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

gained Heagram’s
boulevard when Mulfax stopped dead in his tracks. He let down his
jar with a thud. “The brown-robed bibelot! It moved.”
    Skarrow thrust
his nose in and extended Mulfax a critical look. “You must be
infirm, Mulfy. Tends to happen to one guzzling hemp-grog like a
fish at Leegrum’s ale-house.”
    Mulfax gave
Skarrow an angry swat. “Curb your jibes! Look. The cock-eyed thing
moved—an arm—to scratch its ear. Saw it with my own eyes. The
thing’s trying to tell us something.”
    Tilfgurd
framed an icy leer which was no kinder than a reed-snake’s. “You
heard what Nuzbek said, Mulfy. The water moves, providing
opportunity for a displacement of limb or digit.”
    Mulfax
remained doubtful. He lowered his ear to where Woisper seemed to
stare back at him through the syrupy liquid and was even more
astounded.
    Nuzbek clucked
out an advisory note: “Old Woisper can hear your fear, Mulfy, so I
would disadvise that. He can whisper certain phrases to ear—ones
that turn a person’s brain to pulp. In your case, this would be
easier than most.”
    Mulfax missed
the joke and withdrew in panic, brushing off his ear that had
touched the glass. “If the little corncrake is that evil, why don’t
you just dig a hole and drop him in?”
    Nuzbek uttered
an angry croak. “A cack-brained idea! Have you no idea who the
contents of this jar are? They are neomancers! Like me—I mean—” he
coughed “—like methinks, Dark Neovungles—soul-stretchers, things of
similar nature, partisans of omen.” He spok hurriedly, hoping the
slip wasn’t noticed. “If some innocent were to stumble upon
Woisper’s burial ground, what would happen then?”
    “I don’t know?
You tell me?”
    Baus offered a
stiff insight into the mystery. “Wasn’t it earlier that you were
describing the figure within, as ‘Woisper the Wilful’, ‘an absolute
prodigal in his hey-day’, Nuzbek?”
    Nuzbek shot
Baus a withering glance. “Where do you come up with these
fantasies? Heed my advice, Officers. Throw your bibelots down. They
are all poison! And be off! Else to your ultimate misfortune.”
    Such was the
impassioned malignance of Nuzbek’s remarks that the officers indeed
pitched their jars to the ground and griped amongst each other.
    Graves,
disgusted with such fickleness, denounced his troop. “Are you a
bunch of lily-livered sissies then? Nuzbek, I warn you to cease
your provocations. You are a reckless obstruction to this
investigation. If you do not—I will administer incendiary charges.
I’m beginning to believe Baus was not far off in his
allegations.”
    “‘Forked
tongue’ is actually an epithet that comes to mind,” emphasized
Baus.
    Skarrow,
Madluck, and Mulfax took up their jars once again. But they were
not half way down the boulevard before Tilfgurd abandoned his load,
frightened out of his wits at Salmeister’s sallow-cheeked grimace
that peeked back at him. Smiss and Tilfgurd argued amongst
themselves. Who was to carry their loads? Smiss suddenly refused to
exchange jars with Tilfgurd.
    Graves, weary
of the charade, grabbed Tilfgurd by the ear and dragged him along
the street, while the Captain turned his attention to a chuckling
Nuzbek who glanced smugly back.
    “This reminds
me—where are those females attendants of yours?”
    Nuzbek
snorted, “They could be half-way to Owlen for all I know. They are
capable women.”
    Loops put in:
“I spied the tall brunette playing up to old Calestum at the
Fisherman’s Pump earlier this evening.”
    “Eh?” grunted
Graves. “Which one?”
    “The one with
the vampish smile—and vivacious swagger . . . Nadir, or something
like that.”
    “That hardly
narrows it down. All Nuzbek’s dames look like that.”
    “Captain, you
remember the spunky, raven-haired filly with whom we experienced
the most funk . . . ? We were trying to control the mob turned on
Nuzbek’s crew when—”
    “Yes, I
remember.”
    “Come to think
of it, the other lady cronies were