A Wizard In Mind - Rogue Wizard 01

by Christopher Stasheff

  One of those farmers, however, turned out to be a problem. A messenger came knocking at the Braccalese door just as the family was sitting down to breakfast, and the servant appeared in the doorway seconds later. "Master Paolo, there's a messenger from the Council in your study."

  "A messenger from the Council? So early?" Mama exclaimed, and her face was full of foreboding.

  "It must be urgent if it comes so untimely." Papa rose and went to the door, saying, "Begin without me, family, Gar. It might not be short."

  But it was. He came back only minutes later and sat down at table again, tucking the cloth into his neck and saying, "Eat quickly, Gianni, Gar. I think you had better come along."

  "What is it?" Suddenly, Gianni's appetite was gone.

  "A spy," Papa told them. "Eat, Gianni. You'll need it."

  They ate, then went out the river door, stepping into a sculling boat, and went not to the Council chambers but to the magistrate's hall—and it was Oldo Bolgonolo who greeted them, not as Maestro but as a magistrate. He ushered them into the courtroom, where a mild-mannered, bland-faced man stood before the bench in chains. He wore a simple farmer's smock and leggings, and seemed entirely inoffensive.

  "What did he do?" Gianni asked.

  Oldo waved him to silence and said, "Master, signori! This peasant was seen watching the soldiers drill, and later seen going to the stall of a pigeon seller in the market. There is no crime in that, but the pigeon he bought, he took down to the quay, tied a scrap of parchment to its leg, and sent it winging into the air. The man who followed him shot the pigeon through the wing. It heals, and may be of use to us in sending a message other than this." He held out a scrap of parchment. "Read, and advise us as to his judgment."

  Papa took the parchment and scanned it, scowling, but Gar asked, "Who bore witness against him?"

  "One of the city spies you advised me to commission, and the stealthy one has already proved the worth of your advice. But he also whispered to one or two other folk that the man was doing something suspicious, and they saw and remembered. He kept them from offering violence to this poor deluded soul."

  "Deluded!" the man burst out. "You, who would upset the old ways and take from us the assurance of the noblemen—you dare call me deluded?"

  "He seems to have had a good lord," Oldo said, with irony, "and doesn't realize how lucky he was, or how rare his master is."

  "So he admits his crime?" Gar asked.

  "He does," Oldo confirmed. "Four citizens confronted him and bore witness to his deeds."

  "But not your spy!" the man said hotly.

  "Counterspy," Gar corrected. "It is you who are the spy."

  "A counter indeed, a counter in your game," the man sneered. "They wouldn't let me see the man himself!"

  "Of course not—once a spy's face is known, he can be of little more use," Gar said. "He was wise enough to see you had other accusers. In fact, I would guess he himself made no accusation, only supplied information."

  The spy chopped sideways with his hand in a dismissive gesture. "What will it be now? The gallows? Go ahead—I'm ready to die for my lord!"

  "Oh, I don't think that will be necessary," Gar said mildly, and to Oldo, "I'd recommend he be a guest of the city, with a room to himself. Not a very luxurious room perhaps, and not a very rich diet—but only a guest with a barred window, until the current unpleasantness is done. It may be his lord will value so loyal a retainer—value him enough to trade us a dozen prisoners of war for him."

  "An excellent thought," Oldo said, with a gleam in his eye. The prospect of bargaining appealed to him. "Guards, take the prisoner away and clap him in a cell alone, where he can spread no more of his insidious talk!" As the watchmen hustled the peasant away, Oldo turned to Gar. "I thank you, friend, for the excellence of your advice. I shall appoint more counterspies, and have them watch our new citizens very closely."

  "And the old ones, too," Gar reminded him. "Some of them might lack confidence in the navy and our new army, and might try to guarantee their family's safety by selling information to the lords."

  Oldo's face darkened. "It goes against the grain to even think of it, but I shall do so. Do you really think it necessary for the counterspies to seek to have other citizens bear witness, though?"

  "Very important," said Gar, "for a position like that opens itself to abuse of power very easily and readily. A counterspy could settle an old quarrel or gain long-awaited revenge, just by accusation. No, Maestro, I strongly recommend you require witnesses and proof."

  "Well, so we shall, then," grumbled Oldo. "But I thank you, masters."

  As they came out of the courtroom, Gianni said, in a shaken voice, "I had never thought there might be spies among us!"

  "Oh, there most definitely are," Gar assured him. "It's a fundamental principle of war."

  "But what of the lords' armies? Will we have spies among them?"

  "We already do," Gar answered. "Do we not, Signor Braccalese?"

  Papa nodded, looking grim, and Gianni suddenly felt very young, and very, very naive. He reflected, though, that he was learning very rapidly.

  So was his city. The merchant town that had felt no need of an army was studying war with a vengeance. The shipyard hired every carpenter in town, and half—built houses had to wait while keels were laid and caravels built. Chandlers bought every bale of hemp the farmers could bring, every skein of linen thread, to make cables and sails.

  There followed the most frantic two weeks of Gianni's life. Gar taught him how to drill with the others, taught him in a day as much as they learned in two, then left him in charge of training the recruits with the help of the captain of the Pirogia City Guard and a few of the guardsmen. Mama and Papa Braccalese kept track of the young men who enlisted, while Vladimir the beggar took charge of ordering up tabards, plumed hats, and weapons. The workshops of the city threw themselves into turbulent activity; lamps burned all through the night, and the citizens of Pirogia could scarcely sleep for the sounds of the hammers beating at all hours in the forgeries. Old Carlo Grepotti worked side by side with Vladimir, grumbling over every single ducat spent but dutifully doling out the gold to the tradesmen of his city as he did. The Maestro himself took charge of raising money for Carlo to spend, going from merchant to merchant and arguing very reasonably that generous donations would forestall a Council vote on the need for higher taxes.

  Gianni was very proud of his fellow citizens—the young men came trooping in, waiting in long, long lines for the scribes to take down their names (and many who were not so young—Gianni was glad he could leave it to his father to explain to old Pietro why a sixty-year-old man with gout and rheumatism should not enlist). He had his hands full overseeing his road companions as they trained the young men in drill, each hopeful soldier with a pole over his shoulder until he could learn how not to hit his mates with it as he turned and wheeled. Vincenzio kept his men in line with all the sternness of a schoolmaster, protesting in an undertone that this was no fit occupation for a man of letters; Estragon the thief reveled in actually giving orders to the law-abiding; and Feste was in his element, posturing and strutting as he led his troops. Gianni was constantly on the run from piazza to piazza, trying to keep up with the drill practice in the mornings and the weapons practice in the afternoons, when his lieutenants became pupils themselves, studying halberd-play and archery and swordsmanship from the Pirogia City Guard.

  At the end of the first exhausting day, Gianni threw himself down in his bed, sure he would sleep so deeply that dreams wouldn't dare come near himbut the circle of light appeared and expanded before he could wish it away or dare command it to be gone, expanded to show him the face of the Wizard, hair and beard swirling. Gianni still felt a little fear, but much more exasperation. What do you want this time?

  The wizard stared in surprise; then his brows drew down in anger, and pain stabbed Gianni from temple to temple as the deep voice thundered around him. You forget yourself, child! Do not think that because I h
onor you with a glimpse of me, you are entitled to insolence!

  I ... I beg your pardon, Gianni stammered. Better, the voice said, no longer all about him, and the pain ceased as abruptly as it had begun. I have come to tell you that you have done well, Gianni Braccalese, in persuading your citizens to fight. Thank you. But this was one time that Gianni really didn't want the credit. Gar had more to do with it than I, though. Why don't ... I mean, would it not be more effective to talk to him?

  He is not born of Pirogia, nor even of Talipon, and has no access to your Council by himself, the Wizard said. For better or for worse, it must be you through whom I save the world of Petrarch.

  Gianni couldn't answer, he was so astounded, so aghast at the Wizard's colossal arrogance. Who was he to speak of saving a whole world? A city, perhaps, but a world?

  But an army is not enough, the Wizard told him, nor even the marines that your friend Gar intends to raise.

  Marines? Gianni wondered what that was. Something to do with the sea, yes—but nearly everything in Pirogia had to do with the sea. What else can we do?

  You can raise all the merchant cities against the aristocracy. The cold eyes seemed to pierce Gianni's brain, transfixing him, depriving him of all powers of resistance. You can bid them cut off the last vestiges of power that their contes and doges may have, even expel those noblemen completely—after all, their guilds and merchants' councils really rule their cities already. Then they too can raise armies and build navies, and the lords will have to split their forces, and will be unable to combine against Pirogia completely.

  But the other cities may be defeated! They may fall!

  Then Pirogia must come to their rescue when you have driven off the Prince and his minions, the Wizard said sternly. Your city must make alliances, Gianni Braccalese. You must form a league of merchant cities, a true federation, a republic!

  A republic of merchant cities? Gianni's brain reeled under the vision of the seacoast of Talipon all united as one nation, leaving the interior split up into a score of ducal cities. They would fight with viciousness and not the slightest trace of mercy, those aristocrats. Many people of the merchant cities would die . . .

  But many of them would die if they didn't fight the lords, too—the false Gypsies and the Lurgan Company had seen to that. It may be as you say ... there may be a chance of success ...

  It is your only chance of success! The Wizard's voice was harsh with anxiety, with urgency. Tell your father, tell your Council! The die is cast, Gianni Braccalese, the wagers are placed! You must ally or die, and all the other merchant cities with you!

  Gianni realized the truth of what the Wizard said. It was do or die, now—and if the lords eliminated Pirogia, they would go on to enslave or crush all other merchants, too. I shall do as you say, he promised. But the Council has already rejected such a notion.

  Before the lords marched on them, yes! Now that they know they must fight, you will find them much more wiping! Tell your father! The face began to recede, hair and beard swirling up to hide it. Remember—tell! Persuade! Or fall and die!

  Then the face was gone, and Gianni woke, shivering with fear—but also with elation. The prospect of a league of merchant cities awed and enthralled him—a league with Pirogia as its leader! With all the navies of the island at its command, all the new armies of the coastland coordinated in their strategy! The day of the nobleman was done!

  If the Council could be persuaded.

  The Council was persuaded.

  Gianni's father returned home from the meeting, jubilant and brimming over with his triumph. "There wasn't the slightest hint of disagreement! They heard me out, they voted unanimously, and the couriers are already taking fast boats out past the bar!"

  Gianni and Mama stared in amazement. "However did you manage it?" she asked.

  "I told it to them as though it were an idea new-made, as though I had never told it to them before—and they are all intent on war now, for even those who opposed it understand that once it has begun, their only hope of survival is to win! They didn't need persuading—they were ready to embrace the idea, any idea, that would give them a greater chance of winning!"

  While Gianni was drilling the army, Gar combed the waterfront for stalwart young men, catching them before they could line up to enlist—young merchant sailors and sons of fishermen. He took two hundred of them under his personal tutelage, promoting the quickest learners to corporal at the end of the first day and to sergeant at the end of the second. He marched them about on the quays from dawn till dusk. They were exhausted and cursing him by the end of the first day, but drilling like professionals by the end of the week, with no signs of weariness even as darkness fell. Then he taught them weapons drill, and at the end of the tenth day buttonholed the city's two admirals. The result of their conference was that he marched his fishermen aboard a dozen ships in the morning and sailed out to the horizon, where ship met ship, for all the world looking as though they were fighting one another. They came sailing back at noon with the soldiers dragging their pikes, but the captains and admirals glowing—and the two hundred were dubbed "marines," and marched on board to row out to the bar, waiting.

  They didn't have to wait long for a small, swift courier boat to come running back with the news that a pirate fleet was approaching.

  The admirals sent the courier on with word for the Maestro and the Council before they set sail to meet the pirates. That word ran through the town, and when Gianni realized that his soldiers were virtually the only ones who weren't down by the docks waiting with bated breath, he called for fifty volunteers to guard the bridge to the mainland and sent everyone else off to wait and hope and pray with the rest of Pirogia. The hours dragged by, and people began to curse beneath their breath—but there wasn't a single echo of cannon fire, nor a trace of gunsmoke in the sky, for the navy had done its job well and attacked the pirate fleet far from the city.

  Dusk fell, and people began to go home, dispirited and worried—but sausage sellers appeared, hawking their wares in the midst of the crowd, and a few enterprising wine merchants realized the chance to rid themselves of some of their worst vintages, so most of the crowd stayed, sipping near-vinegar and bolstered with meat that was best not studied too closely, waiting and hoping but growing more and more fearful by the hour, then by the minute.

  Finally, hours after darkness had fallen, a shout went up from those who waited out by the headland, a shout that traveled inward to the watchers on the quays. "Ships! Sails!"

  But whose? Impossible to tell, when all they could see was moonlight glinting on canvas in the distance—and the gunners stood by their cannon in the harbor forts while Gianni barked commands, and his brand-new soldiers marched forward to stand at the edge of the quay, hearts thumping so loudly that the crowd could almost hear them, halberds slanting out, waiting for sign of an enemy. The civilians gave way, letting themselves be elbowed back, more than glad to yield place to the soldiers in case the ships were pirates.

  Then a shout of joy went up from the headland and traveled inward. As it reached the quays, three ships rounded the headland, their standards clear in the torchlight from the forts, the emblem on the one intact sail huge enough for all to see—the eagle of Pirogia! Then the citizens recognized the ships of their own building, and a shout of joy went up and turned into mad cheering that seemed as though it would never stop. The soldiers waved their pikes aloft, shouting in jubilation too.

  More ships followed them, and more. The first of them glided up to the quays, and weary but triumphant sailors leaped over the side, elbowing their way through soldiers who laughed with joy and clapped them on their shoulders, cheering them on as they plowed into the crowd in search of sweethearts, wives, parents, and children.

  Last from the last ship came the rear admiral, leaning heavily on Gar's arm. A reddened bandage wound up across his chest to his shoulder, but he was smiling bravely, and the light of victory was in his eyes.

  "A surgeon, a surgeon!" Gar cried
. His uniform was blackened with gunpowder, rent with sword cuts in a dozen places; he had a bandage around his left arm and another about his head—but he seemed clear-minded and able.

  The surgeons took the admiral away, and —Gianni ran up to clap Gar on the back and wring his hand, crying, "Congratulations! All hail the hero! A victory, Gar, a fabulous victory!"

  "My men's, not mine." But Gar was smiling, his eyes alight. "But it was a fabulous battle, Gianni! I wish men could turn away from war—but if there have to be wars, they should be like this!"

  "Tell me how it was!"

  "We left the harbor with the morning breeze to waft us out to sea. A mile out, the fore admiral, Giovanni Pontelli, led half of our forces further out, past the horizon, while the rear admiral, Mosca Cacholli, led the rest of us on southward, following the coast, to meet the pirates as far from Pirogia as we could. With the wind at our backs, we made good time, and the breeze was beginning to turn toward shore when we met the pirates off Cape Leone. Admiral Cacholli hove to and gave the command to begin the bombardment. You know how I insisted the cannon be placed, Gianni—all on the deck, covered by canvas in case of storm, but none belowdecks, or the crew would be truly deafened by the sound, roasted by the heat, and suffocated by the smoke. Well, it wasn't much better on the decks, but all my gunners can still hear their orders and none died of smoke—though I think the sun's heat may have been just as bad as any on a gun deck. Still, my cannoneers pulled the canvas off their guns, loaded, and fired. The whole ship swayed with the recoil, but I had also insisted the ships not be too high, so they didn't capsize, and my crews proved the worth of their drill, because no one was crushed by the guns as they rolled back. Cacholli staggered the fire, so that as one ship fired, another was reloading and a third was taking aim, and we loosed a round every minute or so."