Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I (7 page)

“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
continued. 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?”

The magician
pounced upon the Captain’s misconception. “These two rogues,
Captain, I caught intruding upon my domain. They are law-breachers
and miscreants. I was in the process of salvaging my magic set when
Boulm and Nolpin discovered these two lurkers skulking about my
property. Naturally, I assumed them to be thieves. We implemented
our own measures of order—enforcing spiritual requital and
justice.”

Baus’s
strangled cry came up from the darkness: “We have no interest in
Nuzbek’s property! We were only dragged here against our will.
Grant no credence to this man’s forked tongue!”

“Cease your
bluster, Baus,” growled Graves. “I see you skulking behind that
crate. Come out. I am a man of facts, not slapstick
buffoonery!”

Baus cried, “I
am disinclined to leave my crampy-hole. I am collecting my wits so
that I may outline the multiple infractions this madman has imposed
on me and Weavil.” He cleared his throat. “It starts with the fact
that while Weavil and I were touring the fairgrounds, these two
swine, in the form of Nolpin and Boulm, waylaid us, beat us, and
dragged us into this wretched tepee in order to inflict maximum
damage. Nuzbek himself performed ungracious acts upon Weavil, which
are self apparent.”

Weavil sprang
up midget-like to paw at Graves’ thigh. The Captain swatted him
away.

“As you can
see—our town poet has been thaumaturgized!”

Antagonism
hung in the air and Graves’ troubled scowl grew to a grimace. “This
is a serious affair! Nuzbek, what have you to say for
yourself?”

The magician
paced forward, mouthing a retort, “I shall put out a blunt reply,
Captain. That as sincere as this liar appears in his rhetoric, he
has a talent for distorting reality, to the effect of reducing the
situation to bathos.”

“A fact beside
the point,” asserted Graves. “Now be done with your pompous
verbiage and transform Weavil back to his regular self. The sight
of him is intolerable!”