“So?”
“So I did what we always used to do back in Baldur’s Gate.”
“Which was?”
“I had them spayed.”
Volo fingered his beard, and commented, “It is a very serious crime—in all of Cormyr—to interfere with the reproductive capabilities of a feline.”
“As I soon learned,” the hapless thespian replied. “The maid threatened to tell the authorities of my deed unless I vacated the premises forthwith, and so I did. It turned out that a certain young stable hand that she fancied, thought himself an actor, and it was all just an elaborate scheme to put me in the doghouse, and him in the main house. If you know what I mean.”
Volo shook his head in gentle amusement, and urged his companion on. “So what then?”
“The maid was quite insistent about going to the authorities, so I figured it would probably be prudent of me not to wait for Master Bernd’s return. So I left a note of apology and took to the road, to experience life in the theater known as Faerûn, once again.”
“This way,” Volo interrupted, indicating that it was time for them to turn the corner. “I’ve just checked in to the Traveler’s Cloak Inn.” The great traveler paused for a moment, scratched his chin, and added inquisitively, “But somehow you knew that, or else how would you have known to leave a message for me about your predicament. How did you know that I would be staying there?”
The thespian beamed proudly, and answered, “One thing I certainly learned from our trip was that the legendary Volothamp Geddarm always travels in style, and only favors the most noble of establishments with his presence.”
The greatest traveler of Faerûn shook his head in gentle amusement, and conceded, “But of course. And the Traveler’s Cloak Inn is indeed the best place in Mulmaster. At fifteen gold pieces a night, it better be. But this still doesn’t explain how you knew that I would be in Mulmaster.”
“Well,” the portly actor explained, his voice dropping markedly as a pair of soldiers passed them going in the opposite direction along the avenue, “while I was enjoying the free and easy life on the road, I came across a leaflet that mentioned that a local bookseller was having a reception for a cookbook author who was on tour, and that the reception was being sponsored by the firm of Tyme Waterdeep, Limited, who I remembered as your publisher. Since it was a cookbook author, I naturally figured that there would be plenty of food there, so I decided to crash.”
“Crash?”
“Attend without an invitation.”
“Oh,” Volo replied, “and they just let you in?”
“Well, not until I mentioned your name, of course.”
“Of course.”
“The food wasn’t very good anyway, low-fat fungus flambé, and such, but I ran into a guy named Pig who claimed he knew you.”
“Imagine that,” Volo mused.
“Now call me suspicious, but I am not inclined to take a person at their word, particularly when they make claims of greatness.”
“Like knowing Volothamp Geddarm?”
“Of course,” Passepout asserted. “No telling what a rogue might claim these days.”
“No one would know better than you.”
“Of course,” the actor conceded. “Anyway, he claimed that you and he had made a journey through the Underdark together, and that that trip had been the inspiration for the book. When I asked him where you were, he said that you were probably working on your guide to the Moonsea, and so, voilà, we make contact.”
Volo chuckled to himself. Imagine, he thought, my two most reluctant traveling companions running into each other. I can’t wait to hear Percival Woodehaus’s version of the story. He then said aloud to his friend, “Well its just lucky for you that Mulmaster was my next stop. Originally it wasn’t, and I wouldn’t have gotten here for a month or more.”
“I shudder to think of it,” the portly thespian replied. “More than a night in that hellhole would surely have been the death of me.”
“What did they arrest you for anyway?”
“Acting, without an official permit.”
Volo nodded in agreement, and said, “And of course in order to get the official permit, you would have had to pay the theater tax, which, of course, you couldn’t afford.”
“Exactly.”
“Sometimes I think that Mulmaster should be called the City of Taxes instead of the City of Danger,” the great traveler declared, a bit too loudly for his paranoid companion who was overly conscious of the excessive number of city guards that seemed to be out on the streets. Volo, noticing the uneasiness of Passepout, quickly changed the subject.
Turning his attention back to his boon companion he said, “Enough of this idle chatter. On to the matter at hand. The Traveler’s Cloak Inn is two doors away, and I have taken the liberty of changing my reservation from a single to two adjoining rooms. A few hours’ rest, and you will be ripe and ready for some festing tonight. We can talk over old times, have some new times, and make plans for future times, for tomorrow I must leave.”
“You think of everything Mist … uh, Volo. But why must you leave so soon?”
“Oh, I’ll be back,” the traveler answered. “I’ll probably even keep the rooms on reserve until I return. You can, of course, avail yourself of their use in my absence.”
“Wonderful!”
Volo smiled at once again hearing his friend’s favorite expression, and ushered Passepout into the best inn in town.
Around Mulmaster,
the Tower of Arcane Might,
and at the Traveler’s Cloak Inn:
While the master traveler made arrangements for the next few days of his research, the pudgy thespian spent most of the afternoon sleeping in the most comfortable bed that he had had the honor of lying in since he left the luxuries of the Bernd estate many months ago. Volo’s research included stopping by the local taverns, inns, and festhalls to gain a few recommendations for accommodations. He was very careful not to reveal his true identity everywhere, as some of the establishments would later be graced with an incognito visitation, by him, for purposes of giving them a fair evaluation for their inclusion in his upcoming Volo’s Guide to the Moonsea.
Volo also made it a point of checking in at the legendary Tower of Arcane Might, the guild hall for the Brotherhood of the Cloak. Volo had earlier received honorary “Cloak” status from the Senior Cloak Thurndan Tallwand in exchange for the noted author’s silence concerning the source of various secret entries in his legendarily suppressed work Volo’s Guide to All Things Magical. By checking in informally as an honorary Cloak, the master traveler hoped to avoid future problems around Mulmaster with its strict rules on magic use, while also maintaining a low profile that would enable him to come and go as inconspicuously as possible with the rigid regimens of the often-called City of Danger.
As expected, Tallwand was unavailable, at least according to his secretary.
“I am sorry,” said the officious wizard who acted as Tallwand’s secretary. “The Senior Cloak is very busy, and can not see you today.”
“That’s too bad,” Volo, the ever courteous traveler, replied, “but I really did want to say hello.”
“I am afraid that is not possible,” the secretary replied, and returned to the work that was on his desk.
Volo stood for a moment and fingered his beard, the wheels of thought whirring in his head. He suspected that Tallwand was indeed eavesdropping on his conversation with his wizardly lackey. He just wanted to see him for a moment. He decided it was time to fight dirty.
In the few moments that Volo took for contemplation and cogitation, an older wizard had entered the Senior Cloak’s antechamber. He was a sour old coot who seemed very impressed with himself. No doubt he was older and stonier than the Tower of Arcane Might itself.
“Ah, Mage McKern, you are here for your appointment,” the lackey recognized. “Let me just check with the Senior Cloak. I am sure he will be with you momentarily.”
Volo sighed
loudly and said aloud, “I guess I will have to have the article published without giving Thurndan a chance to review it.” The master traveler sighed again, and started to head to the door.
The Senior Cloak, who was indeed eavesdropping on the goings-on, immediately burst through the door. His face was a mask of enthusiasm and surprise desperately trying to hide a look of embarrassment and fear over what he had just heard.
“Volo!” he hailed. “What a surprise! Come right in.”
The master traveler reversed his steps and said, “I didn’t want to disturb you. I am sure you are very busy, and …”
“Not at all,” Thurndan replied, putting his arm around the shoulders of the mischievous author and ushering him into his office, pausing quickly to turn to his secretary and whisper, “Reschedule whatever you have to.”
As he crossed the threshold the master traveler heard the secretary saying, “I am sorry Mage McKern, perhaps we can reschedule for next month.…”
Volo’s meeting with Tallwand was quite short. The master traveler made up an article that he hoped the Senior Cloak might take a look at. The Senior Cloak quickly assented, relieved that it had nothing to do with his earlier transgression that had made its way into the notorious All Things Magical, and then set about getting rid of the master traveler as fast as possible.
Volo, satisfied that no one would now be able to dispute that he had indeed checked in at the Tower of Arcane Might and equally eager to be on his way, verbally recognized the Senior Cloak’s busy schedule and agreed to hurry along, promising to return at some later date when they would both have some time to swap stories and spells.
The master traveler was quite full of himself as he passed the secretary who had tried to bar his way. Volo chuckled, realizing that the lackey was probably staring daggers at him. That will teach him to try to get in the way of the master traveler of all Toril, Volo thought proudly.
Still preoccupied with his own elan and facility, Volo didn’t even notice accidentally bumping into the sour old mage whose appointment he had usurped. Had he done so he probably would have apologized. Instead he continued on his oblivious path, not even hearing the vitriolic curses that were being spewed behind his back.
Upon returning to the Traveler’s Cloak Inn, he was immediately greeted in the dining hall by the now refreshed Passepout, whose pleasant afternoon nap had added fuel to his already voracious appetite.
“Volo!” Passepout yelled. “Over here!”
I must remember to go alone on my visitations that require a low profile, the master traveler reminded himself, and then joined his friend at the opulently laid table.
“Dela darling,” the portly thespian called to the barmaid, “Please set a place for my friend here, and bring more food. He might be hungry.” Turning his attention to the recently seated Volo, he whispered, “I think she likes me. I have a way with barmaids.”
“I remember,” the master traveler replied. “You were always quite the ladies’ man.”
Dela quickly set a place for Volo, and was about to return to the bar when Passepout gave her a friendly pat on the rump, and said, “Very nice, my sweet. Play your cards right, and I’ll put in a good word for you with the management.”
Dela gave Volo a long-suffering look, and said, “You sure he’s a friend of yours, Mr. Geddarm?”
“Afraid so,” the master traveler replied.
“Well, please advise him to keep his hands to himself,” she instructed, and regained her place at the bar.
Volo looked to his friend, and said admonishingly, “Well, you heard her.”
Passepout was affronted. “Imagine her nerve!” the indignant thespian boomed. “I have a good mind to have a word with the owner about her.”
“She is the owner,” Volo instructed.
“Oh,” said the chubby thespian warily. “Do you think I should leave? Or maybe apologize? A few well chosen compliments might go a long way, her being female and all.”
“Just let it pass,” the master traveler instructed. “Dela is a good sort, with a keen business sense, and no desire to alienate any potential paying customers. You can’t ask for more in an innkeeper in these parts.”
Passepout nodded, and continued the inhalation of his meal. Volo put his napkin in place, and joined in the dining experience. After a few more mouthfuls, Passepout once again struck up a conversation.
“I only arrived here yesterday,” the chubby thespian confessed. “Is there anything I should know about these here parts?”
“Plenty,” the master traveler replied. “But first a question: why did you come to Mulmaster to begin with?”
After a swallow and another quaff of ale, the portly thespian explained.
“Somebody around Westgate told me that there was plenty of room for my sort of trade in the Moonsea area.”
“You mean acting, of course,” the master traveler clarified.
“Of course,” Passepout replied. “I learned my lesson after that little stay in Baldur’s Gate, when you last came to my rescue.”
“Go on,” Volo urged, not wanting to experience another exuberant outbreak of undying gratitude from the chubby actor, nor relive his last jailbreak experience.
“So I said to myself, ‘Self, where should we go?’ Zhentil Keep was obviously out of the question. I mean, who is willing to pay good money for drama when your city is in ruins.”
“Agreed.”
“And Hillsfar didn’t exactly seem to fit the bill.”
“For sure,” the master traveler replied, wondering if there was still a price on their heads for impersonating Red Plumes, the city watch, the last time they were there.
“And Phlan already has a resident thespian, Ward T. James.”
“Ward T. James?” Volo repeated inquisitively. “Never heard of him.”
“He’s a big guy, like me,” Passepout explained, patting his expansive tummy in illustration. “He tours with a group called the S.S.I.—Stupendous Stagecraft Incorporated. They are most famous for their Pools series of plays that set the great classics of Faerûn in a mud pit.”
“Great,” the master traveler said, quickly taking out a pad and jotting down a few notes. “High drama and mud wrestling all rolled into one.”
“So that ruled out Phlan,” the actor finished heaping another pile of food onto his plate, to further usher it into his never-filling gullet, “which basically just left Mulmaster as the major metropolis at hand.”
Volo swallowed, picked a crumb out of his neatly trimmed beard, took a napkin and wiped his mouth, refilled his mug with ale in case any parchness beset him during his lecture, and began to fill his boon companion in on Mulmaster minutiae.
“I can understand your reasons for choosing Mulmaster, now that you have explained it to me,” the master traveler offered, “but I would still recommend that you pick another place to ply your trade. As far as I’m aware no one ever tells anyone to go to these here parts unless they really never want to see them again.”
“I’m sure that’s not the case,” Passepout protested. “Olive, who recommended this area, was quite fond of me.”
“I’m sure,” said the master traveler, not wanting to start an argument, “but Mulmaster is known as the City of Danger for a very good reason. If you thought the Red Plumes of Hillsfar were bad, wait ’til you get a load of the Hawks.”
“Well, I did last night,” the thespian countered. “They weren’t too bad as far as a city watch goes.”
“No, my friend,” Volo corrected. “You were probably taken in by regular soldiers. The Hawks are the High Blade’s own storm troopers. Rumor has it that he regularly dispatches them to do his dirty work throughout the Realms. Let me give you a little history.
“Mulmaster was founded—by various influential merchant groups—in the Year of Fell Wizardry, as a trading fortress way station between the Moonsea, the River Lis, and the Dragon Reach. It managed to not only survive, but thrive during the years of unrest, and eventually, in the Year of T
hunder, made a bid for complete domination of the Moonsea, only to be put back in its place by the combined forces of Sembia, Hillsfar, Phlan, Melvaunt, and Zhentil Keep.”
“Scrappy little place,” the thespian commented between mouthfuls.
Volo continued in his recitation of exposition text that he no doubt had already composed for the guidebook in progress.
“There was much finger pointing after their failed attempt at expansionism, and out of the anarchy arose the formation of a single seat of power, to rule over the others. This leader was to be called the High Blade, who was to work in conjunction with the other ranking nobles who from that time on were known as the Blades. The first High Blade took power in the Year of the Wandering Wyrm, and quickly assassinated any of the Blades who didn’t agree with his way of doing things. From that point on the Blades were nothing more than a puppet ruling council.”
“Wonderful,” the thespian observed, “so that’s why he needs those shock troopers around to protect him.”
“No, my friend,” Volo corrected. “That’s the job of the Brotherhood of the Cloak. Any mage in the city of fourth level or higher is immediately recruited to their ranks, or else.”
“Or else what?”
Volo made a motion as if he was slitting his throat with the bread knife.
“Oh,” said the chubby thespian, beginning to think that maybe leaving town would be a good idea.
“The current High Blade is a fellow by the name of Selfaril Voumdolphin, who succeeded his father into the job after assassinating him. That was back in the Year of the Spear.”
“Did he then marry his mother? I seem to recall a play about something like that.”
“I’m afraid not,” the gazetteer replied. “This is one case where life does not mirror drama. He did recently marry though, to an equally powerful young lady by the name of Dmitra Flas.”
“Never heard of her.”
“She’s also known as the First Princess of Thay, and the Tharchioness of Eltabbar, or just the Tharchioness for short. It was a major diplomatic coup for both Mulmaster and Thay.”
The Mage in the Iron Mask Page 3
