Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I (5 page)

“Do not fear,
child.” Accustomed to this quality of voice, Nuzbek shook his head
in contempt. Weavil noted somewhat sourly how he had been barely
spared such lampoon treatment, no thanks to Baus’s jocular
suggestion that he volunteer as a guinea pig. Conikraul thrashed
about and was subdued by Nuzbek’s four assistants. Nuzbek applied
more unguent with snaps of hand while Conikraul’s exposed skin
seemed to shrink with the application of the gel. The magician
proceeded to chant while Conikraul’s impassioned outbursts went
unheard. The crowd stared gap-eyed. They were met with the
magician’s casual withdrawal from his robe of a strange ebon rod
which he tapped on her crown and which froze all her faculties to
ice.

Baus eyed the
device with bewilderment. The rod exuded a macabre flux which
seemed genuine, and judging from its effect, an inestimable power,
something which he would not resent tucked in his own pocket.

Anticipation
ran rife in the air. Nuzbek’s droning chant escalated to a ghastly
cadence at which the crowd murmured in fright.

Weavil bared
his teeth. Baus whirled, detecting a sudden unnatural disturbance
to his left. Not surprised was he to spy Uyu and Migor elbowing
their way in his direction.

He tugged at
Weavil’s sleeve, grunting his annoyance.

“Go, if you
must,” reproved Weavil, “I wish only to view the performance—as
clownish as it appears.”

Weavil shifted
about, but was conferring to empty air. Baus had disappeared. A
heavyset man with huge, punch-bowl face joggled the poet aside.
Another massive individual kneed him in the thigh—not accidentally
either, and Weavil was less than pleased as he was pitched to his
knees. The two boothkeepers blundered on like sneak fighters after
their quarry. Weavil shouted for retribution. He was about to
inject further outrage into the tumult, but Nuzbek raised his arms
in frightful crescendo and shouted a single, malign word:

Agarharunkujuhara!

A ghastly
explosion ripped across the stage. Ghoulish plumes billowed outward
from the place where Conikraul had stood. All forms were obscured
under a nacreous, mushroom-like cloud.

The fog
suddenly began to dissipate. Only Nuzbek’s tall, wraith-like figure
emerged from the fumes, with an exultant leer on his face.
Conikraul was nowhere to be seen.

“Kudos!” The
magician touched a jubilant finger to his nose then thrust it at
the quivering mirror. “Conikraul has vacated herself to the
nesisphere—behind the magic mirror!”

Weavil gave a
sour, helpless sigh. “This is no achievement, Nuzbek!” he yelled. “
It is the work of a tyro!” He began squeezing himself back through
the gathering before pausing to thumb his nose at the magician.

Baus was
nowhere to be seen; Weavil scratched at his brow. The comic frown
overshadowing his features suggested wonderment as to where his
clam-happy fellow had fled. A new observation gripped the poet. Odd
that the two foreigners who had bowled him over were tumbling their
way through the crowd, attending a fleeing figure much resembling
Baus . . .

Several
persons had developed a lingering dissatisfaction for the integrity
of Nuzbek’s spectacle: a result of Weavil’s more pointed remarks
and began to saunter off, grumbling over the implausibility of the
act.

Piqued
dissatisfaction swept across Nuzbek’s face. With pompous outrage
the magician ordered all members of his audience to return.
“Sceptics! What of my volunteer’s return? Have you no curiosity in
my work? The ‘Resurrection’ has not been completed—which involves
an approved pervolution, of the third order!”

Weavil cupped
hands in contempt and hurled a denouncement: “Enough bombast,
Nuzbek! There are no demons or nesispheres—only a fakir with a
gulling tongue, lacking a wide degree of subtlety. The woman cached
beneath the stage is testament to my accusation—that much is
sure.”

Nuzbek’s face
flushed a dangerous crimson. “Careful with your imputations! This
is an impudent assumption!”

“It is?”
hooted Weavil. “Lift the trap and we shall see.”

“Impossible!”
cried Nuzbek. “The beobar holds the platform secure, as tight as a
carrack’s deck—there is no means of lifting it.”

“Ha! I find
the notion absurd!” Pushing his way through the crowd, the poet
squirmed his way onstage. He hopped over to a section of what he
thought to be a suspicious panel and the magician, gaping
slack-jawed, gave an inarticulate croak. Weavil scuffed his feet
along the platform right before the mirror. Immediately, a tiny,
perceptible lever presented itself. Now it was Weavil’s turn to
guffaw.

“So! The trap
of which I speak runs so and so. When the smoke engulfs the
subject, it merely suffices to trip this valve, which triggers the
door and renders the volunteer sliding helplessly down a hole. I
stand vindicated.” Nodding triumph, Weavil addressed the crowd.
“This is the way a noble man snatches your coin and harps on about
idiotic things like ‘nesispheres’. Dark dorlords? Nuzbek, couldn’t
you have come up with something better?”

Nuzbek’s lips
quivered. A malice like none ever seemed to burn in his crepuscular
eyes. He shouted a sinister challenge: “An outlandish fantasy! You
are deranged, Weavil. Even in your diseased imagination. I hereby
denounce you as a clod and a simpleton. Nolpin! Apprehend this
louse before I loose my toad-turning magic on him.”

Weavil ignored
the threat. “I hear a familiar voice. Hark! Can it be Conikraul?”
He tipped an ear, knelt on the planks and implored the audience to
silence. “Look, I spring the trap and what do I find? A chubby arm,
a podgy shin, a milk-white face.”

“’Tis an
illusion only!” shrilled Nuzbek. “I see only a varnished
crossboard, and a joist, in faint reminiscence perhaps of a human
limb, owing to this afternoon sunlight, I suppose. I brand you a
blackguard and a lunatic, Weavil—not to mention an overweening
pip!”

A angry shout
rose from the audience. A rustling of flustered patrons and
demonstrators rounded on the stage. “Here, you spider-tongued
mountebank! It is Conikraul we see. Move aside so we can inspect
this platform of yours.”

“Yes, you
hoaxing grifter—the thickness of the smoke we saw earlier brings us
to doubt. Let us climb your stage and have a look at your trap, the
one that Weavil has exposed.”

The magician
tottered from foot to foot. “The requests are impossible! How can I
permit many hecklers to mount my stage? I prohibit plebeians of any
sort to ascend!”

“An outrage!”
shrieked a high-born woman dressed in a flowing green gown. “Weavil
ascends the stage. Why not us?”

“Indeed!”
stormed another patron. “Are you implying that we are plebeians and
not Weavil?”

A group of men
who were better cargo lifters than logicians accredited the
declaration as an insult. They leapt to scramble onstage. The crowd
was flung into pandemonium. A trio of indignant sailors gained the
stage brandishing fists and offering aggressive action. Nuzbek,
Nolpin and Boulm, managed to pitch the instigators into the crowd,
but several of the defenders regrouped and ploughed onstage, along
with five rugged dockworkers. They slapped Nuzbek’s attendants
aside and seized the magician and began administering an incisive
punishment.

Nuzbek’s buxom
helpers fled in panic. Conikraul was hauled up from the crawlspace
and was handed to safety. Nuzbek, horror-stricken, was ripped off
the stage like a scarecrow. He watched in frozen disbelief as a
dozen members of the audience began pillaging his storehouse
concealed underneath the slats. Uttering moans of distress, he
watched through sunken eyes as items of value were flung onto the
lawn: fire-sticks, gyros, crystal runestones, ghost globes, bird
cages, costumes, costly robes, polished horns, magic boots, gilded
urns, imploding, smog-ridden balloons, an ornate fume thrower
engraved with the gyrfalcons of Karsh. With the assistance of the
seamen, they tore the awning down, dismantled the timbers and flung
the segments about in disorderly ruin. Nolpin was forced to
surrender his monies that had been accepted for the show.

Persons old
and young, rich and poor clambered amidst the wreckage to grab what
they could, snatching at more than what they had paid for.

Weavil
regarded the proceedings with sagacious irony. He clicked his
tongue in wonderment, pondering the cost of duplicity.

IV

In the
meanwhile it was an enervated Baus who trudged up the mudflats. He
had succeeded in evading the two bungling pursuers, but only with
cunning and a degree of subterfuge. In silence he stalked up the
beach, avoiding the viscous mud that made for foot-heavy toil. He
contemplated his misfortunes with rancour. Because of the
unspeakable boorishness of a few oafs, he had suffered abrasions
and indignities and had failed to partake of the free victual at
Heagram’s fair. ‘Twas an insufferable turn!

Slogging his
way past a tidal pool, Baus bent his mind on extracting a revenge.
The enterprise was not straightforward. Several plans idled in his
mind but wilted in hazy billows. All plans hinged on the fact that
he must sneak up on the vendors unawares, and surprise them with a
nasty twist, an unlikely event.

Limbs
creaking, Baus arrived at the seaweed tract where his fair-going
had begun. The wind had picked up and grey ominous clouds had
marched to plague Heagram’s coastline. Nillard was nowhere to be
seen: only a pile of ropy fishing nets, tangled with seaweed.

Baus frowned
with disapproval. Where was Harky? The shoremaster was usually
nosing his way around, skulking, barking rebukes and complaints at
everyone around him.

Baus stumped
away to a steeper, sandier portion of the beach. Here he was well
out of range of the galling stench and there he set himself down to
a proper snooze.

An hour later
he was woken by a rude kick in the ribs that sent him tumbling down
the shore . . .

* * *

It was a
tetchy Baus who was guzzling grog at the Portman’s pub alongside
the Heagram docks in the early hours of evening. He had changed
into warmer wear—a pair of cotton-grey breeches, a russet woollen
overcoat. With brooding displeasure, he flung down his perogi and
applied himself to sombre thought. Harky and he had shared bitter
words and blows—ones costing him his post. Ah, what of it? The
world was a wide place for all who applied themselves . . . at
least, so he tried to convince himself over his tepid brew.

Weavil had
arrived, helping Baus deal with his gloom. The two traded stories
over mugs of ale. Baus eventually loosed a chuckle when his friend
told him how he had second-bested the magician.

“I wish I’d
been there to see the look on that glibster’s face,” growled Baus.
“Instead, I was dodging those two lummoxes from Hilgimi. What a
farce!”

“I rather
doubt we’ll be hearing much of Nuzbek too soon, or his
pontificating.”

“Why’s
that?”

“He is in no
condition to lift a magic finger at all—at least the last time I
looked.” He gave Baus a sly glance. “What of your new friends, Iyuk
and Gigor—those bumbling vendors?”

Baus flicked a
glance out the window. “I shall deal with them on the morrow.”

“Let us drink
to that.”

Baus lifted
his cup, feeling the worse for wear. He explained, slurring his
words, “I am melancholy, true, but a toast—yes! . . . to who, or
what? We have exhausted our supply of subjects.”

Weavil chided
his friend. “There is always a cause.”

“You would
know. Let us drink to that—to days and better health.”

“To continuous
flows of grog!”

The two
clinked glasses.

* * *

Closer to
midnight, the two cronies found themselves doddering about the
fairgrounds like a pair of clucking hens. They had imbibed more ale
than perhaps was prudent. The air was dank and smells of sea chill
and rockgobbler drifted to their nostrils. The absence of
comforting light was not reassuring, for a fog hugged their heels
like a hound’s wet muzzle. The restless energy of the night flitted
in and around them like waves from across the harbour. The forlorn
croak of the odd pelican drifted to their ears eerily, with the
creaking of masts and the flapping of furled sails.

Baus peered at
Weavil through his stupor. From either direction came the sounds of
distant laughter, raucous shouts of convivial folk from the lighted
pubs along the boardwalk. A grinning half moon cast a solemn glow
over the trampled lawn where many tents still stood alone amongst
the glistening aisles. Festoons of cloud scudded overhead.. In the
moon-washed alleys, dogs foraged for scraps of oil cake, leftover
eel, and whatever else could be had from careless fairgoers. The
odd vendor roamed the grounds on stiff legs with lantern clutched
in hand, either packing up his wares or staying on guard to protect
themselves from thieves. Some, having sealed their tents with
tarps, lay down to rest inside for the morrow’s trials: the
pervasive thrill of festivity yet to come . . .

Absorbed in
their mood of negligence, Baus and Weavil remained ignorant of any
dangers. Arm in arm, they skipped about like a pair of schoolgirls,
down the lawn, singing a reel that Weavil had composed in his
leisure at the pub, a chorus that went something like:

“
Around the
posy went the little red mosy,

A duck was in
his hat, a feather was in his ear,

Hi, hi, ho and
a bottle of rum!

Here we dance
and here we strum,

On our zither
and ziare, with minds very much numb!”

“Ha, ha!”
cried Baus. The two capered into tents, amongst the lanes, clapping
hands and clinging to each other like jesters. Sleepy-headed
vendors tripped out of their canopies to exhort them to silence.
Baus egged Weavil on to shout more reels and more antics. A
mettlesome weaver stormed out of his tent with a curse on his lips
and a cane in his hand. He dealt Weavil a cuff on the ear: “Begone
you beggar. ’Tis quiet hours.”