A Wizard in Mind

CHAPTER 3

The world went away; there was nothing but darkness, nothing but consciousness—consciousness of a spot of light, small or distant. Distant; it grew larger, seeming to come nearer, until Gianni could see it was a swirl of whiteness. Closer then it came and closer, until Gianni realized, with a shock, that its center was a face, an old man’s face, and the swirling about him was his long white beard and longer white hair. Hair blurred into beard as it moved about and about, as though it floated in water. Beware, beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

The words sprang unbidden to Gianni’s mind, words he was certain he had never heard before—and surely not the type of thing he would have thought of himself. But those eyes were flashing, looking directly into his, and the lips parted, parted and spoke, in a voice that seemed to reverberate all about Gianni, so low in pitch that it seemed to be the rumble of the earth, issuing words he could barely understand because they throbbed in his bones as much as in his ears:

Your time has not yet come. Live!

And Gianni was astonished to find that he didn’t want to, that the warm enwrapping darkness was so comforting that he had no wish to leave it.

This is not your place, the face said. You have no right to be here—you have not earned it.

But I can do no good in the world, Gianni protested. I have seen that! I can’t protect my men. I can’t protect my father’s goods—I’m not half the man my father is!

Nor was he, when he was your age. The face spoke sternly. Go! Or would you deprive him not only of his goods, but also of his son, who is more dear to him than anything he owns? Would you leave him to weep his grief in your mother’s arms, and she in his?

A pang of guilt stabbed Gianni, and he sighed, gathering his energies. Very well, if you say it. I shall go. His attention suddenly sharpened. Yet tell me first, who are you?

But the face was receding, and the voice was commanding, Go! Go back to the world! To your mother, your father! Go! Go, and come not back until …

His voice seemed to blur as he shrank to only a circle of whiteness, and Gianni asked, Until? Until what?

Come not! Come not! Come … Come … But the face had dwindled to a circle of light again, shrinking, growing smaller and smaller until it winked out, leaving a last word lingering behind: Come …

“Come back, Gianni! Come back!” a voice was saying, was urging gently. “Come back to the world! Wake up, arise!”

Gianni frowned, finding himself somewhat irritated. He forced his eyes open—only a little, then wider, for there was very little light. He saw the giant bending over him, his rough-hewn face even more craggy in the stark whites and sudden blacks of moonlight.

“He looks!” Gar marveled. “He opens his eyes! He lives!”

“Yes, I live,” Gianni groaned, “though I would far rather not.” He tried to push himself up, but his arm was too weak. Gar caught him and hauled him upright. Gianni gasped at the lance of pain in his head, then choked down the nausea that followed. “What … how …”

“It was a blow to your head,” Gar said, “only that, but a very bad blow.”

“I remember … a horse’s hoof …”

“Yes, that would be enough to addle your brains for a while,” Gar allowed.

Gianni blinked about him, trying to make out dim shapes through his haze of pain. “What … happened to … the day?”

“We lay like the dead, I’m sure,” Gar told him, “and the condotierri had no use for corpses, so they let us lie—after looting our bodies, of course. My sword is gone, and my purse and boots.”

Gianni looked down and saw his sword and scabbard gone, his feet bare, and his belt shorn. “Well, at least I have life,” he grunted.

“And a miracle it is! I woke in midafternoon and forced myself up enough to crawl to water. I upset a considerable number of ravens and vultures, and came back to find them eyeing you.”

“Thank you for upsetting them again.”

“I labored long trying to revive you. For a time, I thought you were dead, but laid my cheek near your face and felt a ghost of breath from your nose. I’ve stretched all my meager store of soldier’s healing lore, but you’ve revived.”

“And am not happy about it, I assure you.” Gianni clutched a pain-fried head.

“Here.” Gar held out two small white disks in his palm. “Swallow them, and drink!”

Gianni gave the little disks a jaundiced look. “What are they?”

“Soldiers’ medicine, for a blow to the head. Drink!” Gar thrust a wineskin at him, and Gianni reluctantly took the two small pills, put them in his mouth, then took a swallow of water. He almost gagged on them, then looked up gasping. “What now?”

“We rest until your head no longer drums, then go back to Pirogia.”

Back to Pirogia! Gianni’s stomach sank at the thought of confronting his father with the report that he had lost not only his father’s goods, but also his mules and even his drivers—that he had lost the whole caravan. Stalling, he gestured vaguely about him. “Should we not … the bodies …” Then he blinked, amazed to see a long, low mound of fresh earth beside the road and no bodies about him, only a deal of churned mud. He realized what liquid must have softened the road, and almost lost his stomach again.

“I had to do something while I waited for you to waken,” Gar explained. “There’s nothing more to keep us here, and every reason to find a priest to bring back, so he can say prayers over them. Come, Gianni. It’s far more my disgrace than your own, for you hired me to prevent this very thing but I must confess my failure, and accept the consequences.”

“I, too.” Inside, Gianni shied from the thought of his father’s face swollen in anger, but knew he must do even as Gar had said—report his failure and take his punishment. “Well, then, back to Pirogia.” He started to struggle to his feet, but Gar held him back. “No, no, not yet! When your head has ceased to pound, I said! Give the medicine a chance to do its work! Wait half an hour more, Gianni, at least that!”

It was an hour, at a guess from the decline of the moon, but Gar did manage to pull Gianni to his feet and start down the road, though they held themselves up only by leaning against one another as much as they walked.

They tottered through the night, and Gianni would have said “Enough!” and lain down to rest a dozen times over, but Gar insisted that they keep on trudging through the dust. Even after the moon had set, he kept urging, “Only a little farther, Gianni!” or “Only another half hour, Gianni—we’re bound to find a barn or a woodlot in that time!” and at last, “Only till dawn, Gianni. Let us at least be able to see if enemies come!” Gianni protested and protested with increasing weariness, until at last it seemed that Gar was holding him up. Over that blank and featureless plain they plodded, through a darkness that showed them only a lighter blackness where sky met land, with the occasional huddle of cottages in the distance, the occasional granary or byre. Gianni would have wondered why Gar thought it so important to keep him walking through the night, if fatigue hadn’t addled his wits to the point where only one thought could take root, and that thought was: sleep!

Finally, the sky lightened with the coming day, and Gar ground to a stop, lowering his employer gently to the grass by the roadside. “Here, at least, we can see.”

“I told you there were no barns, no woodlots, between here and Pirogia,” Gianni said thickly.

“In fact, you did,” Gar agreed. “Go ahead now, sleep. I’ll wake you up if anyone comes to disturb us.”

But Gianni didn’t hear the end of the sentence. He fell asleep just as Gar was promising to wake him. And wake him he did, shaking his shoulder and saying, with a note of urgency, “Gianni! Wake up! Trouble comes!”

Gianni was up on one elbow before his eyes had finished opening. “Trouble? What kind?”

“Horsemen,” Gar said. “Can they be anything but trouble?”

“Only if they’re another train of merchants.” Gianni stumbled to his feet, looking down the road to where Gar was pointing, amazed to realize that it was midafternoon. Had the mercenary kept watch all that time, and not slept?

But he saw the cloud of dust already a little way past the horizon, heard the faint drum of hoofbeats, saw the glitter of sunlight off steel, and said, “That’s not a troop of merchants.”

“No,” Gar agreed, “it’s a troop of cavalry. You know this land better than I do, Gianni. Where can we hide?”

Gianni looked about him, feeling the first faint tendrils of panic reaching out about his mind. “Nowhere! This is table land—there’s only the ditch beside the road!”

“And they’ll see us if we try to run for the shelter of a granary—if we can find one.” Gar was tense, alert, his eyes luminous, but seemed quite poised, quite cool-headed. The mere sight of him calmed Gianni a bit. “There is the ditch,” the mercenary went on, “but they’re sure to glance down and see us crouching in the mud … Hold! The mud!”

Gianni stared. “What about it?”

“Off with your doublet—quickly!” Gar yanked open his jerkin and leaped across the ditch, dropping the garment into the tall grass at the edge of the field of green shoots. “Off with your shirt, too! Quickly, before they can see us clearly!”

Gianni stared. Had the man gone mad?

Then he remembered that he was supposedly paying Gar to defend them both, and decided not to waste his father’s money that he wasn’t paying. He leaped across the ditch to join Gar in a race to strip to bare flesh, leaving only his hose, which were badly ripped from the fighting and the fleeing anyway.

Gar knelt to yank up fistfuls of straw and throw them over the heap of clothing. “Quickly, hide them!”

Gianni bent to help him cover the clothing, and in a minute, only a heap of dried grass lay there at the edge of the field.

“Now, get down! And dirty!” Gar leaped down into the ditch, scooped up some mud, and began to daub it over his chest and shoulders.

“I already am,” Gianni protested, but he overcame distaste and slid down beside Gar, rubbing himself with dirt. “What are we doing, making ourselves look like complete vagabonds?”

“Exactly!” Gar told him. “You can’t rob a wandering beggar, can you? Paint my back!” He turned about, daubing mud on his face. Gianni rubbed mud over his back, then turned for Gar to do the same to him. “More than vagabonds—brain-sick fools! Pretend you are mad, though harmless.”

Gianni felt a surge of hope. It might work. “And you?”

“I’m a half-wit, a simpleton! You’re my brother, guiding me and caring for me in spite of your madness!”

“The mad leading the feebleminded?” That had too much of the ring of truth to it for Gianni’s liking but he remembered the lunatic beggar who sat at the foot of the Bridge of Hope at home, and found himself imitating the man’s loose-lipped smile. “What if they ask for our names?”

“Don’t give your true one, whatever you do—one of them might think you could fetch a fat ransom, or that I might be of use in the ranks! No, we give false names. Yours is Giorgio and mine is Lenni!”

Gianni stared. “How did you think of them so quickly?”

The thunder of approaching hooves prevented Gar’s answer. He clapped a hand on Gianni’s shoulder. “They come! Stay down—no one would think it odd for wayfarers to hide from condotierri, even if they were mad! Remember, you have so little mind that no one could care about you!”

“What does a madman say?” Gianni asked, feeling panic reach out for him again.

“Uhhhh … Giorgio, look! Horsies!” Gar crouched down and pointed up.

Gianni turned to him in exasperation—and saw the troop approach out of the corner of his eye. “Yes, G—Lenni! But those horsies are carrying nasty men! Down!” He found himself talking as he would to a baby. How would the beggar of the Bridge of Hope talk? He crouched beside Gar, hoping the horsemen would pass by without looking at them, hoping they would emerge unscathed …

Not to be. The captain rode by, talking in restless tones with his lieutenants about the Raginaldi and their displeasure that the Stilettoes had not punished those presumptuous merchants of Pirogia yet—but one of the troopers, bored, looked down, saw them, and his face lit in anticipation of fun. “Captain! See what we’ve found!”

The troop slowed; a lieutenant barked, “Halt!” and they stopped.

The captain rode back, looked down, and wrinkled his nose. “What are these?”

“Horsie.” Gar beamed up at the cavalrymen with a loose-lipped grin.

“A simpleton,” his lieutenant said with disgust, “and a beggar, from the look of him.”

Gianni plucked up his courage and took his cue. He held up cupped hands, crying, “Alms, rich captain! Alms for the poor!”

“Alms? I should more likely give you arms,” the captain said in disgust, “force of arms! Why do you not work, like an honest fellow?”

“Honest,” Gar repeated sagely.

Gianni elbowed him in the ribs, snapping, “Hush, you great booby! I can’t say why for the life of me, Captain! They’ll give me work, yes, and I’m a hard and willing worker, but they never keep me long.” He remembered what the beggar at the Bridge of Hope would have done, and looked up, startled, above the captain’s head.

The captain frowned, glanced up, saw nothing, and scowled down at Gianni. “Why do they send you away?”

“I can’t say, for the life of me,” Gianni said, still gazing above the man’s head. “I do as I’m bid, and scare the thieves away from the master’s goods, or the farmer’s …” He broke off, waving angrily and crying, “Away! Get away from the captain, you leather-winged nuisance! Leave him be!”

The captain and half the troopers looked up in alarm—“leather-winged” could only refer to two kinds of beings—but there was nothing in sight. The captain turned back to Gianni with the beginnings of suspicion in his eyes. “What thieves do you speak of?”

“Why, the leathern ones, such as I have just now afrighted, and the slimy crawling ones, and the little big-eyed … Ho! Away from his boots, small one!” Gianni lunged at the captain’s feet, clapping his hands, then rocked back, nodding with satisfaction. “Oh, you know when someone’s watching, don’t you?”

“Brownie?” Gar asked. “Goblin?”

“Goblin,” Gianni confirmed.

A whisper of superstitious fear went through the ranks: “He can see the spirits!”

“Spirits that aren’t there!” The captain realized these beggars could be bad for morale. “He’s mad!” The men stared, appalled, and the nearest ones backed their mounts away.

Gianni spun, stabbing a finger at the air behind him. “Sneaking up on me, are you? Get hence, beaky-face! Lenni, knock him away for me!”

Gar obediently swung a backhanded blow at empty space, but said, “Can’t see him, Giorgio.”

“No need,” Gianni said, with satisfaction. “You scared him away.”

“Mad indeed!” the captain said quickly and loudly, before the troopers could start muttering again. “No wonder no man will keep you! Where are you bound, beggars? How do you think you shall live?”

“Oh, by honest labor, Captain!” Gianni swung back to the leader, all wide-eyed sincerity. “All we seek is an acre to farm, where we may raise doves and hares.”

A hard finger tapped his shoulder, and in a dreamy voice, Gar said, “Tell me about the rabbits, Giorgio.” Gianni shrugged him off in irritation. Didn’t the big clown know not to interrupt when he was trying to pretend? “Now, good Captain, if you had an acre of ground to spare …”

“An acre of ground?” the captain snorted. “Fool! We’re mercenary soldiers! None of us expects to own land here!”

“Wherever your home is, then,” Gianni pleaded. “Only a half-acre, good signor!”

“Giorgio,” Gar pleaded, “tell me about the rabbits”

“Hares, Lenni!” Gianni snapped. “I keep telling you—hares, not rabbits!”

“Rabbits,” Gar said, with absolute certainty. “Little, fuzzy, cuddly bunnies. You raise hares. Tell me about the rabbits, Giorgio.”

“He plagues me with his demands for hare-raising stories,” Gianni said, exasperated. “Please, your worship! If I can’t give him land to farm, who knows what he’ll do! Only half an acre, signor!”

“The only land I shall give you is six feet long and three wide!” the captain said with contempt, and to his lieutenants, “They’re fools indeed. Spurn them and ride on.”

“Shall we not have some fun with them first?” One of the troopers gave Gianni a leering grin that fairly froze his blood.

“Oh, very well!” the captain said impatiently. “But only a minute or two, mind! I can’t linger here all day.”

The troopers whooped and fell on the two unfortunates. A huge fist slammed into Gianni’s belly and he folded in agony. Hard boots kicked his side, his hip, his chest, his belly again. He heard Gar roar, had a glimpse of the huge man shaking off troopers as though they were leeches, laying about him with fist and foot in blundering, clumsy movements that nonetheless laid condotierri about him like chaff on a threshing floor. Then a boot toe cracked into the side of Gianni’s head, and he saw only darkness again.

Get up, get up! the white-bearded face was commanding. You cannot tarry here!

I can and shall, Gianni snarled. I listened to you last time, and look what happened!

Are you so afraid of a little pain, then?

Gianni winced at the thought of enduring more, but said, Of course not, if there’s a good reason. But I accomplish nothing by my suffering—I fail wherever I try!

Who could succeed, against an army of bandits? But you can warn Pirogia of the mercenaries who seek to destroy it!

Destroy? Gianni’s blood quickened; his attention suddenly focused on the swirling face. Who said to destroy them?

That captain! The lord who had hired him was angry because they had not punished the insolent merchants! What sort of punishment do you think he expected?

Why—I thought that was only—the ambushing of our … Gianni stopped, thinking. No—they had done that, hadn’t they? And burned Signor Ludovico’s storehouse.

Even so. It’s Pirogia they seek to punish—Pirogia, and your mother, your father!

I must warn them! Gianni struggled to sit up. But who are you?