead, in its place, a bladder-horn was mounted by an open window nearest the door.
Volo squeezed the bulb.
The resultant blare trumpeted into the house with a cacophonous sound that hurt Passepout's ears.
>
The front door was quickly thrown open by a strange, wide-eyed man with blond curly hair, who rushed past the two travelers to embrace the necks of the two steeds who had returned home. His mouth moved at the rate of a mile a minute, apparently lavishing praise and affection on the noble beasts, though neither Volo nor Passepout could hear a word.
"Uh, Mister Marks…" Volo interrupted. "Storm Silverhand sent us, and said that you…"
In the blink of an eye, Marks turned his attention his two visitors, vigorously shaking hands and embracing them, lips still moving at the same silent yet frenetic pace.
Volo tried to continue his introduction. "… uh… Storm said that you might be able to help us get transport to the River Lis and southward."
Marks gestured to them with a jovial body motion that he would be glad to help them, but then held up a single finger to indicate that something else had to be done first. Turning his back on his guests, he took the reins of the horses and led them into their paddocks, one with the nameplate
Horsefeather, the other Coconut. He filled their troughs with a mix of barley and hay, with an oat mash sprinkled liberally on top.
Once his returned loved ones had been cared for, he once again assumed the role of the gracious host and ushered the two travelers into his house.
Thank you, Mister Marks," Passepout shouted, "but we are very hungry, and…"
Marks slapped him across the face, just hard enough to get his attention, and covered his ears with his hands while shaking his head "no."
"I'm pretty sure he's telling us," Volo observed, "that even though he is mute, his hearing is fine, and there is no reason to shout."
Marks touched his finger to the tip of his nose and nodded. He then patted Passepout on the head, rubbed his stomach, and indicated the way toward a table where a meal had been laid out, awaiting the guests.
Passepout dove in, pausing only to observe, "It's as if he were expecting us."
The mute heard this, reached into the pocket of his robe, and extracted a small note that he handed to Volo to read.
"It's from Storm," Volo declared, "and she's outlined our needs to him. How did she get this to you before we arrived?"
Marks extended his arms out to the sides, and waved them up and down a few times. He then pulled them in, close to his body but bent, and began walking around like a chicken.
"By bird?"
Marks nodded.
"By carrier pigeon?"
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.
Once Around the Realms (single books) Page 6