Curtis was also revealed to be quite knowledgeable about numerous subjects: not just geography, and navigation, but history, politics, and theater as well. Though Volo still doubted the veracity of his claim to noble birth, he nonetheless accepted the evidence that the youth was indeed the recipient of an incomplete education that was probably not indigenous to his beachcomber abode. The master traveler's skepticism only drove the lad to be more insistent on proving the veracity of his claims, particularly if he also succeeded in showing up the proud thespian son of Idle and Catinflas.
One evening, somewhere over Westgate, Passepout was reminiscing about his exploits on the stage and treating his two companions to a few saucy tidbits about his past. "Why, I even kept company with the legendary bard Olive Ruskettle," the proud thespian boasted.
"You mean Olav Ruskettle," Curtis corrected.
Passepout ignored the correction and continued his tale.
"Though only a fair singer and musician, her gift for the gab, glib tongue, and saucy red hair and hazel eyes worth dying for more than made up for her lack of true theatrical talent," the thespian pointed out. "Of course, I was willing to give her a few pointers and show her the old stage ropes, if you know what I mean. Normally, I'm not much fond of halflings, particularly tiny ones like her, but let it not be said that Passepout, the favorite son of the legendary thespians Catinflas and Idle, wasn't willing to make an occasional exception."
Curtis became quite indignant.
"I don't know who you were talking about," the teenager interjected, "but it sure doesn't sound like any legendary bard I've ever heard of, let alone Olav Ruskettle."
"Well, then," the haughty thespian responded, "I guess that just goes to show how really little you really know, doesn't it?"
"I know enough not to mistake some halfling guttersnipe pickpocket for the famed bard Olav Ruskettle," the youngster countered.
Passepout-ignoring the fact that, now that he thought about it more clearly, he did recall having his pocket picked that night-nonetheless retorted, "Takes one to know one!"
"Are you calling me a thief?" the youngster asked, getting very hot under the collar. He was more than willing to throw the chubby thespian over the side just to prove a point, as young men whose pride lacks the tempering of maturity are wont to do.
"Well, now that you mention it," the thespian continued with his taunts, "it's not as if you really are the son of some noble or millionaire merchant from Suzail or some other highfalutin society town, now, is it?"
"That's enough from both of you," Volo interrupted with a tone of finality. "Who cares if it's Olive Ruskettle or Olav Ruskettle? Perhaps there are two bards by that name. Perhaps one of them moonlights as a pickpocket. Who knows, and frankly, who cares? I'm sick and tired of your bickering and your one-upmanship. Men of the road such as ourselves have to live by our own code of honor. Accept another fellow traveler's tale with a discriminating grain of salt… but never call him a liar to his face or a charlatan to his crowd unless you are willing to risk not being the one to walk away in a one-on-one mortal match. Now shake hands and apologize."
Begrudgingly, the pudgy thespian extended his hand and apologized. "I'm sorry that I implied you were a thief and a liar. I myself have been accused of such things at no other place than the gate of
Suzail, where I first met Mister Volo."
"I also apologize," the youngster agreed, accepting the offered handshake, "and am equally sorry that I corrected your mistake."
"What mistake?" Passepout asked, wondering if he had once again been insulted.
"Doesn't matter," said Volo, quickly trying to derail the argument that once again threatened to come barreling down the track. "Does it? Of course not," he continued, trying not to leave enough time for a response from either of-the hotheads. "I'm sure that Passepout here is more than willing to share his worldly wisdom with an eager young student such as yourself. You know, the type of education you left university for."
"Well, I have led a rather sheltered life," Curtis conceded.
"Of course you have," Volo agreed. Turning his attention back to Passepout for a moment, he added, "And you, good son of Catinflas and Idle, have previously admitted to having occasional, shall we say, lapses in memory and judgment, particularly around young ladies, if I'm not mistaken."
''Well, I guess, sort of."
"Of course," Volo agreed, and continued to divert the conversation away from the trouble spot by telling a story. "Which reminds me of a tale I once heard about a huge and hungry fish that was troubling the people of the Moonshae Isles, around old Amity town. The townspeople all chipped in to hire a crusty old sea dog to catch him. A young cleric fresh out of university, probably not much older than you, joined him in case there was a need for any ministering or healing or such-provided the fish didn't eat the old coot whole, that is. There was another guy with them, too, a constable from the town guard if I remember correctly, who was reluctant to join them at first, even recommending that they get a bigger boat…"
Volo, a not bad showman and entertainer himself, continued to spin the rest of the fish story off the top of his head until the sun had begun to set. His two companions had long forgotten their silly disagreement.
The next morning, all was forgiven, and the three travelers returned to their daily routine. Passepout mentioned that he particularly liked the part where the old sea dog was swallowed whole by the man-eating devil fish, and recommended that they swap "fish stories" among themselves more often.
Curtis and Volo agreed, and tale telling became a regular part of their evening meal… the only requirement being that there was an unstated agreement that the veracity of the stories was never questioned, commented on, or corrected, which was particularly difficult for Volo to refrain from, or even to keep a straight face while Passepout related to the wide-eyed Curtis the story of how he heroically became the scourge of the Sea of Fallen Stars.
I bet Ahib Fletcher is rolling in his watery grave now, thought Volo, stealing a quick look far below to the crashing waves.
"By my calculations," Volo observed, "we are somewhere in the area of either Thay or Rashemen."
"What's the difference?" Passepout inquired.
"Not much," the master traveler replied. "Rashemen is a land of berserker barbarians and witches, while Thay is the land of the infamous Red Wizards."
"Great," replied the sarcastic thespian. "Just what we need, more sorcerers with sour dispositions."
"Like that one over there?" Curtis inquired, pointing over the starboard bow at a wizened old codger in red robes who was apparently resting on a nearby mountaintop.
"I guess we're in Thay, then," Volo observed. "Good eyes there, Curtis."
Not to be outdone, Passepout seized the opportunity to show off.
"Sure, he has good eyes, but I bet my aim is better," the thespian boasted. "Watch this!"
Before Volo realized the intentions of the boastful thespian, Passepout had already extracted a red gem from the pouch at his belt and had pitched it overboard, beaning the old wizard on the top of his noggin.
"Good shot!" Curtis complimented.
"I don't think that was such a good idea," Volo commented.
"Why not?" replied the proud thespian, revelling in sure aim and quick arm. "It's not like the old geezer saw us or anything,… and if he did, so what? It's not like he can do anything about it."
The crackling of flames in motion ripped through the sky around the ship as a fireball made its presence known.