Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I

by Chris Turner

  Dighcan made a small sign of resentment. “That is an offensive remark! Do you not know I am a reformed man?”

  Graves gave a gesture of smiling compassion. “That may well be, Dighcan, but I am vexed by this unwarranted and perplexing theft of my stores. The mysteries shall be exposed! I shall await the moment with relish!” He turned to Deputies Ausse and Germakk. “Now summon Skarrow and Mulfax. Tell them to haul their carcasses over here pronto. I want them replacing Germakk and you.”

  Ausse’s eyes widened with surprise. “A wise course, sir? When would you wish the order relayed?”

  “Immediately!” he snapped. “Would I utter it only to have it ignored?”

  “But after—? Where shall we—?”

  “You,” he cried frigidly, “are relegated to the scullery. I would have you first scouring the office for clues, and with a fine-toothed comb, if you weren’t so inept! Nevertheless, give the space the best dusting ever! Then, after compiling the observations, report to me. Present yourself to Cemurk the cook and await your duties. As for the rest of you rabble, consume your regular slops. On the mark! I want three more volunteers chipping rock on the road to Tavilnook.”

  Dighcan thought to interject a complaint.

  Graves interrupted. “Dighcan, Zestes, Valere! How quaint. You look like worthy candidates—with all that spry energy and capering about, you must be pining for a chance to employ it?”

  “Me?” asked Zestes innocently.

  “Yes, you.”

  “What of myself?” bawled Lopze morosely. “Do I not at least account for an honourable mention in this crew?”

  Graves smoothed his cheeks. “How could I forget my favourite strangler?”

  Lopze brightened with a cheerful grin. “A jewel, Captain—you are a jewel in the rough.”

  Graves murmured that he could understand the comparability. “Now!” he called out sharply. “Out to work! Cold weather is on the way and there remain numerous chores to be completed! Germakk! Ausse! To speed!”

  Limping toward the office, Germakk gave a sour-lipped grumble. A dour Ausse followed on his heels to summon the replacements and gather the prisoners for the road gang.

  VI

  Two days passed. Then a week. Soon a fortnight had slipped by and the air grew chiller as the fall faithfully progressed. One bright sunny day Baus stood gazing reflectively up at the measureless sky. His mood was tinged with a melancholy of burden that he had never known. His cheeks were sunken; his brittle movements were dull and mechanical, but the hungry itch for liberation had never waned. His face had become a haggard mask. A sailor marooned on a island would have no better complexion. During the interval he had grasped many things about the guards’ regular movements, also he had learned much of the intricacies of the convicts’ characters. No revelation was forthcoming on the nature of Nuzbek’s magic. What was the source of his sorcery? The magician had made no excursions to the north wall, as if a decision had been made in his mind as to the unprofitability of jail-breaking. To lift the stun-wand from the magician would require a talent of extreme scrupulousness.

  The men had been rotated for their shifts; now Baus, Weavil and others remained fish-gutting in the compound by the handfuls. Quintlo, Yullen, and Zorez and Vibellhanz had been sent away with Nolpin and Karlil to chip stone for road repairs on the wind-worn route to seaside Tavilnook, eight miles away.

  Drays of eelfish were arriving in the compound, along with sandcrabbers, golgonfish and rockgobblers. Speckled and varied, the fish were dumped into a heaving pile on which the men went instantly to work. Baus and company sorted the gobblers from the crabbers with fingers raw and bare; Dighcan and others cut, slashed and tossed the filleted flesh back into the drays. Zestes manhandled the barrows to and from the gate and to the town with Nuzbek and Boulm, while Oppet’s snauzzerhounds tagged along to ensure their fidelity. There remained no chance of escape by any impulsive means.

  Stymied by the disappearance of the jars, Graves had not given up his search and elected to stay in the compound to supervise the work. From the office window, he watched as the prisoners went through motions of tedium. Baus spied him making gruff remarks to Ausse and Germakk who still were on part-time duty sweeping the office, but all the time the warden’s eyes were cannily alert and on the lookout for peculiarity.

  The morning passed.

  When the lunch gong finally rang, the men convened to the refectory. The meal tables were set with plates and various bowls. Many were draped in coarse, stained cloth, a colour which Baus disliked and guessed had once been white.

  Steam drifted from the tin platters. Saucers, forks and spoons were strewn in random piles beside the smorgasbord.

  Tustok and Jorkoff grabbed their plates and assumed a premier position. Leamoine crowded close in line, sidling uncomfortably near Jorkoff who, resenting the encroachment, nudged him away. The magician muttered a revilement at Leamoine’s presence and steered clear, standing apart from the group with an obvious distaste for having to stand in line like a mule. The magician waited for others to congregate, then fell in behind Dighcan whom he sensed shared an orthodox view on the matters of male intimacies.

  Zestes, Valere, Boulm and Paltuik sniffed the air; they placed bets on who could deduce the character of the menu based on scent alone. Valere was the successful winner: greased eel fillet, potato-leek, cold snail pasta and a smothering of smoluk-egg pâté.

  One by one, the men received their dollops of victual and tried to guess which of the oleaginous helpings was which.

  Three men behind Nuzbek was Baus, who watched Leamoine with an inherent shrewdness. The convict cast the magician a backward wink. The effect was mildly amusing if not entertaining, insofar as Nuzbek back-pedaled, deliberately blocked by Zestes who engaged in an animated debate with Valere.

  Baus chuckled. How was Nuzbek to survive in this pack of rogues? He was disliked by all. Furthermore, he must be put to task before he could complete his morbid revenge on himself or Weavil. There was no firm way of acquiring the magician’s baton outside of—

  An interesting speculation gripped him . . . how efficient it would be if Nuzbek were out of the picture, unable to retrieve his wand hidden so cleverly under his bedside pillow! A scheme began to form in Baus’s mind . . .

  The flash of insight was cut short as Skarrow passed by, berating Lopze for an act of mischief. Baus whispered the idea to Weavil who put forth a cry of alarm: “Not I! The plan reeks of peril. Why put me at risk?”

  “You are the tinier of us,” Baus insisted. He bunted Weavil ahead and put a mouth to his ear, “Remember! This plan is foolproof. When Nuzbek is least prepared, you do your business!”

  Dancing with reservation, Weavil pussyfooted down the lunch line. All was normal. Neither Nuzbek, Dighcan, Zestes or Valere were aware he was alive—Weavil was so tiny as to be a leg ornament. The plan seemed intrinsic enough, but with the risky hint of a skull-bashing.

  Charily, Weavil snuck under Valere’s legs, then crept past Zestes’ fish-smelling thighs. The midget eased over to Nuzbek to halt before Dighcan, grimacing as he inspected his backside. It was large and vulnerable. Straining for its tenderest cheek, Weavil bestowed Dighcan a jarring squeeze before flying back to his spot.

  Dighcan whirled about with a face of a drake’s. He glared at Nuzbek with a rare rancour who was immediately behind, and roared, “You hypocritical dog! How dare you coddle my rump after berating Leamoine for a similar act?”

  Nuzbek flashed Dighcan a scathing leer. “Speak in more understandable tones, you cur, not the gibberish of low-class folk.”

  Dighcan was incensed. “You insolent swine—” He flung himself on the magician and stung him a backhand blow to the teeth. Nuzbek reeled over in anguish. Dighcan was on him and crunched Nuzbek’s top hat over his ears and began twirling him about while hoofing him in the butt and loins. The magician recalled a similar exercise from an earlier time, judging by the daft expression on his face.

  Zestes staggered out of line
, crying, “Hey, Dighcan, why hog all the fun? Little Nuzbeka needs a lift!” He upended his boot into Nuzbek’s gut, lifting him a good two inches off the ground.

  Dighcan chirped in merriment and repeated the process along lines of a slight variation. “You do have a flair, Zestes. But those workboots, they are a tad harsh.” He gave Nuzbek a laughing twirl.

  Zestes cautioned Dighcan: “Careful, Dighcan! It smacks of inconvenience to block my angle while twirling Nuzbek!”

  Nuzbek cursed, thrashed, unable to see anything in front of his nose. A lucky swipe caught Dighcan on the lips, prompting Dighcan to stab down a fist. Immediately Nuzbek fell to the ground whereby Dighcan plunged his whole weight on top of him like a barrel. There was a fierce rolling like two stray bullies from Angler’s Row, each struggling for an advantage, while Nuzbek received the shorter end of the stick.

  The convicts abandoned their meals, gathering around the fight, hollering and cheering for his favourite.

  “You teach him, Diggy!” called out Valere.

  “Yeah, teach him a thing or two about gropings!” implored Lopze.

  Paltuik bent low, gripping his knees in mirth. “Ouch, that was a fine tummy tap, Nuzbag! Bully for you! Keep up the good spirit.”

  Cognizing a disturbance from the office, Graves came running out with his snapperwhip cracking. He forced his way through the laughing circle and whipped the grimacing prisoners to submission. “Enough of this tomfoolery! What goes on? You know I permit no hooliganery in my yard.”

  Dighcan rose, puffing froth from his blood-smeared face. He expressed his concerns on woozy feet with a haughty attitude while wiping away a mouthful of blood. “Nuzbek has instigated a gross indecency upon my person.”

  “It is untrue!” Nuzbek rolled back, foaming at the mouth. “I thoroughly deny the allegation!”

  Graves lifted eyes to the sky. “Oaf!” He ignored Nuzbek’s protests. “What twisted pleasures have you been dipping into now?” He turned Nuzbek an intolerant leer. “Your just dessert. Ten demerit points.”

  Nuzbek tottered to his feet. “What do you mean, ten demerits?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I am being penalized for unjust cause!”

  “You are being penalized for instigating pugilism in my yard.”

  “Hogwash! Do you accuse me?” The rogue stamped a foot. “This blackguard tottering before you is a prevaricating liar. He fibs for no reason—outside of the pure joy of creating grief for me. Are you kid-blind to such duffers, Graves, to believe in his nonsensical poppycock!”

  “An additional double demerit, Nuzbek, for vituperations, which pitches you to a three day confinement in the hive.”

  Nuzbek uttered an inhuman croak. “I hardly call ‘kid-blind’ a ‘vituperation’.”

  Graves tapped a finger to his palm. “A repetition of slander. Another demerit. Your ears are indeed in need of a waxing. Item 2: prisoners are expected to remain politely attentive to prison officials—I would not adjudge ‘kid-blind’ as language outside this injunction.”

  Weavil piped up loudly: “I believe the exact wording is ‘Prisoners are expected to remain civil and attentive to prison officials with politeness being an asset’.”

  Graves nodded. “I suspect this is the exact wording.”

  Baus confirmed the rendering but then added that in no way did the Captain’s briefer description undermine the dictate’s fundamental essence.

  “Curb these tiresome mewlings!” shrieked Nuzbek. “Can a man not expect a little justice when he is—”

  Dighcan thumped him soundly on the crown.

  Graves interrupted the crass exhibition. “Very good, Dighcan. Bu you too are awarded ten demerits.”

  “What?—this is a gross overkill—”

  “I agree!” Graves shrugged, waved an incriminating finger at Dighcan. “Save your energy for the beehive—with Nuzbek.”

  “Impossible!” cried Dighcan. “I’ll not endure gropings and molestation in close quarters.” He leaned forward and jumped on the balls of his feet like an obstinate schoolboy. “The idea is deplorable! In the yard I have Zestes to watch my back, who keeps an eye out for dandies like Nuzbek and Leamoine.”

  Zestes shoved his hatchet face into Dighcan’s and gave a soothing belch of acknowledgment.

  Dighcan roiled away with disgust.

  Graves justified his decision by adding additional mollifying communal qualms. “Nuzbek recognizes the penalties for various abasements, such as touchy-feelies and opportunistic groping and he shall have other tasks to absorb himself with while confined in the hive—such is my statement.”

  Paltuik rocked back with merriment. His round face showed a gratified grin as Skarrow and Mulfax hauled Dighcan and Nuzbek to the shade of the spindlefax overhanging the south wall. All eyes turned to the solitary confinement, aka the ‘flap-trap’, as the company watched in amazement. Baus noticed that the hive supported a small wooden door, a thick portal, a foot in diameter, fortified with iron straps. The construction was six feet high, a yellow mortared dome, like some giant beehive, set about mid way along the southern wall of the compound’s wildest side. The interior was black, quiet as night. The guards thrust Dighcan and Nuzbek inside then drew back the bolts and left the two incarcerated until such time as their sentence was up.

  The prisoners who had followed the two watched in morbid curiosity. Baus marvelled that a curious wegmor statue stood cryptically poised in the dome’s shadow. It was fashioned of wood, painted in casque silver. Neither able to move nor rock, the saddle was a black brace of beobar, seating three men. Three men could sit with weights strapped to their legs—each seated for lengthy periods, learning humility with pain. Nuzbek, it seemed, was plunging very close to a saddling on the instrument, what with all the heavy yelling and blind cursing streaming through the door.

  Satisfied with the outcome, Baus gave a dignified nod and turned back to the refectory. Congratulating Weavil on the success of his exploits, he discovered his comrade quick to accept the praise.

  At the lunch table, the two joined in merry song. A general enthusiasm infused the company. Weavil, enlivened for the first time in many days, went so far as to compose a small ode—of how a magician named ‘Kosbag’ caught with his hand in the honey pot, was sentenced to a tarring and feathering by king Gravioli, followed by an exile. Lopze took up the refrain with cheery singing. He was so taken with the verse that he stood up on his chair, exhorting people to join in. Graves ordered the antic arrested—complaining that a sudden slippage on Lopze’s part might entail one less spare hand to aid on the work program . . .

  * * *

  With the absence of Dighcan and Nuzbek from the gang, the yardwork resumed in full rigor and at a slightly more ponderous rate. Zestes and Boulm continued to haul drays to and from the compound without Nuzbek’s assistance; Tustok and Leamoine fish-slitted and hacked without Dighcan, while Baus and Weavil sifted squirming fish with lighter hearts.

  For the remainder of the day, Baus invested his faculties on a daring plan. Favourable opportunities existed in the cosmos as a result of Nuzbek’s absence, particularly on his ability to recover his baton. There remained the displaced stone on the wall. The rock was an entity of stubbornness that would not budge despite his most aggressive thrusts. To pry such a rock from the wall would require a tool.

  The hour of Flanks was approaching and Baus held no bander. He must win Zestes’ belt buckle in order to dislodge the stone! The affair involved a circular logic that posed frustrating conundrums. He flung his fistful of golgonfish to the ground, leaving a rancorous taint in the air.

  During the interlude, Weavil had happened to probe the depths of his pantaloons for a hankie and felt something warm to touch: a vial of Xalee’s ‘Zizzazz’—also known as ‘Herb of Best Desire’, a kind of love potion. He chuckled and muttered smug surprise. When Baus learned of the vial, he demanded from Weavil the item immediately.

  Weavil obdurately clamped the tiny vial to his chest. “Never! F
ind your own bander. Once I leave this filthy precinct, I plan to sequester myself with a comely woman to relax my jangled nerves. The maid must be given to considerable affection, and upon whom I can visit my affections without handicap, snags or wrinkles. It follows that I will require an elixir of strength to bridge this gap of reduced stature.”

  Baus nodded sympathetically. “I commend the logic; however, the scheme is inept in all its phases. You are tediously whimsical! For all we know, we may be stuck here forever! What good is that?”

  Weavil’s fury became overshadowed by Baus’s ceremonial sweep of arm. “In the meantime, do you wish to look the fool, truckling to Leamoine’s ministrations, should he accidentally acquire the potion? He has no small imagination. An incidental point: the elixir was given to me, not you.”

  “The observation is taken out of context,” observed Weavil curtly. “Recall that you rescinded ownership of the essence at the fair and under no circumstance shall I part with it as long as I remain lucid. Now, the answer to your demand is ‘no’ and I need not repeat how you forfeited my uncle’s timepiece without my permission.”

  Baus made a gesture of impatience. “That was an isolated occurrence, governed by misguidance on my part.”

  “And so? What of the other losses you’ve incurred?”

  “Ignore those. I have alternate plans for us—which include, escape—and revenge. Now please, Weavil . . . pass me the elixir!”

  Weavil tottered back in mulish hauteur, at which point Baus began grappling him in an awkward tussle. Zestes abandoned his barrow and pitched an irate yell. “Listen, you wiftbags! Sift slime or cut snogmald! Why should I toil while you jape about like Mug and Moe?”