Myth-Told Tales m-13 Read online

  Myth-Told Tales

  ( MythAdventures - 13 )

  Robert Asprin

  Jody Lynn Nye

  MYTH-TOLD TALES is a collection of short stories by Robert Asprin and Jody Lynn Nye that introduce and set up the new Myth Adventures Series which launches in August 2003 with MYTH ALLIANCES!

  MYTH-TOLD TALES

  ROBERT ASPRIN and JODY LYNN NYE

  Welcome to Myth-Told Tales

  In this collection you will find all the short stories yet written in the world of the Myth Adventures. A few are by Bob Asprin alone, a few by only Jody Nye, but the majority are collaborations between the two authors. Some feature Aahz and Skeeve, others feature such characters as Tananda, Chumley, Guido, and even Gleep. Three of these stories appeared in the chapbook format volume of this same title. One story, “M.Y.T.H. Inc. Instructions,” is the only stand-alone story included with a Myth Adventures novel, Something M.Y.T.H. Inc. One other story, “Mything in Dreamland,” appeared in Fantasy Masters, a collection of stories by top fantasy writers set in their own worlds. The rest of the stories, about half this book, are new and this is their first appearance anywhere. This is the point where an editor is supposed to say something meaningful about the literary work and its social import. Not on your life; Myth Adventures has always been about being fun to read and laughing along with the characters. So all that needs to be said is: Enjoy!

  — Editor

  How Robert Asprin and I Came to Be Writing New Myth Adventures

  “You should work together,” one of our well-meaning friends said. You're both funny. You'd be good. I remember that we eyed each other with the same suspicious expression as a couple of cats thrown together by their owners and told to play nice. “Oh, Butch will be nice to Fluffykins! See? They're making friends already,” one would say as the cats growl at each other under their breath. Fluffykins is already flexing and unflexing her needle-sharp claws. Butch is baring his teeth. He has a notch out of one ear. His tail switches from side to side. Fluffykins notices this movement and suddenly arches her back. Butch's eyes widen and his ears flatten. There is a discreet blackout.

  When the scene reopens, one cat is licking the other's ear. Both are purring. You didn't see what happened in the middle, but let's just call it “staking out of territory.” The owners are not looking quite as calm and complacent as they did before, but the cats have become friends, on their own terms.

  I'd always been a fan of Bob's. How could I not love some-one whose best-known book was a paraphrase of one of the great comedy catch phrases of all time? And the quotes at the chapter heads made me laugh out loud. The story itself was a picaresque novel worthy of Cervantes. Here, I realized, years before I met him, was someone who'd been steeped in the same comic history I was. I loved his comic timing. I loved his characters. At that time if you'd told me I'd be working with him, that I'd work with any of the amazing people I have since I first read Another Fine Myth, I'd have laughed in bitter disbelief and gone back to my terrifyingly toxic day job.

  I knew of Bob through another common interest, the Society for Creative Anachronism. Neither of us are active now, but he'd already retired from the field by the time I joined. Long and storied was the legend of Yang the Nauseating, founder of the Dark Horde and Loyal Opposition to the Crown. “With all due disrespect to Your Majesty,” was a phrase I was told he of-ten used in court, where the royals and nobles, who all went back to mundane jobs when they took off their silken raiment, often took themselves too seriously. Bob was the pin that punctured their self-importance.

  He was a legendary figure at science fiction conventions, known for singing and playing the guitar at parties and filk sessions, drinking Irish whiskey and occupying the center of the most sought after circle in the bar, and for his prowess with the ladies. You may not know it (or you may; Bob has spread himself about a bit over the years) that he is one of the premier hand-kissers of our time. Almost everyone I knew had a “Bob story.” Some were first-hand, but most were urban legends. (I have reason to know some of them are only urban legends.) He and some similarly inclined friends created the Dorsai Irregulars and the Klingon Diplomatic Corps, organizations to which it is considered an honor to belong.

  So, steeped in the hype, I trembled when I first met him, at his home in Ann Arbor, Michigan. He and his then — wife Lynn Abbey, good and old friends of my then — fiance (now husband) Bill, did their best to put me at my ease. Both of them are truly kind and hospitable people. Bob and Lynn drew me into the conversation as best they could. I sat goggle-eyed as they talked about their other close friends as if they were just ordinary people. Those names were the stuff of legend to a newcomer like me: Gordon R. Dickson, the “Gordfather” of the Dorsai Irregulars; Wendi and Richard Pini of Elfquest; the great Poul Anderson; C. J. Cherryh; George Takei; and more. At the time they were still editing and writing in the original Thieves' World series, the shared-world anthology that gave shape to all the shared worlds to follow. They'd been everywhere I hoped to go. I was a literary novice, but they treated me like an equal. I adored them for it. Believe me, not everybody who's “made it” is so secure or generous.

  Bob and I did have a bunch of things in common. We were the “sensitive” halves of our respective pairs. We're desperately soft touches for cats. We love the great acts of the post-vaudeville movies like the Marx brothers and Laurel and Hardy, and good funny movies in general. We both admire Damon Runyon, whose stories were the basis for the musical Guys and Dolls. We both liked Disney's Sleeping Beauty, though his favorite character was Maleficent and mine was the Fairy Godmothers. We both do needlework (really; he's very good at it). And … well… we write humor.

  When the inevitable suggestion was made that we should re-ally think about doing something together, I was willing. One of the things I admired most about his writing was that he could be funny — very funny — without being sickeningly cute or dragging a joke until it died. Though there were elements of slapstick in his stories, the characters weren't stupid. Mistakes are made out of innocence or ignorance. Comic timing evolves out of the situation. He imbued his characters with wisdom, loyalty, and warmth. You would probably like to hang out with them. I would.

  Bob came up to our house one January: an act of faith, since he now lives in New Orleans and we live in the suburbs of Chicago. We talked, with Bill standing by as a referee in case things got ugly. They didn't. I gave Bob the respect he deserved for his experience and accomplishments, and he offered me acceptance as an established newcomer. Bill went back to his office to play computer games, and Bob and I started talking ideas.

  Our first crack out of the box was an original book, License Invoked (Baen Books). We worked out our story line and characters together, then decided who would write what sections. Books change all the time while they are being written. They develop — we hope, for the better. The result was longer than a novel he would usually produce, and shorter than one of mine. The plot ran pretty much along the lines we'd laid out, though the structure and the villains changed a lot. I liked our main characters. It wouldn't bother me a bit to do something else with them — later.

  By now, Myth Adventures had lain dormant for a long while. Bob had two books to run on the twelve-book contract with Donning Starblaze, the trade paperback publisher who produced the original Myth Adventures series. Because they'd gone belly-up, years had passed before the rights to books eleven and twelve could be extricated. Once they were released and resold to Meisha Merlin, interest awoke in having still more Myth after book twelve. But, Bob had other projects he wished to work on, so it was suggested that once he finished Myth-ion Improbable and Something M.Y.T.H. Inc. he and I, proven collaborators, should put o
ut a few new books. Because this series is Bob's special baby we decided to take a few test runs. The final three short stories in this collection were the result. They follow on from the conclusion of Something M.Y.T.H. Inc. and lead up to the action in our first novel, Myth Alliances. The others are just for fun. We hope you enjoy them.

  — Jody Lynn Nye

  The “Discreet Blackout”

  It was interesting to read Jody's introduction. (Writer's tip: If you're doing one section of a two-part introduction, always let your partner go first. Then, all you have to do is rebut or go, “Yea. What she said.”) The only trouble was, it was hard to recognize myself in it Okay. I know these intros are supposed to be “love and kisses and how much fun it is to write together,” but there should be a limit I'd say my application for sainthood was rejected, but I never bothered to send it in. For one thing, I assume the powers that be have better things to do with their time than read crank mail. For another, I'm used to getting paid for writing fantasy.

  Just because I have good manners and write humor, people tend to assume that I'm a “nice guy.” Well, okay, I am … but only up to a point. That point usually involves protecting me and mine. Unfortunately, “mine” includes my writing.

  One thing I've discovered over the years is that the longer you write humor, the more finely tuned you become in your opinions of what is funny and what isn't. Also, the more firmly entrenched the idea becomes that you have a particular recognizable style that the readers expect from anything with your name on it.

  What this all boils down to is that when it comes to collaborating, particularly on humor, I can be a real pain in the ass to work with. I like to think that I stop short of bullying my writing partners, but (even by the most generous interpretation of events) I can be “extremely stubborn” when “discussing” a particular joke or scene. When it involves two of my most popular characters, specifically Aahz and Skeeve, it borders on being nightmarish. I mention this not so much to belittle myself as to raise the awareness and appreciation of the readers to what my writing partners actually have to go through.

  All that having been said, it really is a joy and a pleasure to work with Jody … even if our memories of certain events and conversations differ.

  As an example, while I recall her visiting with Lynn and me in Ann Arbor, my memory of our first meeting was at a gaming convention. That was back in the days when I was doing two or three dozen cons a year to get my name in front of the readers, and was attending comic cons, Star Trek cons, and gaming cons as well as the science fiction-fantasy cons that were my mainstay. She was sitting behind a demonstration table in the dealers room painting lead miniatures, and I recollect getting some excellent tips on dry-brushing techniques. It was a brief meeting, so I'm not surprised that she doesn't remember it I might have paid more attention to her, but I had learned she had a thing going with Bill Fawcett, who at that point was a friend of mine and eventually became her husband and one of my packager/publishers. (Writer's tip: If you're going to flirt with someone at a convention, try to do it with someone who isn't a girlfriend/fiancée/wife of one of your editors. It could affect your long-term book sales much more than a similar encounter with a reader.)

  Another interesting overlap was when I discovered that we both had a background in theater. As an aside, I have often compared writing, particularly writing humor, with doing radio theater where you don't have the audience's feedback reactions to work off. I maintain that the most successful humor writers first honed their skills wot king in front of a live audience to build their sense of comic liming before attempting to create humor on paper. While my supporting role as Marcellus Washburn in a production of The Musk: Man lags far behind her leading role as Winifred the Woebegone in Once Upon a Mattress, I think the mutual experience contributes greatly to our ability to work together.

  Anyhoo, Butch and Fluffykins are now playing together happily, and the occasional territorial growls and swats only occur when there are no witnesses to box both our ears. Jody is not only an extremely talented writer whose company is always a pleasure, she's also spirited enough to hold her own in a brawl. While, perhaps, not absolutely necessary, all three are definitely desirable in a writing partner.

  — Robert Lynn Asprin

  MYTH CONGENIALITY

  By Robert Asprin and Jody Lynn Nye

  I answered the door of the inn in my most repulsive disguise.

  “Yeah?” I asked the two small children who looked up at the one-eyed, white-haired rogue with five teeth, tangled hair, bizarrely twisted features, and visible insects crawling in and out of his clothes. They didn't retreat a pace.

  “Is the haunted house open?” the older one asked. “Yeah!” the little one said, staring at me with open curiosity. “We wanna see all the monsters!” “Monsters?” I asked, puzzled.

  “Yeah! Draggins and wivverns and yuni-corns and creaky floors and stuff! We heard about it in town.”

  “No,” I said. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my pet dragon Gleep charging for the door. He loved to answer the door. I put a foot into his chest to keep him from sticking his nose around the edge. “No monsters here.” Now Buttercup wanted to know what was going on, and you can't deter a war unicorn as easily as you can a baby dragon who'd impressed upon you. “Nope. Just a law-abiding, boring old guy living quietly by himself.” I could see them starting to become afraid now. I smiled wistfully. They started to back away nervously. “Just a lonely old man who'd love to have company to while away the hours. Sorry.” I slammed the door shut on them just before Buttercup put his muzzle under my arm.

  “Stop it, you guys,” I protested, being nuzzled by a dragon on one side and snuffled by a unicorn on the other. Gleep and Buttercup looked hurt. “I keep telling you to stay out of sight Now the townspeople have seen you. Can you believe it? A haunted house! And they want to come in. I wish Bunny was here.”

  Bunny, my former accountant, was staying here at the old inn with me, running interference and pretty much keeping house so that I could get on with my magikal studies. She'd gone off on vacation a few days before. I hadn't realized until she had been gone how lonely it was in the sprawling building by myself. Alone, as I said, except for two exuberant pets.

  I let the disguise spell drop. I always had to use one when I opened the door. Nobody in Klahd would be impressed or frightened by my normal appearance. I was young, for one thing, tall but thin, with a thatch of blond hair, and I'd been told that my blue eyes reminded them of Gleep's. When I looked in a mirror I couldn't see the same innocent wide expression, but I'd been assured by Aahz that it was there.

  “Come on, you guys. Let's have lunch.”

  I wasn't much of a cook, being used to leaning out the door of our tent at the Bazaar on Deva and being in reach of every kind of cuisine from every dimension, some delicious and toothsome, some more frightening to smell or look at than any disguise I'd ever put on. My cooking was somewhere in between, but Gleep ate everything, and Buttercup was always content with his fodder.

  The kitchen, as befit one in a building constructed to serve a houseful of guests, was enormous. I kept a small fire going in one of the baking ovens instead of the huge ingle that comprised a whole wall shared with the rest of the inn. We usually ate at a small table tucked in the alcove beside it, cosy and warm. Formality was pointless, since we never had guests, and I could keep my back to the wall.

  I dished up stew that had been bubbling away in a closed pot among the embers of the fire. One generous portion for me, five for Gleep. (He also caught his own meals from among the rodents in the barn, but I didn't want to know about that.) It hadn't burned, for which I was grateful, since we were short on supplies. Going into town to shop always elicited curiosity from the merchants and townsfolk as to who I was, where I came from, and what was going on in the old inn. I used to think they were just friendly, but experience made me question everybody's motives. I wasn't sure that was a good thing. I turned all the queries back on those who
were asking, inquiring how they were, whether the prize cow had had her calf yet, and so on. I was thought of as a friendly guy, probably the servant of the old man at the inn, yet no one knew much about me. I was content with that, since I wasn't ready to answer those questions myself.

  “Not bad,” I said, tasting the squirrel-rat stew. I trapped animals for meat in the woods outside, and grew a few vegetables, skills learned long ago from my farmer father. My mother had taught me basic cooking, but I'd picked up a few hints over the years. Gleep stuffed his face into the washing bowl that served as his food dish when he ate inside. A happy “gleep” echoed out of the earthen-ware. I looked around for the wineskin. Still more than half full, I was pleased to note, as I poured myself a glass. So I hadn't unconsciously drunk more than I should have. My habits were getting better. I wished Aahz was there to see.

  A loud POP! sounded in the center of the room. I jumped to my feet and drew my belt knife. Travel between dimensions was accomplished using incantations, spells or D-hoppers, magikal devices one dialed to reach the right destination. I had enemies as well as friends.

  To my relief, it was only Bunny. I relaxed for a split second, then, at the sight of the expression on her face, scooted out around the table to meet her. Her normally immaculate clothes were disheveled, and she looked as though she'd been crying.

  “What's wrong?” I asked.

  I helped her to sit down and poured her a glass of wine. She downed the glass in one gulp, something I've never seen the ladylike Bunny do.

  She looked at me, her large blue eyes rimmed with red. I noticed that her lids were crusted with a noxious-looking green paste, and her eyelashes had been dipped in black tar, making them stick out in spiky clusters.