Myth Conceptions

by Robert Asprin

  Heaving a deep sigh, I sprinted off after Aahz with Gleep lumbering along in hot pursuit.

  I was just overtaking them when Aahz stopped suddenly in his tracks and started to turn. Unable to halt my headlong sprint, I plowed into him, knocking him sprawling.

  "In a hurry, handsome?" Tanda asked, eyeing me slyly.

  "Gee, Aahz," I stammered, bending over him, "I didn't mean to-"

  From a half sitting position, his hand lashed out in a cuff that spun me halfway around.

  "Watch where you're going next time," he growled.

  "Gleep!" said the dragon and licked my face.

  Either my head was spinning more than I thought, or I had been through this scene before.

  "Now quit clowning around and listen, kid."

  Aahz was on his feet again, and all business.

  "Here's where we part company for a while. You wait here while I go haggle with the mercenaries."

  "Gee, Aahz," I whined. "Can't I-"

  "No, you can't!" he said firmly. "The crew I'm going after is sharp. All we need is one of your dumb questions in the middle of negotiations and they'll triple their prices."

  "But-" I began.

  "You will wait here," Aahz ordered. "I repeat, wait. No fights, no window shopping for dragons, just wait!"

  "I'll stay here with him, Aahz," Tanda volunteered.

  "Good," Aahz nodded. "And try to keep him out of trouble, okay?"

  With that, he turned and disappeared into the crowd. Actually, I wasn't too disappointed. I mean, I would have liked to have gone with him, but I liked having some time alone with Tanda even more . . . that is, if you can consider standing in the middle of the Bazaar at Deva being alone with someone.

  "Well, Tanda," I said, flashing my brightest smile.

  "Later, handsome," she replied briskly. "Right now I've got some errands to run."

  "Errands?" I blinked.

  "Yeah. Aahz is big on manpower, but I'd just as soon have a few extra tricks up my sleeve in case the going gets rough," she explained. "I'm going to duck over to the special effects section and see what they have in stock."

  "Okay," I agreed. "Let's go."

  "No, you don't," she said, shaking her head. "I think I'd better go this one alone. The kind of places I have in mind aren't fit for civilized customers. You and the dragon wait here."

  "But you're supposed to be keeping me out of trouble!" I argued.

  "And that's why I'm not taking you along," she said, smiling. "Now, what do you have along in the way of weaponry?"

  "Well . . ." I said hesitantly, "there's a sort of a sword in one of Gleep's packs."

  "Fine!" she said. "Get it out and wear it. It'll keep the riffraff at a distance. Then . . . um . . . wait for me in there!"

  She pointed at a strange-looking stone structure with a peeling sign on its front.

  "What is it?" I asked, peering at it suspiciously.

  "It's a `Yellow Crescent Inn,' " she explained. "It's sort of a restaurant. Get yourself something to eat. The food's unappetizing, but vaguely digestible."

  I studied the place for a moment.

  "Actually," I decided finally, "I think I'd rather . . ."

  Right about there I discovered I was talking to myself. Tanda had disappeared without a trace.

  For the second time in my life I was alone in the Bazaar at Deva.

  Chapter Thirteen

  "Hold the pickles, hold the lettuce."

  -HENRY VIII

  Fascinating as the Bazaar is, facing it alone can be rather frightening.

  Being particularly susceptible to fear, I decided to follow Tanda's advice and entered the inn.

  First, however, I took the precaution of tethering Gleep to the inn's hitching post and unpacking the sword. We had one decent sword. Unfortunately, Aahz was currently wearing it. That left me with Garkin's old sword, a weapon which has been sneered at by demon and demon-hunter alike. Still, its weight was reassuring on my hip, though it might have been more reassuring if I had known anything about how to handle it. Unfortunately, my lessons with Aahz to date had not included swordsmanship. I could only hope it would not be apparent to the casual observer that this was my first time to wear a sword.

  Pausing in the door, I surveyed the inn's interior. Unaccustomed as I was to gracious dining, I realized in a flash that this wasn't it.

  One of the few pieces of advice my farmer father had given me before I ran away from home was not to trust any inn or restaurant that appeared overly clean. He maintained the cleaner a place was, the more dubious the quality and origin of their food would be. If he were even vaguely right, this inn must be the bottom of the barrel. It was not only clean, it gleamed.

  I do not mean that figuratively. Harsh overhead lights glinted off a haphazard arrangement of tiny tables and uncomfortable-looking chairs constructed of shiny metal and a hard white substance I didn't recognize. At the far end of the inn was a counter behind which stood a large stone gargoyle, the only decorative feature in the place. Behind the gargoyle was a door, presumably leading into the kitchen. There was a small window in the door through which I caught glimpses of the food being prepared. Preparation consisted of passing patties of meat over a stove, cramming them into a split roll, slopping a variety of colored pastes on top of the meat, and wrapping the whole mess in a piece of paper.

  Watching this process confirmed my earlier fears. I do all the cooking for Aahz and myself, as I did before that for Garkin and myself, and before that just for myself. While I have no delusions as to the high quality of my cooking, I do know that what they were doing to that meat could only yield a meal the consistency and flavor of charred glove leather.

  Despite the obvious low quality of the food, the inn seemed nearly full of customers. I noticed this out of the corner of my eye. I also noticed that a high percentage of them were staring at me. It occurred to me that this was probably because I had been standing in the door for some time without entering while working up my courage to go in.

  Feeling slightly embarrassed, I stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind me. With fiendish accuracy, the door closed on my sword, pinning it momentarily and forcing me to break stride clumsily as I started forward. So much for my image as a swordsman.

  Humiliated, I avoided looking at the other customers and made- my way hurriedly to the inn's counter. I wasn't sure what I was going to do once I got there, since I didn't trust the food, but hopefully people would stop staring at me if I went through the motions of ordering.

  Still trying to avoid eye contact with anyone, I made a big show of studying the gargoyle. There was a grinding noise, and the statue turned its head to return my stare. If wasn't a statue! They really had a gargoyle tending the counter!

  The gargoyle seemed to be made of coarse gray stone, and when he flexed his wings, small pieces of crushed rock and dust showered silently to the floor. His hands were taloned, and there were curved spikes growing out of his elbows. The only redeeming feature I could see was his smile, which in itself was a bit unnerving. Dominating his wrinkled face, the smile seemed permanently etched in place, stretching well past his ears and displaying a set of pointed teeth even longer than Aahz's.

  "Take your order?" the gargoyle asked politely, the smile never twitching.

  "Um . . ." I said taking a step back. "I'll have to think about it. There's so much to choose from"

  In actuality I couldn't read the menu . . . if that's what it was. There was something etched in the wall behind the gargoyle in a language I couldn't decipher. I assume it was a menu because the prices weren't etched in the wall, but written in chalk over many erasures.

  The gargoyle shrugged.

  "Suit yourself," he said indifferently. "When you make up your mind, just holler. The name's Gus."

  "I'll do that . . . Gus," I smiled, backing slowly toward the door.

  Though it was my intent to exit quietly and wait outside with Gleep, things didn't work out that way. Before I had taken four step
s, a hand fell on my shoulder.

  "Skeeve, isn't it?" a voice proclaimed.

  I spun around, or started to. I was brought up short when my sword banged into a table leg. My head kept moving, however, and I found myself face to face with an Imp.

  "Brockhurst!" I exclaimed, recognizing him immediately.

  "I thought I recognized you when you . . . hey!" The Imp took a step backward and raised his hands defensively. "Take it easy! I'm not looking for any trouble."

  My hand had gone to my sword hilt in an involuntary effort to free it from the table leg. Apparently Brockhurst had interpreted the gesture as an effort to draw my weapon.

  That was fine by me. Brockhurst had been one of Isstvan's lieutenants, and we hadn't parted on the best of terms. Having him a little afraid of my "ready sword" was probably a good thing.

  "I don't hold any grudges," Brockhurst continued insistently. "That was just a job! Right now I'm between jobs . . . permanently!"

  That last was added with a note of bitterness which piqued my curiosity.

  "Things haven't been going well?" I asked cautiously.

  The Imp grimaced.

  "That's an understatement. Come on, sit down. I'll buy you a milkshake and tell you all about it."

  I wasn't certain what a milkshake was, but I was sure I didn't want one if they were sold here.

  "Um . . . thanks anyway, Brockhurst," I said, forcing a smile, "but I think I'll pass."

  The Imp arched an eyebrow at me.

  "Still a little suspicious, eh?" he murmured. "Well, can't say as I blame you. Tell you what we'll do."

  Before I could stop him, he strolled to the counter.

  "Hey, Gus!" he called. "Mind if I take an extra cup?"

  "Actually . . ." the gargoyle began.

  "Thanks!"

  Brockhurst was already on his way back, bearing his prize with him, some kind of a thin-sided, flimsy cannister. Plopping down at a nearby table, he beckoned to me, indicating the seat opposite him with a wave of his hand.

  There was no gracious course for me to follow other than to join him, though it would later occur to me I had no real obligation to be gracious. Moving carefully to avoid knocking anything over with my sword, I maneuvered my way to the indicated seat.

  Apparently, Brockhurst had been sitting here before, as there was already a cannister on the table identical to the one he had fetched from the counter. The only difference was that the one on the table was three-quarters full of a curious pink liquid.

  With great ceremony, the Imp picked up the cannister from the table and poured half its contents into the new vessel. The liquid poured with the consistency of swamp muck.

  "Here!" he said, pushing one of the cannisters across the table to me. "Now you don't have to worry about any funny business with the drinks. We're both drinking the same thing."

  With that, he raised his vessel in a mock toast and took a healthy swallow from it. Apparently he expected me to do the same. I would have rather sucked blood.

  "Um . . . it's hard to believe things aren't going well for you," I stalled. "You look well enough."

  For a change, I was actually sincere. Brockhurst looked good . . . even for an Imp. As Aahz had said, Imps are snappy dressers, and Brockhurst was no exception. He was outfitted in a rust-colored velvet jerkin trimmed in gold, which set off his pink complexion and sleek black hair superbly. If he were starving, you couldn't tell it from looking at him. Though still fairly slender, he was as well muscled and adroit as when I had first met him.

  "Don't let appearances fool you," Brockhurst insisted, shaking his head. "You see before you an Imp pushed to the wall. I've had to sell everything-my crossbow, my pouch of magic tricks-I couldn't even raise enough money to pay my dues to the Assassins Guild."

  "It's that hard to find work?" I sympathized.

  "I'll tell you, Skeeve," he whispered confidentially, "I haven't worked since that fiasco with Isstvan."

  The sound of that name still sent chills down my back.

  "Where is Isstvan, anyway?" I asked casually.

  "Don't worry about him," Brochkurst said grimly. "We left him working concession stands on the Isle of Coney, a couple of dimensions from here."

  "What happened to the others?"

  I was genuinely curious. I hadn't had much of a chance to talk with Tanda since our reunion.

  "We left Frumple under a cloud of birds in some park or other . . . figured he looked better as a statue than he did alive. The demon hunter and the girl took off for parts unknown one night while we were asleep. My partner, Higgens, headed back to Imper. He figured his career was over and that he might as well settle down. Me, I've been looking for work, ever since, and I'm starting to think Higgens was right."

  "Come on, Brockhurst," I chided. "There must be something you can do. I mean, this is the Bazaar."

  The Imp heaved a sigh and took another sip of his drink.

  "It's nice of you to say that, Skeeve," he smiled. "But I've got to face the facts. There's not a big demand for Imps anyway, and none at all for an Imp with no powers."

  I knew what he meant. All the dimension travelers I had met so far-Aahz, Isstvan, Tanda, and even the Deveel Frumple-seemed to regard Imps as inferior beings. The nicest thing I had heard said about them was that they were styleless imitators of the Deveels.

  I felt sorry for him. Despite the fact we had first met as enemies, it wasn't that long ago I had been a loser nobody wanted.

  "You've got to keep trying," I encouraged.

  "Somewhere, there's someone who wants to hire you."

  "Not very likely," the Imp grimaced. "The way I am now, l wouldn't hire me. Would you?"

  "Sure I would," I insisted. "In a minute."

  "Oh, well," he sighed. "I shouldn't dwell on myself. How have things been with you? What brings you to the Bazaar?"

  Now it was my turn to grimace.

  "Aahz and I are in a bad spot," I explained. "We're here trying to recruit a force to help us out."

  "You're hiring people?" Brockhurst was suddenly intense.

  "Yeah. Why?" I replied.

  Too late, I realized what I was saying.

  "Then you weren't kidding about hiring me!" Brockhurst was beside himself with glee.

  "Um . . ." I said.

  "This is great," the Imp chortled, rubbing his hands together. "Believe me, Skeeve, you won't regret this."

  I was regretting it already.

  "Wait a minute, Brockhurst," I interrupted desperately. "There are a few things you should know about the job."

  "Like what?"

  "Well . . . for one thing, the odds are bad," I said judiciously. "We're up against an army. That's pretty rough fare considering how low the pay is."

  I thought I would touch a nerve with that remark about the pay. I was right.

  "How low is the pay?" the Imp asked bluntly.

  Now I was stuck. I didn't have the vaguest idea how much mercenaries were normally paid.

  "We . . . um . . . we couldn't offer you more than one gold piece for the whole job," I shrugged.

  "Done!" Brockhurst proclaimed. "With the current state of my finances, I can't turn down an offer like that no matter how dangerous it is."

  It occurred to me that sometime I should have Aahz give me a quick course in rates of exchange.

  "Um . . . there's one other problem," I murmured thoughtfully.

  "What's that?"

  "Well, my partner, you remember Aahz?"

  The Imp nodded.

  "Well, he's out right now trying to hire a force, and he's got the money," I continued. "There's a good chance that if he's successful, and he usually is, there won't be enough money left to hire you."

  Brockhurst pursed his lips for a moment, then shrugged.

  "Well," he said, "I'll take the chance. I wasn't going anywhere anyway. As I said, they haven't exactly been beating my door down with job offers."

  I had run out of excuses.

  "Well"-I smiled lamely-"as long
as you're aware-"

  "Heads up, boss," the Imp's murmur interrupted me. "We've got company."

  I'm not sure which worried me more, Brockhurst calling me "boss" or the specterlike character who had just stepped up to our table.

  Chapter Fourteen

  "We're looking for a few good men."

  -B. CASSIDY

  For a moment I thought we were being confronted by a skeleton. Then I looked closer and realized there really was skin stretched over the bones, though its dusty-white color made it seem very dead indeed.

  The figure's paleness was made even more corpselike by the blue-black hooded robe that enshrouded it. It wasn't until I noted the wrinkled face with a short, bristly white beard that I realized our visitor was actually a very old man . . . very old.

  He looked weak to the point of near collapse, desperately clutching a twisted black walking staff which seemed to be the only thing keeping him erect. Still, his eyes were bright and his smile confident as-he stood regarding us.

  "Did I hear you boys right?" he asked in a crackling voice.

  "I beg your pardon?" Brockhurst scowled at him.

  The ancient figure sneered and raised his voice.

  "I said, `Did I hear you boys right?'!" he barked.

  "What's the matter? Are you deaf?"

  "Um . . . excuse me," I interrupted hastily. "Before we can answer you, we have to know what you thought we said."

  The old man thought for a minute, then bobbed his head in a sudden nod.

  "You know, yer right!" he cackled. "Pretty smart, young fella."

  He began to list, but caught himself before he fell.

  "Thought I heard you tell Pinko here you were looking for a force to take on an army," he pronounced, jerking a thumb at Brockhurst.

  "The name's Brockhurst, not Pinko!" the Imp snarled.

  "All right, Bratwurst," the old man nodded. "No need to get your dander up."

  "That's Brockhurst!"

  "You heard right," I interrupted again, hoping the old man would go away as soon as his curiosity was satisfied.

  "Good!" the man declared. "Count me in! Me and Blackie haven't been in a good fight for a long time."