Cash you could always recoup, though I hated to admit it. I never like to let go of a copper coin I don't have to. If you're thrifty, you don't have to go out and earn money over again. It works for you.

Reputation, on the other hand, was impossible to rebuild. At our level of perceived expertise (the kid was at the beginning of his studies as a magician, and I currently had no powers), what people believed about you was every bit as important as what you could actually accomplish, and made it possible for you to do less work than the other way around. If word got around that Skeeve was a welsh-er, no amount of bibbity-bobbity-boo he picked up over the next few years was going to help.

Step two involved surveying our environment. We followed Massha and the huge, eager crowd into The Mall.

On the other side of the threshold, we were hit by a solid wall of sound. I thought the Bazaar was noisy! This aural assault you had to fight against like an avalanche. My ears, which stick out in modified triangles from the side of my head, and one of my most fetching features, I like to think, are far more sensitive than those of a Troll, a Jahk, or a Klahd.

Massha and Chumley were cringing at the echoing barrage. I was, too, but I would rather have been skinned with a butter knife than show it. It was only my reputation as a tough and focused investigator that kept me from unlimber-ing my new D-hopper, bopping on out of there posthaste, and finding a nice, quiet hurricane to stick my head into.

"Should we withdraw?" Chumley shouted.

"Hold on, High Tops!"

Floating above us, Massha fumbled at her belt. Suddenly, the sound died to a manageable level. I could still hear the music and footsteps and endless chatter, but it no longer felt like there was a steel band around my head playing island melodies.