Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I

by Chris Turner

  Baus’s mouth dropped agape. “This is a pleonastic logic. Admitting nothing other than the presence of inept thinking! I demand justice!”

  “File your complaint to Judge Witherhum then,” grunted Graves. “His Honour shall be free in about eight months from now.”

  “Unreasonable! I might contract a virulent disease by then.”

  “The possibility is remote,” argued Graves, “but unlikely. Regard the facts: you tender no funds, you have no one to secure your bail. You are without employment and without sympathizers. A rather unfortunate situation, but what of it? If I were not such a seasoned law-enforcer, I might feel pity.”

  “Opinions only!” snorted Baus. “Possibilities, facts!—they are all noise to my ears.”

  “You are entitled to your views.”

  Graves summoned Tilfgurd. The discussion was over and Baus was dragged away, Skarrow informing the Captain that an important errand was in hand, involving a missing bucket of hoarfish and two sick wegmors in town. . .

  III

  As was customary, at half past six, the convicts gathered at the barracks to engage in their evening game of ‘Flanks’—a friendly competition that took pleasure at hurling projectiles at puppet-caricatures of inmates in order to profit on bets on razing them to the ground. The playing field was a worn track thirty yards long by ten yards wide, an area of pinkish sand cleared of grass, stones, tussocks and spongebush.

  Tonight was the fourth evening of the incarceration of Baus and Weavil and Baus watched thoughtfully as the men drew their missiles and took practice shots. The list of objects to hurl included clams, molluscs, fish spines, pebbles, rocks, dead branches and beobar cones, anything a convict could find . . . Each man fabricated his golem: a creature from wood, shells, rock, weeds or mud. The size of each icon was strictly regulated—no golem could be any smaller than six inches high by two inches wide.

  Baus leaned forward to better hear the boasts of Dighcan and Zestes. Paltuik and Valere were not far behind. In Baus’s mind’s eye, he saw the rules of engagement as an unabridged and slightly elaborate version of ‘bowl-the-bottle’, easily a town favourite. Each prisoner had with three attempts to knock over his adversary’s icon: a knockover earned him six points, a slice, three, a dismemberment twenty. The last icon left standing was declared the victor. The loser not only forfeited his bander-the ‘article wagered’ on the bet—but agreed to play out a certain minimum number of rounds decided upon in advance. If a player were to forfeit all his bander after the requisite rounds, he would receive a debasement, or at least an embarrassing drubbing. The humiliations ranged from footling roughhousing to extenuating rigors, spanning the gamut from a single, jocular rump-boot, to a double-switching with strangle-weed, being stripped naked or forced to jog around the compound cane-whipped by hooting inmates. Rewards as these remained contingent upon the severity of the loss. Men acquired articles of bander while relieving themselves of stresses, a practice which Captain Graves approved, owing to the health benefits and increased morale among the prisoners.

  For the first three evenings, Baus and Weavil observed much of the play, and were now emboldened by their understanding of the game and decided to pitch in for a round—Baus at least of the two. He approached the huddle with an easy confidence, mixing with the inmates’ swaggering and posturing while presenting a flimsy icon of clam and withe. “I have come to join your sport, friends. Perhaps even a veteran gamester like Dighcan shall discover a thing or two about Flanks!”

  Dighcan raised a pair of goldy eyebrows. “Shall we? You call that bit of brummagem an icon?” He sneered. “Ha! I see nothing more than baby clam shells trussed together with a bit of abalone meat. This is no good for outwitting my tosses.” He pulled at his plump pink nose which still seemed tender from the magician Nuzbek’s experiments.

  Valere with the fiery red beard shuffled up to Baus, sizing him up. “Why not, Dighcan? We shall have more prizes to divvy amongst the gang.” He turned to Baus. “What have you to offer in the way of bander, boy?” His voice was daunting but his smile was high-hearted.

  Baus searched his person with a feigned grimace. Unearthing a lint ball, used handkerchiefs, three dry moths and three coins he had transferred in advance from his sock to his pocket, he gave an unusually simpering grin. To risk his last cils seemed impulsive, and his attention naturally gravitated to the buttons on his coat. “These studs are silver-tinged and engraved with sea quail from the sunken isle of Aroo, now a land mass of mythic significance.”

  “Dainty!” heckled Lopze, fingering his eye-patch.

  Baus elevated his voice above the jeers. “They are expensive and antique! At the very least—of equal or greater value than the glitzy gewgaws with which you wager.”

  “Here, we’ll have none of that talk!” called Valere.

  “Regard my colleague Weavil’s timepiece,” pressed Baus. “If that is not an acceptable item of wager then I must point out that it is at least an heirloom.”

  Weavil instantly lurched forward with an outburst of contempt. “I cordially refuse to gamble away my family property! Any who shall squander my trophy shall be me! Moreover, I insist on applying for the privilege to shoot at fifteen yards if I am to join this rag-taggle game. Thirty yards is too far given my diminutive size and damaged sensibilities which pose obvious disadvantages.”

  “Mayhap you have a point there, Poodle,” Zestes cooed. He inspected Weavil’s timepiece and noted its intricate shell detail and gold-worked craftsmanship. He evinced a note of admiration. “Very good! We shall accede to the midget’s behest . . . only under the proviso that he tosses his wee clock into the potty.”

  Dighcan jousted Zestes aside. “By no means! Poodle has not produced his icon so Poodle won’t play. As leading chair-member of the league, I render Weavil’s application void.”

  Paltuik, somewhat sullen and ill-tempered with a head wrapped in black bandanna, lumbered forward with a growling complaint. “I like ‘Ankle biter’ better than ‘Poodle’. Makes the tyke sound too sophisticated, too swanky to be called ‘Poodle’.”

  Dighcan gave a galled snort. “Who cares what you think, Pall-head? I’ll call him as I like. Now move aside, as I have important functions to conduct.” He carved his way toward Weavil, jostling Paltuik aside with the rude force of his chain-studded hip.

  Dighcan now loomed sulkingly over Weavil with glittering eyes. “Be off with you now, stoat, before I sit on you. Come back next week if you have crafted an icon of worth, at which time we shall reconsider your application.”

  Weavil glumly shuffled away and Baus was happy to see his friend occupied with some intermediate project.

  At the barracks’ steps Nuzbek sat unsociable and aloof. He watched the game disagreeably, reposing with quiet disdain while his sidekicks, Nolpin and Boulm conversed in idle tones which grew to topics of heated debate.

  Valere chanced to overhear a sour remark by Nuzbek and hailed the magician with resentment: “Here you, Nuzbek! Why not make yourself useful and gather up your lads and join the game?”

  Nuzbek stared mistrustfully at the large inmate. Almost automatically he offered a negative response. “Not today, thanks. The afternoon has been tasking enough on clam-shucking duty and I wish to recuperate my energies for the morrow.”

  “How ladylike of you,” crowed Lopze.

  Nuzbek, irritated by the jibe, jumped to his feet and half parted his mouth in a sinister grimace. “You think, one-eye? I shall join this puerile congregation, only to prove a point.” Opening his palm, he manifested a thin ebon rod which seemed to come into existence as if by spellcraft. The convicts stared at it with wax-eyed wonder. “I will wager this ganglestick. Its properties are mystical, and its origin emanates from faraway Fadnar.”

  Surveying the black rod, the men muttered a dull appreciation and their expressions became ones of sombre reflection. Yullen, many grumbles later, called out in a derisive voice, “I could utilize this token for a hairpiece—what of you, Paltuik?”
<
br />   “A teeth scrubber for me. Mine is caked with calcus.”

  Lopze gave a jeering laugh: “Because Vibellhanz’s been using it as a butt cleaner!”

  Nuzbek’s eyes glowed with fury. “Silence! My ganglestick is not to be associated with any of these disgusting activities!”

  Lopze tried to reach out to make a grab for the stick but his fingers had barely closed on its silver tip when the criminal shrunk back with a panicked grimace. He suffered an expression of pure terror before a wrathful Nuzbek swatted at the criminal’s cheek, and Lopze’s baboon’s snarl released.

  Instantly, Lopze shook the daze out of his head. He blinked his non-patched eye. “A fine butt-tickler indeed!”

  “Keep your mangy paws off it!” Nuzbek warned.

  Nolpin and Boulm ranged themselves around the magician and demanded membership in the game.

  Baus skidded forward with interest. “Already a bevy of players are enrolled. As it stands, the back line will be watered down with players whose skills are substandard, like Nuzbek and Nolpin, whose icons will be easy targets for mine and other attacks. In this mode, we are struck with an awkward choice, and must instantly reject Nuzbek and his cronies out of hand—this to ensure ease and amity in our game.”

  Valere gave an automatic protest. “Nonsense!” He strode over to examine what Nuzbek and his chums had to offer in the way of bander, inspecting their wares with curiosity. “So long as Nuzbek brings bander, Nuzbek can play, as can all!”

  Baus shook his head with fervid exasperation. “Nuzbek is a sly trickster. You shall find out what the magician proffers when he confounds you with magic! Look at the dull amber gleam in his eyes, the vicious twist of lip—it shows the insidiousness of a serpent!”

  Valere guffawed at the vile allusion. “So are Yullen’s eyes and he’s as harmless as a fly. Ha, I deny any magic. Go forth and fetch your icons, lads! We’ll have us a game tonight!

  Nuzbek nodded with exultant vindication. Further remonstrations went unheard and Baus struggled to mask his intense displeasure. Disagreeable as it was, he lapsed into silence. The prisoners bent their attention to the game. Nolpin and Boulm joined ranks and Weavil too in the hunt for icons; as did Nuzbek who had slipped away mysteriously and was nowhere to be found.

  While the inmates practiced their tosses, many traded jests, several of them indelicate, and Baus elected to remain detached from the ribald crew and their boorish talk, preferring instead to scrutinize the men’s games with introspective interest. Zestes’ throws were as flamboyant as his boasts—a style which Baus disapproved of and was convinced exhibited no great accuracy for one who would prove at best a medium level contender. Dighcan, on the other hand, was a formidable adversary, a staunch thrower, and a man of bravado, but the comparison ended here. Where Dighcan’s tosses were calculated with enough force and precision to shatter and obliterate, and had the uncanny ability of knocking adjacent targets off easily at will, Zestes’ throws were mere passing vagaries. It was a skill belying the brutishness of Dighcan’s character . . . it forced Baus to reconsider his tactics. Ordinarily Paltuik and Karlil’s prowess reigned somewhere in the middle of Zestes and Dighcan’s while Yullen and Valere fell short of any mark. Amongst the others—Tustok, Jorkoff, Vibellhanz, Zorez, Quintlo and Leamoine—it was a toss-up; Quintlo perhaps had the barest edge while Lopze’s game, a most inscrutable study, seemed unpredictable. At times, he threw exceptionally well, but more often he made jackleg throws barely above the dexterity of a child. The convict was left howling in outrage. After the last fractious tantrum, he had Valere in stitches while Dighcan twirled a didactic finger and expounded upon the basic and finer principles of the game. Baus was prompted to believe that Lopze’s paroxysms were linked to some psychological dysfunction, an intrinsic repression crossing the boundaries of pure sportsmanship, but Baus discarded forays into further analysis. He assessed the emotional volatility of his peers as an advantage he would capitalize on. All in all, Baus estimated his chances as good to fair against these uncouth rogues. To win, all he needed to do was avoid blunders and lull his opponents into an easy sense of victory.

  Intruding upon his speculations came Vibellhanz’s irritating voice. “Make haste! We are all keen to initiate the first round. We must pitch in our bander to the pot so that play might commence!”

  Baus tossed one of his vest buttons onto the pile arranged at the throwing line. Appraising the small mountain of items, he scratched thoughtfully at his chin. An old black leather belt with silver buckle was piled top-wise in the clutter. There was also an old rusty toe clipper, a series of grotesquely-shaped pebbles of ochre pigments, a few broken flutes, five ear bangles, three dented nose rings, a soiled glove, homemade tilkweed cigars, two tins of red and brown wax, a bottle of green liquid and various other unpleasant essences . . .

  What an uncommon mixture of trash! he growled to himself. Zestes’ belt and Lopze’s toe clipper, however, could prove handy in chipping away at the rock on the eastern flank. The other items were subsidiary to the lower end gimcracks at Heagram Fair where he had so unfortunately met the acquaintance of Nuzbek. . .

  Play commenced. Along the thirty yard line the men deposited their golems: a pantheon of malformed shapes jutting creepily up in the rosy light of sunset. Baus noticed that icons placed at the outer precincts of the line seemed to be in better positions, being less likely to be knocked over from the back-spray of opponents’ hits. Next to the bander heap rose a pile of projectiles: rocks, shells, wood chunks—all similar in size and weight so as to allow fair play.

  The sun sank over the high stone walls and the nearby bluffs. The men drew sticks to decide who would throw first. Paltuik drew the shortest and so chose the order of play. Baus was picked to lead. Baus was new to the game, so the men agreed that he be allowed the grace of a two round minimum.

  Valere announced: “Consider yourself fortunate in this regard, Baus. I’ve watched matches where men start as high as four rounds and turn swiftly unpleasant.” He chuckled mightily and wagged a meaty finger.

  Baus made a polite acknowledgment. He bent over to select his projectile and squinted wisely down the runway. The icons peered back at him with indifference. Glinting rose-gold in the light was Dighcan’s, then Lopze’s, Zestes’ and other misshapen replicas, stamped with idiosyncratic signatures of their masters.

  Baus threw—

  He missed!

  A bereaved murmur hummed through the gathering.

  Baus retreated to the back line with an expression of distaste. Paltuik drew next—a chunk of spindlefax which he hurled with confidence. Sideswiping Lopze’s ‘mud tower’, it caused Lopze a fit of sneering. Lopze retaliated two persons later to topple Paltuik’s scarecrow, a mud-glazed spongebush to claim his opponent’s bottle of yox, a potent homebrew of kitchen-variety, urine insect-repellent.

  Cheers permeated the congregation. Dighcan threw, cast an expert pitch which proved him superior. He knocked the legs from underneath Jorkoff’s jerry-built wegmor-icon and gave a chortle of satisfaction. Dighcan’s competitor, normally a placid man, danced about on a foot, voicing obscenities. Dighcan’s own icon, crafted of silver twig, wire and weed, was cleverly wrapped in black cloth and was padded with soft clay which seemed to spring back with repeated abuse. It managed to evade strikes which would normally have been mortal.

  Yullen was up next. He took his time aiming but Zestes’ crude skeleton icon remained standing and the prize of his black belt was denied. Surprisingly, Quintlo fared no better, who had his eye trained on Dighcan’s famous knuckle-irons.

  Baus made no improvements in the next round. His losses became heftier and his croak rang in discordant contrast to the inmates’ cheers when he ended up forfeiting his precious silver button of sea quail. Pulling at his ragged pony tail, he sat back brooding, noting how easily Karlil had knocked over his effigy.

  Watching glumly, Baus witnessed Zestes and Valere unseat each other’s icons. They concluded the match by trading a studded neckband fo
r a tin of boot wax. No one suffered any ignominies—at least not yet in these sordid surroundings. Everyone harboured enough bander to pad losses and avoid the worst spectacles.

  There was a break in the game and before any convicts could get too comfortable, the stakes were raised—to a four round minimum. Hereupon, Baus peered nervously at his dwindling bander, which consisted of three buttons. No great comfort wafted from his limp form. Gloomily he chewed at his lip while the moments dragged on, and he dithered on whether he should enter or forfeit. The other contenders voiced rebukes, insisting that Baus post his bander, but he ignored them. He did not wish to be at risk of being branded a sissy, and in a final moment of impulsivity, gambled all three buttons at once.

  The move was foolish. Dighcan and Lopze capitalized and collected all of Baus’s buttons. Baus was buttonless and the winners engaged in a free-for-all sing-along, skipping and dancing about the terrain arm in arm:

  “Dighcan and Lopze have new buttons, fresh buttons, new buttons . . .,

  Dighcan and Lopze have fresh buttons, nik, nak, no!”

  Baus was beside himself with wrath. How could he have been so foolish to reduce himself to such humiliation? He had studied his game. Not diligently, but calculatingly. How was he to secure bander with Dighcan seizing his stash? Zestes’ buckle was required to carve out a hole in the stone from the east wall!

  Weavil, now trudging back from his search of an icon, had in his left hand a limp, child-size cuttlefish with dripping mollusc shells for arms and legs. Valere measured its girth and discovered it undersized a half inch. He returned the icon, denying the midget entry into the game on grounds of regulatory breaches.

  “Yes, Weavil,” chided Baus, “render the appropriate changes to the icon and then rejoin the game. The men haven’t time to spend on unnecessary diversions. And, before you trundle off to make amendments, pass me your heirloom. Several gamesters, including Zestes, are interested in examining the piece for its worth as an item of bander before it is entered into play.”