Robert Asprin's Myth-Quoted

by Jody Lynn Nye

  “What’s in it?” Bunny asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, displaying the contents. “Cut-up newspapers. From several different papers.” Droplets of rain made a pattern on the gray sheets. The whole bundle sagged in my hands.

  “Who would do that?” Bunny asked in dismay. “Someone is going to a lot of trouble to ruin our credibility.”

  “Whichever candidate is lying to us the most,” I said. “It’ll be page one tomorrow.”

  Bunny took my wrist. “Then we’re going to set a backfire,” she said. “We’re going to give Ecstra an exclusive. We’ll start our own rumors.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Not all of one’s offspring are presentable.”

  —HER MAJESTY, E. R. II

  Ecstra was tickled to be taken into our confidence. We sat across from her, leaning over her desk. No one could hear us anyhow over the noise of the press, but I tried to construct a shield as Orlow and Carnelia had done in our meeting. Anyone listening in would hear boring, tinny music from a wind-up music box I had bought at the Bazaar.

  “And none of this is true?” she asked, jotting down note after note.

  “Not a word of it,” Bunny said.

  “Zow! So, you set up the bribe in the main street this morning yourself?”

  “Absolutely,” Bunny said, crossing her fingers on her lap. “We wanted to let the Tipicanoo public know how easy it is to destroy a reputation. And how easily a rumor can get started.”

  “Wow,” Ecstra said, her eyes huge. “It’s been the talk of every newspaper in town, how you took an envelope full of money from a guy in broad daylight!”

  “Now, isn’t that just a little too obvious?” Bunny said, with a broad wink. “You know all about my background. I would be laughed out of our next Family reunion if I ever arranged for a dropoff in public. But I might later on, just for effect. Only you and we will know it’s a phony.” Bunny let her long eyelashes droop in an exaggerated wink.

  “That’s fantastic,” Ecstra said. “Can I see the envelope?”

  I handed it to her. She wrote a full description of it, noting the contents in detail, and how we said it had come into our possession. When she took it to the typesetter, the image appeared right in the center of the column. Bunny and I smiled.

  * * *

  Whereas the baby-kissing and the debate had been held in the open air, the family portraits were going to be taken at an address on a side street.

  “How cute!” Bunny exclaimed, as we caught sight of the cozy little blue-painted cottage. “But that’s not big enough for everyone.”

  “It’s bigger on the inside than it is on the outside,” Ecstra assured us.

  I whistled as we entered.

  In spite of its outward appearance, the house had been expanded extradimensionally inside so there was more than enough room for the candidates, their managers, a host of campaign workers in both green and purple, Shutterbugs, and hundreds of reporters. Not only that, members of the public stood pushing against a barrier nearby, holding gifts for their favorite. I looked around cautiously.

  “I don’t see any protesters here yet,” I said.

  “They won’t come in here,” Ecstra said, gleefully. “They wouldn’t dare.”

  In spite of her confidence, I felt around the room with my mind. I didn’t feel anything out of the ordinary. I ran threads of force around the walls to give me a warning in case there was a magikal invasion, though I knew that trying to prevent one would be futile. The place had too many doors, not to mention the skylight in the ceiling open to let the sun in. All I could do was keep an eye on things and stop trouble when it started.

  Bunny looked at her list of events. “The campaign managers have us scheduled to moderate which candidate shows the most family appeal.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “Carnelia said we would know it when we saw it.”

  “Which candidate are you here for?” a young female in a white jersey with a clipboard asked us.

  “Press,” Ecstra said, presenting her notebook.

  The girl turned to Bunny and me. “How about you? Purple or green? I gotta know what line to put you in.”

  “Uh, we’re not with either party,” I said. “We’re election officials.”

  She beamed at me. “Oh, sorry! You’re those Klahds. Please go in. If you do want to have your image taken, please come back to me and get a number.”

  “I don’t like the way she said those Klahds,” Bunny said.

  “Don’t let it bother you,” I said.

  “Mr. Weavil, please!” the Shutterbug on the right called. The orange-and-blue beetle about the size of my fist was perched on a high stool surrounded by lightning bugs fluttering and flashing their tails. He beckoned with a tiny forearm. “I’m ready for you.”

  Emo collected a female Tipp and a group of little ones and hurried over. The Shutterbug launched himself off the stool and fluttered around their heads, arranging the group in front of a handsome stone fireplace. A small, bright fire danced in the grate. The mantel had been strewn with a wheelbarrowful of sentimental-looking junk, probably straight out of the nearest bazaar. Emo put an arm around the shoulders of the female. He was garbed in his usual bright clothing, but she wore a subdued tan smock. The Shutterbug fussed around them. They had produced a trio of photogenic tots: a gap-toothed toddler, a slightly older girl with bows on her ears, and a sturdy young lad who held a ball and bat. The Shutterbug moved the toddler in between his elder brother and sister and pushed the parents close to make an attractive family ensemble.

  Ecstra made a note with great excitement. “That’s Anselmo!” she said. “One of the greatest Shutterbug portrait artists in the whole dimension of Olympia! Oh, look! That’s the other one! Leabawits, here! I have to get an interview with her.”

  A yellow and red beetle, slightly larger than Anselmo, made Wilmer and his wife sit down on an overstuffed sofa. A number of other Tipps stood behind him, looking proud or embarrassed. She fluffed up Wilmer’s wig, and then, licking her finger, she rubbed a spot of blue eye shadow off the fur on his wife’s cheek.

  From the look of the group, Wilmer’s family was much older than Emo’s. He had a healthy and athletic son who wore an athletic jersey, and a married daughter who held a small baby in her arms. The baby was so adorable that even I found him enchanting. Her husband put his arms around her shoulder and looked heroic.

  All the Weavil-Scuttils were old pros at having their portraits done. The children turned their shoulders toward the Shutterbug and moved close together. On her signal, they smiled. The lightning bugs flashed again and again. I saw pink spots before my eyes.

  “Great!” Leabawits shouted. “Awright, we’re done with the individual family pictures! Who else is getting in on dis?”

  “Eggar!” Wilmer said, holding out a welcoming hand. A male Tipp about his own age accompanied by a female and two youths came into the scene. Leabawits pushed them around until she had arranged them to her satisfaction with the Weavil-Scuttils. The lightning bugs let loose. Blinking, Eggar and his family retired to make room for another group.

  “Who are those people?” I asked, as the statuesque female and her stout husband plastered on big fake smiles for Leabawits.

  “Constituents, family friends, campaign contributors,” Ecstra said. “Anyone who wants a Shutterbug picture with the candidates. This is one expensive event!”

  “Who’s paying for it?”

  “Oh, they budget for this,” she said. “What they don’t collect today, they’ll make up in the fund-raising events later in the week.”

  “I had better remind Orlow and Carnelia that I want a strict accounting of any contributions they take in today,” Bunny said. She marched off toward Carnelia, who was standing with the Tipps waiting in line for their turn.

  “Doubt you’ll get that,” Ecstra called after her. “They’re always ‘forgetting’ some donation or other.”

  I watched Wilmer and Emo posturi
ng, offering handshakes and huge smiles for the Shutterbugs. Ecstra gave me a funny look.

  “What’s the matter? Isn’t this fascinating?”

  “I guess I don’t get the point of all these events. Why would anyone pay to pose with one of these guys?”

  “The whole perception is that taking a picture with the candidate will give them exclusive access. People want to feel special. Even if it isn’t real. Or for very long.”

  “And this is popular?” I asked, trying to make sense of it.

  “People love it.”

  “They want this more than the candidates talking about the issues?”

  “Bores them silly,” Ecstra assured me. “That’s how the mud fights got started, in my opinion. I can’t prove it, of course, but people really started coming out for the rallies when news of the battles got out. Without public interest, the campaigns would have just died. They need the cash to keep going.”

  I frowned. “If they need money from people, why don’t they just ask for it? Charge admission to these events, or sell tickets outright?”

  “Because then it would sound like they’re begging. In spite of the title, public servants act more like public masters. It would be beneath their dignity. So, they make it sound like they’re doing people a favor by shaking their hands. This is a personal, hands-on connection. An election is the only time that the voters have the candidates at their mercy.”

  “So I’ve noticed,” I said. “It’s the same everywhere I have been. It just seems so roundabout, with everyone pretending they are getting something for nothing, when in the end everyone on both sides pays.”

  Ecstra laughed. “You’re too straightforward for politics.”

  “That’s what one of my partners said,” I replied. “He says you can’t stop someone from being a sucker if he really wants to be one.”

  “That’d be the Pervert?” Ecstra asked. “I noticed he hasn’t been back.”

  “That’s Per-vect,” I corrected her. “He’s got another assignment. We can handle this job ourselves.”

  Privately, I hoped that was true. So far, not a single rotten potato or handful of mud had appeared, but something told me the peaceful mood couldn’t last.

  And it didn’t. I felt the tingling as one of my threads broke. I turned automatically in the direction of the disturbance. A protester dyed deep purple sprang into the tableau where Emo sat. He had a bucket with him.

  “Down with Weavils!”

  I ran to intercept him. I surrounded the pail with a bag of magik. Nothing would come out of it. He still might hit Emo.

  “What—I ask, what are you doing interrupting my work?” Anselmo shrieked. The fist-sized beetle flew into the protester’s face. “You hairy barbarian! You never interfere with art! BZZZ! Get out of here! Flies! Take him away! BZZZ!”

  The purple Tipp waved his free hand to shoo the Shutterbug away. I reached out and grabbed for the protester’s bucket arm. I missed. He swung the bucket at me. I wasn’t concerned because I had sealed it with magik.

  He had unsealed it. The protest movement had learned after our conference in the hotel. A wave of purple sloshed out. It hit me in the face. I gasped. The Tipp turned to take care of his original target. Blinking to clear my eyes, I dove for him. He yelled as I landed on his back. We fell to the ground together. The bucket went scooting across the floor. We both crawled for it, me trailing purple paint behind me like a slime-slug. He got to it first. He struggled to his feet. I scrambled to my knees on the slippery floor. I wanted to hang on to his elbow so he couldn’t throw. I missed again.

  The arm was no longer there. I stared up. The protester was dangling in the air, yelling and kicking. The entire host of lightning bugs had attached themselves to his clothes, hair, and paws. They hummed angrily as they carried him out through the skylight.

  The Shutterbug described a figure-eight turn in midair and ended up nose to nose with me. “You, young Klahd, get out of my light! I give you credit for trying, but go away. Take your mess with you. I am working here!”

  Grumbling, I pulled myself to my feet and brushed at my clothes. Orlow strode to my side.

  “No need to thank me,” I said, looking up. “I was just doing my job.”

  That turned out not to be his intention at all. The campaign manager eyed my tunic and trousers, now mostly dyed purple, with annoyance. “Are you going to wear the opponent’s colors for the rest of the day?” he asked me.

  “It wasn’t exactly my idea!” I said. “I just saved Emo from being splattered!”

  “That’s no excuse! You have damaged your nonpartisan standing!”

  Arguing with him was futile. Instead, I pictured my clothes as they had been before, blue trousers and tan tunic, neatly pressed, with a snappy belt pouch in russet leather attached to my brown belt. Applying magik to my vision, I laid a disguise spell over myself. When I looked down, I still saw my clothes as they were, disheveled and dripping with paint, but everyone else would see the illusion of neatness.

  “Better?” I asked, sarcastically.

  “Well, yes,” Orlow said, with a look of admiration. “Forgot you were a magician. Nice work.”

  I stomped back to Ecstra’s side.

  “See,” she said. “That’s why I told you not to worry. The Shutterbugs are very territorial. They bite, too.”

  “You could have told me,” I said.

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t have missed that for anything! Page one, tomorrow!”

  I groaned.

  “Miss Ecstra!” Wilmer said, waving to us as the last of his donors left the spotlight. “Come on over! Great to have you here! And Mr. Skeeve!” He beckoned us over. Ecstra grinned.

  “Great! Now, come and see how a real pro behaves.”

  “You mean you?” I asked.

  “No! Mrs. Weavil-Scuttil. You can’t dent her aplomb with a battering ram. Come on.”

  Ecstra drew herself up and headed into the fray, pencil out. I trailed along behind.

  She shook hands heartily with the candidate and his wife. “Mr. Weavil-Scuttil! And Mrs. Weavil-Scuttil. How nice to see you here. Let me get your take on just how you feel the race is going for your husband.”

  “Very well,” the lady said. She had soft, light-brown fur gently shot with gray. Her dress was light blue, and she wore a string of iridescent shells around her neck. “He is showing his electability in every way.” She looked up adoringly at Wilmer and squeezed his arm. He smiled down at her.

  “You don’t feel that the outburst at last night’s debate made him look like a fool?”

  The light-brown eyes regarded Ecstra reprovingly. “I think any foolishness belongs to that young man over there.” She tilted her head very slightly in Emo’s direction. “Do you suppose he took some bad fashion advice? He does rather stand out, doesn’t he? And not in a good way. I am afraid that people won’t take him seriously dressed like that. Now, Wilmer is always sartorially splendid.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, your hair is a little wild today,” Ecstra said. I eyed the older lady. To me she looked as perfect as a store mannequin.

  Mrs. Weavil-Scuttil primped her hair with a hand. Her expression never changed. “Do you like it? I wanted to appeal to the younger generation. The youth of Bokromi are our future, you know. Wilmer is always telling me to remember that.”

  I was impressed at how well she managed to turn all of Ecstra’s questions, however provocative, to Wilmer’s advantage. She was a real asset to his campaign.

  “I see that you have a grandson now,” Ecstra said. “Saving your big guns for the important events?”

  “Well, we are very proud of little Barnby,” Mrs. Weavil-Scuttil said. “Come and meet the little darling.” She took the infant out of her daughter’s arms and cradled him for us and the Shutterbug who flew up just behind my shoulder. Barnby stirred in his grandmother’s arms and started to fuss. She waved a hand, and his eyes closed. I felt the magik surge as she sent him to sleep. She held him up close t
o my face. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

  “Yes. Mina must be very proud.”

  “Oh, I am,” Mina said. She wasn’t quite as good as her mother at disguising her annoyance. She retrieved her child and clicked her fingers over his face. He woke up with a start and began to cry.

  “And you, Gibbly,” Ecstra said, turning to the tall young male. “I haven’t seen you since you graduated from secondary school. You’re looking good. How’s the foozball?”

  “Just great, Ecstra!” the youth said. His voice was deep and musical.

  “Are you doing well at Tipicanoo Executive University?”

  “Yes, ma’am!” he said. “Gotta love old Tip Ex U.”

  Ecstra studied his face closely.

  “Wait a moment. You’re not Gibbly.”

  The boy recoiled. “Sure I am. I grew up a lot since you saw me last.”

  “And changed the shape of your head? You had a broad forehead. And you didn’t have a split between your front teeth.” She turned to Wilmer. “You brought in an impostor! Isn’t the real Gibbly good-looking enough for the Shutterbugs?”

  “Now, this may seem like a publicity stunt, Miss Ecstra, but I assure you, it’s entirely permissible.”

  “Under what rules?” Ecstra asked.

  “Why, their rules,” Wilmer said, nodding to me.

  “Ours?” I squawked. “We’d never allow you to bring in a ringer to substitute for your own son.”

  Wilmer lowered his snowy brows. “Well, you most certainly did, young man. And I must tell you what a relief it was, not having to trot him out, since Gibbly turned out to look like my late father-in-law, may he rest in peace, the big lumpish brute, like an ox with an overbite. And he’s only interested in games and books, not sports. I mean, we still love Gibbly, but you have to admit that Prager here is a much better-looking boy . . .”

  “Wilmer!” Mrs. Weavil-Scuttil protested.

  “I read the contract over before we presented it at our conference,” I said. “There’s nothing in it about using substitutes for family members.”