Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I Read Online Free PDF Page A

glittering sleeves rolled up to the elbow while an
opal earring dangled from his left ear.
    Weavil and
Baus attempted to bypass the attendant but the gatekeeper thrust
out a knuckly fist: “The fee is three cils, as you can plainly see.
Step back, or make your coins ready. Paying patrons wish to view
the debut show.”
    Baus wheezed:
“Debut show? Downright robbery! What vendor charges three cils for
admission to his kiosk?”
    “The great
Nuzbek, that’s who,” the gatekeeper sneered.
    “Nuzbek,
shmusbek!” scoffed Weavil. “We wish to witness this so-called
magician.”
    “Then lay down
your coin. Saunter up the next aisle if you wish gimcracks or
curios. Here, you will find only the best entertainment this side
of Brislin, tendered by the great Nuzbek.”
    Weavil
gestured to the snow fence in feigned panic.
    The gatekeeper
swivelled his neck. Weavil quickly ducked under his arm and slipped
through the gate—Baus followed. The gatekeeper could not react fast
enough—the two had already merged into the crowd and were couched
under a sea of shins.
    Weavil
laughed. Under Baus’s advice, the two took up a cramped position on
the far side of the gathering, so as to be shielded from Nolpin’s
roving eyes. They seemed conveniently hidden by two tall heads and
were pleased. Edging sidewise, they discerned a badger-like man
mounting the stage now, garbed in a gaberdine, swallow-tailed suit.
He stood, beaming beside the magician’s pretty aide. “Ladies and
Gentlemen!” he cried fulsomely, spreading arms wide. His wagging
moustache accentuated his oak-brown ruggedness. “You have witnessed
the reputable ‘dancing balloons of Bloom’ and Gomer’s bereavement
of magical rebirth, and finally the Carugiain nuptials! The Flight
of the Yellow Canary was also part of the package. Now comes the
pièce de résistance—‘To Nowhere’, Nuzbek’s final act.”
    There came a
barrage of applause. The announcer held up a hand. “Please exercise
decorum! May I remind you that this is the paragon known as Nuzbek,
the same magician of Mosmornon—thaumaturge and miracle-worker,
whose fame has spread throughout the lands from Loust to Owlen. He
will dare a feat of feats!”
    Cheers rocked
the gathering.
    Baus hissed
out a growl to Weavil. “Mosmornon? Where the devil is that?”
    Weavil
mustered a cheeky grin. “Who knows? Must be a fable. The rogue has
made it sound important.”
    Baus nodded
frowningly. The announcer held up his hands, beckoned for silence.
“ . . . Now! During Nuzbek’s following act, the great artist must
make room for considerable concentration—a performance including
stunning and near impossible thaumaturgics.”
    Hushed murmurs
rang through the crowd. The announcer ceremoniously departed the
stage and on brisk feet a twain of lightly-clad brunettes entered
from the side, rolling out a large mirror on four wheels. The crowd
was mystified. Nuzbek’s first assistant joined the train and the
three halted beside the glass. All flashed winning smiles. They
exiting offstage. Nuzbek, meanwhile, adjusted the tilt of the
mirror before dabbing a corner with his handkerchief. Satisfied at
its congruity, he gave a pretentious bow before conducting three
distinguished waves to the crowd.
    “Get on with
it,” Weavil muttered.
    Baus appraised
the magician with sardonic disfavour. The man was tall, spare of
figure, straight of leg, etched with tangly bluish-black brows. His
round, amber eyes protruded from his rather austere face with a
hollow-cheeked pomposity, but full of inflexible precociousness.
The lips were immeasurably thin, like strips of wire, yet capable
of a saturnine curl when necessary. Behind the look, Baus sensed a
certain ‘split personality’ that was not comfortable to behold.
    The great
Nuzbek cleared his throat, allowing the audience to settle down:
“Friends! Fans! As my valuable aide, Boulm, has declaimed, I will
endeavour to demonstrate a hazardous display of dematerialization