CHAPTER 7

It was a long, pain-racked afternoon. Every muscle, every nerve, screamed at him to lie down and never get up, but he couldn’t; he was possessed by a morbid fear of that horrible patch of churned mud where he had almost given up on life, and his friend had almost been murdered—the friend who now stumbled along, towed by the arm, shambling like some great, half-wakened, befuddled bear. A feeling of doom seized Gianni, and try as he might, he couldn’t shake the conviction that he and Gar would die here, in the mountain wilderness, cold and alone. Yes, there was the chance that they might find help—but only a chance, and a slim one at that.

Finally, trembling with exhaustion, Gianni knew he could go no farther. He looked about, feeling panic bubbling up as he tried to find some vestige of shelter—and saw a huge old tree, far larger than was usual so high up, lying on its side. It had been torn up by some winter’s storm, and its roots hung out on every side, forming a natural cave. Gianni steered Gar toward it.

As they came in under the rootlet-laden ceiling, Gianni realized it was a better cave than he had thought, for the bottom of the trunk was hollow. He went in as far as he could, far enough so that the two of them were quite hidden from sight, and sank down onto the wooden surface with a groan of relief—even greater relief than he had thought, for the surface under him was covered with the soft crumbling of rotted wood, a virtual bed of it, fallen from the ceiling and the walls. Gianni threw himself out upon it full length, still cold and wet, but mercifully sheltered. There was even water, for a small pool had formed from drips through a hole in the trunk above. Gianni leaned over and drank greedily, then remembered Gar and turned to offer a drink, but the giant had found a pool of his own, and knelt with his face upturned, catching a steady stream of drops on his tongue. His head almost brushed the top of their hiding place. Satisfied as to his health, Gianni turned back to lie, cold and miserable, waiting for death or sleep to take him, and finding that he didn’t really care which came first.

Then he smelled smoke.

Smoke! In a wooden cave? Fear lent him energy; he sat bolt upright, staring at the glow in the gloom, the flicker of a small campfire sitting on a broad, flat stone, its light shining upward on Gar’s homely features. The wood must have been very dry, for there was very little smoke, and what there was streamed up and to the side past Gar, to the hole through which the water dripped.

Gianni felt the hair prickle all over his scalp. How had the giant done that? Having the presence of mind to bring a stone inside, rather than trying to light a fire on wood, yes, that was common sense—but how had he lit the fire? He had no flint and steel, nor a live coal carried in a terra—cotta box. “How … how did you do that, Gar?”

“Do?” The giant blinked up at him, as though the question held no meaning.

“Light the fire,” Gianni explained. “How did you do it?”

“Do.” Gar stared down at the flames, brow furrowed, seeming to ponder the question. At last he looked up and gave his head a shake. “Don’t know.”

It sent the eerie prickling over Gianni’s back and scalp again—but he assured himself that whatever Gar was, he was Gianni’s friend. At least, Gianni thought so.

And if not?

Gianni scolded himself for a fool. Who, but minutes ago, had not cared whether or not Death came to claim him? If it did, what matter whether it came at the hands of the cold, or the hands of a madman? And, of course, it might not come at all.

In the meantime, they had warmth—and Gianni could already feel the heat reaching out to him, drying him, comforting him. The thought of food crossed his mind, and he felt his stomach rebel—the ache in his head was still too painful to permit the thought. But the warmth lulled him; he felt his eyelids growing heavy. Still he fought off sleep, for he noticed that Gar was feeding the fire with their shelter’s substance—bits of rotten wood, handfuls of rootlets, pieces of root that he had broken off and piled high. What would happen if that blessed, lifegiving fire escaped its rock? What would happen if their shelter itself caught and burned? Oh, Gianni might not care about his own life—but a vision of Gar, poor, near—naked, deprived of his wits, floundering and wailing in the midst of flames, sent the pain racking through Gianni’s head again. No, he’d have to stay awake, for he couldn’t ask the giant to put the fire out they needed it too much, and a glance at Gar’s profile—empty, but still strong—made Gianni think he wouldn’t take kindly to having his fire drenched. No, Gianni would have to wake and watch … but the fire was so warm now, so lulling, the rotted wood beneath him so soft …

You need not stay awake, said the old man with the floating hair and beard.

Gianni stared. What are you doing here when I’m awake?

Fairly asked, the old face said. Turn it about. If you can see me, can you be awake?

Gianni glanced about him, and saw—nothing. The ancient face floated in a void of darkness. With shock, he realized that he really had fallen asleep. A wave of self-contempt flooded him, that he couldn’t even stay conscious for a few minutes after having decided to do so. Then came alarm; what was Gar doing while he slept? What was the fire doing? Do not be alarmed, the face said, almost as though it had read his thoughts. Sleep easily; the giant is awake and watching, though he has scarcely mind enough to do any more than that. He will keep the fire contained.

But if he should fall asleep …

He can’t, the fire has lulled him into a reverie, and he roams among his memories while he watches the tongues of flame. His trance will refresh him as much as sleep would, but his body can still act if there is need.

Gianni relaxed—a little. But the other question came to his mind, now that the most immediate was gone. Why do I see you now? I’m not seeking death again!

Are you not? The swirling hair drifted away from one eye, leaving it completely unmasked, and the gaze seemed to pierce through the depths of Gianni’s soul.

Gianni shuddered but stared back, resolute. Well, what if I am? I can’t allow it, as long as I have a friend depending on me—on what few wits I have. If that’s your concern, you may leave me—or let me leave you.

That is the least of my concerns, at the moment, the face informed him. It’s not enough that you live through the night—you must live after that, too.

Gianni frowned. Why should you care?

That is my affair, the face said curtly. Suffice it to say that you must play a part in that affair, a part that will be in the interests of yourself and your city while it benefits me, as a boat leaves eddies in its wake.

What interests are those? Gianni demanded; he was losing awe of the face.

None of your concern at all! Suddenly, the hair drifted away from the face completely, the eyes flashed, and pain lanced through Gianni’s head from temple to temple. Agony held him paralyzed for a moment, a long moment, whole seconds that seemed to stretch into hours.

At last the eyes closed, hair swirled across to veil them, and the pain was gone as suddenly as it had come, leaving Gianni stubbornly staring, but quaking inside. Hear! the voice commanded. A troop of Gypsies comes your way! They’ll pass near in the morning! Throw yourselves on their mercy, beseech their aid if you must—but join with them, so that you may live, and come to a safe refuge!

Some well of stubbornness within Gianni suddenly brimmed over. And if I don’t?

Then you will die, the face said, simply and severely, at the hands of the condotierri, or from cold and hunger—but be sure, you will die! It began to dwindle, hair and beard swirling about it wilder and wilder, hiding it completely as the voice, too, faded, still saying, Be sure … be sure …

Wait! Gianni cried in his dream. Who are you, to command me so?

But the face dwindled to a tiny dot, still bidding him, Be sure … be sure … beware … and winked out.

Gianni cried out in anger and frustration—and saw a small fire, not a swirl of hair, and the giant halfwit staring at him in alarm. Gianni realized that his own shout had waked him, and tried to cover his gaffe by saying, “It’s my watch now. Go to sleep, Gar.”

“Sleep?” The giant frowned, puzzled.

“Sleep,” Gianni confirmed, and rolled up on his knees. Every ache in his body protested, and his head began to throb again—but he hitched himself close to the fire, took up a stick of kindling from Gar’s heap, and said, “Sleep. I’ll tend the fire.”

Gar gazed at him for a moment, then lay down right where he was and closed his eyes. They flew open again, and he demanded, “Giorgio not sleep?”

Halfwit or not, he still had his exaggerated sense of responsibility. “Giorgio not sleep,” Gianni confirmed. He doubted that he could, even if he had wanted to—not after that dream.

Gar closed his eyes instantly, reassured. Five seconds later, he exhaled in the quick hiss of sleep followed by the long, slow, measured inhalation, and Gianni knew he slept indeed.

So. He was alone with his thoughts—a nightmare re-seeing of that daunting face. But for some reason, Medallia’s face seemed to merge with it, overlay it, supersede it. For a moment, Gianni wondered why—but only a moment. Then he gave himself over, with vast relief, to contemplating the memory of that beautiful face, feeling himself relax, unwind, grow gradually calm …

But not sleepy. He had been right about that.

Sure enough, the Gypsy train came into sight in midmorning, just as the face had predicted—and Gianni staggered under the sudden realization that the dream was no mere spiderweb spun from the sandman’s dust. Somehow, some genuine man of mystic power had thrust his way into Gianni’s slumbers—some man, and perhaps some woman, too …

The mere thought made his pulse quicken. Could there really be such a dancer as he had dreamed of, real and alive, and in this world? Could he find her, touch her, kiss her? Would she let him?

He wrenched his attention back to the Gypsies and began to wave and call to them. “Hola! Holay! Over here, good people! Aid us! A rescue!” He hobbled forward, leaning on Gar as much as he pulled him—then suddenly stopped, realizing how they must look to the Gypsies. What could the travelers see, but a couple of filthy, unkempt men, naked save for loincloths—one huge, dark, and glowering, but clearly obeying the other …

The Gypsies had stopped, though, and were staring at them doubtfully. Gianni realized he must find some way to reassure them, so he came no closer, but called out again, “Help us, good folk! We’re travelers like yourselves, waylaid and brought low by condotierri! Bandits have sacked us and beaten us, so badly that they have addled my companion’s wits! He is as simple as a child now! Please, we beg you! Help the child!”

A woman with a bright kerchief leaned forward from the little door at the front of the lead caravan and called something to the men who walked beside.

They looked up at her, glanced at one another, then beckoned Gar and Gianni to come closer. Gianni’s heart leaped with relief, and he hobbled toward them as quickly as his bruised legs would take him, towing Gar in his wake.

As they came close, though, the Gypsies backed away, eyeing Gar warily. For the first time, Gianni noticed that they were wearing swords, noticed it because they had their hands on their hilts—long straight swords, with daggers thrust through their sashes. Gianni stopped and said, “Don’t worry—he’s harmless.”

“Unless you tell him to be dangerous,” the oldest Gypsy said. His gray mustache drooped below his chin, and gray tufts of eyebrows shaded eyes that glared a challenge at Gianni, who was in no shape to launch into a glib explanation that might both pacify and satisfy. He gathered himself to try, though.

Gar chose just that moment to say, “Tell me about the rabbits, Giorgio.”

The Gypsies stared, and Gianni could cheerfully have brained the man. Out of the corner of his mouth, he whispered, “Be still, Gar!” He nearly said “Lenni,” but remembered that the newly made halfwit didn’t know the false name.

The Gypsies seemed intrigued, though. “Rabbits?” the old one said. “Why does he ask about rabbits?” A memory of their last pretense must have surfaced in Gar’s brain, brought on by similar circumstances—either that, or the giant was really pretending, but Gianni doubted that. “Because when he becomes frightened or anxious, I lull him by promising we shall someday have a little farm of our own, with a garden to give us food, and small furry creatures for him to pet and play with.”

The Gypsies exchanged a glance of sympathy that said, as clearly as though they had spoken aloud, A simpleton. Then the older one turned back. “It’s a good dream, that, and a good way to calm him. Does he become upset often?”

“Not so often at all,” Gianni improvised, “but we were set upon by a gang of bandits a mile or so back; they beat us harshly and took all that we had, even our clothes, so he is wary of strangers just now.”

“The poor lad,” said the woman, still looking out of the little door.

The older Gypsy nodded. “We saw churned and muddy earth, and wondered.” He stepped toward Gar, and the giant drew back in alarm. The Gypsy stopped. “We won’t hurt you, poor lad. Indeed, we’re travelers like yourself, and have learned to be wary of the bandits, too—quite wary. Nay, we won’t hurt you, but we will bandage your wounds and give you warm food—soup—and clothing. Will you have them?”

Gar seemed to relax a little. The Gypsy held out a hand, and Gar started, but didn’t run. Gianni took a chance and Gar’s arm, to tug him forward gently. “Come, my friend. They won’t hurt you. They’ll help us, give us shelter for a little while.”

“Shelter, yes.” The Gypsy nodded. “Under the caravan, it’s true, but it’s better than no roof at all.”

“Under?” Gar said hopefully, and took a step forward.

Gianni’s heart leaped at the sign of memory. He explained to the older man, “We took shelter with a Gypsy woman in that way, not long ago. He remembers.”

“A Gypsy woman?” All the Gypsies suddenly looked up, suddenly alert. “Traveling alone?”

“Alone, yes.” Gianni remembered that it had seemed odd at the time. “Her name was Medallia.” The Gypsies exchanged a cryptic glance. “Yes, we know of Medallia. Well, if she gave you shelter and was none the worse for it, we will, too. Come join us.”

“I thank you with all my heart!” Gianni came forward, pulling Gar with him. The giant came, still cautious, but moving.

As they neared, Gianni looked at the Gypsies more closely. Their hair was hidden by bright-colored kerchiefs, but their beards were of every color—yellow, brown, black, red, and several different shades in between. Their eyes, too, varied—blue, brown, green, hazel, gray … Gianni couldn’t help but think how much they looked like everyone else he had ever known, at home in Pirogia. Change their clothes and you could never tell the difference.

Those clothes were gaudy, bright greens and blues and reds and yellows, with here and there broad stripes. Shirts and trousers alike were loose, even voluminous, the shirts open at the throats, showing a broad expanse of chest, the trousers tucked into high boots. They wore sashes of contrasting colors, and men and women alike wore earrings and bracelets.

The merchant in Gianni wondered if they were of real gold.

“Women” because, now that the train had stopped, many more Gypsies had emerged to come clustering around the newcomers. It was the women who took Gar and Gianni in hand, coming forward to say, “Come, poor lads, you must be half dead from cold and hunger.”

Gar pulled back at first, frightened, and Gianni had to reassure him. “Nice ladies, Gar! See? Nice!” He shook hands with one young woman, then realized how pretty she was and wished he could do more. Inspiration struck, and he held a hand up to her hair—auburn, with no kerchief to hide it. “May I?”

The woman looked startled and drew back a pace, then gave him a coquettish smile and stepped forward again. Gianni caressed her hair, then turned to Gar and said, “Soft. Warm.”

The woman stared, startled, and drew back quickly as Gar raised his hand. “He won’t hurt you,” Gianni promised.

Warily, the woman stepped forward again, saying, “Just one.”

Gar’s hand lowered; he stroked her hair, then broke into a beatific smile. “Little, warm! Rabbit!”

The whole troop howled with laughter, the “rabbit” foremost among them as she caught Gar’s wrist and held his hand.

“Ho, rabbit!” one of the young men called. Another cried, “Rabbit, may I pet you, too?”

But one of the girls snapped, “Rabbit indeed! Tell him it’s mink or nothing, Esmeralda!”

“Aye!” cried an older woman. “And don’t let him dare try to hold you!”

So, laughing and chatting, they took a bemused Gar by the elbows and led him to a nearby brook, where they washed him, dried him, and put Gypsy clothes on his back—though, like Medallia, they had to improvise considerably. Gar was near panic the whole time, white showing all around his eyes, darting frantic looks at Gianni—but between Gianni’s soothing and the fact that he was so obviously enjoying the same attentions being heaped upon him, Gar managed to stay on the sane side of hysteria. Finally, with bread and soup in their bellies and the worst of their hurts bandaged, they set off beside the caravans, following the Gypsy men and with Gianni, at least, chatting up at the young women, who leaned out the windows of the caravans to trade banter with him. It was a nuisance to have them calling him “Giorgio” instead of “Gianni,” but only a nuisance, and if it helped the poor addle-brained giant to stay calm, Gianni decided, Giorgio he would be, until Gar’s wits came back to him.

They did indeed sleep under the wagons that night, but this time, they each had a blanket to shield them from the chill. The day’s events swirled through Gianni’s brain, the laughter and talk, the banter over the meals and the dancing afterward—he regretted deeply that he had been too bruised and weary to join in, for the girls had indeed looked very pretty as they swayed and whirled. Now, though, the caravans were drawn into a circle, and the whole tribe sat up chatting around the fire—but he and Gar, dog-tired, had crept away to sleep, the more so because the Gypsies had begun to talk in their own language, which Gianni couldn’t understand. But the sound of the low voices, the musicality of the women’s, lulled him, and he felt sleep coming even as he closed his eyes, felt the warm darkness closing around him once more, though his weary brain found energy for one last thought, one last burst of curiosity as to what the Gypsies were saying to one another …

Would you really like to know? asked a voice that he knew all too well, and a hand reached out of the darkness with a wand, a long slender stick with a knob on the end, a knob that reached above his view and touched lightly, must have touched his half-dreaming head, for Gianni found himself suddenly able to understand the Gypsies’ words.

“Yes, Medallia,” one of them was saying. “Surely coincidence, that! She wouldn’t set a spy upon us, would she?”

“What need, Giles?” a woman retorted. “She already knows all our plans.”

“Well, yes, Patty,” Giles said, “but she might be afraid we’d try to arrest her, or even to—”

“Stuff and nonsense!” Patty said. “AEGIS agents move against one of our own, just because she disagrees with us? Never!”

“Not just disagreeing,” another man said darkly. “There’s always the chance that she might try to undermine our efforts.”

“No, surely not, Morgan!” an older woman said, shocked. “She left because she can no longer be party to our efforts, as she said—not because she intends to fight them!”

“How can we be sure?” Morgan answered. “More to the point, how can she be sure that we wouldn’t try to stop her from trying to stop us? No, Rosalie, if I were her, I would definitely try to place a spy among us.”

“Well, yes,” Rosalie said, “but you always have been a little paranoid, Morgan. The point is that Medallia isn’t.”

Gianni wondered what “paranoid” meant.

“Oh, Medallia has her touches of paranoia, too,” said a third woman, “or she wouldn’t have seen menace in our plans, when we’re only trying to help these poor benighted natives.”

Poor benighted natives! Gianni felt a surge of indignation and hoped she wasn’t talking about himself and his fellow Pirogians. Besides, who were mere Gypsies to call city people “benighted”?

“The Gypsy disguise works well enough for us,” Morgan argued. “It allows us to go anywhere we want on Talipon, and we can always split off an agent to assume the costume of any city we want to infiltrate—let him go in to try to change their ways. Why should it be any less effective for Medallia?”

Disguise! They were not real Gypsies, then? Suddenly Gianni realized that he had never heard of Gypsies until he was eleven—only ten years ago. Were there any real Gypsies? Or were they all false?

“Medallia only wondered whether we were right at all, to try to lift this whole planet out of the Dark Ages,” Patty said stubbornly. “She could understand the benefits of the Renaissance that’s beginning here on Talipon, but she had real doubts about trying to bring these people into the modern world, with high technology and secular ideologies.”

Esmeralda nodded. “After all, their ancestors came here to escape all that.”

“No,” Morgan said, “she thought we were wrong to try to persuade the lords to band together—but how else are we ever going to talk them into stopping this constant internecine warfare?”

“That’s a worthy goal, yes,” Rosalie countered, “but isn’t it going to make even more bloodshed, persuading them to believe they have a common enemy?”

“How else can we ever get them to unite?” Morgan argued. “Oh, I know, Llewellyn—you still think we should try to quell them with a religious revival. But aristocrats see religion and life as being separate things, not all one!”

“You see? We can’t even agree among ourselves,” Rosalie sighed. “I mean, we can, but we keep developing doubts. Is it any surprise Medallia became fed up with the lot of us and just went her own way?”

“Not ‘just,’ ” Patty said darkly. “She thinks we’re wrong to try to make the lords see the merchants as their common enemy.”

Cold fear ran through Gianni’s entrails. Tell the lords that the merchants were their common enemy, so that they would all band together against the mercantile cities? It would be a bloodbath! No wonder they’d hired the Stilettos to “chastise” Pirogia!

“But she said that if we did that, we’d have to warn the merchants in time for them to disband and hide,” Morgan went on. “Or worse yet, to fight back! I tell you, I see her hand in this Pirogian merchant Braccalese, who came up with the idea of trying to persuade the merchant cities to band together!”

Suddenly, Gianni was very glad they knew him only as “Giorgio.” But how had they learned of Gar’s idea? And how had they come to think of it as Papa Braccalese’s inspiration? Worse—what would they do to Papa to stop him! Suddenly, Gianni was very intent on the rest of the conversation.

 

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CHAPTER 8

A merchant’s league would undo everything we’re trying to accomplish,” Llewellyn agreed. “Worse—with the island divided into two power blocs, it might cause civil war!”

Oh, that was very nice. They didn’t want a civil war, they just wanted a massacre of merchants. Didn’t the fools realize that would be the fruit of their plans?

Apparently not. “We must not forget our goal,” Morgan counseled, “to bring peace to this whole strife-ridden planet, where tribal anarchy prevails in the North and warlord anarchy prevails in the South and East. Talipon with its merchant fleet can spread the idea of centralized government and bring the peace of abundance …”

“Or the peace of an empire,” Giles said darkly.

“Any peace is better than none,” Rosalie reminded him.

“True,” said Esmeralda. “Peace will allow justice to prevail and education and the arts to flourish.”

“But there will never be any peace if we don’t establish it on Talipon first,” Morgan reminded her. “Malthus’s Law will see to that.”

“Yes, the fundamental principle of preindustrial economics,” a young man sighed, “that population increases geometrically, but food production only increases arithmetically.”

“Yes, Jorge, we all know,” a middle-aged woman said sourly. “Four people times four people equals sixteen people, but four bushels of grain plus four bushels of grain only equals eight bushels. Without industrial techniques, there will always be more people than there is food, until …”

“Plague, starvation, or war kills off so many of them that there’s enough food for everyone,” Rosalie sighed.

Gianni listened in horror, wanting to cry out, to scream, but held bound by sleep.

“Then there’ll be peace and plenty for all—until the people outmultiply the food supply, and the whole cycle begins all over again.”

“And again, and again, and again,” Morgan said darkly. “So any suffering that comes from our plan will be less than there would be without it.”

Easy enough for him to say—it was not his people who would die, not his mother and sister who would be raped and sold into slavery, not his house and goods that burned!

“Can backward people like the feudal serfs in the western continent ever accept modern techniques?” Giles wondered.

“They can if they’re taught,” Rosalie said sternly, “and if they’re taught it as a way of getting rich—which doesn’t take much, for a serf.”

“Yes,” Esmeralda said slowly, “and that’s the kind of teaching that merchants can do so well. The synergy of the peasant mentality and mercantile greed can produce amazing results.”

“So can the groupthink of the tribes in the North,” said Giles. “If they all talk long enough and loudly enough at a powwow, they’ll forget that greed is wrong, and start farming instead of hunting.”

“Then we can sneak in nuclear-powered matter converters, limited so that they won’t produce precious metals, until each lord has one,” Morgan said.

Even in his half-sleep, Gianni’s scalp prickled at the unfamiliar words. Were these false Gypsies really sorcerers?

Morgan’s next words confirmed it. “When each lord has a machine that will produce any trade goods that he wants for free, he’ll have a distinct advantage over the merchants, and not one single aristocrat will be able to resist the temptation of going into trade.”

Resist the temptation! They would ruin the merchants! Heaven knew the noblemen were already taking enough of the merchants’ money in the cities in which aristocrats still ruled. The taxes and official monopolies were already punishing, and the lords insisted that the merchants rent their stevedores and drivers from the aristocrats at extortionate rates. If, on top of all that, they began to undersell the merchants with goods they could produce from nothing, they’d annihilate the traders completely! No, they wouldn’t do it by underselling, Gianni realized—if the lords became merchants, they wouldn’t let anyone compete with them. Trading would be made illegal, for any but the aristocrats’ hirelings! They would have monopolies that couldn’t be broken!

“But the matter converters really do have to be limited,” Esmeralda said anxiously. “If the lords could produce gold and silver just by throwing lumps of lead and stone into a box, then pushing a button …”

“Of course not,” Morgan said impatiently. “Why do you remind us about this every time we discuss it, Essie? If they could make gold and silver whenever they wanted to, they wouldn’t have any reason to go into trade!”

Gold from lead! They were sorcerers! Or, at the least, alchemists …

“Greed will make the contes and the doges forget their petty feuds and band together to compete with the merchants,” Morgan said, with satisfaction. “They only need to see that they actually have a chance of taking over the merchants’ trade and getting all the money the merchants are getting now. They won’t be able to, of course—the merchants are too skilled, too deep entrenched, and the aristocrats will be far behind them in learning mercantile theory.”

“But they will learn,” Rosalie pointed out. “We really can turn the lords into merchants.”

Could they really be so naive? Such was not the lords’ way—once banded together, they would send their armies to wipe out the merchants completely, to send the buildings of Pirogia crashing down into the lagoon from which they had risen! Oh, they would leave a few merchants, bound by taxes and loans and dependence on noble patrons, to do the trading for them, and would take all of the profits to themselves—or nineteen parts out of twenty, at least. No, whoever these people were, their plan was disastrous, at least for the merchants—and for the education and culture of which they were so fond, for a great deal of that had come from the patronage of merchants, not aristocrats. Oh yes, the artists would do well under the contes—as long as they only wished to paint portraits of noble faces, and scenes of martial valor. The poets would do well, as long as they wanted to write heroic romances and heap praise on their local conte and contessa, as Ariosto had praised Lucrezia Borgia in his Orlando Furioso. Yes, the artists and poets would do well, if they were tame—except that there weren’t enough noblemen to support more than a handful of artists. But there were merchants enough to support scores!

“No, our plans must be nurtured,” Morgan said complacently.

“Yes,” Giles agreed, “and if Medallia really tries to wreck them, we’ll have to find a way to stop her.” Even in his dream, Gianni’s spirit clamored for him to wrap his fingers around Giles’s throat. Harm that beautiful, merciful woman? Never!

The “Gypsies” seemed to think so, too. There was a horrified silence; then Esmeralda said, “You aren’t talking about killing her, surely!”

“No, of course not,” Giles said quickly—too quickly. “I only mean to catch her somehow, and keep her from leaving again.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Rosalie said darkly.

Morgan said, “Shame on you, for even thinking about depriving another sentient being of her freedom!”

“No, no, of course not,” Giles said quickly. “But there must be some way to make sure she can’t do us any harm.”

They were silent for a minute or so; then Esmeralda said, “Warn all the people against a renegade Gypsy woman?”

“Oh, no!” Rosalie said. “They might turn into a mob, accuse her of witchcraft or sorcery, and burn her at the stake!”

“Surely these people aren’t that barbaric,” Esmeralda protested.

Gianni shriveled inside. He knew full well that his people could be very barbaric indeed, when it came to believing in magic. But how could these people be so concerned about charges of witchcraft, when they themselves were sorcerers?

“She was so kind and so gentle,” Esmeralda said plaintively. “I can’t believe Medallia would actually try to fight us!”

“Not fight, no,” Rosalie agreed, but she sounded doubtful. “Perhaps decoying her into some outlying region, where there’s a good deal of disease that needs curing …”

“She’d see through that,” Esmeralda said. “We could send Dell through the villages dressed as a minstrel, to sing about the plight of orphans. In a month, he’d have everyone talking about orphans, and Medallia might set up an orphanage … ”

“No,” Giles said. “Medallia is smart, very smart. She’d see through either of those stratagems. We have to either pen her up, which we won’t do, or try to move a step faster and maneuver more cleverly than she.”

Morgan’s tone indicated agreement. “That shouldn’t be hard—we’re thirty to her one!”

“We’ll just have to play the game fairly, then,” Rosalie sighed.

Game? Was that all this was to them, some sort of huge game? But to Gianni and his people, it was life—or death!

“So much for Medallia,” said Rosalie, “but what’re we going to do with our two waifs and strays?”

Gianni turned cold inside again.

“What can we do?” Morgan sighed. “We can’t just dump them to starve, not so badly wounded, and with one of them still witless from concussion. That must have been a very bad blow to the head!”

Esmeralda shuddered. “Be glad you didn’t have a close look at the bruise. The bone wasn’t broken, though—at least, not that I could see without an X ray.”

“There might be a subdural hematoma,” Rosalie said, frowning. “We’ll have to keep a close eye on him!”

“We’ll have to take them with us, until we can find some place safe to leave them,” Morgan decided. “Prince Raginaldi’s castle is only two days away, and we were thinking of stopping there anyway.”

“I suppose we’ll have to drop them there, then,” Rosalie sighed, “though I hate leaving someone in that condition to medieval medicine.”

“Not quite as medieval as it might be,” Morgan reminded her. “Their doctors still have some advanced techniques and even ways of making antibiotics, that have come down from the original settlers by word of mouth.”

But Gianni missed the last sentence or two, numb with shock. Leave Gar and him to the Raginaldi, the aristocrats who were employing the Stilettos? They might not know who he was, but the Stilettos would recognize Gar in an instant, and the two of them would be dead in a second—assuming the Raginaldi didn’t maim them and send them back to the Pirogia as a warning. No, somehow, as soon as they could, he and Gar would have to escape!

Hard on that thought came another: no time like the present. The Gypsies wouldn’t expect them to wander off in the night, so soon after being rescued—but they couldn’t be suspicious, either; they’d just take Gar and Gianni for ungracious and ungrateful wretches or, at worst, for a couple of vagabonds who had played a ruse upon them.

Gianni couldn’t believe the naivete of these people—especially since they seemed to consider themselves so much wiser than the folk of Talipon, wise enough to meddle in their affairs and to dare to try to chart their destinies! Didn’t they know that no lord would willingly have anything to do with trade? Stealing a merchant’s money under the name of confiscation or fines for violating a chartered monopoly, yes—but earning the silver themselves? No! Surely they must see that if the lords could ever stop fighting, they would band together to enslave the merchants!

Very true, the face said. White hair swirled about it as though it were the center of a whirlpool.

Gianni realized, with a shock, that he was no longer hearing the Gypsies, and must have fallen completely asleep. If you know that, you must know how I can keep myself and Gar alive until we come safely back to Pirogia! he said. Come to that, you can tell us how to defend Pirogia from the noblemen, and from these soft-hearted bungling meddlers!

The giant has done that already, the face answered. He has told your Council they must band together with all the other merchant cities.

Despair struck. I shall never convince them of that!

Take heart, the face advised. You shall find a way—and perhaps that way will stem from the other course of action you may take.

Hope sprouted again. What course is that?

Protect Medallia, the face said. Protect her and help her in all that she does, and she may do your persuading for you. In any event, listen to her counsel, for she knows as much as these fake Gypsies, and has clearer sight, with far better judgment.

This time, Gianni remembered before the face started to disappear. Who are you?

Call me the Wizard, the face answered, the Wizard in your mind. He began to shrink, to recede. It is time to escape, you know. The Gypsies will not chase you—indeed, they will be relieved to have the burden off their hands—but you must escape now.

How? In his dream, Gianni called it out, for the face had receded till it was little more than a white oval in the dark.

Walk away, the Wizard answered simply, his voice thin and distant. Walk away.

Gianni sat up so hard that he would have cracked his head on the bottom of the caravan if it had been a few inches lower—and that would have been bad, for it would have waked the family who slept inside. He tried to slow his breathing as he looked about him wildly. The campfire was only a faint glow with no one around it. The young men were rolled up in their blankets under the wagons; here and there, someone snored. The older men and their wives were inside the caravans—now that he thought of it, Gianni hadn’t seen any children. Before, he had thought they were all inside; now, it made perfect sense that there were no children, if these pretend Gypsies were really wandering troublemakers in disguise. Briefly, he wondered who they were and where they had come from, but before he could consider the matter, a young Gypsy with a sword strolled between him and the glow of the embers, and the necessities of the moment forced the questions out of his mind. A sentry! They had posted a sentry, and probably two, so that if one were attacked, the other might still give the alarm. At least, that was what old Antonio had taught Gianni.

Then he and Gar would have to attack both at once. He rolled over to his knees and crawled over to the darker shape that was Gar. “Gar! Wake up!” he hissed, shaking him by a shoulder—and nearly went rolling again, for the giant flailed out with the arm Gianni was shaking as he came awake with a snort and sat bolt upright. Gianni just barely managed to push his shoulder hard at the last moment, keeping him from banging his head on the caravan bottom. Gar brushed the hand away with a growl, and for a second, his eyes glowed with mayhem as he glared up at Gianni, huge hand balled for a blow that must surely have killed anyone it touched …

But the eyes calmed as they widened with recognition, and the big man hissed, “Giorgio!”

Well, that settled it—he wasn’t shamming. Not if he could remember Gianni’s false name when he was freshly waked, and alarmed at that. Gianni pressed a finger over his lips, hissing, “Shhhh!”

“Shhhh.” Gar mimicked both the gesture and the tone, then whispered, “Why?”

“Because we have to leave here without the Gypsies knowing.”

Gar didn’t ask why; he slowly nodded.

“They’ve posted sentries,” Gianni whispered. “We have to sneak up on them, one of us to each of them, and overpower them silently.”

“Why?” Gar asked again.

Gianni schooled himself to patience, remembering that the big man had lost his wits. “Because if we don’t, they’ll see us going and raise the alarm.” Gar shook his head. “Why? They fall asleep soon.”

“Well, perhaps,” Gianni allowed, “but only when two others like them take their places.”

“No, no.” Gar shook his head, then turned to peer out into the darkness. Frowning, Gianni turned to see what he was looking at—and saw a sentry amble up to the fire, yawning, then stand near it, looking about him for a minute or two before he sat down, folding his legs, and staring at the fire. He yawned again as the other sentry came up, also yawning. They seemed not to see each other as the first sentry lay down, pillowing his head on his arm, and began to snore. The second sentry lay down on the other side of the fire. In a minute, he was snoring too.

Gar looked up at Gianni. “Asleep.”

“Yes.” Gianni realized he was staring, his mouth gaping open. He closed it and said, “Yes, they are.” He felt the eldritch prickling up over his back and neck and scalp again. What kind of halfwit was he leading, anyway?

Then he remembered the Wizard in his mind. No doubt he was in Gar’s mind, too—but there being less thought in the giant’s mind than usual, the Wizard could take up residence there with no trouble. Gianni resolved to be very careful around Gar in the future.

He gave himself a shake and said, “Well, then! Nothing to keep up from leaving if we want to, is there?”

“No,” Gar said. He seemed doubtful, but followed Gianni out from under the wagon, imitated him in pulling on his boots, and trailed after him, off into the darkness.

They trudged a good distance that night, back down the road to hide their tracks among the wagon ruts, then off through the woods, up one slope and down another until they found another trackway. They went south on that trail—or the direction Gianni hoped was south—with some idea of returning to Pirogia again, until Gianni’s legs gave out. Gar didn’t seem to be in much better shape, but he managed to scoop Gianni up and carry him, protesting, to the shelter of a rocky corner, where they were at least shielded from the wind. There they slept till morning, and mercifully, Gianni saw neither the Wizard’s face nor the dancing woman.

They were shocked from sleep by the sound of horse hooves and loud calling. Gianni bolted upright. His bruises immediately protested, but he ignored them. He looked around the huge rock that sheltered them, his heart hammering, and saw a score of soldiers, but not mercenaries—they wore livery, coats of red and yellow, and in their center rode a man in purple velvet doublet and black hose with a coronet about his brow. He was arguing loudly with a grizzle-bearded man in a robe and soft circular hat, with a heavy golden chain about his neck that supported a medallion on his breast. To either side of them strode another dozen soldiers, swatting at the brush with sticks and peering behind every log and into every nook and cranny in the rock faces that flanked the trail.

“Bad?” Gar asked behind him.

Gianni jumped a mile inside, but managed to hold himself down by gripping the rock. “Probably bad—a prince and his chancellor, by the look of them. Best we hide.” He turned away, to see Gar already huddling beneath the curve of the boulder, against the side of the cliff. Gianni joined him, but listened as sharply as he could.

“But Highness, they could not have come so far in so short a time!” the chancellor protested. “Even if they had, what harm could they do, two men afoot, and unarmed?”

“You did not think them so harmless when you roused me from my pavilion and set us to hunting them,” the prince answered sourly. “If you are right, and they are merchants in disguise, we must capture them to punish them, at least.”

“They most probably are such merchant spies,” the chancellor admitted. “The Gypsies said they had taken in two vagabonds who had asked their help, then fled in the night. I knew at once they were most likely from that group of merchants the Stilettos ambushed two days ago.”

Gianni almost erupted in outrage at the false Gypsies right then. The cowards, to sic the aristocrats on them, instead of doing their own dirty work! The hypocrites!

“Yes, and when they brought back their captives, and we found their master’s mark on the trade-good bags and tortured the drivers to make them tell who their employer was, what did they say? Gianni Braccalese! The son of that rabble-rousing merchant who is trying to forge an alliance of merchant cities against us!”

Gianni stiffened. Were they hunting him?

“Yes, and the Stiletto captain assured us they had left him for dead,” the chancellor said heavily, “but what did they find when they went back for the body? Gone! A dead body stood up and walked away! Can there be any doubt that young Braccalese is still alive? Any doubt that he and his bodyguard were the two men who sought refuge with the Gypsies?”

“No doubt at all,” the chancellor sighed, “considering that both the Gypsies and the Stilettos described his companion as a giant. But are they really any threat, these two?”

Gianni heard the thwacking and swishing of the searchers growing closer and huddled in on himself, wishing the Gypsies had given him a weapon, even a small dagger. He groped about, knowing the soldiers were bound to find him. His hand closed on a large rock.

“The father is a threat,” the prince answered, “and if we hold his son as hostage, he may stop trying to form his league against us.”

The chancellor sighed. “Highness Raginaldi, I do not understand why you do not counter his threatened merchants’ league with an alliance of aristocrats! Even those Gypsies said as much.”

They would, Gianni thought darkly. When this was done, he would have a score to settle with those false Gypsies.

“I cannot bear the thought of such an alliance,” the prince snapped. “The Raginaldi ally with the Vecchio, not to mention the lesser houses? It goes too much against the grain to make common cause with old enemies—but I could almost begin to believe that the merchants may be a bigger threat than any of my fellow aristocrats.”

His words chilled Gianni’s blood—especially the fact that he had used the word “fellow,” not “rival” or “enemy.”

But there was no time to brood about that—the thwacking sticks of the searchers were coming closer and closer; Gianni could hear the tread of their boots crunching the underbrush now! He lifted the rock, tensing himself to spring …

A shadow fell across him, darkening the niche where they hid—the shadow of a man in helmet and breastplate: a soldier!

 

---

CHAPTER 9

Armor rattled, the stick thwacked, and the heavy boots paused at a shout from the other side of the road. “What?” The soldier sounded as though he were right in Gianni’s lap—as he would be, in a minute. “What was that?”

“Only a hare,” the other soldier’s voice came, disgusted. “But for a moment, I hoped.”

Hoped! Why? He was as lowborn as Gianni, they were both commoners … Or was that why …? The tramp of boots began again—incredibly, moving away!

“Make sure you search every cranny,” a deeper voice commanded.

“I have, Sergeant,” the trooper said, his voice growing distant. “No crannies over here.”

Gianni sat frozen, unable to believe his ears, unable to believe his luck. Had the man really not noticed? Impossible!

The hare. It had to have been the hare. Saved by a rabbit!

But that was only one soldier, and the first in line on their side of the road. Gianni tightened his grip on his rock once more, gathering himself, tensing to fight all over again. One of them had to grow curious about this nook between boulder and wall …

But they didn’t. One by one they passed by, calling to one another and hurling joking insults, with the sergeant barking them back to work whenever they laughed too loudly. Maybe it was because they didn’t want to find the fugitives, maybe it was because they didn’t care—or maybe it was some other, eldritch reason; but they passed. One by one, they passed by, the horses’ hooves passed by, and the voices of the chancellor and his prince receded with them, off into the distance, gone.

Still Gianni crouched, hand on his rock (though no longer clenched), not quite believing they had escaped.

Finally Gar stirred, crept out on hands and knees, peered around the boulder, then finally stood, staring after the soldiers, his face blank, eyes wide.

“Are they gone?” Gianni began to uncurl.

“Gone.” Gar nodded firmly. “All. Gone.”

Slowly, Gianni stood to look. Incredibly, it was true—the soldiers had passed them by, had disappeared into the trees that hid the road, and the dust of their passage was settling.

“Go now?” Gar looked down at him.

“Uh—yes!” Gianni snapped back to the here and now. They must not lose this chance! “But not down the road, Gar. Up over the ridge—and the next ridge, and the next, until we stand a fair chance of coming nowhere near Prince Raginaldi or his men!”

They found another road, but it went east and west. Still, the road from Pirogia had led them west into the mountains as well as north, so Gianni led Gar east. At the worst, he supposed, he could follow this road to the seashore, where they could build a raft and float home if they had to.

When darkness came, Gar plucked at Gianni’s sleeve, pointing toward the wooded slope to their right, then set off exploring. Gianni followed him, frowning, until Gar pointed to a fallen tree—an evergreen that must have fallen quite recently, for very few of its needles were brown. Gianni saw the point immediately: the trunk had broken below the line of boughs, but not broken completely—it angled downward, giving room enough to sit upright beneath it. He set to work with Gar, breaking off enough of the branches beneath to make room for them to stretch out full-length, and they had a tent. The broken branches would even serve as mattresses.

Then Gar surprised him further by coming up with a handful of roots and some greens, so they didn’t go to bed hungry after all—well, still hungry, but not starving. As they ate, a thought sprang in Gianni’s mind, and he looked up at Gar, weighing the risk of saying it. Curiosity won out, and he asked, very carefully, “Have your wits begun to return?”

“Wits?” Gar looked up in surprise, then frowned, thinking the question over. Finally he judged, “Yes.” A wave of relief swept through Gianni, but caution came hard behind it. How quickly would all those wits return?

And, of course, there was still the possibility that Gar was pretending.

The next morning, they set off down the road again, with Gar stopping every now and then to strip berries from a bush and share them with Gianni, who concluded that the giant had been trained in woodlore from his childhood, and old knowledge surfaced with hunger at the sight of the berries without his actually having to think about it. For himself, city-born and city-bred, Gianni would have been as apt to pick poisonous berries as nourishing ones.

They came out of the pass onto sloping ground, with an entire valley spread out before them. Gianni halted in amazement—he hadn’t paid much attention to the view coming up, since his back had been toward it, and he had been too concerned about his drivers and mules and cargo. Now, though, with no goods to protect, he found himself facing the vista, and even though he was cold and stiff, the sight took his breath away.

“Beautiful, yes?” Gar rumbled beside him. “Yes,” Gianni agreed, then looked up sharply. “How much do you remember now?”

“More.” Gar pressed his hand to his head. “Remember home, remember coming to Talipon, meeting you.” He shook himself. “I must make an effort; I can talk properly again, if I work at it.”

“Do you remember our meeting with the Gypsies?”

“No, but we must have, mustn’t we?” Gar looked down at his gaudy clothing. “I … do remember soldiers looking for us.”

Gianni nodded. “The Gypsies told them about us.”

“Then we would do better to go naked than in the clothes they gave us.” Gar began to pull his shirt out, but Gianni stopped him.

“The mountain air is cold. We can say we stole the clothing while the Gypsies slept.”

Gar paused, staring at him. “Steal from Gypsies? And you thought I was the one with addled wits!”

Suspicion rose. “Were you shamming, then?”

“Pretending?” Gar gazed off over the valley. “Yes and no. I was tremendously confused when I waked and found myself with you in a mire, and I couldn’t remember anything—neither my past, nor my name, nor how I came to be there. You seemed to be a friend, though, so I followed you. The rest?” He shook his head. “It comes and goes. I remember sleeping under a wagon, I remember the soldiers going by, I remember everything since I waked this morning.” He shrugged. “I’m sure the gaps will fill themselves in, with time. Even just talking with you now, I’ve begun to recapture the habit of proper speaking.”

“Praise Heaven your wits were addled no worse than that,” Gianni said with heartfelt relief—but the suspicion remained: Gar could be lying. He tried to dismiss the thought as unworthy, but it wouldn’t stay banished.

Gar pointed downslope. “There’s the fork in the road, where you told me we could go northeast to the coast or northwest to Navorrica. It would seem that, like Shroedinger’s cat, we have gone both ways.”

“Shreddinger?” Gianni looked up, frowning. “Who was he?”

“Why, the man who owned the cat.” Gar flashed him a grin. “It never knew where it was going to be until it was there, because it was in both places at once until the moment came when it had to decide—somewhat like myself these last few days. Come, let’s retrace our steps southward from the fork, and it may be that both parts of me shall pull together again.”

He set off down the slope, and Gianni followed, not sure that he hadn’t preferred the big man without his wits.

As they came to the fork, though, they saw two other people coming down the other road. Both pairs stopped and eyed each other warily. “Good morning,” Gar said at last. “Shall we share the road?”

“I have never seen Gypsies without their tribe and caravan,” one stranger answered.

“Oh, we aren’t Gypsies,” Gianni explained. “We only stole some clothing from them.”

The man stared. “Stole clothing from Gypsies? I thought it was supposed to be the other way around!”

“The Gypsies have always been blamed for a great many thefts they didn’t really commit,” Gar explained. “It was very easy to put the loss on them, for they were gone down the road, where they could neither deny it nor admit it. In any case, they don’t seem to guard their laundry lines any better than anyone else.” He offered a hand. “I am Gar.”

The other man took it, carefully. “I am Claudio.” He nodded to his partner. “He is Benvolio.”

“A pleasure,” Gar said, and glanced at Gianni. The young man smiled, recognizing a signal, and stepped forward with his hand open. “I am Gianni. We lost our clothes to the Stilettos when we had the bad luck to run into them.”

“You, too?” Benvolio stared as he took Gianni’s hand. “I thought we were the only ones with such bad luck.”

“Oh, really!” Gianni looked him up and down. “You fared better than we, at least—they left you your clothes.”

“Yes, they did that.” Benvolio let go of his hand with a grimace. “Took our cart and donkey and all our goods, yes, but they did leave us our clothes.”

“They took our whole goods train, and our drivers to sell to the galleys,” Gianni said, his face grim. “They would have taken us, too, if they hadn’t thought we were dead.”

Claudio nodded, commiserating. “I’m sure we would be slogging toward Venoga and an oar this minute, if we hadn’t run as soon as we heard them coming, and if the woods hadn’t been so thick that they couldn’t ride in to follow us. It seems Stilettos would rather lose their prey than chase it afoot.”

“Wise of them,” Gar said sourly. “For all they knew, you might have had a small army of mountaineers waiting to fall on them.”

Claudio looked up in surprise. “A good thought! Perhaps we should have.”

“Only if we had been mountaineers,” Benvolio said, with a sardonic smile. “Since we are not, they would have taken our cart and donkey before the Stilettos had their chance.”

“True, true.” Gar nodded. “More true, that they might not be averse to taking us to sell to the Stilettos if they find us. Perhaps we should travel together?”

Claudio and Benvolio took one look at Gar’s great size and agreed quickly.

They had only been on the road another hour before they met two more wayfarers—but one of these was leaning on the other and limping badly, so badly that now and again he would hop, his face twisted with pain. Both wore rags, and the one with two good legs was sallow and pinched with hunger. He looked up at Gianni and his party with haunted eyes and seemed about to bolt; probably all that prevented him was his lame friend.

“Good day,” Gianni cried, holding up an open hand. “We are poor travelers who have lost all our goods to the Stilettos, but moved too fast to be taken for their slave parties. Who are you?”

“A thief and a beggar,” the lame man snapped, “just released from the prison of Prince Raginaldi.”

“Released?” Gianni stared. “Fortune favors you, and all the saints too! I thought that once a man vanished into that dark and noisome pit, he vanished forever!”

“So did we.” The thief still looked dazed, unable to understand his good fortune. “But the jailers cast us out, cursing us and spurning us, saying we would have to find our own bread now, for the prince needed his dungeon for more important prisoners than we.”

“More important?” Alarms sounded all through Gianni. “What manner of prisoners?”

“They didn’t say,” said the thief, “only that there would be a great many of them.”

“Has he turned you all out, then?” Gar asked. “Almost all,” said the beggar. “There were a murderer or two he kept, but the rest of us are set free to wander. Some went faster than us.”

“Almost all went faster than we did,” the thief said in a sardonic tone.

The beggar looked up with a frown. “If you feel that I hold you back, Estragon …”

“Hold me back?” the thief snorted. “You hold me up! Can you not see how heavily I lean on you, Vladimir? I’m a thief, not a fighter—and you and I were always last to the bowls of leavings the warders shoved into our pen!”

Gianni had a brief nightmare vision of a dozen men clamoring and fighting over a bowl of garbage. “You must rest,” he said, “and eat, as soon as we can find food.”

“Food?” The thief looked up, grinning without mirth. “Find it if you can! This night and day since we were set free, we have had nothing but a few handfuls of berries that we found by the wayside, shriveled and bitter, and some stalks of wild grain.”

“Can we find them nothing better than that?” Gianni asked Gar. The big man frowned, but didn’t answer. Instead, he picked up a few pebbles and went loping off into the fields beside the road. He was back ten minutes later with a brace of hares. Gianni decided he liked Gar better in his right mind.

While they ate, though, two even more bedraggled specimens came hobbling up to them—a man in worn and grimy motley, who leaned upon the shoulder of another, who wore a black, wide-sleeved gown that was stiff with dirt, almost as stiff as the mortarboard he wore upon his head. Gianni could see at a glance that the sleeves held pockets for ink and paper, and knew the man for a scholar, while his companion was a jester.

“Ho, Vladimir!” the jester said in a hollow voice. “Have you found food, then?”

“Aye, because we have found charitable companions,” the beggar answered. He turned to Gianni. “Would you take it amiss if we shared with Vincenzio and Feste?”

“Not at all,” Gianni said.

Gar seconded, “If we had known they would join us, I would have brought down more rabbits.”

“Oh, do not split hares over us.” The jester sat down stiffly, folding his legs beneath him, and raised an open hand in greeting. “I am Feste.”

“I am … Giorgio.” Some innate caution kept Gianni to using his alias. “This is Gar.”

The giant inclined his head.

“I am Vincenzio.” The scholar, too, held up an open hand.

“Should we not call you ‘Doctor’?” Gar asked.

“Oh, no,” Vincenzio said, with a rueful laugh. “I am only a poor Bachelor of Arts, not even done with my studies to become a Master. I ran out of money, and needed to wander from town to town, hiring out my knowledge to any who had need of it. The prince’s men assumed I was rogue and a thief, and clapped me in irons.”

Understandably, Gianni thought. He had heard of many wandering scholars who were just such thieves and rogues as Vincenzio mentioned—and he would not have wagered on the man’s honesty himself. “No greater cause than that?”

“Well,” said Vincenzio, “it might have been the conversation I was having with the village elders, about the ancient Athenians and their notions that all human beings have the seeds of greatness within them, and deserve to be treated with respect—even to have some control over their destinies …”

“Which means their government,” Gar said, with a sardonic smile. “Yes, I can see why the soldiers clapped you in irons. They gagged you, too, didn’t they?”

“And a most foul and noisome cloth it was.” Vincenzio made a face. “Indeed, I had thought we would be thrown right back into that dungeon when those Stilettos stopped us half an hour ago.”

“Stilettos?” Gianni looked up sharply. “What did they do to you?”

“Only searched us, as though they thought we might have gold hidden in our garments for the stealing,” Feste said with disgust.

“Did they beat you?” The beggar looked up with wide, frightened eyes.

“No, they seemed too worried for that,” said Vincenzio. “They sent us packing, and we blessed our good fortune and fled, thanking all the saints.” He frowned at the others. “I’m surprised you didn’t run afoul of them, too—they were set up to block the road so that they might search every traveler who came by.”

“We saw them from a curve of the road above,” Vladimir confessed, “and thought it wiser to risk a slide down the slope than an encounter with mercenaries.”

“Nearly broke my ankle,” Estragon grumbled, rubbing that joint. “It seems I chose wrongly, as usual.”

“Did they say what they were searching for?” Gar asked.

“Nary a word,” Feste said, “and we didn’t stay to ask.”

“No, I’m sure you didn’t,” Gianni said.

“They were even too worried to beat you for their amusement?” the thief asked, wide-eyed.

“Even that,” Vincenzio assured him. “Did I not tell you we blessed all the saints?”

“Let us say a blessing again.” Gar took the spit off the fire. “We’re about to dine. Does anyone have a knife?”

No one did, so they had to wait for the meat to cool before Gar could break it to portion it out. The next day, they kept a wary eye on the road ahead, and at the slightest sign of soldiers, they took to the underbrush. In that fashion, they crept warily by two separate roadblocks, closely enough to hear the soldiers muttering and griping about such senseless duty—but there was an undertone of nervousness to their grumbles, almost of apprehension. After the second, they came back onto the road and fell in with a trio of peasants in tunics as filthy as anything the other recent prisoners wore. They looked up, startled, at Gianni’s hail, saw Gar’s size, and leaped aside—then stared.

“Peace, peace!” Gianni cried. “We are only poor travelers, like yourselves.”

“Very like yourselves,” said the oldest peasant. “Vincenzio! Feste! Why have you moved so slowly? I can understand why Vladimir and Estragon would, since the one is lame and the other so deeply weakened—but why you?”

“We move more slowly, Giuseppi, because we are wary of the Stilettos,” Vincenzio answered.

“Wisely said,” Giuseppi said ruefully. “With each set of them, we thought surely this must be the last. Three of them have searched us now, searched so thoroughly that we had thought they were going to turn us inside out. Praise Heaven they let us go our way without beating us!”

“They seemed to be worried,” Vincenzio agreed. “By your leave, Giuseppi, I’ll continue to go slowly, and step off the road if I see any sign of them.”

“I think we’ll join you,” Giuseppi said. “Who are these?”

“Giorgio and Gar,” Vincenzio said, by way of introduction. Both raised palms in greeting.

“We won’t starve, so long as they’re with us,” Estragon explained, “and there’s a hare to be found in the woods about.”

“A hare would be most welcome indeed!” Giuseppi said fervently, and Gar was off on another hunting expedition. This time he brought back partridges and plover eggs, and by the time they were done eating, they were all on friendly terms.

In midafternoon, they saw a lone man striding wearily ahead. Gar called to him, his tone friendly, but the man looked up, stared, then dashed madly into the wood. Gar frowned and waved their little troop to a halt. “Come out, friend!” he called. “We mean you no harm, no matter how rough we look! But there are condotierri on the road, and we will fare more safely together than alone!”

“How truly you speak!” came the quavering voice; then the traveler appeared again, holding a staff at the ready. “What assurance do I have that you are not yourselves bandits?”

He had good reason to fear them, Gianni saw, for by his clothing, the man was a merchant, and a prosperous one at that.

“Only the assurance that we too fear the Stilettos, for most of us have been searched by them, and all of us have suffered at their hands,” Gar answered. He held up an open palm. “I am Gar.”

“I am Rubio—and Heaven has preserved me from a beating, at least.” The man kept his staff up. “But as to searching, they have surely done that, aye, and kept what they found, too!”

“Found?” Gar was tense as a hunting dog. “What did they steal?”

“My jewels! All my jewels!” The man held out his robe, that they might see where the hems had been slashed. “All the wealth that I was taking from Venoga to Pirogia, that I might begin business anew away from the conte and his kin! But they couldn’t suffer to let me go, no, but robbed me blind on the highroad!”

“Poor fellow!” Gianni felt instant commiseration. “Why didn’t you take at least one guard?”

“Where could I find one who could be trusted?”

“Here.” Gianni gestured toward Gar. “Of course, you hadn’t had the good fortune to meet him.”

The merchant looked up with a frown. “Is this true? Are you a guard who can be trusted?”

“I am.” Gar pressed a hand to his head. “At least … so long as my wits stay with me …”

The other travelers drew back in alarm, but the merchant said, “What ails you?”

“Too many blows to the head,” Gar explained. “They come and go … my wits …”

Gianni looked up at him anxiously, and the other men drew back farther—but Gar opened his eyes again and blinked about at them, then forced a smile. Gianni heaved a sigh of relief, then turned to the merchant. “So the Stilettos are only about their old game of thieving—but why are they in so much of a hurry?”

Whistling sounded ahead.

They all looked up in surprise, to hear someone sounding so cheerful in a country beset by bandits. “I confess,” said Gar, “to a certain curiosity.”

“I do, too.” Gianni quickened the pace. “Who can this be, who is so carefree when the times move on to war or worse?” He and Gar paced ahead of the group, around a turn in the road, and saw a tradesman, in smock and cross-gartered leggings, strolling down the road with his head thrown back and his thumbs thrust under the straps of his pack, whistling. From the tools that stuck out of that knapsack, it was clear that he was a craftsman of some sort.

“Good day to you, journeyman!” Gianni called as they came near.

The tradesman looked up, surprised, then grinned and raised an open hand. “Good day to you, traveler—and to …” His eyes widened at the sight of Gar. “My heavens! There is a lot of you, isn’t there?”

“Not so much as there has been,” Gar said, smiling. “I haven’t been eating well.”

“Who has?” the tradesman rejoined. “If I have bread and cheese, I count myself fortunate. I am Bernardino, a poor wandering carpenter and glazier.”

“A glazier!” Gianni was impressed. “That’s a rare trade indeed. I am Gia—Giorgio, and this is Gar. We are travelers who have fallen afoul of the Stilettos. We had to steal new clothes.”

“Took the shirts off your backs, did they?” Bernardino chuckled. “Well, at least they left you your boots! Me, I had the forethought to be paid in food, and they didn’t think it worth stealing when they searched me.”

“There’s some wonder in that alone,” Gar said, “though it speaks well for your prudence. Tell me, how do you find work as a glazier?”

“Rarely, which is why I’m also a carpenter—but when I do, it pays well.”

“A whole cheese, no doubt,” Gar said, grinning. “Aye, and several loaves.” Bernardino beckoned him closer and whispered, “And several silver pennies, hidden where even the Stilettos shall not find them.”

“Tradesmen were ever ingenious,” Gianni sighed, and forbore to ask in what part of the cheese Bernardino had hidden his wealth. “You have just had work as a glazier, then?”

“Yes, at the castle of Prince Raginaldi, mending the leading where it had worked loose from the glass.” Bernardino shook his head in wonder. “It’s strange, the faith people have in glass, even when they know there are gaps between it and the leading. Do you know, the prince went right on haggling, even though I was there outside his window on my scaffolding and heard every word he said?”

“Haggling?” Gianni stared. “Isn’t that beneath the dignity of a prince?”

“It would seem not,” said Bernardino, “though I suppose the man he bargained with was so important that only a prince would do. Though,” he added reflectively, “he didn’t look important—rather dowdy, in fact; he was dressed so somberly, only a long robe and a round hat the color of charcoal—and he spoke with an accent so outrageous (not to say outlandish) that I will swear I had never heard it before, and could scarcely understand him at all! Nor could the prince, from the number of times he had to ask the man to repeat what he’d said, or to judge by the questions he asked.”

“What were they discussing?”

Gianni looked up at Gar, surprised by the sudden intensity of his tone. Bernardino was startled too, but answered readily enough. “The buying of orzans.”

“Orzans?” Gar turned to Gianni, frowning. “Those rich orange stones? Tell me more of them.”

“They can only be found in the depths of limestone caves,” Gianni explained, “and you can see new ones growing on the stalagmites and stalactites, I am told—but they won’t be true orzans for hundreds of years. The new ones are still cloudy, and very soft. Your true orzan, now, that has lain under huge weights of rock for hundreds of years, I doubt not, is pure and clear as the sun, which it resembles, and hard enough to cut anything but diamond.” He frowned up at Gar. “You still don’t recognize them?”

“I do,” Gar said slowly. “I’ve seen them for sale in a market far from here, very far—but they gave them a different name.”

“Orzans or oranges, what matter?” Bernardino shrugged. “The stone does not care.”

“They cannot be dug for,” Gianni explained, “because the pick that beaks the rock away is as likely to fracture the jewel as its surroundings. No, the gatherers can only walk around the cave every day, waiting for a new segment of wall to break away—and it may disclose an orzan, or it may not.”

“What of limestone quarries?”

“There are a few orzans found there,” Bernardino admitted, “though they are far more likely to be broken than whole. Still, even a scrap of orzan fetches a price worth picking it up.”

“And this outlander offered the prince a high price for orzans?” Gar asked.

“A high price indeed, which is strange, because they’re not all that rare.”

Gianni nodded. “Semiprecious at best.”

“But the price the strange somber trader offered for one alone would feed me and house me for a year! Though not a family.”

“A high price, surely,” Gar said with strange sarcasm.

“Oh, His Highness offered the man a variety of jewels—he laid them out on black velvet, a riot of color that made me faint to think of their value,” Bernardino assured them, “but the stranger wanted only orzans.”

“I’m sure he did,” Gar said softly.

“It has taken long enough for us to catch you,” Vincenzio said. Gianni looked up and discovered the rest of his new companions gathering around them on the road—but Gar turned instantly on the merchant and demanded, “The jewels the Stilettos took from you—were there orzans among them?”

“Two or three, yes,” Rubio said, startled. “Indeed, they took them first, and their sergeant was about to spurn me away with the rest, and I was about to thank my lucky stars, when he thought again and took the rest of my jewels—the swine!”

“No doubt,” Gar said to himself. “Those, I’m sure, were his pay.”

Rubio frowned. “What do you mean?”

Gar started to answer, but broke off and whirled to stare ahead.

Giuseppi suddenly looked up, then gave a shout, pointing. They all followed his gaze and saw a cloud of dust boiling out from a curve in the road ahead.

“Soldiers!” Rubio cried. “Hide, one and all!” He turned away to the underbrush as horsemen emerged from the dust cloud. That was all the former prisoners needed; they bolted off the road, with Gianni right behind them …

Until he heard the huge, hoarse roar, and turned to see Gar charging down at the horsemen, arms flailing like the sails of a windmill, bellowing in incoherent rage as he attacked a whole party of cavalry, on foot and bare-handed. Gianni’s stomach sank as he realized the giant had lost his wits again.

 

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CHAPTER 10

Gar flailed about him with a total lack of skill, but with devastating strength. His fists knocked two Stilettos off their horses; then he caught the leg of another horse and heaved, throwing the animal over and the man on top with it. But as he straightened, a horseman behind him struck down with a club.

Gianni jumped in the way with a feeling of despair, leaping high and catching the club, knowing his own stupidity but also knowing that he couldn’t leave Gar to fight alone. He was amazed when the Stiletto tumbled out of his saddle, his club falling free, but not so amazed that he didn’t remember to strike the man with his own club as he hit the ground. He didn’t get up, but a friend of his was swinging down with another club, and Gianni blocked with his cudgel in both hands, then swung it two-handed at the man’s skull—but the soldier blocked, and a blow from behind made the world swirl around Gianni; he felt the cudgel slipping from his fingers, felt himself stumbling back against something warm and hairy, felt huge hands fasten onto his wrists with exclamations of disgust from above. When the world stopped tilting, he saw Gar on his knees with his hands bound behind him, felt rough hands tying his own wrists, and saw his whole company of refugees gathered together in a circle wide-eyed, moaning, and surrounded by horsemen.

“What are we to do with this lot now?” one Stiletto asked with disgust. “The captain said we weren’t to waste time gathering men to sell to the galleys until we had searched every traveler and the campaign was over!”

“Yes,” said a young man with more elaborate armor and an air of authority, “but he wasn’t thinking of people who were so stupid as to fight back. Those, I think, we can ship off to the galleys—or at least pen them in Prince Raginaldi’s castle until His Highness delivers judgment. Come along, you lot! Sergeant, drive them!”

And off they went to the castle, hustled so fast that they had to run. The Stilettos didn’t slacken the pace until a few men had begun to stumble and fall. Then they slowed down, but the captives still had to trot. It was just as well they had no breath to spare, Gianni reflected—he didn’t want to hear how they would be cursing Gar and him, for getting them back into the prison from which they had so lately been freed.

As they came to Castello Raginaldi, Gar looked up. Gianni was too miserable with forced marching and prodding spear butts to care much where he was going, but he followed Gar’s gaze. The big man was staring up at the towers of the castle—and there was something strange about the tallest one. Squinting, Gianni could barely make out a skeletal contraption, a spidery triple cross mounted on a slender pole. He frowned, trying to remember which saint had a triple cross as his symbol, but could think of none. Why would the prince have such a thing atop his castle?

Perhaps it was some sort of new weapon. Yes, that made sense. Gianni determined to watch closely, to see how it was used. Then a spear butt struck his shoulder blade, and he lurched into faster motion again.

Across the drawbridge they went and, mercifully, the horsemen had to slow because of its narrowness—mercifully, because all the captives were stumbling with weariness. The Stilettos held the slow pace as they came out into a huge courtyard, where soldiers practiced fighting with blunted swords, and cast spears and shot arrows at targets. Iron clanged on iron from the smithy, far away against the castle wall, and the keep towered above everything, throwing its ominous shadow over them all.

They rode deeper into that shadow, but only to the wall of the keep itself, where a huge cage stood, iron bars driven into the hard-packed earth of the courtyard, then bent six feet high to slant upward to the stones of the wall. The roof was thatched over those bars, but the sides were open to wind, rain, and the baking sun. The door stood open, and the Stilettos herded them through it with snarls and curses. The recycled prisoners stumbled in and fell to the ground with groans of relief—at least they didn’t have to run from the drubbing of spear butts any more. The door clanged shut behind them, and the sergeant fastened a huge lock through its hasp with a sound like the crack of doom.

Gianni sank down in a patch of sunlight with the rest, looking about him. The place was messy, but not squalid—apparently someone had shoveled it out and heaped fresh straw against the castle wall—but it had clearly housed many, many men before them. Since it wasn’t big enough to hold more than a score, Gianni deduced that it must be the holding pen for prospective slaves. It seemed odd to him that there was no separate cage for women, until he remembered that there wasn’t much of a market for female slaves except for the young and pretty, who were generally kept safely at home. In fact, there probably would not have been much demand for male slaves either, if it hadn’t been for the galleys—peasants were cheaper, since their parents made them free of charge, and were always at a lord’s bidding.

It galled Gianni to think of people being used as merchandise, but he knew that was how the lords, and their hired Stilettos, saw the commoners.

A shadow fell across him. Looking up, Gianni saw Gar settling down cross-legged by him. With resentment, Gianni realized that the big man wasn’t even breathing hard, scarcely sweating at all—the pace that had so exhausted the other captives had been light work for him! “It’s easy enough for you,” Gianni grumbled. “After all, you’re the one who got us into this mess!”

“We won’t stay in it long,” Gar said softly, his eyes on the courtyard.

Gianni stared, unbelieving. The halfwit who had brought down the wrath of the Stilettos had disappeared again. “Have your wits come back so soon?” he asked. “Or were you shamming?”

“Shamming, this time,” Gar told him, his voice still low, “pretending, so that we could get into Castello Raginaldi to see for ourselves what’s going on.”

“See for yourself,” Gianni said bitterly. “Our companions have seen more than enough already! Oh, you’ve brought us in here easily enough—but how shall you bring us out?”

“Not quite so easily, but with a great deal more subtlety,” Gar told him. “First, though, I want a look at that tower.” He nodded at the spidery triple cross.

Gianni stared. “All this—putting us all in danger of the galleys just so you can look at a tower you might have gazed at from the top of a ridge?”

“I couldn’t have seen inside it,” Gar said patiently, “and you won’t go to the galleys—no, none of you.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because,” said Gar, “the time for fair play has passed.” And he would give no more information than that, only turned aside Gianni’s questions with short lectures that veered quickly from the point until the young merchant gave up in exasperation.

When night fell, though, Gar became much more communicative. He gathered the prisoners around him and said, low-voiced, “We’re going to leave this castle, but before we do, I must see what secret the prince is hiding in his tower.”

“What does your curiosity matter to us?” Giuseppi said bitterly.

“A great deal, because I’ve begun to suspect why the noblemen have paid the Stilettos to steal as they have never stolen before, and why they seek to screw the merchants down as though they were boards to walk upon.”

Gianni stared. What did Gar mean? They knew why the lords had united against the merchants—because of the scheming of those fake Gypsies! Though, now that he thought about it, they did seem an awfully ineffective lot, to have so mobilized the lords—in fact, they seemed far more the kind of people who sat around and argued heatedly about what to do rather than the kind who actually did it.

Giuseppi frowned. “What reason do they need, other than greed?”

“They’ve had that all along,” Gar explained, “though I think it’s increased hugely this last year. But I have to know, you see, or I can’t fight them with any hope of winning.”

Ambiguous as it was, that seemed to make sense enough to the others; they subsided, grumbling. It didn’t make much sense to Gianni, though, and he found himself wondering why they could be so easily convinced.

Then he looked into Gar’s glowing eyes, and saw why.

“Come!” The giant rose, stooping slightly because of the roof. “Follow and do as I bid, and you shall be out of this castle before dawn!”

They murmured a little as they followed him, then went quiet as he stood by the gate, reaching out to lift the huge padlock in both hands, staring at it as though by simple force of will he could make it open. Slowly he wrapped his fingers around the curving top of the lock, wrapped the other hand around the keyhole, then began to twist …

The lock groaned, gave off a sharp cracking noise, then wrenched open, the curving top curving even more, its tip shredded.

The prisoners stared, speechless.

Carefully and silently, Gar removed the lock from the hasp, laid it on the ground, then opened the gate and crept out into the night. Wordlessly, they followed as Gar turned toward the keep—but Gianni reached up to pull on his shoulder. “You’re going the wrong way!” he hissed. “The gatehouse is over there!” He pointed, his arm a bar of urgency.

“But the gatehouse isn’t what I came to see,” Gar whispered back, his tone gentle. He started toward the keep again. Gianni glared after him a minute, then threw up his hands in exasperation and followed. Everything considered, it was probably safer with Gar than without him, if his wits lasted. Of course, Gianni thought inanely, if his wits were sound, would he have come in here in the first place?

But there was no good answer to that question, so he followed with the rest of them.

Gar drifted up to the door of the keep like a shadow made gigantic by candlelight—only this shadow clasped a huge left hand around a sentry’s mouth and pressed fingers to his neck. The man folded without a sound. Gar handed him to Gianni and stepped across the doorway just as the sentry’s partner turned to look. He stared, speechless with surprise—then speechless because Gar’s palm covered his mouth, pressing him back against the wall, as the other hand pressed his neck. In minutes, he, too, slumped unconscious. Gar handed him to Giuseppi and whispered, “Tell Claudio and Benvolio to put on their livery.”

Claudio chuckled as he dressed the unconscious soldier in his vermin-ridden garb.

“Be sure they stay unconscious,” Gar whispered to Vladimir, who nodded and pulled the bodies into the shadows, then sat down beside them with one of their own truncheons in his hand. “Keep the watch,” Gar hissed to Claudio and Benvolio, and they nodded, then lifted their halberds slanting outward and stood vigilantly at the door. As an afterthought, Claudio pushed it open for Gar. He beckoned his little company forward, and prowled into Castello Raginaldi.

Stairs wound upward alongside the entry hall, and Gar headed straight toward them. Just as he came to their foot, hard footsteps sounded, and a Stiletto captain came around the turn. He saw Gar, yanked at his sword, and managed a single shout of anger before one big hand clamped down on his mouth and the other swung a borrowed truncheon. The captain’s eyes rolled up as he slumped down. Gar handed him to Feste, hissing, “You’re promoted. Strip him and dress! Bernardino, Estragon! Bind him and gag him, then hide him.”

“With pleasure,” Bernardino said, grinning, as Feste stooped to start stripping the captain. He grumbled a little at shedding his motley, but it was very grimy, after all, and the clean livery felt much better.

Gianni was amazed that they were all so eagerly following Gar, so blindly obeying him. But he was no better off himself; his pulse had quickened with excitement at the audacity of it, and at the hope of striking a blow at the noblemen and their tame condotierri. Up the stairs they went with Feste strutting at their head, his hand on his new sword. No one else stopped them until they came to the top, where two more guards stood at either side of a brass-bound oaken door. They snapped to, halberds slanting out at the ready, as Feste came in sight, then relaxed at the sight of his clothing. “Oh, it’s you, Captain,” one said, then looked more closely. “Hold! You’re not the captain! And who’s that monster behind …”

Gar stepped past Feste and cracked their heads together. Their helmets took most of the force of the blow; one of the guards turned jelly—kneed but managed a shout of alarm anyway, before a right cross to the chin felled him. The other was shaking his head and blinking furiously, trying to bring his halberd to bear, when Feste clubbed him on the side of the head with his sword hilt. The man folded.

“Not quite the way the sword was meant to be used,” Gar said, “but it will do. An excellent improvisation, Feste. The rest of you, quickly! Into the chamber! Trade clothes with them and tie them up!”

“How?” Gianni shoved at the door. “It’s locked!”

“Yes, but not that strongly.” Gar grasped the handle, glared at it, and pushed. The lock groaned; then the door opened. The fugitives stared, then came alive and dragged their captives into the room. Feste turned about, hand on his hilt, the captain of the guard on sentry—go. Gianni shut the door—but as he did, he glanced at the lock. And shivered. The bar had sunk back into the wood, unbroken. Somehow, Gar had opened that lock as surely as though he had held the key!

No time to worry about it now—they were in darkness, except for a swath of moonlight through a small window that served to show them, at least, where a candle sat by a tinderbox. Gar’s shadow obscured the window and the candle for a moment; there was the scratch of flint on steel, then a soft glow that grew into a small flame. Gar held it to the wick, and the flame grew brighter. Then he closed the tinderbox, and the light was less, but constant. The candle flame showed them a circular room about twelve feet across with walls of mortared stone, a water stain where the roof needed patching, a table and chair near the window, where the candle stood.

And on that table, a low rounded shape that Gianni first took to be a giant egg. Then he saw that it had a curved handle on top and decided it must be a curling stone, such as the old men used for playing their unending lawn game on the village greens …

Until he realized the stone had a long, thin strip of light across its front, a strip with numbers on it. Beneath that, there were five circles, each a different color, and now that Gianni looked, the handle on the egg had a little wire wrapped around it, a wire that ran up the wall and disappeared into the roof. Gianni saw that Gar had followed its route, too, and asked, “The triple cross?”

Gar nodded. “Yes, and I think it’s a triple cross in more ways than one.”

“What is this?” asked Vincenzio. “An alchemist’s workshop?”

“Something of the sort. Don’t let it trouble you. We won’t stay here long.” Gar sat down and peered at the lighted strip. “Back up my memory, Gianni—it’s becoming moth-eaten. ‘Eighty—nine—oh—one M.H.’ ”

“ ‘Eighty—nine—oh—one em aytch.’ ” Gianni repeated dutifully. “What does it mean, Gar?”

“It means,” said Gar, “that our false-Gypsy friends have competitors they don’t know about.”

“Orzans!”

Gianni turned to look, and saw Rubio leaning over an open sack with jewels running through his fingers. “Orzans, hundreds of them! And there are four more bags like this one!”

Gar nodded, mouth a grim line. “I had thought as much. No wonder this room is stoutly guarded.” He turned back to the curling stone and touched the green circle. Gianni reached out to stop him, his heart in his mouth—then froze as he heard the stone say, in a strange, very thick accent, “Prince Raginaldi, please answer!”

“What is that?” Rubio cried, leaping to his feet. “Shush!” Gar hissed. “It’s only a magical memory, nothing more.”

The stone spoke again. “Since you do not appear to be near the far-talker now, Your Highness, I will ask you to call Zampar of the Lurgan Company when it is convenient. Thank you.” There was a chime, then silence.

The men stared at one another with wide, frightened eyes. “Sorcery!” Rubio hissed.

“No, just great cleverness,” Gar assured them. He touched some more colored circles, then said, “Gar to Herkimer. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Gar.” The reply was instantaneous; the voice was well modulated, cultivated, gentle. “I am glad to hear you alive and well.”

“Well enough,” Gar replied. “Herkimer, please start eavesdropping on—eighty—seven—oh—two, was that, Gianni?”

Gianni felt a chill. So soon? “Eighty—nine—oh—one em aytch, Gar.”

“Eighty—nine—oh—one m.H.,” Gar repeated. “Not so well as I might be, Herkimer; my brain may need an overhaul after this little jaunt. Check who uses that frequency, please.”

“The Lurgan Company, Gar. Since your departure, I have become aware of their activities through their transmissions.”

“The Lurgan Company, yes.” Gar’s lips were thin again. “What is it?”

“A semilegal syndicate who have been known to break laws designed to protect backward planets, Gar.”

“How can they be legal at all, then?” Gar growled. “By setting up their headquarters on planets that do not yet subscribe to the full I.D.E. code,” the voice told him. “When a host planet does agree to full enforcement of that code, the Lurgan Company moves to a newer planet.”

“Semilegal perhaps, but ethical not at all,” Gar growled. “What information do you have about orzans, Herkimer?”

This time there was a pause of several seconds before the voice answered. “They are extremely rare fiery gems that are found only on Petrarch, Gar. They begin as crystals grown from water laden with a rare mineral that dissolves out of impure limestone through seepage in caves; those that have been buried under rock for several centuries acquire the luster and clarity that makes them so prized as ornaments.”

Gar glanced at the gems in the big sack and hissed, “Put them back, Rubio.” He turned back to the stone. “Current market value?”

“A flawless one-carat specimen would pay the annual power bill for a small city,” the voice replied. “Consequently, the only market is on Terra and the older, very wealthy colonies, such as Hal IV and Otranto.”

“The playgrounds of the rich,” Gar muttered. “I thought they looked familiar.”

“Your great-aunt does have one such pendant, Gar, yes.”

Gianni felt as though his hair were trying to stand on end. Terra? Hal Four? Otranto? These were names from legend, names of fairy-tale realms!

“It’s all as I had thought,” Gar said. “Thank you, Herkimer. Please keep monitoring that frequency.”

“I shall, Gar. Be careful.”

The room was suddenly amazingly silent.

“Who was that?” Gianni whispered. “Your tame wizard?”

“Eh?” Gar looked at him, startled. “Well, yes, I suppose you might say that. Not a bad analogy at all, in fact.” Then he scowled at the other young merchant. “Leave the bag here, Rubio!”

“It’s a fortune, Gar,” Rubio protested, “the chance of a lifetime!”

“The chance of a hanging, you mean! Steal that bag, and Prince Raginaldi will never rest until he has found it again, and when he does, he’ll have you flayed to make sure you haven’t hidden any of them under your skin! Leave them, and he may forget about us. Which reminds me …” He turned to touch the colored spots again, muttering, “Eighty—six …”

“Eighty—nine—oh—one em aytch,” Gianni said quickly.

“Thank Heaven one of us has a memory,” Gar growled. He finished punching, then turned toward the door, not even looking as he said, “All of them, Rubio!”

“Only as many as were stolen from me, Gar!” the young merchant said stubbornly.

“I suppose that’s only just,” Gar sighed. “But not a fragment more, mind! Now outside, everyone, and silently!”

They went out, and Gar closed the door carefully; Gianni was sure he heard the lock turn, but with a tame wizard, why not?

“Not a tame wizard,” Gar whispered as they started down the stairs, and Gianni jumped; he would have thought the giant had read his thoughts. “More of a friend—well, an associate.”

“But still a wizard.” Gianni frowned up at him. “Does he appear in your dreams?”

“No,” Gar replied, “but he says I appear in his.” Gianni digested that as they went down a few more steps. Then he asked, “What was that object?”

“Magic,” Gar answered.

“Of course,” Gianni said dryly.

 

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CHAPTER 11

As they were coming down, another pair of guards came out of a side passage and started up the stairs. They saw Gianni’s party and stared. “Captain!” said one. “Why are the prisoners…”

“That’s not the captain, you dolt!” the other snapped, and thrust with his halberd.

Gar reached past Feste and pushed the weapon aside, just as the fake “captain” drew his sword and put the tip to the man’s throat. The guard’s mouth opened to shout—and froze in silence.

The other guard did manage a shout, just before Gianni closed his mouth with an uppercut. He fell back down the stairs and struck his head against the wall, but the helmet protected him enough so that he was only groggy as he tried to climb to his feet, croaking, “Alarm! Prisoners … escaped …” until Gianni jumped down beside him, caught up the man’s own halberd, and held the point to his throat. “Be still!” The man looked up at the gleaming steel and the hot, angry eyes above it, and held his tongue.

Gar stepped forward and touched his fingertips to the first guard’s temples. The man jerked, staring; then his eyes closed, and he slumped. Gar caught him and eased him down. “We still have two men out of uniform. Take his livery.” Then he stepped down to touch the other guard’s temples. As the man sagged back onto the stone, Gianni asked, “What did you do to them?”

“Put them to sleep.”

“I can see that!” Gianni reddened. “How?”

“Believe me,” Gar told him, “you don’t want to know.” He went on down the stairs, leaving Gianni to follow, seething—but also wondering. He’d been suspecting for some time that there was much more to Gar than met the eye, and that he didn’t like what he wasn’t seeing.

As they came out into the courtyard, the only three not wearing Prince Raginaldi’s livery were Vladimir, Gar, and Gianni. “Join us,” Gar said softly to Bernardino and Vincenzio as he beckoned to Vladimir. “Gianni, hold your arms behind you, like this, as though they were bound. The rest of you, level your halberds at us—that’s right. Now, Feste, march us all together to the gatehouse, and tell the porter and the sentries that you’ve been ordered to take Gianni and me out to hang us from a tree, because the prince has judged us to be rabble-rousers too dangerous to let live.”

Feste frowned. “Will they believe that?”

“Why should they not?”

Feste gazed at Gar a moment longer, then shrugged and went forward to lead the way. The other men clustered around Gianni and Gar and moved toward the gatehouse.

“What if the guards recognize us from the Gypsies’ descriptions?” Gianni muttered.

“Then they’ll be sure the prince knew what he was doing,” Gar muttered back. “In fact, we just might come out of this with everyone thinking we’re dead.”

“Not when they don’t see our bodies hanging from a tree near the drawbridge, they won’t!”

“True,” Gar sighed, “and when they find a half-dozen naked guardsmen.”

“In fact, they’ll be after us even harder!”

“Don’t let it bother you,” Gar assured him. “They can only hang us once.”

Gianni shivered at the casual, offhand way he said it. For a moment, he imagined he could feel the noose tightening about his neck—but he shook off the fantasy and plodded angrily after Gar.

As they came to the gatehouse, Feste barked, “Halt!” The rest did a creditable imitation of a soldier’s stamp-to-a-stop. “Drop the bridge!” Feste ordered the real sentries. “The prince has commanded that these two be hanged at once!”

The sentries stared, and one said, “He can’t wait till dawn?”

“Who are you to question the prince’s orders?” Feste stormed.

“I don’t know this captain,” the other guard said doubtfully.

“ ‘You will,’ ” Gar muttered to Feste.

“You’ll know me soon enough, and better than you like, if you don’t obey orders!” Feste raged. “The prince wants these two hanged outside as a warning to any who would defy him! Now lower that drawbridge!”

“As you say, Captain,” the taller sentry said reluctantly, and turned to call into the gatehouse. Gianni waited with his heart in his throat, hearing the huge windlass grind away, thinking the bridge would never stop falling, thinking crazily that the sentries must see through them, their disguises were so transparent. How could they possibly accept Feste as a new captain when they had never seen him before? He couldn’t believe experienced soldiers could actually be persuaded by so obvious a lie!

So when the sentries stepped aside and waved them on, he followed mechanically, amazed—and, as they came out across the moat, he found himself wondering how it could ever be that the soldiers had obeyed. He could only think that Feste was far more persuasive than he seemed.

“No shouting,” Gar said, his voice taut, “not a sign of victory till we’re half a mile away! Just march us back into the woods over there, and keep marching!”

Silently as a funeral procession, they marched through the moonlight and into the trees, with Gianni expecting any minute to feel a crossbow bolt in his back. But they came into the blessed darkness unscathed and marched on for twenty minutes more until they came to a clearing, where Gar stopped and said, “Now.”

The men cut loose with a howling cheer, throwing their borrowed helmets up into the air, then running fast to avoid them as they came down. Gar turned to grin at Gianni and slap him on the shoulder. Gianni felt himself grinning back, all his nervousness sliding away under the triumph and sheer joy of being alive and free.

When they calmed a bit, Gar said, “They’ll be searching for us by daybreak, if not before. Drop those soldiers’ clothes right here and hide them in the bushes. Keep the belts and boots—you can trade them to peasants for whole suits of clothes.”

“What about the halberds?” Rubio asked.

“A dead giveaway,” Gar said, “and if you let them give you away, you’ll be dead indeed—soldiers take a dim view of peasants beating up other soldiers.”

“But that leaves us unarmed,” Vincenzio protested.

Gar hesitated a moment, then said, “Break off the handles so you can thrust the heads into your belts as hand axes. That way, you’ll each have a walking staff, too. You’ll need it.”

“We will?” Feste looked up at him alertly. “Why?”

“Because as long as you’re on the road, you’ll be in danger. You need a refuge, and the one place that’s sure to take you in is Pirogia.”

“Pirogia!” Rubio cried indignantly. “I, a man of Venoga?”

“There’s a lot of country between us and Venoga,” Vincenzio reminded him, “and most of it’s infested with Stilettos.”

Feste frowned. “Why should Pirogia admit us?”

“Because I’ll vouch for you,” Gianni said. “You can join our army.”

“I didn’t know Pirogia had an army.”

“We don’t, but we will,” Gianni said grimly, “and very soon, too.”

“But each pair of men go by a different route,” Gar counseled. “Find different bypaths within this wood, and come out at different points. The more of us there are together, the more the prince’s men will be sure we’re the fugitives who stole their clothes. At the very least, if you absolutely must go by the same road, let one pair go out of sight before the other starts from this wood. If you can, trade your boots for the clothes of a woodcutter or a poacher. Go now, and meet us at Pirogia!”

He and Gianni set the example by striking off through the woods without any trail.

 

The rest of the trip home was surprisingly uneventful, but Gianni later decided that was because they had learned how to cope with the roving bands of Stilettos who roamed the countryside—and because Gar kept his wits, though he certainly did a good job of pretending to have lost them when he needed to. A dozen times they heard horsemen coming and managed to hide in the brush, or to lie down in a roadside ditch and cover themselves with grass, before the riders came in sight. They were always Stilettos, of course—they seemed to have driven all other traffic off the roads, except for the occasional farm cart. Gar and Gianni hid in one of those, too, and rode it for a mile before the carter began to wonder why his beasts were tiring so quickly. Only twice did Stilettos catch them out on the open road without any cover, and both times, they played Giorgio and Lenni to such excellent effect that the soldiers settled for giving them a few kicks, then riding on as the “halfwit” and his “brother” fell by the wayside.

Finally, one day in the middle of the morning, Pirogia’s steeples rose over the horizon. Gianni ran ahead a few hundred feet until he could see his whole city spread out before him and shouted for joy. Grinning, Gar came up behind him, clapped him on the shoulder, and passed him, striding toward their haven.

As they came up to the land gate, though, four grubby forms lifted themselves from around a campfire and hailed them. “Ho, Giorgio! Ho, Gar! What kept you?”

“Only the road, and a few beatings from Stiletto gangs.” Grinning, Gianni clapped the jester on the shoulder. “Ho, Feste! But why are you camped here outside the city?”

“Oh, because the guards wouldn’t let us in without your word,” Feste told him.

“They were quite rude about it, too,” Vincenzio added.

Glancing at him, Gianni could see why—dressed in a patched woodcutter’s smock and sandals, he scarcely looked like the man of letters he was.

“They told us they didn’t even know a man named Giorgio who traveled with a giant!” Rubio said in indignation.

“Ah! I’m afraid there’s a good reason for that, friends.” Gianni felt a rush of guilt. “My name isn’t really Giorgio, you see.”

“Not Giorgio!” Vincenzio frowned. “But why did you lie to us? And what is your name?”

“I lied because the Stilettos were looking for me, and my real name is Gianni Braccalese.”

“Gianni Braccalese!” Rubio cried. “Oh, indeed the Stilettos are looking for you! We overheard them talking about the hundred ducats the prince has promised to the man who brings you to his castle!”

Gianni stared at him, feeling a cold chill—until Gar clapped a hand on his shoulder, saying, “Congratulations, my friend. A price on your head is a measure of your success in fighting the lords’ tyranny.”

Gianni stared up at him, amazed at the thought. Then he grinned. “Thank you, Gar. Not much of a success, though, is it?”

“Just keep being a pest to them,” Feste advised. “You’ll bring a thousand before long.”

Gianni grinned and punched him lightly on the arm, surprised at his own delight in seeing these vagabonds. “Come, then! Let’s see if I’m not worth more to you than I am to the prince!” He led them toward the land gate, and as he came in sight of the sentries, he called, “Ho, Alfredo! Why didn’t you let my friends in?”

“Your friends?” The sentry stared. “How was I to know they were your friends, Gianni?”

“Who else travels with a giant named Gar?” Gianni jibed. “You might at least have sent word to my father!”

“Oh, that kind of giant!” Alfredo looked up at Gar, looming above him. “I thought he meant a real giant—you know, out of the folk tales—twice the size of a house, and thick-headed as a ram.”

Gar inclined his head gravely. “I am flattered.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean you!” Alfredo said quickly. “I meant … I mean … ”

“That you weren’t like that,” said the other sentry, “and neither of us could remember your name.”

“I quite understand,” Gar said gravely. “It is rather long, and difficult to pronounce.”

The other sentry reddened, but Gianni said, “Don’t let him needle you, Giacomo. He only means it in fun.”

“Yes, quite enough needling, Gar,” Feste said. “I’m sure he gets the point.”

Gar gave him a pained look. “I thought you were a professional.”

Giacomo gave them a jaundiced eye. “Rather silly lot you’ve brought, aren’t they?”

“They’re just giddy with happiness at having come safely home,” Gianni said, then amended, “my home, at least. Let us all in, Giacomo. They’re recruits for the army.”

“Army? We only have a city guard!”

“It’s going to grow amazingly,” Gianni promised. “Oh, and there should be four more men coming—a beggar, a thief, a glazier, and a young merchant of Venoga.”

“Venoga! We’re to let one of them in?”

“You would if he wanted to trade,” Gianni reminded him. “Besides, he’s rather had his fill of noblemen. I think he may prefer to change allegiance to a city where there are none.”

When they came into the courtyard of the Braccalese home, Gianni’s father nearly dropped his end of the cask they were manhandling onto a wagon, when Gianni and Gar came in sight. He called for a worker to hold it in place, then ran to embrace his son. His wife heard his cry and was only a minute or two behind him. When they were done with fond exchanges, and Papa held his son at arm’s length, Gianni said, “I’m afraid I’ve lost you another goods train, Papa.”

“It’s on my head, not his,” Gar said, his face somber.

“On his head indeed! They broke his head so badly that he lost his wits for a while! In fact, we’re not sure he’s found them for good yet!”

“His teachers at school weren’t sure, either,” Feste put in.

Gar glared daggers at him, and the Braccaleses laughed. “We’re delighted to have you back alive, son,” Papa said, “for there’s not one single goods train has gone out from this city in a fortnight that has not been lost! Oh, the lords have us well and truly blockaded by land, you may be sure!”

“But not by sea?” Gianni’s eyes glittered.

“Not a bit! Oh, one or two of our galleys had brushes with ships that looked to be pirates—but they were so inept they must have been lordlings’ hirelings.” Papa grinned. “Our galleys can still defeat with ease the best the lords can send against us!” Gar nodded. “Free men fighting to save their own will always best driven slaves.”

“It seems so indeed.” Papa’s eyes gleamed with added respect as he looked up at Gar.

“He has brought you something worth a hundred ducats, though,” Feste said.

Papa stared at him. “What?”

“His head.”

“It’s true,” Gianni confessed. “My new friends here tell me that the lords have put a hundred ducats on my head.”

“And a thousand on your father’s,” Vincenzio added.

Mama turned pale, and Papa’s face turned wooden, but Feste only sighed. “Poor Gianni! Every time you try to make your own way in the world, you find that your father has been there before you!”

The tension broke under laughter, and Papa asked, “Who are these rogues?”

“Our road companions,” Gianni said. “They helped us escape from Prince Raginaldi’s castle, so I invited them to join Pirogia’s army.”

“A good thought,” Papa said, turning somber again.

But Mama gasped, “Prince Raginaldi! How did you run afoul of him?”

“By stealing his hen.” Feste looked up at the sudden stares of surprise all about him, and shrugged. “Well, you said he had run a fowl.”

They groaned, and Gar said, “If that’s what you were paid for, friend, I can see why you were wandering the roads. Signor Braccalese, this is Feste, who purports to be a professional jester.”

“ ‘Purports,’ forsooth!” Feste snorted. “Do you ‘purport’ to be mad, Gar? What shall I say you ‘purport’ to do next?”

“Wash, if I may.” Gar held up grimy hands. “If you will excuse me, gentlefolk, I have an appointment at the horse trough.”

“You shall do no such thing!” Mama scolded. “We have a copper tub, and kettles to heat water! You shall all bathe as gentlefolk do! Come in, come in all, and share our bread while we wait for the water to heat!”

The travelers cheered, and Feste sighed, “I thought they would never ask,” but Mama didn’t encourage him any further, only shooed them all inside and set about the task of organizing an impromptu celebration.

 

The next morning, Gianni woke to shouted commands and the sound of tramping. He leaped from his bed, ran to the window, and saw Gar, in the center of his father’s wagon yard, barking orders to eight men who were marching in two rows of four—the four vagabonds and four of Papa’s drivers. Gianni stared, then pulled on his clothes and dashed out into the courtyard. He came up to Gar, panting, “Why didn’t you tell me? I want to learn this, too!”

“Very good, very!” Gar nodded. “Find a pole to put over your shoulder, Gianni, and step into line!”

Gianni ran to fetch a pole, then slowed, frowning. “What’s the staff for?”

“To represent a spear or halberd—I’d rather teach them drill without the real weapons, so they don’t cut each other’s heads off every time they turn about.”

“Economical,” Gianni said judiciously. “But what’s the point of teaching them this marching, Gar?”

“About face!” Gar cried, just in time to keep the men from tramping head first into the wall. As they turned back, he said to Gianni, “It teaches them to act together, instantly upon hearing a signal, so that an officer can send them where they’re needed in battle, and have them point their spears in the right direction in time to keep the enemy from stabbing them.” He flashed Gianni a conspiratorial smile. “It also mightily impresses Council members.”

Gianni stared at him, amazed at such duplicity in Gar. Then, slowly, he smiled.

“Master Gianni!”

Gianni turned. A boy came running up, panting. “The sentries at the land gate, Master Gianni! They say there are four men there, four strangers, who claim you will vouch for them, to let them enter the city!”

“I will indeed.” Gianni smiled. “Thank you, lad.” He pressed a coin into the boy’s palm. “I’ll go and fetch them right away.” He turned to Gar. “I will join your marching, Gar—but I’ll bring you four more recruits first.”

“Give them my compliments,” Gar said, grinning, and turned back to bark a command, then swear as the back row had to duck to avoid the tips of the front row’s staves. Gianni went back inside, marveling at Gar’s high spirits—he enjoyed the strangest things.

Gianni took the time to straighten his clothes and shave, fortunately fortunately because, as he crossed the Piazza del Sol, he saw a Gypsy caravan drawn up beside the canal. His pulse quickened, and he veered toward it like a compass needle swinging.

There she was, sitting under an awning propped out against the side of the caravan, reading a goodwife’s palm. She glanced up and must have recognized Gianni, for her eyes widened, and she stared at him for a brief second. Only a second; then she was staring down at the woman’s hand again, and Gianni had to stand and fidget until she finished. He glanced up apprehensively at the line of men and women lounging and chatting with one another as they waited their turns to hear their fortunes—but when the housewife smiled happily, paid Medallia, and rose to leave, Gianni was up to the table like a shot, ignoring the outraged cry behind him. “Godspeed, fair Medallia.”

She looked up, perfectly composed now. “Good day, Gianni Braccalese. It is good to see you safely home.”

Only ”good“? No more than that? Gianni tried to control a massive surge of disappointment, and had to force his smile to stay in place. “It’s a joy to see you returned to Pirogia. To what do we owe this treat?”

“Why, to good business,” Medallia said easily, waving at the line of waiting customers. “If you will excuse me, Signor Braccalese, I must tend to my shop.”

Signor! “Of course,” Gianni said slowly. “But when you’re finished … may I meet you here in the evening, to chat?”

“Do you wish your fortune told?” She looked up at him with wide, limpid, innocent eyes.

Not unless you’re my fortune, he thought. Slowly, he said, “Why … yes, I suppose I do.”

“I shall be here all of today until sunset, and tomorrow too,” she said. “You may have to wait your turn, though. Good day, Signor.”

“Good day,” he muttered and turned away, his face thunderous. It was strange how the sunlight no longer seemed so bright, even stranger how stupid his fellow citizens suddenly appeared, chatting and laughing, completely at ease, while Fate rolled toward them with the thunder of the hooves of an army. Didn’t they realize the enemy was nearly at their gates? Didn’t they realize their freedom, their prosperity, their very lives might soon be snuffed out at a lord’s whim?

No. Of course not. No one had told them.

Gianni resolved that he must make an appointment to speak to the Council again at once, that very day if possible! The fools would see, they must see! And blast Medallia for pretending that he meant no more to her than any other customer, anyway!

But what if he didn’t?

 

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