Myth-Told Tales m-13

by Robert Asprin

Thoughtfully, I ordered another round of milkshakes. The bartender, usually a loquacious soul, delivered our beverages, then departed hastily. I am accustomed to the looks of strangers, the horrified expressions when they gaze at me, a full-grown, and, if I may say it (as it is my stock-in-trade), a ferocious-looking Troll, but this Deveel was an old acquaintance of ours. Nor did any of the males in the immediate environ deliver the generally lascivious, speculative leers I have observed when they behold my sister the Trollop.

  I might add that many have made the foolish assumption that because of my size and demeanor that I am the more formidable opponent of the two. It is not the case. Tananda is the fiercer sibling. I am proud of my little sister. For anyone who believes that I am at all jealous of her prowess, I remind them of my above-mentioned characteristics and invite them to take up the matter with me, personally, some time when I feel like enjoying a spot of freelance exercise or, as our friend Aahz calls it, a free sample reminder. No one has ever asked for two.

  Guido was clearly hoping it would take only a visit from one or both of us to redirect the flow of funds toward Don Bruce's coffers from whatever inappropriate stream into which it was currently running. We were willing to give it a go, for old time's sake.

  “Whoever it is must be packing some serious magikal hardware,” Little Sister mused. “Guido, do you have a list of the merchants who are, uh, not complying?”

  The enforcer pulled a hand-stitched leather document case from the inside breast pocket of his immaculately pressed suit. He extracted therefrom a small scroll and gave it to Tananda. She held it up to the light, frowned, then pointed a long-nailed finger at it. There was a POP! and a puff of green smoke.

  “Not my color,” Tananda said, wrinkling her nose at the acrid smell. “Don Bruce isn't taking chances on anyone reading this, is he?”

  “That is the middle crux of the issue,” Guido agreed.

  “What was sealing the scroll?” I asked curiously. Magik is not an entirely closed book to me, but I may say that my expertise runs in the direction of physical exertion, not elder lore.

  “Nasty Assassin's trick, Big Brother. You really wouldn't want to know the details. You'd call the results insalubrious or some other two-gold-piece word.”

  As I said, I am proud of my little sister. To detect and disarm such a trap in two economical motions is the hall-mark of the consummate professional, sometimes defined as one that is still alive after more than one mission.

  Tananda unrolled the document and spread it out. “Hmm. Cartablanca, the manuscript merchant, Vineezer the herbalist, Bochro, who deals in exotic toys — plenty of mixed technology in that shop …”

  “What about Scotios?” I inquired.

  Guido shook his head. “He's behavin' himself.”

  There were several more names on the list Tananda and I read it several more times. She met my eyes with a puzzled glance. “What do all these people have in common?”

  “I couldn't say,” I admitted. “They're all Deveels, but that is the only trait I can detect.”

  “Most of 'em work alone.” Guido said. “That'd make them vulnerable to a shakedown … I mean, an insurance proposal. That is why the Don takes so much interest in protectin' them.”

  “Not Melicronda,” I pointed out. The wine merchant was in a tent not far from M.Y.T.H. Inc.'s own. “She employs three of her sons full time.”

  “What about the quality of their merchandise?” Tananda suggested. “All of them sell fragile or ephemeral goods.”

  Guido shifted in his seat, suddenly sweeping a glance at the other patrons of the inn. Inadvertantly, all of them retreated a half-step. “So does Palaka the rug dealer, but she's not on the list And some of these are what you might call service providers. Though not the kind of service providers Don Bruce likes to keep under his protection.” “I see,” I said.

  “It's no good,” Tananda said, rolling up the scroll and rebespelling it before tucking it into her cleavage. “Weil have to visit each of them and find out for ourselves.”

  “No comment,” said Vineezer, edging past me with a bubbling retort in his hands. The old Deveel put it onto a stone slab and reached for a big open jar and a minute spoon. The small shop smelled very pleasant with its heady aromas of drying herbs hanging in bunches all around the ceiling. A bit too heady, I thought, as I fought to contain a titanic sneeze. “Atishoo!”

  Plant matter went flying in every direction. The old Deveel was rendered momentarily green with powdered snakewort. A wreath of laurel hung drunkenly from one of his horns.

  “I am so sorry,” I said, attempting to brush him off. “Quite by accident, I assure you.”

  In the close confines of the tent I succeeded only in knocking him over. Guido grabbed his arm and heaved him up to a standing position.

  “Why's he talking like a book?” Vineezer asked, eying me uneasily.

  “Eloquence curse,” Tananda said, leaning against the center tent pole with her arms crossed. “Plays merry hell with his strength. But that will be back soon. Maybe very soon, if I can't persuade you to tell me what I want to hear.”

  “I… I can't,” Vineezer said, retreating from the fierce look in her eye. His normal red complexion paled to an almost Imp-pink. “They'll put their mark on this place — they did it once already.”

  The three of us looked around.

  “I don't see no mark,” Guido growled, his hand moving toward the inner pocket where I know he stowed his miniature crossbow.

  “They did!” Vineezer protested desperately. “Look at this place! Look at that!”

  We all did. “Place okay,” I said, remembering to use my Big Crunch voice. “Place clean.”

  “That's just part of it,” the merchant wailed. “A herbalist's shop isn't supposed to be clean. The dust floating in the air is full of magik. I use it to tweak potions too delicate for enhancement spells. A millionth part of dragon scale — I can't afford a balance sensitive enough to weigh that out. When this place is properly dusty I can snatch a fragment out of the air. I haven't made a decent scrying potion in a week!”

  “They cleaned out your shop?” Tananda mused.

  “Yes, and that's not all they'd do… if I talked. So, please go away. I can't tell you any more.”

  Guido muscled up to the trembling Deveel. “You don't really want me to go back to Don Bruce and tell him you was unwillin to fulfill the part of the bargain that he was so obligin' to make with you, do you? He might have to ask me to interfere wit' you personally.”

  Vineezer's face flushed burgundy red, and he shoved us back toward the tent flap and out into the street.

  “It's better than being alphabetized” he hissed. The tent flap swished down between us and clicked locked with an audible snap. I set my shoulder, prepared to charge back inside so Tananda could ask him again, but she laid a hand on my arm.

  “Never mind. Big Brother,” she said. “Maybe some of the others will be more communicative.”

  Her assumption proved to be incorrect. If anything, our further researches were less fruitful than our first attempt. Yet we did not return to the tent empty-handed. We gleaned certain points concerning our unknown quarry.

  “They're very neat,” Tananda said, glancing around at our tent and appearing to compare our housekeeping unfavorably to that of our foes'.

  “They are more cautious in the way they phrase their verbal contracts,” Guido said, sitting down and putting his fedora on his knee. “Not one word concerning their appearance can be gleaned from our converse with our clients. It appears to be a condition of the protection racket — I mean, arrangement.”

  “And they aren't very greedy,” I added. “With no disrespect to Don Bruce, their demands are relatively modest.”

  “But they go by a flat fee,” Guido protested. “Don Bruce prefers a percentage. When times is good, he prospers alongside his clients. When times is hard, well, they all get a break. This way. they all give the same even if business is bad. And you saw how scared the clients
were not to miss a payment”

  “It strikes me that this means they're not in this for the long haul,” Tananda concluded. “If they did they would take market fluctuation into account the way the Mob does.”

  “But who knows how long this short haul will run?” Guido asked. “Don Bruce ain't gonna wait for them to get out. He wants 'em gone now.”

  “Right,” I said. “That will take decisive action on our part. We need to catch them in the act of collection and dissuade them from doing any further business in the Bazaar.”

  “Right!” Guido agreed, smacking one big fist into the other palm. “Well teach 'em they just can't march in an' take over somebody else's territory.”

  The easiest place to observe was Bochro's Toy Shop. His tent stood next to Melicronda's wine shop, nearly opposite the M.Y.T.H. Inc's establishment on the same thoroughfare. Since none of our associates were presently in residence, we three took the vigil in turns.

  Naturally it was our business to know something of the comings and goings throughout the Bazaar, but I had never before made a close study of the traffic that came and went over the course of a day. The streets were as empty as they ever were: the perfect time for someone to pass unnoticed. I peered through the gathering gloom. It was no use looking for strangers. The nature of the Bazaar as a nexus in between so many dimensions meant that only one in twenty passersby was familiar, and only one in two hundred was a friend. I knew that there was little that could not be had for a bargain, but even I was not prepared to see some of the goings-on. It was just after twilight, when most of the merchants had folded up their tents for the day, but before the night life of the Bazaar really got under way.

  Directly in front of our tent two tough babies, clad in black leather diapers, toddled up and kicked the legs out from underneath a plump, insectoid shopper, and stole its bags. Since officially we were not supposed to be at home, I had to restrain myself from leaping out there to assist. In any case my help was not needed. The insectoid extended its carapace to reveal a long, sinuous body and a dozen more legs. The babies hadn't made it past three store fronts before their victim stretched overhead, retrieved its possessions, and delivered a sound spanking to each one of them. They sat down on the ground to cry until another likely victim came their way.

  As night fell, the character of the transactions became more personal. Beings of the evening made offers to passersby for various services of the usual and unusual kind. A token or two would change hands, and a pair or trio or group would wander off to a handy tent.

  Almost all the traffic was outbound from the merchants' establishments. The rare ingress was what I was interested in. If Guido was correct, this was the day on which payments were normally due to the Don. Though they were now diverted to person or persons unknown, they were being picked up on the same schedule.

  I saw someone I knew weaving in and out of the crowd of tourists looking for a likely (and safe) place to have dinner a fellow Troll named Percy — his real name. His nom de guerre, as mine was Big Crunch, was Mangier.

  His was not a casual visit to our street. His movements were as furtive as a Troll's could be, attempting not to step on the party of Imps who had stopped to look over a street map in the middle of the thoroughfare, as he “not-looked” at the tents opposite our own. When he was nearly in front of our doorway, he quickly looked both ways, then pushed into Bochro's.

  Quietly I tiptoed into Tananda's room and whispered from the doorway, “We have a bite.”

  Before I'd quite finished the sentence she'd sprung off her bed and bounded to my side.

  “I'll get Guido,” she said. “Can you handle him alone?”

  “I think so,” I said, albeit a trifle uncertainly. Mangier was a good foot wider than I was. I'd known him in school, where he was all-varsity wrestling champion our final year, though in hand-to-hand martial arts I held higher ranking.

  Hoping he had not come and gone while my back was turned, I left our tent and turned into the flow of traffic. At the end of the row, still keeping an occasional eye on my destination, I pretended to have forgotten something, clapped a hand to my head, and plowed deliberately into a group of Deveel merchants holding a quick negotiation in the open area of the intersection.

  “Damned clumsy Troll,” one of them snarled.

  I showed my teeth and snarled back. They blanched pink, and scattered, their deal forgotten. I turned back. Mangier was emerging from the tent, still furtive in his actions. He made for Melicronda's. I opened my stride and caught him just before he went inside.

  “What ho, Percy, old thing,” I said, draping an arm across his shoulders.

  “Chumley!” he said, surprised. “Me mean, Crunch! Me punch!”

  “You Mangier, me strangler,” I said, raising a fist I lowered my voice. “What say we nip around the corner for a quick drink, old friend?”

  “Chumley, I can't be seen talking to you, old chap,” Percy said, looking worried. “It's more than my job's worth. Or my hide.”

  We'd gathered an audience by that time: Klahds, who were looking for free entertainment; Imps, who would bet on anything; and Deveels, who were willing to indulge them. Percy shook his head almost imperceptibly. I understood. I advanced on him with a roar, my arms above my head. He countered by growling back, and swiping at my chest with an open, clawed hand. Swiftly, I knocked it aside and closed with him, wrapping my arms around his body.

  Any other Troll in the audience would quickly have recognized Scenario Number 15 of the Trollia Hand-book for Dealing with Other Species. In order for a pair of Trolls to have a private conversation in public, when all other means failed, this particular brawl would ensure that we had frequent close contact, while making very certain all others stayed out of the way of our wild-looking, but carefully choreographed, swings. Even a dragon would have hesitated to wander into the fray between two full-grown Trolls.

  “What is it, old man? Deveels?” I asked. I twisted around, grabbed his wrist, wrenched upward, and Percy flipped into the air, landing on his back. The fall wouldn't hurt him. It didn't even knock the breath out of him. He scissored out his powerful, furry legs and caught me about the waist. I dropped back, and he sprang up and knelt on my chest, hands going for my throat. I roared aloud to cover his furtive whisper.

  “No, worse!” I grabbed his throat with one hand, and he let out a loud squeak, which covered my next question.

  “What could be worse than Deveels?” I asked. A further grunt covered another query as he shook his head. “Do you owe money to the Gnomes?” We rolled over and over together in the dust. An open path cleared ahead as our audience pursued behind. I bellowed.

  “Worse!” Percy whispered, his face desperate. “I can't tell you! The old one will get me if I talk!”

  I almost forgot to wait for his covering roar. “Who?”

  “Don't ask any more, old man,” Percy said, sitting on my back as he twisted my foot around. I shouted in pain. He was so nervous he was actually hurting me. “Please. I'm asking you as an old friend. I can't say any more; we might be overheard. Hmm, this is your turf. I know M.Y.T.H. Inc. well. I'd best let you win this round.”

  It was good of him to realize that. I assessed my position, face down in the dust. The only winning move I could make would render me utterly filthy, but that, as Aahz might observe, was show biz. I gathered my three free limbs underneath me, grabbed the earth and turned myself until I was aligned with my twisted limb. In doing so I mashed a great deal of the street into the front of my fur, but it was worth it for the denouement: I rose to all threes, Percy still riding my back, and, pushing myself upright on my one leg, deposited him to the ground. He fell, as though stunned. I jumped on him, grabbed him by shoulder and crotch, heaved him into the air, and threw him into the crowd.

  “Thanks, old man,” he said, just before I let go. Deveels, Imps, Ssslissi, Klahds, and others went down as a full-grown Troll landed on them.

  Brushing myself off, I stumped up the street. Tananda was
standing in between two tents cleaning her nails with a dagger, where she had a perfect view of the whole brawl. She grinned up at me. Guido hulked in the shadows behind her.

  “Messy but effective, Big Brother.” “What'd he tell you?” Guido asked. I glanced around. Night had fallen sufficiently to conceal our return to our tent. “Let's go inside.”

  “The old one?” Tananda asked, sitting at our conference table after I brought them up to date on my tete-a-tete with Percy. “Old what? A dragon? What's big enough to intimidate a Troll?”

  “Well, we aint' gonna get no data out of the victims, or outta their collectors.” Guido reasoned. “What's next?”

  “Next,” 1 said, tenting my fingers together on the table rather like logs at the corner of a rustic cabin, “we must lure our perpetrators out of hiding.”

  “How do we do that?” Guido asked, skeptically.

  “They target small enterprises, do they not?” I asked. The other two nodded. “Then we establish our own.”

  “And wait to be approached,” Little Sister said, approvingly. “Good idea, Big Brother. Now, all we need to do is figure out what would attract their interest.”

  “Somethin' that earns a lot of money,” Guido said. “Alia the businesses have a much higher income than overhead.”

  “It's too much trouble to do market research on growing trends and get in merchandise from another dimension,” Tananda said thoughtfully, “so, a service business of some kind. I think I know just what will do the job.”

  I didn't like the mischievious gleam in my sister's green eyes. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Hairdressers?” Guido said, disbelievingly, surveying the contents of our hastily rented tent.

  “Beauticians,” Tananda corrected him, spreading out her hands in satisfaction. “It's perfect. We don't need any merchandise, apart from a few bottles of commercial tonic and cologne. And believe me, every being alive has a streak of vanity that could use a little buffing up. We will simply cater to that streak.”

  “But we know nothing about beauty culture,” I protested. “We might disfigure someone, or hurt them.”