Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I

by Chris Turner

  Minutes later, Germakk chanced to sneeze. By force, the momentum dissipated the magic and snapped him into alertness. The guard seemed confused, disoriented, not completely his self, and he marched smartly up to the door. He thrust his face in between the bars, peering down upon the sleeping crew. His attitude was of suspicion. He seemed barely convinced that everything was as it should, yet he resumed his post, griping and grabbing whip and dagger and muttering curses.

  Nuzbek shifted his position to better enjoy Germakk’s befuddlement. Baus’s mental functionings worked overtime. What skullduggery was Nuzbek up to? The power of the rod seemed miraculous, that it could freeze one indiscriminately. Apparently Nuzbek seemed to enjoy this kind of private joke; and yet, many of the inexplicable degradations cast upon Dighcan and Zestes became less ambiguous . . .

  Baus directed himself to deeper musing. He ventured on speculations of marvel regarding the ganglestick. If a single prod could render a man incapacitated for several minutes, what vast potentialities might it have in his own palm?

  The prospect was exhilarating.

  * * *

  The first glimmer of light patterned the dormitory floor with rich red and mahogany tones. Baus struggled awake to the sounds of groans, grunts and ill-mannered jests. Dighcan eased himself out of his bed, stooping as he did to habitually lace his battered workboots. He stared sleepily out and about and mumbled to himself about having to face another day, only a paltry six more years left in his sentence. He backslapped Lopze, a dazed and confused badger-creature, whose bleary raccoon eyes looked as if they hadn’t slept a wink all night. Valere rolled himself over, grimacing, voicing a rude remark at Yullen, who had nestled himself into the crook of his neck, purring like an infant at his mother’s breast. “Away, you foul-breathed hound!”

  On his way to the latrine, Vibellhanz accidentally jostled Paltuik, framing a careless retort that earned him a buffet and a knife-draw. Paltuik lumbered over to converse with Karlil, who was himself on his way to the latrine and Tustok eased past and innocently belched in Quintlo’s face without apologizing. Upon scenting the reek of last night’s oilfish, Quintlo emitted a vile curse, at which point Tustok mumbled a belaboured objection. Nuzbek stood back by the window, with his rumpled hat in hand and was so engrossed in smoothing back his thinning hair, that when Leamoine sidled up and fondled his behind, he gave a sharp cry and whirled on him like a crane.

  “Pay close attention, milkfingers! It is eight demerits to impose improprieties upon a fellow convict. Remember Graves’ warnings?—or do I have to imprint it on your brow? Do you desire so badly the flap-trap?”

  “No more than you, Nuzbeka,” Leamoine purred, waving a delicate hand at him, “but, if no one tells, no one knows.”

  “Wrong!” railed Nuzbek. “If no one reports, no one is brave enough to initiate the act. I have tongue enough and I am brave, as are Zestes and Tustok here, who will vouch for my testimony.”

  Leamoine dimpled his cheeks with coquettishness. “They will surely not say a peep.”

  Nuzbek jerked forward to object but Leamoine began to fuss placidly with his right ear bangle. “Attend! As no witnesses are stepping forth, logic deems necessarily no complaint, therefore no demerits, no immurement in the flap-trap.”

  “Blind sophism!” cried Nuzbek. “Mark my words, you are walking on eggshells.”

  Leamoine gave a fluting cluck as did many convicts raise jeering outcries which Nuzbek found entirely low-class. He strode back to his bunk and discharged his angst upon Boulm, who was just rousing himself from his pallet.

  * * *

  After a cold unsatisfying breakfast of onion, hoarfish, and yams, Ausse and Germakk assigned the men to their day’s duties. The dodgy meal went down heavily. It was Baus, Tustok, Valere, Quintlo, Zorez and Vibellhanz who were to report to the sea wall, while Weavil, Nuzbek, Nolpin, Boulm and others were consigned to various chores, including clam-shucking, fish-gutting and refuse-shovelling in the central yard. The wastes were to be loaded into barrows and dumped in the garbage pit at the forest’s edge.

  Baus fumed silently. As much as he despised this odious task of clam-cracking and its associated stenches, he secretly wished he was the one involved so that he could secretly scour the north wall and overhanging limbs for any possibilities of escape.

  Oppet, Master of the snauzzerhounds, presently pulled at the chains of his dogs and drove Baus and the four convicts on, ball and chain clutched in hand, down the narrow pathway through Grumboar forest. The dogs were feral monsters, snapping at the prisoners’ heels with slavering jowls. Six foot long masses of furred stealth, spiked ears and peaked snouts stabbed at the earth and made a formidable impression on the convicts. Oppet kept the guardians at bay, voicing several commands while tendering herbal sweetmeats which seemed to pacify the beasts in some way. Nevertheless, the dogs seemed to adore their master and obeyed him without question. They truckled to his requests with an almost religious devotion despite the intricate harness rigged up round their necks and torsos.

  Although the journey through the woods was arduous, Baus had time to marvel at the great smoke-coloured boughs that vaulted over their heads. They were like magnificent rooftops reaching to the sky. Green-backed boles as old as time hemmed his path, through the gaps of which, Baus caught glimpses of salt-water pools, fallen logs, bull reeds and bog tracts which hid the wide-billed herons that stalked fish and frogs. Bristly weeds, spiky crag-bush coloured the rich and hundred-hued morass. All the time Baus heard faint murmuring amidst the trees: the sweet musk of old forest masked the oily exudations of fen, overshadowing its eeriness, but still remained a teasing reminder of the days when his father would entertain him as a lad with tales of the ‘murmuring’ forests of seaside Sarch. Too short were these carefree days that came back now . . .

  Out of the shadows the company emerged, struggling alongside the mudflats toward Weavil’s lookout, now a forlorn, black-blemished shanty shot against the folds of the sea. A short distance ahead, the half-finished teeth of the sea wall rose out of the sand like molars. Up to the wharf the rampart continued like a stony snake, continuing along the northern shore of the Flam.

  A black-bearded figure greeted them with enthusiasm—Voin, who conveyed them with somewhat perfunctory authority down a shallow-bowled dune toward a section of wall that denoted the straggling terminus. There stood three piles of raw stone, a wheelbarrow and a beat-up bucket of cement powder. A grey tub of water was pushed back amongst the shovels and trowels.

  The foreman rubbed his wrists, an officious fellow infused with a florid face and hawk features. He uttered curt instructions to the crew, whereupon trowels were thrust into Baus’s and Vibellhanz’s hands. Zorez and Quintlo were commanded to work the wheelbarrow and gather shells to add to the mortar. Tustok and Valere were handed shovels while Oppet went back with his dogs to tend the prison gate.

  Trowel in hand, Baus caught a glimpse of the limitless Poesasian. It was lustreless, trembling in the damp, salty air like some untamed maiden. Today it was grey and bleak with the shadow of incoming clouds. The shoreline was dim, a flat and hazy swath—forming a languid blur with the waves that licked its face. A muted drone, merging with the nearby soporific creak of ships’ rigging, set Baus to wistful reflection. The steeples of schooners of Heagram port felt somehow faraway, no more to Baus a home than a vague memory of the past. The seaside hamlet was lost to him. He felt no more attachment to Heagram than a wayfarer committing a fleeting stopover along the path of a long journey. What was more, outside of the sanctuary of his own mind, he fostered no hope of escape from this wretched prison. While remaining prepossessed with the murk of despair, he was jolted by Voin, who had noticed his break of industry.

  “This is sluggardly work, Baus! Notice how Vibellhanz trowels with efficiency. Your handiwork is sloppy in comparison, and slapdash!”

  Baus arrested his trowelling to peer at Voin with narrowed eyes. “And how might I attain this miracle?”

  “Through dilige
nce and passion.”

  Baus made efforts to comprehend the means, but the curl of his lip barely masked his sarcasm. “I have only pursued this line of work for a day now. Do you expect me to be a master?”

  “In retrospect, no,” responded Voin. “On their first essay, Lopze and Quintlo performed a grand job of mortaring, which was to be commended.”

  “Well then, let Lopze and Quintlo trowel and slave away, not I!

  Voin gave a startled gasp. “You make demands then?”

  Baus further growled through his teeth. “No, I merely ask, must we all be perfectionists in our first hour?”

  “Essentially yes—and watch the timbre of your voice, you rogue. I am wise to your tricks and am generally lenient when it comes to inefficiencies, but as head of this operation, I am under pressure that the wall must be completed before the first winter gales. Prefect Barth has decreed the achievement! Do not forget I am chairman of the Bricklayer’s Guild—now back to your work, ingrate, with speed! Adroitness must be augmented!”

  Baus mumbled an epithet. Where had he heard those slave-mongering words before? Not too far up the beach, from the mouth of a certain Harky . . .

  The day dragged on; rock piled upon rock. The barrow’s wheels creaked, cement powder sloshed while shovels scraped and trowels clinked. The wall grew slowly in length. By five o’clock, ten more feet had been added to the crooked line.

  Oppet came to relieve the exhausted convicts while Voin returned to the town, given to that self-satisfied strutting typical of his ilk. Baus trudged wearily through the darkening forest, knees bent under the weight of his ball and chain.

  When the convicts reached the gate, Ausse received them with a peremptory wave, motioning them inside the yard. The bobbin released from the drum; a rattling of chains punctuated the stillness. The portcullis smashed down, causing Oppet’s hounds a chorus of bays. At close range, Baus studied the beobar mesh with contempt: the grate was fifteen feet high, stout as shore pilings. It joined the ungainly watchtower that ran on through the low-lying, creepy beobar.

  Ausse removed the anklets from the prisoners’ legs. He returned the restraints to the repository; meanwhile Oppet leashed his snauzzerhounds with just enough slack to administer a deadly attack should any miscreants attempt escape through the gate. The houndmaster retired to the comfort of his small cottage deep beneath the plum-shadowed forest. To Baus, one thing was evident; there would be no escape by this quarter.

  The prisoners supped that evening on boar stew mixed with overcooked perogi doused in cuttlefish oil. Fading damask light brought the evening ritual of Flanks, where Dighcan remained the undisputed champion. Nuzbek was too wary to be domineered by any sly play, and so he outwitted Tustok of his jade-coloured cape and Leamoine of his fine pair of ear clasps through means of magic. Throughout the rounds, Nuzbek forfeited only a few small items of bander. Such was his craft that he had only contributed tokens such as arrowhead, small flexible moon disk and boot lace which seemed to coil of its own volition. Other trifles he bid—which the winners and non-winners could not dispute. His tactics were sound: supplying multiple bander to the pot, he afforded himself the luxury of losing valueless items of which he seemed to have an endless supply in his black robe. His icon was crafted of thin and pliable withe which harboured an elasticity that seemed to spring back of its own accord and resist opponents’ missiles with rubbery marvel.

  Baus’s lack of bander forced him to observe the proceedings from a distance. His scrutiny was imbued with certain distaste. He watched in offhand amusement as Weavil attempted a toss mid-way through the fifth round, but losing, thus deprived of two of his neck rings. Only very narrowly did the midget avoid a humiliating degradation. For their first time at hurling, Nolpin and Boulm stood eagerly at the throwing line and they proved contesters of poor quality—ones who also lost rounds beyond their supply of bander to replenish and suffered abasements: Boulm, a chicken whipping, and Nolpin, a vaulting up the old dead hazelwood, much to the amused jests of the gamesters.

  The gong tolled. Curfew was signalled. Ausse and Germakk shuttled the prisoners off to the dormitory where they stood guard on deck with backs to the door. Ausse was first on patrol; Germakk assumed high post in the watchtower. Oppet and his hounds kept vigilance at the front gate.

  The men engaged in a tradition of rude banter before retiring. Baus was unable to relax. He realized that he knew little of his bed-mates, and was prompted to inquire of his fellow colleagues’ crimes.

  “What interest would you have?” blurted Lopze. He was about to squeeze himself between Zestes and Karlil but heaved himself erect.

  “Simple curiosity,” said Baus. “You seem to be a decent fellow who poses some curiosity to me—for example—Valere, what sort of mischief have you committed to arrive in this thieves’ den?”

  Valere rubbed his chin. “Simple curiosity is one thing, friend, but malicious intent another.” His frown softened and he raked his beefy fingers through his red mane. “A sad tale, though,” he admitted, “but a good one. All the other lubbers in this warren have heard it a thousand times, so I shall not care for a repeat.”

  “Nonsense!” protested Zestes. “Let’s hear it, seabeard, and we shall listen to it for all its usual clichés and embellishments!”

  The big redhead shook his head with modest dignity. “Of embellishments you shall find none, Zestes. So pellucid are the images dug in my mind that they shimmer as clear as yesterday!” His voice took on a deep, resonant tone, at once melancholy. “I was a sea captain once—a happy one, with ne’er a sad thought to my name. But, I sailed the Poesasian in my little cog, ‘the Illimmer’, named by my father’s father and I knew woe after a time. We all lived on the Isle of Illim and loved the lonely, placid little isle with its soaring gulls, melodious winds and graven seas, with waves singing seaside chanteys fair as any minstrel to our ears. This was all at least this side of Brislin. I harboured a crew of six lackeys. Many contracts per month in haulage I gained before I fell afoul of the seductress, Rauseelia. Ah, she was a woman of visceral dexterity who would sunder a man’s soul to tatters! I fell instantly in love with her; so stunning was her figure as to defy nature itself, as beautiful as any man could behold—tawny-locked, ruby-lipped, a body as lean as a tigress. She had the eyes of glistening marble, a bosom as full as two rising suns, a swagger that would tempt any man’s resources ten times beyond the monks of Long Bight. Well, she came from a well-to-do family, in Britobur, of course, and thwarted my desire and after her hour of teasing would have nothing to do with me. She thrust away my advances like breakers that tossed surf on a desolate wind-racked shore. Into a knot of craving she had my heart pulsing! I could not sleep! By day I imagined her tawny-auburn thighs around mine, her sultry laugh, her inviting lips, her slender form emitting its warmth. Alas—by night she would have me lying awake in cold sweats. Even now, I can envisage her aura silhouetted in my porthole and cannot resist a tremble.”

  “Very poetic,” muttered Lopze.

  “Aye, more vivid than your previous anecdotes,” commented Zestes.

  “Do you want to hear the story or not?” Valere shot stern looks from left to right. “Well, one fine April eve, I heaved to at the docks of Britobur, that mightily proper town not ten leagues south of Heagram. She lived with her right ancestry and kin. I stole her stealthily back to my seacraft. Off to sea I sailed with the vixen and my jolly crew aboard my night-camouflaged vessel. She thrashed and bucked like a flounder—ah, true! I did have her for my own now, though I never would force myself on her—I was not that type of man. She was sly and cunning, this fiery-tempered Rauseelia, and one night in the weeks that followed, she slipped something into the drink of my mates while we were besotted. We slouched prone and she tied us up in our chairs. The next day she shouted to the open sea for succour and sailed alone as she could with her seaman’s knowledge. Waited and waited we did for days with us trussed up like hares before a carrack bearing Arnin’s flag detected our cog and fell on us l
ike crakes. On a foray up the coast against the buccaneer triangle, Arnin’s men so learned of Rauseelia’s story, and with us tied up in our own squalor and unglorious shame, we were doomed. They rescued the girl and returned her to her precious Britobur, but they delivered me to Heagram, that being the closest jailhouse to my birthplace. Eight years ago that was, and I have been dealt a half life sentence since.”

  Baus stared misty-eyed. “A moving tale, Valere. It makes one wish to never plunge so deeply in swoon for a woman.”

  Valere uttered a laugh. “Cruel indeed. These are the twistings of heart which all men face at least once in their lifetime. Except maybe Leamoine. I have survived where others have not. Regard!—I haven’t a better pack of rogues in which to keep company!”

  “A touching confession!” crowed Dighcan.

  “And what of you, Baus?” demanded Valere. “What shenanigans have you been up to, to get you in here? Something related to Nuzbek’s magic show and his dim chums I gather?”

  Baus pulled sorrowfully at his chin. “Something of the sort—though far less complex. In light of your own gloomy tale, I am almost embarrassed to admit—I broke a ledge-full of shellames at the fair. I bore not the funds to repay the insipid shop-owners, and so remain immured as you see.”

  Lopze roared. “What? For so trivial a crime? What does this world come to when men are gaoled for murder and sleep in the same bed as fledglings knocking over Mother Meegle’s wee casserole bowl?”

  “Don’t mind Lopze,” cautioned Zorez. “He used to reside in the old shanty overlooking the sea by the lighthouse, didn’t you, Lopze?—until you murdered Klueshin’s dachshund.”

  “The cur used to urinate in my yard.”