A Wizard In Mind

by Christopher Stasheff

  The door closed behind them, leaving Papa Braccalese to scowl up at Gar and demand, "What do you mean? How have you hurt my son?"

  "He hired me to protect him and your goods," Gar said simply. "I failed."

  "Failed?" Papa stared, then reached up to clap him on the shoulder. "Not a bit, not a bit! You brought him home alive, didn't you? And not too badly wounded, if he could think to lift a crate so that I wouldn't!"

  "But . . ." Gar stared, amazed to be praised. "Your goods are lost, stolen by condotierri!"

  "Goods! What are goods?" Papa Braccalese brushed off the objection. "The cost of doing business, nothing more. My son, however, could not be replaced! The men lost, that's another matter, but not one you could have prevented. No, don't tell me now-come in to rest, and let us give you some drink that should restore a man!" He turned away, clasping Gar's arm and moving with such energy that even the giant was almost yanked off his feet and had to catch up in order to keep from falling. "Not a word, until you have a glass in your hand!" Papa Braccalese commanded. "Then you shall tell me all about itbut until then, not a word!"

  However, when they did have glasses in their hands, he did indeed insist on hearing all about it, but from Gianni first. He sat mute, only listening, frowning, and occasionally nodding his head, until Gianni was done with his account and sat, waiting for the axe to fall-but Papa only turned and asked Gar what he had seen and done, then listened in silence while the giant told him. When he finished, though, it was Papa's turn, and he subjected both of them to a barrage of questions that would have sunk a galley. At last, satisfied that he had learned everything they knew, Papa Braccalese sat back, nodding, and said, "So. The Raginaldi have loosed the Stilettos on us merchants-not that they wish to slay us, of course, only to tame us, to yoke us and make us work for them, instead of for ourselves."

  "That may be the case," Gar cautioned. "Gianni and I have only a few spoken words to judge by. It could just as easily be that the Stiletto Company is unemployed, and seeking their living in their usual manner."

  "Well, if that's so, and we prepare for war but they don't attack, then we have lost nothing, have we? Except some time and effort, but the effort will have kept us healthy, and the time would have been idled away otherwise. There is cost, it's true, cost in hiring soldiers and training men and forging weapons and armor, but that's the cost of doing business, isn't it?"

  "A rather high cost," Gar said, frowning.

  "So? And what will be the cost if we do not arm, and the Stilettos do attack, eh? No, all in all, I think it will be cheaper to arm."

  "Well . . ." Gar looked rather befuddled. "When you put it that way, of course it's wiser to prepare for war."

  Papa Braccalese nodded. "Let's hope the Council sees it that way."

  "Some of them are skinflints," Gianni whispered to Gar as they entered the long wide room. "They would rather believe anything false than have to pay an extra florin out of their profit."

  "You have watched their meetings before, then?"

  "No, never," Gianni said. "I only know what rumor says-and what Papa curses when he comes home from a Council meeting. I wouldn't be here now, if they didn't need to hear my story from my own lips."

  "And mine." Gar nodded. "There's much less question of accuracy, when they hear it from the survivors."

  The Maestro came into the hall, and the merchants stopped gossiping in their small groups of two and three and turned to look to their elected leader for the year. Oldo Bolgonolo was a heavyset man in his late middle age, his hair grizzled, his face lined-but his eye still sharp and questing.

  "Masters," he said, giving them their Guild title (for no journeyman and certainly no apprentice could hold. office here), "we are met to hear disturbing news from Paolo Braccalese and his son Gianni. I know rumor has already borne it to all your ears, so let us begin by hearing it stripped of all the fat that grows as the story goes from mouth to mouth. Gianni Braccalese, speak!"

  The master merchants had by now all taken their seats, and Gianni felt the weight of fifty pairs of piercing eyes upon him. He tried to calm his stomach as he stood, leaning on the table in case his knees turned to jelly, and began, "Masters .. ." Then he cleared his throat to rid it of the squeak in his voice-but his father's colleagues were understanding of human frailty, and made no comment. Gianni began again. "Masters, I was conducting a goods train to Accera, to trade with old Ludovico for grain and timber and orzans . . ."

  He told them the story, his voice as dry and matterof-fact as he could make it, showing emotion only when he had to speak of Antonio's death. The merchants stirred restlessly at that, muttering angrily to one another. Gianni waited for them to be done, then took up his tale again. They seemed impressed by Gar's improvisation to impersonate the weak-minded and showed surprise at Gianni's rescue by a Gypsy. But he saved the worst for last, ending by telling them about the remarks he had overheard, about a lord paying the Stilettos to discipline some unruly merchants, whereupon they erupted into a furious clamor of denunciation and calls for vengeance, countered by shouted arguments for caution. The Maestro let them work out the worst of their anger, and Gianni sat down, shaken but exhilarated.

  Gar was staring at the shouting merchants. "These are your cool-headed men of business?"

  Gianni shrugged. "We're human, and as apt to anger as the next man."

  "I don't think I want to be next to that man," Gar replied.

  The Maestro picked up a stick and struck a cymbal suspended near him. Some of the merchants looked up and stopped their debate, but others went on arguing furiously. The Maestro had to strike his cymbal again, then again and again, before they all subsided, muttering, and took their seats once more.

  "I think you have all worked out the basic positions now," the Maestro commented dryly. "May we hear them stated clearly? No, Paolo Braccalese-this meeting comes at your demand, and it is your son who was attacked, your goods that were lost; I scarcely think you can see the situation clearly. You, Giuseppi Di Silva! What say you to this news?"

  "Why, if it's so, we must arm as quickly as possible!" A tall merchant leaped to his feet. "Arm, and recall the fleet to guard our shores!"

  "Nay, more!" shouted a shorter merchant with long yellow hair. He stood, thumping the table with his fist. "They've slain two drivers and a caravan master, and enslaved the rest! They've burned the warehouse of a merchant we deal with, and slain him! They've stolen the goods of a merchant of Pirogia and wounded his son! Are we to suffer these affronts with no revenge? Surely not-for if we do, we give them leave to do it all over again, to each and any of us!"

  Angry shouts agreed with him. Equally angry shouts denounced them. The Maestro struck the cymbal again, and they quieted. "Clearly spoken," he said. "We have two positions set forth now-one that we defend our city, another that we seek revenge, which I assume means that we should send out an expedition to attack the Stilettos. May we have the opposite position stated so clearly as these? No, not you, Pietro San Duse-you would cloud your statement with so much insult and so much emotion that I would have to parse your words to find your meaning. Carlo Grepotti, you have spoken little, and that quite calmly-will you grace us with your words?"

  An elderly merchant arose, a man with a face like a hawk and the ferocious eye of an eagle. "Grace? I fear there will be little of that in what I say, Maestro-but of good sense, I can promise you abundance! What I see in the hot words of my respected colleagues is waste, atrocious waste pure and simple! They would have us take hundreds of florins from the treasury-nay, thousands!-to train our young men as soldiers and sailors, to build more war galleys and buy cannon and swords, to feed and clothe and pay this force, and where is this money to come from? For surely the depleted treasury must be refilled! Have no mistake, my brother merchants-these thousands of ducats will surely come, directly or indirectly, from your profits! How will you tell your wife, when she asks for a new gown, that you must pay the soldiers first? How will you tell her, when the roof leaks, that you
must buy a barracks for the soldiers before you can have that leak stopped? Be sure that, once begun, it will not end, for having spent the money, we must justify it if no enemy comes! How shall we do that? Why, by marching out and declaring war where there is none, just as my colleague Angelo has suggested even now! Then it's we who shall be taking away others' freedom, even as we fear they shall do to us!"

  "And if the enemy does come?" the tall Di Silva demanded. "If they do come, and we beat them off?"

  "Why, they you shall cry that we must always keep the army standing and the navy afloat, for fear others may come!" Grepotti retorted. "Then if they do not, you shall call for a war to conquer Tumanola and expel the Raginaldi, or some such, and overlook the fact that we have become conquerors! Thus we shall impoverish ourselves to turn Pirogia into a bully among cities-and all for what? The word of a boy who brings us no proof and no other witnesses! Surely, my colleagues, we must have better grounds than this!"

  "But we do have another witness," Di Silva retorted. "Let us hear from him."

  "From a mercenary who will admit, I'm sure, that he failed in his duty? Surely he will seek to excuse himself, to justify himself!"

  Gar's face turned to flint, and Gianni said instantly, in a low voice, "He speaks only to support his argument, Gar. He means no harm-and he wasn't there."

  But the Maestro had noticed. "What do you say to that, young Braccalese?"

  Gianni stood, anger overcoming nervousness. "That it was one mercenary against fifty, that we stood back to back with twenty-five against each of us, and could not possibly have won! Gar has done his job well, for I have come back to you alive!"

  "Aye, and come back with two sentences overheard, nothing more!" Carlo Grepotti retorted. "You cannot even tell us surely who was the 'lord' this captain spoke of, nor who the merchants!"

  Now Papa Braccalese rose. "Maestro?"

  "Yes, Paolo," Oldo the Maestro sighed. "Have your say."

  "My lord, hurt to any merchant is hurt to all! Even if my goods train had come home intact, I would have wasted the drivers' pay, the stevedores' pay, the mules' time, my son's time! I have no profit from that trip, and will have no more profit from that town, for old Ludovico is dead, and surely none will dare build where he has fallen! It isn't his misfortune only, but all of ours!"

  Carlo Grepotti looked up with fire in his eyes, but Oldo said, "You have spoken well, Carlo Grepotti, and I thank you-but you have asked for the mercenary's word, and we shall hear it!" He turned to Gar. "Will you tell us your tale?"

  "I shall." Gar unfolded himself to his full height, squaring his shoulders, and instantly commanded the hall. Everyone had seen him come in, but all now felt they had never seen him before. There was some assurance to his bearing, some commanding presence in his face and his posture, that brought instant respect and attention. Even Gianni stared. He had never seen Gar like this before.

  With a measured pace, Gar told his tale, not hurrying, not lagging. His account was considerably shorter than Gianni's, of course, but it agreed in every particular, save that Gar the mercenary gave more detail of the Stilettos' armament and tactics-and, when he sat down, he left the impression of a terrible and ferocious force about to fall on Pirogia.

  Silence held the hall for a few seconds after he sat. Then Carlo Grepotti shook himself and demanded, "What would you have us to do? Arm, and go out to attack them?"

  "The best defense is a good offense." Gar stood again. "Yes, there is some sense in what you say. But there's better sense in being sure you can win before you attack, and that's done by massing overwhelming numbers."

  "Ah, so we're to employ mercenaries! I might have known you would encourage us to spend more money and more on men of your trade!"

  "That would be wise," Gar agreed, "but it would be even more wise to seek allies. I had thought there were a dozen merchant cities on Talipon, not Pirogia alone."

  The hall was silent for a few minutes, while all the merchants registered the idea with shock and tried to absorb it. Then Oldo the Maestro gave answer.

  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 so
uthward! 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.