Free Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I by Chris Turner

spite of
your despicable midgetness.”
    Weavil’s cry
morphed into a gurgling expostulation. Unable to master his
emotion, he booted Graves in the heel, favouring contact with a
special nerve, a blow which caused Graves a spasm. He hopped on one
foot. Weavil, for all his midgetness, seemed unable to avoid
chuckling.
    Nuzbek snorted
laughingly. “You see what a peevish nuisance this weasel is?
Perhaps now you are more empathetic, Captain. My frustration has
reached no end.”
    Graves gave
his head a jerking shake. He mopped furiously at his brow.
“Tilfgurd!” he roared. “Take this whole lot over to the yard.”
    “The task is
menial,” declared Tilfgurd, rising on his heels. “Why should I?
Nuzbek is fey—even a lout, and Weavil, is well, just a pest . .
.”
    “I don’t care!
Take them all!” Graves yelled. “Do you hear? Nuzbek, Weavil, Baus
and all of Nuzbek’s cronies. They are loons! Weavil is no more
exempt from crimes than Baus, having committed an act of aggression
upon me. On the morrow we shall sort out this business, starting
with a rendering of relevant particulars. A day or two in the
stocks shall teach all these rogues some manners. No less this
starved owl of a magician Nuzbek. I grow to dislike the look of
him.”
    Nuzbek took
offence to the remark. He struggled to gain access to his tubs of
adjuncts but the Captain gripped his arm and twisted it aside. A
sallow gleam flickered in his eyes, which caught a surreptitious
movement from the edge of vision, involving Boulm and Nolpin
attempting a retreat in the midst of the commotion.
    “Where do you
think you two’re going?” Graves demanded.
    Boulm gestured
toward the foggy air. “A wee walk, Captain. The night air is fresh,
and I am sleepy. Too nice to miss.”
    The Captain
smiled. Nolpin tendered a similar response. “My foot too is aching
with all manner of gout, and all the more needing of a good
stretch.”
    Graves
extended a jovial laugh. “A couple of comics. Remain in the tent,
you gomers, so as to clear up any extraneous mysteries.”
    Nolpin winced.
Weavil attempted a sidelong sneaking of his own, but was curtailed
by Deputy Tilfgurd who caught him by the scruff of the neck and
averted another important law-breaching.
    Graves gazed
wonderingly from Weavil to the contents of Nuzbek’s bottles. “I am
at a loss to explain this voodoo—or sorcery. It is best yet to
determine how to handle your deviancies, Nuzbek. Your careless
treatment of human life is abysmally ghoulish.” He fixed a
disgruntled glance upon Baus. “And you! I expected more of your
lot. Fisher-elder Harky is beside himself with wrath at your
skipping of duty and total irreverence for the dignity for the
elders of this community.” The Captain snapped his fingers.
“Tilfgurd! Fetch Sergeants Madluck and Skarrow. We will collect
these rogues and be off.”
    “But sir, who
shall watch the offenders? I don’t trust any of these hooligans,
least of all the magician. If Nuzbek can wreak such devastation
upon Weavil, I shudder to think what he might do to others.”
    Graves
muttered a disparaging remark, swatting Tilfgurd on the ear. “The
prestidigitator shall do nothing more! Charlatans and hucksters
they are. No more threat than a bunch of drowsy bumblebees. But”—he
added, gnawing at his upper lip—“let us bind the villain’s wrists,
in case he elects to craft some thaumaturgy or escape.”
    Nuzbek choked
on the idea. He lifted back a black-draped arm. “As for my
capabilities, Captain, you are in grave error. ’Twould be wise to
employ some respect.” The saturnine face pinched inward; the amber
eyes gleamed with a wickedness that made the gathering sway back
with misgiving.
    Graves made a
brief inclination of head. He motioned toward the two brawny seamen
who had recently elected to poke their heads in. “These are Leaster
and Jubben, fine seamen, who I’m sure will keep an eye on your
hides—capabilities or not.”
    The two men
nodded amiably.