by Chris Turner
Uyu uttered a squeaking cry. “A 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 my offer. The item is worth a king’s ransom!”
“Then why don’t you buy it?”
Uyu ignored the remark. “Regard the obscurity of the ritual. The primitives embark in an abomination of curious complexity.” He skipped about, tapping the inscription with animated energy.
“The ritual is not in question,” declared Baus. “Just the price. Five cils—my final offer.”
Uyu looked up, his tone stretched to a dismal murmur. “You are not grasping the inestimable worth of the Dulfiog! It is a treasure beyond price! Now why are you so stubborn?—we are offering you a gift at a paltry cost. You are a valued, principled customer!”
“I accept that compliment, unconditionally; however—” Baus eased back on his heels, inching closer to the nearby wall. His eyes were suddenly riveted to a barbaric chain suspending a curious monstrosity at eye level. The artifact was reminiscent of a bird-cage, topped with an irregular fowl of petrified beobar and gave off an air of eldritch antiquity. The black beast was some kind of harniforous, possibly a psudoferous, Baus figured, 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 human qualities. They were 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 easy.
“The guardian fowl,” Uyu intoned, “is none other than Tuskou, the golden god, who watches benignly over the gentle, but mischievous ‘Zmoo’ and their ruminants.”
“Ordinarily, a very straightforward deduction,” remarked Baus.
Uyu spoke through strained lips: “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! 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 assumed.”
Uyu seemed to find the response affected and curled his lip.
Somewhat repulsed by the flavour of Uyu’s pedagogy, Baus scrutinized the vendor with mounting dislike. Uyu hopped closer. A markedly flushed animation entered his cheeks. The vendor urged Baus to touch the artifact.
“I daren’t!” Baus hissed. 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 rise to leap closer to the ‘birdcage’. Curiously, he overshot his mark; he held out a hand to stabilize his precarious flight.
But no! 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 grand urgency. It butt a hip into Baus’s finger, which had wormed its way through the cage. By means unknown, Uyu had initiated some prank through means of a controlling mechanism.
Scrambling back, Baus loosed a grunt. The action jostled Uyu, who in turn cannoned back into Migor. There came a windmilling, a sudden vertigo. The glittering yuyuks and shellames on the far wall crashed down in an ear-piercing clatter of chert, shell and glass.
There was an awkward pause. Uyu sprang back in horror. Migor remained speechless. The big man launched himself to his feet, covered in glass and debris, his eyes like a cobra’s.
Baus watched the display with composed placidity. While Migor sifted and scraped through the broken shards, a rapid jabber of language issued between shopkeeper and brother. Baus construed the tones as modern Hilgimic curses.
Migor’s piercing yellow eyes fixed on Baus.
Baus uttered a dignified conciliation, to which was given harsh laughs of hostility.
“You, grand bungler,” growled Migor, “are owing money. Smashed are my two yuyuks in supplement to four expensive shellames at a cost of twenty-five cils!”
Uyu squeaked: “And do not neglect the chipped chertobyl which is valued at thirty-five cils.”
Baus gave a flippant disclaimer. “No matter. It was terribly unwise to post artifacts so close to the booth’s entrance. Look at the grief that has come.”
Uyu chewed unpleasantly on his tongue. He reiterated that recompense was due at one hundred and eighty-five cils.
Baus responded with an outraged croak. “This is a scandalous sum! You lack of bonhomie, particularly equanimity, smarts—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 I deem is right now!”
Baus held up an authoritative hand. “Technically, it was not I who fractured the articles, but Migor, who catapulted backwards in an ignorant fashion.”
Migor clamped his jaw with amazement. “Hardly! It was rather your oafish clumsiness which created the impetus for my imbalance, and hence, my ultimate crash!”
Baus cautioned Migor: “Lay blame to the mud-baked demon in the birdcage who startled me. There you will find your culprit.”
Uyu’s lips curled in a pained grimace. “Leave poor Bojor out of it. The manikin is a joke, nothing more than an eye grabber for tourists.”
“Quite an expensive joke at that,” Baus muttered.
Migor ignored the declaration: “Do not denigrate Bojor! He is part of a device triggered to lighten the mood of prospective buyers when they persist in wavering between browsing and buying!”
Baus raised a scornful finger. “So, you would bully innocent bystanders into purchasing exorbitant wares through tricks!” He glared at the shopkeepers, arms crossed on his chest. “Shame on you, sirs! I am at a loss for words—and remain wholly astounded at these crass tactics. Please sort out your complaints with someone else, on your own time.”
He turned to leave but the clamour had attracted passers-by who were now amused by the demonstrations and expected more obloquy to come. They lingered at the entrance to compose jocular speculations. While the shopkeepers engaged in further grumbling disputations, Baus began to slowly backtrack out of the booth. The vendors remained preoccupied with their arguments and Baus easily slipped past the gawkers and initiated a rapid course down the nearest aisle.
The absence, however, was noted.
A cry of astonishment came lancing out of the booth, which made Baus move far more quickly. Migor’s balled fists comprised adequate testament that he should distance himself accordingly.
Knees pumping high, Baus ox-bowled his way down an intersecting aisle. 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, fighting nausea, clawed his way through a sea of prickly knees where a jumble of tent parts and pegs rolled every which way.
He was sure that he was about to be pounced on, but gained his feet, sprinting headlong into a human leg.
A hand politely parted a drape to a storage booth. A soft boot nudged him through.
“Weavil?”
“At your service,” came the poet’s laugh.
The drape closed. Weavil remained hunched in the outer lane.
A rough voice shot out from the aisle: “Where is the bumbling oaf?”
Weavil’s clarion voice came through the drape to Baus’s ears. “Do you mean the long-legged hoodlum wearing cheap hat and fake glasses?”
“That’s him!”
“I thought to see the knave fleeing on all fours that way.”
There were grunts and curses and the two pursuers dogged
in the prescribed direction. After a time, Weavil tsked: “You can come out now.”
Baus dragged himself to his feet.
“Must I always rescue you in such deplorable fashion? It is embarrassing.”
Baus waved a hand. “The idea is more demeaning than the rescuing, Weavil.”
“Nevertheless, it is embarrassing.”
Baus shrugged. Twenty yards away, a group of eccentric figures yammered away, engaged in antics in the public section of a demonstration booth. There was a green-haired ape capering in circles, a white-robed lizard-eyed man orating odes, and a blue-nosed dwarf executing back flips atop a bear. Nearby, three misfits wrapped in loose brown rags performed cartwheels. A grinning girl stood to the side with peaked, cat-like ears, who held up an evocative placard from her overhanging rabbit tooth which read:
Grolsner’s Mini-Circus and Excellent Acrobats
Buy Tickets and Enjoy!
The performers capered about in their usual ways. If anything, there was a sprightliness to their steps, even derring-do. Now a juggler with a white dunce’s cap tossed a bowling pin childishly close to one of the dwarfs. The playtoy bopped her on the crown; the dwarf gave a twittering chirp and began chasing after the juggler. The routine prompted howls from the audience and inspired Baus to rub affectionately at his chin. It seemed that members of ‘Grolsner’s troupe’ tended toward the harmless. Perhaps the entourage might offer some employment to offset his net-untangling? The more he pondered, the more he warmed to the idea, as if it were meant to be. If it were adventure he coveted, perhaps one of these ragtag bands could permit a down and out fisherman to discover a bit of country, engage in some rendezvous with a few vivacious females, other such boons . . .
The fantasy dissolved. Various members swarmed around Baus. In his fascination, he had stepped closer to the display than he had thought, leaving Weavil behind, griping at his lack of thanks.
He saw five exceptional persons: Hamma the Rabbit Boy, Larga the Strong-woman, Edulf the Dwarf Ape, Yipyob the Salamander Man, and Sandar the Nail Cleaver.
A white-furred bear with dwarf rider suddenly nuzzled up to him, scooting after the sign holder in fun. As if on cue, the bear skipped around in a two step strut with front paws paddling, only to fall over and play dead, tumbling its rider. The animal had no collar or leash, but was muzzled with wire cord and leather flaps. A well-fed middle-aged impresario seemed to be directing the whole farrago from a distance and when he came to investigate the interruption, stormed forward with . “Here!” he called, adjusting his cape and orange star-studded top hat. He marched with purpose and precision. “Back to your capering, you lazy mongers! Am I to pay you for rubbernecking?—No!” The heat was directed at Baus. “State your business, stranger, and desist from this rambling and distracting my staff.”
“I have no intent of ‘distracting’,” responded Baus icily. “I am only a wandering fisherman, an experienced one at that, and the owner of a talented knowledge base among other skills. I toy with the idea of joining your minor ensemble, perhaps in an advisory capacity. Weavil, my esteemed colleague, will endorse me as a worthy candidate.”
Grolsner looked for the person in reference but found no one. “A large thing you ask,” he muttered. He furrowed his brow and made sounds of one much in doubt. “Despite your self-professed qualifications, I know you not a whit from Darnar the jewel thief, let alone Wistro the Mountebank. Your credentials are not to be seen. I must pass on your offer. This is a tightly-run business—not one given to frivolity.” He was interrupted by the two-stepping bear with the upside down dwarf. “Not now, Chancey!” he cried. He shook the bear’s brown-clawed paw off his shoulder, then implored the beast for peace. “Take little Ridfoo and give her some balls to play with.”
The beast gave an endearing growl and nose-bumped Ridfoo toward the circus chest overflowing with pins and balls.
“As I was saying,” Grolsner continued practically, “I offer no sinecures in this business. The territory is much too fragile.” He stroked his beard and scratched at his goldy curls. The varnished coils danced with highlights. “If I have a business left! That vainglorious magician Nuzbek over there keeps stealing my clients! It was the same at Efoven, and the same before that at Loust. I simply cannot shake his presence from the circuit!”
“Well, then, if Nuzbek is drawing more business,” mused Baus, “perhaps I should direct my attention to him.”
Grolsner made a noisy protest. “Improper logic! Nuzbek’s ‘Marvels and Miracula’—ha, it is a complete sham!” The impresario hissed his displeasure.
Baus raised an eyebrow. “A passionate exclamation for one describing a colleague’s trade. I suppose I shall have to experience this prestidigitator for myself.”
“You might!” Grolsner grumbled. “But you’ll be wasting your money.” Throwing hands in the air, the impresario marched off, but having a second thought, he returned again with a grunt: “Ah! I suppose I must moderate my expectations of the common folk.” With strained civility, he reached in his pockets and withdrew a roll of ruffled bills. “Here, take this complimentary two-ticket stub to the next show. Exhibitions occur on the hour. This is your chance to find out more about our outfit. You need only present the ticket to Darfa in the next wicket—Darfa is the insect boy.”
Baus acknowledged his recognition of Darfa and accepted the bills. The circus master stalked off, chastising Denol the acrobat now for a slipshod placement of left heel to right arm on his last cartwheel.
Weavil, who had been watching the whole affair from afar, chuckled and swaggered up to Baus. He spoke in a sardonic tone. “A fine speech, Baus. I didn’t realize you were so keen to relinquish your tenure as a fisherman.”
“A fancy only,” admitted Baus coolly. “Nothing for you to worry about, Weavil.” The casual, indulgent smirk on Weavil’s face irked him. “Ah, let me be away from these ragmops and appraise the magician. Grolsner seeks to denigrate the prestidigitator at every turn. After so much roughhousing, I feel a mild urge to have some relaxing entertainment.”
“An excellent suggestion . . . After you.”
“No, I insist.” Baus bowed, offering his hand. “Far better that you create a shield from this barbaric swarm.”
“How kind of you,” Weavil hissed dryly. Pausing to admire his new change of jerkin and tan breeches, he was surprised to find Baus gone when he glanced up.
III
Peering left, then right, Baus saw no sign of Weavil. Peace at last. No sign either of the two skulking vendors. Only a knot of fairgoers amidst the clamour of boothkeepers proselytizing the worth of their wares. With bold strides, he continued down the aisle.
Sidling down a side lane, Baus kept his eyes roving for florid-faced shopkeepers or uncompromising constables. In an adjoining yard, he caught sight of a group of children apple-bobbing and rowdy teenagers digging their heels in a tug of war. A team of lumberjacks scurried up a set of greased poles. Horseshoes flew by the dozens; a group of elders absorbed themselves in checkers, cribbage and bingo.
The normalcy of the atmosphere reassured Baus. A warmer, less humid breeze tickled his sunburnt cheeks. Pale sunlight slanted through cracks in the sky, letting dappled light fall on the grassy lanes. Booths were milling of folk, chattering and filing by in greater numbers.
Relaxed by the halcyon scene, Baus loosed a sigh. His guard was down, his manner carefree, his knees loose; he felt an effortless leisure in his limbs as he strolled from exhibit to exhibit.
Several of the upcoming booths were cluttered and tawdry. He bypassed these kiosks with a crinkled nose. After ditching a persistent saleswoman who persisted in ‘donating’ a vial of ‘Xsalee’s Herb of Best Desire’ into his possession, he bumped into Weavil rather sooner than expected.
“I harbour no need for this stuff,” Baus cried out indignantly, pushing Xsalee’s unwanted love potion into Weavil’s palm. “I bear a perfect physique and am owner of an ineffable charm. Further, I find it imposing that these vendors pitch their
marketing ploys upon us. Pounce and leap! They hope one will get hooked on purchasing wares on a chance visit to their booth—such an irking nuisance.”
Weavil grinned. “Quite right!” He thumped Baus on the shoulder. “Are you not happy with your acquisition?” He cached the love potion in his pocket and flashed Baus a contemptuous grin. “Where’s your forbearance, Baus? The peddlers are only on the prowl trying to turn out a profit. Xsalee, for instance, probably was only trying to tender you assistance. After all—your fragrance is not altogether what one might call ‘socially just’.” He gave an exaggerated sniff. “Perhaps a bit of Zizzazz, as Xsalee calls it, might dispel the fungi kelp I detect on your presence—or, is it gallfish? Gah—rockgobbler! . . . no offence to your ‘ineffable’ charm.”
Baus drew away, rankled by the insinuation. Nor was he eager to gaze again upon Weavil’s ugly face. “Are there other people around to annoy, Weavil? Perhaps the few wishing to be alerted of Vrang’s wrath, or the possibility of drowning?”
Weavil ignored the statement and spoke with an icy petulance, “I have forgone the act of monitoring the beach in lieu of the fair and feast. And you? I’m sure Harky is less than thrilled with your truancy. In fact, I thought to hear him shouting your name down at Knucklebone’s Taproom.”
Baus cringed. “Do not overconcern yourself with Harky! The curmudgeon is a slave-driver, and he’s better left far away from me. His idea of a Sunday picnic is to bring rod, tinder and shovel, and dig away to the centre of the earth for a few snails to roast.”
Weavil was not so easily humoured. Or dismissed. He shadowed Baus’s heels like a stray and to Baus’s further annoyance, persisted in indulging in more, vapid commentary. At one point, he paused to linger by an engaging painting, after spying the pen and ink and oil studies of a Brimhaven artist, Nascar. It seemed they were infused in the Zan and Barbizan style.
“What of these works?” he inquired.
“What of them? They are on easels. Is that anything special?”
