'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
