MYTH-Taken Identity

by Robert Asprin

  dimension pretending to be Skeeve, and ripping him and a whole lot of merchants off. I sprang up.

  "Get him!" I roared.

  Massha floated away from the table and arrowed away after the Klahd. Chumley and I bounded out of the cafe, dodging past the bards and the security guards hauling the wet Imp out of the fountain.

  The impostor's eyes widened, then he took off running. He might not be Skeeve, but he had the same kind of long legs and slim build. In the thick crowd, those were an advantage, unlike my more muscular frame and shorter limbs. I plowed ahead, tossing shoppers out of my way right and left.

  "Allow me, Aahz!" Chumley called, and thrust in ahead of me. "Aaaarrrr-aaaggghhh!" he yelled, waving his mighty arms. "Get out of way!"

  No being who heard a full-throated growl would obstruct our forward passage for long.

  So much for a subtle approach. With a full-sized Troll trained in crowd management, we soon cut the distance to about ten yards.

  It was a weird feeling, pursuing my ex-partner. You'd think that with all the experience I had exposing magikal fraud I could put the disassociated sensation to one side, but I couldn't. I kept getting the feeling that if we jumped this guy, it might really turn out to be Skeeve.

  We entered a crossroads. Our quarry faked left, then right, then right again, loping into another avenue filled with stores, tents, and stalls. Massha, sailing along over­head thanks to her gadgets, stayed right with him. She fumbled with her jewelry, clearly trying to find one gadget in particular.

  "Can you grab him?" I called to her.

  "My tractor-pendant's on the fritz!" she shouted back, holding up a smoking topaz.

  But she gamely dipped down, stretching out a ring-filled hand toward the running Klahd's shoulder. She made con-

  tact. With a snarl, he spun around and raised three finger­tips in her direction.

  "Whoa!" Massha levitated suddenly.

  A lightning bolt crackled just underneath her belly and impacted upon the center pole of a white pavilion tent in the middle of the corridor. The carved golden griffin at the apex fell like a downed pheasant.

  "Massha!" I yelled.

  "I'm okay!" she called back, and rose into view once more.

  The creep really was a magician! With a grim set to her shoulders, Massha continued the aerial chase. I made a promise that if this jerk wasn't Skeeve, I was going to give him the walloping of his life, just before I tore his arms and legs off. If he was ... well, I would think about it if that unlikely situation arose.

  Arms forward, our suspect dove into a pale blue tent with iridescent circles embroidered on each flap. I took a deep breath as I plunged in after him.

  No air filled this one; the interior was awash in eight feet of water, in which mermaids sold jeweled brassieres to the general public. My prey kicked off in a dog paddle. My physique was much more suited to dry land than sea, so it helped when Massha grabbed me by the collar and dragged me along over the surface. I spared a quick glance back for Chumley.

  The Troll was doing a creditable crawl stroke and gain­ing rapidly on the two of us. I seemed to recall one night around the table in our tent in the Bazaar when Tananda had revealed her big brother had been a champion swim­mer at school on Trollia. The big lug was too modest about his accomplishments. Such reticence never paid off, in my philosophy.

  At the far end of the tent, our prey hit the ground run­ning. I sloshed out after him, into a tiny boutique that sold ladies' unmentionables (even more unmentionable than the mermaids' wares). Now I had him!

  The shimmering white tent was hardly bigger than a boudoir. Reaching the back wall, he turned at bay, his long arms and legs poised for some kind of single combat, which I was confident he'd lose. I slowed up, gathered the muscles in my legs, and sprang! He dodged to one side.

  I landed on my face, my arms empty. The back of the pavilion was illusionary, not an uncommon practice when persons of modest virtue (or less than modest) wanted to disappear discreetly. The shrieks of females surprised in various states of dishabille pierced the sound-deadening spell protecting my ears.

  "A man!"

  "Sorry, ladies! Just a routine inspection," I said hastily, over the screaming.

  Maybe that hadn't been the best choice of words. As I scrambled to my feet, I was pelted with shoes, purses, and shopping bags by half-naked women from fifty different dimensions.

  Making a hasty retreat, I fled back into the small pavil­ion. The sturdily built gray-furred felinoid female, one of her own red satin foundation garments supporting four rows of two bosoms each, pointed sternly to the wall at the left. Sheepishly, I followed her direction, and picked up the wet footprints left by my quarry and Chumley, whose head I spotted above those of the surrounding crowd as soon as I got outside.

  The blond head swiveled back at us. Those familiar fea­tures were twisted into an expression of alarm I never thought would be directed at me. It gave me the creeps, but I didn't let it slow me down. I bounded past another set of bards, then another, passing through modem jazz, back into plainsong, and forward into punk rock. He made another break, this time into a wide tent full of mirrors.

  The first thing I saw was my own handsome counte­nance. The proprietors, a couple of Deveels who probably broke a few pieces of merchandise behind unwary shop­pers when business was slow, gawked at me when I dodged the framed mirror at the door and started running toward

  the image of Skeeve I could see close to the back. When I got there I realized that it was another image. I spun around, just in time to see a flap of the tent waving. I shot out into the corridor again.

  "Chumley!" I shouted, holding my hand high and point­ing toward the fleeing impostor.

  "After him!" Chumley called, then changed his voice. "Er, get Klahd!"

  In a scramble of long legs, our prey dashed out and headed up a side passage that led us through tent flaps and hanging banners, with Massha flying point above. We weren't going to lose sight of him now.

  "There he goes!" Massha shouted from overhead.

  I glanced up. She pointed. Still running, I pulled out the map. The little blue dot looked pale from having to follow us all over the map, but it gamely pointed to the location we occupied. I smiled grimly. This time the fake Skeeve had boxed himself up. There was no way out of the dead end ahead. I put on a burst of speed that propelled me past Chumley.

  We shoved through a metal door left flapping by the passage of the man we were pursuing. The little dot on the map in my hand kind of hung back, as if ashamed to go into the leg of The Mall in which we found ourselves.

  A wave of stench that reminded me fondly of Pervish cooking wafted past my nostrils. Unlike the absolute pris­tine cleanliness of the building everywhere else, this area was furnished with heaps of garbage, dumped in between huge stacks of crates, piles of cages, and skids full of bags. This must be where shipments came in and trash went out.

  A loud beeping noise cut through the air, and a heap of carved wooden boxes higher than my head appeared into being underneath an ornate letter W etched on the wall. Obviously, someone's expected delivery had just arrived.

  Ahead of me the kid was flagging. He must have been aware that the stone wall ahead meant the end of the chase.

  "He could try and pop out, Massha," I called, though I doubted it.

  If he'd wanted to dimension-hop, he could have done that anytime while we were running after him. Before I'd lost my powers, I had bamfed out on the fly I couldn't tell you how many times. An experienced traveler would have done it without all the running around. I was beginning to draw a mental picture of what kind of being we were deal­ing with.

  "I'm ready," she shouted back, holding up a chain with a green eye pendant hanging from it. "This'll tell me where he's gone. It's a new gizmo from Kobol."

  Movement caught my eye in the dwindling light toward the end of the corridor. I spared one erg of attention for the clutch of huge brown rats that were crawling around in the rotting heaps of food tha
t had come from one of the restau­rants and hadn't yet been cleared away by magikal means.

  Twenty steps now. Ten. Five. The three of us converged on the "Skeeve" as he neared the shadowy wall.

  "Now!" I bellowed.

  All three of us dove for him—and cracked our heads together before bashing into the stone barrier. He was gone. Chumley clutched his head with one mighty hand as he felt around in the garbage for our quarry. I sprang up.

  "Where'd he go, Massha?" I asked.

  The Court Wizard of Possiltum wrenched her hefty self out of the trash and applied her skill to interpreting the beeps and twitterings coming from the green glass eye. She shook her head.

  "It says he's still here," she informed us with a puzzled expression.

  "Invisible?"

  "Not possible." Chumley shook his head. "I had my hands firmly around his neck for one moment, then he was out of my grasp."

  "At least we know he was substantial," I said, kicking aside heaps of paper.

  A large brown rat, unearthed from its burrow, glared at me with little beady eyes. I glared back, and the vermin retreated with a scared squeak.

  "It's not some kind of illusion. He's a magician or shapeshifter of some kind. Keep looking. There must be some clue as to where he went."

  I pushed over a stack of worn wooden skids and started to dig through a pile of burlap bags.

  "Smile, boys," Massha said, from behind us. "The locals are here."

  FOUR

  "Hands-a up!" a gruff voice barked. "Turn around, very slowly."

  I know when I'm outnumbered. Very slowly, I turned around, with my hands up, as instructed. Chumley did the same. Hovering in midair Massha had already raised her arms over everyone's heads.

  Facing us up the soiled corridor was either the chorus from Rose Marie, or a large portion of the security force of The Mall. I stopped counting at a hundred, as more and more of big, strong, blue-skinned beings in Renaissance costume pointed a nasty array of weapons in our direction. I recognized the guy with the extra set of feathers on his hat at the head of the posse as one of the officers who had arrested the pickpocket I'd soaked in the fountain.

  "Hey, buddy," I called, giving him a friendly grin.

  He recoiled a pace, his face sewn up in the solemn gri­mace of officialdom. His hands tightened on the polearm that even I, in my disenchanted condition, could tell packed some kind of nasty magikal punch.

  "Who is it? Who is it? Who are they?" a voice demanded.

  The white hats shifted backward and forward as. some­one made his way up through the crowd toward us. The last two security guards parted about a foot, and from their midst came a little bent figure, his eyes concentrating on the floor about two yards ahead of his feet. The little guy straightened up enough to look me over, then turned his gaze to Chumley, thence to Massha.

  "You I remember from this morning," he smiled, nod­ding at her. "Nice girl, doing an old man like me a favor. So, what's all the fooferang?" He gave an impatient wave. "Down with the hands, capisce!

  Keeping a wary eye on the captain of the guard, I low­ered my arms.

  "Look, friend," I began, in my most businesslike man­ner, "my friends and I are sorry to upset your routine. I know you're all busy. So are we. So if you don't mind, can we get back to our own business?"

  The old man turned to the captain for an explanation. "Parvattani?"

  ' The guard snapped to attention, which made the feath­ers on his hat dance. I wouldn't have been caught dead in an outfit like that outside a Mardi Gras parade.

  "We've been in-a pursuit of these three for over a mile, Mr. Moa. They've disrupted shopping for the past half hour or so. I have a sheaf-a of complaints from customers and store owners"—he snapped his fingers, and another rent-a-cop came forward with a handful of papers—"regarding breakages, disturbances of-a the peace, intimidation—"

  "Come on!" the old man exclaimed, spreading out his hands to us. "You don't look like disturbers of the peace, especially this helpful lady. What's the story?"

  I tried to sound just as friendly and reasonable as he did. "We were trying to catch up with an acquaintance of mine."

  "And you followed him back here?" the old man asked,

  skeptically. "I take it your 'acquaintance' didn't want to meet up with you, did he? So, where is he?"

  "He was here just a moment ago ..." Massha began.

  "He owe you money?" the old guy interrupted, with a shrewd glance.

  "Not exactly," I replied, peeved that he kept interrupt­ing us.

  "I recognize him, Mr. Moa," one of the other little Flibberites exclaimed, shoving forward. "This Pervert is an affiliate of the Great Skeeve!"

  "That's Pervect!" I growled.

  I recognized him, too. When I last saw him, immediate­ly before I slammed a door on him, he'd thrown a bolt of lightning at me.

  The little squirt ignored me. "We tried to get informa­tion from him regarding Skeeve's whereabouts, but he refused to cooperate."

  He gave me a dirty look. I showed my teeth, and he backpedaled. He wasn't so tough without his two goons. I didn't see them in the crowd; they must have been off else­where pushing little old ladies off curbs into traffic.

  "Now, hold the phone!" the third Flibberite sputtered, starting forward on bandy legs. He was built on more hearty lines than his two companions, and reminded me of an old cowhand. "You could've gotten the wrong house. It's happened before. You aren't so all-fired accurate as you think you are."

  "I did not get the house wrong," the squirt groused.

  The old guy raised an eyebrow at me. "You know this Great Skeeve?"

  The whole of The Mall guard contingent leaned in a lit­tle closer.

  "Look, is there somewhere we can talk in private?" I said, lowering my voice to a confidential level.

  "My office," Moa snapped out.

  I liked a guy who didn't have to think before making a decision. Since that had the added effect of causing the

  weapons to stop pointing toward us, I liked him even more. The little guy made a sharp gesture. The guards parted to form an aisle. Captain Parvattani stepped out as if he was passing a reviewing stand. Moa gestured to us to precede him and his companions.

  "Mr. Moa—"

  A small figure darted into our midst, the female in the white fur coat we'd last seen in The Volcano. Cute little face, if you liked them peaky with black, pointed noses.

  "Not you again!" Parvattani groaned, rolling his eyes. He took her by the arm. "Get out of here!"

  "Mr. Moa!" the female pleaded, trying to get past him to the little old executive. "Please. I've got some informa­tion for you!"

  "Now, now, darling," Moa chided, patting her cheek with a paternal hand as he went by. "I'm busy. I'll listen to your fantasies some other time."

  "—That's why I'm sure it's not my friend."

  With one emphatically raised finger, I finished up my explanation, which had taken a long while to expound.

  Moa's office was furnished the way I like to see execu­tive suites. All the furniture, including the bookshelves behind Moa's desk and the very well stocked bar on the wall opposite the cut-glass windows, were fine-grained mahogany-colored wood. The green, leather-upholstered chairs, both behind and in front of a bronze marble desk smooth enough to ice-skate on, were deeply and very com­fortably padded. Mine kept trying to engulf me whenever I sat down, so I had to perch on the end to keep from hav­ing to wiggle out of it in an undignified fashion every time I wanted to get up to make a point.

  Parvattani had insisted on standing near the door at rigid attention, and now looked as if he wished he'd sat down as Mr. Moa had invited him. The Flibberite was a

  good listener, keeping his eyes on me the whole time and only pausing momentarily to take notes.

  "Okay, that all?" he asked, as I sat down and at last gave myself up to the upholstery gods.

  A pretty young thing in a modest dirndl skirt and bodice brought me a pint of whisky in a thin crystal
glass. I tossed it back in one grateful gulp and set it down gently for a refill.

  "Yeah, that's it."

  Moa leaned toward me over his folded hands. "Mr. Aahz, I've heard everything you've got to tell me, and I wish it was a new story."

  I sprang up, with some difficulty.

  "It's not a story," I roared, making the crystal sing. "If you've heard one syllable through those twin peaks on either side of your head ..."

  Moa's little hands patted the air. "Sit, sit." He sighed wearily. "I don't mean it's a story like a fairy tale. I wish it was. Mr. Aahz—"

  "Just Aahz," I interrupted, glad to get a chance to stop him for once.

  "Aahz, then. Look, I'm going to tell you something I don't want known outside of this office. I'm a cosmopoli­tan kind of guy. I've traveled off Flibber. I've heard of M.Y.T.H., Inc., and I know something about its reputation. Can I count on your discretion?"

  I glanced from Moa to Chumley and Massha.

  "Why not?" Massha said for all of us. "Just because we're not active—at present—doesn't mean we aren't the same people you've heard about."

  "Good." Moa nodded, settling back in his chair with a sigh.

  He picked up his cup of tea and took a healthy sip.

  "Chamomint is good for the stomach. You should try it. All right, you don't want to waste time. Neither do I. Here's the scoop. We've got a ring of identity thieves oper­ating in The Mall."

  I shook ray head. "Could be several groups with the same M.O. They may just overlap the same territory."

  Moa's gesture of negation was emphatic.

  "No, I'm pretty sure there's just one ring."

  Chumley's ears perked up. "Like the—" he began, sit­ting forward eagerly.

  'Wo, not like that," Moa retorted peevishly. "You're as bad as that, that girl out there, what's-her-name. Forget about it. We know a lot about these thieves, and I'm sure they're just one band working together. They're a pain where I sit. You said your pal has a credit card. Most of the problems we have from this particular gang comes from credit cards. Once you've got them, it's easy to use them. No more hauling around big bags of money or letters of credit from Gnomish banks. No more weighing gold dust and disputing the grams, or wondering whether the scale's crooked." He sighed. "The biggest problem is that it is easy to use them. With money, when your pocket's empty, you're done spending. When you flip out a card, it feels the same when you're ten thousand gold pieces overdrawn as it does when you've got cash in the bank. The Gnomes say it's our problem. They get their cut no matter what."