Gianni looked about him in amazement. He had never been inside a Gypsy caravan before, but had not expected it to be so neat, so bright and cheerful. The walls were painted ivory, with a pattern of flowers stenciled on; beneath each of the front windows was a padded bench covered in the beige—and—white striped cloth woven in his own city. The front windows were made from the bottoms of bottles melted together, coloring the light yellow and green and brown; the rearmost windows were clear and curtained, the glass divided into many small panes that could easily be cut from scraps. Two chairs faced one another to either side of the left—hand window—they looked to be nailed down, as was everything in this wagon that didn't hang from the ceiling—and between them, a tabletop was folded down against the wall. At the back, four feet from the door, stood a stove of enameled tile, almost as though it were guarding the entryway. Framed pictures hung on the walls—a scene of a city, a picture of a cottage in a wood, and a tableau of an old peasant couple sitting by their hearth. Could it be, Gianni wondered, that this young Gypsy woman wanted to live in a house as badly as most other young folk wanted to wander?
Gar was able to stoop through the doorway without toppling over, but it took some careful maneuvering for him to sidle around the stove without knocking down the chimney. That done, he collapsed on the bench opposite Gianni, closing his eyes, breathing heavily. Gianni was surprised to see that there was a limit to the giant's strength.
"Rest," Medallia advised, and laid a waterskin near Gianni's hand. "Your benches have arms; hold to them, for the caravan sways a bit." Then she was gone with a rustle of brightly colored cloth through the little door at the front, to call to her donkeys. The caravan lurched into motion, and Gianni found that the arms of the bench were indeed useful. "Where is she taking us?"
"Where does the road lead?" Gar countered.
"To Pirogia, if she doesn't turn off to go to another city."
"Then she'll most likely take us to your home," Gar said. "I told her you were from Pirogia as she bandaged me—told her that I had promised to see you safely home, and was bound to do it however I had to."
"I thank you for that," Gianni said slowly, "and it seems that you shall indeed, though perhaps not in the manner you intended." He glanced out the window, then said, "She is very kind."
"Very," Gar agreed, "but she doesn't look very much like a Gypsy."
Gianni looked up in surprise. "How do Gypsies look? Surely she wears a kerchief and bright clothing, like any Gypsy woman I have ever seen—yes, and with brass earrings, too!"
Gar just gazed at him a moment, then said, "Well, if clothes are all it takes to make a Gypsy, then she must look like one indeed."
"Why—what do you think Gypsies look like?"
"Those of my homeland generally have dark complexions and black hair—and large noses."
Gianni shook his head. "I have never seen a Gypsy who looked like that."
"So," Gar said, more to himself than to Gianni, "the Romany didn't truly come to this plan ... to Petrarch."
Gianni frowned. "What plan did you speak of? And who are the Romany?"
Gar looked up, stared a moment, then smiled. "They're the folk who invented carts like this one, but the arrangement inside is quite different."
"A plan of decoration?"
"Yes, quite so—of management, you might say. 'Medallia' is a pretty name, isn't it?"
"Very," Gianni agreed, but he could have cursed Gar for having aroused his suspicions. Even he had to admit that "Medallia" didn't sound much like the names of the Gypsies he had known.
Gar distracted him from that line of thought. "I'm sorry I couldn't guard you well enough."
"Who could, against an army?" Gianni realized he was echoing the words of the face he had seen in his vision. He tried to ignore that and said, "I saw the amount of roadside that the bandits' hooves tore up. You fought enough of them, my friend."
Gar shrugged. "I had to make it look convincing. Who'd believe that so large a simpleton could be so easily overcome? Unless he was a total coward, which Lenni isn't."
Gianni felt a prickle of eeriness at the way that the big man referred to the simpleton he had pretended to be—but there were more important matters at hand. "We must warn Pirogia."
"Ah." Gar nodded, eyes glinting. "So. You noticed that conversation too, eh?"
"I wish there had been more of it! But what other merchants could they not yet have punished? They've certainly burned out Ludovico, and slaughtered us—at least, so far as they know."
"Yes, that's the one factor in our favor," Gar agreed, "that they think we're dead. But I noticed that the bandits who beat us this second time were Stilettos too, and when they trade stories with their friends who attacked our caravan, they may both mention a rather large man."
"You're hard to miss," Gianni agreed. "Still, the way you fought this time didn't exactly speak of training."
Gar grinned. "I have done my share of brawling. I know the amateur's style."
"So do I," Gianni said ruefully. "I seem to have practiced it."
Gar shook his head. "You fought as a trained fighter."
"But an amateur merchant," Gianni said bitterly.
"Not at all," Gar said, with a sardonic smile. "You're still striving."
"Well, we can scarcely lie down and die." Gianni said it with a twinge of guilt, remembering his dream. "We'll have to be more cautious in our progress back home."
"Thanks to Medallia, all we need to do is stay inside—though if she's attacked, I think we may both find we have the strength to overcome the pain of our bruises."
Anger surged at the mere idea, and Gianni said softly, "Oh, yes. We surely may."
It was a brave resolution. Fortunately, they had no need to put it to the test.
When they stopped for the night, Medallia brewed a rich soup from dried meat and legumes, fed them, then made pallets for them underneath the wagon. Her attitude and stance were firm, and neither man questioned her unspoken decision nor objected in the slightest, though they did groan a little as they climbed down the steps. Medallia pulled the stairs in, said, "I shall see you in the morning, goodmen," and closed her door. Gianni stared at it for a moment, letting his imagination picture what she was doing inside, but found that his body was too worn to work up any enthusiasm, and turned away with a sigh of regret.
His muscles screamed protest as he slowly, painfully, lowered himself to his knees, with one hand on the side of the wagon and Gar holding the other arm. Then Gar braced himself on Gianni's shoulder as he creaked down and bowed Gianni ahead. Gianni lay down, very carefully, and rolled under the wagon, across the nearest pallet, then onto the farther one. Gar came rolling after him, grunting with pain, then lay on his pallet staring up at the bottom of the wagon, gasping in quick shallow breaths.
"More than bruises?" Gianni asked with concern.
"A cracked rib, I think," Gar answered. "It will mend."
"Walk carefully," Gianni warned.
Gar nodded. "Be sure, I've had ribs cracked before—yes, and broken, too. But thank you for worrying, Gianni."
"Thank you for a scheme that saved us," Gianni replied. "Good night, Gar." He thought he heard the big man answer, but that might have been a small dream as he fell into sleep.
Sleep was black, until a small, swirling form began to appear. Not again! Gianni thought, and struggled to wake himself—but before he could, the object grew, and he realized that he wasn't seeing hair and beard swirling around a face, but veils floating around a supple body. Closer she came and closer, turning and undulating in a languid dance. Was that music that accompanied her movements, or was she music embodied? If it was sound, it was so barely audible that he thought he felt it, not saw it—as he also seemed to feel every turn, every gesture. Light grew about her, but somehow left her face in shadow. He longed to discern her form, but the multitude of veils only hinted at a lush and voluptuous figure, and certainly didn't reveal it.
Gianni. Her voice spoke inside his h
ead—but of course, he realized; this was a dream, so it was all inside his head. Gianni, hearken to my words!
To every syllable, he breathed, then frowned at a thought. Do you have a father?
A father? Her tone was surprised. Yes, but he is far away. Why do you ask? Clearly, she had not been expecting that.
Because I have seen an old man who comes and goes as you do. Perhaps her father wasn't so far away as she thought.
Does he indeed! Her tone was ominous. Let us hope we never meet!
Oh, but I am so glad we have! Gianni reached out, but found that whatever dream presence he was had no body.
No—not you. Her tone softened amazingly, then became inviting, seductive, as she said, I, too, rejoice in meeting you, brave and handsome man of Pirogia! But know that contact between the dream realm and the real is forbidden, save to those living souls who have learned the art of the waking dream. I would not violate that rule if I did not have words of import for you.
Whatever it is, I'll treasure the cause! What word have you for me? Gianni found himself hoping ardently.
Love, she said, and Gianni's hopes soared—then crashed as she said, You must avoid it. Turn aside, turn away—do not fall in love with the Gypsy Medallia! Do not!
Small chance of that! Gianni declared, with all the ardor of a newly besotted soul, for I have fallen in love with you!
The dancer stilled and stood awhile frozen, and Gianni gloated, thinking she had not suspected this! Could he take her by surprise, then?
But the dancer began to move again, the veils rising and falling as she turned, then turned again. Do not, she counseled, for I am faithless and fickle, as likely to turn to another man in a minute as I am to return to you. No, in all likelihood, you shall never see me again.
You couldn't be so cruel! Gianni protested.
She threw back her head and laughed in the tone of silver bells. Oh, in affairs of the heart, I can be cruel indeed, Gianni! I am truly a woman without mercy! Nay, you are a fool if you fall in love with Medallia, but a greater fool if you fall in love with me!
Then I am a fool no matter how I turn, Gianni said, with conviction. He found he didn't really mind the idea.
Not at all—you need not fall in love with either! the vision snapped, then turned away, with a gesture of finality—and Gianni woke.
He found himself staring at the bottom of the wagon above his head, startled to find himself back in the real world. Was he to spend his life lost in dreams, then?
If such divine creatures inhabited the dream world—yes. He was growing remarkably repulsed by reality anyway. He lay awake awhile, marveling at how faithless and feckless he was. And he had always believed himself to be constant and virtuous!
But then, he had never fallen in love before—or at least, never so deeply as this.
CHAPTER 5
They came into Pirogia through the land gate, Gar and Gianni sitting up on the driver's seat with Medallia, one on each side of her. The sentries didn't recognize Gianni at first and tried to bar them entrance, but when he protested, "I'm Gianni Braccalese," they stared in surprise, then threw their heads back and guffawed, staggering to brace themselves against the wall. Gianni reddened with embarrassment. "It isn't so funny as all that!"
"To see a merchant of Pirogia dressed up like a Gypsy?" one sentry gasped, wiping his eyes. "Oh, it's a tale to be savored and retold many times—not that I would, mind you."
Gianni took the hint. He sighed and said, "I don't have any money with me, or I'd invite you for a bite and a drink while I told you how I came by these clothes. Shall I meet you at Lobini's coffeehouse to tell you the tale?"
"Aye, and gladly! We're off duty at three."
"At Lobini's, then." The other sentry stepped aside and waved them through the gate.
Medallia clucked to her donkeys and drove in, Gar saying out of the corner of his mouth, "A bribe well and discreetly offered."
"Let's hope they'll be discreet in turn," Gianni sighed. "Yes, I've had some experience at the craft."
"Are you so ashamed to be seen with me as that?" Medallia challenged them.
"Never!" Gianni protested, and was about to explain at length, when he saw the twinkle in her eye and relaxed.
They rode across the causeway, and Gianni explained to Gar that there were charges of gunpowder every dozen yards or so, in case an army tried to charge across the causeway to attack the city. The big man nodded. "Wise." But his eyes were on the panorama spread out before him, and his lips quirked in a smile. "I thought you said this city was built on scores of little islands."
Gianni looked up at his home, luminescent in the morning mist, suddenly seeing it through the eyes of strangers, suddenly seeing it as magical and fantastic. Bridges were everywhere, spanning canals, arcing over waterways, swooping between the taller buildings—buildings that seemed like giant cakes, their walls painted in smooth pastels and adorned with festoons of ornamentation in bright colors. Where the rivers were too wide for bridges (and even where they weren't), long, slender boats glided, in the design Gianni's ancestors had copied from the barbarians of the North, for the people of Pirogia were always eager for new goods, new artifacts, new ideas, and copied and modified with delight, shrugging off their mistakes and embracing their successes. Their critics called them shameless imitators, devoid of originality; their enthusiasts called them brilliant synthesists. The Pirogians called themselves successes.
Pride in his home swelled Gianni's breast. "It really is a score and more of islands," he assured Gar, "but my people have done wonderfully in welding them all together, haven't they?"
"Most wonderfully indeed," Medallia said, and Gianni glanced at her, saw her shining eyes, and felt his hopes soar. On the road, he had been just one more unfortunate; here, he was a rich merchant's son. Surely she would now see him as more than something to be pitied, would see him as someone to be admired, perhaps even coveted ... ?
The sentries at the inner gate frowned, slamming their halberds together to bar the way. "I'm Gianni Braccalese," he informed them, and they stared in surprise. Before they could start laughing, he said, "I'll meet you at Lobini's, if you want, to tell you why I'm dressed as a Gypsy and glad to be. For now, though, I need to see my home as quickly as possible."
They took the hint of the bribe and swallowed their mirth. "We'll meet you there the instant we're relieved," Mario promised. They had known one another from childhood, and Gianni was relieved by the implied promise that they would tell no one until they'd had their chance to rib him unmercifully and see how much hush money he offered them. Gianni didn't resent the minor extortion—every Pirogian expected every other Pirogian to make every penny he could in every way he could, as long as it wasn't blatantly immoral, or completely criminal—and bribery had never been outlawed in Pirogia.
Medallia drove her cart down broad streets and over bridges according to Gianni's directions, until finally they drew up in front of a wide two-story building that backed against the River Melorin, a building of pale blue stucco with the red tile roof that was so much the standard in Pirogia, a dozen windows above and below, and wide double doors for driving in wagons. They stood open now, and Gianni felt a sudden knot tie itself in his belly before he said, "You may drive in, if you will. My father and mother will more than welcome the fair lady who has saved their son."
"I'm no lady, but only a poor Gypsy maiden," Medallia said gently.
A lady was a woman born to the nobility, or at least as the daughter of a knight. Gianni knew that, but he said gallantly, "You're a lady by your deeds and your behavior, if not by birth. Indeed, I have heard of ladies born who lived with less nobility than fishwives."
Gar nodded. "It's true; I've know some of them." Medallia gave Gianni one of her rare smiles, and he stared, feeling as though the sun had come out from behind a cloud to bathe him in its rays. Finally, he remembered to smile back—but Medallia had already turned away and clucked to her donkeys, shaking the reins. They ambled through th
e portal.
A heavily built, middle-aged man in gray work clothes was heaving crates from a stack by the wall up to the bed of a wagon, barking orders at the men who were helping him. Gianni stared, then leaped down to run and seize the last and lowest crate just as the older man was reaching for it. "No, Papa! You know the doctor said you shouldn't lift anything heavy!"
The older man stared, then whooped with delight and flung his arms around Gianni, bawling, "Lucia! Someone call Lucia! It's our son Gianni, come back from the dead!"
Then Gianni realized why his father had been wearing such somber clothing. He hugged back—time enough to take his medicine later.
Gar climbed down off the wagon and moved toward Gianni and his father, face set and grim—but before he could interrupt, a matron came running across the courtyard and fairly wrenched Gianni from his father's arms, weeping for joy.
"Mamma, Mamma!" Gianni lamented. "That I could have caused you such grief!"
"Not you," she sobbed, "but the blackguards who waylaid you! Oh, praise God! Praise God, and Our Lady!"
"There is no blame for him," Gar rumbled, "only for me."
Mamma Braccalese broke away from her son in astonishment, and Papa turned to the giant with a frown, then stared up, taken aback.
"Papa," Gianni said quickly, "this is Gar, a mercenary solder I hired after I found . . ." He paused; he hadn't had time to prepare his father for the bad news. ". . . after I found the burned warehouse. Mamma, this woman is Medallia, who picked us up from the roadside and bandaged our wounds."
"Roadside! Wounds!" Mamma Braccalese turned to him in horror, yanking the scarf off his head and discovering the clean white cloth. "Oh, my son! What villains have done this?" Without waiting for an answer, she turned to hurry to the caravan. "My dear, I cannot thank you enough! Come, you must be weary from your travels! Come down, come down so that I may serve you some refreshment in my house! Giuseppi! See to the donkeys!" She ushered a slightly dazed Medallia up the steps and into the house, asking, "Have you come far? I know, I know, your people live on the road—still, it must be wearying! Oh, thank you so much, so very much, for rescuing my son! Come in, come in that you may sit in a soft chair and drink sweet tea! Tell me, how . . . "
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