ROGUES OF BINDAR
Chris Turner
Copyright 2011 Chris Turner
Cover art: Jessica Scholze
Published by Innersky Books on Smashwords
Discover other titles by Chris Turner at Smashwords.com
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in these stories are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
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CONTENTS
WOLF’S-HEAD
It was in a dream that illumination dawned in him. Escape was so simple! Humiliating months of hard labour in a rag-tag gang of scoundrels including the insane neomancer responsible for this incarceration had made him grim and cunning. As he chipped away at the mortar of the wall’s one loosened rock, the magical gladius gleamed, and he reflected on how his curiosity for the arcane, and his thirst for adventure had brought him and his former friend to such an unexpected pass.
If only the cursed allure of the circus tents, the low-level sensory entertainments and diversions had not that day made him play truant . . . and drawn him into these sinister forces beyond his control!
The stone gave way. The first step of his plan had succeeded! Now there was no turning back . . .
CHAPTER 1
MARVELS AND MIRACULA AT HEAGRAM FAIR
From Chaplain’s modern guide to misconceived terms:
“Enchanter: One who brings plausibility to the most farfetched acts, fascinates eye, ear, and creates a sense of ‘suspended disbelief’.
Common methods: sleight of hand, illusion, hypnotism, dissembling, alteration. Held in general contempt are hoaxing, snake-charming, trained owls, talking amulets and the like . . .”
I
Grey listless morn. A questionable time to be out catching rockgobblers on the beach in northern Bindar, but here he was, Baus, a handsome swain, watching the surf lick the sand like mischievous serpents’ tongues. He had sea-green eyes, a tinge of swarthiness, a jauntiness to step, a canniness to gaze, an affability of voice, edged with a more poignant subtlety to baffle the shrewdest of listeners. Not far from Heagram’s port, the beach stretched languidly, as too did the sea, a quilt of deepest aqua. The drab, chill stillness promised nothing to improve Baus’s spirit.
While his creative faculties wandered over his less-than-optimal circumstance, he scuffed at the low tow line anchored fast in the sand. Only yesterday he had been upbraided by Harky the shoremaster for inadequate productivity: a measly dredging up of four rockgobblers and two nibblers. He had impressed on the shoremaster’s mind the damaging effect of negative affirmations, but had received only stern reprimands and fist-waving in return.
He thrust himself back to his grey reality. The matted tangle of nets at his feet stunk of rotten fish; the joints were braced with iron, fickle with rust, causing his fingertips to bleed. Swoops of lavender cloud hung in swirls of muted colour. Northward ran a shoreline the hue of wharf planks; to the south, a broad expanse of mud flats, dark and slick in low tide. Almost at the edge of his vision, he discerned smoke rings—dragging above the low cluster of stone and timber buildings, the salt-washed precincts of Heagram.
Scowling, Baus pulled back at the dark masses of his hair. Was there any way to be out of this dreary loop? He had a quick mind, deft hands, even a sensitive soul—how could he not try his luck at another seaside locale?
The idea seemed grandiose. He fingered his loose ponytail trailing at his back. Who was to say he would be any better off elsewhere?
Grimacing, he looked down at the pair of brickboar breeches clinging to his thighs, grunting at their sea-drenched and patched quality. Despite their disrepair, they fitted him admirably, accentuating his lean figure. A sea charm of translucent green hung on a cord about his neck. The charm was won in a dice match of ‘Varlets and Vixens’ on Heagram’s quayside in Snogmald Tavern, from a pair of ribald Brislin boatswains.
Cursed, or blessed, Baus’s sense of self-appreciation was excessive. Unlike his slewed situation (which implied a disproportionate degree of drudgery in relation to his spiritual skills), it was not outside of his powers to control his pride. As for the individual, one made his own destiny.
Or so went common opinion.
Normally he would be out sailing the Calaan—sheeting the one-masted fishing sloop and trawling for gallfish or snogmald, but the boat was currently raised on the wharf, facing repairs—the underbelly had been recklessly driven too close to Fiddler’s reef and a hole was staved in her stern. As a result he was relegated to baiting the rockgobbler traps, repairing the gallfish nets, searching for razor clams and the odd mollusc that happened to wash upon the shore . . .
A league out to sea blossomed Illim Island whose cypress-rich mystery cast poor shadows upon the swells.
Baus lay down his paltry basket of catches and slumped himself down on a wet rock gleaming from the withdrawing tide. A few lubberly scows bobbed out in the harbour—odd shapes which he recognized at once as Mesmelter’s cog, Jubben’s Gobblerbane and Leaster’s Windfall. A large carrack rode the deeps—her high hull riding proudly on the water; her polished oaken masts shafted high, her white sails hung limply in a near non-existent wind. Likely one of Prince Arnin’s scouts—a presence, which, outside of the capricious wind itself proved an unnerving coincidence, indicating the presence of freebooters troubling the seas.
The vessels continued in their courses, moving like sluggish turtles confined to a grievous march across a trackless waste.
A week passed and Baus stood rooted in almost identical hollowness, staring out over the ocean. How many days had passed without anything of significance taking shape in his life? Was he really living—eking out his existence on the wearisome mud flats? Scratching his stubbly cheek in frustration, he realized that there was no more time for waiting . . .
A distant clank of metal issued from afar. Following came the faint trickle of laughter and a forlorn call of an ekloon dipping in the wind.
Perking up ears, Baus saw past the crumbling sea wall a score of figures stretching tarps along the communal flats. Men hoisted tepee-like canopies upon sturdy poles. Why were they so animated at this early hour?
Uncertainty changed to understanding. The fall fair was in play!
He trooped his way back along the beach. Surprise and purpose had him catching sight of the pencil-gaunt shapes of Harky and Nillard struggling awkwardly in the shallows, wresting a substantial wrack of tangled nets from the sea and heaving the nets in their own idiosyncratic rhythms.
Baus gave the pair wide berth, manoeuvring closer to the pier.
The mud flats stretched out to the water’s edge where sounds of activity from Heagram waxed louder and in more insistent spurts. A sandier strip of beach graced the bluff’s toes further inland.
Baus strode on, arriving at a box-shaped shelter of ill-fitted yew which rose out of the sand like a sore wound. A lurid sign was pasted above a copper goat’s bell and a club, reading ‘B-E-A-C-H M-O-N-I-T-O-R’. An individual of no great stature sat on a high stool, wearing a mauve and black pin-striped uniform. His hair was straight and brown, stiff as rope, plastered to both sides of his head; a leather cord, outfitted with black pearls and gull feathers, was wrapped about his neck. Neither brittle nor exuberant, the youth sported a pair of squirrelly ears, a flat nose, moon-grey eyes and a disagreeable overbite which fixed his expression into a perpetual grin.
Baus allowed himself a smile. Weavil—town poet, laureate of odes, also known as ‘beach monitor’ . . . whittling a limb of sea-beech with innocent absorption. At his side clumped a tangle of nets and a basket of sharp stakes. In his spare time, the poet was obliged to weave nets and whittle wood for the weirs, which at present were failing.
Baus tipped his head in a formal salute.
The poet inquired with lofty courtesy, “And where be we off to in such a mood of peccadillo? Tormenting limpets and cockles as usual?”
“My greatest bondage,” replied Baus. “And you? Still on guard for Vrang, our elusive sea drake?”
“Never a sign!” admitted Weavil. Mock unhappiness traced an unpleasant crinkle on his sea-lined face. “Though the legend says the monster will fly one day, crimson, mighty-scaled, past the Wistish Isles beyond the rim of the world.”
Baus made a guttural sound. “Bah! I shouldn’t be giving energy to this legend, or holding my breath for any drakes.”
“Really!” Weavil grunted. “Are they all monkey-tales? A duty is a duty.” He cocked his head to one side and seemed more a weasel poking its neck out of a hole than a young man. “I wonder about your wisdom, Baus . . . you still have not answered my question.”
Baus signalled impatiently. “I journey to Heagram’s fair—to reckon what is to be reckoned.”
“A plan of providence!” Weavil jumped down from his perch, crowding his companion with eager boyishness. “Perhaps I shall taste the annual festivities too.” He smoothed out his pin-striped vest. With anticipation, he blurted out his thoughts. “Not on this instant though. I am engaged in ‘shore duty’, upon which I must wholly focus.”
“A sensible dictum,” declared Baus. “Dipping in the waters of the Flam while on duty would be unthinkable.”
Weavil protested. “The razor clam and dogtooth fern surely slice the flesh and sting the bones! You know well that Prefect Barth has instructed me to monitor all people who approach the water. ’Tis a known fact that my sole agency is to spy out drakes and inform the masses of possible hazards and perils.”
“Only too evident by your modest signage. Yet my remarks remain unaltered—I advance to the fair! With that, I bid you good day.” Baus sauntered off, whistling a happy tune while Weavil gazed enviously after him.
II
The port of Heagram was populated with folk of many qualities. It hosted a venerable, old-style architecture rich with stone-carved fountains, flagstoned plazas, vined archways, antique buildings and monuments. An old bell tower stood off to the centre of Beerstrom’s plaza. Curiously, a phalanx of varnished boats and retired seacraft flanked the cool, cobbled Sea Alley. Tending toward the river tumbled an array of pilings in the harbour, pot-darkened at their bottoms and supporting a collection of wide wooden slats. A host of sailcraft, including the swift two-masted Wind Stallion and the voluptuous Latitude Fey lay moored, while farther along the pier, in somewhat murkier waters, dories and lighters were berthed, along with fishing boats, scows, cogs, paint-peeled and barnacled. Since the beginning, Heagram harbour had been shaped in the form of a sickle where the two rivers, the Flig and the Flam joined the Poesasian. Now Baus saw narrow wooded peaks piling past the conjunction of the two watercourses, several warehouses, the boatwright’s yard, a collection of foundries and Durgen’s scrapyard, and the old gravel road, Castaway’s Trail, which wound its way past Muoffen’s mill and up the Flam’s nearest foreshore. Inland past the pubs and valestone residences loomed the grand town hall and a picturesque schoolhouse, with freshly painted yellow roof, behind which rose ranks of woody briar-oak, tinged with a late summer green. On top of the bluffs the old lighthouse shone from a glassy beacon, heralding visitors from the sea.
People were arriving from all quarters: by sailboat, along the inland road, in wagons, carts, on wegmor mounts or carriage. Folk, primarily from Brimhaven, Tavilnook, Adzeton, Britobur and Hamhuzzle, were eager to mingle. They were of mixed sorts, though some ventured from as far as Owlen and the seaport of Brislin, realms of Prince Arnin. There was no small opulence or lack of breeding here!
The river ferries buzzed. At this hour, three new caravans clacked their way down the boarding ramps, saddled with a ragtag of bumpkins. Atop their beat-up wheelbacks and rickety, clattering carts, banjo players beat out jangly tunes. A larger three-masted sailship lay anchored in the harbour, from which at a distance, an elegantly-polished pennoned skiff pushed its way brightly to shore, ferrying grandees from Owlen.
Booth tenders continued to load goods into drays which were hauled over to the fairgrounds with the help of town dogs. Wares and accoutrements, horns, bugles, cauldrons, cages, wooden baskets, easels, poles, banners and flags moved as one. Odours of fried eels, oil-cake, pogo kelp and sausage signalled a grand feast planned for the afternoon which Baus hoped to attend, estimating that there would be a record turnout today. The streets were clogged with carping animals, beasts and carts and it was hardly noon. Through the seaborne cloud, patches of blue sky presaged fair weather. The day’s festivities were now in motion, rich with golden sunbeams; flagpoles and steel-tipped masts were a-glow.
Pausing to critique the fairgrounds, Baus turned a watchful eye toward a sprawl of new tents. Balloons and flagpoles rippled freely in the salty breeze. Thirty five aisles stretched over Glane’s Glade like pathways through canopied gardens. They were clustered with excited people and their pets: tinkers, salespersons, hawkers, gamesters and performers. There were fine displays of fire, animal roars, booms, a cacophony of riotous voices, shouts and calls—presumably intentioned to impress the new visitor, touting the excellence of certain entertainment and exhibits. Baus ducked as a firecracker ripped through the sky, heralding the launch of a circus act. Hot smoke rose above the tents ten aisles down.
Baus cocked his head: there was more than a usual gaggle of stiltwalkers, fire-blowers, sword-swallowers, acrobats, clowns, jugglers and tricksters this year. Of late Heagram fair had become more of a carnival than a local exposition.
A sidewise glance confirmed that visitors were converging on a central lane. Baus nodded to a group of retired fishermen, including an old sea geezer with a greasy pipe hanging out of his tobacco-stained mouth. He passed a clot of children who smacked down candy floss, then to a huddle of women dressed in blue caps and white gowns. They were tittering over a mass of embroidery, discussing the latest fashions, while in separate soap and flower booths, Baus recognized three maids with whom he had made recent intimate connections. To avoid any awkward confrontations, Baus made a wise detour, ducking into an oddment booth where he acquired a moustache of black straw, felt hat, and wide-brimmed glasses which he expertly angled over his eyes from experience. He recalled the last time he had bumped into Tersa, the foremost of the trio who had reacted very unkindly to his association with Salys and the significantly more buxom Roxa. Ah . . . what to do with all these petty grievances?
Moving along in unobtrusive fashion, Baus skipped several booths, amazed and appalled at the abundant display of bric-a-brac and bells fastened to wire, dancing puppets in water jugs, glow figures on pogo sticks, garish glue-paper costumes, an endless variety of house ornaments. Kiosks were packed with knickknacks, gewgaws of all sorts; nothing triggered any profound interest.
Half way along the third aisle, he stumbled upon a booth of ancient relics: primarily shells and glass and pewter. Something of more substance!
He found the booth manned by a pair of merchants from the west—denizens of Ikule or Hilgimi. The foremost vendor, completely bald and sporting an out-moded waxed moustache, snapped to attention. His partner, an individual of great corpulence and arm, darker of complexion and attentive of eye, remained placidly composed.
With languid ease, Baus examined the wares with a scholar’s eye. The centre piece loomed twice the size of a man’s skull. A large shell inscribed with a hanged man’s corpse comprised the outer bulk, around which several primitives engaged in curious ritual.
“Aha, Seigneur, I see you are eyeing the Dulfiog special. A remarkable piece of antiquity this is, even for eyes as old as mine! Migor, my colleague and brother, has no idea from where it came.”
Baus acknowledged the information with academic interest. “The article is intriguing—yet doubtless of origin that can be traced as faraway as Zanderland.” He scratched his brow, barely noticing the approach of Migor with large hands spread wide: “Perhaps one may argue a different claim,” said the imposing vendor. “Uyu and I are in a muddle over which primitive caste the relic may have been born to. The Koyo? The Negir? The cannibalistic Recendu? All are equally plausible. The world is a tribal mishmash of cultures, societies and traditions.”
Baus tapped a finger of uncertainty to the object. “My conviction would be that of the Negir.”
“A high-minded guess,” chirped Uyu with a flourish. “Recall! The bygone era with which we are dealing is obscure, even to polymaths. The roots of the rare item are real. In the rare witness texts of the god Yarma, the period involved is barbaric, as that of the Zelthoxian age, its peer.” Leaning forward to better assess the customer’s perspicacity, he confided, “I must say that this piece is selling for an affordably low price of sixty-nine cils.”
Baus croaked. “A piece like this may go for as high as thirty-four cils in a market of monarchs! If I harboured enough funds to spare the trinket, I would offer you five cils, nothing more.”
Uyu uttered a squeaking cry. “Trinket? Are you so parsimonious that you would spare not a few tawdry coins for an authentic relic? You would be driven out with scourges in my land for disrespecting the offer. The item is worth a king’s ransom! Regard the obscurity of the ritual. The primitives embark in an abomination of curious proportions.” He skipped about, tapping the inscription with animation.
“The ritual is not in question,” declared Baus flatly. “Just the price. Five cils—my final offer.”
Uyu looked up, his tone stretched to an abominable whine. “You are not grasping the inestimable worth of the Dulfiog! It is a treasure beyond price! Why are you so intransigent?—we are offering you a boon at a paltry cost. We find you a valued, principled customer!”
“I accept the remark, unconditionally; however—” Baus eased back on his heels, floating closer to the nearby wall. His eyes were suddenly riveted to a barbaric chain suspending a curious monstrosity at eye level. The object was reminiscent of a bird-cage, topped with an irregular bird of petrified beobar and gave off an air of eldritch antiquity. The black beast was some kind of harniforous, possibly a psudoferous, equipped with drooping beak, serrated claws, bovine eyes and a hint of foul flair. The cage itself was bizarrely outfitted with several realistic-looking, terracotta figures in which the representations showed inherent human qualities, accompanied by grazing animals, bunched in groups and clusters and gathered around a wicket fashioned of birds’ nests.
Baus screwed up his face into a perplexed grimace. To decipher the actions or angles of engagement of the figures in relation to the animals, including goats and ruminants, was not comforting.
“The guardian fowl,” Uyu intoned, “is none other than the god Tuskou who watches benignly over the gentle, but mischievous ‘Zmoo’ and their ruminants.”
“Intriguing,” remarked Baus.
“The chronicles of Zmoo are detailed in Rovsmip’s Encyclopediax, as I’m sure you’re acquainted with.”
“Naturally. Though in no way in any expert fashion.”
“You admit to humbleness . . . ha! Very well, then you must know that ‘Tuskou’ tutors his subjects on the vagaries of fate when the primitives commit indifferent acts?”
“So much is only just.”
Uyu seemed to find the response affected and curled his lip.
Somewhat repulsed by the flavour of Uyu’s dogmatism, Baus scrutinized the vendor with mounting dislike. Uyu hopped closer. A markedly more flushed animation entered his cheeks. The vendor urged Baus to touch the artifact.
“I daren’t!” Baus cried. Scratching his ear, he felt somewhat annoyed at the foolish grin etched on the vendor’s face. The garlicy odour wafting from his body gave Baus stimulus to leap closer to the ‘birdcage’. Curiously, he overshot his mark; he held out a hand to stabilize his precarious flight.
Fingers clutched a rung of the artifact. A lever switched. A clay figure was released from the cage with astonishing speed. An inexplicable waft of gas was followed by a negligible explosion. One of the clay figures hopped forward with urgency. It butt a hip into Baus’s finger, which had wormed its way through the cage. By means unknown, Uyu had initiated a prank through means of a controlling mechanism.
Scrambling back, Baus hissed. The action jostled Uyu, who in turn cannoned into Migor. There was a windmilling, a vertigo. The glittering yuyuks and shellames on the far wall came down in an ear-piercing clatter of chert, shell and glass.
Uyu sprang back in horror. Migor remained speechless. The big man launched himself to his feet, covered in glass and debris, with the speed of a cobra.
Baus watched the display with composed placidity. Dispassion shone in his eyes as he watched Migor sift and scrape through the broken shards. A rapid jabber of language issued between shopkeeper and brother, which Baus construed as modern Hilgimic curses.
Migor’s piercing yellow eyes fixed on Baus.
Baus uttered a dignified conciliation, to which was given snorts of hostility.
“You grin, swain,” growled Migor, “but smashed are my two yuyuks in supplement to four expensive shellames at a cost of twenty-five cils!”
Uyu squeaked: “Do not neglect the chipped chertobyl valued at thirty-five cils.”
“No matter,” declared Baus. “It was terribly unwise to post artifacts so close to the booth walkway. Look at the grief that has come.”
Uyu choked on his tongue and reiterated that recompense was due at one hundred and eighty-five cils.
Baus responded with an outraged croak. “A scandalous sum! I notice a definite lack of bonhomie in your words—particularly for an individual who has proven polite and discerning up till now.”
Uyu laughed fondly. “That is the tally that you owe me, rogue, payable upon demand, which is right now!”
Baus held up an obstinate hand. “Technically, it was not I who fractured the articles, but Migor, who catapulted backwards in ignorant fashion.”
Migor clamped his jaw with rancorous amazement. “Hardly! It was rather your oafish clumsiness which created such impetus, and hence, the ultimate aftermath!”
“Lay blame to the mud-baked demon in the birdcage who startled me. There you will find your only proper scapegoat.”
Uyu grimaced. “Leave poor Bojor out of it. The manikin is a joke, nothing more than an eye grabber.”
“Quite an expensive joke at that,” Baus muttered.
Migor exploded: “Do not denigrate Bojor! He is part of a device triggered to lighten the mood when prospective buyers persist in wavering between browsing and buying!”
Baus raised a scornful forefinger. “So! The truth finally emerges! You would lull innocent bystanders into purchasing exorbitant wares through tricks!” Crossing arms on his chest, he glared at the shopkeepers. “Shame on you, sirs! I am at a loss for words. I remain wholly displeased at these crass tactics. Please sort out your complaints on your own time.”
He turned to leave but the clamour had attracted several passers-by who were amused by the demonstrations and lingered at the entrance to compose jocular repartee. While the shopkeepers further engaged in grumbling dispute, Baus began to slowly backtrack out of the booth. The vendors remained preoccupied and Baus managed to slip past the gawkers and commence a rapid course down the nearest aisle.
The absence, however, was noted.
A cry of astonishment came lancing out of the booth before Baus was very far. Migor’s balled fists comprised adequate testament that should he refuse to reimburse them, payment would be extracted on his flesh.
Knees pumping high, Baus ox-bowled his way down an intersecting aisle.
Not a moment to lose. He succeeded in losing himself in the brewing crowd, fumbling for safety, shoving and elbowing, cursing the need for such unseemly urgency. Darting between clusters of fairgoers, he reprehended the fact that he could neither sprint nor leap at sufficient speed. He could feel the hot reek of Uyu’s breath on the back of his neck with Migor’s cold strangling fingers almost ringed around his throat.
A slip on the wet grass had him crashing into a group of wagoners, toppling them and sending a sprawl of bodies to the ground. Crawling to safety, he slipped onto his belly. He turned, fought nausea, clawed his way through a sea of prickly knees where jumbled tent parts rolled every which way.
He was sure that he was about to be pounced upon any second, but he gained his feet, sprinting headlong into a human leg.
A hand politely parted a drape to a storage booth while a soft boot nudged him through.
“Weavil?”
“At your service,” came the poet’s murmur.
The drape closed. Weavil remained hunched in the outer lane.
A harsh voice lunged forth 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 is him!”
“I thought to see a figure of similar nature fleeing on all fours that way.”
The two pursuers dogged in the prescribed direction. After a time, Weavil hissed: “You can come out now.”
Baus dragged himself to his feet.
“Must I always rescue you in this deplorable fashion? It is embarrassing.”
Baus waved his hand. “The idea is more demeaning than the deed.”
“Nevertheless, it is the reality.”
Twenty yards away, a group of eccentric figures yammered away, engaged in antics in the public section of a demonstration booth: a green-haired ape capering in circles, a white-robed lizard-eyed man orating odes, a blue-nosed dwarf executing back flips atop a bear, three misfits wrapped in loose brown rags performing cartwheels. A grinning girl stood to the side with peaked, cat-like ears. She held up an evocative placard from her overhanging rabbit tooth that read:
Grolsner’s Mini-Circus and Excellent Acrobats
Buy Tickets and Enjoy!
The grotesques 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, inspiring Baus to rub affectionately at his chin. It seemed that members of ‘Grolsner’s troupe’ tended toward the harmless. Perhaps the entourage might comprise a legitimate substitute for his current predicament? The more he pondered, the more he warmed to the idea. If it were adventure he coveted, perhaps one of these ragtag bands could permit him to discover a bit of country, engage in some rendezvous with a few vivacious females, other worthwhile boons . . .
Various members swarmed around Baus. In his fascination, he had marched closer to the display than would be politic, leaving Weavil behind, griping at his lack of thanks.
He saw five exceptional persons: Hamma the Rabbit Waif, 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 then after the sign holder in fun. As if on cue, the bear began skipping around in a two step strut with front paws paddling. 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 see the interruption, stormed forward. “Here!” he called, adjusting his cape and orange star-studded top hat with brio. He marched purposefully. “Back to your capering, you indolent mongers! Am I to pay you for rubbernecking?—” The query 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 an experienced fisherman, 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, for which 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. “Despite your self-professed qualifications, I know you not a whit from Darnar the jewel thief or Wistro the Mountebank. Your credentials are deficient. Begone! 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 hissed. He shook the bear’s brown-clawed paw off his shoulder, imploring the beast for peace. “Take little Ridfoo and give her some balls to play with.”
The beast gave an endearing growl; it nose-bumped Ridfoo toward the circus chest overflowing with pins and balls.
“As I was saying,” Grolsner continued pedantically, “I offer no sinecures in this business. The territory is much too fragile.” He stroked his bearded chin and scratched at his goldy curls with annoyance, the varnished coils dancing with highlights. “That is, if I have a business left! That vainglorious magician Nuzbek across the way 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 than you,” mused Baus, “perhaps I should direct my attention to—”
Grolsner made a noisy protest. “Improper logic! Nuzbek’s ‘Marvels and Miracula’—it is a complete sham!” The impresario hissed out an obscenity.
Baus raised an eyebrow. “A passionate exclamation for one describing a colleague’s business. I suppose I shall have to witness this prestidigitator for myself.”
“You may!” Grolsner grumbled. “But you’ll forever be a traitor.” Throwing hands in the air, the impresario battled to retain his composure. He finally grunted: “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—a 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 the insect boy.”
Baus accepted the bills; the circus master stalked off, chastising Denol the acrobat for a slipshod placement of left heel to right arm on his cartwheel.
Weavil, who had been watching from afar, chuckled and swaggered up to Baus, addressing him 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. The casual, indulgent smirk on Weavil’s face remained brightly lit, irritating Baus. “Let me be away from these ragmops and appraise the magician. Grolsner seeks to denigrate him at every turn. After so much roughhousing, I feel a mild urge for some relaxing entertainment.”
“An excellent suggestion. After you.”
“No, I must insist.” Baus bowed, offering his hand. “Far better that you create a shield from this barbaric swarm.”
“How kind of you . . .” Weavil gave a dry hiss. 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—nor the two skulking vendors. Only a knot of fairgoers amidst the clamour of boothkeepers proselytizing the worth of their wares. With bold strides, Baus continued down the aisle.
Sidling down the next 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 him. 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 let down his guard. His manner was 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 crinkled nose. After ditching a persistent saleswoman who persisted in ‘donating’ a vial of ‘Xsalee’s Herb of Best Desire’ into his collection, he bumped into Weavil rather sooner than expected.
“I harbour no need for this stuff,” Baus cried out indignantly, lobbing Xsalee’s unwanted love potion at Weavil. “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 thumped Baus on the shoulder. “Quite right! Are you not happy with your acquisition?” He cached the love potion in his pocket. He flashed Baus a contemptuous grin. “Where’s your forbearance? The peddlers are only trying to turn out a profit. Xsalee, for instance, probably was only trying to offer you assistance. After all—” he sniffed “—your fragrance is not altogether what one might call ‘socially just’. Perhaps a bit of Zizzazz, as Xsalee calls it, might dispel the fungi kelp I detect on you—or, is it gallfish? No—rockgobbler! . . . no offence to your ‘ineffable’ charm.”
Baus drew away, rankled. “Are there other people to annoy, Weavil? Perhaps the few wishing to be alerted of Vrang’s wrath or the possibility of drowning are in dire need of your skills.”
Weavil ignored the comment and spoke with icy petulance, “I have forgone the act of monitoring in lieu of the fair and feast. And you? I’m sure Harky is little thrilled with your truancy; in fact, I thought to hear him shouting your name down at Knucklebone’s Taproom.”
“Do not overconcern yourself with Harky!” growled Baus. “He is a curmudgeon, a slave-driver. 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 easily dismissed; he shadowed Baus’s heels like a stray and to Baus’s further annoyance, he persisted in indulging in more, vapid commentary. At one point, after spying the pen and ink and oil studies of a Brimhaven artist, Nascar, he paused to linger by an engaging composition, infused in the Zan and Barbizan style.
“What of these works?” he inquired.
“What of them? They are on easels. Is that special?”
“The sweet maiden who wears threads of gossamer over her pearly-white loins pouts and pines with ever the look of desolation for a lover lost.” Weavil gave a dreamy-eyed sigh. “It evokes a catharsis, which inspires me to compose an ode—which I will render on the fly.”
Baus rolled up his eyes. He attempted a protest, but Weavil had already pinched his ears and drawn a sudden deep breath:
“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 me, 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. “Hardly are we concerned with your weepsy deliveries, Weavil. I think I detect the sneers of passer-bys.”
Weavil gave a flutter of injured pride. They 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 web of seaweed and shells. The beach was instantly full of clams and debris, and hopping gulls poking about for crab mites.
The crowd had grown to appreciable numbers and Baus and Weavil were alerted to animated sounds issuing from a nearby aisle. They exchanged critical glances. Through the throng they spied a commotion. The two elbowed their way forth and stood standing in a wide, populated alley. Yellow polka-dotted clowns drifted from booth to booth; they could see a stage of impressive proportions occupying 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: fire dragons with fantastic sickle moons abounded, butterflies floated in cloud-mist, albatrosses soared in evocative poses. Front and centre stood a buxom woman aside a confidently-dressed gentleman garbed in a plush black gown. His costume was lustrously embellished with grey moon-sickles; a conical top hat, midnight black, perched on his crown. A wide belt of silver silk circled his waistline and was fitted with a star-shaped buckle. Feet were pressed into long silver shoes, curled at the toes.
Baus grimaced. A puff of green smoke wafted up the stage. The handkerchief in the magician’s hand became a green-billed canary which flew off, shrilling banshee cries. The enchanter set two blue balls rolling across the stage. Upon a command, the balls became red spheres twice their size and burst into red plumes of confetti before bouncing off the edge of the stage. They lurched ten feet into the air and showered the first rows of spectators with liquid sprays, a scene which caused anguished grunts, at which the magician tendered smug apologies.
A gigantic toad suddenly limped its way across the stage. The entertainer gestured implausibly. The trick seemed to backfire. The toad did not seem to playact as required. The creature stared blinking at the magician before it was hastily shooed off.
The magician performed a triumphant bow, then wrapped a limb around the waist of his scantily-clad partner who swan-swooped on her back and looked out from behind moist, glistening eyes.
Not insubstantial hand-clapping spread through the crowd and Baus and Weavil were ill-impressed and flashed each other leery looks while hurrying to investigate.
On closer scrutiny, the line of snow-fence around the stage and grounds was of more elaborate design than what seemed evident at first glance. Inside the circle, no less than forty onlookers struggled to gain a better view: a mixture of upscale folk with their children, fishgutters, cartwrights, masons and dockworkers—all craned necks to behold the wonders that seemed to spring from Nuzbek’s fingertips.
Baus looked left and right. A flag-poled entrance bisected the barrier, no wider than arm’s reach. It allowed bystanders to pass into the enclosure. An unsmiling attendant wore a white tag on his breast writ ‘Nolpin—stage hand’. He planted feet to one side of the gate; hairy forearms were hooked belligerently across his chest. He wore a neatly ironed pair of orange breeches and leather-corded brown boots and glittering sleeves rolled up to the elbow while an opal earring dangled from his left ear.
Weavil and Baus attempted to bypass the attendant but the gatekeeper thrust out a knuckly fist: “The fee is three cils. Step back, or make your coins ready. Paying patrons wish to view the inestimable spectacle.”
Baus wheezed: “Downright robbery! What vendor charges three cils for admission to his kiosk?”
“The great Nuzbek,” the gatekeeper sneered.
“Nuzbek, shmusbek!” scoffed Weavil. “We wish to witness this so-called magician.”
“You shall, provided you lay down your coin. Saunter up the next aisle if you wish gimcracks and curios. Here, you will find only the best entertainment, tendered by the great Nuzbek.”
Weavil gestured to the snow fence in feigned panic.
The gatekeeper swivelled his neck. Weavil ducked under his arm and slipped through the gate—Baus no less nimbly. The gatekeeper could not react fast enough—the two had already merged into the crowd and were couched under a sea of shins.
Under Baus’s advice, the two took up a cramped position on the far side of the gathering, where muttering was rampant. They seemed conveniently shielded by two tall heads and were pleased. Edging sidewise, they discerned a badger-like man mounting the stage now, garbed in a gaberdine, swallow-tailed suit. He stood beaming beside the magician’s pretty aide. “Ladies and Gentlemen!” he cried jubilantly, spreading arms wide, wagging moustache and flaunting his oak-brown ruggedness. “You have witnessed the reputable ‘dancing balloons of Bloom’, Gomer’s bereavement of magical rebirth, and the Carugiain nuptials! The Flight of the Yellow Canary was also admitted in the package. Now comes the pièce de résistance—Nuzbek’s final act.”
There came a barrage of applause. The announcer held up a hand. “It is time! May I remind you that the paragon known as Nuzbek, the same magician of Mosmornon—thaumaturge and miracle-worker, whose fame has spread throughout the lands from Loust to Owlen, will dare a feat of feats!”
More cheers ensued.
Baus hissed out a growl to Weavil. “Mosmornon? Where the devil is that?”
Weavil mustered a cheeky grin. “Who knows? A fable. The rogue has made it sound important.”
Baus nodded. The announcer held up his hands, beckoned for silence. “ . . . And now! During Nuzbek’s following act, the great artist must make room for considerable concentration—a performance including stunning and near impossible thaumaturgics.”
Hushed murmurs rang through the crowd. The announcer ceremoniously departed the stage. On brisk feet a twain of lightly-clad brunettes entered from the side, rolling out a large mirror on four wheels. Nuzbek’s first assistant joined the train; the three halted beside the glass, flashing winning smiles before exiting offstage. Nuzbek adjusted the tilt of the mirror before dabbing a corner with his handkerchief. Satisfied at its congruity, he gave a pretentious bow and conducted three distinguished waves to the crowd.
Baus appraised the magician with sardonic disfavour. The man was tall, spare of figure, straight of leg, etched with tangly bluish-black brows. His round, amber eyes protruded from his rather austere face with a hollow-cheeked pomposity, but full of sly precociousness. The lips were immeasurably thin, like strips of wire, yet capable of a saturnine curl when necessary. Behind the look, Baus sensed a certain tension, a pulsing ‘split personality’ that was bound to erupt, not to mention, uncomfortable to behold.
The great Nuzbek cleared his throat, allowing the audience to settle down: “Friends! Fans! As my valuable aide, Boulm, has declaimed, I will endeavour to demonstrate a hazardous display of dematerialization, as Nuzbek the Magnificent.”
Baus and Weavil indulged each other grimacing frowns. “What a hackneyed routine!” hissed Weavil. “Even the most jackleg magician knows the disappearing act.”
Nuzbek accepted the crowd’s approvals before he caught the flicker of a fractious response in the crowd.
“Mark well! The feat which I am about to attempt is extremely hazardous. Unpredictable. It is not an exercise to be attempted by the dilettante.”
Weavil cupped his hands and booed. “The demonstration is jejune, ‘Sir Nuzbek’. In fact, every half doodle knows it from here to Owlen.”
Nuzbek craned his neck to see who had spoken. Catching sight of the rodent-like head, he contorted his expression into a sneer. “Opportunity strikes! What fortune! Perhaps we have a learned pundit in our midst—a savant who would trot up and explain the mechanics of dematerialization?”
A few jesting murmurs came from the front row.
Nuzbek nodded benevolently: “It has been so many years since I graduated from conjuror school—I’m sure we’ll all have need for an explanator.”
Baus rose to attention. “A droll rejoinder, magician. Let us see your mettle. Give us a purely original spectacle—one never before witnessed!”
Nuzbek paused, pondering with care. “The challenge I must admit, is evocative, though certainly not impossible. Given my expertise, I suppose well within my capacity. Yes . . . a conception very exceptional—even flamboyant!” He gave his knee a jaunty slap. “Consider the dare met, young friend! I will entertain you this evening, at half past seven, with a feat upon feats with other of my fans. Is this adequate?”
“Very much!” called Baus.
“And your name—so that I may at least know who is my challenger?”
Baus peered about with discomfort. With a cough and a muffled exclamation, knowing that unwanted attention was unwise, given Uyu’s and Migor’s agitation, he declared that he was ‘Baus, a fisherman of Heagram,’, and that he was not given to any vanity by divulging any of his other skills.
“No vanity is implied,” assured Nuzbek.
“And I,” added Weavil importantly, “am a prestigious poet, Weavil of Heagram, who includes myself in the category of ‘challenger’.”
Nuzbek reached in his robe, jotted the names very carefully on a pad before tucking it back into his garment. “Very well, Baus and Weavil of Heagram. Consider the agreement sealed! I have a similar request to make of the two of you. To step forward as volunteers.”
Baus and Weavil exchanged cold looks.
Craftiness bloomed on Nuzbek’s face. “Normally I would intrude upon my associate, the vivacious Nadek, but for lack of a more impromptu test, I believe your services are apt.”
Baus demurred. “I must decline, master Nuzbek. Perhaps my colleague would care to inject himself as a willing participant.”
Weavil raised an angry cry but Baus urged him on. “Come, Weavil, it is only proper!”
“I am no more a toy than lab rat! Get me away from this charlatan.”
“Charlatan, is it?” Nuzbek croaked. “Your words sting, Weavil! But alas, I suppose everyone has his hecklers.” He addressed his audience with grave earnest. “Is there no soul venturesome enough to become part of my extraordinary experiment?”
An awkward silence gripped the gathering—followed by uneasy muttering.
Nuzbek paced back and forth. “I cannot wait till cockcrow to receive word from a single volunteer! Come forth! Where are all the brave souls? The redoubtable Baus and Weavil have elected to forgo a momentous opportunity. Why should stalwarts as these refuse my invitation? It is not known. How are matters to right themselves, faced with such abject torpor?”
Despite the appeal, no member of the audience came forth.
Nuzbek’s snort was like a jackdaw’s. “I see that I must sweeten the pot then. Alas! For Heaven’s sake, you cravens and duffers! You test my patience! For the first man or woman, or even beast, who presents himself as a suitable candidate, I offer this winning prize of—ten cils.”
There was a frantic movement upon the stage. Surly teens with expressions of zeal, tough old mariners with gap teeth, barefooted children with moony grins; blue-bonneted women with frills and lace, hunched-over dockworkers scrambling like wolves at feeding time. Nuzbek was amused by the unseemly rush. He leaped to the stage’s edge to hold up a hindering hand. “Desist! I order all access barred!”
The participants ignored the decree.
Nuzbek, less amused, stomped on the fingers of stage-clamberers. “Let us exercise decorum here! Storming my stage like a bunch of ignorant urchins is foolhardy, especially on a platform as expensive as this.”
The mob subsided; Nuzbek smoothed out the back of his gown. “That’s better. Now, you!”—he pointed a bony finger at a dowdy frump who clung close to the stage. “What is your name?”
“Conikraul.”
“How ladylike! Nadek, help Conikraul on stage. There’s a lass. Ho-ha! No need to struggle! Mind her sun bonnet and froggish parka. Get Zlanda out to assist you, if her weight is too prodigious.”
Conikraul resented the comment. With indecorous effort, Zlanda and Nadek hauled Conikraul up on stage. Propelling her over to stand beside Nuzbek in front of the mirror, they simpered.
Nuzbek addressed the audience with a patronizing glare: “First of all, it is of utmost necessity to—”
“What about my cils?” demanded Conikraul.
Nuzbek’s eyes glittered. “First, never interrupt me; second, your stipend shall be forthcoming at the conclusion of this episode. Now, as I was saying, I shall prepare the requisite unguents . . .” He lifted a menacing finger, brought forth two tubes from air, rousing more murmurs of delight. “A bit of background,” he explained, “these gels are to be smeared on the exposed areas of Conikraul’s body, which as you notice, include shins, forearms, neck and visage. Then, as habitual, the incumbent is to be doused with wintergill, and a generous spray of gautz.”
Conikraul raised a cry, at which someone suggested a jesting supplement.
Nuzbek arched a questioning ear to the audience. “What need I of unguents when my powers are all-encompassing? For this reason alone: the place where Conikraul is to go is fraught with danger and debasement! Do not doubt it! The place is one of abysms and abysses! Conikraul is to enter a world of Stygian rigour, a place devoid of kind thought, where she will be presented before a line of demonesses and dark dorlords and tested for the mettle of her essence. And here I fib not!—the spirits from the other side may decide her unworthy. Maybe they won’t. But harbour no misgivings! I have administered the proper unguents, which are of nature too obscure to name, yet steeped in the ritual hours of litany. If Conikraul is to waver in the dusky weft of chaos, claimed by the demonesses—alas! With regret, she will not return. But, invested with the agents I subscribe and drenched with the goodness of my will and my puissant magics, she shall return to the world as we know it—unscathed from the claws of ‘Ruthifara’, the vilest of demonesses!”
Never before had the crowd heard such necromantic prophecy and they roared a single note. Conikraul wailed and struggled to fight her way offstage. Nuzbek signalled Nadek. She and Zlanda scooted her back toward the mirror, positioned dead centre alongside the magician.
Accustomed to this quality of voice, Nuzbek shook his head in contempt. Weavil noted somewhat sourly how he had been barely spared such lampoon treatment, no thanks to Baus’s jocular suggestions. While Conikraul thrashed about, she was subdued by Nuzbek’s four assistants. Nuzbek applied more unguent with snaps of hand while Conikraul’s exposed skin seemed to shrink with the application of gel. The magician proceeded on a rigid program of chanting while Conikraul’s impassioned outbursts went unheard. They were met with the magician’s casual withdrawal from his robe of a strange ebon rod which he tapped on her crown and which froze all her faculties to ice.
Baus eyed the device with fascination. The rod exuded a macabre flux which seemed genuine enough, and judging from its effect, an inestimable power, something which he would not resent tucked in his own pocket.
Anticipation ran rife in the air. Nuzbek’s droning chant escalated to a ghastly cadence at which the crowd murmured in fright.
Weavil bared his teeth. Baus muttered oaths. Detecting a sudden unnatural disturbance to his left, Baus whirled. Not surprised was he to spy Uyu and Migor elbowing their way in his direction.
He tugged at Weavil’s sleeve, grunting.
“Go, if you must,” reproved Weavil, “I wish only to view the performance—as clownish as it appears.”
Weavil shifted about, but was conferring to empty air. Baus had disappeared. A heavyset man with huge, punch-bowl face joggled him aside. Another massive individual kneed him in the thigh—not accidentally, and Weavil was not pleased as he was pitched to his knees. The two louts blundered on like sneak fighters. Weavil shouted for retribution. He was about to inject further outrage into the tumult, when Nuzbek raised his arms in frightful configuration and shouted a single, malign word:
Agarharunkujuhara!
A ghastly explosion ripped across the stage. Ghoulish plumes billowed outward from the place where Conikraul had been. All forms were obscured under a nacreous, mushroom cloud.
Suddenly the fog began to dissipate. Only Nuzbek’s tall, wraith-like figure began to appear in the fumes, with an exultant leer writ on his face. Conikraul was nowhere to be seen.
“Kudos! Take note!” The magician touched a jubilant finger to his nose then thrust it at the quivering mirror. “Conikraul has vacated herself to the nesisphere—behind the magic mirror!”
Weavil gave a sour, helpless sigh. “This is no achievement, Nuzbek! It is the work of a tyro!” He began squeezing himself back through the gathering before pausing to thumb his nose at Nuzbek.
Baus was still nowhere to be seen; Weavil scratched his brow. The comic frown overshadowing his features suggested wonderment as to where his clam-happy fellow had disappeared. A new observation gripped him. Odd that the two foreigners who had bowled him over were tumbling their way through the crowd, attending a fleeing figure who much resembled Baus . . .
Several persons had developed a lingering dissatisfaction for the integrity of Nuzbek’s spectacle as a result of Weavil’s more pointed remarks and began to saunter off, grumbling over the implausibility of the act.
Pique swept across Nuzbek’s face. With pompous outrage he ordered his audience to return. “Sceptics! What of my volunteer’s return? Have you no curiosity in my work? The ‘Resurrection’ has not been completed—it involves an approved magic, of the third order!”
Weavil cupped hands and hurled a denouncement: “Enough bombast, Nuzbek! There are no demons, nor are there nesispheres—only a fakir with a gulling tongue and a wide lack of subtlety. The woman cached beneath the stage is testament to my accusation—that much at least is sure.”
Nuzbek’s face flushed a dangerous crimson. “Fibber! This is an impudent assumption!”
“Is it?” hooted Weavil. “Lift the trap and we shall see.”
“Impossible!” cried Nuzbek. “The beobar holds the platform secure, tight as a carrack’s deck—there is no trap.”
“Ha! I find the notion absurd!” Pushing his way through the crowd, Weavil squirmed his way onstage. He jumped over a section of what he thought to be a suspicious panel and the magician, gaping slack-jawed, gave an inarticulate croak. Weavil scuffed his feet along the platform right before the mirror. Immediately, a tiny, perceptible lever presented itself. Now it was Weavil’s turn to laugh.
“So! The trap of which I speak runs so and so. When the smoke engulfs the subject, it merely suffices to trip the valve, which involutes the door and renders the volunteer sliding helplessly down a hole. I stand vindicated.” Nodding triumph, Weavil addressed the disgusted crowd. “This is the way a noble man snatches your coin and harps on about vapid things like ‘nesispheres’ and dark dorlords! Nuzbek! You are a barefaced phoney!”
Nuzbek’s lips quivered. A malice like none ever seemed to enflame his crepuscular eyes. It surpassed any ethical essence of antipathy and he shouted a sinister challenge: “An outlandish fantasy! You are deranged, Weavil, even in your diseased imagination. I hereby denounce you as a simpleton and a clod. Nolpin! Apprehend this louse before I loose my toad-turning magic on him!”
Weavil ignored the threat. “I hear a familiar voice. Hark! Can it be Conikraul?” He tipped an ear, knelt on the beobar and implored the audience to silence. “Look, I spring the trap and what do we find? A chubby arm, a podgy shin, a milk-white visage.”
“An illusion only!” shrilled Nuzbek. “I see only a varnished crossboard, appearing perhaps like a human limb in some form, owing to this afternoon sunlight. I brand you a blackguard and a lunatic, Weavil—not to mention an overweening pip!”
A shout rose from the audience. A rustling of flustered patrons and demonstrators rounded on the stage. “Here, you spider-tongued mountebank!” they cried. “It is Conikraul we see. Move aside so we can inspect this platform of yours.”
“Yes, you hoaxing grifter—the profuseness of the smoke we saw earlier brings us to doubt. Let us climb your stage and have a look at your trap, the one that Weavil has exposed.”
The magician tottered from foot to foot. “The requests are impossible! How can I permit so many hecklers to mount my stage? I prohibit plebeians to ascend!”
“An outrage!” shrieked a high-born woman dressed in a flowing green gown. “Weavil ascends the stage. Why not us?”
“Indeed!” stormed another patron. “Are you implying that we are plebeians and not Weavil?”
A group of men who were better cargo lifters than logicians accredited the declaration as an insult. The crowd was flung into pandemonium. A trio of indignant sailors leapt on stage brandishing fists and offering aggressive action. Nuzbek, Nolpin and Boulm, managed to pitch the instigators into the crowd, but several of the defenders regrouped and ploughed onstage, along with five rugged dockworkers. They slapped Nuzbek’s attendants aside and seized the magician and began administering an incisive punishment.
Nuzbek’s buxom helpers fled in panic. Conikraul was hauled up from the crawlspace. She was handed to safety. Nuzbek, horror-stricken, was ripped off the stage like a scarecrow. He watched in frozen dismay as a dozen members of the audience began pillaging his storehouse concealed underneath the slats. With moans of distress, he watched through sunken sockets as items of value were flung onto the lawn: fire-sticks, crystal gyros, runestones, ghost globes, bird cages, costumes, costly robes, polished horns, magic boots, gilded urns, assorted imploding, smog-ridden balloons, an ornate fume thrower engraved with the gyrfalcons of legendary Karsh. With the assistance of the seamen, they tore the awning down, dismantled the timbers and flung the segments about in disorderly ruin. Nolpin was forced to surrender his monies accepted for the show.
Persons old and young and rich and poor clambered amidst the wreckage to grab what they could, snatching at more than what they had paid for.
Weavil regarded the proceedings with irony. He scratched his chin, clicked his tongue in wonderment, pondering the cost of duplicity.
IV
In the meanwhile it was an enervated Baus who trudged up the mudflats, managing to evade the two bungling pursuers who were his bane, but only with cunning and a degree of subterfuge. In silence he stalked up the beach, avoiding the viscous mud that impeded his progress, contemplating his misfortunes with dark deliberation. Because of the unspeakable boorishness of a few oafs, he had suffered scuffs and abrasions and had failed to partake of the complimentary victual at Heagram’s fair. An insufferable turn!