"A simple grand tour of Faerun and beyond from west to east should be of no difficulty, then. Eh, master traveler?"
"None whatsoever, as I've done it many times before," Volo boasted, exaggerating ever so slightly.
"So you say, but what proof do you have?"
"My reputation and my word!"
"Perhaps you, and not Marcus Wands, is the liar… and what is the word of a liar?"
"Volothamp Geddarm is a man of his word," Passepout interjected, then quickly retreated into silence, stung by Khelben's baneful glare.
"So you say, but have you been a witness to these exploits?" Khelben interrogated.
"Well, no, you see, I'm new at this bond servant thing. I'm really Passepout, son of Catinflas and…"
"Silence!" Khelben ordered again. The thespian recoiled. "A liar I cannot abide, so you must prove yourself, Master Volo." The mage reached into his cloak and withdrew a bag of gems and a folded piece of parchment. "To prove your claims, you must, with this poor and portly excuse for a human being, thespian or otherwise, travel this globe, never setting foot on the same piece of land twice until you have circled all of Toril. Here!"
The archmage tossed the bag of gems to Passepout and the parchment to the traveler.
All eyes in the inn were now on Volo and he required a great deal of concentration to maintain the pompous and self-assured appearance that he believed the greatest traveler of the Realms had to project. Appearance matters, he thought, damn it!
"In that bag," the mage instructed, "are the legendary gems of the necromancer Kalen Verne. Together with that parchment, they will provide evidence of your travels. When each gem changes from green to red, it must be discarded in the place that the color change occurs. That spot will then appear on the map of Toril that will appear on the parchment, documenting your journey."
"A simple enough task," Volo offered, still maintaining the facade of self-assuredness, "… but I am a bit busy right now. You see, I have this book on Cormyr to write, and…"
"Silence!" Khelben demanded a third time. "Should you remain in one place for more than twelve hours, the magics that lie within the jewels shall consume you. Should you leave one of the jewels in a location before its color has changed, the magics that lie within shall consume you." Then, pausing to shift his eyes to Passepout, he added, "Should the map and the jewels part company, or leave the custody of those who now bear them…"
"I know," Passepout dolefully responded, cursing the luck that he had formerly claimed as good, "the magics within shall consume us."
"Correct," the archmage replied.
The crowd awaited Volo's response.
In his mind there was no alternative. His pride and ego could accept no less, and the preservation of his reputation demanded it.
"Molly, my dear," Volo called for all to hear. "Our packs and cloaks. I'm afraid that I will have to take a rain check on further festivities of the evening. If this is what it takes to prove my claim to fame once and for all, so be it. Passepout and I shall return here once our journey is completed, and we will bestow to the Dragon's Jaws Inn the map for all to see, as evidence of the exploits of Volothamp Geddarm, and his traveling companion, the distinguished entertainer Passepout, son of Catinflas and Addled."
"That's Idle," the companion corrected.
Turning back to the archmage, Volo extended his hand and said, "If this is what it takes, Master Arunsun, so be it. Let us part as gentlemen until we meet again with proof in hand."
"As gentlemen," Khelben agreed, "so be it."
The archmage accepted the hand of the world traveler and gave it one quick shake.
A chill went through Volo's entire being, which he attributed to the feeling of power that effervesced from the archmage of Waterdeep. Quickly recovering his senses, he declared, "Come, Passepout, let us be on our way. Gnorm, Milo, lovely Molly, we shall return!"
Hoisting a pack upon his back, ready to meet the challenge, Volo jaunted out into the Suzail night, followed by the burdened Passepout, who dreaded the adventure that surely lay before them.
Chapter 4
"But, Master Volo, I'm just a lowly thespian, not a world traveler like yourself. I have never been out of Cormyr, let alone Faerun…"
"Don't fret, brother of the road Passepout," assured Volo to his obviously discouraged companion. "Think of all the world as a stage, and you yourself merely a player with exits and entrances, and a bit more than the normal proscenium distance between stage left and stage right."
"That's easy for you to say, O great gazetteer. You are not already feeling the pangs of hunger of too many missed meals," bemoaned the portly Passepout.
Volo stopped in his tracks, and turned around to face his complaining bond servant, who had fallen several paces behind.
"Passepout, we are less than one day's trot from Suzail and less than an hour from the tavern we lunched at, and if I am not mistaken, you partook of more than your share of the venison stew they served."
"Maybe more than my share, but nowhere near my fill," he countered. "Besides, one must be careful to amply fill one's self with provisions when one doesn't know where or when one's next meal will be."
"Don't concern yourself with such mundane matters," Volo instructed. "Just look at me. A life on the road, yet I'm still as well fed as Lord of Waterdeep. I've never gone hungry when I could avoid it, and I avoid it at all costs. Now hop to. We're burning daylight, and the faster we get there, the faster we can get back to Cormyr."
"Get where?"
"A little place I know that is a bit north of here."
"But I thought that we had to go all around the world."
"We do… but I know a shortcut that will enable us to unload our gems over the vast globe of Toril, and still allow us to get back to Cormyr in enough time for me to finish my research, write the book, and hand it over to my publisher, before he wants his money back or my head on a pikestaff, both alternatives of which I assure you, I consider to be completely unacceptable."
With a sigh of resignation, the portly thespian joined the master traveler and continued on the road northward from Suzail.
After four days' journey northward, the two travelers' path intercepted that of a caravan bound for the grazing lands of the Storm Horn peaks with a herd of cows, sheep, and goats. The wagon master was a strong silent type fellow, reluctant to give his name (if he even had one), let alone engage anyone in conversation. The cook of the caravan, Stew Bone by name, more than made up the difference in gregariousness, and invited Volo and Passepout to join them for meals for as long as the drive and they shared the same road.
Needless to say, Passepout and Stew Bone became quick friends. Volo, on the other hand, made himself indispensable as a storyteller around the campfire, swapping stories with the herders well into the wee hours each night.
The journey proceeded quickly and almost painlessly for all parties concerned, until someone noticed when Passepout dropped the requisite gem at a certain spot along the road.
"Hey, Pudgy!" the rogue called. "If you have enough treasure of your own that you can throw it away, why don't you share it with your trail buddies?"
"That's Passepout, son of…"
Volo intercepted the conversation before Passepout could continue his correction. "My good sir, he is throwing only those gems away that have gone bad."
"What do you mean, gone bad?" demanded the rogue whom the others called Elam Jack. The others had already warned Volo of his dubious character and rumored stint for thievery in the dungeons of Suzail.
"Well," started Volo, "surely a man of such breeding as yourself knows quality in all things and obviously has no desire to partake of ale that has gone sour or an apple that has gone rancid or a jewel that has gone bad. Passepout is carrying home to his widowed mother up in Shadowdale…"