The caravan members all complied with the bandits' wishes, until one of the old wizards refused to give up an amulet that he wore around his neck.
"No!" he screamed. "I will never give it up!"
This wanton act of defiance infuriated Eli, who prepared to backhand the wizened old magic-user. Volo intervened.
"Eli of the Wallachs," Volo begged, "please forgive this old man. He is an enfeebled mage, as are all of his fellow travelers, and they are all poor, but honest, men of learning."
Eli laughed a fiendish laugh.
"Mages!" he crowed. "We don't need no stinkin' mages, particularly old and senile ones." The bandit leader drew out a dagger and prepared to throw it at the enfeebled old man who wouldn't give up his amulet.
Volo dove to try to intercept Eli's hand before he could throw the dagger, only to fall against an invisible wall that separated him from the bandit. Momentarily stunned by his collision with the invisible obstacle, the master traveler shook his head to try to clear the haziness from the concussion, and looked up in time to see the bandit Eli, dagger still in hand, burst into flame. In less than ten seconds, Eli had been reduced to a pile of soot and ash.
The other bandits panicked, dropped their loot, and took off for the hills, leaving their steeds and the ill-gotten gain from previous extortions back at the caravan's camp.
Slowly Volo got to his feet and turned around to face the wielder of the fireball that had taken out the fiendish bandit. There stood the other three wizards with their arms folded, stern expressions on their faces as they watched the rest of the outlaw gang heading for the hills. In the meantime Passepout had helped the mage with the amulet to his feet, and was now leading him back to the rest of his group.
The youngest of the four elderly wizards approached Volo.
"I would like to thank you for your kindness and heroism, but as you see, it really was quite unnecessary. It would have been rude for us to turn down your offer to be our bodyguards, but under no circumstances could we allow you to unnecessarily risk your life on our behalf. As you can see, we can more than take care of the whole caravan, let alone ourselves."
Passepout had now reached Volo's side and queried the youngest of the mages, "But why did you stand for the others' insults and allow yourselves to be thought of as feeble old men?"
"It is true that we are not as young as we used to be, but no one is," he answered. "Insults are cheap, and when you get to our age, one sometimes gets selectively hard of hearing so as to make it easier to ignore the callous remark that is occasionally thrown our way. Daggers, however, are another matter entirely, and require a much different course of action, as you have just observed."
The youngest wizard offered his hand in thanks to Volo and Passepout for their unnecessary but appreciated assistance, and gave each of them a medallion that had been forged in ancient Netheril.
"Please accept this as a token of our gratitude," the oldest wizard, who had refused to give up his amulet, said. "Tomorrow we will leave the caravan to travel on our own. It is not meant as insult, but I'm afraid that the rest of you will slow us down. The medallion will protect you and the others until you reach your destination. If you are ever in Halarahh, please look us up at the Porter's Shop, at the corner of William and Henry. If not, just think of us kindly whenever you remember the gift mages."
The following morning, when Volo, Passepout, and the rest of the caravan arose from a sound night's slumber, the four old mages were nowhere to be seen.
Though Volo undoubtedly picked up numerous details and anecdotes to be used in some later Volo's Guide to the Shining South, the rest of their journey southward continued uneventfully, and the caravan was disbanded upon reaching Halarahh.
"So let me get this straight," said Passepout. "This is a city of wizards, right?"
"Well, not quite," answered Volo indulgently. "It's a city that was originally settled by wizards."
"Big difference," the thespian replied. "I guess I better count my fingers after shaking hands with any of the citizens."
Volo scratched his head, puzzled at his companion's blind prejudice.
"I really don't understand why you feel this way toward wizards," he said, vocalizing his confusion. "You know that I have magical abilities… well, uh… at least I used to."
"But for every kindhearted Mister Volo," Passepout said, "there is a dastardly Lord Khelben just waiting to take advantage of his powers, and take advantage of you."
"What about the four mages on the way here," Volo countered. "What about them?"
Passepout just shook his head and refused to listen to reason.
"I think the old sage said it best," the thespian replied. " 'To trust is good, but not to trust is better,' and as far as I'm concerned, that goes double for mages!"
Volo chuckled.
"Despite your prejudice," the master traveler countered, "you have a lot in common with the people of Halruaa. Why, I remember reading some- where that someone once referred to it as the most paranoid country in all of the Realms, and that you couldn't walk three feet without some sort of divination spell being cast over you. It's a nation rampant with courtesy and politeness based on fear, and a strict set of laws to insure order, with justice and punishment meted out faster than a lich can lurch."
"Which reminds me," the thespian interrupted. "Just exactly why are we here?"
Volo resumed his strut through the city streets, calling back to his companion, who was scrambling to catch up.
"If one shortcut fails, try another," the master traveler answered. "Surely we don't expect to walk all the way to Kara-Tur, do we?"
The Porter's Shop was an inn located at the corner of William and Henry. The four mages who had been part of the caravan resided there between trips abroad for study.
"Welcome! Welcome!" said the eldest of the four, his much-prized amulet still hanging around his neck. "We are so glad that you could drop by. One never knows when one might need two burly bodyguards such as yourselves."
The other three mages laughed at the absurdity of the fourth's joke.
Passepout became offended, but, as per Volo's direction, kept his mouth shut.
"The pleasure is all ours," Volo replied, using his best reviewer-at-large persona. "Do you own this inn?"
"Of course, and for helping us in the Shaar, we are more than willing to offer you, without charge, accommodations for the duration of your stay. Let me call our porter to fetch your things to a room. Oh, Henry!" the youngest of the four called.
"That won't be necessary," Volo replied before he could repeat the appellation. "I'm afraid that we are in a bit of hurry, and I was hoping that you might be able to point us in the right direction of where we could possibly rent an airship."
"An airship," the eldest repeated, scratching his chin whiskers.
"An airship!" Passepout exclaimed, remembering in terror Volo's query of the cleric who cured his motion sickness, about its effectiveness on airsickness as well.
"An airship," Volo repeated. "You see, we have to cover a great deal of land in the least time possible."
"How much land?" inquired one of the previously silent wizards.
"All of Toril," Volo replied. "I agreed to a foolish bet out of pride and vanity, and must now live up to my part of the bargain."
"From what I understand," the youngest replied, "the airships are only supposed to travel within Halruaa airspace. They are the property of the archmages and require frequent recharging."
"I realize that," the master traveler pressed, "but I have also heard rumor of a supposed black market of mages who have, shall we say, fallen from grace, who might be willing to rent out one if it were made worth their while."
"I'm afraid that we can't be of any assistance in those sorts of matters. We of the city of Halarahh are an honest and orderly citizenry," said the youngest.