A Wizard in Mind

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 “half-wit” 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?