A Wizard in Mind

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 naïve? 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 naïveté 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 half-wit 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!