A Wizard in Mind

CHAPTER 2

We didn’t exactly throw out our contes,” Gianni explained, “any of them. It was more a matter of our great-grandfathers having become impatient with the restrictions of the princes and the doges—and with their taxing us as highly as they could while still leaving us any capital at all to work with.”

Antonio said nothing, only glancing at his young charge with bright eyes every now and then. Well, Gianni thought, at least, if I’m being tested, I’m passing.

The stranger nodded with an intent frown. That would change, Gianni reflected wryly. He was very surprised when it didn’t. “So merchants from six cities, who knew each other from trading, banded together and built warehouses on islands in a lagoon on the eastern tip of Talipon. The land was technically within the demesne of Prince Raginaldi of Tumanola, but it was a wilderness and a swamp, so he paid no attention.”

“And where the merchants had their warehouses, of course,” Gar said, “it was only natural that they build their dwellings.”

Gianni nodded, surprised that the man cared enough to reason that out. “Within a few years, all of them were living there.”

“And their clerks and workmen, of course.”

“Of course.” Gianni was beginning to wonder if perhaps this stranger was a bit too quick for comfort. “They built bridges between the islands, those that were close enough, and traveled to the bigger ones in small boats.”

Gar smiled. “Even as a merchant in Renova might ride a horse to work, or haul his goods in wagons.”

“A merchant in Renova wouldn’t be allowed to own a horse,” Antonio said. “He could own a wagon, of course.”

“That was true for the merchants in Tumanola, too,” Gianni pointed out, “but no law said they couldn’t own boats.”

“I begin to see the advantage of living far away from the prince’s eye,” Gar said. “How long was it before he began to realize they had built their own city?”

“When ships began to dock at the larger islands, and fewer docked at his own harbor. Then he levied a tax on all goods imported to Pirogia, but the merchants refused to pay it.”

Gar smiled. “How many times did he demand before he sent his army?”

“Only twice—but when the army came, they discovered the other advantage of a city built on islands.”

“What?” Gar asked. “The ability to see the enemy coming a long way away?”

“No,” said Gianni, “the difficulty of marching on water.”

Gar’s smile widened. “Of course! A natural moat.”

“A moat a quarter of a mile wide and a hundred feet deep.”

“Didn’t the prince send his navy?”

“Of course.” Gianni smiled. “That was when the noblemen discovered what excellent sailors we merchants had become.”

“Surely they fired cannon at your walls!”

“Pirogia has no walls,” Gianni said. “What need would we have of them? Our lagoon is wall enough—that, and our fleet.”

“Had your grandfathers had the foresight to build warships, then?”

“A few. Besides, there were pirates, so every merchantman carried cannon, and all our sailors knew how to fight a ship as well as how to sail one—still do, in fact, though pirates are rare now. The prince’s captains came against us in galleys, but we met them in ships with lateen sails and tacked against the wind until we could turn and sail down upon them with the wind at our backs!” Gianni’s eyes glittered with fierce pride; he spoke as though he had been there himself. “We shot off their oars; the balls ripped the sides of the galleys, and a hundred small boats harried them from all sides—small boats that pulled the enemy sailors out of the water, and we held the prince’s captains to ransom.”

“Surely he couldn’t accept such a defeat!”

“Indeed he couldn’t, and sent to the noblemen of other seacoast cities to bring an armada against Pirogia. Our great-grandfathers were ready, but they quailed inside—what could all their merchantmen do against so huge a fleet of galleys?”

“Outsail them?” Gar guessed.

“Indeed.” Gianni grinned. “Their huge galleys couldn’t move or turn as swiftly as our caravels—but even so, they might have won by sheer numbers had it not been for the tempest that blew their fleet apart. Our captains fell upon them piecemeal, in twos and threes. Most never came in sight of Pirogia, but limped back to land to mend their hulls and sails.”

Gar nodded, gaze never leaving Gianni’s face. “Was the prince content with that?”

“He tried to force the other cities to build a stronger navy and attack us again,” said Antonio, “but Renova began to fight with Slamia over a boundary—a river had shifted its course—and Gramona thought it a good opportunity to seize some of Slamia’s territory, while the conte of Marpa saw a chance to swallow some of Renova’s mainland trading bases—but Borella took alarm at the idea of Gramona growing any stronger, so it attacked in defense of Slamia, and Tumanola itself had no wish to see Marpa gain more of the trade which the prince’s merchant counselors were advising him to seize for himself, so Tumanola attacked Marpa, and …”

“I know the way of it.” Gar nodded with a grim smile. “Soon they were all fighting one another, and forgot their concern about Pirogia in the stir. Had your grandfathers sent agents to foment trouble in Renova?”

“What—could building a mere dam in the hills change the course of a river?” Antonio said airily. “Or even a dozen of them?”

“And Tumanola’s prince has never threatened again?”

“Well,” said Gianni, “he has not moved against us, neither he nor any of his descendants. But they constantly make threats, they harry our ships when they can—and they have never left off demanding a share of our profits.” He looked up at a thought. “Do you suppose it might be the prince himself who has hired the Stilettos?”

“We shall find out before we see our lagoon again,” Antonio said grimly.

“What of the sailors your great-grandfathers captured?” Gar asked.

Gianni couldn’t believe it. The man was deliberately asking for more history! “Most of them decided to stay in Pirogia and look for work—they knew a good thing when they saw one. Our grandfathers would only allow five of them to a crew, of course, and had them watched closely, in case they proved to be spies—but none did.”

“And the rest?”

“When the battle was done, we let them go home. We ferried them to land, where we struck off their chains and let them wander where they chose. Some lurked about as a bandit tribe, but our city guard put an end to that quickly enough—after all, they only had such weapons as they could make from wood and stone. The others went home, so far as we know; in any event, they never came to Pirogia again.”

Gar leaned back, hands on his knees, “A brave battle, signori, and worthy forefathers you had! No doubt you have built well on their foundation.”

“Pirogia is a mighty city now,” Antonio assured him, “though we still have no wall—and the stew is done.”

Gianni ladled out servings into wooden bowls and gave them to Antonio and Gar. All about them, the drivers were eating and talking in low voices, except for the half-dozen on sentry duty. Gianni sat down again, dipping his spoon into his bowl. “What of yourself?” he asked. “Were you raised to sailing ships?”

Antonio looked up, alarmed—it was rude to ask a mercenary where he came from or why he had become a soldier. Rude, and sometimes dangerous—but Gar only smiled and said, “In my homeland, most people fished or farmed.”

Gianni ignored Antonio’s frantic signals. “What is your homeland?”

“A land called Gramarye,” Gar answered and, anticipating his next question, “It’s a very big island very far away, out in the middle of an ocean.”

In his interest Antonio forgot his manners. “Gramarye? I have never heard of it.”

“It’s very far away.”

“The name means ‘magic,’ doesn’t it?”

Gar smiled. “I see you know some languages other than your own—but yes, ‘Gramarye’ means ‘magic,’ or a book of magic, and a magical land it is, full of mystery and intrigue.”

“It sounds like the kind of place that would draw a man,” Gianni said, then bit his tongue in consternation, realizing just how thoroughly he had forgotten his manners.

“It does,” Gar said, “but it’s home, and a village begins to seem a prison as a youth comes to manhood. I became restless and went exploring in my father’s ship with an old and trusted servant. Then, when I found employment, the servant took the ship home. One job led to another, until I signed on aboard the ship of the merchant who brought me to Talipon, then was kind enough to write a letter recommending me when I wished to stay and discover more about your island. I enjoy seeing something of the world, though the danger and the hardship are unpleasant.”

There was a cry from the corner of the wall. “Master Gianni, come quickly!”

Gianni was up almost before the call was done, running over to the corner with Antonio right behind him. Gar followed more slowly.

Old Ludovico lay, his face pale, his eyes staring at the sky. “He stopped breathing,” the driver said. Gianni leaned closer and held a palm over the old man’s mouth and nose. He waited a few minutes, then reached up to close the merchant’s eyes.

By morning, the villagers, those who survived, had begun to peer out of their houses. A priest newly arrived from a nearby monastery stared in horror at what he saw, then began the mournful business of conducting funerals. Gianni and his men stood about Ludovico’s grave with bared, bowed heads, listening to the monk’s Latin, then singing the “Deus Irae” in slow and solemn tones. Oddly, it made them all feel a bit better, and they began to chat with one another as they loaded their mules. They even set out on the road to Pirogia with a few jests and laughs.

“Your men cure their spirits quickly,” Gar noted.

“Ludovico wasn’t one of us,” Gianni replied, “only a trading acquaintance.”

Gar nodded. “Close enough for his death to shake you, not close enough to cause true grief. Still, your men have spirit.”

“Meaning that they march in the shadow of condotierri and manage to smile?” Gianni suited his own words. “So many mules can’t move in silence—so why not laugh while you stay vigilant? After all, would a whole mercenary company post sentries along the roadside to watch for fat travelers?”

“Yes,” Gar said instantly. “At least, if I were the captain of such a band, I would set a few men to watch for every chance of plunder.”

Gianni looked up, shaken. “Would you turn bandit, then?”

“Definitely not,” Gar said, just as quickly. “But when you wish to guard against an enemy, you must think ahead, to what he will most likely do—and the best way to do that is to put yourself in his place and try to think as he does. So, although I would never allow men of mine to loot or plunder or attack civilians, I imagine how I would think if I were such a captain.” He looked directly into Gianni’s eyes. “Can you understand that?”

“Yes,” Gianni said, somewhat shaken, “and it speaks of great talent or long training. You aren’t so new to soldiering as you seem, are you?” He was very much aware that he still didn’t know enough about Gar to be sure he was trustworthy, and wasn’t about to miss a chance to gain a little more information.

Nor was Gar about to give it. “I was raised to war, as are most barbarians.”

Gianni nodded. “Still, you’re young to be a captain.”

“And you’re young to be a merchant,” Gar returned.

Gianni smiled. “As you said—I was raised to it. Still, the goods aren’t mine, but my father’s, and I don’t take the profit myself—I only receive a share.”

“A share?” Gar raised his eyebrows. “Not a wage?”

“No—Papa says I will work harder if the amount of my pay depends on the size of the profit.”

Gar nodded slowly. “There is sense in that.” Antonio only listened to the two young men chat, smiling with pleasure.

“But your father sends ships out to trade,” Gar said. “Why does he bother sending men inland?”

“Because we must have something to send on those ships,” Gianni explained. “If we sent only gold, we would soon have no gold left—and barbarians like you, and the nomads of the southern shore of the Middle Sea, have little use for precious metals. They have need of iron ingots, though, and of the cotton and linen cloth that our weavers make. The rustic lords of the northern shore love our tapestries and woolens and cottons and linens. Besides, gold is compact, taking up very little room in a hold. Why have a ship sail almost empty when it could carry a full cargo that won’t drain our reserves?”

He was rather surprised that Gar seemed to understand every word. “There is sense to that,” he said, “but couldn’t your ships carry timber and grain from those trading voyages?”

“Why, when they are much more cheaply had here, near home?” Gianni countered. “The cost of bearing them to Pirogia is so much less. No, from the barbarian shores, we bring amber and furs and all manner of stuffs that are luxuries to the people of Talipon, and from the old cities to the east and the warlords of the south, we bring spices and silk and rare woods. Those are the cargoes that we can sell at a profit in Talipon, my friend—not the goods that they already have.”

“There is sense in that,” Gar admitted. “Who decides to trade in this fashion? The merchant princes of your Pirogia?”

Gianni laughed. “I would scarcely call them princes—solid city men, prosperous, perhaps, but they certainly don’t live like princes. And no, my friend, the Council doesn’t decide what to ship and what to import my father does that, as does every other merchant. Each decides for himself.”

“Then what does your Council do?”

Gianni took a breath. “They decide the things that affect all the merchants, and all the city—how much money to invest in ships of war, how much in soldiers, whether to hire mercenaries or train our own …”

“Your own,” Gar said firmly. “Always your own.”

Gianni blinked, surprised that the man would preach against his own trade. Then he went on. “They decide whether or not to build bridges, or new public buildings, or to shore up the banks of the rivers and canals—all manner of things affecting the public good.”

“Say rather, the good of the merchants,” Gar pointed out. “Who guards the interests of the craftsmen and working men?”

“The craftsmen have their guilds, whose syndics may argue in the Council if they care strongly about an issue that’s being discussed.” It occurred to Gianni that he could have taken offense at that question, but he was too busy explaining. “As to the laborers, I’ll admit we haven’t yet discovered how to include them in the deliberations, other than to charge each councillor with speaking about the issues to all the folk in his warehouses and ships.”

Gar nodded. “How are these oligarchs—your pardon, the councillors—chosen?”

Gianni frowned, not liking the word “oligarch,” especially since he didn’t understand its meaning—but he decided it must be a word in Gar’s native language and let it pass. “The merchants of Pirogia meet in assembly and elect the councillors by casting pebbles into bowls that bear the name of each merchant who’s willing to serve that year—green pebbles for those they want to serve, red for those they don’t want. There are always at least twice as many willing as there are positions on the Council.”

“How many is that?”

“A dozen.” Gianni wondered how his attempt to learn more about Gar had turned into a lecture on the government of Pirogia, and might have asked exactly that, had the condotierri not fallen upon them.

They came riding across the fields, shouting for the merchants to stop. “Ride!” Gianni called. “Do they think us fools?” He kicked his horse into a canter, and Gar matched his pace on one side, Antonio on the other. The drivers whipped their mules into their fastest pace, which the beasts were frightened enough to do—but the train could go no faster than a laden mule, and the condotierri came on at the gallop.

“They know we aren’t fools—but neither are they!” Gar called to him. “They’re frightening us into riding headlong because they have an ambush planned!”

“Ambush?” Antonio cried, incredulous. “From where?”

“There!” Gar pointed ahead at a cluster of peasant huts that had just come into view. “Scare us enough, and we’ll think we’re safe when we come to shelter, any shelter!”

Even as he said it, more condotierri burst out of the huts, galloping straight toward them. Gianni gave a frantic look back, but saw another group following hard on their trail.

“We’re lost!” one of the drivers cried, and slewed his mule to a halt, throwing up his hands.

“Circle!” Gianni shouted. “Do you want to be slaves in the lords’ galleys the rest of your lives? Form the circle and fight!”

The drivers pulled their animals around to form an impromptu fortress.

“They’re soldiers!” the lone driver wailed. “We can’t win! They’ll slay us if we fight back!”

“Better dead and free than alive and in bondage!” Antonio shouted.

“Any man who wishes to live as a slave, leave now!” Gianni called. “Perhaps you can escape while the rest of us fight!”

That one driver bolted—out of the circle, down off the road, and over the fields. The others all held steady, staring at the mercenaries thundering down upon them.

“Slay the horses first!” Gar called. “A man afoot is less of a threat!”

A cry of terror made them all look toward the deserter, just in time to see a condotierre strike him down with a club. He fell amidst the grain, unconscious and waiting to be harvested when the battle was done.

“That is the reward of surrender!” Antonio called. “Better to die fighting!”

“Better still to fight and live!” Gar shouted. “But if you must die, take as many of them with you as you can!”

The drivers answered him with a shout.

“Fire!” Gianni cried, and a volley of crossbow bolts slammed into horses. The poor beasts threw up their heads and died with a scream; the next rank of soldiers stumbled and fell over the crumpled bodies of the first. But the third rank had time to swerve around their fallen comrades, and the drivers dropped their crossbows, realizing they wouldn’t have time to reload.

Then the condotierri fell upon them.

It was hot, hard fighting, and it seemed to last hours, as Gianni caught blades on his dagger and thrust and slashed. Gar stood just behind him, back to back, roaring and slashing at rider after rider. In minutes, they were both bleeding; as their men fell, swords slashed them, skewered them, but they shouted with rage and didn’t feel the pain as anything but a distant annoyance. The condotierri bellowed with anger as drivers thrust swords into their horses’ chests, and the mounts buckled beneath the soldiers. Screams of anguish and agony filled the air, but more from the condotierri than the drivers—for the Stilettos were striking with clubs, trying to capture men for the slave markets, but the drivers struck back with swords and lances and axes. Finally the condotierri gave up hope of profit and drew their swords in rage. Gianni shouted in pain when he saw his men falling, blood pumping from chest and throat, then cried with anguish as old Antonio fell with his jerkin stained crimson.

Then a roundhouse swing struck his sword up and slammed the blade back into his forehead. He spun about, and as he fell, saw Gar already lying in a crumpled heap below him—before the horse’s hoof struck his head, and the world stopped.