Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I (3 page)

He was sure
that he was about to be pounced on, but gained his feet, sprinting
headlong into a human leg.

A hand
politely parted a drape to a storage booth. A soft boot nudged him
through.

“Weavil?”

“At your
service,” came the poet’s laugh.

The drape
closed. Weavil remained hunched in the outer lane.

A rough voice
shot out from the aisle: “Where is the bumbling oaf?”

Weavil’s
clarion voice came through the drape to Baus’s ears. “Do you mean
the long-legged hoodlum wearing cheap hat and fake glasses?”

“That’s
him!”

“I thought to
see the knave fleeing on all fours that way.”

There were
grunts and curses and the two pursuers dogged in the prescribed
direction. After a time, Weavil tsked: “You can come out now.”

Baus dragged
himself to his feet.

“Must I always
rescue you in such deplorable fashion? It is embarrassing.”

Baus waved a
hand. “The idea is more demeaning than the rescuing, Weavil.”

“Nevertheless,
it is embarrassing.”

Baus shrugged.
Twenty yards away, a group of eccentric figures yammered away,
engaged in antics in the public section of a demonstration booth.
There was a green-haired ape capering in circles, a white-robed
lizard-eyed man orating odes, and a blue-nosed dwarf executing back
flips atop a bear. Nearby, three misfits wrapped in loose brown
rags performed cartwheels. A grinning girl stood to the side with
peaked, cat-like ears, who held up an evocative placard from her
overhanging rabbit tooth which read:

Grolsner’s
Mini-Circus and Excellent Acrobats

Buy Tickets and
Enjoy!

The performers
capered about in their usual ways. If anything, there was a
sprightliness to their steps, even derring-do. Now a juggler with a
white dunce’s cap tossed a bowling pin childishly close to one of
the dwarfs. The playtoy bopped her on the crown; the dwarf gave a
twittering chirp and began chasing after the juggler. The routine
prompted howls from the audience and inspired Baus to rub
affectionately at his chin. It seemed that members of ‘Grolsner’s
troupe’ tended toward the harmless. Perhaps the entourage might
offer some employment to offset his net-untangling? The more he
pondered, the more he warmed to the idea, as if it were meant to
be. If it were adventure he coveted, perhaps one of these ragtag
bands could permit a down and out fisherman to discover a bit of
country, engage in some rendezvous with a few vivacious females,
other such boons . . .

The fantasy
dissolved. Various members swarmed around Baus. In his fascination,
he had stepped closer to the display than he had thought, leaving
Weavil behind, griping at his lack of thanks.

He saw five
exceptional persons: Hamma the Rabbit Boy, Larga the Strong-woman,
Edulf the Dwarf Ape, Yipyob the Salamander Man, and Sandar the Nail
Cleaver.

A white-furred
bear with dwarf rider suddenly nuzzled up to him, scooting after
the sign holder in fun. As if on cue, the bear skipped around in a
two step strut with front paws paddling, only to fall over and play
dead, tumbling its rider. The animal had no collar or leash, but
was muzzled with wire cord and leather flaps. A well-fed
middle-aged impresario seemed to be directing the whole farrago
from a distance and when he came to investigate the interruption,
stormed forward with . “Here!” he called, adjusting his cape and
orange star-studded top hat. He marched with purpose and precision.
“Back to your capering, you lazy mongers! Am I to pay you for
rubbernecking?—No!” The heat was directed at Baus. “State your
business, stranger, and desist from this rambling and distracting
my staff.”

“I have no
intent of ‘distracting’,” responded Baus icily. “I am only a
wandering fisherman, an experienced one at that, and the owner of a
talented knowledge base among other skills. I toy with the idea of
joining your minor ensemble, perhaps in an advisory capacity.
Weavil, my esteemed colleague, will endorse me as a worthy
candidate.”

Grolsner
looked for the person in reference but found no one. “A large thing
you ask,” he muttered. He furrowed his brow and made sounds of one
much in doubt. “Despite your self-professed qualifications, I know
you not a whit from Darnar the jewel thief, let alone Wistro the
Mountebank. Your credentials are not to be seen. I must pass on
your offer. This is a tightly-run business—not one given to
frivolity.” He was interrupted by the two-stepping bear with the
upside down dwarf. “Not now, Chancey!” he cried. He shook the
bear’s brown-clawed paw off his shoulder, then implored the beast
for peace. “Take little Ridfoo and give her some balls to play
with.”

The beast gave
an endearing growl and nose-bumped Ridfoo toward the circus chest
overflowing with pins and balls.

“As I was
saying,” Grolsner continued practically, “I offer no sinecures in
this business. The territory is much too fragile.” He stroked his
beard and scratched at his goldy curls. The varnished coils danced
with highlights. “If I have a business left! That vainglorious
magician Nuzbek over there keeps stealing my clients! It was the
same at Efoven, and the same before that at Loust. I simply cannot
shake his presence from the circuit!”

“Well, then,
if Nuzbek is drawing more business,” mused Baus, “perhaps I should
direct my attention to him.”

Grolsner made
a noisy protest. “Improper logic! Nuzbek’s ‘Marvels and
Miracula’—ha, it is a complete sham!” The impresario hissed his
displeasure.

Baus raised an
eyebrow. “A passionate exclamation for one describing a colleague’s
trade. I suppose I shall have to experience this prestidigitator
for myself.”

“You might!”
Grolsner grumbled. “But you’ll be wasting your money.” Throwing
hands in the air, the impresario marched off, but having a second
thought, he returned again with a grunt: “Ah! I suppose I must
moderate my expectations of the common folk.” With strained
civility, he reached in his pockets and withdrew a roll of ruffled
bills. “Here, take this complimentary two-ticket stub to the next
show. Exhibitions occur on the hour. This is your chance to find
out more about our outfit. You need only present the ticket to
Darfa in the next wicket—Darfa is the insect boy.”

Baus
acknowledged his recognition of Darfa and accepted the bills. The
circus master stalked off, chastising Denol the acrobat now for a
slipshod placement of left heel to right arm on his last
cartwheel.

Weavil, who
had been watching the whole affair from afar, chuckled and
swaggered up to Baus. He spoke in a sardonic tone. “A fine speech,
Baus. I didn’t realize you were so keen to relinquish your tenure
as a fisherman.”

“A fancy
only,” admitted Baus coolly. “Nothing for you to worry about,
Weavil.” The casual, indulgent smirk on Weavil’s face irked him.
“Ah, let me be away from these ragmops and appraise the magician.
Grolsner seeks to denigrate the prestidigitator at every turn.
After so much roughhousing, I feel a mild urge to have some
relaxing entertainment.”

“An excellent
suggestion . . . After you.”

“No, I
insist.” Baus bowed, offering his hand. “Far better that you create
a shield from this barbaric swarm.”

“How kind of
you,” Weavil hissed dryly. Pausing to admire his new change of
jerkin and tan breeches, he was surprised to find Baus gone when he
glanced up.

III

Peering left,
then right, Baus saw no sign of Weavil. Peace at last. No sign
either of the two skulking vendors. Only a knot of fairgoers amidst
the clamour of boothkeepers proselytizing the worth of their wares.
With bold strides, he continued down the aisle.

Sidling down a
side lane, Baus kept his eyes roving for florid-faced shopkeepers
or uncompromising constables. In an adjoining yard, he caught sight
of a group of children apple-bobbing and rowdy teenagers digging
their heels in a tug of war. A team of lumberjacks scurried up a
set of greased poles. Horseshoes flew by the dozens; a group of
elders absorbed themselves in checkers, cribbage and bingo.

The normalcy
of the atmosphere reassured Baus. A warmer, less humid breeze
tickled his sunburnt cheeks. Pale sunlight slanted through cracks
in the sky, letting dappled light fall on the grassy lanes. Booths
were milling of folk, chattering and filing by in greater
numbers.

Relaxed by the
halcyon scene, Baus loosed a sigh. His guard was down, his manner
carefree, his knees loose; he felt an effortless leisure in his
limbs as he strolled from exhibit to exhibit.

Several of the
upcoming booths were cluttered and tawdry. He bypassed these kiosks
with a crinkled nose. After ditching a persistent saleswoman who
persisted in ‘donating’ a vial of ‘Xsalee’s Herb of Best Desire’
into his possession, he bumped into Weavil rather sooner than
expected.

“I harbour no
need for this stuff,” Baus cried out indignantly, pushing Xsalee’s
unwanted love potion into Weavil’s palm. “I bear a perfect physique
and am owner of an ineffable charm. Further, I find it imposing
that these vendors pitch their marketing ploys upon us. Pounce and
leap! They hope one will get hooked on purchasing wares on a chance
visit to their booth—such an irking nuisance.”

Weavil
grinned. “Quite right!” He thumped Baus on the shoulder. “Are you
not happy with your acquisition?” He cached the love potion in his
pocket and flashed Baus a contemptuous grin. “Where’s your
forbearance, Baus? The peddlers are only on the prowl trying to
turn out a profit. Xsalee, for instance, probably was only trying
to tender you assistance. After all—your fragrance is not
altogether what one might call ‘socially just’.” He gave an
exaggerated sniff. “Perhaps a bit of Zizzazz, as Xsalee calls it,
might dispel the fungi kelp I detect on your presence—or, is it
gallfish? Gah—rockgobbler! . . . no offence to your ‘ineffable’
charm.”

Baus drew
away, rankled by the insinuation. Nor was he eager to gaze again
upon Weavil’s ugly face. “Are there other people around to annoy,
Weavil? Perhaps the few wishing to be alerted of Vrang’s wrath, or
the possibility of drowning?”

Weavil ignored
the statement and spoke with an icy petulance, “I have forgone the
act of monitoring the beach in lieu of the fair and feast. And you?
I’m sure Harky is less than thrilled with your truancy. In fact, I
thought to hear him shouting your name down at Knucklebone’s
Taproom.”

Baus cringed.
“Do not overconcern yourself with Harky! The curmudgeon is a
slave-driver, and he’s better left far away from me. His idea of a
Sunday picnic is to bring rod, tinder and shovel, and dig away to
the centre of the earth for a few snails to roast.”

Weavil was not
so easily humoured. Or dismissed. He shadowed Baus’s heels like a
stray and to Baus’s further annoyance, persisted in indulging in
more, vapid commentary. At one point, he paused to linger by an
engaging painting, after spying the pen and ink and oil studies of
a Brimhaven artist, Nascar. It seemed they were infused in the Zan
and Barbizan style.

“What of these
works?” he inquired.

“What of them?
They are on easels. Is that anything special?”

“The sweet
maiden who wears threads of gossamer over her pearly-white loins
pouts. She pines with ever the look of desolation for a lover lost!
It evokes a catharsis, which inspires me to compose an ode—which I
will render on the fly.” Weavil gave a dreamy-eyed sigh.

Baus rolled up
his eyes. He attempted a protest, but Weavil had already launched
on his impromptu opus:

“
Hearken
and come ye in times of yore,

When a maiden’s
enthralled cry for August love,

Waxed in
Wagwarth glade and was not, or would not be fulfilled,

Oh piteous
amour! Fickle and sightless are your eyes!

Come to my
side! Come to my bosom, my dove!

Fly
fleet-footed forever!

Thy
ministrations of plangent affection shall not touch,

Thy young
buck’s noblest, doughtiest chords of—”

Baus
interrupted with a peremptory wave. “I think I detect the
unmistakable sneers of passer-bys.”

Weavil gave a
frown of injured pride. “Rubes. They know nothing of good art.” The
two walked in silence.

By the time
they had reached the end of the fair, the rain-heavy storm clouds
had disappeared. Through the hasty wrapping of snow-fence, the
nearby seashore remained a ponderous plain of rising swells. Tangy
air bit at their nostrils. Below, the tide had nearly washed over
the mud isles, leaving behind a scattering of seaweed and shells.
The beach was instantly full of clams and debris. Hopping gulls
poked about for crab mites.

The crowd had
grown to appreciable numbers and Baus and Weavil were surprised,
also alerted to animated sounds issuing from a nearby aisle. They
exchanged critical glances. Through the throng they spied a to-do
of gathered persons. The two elbowed their way forth and stood
standing in a wide, populated alley. Yellow polka-dotted clowns
drifted from booth to booth. A stage of impressive proportions
occupied a triple space at the end of the lane, backed with timber
and gay terracloth. Above the platform a silver awning ballooned
with ornate embroidery: depicting fire dragons with fantastic
sickle moons, butterflies floated in cloud-mist, soaring
albatrosses. Front and centre stood a buxom woman. She assisted a
confidently-dressed gentleman garbed in a plush black gown whose
costume was lustrously embellished with grey moon-sickles. A
conical top hat, midnight black, was perched on his crown. A wide
belt of silver silk circled his waistline and was fitted with a
star-shaped buckle, and his feet were pressed into long silver
shoes, curled at the toes.