MYTH-Taken Identity

by Robert Asprin

  "Yeah. No. Sorry," Strewth said, groveling in the dirt. Did Rattila have to use such big words? "But the adminis­trators didn't see me. Or their guests."

  "How good was that? A whole storeful of women saw you. They could have followed you. We don't want anyone accidentally finding their way here," Rattila asked, leaning forward threateningly, "now, do we?"

  Strewth groaned. It was going to be another lecture.

  "No, Ratty. We don't."

  "Don't call me that!" Rattila recoiled, rolling his eyes toward the stalactites hanging from the ceiling. "Will you never learn the correct way to address me?"

  "Sorry, Ra—I mean Rattila. Mighty Rattila. Lord Rattila." The mall-rat sighed and launched into the litany. "King of Trash, Marquis of Merchandise, Collector of Unguarded Property, Magikal Potentate Extraordinary,

  Rightful Holder of the Throne of Refuse, and, er, Ruler of All Rats and Lesser Beings."

  The red eyes slitted with pleasure, and Strewth breathed with relief. Sometimes coming back to the hideout gave him more of a thrill of terror than his daily rounds of shoplifting. Rattila's fur crackled with power, something that had always struck Strewth as not quite normal. But then, nothing down below had been normal for years.

  The Rat Hole would have surprised the shoppers who passed through The Mall every day. It extended off in every direction except up, several levels that covered near­ly the whole footprint of the vast building. It had only one entrance, concealed virtually under the Flibberites' very noses, but that never stopped them carrying tons of loot down into their domain.

  The hard, cold fact was that once somebody was carry­ing a piece of merchandise in the corridor, everybody else assumed that it had been purchased. The trickiest bit, the one that gave Strewth the emotional high he loved, was conveying the object of his desire from a store shelf or hanger all the way to the door of the shop it came from. That nourished him more than food or drink, none of which they ever paid for, either. But responsibility was a new thing, imposed upon them when Rattila had arrived. In exchange for doing tasks, they were having more fun than they had ever had.

  One of the most important duties was keeping an ear on the administration. Moa and the other executives had a magik-repelling stronghold on the floor above the chil­dren's store. Rattila had tried several times to plant a bug in the offices to hear what was being said, whether the greenies had figured out who he was or how his operation worked, but the bugs always died. The insects sent a dele­gation to complain, and though they still professed loyalty, refused to allow any more of their contingent to go up to the executive suite.

  Instead, Rattila was forced to send a rat spy up to watch and listen in person, under the desk or on the sideboard or

  behind one of the picture frames. He also established lis­tening posts in the security stations, in the buying office, and even in the janitorial department. He hadn't kept hold over The Mall for so long without having infiltrated most of the departments. Nothing went unobserved for long.

  "What else do you have to say about the visitors?" Rattila demanded.

  "Nothing but what you saw and heard," Strewth said. "Thanks to that Pervert, they know about the cards."

  "But they do not really know what they mean!" Rattila laughed heartily.

  Strewth hated when he did that. He thought he was so superior, coming from another dimension. If he was so great, how come he hadn't been born a Flibberite?

  "Because I am Ratislavan, of course, and that's superi­or to any other dimension!"

  Strewth gulped. "How'd you—"

  "I hear a faint echo of your thoughts, mall-rat!"

  "All the time?" Strewth squeaked.

  He flung his hand-paws up to his ears to keep his thoughts from leaking out.

  "That doesn't work." Rattila laughed. "You think my hold on your senses just flickers out like a candle when the job's over? Don't you like having your eyes and ears con­scripted for my use? What is a good minion for, eh?"

  Strewth's shoulders hunched guiltily.

  "Sorry, Ratty."

  "Don't call me that!"

  Rattila rose on his haunches, his thick black fur bris­tling between his shoulder blades. The rest of his henchrats giggled shrilly to one another. Everyone liked it when someone else got called on the carpet. Rattila grinned at his subjects, his teeth yellow in the glow from the magikal toys strewn around his throne. Every vermin in The Mall worked for him, but the mall-rats were something special. It was as though the species had been tailor-made for his purpose.

  Mall-rats lived to hang around in shopping areas and

  pick up things that other people had dropped or turned their backs on for a moment. Not just merchandise, but outdated expressions, cast-off clothing and fashions.- All of it came in useful to Rattila's quest and the means of dis­guising how he accomplished it.

  All around him, the wealth of objects glowed with the aura of the beings who had owned them last, the ones who had made them, and the ones who reaped the raw materi­als. From that horde of shop clerks and factory workers and farmers he squeezed out the basic spark of their lives.. True, most of the power that he gleaned was boring, earnest, and straightforward, but it provided him with more energy to pursue higher-quality targets. For his quest was a holy calling: to transform him into the most powerful wiz­ard in existence.

  He had seen it as a blazing burst of light, the night that he first beheld the Master Card. Touching it, he had had a vision what life could be like for him. From that moment, the purpose of his life was fixed.

  But he needed living energy, lots of it. His own dimen­sion, Ratislava, was a poor source, having few wizards, liv­ing or historical. He had since learned that power did not come from beings themselves, but rather from lines of force that crisscrossed the landscape. He needed to tap into people with the potential for magikal talent, until he had gathered enough to instill it in himself. But The Mall on Flibber—what was it the house agents always said were the three most important characteristics of the perfect piece of real estate? Location, location, location. Through the doors of this gigantic building, every day of the year, came thou­sands of beings from nearly every dimension, to buy goods from everywhere. The trait that made it possible for each of them to hop to an out-of-the-way land for the mere pur­pose of shopping? Magikal talent. They had it, in gobs, bunches, and tons. Rattila didn't merely want a piece of that, he wanted it all.

  How easy it had been, to establish his headquarters there, in the last place the green ones would look. The basements

  had been roughed out in the natural caverns of the moun­tainside and never used once the builders of The Mall fig­ured out that their shoppers didn't like to go underground. Rattila took the vacancy as another sign that fate meant to make his dreams of power and conquest come true.

  He had found a ready-made workforce waiting for him, a people just desperate to be led forward into a glorious future. The mall-rats had been living such a pathetic exis­tence when Rattila had arrived, second-class citizens in a world of several competing intelligent species. Most of them he let run wild under his direction. Nine of them showed special promise. He took those as his proteges.

  While he knew that they weren't cut out for world dom­ination, he had shown them how they could use their natu­ral talents and inclinations to prosper, and enjoy an inter­esting and varied existence that let them wear a new face every day, several times a day, if they liked. All they had to do was whatever he said. They could use their free time and newfound wealth as they pleased. They served him enthusiastically. How much of a pity was it that they would never know or appreciate the power he was gaining through their actions? None at all. They did what they were told, and that was all he really cared about. For him, they were the means to an end. They would benefit, but he would rule over them, and every being in the overwork!. He was patient. His goal was within his reach. He listened once again to the words bumping around inside Strewth's head.

  "So, we have visitors." Rat
tila said. "The Pervert might be fun to play with. He's so emphatic no one will question what he does. If we can turn him, he'll be very useful. The Troll... they never have any money, but who cares? He can carry a lot of booty for us. And that Jahk—now, she has possibilities."

  "Not to mention all that bling-bling," Yahrayt added, showing his pointed front teeth. Rattila's red eyes shone.

  "Ye-ees," Rattila breathed greedily. He waved a hand, and visions of the Jahk Massha's wealth rotated in the air before their eyes.

  Rings! Necklaces! Earrings! Anklets! Bracelets! Bejeweled, engraved, damascened, twisted, wrought, linked, and braided, and all of them brimming with magikal potential. What was the use of having power if you never used it for something you enjoyed?

  "All that lovely jewelry for you, and all the power for me."

  Oive, Mayno, and Garn went so far as to try and touch the illusion. Rattila swept it away with one wave of his paw.

  "Awww!" they protested.

  "You want to see it again?" Rattila snarled. He pointed at the ceiling. "Go get the real thing! Bring it here. Everything there belongs to us! Bring it to me. All of it!"

  The others looked around. Wassup blinked stupidly.

  "We don't have enough already? This place is full."

  The others groaned. Wassup had a way of taking all the wind out of their sails.

  "And you call yourself a mall-rat, eh?" Mayno asked, twirling his long black whiskers in disdain. "Nevair do we have enough. The pursuit is all."

  "You're just no good at analytical thinking," Garn sneered, polishing her long claws on her fur.

  "Ana-what?" Wassup blinked. "Like, I'm totally con­fused."

  Oive groaned. "So, what else is new?"

  "What do we want?" Rattila demanded.

  "More! More! More!" the rats chanted.

  "All right!" he said, grinning. "Who's got something for me?"

  Oive pushed forward, a bag clutched between her slim pink paws. "Pretty, pretty," she cooed.

  Rattila could sense the magik from the short distance.

  "Give it here." From the red-beaded handbag he drew a new, bright orange credit card. "Barely used," he com­plained.

  "Can't help that," Oive piped nervously. "I mean, like, I could wait until it got used more, but then I wouldn't have gotten it. Like, do you get that?"

  "Good thought," Rattila praised her.

  The mall-rat was overjoyed as he tossed the empty purse back to her. By the Big Cheese itself, they were eas­ily pleased.

  "Let's see how much of its owner's essence it's man­aged to absorb anyhow."

  Rattila put the card to his forehead. By the power of the Master Card underneath his Throne of Refuse, he had the power to be the Card Reader. Visions began to crowd his vision, full of linoleum and chintz.

  "Kazootina. An Imp, husband, dealer in used wagons, three children, favorite color sky-blue-pink." Typical of an Imp, couldn't even like a real color. "Belongs to a bowling league. Cheats a little. Good. Loose morality will make it easy to intrude on her reality. Yes. She'll be a good addi­tion to our stable."

  "I want her!" Garn shouted.

  "No, me!" Oive shrilled. "I found her."

  "You'll all get her," Rattila said, opening one eye. "You idiots know that!"

  Wassup looked hurt. "You don't have to call us names."

  "Settle down," Strewth ordered, turning a large beady eye on his associates until they quieted.

  Rattila watched him with alarm. If he had to worry about any of his subordinates, Strewth was the one. He seemed brighter than the others, and observed more close­ly. Perhaps, if the day came when Rattila had achieved his purpose and no longer required The Mall, he would leave his domain to Strewth. But if he interfered with Rattila's scheme at all—slllcch! The street-cleaners upstairs would find yet another pathetic little body, which the puffy-pantsed guards would be at a total loss to explain.

  Strewth nodded to Rattila and crouched down in a sub­missive manner, which Rattila completely distrusted. But he could wait no longer. He plunged a claw down into the Throne of Refuse, past the mouldering fish bones, past the wadded-up aluminum foil, past the square of gray-white chocolate with spoiled raisins, to the glowing heart of his power.

  The solid gold rectangle clung to his pads as he drew it forth. He could feel its store of power almost burning his flesh. He could see the gauge in his mind—the card was 75 percent full. So near to world domination, and yet so far. The card yearned to break free and rule all existence. All it took was the right magician to wield it, and Rattila knew he was the one.

  "One day, my pretty, one day," he whispered.

  The card burst with golden light, increasing the paltry glow that illuminated the Rat Hole a hundredfold. He touched the newfound credit card to it, and snarled at his subjects.

  "Now, chant!" he ordered.

  Their eyes fixed on the Master Card, the mall-rats broke into a singsong.

  "One Card to rule The Mall, One Card to Charge It, One Card to cruise The Mall, and in the darkness Lodge It."

  "Again!"

  "One card to rule The Mall, One Card to Charge It, One Card to cruise The Mall, and in the darkness Lodge It!"

  "I can't heee-aaar yeww!"

  The mall-rats repeated the litany, over and over, until Rattila could feel the new treasure warming and flowing. The Master Card seemed to reach out tentacles to surround it, sucking its essence into the golden light. For a moment the orange card was an empty husk. Then, he let a little power trickle back, his power. Kazootina belonged to him now! The housewife from Imper had just joined Rattila's Raiders.

  The orange card multiplied in his paws until there were nine of them, all completely indistinguishable from the first one. He dealt them out to the eager paws of his mall-rats.

  "Now, go," he ordered them. "Buy! Follow the strangers. I want to know everything they do, everywhere they go. And make sure you use the Skeeve card a lot. Go everywhere with it. I want his all his power before his friends up there get any wiser to us than they are."

  SIX

  Parvattani, now in an embroidered blue tunic and breeches and a pair of black tights, came running up to us as we left the executive offices. He scrambled to a halt, all out of breath, and threw me a vigorous salute. „,

  "Ready to go, sir! I mean, Mr. Aahz. I mean, Aahz—" He swallowed.

  "Take it easy, kid," I said, raising an eyebrow.

  Boy, he was young! I couldn't remember ever having that much nervous energy.

  "And stop doing that! We'll never be able to observe anybody secretly if you keep saluting."

  "Yes sir!" Parvattani acknowledged, hammering his forehead with another straight-handed blow. "Whatever you say, sir!"

  "Cut it out!" I snarled. "We have to figure out where to get started."

  A voice piped up from behind us.

  "I know where to start."

  We all spun around. Trotting in our wake was the little blond female with the black gumdrop-shaped nose in the

  white fur coat whom I had seen sneaking out of The Volcano and who had confronted Moa on our way out of the alley.

  "Go getta lost," Parvattani snapped.

  She met my eyes, ignoring the fulminating guard.

  "I hope you have more sense than this toy soldier here. I know what you're looking for."

  Par took my arm and turned me back in the direction we were heading.

  "Pay no attention to her, sir—Aahz. We'll go and-a interview the shopkeepers who actually waited on the per­son masquerading as your friend. Perhaps one of them heard-a him—or her, we can't disregard that possibility, since we are dealing with shapeshifters—speaking with a confederate-a—or make any reference to who is behind the theft of identity."

  The voice interrupted, more insistently.

  "I know who is behind it, too."

  Par's face became more set, but he kept marching for­ward.

  "Now that we have a particular face we're looking for, we can inquire as to how m
any fraudulent purchases he or she made and see if we can distinguish a pattern. We should concentrate our efforts on the shops where the false 'Skeeve' repeated the most often."

  "That won't help," the little female scoffed.

  I shook off Parvattani's arm to confront her.

  "What do you know that we don't?"

  The little female's jaw dropped.

  "You're actually willing to listen?"

  "Try me. If you're trying to sell me a load of clams, I can ignore it after I hear it."

  The guard looked surprised, then insulted.

  "Sir, pay no attention to her. She's mad. She keeps insisting that there is a vast secret conspiracy intending to undermine The Mall."

  "No, I don't," the female said. "I keep telling you the truth, and you pretend I don't know what I'm talking about."

  "You two argue like you've been married twenty years," I said, drily. "Before we go any farther is there something going on that I ought to know about?"

  "Eyugh!" Par and the female chimed in chorus, exchanging looks of mutual dislike, but they shut up.

  "Good. What's your name?" I asked the nonbride.

  "Eskina." she replied, looking sullen.

  "This is Massha and Chumley. I'm Aahz." She nodded to us gravely. "Let's go somewhere you can talk and I can listen. Preferably with a beer in my hand. That suit you?" I asked my companions.

  "Beer good."

  "Fine by me, High Roller," Massha added.

  Parvattani bowed to us and began striding up the long corridor, threading his way in between crowds of people like an old pro. Massha floated beside the diminutive Eskina.

  "Where'd you get the fur coat?" Massha asked, with a fashion-hunter's gleam in her eye.

  Eskina glared. "I grew it," she snapped. "I'm a raterrier from Ratislava, a sworn officer in the Pole-Cat Investigation Department and the Ferret-Prevention Department."

  "Oh," Massha said in a small voice. "Sorry. I'm from Jahk. I've never been to Ratislava. Your coat is very pretty."

  "Sorry," Eskina said, with a toss of her fair head. "I am perhaps a little touchy. It is so long since I have been treat­ed with any respect."

  She treated Parvattani to another fierce look.