myth-taken identity m-14

by Robert Asprin

  "Easy," Moa snorted. "Like with your friend. These characters cotton on to someone. Sometimes they get ahold of the card itself, don't ask me how. Maybe they've got a spell that lets them make a copy of the card owner's face and personality, and put themselves in the way to get it instead of the rightful owner. Here's what I do know. It's easier if the victim's got a credit card—it's as if he, or she," he added, with a little nod of his head toward Massha, "has put a little self into it. It's an extension of you."

  "I get it," I growled impatiently.

  "Okay, then. They must have some way of utilizing that little bit, because we've had face-to-face encounters just like the one that happened today with you and your friend's double. He's one of the easy ones to copy."

  I nodded. I had known that damned card was trouble the second the kid flashed it at me, but I wasn't about to air family troubles in front of strangers. Massha and Chumley exchanged knowing looks with me.

  Moa continued. "But I know it's happened to plenty of people without cards. We've got regular thieves; every merchant knows some of their goods are going to walk away under their own power. You've got to accept that as a fact of life, or you should never open your doors to the public. It's not a good thing to consider, but it's reality. Am I wrong?"

  "Nope," I agreed tersely.

  "I'm not wrong. I know. Anyhow, we only hear about it after it starts to happen. A customer, or maybe even a stranger, starts to run up big bills, uncollectable bills. Sometimes there's a protest. If they can prove they were somewhere else when the fraud was committed, we let them off."

  I narrowed an eye at the squirt in the chair against the wall.

  "We have to try to recover our losses," the little Flibberite explained imperturbably.

  "I'm sending you a bill for my living room," I informed him. "So what am I doing here?"

  Moa spread out his hands. "I'm explaining you our problem. This ring of thieves consists of one or more magicians who can duplicate the appearance of a legitimate, innocent shopper. All I know is that we see the person come into a store, commit what amounts to daylight robbery, then disappear like a wraith." Chumley let out a wordless exclamation. Moa held up a warning finger. "Don't start again. I don't know why, but instead of hanging low and getting what they want, these thieves like to make with the flamboyant purchases, the big ones. They go away for weeks or months. Then they're back again. With the same faces. We've tried, Oximit knows, but we've never caught one of them yet. It's either a huge gang, or they have some way of maintaining several identities at once." Enlightenment shone a beacon in my eyes.

  "Option B," I said, firmly. "I'm pretty sure I saw one of your thieves today, in The Volcano."

  "What did he look like?"

  "She," I corrected him, and described my Pervect enchantress. "But she flipped through a stack of cards and turned into a he. It looked pretty effortless. Whatever magik is involved, it's pretty sophisticated."

  "Mr.—I mean, Aahz, that's incredible news!" Moa exclaimed. "We've got spies and magik eyes everywhere in this Mall, and no one has ever seen what you have just described."

  "It's a hell of a way to run a railroad," Skocklin, the bandy-legged Flibberite opined. "Cards! Consarn it! It just figures! Them cards is a burr under my saddle." I had already decided he must have been born in the land of outdated phrases. "But it sure sounds like you folks have earned your reputations for observation."

  "Thanks," I said.

  "And yet," the peaky Flibberite began, tapping his fingertips together in a manner that seemed to pave the way for bad news, "this could all be a story, concocted to keep from paying off the debts of your friend, the Great Skeeve."

  "You can take that attitude and—" I bit off my words as the guards came away from the walls with their weapons pointing at me. "Didn't I just prove to you that it couldn't be the real Skeeve out there?"

  "You didn't really prove anything," the squirt announced with satisfaction on his narrow little face. "All you told us was something we have already deduced and might have found out in time. There's nothing to determine that it's actually true. It's just one of many suppositions that we're exploring."

  I had hated the jerk from the moment I had seen him. Bean counters were the same all over the dimensions. I wanted to take the little creep and squeeze his head until there was only one four-pointed ear on top of his neck. I knew a bureaucrat when I heard it.

  "Who the hell do you think we were chasing for an hour? The will-o'-the-wisp?"

  "I have no idea," the squirt smirked, and I really wanted to commit mayhem on him at that moment. "For all we know you're in league with the thieves."

  "WHAT??? That's it—it's clobbering time."

  I kicked out of my chair, only to find Parvattani and his spear in my face. Chumley picked him up by his collar. Five of Parvi's guards surrounded the Troll with their magik polearms. Massha geared up with some of her jewelry. The little guy flung up his hands, one pointed at her and one at me, readying a spell. I cracked my knuckles and prepared to dive in. I could probably take half a dozen of the guards before it got complicated. It was going to be a beautiful brawl. Then The Mall manager stepped in between us.

  "Enough!" Moa held up his hands. "No fighting!" Everyone sagged a little, disappointed. He shook his head wearily. "You know, and I know, that we don't think any such thing. We've heard of M. Y.T.H., Inc. We know who you are."

  With an eye on the obnoxious squirt in the corner I nonchalantly flipped my chair upright and sat down in it again. Massha kept her hand on the glowing jewels on her jangly belt.

  "Then what the hell do you want?" I demanded.

  "Well," Moa suggested apologetically, "we've just finished telling you that we've been unable to break up this ring of thieves. Maybe our approach is wrong."

  "Duh," Chumley chided him, in his Big Crunch voice. "Not catch."

  "Exactly," Moa remarked, with, an emphatic upward swing of his forefinger. "Look, gentleman and madame, I'm a businessman. I'm not a detective. I sell goods. I don't solve mysteries." A thin eyebrow climbed up his shiny bald dome. "But you do." I'd known the conversation would take this turning the moment Moa asked us back to his office.

  "Sorry," I snapped. "Not interested."

  Moa looked surprised. I knew he'd do that, too. "What?"

  "You're about to ask us to investigate the thieves here in The Mall. Right?"

  "Of course, right. We do want to hire you. You want the same thing we do. The sky's the limit on fees. Why not?"

  I held up a hand and ticked off the fingers. "Several reasons. One: we don't want exactly the same things. I'm here to figure out who's impersonating my friend. Nothing else. Two: I don't like to get tied up in local issues in which I have no stake. Three:"—and here I fixed the squirt next to Moa with a full-throttle glare—"I might have considered differently, but your partner here decided to try and burn my office down."

  Moa gave a chiding look at the peaky-faced Flibberite, " then turned large and sorrowful eyes toward me.

  "Please, Mr. Aahz, my associate here was doing his job. Won't you reconsider? We'll offer you ... ten thousand gold pieces."

  Now came the hard part: a cash offer. I'd already anticipated that, too. In my day I've been on both sides of this kind of negotiation. I thought about it, hard, but loyalty won out over greed. I folded my arms.

  "No."

  "Each."

  My palms itched, but I held firm. "No."

  Now Massha and Chumley looked surprised, too.

  "Twenty," the Flibberite offered, growing panic in his eyes.

  "Mr. Moa!" the financial squirt protested.

  "Enough, already, Woofle," Moa replied, not taking his eyes off mine. "Thirty."

  "No!" I roared. The picture of bags of shiny coins fluttering away on gossamer wings was almost too much for me to take, but I hung on. My efforts weren't lost on my associates.

  "Aahz," Massha asked gently. "Are you feeling all right?"

  "I'm fine," I snarled. "It's
the principle. I want to get to the bottom of Skeeve's shoplifting double. I want to tear his head off and spit down his neck, then I am going back to Deva to finish the book I was reading when this whole mess started. If it didn't burn to ashes," I added, with a glare at Woofle.

  He quailed. That was good. I felt like scaring hell out of someone.

  "Maybe," Chumley grunted at Moa in his Big Crunch voice, "you nice, we help if possible." He turned his big, moon-shaped eyes at me. "Re-con-sid. Later."

  Moa glanced at the Troll, as though surprised that he could actually talk. Trolls often hired out as muscle in other dimensions. Rarely did their employers get to know them as we did, which led to the widespread misconception that they had about five brain cells each. In reality, Chumley had about five college degrees. After me he was probably the smartest guy in M.Y.T.H., Inc. He certainly had the Flibberites' attention.

  "Yes, Mr. Troll," Moa asserted eagerly, leaning forward with his hands outstretched. "How nice do I have to be?"

  Chumley pursed his big lips as if trying to make words was difficult. "Place sleep. Food. Guard help. Yeah?"

  "Yes," I picked up on my associate's suggestions, wondering what was wrong with me that I hadn't thought of that myself. "If you put us up, give us a... reasonable per diem for meals and drinks and so on, and give us an in with the local security, if, and it's a big if, we come across something during our personal investigation that helps you out, we might shoot it your way."

  "You're free to reward us afterward if you want to," Massha interjected hastily.

  "We'll be happy to," Moa promised, his enthusiasm returned. "We'll deputize you. You'll be free to come and go wherever you want. Parvattani!"

  "Yessir!" The captain of the guard snapped to attention.

  "These three fine people need to operate as secret guards here in The Mall."

  "Yessir!" Parvattani responded, with a salute that nearly knocked him unconscious. "Bisimo! Secret guard insignia for three!"

  The guard nearest the door flung it open and tore out into the hallway.

  In a very short time he was back with three more guards, each carrying a bundle of cloth.

  "You're a little heftier than the average Flibberite," Bisimo offered apologetically.

  He shook out the first bundle and held it up to my chest. It was a tunic. At least, if there'd been a volume control on the incredibly loud fabric so I could dial it down to dark blue serge from wild blackberry-and-orange-dyed spotted herringbone tweed, I might have identified it as a tunic. It was so tasteless even an Imp wouldn't have worn it. Huge epaulets in metallic aqua adorned each shoulder, and frogs in the same shade marched down the front, framing huge shiny brass buttons. The color scheme actually hurt my eyes.

  "What's this?" I demanded, blinking.

  "All our undercover agents wear these," Moa said, surprised. "It's meant to blend in with the local scenery."

  "All of it at once?" I said, shaking my head. "No wonder you've had no luck sneaking up on your frauds! Any thief with half an eyeball could see these coming four dimensions away!" I shoved the cloth back at Bisimo. "No thanks, pal. I prefer my own style. Maybe, just maybe if I have time when we finish with what we came here to do, I'll help you set up a real undercover corps. And maybe," I added, trying not to look at the psychedelic ball of cloth in Bisimo's arms, "we can have a talk about camouflage. In the meantime, just stay out of our way. We'll try to keep it subtle. We don't want to tip off the perpetrators. We want their butts as much as you do."

  "Well, you can't walk around without a guide," Moa countered. "One of the guards can accompany you."

  "No," I retorted at once.

  "It's a good idea," Moa offered persuasively. "He'll make sure you have no trouble with the locals, get you into secured areas, and all that. You did say you've never been here before. You should take one with you to show you the course."

  I considered it for about one second.

  "All right," I agreed.

  I pointed at Captain Parvattani.

  "We'll take him. That'll be Par for the course." I guffawed at my own joke and waited for applause, but in vain. Everyone looked at me blankly.

  "But he's the captain of the guard," Moa protested.

  "I know. That means he'll be brighter than the others, I hope," I said. "If he's at the head of your squad, it means he's the best you've got. Right? If he's worth what you're paying him, he'll have the whole layout of The Mall in his head, including the parts that aren't on the map."

  Parvattani straightened his spine and tried to live up to the hype I was giving him. I always find it makes people give their all if you set an ideal for them to live up to. Still, Moa looked doubtful.

  "Besides, he might learn something, hanging out with us," I added.

  That was enough to convince Moa. That suited me. We wouldn't have to learn the terrain, and Par wouldn't try to take control of the situation.

  "But you're not wearing that thing," I instructed the elated guard. "You stick out like a clown nose at a cotillion."

  "But it's my uniform, sir!" my new guide protested.

  "Don't 'sir' me." I sighed. He might stick out anyway, with that gung ho Boy Scout attitude. "I work for a living. Mufti, or we find our way around without your assistance. How are we supposed to sneak up on your problem if they can see you coming? You handle situations like apprehending pickpockets and breaking up riots just fine; we saw you. But this is detective work. We're going to observe, not be observed."

  Par blinked once, but nodded. He didn't need further explanation. Good. He was trainable. By the time we left he ought to be a better security officer than he was when we came. With a look to Moa for permission, Par disappeared out the door.

  "So that's all settled," Moa said, with a sigh of relief. He signed to the nearest guard, who moved toward the sideboard. "Let's drink on it."

  I grinned. "That's an offer I never refuse."

  FIVE

  "I've seen and heard enough," the voice in Strewth's ear squeaked. "Get your tail back here."

  Hidden among the crystal decanters on the heavily carved wooden sideboard, the white-footed mall-rat backed slowly away from his listening point. Suddenly one of the Flibberites moved a hand toward Strewth. The rat panicked and scurried out of reach. The hand halted and settled onto one of the bottles. Strewth chittered.

  "Missed me again, you big nincompoop!" he squeaked. "Nyah nyah nyah!"

  Following the Master's standing orders, Strewth left a personal calling card on the shelf of the liquor cabinet, then slunk through the hole he and his fellows had chewed in the back and clambered down the concealed hole in the wall to an orange-curtained enclosure in the store adjacent to the office.

  The hideout lay many corridors distant from his current location. It'd be good to use longer legs to get there. Strewth huddled under the bench in the dressing room and flipped quickly through the stack of cards he kept in a pouch on his back, chose one, and recited the incantation.

  A second later, a big, burly Moolar with an impressive spread of pointed horns shoved back the drape and strode out into the shop with his hooflike thumbs hooked into his silver concha-laden belt.

  "No, didn't see anything I wanted back there," he drawled.

  A dozen mothers reacted to his appearance with alarm.

  "Peeping Tom! Pervert! Monster!" they shrieked, battering him with their shopping bags. "What were you doing in there? Our precious children! Someone call the security guards!"

  "No, don't," Strewth protested. "Coo! Er! Gosh! I didn't do anything to your children. Hey!"

  The mothers paid no attention to his protests.

  "Guards!" they shrieked. "Help! Monster!"

  Strewth ran for the door. The mothers grabbed pieces of display and even the arms off mannequins to batter him. Strewth shielded his head as he dashed into the crowd, looking for a place to hide so he could change identity again.

  "Strewth!" he exclaimed, as he shook off the last pursuer some eight or nine stor
efronts away.

  As he ducked underneath a velvet rope in front of the Magik Lantern Emporium, a mother Imp shook a pink fist at him. Her other hand clutched a sniveling Impling rubbing his eyes with one fist. The moment she was out of sight, Strewth scooted behind a tent flap and changed the Moolar face for an Imp in a yellow-checked suit.

  "I didn't know it was a children's clothing shop! Last time I was in here it was a haberdasher's!"

  "Fool! Get back here!" Rattila's laughter rang in his ears all the way to the hideout. At the concealed entrance Strewth disembodied and wriggled through the rathole into the Master's presence.

  "All right, so it was stupid," the white-footed mall-rat said, straightening up to his full one foot eleven inches in height.

  Rattila crouched over him from his throne of garbage, gazing down at him with glowing red eyes. He was twice the size of a mall-rat, his black fur gleaming in the faint light, his curved claws yellow. He pointed to the badge on his chest that read leader.

  Strewth cowered down into the steaming muck. It was always hot in the Rat Hole, which raised the level of stink occupying it to a virtually visible state. It was a nasty, dirty, wet hole, full of the ends of worms and an oozy smell, as if a hundred layers of compost had been distilled down into its very essence, a huge contrast to the oppressive cleanliness in The Mall above. It always reminded him of home, Rattila was fond of saying to his followers.

  "You made a mistake," the lord of the rats hissed. "You were not supposed to be observed. That was not a quality withdrawal from your listening post."

  "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?"