"Buttercup," I called.

The war unicorn came charging toward me and planted his muzzle in my palm. I had thought to put a lump of sugar there as a treat. I stroked his mane.

"Buttercup, I've got a job for you."

His eyes rolled, and his nostrils flared. He understood a fair amount of Klahdish, but I think he read more

in my demeanor than in my words. Gleep stuck his nose under my elbow.

"Maybe you can translate for me," I told him. "I need you and Buttercup to patrol the tent to make sure no one breaks in. I don't know who's out to get us, but better safe than sorry. You'll be checking things inside, and he'll keep an eye on things back here, to make sure no one sneaks up on us. All right?"

"Gleep!" Gleep touched noses with the unicorn. When Buttercup straightened up, he gave a mighty snort, then danced away, making his first circuit of the yard at a gallop. At each corner he reared up magnificently and let out a yodeling neigh that made the orange-skinned neighbors glance up from their flower beds. I thought he looked happier than he had in years. Big Julie was right. He needed to feel needed. Didn't we all?

In spite of Spider's confidence, no one beat a path to my door. Bunny and I distributed piles of my new business cards around the Bazaar, asking merchants to let them sit on the corner of a counter or a table, where potential clients could pick them up. If they did, we never knew about it. The door of the tent remained undisturbed all that afternoon and on into the evening. We finally gave up waiting and swatting at Humbees, and went out for dinner.

"I dunno, Skeeve," the Sen-Sen Ante Kid said. He was a large, fat man with surprisingly soft hands who was the best Dragon Poker player in all the dimensions. I owned a half interest in the club he played in when he was in the Bazaar. The food was decent. The real attraction was the games of chance and, if he was in town, watching the Kid clean up against the local talent. He gestured at the untidy heap of business cards at the end of the green-baize-covered counter adjacent to his special table. "People picked up the cards, read 'em, and put 'em down again. I don't think they have a clue what The Right Answer,' means, and they're not gonna pay you to tell them."

"Are we being too mysterious?" I asked.

The Kid considered the question.

"Maybe. Nobody likes to feel like they don't understand somethin'. And answers are what people think they can figure out for themselves. They pay for merchandise. They pay for food. They pay for magikal services. You might give them a little better hint what you're offering."

"No," Bunny said, thoughtfully. "I think we hit it just right. We don't want you to be inundated, and we don't want you running out to solve simple problems. The people who will respond to that will be the ones who really need you enough to swallow their pride and ask."

"That's brilliant," I said, shaking my head. "It's not like I need the money. I want a challenge."

"You'll get it," the Kid said. "Now that I get what you're looking for, I'll talk it up. Meanwhile, do you want to play? Just for fun?" He shuffled the deck at his fingertips. The cards seemed to dance in the air before gathering together again in a smooth rectangle in the Kid's hand.

"No way." I laughed. "That's a question I can answer, no charge."

"You want a piece of advice?" the Kid asked, as we turned to go. "Don't worry too hard about fitting in a niche. Just relax and go with the flow, but keep your eyes open. That's what I do."

"Thanks," I said.

I admit I eyed the Imp with jaundice as he sidled into the room. Imps, with their bright pink skin and small, almost vestigial horns, looked like lesser Deveels. They weren't as smart, as cunning, or as sartorially sophisticated, but they were sneaky and determined. His shiny, houndstooth checked suit was of somewhat better quality than most of the folk I had met from his dimension. That meant he had the wherewithal to pay for my advice.

"So. er, Marmel, what kind of question can I answer for you?" I asked, glancing at his solid-tin business card.

"My old dad died last month," he said. Figuring he didn't look woebegone enough, he whipped a blue-and-yellow-spotted handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at his eyes, which teared on cue. Even I could smell the onion he had hidden in the folds of cloth. I coughed, and he put the vegetable back in his pocket. "I've got a sister, see? Her name's Marmilda. Our old mother's gone, too. We're orphans."

"Sorry to hear that," I said. "How can I help?"

"Glad you want to," Marmel said, grinning affably, his fake tears forgotten. He stuffed the cloth back into his pocket. "It's like this: Dad left us both a share in the family business. That's okay. We make wolidgins. Best in all of Imper. Marmilda runs the operation. I'm the head of sales. That's fine."

I nodded, making a mental note to look up "wolidgins " "Then what's the problem?"

"Weil, outside of the business and the home—it's not exactly a mansion, but it's big enough for us and our families, see?—there isn't much else. Except for the Hoho Jug."

"The what?"

"That's what the old man always called it. His prized possession. It's worth a bundle. Powerful magik. It's a big pitcher, real fancy looking. You can pour wine out of it forever. It never runs dry."

"Why's it called the Hoho Jug?"

"When you holler down if the echo sounds kind of like 'ho-ho.'"

I shrugged. Imps weren't known for having a lot of imagination. "Why do you need my help with the Hoho Jug?"

"Well, I figure, that since I'm the outside rep for our business, it ought to go to me. Also, I'm the only son. Marmilda, she's the eldest, and she thinks, that since she's running the place, she wants to keep the employees happy, it ought to go to her."

"Who did your father want to have it? What's his will say''"

"No will," Marmel said, with a shrug. "We've looked everywhere. And that's what I don't get, because he was always meticulous about paperwork. But, look, we were both there at Dad's deathbed, and I swear he looked right at me and said I ought to have it."

"Were those his exact words?" I asked, reaching for a pencil. This was starting to sound promising.

"Nope. Sounded more like 'uh wah uh uh uv ah.' But that's what it sounded like to me. So, I asked again. I said, 'Dad, who gets the Hoho Jug?' And he pointed." "At you?" I asked.

"Well." Marmel didn't sound too certain. "Marmilda was sitting next to me. She says he pointed at her.

I'm pretty certain he pointed at me. Look, Mr. Skeeve, I need your help. When Dad died, the Hoho Jug disappeared. Dad told us plenty of times that it will only reappear when the rightful heir calls it back. Marmilda said if she gets it, she's going to sell it to raise capital. I don't want it out of the family. It's my inheritance. What do you say?"

"Sounds interesting," I said. I nodded. Figuring out which was the real heir—that sounded like something I could do. It wasn't a guard job, or item retrieval or any of the other things my friends did so well, so it didn't tread on M.Y.T.H., Inc.'s toes. If there was no clear mandate in the father's words, then maybe I could negotiate an amiable settlement between the siblings. The solution wasn't dependent upon my mediocre magikal skills, and I could do it on my own. "This is worth looking into. You know I can't guarantee that you're going to end up with the Hoho Jug as your exclusive property. But I'll help you find out the truth."

Marmel shrugged. "I'll take the chance. My spell or yours?"

"Lead the way," I said. "One minute." I leaned out the curtain and grinned at Bunny. "We've got a client," I told her. "Postpone my other appointments. I'll be back as soon as I can."