Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I Read online

  Unheeding of Baus and Weavil’s cries, Nolpin and Boulm dragged the two by the heels to the edge of the fairgrounds with blithe refrains humming on their lips.

  Under the gloom of a stand of beobar trees, a dim structure took form: a tall canopy dressed with dragon vanes and buttressed shattered planks. A single wegmor—half ox, half horse—lay tethered to the trunk. The wagon lay to the side. Partially hidden from sight was a queer glow masked in the serpentine shadows. A lamp perhaps? The structure was without doubt the hasty fabrication that Nuzbek and his cronies had erected after the destruction of their stage.

  Nuzbek’s hirelings escorted the inebriates inside. The dark flaps rolled down. Thump! Nuzbek tied the canvas securely with fastidious care, then proceeded to light a series of candelabra tacked around the interior. Many treasures and marvels were cached in the confines, Baus and Weavil saw—a petrified toad, a golden clock with hands swinging backwards, candles immersed in some foul liquid whose wicks seemed to burn purple, wrong-side up, an aquarium with fish that blew luminous bubbles, creating explosions in the sediment . . .

  Baus’s eyes reeled. Boulm thrust him down beside a pile of crates and hurried to shake another strange lantern alive: a tall, creepy ‘water lamp’ which seemed to float in the center of the tent with dark purpose. It was the shape of a crescent moon, bathing the chamber in a weird sepia glow.

  Baus looked despairingly from his crouched position. He swatted away Boulm’s ragged beard from his own face. The laughing, easy eyes had become badgerish orbs of malice. Now Nolpin worried Weavil with his boot while Nuzbek poised like a predatory eagle limned in the light, eyes gleaming triumphantly. The poise only confirmed Baus’s suspicion that this travelling magician—sinister as he was—was far more than a simple conjuror.

  Baus narrowed his eyes, taking in the surroundings with growing dismay. The enclosure was stiflingly humid. The breadth seemed to stretch to infinity, like some trick of imagination. The constrained knot in his gut tightened to an unsprung coil. He saw cabinets and wood chests piled off to the side, amongst which included a collection of obscure jars and rusty instruments, and a tub of unknown elixirs. On a ledge, Baus made out a collection of distraught figures. Puppets? All were bizarre enough to be indeterminable. The curious thing was that each ‘puppet’, if such were, was pickled in its own jar of what looked like brine. On further glances, Baus saw the figures were animated.

  Hunching himself closer, Baus saw how queer it was that the figures seemed to kick and scratch at the glass as if they were alive, yet standing no higher than two feet.

  What marvel! Baus made cursory note of the fact and with strained civility addressed Nuzbek: “Clever, Nuzbek. Perhaps you are a greater magician than we had all guessed.”

  “Tut, tut”. The magician, reacting favourably to the comment, reached out a hand, stroking casually the translucent curve of the nearest jar. “Allow me to introduce my four companions: Woisper, Ulisa, Salmeister and Trimestrius. All are important beings in this universe, not to mention possessors of singular talents. Each soul comprises the only valued pieces of my collection, spared recently from molestation by the pernicious mob, as a result of my own foresight, which had them cached under the stoutest beobar timbers. Meet Woisper the Wilful, Ulisa the Utilitarian, Salmeister the Saturnine, and Trimestrius the Third!”

  Weavil, while not registering the names of the illustrious individuals, made an expansive compliment about the foresight which corroborated Nuzbek’s claim.

  Nuzbek ignored the declaration. Peering at the figures, he motioned toward the round, pot-bellied, grey-bearded man—indubitably Woisper. Shoulders were stooped, his garb completely brown: brown hood, brown scarf, brown vest, hose, and brogues. The adjacent homunculus was yellow-bearded, of middle years—a man who wore a pair of voluminous tan and umber trousers. Owing to his sallow cheeks and bulbous face, Baus guessed this fellow to be Salmeister. He wore a gold circlet atop his balding crown and the figure seemed hopelessly encaged. Dismal, if not moribund. Another silhouette was poised glowingly with an elfin, pleasing arrangement of breast, hip and haunch underneath an acolyte’s pure violet robe. Under the liquidy tumble of her tresses she upheld a most awful scowl and looked out of her fish-bowl world through a pair of smouldering eyes. The last, but not least, looked a renegade-ish chap, a woodsman perhaps, who wore the green regalia of a ‘hunter’ complete with green cape and belled cap. A golden broadsword, now shrunken to the size of a gladius, hung belted at his hip.

  Nuzbek motioned to the last jar which contained the weaponed swain. “This pretentious, foul-tongued varlet is ‘Trimestrius’ the Third. He is a schemer and misbehaver. A betrayer of most reprehensible dimensions and I have kept this knave separate from the others. The brown-hooded reprobate is, as you can guess, Woisper the Wilful, a wretch and tyrant, but a prodigal in his hey-day. The robed beauty is Ulisa the Utilitarian—a splendid example of womanly beauty, gorgeous, and puissant in her prime, but in many aspects an absolute harpy. Do not be deceived by the illustrious contours! She is a witch. The winsomeness is illusory. The yellow-faced, cornflower-bearded buffoon standing so haughtily in his brine, is Salmeister the Saturnine, a repugnant oaf whose transgressions are too numerous to state, so I will bypass a formal disclosure.”

  “Very well—a daunting foursome,” agreed Baus grimly. “But what have these wretches to do with us? And why the dark looks and sinister aspects on their visages? Even now, I think to hear malicious mutters issuing from Ulisa’s lips—the one who seems to project abuses toward yourself.”

  Nuzbek shifted in pretended amazement. He dropped to a knee, pressed ear close to the jar. “I suppose you are correct, Baus.” His gaze grew abstracted, as if trying to recall past times. “Ulisa can be a disparaging hoyden, if she puts her mind to it. Once she was my tutor—a priggish pedagogue—this was a very long time ago. All these criminals form past liaisons with me. Either singly or in concert, all chose to betray me, and now they serve as decorations to my travelling chambers. Tokens of marvel, in fact, delighting me at times when my mood demands it.” He focused his glare on the disarray of broken bits of glass, bone, shell, metal and cloth in his trunks. “These shards—they are all that remain of my last wondrous adjuncts! Alas, at times as these, I receive my greatest joys from these bottled bibelots. Look at their unique grace!—amongst this ridiculous riot of ruin!”

  Weavil let out a high-hearted chuckle: “Look on the bright side, Nuzbek. Even if you had tried to retrieve your adjuncts at an earlier time, they would have likely been demolished or purloined by the throng.”

  “Perhaps even shattered to oblivion,” observed Baus.

  “The fisherman does have a point,” admitted Boulm.

  “Silence!” snapped Nuzbek. “I’ll not have oafs muttering jests about my belongings. My commerce is set back a considerable degree and wisecracks from banal minds do not remedy the fact.” He rested his gaze upon the treasured jars. “Perhaps all has not yet lost . . .”

  Nolpin raised his brows. “How’s that?”

  Nuzbek gestured. “I believe Weavil shall prove a comic addition to my collections of homunculi.”

  “Now that you mention it—”

  “Silence!” Nuzbek cried. “A better scheme evolves in my brain, nitwit: the twain, Baus and Weavil, shall both be cached as bibelots in a single jar!”

  “The plan is ludicrous,” spat Baus.

  “Nonsense! Why carp over an innovation when an entire jar can be saved?” laughed Nuzbek.

  “I am completely innocent in this affair,” Baus cried. Recklessly, he writhed in Boulm’s grip. To no avail. “If you would so desperately seek a scapegoat, choose Weavil. Mystery does not abound as to the source of your ill fortune.”

  Nuzbek gave a shocked grunt. “And how valorous and high-minded, the noble Baus? You would sacrifice your comrade to the wolves? A staggering admission, and frankly quite an implication of your character.”

  Baus scowled but Weavil agreed with all fervour. “In truth,
was it not you who was telling me earlier, ‘how I would like to see the look on the glibster’s face’ when his exhibition was fouled?”

  Baus gave his head a jerk. “You have muddled your memories, Weavil—especially after much grog. It is a well known fact that you conduct fibs at bedtime. Was it not you who were pointing out to me earlier that ‘we won’t be hearing the labours of a certain huckster’s pontificating too soon’?”

  An inarticulate croak rose up in Weavil’s throat. “What trash! Does Nuzbek care for all these specious yarns? Let us speak more germanely; for instance, of these miniatures stacked before us. I see an overflow of gewgaws. Why would our friend Nuzbek opt for more?”

  “Indeed?” the magician cried, his eyes glittering with malice. “This is the honest truth! I am always on the lookout for more bibelots. In fact, I am greedy for them!”

  “Well, if it will make matters more agreeable,” argued Weavil, “I would recite a ditty that will put everyone’s minds at ease.” He began humming a poem, which started, ‘How now, the dastard that has enchanted my magnificent mind?’ upon which Nuzbek uttered a sharp exclamation to the effect forbidding Weavil from communicating any more balladry.

  The magician smoothed out his hat. “Now, if you don’t mind, I shall progress to more important affairs: describing the embalming process which is presently to be enacted upon your persons. The transformation is unique! An exhilarating dip into an alternate world; in fact, we appropriate you to fit in a single half-jar.”

  Nolpin beamed appreciatively. “Nuzbek, you are always an artisan in regards to your plans!”

  Nuzbek nodded. “First I will spread the talc-gum and unicorn-salve on this Kelshian slate blessed by Three Virgins of Krin; then I will mix the resultant mash into kalcyx—where? In this buff tub, of course! Filled with brine. Then, I must incant a dark ode to Lun, our modern day deity of the 2nd order. Who is Lun, in more precise terms? He, she, or it—if I might intimate, is an unspeakable juggernaut who for purposes of safety, shall not be troubled to be called upon by true name, for fear of untoward effect, but I shall casually refer to as ‘Dontz’.”

  Baus and Weavil both repudiated the invocation to any ‘Dontz’.

  Nuzbek politely held up a hand. “The paste is already pre-prepared and is somewhat delicate. So, I have pre-formulated the ointment for just such an occasion.” He smilingly retrieved a salver of effluvium from a jewelled chest cached on a top shelf. Baus caught a glimpse of the crimson mixture, looking exactly like thickened blood of yantler, or some foul strain of snake. Quickly, Baus offloaded the disregard he harboured for blood to a more practical form of utility.

  “Now then, Weavil,” Nuzbek chided sombrely, “the facts. As I see it, a certain number of prized appurtenances have been reduced to rubble as a result of your crass meddling.”

  Weavil brushed off the charge as a fluke of circumstance. Nuzbek, of course, would hear nothing of it. “The items number in the tens—or twenties: for instance, my balloon rockets, my flaring whipper sticks, my sobospheres, polyglome toxomy, mystic fife, hurdy-gurdy, jumping shoes, and ah dear, the list goes on . . .”

  Nolpin addressed Nuzbek in a soft, consolatory voice. “You loved that hurdy-gurdy so! You polished and cared for it for an age—also your flying puppets, which are now completely decimated, having similarly come under fire of the witless villagers.”

  Nuzbek cried out an anguished retort. “Ah, Nolpin, you are a cruel reminder of past deeds!” He clutched his ears with vengeance. “The point of contention is that, naturally I require recompense for these damaged articles. Given that I dislike inequities in the universe of any kind, now—I decree that a stasis be restored!”

  Nolpin agreed pleasantly. “But how, and under what conditions?”

  “That is to be determined.”

  “And how does this include me?” huffed Weavil.

  Nuzbek gave a frown: “An important query, Weavil, which will be answered in due time. But for now, you must be concerned with other matters. Namely, your safety. Being my premier ‘test case’—in the new mode of embalming, consider yourself favoured. First!—a swift reduction to the size of a centauro.”

  Weavil cried out in loathing: “The procedure is precipitate. I find high aversion to it!”

  “Nonsense! You shall feel only a prick of a pin. Hold him, Nolpin, whilst I apply the resin. Remember! As I administer the unguent, be advised that the squib’s accursed squirming may sabotage the procedure!”

  Weavil swatted out and cried. He voiced an unpleasant malediction, but Nolpin ignored that and continued to jam his elbow into his larynx.

  Weavil jerked; Nolpin was adamant to the inconvenience, whereupon Weavil chomped hard into Nolpin’s wrist, prompting a cry of painful surprise. Baus, laughing drunkenly, struggled in Boulm’s half nelson, but to no avail. He could not render Weavil any succour, or minister to his own needs.

  Nuzbek clucked like a happy hen. “How I am fond of these play-times!” Clapping his hands, he simpered. “Now, Nolpin, careful! Your blows are coming down a little hard upon Weavil. We must exercise decorum here. I demand perfect specimens for my experiments, for careful preparation of my expositions!”

  Nolpin agreed; he conducted his exploits in a manner to abide by Nuzbek’s wishes—yanking Weavil’s ears, worrying his ribcage and cradling him fast between his knees while Nuzbek splashed the requisite unguents over Weavil’s entire upper body and howls of pain and rage ensued.

  The air suddenly became thick. The victim’s eyes bulged; orbs popped with dread; Weavil’s lips began to foam and for a brief second, he began to pulsate in a fish-scale blue, then a parrot orange while writhing like a serpent which sheds its skin. Weavil’s torso succumbed to an abrupt sort of jerking, then a shimmering of venomous green. To Baus’s unadulterated amazement, his friend’s entire body, except his squirrelly head, compacted an entire inch.

  Weavil stifled an outburst. Baus felt a limp cry rising in his throat. Before his very eyes, he saw Weavil shrink, inch by inch, to a knee-high homunculus. The trousers, vest, shoes and necklace seemed to diminish in accordance with the puppet that Weavil was becoming.

  Something had gone amiss. Nuzbek’s fey magic seemed tainted. Whether it was real or complemented with dark energies, the magic had been deprived of sufficient unction, for Weavil’s crown remained clearly as large as before.

  Nuzbek minded not in the least. Wielding a fist full of unguent, he gestured in an attitude of jest and judicial triumph. “Now, see who is a fraud and fakir, you doubters!” Vainglory trebled, Nuzbek projected a sinister leer into the candlelit murk.

  Nuzbek reached for an empty cylinder. He called out a quip, gloating with trembling anticipation, “I shall now prepare a canister of byke fusion. Let the ceremony commence!”

  Weavil shook like a dog. He was slaked with salve and brine. “Release me! ’Tis my right!” The poet’s howls were wretched and vindictive. He struggled to hold up his oversize head. Squatting to snatch at his dragging coveralls, he wrapped up his privates, which he discovered to have shrunken to excessively tiny size. His wails were unseemly. To Baus’s ears it seemed as if a knot of pub-crawlers, vendors and the like had gathered outside the tent.

  Nuzbek, startled by the prospect of intruders, bounded over to obstruct the entrance. In the confused scramble, Weavil managed to elude Nolpin’s grasp and greased as he was, darted between Nolpin’s legs and whipped about the tent, like a demonic child.

  Nuzbek gave a brisk shriek: “Secure this obnoxious imp, Nolpin! He might damage my adjuncts.”

  The instruction was wasted.

  “I said hold him, oaf—not be his hop-ball mate! Are you daft? Time does not demand mistakes. Snare our subject into a jar before the embalming! Be diligent!”

  A rustling at the tent flaps alerted the magician. He whirled in a crouch. Raising a quivering hand to the canvas, he shrieked out a command: “Whoever loiters, abstain from joggling my canopy! The material is costly!”

  The juddering cont
inued. Shivering with annoyance, the magician prepared to exert a more pernicious set of repercussions on the intruder, but was interrupted by a long hunter’s knife snaking through the canvas and plunging dangerously close to his throat.

  The magician tottered back, gasping. Grief flooded his face. With a raw scratch across his pale throat, he stifled a rank cry. Into the enclosure burst two uniformed men, gripping sharpened pales and long snapperwhips. Baus was beside himself with relief. Here was proof that he would not be subject to a molestation!

  V

  While Nuzbek frantically stashed away his precious formula in a trunk, Nolpin and Boulm were pinned frozen, like wild-eyed pigs. The two officers leapt into sight, snapping their leather whips. They cried out for order, shouting out their titles as Captain Graves and Deputy Tilfgurd. Graves was of great physical presence, wrapped in a bubble of righteousness. Tilfgurd was a younger, mousier rendition of his superior, a figure with boyish yellow curls and a frame of half the size. The two stared at the crazy dwarf Weavil zipping about the tent, whining and mewling. His arms were stretched out like a candy-grabber and sorrowful moans oozed from his mouth. Spectacle-hungry bystanders began pushing their way through the flap, looking for scandal. A pinch-faced Uyu and Migor were included in this rabble, fighting for inclusion. Gap-eyed booth-keepers poked through the gap while a twain Baus recognized as Gysod and Pisp, a bowlegged seaman and a dockscrubber, squeezed their way through.

  Released from Boulm’s vice-like grip, Baus dove into the shadows. He sank in behind one of Nuzbek’s crates, sheltering himself from disaster. He peered up over the iron-bound crate to see Uyu’s moustache twitching like a snogmald’s fin. Migor’s lips parted; an unctuous sweat pasted his hair like honey.

  The Captain, red-eyed and chubby, scratched his balding pate and turned his attention upon Nuzbek, “Haven’t you prompted enough violence for one day, Nuzbek?”