VOLO DOES MENZO

Brian M. Thomsen

"Where's my Skullport Special?" roared the foul-mouthed dwarf. "I ordered it over an aeon ago!"

"You ordered it less than five swipes of a dragon's tail ago," answered Percival Gallard Woodehous, the efficient and supercilious maitre d'/waiter/cook of Traitor Pick's, one of Skullport's grimier and grimmer grog-and-grub spots, "… and here it is."

The dwarf, whose name was Knytro, dived in with both hands, filling his cheeks with the aromatic mush while commenting, "Better than last time. Best slop in all Skullport." Then, looking up, stew dripping from his beard, he added, "You ain't much to look at, Pig, but you know how to cook."

"I live to serve," Woodehous answered with a touch of sarcasm he knew was lost on the dwarf, who was busy delighting in his dinner du jour.

Knytro began to lick the bowl of any of the stew's residue that had managed to escape his mouth, beard, and shirt front during the scant seconds it had taken for him to empty the vessel of its contents. The foul-mouthed dwarf then belched a further message to the long-suffering Woodehous.

"I beg your pardon?" Woodehous inquired.

"Whatsa matter?" the dwarf replied, getting a little hot under the collar. "I said it in Common, Pig. You deaf?"

"I must have been distracted by the bovine exuberance you manifested in the inhalation of your meal," he replied, confident of the limited vocabulary of his customer.

"I said 'Good slop,' " the dwarf repeated, this time without the benefit of the gaseous accent.

"I live for your praise," Woodehous replied, turning to head back to the bar.

The dwarf, having sated his appetite for food, had obviously not yet reached his fill of conversation. He left the table and followed the waiter, taking a place on the stool in front of the bar and motioning that he was ready for a post-dinner nightcap of grog.

Ever efficient, Woodehous accommodated him immediately. The customer is always right, he thought to himself, no matter how uncouth, foul-smelling, or barbaric. Dignity must be maintained in service at all times.

"You know, Pig?" the dwarf continued.

"What, good sir?" he replied, grimacing as he once again heard the unfortunate moniker that had become his common hail of recent.

"In all the years I've spent excavating around these here parts, I've never come across a better slop jockey than you. I have a mind to put a good word in for you with the management around here."

"Why, thank you, good sir," Woodehous replied, hoping that enough of these endorsements would return him to managerial favor and convince the powers that be to return him to his previous assignment back at Shipmaster's Hall in Waterdeep or some other equally prestigious establishment. He refilled the dwarfs mug one last time.

"No problem, Pig," the dwarf replied, draining the draught immediately. "Wouldn't want to lose you. You're the best cook Traitor Pick's has ever had-well, at least in the close to fifty years I've been coming here.

You can certainly work up an appetite opening up and closing down tunnels all day. I know the manager, and he knows me-me being a steady customer and all."

The dwarf got off his stool and headed for the door, adding, "I'm sure one word from me, and you'll never have to look for another job again. Your position here will be secure forever."

"What a depressing thought," Woodehous muttered, mostly for his own benefit, as none of the customers seem to be paying him much attention.

Percival Gallard Woodehous had been on the Waterdhavian taverns managerial fast track when an unfortunate incident had derailed him. Having been trained in hostelry and cuisine at some of the best taverns in Suzail, the then young majordomo-in-training had set his sights westward, and traveled to Waterdeep in search of a position befitting his abilities. Once there, he contracted his services to a catering consortium, which arranged for him assignments at various affairs in Waterdhavian society. As his expertise increased with the demands, he soon found himself in a position to control his own destiny. He resigned from the consortium and landed a position at the Shipmaster's Hall, a private inn and supper club that catered to the upper crust of the sailing community. In no time at all, he was running the place with more than twenty different employees under his supervision. Woodehous felt it was the perfect time to take a break from his fast-paced climb up the social ladder and settle back for a few months of treading water among the nautical set. The next opportunity for advancement would surely present itself soon enough.

Then, one day, he had the misfortune of being on duty when a very important person checked in with his entourage. It was none other than the master traveler in all Faerun, and the best-selling guidebook author Volothamp Geddarm himself. Quickly seizing the opportunity to add yet another feather to his cap, Woodehous offered Volo and his party accommodations "on the house," fully expecting a rave review for the establishment in the next edition of Volo's Guide to Waterdeep.

Unfortunately, the traveler and his entourage skipped town during the night, leaving neither a rave endorsement nor a monetary settlement for services rendered. When Woodehous informed his superiors of the situation, they were enraged. Their rationale was twofold, each reason equally damning. First, if the traveler wasn't really the legendary Volo, Woodehous had been taken advantage of by a con man (perhaps the renowned rogue and imposter Marcus Wands, aka "Marco Volo") and, therefore, was ill suited for the responsibilities of his managerial position. Second, if the traveler was really the legendary gazetteer, Woodehous had either done something to offend him or Volo had found his accommodations inadequate for even a full night's stay, thus assuring the establishment an abominable review in the guidebook's next edition. Either way, his superiors saw dismissal as the only appropriate action, and Woodehous was fired.

Woodehous returned to the catering consortium in hopes of restarting his societal upward climb, only to find himself blacklisted. The restauranting powers that be were more than a little indignant over his striking out on his own, and hoped to teach him a lesson. As a result, the only position he was able to obtain was in the employ of a nouveau entrepreneur whose acquaintance he had made back at the Shipmaster's Hall.

Denver Gilliam-a former seaman and, by his own reckoning, a veteran of one shipwreck too many-had recently struck it rich and bought out a block of taverns in the dock district of the City of Splendors. After the buyout, the taverns each maintained a distinctive ambience, even the Lords of Waterdeep couldn't tell they had a single owner, despite the fact that the establishments stood side by side on both sides of the street.

(The few patrons who were in the know had nicknamed the block "Gilliam's Aisle.")

Gilliam offered Woodehous a position, which he quickly accepted, signing a contract for no fewer than three years of exclusive hostelry services. Upon starting work, however, Woodehous discovered that the tavern to which he had accepted assignment was far from the newly fashionable, newly renovated Waterdhavian dock district. Its location wasn't even in Waterdeep, and thus the gentleman hostler found himself maitre d'/cook/waiter at Traitor Pick's in Skullport, where walking upright immediately designated one a member of the intellectual upper crust.

Woodehous had lost track of the time since he had last ventured out into daylight, and was quickly approaching despair as he realized he had not even reached the halfway point in his contract.