Robert Asprin's Myth-Quoted

by Jody Lynn Nye

  “Mrs. Weavil-Scuttil, you look lovely,” I said, bowing over her hand. Wilmer’s wife wore a pale-blue dress. Bunny give her an admiring look, so it must have been very nice. My taste in clothes had been instilled in me by Bunny, but I would never in a hundred years know as much as she did about fashion.

  “You are too kind, Mr. Skeeve,” she said. “Wilmer bought the dress for me. The pin”—she indicated a cluster of pearls the size of grapes on her shoulder—“was also a present from Wilmer, on our twenty-fifth anniversary.”

  “Very nice,” I said.

  “Please excuse me,” Mrs. Weavil-Scuttil said, with an imperious nod. “I must attend to something.

  The whole family was present. As well as his married daughter and the handsome boy who had been in the Shutterbug portraits, there was a bulky youth with overly long brown fur and ill-fitting clothes. That had to be Prager. He stayed toward the back, playing with a crystal disk that looked like the inside of Bunny’s Perfectly Darling Assistant. Beams of brilliant color shot out of it, to the evident annoyance of his mother. She swooped down on him and confiscated it. He stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and kicked at the carpet.

  Emo’s family, auxiliary daughter and all, arrived with a fanfare more suitable to the arrival of actors on stage. Emo bowed his wife into the room and gave each of his children an ostentatious cuddle. They squirmed loose and headed for the table with the green cloth.

  Bunny and I went to meet them.

  “Miss Bunny, you are enchanting,” Emo said. “You remember my wife?”

  Mrs. Weavil wiggled her fingers at us. Bunny returned the gesture, and they both giggled.

  “I love your dress,” Mrs. Weavil said.

  “And I love yours,” Bunny said. Instead of the drab clothes she had had on during the portrait event, the Tipp female wore something silky and slinky in deep red. “Where did you find it?”

  The two of them began to talk fashion.

  “May I offer you a drink?” Emo asked, indicating the Friendship Party table.

  “I’d better not right now,” I said. I was afraid to appear partisan by sampling refreshments from one and not the other two. After the judging, Bunny and I planned to have a quiet meal in the hotel restaurant.

  Emo understood. “Well, I’d better greet my guests,” he said. He collected his wife and went to shake hands with his supporters.

  Bunny returned from her little chat. “She’s very nice,” Bunny said. “We’re going to swap some dresses after the election is over.”

  “Sure,” I said. This was some kind of female bonding I probably would never understand. I could never imagine trading clothes with one of my male friends. “I wonder where Aahz is?”

  “I don’t know,” Bunny said. “I didn’t think he had a family to bring to this event.”

  “I know he’s been married at least once,” I said. “He once mentioned grandchildren.”

  “Aahz? Really?”

  BAMF!

  Though the noise came from the foyer outside the ballroom, it was unmistakably that of a D-hopper spell displacing air. I went to meet Aahz.

  He wasn’t alone. I found myself gawking. Clinging to his arm was a slender Pervect female at least eight inches taller than he was. By Pervish standards, she was a knockout. I had no basis for judging the age of Aahz’s people, but my guess was that she was decades younger than he was, though well above adolescence. She was clad, barely, in a slinky garment that made the other wives’ clothing look like dishrags. The fabric was so fine that it shimmered when she moved. Aahz’s other hand had a firm grip on the collars of two small Pervish boys. If they had been Klahds, I would have guessed them to be between six and nine years old. A much smaller boy sat on the ground, sucking his thumb and looking sulky. He had a solid-steel rattle in one hand that he used to pound on the floor. The fourth, a girl around eleven, stood on the outer edge of her feet so the soles pointed toward one another. She twisted back and forth to some internal rhythm.

  “Hi, Skeeve,” Aahz said, waving us over. “Come and meet the gang.”

  I thought my eyes would bulge out of my head. “I . . . you never told me . . . hey, pleased to meet you, Mrs. Aahz.”

  “Rodna,” the female Pervect said, shaking my hand politely. “Aahz has told me so much about you.”

  “Uh, well, he hasn’t told me anything about you,” I said. I felt a sharp-toed foot kick me in the ankle. “Um, this is Bunny.”

  Rodna extended a hand with perfectly manicured three-inch nails to Bunny. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Very happy to meet you,” Bunny said. “Please, come in. The event is about to start.”

  “Children!” Rodna said, clapping her hands. “Move! That way. Now!”

  The four children glanced up from what they were doing and fell in line immediately. I was impressed, but not surprised. Considering that Pervects were born with magikal abilities as well as intelligence and enormous physical strength, no parent with any sense of self-preservation would let them run wild. The children gathered behind Rodna and followed her obediently into the ballroom.

  I hardly knew what to say. To the best of my recollection, Aahz rarely referred to his family connections. I knew he had a nephew, who had dropped by to cause us trouble once.3 Pookie was his cousin. Beyond that, I knew very little about his family. There had never been reason to ask. Aahz didn’t invite personal questions. To give him credit, he rarely asked them, either. Our relationship had always been in the here and now. But unless he had left Rodna to raise four children all by herself, though she looked perfectly capable of doing so, he must have been going off to Perv to visit them often during the time I had known him. I had never had a clue.

  “Aahz, how long have you been with Rodna?” I asked, trying to make it sound natural.

  “Long enough,” Aahz said, with an outrageous wink. “Gorgeous, isn’t she?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, I’ve never seen a more beautiful Pervect.” I swallowed, trying to think of how to phrase the question. He wasn’t making it easy. “Did you . . . I mean . . . when . . . ?”

  “I need a drink. I hope that Shomi brought in enough booze. There she is!”

  Aahz shepherded his family to the Plague Party table, where Shomi was waiting.

  “What do you think?” he asked her.

  “Very nice,” the campaign manager said, looking Rodna up and down. “Very first-ladyish.”

  “Thanks,” Aahz said.

  “Can she cook?”

  “Naturally.”

  That struck me as a very strange thing for Shomi to ask, but she had almost as little tact as a Pervect herself.

  Gallantly, Aahz served Rodna a generous tot of white wine in a glass the size of a flower vase. The children clamored for pastries, but Rodna made them take fruit instead. Very strict. Aahz helped himself to a gallon of beer and chugged half of it in a gulp.

  “Aaah!” he said, with satisfaction. He let out a room-shaking belch. Everyone turned to look at him. “Well, we’re here! Let’s get this party started!”

  I had no idea how the event was supposed to go. Fortunately, the locals took the lead.

  Mrs. Weavil, Emo’s wife, came over to us with a tray. On it were arranged square cookies sprinkled with blue and green sugar, fragrant with spice. She offered it to me. “Please, try one of these. I made them myself this afternoon.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I handed one to Bunny. We each took a bite. They were still warm. I suspected Mrs. Weavil used a little magik to maintain that fresh-out-of-the-oven flavor, but I didn’t mind. Ginger, nutmeg, and something slightly tart that I couldn’t identify permeated the crispy wafer. I could have eaten dozens of them.

  “They’re delicious,” I said.

  “They are,” Bunny said. “I want the recipe, Bolla.”

  Mrs. Weavil beamed. “I would be just delighted to share it with you, Bunny.”

  “Ex-cuse me,” Mrs. Weavil-Scuttil said austerely to Bolla. The younger female moved aside. Wilmer’s wi
fe swept in, carrying an embossed silver tray.

  “How gorgeous,” Bunny said.

  Reposing—there was no other word for it—on a rectangular white lace doily were miniature cakes. I was stunned by the skill it must have taken to make them. There were tiny three-layer tiered cakes that would have been great for Shutterbug weddings, birthday cakes with hair-thin candles burning, and a dozen others that were so beautiful and fragile-looking I was afraid to touch them.

  Mrs. Weavil-Scuttil took care of the problem for me. Somehow, she managed to produce a flat silver implement with a pierced paddle and scooped two pastries apiece onto little plates that were balanced on the edge of the tray. The paddle disappeared, and Mrs. Weavil-Scuttil handed Bunny and me each a plate.

  “Please, enjoy them,” she said. She watched us as I picked up a little wedding cake and bit it in half. Her eyebrows went down just a little in disapproval. I wondered if I should have put the whole thing in my mouth.

  I chewed. To tell the truth, the little cakes were a bit dry and too sweet. If I hadn’t tried Bolla’s cookies first, I would have thought they tasted pretty good. I swallowed, and wished I had accepted Emo’s offer of a drink.

  “Uh, great!” I said. Mrs. Weavil-Scuttil relaxed just a hair. I realized she was as nervous as her rival, but she hid it better.

  “I am so glad you like them,” she said. “I serve them at all my parties.”

  “Your guests must be very impressed,” Bunny said.

  “Oh, they are!” Mrs. Weavil-Scuttil said, with a superior smile.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Rodna shifted in between us so swiftly and gracefully that Mrs. Weavil-Scuttil almost jumped in surprise. She smiled down at the tray of mini-cakes.

  “My goodness, how old-fashioned!” she said, with a musical laugh. “Oh, please forgive me. I’m sure you have been making them for years.” She held out her hands. I felt power rise from the floor. A tray appeared balanced on her forearms. The aroma that rose from the little round pastries made my mouth water. I swallowed and reached for one, then hesitated.

  “Try the ones on the edge near you,” Rodna said. “They have a nut-paste filling that is out of this world!”

  “They aren’t made with any . . . living things . . . are they?” I asked, gingerly. My experience to date was that if Pervects didn’t beat their food two falls out of three they felt they were losing something in the dining experience.

  Rodna laughed again with a sound like tinkling bells. “Oh, no! I adapted the recipe from a Klahdish cookbook and two Tipp recipe collections.”

  “Very thorough,” Mrs. Weavil-Scuttil said. “It sounds like scientific research. Now, I see cookery as an art, not a science.”

  “Then you probably have a lot of fallen cakes,” Rodna replied, sweetly. “Baking is science.”

  Mrs. Weavil-Scuttil recoiled in high dudgeon.

  “I beg your pardon! My pastries have been praised to the skies for decades now! I don’t cobble together collections of ingredients from other people’s kitchens!”

  “What a shame. I like to learn from people who do things well,” Rodna said. Mrs. Weavil-Scuttil’s eyes blazed.

  I ignored the genteel argument and bit into the cake. My eyes closed automatically in bliss. The dough was flaky and delicate, and inside it was a just-sweet-enough fruity-caramelly mass that melted into my mouth and took my tongue hostage. I opened my eyes to see Bunny with her eyes closed and a dreamy smile on her face.

  “Wow,” I said, when I could speak again. As good as Bolla’s baking was, Rodna beat it ten times over. Bolla knew it. Mrs. Weavil-Scuttil had tasted one of the cakes, too. They both wore a look of dismay.

  “I trust . . . you will be fair in your judgment?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I promised her, but we both knew what that verdict would be.

  SKREEK! SKROK! SKRREEK-EEEK!

  I spun, ready to defend Bunny and the ladies against the attacking Felinodon.

  There was no giant catlike monster holding the guests at bay. Instead, I saw Emo’s elder boy standing all alone with a violin under his chin, sawing away at a melody that was clearly somewhat beyond him. Emo stood nearby, a proud expression on his face. He saw me watching and beckoned to me.

  “Isn’t he amazing?” Emo shouted over the music. “He’s been taking lessons for two years!”

  “Amazing,” I agreed.

  “Yes,” said Wilmer, unimpressed. “It is amazing that two years of lessons had no effect on him whatsoever!”

  Emo lifted an indignant chin. “And I suppose your kid will do better?”

  “Why, yes, he will!”

  Just when I thought my nerves couldn’t take any more, the piece mercifully came to an end. The assembled guests clapped politely. The boy ducked his head nervously toward the audience and set his bow to his instrument to provide us with an encore.

  “That’s enough!” I said hastily, rushing in to prevent any further damage to my eardrums. “So, who’s next?”

  “My boy, Gibbly,” Wilmer said, and waved to the bulky teenager sitting on a couch in a dark corner. Very reluctantly, Gibbly made his way onto the dance floor. His mother bustled over and gave him a brass horn with a U-shaped slide. As subtly as I could, I took the wax plugs I used to protect myself from Sid the She’s shrill voice and stuffed them in my ears. Gibbly raised the horn to his lips.

  To my surprise, the music that issued from it was fun and lively. Gibbly played a Satchish tune with a swinging rhythm that invited people to dance. Unlike the previous child, I was sorry when he finished, but I couldn’t show favor. I clapped politely, restraining myself from showing the acclaim he really deserved. Mrs. Weavil-Scuttil took the horn from him and tried to straighten his shirt, but Gibbly pulled loose from her and went back to his seat.

  “Fantastic,” Bunny whispered in my ear. “I’m afraid none of Aahz’s kids can compete with that!”

  We were wrong. The little girl went out to the middle of the floor and snapped her fingers. I felt a rush of magik sweep in. When it cleared, she was surrounded by musical instruments. The rest of the children crawled or toddled to join her. The smallest boy clambered up on a stool behind the drum set. Another took up a guitar, the other a banjo. The girl took her place behind a keyboard just barely low enough for her to reach. The drummer beat his sticks together to set the beat, and they began to play. My eyebrows climbed all the way into my hairline.

  They were good. In fact, they could have played club dates. I wondered if they did. The three elder children looked as if they were accustomed to taking their cue from the tiny drummer. Aahz had never shown much talent for music. It had to come from Rodna’s side. Their expertise in playing as an ensemble impressed me enormously. The audience was enraptured.

  Most of it. From the other side of the room, I heard yelling. I glanced up to see what was going on. Aahz was having a three-way argument with Emo and Wilmer.

  “Are you or are you not saying that these are your children?” Wilmer demanded.

  “Sure they are,” Aahz said. “I bought them as a job lot.”

  Emo’s voice climbed from tenor to soprano. “You bought them?”

  “Well . . . maybe bought’s the wrong word.”

  “Then what is the right word?”

  “Acquired?”

  “Acquired!”

  “What about your wife?” Wilmer asked.

  “What about her?” Aahz countered.

  “What did she have to say about this . . . this irregular arrangement?”

  Aahz shrugged. “None of her business, is it?”

  “Certainly it is! She has a say on what goes on in your house, doesn’t she?”

  “Why should she? They’re not her kids.”

  “But . . . but she’s your wife!” Emo exclaimed.

  “Well, sort of,” Aahz said, with a sly wink.

  “You didn’t marry her?” Wilmer asked. “Then what’s she doing in this contest?”

  Aahz got indignant. “
You’re asking me if I have a financial and domestic arrangement with this woman? Is that really any of your business?”

  “Are you married?” Wilmer pressed.

  Aahz waved a hand. “I’ve been married three times.”

  “Is this lady one of your wives?”

  “Pervects are monogamous,” Aahz said. “Anyone who knows anything about us knows that one Pervect woman is all that a man can handle at a time. Trust me.”

  “You didn’t answer the question,” Emo said.

  “Good catch,” Aahz said, slapping him on the back. He headed for the yellow table to get a refill for his drink.

  Not surprisingly, the campaign managers descended on me and Bunny.

  “You have to disqualify Aahz’s family,” Orlow demanded.

  “Why?” I asked, innocently. To be honest, I had enjoyed the argument. As far as I was concerned, Emo and Wilmer were getting a taste of their own medicine.

  “Because they’re not his!” Carnelia exclaimed.

  “Well, he says they are,” I pointed out. “However, they became a family. I mean, if we have to accept Emo’s extra daughter and Wilmer’s substitute son, then if Aahz claims that this is his wife and children, you really have no reason to demand that we disqualify him. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t lied once.”

  Orlow frowned. He was aware of the shaky status of his request. “Well, you can’t allow his so-called wife’s cakes, then. She’s probably a professional . . . er, baker, that is.”

  Bunny glared at him. “Are you saying that a woman can’t have a career just because she’s married to a politician?”

  “No, of course not,” Orlow said, fingering his collar.

  “I am sure that is not what Orlow meant to say at all,” Carnelia said hastily. “It’s just that Aahz is making a mockery of our events!”

  “Well, maybe if you weren’t concentrating on window dressing instead of substantial issues,” Bunny said. “How about more town hall meetings or debates?”

  Orlow shook his head. “We just don’t get enough turnout for them.”

  “Well, I couldn’t say what Emo must be feeling, but I have to tell you, Mr. Skeeve and Miss Bunny, that Wilmer is on the edge with your Mr. Aahz,” Carnelia confided.