Robert Asprin's Myth-Quoted

by Jody Lynn Nye

  “But what about personal-interest stories?” she asked, desperately. “What about that individual touch? How can I set mine apart from all the other articles that will be based on this information?”

  “How you write it is up to you,” Bunny said.

  The young reporter looked stricken. Even her jaunty hat seemed to droop.

  “Did I, personally, do something wrong to you?” Ecstra asked.

  “No, honey,” Bunny said, sympathetically. “You didn’t. Really. But we have to protect the process. It’s gotten . . . out of control. I’m really sorry.”

  “What would it take to get back on the inside with you?”

  I halted and glanced around the open street to make sure no one was close to us. “Tell me who leaked information about the first conference that we held with the candidates.”

  Ecstra shook her head. “I can’t do that! I was told it in confidence.”

  I lifted my hands. “Then we can’t be sure what you’re hearing where, and how much truth there is. Our credibility is suffering. So, everyone has to get the same information from us at the same time, so we can be sure that the message is getting out the way we intend it to.”

  “I think I understand,” Ecstra said. “But you’re interfering with the power of the press! It’s there to protect public interest.”

  “It hasn’t exactly helped us. Why should we help you make us look stupid?”

  Ecstra thought for a moment. “Well . . . can I ask you about other things?”

  “Certainly,” Bunny said. “As long as they don’t have to do with the election.”

  “All right.” She held up her pad and pencil and looked me square in the eye. “What about the rumors that your company has purchased a building in the middle of town?”

  “Completely false,” I said, at once. “We’re working out of the same office space we were when we first met you. And on Deva in our own headquarters.”

  “So you don’t know of any purchase?” she pressed.

  I glanced at Bunny. “No. What should we know?”

  She shook her head. “Can’t let anything slip. It was a lead I got . . .”

  I rolled my eyes. “I know: from confidential sources.”

  Ecstra looked hopeful. “If you trusted me a little, I could trust you.”

  “But everything we say to you ends up in the paper.”

  “That’s my job!”

  “Well, this is our job,” I said, unhappily. “We have to go.”

  “No hard feelings, I hope?” Ecstra asked, sadly.

  “None,” I said. “I would be happy to buy us all dinner after the election.”

  “I’d like that,” Ecstra said. “Once you’re not bound to be impartial, we can have a lot of fun. I have plenty of stories that can’t be printed. See you later.” She ran a finger down the side of her fedora and walked off. I felt my heart sink.

  “Bye,” Bunny called after her. Her large blue eyes were full of woe. “Skeeve, this is one of the parts of this job that I hate.”

  “Me, too,” I said.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “The press will settle for what I tell them.”

  —R. M. NIXON

  Keeping the press on a need-to-know basis worked better than I hoped it would. Every paper printed slightly different versions of the same information, and there were no more “anonymous interviews.” Over the following week, Emo and Wilmer began to relax. Their platforms began to mature and stand apart from one another. Now that they weren’t going to be thrown off by false statements purportedly given by their opponent, they started to enjoy themselves. It must have been a long time since they were able to concentrate on the business of getting elected.

  I needed to make certain that to avoid claims of favoritism every newspaper got the briefings at the same time. I hired a Deveel process server, who guaranteed that he would get the scrolls into the hands of the managing editors every morning within five seconds of one another. Other than making every newspaper in town smell like brimstone, it worked like a charm. I felt it was well worth the cost to the clients.

  Not that the editors were happy with us. Following our strict instructions, neither the candidates nor their campaign managers spoke in private with any of them, even to ones who were old friends. I had to field complaints from Emo and Wilmer as well as the editors. However, what the candidates did and said appeared accurately in every paper. When one was inaccurate for one reason or another, the remaining papers lampooned it.

  I also hired a town crier, an old friend, Sid the She from Ban She, to read the releases in public in the gazebo every day at noon, in between the morning and afternoon political events. She was a dynamite performer. I had met her in Vaygus on a vacation not long before. Her readings swiftly became a regular spectacle. People gathered from all corners of Bokromi to listen. I just checked to make sure that Sid showed up, then vacated the area as quickly as I could. Her shrill voice hurt my ears, but I guarantee she could be heard for blocks. The crowds grew bigger every day. Again, the newspapers complained, this time because that we were undercutting them.

  “All they have to do to hear the latest developments on the election is to show up and listen!” the editor of the Tipp Sheet, a middle-aged female with pale-gray fur artfully arranged, told me before Sid the She got started on the day of the pig-lifting contest. “They don’t have to buy a paper!”

  “Is that all you have in it?” I asked her.

  She hesitated. “Well, no, but it’s the big story of the day! Pig lifting isn’t something that happens very often. And now they know about it without having to read all about it.”

  “All they know is where and when,” I said. I made certain to pitch my voice loudly so anyone nearby could hear me. “They don’t know who lifted which pig or anything else. You’ll be able to cover that.”

  The Tipp Sheet editor went away, shaking her head.

  I noticed Ecstra in the crowd. I saw her sad little face almost every day at the political gatherings. She covered the speeches, made notes during all the events, and left without ever trying to talk to me. Some of the reporters respected the no-interviews policy. Others just considered it a barrier to be overcome by persistence. Bunny and I had gotten very good at saying no. All events were covered that week, or not covered, depending on whether a paper was angry with us on a particular day for not cooperating with them.

  The morning debate had gone off without a hitch, though also without a clear winner. The pig-lifting contest was just as dull as it sounded. We traveled there in a caravan of carriages with banners flying from the roofs and streamers woven into the harnesses of the pack animals. The huge farmstead on which it took place was a few miles outside the main city. The eye-watering stench reminded me of the feedlot next door to my home in Klah, though usually the farmers who came to heft piglets were there to buy them. I didn’t understand the logic of why political candidates had to hoist swine, but both Orlow and Carnelia assured me that it was customary and expected. At least there was no need for Bunny or me to judge the event. The name, weight, and temperament of each pig were posted on a large board next to the pen. A grand total would determine the winner.

  During round six of the pig lifting, we were approached by a merchant who was opening a new store and wanted to have a grand ribbon cutting featuring both candidates fitted into the schedule for the next day. Since it would take less than half an hour, Bunny and I agreed to put it in and tell Orlow and Carnelia when this event was finished.

  I made a note on a scrap of parchment. A shadow fell across it. Automatically, I covered what I was writing. I looked up to see Ecstra.

  She smiled at me with hope in her large brown eyes. “Tolomi is pushing me for a scoop. Do you have anything for me? Even a small item?” She held up her thumb and forefinger a tiny distance apart. I shook my head.

  “No, sorry. Don’t you have copies of the speeches? I know they were handed out this morning.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Canned spe
eches. They were stale last year! I mean, something new.”

  “A favor for a favor,” I said.

  She knew what I meant. Her face fell.

  “I can’t. It would go against the Journalists’ Creed!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I really shouldn’t push you. I know you believe in what you’re doing. But so do I.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” she said. She walked away, her head drooping. Bunny squeezed my arm. She looked as rueful as I felt.

  “I’ll help you,” a voice said.

  “What?” I turned around.

  A tall, very attractive, deep-brown Tipp female stood in the doorway of one of the farmyard buildings. She beckoned to me. I glanced at Bunny. She shrugged. I followed the Tipp into the dim building, careful to keep my eye on the open door. She wore a gray suit and a matching gray fedora with a black card in the band. The card identified her as a reporter for the Evening Screed, one of the Gossip’s rival papers.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked. “I’m not giving any interviews. I hope you understand that.”

  “I’m not buying,” she said, with a smile at my astonished face. “I’m selling. I saw you talking to Ecstra. She won’t let you talk to the people who gave her the scoop from the planning meeting. I will.”

  “Great,” I said. I looked around. I was pretty sure we were alone. “Who was it?”

  Her large eyes widened with alarm.

  “I can’t tell you here,” she said. “We can be overheard. I don’t think I should let myself be seen with you. Not if you want to continue the impression that you’re treating all of the papers the same.”

  I saw her point.

  “Uh, yeah. All right. Where should we go?”

  She shook her head. “Not now! Tomorrow.” She took a card out of her pocket and scribbled a note on it. “Be here at five in the morning, before I have to clock in at the Screed. Come alone, please.”

  “All right,” I said.

  I rejoined Bunny, who gave me a curious look. I was excited to tell her, but I waited until we were home again.

  * * *

  “I’ve got a lead,” I said, as soon as we reached the office. I was pleased to see that several of my partners were there to hear my good news. I held up the card. “That reporter told me she’d give me the name of the person who leaked the information about our meeting.”

  “Who was she?” asked Bunny.

  I looked at the card. “Her name is Pattikin Lockheart, from the Evening Screed. She wants me to meet her tomorrow, alone.”

  Bunny gave me a pitying look. I glanced around at the faces of the others in the office. Something told me I should feel more cautious about that amazing stroke of luck.

  “I shouldn’t go alone, should I?” I asked.

  “Absolutely not,” Aahz said, emphatically. “I’ll go with you.”

  “I will,” Tananda insisted. “It would be better if another woman were there. I didn’t want to get involved in this job, but for Skeeve I’ll swallow my disgust.” She melted up against me and ran her fingers down my chest. “No offense, tiger, but even you admit that you don’t know a lot about the way women think.”

  “I guess not,” I said. It was impossible to feel offended when she did that. My whole body tingled at her touch. “She wants me there by five in the morning.”

  “No problem,” she said, smiling at me. She raised her brows lazily. “We’ll just . . . stay up.”

  My pulse went into double taps. Tananda was almost like a sister to me, but Trollops were sexy by nature. Unbelievably sexy. I had to remind myself we were just friends.

  “Don’t bother, Tanda,” Pookie said, her voice like a rumbling avalanche after Tananda’s silken murmur. She nodded to her partner. “Spyder and I aren’t due back at the monastery until after noon prayers. I’ll go with him.”

  I glanced between them, concerned that Tananda’s feelings would be hurt, but she was smiling broadly. She and Pookie slapped palms.

  “That would be even better,” she said.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Pardon me while I slip into something a little more comfortable.”

  —J. E. HOOVER

  My friends’ concern was borne out as soon as we arrived at the location that Pattikin had written down for me, the Happy Sleeper. It was a hotel, but nothing like the Hotel Tippmore. The paint on the cliff face that made up the front wall was worn to a suggestion of color, and the reinforced wooden door hung at an angle, letting light out in two wedges, one at the top and one at the bottom. I put a disguise spell on Pookie to look like a hangerful of tunics and trousers. We were both wrapped in heavy cloaks with the hoods pulled down low to conceal our faces. She stayed close to my back.

  A Tipp with a squint in his filmy eyes peered at us as we entered the foyer, which was lit by one feeble torch. He eyed my “wardrobe,” then looked me up and down.

  “How long ya stayin’?” he asked. “Up to four hours’s three silver pieces.”

  “I’m meeting someone,” I said.

  “Figured that one out by meself. How long?”

  “Uh, an hour?”

  “Quick worker, huh?”

  “I just need to talk to her!” I blurted. He grinned at me. Pookie poked me in the back. I handed over my three silver pieces and was given a huge iron key.

  “Down the hall on the left,” the old Tipp said.

  “About what I thought,” Pookie said, throwing off the cloak as soon as we were in the room. Underneath it she was wearing a smooth, body-hugging, midnight-blue leather jumpsuit. Unlike her cousin, she was slender, even shapely. She surveyed the room with evident distaste. It had a bed that I would have considered too narrow for two people and a washbasin with a cracked pitcher against one wall, and a battered wooden table and two chairs against the other. The floor was cut out of the native stone, but it probably hadn’t been cleaned since it was excavated. “What a dump. I would estimate that the six- and eight-legged inhabitants outnumber the two- or four-legged guests here by a factor of a million or so.”

  She pointed a finger around the perimeter of the floor. I heard tiny high-pitched screeches and smelled burning. Unlike Aahz, Pookie had all her magikal powers. I winced, but it was better than scratching flea bites. She opened her belt pouch and shook out two passengers, an Earwig and a Shutterbug. The Earwig, a multilegged gray insect about a foot long, scuttled underneath the bed. The Shutterbug opened his shell and fluttered up to hide behind the lantern next to the door.

  I pulled the table into the middle of the room and arranged a chair on each side. I sat down in one, facing the door.

  A soft tap came at the door. Pookie stepped into the shadow and vanished. It was a neat trick. I’d have to get her to show me how she did it.

  “Come in,” I called.

  The door opened, and Pattikin peered in. I beckoned to her. To my surprise, my hand shook. I guess I was more nervous than I had anticipated. I folded my hands on the tabletop.

  “Hi, there,” she said. She slipped inside. Like us, she had worn a heavy cloak with a hood. She stopped and peered out into the corridor before closing the door behind her. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  “You have information I need,” I said. “It’s really important. I guess you know that.”

  She smiled. “Oh, I do.” She moved toward me, her eyelids half lowered. “But it’s a big secret. I didn’t want anyone else to overhear us.”

  “No one will,” I assured her. “Tell me.”

  “Just like that?” she asked, looking disappointed.

  “Well, that’s why I came here so early in the morning,” I said. “I could be back in bed.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “There’s a bed right here.”

  “I think I’ll just stay in my chair,” I said. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  “Sure,” she said. She threw off the cloak and came toward me. My partners had been more than right. Underneath the cloak she was wearing the briefest of panties and a filmy blue la
ce tube that squeezed her top upward. It looked amazingly uncomfortable to wear. She pushed the table aside and came to stand over me. I squirmed backward in my seat. “Why don’t I just sit down on your lap?”

  “How about not?”

  Pookie’s voice was harsh at the best of times, and coming out of nowhere in a small hotel room brought out all its worst qualities. Pattikin almost jumped out of her thin garments. Pookie stepped forward and put her hands on her hips.

  Pattikin looked shocked. “Who are you?”

  Pookie polished her hand talons on her jumpsuit.

  “I’m Mr. Skeeve’s bodyguard.”

  “He looks like he can take care of himself,” Pattikin said, wiggling her fingers at me.

  “He can take care of himself,” Pookie agreed. “I’m here to take care of you. Now, if you have an interview to conduct with Mr. Skeeve, you can do that. From there.” She pointed to the empty chair. “On that side of the table. There will be no physical contact. No coming closer, no handshakes, no touching. I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding later on.”

  “But there already will be,” Pattikin said, tossing her head back. “Both of us were seen coming in here. Everyone is going to know. Unless you want to make a deal with me.”

  “No deal,” Pookie said. She crossed her arms and moved toward Pattikin until the Tipp was forced to step backward, away from me.

  “It’ll just be his word against mine, and you know what they say about Klahds!”

  “That they’re loyal but gullible?” Pookie suggested.

  “Hey!” I protested.

  Pattikin smiled. “No, that’s not the description I had in mind. When I leave here, I’ll tell my side of the story to my paper. I can say anything I want. And my Shutterbug will back me up. He’s been hidden in this room for hours.”

  Pookie grinned, showing all her teeth. “I have some very bad news about your cameraman,” she said. “I did a little pest-control when I came in. Collateral damage. Sorry.”