"Free of charge, of course!" Rimbaldi assured us expansively. "A debt owed by my cousin is a debt owed by all us Djinnellis! Is honor satisfied?"
Massha beamed. "It sure is, tall, blue, and handsome!"
Rimbaldi's huge beard parted in a grin. "You are most welcome!"
"Just one more thing," I said, holding up the parchment with Skeeve's portrait on it. "You ever see this guy around here?"
Rimbaldi's good humor evaporated like water on a griddle. "This deadbeat?" he roared. "Look here!"
He held out a hand, into which suddenly appeared a sheaf of papers.
"All these receipts, paid for by his so-impressive credit card! And every one remains unpaid! No, I have not seen him these many weeks, and lucky for him!"
I stalked out into the noisy corridor, pursued at a trot by my two companions.
"Aahz, I am certain that all this is a mistake," Chumley murmured, catching up with me.
Massha achieved my other side and tucked her hand into my arm. I shook both of them off.
"No one calls my partner a thief and gets away with it!"
The halls echoed with the sound of my voice. Silence fell briefly, then the inevitable music, salesmen's chants, and footsteps filled up the void.
"Take it easy, Green Giant." Massha calmed me. "I'm sure it's a mistake. I agree with you. It's not in character. But it sure looks like everyone thinks it is him."
"Yeah," I replied glumly. "It does."
The lutenist of the nearest muzak group hit a sour note and a string broke with a discordant twang.
"I need a drink."
THREE
Plenty of little cafes and establishments that I would have called open-air taverns if they'd been out in the air instead of under the roof lay on either side of the main pedestrian walkways. I signed to the others to accompany me to one adjacent to the bards. I could ignore the music; it was terrible. I wanted to reach out and grab the instrument out of the lutenist's hands and show him he was holding it upside down, but considering his skill level it probably would have sounded the same either way up. I'd have done a public service by bashing him over the head with it. The lizard creature playing the caradoogle was pretty good. He huffed away, the red pouch under his chin inflating, then slowly deflating to fill the multiple air sacs on his instrument that released the requisite polyphonic whining.
A pickpocket sidled close, attracted by the pockets on the back of Massha's new trousers. He pretended to be studying the menu on a standard near the table where we were sitting. Chumley showed all his teeth in a growl, and the would-be thief sidled off at a much higher rate of speed. I signaled to the miniskirted blue Flibberite female holding a tray on one palm high above her head. She nodded a head full of blond braids and came over to us, brandishing an order pad.
"Whattaya want, darlinks?" she said, beaming at us, her cheeks a healthy sapphire.
"What've you got on tap?" I asked.
"Freakstone's Old Oddball, Bidness Asuzhul, Perving Cheer, Double Dragonette—"
"A gallon of Perving Cheer, and keep it coming," I said, giving her a friendly pinch on the bottom. The other two gave their orders. In a moment, a tankard larger than my head was smacked down in front of me. Kind of small, I thought, tossing it back, but the Flibberite was already pulling another one. Good service.
I set down the first tankard and chugged the second one. The key to drinking Pervish beer was to get it down your gullet before the fumes hit you. Then, after the fifth or sixth one, you were immune to the effects and could slow down to sipping, if you felt like it. The cheerful server also plunked down bowls of finger foods. The cafe must be used to my species: my snacks immediately tried to climb out of the container. I slammed my hand down on them to stun them, then grabbed a few to chew on. Massha, trying not to look at my snacks, took a healthy slug of her Double Dragonette, a green brew that released a haze of steam into the chilly air.
"Are you all right, big spender?" Massha inquired, as I downed my third beer.
"I don't like this," I said. "The guy we're after has all the advantages. He's obviously been masquerading as Skeeve for a pretty long time. He skunked a lot of merchants, and he hasn't gotten caught—pretty clever, because it means the blame falls squarely on Skeeve. We've got to come up with a plan of action! Look at this place!"
I swept out my arms, just in time to grab another cut-purse by the collar, a skinny, pink-skinned Imp. I held him up over my head until I could determine that he hadn't gotten ahold of my wallet. A dozen billfolds and pokes rained down from his pockets onto my head. "Sorry, sir. Sorry," the Imp protested, crushing his hands together in supplication. "It was just a mistake. A mistake, I swear... aaaaaggghh!"
"Apology accepted," I replied, heaving him overhand into the nearby fountain, which stood about thirty feet away.
The authorities were on the guy almost before he landed. A couple of the blue-skinned Flibberites in comic-opera uniforms, complete with white marching-band-style hats, Florentine quilted-front tunics, and puffy trousers, looked my way. I glared back, daring them to call me out over the incident, but they gave me point-nailed thumbs-ups. I even got a few grins from my fellow shoppers. Brushing money bags off my shoulders, I turned back to my companions.
"The moral of that story is that people-watching always pays off."
"I see," Chumley acknowledged.
"That just leaves us with one problem," I said, downing my fourth, or maybe fifth, beer. "How are we going to find the person who's masquerading as Skeeve?"
"By following him," Chumley exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "There he goes now!"
I turned in the direction he was pointing. I saw a yellow-haired Klahd in a dark purple tunic come out of a jewelry store with a parcel in his hands and head up the corridor away from us.
"You! Klahd! C'mere!" Chumley shouted, in his Big Crunch voice, trying to sound friendly.
The person turned toward us, then away without a flicker of recognition. I felt my jaw hit the ground. The blue eyes, the narrow nose, the strong jaw, the mobile mouth with the ready grin and puny rectangular teeth—it was Skeeve to the life—but it wasn't. This Klahd looked astonishingly like my ex-partner, but I knew deep down inside it wasn't the real thing. An impostor!
I felt my ire rising like lava in a volcano. Someone, some magician, some shapeshifter was running around this 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.