Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I (15 page)

“This is
sluggardly work, Baus! Notice how Vibellhanz trowels with
efficiency. Your handiwork is sloppy in comparison, and
slapdash!”

Baus arrested
his trowelling to peer at Voin with narrowed eyes. “And how might I
attain this miracle?”

“Through
diligence and passion.”

Baus made
efforts to comprehend the means, but the curl of his lip barely
masked his sarcasm. “I have only pursued this line of work for a
day now. Do you expect me to be a master?”

“In
retrospect, no,” responded Voin. “On their first essay, Lopze and
Quintlo performed a grand job of mortaring, which was to be
commended.”

“Well then,
let Lopze and Quintlo trowel and slave away, not I!

Voin gave a
startled gasp. “You make demands then?”

Baus further
growled through his teeth. “No, I merely ask, must we all be
perfectionists in our first hour?”

“Essentially
yes—and watch the timbre of your voice, you rogue. I am wise to
your tricks and am generally lenient when it comes to
inefficiencies, but as head of this operation, I am under pressure
that the wall must be completed before the first winter gales.
Prefect Barth has decreed the achievement! Do not forget I am
chairman of the Bricklayer’s Guild—now back to your work, ingrate,
with speed! Adroitness must be augmented!”

Baus mumbled
an epithet. Where had he heard those slave-mongering words before?
Not too far up the beach, from the mouth of a certain Harky . .
.

The day
dragged on; rock piled upon rock. The barrow’s wheels creaked,
cement powder sloshed while shovels scraped and trowels clinked.
The wall grew slowly in length. By five o’clock, ten more feet had
been added to the crooked line.

Oppet came to
relieve the exhausted convicts while Voin returned to the town,
given to that self-satisfied strutting typical of his ilk. Baus
trudged wearily through the darkening forest, knees bent under the
weight of his ball and chain.

When the
convicts reached the gate, Ausse received them with a peremptory
wave, motioning them inside the yard. The bobbin released from the
drum; a rattling of chains punctuated the stillness. The portcullis
smashed down, causing Oppet’s hounds a chorus of bays. At close
range, Baus studied the beobar mesh with contempt: the grate was
fifteen feet high, stout as shore pilings. It joined the ungainly
watchtower that ran on through the low-lying, creepy beobar.

Ausse removed
the anklets from the prisoners’ legs. He returned the restraints to
the repository; meanwhile Oppet leashed his snauzzerhounds with
just enough slack to administer a deadly attack should any
miscreants attempt escape through the gate. The houndmaster retired
to the comfort of his small cottage deep beneath the plum-shadowed
forest. To Baus, one thing was evident; there would be no escape by
this quarter.

The prisoners
supped that evening on boar stew mixed with overcooked perogi
doused in cuttlefish oil. Fading damask light brought the evening
ritual of Flanks, where Dighcan remained the undisputed champion.
Nuzbek was too wary to be domineered by any sly play, and so he
outwitted Tustok of his jade-coloured cape and Leamoine of his fine
pair of ear clasps through means of magic. Throughout the rounds,
Nuzbek forfeited only a few small items of bander. Such was his
craft that he had only contributed tokens such as arrowhead, small
flexible moon disk and boot lace which seemed to coil of its own
volition. Other trifles he bid—which the winners and non-winners
could not dispute. His tactics were sound: supplying multiple
bander to the pot, he afforded himself the luxury of losing
valueless items of which he seemed to have an endless supply in his
black robe. His icon was crafted of thin and pliable withe which
harboured an elasticity that seemed to spring back of its own
accord and resist opponents’ missiles with rubbery marvel.

Baus’s lack of
bander forced him to observe the proceedings from a distance. His
scrutiny was imbued with certain distaste. He watched in offhand
amusement as Weavil attempted a toss mid-way through the fifth
round, but losing, thus deprived of two of his neck rings. Only
very narrowly did the midget avoid a humiliating degradation. For
their first time at hurling, Nolpin and Boulm stood eagerly at the
throwing line and they proved contesters of poor quality—ones who
also lost rounds beyond their supply of bander to replenish and
suffered abasements: Boulm, a chicken whipping, and Nolpin, a
vaulting up the old dead hazelwood, much to the amused jests of the
gamesters.

The gong
tolled. Curfew was signalled. Ausse and Germakk shuttled the
prisoners off to the dormitory where they stood guard on deck with
backs to the door. Ausse was first on patrol; Germakk assumed high
post in the watchtower. Oppet and his hounds kept vigilance at the
front gate.

The men
engaged in a tradition of rude banter before retiring. Baus was
unable to relax. He realized that he knew little of his bed-mates,
and was prompted to inquire of his fellow colleagues’ crimes.

“What interest
would you have?” blurted Lopze. He was about to squeeze himself
between Zestes and Karlil but heaved himself erect.

“Simple
curiosity,” said Baus. “You seem to be a decent fellow who poses
some curiosity to me—for example—Valere, what sort of mischief have
you committed to arrive in this thieves’ den?”

Valere rubbed
his chin. “Simple curiosity is one thing, friend, but malicious
intent another.” His frown softened and he raked his beefy fingers
through his red mane. “A sad tale, though,” he admitted, “but a
good one. All the other lubbers in this warren have heard it a
thousand times, so I shall not care for a repeat.”

“Nonsense!”
protested Zestes. “Let’s hear it, seabeard, and we shall listen to
it for all its usual clichés and embellishments!”

The big
redhead shook his head with modest dignity. “Of embellishments you
shall find none, Zestes. So pellucid are the images dug in my mind
that they shimmer as clear as yesterday!” His voice took on a deep,
resonant tone, at once melancholy. “I was a sea captain once—a
happy one, with ne’er a sad thought to my name. But, I sailed the
Poesasian in my little cog, ‘
the Illimmer
’, named by my
father’s father and I knew woe after a time. We all lived on the
Isle of Illim and loved the lonely, placid little isle with its
soaring gulls, melodious winds and graven seas, with waves singing
seaside chanteys fair as any minstrel to our ears. This was all at
least this side of Brislin. I harboured a crew of six lackeys. Many
contracts per month in haulage I gained before I fell afoul of the
seductress, Rauseelia. Ah, she was a woman of visceral dexterity
who would sunder a man’s soul to tatters! I fell instantly in love
with her; so stunning was her figure as to defy nature itself, as
beautiful as any man could behold—tawny-locked, ruby-lipped, a body
as lean as a tigress. She had the eyes of glistening marble, a
bosom as full as two rising suns, a swagger that would tempt any
man’s resources ten times beyond the monks of Long Bight. Well, she
came from a well-to-do family, in Britobur, of course, and thwarted
my desire and after her hour of teasing would have nothing to do
with me. She thrust away my advances like breakers that tossed surf
on a desolate wind-racked shore. Into a knot of craving she had my
heart pulsing! I could not sleep! By day I imagined her
tawny-auburn thighs around mine, her sultry laugh, her inviting
lips, her slender form emitting its warmth. Alas—by night she would
have me lying awake in cold sweats. Even now, I can envisage her
aura silhouetted in my porthole and cannot resist a tremble.”

“Very poetic,”
muttered Lopze.

“Aye, more
vivid than your previous anecdotes,” commented Zestes.

“Do you want
to hear the story or not?” Valere shot stern looks from left to
right. “Well, one fine April eve, I heaved to at the docks of
Britobur, that mightily proper town not ten leagues south of
Heagram. She lived with her right ancestry and kin. I stole her
stealthily back to my seacraft. Off to sea I sailed with the vixen
and my jolly crew aboard my night-camouflaged vessel. She thrashed
and bucked like a flounder—ah, true! I did have her for my own now,
though I never would force myself on her—I was not that type of
man. She was sly and cunning, this fiery-tempered Rauseelia, and
one night in the weeks that followed, she slipped something into
the drink of my mates while we were besotted. We slouched prone and
she tied us up in our chairs. The next day she shouted to the open
sea for succour and sailed alone as she could with her seaman’s
knowledge. Waited and waited we did for days with us trussed up
like hares before a carrack bearing Arnin’s flag detected our cog
and fell on us like crakes. On a foray up the coast against the
buccaneer triangle, Arnin’s men so learned of Rauseelia’s story,
and with us tied up in our own squalor and unglorious shame, we
were doomed. They rescued the girl and returned her to her precious
Britobur, but they delivered me to Heagram, that being the closest
jailhouse to my birthplace. Eight years ago that was, and I have
been dealt a half life sentence since.”

Baus stared
misty-eyed. “A moving tale, Valere. It makes one wish to never
plunge so deeply in swoon for a woman.”

Valere uttered
a laugh. “Cruel indeed. These are the twistings of heart which all
men face at least once in their lifetime. Except maybe Leamoine. I
have survived where others have not. Regard!—I haven’t a better
pack of rogues in which to keep company!”

“A touching
confession!” crowed Dighcan.

“And what of
you, Baus?” demanded Valere. “What shenanigans have you been up to,
to get you in here? Something related to Nuzbek’s magic show and
his dim chums I gather?”

Baus pulled
sorrowfully at his chin. “Something of the sort—though far less
complex. In light of your own gloomy tale, I am almost embarrassed
to admit—I broke a ledge-full of shellames at the fair. I bore not
the funds to repay the insipid shop-owners, and so remain immured
as you see.”

Lopze roared.
“What? For so trivial a crime? What does this world come to when
men are gaoled for murder and sleep in the same bed as fledglings
knocking over Mother Meegle’s wee casserole bowl?”

“Don’t mind
Lopze,” cautioned Zorez. “He used to reside in the old shanty
overlooking the sea by the lighthouse, didn’t you, Lopze?—until you
murdered Klueshin’s dachshund.”

“The cur used
to urinate in my yard.”

Baus inquired,
“And this is a crime to be incarcerated for?”

“It was not
just on my lawn that the flea-hound pissed! It was on my precious
bonsai—the one that I had grown for fifteen years. It was slowly
being wasted away, poisoned by the bromidic bladder of that
mongrel! Yes, I dispatched the mutt to purgatory. I also gave
Klueshin, that jackleg barber, a proper thrashing when he came to
complain of his dead dachshund. In fact, the lout put up such
peevish resistance that I was forced to strangle him with my bare
hands.”

Baus nodded
morosely, noting well the long span of years that Lopze had still
to serve, hoping that more would be added.

Quintlo,
squint-eyed and high-strung, jerked a thumb over at Weavil. “What
about little Poodle here? He seems overly crabbed, like as if he
had a beetle up his behind; at least he offers us a few words, but
that’s on a good day.”

Baus offered a
clarification: “Weavil is reticent, yes, but as a sensitive poet
and scholar, he has suffered a mortification.”

Paltuik
exhaled a mocking grunt. “Mortification? And how is it any worse
than what we have all suffered?”

Baus spoke
gravely, “Acting in temper and inebriation, he committed a faux-pas
upon Captain Graves, which necessitated an accounting.”

Tustok
snickered. “Certainly an error if I’ve ever heard one.”

Softened by
the sympathy, Weavil outlined in detail Nuzbek’s insensitive,
heavy-handed spell and how it had resulted in his despicable
shrinking. Absorbing the story with uncharitable animosity, the
prisoners rounded upon the magician. Yullen and Zestes reached up a
hand and buffeted Nuzbek malevolently; others administered their
own biffs and slaps in the form of jeering payback.

Nolpin and
Boulm shrank back on their beds. They awaited their own abuse;
however, Nuzbek tore himself off his cot and faced his foes with
jerky defiance: “Imbeciles! I merely transmogrified Weavil into a
pygmy to rid this town of one less pest and narcissist! Not leastly
because of his own inexcusable, rabble-rousing which razed my set.
Listen, jackdaws! I shall now provide an unabridged narrative of
the facts!”

“Please do
so!” urged Valere.

Nuzbek exhaled
before his pink mouth gave vent to a pedantic spiel of the events
at Heagram Fair. He overstated his hopeless frustration and
unrequited anguish with the heckling that had relieved him of his
property, delivering his wealth to an absolute nadir. His address
was conducted with alliteration, euphemisms and a more than usual
amount of bombast.

Notwithstanding, many of the inmates regarded Nuzbek with a sallow
wariness which they showed with attitudes of scepticism and
unease.

Jorkoff
offered a weighted comment: “If I didn’t witness Weavil’s own
condition with my eyes, I would not believe a word of your tale,
Nuzbag. How did you transmogrify him? The circumstance seems
implausible!”

Nuzbek’s
expression turned grey. He spoke in an icy whisper. “In the face of
rich thaumaturgy, nothing is impossible, oaf, for which I shall
demonstrate.”

Jorkoff
quickly renounced the need for any substantiation. Zestes and
Dighcan followed suit and rhymed off reasons also for such a
bypassing.

“Very well,”
observed Nuzbek coolly. “I shall overlook this muckraking for
once—but no more! My lenience is not infinite!”