even
shattered to oblivion,” observed Baus.
“The fisherman
does have a point,” admitted Boulm.
“Silence!”
snapped Nuzbek. “I’ll not have oafs muttering jests about my
belongings. My commerce is set back a considerable degree and
wisecracks from banal minds do not remedy the fact.” He rested his
gaze upon the treasured jars. “Perhaps all has not yet lost . .
.”
Nolpin raised
his brows. “How’s that?”
Nuzbek
gestured. “I believe Weavil shall prove a comic addition to my
collections of homunculi.”
“Now that you
mention it—”
“Silence!”
Nuzbek cried. “A better scheme evolves in my brain, nitwit: the
twain, Baus and Weavil, shall both be cached as bibelots in a
single jar!”
“The plan is
ludicrous,” spat Baus.
“Nonsense! Why
carp over an innovation when an entire jar can be saved?” laughed
Nuzbek.
“I am
completely innocent in this affair,” Baus cried. Recklessly, he
writhed in Boulm’s grip. To no avail. “If you would so desperately
seek a scapegoat, choose Weavil. Mystery does not abound as to the
source of your ill fortune.”
Nuzbek gave a
shocked grunt. “And how valorous and high-minded, the noble Baus?
You would sacrifice your comrade to the wolves? A staggering
admission, and frankly quite an implication of your character.”
Baus scowled
but Weavil agreed with all fervour. “In truth, was it not you who
was telling me earlier, ‘how I would like to see the look on the
glibster’s face’ when his exhibition was fouled?”
Baus gave his
head a jerk. “You have muddled your memories, Weavil—especially
after much grog. It is a well known fact that you conduct fibs at
bedtime. Was it not you who were pointing out to me earlier that
‘we won’t be hearing the labours of a certain huckster’s
pontificating too soon’?”
An
inarticulate croak rose up in Weavil’s throat. “What trash! Does
Nuzbek care for all these specious yarns? Let us speak more
germanely; for instance, of these miniatures stacked before us. I
see an overflow of gewgaws. Why would our friend Nuzbek opt for
more?”
“Indeed?” the
magician cried, his eyes glittering with malice. “This is the
honest truth! I am always on the lookout for more bibelots. In
fact, I am greedy for them!”
“Well, if it
will make matters more agreeable,” argued Weavil, “I would recite a
ditty that will put everyone’s minds at ease.” He began humming a
poem, which started, ‘ How now, the dastard that has enchanted my
magnificent mind? ’ upon which Nuzbek uttered a sharp
exclamation to the effect forbidding Weavil from communicating any
more balladry.
The magician
smoothed out his hat. “Now, if you don’t mind, I shall progress to
more important affairs: describing the embalming process which is
presently to be enacted upon your persons. The transformation is
unique! An exhilarating dip into an alternate world; in fact, we
appropriate you to fit in a single half-jar.”
Nolpin beamed
appreciatively. “Nuzbek, you are always an artisan in regards to
your plans!”
Nuzbek nodded.
“First I will spread the talc-gum and unicorn-salve on this
Kelshian slate blessed by Three Virgins of Krin; then I will mix
the resultant mash into kalcyx—where? In this buff tub, of course!
Filled with brine. Then, I must incant a dark ode to Lun, our
modern day deity of the 2nd order. Who is Lun, in more precise
terms? He, she, or it —if I might intimate, is an unspeakable
juggernaut who for purposes of safety, shall not be troubled to be
called upon by true name, for fear of untoward effect, but I shall
casually refer to as ‘Dontz’.”
Baus and
Weavil both repudiated the invocation to any ‘Dontz’.
Nuzbek
politely held up a hand. “The paste is already pre-prepared and is
somewhat delicate. So, I have pre-formulated the ointment for just
such an occasion.” He smilingly retrieved a salver of effluvium
from a jewelled chest cached on a top shelf. Baus caught a glimpse
of the crimson
shattered to oblivion,” observed Baus.
“The fisherman
does have a point,” admitted Boulm.
“Silence!”
snapped Nuzbek. “I’ll not have oafs muttering jests about my
belongings. My commerce is set back a considerable degree and
wisecracks from banal minds do not remedy the fact.” He rested his
gaze upon the treasured jars. “Perhaps all has not yet lost . .
.”
Nolpin raised
his brows. “How’s that?”
Nuzbek
gestured. “I believe Weavil shall prove a comic addition to my
collections of homunculi.”
“Now that you
mention it—”
“Silence!”
Nuzbek cried. “A better scheme evolves in my brain, nitwit: the
twain, Baus and Weavil, shall both be cached as bibelots in a
single jar!”
“The plan is
ludicrous,” spat Baus.
“Nonsense! Why
carp over an innovation when an entire jar can be saved?” laughed
Nuzbek.
“I am
completely innocent in this affair,” Baus cried. Recklessly, he
writhed in Boulm’s grip. To no avail. “If you would so desperately
seek a scapegoat, choose Weavil. Mystery does not abound as to the
source of your ill fortune.”
Nuzbek gave a
shocked grunt. “And how valorous and high-minded, the noble Baus?
You would sacrifice your comrade to the wolves? A staggering
admission, and frankly quite an implication of your character.”
Baus scowled
but Weavil agreed with all fervour. “In truth, was it not you who
was telling me earlier, ‘how I would like to see the look on the
glibster’s face’ when his exhibition was fouled?”
Baus gave his
head a jerk. “You have muddled your memories, Weavil—especially
after much grog. It is a well known fact that you conduct fibs at
bedtime. Was it not you who were pointing out to me earlier that
‘we won’t be hearing the labours of a certain huckster’s
pontificating too soon’?”
An
inarticulate croak rose up in Weavil’s throat. “What trash! Does
Nuzbek care for all these specious yarns? Let us speak more
germanely; for instance, of these miniatures stacked before us. I
see an overflow of gewgaws. Why would our friend Nuzbek opt for
more?”
“Indeed?” the
magician cried, his eyes glittering with malice. “This is the
honest truth! I am always on the lookout for more bibelots. In
fact, I am greedy for them!”
“Well, if it
will make matters more agreeable,” argued Weavil, “I would recite a
ditty that will put everyone’s minds at ease.” He began humming a
poem, which started, ‘ How now, the dastard that has enchanted my
magnificent mind? ’ upon which Nuzbek uttered a sharp
exclamation to the effect forbidding Weavil from communicating any
more balladry.
The magician
smoothed out his hat. “Now, if you don’t mind, I shall progress to
more important affairs: describing the embalming process which is
presently to be enacted upon your persons. The transformation is
unique! An exhilarating dip into an alternate world; in fact, we
appropriate you to fit in a single half-jar.”
Nolpin beamed
appreciatively. “Nuzbek, you are always an artisan in regards to
your plans!”
Nuzbek nodded.
“First I will spread the talc-gum and unicorn-salve on this
Kelshian slate blessed by Three Virgins of Krin; then I will mix
the resultant mash into kalcyx—where? In this buff tub, of course!
Filled with brine. Then, I must incant a dark ode to Lun, our
modern day deity of the 2nd order. Who is Lun, in more precise
terms? He, she, or it —if I might intimate, is an unspeakable
juggernaut who for purposes of safety, shall not be troubled to be
called upon by true name, for fear of untoward effect, but I shall
casually refer to as ‘Dontz’.”
Baus and
Weavil both repudiated the invocation to any ‘Dontz’.
Nuzbek
politely held up a hand. “The paste is already pre-prepared and is
somewhat delicate. So, I have pre-formulated the ointment for just
such an occasion.” He smilingly retrieved a salver of effluvium
from a jewelled chest cached on a top shelf. Baus caught a glimpse
of the crimson
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