A Wizard In Mind - Rogue Wizard 01

by Christopher Stasheff

When the introductions had been made and his welcome extended, Papa took Gianni aside and said, "Be sure that you practice what you're going to say to the Council—but first, walk about the city and sense its mood. I know our people seem their usual cheerful selves, but there's an undertone of concern there. Everyone knows that things aren't the way they should be, though no one's sure what's wrong yet." So that afternoon, Gianni went for a stroll in the market, then along a canal and down some small rivers, crossing bridges and listening to conversations. His father had been right—there was tension there, and rumors were flying. People were doomsaying left and right. A grocer near the Bridge of Smiles was telling a customer, "Truly, the beards on the grain are much longer than usual, and the butcher tells me the goats' hair and the sheep's wool is much thicker than ever he has seen! It will be an early winter, a long and hard winter, mark my words!"

  "I'll mark them." His customer tried to look skeptical, but didn't succeed very well.

  Along the River Melorin, he heard two housewives gossiping as they walked along with their shopping baskets on their arms. "I feel it in my bones, Antonia! Fever is rising from the water! It will be a plague such as the Bible tells of, or I know nothing of healing!"

  "I could believe that your bones know," her neighbor scoffed, "but if there's to be any plague in this city, it's more likely to come from the gutters than the waters."

  Her eyes were haunted, though, and Gianni could see she didn't doubt that a plague might be due. The day seemed more chilly suddenly, and he hurried on.

  By the waterfront, he heard an old sailor telling some boys, "Aye, a sea serpent, lads! Saw it myself, I did—a long skinny body sticking up from the water, way up, way way up, with a small flat head atop."

  "It wasn't a very big sea serpent, then," one of the boys said, disappointed.

  "Oh, it was huge! The head was only little when you saw it atop so huge a neck! It was half a mile off if it was an inch, and we blessed our luck when it turned and went from us! But they won't be turning away from ships this year, oh no! All kinds of monsters will rise from the sea, aye, and chase after our ships, to drag them down!"

  The boys moaned with the delight of safe fear, their eyes huge—but a young sailor passing near overheard the old salt and frowned, then hurried off, his brow furrowed.

  Gianni began to feel alarm himself—the people were claiming everything bad about the future except the real danger. If they weren't told the truth soon, if these rumors weren't quashed, the city would shake itself apart.

  As the sun was setting, though, he turned his steps back toward the Piazza del Sol, his pulse quickening—but the market stalls had been shuttered, and the caravan was gone. For a wild, crazed moment, he thought of searching the city for the brightly colored wagon, then remembered that he had already been roaming for hours, and that there were so many islands that even those that could be reached by the network of bridges would take him a week and more to search thoroughly. Heavy—hearted, he went home, to be cheered by the presence of his new friends.

  After supper, Gar took him aside and asked, "You talk to the Council tomorrow, then?"

  "Yes, if I can think of what to say," Gianni answered.

  Gar shrugged. "Tell them the plain truth—what you've heard, and what you've seen. If they give you any trouble, introduce me again. I assure you, with what I know now, I can scare them as badly as the worst brimstone-breathing preacher."

  Gianni grinned and promised he would.

  But that night, the swirling, dancing figure illuminated his dreams again, glowing more brightly than ever she had before. Gianni Braccalese! she called. You must tell them to flee, Gianni!

  Do not flee from me, I beg you, he pleaded in his dream.

  Silly boy! she flared. Can you think of nothing but love? But her voice trembled when she said it. Think of your fellow citizens instead! You cannot even dream of the might the lords shall bring against Pirogia when they unite all their armies—or of the horrendous engines of death their far-traveling merchant allies will lend them! There is no hope of victory, none! You must persuade all your fellows to flee!

  To leave Pirogia? Gianni cried, aghast. He had a brief, lurid vision of the beautiful bridges burning and falling, the elegant houses tumbling into the bright piazzas as flames burst from them while Stilettos ran from house to house, looting them of gold and plate and crystal and paintings, and smashing what they could not carry. No, never! We cannot desert our Pirogia!

  If you do not, you shall die, you shall all die! The dancer stilled, her hands upraised, pleading. You must abandon the city, Gianni, all of you!

  They wouldn't listen to me even if I told them that. Gianni felt a hardening and crystalizing of purpose as he said the words. Our only hope of protecting our wives and mothers is to arm ourselves and fight!

  You cannot! she wailed.

  Don't put too much faith in the princes, Gianni told her. At sea, they're weaker than any fisherman—and no army can march across the water to Pirogia. No, dry your tears, I beg of you—and let me see your face.

  Never! The veils began to swirl again. Can you think of nothing but lust, Gianni Braccalese? Nothing but love, he corrected, for I have loved you with a burning passion since first I saw you. Have you indeed? she said acidly. And what of the Gypsy maiden Medallia? Does she interest you not at all?

  That brought Gianni up short, and on the horns of the dilemma, he took refuge in truth. She too has captured my fancy. Yes, it could be love, if I could come to know her.

  You've not come to know me!

  More than Medallia, he corrected, for I have never been alone with her.

  But long to be, I'm sure! How fickle you are, Gianni Braccalese, how inconstant! How can you love two women at once?

  I don't know, Gianni confessed, but I do. He had never thought himself to be so base as to betray one love for another, but found that he did. Was he no better than any of the other strutting bucks about town? Were all men so shallow? I do not understand it, but it's there. Please, O Beauty, let me come to you! He willed himself to move toward her, and seemed to be beginning to do so when she snapped, Never! and whirled her veils high to hide herself as she began to recede, flying from him at an amazing rate, shrinking smaller and smaller until she was gone, leaving him alone in darkness, with his dreams empty.

  Gianni waked feeling fuzzy—headed and filled with grit, as though he had drunk far too heavily the night before, when in fact he had tasted only a single glass of wine. "That's what comes of dreaming of women you can't have," he growled at himself, and rose to wash and shave.

  With breakfast improving his mood and his best clothes on his back, he entered the Council chamber beside his father, Gar looming behind both of them. They entered a hall filled with consternation.

  "Have you heard?" A jowly burgher confronted Papa Braccalese. "Prince Raginaldi marches on the city from the north, with thousands of men!"

  Both Braccaleses stared. The first thing Papa could think of to say was, "How do we know?"

  "Old Libroni's chief driver brought the word back, along with the tale of how a band of Stilettos had reived him of his whole goods train and left him for dead! Oh, he is in frightful condition—emaciated, with bruises and crusted wounds! None doubt his word."

  Papa cast a quick look of vindication at Gianni, then said, "Many thanks, old friend. Come, let's find our seats."

  They went on into the hall, hearing voices on every side:

  "Conte Vecchio marches from the west with a thousand men!"

  "The Doge of Lingretti marches from the south with two thousand!"

  "The Stilettos are marching three thousand strong from Tumanola!"

  "The Red Company are marching with two thousand!"

  "Pirates!" a messenger shrilled, running into the hall and waving a parchment. "Captain Bortaccio says he had to run from a fleet of pirates! He lost them in a low fog by sailing against the wind, but they come in a fleet of thirty!"

  The clamor redoubled at this ne
ws, and the Maestro began to strike his gong again and again, crying, "Councilors! Masters! Quiet! Order! We must discuss a plan!"

  "Plan?" shouted a bull—throated man in velvet. "There can be only one plan—to flee!"

  "We cannot flee!" Old Carlo Grepotti was on his feet, eyes afire, trembling. "By land or by sea, they shall cut us down and take us all for slaves if we flee! We can do nothing but stay and pray!"

  "We can fight!" shouted a younger merchant, and a roar of approval answered him. The Maestro pounded his gong again and again until they quieted enough for him to hear himself call out, "Sit down! Sit down, masters and signori! Are we fishmongers, to be brawling over a catch? Sit down, as befits your dignity!"

  Many faces reddened, but the merchants quieted and sat down around the great table. The Maestro nodded, appeased. "Braccalese! This meeting is called at your request! Have you any news that will help us make sense of this whole hornet's nest?"

  "Not I, but my son," Papa said. "Gianni, tell them!"

  Gianni stood up—and almost sat right down again; his legs turned to jelly as he stared around him at the host of grim, challenging faces, the youngest of them twenty years older than he. But Gar muttered a reminder—"You've faced Stilettos"—and it did wonders for Gianni's self-confidence. His fear didn't vanish, but it receded a good deal.

  He squared his shoulders and called out, "Masters! Again I took a goods train out, this time northward into the mountains—and again we were beset by Stilettos, and our goods train lost. My guard Gar wandered with me till some Gypsies gave us clothes, food, and a place to sleep—but when they thought we slept, the Gypsies talked among themselves. They were false Gypsies, spies"—he hoped he was right about that—"set to encourage the lords to unite to crush us merchants!"

  The hall erupted into uproar again, and Gianni looked about him, leaning on the table, already feeling drained, but quite satisfied at the emotion he had brought forth. The Maestro struck the gong again and again and, when quiet had returned, fixed Gianni with a glittering eye and asked him, "Why should Gypsies care whether we live or die?"

  "We couldn't understand that, either, Maestro," Gianni said, "until we encountered a glazier on the road, who told us of a conversation he had overheard—a conversation between Prince Raginaldi and a dour, grim merchant from very far away who could barely speak the tongue of Talipon, but who offered the prince a scandalous price for orzans."

  "Scandalous price?" Eyes glittered with avarice. "How scandalous?"

  What was the cost of power for a small city, anyway? For that matter, what was such power? Gianni improvised, "Three months' profit from ordinary trading."

  "For each jewel?"

  Gianni nodded. "For each one."

  The hall erupted into pandemonium again. The Maestro rolled up his eyes and left the gong alone until the hubbub had started to die of its own, then struck the gong once and waited for silence. "Do you say these false Gypsies were agents of this foreign merchant?"

  "That's the only way it makes sense to me, Maestro," Gianni told him. "But it's not just one merchant, it's a whole company—the 'Lurgan Company,' they call themselves."

  "A whole company? Why didn't they come to us?" Gianni shrugged, but old Carlo Grepotti cried, "Because they knew we would beat the price even higher! These foolish lords will take whatever they're offered!"

  "Aye, and steal every gem they can find to sell!" cried another merchant, and the hubbub was off again. The Maestro aimed a blow at the gong, then thought better of it and sat back to wait. Finally his fellow merchants realized just how contemptuous his gaze was and subsided, muttering. The Maestro turned to Gianni again. "Have you any answers to these questions they raise?"

  "Only guesses, Maestro," Gianni said, "But I think I'll let Gar tell you those. He had the idea of having us captured by the Stilettos so that we could break into Castle Raginaldi and look for more information. He should be the one to tell you what we found."

  "Break into Castle Raginaldi?" a younger merchant cried. "How did you dare?"

  "More to the point, how did you get out?" another man demanded.

  "All for Gar to tell—it's really his story, and his boast." Gianni turned to his friend. "I yield to the free lance."

  "Free no longer, but bound to serve you and all of Pirogia." Gar rose to his full height, shoulders square, and looked somberly about the room. Any objection to his speaking died under that glare. Calmly then, and without hurry, he told them about their raid into Castle Raginaldi—and told it with all the dash and spirit of a practiced storyteller. The merchants hung riveted to his account, all eyes on his face, and the hall was silent except for his voice until he had finished with their escape from the castle. Then he paused, looked all about the room, finally turned to the Maestro, and inclined his head. "That is all we saw, Maestro, and all we heard."

  The room erupted into noise again—exclamations of wonder, and not a little scoffing. The Maestro let it run its course, then asked Gar, "What was this strange egg-shaped thing?"

  "A magic talisman that allowed the prince to talk with the Lurgan traders, even when they were far from his castle," Gar said. "That way, when he had enough orzans to be worth the trip, they could come to get them, and give him his gold."

  "I do not believe in magic," the Maestro said. "Rightly, too," Gar replied, "but it's easier to say 'magic talisman' than 'an alchemist's device,' and it's beyond understanding in any case. What matter is what it does."

  "Apparently you've some understanding of it, if you could use it to talk to a friend of your own."

  "Yes, my lord. I also understand how to use a cannon, but I would be hard put to tell you how its powder worked, or why."

  Gianni noticed that he didn't say it was impossible, just difficult—but the Maestro accepted the answer. "And who is your friend Herkimer?"

  "Another mercenary," Gar said readily, "who will come to our aid if I ask it, and take the noblemen from the rear. Think of him as an alchemist with cannon—excellent cannon, for he makes better gunpowder."

  "And he can watch this Lurgan Company for you?" The Maestro was looking rather skeptical.

  "Well, eavesdrop on them, at any rate," Gar said, "though what he hears would have to be very dire before he would drop a message for me into your Piazza del Sol, taking the risk of knocking a hole in someone's head."

  "Have you no talisman to use for talking with him?"

  "No, my lord. It was with the kit that I had when I came to your city, but which the Stilettos stole along with the rest of my gear."

  "Will they know it for what it is?" old Carlo asked. "I doubt it," Gar told him. "It was well disguised." He didn't elaborate, and Carlo Grepotti managed to bite back the question.

  "What is your advice?" the Maestro asked.

  Gar shrugged. "I'm a mercenary soldier, Maestro. Of course I advise you to fight."

  "Forget your profession for a moment." The Maestro waved a hand, as though he could clear Gar's mind of all preconceptions with a gesture. "Try to think as a merchant, not as a soldier. Would you not advise us to flee, to evacuate the city?"

  "No," Gar said, instantly and clearly. "It would be almost impossible to move so many people so quickly—many would be likely to die in the tryingand no matter where you went, the Stilettos would sniff you out and kill or enslave you."

  "We could divide into many bands, and go in many directions," a merchant offered.

  "If you did, you'd only make it easier for the Stilettos to kill you," Gar said, "and give sport for many noblemen and their armies as they hunted you down—sport for them, and employment for all the Free Companies, not just the Stilettos. No, masters, your only hope is to stay and fight. Yes, many of you may die—but many more will live!"

  "But we have no army!" cried another. "How can we fight the lords?"

  "By burning your bridge to the mainland," Gar said. "Gianni tells me it was designed for that, and whoever thought it up built wisely. Yes, it will take time and money to rebuild, when we have beate
n off the lords—but it's the smallest of the losses you could have. With it gone, no army can come at you without ships—and your navy is unsurpassed; I'm sure they will scuttle any army the lords try to bring against you."

  "Some boats might reach us," a merchant said darkly.

  "Yes, and for that you will need soldiers." Gar nodded. "I can make your young men into an army for you, and free lances will come quickly enough if we spread word that we're hiring. In fact, we've brought back eight men from our travels who are willing to serve with you; I spent yesterday drilling them and taking the first steps toward turning them into an army. Will you come see them? They're waiting outside."

  There were a few voices of denial, but the vast majority were more than ready to see a show. They answered with a shout of approval, and the Maestro cried, "Adjourned! We shall meet again outside! Stand around the edge of the piazza, masters!" Then he struck the gong, and the move toward the doors began.

  Even as they came out, they saw Gar's eight men drawn up in three rows of four each—three, because a few of the Braccalese drovers had been fired with military zeal when they saw the tabards Mama Braccalese and her friends had made, splendid golden tabards with the eagle of Pirogia painted on them, as some hint of livery. The merchants exclaimed as they came out, seeing the men drawn up in a square with plumed hats and the sun glinting on their halberds (they had fitted new handles to the trophies of their raid on Castle Raginaldi). At Gar's command, they came to attention, and the drummer and trumpeter he had hired began to play. Then, as he barked orders, the twelve marched across the square, turned as one and marched across its breadth, then wheeled and marched across it on the diagonal. Again he called, and they turned to march straight toward the Maestro with old Carlo Grepotti beside him. One more barked command, and they stamped to a halt, front row dropping to a crouch, halberds snapping down to point directly at the spectators.

  The merchants burst out cheering, and the few voices of dissent were drowned in an accolade that heralded the founding of Pirogia's army.

  CHAPTER 13

  The whole city threw itself into a positive fever of preparation for war. Furnaces roared in the foundries day and night, casting cannon for the navy and the city walls; peasants streamed in through the gates with carts full of food, and stayed to enlist in the army if the city found room for their families—for these peasant farmers had no illusions about what happened to the people in the villages when their fields became battlegrounds.