Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I (13 page)

The move was
foolish. Dighcan and Lopze capitalized and collected all of Baus’s
buttons. Baus was buttonless and the winners engaged in a
free-for-all sing-along, skipping and dancing about the terrain arm
in arm:

“
Dighcan
and Lopze have new buttons, fresh buttons, new buttons . .
.,

Dighcan and
Lopze have fresh buttons, nik, nak, no!
”

Baus was
beside himself with wrath. How could he have been so foolish to
reduce himself to such humiliation? He had studied his game. Not
diligently, but calculatingly. How was he to secure bander with
Dighcan seizing his stash? Zestes’ buckle was required to carve out
a hole in the stone from the east wall!

Weavil, now
trudging back from his search of an icon, had in his left hand a
limp, child-size cuttlefish with dripping mollusc shells for arms
and legs. Valere measured its girth and discovered it undersized a
half inch. He returned the icon, denying the midget entry into the
game on grounds of regulatory breaches.

“Yes, Weavil,”
chided Baus, “render the appropriate changes to the icon and then
rejoin the game. The men haven’t time to spend on unnecessary
diversions. And, before you trundle off to make amendments, pass me
your heirloom. Several gamesters, including Zestes, are interested
in examining the piece for its worth as an item of bander before it
is entered into play.”

Weavil made a
deprecatory remark, aimed solely at Baus, but in the end,
reluctantly conceded the timepiece to his fellow inmate, not
thinking twice that it would be him to bet it.

Baus waited
patiently for Weavil to disappear before he quietly introduced the
watch into the pile.

Karlil’s eyes
widened. “That is Weavil’s bander. Are you sure? I abjure
dishonesty in all forms!”

Baus dismissed
the observation. “You are a criminal, Karlil, and should know that
this is fair play. I can hardly see the profit in not accepting the
gift. Besides, Weavil and I are comrades; we are close as clams.
His life he would entrust me with!”

Yullen
imparted Baus a look of marvel and respect. “You are indeed a
fortunate man to have such committed comrades.”

“Agreed,”
grunted Dighcan. “I may have misjudged the peevish critter Weavil
for an ingrate. He may yet be one who will prove to be one of those
dying breed of contenders long missed in the line of Flanks!”

Valere danced
about with impatience. “Enough chatter! On with the play! We must
increase the rapidity of our throws, so that I may test out a new
face cream which I shall surely win from the vapid Lopze here.”

Paltuik
sneered. “Less fanfaronade and more play!”

Lopze
concurred.

Nuzbek was now
returning with his effigy: a mass of pale spindlefax twigs which
constituted neck and arms, and a thin torso of spongebush
representing something akin to his own tadpole-like form. A slurry
grin carved on his face seemed to contradict the fact that he was a
newcomer to the game. Pug noses and slab-sided visages veered in
from all directions to examine Nuzbek’s icon.

The item was
free of regulatory breaches. Grudgingly, the group unanimously
voted Nuzbek into the game.

The magician
remained unamazed at the judiciary ruling.

Dighcan called
the next round to order.

Nuzbek threw
first. He calculated his odds, framed his toss, and launched,
astonishing all, blasting Karlil’s effigy to bits. The magician
accepted the double-twine of rope, which constituted the belt
around Karlil’s waist. Nuzbek transferred the item into his robe
that seemed to gobble up everything that entered. There were
grumbles and sneers, but nothing could be done. Karlil’s luck had
changed. Baus managed to elude annihilation in the next round,
barely missing Dighcan’s assault on the remaining icons and was
exposed to a blistering toss from Zestes.

Baus emitted a
disconsolate cry. Weavil’s timepiece was transferred from the
bander pile to Zestes’ palm. With cheerful bows, Zestes stuffed the
prize into his baggy breeches with offhand delight. “On the morrow,
I shall craft a sea-reed band with which I may wrap this lovely
piece round my wrist!”

“A grand
endeavour!” cried Jorkoff. “Tomorrow we will see who owns the
timepiece, you or I.”

“There is no
question of who will own it!” blared Zestes in annoyance. “I
consider it bad luck to re-bet a newly-won item.”

‘How very
endearing.’ Valere smiled fondly. “These kind sentiments are not
the characteristics of the Zestes of old—the same chap who threw
bluffly and bravely for anything and all? You have grown
balmy-mannered in your years at Heagram, you old grimy goat!”

“Think twice,
redbeard—at least I have not outgrown my acumen as these slack-wits
have.”

Baus threw up
his hands with impatience. “All this badinage strains my nerves!
It’s no wonder that I have crafted so many ill tosses. Zestes, why
snatch the timepiece when you could have purloined Paltuik’s fine
pewter poodle or Yullen’s ear polish?”

Zestes’ face
crinkled. “What care I for Yullen’s ear slimes or Paltuik’s
poodles? I care to annihilate their icons and dance a
finger-snapping hornpipe to their lamentations.”

“A cruel
ambition!” roared Paltuik, “but watch! It is my turn to throw. Ho!
A toss—a timble, a twist—” He pirouetted on his heels like a
ballerina, pivoted then whistled. The rock cracked Zestes’ icon on
the crown. The effigy teetered, wavered—fell like an old bole in
the forest.

Paltuik
injected a triumphant cry into the gathering. “Now, it is my turn
to gloat and dance with a fine timepiece in my hand. What say you
of that, you bald butcher? Nothing? A pity! Hand over my fair
trinket.”

“By no means!”
cried Zestes. “The round had come to a complete conclusion before
you tossed. We had not deemed the bander official yet.”

“What?”

“What is all
this squawking about?” sneered Lopze, marching in.

“My toss was
fair,” cried Paltuik. “Play continues with bander carried over into
the next round unless otherwise stated. Just because your
whimpering complaint was not heard before my throw, does not mean
that I should suffer the penalties. Hand over my property, Zestes,
or I shall be forced to acquire it by force.”

Zestes blandly
refused, prompting Paltuik to lunge and tear at his breeches.
Zestes twisted away. Very inelegantly, he came to lose pieces of
his baggy pantaloons. Grunting with indignation, he retaliated with
a savage kick to Paltuik’s thigh, coming painfully close to the
groin and Paltuik gave an outraged cry and stepped in to drag his
knuckles across the bald ruffian’s scalp. “There, you see what
happens when one gets uppity?” The action elicited a strangled
bleat from Zestes’ exposed throat.

Dighcan pushed
his way through the figures and flung the two apart. “Six demerits
for being caught rousting by Captain Graves, remember?” He turned
to glare at Paltuik with disdain. “Your manner is cretinous, Palsy.
It was your turn to throw, and you observed that Zestes did not
specifically forward bander into the next round, nor is he
compelled to. I am the referee and I declare that Zestes guard his
wins and that your toss be invalidated!”

“What cheap
ruling is this?” roared Paltuik. “You are a favouritist!” With
angry force, he lurched forward, ready to fight.

“Your opinion
is moot, and if you don’t desist from these febrile quibbles, I
shall be forced to disqualify you!”

“Go ahead!”
exploded Paltuik. He plunged his weight on Dighcan. Fists were
clenched murderously, muscles knotted and faces cherry red. It
became clear that blood was to come and Dighcan threw off the
attack and the two stood eye to eye, nose to nose, blowing smoke
down at each other’s nostrils. The group fell silent; the blood
could be heard thumping through the veins in both necks.

After a long
while, Paltuik stepped back, glowering with contempt. He muttered a
caustic oath.

Baus’s eyes
watered. It remained an important fact that these bullies had been
at odds for a long time—a lifetime?—it was a fact he would use for
future gain.

The next round
got off to a shaky start as the men’s speculative whispers rose and
fell, but eventually play was resumed and humour gave way to
comradely backslapping. Baus lost his last three cils, and not
surprisingly, observed the game from afar. He tossed pebbles at the
turf, affirming that under no circumstance must his seaman’s charm
that he coveted so dearly be put up so cheaply for grabs!

The third
round opened with Yullen. Being caught off guard on a foot fault,
he was forfeited a toss. Karlil did not win back his rope and now
banderless, his effigy toppled, suffered the discomfiting shock of
a risk-turned-bad.

The crew
banded together, giving a great whoop-de-do. They ripped off his
trousers and gave merry chase to him around the perimeter of the
yard, hollering and swatting at his loins and bare legs with
flail-cane. Nuzbek was not included in this play and sat back
grunting in contempt.

Baus stroked
his chin in wonder. He glanced about the yard, wishing he could
snatch up some manner of bander with which to win bets. Tussocks,
pebbles, weeds, all were useless. He was forced to accept his
ineffectual situation and with dejected vexation, slumped to the
ground, chin propped in hand.

The men
returned to their game and Karlil, legs, arms and bare behind
chafed, red and raw, accepted his fate. He limped over to sit out
the next rounds where Baus and he exchanged glum, philosophical
remarks.

Midway through
the game Weavil jogged up, doubly enraged when he learned of how
Baus had squandered his heirloom.

“Enough of
your hypocritical platitudes, you impulsive traitor!”

Baus spread
his hands in supplication; he moved back to avoid Weavil’s furious
but harmless blows. “There are some affordable risks we must take
in order to ensure a dignified status in the game.”

“Snake-tongued
as a drake you are, Baus!” shouted Weavil.

“The judgment
is harsh,” muttered Baus through pursed lips, “but I accept your
discomfort and its associated fervour—though with a certain,
limited patience.”

“You are a con
artist and a clown! Win me back my heirloom!”

“As you
wish.”

Weavil snapped
his head back. “How might you do this?”

“With craft
and energy!” Skipping away from Weavil’s slaps and kicks, Baus
constructed efforts to convince him that they must put their heads
together if they were to win.

Weavil was
uncooperative. The sun had dipped well below the horizon, leaving a
wan, purplish glow spilling over the trampled earth. High over the
northern wall soared jade-coloured beobar, frowning with disfavour.
They took on the guise of sombre giants which in the fading
afterglow, remained eerie. Nuzbek strutted past the gamesters to
spread his booty on the barrack’s veranda before tallying his
items: a length of rope, a hand-pumped oil lamp, a chert toenail
cleaner, a brown tin of snuff: all items of mint condition.

The prisoners
gazed on enviously, wondering how this tyro had procured these
sudden treasures on his first foray, if not by thaumaturgy.

Grinning
meaningfully, Nuzbek scooped up his spoils. He disappeared into the
sleeping quarters. Ausse and Germakk, the guards, arrived, wooden
mallets raised, beating the bronze gong with purpose. Nine o’clock
curfew was in order and Baus studied the jailors with care. Ausse
was immoderately tall, blond-haired, chubby around the edges and
guarded a splayed nose; Germakk was pink-faced, stocky and
harboured a lean to his ruffled, orange-haired head that did not
mask the irritating habit of his scowling and muttering.

The sky’s
reach had deepened to purple-rose. The men trudged gloomily to
their quarters. Many grumbled of how bedtime had arrived so early
and yet each understood the reality that their ultimate purpose was
to work, and to work, one must sleep.

Baus wrinkled
his nose at the scent of unwashed bodies and the sweat-drenched
garments. Slats of worm-gnawed wood were crammed together like dock
planks. Each was equipped with a thin, brown moth-eaten blanket and
a flea-infested pillow. Along four walls the hardboard beds were
fixed, crafted such that the men’s heads faced the wall and feet
were extended outwards toward the center. To say that the sleeping
berths were examples of torture was a euphemism: all slept crammed
parallel to one another like sardines. The earthen ground was cold,
flattened by untold years of booted feet. Cloaks, breeches, socks
and rancid underwear hung on wooden pegs. The odour of clam meat
and snogmald competed with the sweat and grime and years of
accumulation of dusky odours and too-many unwashed bodies in a tiny
space.

Baus was
consigned to a narrow space beside Weavil along the north wall
between Valere, Karlil. The taciturn Jorkoff lounged nearby,
grumbling about being forced grudgingly to allot room. Nuzbek,
Boulm and Nolpin crowded along the opposite wall, sandwiched in
between sardonic Lopze, a boisterous Zestes and the rake-thin
Yullen. A barred window poised on either side of the only door
where Dighcan slept, on a wider bunk under the left window, while
Paltuik reposed under the other.

The gas
lanterns flared out. Germakk stepped outside to maintain guard by
the door. A leather snapperwhip was held on the ready in his palm.
Ausse climbed the watchtower to supervise the compound. The main
gate was left to the snauzzerhounds. While Germakk called lights
out, Baus pulled a grey woollen cover over his head and tried to
ignore the lingering odours that oozed from the mildewy cracks.

Somehow the
task proved impossible and he rolled over on his side and looked up
at the silvery spanning webs lacing the rafters. He recalled how
Weavil and Nuzbek had twice already gotten into fights. Weavil had
smuggled in rocks to brain the magician’s skull at night—attempts
which had both failed and now the two had received demerit points
from Mulfax.