A Wizard in Mind

CHAPTER 6

Oldo said slowly, “Yes, there are other such cities, though Pirogia is the only one in which the merchants have become the government in name as well as fact—the others still have a doge or a conte and, though the merchants are the real power, they dare not move without their nobleman’s agreement. But ally with those with whom we must compete, in order to prosper? Unthinkable!”

“What would happen after the war was done?” Grepotti demanded. “How would we divide the spoils? For surely, in a war of a dozen city-states, all the aristocratic cities would league against us, and the only way to win would be to conquer them!”

“We could not win!” Pietro San Duse cried. “A dozen merchant cities, against fifty governed by noblemen? Impossible!”

“But even if we did,” Di Silva said, “the war would never end! With such an army and navy, no one city would dare disband them, for fear the others would league against it! We would have to use that compound army to conquer more territory and more, and the drain on our purses would never end! No, even I cannot approve such a league.”

Gar stood like a statue, his face flint. “It may be your only chance to stay free and independent.”

Oldo shook his head. “We shall find another way—there must be another way! Arm, perhaps, but league? No!” He looked around at the councillors all cowed and subdued by the mere notion of allying with their business rivals. “We must consider what we have heard, my brother merchants, and discuss the issue again, when our heads have cleared.” He struck the cymbal and announced, “We shall meet tomorrow at the same time! For today, good afternoon to you all!”

They did meet the next day, but Gianni and Gar weren’t invited, having already given their testimony—and more of Gar’s opinion than the Council had wanted. Papa Braccalese went, but he came home looking exasperated, shaking his head and saying, “They argued three hours, and could decide on nothing!”

“Not even to reject my idea of seeking allies?” Gar asked.

“Oh, that they agreed on—agreed on so well that Oldo began the meeting by saying, ‘I think we may safely discard this notion of making compacts with our competitors. Yes?’ and everyone cried, ‘Yes!’ with Grepotti saying, ‘Especially Venoga,’ and there was no more heard of that.”

Gar sighed, shaking his head. “It may be good business, but it’s very poor strategy.”

“What shall we do, then?” Gianni asked, at a loss. “What can we do?”

Papa threw his arms wide. “Business as usual! What else? But if it must be business, let us choose customers and sources as safe as can be found! You, Gianni, will take another goods train out—but you will go north to Navorrica this time, through the mountains, where the only bandits are those who grew up there, and the country is too rough for an army!”

Gar went too, of course—Papa Braccalese wasn’t about to let his son go without protection when there was a professional soldier available, and one who, moreover, refused to accept pay for his last assignment, maintaining that he had failed to bring the goods train safely home. At least, Gianni thought, he isn’t trying to take the blame for letting the Stilettos burn Ludovico’s warehouse!

Gianni was excited at the prospect of the journey, and delighted at the chance to redeem himself. He was also amazed at his father’s faith in him, when he had already lost one goods train. He was bound and determined to prove worthy of Papa’s trust—so the awakening was all the more rude, even though he had fallen asleep when it came.

Gianni, she called, even before he saw her; then it was almost as though he had turned to look behind him in his dream, and there she was, dancing languorously against darkness, swirling veils hiding her face and hinting at her form. She was desire incarnate, she was beauty, she was grace, she was all a man could want.

Gianni, she said, I have warned you against the Stilettos. Why did you not heed me?

I did, maiden. Gianni felt hurt. The Council wouldn’t listen.

Nor would your father, if he sends you a-venturing! It is not westward alone that you must fear to go, but northward too, and southward! I would tell you eastward also, if there were anything there but the sea!

Gianni was appalled. Why is there danger in every direction?

Because the lords are banding together, even as the giant told your merchants to do! They are banding together and bringing the mercenary armies, to take revenge on you insolent commoners who dare defy your natural masters by building and governing your own city! Oh, make no mistake, Gianni—the giant was right, in every respect! But if you cannot persuade your elders to ally with the other merchant cities, at least do not go out to your doom! Her form began to waver as she turned and turned, shrinking, receding. Do not go, Gianni … do not go …

Do not go! he cried, unconsciously echoing her. Don’t go! Stay a while, for I long to come to know you better! Stay, beautiful maiden, stay!

But she receded still, saying, Do not go … do not go … do not go …

Then light burst, and Gianni sat bolt upright in bed to find he was staring at the sunrise. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned away, but could not quell the feeling of doom that the dream had raised.

Still, it was just a dream, and with a good breakfast inside him, his cheeks shaved, and clean clothes on his back, Gianni was able to dispel the lingering nightmare and determine to lead the goods train out, as his father had told him.

First, though, they saw Medallia off—she would not stay for more than a few nights. The hostler drew her caravan up by the door, and she turned to tell the Braccalese family, “Thank you for your hospitality. Rarely have I found folk so welcoming.”

“Then you should stay with us, poor lamb!” Mamma gave her a hug, and a kiss on the cheek. “But since you won’t, come back this way often, and visit!”

Gianni was worried, too—how had she survived so long, a woman alone in this lawless country? But he bade her farewell nonetheless, holding her hands and looking into her eyes as he said it. For a moment, he thought he might kiss her, so wonderfully desirable did she seem—but some air came over her, some aura that said, Touch me not, though she still smiled and returned his gaze, so the moment passed, and he could only watch as she mounted the seat of her caravan, took up the reins, and clucked to her donkeys. Then away she went out of the courtyard, with the family waving.

Three days later, it was only Papa and Mamma who stood waving as Gianni and Gar led five drivers and ten mules out through the gate. Gianni felt apprehensive and nervous, and missed old Antonio severely—but Gar’s great bulk was very reassuring, the more so as the giant wore a new rapier and dagger, plus a crossbow, and a dozen other weapons that he assured Gianni were there, though they could not be seen.

Out the city gate they went, over the causeway and out through the land gate—and the oppression deepened, hollowing Gianni’s stomach, but he forced himself to laugh at a comment Gar made, and hoped the big man had meant it as a joke.

Two days later, they were following a track through a high valley with steep, wooded hillsides on either hand. Gianni drew his cloak close against the morning chill. Gar did likewise. “I thought your land of Talipon was warm!”

“It is, as you’ve seen,” Gianni replied, “but even the warmest country will be chill in the early morning, up high in the mountains—won’t it?”

Gar sat a moment, then nodded stiffly. “You’re right—it will. At least, that’s how it has been in every country I’ve visited, though I haven’t been up in the mountains in each of them. In some, I only know what I’ve heard from mountaineers I met.”

Gianni looked up at him curiously. “How many lands have you visited?”

“Only seven,” Gar told him. “I’m young yet.” Seven! It made Gianni’s head reel, the thought of visiting seven other countries. Himself, he had only seen Talipon, and a little of the city of Boriel, on the mainland. Not for the first time, he wished his father had let him go voyaging more often.

“Mountains are always places that delight the soul,” Gar said, “but they should make one wary. The mountaineers have a hobby of robbing goods trains.”

Gianni shook his head with assurance. “There’s no fear of that. Pirogia pays a toll to the folk who live here, to guarantee safe passage to our merchants.”

“Wise,” Gar allowed, “as long as you call it a toll, not a bribe. But let us suppose that the Stilettos have learned that, and have decided to beat down the mountaineers and set an ambush here, as a way to begin their chastising of Pirogia’s merchants …”

“That was just a remark heard in passing,” Gianni said dubiously.

“Will you let Grepotti persuade you so easily? Trust your own ears, Gianni! You heard it, and so did I!”

More importantly, Gianni thought, he had heard his Dream Dancer say it. He looked about him with sudden apprehension. “If they were to do so, would this not be an excellent place for an ambush?”

“Yes, but the end of this valley would be even better.” Gar loosened his sword in its sheath. “We’re braced for ambush now, but as we near the debouchment of the pass, we’ll begin to relax, to lower our guard. Then will be the ideal time for them to fall upon us.”

“But our men have relaxed their guard,” Gianni said, “because they trust in the good faith of the mountaineers.”

Gar stared at him in alarm, then turned back to the men, opening his mouth to yell, but a shouted cry of “At the point!” came out, came out and echoed all about them, and it took Gianni a second to realize that it was not Gar who had called, but men at either hand. He looked about wildly and saw condotierri charging down the slopes from each side—charging on foot, for the angle was too steep for horses to gallop. Gianni’s drivers barely had time to realize they were beset, were only beginning to react, when the bandits struck, struck with the clubs they held in their left hands, struck the drivers on the sides of their heads or their crowns. Three went down like felled oxen; the other two dodged, pulling out swords as they did, but the condotierri were behind them and all about them, twisting the swords out of their hands even as they raised them to strike, then bringing them down with a fist in the belly and a club behind the ear. Gianni cried out in agony, seeing their futures as galley slaves—but it was too late to try to ride to their rescue, for the condotierri had surrounded Gar and him, surrounded them with a thicket of steel, swords striking from every angle, clubs whirling. They were on foot, though, and Gianni and Gar were mounted, striking down with greater force and the advantage of thrusting over the soldiers’ guards.

Gar bellowed in rage, catching swords on his dagger and plunging his rapier down again and again. Bandits fell, gushing blood, and others leaped back out of his range, then leaped in again to stab, but Gar was quicker than they, catching their blows on his dagger and striking home as other thrusts missed him. Gianni could see only when the fight turned him far enough to one side or the other, but he had a confused impression that most of the swords aimed at Gar somehow missed, sliding by him to one side or the other. A condotierre seized Gianni’s horse’s bridle and pulled the beast forward, just far enough for another soldier to step in behind Gar, swinging a halberd in a huge overhand are. Gianni shouted, trying to turn to stab the man, trying to reach, but he overbalanced, lurched forward into waiting hands, and heard the halberd shaft strike Gar’s head with a horrible crack, a crack echoed by the club struck against his own skull, and even as the familiar darkness closed in, he realized that his Dream Dancer had been right.

But it wasn’t the woman who banished the darkness, it was the old man with the floating hair and beard, and there was no persuading this time, no arguing or warning, but only the stern command, Up, Gianni Braccalese! You have ignored sound advice; you have brought this upon yourself! Up, to suffer the fruit of your folly! Up to labor and toil in the poverty you deserve, and will deserve until you start fighting with your brain instead of letting your enemies overwhelm you with arms!

But I did only as I was bidden, Gianni protested.

Up! the face thundered. Up to labor and fight, or must I make this one refuge a place of torment instead of healing? Up and away, Gianni Braccalese, for the honor of your name and the salvation of your city! UP!

The last word catapulted Gianni into consciousness; his eyes flew open and he lurched halfway up, then sank back onto a cold, slimy surface, his head raging with pain, his eyes squeezed to slits against the glare of the sky—and there was no gentle face floating above his this time, nor even Gar’s homely, craggy features.

Gar! Where was the man? Dead? Enslaved? For that matter, where was Gianni? He rolled painfully up on one elbow, blinking through pain, out over a landscape of churned mud under a drizzling rain. He shivered, soaked through, and saw nothing about him but …

The huge, inert body, lying crumpled on its side, face slanting down, almost in the mud, with the huge bloom of ragged, bloody scalp in the midst of his hair—Gar, stripped of his doublet and hose, of even his boots, left for dead.

Fear gibbered up in Gianni, and he struggled through the mud toward his friend. Pain thundered in his head, almost making him stop, but he went on, forced himself to crawl for what seemed an hour but could not have been, for the distance could only have been a few yards. He shivered with numbing cold, feeling the rain beat against his skin …

Skin! He took time for a quick look down and saw that the condotierri had stripped him as they had stripped Gar, nothing left but the linen with which he had girded his loins for the journey. They had left him, too, for dead—but why?

An awful suspicion dawned, and Gianni balanced on one elbow while he raised the other hand to his head, probing delicately at the back … Pain screamed where his fingers touched, and he yanked his fingers away, shivering anew at his answer—he was injured almost as badly as the mercenary, brought down by too strong a blow with a club. Too strong indeed! He struggled toward Gar with renewed vigor, the energy of panic. If the man were dead, and Gianni alone in this savage world … But his fingers touched Gar’s throat; he waited for a long, agonizing minute, then felt the throb of blood through the great artery. Gianni went limp with relief—Gar would recover, would waken, and he wouldn’t be alone in the rain after all.

But the rain was cold, and surely the giant might die of chill if Gianni couldn’t cover him somehow. He looked about him with despair—the condotierri had left nothing, nothing at all, not a shred of cloth …

But there was dried grass by the roadside. Struggling and panting, Gianni squirmed the necessary few feet to the head of hay, then realized it would do no good to return with a single handful. He tried to ignore the pain in his head, the bruises in his ribs, as he pushed himself up to his knees, gathered up an armful of hay, then returned walking on his knees, one hand out to catch himself if he fell, returned to Gar and dumped the load of hay over the big man’s shoulders and chest, though the straw seemed so pitifully inadequate against such a huge expanse of muscle. Gianni leaned on Gar’s shoulder as he tried to tuck a few wisps down to hide the mercenary …

And the eyes fluttered, then opened in a pained squint.

Gianni froze, staring down, almost afraid to believe Gar was waking. But the big man levered himself up enough to raise a trembling hand to his head, then cried aloud at the pain of the touch on the raw wound. Gianni caught his hand and said soothingly, “Gently, gently! Let it heal! You’ll be whole again, but it will take time.”

Gar began to shiver.

“Come,” Gianni urged, tugging at his arm. Slowly, Gar pushed himself upright, then sat blinking about him.

“They struck you on the head,” Gianni said, “and left you for dead. Me, too. They left us both for dead.”

“Us?” The giant turned a look of blank incomprehension on him.

A dreadful suspicion began, but Gianni tried to ignore it as he said, “Us. Me—Gianni Braccalese—and you, Gar.”

“Brock?” Gar frowned, fastening on the one word. “Wh … what Brock?”

Gianni stared at him for a moment, his thoughts racing. Not wanting to believe what he feared, he said, “Not Brock. Gianni.” He pointed at himself, then said, “Gar,” and tapped the big man’s chest.

“Gar.” The giant frowned, turning a forefinger to point at himself, bringing it slowly close enough to touch his own massive pectoral. “Gar.” Then he looked up, turning that finger around to reach out to Gianni, tap his chest. “Who?”

“Gi—” Gianni caught himself just in time, forcing himself to realize what had happened to Gar—that the blow had addled his wits, perhaps knocked them clear out of his head. Hard on that followed the realization that the big man could no longer be trusted to keep a secret, and that Gianni might not want any passing Stilettos to know his own name. He finished the word, but finished it as “Giorgio.” It was too late to call Gar “Lenni” again, now—the poor half—wit would have trouble enough remembering his real name, let alone sort out a false one from a true. “And you’re Gar.”

“Gar.” The giant frowned with as much concentration as he could muster against headache. He touched his own chest, then touched Gianni’s. “Giorgio.”

“Yes.” Gianni nodded his head, and the stab of pain made him wish that he hadn’t. “Right.”

Then he reached out, bracing himself against Gar’s shoulder, and struggled to his feet. He gasped at the spasm of agony and would have fallen if a huge hand hadn’t clamped around his calf and held him upright. When the dizziness passed, Gianni reached down and hauled at Gar’s arm, hoping desperately that the attempt wouldn’t end with them both sliding back into the mud. “Come. We can’t stay here. Soldiers might come.”

“Soldiers?” Gar struggled to his feet, though he needed Gianni to brace him, gasping, as he lurched, trying to regain his balance. He stabilized, gulped air against nausea, then turned to Gianni. “Sojers?”

Gianni felt his heart sink, but explained. “Bad men. Hurt Gar.” Confound it, he thought, I sound as though I’m talking to a five-year-old!

But he was—for the time being, Gar had only as much mind as a child. Pray Heaven it wouldn’t last!

“Come.” Gianni took his arm, turning away, and tugged. Gar followed, as docile as a five-year-old indeed …

No. More docile—like a placid ox, who didn’t really care where he went, as long as he was fed.

He would have to find food, Gianni realized—but first, he had to get Gar away from this place. It was exposed, the condotierri might come back to ambush another goods train—or the mountaineers might come for the condotierri’s leavings. Gianni led Gar away, but found himself wishing the giant would balk, would object, would say anything to indicate he still had a mind.

He didn’t.