Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I (4 page)

Baus scowled.
The outfit seemed overdone. A puff of green smoke wafted up the
stage. The handkerchief in the magician’s hand became a
green-billed canary which flew off, shrilling banshee cries. The
enchanter set two blue balls rolling across the stage; then, upon a
command, the balls became red spheres twice their size and burst
into red plumes of confetti before bouncing off the edge of the
stage. Baus and Weavil blinked. The plumes lurched ten feet into
the air and showered the first rows of spectators with liquid
sprays, a scene which caused angry grunts, at which the magician
tendered only smug apologies.

A gigantic
toad suddenly limped its way across the stage. The entertainer
seemed astonished and gestured implausibly. The trick seemed to
backfire. The toad did not seem to playact as required. The
creature stared blinking at the magician before it was hastily
shooed off.

The magician
performed a triumphant bow, then wrapped a limb around the waist of
his scantily-clad partner. She swan-swooped on her back and looked
out from behind moist, glistening eyes.

Baus rolled
his eyes. Not insubstantial hand-clapping spread through the crowd
and Baus and Weavil were ill-impressed and flashed each other bored
looks but while taking leisure time to move closer.

Inside the
snow fence enclosing the exhibition, no less than forty onlookers
struggled to gain a better view of the performance: a mixture of
upscale folk with their children, fishgutters, cartwrights, masons
and dockworkers—all craned necks to behold the wonders that seemed
to spring from Nuzbek’s fingertips like candy.

Baus looked
left and right. A flag-poled entrance bisected the barrier, no
wider than arm’s reach. It allowed bystanders to pass into the
enclosure. A smiling attendant wore a white tag on his breast writ
‘
Nolpin—stage hand
’. He planted feet to one side of the
gate; hairy forearms were hooked belligerently across his chest. He
wore a neatly ironed pair of orange breeches and leather-corded
brown boots and glittering sleeves rolled up to the elbow while an
opal earring dangled from his left ear.

Weavil and
Baus attempted to bypass the attendant but the gatekeeper thrust
out a knuckly fist: “The fee is three cils, as you can plainly see.
Step back, or make your coins ready. Paying patrons wish to view
the debut show.”

Baus wheezed:
“Debut show? Downright robbery! What vendor charges three cils for
admission to his kiosk?”

“The great
Nuzbek, that’s who,” the gatekeeper sneered.

“Nuzbek,
shmusbek!” scoffed Weavil. “We wish to witness this so-called
magician.”

“Then lay down
your coin. Saunter up the next aisle if you wish gimcracks or
curios. Here, you will find only the best entertainment this side
of Brislin, tendered by the great Nuzbek.”

Weavil
gestured to the snow fence in feigned panic.

The gatekeeper
swivelled his neck. Weavil quickly ducked under his arm and slipped
through the gate—Baus followed. The gatekeeper could not react fast
enough—the two had already merged into the crowd and were couched
under a sea of shins.

Weavil
laughed. Under Baus’s advice, the two took up a cramped position on
the far side of the gathering, so as to be shielded from Nolpin’s
roving eyes. They seemed conveniently hidden by two tall heads and
were pleased. Edging sidewise, they discerned a badger-like man
mounting the stage now, garbed in a gaberdine, swallow-tailed suit.
He stood, beaming beside the magician’s pretty aide. “Ladies and
Gentlemen!” he cried fulsomely, spreading arms wide. His wagging
moustache accentuated his oak-brown ruggedness. “You have witnessed
the reputable ‘dancing balloons of Bloom’ and Gomer’s bereavement
of magical rebirth, and finally the Carugiain nuptials! The Flight
of the Yellow Canary was also part of the package. Now comes the
pièce de résistance—‘To Nowhere’, Nuzbek’s final act.”

There came a
barrage of applause. The announcer held up a hand. “Please exercise
decorum! May I remind you that this is the paragon known as Nuzbek,
the same magician of Mosmornon—thaumaturge and miracle-worker,
whose fame has spread throughout the lands from Loust to Owlen. He
will dare a feat of feats!”

Cheers rocked
the gathering.

Baus hissed
out a growl to Weavil. “Mosmornon? Where the devil is that?”

Weavil
mustered a cheeky grin. “Who knows? Must be a fable. The rogue has
made it sound important.”

Baus nodded
frowningly. The announcer held up his hands, beckoned for silence.
“ . . . Now! During Nuzbek’s following act, the great artist must
make room for considerable concentration—a performance including
stunning and near impossible thaumaturgics.”

Hushed murmurs
rang through the crowd. The announcer ceremoniously departed the
stage and on brisk feet a twain of lightly-clad brunettes entered
from the side, rolling out a large mirror on four wheels. The crowd
was mystified. Nuzbek’s first assistant joined the train and the
three halted beside the glass. All flashed winning smiles. They
exiting offstage. Nuzbek, meanwhile, adjusted the tilt of the
mirror before dabbing a corner with his handkerchief. Satisfied at
its congruity, he gave a pretentious bow before conducting three
distinguished waves to the crowd.

“Get on with
it,” Weavil muttered.

Baus appraised
the magician with sardonic disfavour. The man was tall, spare of
figure, straight of leg, etched with tangly bluish-black brows. His
round, amber eyes protruded from his rather austere face with a
hollow-cheeked pomposity, but full of inflexible precociousness.
The lips were immeasurably thin, like strips of wire, yet capable
of a saturnine curl when necessary. Behind the look, Baus sensed a
certain ‘split personality’ that was not comfortable to behold.

The great
Nuzbek cleared his throat, allowing the audience to settle down:
“Friends! Fans! As my valuable aide, Boulm, has declaimed, I will
endeavour to demonstrate a hazardous display of
dematerialization
.”

Baus and
Weavil indulged each other grimacing frowns. “What a hackneyed
routine!” hissed Weavil. “Even the most jackleg magician knows the
‘disappearing’ act.”

Nuzbek
accepted the crowd’s approbation before he caught the flicker of a
fractious response in the crowd.

“Mark well!
The feat which I am about to attempt is extremely hazardous. It is
unpredictable. Not an exercise to be attempted by the
dilettante.”

Weavil cupped
his hands and booed. “The demonstration is jejune, ‘Sir Nuzbek’. In
fact, every half doodle knows it from here to Owlen.”

Nuzbek craned
his neck to see who had spoken. Catching sight of the rodent-like
head that bobbed, he contorted his expression into an amused sneer.
“Opportunity strikes! What fortune! Perhaps we have a learned
pundit in our midst—a savant who would trot up and explain the
mechanics of dematerialization?”

A few jesting
murmurs came from the front row.

Nuzbek nodded
benevolently: “It has been so many years since I graduated from
conjuror school—I’m sure we’ll all have need for an
analyst
.”

Baus rose to
attention. “A droll rejoinder, magician. Let us see your mettle.
Give us a purely original spectacle—not the time old disappearing
act—one never before witnessed!”

Nuzbek paused,
pondering with care. “The challenge I must admit, is evocative,
though certainly not impossible. Given my expertise, I suppose well
within my capacity. Yes . . . a conception very exceptional—even
flamboyant!” He gave his knee a jaunty slap. “Consider the dare
met, young friend! I will entertain you this evening, at half past
seven, with a feat upon feats with other of my fans. Is this to
your liking?”

“Very much
so!” called Baus.

“Then we are
at peace. And your name—so that I may at least know who is my
challenger?”

Baus peered
about with discomfort. To attract unwanted attention to himself
while Uyu and Migor roved unchecked was unwise. In muffled tones,
he stated that he was ‘Baus, a fisherman of Heagram,’, and that he
was not given to any vanity by divulging any of his other
skills.

“No vanity is
implied,” assured Nuzbek easily.

“And I,”
shouted Weavil importantly, “am a prestigious poet, Weavil of
Heagram, who includes myself in the category of ‘challenger’.”

Nuzbek reached
in his robe and jotted the names very carefully on a pad before
tucking the parchment back into his topcoat. “Very well, Baus and
Weavil of Heagram. Consider the agreement sealed! I have a similar
request to make of you two. That you step forward as
volunteers.”

Baus and
Weavil exchanged uncomfortable looks.

Craftiness
bloomed on Nuzbek’s face. “Ha, normally I would intrude upon my
associate, the vivacious Nadek to be assistant, but for lack of a
more impromptu test, I believe your services will be apt.”

Baus demurred.
“I must decline, master Nuzbek. Perhaps my colleague,Weavil, would
care to inject himself as a willing participant.”

Weavil pushed
forward hands and raised an angry cry but Baus urged him on. “Come,
Weavil, it is only fitting!”

“I am no more
a toy than a lab rat to this shamster! Get me away from this
charlatan.”

“Charlatan, is
it?” Nuzbek croaked. “Shamster? Your words sting, Weavil! But alas,
I suppose everyone has his hecklers . . .” He addressed his
audience with a grave earnest. “Is there no soul venturesome enough
to become part of my extraordinary act?”

An awkward
silence ensued—followed by uneasy muttering from the gathering.

Nuzbek paced
back and forth. “I cannot wait till cockcrow to receive word from a
single volunteer! Come now, are you pantywaists? Where are all the
brave souls? The redoubtable Baus and Weavil have elected to forgo
a momentous opportunity. Why should stalwarts as these refuse my
invitation? ’Tis not known. How are matters to rectify themselves,
faced with such dull torpor before my eyes?”

Despite the
appeal, no member of the audience came forth.

Nuzbek’s snort
was akin to a jackdaw’s. “I see that I must sweeten the pot then.
Alas! Cravens and duffers! My patience you test! For the first man
or woman, or even beast, who presents himself as a suitable
candidate, I offer ten cils.”

There was a
frantic dash for the stage. Surly teens with expressions of zeal,
tough old mariners with gap teeth, barefooted children with moony
grins; blue-bonneted women with frills and lace, hunched-over
dockworkers scrambling like wolves at feeding time. Nuzbek was
amused by the unseemly rush. He leaped to the stage’s edge to hold
up a hindering hand. “Desist! I order all access barred!”

The
participants ignored the decree.

Nuzbek,
unamused, stomped on the fingers of several stage-clamberers. “Let
us exercise propriety here! Storming my stage like a bunch of
ignorant bumpkins is intolerable, especially on a platform as
expensive as this.”

The mob
subsided, grumbling; Nuzbek smoothed out the back of his gown.
“That is better. Now, you!”—he pointed a bony finger at a dowdy
frump with quivering lip who clung close to the stage. “What is
your name?”

“Conikraul.”

“How ladylike!
Nadek, help Miss Conikraul on stage. There’s a lass. Ho-ha! No need
to struggle! Mind her sun bonnet and froggish parka. Get Zlanda out
to assist you, if her weight is too prodigious.”

Conikraul
resented the remark about her weight. With indecorous effort,
Zlanda and Nadek hauled the woman up on stage. Propelled by the
aides, she stood beside Nuzbek in front of the mirror, wearing a
confused frown.

Nuzbek
addressed the audience with a patronizing glare: “First of all, let
it be know that it is of utmost necessity to—”

“What about my
cils?” demanded Conikraul.

Nuzbek’s eyes
glittered. “First, never interrupt me; second, miss, your stipend
shall be forthcoming at the conclusion of this episode. No earlier.
Now, as I was saying, I shall prepare the requisite unguents . . .”
He lifted a menacing finger, brought forth two tubes from air,
rousing more delightful murmurs. “A bit of background,” he added,
“these gels are to be smeared on the exposed areas of Conikraul’s
body, which as you notice, include shins, forearms, neck and
visage. Then, as habitual, the subject is to be doused with
wintergill, and a generous spray of gautz.”

Conikraul
raised a cry, at which someone suggested a jesting supplement.

Nuzbek arched
a questioning ear to the audience. “What need I of unguents when my
powers are all-encompassing? For this reason alone, hounds: the
place where Conikraul is to go is fraught with danger and
debasement! Do not doubt it! The place is one of abysms and
abysses! She is to enter a world of Stygian gloom, a place devoid
of kind thought, where she will be presented before a line of
demonesses and dark dorlords and tested for the mettle of her
essence. And here I do not fib!—the spirits from the other side may
decide her unworthy. Maybe they shall spare her rigour. But harbour
no misgivings! I have administered the proper unguents, which are
of nature too puissant to name, yet steeped in the ritual hours of
litany. If Conikraul is to waver in the dusky weft of chaos,
perchance claimed by the demonesses—alas! With regret, she will not
return. But, invested with the agents I subscribed and drenched
with the goodness of my will and my formidable magics, she shall
return to the world as we know it, unscathed from the claws of
‘
Ruthifara
’, the demoness witch!”

Never before
had the crowd heard such necromantic prophecy and they roared out a
single note. Conikraul wailed and struggled to fight her way
offstage. Nuzbek signalled Nadek. Nadek and Zlanda scooted her back
toward the mirror, positioned dead centre alongside the
magician.