A Wizard In Mind - Rogue Wizard 01

by Christopher Stasheff

  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.

  Three days later, it was only Papa and Mamma who stood waving as Gianni and Gar led five drivers and ten mules out through the gate. Gianni felt apprehensive and nervous, and missed old Antonio severely—but Gar's great bulk was very reassuring, the more so as the giant wore a new rapier and dagger, plus a crossbow, and a dozen other weapons that he assured Gianni were there, though they could not be seen.

  Out the city gate they went, over the causeway and out through the land gate—and the oppression deepened, hollowing Gianni's stomach, but he forced himself to laugh at a comment Gar made, and hoped the big man had meant it as a joke.

  Two days later, they were following a track through a high valley with steep, wooded hillsides on either hand. Gianni drew his cloak close against the morning chill. Gar did likewise. "I thought your land of Talipon was warm!"

  "It is, as you've seen," Gianni replied, "but even the warmest country will be chill in the early morning, up high in the mountains—won't it?"

  Gar sat a moment, then nodded stiffly. "You're right—it will. At least, that's how it has been in every country I've visited, though I haven't been up in the mountains in each of them. In some, I only know what I've heard from mountaineers I met."

  Gianni looked up at him curiously. "How many lands have you visited?"

  "Only seven," Gar told him. "I'm young yet." Seven! It made Gianni's head reel, the thought of visiting seven other countries. Himself, he had only seen Talipon, and a little of the city of Boriel, on the mainland. Not for the first time, he wished his father had let him go voyaging more often.

  "Mountains are always places that delight the soul," Gar said, "but they should make one wary. The mountaineers have a hobby of robbing goods trains."

  Gianni shook his head with assurance. "There's no fear of that. Pirogia pays a toll to the folk who live here, to guarantee safe passage to our merchants."

  "Wise," Gar allowed, "as long as you call it a toll, not a bribe. But let us suppose that the Stilettos have learned that, and have decided to beat down the mountaineers and set an ambush here, as a way to begin their chastising of Pirogia's merchants ..."

  "That was just a remark heard in passing," Gianni said dubiously.

  "Will you let Grepotti persuade you so easily? Trust your own ears, Gianni! You heard it, and so did I!"

  More importantly, Gianni thought, he had heard his Dream Dancer say it. He looked about him with sudden apprehension. "If they were to do so, would this not be an excellent place for an ambush?"

  "Yes, but the end of this valley would be even better." Gar loosened his sword in its sheath. "We're braced for ambush now, but as we near the debouchment of the pass, we'll begin to relax, to lower our guard. Then will be the ideal time for them to fall upon us."

  "But our men have relaxed their guard," Gianni said, "because they trust in the good faith of the mountaineers."

  Gar stared at him in alarm, then turned back to the men, opening his mouth to yell, but a shouted cry of "At the point!" came out, came out and echoed all about them, and it took Gianni a second to realize that it was not Gar who had called, but men at either hand. He looked about wildly and saw condotierri charging down the slopes from each side—charging on foot, for the angle was too steep for horses to gallop. Gianni's drivers barely had time to realize they were beset, were only beginning to react, when the bandits struck, struck with the clubs they held in their left hands, struck the drivers on the sides of their heads or their crowns. Three went down like felled oxen; the other two dodged, pulling out swords as they did, but the condotierri were behind them and all about them, twisting the swords out of their hands even as they raised them to strike, then bringing them down with a fist in the belly and a club behind the ear. Gianni cried out in agony, seeing their futures as galley slaves—but it was too late to try to ride to their rescue, for the condotierri had surrounded Gar and him, surrounded them with a thicket of steel, swords striking from every angle, clubs whirling. They were on foot, though, and Gianni and Gar were mounted, striking down with greater force and the advantage of thrusting over the soldiers' guards.

  Gar bellowed in rage, catching swords on his dagger and plunging his rapier down again and again. Bandits fell, gushing blood, and others leaped back out of his range, then leaped in again to stab, but Gar was quicker than they, catching their blows on his dagger and striking home as other thrusts missed him. Gianni could see only when the fight turned him far enough to one side or the other, but he had a confused impression that most of the swords aimed at Gar somehow missed, sliding by him to one side or the other. A condotierre seized Gianni's horse's bridle and pulled the beast forward, just far enough for another soldier to step in behind Gar, swinging a halberd in a huge overhand are. Gianni shouted, trying to turn to stab the man, trying to reach, but he overbalanced, lurched forward into waiting hands, and heard the halberd shaft strike Gar's head with a horrible crack, a crack echoed by the club struck against his own skull, and even as the familiar darkness closed in, he realized that his Dream Dancer had been right.

  But it wasn't the woman who banished the darkness, it was the old man with the floating hair and beard, and there was no persuading this time, no arguing or warning, but only the stern command, Up, Gianni Braccalese! You have ignored sound advice; you have brought this upon yourself! Up, to suffer the fruit of your folly! Up to labor and toil in the poverty you deserve, and will deserve until you start fighting with your brain instead of letting your enemies overwhelm you with arms!

  But I did only as I was bidden, Gianni protested.

  Up! the face thundered. Up to labor and fight, or must I make this one refuge a place of torment instead of healing? Up and away, Gianni Braccalese, for the honor of your name and the salvation of your city! UP!

  The last word catapulted Gianni into consciousness; his eyes flew open and he lurched halfway up, then sank back onto a cold, slimy surface, his head raging with pain, his eyes squeezed to slits against the glare of the sky—and there was no gentle face floating above his this time, nor even Gar's homely, craggy features.

  Gar! Where was the man? Dead? Enslaved? For that matter, where was Gianni? He rolled painfully up on one elbow, blinking through pain, out over a landscape of churned mud under a drizzling rain. He shivered, soaked through, and saw nothing about him but ...

  The huge, inert body, lying crumpled on its side, face slanting down, almost in the mud, with the huge bloom of ragged, bloody scalp in the midst of his hair—Gar, stripped of his doublet and hose, of even his boots, left for dead.

  Fear gibbered up in Gianni, and he struggled through the mud toward his friend. Pain thundered in his head, almost making him stop, but he went on, forced himself to crawl for what seemed an hour but could not have been, for the distance could only have been a few yards. He shivered with numbing cold, feeling the rain beat against his skin ...

  Skin! He took time for a quick look down and saw that the condotierri had stripped him as they had stripped Gar, nothing left but the linen with which he had girded his loins for the journey. They had left him, too, for dead—b
ut why?

  An awful suspicion dawned, and Gianni balanced on one elbow while he raised the other hand to his head, probing delicately at the back ... Pain screamed where his fingers touched, and he yanked his fingers away, shivering anew at his answer—he was injured almost as badly as the mercenary, brought down by too strong a blow with a club. Too strong indeed! He struggled toward Gar with renewed vigor, the energy of panic. If the man were dead, and Gianni alone in this savage world ... But his fingers touched Gar's throat; he waited for a long, agonizing minute, then felt the throb of blood through the great artery. Gianni went limp with relief—Gar would recover, would waken, and he wouldn't be alone in the rain after all.

  But the rain was cold, and surely the giant might die of chill if Gianni couldn't cover him somehow. He looked about him with despair—the condotierri had left nothing, nothing at all, not a shred of cloth ...

  But there was dried grass by the roadside. Struggling and panting, Gianni squirmed the necessary few feet to the head of hay, then realized it would do no good to return with a single handful. He tried to ignore the pain in his head, the bruises in his ribs, as he pushed himself up to his knees, gathered up an armful of hay, then returned walking on his knees, one hand out to catch himself if he fell, returned to Gar and dumped the load of hay over the big man's shoulders and chest, though the straw seemed so pitifully inadequate against such a huge expanse of muscle. Gianni leaned on Gar's shoulder as he tried to tuck a few wisps down to hide the mercenary ...

  And the eyes fluttered, then opened in a pained squint.

  Gianni froze, staring down, almost afraid to believe Gar was waking. But the big man levered himself up enough to raise a trembling hand to his head, then cried aloud at the pain of the touch on the raw wound. Gianni caught his hand and said soothingly, "Gently, gently! Let it heal! You'll be whole again, but it will take time."

  Gar began to shiver.

  "Come," Gianni urged, tugging at his arm. Slowly, Gar pushed himself upright, then sat blinking about him.

  "They struck you on the head," Gianni said, "and left you for dead. Me, too. They left us both for dead."

  "Us?" The giant turned a look of blank incomprehension on him.

  A dreadful suspicion began, but Gianni tried to ignore it as he said, "Us. Me—Gianni Braccalese—and you, Gar."

  "Brock?" Gar frowned, fastening on the one word. "Wh ... what Brock?"

  Gianni stared at him for a moment, his thoughts racing. Not wanting to believe what he feared, he said, "Not Brock. Gianni." He pointed at himself, then said, "Gar," and tapped the big man's chest.

  "Gar." The giant frowned, turning a forefinger to point at himself, bringing it slowly close enough to touch his own massive pectoral. "Gar." Then he looked up, turning that finger around to reach out to Gianni, tap his chest. "Who?"

  "Gi—" Gianni caught himself just in time, forcing himself to realize what had happened to Gar—that the blow had addled his wits, perhaps knocked them clear out of his head. Hard on that followed the realization that the big man could no longer be trusted to keep a secret, and that Gianni might not want any passing Stilettos to know his own name. He finished the word, but finished it as "Giorgio." It was too late to call Gar "Lenni" again, now—the poor half—wit would have trouble enough remembering his real name, let alone sort out a false one from a true. "And you're Gar."

  "Gar." The giant frowned with as much concentration as he could muster against headache. He touched his own chest, then touched Gianni's. "Giorgio."

  "Yes." Gianni nodded his head, and the stab of pain made him wish that he hadn't. "Right."

  Then he reached out, bracing himself against Gar's shoulder, and struggled to his feet. He gasped at the spasm of agony and would have fallen if a huge hand hadn't clamped around his calf and held him upright. When the dizziness passed, Gianni reached down and hauled at Gar's arm, hoping desperately that the attempt wouldn't end with them both sliding back into the mud. "Come. We can't stay here. Soldiers might come."

  "Soldiers?" Gar struggled to his feet, though he needed Gianni to brace him, gasping, as he lurched, trying to regain his balance. He stabilized, gulped air against nausea, then turned to Gianni. "Sojers?"

  Gianni felt his heart sink, but explained. "Bad men. Hurt Gar." Counfound it, he thought, I sound as though I'm talking to a five-year-old!

  But he was—for the time being, Gar had only as much mind as a child. Pray Heaven it wouldn't last!

  "Come." Gianni took his arm, turning away, and tugged. Gar followed, as docile as a five-year-old indeed ...

  No. More docile—like a placid ox, who didn't really care where he went, as long as he was fed.

  He would have to find food, Gianni realized—but first, he had to get Gar away from this place. It was exposed, the condotierri might come back to ambush another goods train—or the mountaineers might come for the condotierri's leavings. Gianni led Gar away, but found himself wishing the giant would balk, would object, would say anything to indicate he still had a mind.

  He didn't.

  CHAPTER 7

  It was a long, pain-racked afternoon. Every muscle, every nerve, screamed at him to lie down and never get up, but he couldn't; he was possessed by a morbid fear of that horrible patch of churned mud where he had almost given up on life, and his friend had almost been murdered—the friend who now stumbled along, towed by the arm, shambling like some great, half—wakened, befuddled bear. A feeling of doom seized Gianni, and try as he might, he couldn't shake the conviction that he and Gar would die here, in the mountain wilderness, cold and alone. Yes, there was the chance that they might find helpbut only a chance, and a slim one at that.

  Finally, trembling with exhaustion, Gianni knew he could go no farther. He looked about, feeling panic bubbling up as he tried to find some vestige of shelter—and saw a huge old tree, far larger than was usual so high up, lying on its side. It had been torn up by some winter's storm, and its roots hung out on every side, forming a natural cave. Gianni steered Gar toward it.

  As they came in under the rootlet—laden ceiling, Gianni realized it was a better cave than he had thought, for the bottom of the trunk was hollow. He went in as far as he could, far enough so that the two of them were quite hidden from sight, and sank down onto the wooden surface with a groan of relief—even greater relief than he had thought, for the surface under him was covered with the soft crumbling of rotted wood, a virtual bed of it, fallen from the ceiling and the walls. Gianni threw himself out upon it full length, still cold and wet, but mercifully sheltered. There was even water, for a small pool had formed from drips through a hole in the trunk above. Gianni leaned over and drank greedily, then remembered Gar and turned to offer a drink, but the giant had found a pool of his own, and knelt with his face upturned, catching a steady stream of drops on his tongue. His head almost brushed the top of their hiding place. Satisfied as to his health, Gianni turned back to lie, cold and miserable, waiting for death or sleep to take him, and finding that he didn't really care which came first.

  Then he smelled smoke.

  Smoke! In a wooden cave? Fear lent him energy; he sat bolt upright, staring at the glow in the gloom, the flicker of a small campfire sitting on a broad, flat stone, its light shining upward on Gar's homely features. The wood must have been very dry, for there was very little smoke, and what there was streamed up and to the side past Gar, to the hole through which the water dripped.

  Gianni felt the hair prickle all over his scalp. How had the giant done that? Having the presence of mind to bring a stone inside, rather than trying to light a fire on wood, yes, that was common sense—but how had he lit the fire? He had no flint and steel, nor a live coal carried in a terra—cotta box. "How ... how did you do that, Gar?"

  "Do?" The giant blinked up at him, as though the question held no meaning.

  "Light the fire," Gianni explained. "How did you do it?"

  "Do." Gar stared down at the flames, brow furrowed, seeming to ponder the question. At last he looked up
and gave his head a shake. "Don't know."

  It sent the eerie prickling over Gianni's back and scalp again—but he assured himself that whatever Gar was, he was Gianni's friend. At least, Gianni thought so.

  And if not?

  Gianni scolded himself for a fool. Who, but minutes ago, had not cared whether or not Death came to claim him? If it did, what matter whether it came at the hands of the cold, or the hands of a madman? And, of course, it might not come at all.

  In the meantime, they had warmth—and Gianni could already feel the heat reaching out to him, drying him, comforting him. The thought of food crossed his mind, and he felt his stomach rebel—the ache in his head was still too painful to permit the thought. But the warmth lulled him; he felt his eyelids growing heavy. Still he fought off sleep, for he noticed that Gar was feeding the fire with their shelter's substance—bits of rotten wood, handfuls of rootlets, pieces of root that he had broken off and piled high. What would happen if that blessed, lifegiving fire escaped its rock? What would happen if their shelter itself caught and burned? Oh, Gianni might not care about his own life—but a vision of Gar, poor, near—naked, deprived of his wits, floundering and wailing in the midst of flames, sent the pain racking through Gianni's head again. No, he'd have to stay awake, for he couldn't ask the giant to put the fire out they needed it too much, and a glance at Gar's profile—empty, but still strong—made Gianni think he wouldn't take kindly to having his fire drenched. No, Gianni would have to wake and watch ... but the fire was so warm now, so lulling, the rotted wood beneath him so soft ...

  You need not stay awake, said the old man with the floating hair and beard.

  Gianni stared. What are you doing here when I'm awake?

  Fairly asked, the old face said. Turn it about. If you can see me, can you be awake?

  Gianni glanced about him, and saw—nothing. The ancient face floated in a void of darkness. With shock, he realized that he really had fallen asleep. A wave of self-contempt flooded him, that he couldn't even stay conscious for a few minutes after having decided to do so. Then came alarm; what was Gar doing while he slept? What was the fire doing? Do not be alarmed, the face said, almost as though it had read his thoughts. Sleep easily; the giant is awake and watching, though he has scarcely mind enough to do any more than that. He will keep the fire contained.