The rest of them yelled their sales pitches at us, full of exaggerations and downright lies. They were like every cabbie I had ever seen, from downtown Perv all the way to the smallest backwater dimension.
Guido got between us and the most aggressive ones, sticking his hand in his breast pocket meaningfully to sug-gest there would be a penalty for hassling us. I always ap-preciated his gift for the subtle, but this time it was too subtle. The cabbies were too desperate for a fare to give up in the face of potential deadly retaliation. I turned and snarled at them, showing my Pervect four-inch teeth. The drivers recoiled, but kept coming. They didn't back off until they noticed Matfany. The prime minister gave each driver a look that was half stern teacher, half policeman. As a deterrent it worked better than pepper spray. I thought I could hear a couple of the cabbies whimper as they with-drew to their stands. They were more afraid of him than they were of me. That impressed me. He must be a lot tougher than he came across.
“We'll walk, if you don't mind, ma'am,” he said, bow-ing to Tananda. “Truth to tell, the budget won't run to a limousine, and you can see our fair city a whole lot better without rushing around.”
“No problem,” Tananda said, attaching herself to his right arm. “I've done a little streetwalking in my time.” Matfany looked shocked. Tananda gave him an outrageous wink. I grinned.
“It ain't the worst place I've ever seen,” I said. “But I'm an urbanite myself. This is a trifle away from the bright lights and big city that is my preferred habitat.”
“A lot of people say that the first day,” Matfany said. “By the end of the week we got most of them asking if they can extend their reservations. Well, we did, before the pinchbugs. This is our main street.”
He waved a hand. The once handsome lakeshore was lined with rental domiciles of every size, everything from the Gigantico Hotel chain out of Imper down to Pappy Johnstone's Pink Roof Inn. I guessed the latter must be a local establishment. The effigy in the parking lot of a Swamp Fox in a straw hat waving its hand was the mascot. Every one of the places had two things in common: their walls were full of little holes as if they had been attacked by a horde of insane carpenters with half-inch drill bits, and every establishment was empty. Not one tourist. The bare trees waved forlornly over swimming pools and lawn chairs, all vacant. Vines grew up and sometimes into aban-doned buildings and stands all up and down the street.
“Come on,” I said. “Let's see what else we can find.”
Matfany cleared his throat. “I am afraid, sir, that you are bound to be disappointed.”
A few hours later, I had to conclude that Matfany wasn't lying. Apart from food preparation and hand workshops that turned out souvenirs, there was almost no infrastruc-ture in the main city of Foxe-Swampburg. My feet were killing me, and I saw the presidency of M.Y.T.H., Inc. flut-tering away like an escaping bird.
“Okay,” I said. “What about manufacturing?”
“Don't do much of that,” Matfany said. “I've tried to introduce the concept of factorieshonest truth is we don't have a lot of dry. level land to spare for big facilities. We buy off-dimension most times. Tourist money is usu-ally rolling in. Our credit was pretty good on Deva and Flibber and a bunch of other places.”
“Natural resources?” I was grasping at straws. “Not enough to export, sir. Half the time the lamps run on fish oil, and the other half on magik.” “What about location?”
I already knew the answer to that one; it had taken us four jumps to get here. That meant Foxe-Swampburg was useless as a strategic location for refueling, armaments, manufacturing, or just about anything except tourism. Which had dried up.
A pony-drawn cart trotted toward us, the driver seem-ing to drowse over his reins. The driver looked up hope-fully at the sight of three obvious strangers and steered toward us. Then he noticed Matfany. His eyes went wide with fear and alarm. He turned his wagon all the way around and whipped up the pony. It trotted away, with the driver looking back over his shoulder.
“You have more than money problems, pal,” I said. “You have a PR problem. Your own people are scared of you.”
“I know it,” Matfany said, with a sigh. “I thought that they would be downright grateful that they were in the hands of someone who would save them from ruin, but they're not. I just don't understand it. I've done everything for those people.”
“Why do you think it is?”
“Well, I had to reintroduce some pretty fierce punish-ments,” he said. “We had a lot of theft and assault and all when things started to get tight around here. I didn't want anyone to get the idea that they could just push me around. But only for those felons who deserve it. I don't go around handing out sentences on innocent people. But I don't hold back where it's merited.”
“Punishments like what?” I asked. Matfany sounded hesitant. “Well, imprisonment. Whip-pings. Death.” I eyed him. “Sounds like a house party on Perv.” “Beg your pardon, sir?” “I get the picture. Got any ideas?” I asked Tananda and Guido. “This is all your show.”' Tananda reminded me, not with-out sympathy “What can you work with?”
I kicked a stone. It went bounding across the deserted road and knocked into the pillar of a gigantic, white-enameled structure that stuck way out into the very pictur-esque waterfront. It was one of three similar handsome oceanside structures. Each had what looked like an over-sized gazebo at the end, and along the way there were steps leading down to small jetties at water level and several food booths, all shuttered as if it was the middle of winter in-stead of a sweltering summer.
“Nice pier,” I said.
“Yeah,” Matfany said.
“What do you call it?” I asked.
“Oh, well, we call it The Pier.” He pointed right, then left. “That one's The Other Pier, and that one's That There Pier.”
I raised one scaly eyebrow. “Isn't that a little confusing? Why don't you call i! Smith's Pier, or something a little more tourist friendly?”
“Oh. well, Smith didn't build it,” Matfany said, reason-ably “Why would we name it after him when it's not his?”
“There are a lot of places that people didn't build but are still named after them,” I said, when the idea struck me like a ton of Imper garlic sausage. “In fact, some of them are willing to put good money into having their name at-tached to just the right thing. It gives prestige to the donor. Some of them even consider it an honor.”
“Yeah, but these are not colleges or libraries,” Guido pointed out. “We got a few of those, too,” Matfany pointed out.
“There, you see,” I said, warming to my topic. “We could sell naming rights to parts of Foxe-Swampburg. Get the right people involved, and there could be a bundle of money in it.” I started to see gold coins piling up before my eyes. I saw a stack of signed contracts. I saw envy on
Skeeve's face as I put my feet up on the president's desk. My desk.
“Like who?” Tananda asked, quite reasonably, inter-rupting my thoughts. I frowned as the bubble popped, but I dragged myself back to the present.
“Well, Deveels, for one. Deveel enterprises like to have their names on things. Once this place gears up again for the tourist season it's a natural match. How much of your souvenirs come from the Bazaar?” I asked Matfany.
“Most of it, except the handmade stuff,” he said. “Barco Willie, he makes these trivets out of shells. .. ?”
I brushed Barco Willie aside. “And Impsthey'll do anything to make up for being born Imps. Here they can invest in something tasteful, like a forest or a library.”
“Well, I dunno .. .” Matfany said.
“It'll work,” I said. “I can't think of any way it could go wrong. What do you say? Do you have to consult anyone before you can rename the local points of interest?”
“Well, there's the Old Folks, but they don't have a say, exactly. It's just common courtesy .. .”
“Good, then it's up to you.” I gave
Matfany my biggest grin and had the satisfaction of watching him back up ner-vously. “Trust me. It'll earn you brownie points. When things start to improve for the Swamp Foxes, they'll em-brace the prime minister who had their best interests in mind.”
Myth 18 - MythChief
SIXTEEN
“Put it out on the World Wide Web!” SHELOB
“Bobbie Jo! Great to see you, kid!” Massha grabbed my arm and dragged me through the enormous double doors. The woman with pale blue fur sitting on the modest but obviously expensive divan looked as if she had a wide fur skirt spread around her feet. “It's been too long.”
“Massha, honey!” The woman rose up high, then her body settled in among three sets of arched legs as if it were in a hammock. That big skirt was a set of long legs like those of a spider. I have never been big on spiders. She made to-ward us with two arms outstretched.
I cringed. “I've never seen a spider that big,” I whis-pered to my former apprentice. “Hush!” Massha whispered back. “Don't mention spi-ders. They're Octaroobles. Now, smile!”
The spiokay, Octarooblecame to air-kiss my for-mer apprentice on each cheek. I felt a little awkward as Massha shoved me forward like a six-year-old ordered to play violin for the guests. The woman, with owl-like eyes and a crest of stiff hairs on the top of her head, regarded me with curiosity. I smiled weakly. Her jaws moved side-ways instead of up and down, reminding me far too much of a spider's palps.
“Bobbie Jo, this is Skeeve the Magnificent. Skeeve, this is Robelinda Jocasta, Chief of the Clans of Octaroo.”
“A pleasure,” I said. She extended a blue-furred hand. I bowed over it, trying to remember I'd met uglier and more fearsome creatures. This was for a good cause, I reminded myself. I was here for Hermalaya. “I am honored to meet someone Massha holds in such esteem.” I placed my hand on top of my head, fingers up, as Massha had instructed me.
Chief Robelinda Jocasta sent me flying with a backward knock of that same hand. “He's a pretty talker, Massha! No wonder you like him.”
You'd think I would have no trouble getting in to meet people of high rank or lofty offices, but I had been out of touch for long enough that many of my connections had gone cold. In contrast, Massha, who now held my job of Court Magician to Queen Hemlock of Possiltum. had plenty of numbers in her little black book and was gra-ciously willing to share them with me.
I had had my share of humility lessons since the end of my self-imposed retirement, and this one was no less grat-ing on what was left of my ego. Massha, specialist in gadget-magik, gaudy dresser, woman of sizemake that extreme sizebrassy, bold, and awkward, had grown into a difficult job with aplomb and grace. She had expanded her duties to fit her presence, whereas I had spent a lot of time ducking to keep from having to do too much work and putting myself in harm's way. Massha reveled in every detail. She and the queen had become good friends. Massha was brash and prickly, but Hemlock, not exactly a shrink-ing violet herself, liked her style. She had sent Massha out on a lot of missions of goodwill on behalf of the kingdom, so when I asked about prospects for me to approach about
Hermalaya, Massha had a long list. Possiltum was not one of them. When I asked Hemlock, out of
courtesy, she snorted. “Are you crazy?” she had asked me. “I've got my own problems.” She had always been notoriously unsym-pathetic. However, she had allowed me to take Massha with me, or rather her to take me, to meet her friends and drum up support.
“Thanks for taking the time to meet with us,” I said.
“No problem, kid! And call me Bobbie Jo. After all the stuff Massha's told me about you, I couldn't wait to meet you. What can I do for you?”
“I'm here on behalf of Princess Hermalaya of Foxe-Swampburg,” I said.
“Fine old family. I knew her dad, Tinian. We met at a monarchs' conference in Vaygus,” Bobbie Jo said, return-ing to sit on the divan. The legs settled around her again, making her look only about ten percent as scary. “Could that man cut a rug? Wow! And his lady, Indicia, was a sweetie, too. She and I used to exchange recipes. I was devastated when they died.” She patted the seat beside her and beckoned to me. Nervously, I sat down. “So, what's been going on with her?”
If there had ever been a cue, that was it. I unfurled the Princess's Diary and let the spell play out.
Chief Robelinda sat up as the image of the Swamp Vixen appeared. She listened carefully to the soft voice as Hermalaya read from her diary. When she got to the part about the aftermath of the pinchbug invasion, I saw tears in Bobbie Jo's big, round eyes. By the section in which Matfany threw her out and placed a death sentence on her, the Chief of the Clans of Octaroo was openly sobbing into a silk handkerchief. The image faded, and I rolled the scroll up again.
“Ay!” she exclaimed, blowing her nose on the now sod-den silk. “That poor thing! But what can I do for her? I'm not going to invade a neighbor dimension. I could provoke a lot of our hereditary enemies into a preemptive strike. This whole dimension is a powder keg. I can't put Octaroo into an untenable position even for the sake of an old friend's daughter.”
“To be honest, I'm looking for several kinds of help. Hermalaya needs to find some leverage to get Matfany out. If we can destabilize him, maybe we can get the people to depose him. Do they owe you any money?”
Bobbie Jo waved over a page, a young Octarooble about ten years old. He came running on eight pale gray legs and beamed up at her with his sideways mouth. “Go get Hirame, baby.” The little one sprinted out of the room like a whole track team.
In a little while, a thin, wizened male with pinched cheeks and a pinched expression entered and bowed deeply over the armload of ledgers held in two of his furry arms. I took a moment to wonder why all government bureaucrats looked alike, no matter what their species. And sounded alike.
“The principality known as Foxe-Swampburg,” Hirame intoned, peering at me as if I was an unruly student, “has indeed a long-running item upon our rolls of accounts re-ceivable. An outstanding invoice of fifty gold coins. Run-ning for over three years now. They had been keeping up the interest, but not in some... time. Are you here to make payment?”
“No, I'm not,” I said, cheerfully. “In fact, we're hoping that you'll call in the debt.” “And may I ask why?”
“Oh, we're hoping to overthrow the government.” “I... see,” Hirame said, but his wrinkled brow said he didn't, really.
“Why, that's brilliant,” Bobbie Jo said, grinning at me. “And reinstate the credit if you manage to get Tinian's daughter back in?”
“Uh, well, if we do get her back on the throne,” I said, “we were hoping you might just forgive the debt entirely. The kingdom's in no shape to pay it or the interest. AND” I took a deep breath; this was the sticky part“perhaps you could see your way clear to a loan or a grant of capital, to tide them over until Foxe-Swampburg recovers? She needs to rebuild the treasury, and there's no real prospect of income until we get the tourists coming back. It might be an uphill battle, after the pinchbugs.”
“A further loan?” Hirame asked, his round eyes regard-ing me coldly.
“Something for nothing?” Bobbie Jo asked, her crest rising. “That's just not like Tinian or anyone in his family.” The knees started to go up again.
Hastily, I waved away the suggestion. “No, of course we're not asking for an outright gift. Have you ever heard of the Reynardan Cake ceremony?” I launched into my sales pitch. I could tell that Bobbie Jo was more than inter-ested. Even the disapproving Hirame was agog though he tried not to show he was listening.
“Of course, you may honor anyone else you like by ad-mitting them to the Cake ceremony,” I said, with a nod to-ward Hirame. The disapproving stare became just a little less glassy. There's nothing that can pry open a wallet, I mused, like the chance to experience something exclusive and mysterious. “The princess would consider it a pleasure to share an intimate part of her culture out of gratitude
to those who helped her regain her patrimony.”
“Nicely put, Skeeve,” Bobbie Jo said with a grin. “It's been a good year. I think we can squeeze out a little some-thing, can't we, Hirame?”
“I do believe it is possible, Chief,” Hirame said, straight-ening up with his crest erect on his head. “Great!” I exclaimed. “So, may I tell Hermalaya that you would like to have her here soon?” “Tomorrow wouldn't be soon enough,” Bobbie Jo said. “Massha, you've got to stay and see it with me.” “I'd love to,” Massha said. “So, it's settled.”
“There's just one condition.” I stared at her in alarm. She pointed. “I want a copy of that scroll. I haven't cried that much in ages. That's better than most of the novels in my library.”
“I'll ask the princess, but I'm sure she'll have no prob-lem with that,” I said, jubilantly. That also gave me an amazing idea for publicizing the princess's situation.
“Great! In that case, we look forward to welcoming her.” She stood up, and I understood that my audience was at an end. No matter. I couldn't wait to get back and tell Her-malaya the good news.
Myth 18 - MythChief
SEVENTEEN
“I promise you'll get the royal treatment.” ROBESPIERRE
The Cake ceremony in Octaroo went off without a single problem. Hermalaya was given free rein over the castle kitchens, and turned out a cake that outdid her previous efforts. The royal purple icing decorations seemed to defy gravity. Bobbie Jo and her fellow clan chiefs were dazzled by the rituals as
well as the food. As a courtesy to her fel-low monarch, I was invited to participate in the event. I did better than the locals in Pin-the-tail-on-the-Dragon, but I was far outclassed in Musical Chairs. The seats had to be placed several yards apart so that the Octaroobles weren't able to cover several at once in anticipation of the music ceasing, and I just couldn't keep up. Not that I minded. I was getting used to the spiderlike characteristics of my hosts, but I was just as happy to get out of their way. In an effort to win, they threw hanks of web at one another when their hostess wasn't looking or stretched out those long legs to trip each other. Hermalaya, as always, held herself with extreme dignity.
Myth 18 - MythChief Page 11