He did not quite say the soldiers were devils, but Gianni took his meaning. "Is it possible that some noblemen sent them to loot Accera as a punishment for some imagined insult?"
Antonio shrugged. "Who can tell with noblemen? They're apt to take offense at anything and order their men to any action."
"And who can say, with mercenary soldiers?" Gianni returned. "When they're being paid, they're an army; when they aren't, they're condotierri, worse than any mere rabble of bandits."
"Far worse," Antonio agreed. "I only wonder that it has not yet occurred to them to steal a whole city." Gianni shuddered, taking Antonio's meaning. If the Stiletto Company ever did decide to conquer a city to rule for themselves, it could not be one ruled by a noble family, for if they did, all the noblemen of Talipon would descend on them en masse, with every free lance they could hire to fight for them. No, the mercenaries would seek easier game, some city of merchants who ruled themselves—Gianni's home, Pirogia.
"These condotierri may be working for themselves, or for one of the noble houses—it's impossible to tell," Antonio summarized. "But Accera lies within the lands claimed by Pirogia, before our grandfathers overthrew the conte and chased his family out. The attack may be only that of a hungry army needing practice, but it's not a good sign."
"Rumor says that the merchants of Tumanola grow restive, seeing how well we govern Pirogia," Gianni said, "and that they have begun to petition their prince for some voice in the conduct of the affairs of the city."
"The same is said of Renova." Antonio scowled, shaking his head. "Me, I can only wonder how long it will be till both great houses march against our Pirogia, to put an end to the upstarts who're giving their merchants such troublesome ideas."
One of the drivers cried out from his station by the remains of the wall. "Who goes there?"
"A friend," answered a deep voice, "or one who would be."
Antonio was on his feet almost as quickly as Gianni. Both turned toward the voice—and saw the giant step out of the shadows.
The stranger towered over the sentry. He looked to be seven feet tall and was broad—shouldered in proportion and, though his loose shirt and leather jerkin hid his arms and chest, his hose revealed legs that fairly bulged with muscle. Gianni could have sworn the rapier at his hip was as long as the guard was tall.
Rapier, leather doublet, high riding boots—there was no doubt about his calling. The man was a mercenary. A giant, and a mercenary.
He was black—haired and black—browed, with dark deep—set eyes, a straight nose, a wide mouth, and a lantern jaw. His nose was no beak, but there was something of the hawk about him—perhaps the keenness with which he scanned the merchants—though no cruelty; rather, he seemed quietly amused. "I greet you, merchants."
He spoke with a strong accent, one Gianni did not recognize. So, then—a giant, a mercenary, and a foreigner! Not surprising, of course—most of the mercenaries were foreigners from the mainland. He did not ask how the giant knew they were merchants—with their mules and packs, it was obvious. "Have you been watching us all afternoon?" he asked.
"Only since I found the town at sunset. I had a scuffle with some bandits back there"—the giant nodded at the hills outside the town—"three of them. They won't fight for a long while. No, no, they still live—but my horse does not. I saw you, and thought you might have an extra horse to sell."
They did have spare mounts, but Gianni said anyway, "It was not one of our men who died."
"I had thought not—your men talked too much while they dug the grave."
"These bandits who beset you—did they wear dagger—badges on their jerkins?" Antonio asked, stepping up beside Gianni.
The stranger nodded. "Long, slender daggers—stilettos, I think you call them."
Antonio turned to Gianni. "He isn't one of them."
"If he tells the truth." But Gianni could not think of a single reason why the Stiletto Company would send a man to spy them out, instead of falling upon them in a body—and he might need a professional fighting man before he saw Pirogia again. He held up a hand, palm open. "I'm Gianni Braccalese."
"Well met, Gianni." The giant, too, held up an open palm, the sign of friendship—or, at least, that they weren't enemies. "I am Gar."
Yes, the accent was very heavy—he made Gianni's name sound like "Jonny," missing the first i completely. "No family name?"
Gar shrugged. "I come from a poor country, too poor for second names. May I share your fire?"
"We will be honored to have you as a guest." Gianni bowed him toward the campfire. Gar came and sat near the flames, opening the pouch that hung from a strap over his shoulder, across his chest, and down to his hip. He took out a waxed ball. "I have a cheese to share."
"It's welcome." Gianni took a loaf from their journey bag and cut a slice with his dagger, then handed it to Gar. "The stew has yet a while to simmer."
"I thank you." Gar laid a slice of cheese on the bread, cut it down the middle, and gave half to Gianni. Antonio was content to sit near, watching the two young men perform the simple ceremony with approval.
"You're a mercenary soldier, then?" Gianni asked before he took a bite of bread.
Gar swallowed and nodded. "A free lance, no member of a company. These bandits I fought were?"
"The Stiletto Company, yes—unemployed, for the moment. There's no work for you there."
Gar grinned. "I wouldn't hire out to those who have attacked me."
Gianni felt the thrill of bargaining begun. "But you are for hire?"
The giant nodded, chewing.
"Have you letters of reference?" Antonio asked. He knew the man probably did not, most likely could not write, but it was a good ploy for lowering his price.
The giant surprised them both, though; he swallowed and nodded. "Here." He took two folded parchments from his pouch and gave them to Gianni.
The young merchant opened them; Antonio came to read over his shoulder, keenly interested in discovering a mercenary who had actual letters. The first was in a foreign language, but Gianni had learned the tongue of Airebi, for his father's captains dealt with them frequently. It was from a merchant captain, who testified that he had hired Gar in Donelac, a land far to the north, and that the giant had done excellent service both as a sailor and a fighter. The other was in Taliponese, stating that Gar had been excellently loyal in transporting cargo from Venoga to Renova, and was very effective in fighting off bandits. That was especially interesting because Venoga was Pirogia's main commercial rival, only a little behind them in volume of trade, but considerably behind in wealth; Gianni suspected that was because the merchants there had not yet succeeded in ousting their conte, who took entirely too much of their profits, thereby limiting their ability to reinvest, and capped it by strictly limiting the luxuries they could buy or possess. He had not quite signed his own death warrant yet, Gianni reflected grimly, but the blank parchment was before the nobleman, just waiting for him to write.
The merchant ended with regrets that he could not employ Gar any longer, but would have no new trading ventures for several months. He recommended the mercenary to any merchant who had need of his services—and even to those who did not, just in case. Gianni nodded and refolded the letters, handing them back. "Those are good, very good." It occurred to him to wonder if there had been employers who had been dissatisfied and had therefore not given letters, but he dismissed the notion as unworthy. "Will you take our ducat to guard us against the Stiletto Company?"
"Or anyone else who might attack us on the way home," Antonio added quickly.
"Gladly," Gar said gravely.
With a feeling of triumph, Gianni took a ducat from his purse and held it out to Gar. The giant took it, saying, "I charge one of these for every seven nights I fight for you."
"That will be enough," Gianni assured him. "We have to go back to Pirogia—and go back emptyhanded, since the Stilettos have stolen the grain, cotton, wool, and orzans we came to trade for."
The mercenary frowned. "What are orzans?" Gianni stared, then remembered that Gar seemed to be fairly new to Talipon. "An orzan is a flamecolored gem—not very rare, in fact only semiprecious, but lovely to behold." He gestured at the burned-out shell about them. "Signor Ludovico wrote that he had gathered a bag of them to trade with us, but it's gone now—of course. Semiprecious or not, a whole sack of them would be worth a good sum."
"So." Gar smiled as he slipped the coin into his pouch. "We both have reasons to wish the Stilettos ill. Tell me of this Pirogia of yours. Is it true the merchants rule the town?"
Gianni nodded, and Antonio said, "We would sooner say 'govern' than 'rule.' "
"It is the fact that matters, not the word," the mercenary replied. "How did you manage to gain such power?"
Gianni smiled; he had learned an excellent way to fend off nosy questions. To the very first question, give a far longer answer than anybody could want but with as little information as possible. He launched into a brief history of Pirogia.
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 airly. "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 hi
s 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 "Dies 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.
A Wizard In Mind - Rogue Wizard 01 Page 3