MYTH-Interpretations: The Worlds of Robert Asprin

by Robert Asprin

  "Here, fella. Want a treat?"

  This last was uttered by a sleazy-looking Deveel as he held out a hand with a lump of some unidentifiable substance in it.

  I realized with a guilty start that I had overindulged, sinking too far into my thoughts to maintain awareness of my surroundings. After the unkind thoughts I had entertained about Nunzio's attention span, this was an inexcusable lapse on my part. Ignoring the offered gift, I raised my head and cast about desperately to reassess the situation.

  There were three of them: the one currently addressing me, and two others who were talking to Nunzio.

  "I dunno," the latter was saying. "I didn't get any instructions about anyone pickin' up the shipment early."

  Something was definitely amiss. From his words and manner, even Nunzio was suspicious . . . which meant the plot had to be pretty transparent.

  "C'mon boy. Take the treat."

  The Deveel facing me was starting to sound a little desperate, but I continued ignoring him and his offering. It was drugged, of course. Just because humans can't smell a wide range of chemicals, they assume that no one else can either. This one was no problem. I was more concerned as to whether or not Nunzio would require assistance.

  "I can't help it if your paperwork is fouled up," the smaller Deveel with Nunzio snarled, with a good imitation of impatience. "I've got a schedule to keep. Look. Here's a copy of my authorization."

  As Nunzio bent to look at the paper the Deveel was holding, the one standing behind him produced a club and swung it at his head. There was a sharp "CRACK" . . . but it was from the club breaking, not from Nunzio's head, that latter being, as I have noted, exceptionally dense.

  "I'm sorry, I can't let you have the shipment," Nunzio said, handing the paper back to the short Deveel who took it without losing the astounded expression from his face. "This authorization is nothin' but a blank piece of paper."

  He glanced over his shoulder at the larger Deveel who was standing there staring at his broken club.

  "Be with you in a second, fella. Just as soon as we get this authorization thing cleared up."

  I decided that he would be able to handle things in his own peculiar way and turned my attention to the Deveel with the drugged treat.

  He was looking at the conversation across the room, his mouth hanging open in amazement. I noticed, however, that he had neglected to withdraw his hand.

  There are those who hypothesize that dragons do not have a sense of humor. To prove that that is not the case, I offer this as a counterexample.

  Unhinging my jaw slightly, I stretched out my neck and took the treat in my mouth. Actually, I took his hand in my mouth . . . all the way to the shoulder. This was not as hazardous as it sounds. I simply took care not to swallow and therefore avoided any dangerous effects which might be generated by the drugged treat.

  The Deveel glanced back when he heard my jaws crash together, and we looked into each others' eyes from a considerably closer range than he had anticipated. For effect, I waggled my eyebrows at him. The eyebrows did it, and is eyes rolled up into his head as he slumped to the floor in a dead faint.

  Funny, huh? So much for not having a sense of humor.

  Relaxing my jaws, I withdrew my head, leaving the treat and his arm intact, and checked Nunzio's situation again.

  The larger Deveel was stretched out on the floor unconscious while Nunzio was holding the other by the lapels with one hand, leisurely slapping him forehand and backhand as he spoke.

  "I oughtta turn youse over to da authorities! A clumsy hijack like this could give our profession a bad name. Know what I mean? Are you listenin' ta me? Now take your buddies and get outta here before I change my mind! And don't come back until you find some decent help!"

  I had to admit that Nunzio had a certain degree of style . . . for a human. If he had been fortunate enough to be born with a brain, he might have been a dragon.

  While he was busy throwing the latest batch of attackers out the door, I decided to do a little investigating. After three attempts to relieve us of our prize, though Nunzio was only aware of one of them, I was beginning to grow a bit suspicious. Even for as crime-prone a lot as humans tend to be, three attempts in that close succession was unusual, and I wanted to know more about what it was we were guarding.

  The cases still smelled of paper and ink, but that seemed an inadequate reason for the attention they had been drawing. As casually as I could, I swatted one of the cases with my tail, caving it in. Apparently I had not been casual enough, for the sound brought Nunzio sprinting to my side.

  "Now what are you doin'? Look! You ruined . . . Hey! Wait a minute!"

  He stooped and picked up one of the objects that had spilled from the case and examined it closely. I snaked my head around so I could look over his shoulder.

  "Do you know what dis is, Gleep?"

  As a matter of fact, I didn't. From what I could see, all it was was some kind of picture book . . . and a shoddily made one at that. What it didn't look like was anything valuable. Certainly nothing that would warrant the kind of attention we had been getting.

  Nunzio tossed the book back onto the floor and glanced around nervously.

  "This is over my head," he murmured. "I can't . . . Gleep, you keep an eye on this stuff. I'll be right back. I've gotta get the Boss . . . and Guido! Yeah. He knows about this stuff."

  Admittedly perplexed, I watched him go, then studied the book again.

  Very strange. There was clearly something in this situation that was escaping my scrutiny.

  I rubbed my nose a few times in a vain effort to clear it of the smell of ink, then hunkered down to await my pet's arrival.

  "Comic books?"

  Skeeve was clearly as perplexed as I had been.

  "The ‘valuable shipment' we're guarding is comic books?"

  "That's what I thought, Boss," Nunzio said. "Screwy, huh? What do you think, Guido?"

  Guido was busy prying open another case. He scanned the books on top, then dug a few out from the bottom to confirm they were the same. Studying two of them intently, he gave out with a low whistle.

  "You know what these are worth, Boss?"

  Skeeve shrugged.

  "I don't know how many of them are here, but I've seen them on sale around the Bazaar at three or four for a silver, so they can't be worth much."

  "Excuse me for interruptin'," Guido said, "but I am not referrin' to yer everyday, run-of-the-mill comic. I am lookin' at these, which are a horse from a different stable."

  "They are?" My pet frowned. "I mean . . . it is? I mean . . . these all look the same to me. What makes them special?"

  "It's not easy to explain, but if you will lend me your ears I will attempt to further your education, Boss. You too, Nunzio."

  Guido gathered up a handful of the books and sat on one of the cases.

  "If you will examine the evidence before you, you will note that while all these comics are the same, which is to say they are copies of the same issue, they each have the number ‘one' in a box on their cover. This indicates that it is the first issue of this particular title."

  I refrained from peering at one of the books. If Guido said the indicator was there, it was probably there, and looking at it wouldn't change anything.

  "Immediately that ‘one' makes the comic more valuable, both to someone who is tryin' to obtain a complete set, and especially to a collector. Now, certain titles is more popular than others, which makes them particularly valuable, but more important are titles which have indeed grown in popularity since they made their first debutante. In that situational, there are more readers of the title currently than there were when it began, and the laws of supply and demand drive the price of a first-issue copy through the roof."

  He gestured dramatically with one of the books.

  "This particular title premiered several years ago and is currently hotter than the guy what swiped the crown jewels. What is more, the print run on the first issue was very small, makin' a
first-issue copy exceedingly valuable . . . with the accent on ‘exceedingly.' I have with my own eyes seen a beat-up copy of the comic you are currently holding on a dealer's table with an askin' price of a hundert-fifty gold on it. Mind you, I'm not sayin' he got it, but that's what he was askin'."

  Now it was Skeeve's turn to whistle. I might have been tempted myself, but whistling is difficult with a forked tongue.

  "If that's true, this shipment is worth a fortune. He's got enough of them here."

  "That is indeed the puzzlement, Boss," Guido said, looking at the cases. "If my memory is not seriously in error, there were only two thousand copies of this issue printed . . . yet if all these cases are full of the same merchandise, there are considerably more copies than that in this shipment to which we are referrin'. How this could be I am uncertain, but the explanation which occurs to me is less than favorable to the owner."

  "Forgeries!" Nunzio squeaked. "The guy's a multi-colored paper hanger!"

  "A multi . . . never mind!" Skeeve waved. "What good would a forged comic be?"

  "The same as any other forgery," Guido shrugged. "You pass 'em off as originals and split with the money before anyone's the wiser. In some wasy it's better'n phony money, since it isn't as hard to duplicate comics and, as youse can see, they're worth more per pound. The paper's cheaper, too."

  My pet surveyed the shipment.

  "So we've been mad unwitting accomplices to a comic-forging deal, eh?"

  ". . . And without even getting' a piece of the action," Nunzio snarled.

  "That wasn't what I was thinking about," Skeeve said, shaking his head. "I was thinking of all the collectors who are going to plunk down their money to get a genuine collector's item, only to have the bottom drop out of the market when it's discovered that it's been flooded with forgeries."

  He rubbed his lower lip thoughtfully.

  "I wonder how much my lunch buddy has insured this shipment for?"

  "Probably not much, if at all," Guido supplied. "To do so would necessitate the fillin' out of the documents declarin' the contents of said shipment, and any insurance type knowledgeable enough to give him full value would also know the discrepancy between the shipment count and what was originally printed. You see, Boss, the trouble with runnin' a fraud is that it requires runnin' additional frauds to cover for it, and eventually someone is bound to catch on."

  Skeeve wasn't even listening by the time Guido finished his oration. He was busy rubbing the spot between my ears, a strange smile on his face.

  "Well, I guess nobody wins all the time."

  "What was that, Boss?"

  My pet turned to face them.

  "I said that M.Y.T.H., Inc. fumbled the ball this time. Sorry, Nunzio, but this one is going into the records as a botched assignment. I can only assure you that it will not be reflected on your next performance review."

  "I don't get it," Nunzio frowned. "What went wrong?"

  "Why, the fire of course. You know, the fire that destroyed the entire shipment due to our inattentiveness and neglect? Terribly careless of us, wasn't it?"

  "Fire? What fire?"

  Skeeve stepped to one side and bowed to me, sweeping one hand toward the cases.

  "Gleep? I believe this is your specialty?"

  I waffled briefly between using a #4 or a #6, then said "to heck with it" and cut loose with a #9. It was a bit show-offy, I'll admit, but with Guido and Nunzio watching, not to mention my pet, it was pointless to spare the firepower.

  They were impressed, which was not surprising, as #9 is quite impressive. There wasn't even any afterburn to put out, since by the time I shut down the old flame-thrower, there was nothing left to burn.

  For several moments we all stood staring at the charred spot on the warehouse floor.

  "Wow!" Guido breathed at last.

  "You can say that double for me," Nunzio nodded, slipping an arm around my neck. "Good dragon, Gleep. Good dragon."

  "Well, gentlemen," Skeeve said, rubbing his hands together, "now that that's over I guess we can head . . . What's that?"

  He pointed to the collapsed portion of the floor, noticing it for the first time.

  "That?" Nunzio squeaked innocently. "Beats me, Boss. It was like that when we got here."

  I didn't bother to return his wink, for I was already starting to retreat into heavily thought. I only hoped that in the final analysis I wouldn't decide that either Guido or Nunzio was an unsettling influence on my pet. Time would tell.

  M.Y.T.H. Inc. Instructions

  Robert Lynn Asprin and Jody Lynn Nye

  First down the long white aisle came the flower girls, ten of them dressed in green organza tossing handfuls of petals into the air. I got a faceful of their perfume and sneezed. That expression caused me to bare my teeth involuntarily, causing an equally involuntary back step by the six people standing nearest to me in the great hall of Possiltum Palace. I never expect Klahds to really appreciate Pervect teeth like mine.

  I tugged at the tight collar of the formal tunic I'd let Massha talk me into wearing. If she hadn't become such a valued associate of mine and Skeeve's, I would tactfully have arranged to be elsewhere on this, her special day of days. But if you are smart you will never say ‘no' to a woman about to get married, unless you're planning on finishing the sentence with "of course I don't mind you dressing me up like an organ-grinder's monkey." Which, naturally, leads your former apprentice and present partner to ask what an organ grinder is. When I explained he said it sounds like a devious torture device which, now that I come to think of it, isn't all that far from being accurate, if you consider your inner ear an organ.

  The horde of little girls was succeeded by a host of little boys dressed up like pages. Every one of them looked like I felt. I know Massha has a somewhat garish color sense, but I'd have done a little better for these kids than coral and pink striped satin breeches and caps, and bright aqua tunics. All around me I could see optic nerves shorting out, and the bridal attendants hadn't started down the aisle yet.

  Before I'd finished the thought, here they came in a bevy. A lot of the bridesmaids were of Massha's globular body type, though none of them matched her in sheer magnificence (this is her wedding day. It behooves me to be more than my usual tactful self). Her confidence and warmth brought out the best in fellow large ladies of the Possiltum court, who sought her out as a friend and role model, helping them to like themselves as they were. She had plenty of friends there. Even Queen Hemlock, whom I would have voted "Girl Least Likely to Have Friends of Her Own Species," had gotten onto cordial, even warm terms with her.

  In an unusual display of insecurity Massha had run color choices for the ladies' gowns past Bunny, who has a good eye for fashion. Instead of a wallow of wild hues, which is what I would have expected, the bridesmaids were all dressed in pale pink silk. In spite of the vast difference in complexions and sizes, the pink served to flatter rather than draw attention. Bunny herself looked glorious and demure in her gown. The pink even looked good against the green of Tananda's hair. She resembled some species of orchid, shapely and exotic. I'd never before seen bridesmaids' dresses that didn't look like bedspreads or horror costumes. Mentally, I awarded points to Bunny for skill and Massha for knowing when to ask for help. It just showed what kind of trust the team inspired.

  Subtlety ended with the arrival of an entire marching band. Two women in pink and aqua skirts shorter than anything Tanda had ever worn on a job catapulted into the room and began to turn flips down the white carpet. Behind them, a drum major in bright orange and blue came to a halt at the door and blew a sharp blast on a whistle. He hoisted his baton on high and marched forward, leading the Possiltum army's music corps in full dress uniform, playing Honywagen's Wedding March. This was a discordant dirge that had become traditional for weddings across the dimensions, to the everlasting regret of real music lovers. Since the band was a little heavy on bagpipes and horns, the effect was as hard on the ears as their outfits were on the eye. Since we Perve
cts have more sensitive ears than Klahds, I was ready to kill someone by the time they finished mauling Honywagen and struck up "A Pretty Girl is Like A Melody."

  A full color guard strode in time to the tune. The eight soldiers took positions at intervals along the white carpet, holding the Possiltum flag high. Ten more soldiers, Klahds in the peak of physical perfection, such as it is, marched in past the flag bearers, sabers drawn and held erect in front of their noses. At a cue, they formed an arch with their swords. The band halted in the middle of its song, and struck up the Possiltum marching song. Enter Big Julie, in his best armor, clanking with weapons.

  There'd been a lot of discussion about who would be the General's best man, but the former strongman turned out to be the perfect choice. After all, the traditional role of best man was to hold the door and keep unwanted visitors from intruding on the ceremony. Except for me, Guido, Chumley and a few of Don Bruce's enforcers who were present as invited guests, Big Julie was the only person who was big enough and mean enough to prevent any potential interruptions. As soon as he reached the front of the room Hugh Badaxe appeared at the door.

  If there was ever a groom who wasn't nervous at his wedding I never met him. The big man had beads of sweat on his forehead under the crest of his helmet. He ought to be nervous; he was getting a terrific wife who had a lot of dangerous friends who'd still be looking out for her well-being even after she married him. The people around me backed further away. I realized I was smiling again. Still, he bore himself with military pride. Pretty good under the circumstances.