By Christopher Stasheff
ISBN: 0-812-53648-7
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
PROLOGUE
A spy can’t quit and stay healthy—everybody knows that. In fact, a spy can’t quit and stay alive—but Magnus d’Armand was still living, even though he had resigned from the Society for the Conversion of Extraterrestrial Nascent Totalitarianisms more than six months before—still alive, and not really terribly worried about it.
Of course, SCENT wasn’t a secret service with missions of mayhem—it was (officially) a private organization dedicated to subverting dictatorships before they started, by converting planets to democracy before they developed out of their Middle Ages. So Magnus wasn’t really a spy, though he was a secret agent. He was also a secret wizard. That helped, sometimes. A lot.
At the moment, he was sitting in the control room of his spaceship, talking with its robot brain. “Well, Herkimer, which planet shall we subvert next?”
“There is a wide choice.” Herkimer supplied the sound of index cards flipping behind his rather theatrical sigh. “I do not suppose I could persuade you to consider a planet for which democracy is obviously the ideal form of government?”
“You could persuade me to try the planet, but not the democracy—at least, not without a massive amount of proof. After all, that’s why I quit SCENT—because I wasn’t willing to impose democracy on a society it wasn’t right for.”
“And because you disapproved of some of SCENT’s methods—yes, I know.” Herkimer didn’t mention the other reason for Magnus’s reluctance to “impose” democracy—the young man’s father, Rod Gallowglass, who was one of SCENT’s most famous agents (though Rod himself didn’t know about it), and had spend most of his life laying the foundations of democratic government on Magnus’s home planet, Gramarye. The young man’s need to separate himself from his father, and to establish his own reputation, no doubt had a great deal to do with both his quitting SCENT and his reluctance to establish democracies.
“I can’t accept sacrificing good people just to give an edge to your favorite form of government,” Magnus told him. “Societies come in a great number of different forms, Herkimer, so it only makes sense that they need different forms of government. If I find a planet that requires a dictatorship, I’ll work to establish a dictatorship!”
“Certainly, Magnus—if you do find such a society.” Herkimer had already scanned his complete SCENT database, along with the d’Armand family archives that he had downloaded from Fess, the family robot. With that knowledge in his data banks, Herkimer could easily see that although dictatorship might be good for a society, it wasn’t good for the people, unless there were some way of guaranteeing their civil rights—in which case, it wasn’t a complete dictatorship anymore, but was on the way to becoming something else. “The planet Kanark might be the sort you are considering.” He put a picture on the screen.
Magnus frowned, studying the peasants in their felt caps and faded blue tunics as they waded through a yellow field with scythes, singing in time to the sweep and lift of the blades. “The planet is eight percent greater in diameter than Terra,” Herkimer informed him, “but with ninety-eight percent of Terra’s gravity, presumably indicating fewer heavy metals in the planetary core. Its rotation is twenty-two hours, forty minutes, Terran standard. The axial tilt is nine degrees; distance from the sun is one-point-oh-five AU.”
“So it’s slightly colder that Terra?”
“Yes, and the ice caps are greater, as is the landmass. Still, there is no shortage of free water, and maize, millet, barley, and wheat grow well.”
“Presumably brought in by the early colonists.”
“The records of the pioneers indicate that, yes,” Herkimer confirmed. “The economy is still agricultural, though with an increasing industrial base.”
“So the majority of people are farmers?”
“Yes—yeomen. Eighty percent of them own their own hectare or two. The remaining twenty percent are approximately evenly split between merchants and agricultural laborers employed by the largest landowners.”
“Who are, of course, the government.”
“Yes. The government is pyramidal, with small landowners governed by larger. The wealthiest dozen men in each sovereign state constitute the highest authority. They agree on legislation, but each acts as both judiciary and executive over his own estates. Land ownership and rank are hereditary.”
“An aristocracy, and a rather authoritarian one.” Magnus frowned. “Let’s see how these noblemen live.”
The picture of the field workers was replaced by an interior picture of a large, circular room, paneled in wood but with the roof beams showing. Tapestries adorned the walls, large windows let in sunlight, and a fire burned in a huge fireplace. Half a dozen people were moving about. Magnus frowned. “They’re all dressed decently, but not richly. Where are the rulers?”
“The duke stands near the hearth. The others are his family.”
Magnus stared. “I would scarcely say they were dressed sumptuously—and the room is certainly not richly furnished! In fact, I’d call it rather Spartan. Let me see a yeoman’s house.”
The picture dissolved into a view of a similar dwelling, except that the roof was only a foot or two above the heads of the eight people. Three were obviously teenagers, two middle-aged, and the other three, children. The windows were smaller than in the duke’s house, and the walls were decorated with arrangements of evergreen branches instead of tapestries.
Magnus frowned. “It would seem that wealth is fairly evenly distributed. Is there evidence of oppression?”
“Only in the punishment of criminals—which includes political dissenters. It is not a wealthy planet.”
“But most of the people are content.” Magnus shook his head. “There isn’t much I can do there to make them richer, and they seem happy enough in any case; I might make their lives worse. Let me see people who toil under a more oppressive regime.”
The screen cleared, and Herkimer put up the sound of cards flipping again, to indicate that he was searching his data banks. Magnus waited, feeling oddly troubled. The aristocrats were no doubt acting in their own interest first and foremost—but they seemed to be aware that their own prosperity depended on that of their people, and that their power was based on the yeomen’s contentment with life. Magnus really had no reason to interfere. He didn’t doubt that government of the people should be for the people—he just wasn’t all that sure who should be doing the governing. In this case, the aristocrats seemed to be doing well enough for everybody—which seemed wrong.
“Andoria,” Herkimer said, and the screen lit with a picture of a row of people wearing only loincloths, bent over to cut grain with sickles.
“Spare me the geophysical data.” Magnus leaned forward, feeling his heart lift. This looked like a more promising setting for oppression—though now that he looked more closely, he could see that each of the peasants was well fed. They, too, sang as they worked, and the song was cheerful. “Begin with the government!” Magnus was already feeling impatient.
“The government is an absolute monarchy,” Herkimer said, “with overtones of theocracy, for the monarch is a god-king.”
“God-king?” Magnus frowned. “Is this Neolithic?”
“Bronze Age, but with some surprisingly sophisticated notions, no doubt supplied by original colonists whose Terran-style culture fell apart without a high technology to preserve the infrastructure. All land is the king’s, and is administered by his stewards, each of whom supervises a hundred or so bailiffs.”
“How are they chosen?”
“Candidates are selected by examination, but the final selection is the king’s.”
“A civil service!”
“Yes, but one that is largely hereditary. The king tends to appoint the sons of the same families, generation after generation, century after century. New blood enters the civil service only when one of the families fails to produce a male heir, or the scion of the line chooses another profession—for example, the priesthood, or the army.”
“There’s a standing army, then?”
“Yes, but it’s the king’s, and only the king’s. The officers tend to come from the old families, but may be promoted from the ranks. In both civil service and army, new appointees constitute approximately twelve percent of the personnel.”
“So there’s some vertical mobility.” Magnus pursed his lips. “I gather, from the fact that the king feels it necessary to maintain an army, that his civil service’s main purpose is to assure abundant income for himself and his household.”
“No, though that purpose certainly seems to be well served.” Herkimer replaced the picture of the field with the interior of a stone palace, lush with decoration, a marble floor polished mirror-smooth, and a double file of bare-chested soldiers with spears leading to a golden throne on a high dais, on which sat a tall man wearing a robe richly ornamented with golden beadwork interspersed with gems. “The god-king charges his stewards with seeing to the welfare of his people. They gather every bit of surplus grain into royal granaries, yes—but the people are fed from those granaries, and clothed from the cotton and linen produced by the corps of king’s weavers.”
“So every facet of life is governed and everything is taken from the people, but everything is given to them, too—at least, everything they need,” Magnus mused.
“It is. In sum, only fifteen percent of the wealth goes to support the luxury of the king and his administrators.”
“Scarcely excessive,” Magnus said in exasperation. “I can hardly call that oppressive. Don’t you have anything more promising?”
“Searching,” Herkimer told him, and the card ruffle sounded again as the screen filled with dancing points of light. Magnus sat back, feeling nervous and edgy, then wondered why he should be so dismayed to find two societies that didn’t need his help.
But he didn’t have any other purpose in life—his family could take care of themselves and their home planet, Gramarye, quite nicely without him—and he had already given up on falling in love and devoting his life to a wife and children. He was only twenty-one, but had already had some bad experiences with women and romance—some very bad, and none very good. What else was a rich young man supposed to do with his time? Well, not rich, exactly—but he had a spaceship (a guilt offering from the really rich relatives) and could make as much money as he needed whenever he needed—make it literally, being a wizard. Well, not a real wizard, of course—he couldn’t work real magic—but he was tremendously gifted in telepathy, telekinesis, and other powers of extrasensory perception. Of course, he could have devoted his life to building up as great a fortune as his relatives had—but that seemed pointless, somehow, without anyone else to spend it on, and a rather unfair use of his gifts. His brief experience with SCENT, and his rebellion against it, had given him a solid feeling of satisfaction at helping an oppressed serf class who really needed liberating. He had been looking forward to that feeling of elation again—perhaps even looking forward to the strife and suffering that produced it. He wondered if, somewhere deep, he secretly believed he deserved punishing.
“This would be considerably easier,” said Herkimer, “if you would also allow me to investigate planets that currently have SCENT projects under way.”
Magnus shook his head. “Why waste time and effort when someone else is already working to free them?” Besides, he found himself unwilling to oppose his father’s organization. On the last planet, when he had seen for himself that what the SCENT agents were doing was wrong—or rather, that they were doing wrong things in order to accomplish something right it had been another matter; he had felt the need to step forward and take a stand to protect good people whom the SCENT agents were willing to abandon. But deliberately landing on a SCENT planet with the intent to upset what they were doing was another matter entirely. “No, there is no need to duplicate effort.”
“As you wish,” Herkimer said, with a tone of resignation that made Magnus long for the good old days when robots were unable to mimic emotions. “Your next possibility is the planet Petrarch.” A pastoral scene appeared on the screen, a broad and sunny plain with the walls of a medieval city rising from it. Carts rolled along the road that ran from the bottom of the frame to the city’s gates.
Magnus frowned, not seeing anyone being oppressed. “This is a retrograde colony, I assume.” Aren’t they all?
Not quite, he answered himself. A handful of Terran colonies had been so well planned, and so fortunate, that they had been able to establish industrial bases before Terra cut them off, in the great retrenchment of the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra. Most, however, had fallen apart as soon as the support of Terran commerce and new Terran equipment was withdrawn, some even reverting to barbarism and Stone Age technology. Most, though, had regressed no further than the Middle Ages and, without electronic communications to hold together continent-wide governments, had fallen into feudalism of one sort or another. Petrarch, at least, seemed to have pulled itself together a bit.
“Petrarch orbits a G-type sun at a distance of one and one-third astronomical units,” Herkimer began, but Magnus cut in to abort the lecture before it started.
“Once again, spare me the geophysical data until we’re sure whether or not there’s any political problem worth our interference.”
“I assume you mean ‘intervention,’ ” Herkimer said primly.
Magnus had the fleeting thought that perhaps he should change the robot’s voice encoder to give it a crisp, maiden-aunt quality. “Is there reason for it?”
“Abundant reason,” Herkimer assured him. “When Terra withdrew its support, the culture virtually crashed. The infrastructure could not be maintained without electronic technology, and on every continent, the result was anarchy. People banded together in villages and fought one another for the little food and fuel that remained. As one village conquered its neighbors, warlords arose, and battled one another for sheer power.”
Magnus turned pale; he knew what that meant in terms of the sufferings of the individual, ordinary people. “But that was five hundred years ago! Certainly they have progressed past that!”
“Not on two of the five continents,” Herkimer said regretfully. “They remain carved up into a dozen or more petty kingdoms, continually warring upon one another.”
And when petty kingdoms warred, peasants did the fighting and dying—or were caught between two armies if they weren’t quick enough about running and hiding. “What of the other three?”
“There, barbarism is the order of the day. There are hunting and gathering societies, herding societies with primitive agriculture, and nomads who follow the great herds. Here and there, small kingdoms have risen ruled by despots, but there are no empires.”
“Let’s hope nobody invents them.” Fleeting visions of torture chambers, armed tax collectors, and starving peasants flitted through Magnus’s mind. “Yes, this sounds as though there might be work worth our doing. Now tell me the history.”
“Petrarch was originally colonized during the twenty-third century,” Herkimer told him as the screen filled with the towering plasticrete towers of a Terran colony. Women in full-length gowns of brocade and velvet passed before them, with men dressed in doublets and hose. Here and there, one wore a rapier, though it had a rather solid look, as though scabbard and hilt had been cast in one piece.
“Yes,” Magnus mused, “that was the century that was famous for the Renaissance revival fad of its last decade, wasn’t it? I remember Fess teaching us children that it was a prime example of mass silliness.”
“That was indeed the century, the decade, and the fad, though the silliness passed quickly enough everywhere else in the Terran Sphere. On Petrarch, though, it became permanent.”
The picture changed, though the dress styles remained. The background, though, was that of the low plasticrete buildings typical of any early Terran colony, with here and there the timber-and-stucco houses of the first phase of building from native materials. Magnus saw the occasional costume with wildly exaggerated shoulders, two-foot-high hats with crown upon crown, or veils that fluttered behind a lady for several yards of fluorescent color. “They seem to have made some very flamboyant developments.”
“They did indeed, but only within the Renaissance context. On Talipon, an inland in the center of an inland sea, dress styles fossilized—and so did architecture, painting, and all aspects of its culture.”
“An odd occurrence.” Magnus frowned. “Was there a cause, or was it merely a mass aberration?”
“The cause was the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra’s coup d’etat. When PEST became the government of the Terran Sphere, it cut off contact and support for the outlying planets, and Petrarch was virtually frozen at its current cultural level.”
“It was fortunate that the colony had developed an economy and technology that could sustain that culture.” Magnus frowned. “I’m surprised that constant war didn’t force them back to the Stone Age, as it did on so much of the rest of the planet.”
“They seem to have formed alliances between resource-rich states and manufacturing states,” Herkimer explained.
“Alliances, or conquests?”
“Some of the one, some of the other. The more remote districts did regress, some even becoming rather primitive.”
“So there are three barbarian continents, two feudal continents, and an island of modern culture?”
“Definitely not modern—perhaps late medieval, even Renaissance.”
“How large is this island?”
“Approximately four hundred ninety kilometers by one hundred thirty-five. It contains a group of independent city-states, constantly feuding with one another—but their wars are limited, they share a common language, and there is a constant interchange of people moving from one city to another.”
Magnus smiled sourly. “It almost sounds like one nation with a great number of rival sporting teams.”
“A good analogy,” Herkimer said with approval. “Some of the sports are rather lethal, of course, and the different cities are adamant in not submitting to anyone’s law but their own—but they do indeed constitute one nation.”
“With no national government?”
“None at all. In fact, each city-state governs itself as it sees fit. There are monarchies, aristocracies, oligarchies—even a fledgling republic of more or less democratic tendencies.”
“It could be used as a center for enlightenment about the rights of humanity, then,” Magnus said thoughtfully. “I take it the city-states are agricultural?”
“Several are early industrial, and a dozen coastal cities are mercantile. Two have risen to prominence, establishing virtual trading empires—Venoga and Pirogia.”
“Ideal for spreading advanced ideas! Yes, I think Talipon will do nicely as a base of operations. Are there any obstacles to my efforts?” Magnus remembered the futurian anarchists and totalitarians who continually tried to defeat his father’s efforts to develop democracy.
“None except AEGIS,” Herkimer said helpfully. Magnus sagged. “No obstacle but an off planet do-gooder society trying some uplifting of its own! Only an unofficial branch of Terra’s interstellar government! Should I really bother?”
“Oh, yes,” Herkimer said softly. “AEGIS is not a prime example of good organization.”
That, Magnus reflected, was an understatement. AEGIS, the Association for the Elevation of Governmental Institutions and Systems, was a private, nongovernmental organization that nonetheless received hefty donations from the Decentralized Democratic Tribunal, the central government of the Terran Sphere, because its activities helped bring retrograde colony-planets back into contact with the civilized worlds, and prepared them for membership in the DDT. AEGIS was dedicated to raising the cultural level of the planets with which it worked. In order to do this, it tried to minimize war, improve the economy, and inject the fundamental ideas of civil and individual rights into the culture—it considered human rights to be prerequisite to education and development in the arts. Its members approached their work with an almost missionary fervor, but frequently didn’t realize what the results would be. Their efforts usually did tend to produce some sort of pre-democratic government, though. Usually. AEGIS had been known to come up with a monarchy or two. They didn’t care, as long as it promoted the development of the human soul.
“Amateurs,” Magnus said scornfully. “They’re incapable of seeing the results of their own actions. Bumbling, clumsy …”
“But well-meaning,” Herkimer reminded him.
“Well, yes, but we all know which path is paved with good intentions. Is AEGIS working throughout the whole planet, or only on Talipon?”
“Primarily on Talipon, but with the idea that the island’s influence will spread to the rest of the world, through its energetic merchants and merchant marine.”
“Well, they had one idea right, at least—the most obvious. I think I’ll see if I can augment their work in some unofficial manner. At least, if AEGIS is working there, I can’t do much more harm than they will.”
“There is that,” Herkimer agreed. “How do you intend to proceed?”
Magnus took on a contemplative look. “Given the incessant feuding, I would probably be most effective if I fell back on my former disguise—a mercenary soldier.”
“You will certainly have entree to any city you wish to visit.”
“I’d rather not wind up as an entree …”
Herkimer ignored the remark. “Will you use your previous pseudonym, too?”
“Gar Pike? Yes, I think I shall.” Magnus pursed his lips. “It would be a little too obvious if I simply showed up in the middle of Talipon, though. I had better land in one of the less developed kingdoms on the mainland, and work my way to the island more or less naturally.”
“That should disguise you from AEGIS’s scrutiny,” Herkimer agreed. “After all, you will rather stand out among the Taliponese.”
“Really?” Magnus frowned. “Why? You will give me a crash course in their language, won’t you?”
“Of course—but the average Taliponese man is five and a half feet tall.”
Magnus was nearly seven.
CHAPTER 1
Old Antonio pointed ahead and shouted. Young Gianni Braccalese looked up, saw the plume of black smoke ahead, and felt his heart sink.
Only minutes before, Gianni had run a finger around the collar of his doublet, wishing he could take off the cumbersome, padded, hot garment. The sun had heated the fields to baking by midday, and now, in midafternoon, the breeze had died down, so the only thing moving was the sweat from Gianni’s brow. If only they hadn’t been so close to Accera! It wasn’t much of a town, of course, but its two merchants were important sources of the grain and cotton that would fetch so high a price at home in Pirogia, and of the orzans that would make so beautiful a necklace for any lady who caught Gianni’s eye—so he knew he must not shame his father by appearing bare-chested, no matter how hot it might be. He scolded himself for not having thought to take off his doublet in midmorning, when the day began to grow hot—but it was the first time he had led a goods train in summer, and only the fourth time he had led a goods train at all. He had turned twenty after All Saints’ Day, so it was only a matter of months since his father had promoted him from his duties as a clerk, to actual trading. He was very anxious to make a good showing—but now this!
He stared at the black plume, feeling his stomach hollow with dread. Only one thing could explain so large a fire—a burning town. “Speed!” he called to Antonio. “We may be in time to save a life!”
Old Antonio gave him a sour look, but dutifully shouted to the drivers to whip up their mules. Gianni felt a burst of gratitude toward the older man—he knew, almost as well as though he had been told, that his father had bidden old Antonio to watch over him and teach him trading. The drivers and the guards were all very polite about it, but there was no question as to who was really managing the train—though with every trip, Gianni had needed to ask fewer questions, had been more sure in his directions and in his bargaining. He had even acquitted himself well in two minor skirmishes with bandits.
This, though—this was something of an entirely different order. Bandits who could attack a goods train were one thing—bandits who could sack a whole town were another! Admittedly, Accera was not much of a town, so far from the coast and with only a small river to water it, but it had had a wall, and its men had known how to handle their crossbows as well as most!
Why was he thinking of them as though they were gone?
He cantered along on his horse, with anxious looks back at the mules who bore his father’s wealth. The drivers had whipped up the beasts with gentle calls, not wanting to make any more noise than they had to, and Gianni went cold inside as he realized the reason. Whatever bandits had lit that fire might still be nearby—might even be in Accera itself! Gianni loosened his rapier in its scabbard as he rode, then swung the crossbow from its hook on his saddle. He might be a novice at trading and leading, but he was an expert with weapons. Every merchant was, in a land in which the distinction between trader and soldier was less a matter of vocation than of emphasis and of the way in which he had made his fortune.
The wall of Accera grew from a line across the fields to a solid structure—and there was the breach! It looked as though a giant had taken a bite out of the wall—a giant with no taste for flesh, for dead men lay all around that hole and some lay half in, half out of it, their pikes still resting against nerveless fingers. Gianni slowed, holding up a hand to caution his men, and the entire train slowed with him. This was no work of starving peasants gone to banditry to find food—this had been done professionally. The condotierri had struck.
Mules began to bray protest, scenting blood and trying to turn away, but the drivers coaxed them onward with the skill of experts. They rode through the breach with great care, Gianni glancing down at the bodies of the men of Accera, then looking quickly away, feeling his gorge rise. He had seen dead men only once before, when Pirogia had fought a skirmish with the nearby city of Lubella, over their count’s fancy that his daughter had been seduced by one of the merchants’ sons. They had fought only long enough to satisfy the requirements of the count’s honor—and to leave half a dozen men dead, all to provide a high-bred wanton with an excuse for her pregnancy. Gianni still wondered whom she had been shielding.
Now that they had slowed, the traders went cautiously down the main street of the town, between rows of cream-colored, mud-brick buildings with red tile roofs, glancing everywhere about them, crossbows at the ready. The sound of weeping came from one of the shadowed windows, and Gianni felt the protector’s urge to seek and comfort, but knew he dared not—not when enemy soldiers might be hiding anywhere. Then he saw the dead woman with her skirt thrown up about her waist and her bodice ripped open, saw the blood above and below, and lost all desire to try to comfort—he knew he could never know what to say.
On they rode, jumping at every shadow. Gianni saw broken doors and shutters, but no sign of fire. He began to suspect where he would find it, and felt dread rise within him.
Something stirred in the shadows, and half a dozen crossbows swiveled toward it—but it was only an old man who hobbled out into the sunlight, an old man with a crutch and a face filled with contempt, saying, “You need not fear, merchants. The rough bad men have left.”
Gianni frowned, stifling the urge to snap at the old man. The blood running from his brow showed that he had suffered enough, and the huge bruise on the left side of his face showed that, crippled or not, he had fought bravely to defend his family—as long as he could.
Old Antonio asked, “Condotierri?”
The old man nodded. “The Stiletto Company, by their insignia.” He pointed farther down the road. “There are the ones with whom you have come to trade—if they have anything left to trade.”
Antonio nodded, turning his face toward the plume of smoke. “I thank you, valiant vieillard. We shall come back to help where we can.”
“I will thank you—then,” the old man said with irony. “In the meantime, I know—you must see to your own.”
Gianni frowned, biting back the urge to say that Signor Ludovico and his old clerk Anselmo were only business associates, not relatives—but he knew what the old man meant. Accera was a farming town—they had brought trade goods to exchange for produce, after all—and to the farmers, the merchants were a tribe apart.
They turned a corner from the single broad street to see the stream flowing in under the water gate to their left, and the burning ruin of the warehouse to their right.
“The western end still stands!” Gianni shouted. “Quickly! They may yet live!” He dashed forward, all caution banished by the old man’s assurance that the condotierri had ridden away. Antonio, more experienced, barked to the drivers, and crossbows lifted as men scanned their surroundings.
To say the western end of the warehouse still stood was a considerable exaggeration—the roof had fallen in, and the main beam had taken the top half of the wall with it. But the fire had not yet reached the shattered doorway where a body lay, nor the corner where another body slouched, half-sitting against the remains of the wall. Even as he dismounted and ran up to them, Gianni was seized with the ridiculous realization that neither wore a doublet or robe, but only loose linen shirts and hose—shirts that were very bloody now. He knelt by the man in the door, saw the dripping gash in his neck and the pool of blood, then turned away toward the other body to cover his struggle to hold down his rebellious stomach. He stepped over to the corner, none too steadily, and knelt by the man who lay there, knelt staring at the rip in his shirt, at the huge bloodstain over his chest—and saw that chest rise ever so slightly. He looked up and saw the gray lips twitch, trying to move, trying to form words …
“It is Ludovico.” Antonio knelt by him, holding a flask of brandy to the man’s lips. He poured, only a little, and the man coughed and spluttered, then opened his eyes, staring from one to the other wildly …
“It is Antonio,” the older man said, quickly and firmly. “Signor Ludovico, I am Antonio—you know me, you have traded with me often!”
Ludovico stared up at Antonio, his lips twitching more and more until they formed an almost—silent word: “An—Anton …?”
“Yes, Antonio. Good signor, what happened here?” Why was the old fool asking, when they already knew? Then Gianni realized it was only a way of calming Signor Ludovico, of reassuring him.”
“C—condotierri!” Ludovico gasped. “Sti—Stilettos! Too … too many to fight off … but … ”
“But fight you did.” Antonio nodded, understanding. “They drove away your workmen, and … beat you.”
“Workmen … fled!” Ludovico gasped. “Clerks … home!”
“Ran home to try to defend their wives and children?” Antonio nodded, frowning. “Yes, of course. After all, the goods in this warehouse were not theirs.”
“Fought!” Ludovico protested. “Crossbows … there …” He gestured at the wreckage of a crossbow, broken in both stock and bow, and Gianni shuddered at the thought of the savagery with which the condotierri had punished the older man for daring to fight them.
“Thought me … dead!” Ludovico wheezed. “Heard … talk …”
“Enough, enough,” Antonio soothed. “You must lie down, lie still and rest.” He gave Gianni a meaningful glance, and the younger man, understanding, whipped off his cloak and bundled it up for a pillow.
“Not … rest!” Ludovico protested, lifting a feeble hand. “Tell! Conte! They … spoke of … a lord’s pay …”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” Antonio assured him. “You heard the condotierri talk about being in the pay of a nobleman. Now rest we can reason out the remainder of it well enough. Water, Gianni!”
Gianni had the flash ready and unstoppered. Antonio poured a small amount between Ludovico’s lips. The merchant coughed as he tried to speak a few more words, then gave over the effort and drank. The taste of clear water seemed to take all the starch out of him; he sagged against Antonio’s arm.
“The wound?” Gianni asked.
“It must be cleaned,” Antonio said regretfully. “Pull the cloth away as gently as you can, Gianni.”
This, at least, Gianni understood from experience. Delicately, he lifted the cloth away from the wound; it pulled at the dried blood, but Ludovico didn’t seem to notice. Gianni probed with a finger, very gently, managing to keep his stomach under control—here, at least, there was a chance something could be done. “It’s wide, but low.”
“A sword, and the soldier twisted it.” Antonio nodded. “It pierced the lung, but not the heart. He may yet live. Still, it must be cleaned. Dribble a little brandy on it, Gianni.” Then, to Ludovico: “Brace yourself, for there will be pain—there must be.”
Gianni waited a few seconds to be sure the man had heard, but not long enough for him to protest, then tilted the brandy bottle as Antonio had said. Ludovico cried out, once, sharply, then clamped his jaw shut. When he saw Gianni stopper the bottle again, he sagged with relief.
“Clean the space around him,” Antonio told Gianni. “It would be best if we do not move him.” Gianni frowned. “The bandits …?”
“They have been and gone. They would need sharp sentries indeed, to learn that new goods have come into the town—and why should they post watchers where they have already been? We are as safe here as behind a stockade, Gianni. Set the men to putting out the fire, as much as they can; these walls will still afford us some shelter.”
Gianni did more—he set the men to clearing a wide swath of everything burnable. When night closed in, the fire was contained and burning itself out. Tent canvas shaded poor old Ludovico, and the mules were picketed inside what remained of the walls, chewing grain; their packs lay nearby, and the men sat around a campfire, cooking dinner.
Antonio came out from beneath the canvas to join Gianni by the fire.
“Does he sleep?”
Antonio nodded. “It will be the Great Sleep before long, I fear. The wound by itself will not kill him, but he has bled too freely—and much of the blood is in his lungs. He breathes with difficulty.”
“At least he still breathes.” Gianni turned back to the steaming kettle and gave it a stir. “Do you really think a nobleman sent the Stilettos to do this work?”
“No,” Antonio said. “I think he heard the soldiers discussing their next battle, and whose pay they would take.”
Gianni nodded. “The Stiletto Company last fought for the Raginaldi—but they’ve come a long way from Tumanola.”
Antonio shrugged. “When there’s no work for them, mercenary soldiers turn to looting whoever has any kind of wealth at all. They needed food, so they came and took it from Ludovico’s granary, and while they were at it, they took the wool and cotton from his warehouse—and, of course, the orzans.”
“Must we bargain with them for it?” Gianni asked indignantly.
“You don’t bargain with condotierri unless you have a high, thick city wall between their spears and your hide,” Antonio reminded him. “Talk to them now, and they will take all your father’s goods—as well as our lives, if the whim takes them.” He turned and spat into the darkness. “I could wish the Raginaldi had not made a truce with the Botezzi. Then their hired dogs would still be camped outside the walls of Renova, not here reiving honest men.”
“It’s an uneasy truce, from all I hear,” Gianni reminded him, “and wearing thin, if the soldiers see new employment coming.”
“A fate to be wished,” Antonio agreed. “Soldiers in the field are bad enough, but at least a man can find out where they’re battling, and stay away.”
“Renova and Tumanola are the strongest powers in this eastern edge of Talipon,” Gianni said. “Their battlefield could be anywhere.”
“True, but at least their troops would stay there, putting up a show of fighting and taking their pay, not going about robbing poor peasants and honest merchants,” Antonio replied. “Idle soldiers make the whole of the island a devil’s playground.”
He did not quite say the soldiers were devils, but Gianni took his meaning. “Is it possible that some noblemen sent them to loot Accera as a punishment for some imagined insult?”
Antonio shrugged. “Who can tell with noblemen? They’re apt to take offense at anything and order their men to any action.”
“And who can say, with mercenary soldiers?” Gianni returned. “When they’re being paid, they’re an army; when they aren’t, they’re condotierri, worse than any mere rabble of bandits.”
“Far worse,” Antonio agreed. “I only wonder that it has not yet occurred to them to steal a whole city.” Gianni shuddered, taking Antonio’s meaning. If the Stiletto Company ever did decide to conquer a city to rule for themselves, it could not be one ruled by a noble family, for if they did, all the noblemen of Talipon would descend on them en masse, with every free lance they could hire to fight for them. No, the mercenaries would seek easier game, some city of merchants who ruled themselves—Gianni’s home, Pirogia.
“These condotierri may be working for themselves, or for one of the noble houses—it’s impossible to tell,” Antonio summarized. “But Accera lies within the lands claimed by Pirogia, before our grandfathers overthrew the conte and chased his family out. The attack may be only that of a hungry army needing practice, but it’s not a good sign.”
“Rumor says that the merchants of Tumanola grow restive, seeing how well we govern Pirogia,” Gianni said, “and that they have begun to petition their prince for some voice in the conduct of the affairs of the city.”
“The same is said of Renova.” Antonio scowled, shaking his head. “Me, I can only wonder how long it will be till both great houses march against our Pirogia, to put an end to the upstarts who’re giving their merchants such troublesome ideas.”
One of the drivers cried out from his station by the remains of the wall. “Who goes there?”
“A friend,” answered a deep voice, “or one who would be.”
Antonio was on his feet almost as quickly as Gianni. Both turned toward the voice—and saw the giant step out of the shadows.
The stranger towered over the sentry. He looked to be seven feet tall and was broad-shouldered in proportion and, though his loose shirt and leather jerkin hid his arms and chest, his hose revealed legs that fairly bulged with muscle. Gianni could have sworn the rapier at his hip was as long as the guard was tall.
Rapier, leather doublet, high riding boots—there was no doubt about his calling. The man was a mercenary. A giant, and a mercenary.
He was black-haired and black-browed, with dark deep-set eyes, a straight nose, a wide mouth, and a lantern jaw. His nose was no beak, but there was something of the hawk about him—perhaps the keenness with which he scanned the merchants—though no cruelty; rather, he seemed quietly amused. “I greet you, merchants.”
He spoke with a strong accent, one Gianni did not recognize. So, then—a giant, a mercenary, and a foreigner! Not surprising, of course—most of the mercenaries were foreigners from the mainland. He did not ask how the giant knew they were merchants—with their mules and packs, it was obvious. “Have you been watching us all afternoon?” he asked.
“Only since I found the town at sunset. I had a scuffle with some bandits back there”—the giant nodded at the hills outside the town—“three of them. They won’t fight for a long while. No, no, they still live—but my horse does not. I saw you, and thought you might have an extra horse to sell.”
They did have spare mounts, but Gianni said anyway, “It was not one of our men who died.”
“I had thought not—your men talked too much while they dug the grave.”
“These bandits who beset you—did they wear dagger—badges on their jerkins?” Antonio asked, stepping up beside Gianni.
The stranger nodded. “Long, slender daggers—stilettos, I think you call them.”
Antonio turned to Gianni. “He isn’t one of them.”
“If he tells the truth.” But Gianni could not think of a single reason why the Stiletto Company would send a man to spy them out, instead of falling upon them in a body—and he might need a professional fighting man before he saw Pirogia again. He held up a hand, palm open. “I’m Gianni Braccalese.”
“Well met, Gianni.” The giant, too, held up an open palm, the sign of friendship—or, at least, that they weren’t enemies. “I am Gar.”
Yes, the accent was very heavy—he made Gianni’s name sound like “Jonny,” missing the first i completely. “No family name?”
Gar shrugged. “I come from a poor country, too poor for second names. May I share your fire?”
“We will be honored to have you as a guest.” Gianni bowed him toward the campfire. Gar came and sat near the flames, opening the pouch that hung from a strap over his shoulder, across his chest, and down to his hip. He took out a waxed ball. “I have a cheese to share.”
“It’s welcome.” Gianni took a loaf from their journey bag and cut a slice with his dagger, then handed it to Gar. “The stew has yet a while to simmer.”
“I thank you.” Gar laid a slice of cheese on the bread, cut it down the middle, and gave half to Gianni. Antonio was content to sit near, watching the two young men perform the simple ceremony with approval.
“You’re a mercenary soldier, then?” Gianni asked before he took a bite of bread.
Gar swallowed and nodded. “A free lance, no member of a company. These bandits I fought were?”
“The Stiletto Company, yes—unemployed, for the moment. There’s no work for you there.”
Gar grinned. “I wouldn’t hire out to those who have attacked me.”
Gianni felt the thrill of bargaining begun. “But you are for hire?”
The giant nodded, chewing.
“Have you letters of reference?” Antonio asked. He knew the man probably did not, most likely could not write, but it was a good ploy for lowering his price.
The giant surprised them both, though; he swallowed and nodded. “Here.” He took two folded parchments from his pouch and gave them to Gianni.
The young merchant opened them; Antonio came to read over his shoulder, keenly interested in discovering a mercenary who had actual letters. The first was in a foreign language, but Gianni had learned the tongue of Airebi, for his father’s captains dealt with them frequently. It was from a merchant captain, who testified that he had hired Gar in Donelac, a land far to the north, and that the giant had done excellent service both as a sailor and a fighter. The other was in Taliponese, stating that Gar had been excellently loyal in transporting cargo from Venoga to Renova, and was very effective in fighting off bandits. That was especially interesting because Venoga was Pirogia’s main commercial rival, only a little behind them in volume of trade, but considerably behind in wealth; Gianni suspected that was because the merchants there had not yet succeeded in ousting their conte, who took entirely too much of their profits, thereby limiting their ability to reinvest, and capped it by strictly limiting the luxuries they could buy or possess. He had not quite signed his own death warrant yet, Gianni reflected grimly, but the blank parchment was before the nobleman, just waiting for him to write.
The merchant ended with regrets that he could not employ Gar any longer, but would have no new trading ventures for several months. He recommended the mercenary to any merchant who had need of his services—and even to those who did not, just in case. Gianni nodded and refolded the letters, handing them back. “Those are good, very good.” It occurred to him to wonder if there had been employers who had been dissatisfied and had therefore not given letters, but he dismissed the notion as unworthy. “Will you take our ducat to guard us against the Stiletto Company?”
“Or anyone else who might attack us on the way home,” Antonio added quickly.
“Gladly,” Gar said gravely.
With a feeling of triumph, Gianni took a ducat from his purse and held it out to Gar. The giant took it, saying, “I charge one of these for every seven nights I fight for you.”
“That will be enough,” Gianni assured him. “We have to go back to Pirogia—and go back empty-handed, since the Stilettos have stolen the grain, cotton, wool, and orzans we came to trade for.”
The mercenary frowned. “What are orzans?” Gianni stared, then remembered that Gar seemed to be fairly new to Talipon. “An orzan is a flame-colored gem—not very rare, in fact only semiprecious, but lovely to behold.” He gestured at the burned-out shell about them. “Signor Ludovico wrote that he had gathered a bag of them to trade with us, but it’s gone now—of course. Semiprecious or not, a whole sack of them would be worth a good sum.”
“So.” Gar smiled as he slipped the coin into his pouch. “We both have reasons to wish the Stilettos ill. Tell me of this Pirogia of yours. Is it true the merchants rule the town?”
Gianni nodded, and Antonio said, “We would sooner say ‘govern’ than ‘rule.’ ”
“It is the fact that matters, not the word,” the mercenary replied. “How did you manage to gain such power?”
Gianni smiled; he had learned an excellent way to fend off nosy questions. To the very first question, give a far longer answer than anybody could want but with as little information as possible. He launched into a brief history of Pirogia.
CHAPTER 2
We didn’t exactly throw out our contes,” Gianni explained, “any of them. It was more a matter of our great-grandfathers having become impatient with the restrictions of the princes and the doges—and with their taxing us as highly as they could while still leaving us any capital at all to work with.”
Antonio said nothing, only glancing at his young charge with bright eyes every now and then. Well, Gianni thought, at least, if I’m being tested, I’m passing.
The stranger nodded with an intent frown. That would change, Gianni reflected wryly. He was very surprised when it didn’t. “So merchants from six cities, who knew each other from trading, banded together and built warehouses on islands in a lagoon on the eastern tip of Talipon. The land was technically within the demesne of Prince Raginaldi of Tumanola, but it was a wilderness and a swamp, so he paid no attention.”
“And where the merchants had their warehouses, of course,” Gar said, “it was only natural that they build their dwellings.”
Gianni nodded, surprised that the man cared enough to reason that out. “Within a few years, all of them were living there.”
“And their clerks and workmen, of course.”
“Of course.” Gianni was beginning to wonder if perhaps this stranger was a bit too quick for comfort. “They built bridges between the islands, those that were close enough, and traveled to the bigger ones in small boats.”
Gar smiled. “Even as a merchant in Renova might ride a horse to work, or haul his goods in wagons.”
“A merchant in Renova wouldn’t be allowed to own a horse,” Antonio said. “He could own a wagon, of course.”
“That was true for the merchants in Tumanola, too,” Gianni pointed out, “but no law said they couldn’t own boats.”
“I begin to see the advantage of living far away from the prince’s eye,” Gar said. “How long was it before he began to realize they had built their own city?”
“When ships began to dock at the larger islands, and fewer docked at his own harbor. Then he levied a tax on all goods imported to Pirogia, but the merchants refused to pay it.”
Gar smiled. “How many times did he demand before he sent his army?”
“Only twice—but when the army came, they discovered the other advantage of a city built on islands.”
“What?” Gar asked. “The ability to see the enemy coming a long way away?”
“No,” said Gianni, “the difficulty of marching on water.”
Gar’s smile widened. “Of course! A natural moat.”
“A moat a quarter of a mile wide and a hundred feet deep.”
“Didn’t the prince send his navy?”
“Of course.” Gianni smiled. “That was when the noblemen discovered what excellent sailors we merchants had become.”
“Surely they fired cannon at your walls!”
“Pirogia has no walls,” Gianni said. “What need would we have of them? Our lagoon is wall enough—that, and our fleet.”
“Had your grandfathers had the foresight to build warships, then?”
“A few. Besides, there were pirates, so every merchantman carried cannon, and all our sailors knew how to fight a ship as well as how to sail one—still do, in fact, though pirates are rare now. The prince’s captains came against us in galleys, but we met them in ships with lateen sails and tacked against the wind until we could turn and sail down upon them with the wind at our backs!” Gianni’s eyes glittered with fierce pride; he spoke as though he had been there himself. “We shot off their oars; the balls ripped the sides of the galleys, and a hundred small boats harried them from all sides—small boats that pulled the enemy sailors out of the water, and we held the prince’s captains to ransom.”
“Surely he couldn’t accept such a defeat!”
“Indeed he couldn’t, and sent to the noblemen of other seacoast cities to bring an armada against Pirogia. Our great-grandfathers were ready, but they quailed inside—what could all their merchantmen do against so huge a fleet of galleys?”
“Outsail them?” Gar guessed.
“Indeed.” Gianni grinned. “Their huge galleys couldn’t move or turn as swiftly as our caravels—but even so, they might have won by sheer numbers had it not been for the tempest that blew their fleet apart. Our captains fell upon them piecemeal, in twos and threes. Most never came in sight of Pirogia, but limped back to land to mend their hulls and sails.”
Gar nodded, gaze never leaving Gianni’s face. “Was the prince content with that?”
“He tried to force the other cities to build a stronger navy and attack us again,” said Antonio, “but Renova began to fight with Slamia over a boundary—a river had shifted its course—and Gramona thought it a good opportunity to seize some of Slamia’s territory, while the conte of Marpa saw a chance to swallow some of Renova’s mainland trading bases—but Borella took alarm at the idea of Gramona growing any stronger, so it attacked in defense of Slamia, and Tumanola itself had no wish to see Marpa gain more of the trade which the prince’s merchant counselors were advising him to seize for himself, so Tumanola attacked Marpa, and …”
“I know the way of it.” Gar nodded with a grim smile. “Soon they were all fighting one another, and forgot their concern about Pirogia in the stir. Had your grandfathers sent agents to foment trouble in Renova?”
“What—could building a mere dam in the hills change the course of a river?” Antonio said airily. “Or even a dozen of them?”
“And Tumanola’s prince has never threatened again?”
“Well,” said Gianni, “he has not moved against us, neither he nor any of his descendants. But they constantly make threats, they harry our ships when they can—and they have never left off demanding a share of our profits.” He looked up at a thought. “Do you suppose it might be the prince himself who has hired the Stilettos?”
“We shall find out before we see our lagoon again,” Antonio said grimly.
“What of the sailors your great-grandfathers captured?” Gar asked.
Gianni couldn’t believe it. The man was deliberately asking for more history! “Most of them decided to stay in Pirogia and look for work—they knew a good thing when they saw one. Our grandfathers would only allow five of them to a crew, of course, and had them watched closely, in case they proved to be spies—but none did.”
“And the rest?”
“When the battle was done, we let them go home. We ferried them to land, where we struck off their chains and let them wander where they chose. Some lurked about as a bandit tribe, but our city guard put an end to that quickly enough—after all, they only had such weapons as they could make from wood and stone. The others went home, so far as we know; in any event, they never came to Pirogia again.”
Gar leaned back, hands on his knees, “A brave battle, signori, and worthy forefathers you had! No doubt you have built well on their foundation.”
“Pirogia is a mighty city now,” Antonio assured him, “though we still have no wall—and the stew is done.”
Gianni ladled out servings into wooden bowls and gave them to Antonio and Gar. All about them, the drivers were eating and talking in low voices, except for the half-dozen on sentry duty. Gianni sat down again, dipping his spoon into his bowl. “What of yourself?” he asked. “Were you raised to sailing ships?”
Antonio looked up, alarmed—it was rude to ask a mercenary where he came from or why he had become a soldier. Rude, and sometimes dangerous—but Gar only smiled and said, “In my homeland, most people fished or farmed.”
Gianni ignored Antonio’s frantic signals. “What is your homeland?”
“A land called Gramarye,” Gar answered and, anticipating his next question, “It’s a very big island very far away, out in the middle of an ocean.”
In his interest Antonio forgot his manners. “Gramarye? I have never heard of it.”
“It’s very far away.”
“The name means ‘magic,’ doesn’t it?”
Gar smiled. “I see you know some languages other than your own—but yes, ‘Gramarye’ means ‘magic,’ or a book of magic, and a magical land it is, full of mystery and intrigue.”
“It sounds like the kind of place that would draw a man,” Gianni said, then bit his tongue in consternation, realizing just how thoroughly he had forgotten his manners.
“It does,” Gar said, “but it’s home, and a village begins to seem a prison as a youth comes to manhood. I became restless and went exploring in my father’s ship with an old and trusted servant. Then, when I found employment, the servant took the ship home. One job led to another, until I signed on aboard the ship of the merchant who brought me to Talipon, then was kind enough to write a letter recommending me when I wished to stay and discover more about your island. I enjoy seeing something of the world, though the danger and the hardship are unpleasant.”
There was a cry from the corner of the wall. “Master Gianni, come quickly!”
Gianni was up almost before the call was done, running over to the corner with Antonio right behind him. Gar followed more slowly.
Old Ludovico lay, his face pale, his eyes staring at the sky. “He stopped breathing,” the driver said. Gianni leaned closer and held a palm over the old man’s mouth and nose. He waited a few minutes, then reached up to close the merchant’s eyes.
By morning, the villagers, those who survived, had begun to peer out of their houses. A priest newly arrived from a nearby monastery stared in horror at what he saw, then began the mournful business of conducting funerals. Gianni and his men stood about Ludovico’s grave with bared, bowed heads, listening to the monk’s Latin, then singing the “Deus Irae” in slow and solemn tones. Oddly, it made them all feel a bit better, and they began to chat with one another as they loaded their mules. They even set out on the road to Pirogia with a few jests and laughs.
“Your men cure their spirits quickly,” Gar noted.
“Ludovico wasn’t one of us,” Gianni replied, “only a trading acquaintance.”
Gar nodded. “Close enough for his death to shake you, not close enough to cause true grief. Still, your men have spirit.”
“Meaning that they march in the shadow of condotierri and manage to smile?” Gianni suited his own words. “So many mules can’t move in silence—so why not laugh while you stay vigilant? After all, would a whole mercenary company post sentries along the roadside to watch for fat travelers?”
“Yes,” Gar said instantly. “At least, if I were the captain of such a band, I would set a few men to watch for every chance of plunder.”
Gianni looked up, shaken. “Would you turn bandit, then?”
“Definitely not,” Gar said, just as quickly. “But when you wish to guard against an enemy, you must think ahead, to what he will most likely do—and the best way to do that is to put yourself in his place and try to think as he does. So, although I would never allow men of mine to loot or plunder or attack civilians, I imagine how I would think if I were such a captain.” He looked directly into Gianni’s eyes. “Can you understand that?”
“Yes,” Gianni said, somewhat shaken, “and it speaks of great talent or long training. You aren’t so new to soldiering as you seem, are you?” He was very much aware that he still didn’t know enough about Gar to be sure he was trustworthy, and wasn’t about to miss a chance to gain a little more information.
Nor was Gar about to give it. “I was raised to war, as are most barbarians.”
Gianni nodded. “Still, you’re young to be a captain.”
“And you’re young to be a merchant,” Gar returned.
Gianni smiled. “As you said—I was raised to it. Still, the goods aren’t mine, but my father’s, and I don’t take the profit myself—I only receive a share.”
“A share?” Gar raised his eyebrows. “Not a wage?”
“No—Papa says I will work harder if the amount of my pay depends on the size of the profit.”
Gar nodded slowly. “There is sense in that.” Antonio only listened to the two young men chat, smiling with pleasure.
“But your father sends ships out to trade,” Gar said. “Why does he bother sending men inland?”
“Because we must have something to send on those ships,” Gianni explained. “If we sent only gold, we would soon have no gold left—and barbarians like you, and the nomads of the southern shore of the Middle Sea, have little use for precious metals. They have need of iron ingots, though, and of the cotton and linen cloth that our weavers make. The rustic lords of the northern shore love our tapestries and woolens and cottons and linens. Besides, gold is compact, taking up very little room in a hold. Why have a ship sail almost empty when it could carry a full cargo that won’t drain our reserves?”
He was rather surprised that Gar seemed to understand every word. “There is sense to that,” he said, “but couldn’t your ships carry timber and grain from those trading voyages?”
“Why, when they are much more cheaply had here, near home?” Gianni countered. “The cost of bearing them to Pirogia is so much less. No, from the barbarian shores, we bring amber and furs and all manner of stuffs that are luxuries to the people of Talipon, and from the old cities to the east and the warlords of the south, we bring spices and silk and rare woods. Those are the cargoes that we can sell at a profit in Talipon, my friend—not the goods that they already have.”
“There is sense in that,” Gar admitted. “Who decides to trade in this fashion? The merchant princes of your Pirogia?”
Gianni laughed. “I would scarcely call them princes—solid city men, prosperous, perhaps, but they certainly don’t live like princes. And no, my friend, the Council doesn’t decide what to ship and what to import my father does that, as does every other merchant. Each decides for himself.”
“Then what does your Council do?”
Gianni took a breath. “They decide the things that affect all the merchants, and all the city—how much money to invest in ships of war, how much in soldiers, whether to hire mercenaries or train our own …”
“Your own,” Gar said firmly. “Always your own.”
Gianni blinked, surprised that the man would preach against his own trade. Then he went on. “They decide whether or not to build bridges, or new public buildings, or to shore up the banks of the rivers and canals—all manner of things affecting the public good.”
“Say rather, the good of the merchants,” Gar pointed out. “Who guards the interests of the craftsmen and working men?”
“The craftsmen have their guilds, whose syndics may argue in the Council if they care strongly about an issue that’s being discussed.” It occurred to Gianni that he could have taken offense at that question, but he was too busy explaining. “As to the laborers, I’ll admit we haven’t yet discovered how to include them in the deliberations, other than to charge each councillor with speaking about the issues to all the folk in his warehouses and ships.”
Gar nodded. “How are these oligarchs—your pardon, the councillors—chosen?”
Gianni frowned, not liking the word “oligarch,” especially since he didn’t understand its meaning—but he decided it must be a word in Gar’s native language and let it pass. “The merchants of Pirogia meet in assembly and elect the councillors by casting pebbles into bowls that bear the name of each merchant who’s willing to serve that year—green pebbles for those they want to serve, red for those they don’t want. There are always at least twice as many willing as there are positions on the Council.”
“How many is that?”
“A dozen.” Gianni wondered how his attempt to learn more about Gar had turned into a lecture on the government of Pirogia, and might have asked exactly that, had the condotierri not fallen upon them.
They came riding across the fields, shouting for the merchants to stop. “Ride!” Gianni called. “Do they think us fools?” He kicked his horse into a canter, and Gar matched his pace on one side, Antonio on the other. The drivers whipped their mules into their fastest pace, which the beasts were frightened enough to do—but the train could go no faster than a laden mule, and the condotierri came on at the gallop.
“They know we aren’t fools—but neither are they!” Gar called to him. “They’re frightening us into riding headlong because they have an ambush planned!”
“Ambush?” Antonio cried, incredulous. “From where?”
“There!” Gar pointed ahead at a cluster of peasant huts that had just come into view. “Scare us enough, and we’ll think we’re safe when we come to shelter, any shelter!”
Even as he said it, more condotierri burst out of the huts, galloping straight toward them. Gianni gave a frantic look back, but saw another group following hard on their trail.
“We’re lost!” one of the drivers cried, and slewed his mule to a halt, throwing up his hands.
“Circle!” Gianni shouted. “Do you want to be slaves in the lords’ galleys the rest of your lives? Form the circle and fight!”
The drivers pulled their animals around to form an impromptu fortress.
“They’re soldiers!” the lone driver wailed. “We can’t win! They’ll slay us if we fight back!”
“Better dead and free than alive and in bondage!” Antonio shouted.
“Any man who wishes to live as a slave, leave now!” Gianni called. “Perhaps you can escape while the rest of us fight!”
That one driver bolted—out of the circle, down off the road, and over the fields. The others all held steady, staring at the mercenaries thundering down upon them.
“Slay the horses first!” Gar called. “A man afoot is less of a threat!”
A cry of terror made them all look toward the deserter, just in time to see a condotierre strike him down with a club. He fell amidst the grain, unconscious and waiting to be harvested when the battle was done.
“That is the reward of surrender!” Antonio called. “Better to die fighting!”
“Better still to fight and live!” Gar shouted. “But if you must die, take as many of them with you as you can!”
The drivers answered him with a shout.
“Fire!” Gianni cried, and a volley of crossbow bolts slammed into horses. The poor beasts threw up their heads and died with a scream; the next rank of soldiers stumbled and fell over the crumpled bodies of the first. But the third rank had time to swerve around their fallen comrades, and the drivers dropped their crossbows, realizing they wouldn’t have time to reload.
Then the condotierri fell upon them.
It was hot, hard fighting, and it seemed to last hours, as Gianni caught blades on his dagger and thrust and slashed. Gar stood just behind him, back to back, roaring and slashing at rider after rider. In minutes, they were both bleeding; as their men fell, swords slashed them, skewered them, but they shouted with rage and didn’t feel the pain as anything but a distant annoyance. The condotierri bellowed with anger as drivers thrust swords into their horses’ chests, and the mounts buckled beneath the soldiers. Screams of anguish and agony filled the air, but more from the condotierri than the drivers—for the Stilettos were striking with clubs, trying to capture men for the slave markets, but the drivers struck back with swords and lances and axes. Finally the condotierri gave up hope of profit and drew their swords in rage. Gianni shouted in pain when he saw his men falling, blood pumping from chest and throat, then cried with anguish as old Antonio fell with his jerkin stained crimson.
Then a roundhouse swing struck his sword up and slammed the blade back into his forehead. He spun about, and as he fell, saw Gar already lying in a crumpled heap below him—before the horse’s hoof struck his head, and the world stopped.
CHAPTER 3
The world went away; there was nothing but darkness, nothing but consciousness—consciousness of a spot of light, small or distant. Distant; it grew larger, seeming to come nearer, until Gianni could see it was a swirl of whiteness. Closer then it came and closer, until Gianni realized, with a shock, that its center was a face, an old man’s face, and the swirling about him was his long white beard and longer white hair. Hair blurred into beard as it moved about and about, as though it floated in water. Beware, beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
The words sprang unbidden to Gianni’s mind, words he was certain he had never heard before—and surely not the type of thing he would have thought of himself. But those eyes were flashing, looking directly into his, and the lips parted, parted and spoke, in a voice that seemed to reverberate all about Gianni, so low in pitch that it seemed to be the rumble of the earth, issuing words he could barely understand because they throbbed in his bones as much as in his ears:
Your time has not yet come. Live!
And Gianni was astonished to find that he didn’t want to, that the warm enwrapping darkness was so comforting that he had no wish to leave it.
This is not your place, the face said. You have no right to be here—you have not earned it.
But I can do no good in the world, Gianni protested. I have seen that! I can’t protect my men. I can’t protect my father’s goods—I’m not half the man my father is!
Nor was he, when he was your age. The face spoke sternly. Go! Or would you deprive him not only of his goods, but also of his son, who is more dear to him than anything he owns? Would you leave him to weep his grief in your mother’s arms, and she in his?
A pang of guilt stabbed Gianni, and he sighed, gathering his energies. Very well, if you say it. I shall go. His attention suddenly sharpened. Yet tell me first, who are you?
But the face was receding, and the voice was commanding, Go! Go back to the world! To your mother, your father! Go! Go, and come not back until …
His voice seemed to blur as he shrank to only a circle of whiteness, and Gianni asked, Until? Until what?
Come not! Come not! Come … Come … But the face had dwindled to a circle of light again, shrinking, growing smaller and smaller until it winked out, leaving a last word lingering behind: Come …
“Come back, Gianni! Come back!” a voice was saying, was urging gently. “Come back to the world! Wake up, arise!”
Gianni frowned, finding himself somewhat irritated. He forced his eyes open—only a little, then wider, for there was very little light. He saw the giant bending over him, his rough-hewn face even more craggy in the stark whites and sudden blacks of moonlight.
“He looks!” Gar marveled. “He opens his eyes! He lives!”
“Yes, I live,” Gianni groaned, “though I would far rather not.” He tried to push himself up, but his arm was too weak. Gar caught him and hauled him upright. Gianni gasped at the lance of pain in his head, then choked down the nausea that followed. “What … how …”
“It was a blow to your head,” Gar said, “only that, but a very bad blow.”
“I remember … a horse’s hoof …”
“Yes, that would be enough to addle your brains for a while,” Gar allowed.
Gianni blinked about him, trying to make out dim shapes through his haze of pain. “What … happened to … the day?”
“We lay like the dead, I’m sure,” Gar told him, “and the condotierri had no use for corpses, so they let us lie—after looting our bodies, of course. My sword is gone, and my purse and boots.”
Gianni looked down and saw his sword and scabbard gone, his feet bare, and his belt shorn. “Well, at least I have life,” he grunted.
“And a miracle it is! I woke in midafternoon and forced myself up enough to crawl to water. I upset a considerable number of ravens and vultures, and came back to find them eyeing you.”
“Thank you for upsetting them again.”
“I labored long trying to revive you. For a time, I thought you were dead, but laid my cheek near your face and felt a ghost of breath from your nose. I’ve stretched all my meager store of soldier’s healing lore, but you’ve revived.”
“And am not happy about it, I assure you.” Gianni clutched a pain-fried head.
“Here.” Gar held out two small white disks in his palm. “Swallow them, and drink!”
Gianni gave the little disks a jaundiced look. “What are they?”
“Soldiers’ medicine, for a blow to the head. Drink!” Gar thrust a wineskin at him, and Gianni reluctantly took the two small pills, put them in his mouth, then took a swallow of water. He almost gagged on them, then looked up gasping. “What now?”
“We rest until your head no longer drums, then go back to Pirogia.”
Back to Pirogia! Gianni’s stomach sank at the thought of confronting his father with the report that he had lost not only his father’s goods, but also his mules and even his drivers—that he had lost the whole caravan. Stalling, he gestured vaguely about him. “Should we not … the bodies …” Then he blinked, amazed to see a long, low mound of fresh earth beside the road and no bodies about him, only a deal of churned mud. He realized what liquid must have softened the road, and almost lost his stomach again.
“I had to do something while I waited for you to waken,” Gar explained. “There’s nothing more to keep us here, and every reason to find a priest to bring back, so he can say prayers over them. Come, Gianni. It’s far more my disgrace than your own, for you hired me to prevent this very thing but I must confess my failure, and accept the consequences.”
“I, too.” Inside, Gianni shied from the thought of his father’s face swollen in anger, but knew he must do even as Gar had said—report his failure and take his punishment. “Well, then, back to Pirogia.” He started to struggle to his feet, but Gar held him back. “No, no, not yet! When your head has ceased to pound, I said! Give the medicine a chance to do its work! Wait half an hour more, Gianni, at least that!”
It was an hour, at a guess from the decline of the moon, but Gar did manage to pull Gianni to his feet and start down the road, though they held themselves up only by leaning against one another as much as they walked.
They tottered through the night, and Gianni would have said “Enough!” and lain down to rest a dozen times over, but Gar insisted that they keep on trudging through the dust. Even after the moon had set, he kept urging, “Only a little farther, Gianni!” or “Only another half hour, Gianni—we’re bound to find a barn or a woodlot in that time!” and at last, “Only till dawn, Gianni. Let us at least be able to see if enemies come!” Gianni protested and protested with increasing weariness, until at last it seemed that Gar was holding him up. Over that blank and featureless plain they plodded, through a darkness that showed them only a lighter blackness where sky met land, with the occasional huddle of cottages in the distance, the occasional granary or byre. Gianni would have wondered why Gar thought it so important to keep him walking through the night, if fatigue hadn’t addled his wits to the point where only one thought could take root, and that thought was: sleep!
Finally, the sky lightened with the coming day, and Gar ground to a stop, lowering his employer gently to the grass by the roadside. “Here, at least, we can see.”
“I told you there were no barns, no woodlots, between here and Pirogia,” Gianni said thickly.
“In fact, you did,” Gar agreed. “Go ahead now, sleep. I’ll wake you up if anyone comes to disturb us.”
But Gianni didn’t hear the end of the sentence. He fell asleep just as Gar was promising to wake him. And wake him he did, shaking his shoulder and saying, with a note of urgency, “Gianni! Wake up! Trouble comes!”
Gianni was up on one elbow before his eyes had finished opening. “Trouble? What kind?”
“Horsemen,” Gar said. “Can they be anything but trouble?”
“Only if they’re another train of merchants.” Gianni stumbled to his feet, looking down the road to where Gar was pointing, amazed to realize that it was midafternoon. Had the mercenary kept watch all that time, and not slept?
But he saw the cloud of dust already a little way past the horizon, heard the faint drum of hoofbeats, saw the glitter of sunlight off steel, and said, “That’s not a troop of merchants.”
“No,” Gar agreed, “it’s a troop of cavalry. You know this land better than I do, Gianni. Where can we hide?”
Gianni looked about him, feeling the first faint tendrils of panic reaching out about his mind. “Nowhere! This is table land—there’s only the ditch beside the road!”
“And they’ll see us if we try to run for the shelter of a granary—if we can find one.” Gar was tense, alert, his eyes luminous, but seemed quite poised, quite cool-headed. The mere sight of him calmed Gianni a bit. “There is the ditch,” the mercenary went on, “but they’re sure to glance down and see us crouching in the mud … Hold! The mud!”
Gianni stared. “What about it?”
“Off with your doublet—quickly!” Gar yanked open his jerkin and leaped across the ditch, dropping the garment into the tall grass at the edge of the field of green shoots. “Off with your shirt, too! Quickly, before they can see us clearly!”
Gianni stared. Had the man gone mad?
Then he remembered that he was supposedly paying Gar to defend them both, and decided not to waste his father’s money that he wasn’t paying. He leaped across the ditch to join Gar in a race to strip to bare flesh, leaving only his hose, which were badly ripped from the fighting and the fleeing anyway.
Gar knelt to yank up fistfuls of straw and throw them over the heap of clothing. “Quickly, hide them!”
Gianni bent to help him cover the clothing, and in a minute, only a heap of dried grass lay there at the edge of the field.
“Now, get down! And dirty!” Gar leaped down into the ditch, scooped up some mud, and began to daub it over his chest and shoulders.
“I already am,” Gianni protested, but he overcame distaste and slid down beside Gar, rubbing himself with dirt. “What are we doing, making ourselves look like complete vagabonds?”
“Exactly!” Gar told him. “You can’t rob a wandering beggar, can you? Paint my back!” He turned about, daubing mud on his face. Gianni rubbed mud over his back, then turned for Gar to do the same to him. “More than vagabonds—brain-sick fools! Pretend you are mad, though harmless.”
Gianni felt a surge of hope. It might work. “And you?”
“I’m a halfwit, a simpleton! You’re my brother, guiding me and caring for me in spite of your madness!”
“The mad leading the feebleminded?” That had too much of the ring of truth to it for Gianni’s liking but he remembered the lunatic beggar who sat at the foot of the Bridge of Hope at home, and found himself imitating the man’s loose-lipped smile. “What if they ask for our names?”
“Don’t give your true one, whatever you do—one of them might think you could fetch a fat ransom, or that I might be of use in the ranks! No, we give false names. Yours is Giorgio and mine is Lenni!”
Gianni stared. “How did you think of them so quickly?”
The thunder of approaching hooves prevented Gar’s answer. He clapped a hand on Gianni’s shoulder. “They come! Stay down—no one would think it odd for wayfarers to hide from condotierri, even if they were mad! Remember, you have so little mind that no one could care about you!”
“What does a madman say?” Gianni asked, feeling panic reach out for him again.
“Uhhhh … Giorgio, look! Horsies!” Gar crouched down and pointed up.
Gianni turned to him in exasperation—and saw the troop approach out of the corner of his eye. “Yes, G—Lenni! But those horsies are carrying nasty men! Down!” He found himself talking as he would to a baby. How would the beggar of the Bridge of Hope talk? He crouched beside Gar, hoping the horsemen would pass by without looking at them, hoping they would emerge unscathed …
Not to be. The captain rode by, talking in restless tones with his lieutenants about the Raginaldi and their displeasure that the Stilettoes had not punished those presumptuous merchants of Pirogia yet—but one of the troopers, bored, looked down, saw them, and his face lit in anticipation of fun. “Captain! See what we’ve found!”
The troop slowed; a lieutenant barked, “Halt!” and they stopped.
The captain rode back, looked down, and wrinkled his nose. “What are these?”
“Horsie.” Gar beamed up at the cavalrymen with a loose-lipped grin.
“A simpleton,” his lieutenant said with disgust, “and a beggar, from the look of him.”
Gianni plucked up his courage and took his cue. He held up cupped hands, crying, “Alms, rich captain! Alms for the poor!”
“Alms? I should more likely give you arms,” the captain said in disgust, “force of arms! Why do you not work, like an honest fellow?”
“Honest,” Gar repeated sagely.
Gianni elbowed him in the ribs, snapping, “Hush, you great booby! I can’t say why for the life of me, Captain! They’ll give me work, yes, and I’m a hard and willing worker, but they never keep me long.” He remembered what the beggar at the Bridge of Hope would have done, and looked up, startled, above the captain’s head.
The captain frowned, glanced up, saw nothing, and scowled down at Gianni. “Why do they send you away?”
“I can’t say, for the life of me,” Gianni said, still gazing above the man’s head. “I do as I’m bid, and scare the thieves away from the master’s goods, or the farmer’s …” He broke off, waving angrily and crying, “Away! Get away from the captain, you leather-winged nuisance! Leave him be!”
The captain and half the troopers looked up in alarm—“leather-winged” could only refer to two kinds of beings—but there was nothing in sight. The captain turned back to Gianni with the beginnings of suspicion in his eyes. “What thieves do you speak of?”
“Why, the leathern ones, such as I have just now afrighted, and the slimy crawling ones, and the little big-eyed … Ho! Away from his boots, small one!” Gianni lunged at the captain’s feet, clapping his hands, then rocked back, nodding with satisfaction. “Oh, you know when someone’s watching, don’t you?”
“Brownie?” Gar asked. “Goblin?”
“Goblin,” Gianni confirmed.
A whisper of superstitious fear went through the ranks: “He can see the spirits!”
“Spirits that aren’t there!” The captain realized these beggars could be bad for morale. “He’s mad!” The men stared, appalled, and the nearest ones backed their mounts away.
Gianni spun, stabbing a finger at the air behind him. “Sneaking up on me, are you? Get hence, beaky-face! Lenni, knock him away for me!”
Gar obediently swung a backhanded blow at empty space, but said, “Can’t see him, Giorgio.”
“No need,” Gianni said, with satisfaction. “You scared him away.”
“Mad indeed!” the captain said quickly and loudly, before the troopers could start muttering again. “No wonder no man will keep you! Where are you bound, beggars? How do you think you shall live?”
“Oh, by honest labor, Captain!” Gianni swung back to the leader, all wide-eyed sincerity. “All we seek is an acre to farm, where we may raise doves and hares.”
A hard finger tapped his shoulder, and in a dreamy voice, Gar said, “Tell me about the rabbits, Giorgio.” Gianni shrugged him off in irritation. Didn’t the big clown know not to interrupt when he was trying to pretend? “Now, good Captain, if you had an acre of ground to spare …”
“An acre of ground?” the captain snorted. “Fool! We’re mercenary soldiers! None of us expects to own land here!”
“Wherever your home is, then,” Gianni pleaded. “Only a half-acre, good signor!”
“Giorgio,” Gar pleaded, “tell me about the rabbits”
“Hares, Lenni!” Gianni snapped. “I keep telling you—hares, not rabbits!”
“Rabbits,” Gar said, with absolute certainty. “Little, fuzzy, cuddly bunnies. You raise hares. Tell me about the rabbits, Giorgio.”
“He plagues me with his demands for hare-raising stories,” Gianni said, exasperated. “Please, your worship! If I can’t give him land to farm, who knows what he’ll do! Only half an acre, signor!”
“The only land I shall give you is six feet long and three wide!” the captain said with contempt, and to his lieutenants, “They’re fools indeed. Spurn them and ride on.”
“Shall we not have some fun with them first?” One of the troopers gave Gianni a leering grin that fairly froze his blood.
“Oh, very well!” the captain said impatiently. “But only a minute or two, mind! I can’t linger here all day.”
The troopers whooped and fell on the two unfortunates. A huge fist slammed into Gianni’s belly and he folded in agony. Hard boots kicked his side, his hip, his chest, his belly again. He heard Gar roar, had a glimpse of the huge man shaking off troopers as though they were leeches, laying about him with fist and foot in blundering, clumsy movements that nonetheless laid condotierri about him like chaff on a threshing floor. Then a boot toe cracked into the side of Gianni’s head, and he saw only darkness again.
Get up, get up! the white-bearded face was commanding. You cannot tarry here!
I can and shall, Gianni snarled. I listened to you last time, and look what happened!
Are you so afraid of a little pain, then?
Gianni winced at the thought of enduring more, but said, Of course not, if there’s a good reason. But I accomplish nothing by my suffering—I fail wherever I try!
Who could succeed, against an army of bandits? But you can warn Pirogia of the mercenaries who seek to destroy it!
Destroy? Gianni’s blood quickened; his attention suddenly focused on the swirling face. Who said to destroy them?
That captain! The lord who had hired him was angry because they had not punished the insolent merchants! What sort of punishment do you think he expected?
Why—I thought that was only—the ambushing of our … Gianni stopped, thinking. No—they had done that, hadn’t they? And burned Signor Ludovico’s storehouse.
Even so. It’s Pirogia they seek to punish—Pirogia, and your mother, your father!
I must warn them! Gianni struggled to sit up. But who are you?
CHAPTER 4
Only me,” the face said, but it was pulling in on itself, the hair calming in its swirl, the beard fading, the lines vanishing, nose shrinking, eyes growing larger. The hair turned brown, light brown, held by an enameled band, blowing in the breeze; the eyes were brown, too, but the face was young, and very, very feminine, with high cheekbones and a wide mouth with full, red lips that moved and said, “It is only Medallia, only a Gypsy woman going in advance of her tribe.”
Gianni stared up at this vision of loveliness, unable to believe so bright a sight in the midst of the darkness his life had suddenly become. “What … where …”
“Lie still,” she advised, “but let me lift your head into my lap; I must bandage that ugly wound in your scalp.”
So that was why his head ached so abominably. Gianni let her lift his head (though it sent a lance of pain from temple to temple), then lower it against the softness of her skirt. With his head up, he could see Gar, blinking at the woman—Medallia, had she called herself? Gar had apparently already had the benefit of her nursing, for he wore one bandage across his chest and another wrapped about his brow, like a headband.
Then pain stabbed again, and Gianni squeezed his eyes shut. As the spasm passed, he could feel soft hands winding a bandage around his head, and savored the sensation of the gentle caress, so calming, so soothing … He shook off the mood; he must remain vigilant. Opening his eyes again, he asked, “How did you find us?”
“I was following the road,” Medallia explained, still working, “and I saw you lying in the ditch. I knew the soldiers had passed, so I feared they had robbed and beaten you.”
“Well, there was another band who robbed us first,” Gianni said, “but you’re right—this band beat us even worse.”
“How did you know there were soldiers ahead?” Gar asked, his tone so gentle that Gianni knew it must be false. What did he suspect?
“Soldiers are dangerous, for a woman alone,” Medallia replied. “When I heard them coming behind me, I drove off the road and waited till they had passed—waited long, you may be sure.”
“Wise,” Gianni said, but between the gentleness of her touch and the beauty of her eyes, he was beginning to feel that he would have praised anything she said. Would he have felt this way if he had not met her binding his wounds?
Gar certainly didn’t feel that way. All he said was, “Drove?” and looked about, then stared. Gianni frowned, turning his head very carefully, to see what Gar saw—but not carefully enough; pain stabbed again. He saw only what he had expected—a yellow Gypsy caravan, a high—wheeled wagon with a pair of donkeys to pull it, curve-roofed and with two windows on each side, a high chimney rising from the back with wires to hold it against swaying on bumpy roads. It was unusual for a Gypsy woman to travel alone, but surely the caravan wasn’t surprising. Why did Gar stare so? “Have you never seen a Gypsy’s home?” he asked.
“The Gypsies of my homeland have nothing of this sort,” Gar answered slowly.
Medallia looked up in surprise. Then she frowned in thought, but looked away just before Gar turned back to gaze at her. She tied Gianni’s bandage, saying, “You’re merchants, then?”
“We were,” Gianni said bitterly, “until we were robbed. Now we’re beggars—and my friend thought it wise to pretend to be madmen.”
“It almost worked,” Gar said, aggrieved.
“It worked quite well,” Medallia corrected. “You’re still alive.”
Gar looked at her in pleased surprise. “I thank you—again.”
Gianni assumed he must already have thanked her for his bandages. “It’s good of you, very good of you, to stop to help us. Few travelers would be so kind.”
“We who live on the open road become accustomed to the notion that we must help one another,” Medallia told him. “You’re welcome to what aid I can give—and you’re cold. I must find you clothing.”
“Oh, but we have our own.” Gianni turned to the mound of clothing—then stopped, staring in horror. “Ah,” Gar said, following his gaze. “Yes, when they came to beat us, they rode their horses everywhere, didn’t they?”
“Is there anything left?”
Medallia went over to rummage through the sprawl of torn garments. “Rags to wash windows with—nothing more.” Gianni felt empty. “I’ll bring clothes.”
Gianni started to protest, but Medallia had already turned away to go back to her caravan.
“A rare woman,” Gar said, following the swaying form with his eyes.
“Most rare indeed.” Gianni wondered what her figure was like, but her skirts were full, and she wore a shawl draped around her shoulders and down to her hips. He was sure she was beautiful in every way, though, for if she weren’t, how could she move so sensuously? Especially when she didn’t intend to. Gianni watched her climb up onto the driver’s seat, then heard a door open and shut, heard her footsteps inside …
“How could she know it wouldn’t be dangerous to revive us?”
Gianni jolted out of his reverie, staring at Gar, appalled. “You can’t mean to molest her!”
“Never,” Gar said, with all the resolution of profound morality and beyond. “But she couldn’t have known that.”
“No—that’s true.” A dark, slow anger began to course through Gianni, at any man who would take advantage of a ministering angel—but he knew enough of the world to believe such men existed, and suspected Gar knew it even better than he.
A door in the back of the caravan opened, and a set of steps fell down. Medallia descended, her arms full of clothing, and came back to the men. She knelt beside Gianni and held a shirt up. “Will this fit you?”
Gianni raised his arms—halfway. There he grimaced with the pain of a bruise, but started to force his arms higher.
“Don’t.” Her voice was gentle. “The bone may be bruised as well as the muscle. Here.” She settled the fabric over his head and pulled it down. He did have to force his arms through the sleeves, then ran a hand down the front of the shirt, amazed at its texture. At first he thought it to be silk, then realized it was only a very finely spun cotton—but how had she polished it to such a sheen?
It didn’t occur to him to wonder why she carried men’s clothing.
Medallia looked him up and down, then nodded. “Perhaps a little too large, but no one will notice. Try the trousers, while I take the rest to your friend.” She rose and moved away.
Tactful, Gianni thought—it could have been rather embarrassing to have her help him pull on his pants. He managed to bend stiff legs well enough to push them down the tubes of black cloth, then looked down, intrigued by the looseness of their fit. They felt so much more comfortable than his hose—but of course, they didn’t show off the legs that he had exercised so hard to perfect.
He looked up and saw that Medallia was having a bit more trouble with Gar. The shirt fitted very tightly indeed, making the man’s chest muscles appear even more huge than they were—and his upper arms strained the seams. The sleeves were far too short, but she disguised that by rolling them back a little, as though they had been shortened by intention, for hard work. The shirt didn’t meet the belt, but she solved that by winding a wide sash twice around his midriff (though Gianni wasn’t sure he liked the way her hands caressed the fabric over Gar’s belly muscles). The trousers were far too short, but she said, “We’ll have to find you some high horseman’s boots.”
She went back, then returned with the boots. “Those, at least, I have.” Gar pulled them on, and Medallia stood back, eyeing them critically, then nodding. “They will be high enough, yes. You’ll pass if the condotierri don’t look too closely, and it will do to bring you home—but until then, you’d do well to stay where no one can see you. I think you would do better to ride than to walk for a while, in any case. Will the two of you come into my caravan?”
Would he! The blood pounded in Gianni’s head at the mere thought, though he realized the invitation was quite impersonal. He reined in his rampant emotions and said, “You’re most kind indeed! Yes, by all means, we’ll be glad to ride with you!”
“Come, then.” Medallia helped him up, and had to steady him as he found his feet. Gianni groaned with the pain as a dozen bruises screamed at him for the folly of moving. He felt his knees buckle, but Medallia’s shoulder was a bulwark against unconsciousness, and he began to hobble with her toward the caravan. “Slowly, slowly,” she crooned. “We’ll be there soon enough.” And there the yellow boards were, right in front of him. She tucked his fingers over the dashboard, saying, “Hold tight, now, till I bring your friend, for I think six weak hands will do better than two strong, in hoisting you up.” She went back for Gar.
But the big man had already pushed himself to his feet and stood swaying, propping himself up with a pole that had a ragged end. With a shock, Gianni realized that the man must have broken a pike, and that its owner had taken the head with him, for steel was valuable. Medallia took Gar’s hand and placed it on her shoulder (Gianni was surprised at the sudden jealousy he felt). Gar nodded gravely and followed, but Gianni could see that he wasn’t leaning on the woman, only held her shoulder as a guide. She anchored him to the back of the wagon, then returned to lead Gianni there, too, then on up and into the caravan, where she lowered him onto a padded bench, then went back for Gar.
Gianni looked about him in amazement. He had never been inside a Gypsy caravan before, but had not expected it to be so neat, so bright and cheerful. The walls were painted ivory, with a pattern of flowers stenciled on; beneath each of the front windows was a padded bench covered in the beige-and-white striped cloth woven in his own city. The front windows were made from the bottoms of bottles melted together, coloring the light yellow and green and brown; the rearmost windows were clear and curtained, the glass divided into many small panes that could easily be cut from scraps. Two chairs faced one another to either side of the left-hand window—they looked to be nailed down, as was everything in this wagon that didn’t hang from the ceiling—and between them, a tabletop was folded down against the wall. At the back, four feet from the door, stood a stove of enameled tile, almost as though it were guarding the entryway. Framed pictures hung on the walls—a scene of a city, a picture of a cottage in a wood, and a tableau of an old peasant couple sitting by their hearth. Could it be, Gianni wondered, that this young Gypsy woman wanted to live in a house as badly as most other young folk wanted to wander?
Gar was able to stoop through the doorway without toppling over, but it took some careful maneuvering for him to sidle around the stove without knocking down the chimney. That done, he collapsed on the bench opposite Gianni, closing his eyes, breathing heavily. Gianni was surprised to see that there was a limit to the giant’s strength.
“Rest,” Medallia advised, and laid a waterskin near Gianni’s hand. “Your benches have arms; hold to them, for the caravan sways a bit.” Then she was gone with a rustle of brightly colored cloth through the little door at the front, to call to her donkeys. The caravan lurched into motion, and Gianni found that the arms of the bench were indeed useful. “Where is she taking us?”
“Where does the road lead?” Gar countered.
“To Pirogia, if she doesn’t turn off to go to another city.”
“Then she’ll most likely take us to your home,” Gar said. “I told her you were from Pirogia as she bandaged me—told her that I had promised to see you safely home, and was bound to do it however I had to.”
“I thank you for that,” Gianni said slowly, “and it seems that you shall indeed, though perhaps not in the manner you intended.” He glanced out the window, then said, “She is very kind.”
“Very,” Gar agreed, “but she doesn’t look very much like a Gypsy.”
Gianni looked up in surprise. “How do Gypsies look? Surely she wears a kerchief and bright clothing, like any Gypsy woman I have ever seen—yes, and with brass earrings, too!”
Gar just gazed at him a moment, then said, “Well, if clothes are all it takes to make a Gypsy, then she must look like one indeed.”
“Why—what do you think Gypsies look like?”
“Those of my homeland generally have dark complexions and black hair—and large noses.”
Gianni shook his head. “I have never seen a Gypsy who looked like that.”
“So,” Gar said, more to himself than to Gianni, “the Romany didn’t truly come to this plan … to Petrarch.”
Gianni frowned. “What plan did you speak of? And who are the Romany?”
Gar looked up, stared a moment, then smiled. “They’re the folk who invented carts like this one, but the arrangement inside is quite different.”
“A plan of decoration?”
“Yes, quite so—of management, you might say. ‘Medallia’ is a pretty name, isn’t it?”
“Very,” Gianni agreed, but he could have cursed Gar for having aroused his suspicions. Even he had to admit that “Medallia” didn’t sound much like the names of the Gypsies he had known.
Gar distracted him from that line of thought. “I’m sorry I couldn’t guard you well enough.”
“Who could, against an army?” Gianni realized he was echoing the words of the face he had seen in his vision. He tried to ignore that and said, “I saw the amount of roadside that the bandits’ hooves tore up. You fought enough of them, my friend.”
Gar shrugged. “I had to make it look convincing. Who’d believe that so large a simpleton could be so easily overcome? Unless he was a total coward, which Lenni isn’t.”
Gianni felt a prickle of eeriness at the way that the big man referred to the simpleton he had pretended to be—but there were more important matters at hand. “We must warn Pirogia.”
“Ah.” Gar nodded, eyes glinting. “So. You noticed that conversation too, eh?”
“I wish there had been more of it! But what other merchants could they not yet have punished? They’ve certainly burned out Ludovico, and slaughtered us—at least, so far as they know.”
“Yes, that’s the one factor in our favor,” Gar agreed, “that they think we’re dead. But I noticed that the bandits who beat us this second time were Stilettos too, and when they trade stories with their friends who attacked our caravan, they may both mention a rather large man.”
“You’re hard to miss,” Gianni agreed. “Still, the way you fought this time didn’t exactly speak of training.”
Gar grinned. “I have done my share of brawling. I know the amateur’s style.”
“So do I,” Gianni said ruefully. “I seem to have practiced it.”
Gar shook his head. “You fought as a trained fighter.”
“But an amateur merchant,” Gianni said bitterly.
“Not at all,” Gar said, with a sardonic smile. “You’re still striving.”
“Well, we can scarcely lie down and die.” Gianni said it with a twinge of guilt, remembering his dream. “We’ll have to be more cautious in our progress back home.”
“Thanks to Medallia, all we need to do is stay inside—though if she’s attacked, I think we may both find we have the strength to overcome the pain of our bruises.”
Anger surged at the mere idea, and Gianni said softly, “Oh, yes. We surely may.”
It was a brave resolution. Fortunately, they had no need to put it to the test.
When they stopped for the night, Medallia brewed a rich soup from dried meat and legumes, fed them, then made pallets for them underneath the wagon. Her attitude and stance were firm, and neither man questioned her unspoken decision nor objected in the slightest, though they did groan a little as they climbed down the steps. Medallia pulled the stairs in, said, “I shall see you in the morning, goodmen,” and closed her door. Gianni stared at it for a moment, letting his imagination picture what she was doing inside, but found that his body was too worn to work up any enthusiasm, and turned away with a sigh of regret.
His muscles screamed protest as he slowly, painfully, lowered himself to his knees, with one hand on the side of the wagon and Gar holding the other arm. Then Gar braced himself on Gianni’s shoulder as he creaked down and bowed Gianni ahead. Gianni lay down, very carefully, and rolled under the wagon, across the nearest pallet, then onto the farther one. Gar came rolling after him, grunting with pain, then lay on his pallet staring up at the bottom of the wagon, gasping in quick shallow breaths.
“More than bruises?” Gianni asked with concern.
“A cracked rib, I think,” Gar answered. “It will mend.”
“Walk carefully,” Gianni warned.
Gar nodded. “Be sure, I’ve had ribs cracked before—yes, and broken, too. But thank you for worrying, Gianni.”
“Thank you for a scheme that saved us,” Gianni replied. “Good night, Gar.” He thought he heard the big man answer, but that might have been a small dream as he fell into sleep.
Sleep was black, until a small, swirling form began to appear. Not again! Gianni thought, and struggled to wake himself—but before he could, the object grew, and he realized that he wasn’t seeing hair and beard swirling around a face, but veils floating around a supple body. Closer she came and closer, turning and undulating in a languid dance. Was that music that accompanied her movements, or was she music embodied? If it was sound, it was so barely audible that he thought he felt it, not saw it—as he also seemed to feel every turn, every gesture. Light grew about her, but somehow left her face in shadow. He longed to discern her form, but the multitude of veils only hinted at a lush and voluptuous figure, and certainly didn’t reveal it.
Gianni. Her voice spoke inside his head—but of course, he realized; this was a dream, so it was all inside his head. Gianni, hearken to my words!
To every syllable, he breathed, then frowned at a thought. Do you have a father?
A father? Her tone was surprised. Yes, but he is far away. Why do you ask? Clearly, she had not been expecting that.
Because I have seen an old man who comes and goes as you do. Perhaps her father wasn’t so far away as she thought.
Does he indeed! Her tone was ominous. Let us hope we never meet!
Oh, but I am so glad we have! Gianni reached out, but found that whatever dream presence he was had no body.
No—not you. Her tone softened amazingly, then became inviting, seductive, as she said, I, too, rejoice in meeting you, brave and handsome man of Pirogia! But know that contact between the dream realm and the real is forbidden, save to those living souls who have learned the art of the waking dream. I would not violate that rule if I did not have words of import for you.
Whatever it is, I’ll treasure the cause! What word have you for me? Gianni found himself hoping ardently.
Love, she said, and Gianni’s hopes soared—then crashed as she said, You must avoid it. Turn aside, turn away—do not fall in love with the Gypsy Medallia! Do not!
Small chance of that! Gianni declared, with all the ardor of a newly besotted soul, for I have fallen in love with you!
The dancer stilled and stood awhile frozen, and Gianni gloated, thinking she had not suspected this! Could he take her by surprise, then?
But the dancer began to move again, the veils rising and falling as she turned, then turned again. Do not, she counseled, for I am faithless and fickle, as likely to turn to another man in a minute as I am to return to you. No, in all likelihood, you shall never see me again.
You couldn’t be so cruel! Gianni protested.
She threw back her head and laughed in the tone of silver bells. Oh, in affairs of the heart, I can be cruel indeed, Gianni! I am truly a woman without mercy! Nay, you are a fool if you fall in love with Medallia, but a greater fool if you fall in love with me!
Then I am a fool no matter how I turn, Gianni said, with conviction. He found he didn’t really mind the idea.
Not at all—you need not fall in love with either! the vision snapped, then turned away, with a gesture of finality—and Gianni woke.
He found himself staring at the bottom of the wagon above his head, startled to find himself back in the real world. Was he to spend his life lost in dreams, then?
If such divine creatures inhabited the dream world—yes. He was growing remarkably repulsed by reality anyway. He lay awake awhile, marveling at how faithless and feckless he was. And he had always believed himself to be constant and virtuous!
But then, he had never fallen in love before—or at least, never so deeply as this.
CHAPTER 5
They came into Pirogia through the land gate, Gar and Gianni sitting up on the driver’s seat with Medallia, one on each side of her. The sentries didn’t recognize Gianni at first and tried to bar them entrance, but when he protested, “I’m Gianni Braccalese,” they stared in surprise, then threw their heads back and guffawed, staggering to brace themselves against the wall. Gianni reddened with embarrassment. “It isn’t so funny as all that!”
“To see a merchant of Pirogia dressed up like a Gypsy?” one sentry gasped, wiping his eyes. “Oh, it’s a tale to be savored and retold many times—not that I would, mind you.”
Gianni took the hint. He sighed and said, “I don’t have any money with me, or I’d invite you for a bite and a drink while I told you how I came by these clothes. Shall I meet you at Lobini’s coffeehouse to tell you the tale?”
“Aye, and gladly! We’re off duty at three.”
“At Lobini’s, then.” The other sentry stepped aside and waved them through the gate.
Medallia clucked to her donkeys and drove in, Gar saying out of the corner of his mouth, “A bribe well and discreetly offered.”
“Let’s hope they’ll be discreet in turn,” Gianni sighed. “Yes, I’ve had some experience at the craft.”
“Are you so ashamed to be seen with me as that?” Medallia challenged them.
“Never!” Gianni protested, and was about to explain at length, when he saw the twinkle in her eye and relaxed.
They rode across the causeway, and Gianni explained to Gar that there were charges of gunpowder every dozen yards or so, in case an army tried to charge across the causeway to attack the city. The big man nodded. “Wise.” But his eyes were on the panorama spread out before him, and his lips quirked in a smile. “I thought you said this city was built on scores of little islands.”
Gianni looked up at his home, luminescent in the morning mist, suddenly seeing it through the eyes of strangers, suddenly seeing it as magical and fantastic. Bridges were everywhere, spanning canals, arcing over waterways, swooping between the taller buildings—buildings that seemed like giant cakes, their walls painted in smooth pastels and adorned with festoons of ornamentation in bright colors. Where the rivers were too wide for bridges (and even where they weren’t), long, slender boats glided, in the design Gianni’s ancestors had copied from the barbarians of the North, for the people of Pirogia were always eager for new goods, new artifacts, new ideas, and copied and modified with delight, shrugging off their mistakes and embracing their successes. Their critics called them shameless imitators, devoid of originality; their enthusiasts called them brilliant synthesists. The Pirogians called themselves successes.
Pride in his home swelled Gianni’s breast. “It really is a score and more of islands,” he assured Gar, “but my people have done wonderfully in welding them all together, haven’t they?”
“Most wonderfully indeed,” Medallia said, and Gianni glanced at her, saw her shining eyes, and felt his hopes soar. On the road, he had been just one more unfortunate; here, he was a rich merchant’s son. Surely she would now see him as more than something to be pitied, would see him as someone to be admired, perhaps even coveted …?
The sentries at the inner gate frowned, slamming their halberds together to bar the way. “I’m Gianni Braccalese,” he informed them, and they stared in surprise. Before they could start laughing, he said, “I’ll meet you at Lobini’s, if you want, to tell you why I’m dressed as a Gypsy and glad to be. For now, though, I need to see my home as quickly as possible.”
They took the hint of the bribe and swallowed their mirth. “We’ll meet you there the instant we’re relieved,” Mario promised. They had known one another from childhood, and Gianni was relieved by the implied promise that they would tell no one until they’d had their chance to rib him unmercifully and see how much hush money he offered them. Gianni didn’t resent the minor extortion—every Pirogian expected every other Pirogian to make every penny he could in every way he could, as long as it wasn’t blatantly immoral, or completely criminal—and bribery had never been outlawed in Pirogia.
Medallia drove her cart down broad streets and over bridges according to Gianni’s directions, until finally they drew up in front of a wide two-story building that backed against the River Melorin, a building of pale blue stucco with the red tile roof that was so much the standard in Pirogia, a dozen windows above and below, and wide double doors for driving in wagons. They stood open now, and Gianni felt a sudden knot tie itself in his belly before he said, “You may drive in, if you will. My father and mother will more than welcome the fair lady who has saved their son.”
“I’m no lady, but only a poor Gypsy maiden,” Medallia said gently.
A lady was a woman born to the nobility, or at least as the daughter of a knight. Gianni knew that, but he said gallantly, “You’re a lady by your deeds and your behavior, if not by birth. Indeed, I have heard of ladies born who lived with less nobility than fishwives.”
Gar nodded. “It’s true; I’ve know some of them.” Medallia gave Gianni one of her rare smiles, and he stared, feeling as though the sun had come out from behind a cloud to bathe him in its rays. Finally, he remembered to smile back—but Medallia had already turned away and clucked to her donkeys, shaking the reins. They ambled through the portal.
A heavily built, middle-aged man in gray work clothes was heaving crates from a stack by the wall up to the bed of a wagon, barking orders at the men who were helping him. Gianni stared, then leaped down to run and seize the last and lowest crate just as the older man was reaching for it. “No, Papa! You know the doctor said you shouldn’t lift anything heavy!”
The older man stared, then whooped with delight and flung his arms around Gianni, bawling, “Lucia! Someone call Lucia! It’s our son Gianni, come back from the dead!”
Then Gianni realized why his father had been wearing such somber clothing. He hugged back—time enough to take his medicine later.
Gar climbed down off the wagon and moved toward Gianni and his father, face set and grim—but before he could interrupt, a matron came running across the courtyard and fairly wrenched Gianni from his father’s arms, weeping for joy.
“Mamma, Mamma!” Gianni lamented. “That I could have caused you such grief!”
“Not you,” she sobbed, “but the blackguards who waylaid you! Oh, praise God! Praise God, and Our Lady!”
“There is no blame for him,” Gar rumbled, “only for me.”
Mamma Braccalese broke away from her son in astonishment, and Papa turned to the giant with a frown, then stared up, taken aback.
“Papa,” Gianni said quickly, “this is Gar, a mercenary solder I hired after I found …” He paused; he hadn’t had time to prepare his father for the bad news. “… after I found the burned warehouse. Mamma, this woman is Medallia, who picked us up from the roadside and bandaged our wounds.”
“Roadside! Wounds!” Mamma Braccalese turned to him in horror, yanking the scarf off his head and discovering the clean white cloth. “Oh, my son! What villains have done this?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned to hurry to the caravan. “My dear, I cannot thank you enough! Come, you must be weary from your travels! Come down, come down so that I may serve you some refreshment in my house! Giuseppi! See to the donkeys!” She ushered a slightly dazed Medallia up the steps and into the house, asking, “Have you come far? I know, I know, your people live on the road—still, it must be wearying! Oh, thank you so much, so very much, for rescuing my son! Come in, come in that you may sit in a soft chair and drink sweet tea! Tell me, how … ”
The door closed behind them, leaving Papa Braccalese to scowl up at Gar and demand, “What do you mean? How have you hurt my son?”
“He hired me to protect him and your goods,” Gar said simply. “I failed.”
“Failed?” Papa stared, then reached up to clap him on the shoulder. “Not a bit, not a bit! You brought him home alive, didn’t you? And not too badly wounded, if he could think to lift a crate so that I wouldn’t!”
“But …” Gar stared, amazed to be praised. “Your goods are lost, stolen by condotierri!”
“Goods! What are goods?” Papa Braccalese brushed off the objection. “The cost of doing business, nothing more. My son, however, could not be replaced! The men lost, that’s another matter, but not one you could have prevented. No, don’t tell me now—come in to rest, and let us give you some drink that should restore a man!” He turned away, clasping Gar’s arm and moving with such energy that even the giant was almost yanked off his feet and had to catch up in order to keep from falling. “Not a word, until you have a glass in your hand!” Papa Braccalese commanded. “Then you shall tell me all about it—but until then, not a word!”
However, when they did have glasses in their hands, he did indeed insist on hearing all about it, but from Gianni first. He sat mute, only listening, frowning, and occasionally nodding his head, until Gianni was done with his account and sat, waiting for the axe to fall—but Papa only turned and asked Gar what he had seen and done, then listened in silence while the giant told him. When he finished, though, it was Papa’s turn, and he subjected both of them to a barrage of questions that would have sunk a galley. At last, satisfied that he had learned everything they knew, Papa Braccalese sat back, nodding, and said, “So. The Raginaldi have loosed the Stilettos on us merchants—not that they wish to slay us, of course, only to tame us, to yoke us and make us work for them, instead of for ourselves.”
“That may be the case,” Gar cautioned. “Gianni and I have only a few spoken words to judge by. It could just as easily be that the Stiletto Company is unemployed, and seeking their living in their usual manner.”
“Well, if that’s so, and we prepare for war but they don’t attack, then we have lost nothing, have we? Except some time and effort, but the effort will have kept us healthy, and the time would have been idled away otherwise. There is cost, it’s true, cost in hiring soldiers and training men and forging weapons and armor, but that’s the cost of doing business, isn’t it?”
“A rather high cost,” Gar said, frowning.
“So? And what will be the cost if we do not arm, and the Stilettos do attack, eh? No, all in all, I think it will be cheaper to arm.”
“Well…” Gar looked rather befuddled. “When you put it that way, of course it’s wiser to prepare for war.”
Papa Braccalese nodded. “Let’s hope the Council sees it that way.”
“Some of them are skinflints,” Gianni whispered to Gar as they entered the long wide room. “They would rather believe anything false than have to pay an extra florin out of their profit.”
“You have watched their meetings before, then?”
“No, never,” Gianni said. “I only know what rumor says—and what Papa curses when he comes home from a Council meeting. I wouldn’t be here now, if they didn’t need to hear my story from my own lips.”
“And mine.” Gar nodded. “There’s much less question of accuracy, when they hear it from the survivors.”
The Maestro came into the hall, and the merchants stopped gossiping in their small groups of two and three and turned to look to their elected leader for the year. Oldo Bolgonolo was a heavyset man in his late middle age, his hair grizzled, his face lined—but his eye still sharp and questing.
“Masters,” he said, giving them their Guild title (for no journeyman and certainly no apprentice could hold office here), “we are met to hear disturbing news from Paolo Braccalese and his son Gianni. I know rumor has already borne it to all your ears, so let us begin by hearing it stripped of all the fat that grows as the story goes from mouth to mouth. Gianni Braccalese, speak!”
The master merchants had by now all taken their seats, and Gianni felt the weight of fifty pairs of piercing eyes upon him. He tried to calm his stomach as he stood, leaning on the table in case his knees turned to jelly, and began, “Masters …” Then he cleared his throat to rid it of the squeak in his voice—but his father’s colleagues were understanding of human frailty, and made no comment. Gianni began again. “Masters, I was conducting a goods train to Accera, to trade with old Ludovico for grain and timber and orzans …”
He told them the story, his voice as dry and matter-of-fact as he could make it, showing emotion only when he had to speak of Antonio’s death. The merchants stirred restlessly at that, muttering angrily to one another. Gianni waited for them to be done, then took up his tale again. They seemed impressed by Gar’s improvisation to impersonate the weak-minded and showed surprise at Gianni’s rescue by a Gypsy. But he saved the worst for last, ending by telling them about the remarks he had overheard, about a lord paying the Stilettos to discipline some unruly merchants, whereupon they erupted into a furious clamor of denunciation and calls for vengeance, countered by shouted arguments for caution. The Maestro let them work out the worst of their anger, and Gianni sat down, shaken but exhilarated.
Gar was staring at the shouting merchants. “These are your cool-headed men of business?”
Gianni shrugged. “We’re human, and as apt to anger as the next man.”
“I don’t think I want to be next to that man,” Gar replied.
The Maestro picked up a stick and struck a cymbal suspended near him. Some of the merchants looked up and stopped their debate, but others went on arguing furiously. The Maestro had to strike his cymbal again, then again and again, before they all subsided, muttering, and took their seats once more.
“I think you have all worked out the basic positions now,” the Maestro commented dryly. “May we hear them stated clearly? No, Paolo Braccalese—this meeting comes at your demand, and it is your son who was attacked, your goods that were lost; I scarcely think you can see the situation clearly. You, Giuseppi Di Silva! What say you to this news?”
“Why, if it’s so, we must arm as quickly as possible!” A tall merchant leaped to his feet. “Arm, and recall the fleet to guard our shores!”
“Nay, more!” shouted a shorter merchant with long yellow hair. He stood, thumping the table with his fist. “They’ve slain two drivers and a caravan master, and enslaved the rest! They’ve burned the warehouse of a merchant we deal with, and slain him! They’ve stolen the goods of a merchant of Pirogia and wounded his son! Are we to suffer these affronts with no revenge? Surely not—for if we do, we give them leave to do it all over again, to each and any of us!”
Angry shouts agreed with him. Equally angry shouts denounced them. The Maestro struck the cymbal again, and they quieted. “Clearly spoken,” he said. “We have two positions set forth now—one that we defend our city, another that we seek revenge, which I assume means that we should send out an expedition to attack the Stilettos. May we have the opposite position stated so clearly as these? No, not you, Pietro San Duse—you would cloud your statement with so much insult and so much emotion that I would have to parse your words to find your meaning. Carlo Grepotti, you have spoken little, and that quite calmly—will you grace us with your words?”
An elderly merchant arose, a man with a face like a hawk and the ferocious eye of an eagle. “Grace? I fear there will be little of that in what I say, Maestro—but of good sense, I can promise you abundance! What I see in the hot words of my respected colleagues is waste, atrocious waste pure and simple! They would have us take hundreds of florins from the treasury—nay, thousands!—to train our young men as soldiers and sailors, to build more war galleys and buy cannon and swords, to feed and clothe and pay this force, and where is this money to come from? For surely the depleted treasury must be refilled! Have no mistake, my brother merchants—these thousands of ducats will surely come, directly or indirectly, from your profits! How will you tell your wife, when she asks for a new gown, that you must pay the soldiers first? How will you tell her, when the roof leaks, that you must buy a barracks for the soldiers before you can have that leak stopped? Be sure that, once begun, it will not end, for having spent the money, we must justify it if no enemy comes! How shall we do that? Why, by marching out and declaring war where there is none, just as my colleague Angelo has suggested even now! Then it’s we who shall be taking away others’ freedom, even as we fear they shall do to us!”
“And if the enemy does come?” the tall Di Silva demanded. “If they do come, and we beat them off?”
“Why, they you shall cry that we must always keep the army standing and the navy afloat, for fear others may come!” Grepotti retorted. “Then if they do not, you shall call for a war to conquer Tumanola and expel the Raginaldi, or some such, and overlook the fact that we have become conquerors! Thus we shall impoverish ourselves to turn Pirogia into a bully among cities—and all for what? The word of a boy who brings us no proof and no other witnesses! Surely, my colleagues, we must have better grounds than this!”
“But we do have another witness,” Di Silva retorted. “Let us hear from him.”
“From a mercenary who will admit, I’m sure, that he failed in his duty? Surely he will seek to excuse himself, to justify himself!”
Gar’s face turned to flint, and Gianni said instantly, in a low voice, “He speaks only to support his argument, Gar. He means no harm—and he wasn’t there.”
But the Maestro had noticed. “What do you say to that, young Braccalese?”
Gianni stood, anger overcoming nervousness. “That it was one mercenary against fifty, that we stood back to back with twenty-five against each of us, and could not possibly have won! Gar has done his job well, for I have come back to you alive!”
“Aye, and come back with two sentences overheard, nothing more!” Carlo Grepotti retorted. “You cannot even tell us surely who was the ‘lord’ this captain spoke of, nor who the merchants!”
Now Papa Braccalese rose. “Maestro?”
“Yes, Paolo,” Oldo the Maestro sighed. “Have your say.”
“My lord, hurt to any merchant is hurt to all! Even if my goods train had come home intact, I would have wasted the drivers’ pay, the stevedores’ pay, the mules’ time, my son’s time! I have no profit from that trip, and will have no more profit from that town, for old Ludovico is dead, and surely none will dare build where he has fallen! It isn’t his misfortune only, but all of ours!”
Carlo Grepotti looked up with fire in his eyes, but Oldo said, “You have spoken well, Carlo Grepotti, and I thank you—but you have asked for the mercenary’s word, and we shall hear it!” He turned to Gar. “Will you tell us your tale?”
“I shall.” Gar unfolded himself to his full height, squaring his shoulders, and instantly commanded the hall. Everyone had seen him come in, but all now felt they had never seen him before. There was some assurance to his bearing, some commanding presence in his face and his posture, that brought instant respect and attention. Even Gianni stared. He had never seen Gar like this before.
With a measured pace, Gar told his tale, not hurrying, not lagging. His account was considerably shorter than Gianni’s, of course, but it agreed in every particular, save that Gar the mercenary gave more detail of the Stilettos’ armament and tactics—and, when he sat down, he left the impression of a terrible and ferocious force about to fall on Pirogia.
Silence held the hall for a few seconds after he sat. Then Carlo Grepotti shook himself and demanded, “What would you have us to do? Arm, and go out to attack them?”
“The best defense is a good offense.” Gar stood again. “Yes, there is some sense in what you say. But there’s better sense in being sure you can win before you attack, and that’s done by massing overwhelming numbers.”
“Ah, so we’re to employ mercenaries! I might have known you would encourage us to spend more money and more on men of your trade!”
“That would be wise,” Gar agreed, “but it would be even more wise to seek allies. I had thought there were a dozen merchant cities on Talipon, not Pirogia alone.”
The hall was silent for a few minutes, while all the merchants registered the idea with shock and tried to absorb it. Then Oldo the Maestro gave answer.
CHAPTER 6
Oldo said slowly, “Yes, there are other such cities, though Pirogia is the only one in which the merchants have become the government in name as well as fact—the others still have a doge or a conte and, though the merchants are the real power, they dare not move without their nobleman’s agreement. But ally with those with whom we must compete, in order to prosper? Unthinkable!”
“What would happen after the war was done?” Grepotti demanded. “How would we divide the spoils? For surely, in a war of a dozen city-states, all the aristocratic cities would league against us, and the only way to win would be to conquer them!”
“We could not win!” Pietro San Duse cried. “A dozen merchant cities, against fifty governed by noblemen? Impossible!”
“But even if we did,” Di Silva said, “the war would never end! With such an army and navy, no one city would dare disband them, for fear the others would league against it! We would have to use that compound army to conquer more territory and more, and the drain on our purses would never end! No, even I cannot approve such a league.”
Gar stood like a statue, his face flint. “It may be your only chance to stay free and independent.”
Oldo shook his head. “We shall find another way—there must be another way! Arm, perhaps, but league? No!” He looked around at the councillors all cowed and subdued by the mere notion of allying with their business rivals. “We must consider what we have heard, my brother merchants, and discuss the issue again, when our heads have cleared.” He struck the cymbal and announced, “We shall meet tomorrow at the same time! For today, good afternoon to you all!”
They did meet the next day, but Gianni and Gar weren’t invited, having already given their testimony—and more of Gar’s opinion than the Council had wanted. Papa Braccalese went, but he came home looking exasperated, shaking his head and saying, “They argued three hours, and could decide on nothing!”
“Not even to reject my idea of seeking allies?” Gar asked.
“Oh, that they agreed on—agreed on so well that Oldo began the meeting by saying, ‘I think we may safely discard this notion of making compacts with our competitors. Yes?’ and everyone cried, ‘Yes!’ with Grepotti saying, ‘Especially Venoga,’ and there was no more heard of that.”
Gar sighed, shaking his head. “It may be good business, but it’s very poor strategy.”
“What shall we do, then?” Gianni asked, at a loss. “What can we do?”
Papa threw his arms wide. “Business as usual! What else? But if it must be business, let us choose customers and sources as safe as can be found! You, Gianni, will take another goods train out—but you will go north to Navorrica this time, through the mountains, where the only bandits are those who grew up there, and the country is too rough for an army!”
Gar went too, of course—Papa Braccalese wasn’t about to let his son go without protection when there was a professional soldier available, and one who, moreover, refused to accept pay for his last assignment, maintaining that he had failed to bring the goods train safely home. At least, Gianni thought, he isn’t trying to take the blame for letting the Stilettos burn Ludovico’s warehouse!
Gianni was excited at the prospect of the journey, and delighted at the chance to redeem himself. He was also amazed at his father’s faith in him, when he had already lost one goods train. He was bound and determined to prove worthy of Papa’s trust—so the awakening was all the more rude, even though he had fallen asleep when it came.
Gianni, she called, even before he saw her; then it was almost as though he had turned to look behind him in his dream, and there she was, dancing languorously against darkness, swirling veils hiding her face and hinting at her form. She was desire incarnate, she was beauty, she was grace, she was all a man could want.
Gianni, she said, I have warned you against the Stilettos. Why did you not heed me?
I did, maiden. Gianni felt hurt. The Council wouldn’t listen.
Nor would your father, if he sends you a-venturing! It is not westward alone that you must fear to go, but northward too, and southward! I would tell you eastward also, if there were anything there but the sea!
Gianni was appalled. Why is there danger in every direction?
Because the lords are banding together, even as the giant told your merchants to do! They are banding together and bringing the mercenary armies, to take revenge on you insolent commoners who dare defy your natural masters by building and governing your own city! Oh, make no mistake, Gianni—the giant was right, in every respect! But if you cannot persuade your elders to ally with the other merchant cities, at least do not go out to your doom! Her form began to waver as she turned and turned, shrinking, receding. Do not go, Gianni … do not go …
Do not go! he cried, unconsciously echoing her. Don’t go! Stay a while, for I long to come to know you better! Stay, beautiful maiden, stay!
But she receded still, saying, Do not go … do not go … do not go …
Then light burst, and Gianni sat bolt upright in bed to find he was staring at the sunrise. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned away, but could not quell the feeling of doom that the dream had raised.
Still, it was just a dream, and with a good breakfast inside him, his cheeks shaved, and clean clothes on his back, Gianni was able to dispel the lingering nightmare and determine to lead the goods train out, as his father had told him.
First, though, they saw Medallia off—she would not stay for more than a few nights. The hostler drew her caravan up by the door, and she turned to tell the Braccalese family, “Thank you for your hospitality. Rarely have I found folk so welcoming.”
“Then you should stay with us, poor lamb!” Mamma gave her a hug, and a kiss on the cheek. “But since you won’t, come back this way often, and visit!”
Gianni was worried, too—how had she survived so long, a woman alone in this lawless country? But he bade her farewell nonetheless, holding her hands and looking into her eyes as he said it. For a moment, he thought he might kiss her, so wonderfully desirable did she seem—but some air came over her, some aura that said, Touch me not, though she still smiled and returned his gaze, so the moment passed, and he could only watch as she mounted the seat of her caravan, took up the reins, and clucked to her donkeys. Then away she went out of the courtyard, with the family waving.
Three days later, it was only Papa and Mamma who stood waving as Gianni and Gar led five drivers and ten mules out through the gate. Gianni felt apprehensive and nervous, and missed old Antonio severely—but Gar’s great bulk was very reassuring, the more so as the giant wore a new rapier and dagger, plus a crossbow, and a dozen other weapons that he assured Gianni were there, though they could not be seen.
Out the city gate they went, over the causeway and out through the land gate—and the oppression deepened, hollowing Gianni’s stomach, but he forced himself to laugh at a comment Gar made, and hoped the big man had meant it as a joke.
Two days later, they were following a track through a high valley with steep, wooded hillsides on either hand. Gianni drew his cloak close against the morning chill. Gar did likewise. “I thought your land of Talipon was warm!”
“It is, as you’ve seen,” Gianni replied, “but even the warmest country will be chill in the early morning, up high in the mountains—won’t it?”
Gar sat a moment, then nodded stiffly. “You’re right—it will. At least, that’s how it has been in every country I’ve visited, though I haven’t been up in the mountains in each of them. In some, I only know what I’ve heard from mountaineers I met.”
Gianni looked up at him curiously. “How many lands have you visited?”
“Only seven,” Gar told him. “I’m young yet.” Seven! It made Gianni’s head reel, the thought of visiting seven other countries. Himself, he had only seen Talipon, and a little of the city of Boriel, on the mainland. Not for the first time, he wished his father had let him go voyaging more often.
“Mountains are always places that delight the soul,” Gar said, “but they should make one wary. The mountaineers have a hobby of robbing goods trains.”
Gianni shook his head with assurance. “There’s no fear of that. Pirogia pays a toll to the folk who live here, to guarantee safe passage to our merchants.”
“Wise,” Gar allowed, “as long as you call it a toll, not a bribe. But let us suppose that the Stilettos have learned that, and have decided to beat down the mountaineers and set an ambush here, as a way to begin their chastising of Pirogia’s merchants …”
“That was just a remark heard in passing,” Gianni said dubiously.
“Will you let Grepotti persuade you so easily? Trust your own ears, Gianni! You heard it, and so did I!”
More importantly, Gianni thought, he had heard his Dream Dancer say it. He looked about him with sudden apprehension. “If they were to do so, would this not be an excellent place for an ambush?”
“Yes, but the end of this valley would be even better.” Gar loosened his sword in its sheath. “We’re braced for ambush now, but as we near the debouchment of the pass, we’ll begin to relax, to lower our guard. Then will be the ideal time for them to fall upon us.”
“But our men have relaxed their guard,” Gianni said, “because they trust in the good faith of the mountaineers.”
Gar stared at him in alarm, then turned back to the men, opening his mouth to yell, but a shouted cry of ”At the point!” came out, came out and echoed all about them, and it took Gianni a second to realize that it was not Gar who had called, but men at either hand. He looked about wildly and saw condotierri charging down the slopes from each side—charging on foot, for the angle was too steep for horses to gallop. Gianni’s drivers barely had time to realize they were beset, were only beginning to react, when the bandits struck, struck with the clubs they held in their left hands, struck the drivers on the sides of their heads or their crowns. Three went down like felled oxen; the other two dodged, pulling out swords as they did, but the condotierri were behind them and all about them, twisting the swords out of their hands even as they raised them to strike, then bringing them down with a fist in the belly and a club behind the ear. Gianni cried out in agony, seeing their futures as galley slaves—but it was too late to try to ride to their rescue, for the condotierri had surrounded Gar and him, surrounded them with a thicket of steel, swords striking from every angle, clubs whirling. They were on foot, though, and Gianni and Gar were mounted, striking down with greater force and the advantage of thrusting over the soldiers’ guards.
Gar bellowed in rage, catching swords on his dagger and plunging his rapier down again and again. Bandits fell, gushing blood, and others leaped back out of his range, then leaped in again to stab, but Gar was quicker than they, catching their blows on his dagger and striking home as other thrusts missed him. Gianni could see only when the fight turned him far enough to one side or the other, but he had a confused impression that most of the swords aimed at Gar somehow missed, sliding by him to one side or the other. A condotierre seized Gianni’s horse’s bridle and pulled the beast forward, just far enough for another soldier to step in behind Gar, swinging a halberd in a huge overhand are. Gianni shouted, trying to turn to stab the man, trying to reach, but he overbalanced, lurched forward into waiting hands, and heard the halberd shaft strike Gar’s head with a horrible crack, a crack echoed by the club struck against his own skull, and even as the familiar darkness closed in, he realized that his Dream Dancer had been right.
But it wasn’t the woman who banished the darkness, it was the old man with the floating hair and beard, and there was no persuading this time, no arguing or warning, but only the stern command, Up, Gianni Braccalese! You have ignored sound advice; you have brought this upon yourself! Up, to suffer the fruit of your folly! Up to labor and toil in the poverty you deserve, and will deserve until you start fighting with your brain instead of letting your enemies overwhelm you with arms!
But I did only as I was bidden, Gianni protested.
Up! the face thundered. Up to labor and fight, or must I make this one refuge a place of torment instead of healing? Up and away, Gianni Braccalese, for the honor of your name and the salvation of your city! UP!
The last word catapulted Gianni into consciousness; his eyes flew open and he lurched halfway up, then sank back onto a cold, slimy surface, his head raging with pain, his eyes squeezed to slits against the glare of the sky—and there was no gentle face floating above his this time, nor even Gar’s homely, craggy features.
Gar! Where was the man? Dead? Enslaved? For that matter, where was Gianni? He rolled painfully up on one elbow, blinking through pain, out over a landscape of churned mud under a drizzling rain. He shivered, soaked through, and saw nothing about him but …
The huge, inert body, lying crumpled on its side, face slanting down, almost in the mud, with the huge bloom of ragged, bloody scalp in the midst of his hair—Gar, stripped of his doublet and hose, of even his boots, left for dead.
Fear gibbered up in Gianni, and he struggled through the mud toward his friend. Pain thundered in his head, almost making him stop, but he went on, forced himself to crawl for what seemed an hour but could not have been, for the distance could only have been a few yards. He shivered with numbing cold, feeling the rain beat against his skin …
Skin! He took time for a quick look down and saw that the condotierri had stripped him as they had stripped Gar, nothing left but the linen with which he had girded his loins for the journey. They had left him, too, for dead—but why?
An awful suspicion dawned, and Gianni balanced on one elbow while he raised the other hand to his head, probing delicately at the back … Pain screamed where his fingers touched, and he yanked his fingers away, shivering anew at his answer—he was injured almost as badly as the mercenary, brought down by too strong a blow with a club. Too strong indeed! He struggled toward Gar with renewed vigor, the energy of panic. If the man were dead, and Gianni alone in this savage world … But his fingers touched Gar’s throat; he waited for a long, agonizing minute, then felt the throb of blood through the great artery. Gianni went limp with relief—Gar would recover, would waken, and he wouldn’t be alone in the rain after all.
But the rain was cold, and surely the giant might die of chill if Gianni couldn’t cover him somehow. He looked about him with despair—the condotierri had left nothing, nothing at all, not a shred of cloth …
But there was dried grass by the roadside. Struggling and panting, Gianni squirmed the necessary few feet to the head of hay, then realized it would do no good to return with a single handful. He tried to ignore the pain in his head, the bruises in his ribs, as he pushed himself up to his knees, gathered up an armful of hay, then returned walking on his knees, one hand out to catch himself if he fell, returned to Gar and dumped the load of hay over the big man’s shoulders and chest, though the straw seemed so pitifully inadequate against such a huge expanse of muscle. Gianni leaned on Gar’s shoulder as he tried to tuck a few wisps down to hide the mercenary …
And the eyes fluttered, then opened in a pained squint.
Gianni froze, staring down, almost afraid to believe Gar was waking. But the big man levered himself up enough to raise a trembling hand to his head, then cried aloud at the pain of the touch on the raw wound. Gianni caught his hand and said soothingly, “Gently, gently! Let it heal! You’ll be whole again, but it will take time.”
Gar began to shiver.
“Come,” Gianni urged, tugging at his arm. Slowly, Gar pushed himself upright, then sat blinking about him.
“They struck you on the head,” Gianni said, “and left you for dead. Me, too. They left us both for dead.”
“Us?” The giant turned a look of blank incomprehension on him.
A dreadful suspicion began, but Gianni tried to ignore it as he said, “Us. Me—Gianni Braccalese—and you, Gar.”
“Brock?” Gar frowned, fastening on the one word. “Wh … what Brock?”
Gianni stared at him for a moment, his thoughts racing. Not wanting to believe what he feared, he said, “Not Brock. Gianni.” He pointed at himself, then said, “Gar,” and tapped the big man’s chest.
“Gar.” The giant frowned, turning a forefinger to point at himself, bringing it slowly close enough to touch his own massive pectoral. “Gar.” Then he looked up, turning that finger around to reach out to Gianni, tap his chest. “Who?”
“Gi—” Gianni caught himself just in time, forcing himself to realize what had happened to Gar—that the blow had addled his wits, perhaps knocked them clear out of his head. Hard on that followed the realization that the big man could no longer be trusted to keep a secret, and that Gianni might not want any passing Stilettos to know his own name. He finished the word, but finished it as “Giorgio.” It was too late to call Gar “Lenni” again, now—the poor half—wit would have trouble enough remembering his real name, let alone sort out a false one from a true. “And you’re Gar.”
“Gar.” The giant frowned with as much concentration as he could muster against headache. He touched his own chest, then touched Gianni’s. “Giorgio.”
“Yes.” Gianni nodded his head, and the stab of pain made him wish that he hadn’t. “Right.”
Then he reached out, bracing himself against Gar’s shoulder, and struggled to his feet. He gasped at the spasm of agony and would have fallen if a huge hand hadn’t clamped around his calf and held him upright. When the dizziness passed, Gianni reached down and hauled at Gar’s arm, hoping desperately that the attempt wouldn’t end with them both sliding back into the mud. “Come. We can’t stay here. Soldiers might come.”
“Soldiers?” Gar struggled to his feet, though he needed Gianni to brace him, gasping, as he lurched, trying to regain his balance. He stabilized, gulped air against nausea, then turned to Gianni. “Sojers?”
Gianni felt his heart sink, but explained. “Bad men. Hurt Gar.” Confound it, he thought, I sound as though I’m talking to a five-year-old!
But he was—for the time being, Gar had only as much mind as a child. Pray Heaven it wouldn’t last!
“Come.” Gianni took his arm, turning away, and tugged. Gar followed, as docile as a five-year-old indeed …
No. More docile—like a placid ox, who didn’t really care where he went, as long as he was fed.
He would have to find food, Gianni realized—but first, he had to get Gar away from this place. It was exposed, the condotierri might come back to ambush another goods train—or the mountaineers might come for the condotierri’s leavings. Gianni led Gar away, but found himself wishing the giant would balk, would object, would say anything to indicate he still had a mind.
He didn’t.