MYTH-Taken Identity

by Robert Asprin

  "Agreed," Chumley said. "My goodness, a hundred thousand would put a largish hole in the family exchequer, what?"

  "Whew!" Massha agreed. "With that kind of loot I could buy out the Gimmicks 'R' Us store, shelves and all. Just let me leave a note for Hugh."

  With two sets of magikal means to transport us, there was an Alphonse-Gaston moment until we decided Massha ought to blink us there. I had a D-hopper now, but no one had the experience with gadgets like Massha. Using the directions we got from an infosearch spell Massha whipped up using an antique locket set with turquoise but­tons, we popped in practically on the front doorstep of The Mall.

  TWO

  The bamf that was the displacement of air heralding our arrival also displaced several bodies. When we appeared, my arms were pinned to my sides by the sheer press of the huge crowd surrounding the gigantic white building ahead. Pretty majestic, I thought, taking in as much as I could in one glance. The building had been constructed of white marble, stretching three stories to the gargoyles that ran around underneath the lip of the roof made of curved red tiles. A pediment underneath the peak on our side of the building displayed a frieze with a center figure that looked familiar to me. The place was a temple to Agora, a goddess of shopping centers who held sway in more than one dimension. As far as I knew she didn't have any influence in Deva; maybe she'd packed up in disgust. Her centers of worship tended to be orderly, and the only thing you could say about order at the Bazaar was that it had rules of engagement that if they pertained to fighting, you'd assume you were talking about street fighting, not war. I'd never had a tussle with Agora that I could recall. I wriggled to get

  loose from the crowd and tried to press closer toward the building.

  "Oh, no, you don't get ahead that way!" a shrill female voice cried.

  I felt myself grabbed from behind by a host of hands and tossed into the air. A snarl of protest from Chumley and a shriek of surprise from Massha told me that they had been seized, too. Massha had her gadgets, so she rose over the top of the crowd as the Troll and I were tossed like water buckets in a fire brigade until we landed with a thump on the ground behind the horde. Female faces glared at us as we scrambled to our feet.

  "What's going on?" I said, trying to hold on to my dig­nity and temper.

  "A sale!" a female Dragonet exclaimed, fluttering her light blue wings excitedly.

  "Is that unusual?" Massha said.

  "There's one every day in The Mall," the Dragonet's pale green partner asserted glumly.

  "But not at Cartok's," his mate corrected him. "Seven percent off everything in the shop!"

  Seven percent didn't sound like much of a discount to me, but most of the shoppers seemed to think it was a good deal.

  "How come there's a crowd out here?" I asked.

  "They don't open until ten," the blue Dragonet said. A clock in Agora's belly up on the pediment showed that the minute hand was still a short distance from striking the hour. "We saw you try to line-hop. They'll tear you apart if you try."

  "We'll stay back here," I said, holding my hands up in surrender.

  But one small male with a domed head, deep blue skin, and tall, narrow, double-pointed ears seemed heedless of the danger. I watched curiously as he shoved his way into the mass of shoppers and plunged doggedly forward. Got tossed back again and again, landing at Aahz's feet. Had to admire the little guy's perseverance in the face of an obsta-

  cle I wouldn't face myself. Tossed back, clothes torn, the beginning of a bright purple bruise under one eye.

  "That's it," he swore as he landed almost at our feet. He picked himself up and dusted himself off. "One more time they throw me back, and I'm not opening The Mall."

  "I'll help," Massha said.

  She levitated downward like a big orange balloon and scooped the little man up in her arms. Lightning bolts and missiles of various types flew at her from the irate crowd as she flew him toward the front of the line, but she dodged them all. At the door she let the little man down, then sailed up out of the way as the twelve-foot-high doors flew open, and the horde of shoppers poured forward.

  Massha sailed back to us and settled down, a satisfied look on her face.

  "Not a bad thing to start the day with a good deed," she remarked.

  "Let's go," I said impatiently, as people surged past us on every side. "C'mon, Chumley."

  Massha yelped as a furry shape hurtled past her.

  "He's got my purse!" she shouted.

  "I'll get him," Chumley offered gallantly, and made as if to dash after the little brown creature. Massha grabbed the Troll's arm.

  "Never mind," she said with a smile. Putting two fingers in her mouth, she blew a sharp whistle.

  The bounding creature hauling the orange purse nearly as large as it was let out a cry of despair as the purse seemed to grow legs. It galloped forward, caught up with its captor, opened its mouth, and engulfed the creature in one bite, then snapped shut. Massha retrieved the struggling handbag.

  "Now what'll L do with it?" she wondered.

  "And what is it?" Chumley asked, as we bent over the purse to look. I opened the handbag a crack and stuck my hand into it. My skin's pretty tough, compared with Trolls and Jahks, being covered with a handsome layer of scales. The critter tried to bite my fingers, but I got it by the scruff and hauled it out.

  "A rat!" was all I had time to say before it went for the tendons in my wrist.

  It caught the pressure point under my thumb between its long, sharp front teeth and chomped down. I snarled in pain. My fingers went limp. Before I could grab the little monster with the other hand and squeeze the life out of it, it had clambered up over our shoulders and disappeared into the crowd.

  "Son of a flea-bitten blankety-blank," I said through gritted teeth, clutching my hand.

  "Rats are a big problem in The Mall," a female in a white, fur-trimmed coat informed us as she swept by.

  "You okay, Hot Shot?" Massha asked, with concern.

  "Dammit, yes," I snapped.

  The skin wasn't broken, but I was going to strangle the critter if I ever caught up with it.

  Her eyes gleamed. "Well, then, come on. The Mall is open!"

  I maintain a method for going into a situation that I try not to vary. Step one: identify the problem. Step two: evaluate the situation at hand. Step three: figure out a solution. Step four: implement that decision. Step five, when possible: collect reward.

  In this case there was no chance of a step five, but the first step had already been determined. Someone was rip­ping Skeeve off, hoping he would take the rap or defend himself in the face of unanswerable accusations. At the very least Skeeve would end up with a blot on his charac­ter. At the very worst, he would feel he had to cough up the dough The Mall was asking for, and maybe have to stand trial for fraud. I didn't know which end of the spectrum was worse.

  Cash you could always recoup, though I hated to admit it. I never like to let go of a copper coin I don't have to. If

  you're thrifty, you don't have to go out and earn money over again. It works for you.

  Reputation, on the other hand, was impossible to rebuild. At our level of perceived expertise (the kid was at the beginning of his studies as a magician, and I currently had no powers), what people believed about you was every bit as important as what you could actually accomplish, and made it possible for you to do less work than the other way around. If word got around that Skeeve was a welsh-er, no amount of bibbity-bobbity-boo he picked up over the next few years was going to help.

  Step two involved surveying our environment. We fol­lowed Massha and the huge, eager crowd into The Mall.

  On the other side of the threshold, we were hit by a solid wall of sound. I thought the Bazaar was noisy! This aural assault you had to fight against like an avalanche. My ears, which stick out in modified triangles from the side of my head, and one of my most fetching features, I like to think, are far more sensitive than those of a Troll, a Jahk, or a Klahd.

&n
bsp; Massha and Chumley were cringing at the echoing bar­rage. I was, too, but I would rather have been skinned with a butter knife than show it. It was only my reputation as a tough and focused investigator that kept me from unlimber-ing my new D-hopper, bopping on out of there posthaste, and finding a nice, quiet hurricane to stick my head into.

  "Should we withdraw?" Chumley shouted.

  "Hold on, High Tops!"

  Floating above us, Massha fumbled at her belt. Suddenly, the sound died to a manageable level. I could still hear the music and footsteps and endless chatter, but it no longer felt like there was a steel band around my head playing island melodies.

  "Cone of silence," she said, pointing to a triangular golden charm hanging from a fluttering pennant of orange chiffon. "I bought it for a gag, but it's turned out to be pret­ty useful."

  Shaking my head to clear it, I had to agree. Relief from the noise made it possible for me to think while I surveyed our surroundings.

  If at first I wondered how anyone could drop a hundred thousand gold pieces here, I soon changed my mind. The Mall reminded me of the Bazaar, but cleaner, less fragrant, and cooler—much cooler. A chill breeze blew down my neck at intervals as we pushed our way into the hordes of shoppers, mostly female. The greatest majority of visitors looked eager and excited, but a few with dark circles under their eyes trudged in like zombies, pulled inexorably toward the bright lights of the stores.

  I'd seen some of these pitiable beings in the Bazaar: they were shopaholics. A few of them looked to be in the last stages of the disease, their trembling, clawed hands clutching canvas or net bags, with no joy in the process, only hard-core need. Where were their friends? Friends don't let friends shop themselves to death.

  Business was brisk in The Mall. Ahead of us lay a long avenue lined tightly with stores on either side, reaching up three gallery levels under a vaulted roof held up by thick, carved beams where birds and flying lizards roosted. Their cooing and cheeping added to the cacophony. I couldn't see the end of the passage. It seemed to roll on into infinity.

  We found Cartok's with no trouble. A thread of perky, up-tempo music piped out of the ceiling, warring with the local bands, making a piercing counterpoint with the howls and cries of the shoppers, who were climbing over one another to get at the patchwork jackets and shawls that seemed to be the main items of attraction. Massha gave a longing glance, but turned her eyes forward as we moved past.

  Clothing shops and scarf vendors weren't the only sell­ers there. Far from it. Jewelry booths tempted the eye with a rainbow of sparkling color. From this distance I couldn't tell what was real and what wasn't, but the effect was impressive. Sword shops, with a sweaty smith bending steel over the breath of a chained dragon, caught light with

  a different kind of gleam. A host of Vikings stood around the smith, trying out axe blades on the balls of their thumbs and nodding with approval. Beside the smithy were a cou­ple of bookstores offering tomes wrapped in exotic leathers with gem-studded bindings. A few booths with their doorways draped with gauze had all the earmarks of magik shops. This Mall was a high-end operation, just as Massha had said.

  "We came in Doorway D," Massha announced, coming over to us with a thick scroll in her hands. "You can tell by the relief of the dragon over the entrance." She pointed back toward the doors we had just come through.

  "There's a map?" I asked, reaching for it.

  "It's an encyclopedia," Massha countered, thrusting it at me. I peered down at the illumination. A glowing blue disk indicated you are here. I kept unrolling it until I was wrapped in a coil of papyrus. I was impressed. The corri­dor off Doorway D was one of a dozen entrances. The shopping space contained within these walls was vast, with several floors in each wing. You had to squint at the flow­ery writing to read the names of the stores, but it wouldn't help to memorize them, since unlike an ordinary chart, this one was constantly updated by magik. The green square on Gallery Two that was the Bilko Shop vanished and repaint­ed itself in a bigger location just up the hall from where we were standing. I glanced up in time to see the store appear in a fusillade of fluttering banners, parting the crowds of shoppers, who went on browsing and buying without miss­ing a single pace.

  "There's thousands of stores here!" I said.

  Massha gave me a quizzical look. "This from the guy who practically lives in the Bazaar?"

  "Yeah, well, that's different," I pointed out. "There's no roof over it."

  The heavy foot traffic plunging in and out of their door­ways also had pushcarts and peddlers trying to attract their attention. I watched a Deveel, looking out of place in the pristine surroundings, steering a huge spoke-wheeled

  gypsy van painted every color of the rainbow. As soon as he stopped his cart and rolled up the side curtains, he was surrounded by shoppers of every race I'd ever seen and more than a few I hadn't, all clamoring to look at the bril­liantly colored toy wands. Half of the wands shot bright blue fireballs, and the rest played rainbows all over the walls. Plenty of the lookers were ready to buy, thrusting coins into his ready palm. I wasn't surprised by the greedy grin on his face. This was not only paradise for shoppers, but sellers. Not one of the buyers attempted to bargain, and I knew the Deveel had to be recouping at least fifty times his investment per item sold. I was surprised the place wasn't full of Deveels, but if I was the toy merchant, I'd hide news of this El Dorado from my fellow demons. My palms itched. I found myself wondering what kind of busi­ness I would set up here, to take advantage of the outpour­ing from constantly open wallets, purses, pokes, and cof­fers. But I digress. I wasn't there to collect a reward. I was there for an important purpose. I hauled myself back to step one, and Skeeve.

  "Okay, people, let's focus," I said. "We're not here to shop. We're here to find someone."

  "Right you are," Chumley agreed, dragging his atten­tion away from the rainbow seller. Massha reluctantly came to hover close. "Do we approach the management and ask for their assistance?"

  "Let's scope out the place, first," I said. "If they knew why we were here, they might want to lean on us for repay­ment of their imaginary debt, and I am not going to give them a dime. Let's ask around, see if anyone's seen the kid, or someone identifying himself as Skeeve."

  We started up the right side of Avenue D, asking the shop owners or their assistants if they'd seen a Klahd call­ing himself Skeeve. That didn't prove fruitful. We jammed ourselves into stall after tent after shop, asked a few lead­ing questions, and got nothing. Massha had with her a copy of the official court portrait of Skeeve from back when he was Court Magician of Possiltum. I thought it was a pretty

  good likeness, since it portrayed a tall, very young Klahd with strawlike blond hair and big, innocent blue eyes who wasn't exactly the high roller and big-time kingmaker that he sometimes thought he was, and sometimes even suc­ceeded in being. This image showed him for what he was, a good-natured, friendly kid who could be taken advantage of. Crom knew I'd done it myself half a dozen times. For his own good, of course. No one we talked to could ID Skeeve, nor could anyone recall having sold him anything, expensive or otherwise. I couldn't see inquiring into every single booth in The Mall. The map didn't give a total num­ber of retail establishments in the building, but I stood by my original assessment of four digits or better. We'd be there for years, and I wanted to kick this problem in the butt before the bars opened.

  I was finding it hard to think. Thanks to Massha's spell the noise level had abated somewhat, but nothing she could do could improve the quality of The Mall's music system. A group of bards was situated about every fifty feet. They were universally lousy, and placed so that a walker wasn't completely out of earshot before the next group's sound intruded.

  "There's the sporting-goods store that sold the skeet-shooting outfit," Chumley shouted over the sound of a krumhorn, an accordion, and a steel guitar mauling jazz. He aimed a large, hairy hand toward the opposite side of the corridor.

  "I'll go." Massha rose above the crowd and floa
ted toward the indicated establishment. Suddenly, I saw weapons rising to aim at her.

  "Massha!" I roared.

  Her eyes widened. She yawed to starboard, but too late. Six crossbow bolts ripped through the air. Four of them ventilated the fluttering cloth of her costume. Chumley and I leaped into the crowd and dragged her down. I popped my head up above the shoulders of the crowd of shoppers. The crossbowmen were reloading. I felt my blood pressure rise.

  'Take care of her," I instructed the Troll.

  Disregarding the glares and yells of protest from the crowd, I stormed across the passage, tossing shoppers out of my way as I went. The row of Klahds in the front of the sports store stared at me uncomprehendingly as I yanked the brand-new weapons out of their hands and crunched them into sawdust between my palms. Dropping the tangle of wood and wire, I advanced upon the cowering bowmen.

  "No one, I mean, no one shoots at one of my friends without answering to me!" I bellowed.

  The Klahds backed away, babbling. One of them fell to his knees. I went to seize him first, intending to use him as a bat to clobber the other five.

  A blue figure scooted in between me and my rightful prey.

  "I am so sorry, shopper!" the Djinn proprietor declared, bowing his apology.

  The meaty, blue-skinned being flicked a wrist, and the. Klahds vanished.

  "It was a misunderstanding, truly. Please! They mistook her for a target. I was just a moment too late to stop them. You see?"

  He pointed at the high-beamed ceiling, where a dozen round bladders, a couple painted the same color as Massha's gaudy outfit, were tethered among a clutch of nervous-looking pigeons.

  "Let me make it up to you," he offered, as Chumley stormed down upon him, fire in his mismatched eyes.

  Massha floated behind him, her bright red harem pants in tatters.

  "I am the owner of this fine establishment. My name is Gustavo Djinnelli. I am pleased to make your acquain­tance." He bowed deeply. Surreptitiously, I waved Chumley back.