Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I (12 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How ladylike
of you,” crowed Lopze.

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

Surveying the
black rod, the men muttered a dull appreciation and their
expressions became ones of sombre reflection. Yullen, many grumbles
later, called out in a derisive voice, “I could utilize this token
for a hairpiece—what of you, Paltuik?”

“A teeth
scrubber for me. Mine is caked with calcus.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Baus
threw—

He missed!

A bereaved
murmur hummed through the gathering.

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

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

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

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

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

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