A Wizard In Mind

by Christopher Stasheff

  "Your men cure their spirits quickly," Gar noted. "Ludovico wasn't one of us," Gianni replied, "only a trading acquaintance."

  Gar nodded. "Close enough for his death to shake you, not close enough to cause true grief. Still, your men have spirit."

  "Meaning that they march in the shadow of condotierri and manage to smile?" Gianni suited his own words. "So many mules can't move in silence-so why not laugh while you stay vigilant? After all, would a whole mercenary company post sentries along the roadside to watch for fat travelers?"

  "Yes," Gar said instantly. "At least, if I were the captain of such a band, I would set a few men to watch for every chance of plunder."

  Gianni looked up, shaken. "Would you turn bandit, then?"

  "Definitely not," Gar said, just as quickly. "But when you wish to guard against an enemy, you must think ahead, to what he will most likely do-and the best way to do that is to put yourself in his place and try to think as he does. So, although I would never allow men of mine to loot or plunder or attack civilians, I imagine how I would think if I were such a captain." He looked directly into Gianni's eyes. "Can you understand that?"

  "Yes," Gianni said, somewhat shaken, "and it speaks of great talent or long training. You aren't so new to soldiering as you seem, are you?" He was very much aware that he still didn't know enough about Gar to be sure he was trustworthy, and wasn't about to miss a chance to gain a little more information.

  Nor was Gar about to give it. "I was raised to war, as are most barbarians."

  Gianni nodded. "Still, you're young to be a captain."

  "And you're young to be a merchant," Gar returned.

  Gianni smiled. "As you said-I was raised to it. Still, the goods aren't mine, but my father's, and I don't take the profit myself-I only receive a share."

  "A share?" Gar raised his eyebrows. "Not a wage?"

  "No-Papa says I will work harder if the amount of my pay depends on the size of the profit."

  Gar nodded slowly. "There is sense in that." Antonio only listened to the two young men chat, smiling with pleasure.

  "But your father sends ships out to trade," Gar said. "Why does he bother sending men inland?"

  "Because we must have something to send on those ships," Gianni explained. "If we sent only gold, we would soon have no gold left-and barbarians like you, and the nomads of the southern shore of the Middle Sea, have little use for precious metals. They have need of iron ingots, though, and of the cotton and linen cloth that our weavers make. The rustic lords of the northern shore love our tapestries and woolens and cottons and linens. Besides, gold is compact, taking up very little room in a hold. Why have a ship sail almost empty when it could carry a full cargo that won't drain our reserves?"

  He was rather surprised that Gar seemed to understand every word. "There is sense to that," he said, "but couldn't your ships carry timber and grain from those trading voyages?"

  "Why, when they are much more cheaply had here, near home?" Gianni countered. "The cost of bearing them to Pirogia is so much less. No, from the barbarian shores, we bring amber and furs and all manner of stuffs that are luxuries to the people of Talipon, and from the old cities to the east and the warlords of the south, we bring spices and silk and rare woods. Those are the cargoes that we can sell at a profit in Talipon, my friend-not the goods that they already have."

  "There is sense in that," Gar admitted. "Who decides to trade in this fashion? The merchant princes of your Pirogia?"

  Gianni laughed. "I would scarcely call them princes-solid city men, prosperous, perhaps, but they certainly don't live like princes. And no, my friend, the Council doesn't decide what to ship and what to import my father does that, as does every other merchant. Each decides for himself."

  "Then what does your Council do?"

  Gianni took a breath. "They decide the things that affect all the merchants, and all the city-how much money to invest in ships of war, how much in soldiers, whether to hire mercenaries or train our own . . ."

  "Your own," Gar said firmly. "Always your own." Gianni blinked, surprised that the man would preach against his own trade. Then he went on. "They decide whether or not to build bridges, or new public buildings, or to shore up the banks of the rivers and canals-all manner of things affecting the public good."

  "Say rather, the good of the merchants," Gar pointed out. "Who guards the interests of the craftsmen and working men?"

  "The craftsmen have their guilds, whose syndics may argue in the Council if they care strongly about an issue that's being discussed." It occurred to Gianni that he could have taken offense at that question, but he was too busy explaining. "As to the laborers, I'll admit we haven't yet discovered how to include them in the deliberations, other than to charge each councillor with speaking about the issues to all the folk in his warehouses and ships."

  Gar nodded. "How are these oligarchs-your pardon, the councillors-chosen?"

  Gianni frowned, not liking the word "oligarch," especially since he didn't understand its meaning-but he decided it must be a word in Gar's native language and let it pass. "The merchants of Pirogia meet in assembly and elect the councillors by casting pebbles into bowls that bear the name of each merchant who's willing to serve that year-green pebbles for those they want to serve, red for those they don't want. There are always at least twice as many willing as there are positions on the Council."

  "How many is that?"

  "A dozen." Gianni wondered how his attempt to learn more about Gar had turned into a lecture on the government of Pirogia, and might have asked exactly that, had the condotierri not fallen upon them.

  They came riding across the fields, shouting for the merchants to stop. "Ride!" Gianni called. "Do they think us fools?" He kicked his horse into a canter, and Gar matched his pace on one side, Antonio on the other. The drivers whipped their mules into their fastest pace, which the beasts were frightened enough to do-but the train could go no faster than a laden mule, and the condotierri came on at the gallop.

  "They, know we aren't fools-but neither are they!" Gar called to him. "They're frightening us into riding headlong because they have an ambush planned!"

  "Ambush?" Antonio where?"

  "There!" Gar pointed ahead at a cluster of peasant huts that had just come into view. "Scare us enough, and we'll think we're safe when we come to shelter, any shelter!" cried, incredulous. "From

  Even as he said it, more condotierri burst out of the huts, galloping straight toward them. Gianni gave a frantic look back, but saw another group following hard on their trail.

  "We're lost!" one of the drivers cried, and slewed his mule to a halt, throwing up his hands. "Circle!" Gianni shouted. "Do you want to be slaves in the lords' galleys the rest of your lives? Form the circle and fight!"

  The drivers pulled their animals around to form an impromptu fortress.

  "They're soldiers!" the lone driver wailed. "We can't win! They'll slay us if we fight back!"

  "Better dead and free than alive and in bondage!" Antonio shouted.

  "Any man who wishes to live as a slave, leave now!" Gianni called. "Perhaps you can escape while the rest of us fight!"

  That one driver bolted=-out of the circle, down off the road, and over the fields. The others all held steady, staring at the mercenaries thundering down upon them.

  "Slay the horses first!" Gar called. "A man afoot is less of a threat!"

  A cry of terror made them all look toward the deserter, just in time to see a condotierre strike him down with a club. He fell amidst the grain, unconscious and waiting to be harvested when the battle was done.

  "That is the reward of surrender!" Antonio called. "Better to die fighting!"

  "Better still to fight and live!" Gar shouted. "But if you must die, take as many of them with you as you can!"

  The drivers answered him with a shout.

  "Fire!" Gianni cried, and a volley of crossbow bolts slammed into horses. The poor beasts threw up their heads and died with a scream; the next rank of
soldiers stumbled and fell over the crumpled bodies of the first. But the third rank had time to swerve around their fallen comrades, and the drivers dropped their crossbows, realizing they wouldn't have time to reload.

  Then the condotierri fell upon them.

  It was hot, hard fighting, and it seemed to last hours, as Gianni caught blades on his dagger and thrust and slashed. Gar stood just behind him, back to back, roaring and slashing at rider after rider. In minutes, they were both bleeding; as their men fell, swords slashed them, skewered them, but they shouted with rage and didn't feel the pain as anything but a distant annoyance. The condotierri bellowed with anger as drivers thrust swords into their horses' chests, and the mounts buckled beneath the soldiers. Screams of anguish and agony filled the air, but more from the condotierri than the drivers-for the Stilettos were striking with clubs, trying to capture men for the slave markets, but the drivers struck back with swords and lances and axes. Finally the condotierri gave up hope of profit and drew their swords in rage. Gianni shouted in pain when he saw his men falling, blood pumping from chest and throat, then cried with anguish as old Antonio fell with his jerkin stained crimson.

  Then a roundhouse swing struck his sword up and slammed the blade back into his forehead. He spun about, and as he fell, saw Gar already lying in a crumpled heap below him-before the horse's hoof struck his head, and the world stopped.

  CHAPTER 3

  The world went away; there was nothing but darkness, nothing but consciousness--consciousness of a spot of light, small or distant. Distant; it grew larger, seeming to come nearer, until Gianni could see it was a swirl of whiteness. Closer then it came and closer, until Gianni realized, with a shock, that its center was a face, an old man's face, and the swirling about him was his long white beard and longer white hair. Hair blurred into beard as it moved about and about, as though it floated in water. Beware, beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

  The words sprang unbidden to Gianni's mind, words he was certain he had never heard before-and surely not the type of thing he would have thought of himself. But those eyes were flashing, looking directly into his, and the lips parted, parted and spoke, in a voice that seemed to reverberate all about Gianni, so low in pitch that it seemed to be the rumble of the earth, issuing words he could barely understand because they throbbed in his bones as much as in his ears:

  Your time has not yet come. Live!

  And Gianni was astonished to find that he didn't want to, that the warm enwrapping darkness was so comforting that he had no wish to leave it.

  This is not your place, the face said. You have no right to be here you have not earned it.

  But I can do no good in the world, Gianni protested. I have seen that! I can't protect my men. I can't protect my father's goods-I'm not half the man my father is!

  Nor was he, when he was your age. The face spoke sternly. Go! Or would you deprive him not only of his goods, but also of his son, who is more dear to him than anything he owns? Would you leave him to weep his grief in your mother's arms, and she in his?

  A pang of guilt stabbed Gianni, and he sighed, gathering his energies. Very well, if you say it. I shall go. His attention suddenly sharpened. Yet tell me first, who are you?

  But the face was receding, and the voice was commanding, Go! Go back to the world! To your mother, your father! Go! Go, and come not back until ...

  His voice seemed to blur as he shrank to only a circle of whiteness, and Gianni asked, Until? Until what?

  Come not! Come not! Come ... Come ... But the face had dwindled to a circle of light again, shrinking, growing smaller and smaller until it winked out, leaving a last word lingering behind: Come ...

  "Come back, Gianni! Come back!" a voice was saying, was urging gently. "Come back to the world! Wake up, arise!"

  Gianni frowned, finding himself somewhat irritated. He forced his eyes open-only a little, then wider, for there was very little light. He saw the giant bending over him, his rough-hewn face even more craggy in the stark whites and sudden blacks of moonlight.

  "He looks!" Gar marveled. "He opens his eyes! He lives!"

  "Yes, I live," Gianni groaned, "though I would far rather not." He tried to push himself up, but his arm was too weak. Gar caught him and hauled him upright. Gianni gasped at the lance of pain in his head, then choked down the nausea that followed. "What ... how ..."

  "It was a blow to your head," Gar said, "only that, but a very bad blow."

  "I remember ... a horse's hoof . . ."

  "Yes, that would be enough to addle your brains for a while," Gar allowed.

  Gianni blinked about him, trying to make out dim shapes through his haze of pain. "What ... happened to ... the day?"

  "We lay like the dead, I'm sure," Gar told him, "and the condotierri had no use for corpses, so they let us lie-after looting our bodies, of course. My sword is gone, and my purse and boots."

  Gianni looked down and saw his sword and scabbard gone, his feet bare, and his belt shorn. "Well, at least I have life," he grunted.

  "And a miracle it is! I woke in midafternoon and forced myself up enough to crawl to water. I upset a considerable number of ravens and vultures, and came back to find them eyeing you."

  "Thank you for upsetting them again."

  "I labored long trying to revive you. For a time, I thought you were dead, but laid my cheek near your face and felt a ghost of breath from your nose. I've stretched all my meager store of soldier's healing lore, but you've revived."

  "And am not happy about it, I assure you." Gianni clutched a pain-fried head.

  "Here." Gar held out two small white disks in his palm. "Swallow them, and drink!"

  Gianni gave the little disks a jaundiced look. "What are they?"

  "Soldiers' medicine, for a blow to the head. Drink!" Gar thrust a wineskin at him, and Gianni reluctantly took the two small pills, put them in his mouth, then took a swallow of water. He almost gagged on them, then looked up gasping. "What now?"

  "We rest until your head no longer drums, then go back to Pirogia."

  Back to Pirogia! Gianni's stomach sank at the thought of confronting his father with the report that he had lost not only his father's goods, but also his mules and even his drivers-that he had lost the whole caravan. Stalling, he gestured vaguely about him. "Should we not ... the bodies . . ." Then he blinked, amazed to see a long, low mound of fresh earth beside the road and no bodies about him, only a deal of churned mud. He realized what liquid must have softened the road, and almost lost his stomach again.

  "I had to do something while I waited for you to waken," Gar explained. "There's nothing more to keep us here, and every reason to find a priest to bring back, so he can say prayers over them. Come, Gianni. It's far more my disgrace than your own, for you hired me to prevent this very thing but I must confess my failure, and accept the consequences."

  "I, too." Inside, Gianni shied from the thought of his father's face swollen in anger, but knew he must do even as Gar had said-report his failure and take his punishment. "Well, then, back to Pirogia." He started to struggle to his feet, but Gar held him back. "No, no, not yet! When your head has ceased to pound, I said! Give the medicine a chance to do its work! Wait half an hour more, Gianni, at least that!"

  It was an hour, at a guess from the decline of the moon, but Gar did manage to pull Gianni to his feet and start down the road, though they held themselves up only by leaning against one another as much as they walked.

  They tottered through the night, and Gianni would have said "Enough!" and lain down to rest a dozen times over, but Gar insisted that they keep on trudging through the dust. Even after the moon had set, he kept urging, "Only a little farther, Gianni!" or "Only another half hour, Gianni-we're bound to find a barn or a woodlot in that time!" and at last, "Only till dawn, Gianni. Let us at least be able to see if enemies come!" Gianni protested and protested with increasing weariness, until at last it seemed that Gar was holding him up. Over that blank and featureless plain they plodded, t
hrough a darkness that showed them only a lighter blackness where sky met land, with the occasional huddle of cottages in the distance, the occasional granary or byre. Gianni would have wondered why Gar thought it so important to keep him walking through the night, if fatigue hadn't addled his wits to the point where only one thought could take root, and that thought was: sleep!

  Finally, the sky lightened with the coming day, and Gar ground to a stop, lowering his employer gently to the grass by the roadside. "Here, at least, we can see."

  "I told you there were no barns, no woodlots, between here and Pirogia," Gianni said thickly.

  "In fact, you did," Gar agreed. "Go ahead now, sleep. I'll wake you up if anyone comes to disturb us."

  But Gianni didn't hear the end of the sentence. He fell asleep just as Gar was promising to wake him. And wake him he did, shaking his shoulder and saying, with a note of urgency, "Gianni! Wake up! Trouble comes!"

  Gianni was up on one elbow before his eyes had finished opening. "Trouble? What kind?"

  "Horsemen," Gar said. "Can they be anything but trouble?"

  "Only if they're another train of merchants." Gianni stumbled to his feet, looking down the road to where Gar was pointing, amazed to realize that it was midafternoon. Had the mercenary kept watch all that time, and not slept?

  But he saw the cloud of dust already a little way past the horizon, heard the faint drum of hoofbeats, saw the glitter of sunlight off steel, and said, "That's not a troop of merchants."

  "No," Gar agreed, "it's a troop of cavalry. You know this land better than I do, Gianni. Where can we hide?"

  Gianni looked about him, feeling the first faint tendrils of panic reaching out about his mind. "Nowhere! This is table land-there's only the ditch beside the road!"

  "And they'll see us if we try to run for the shelter of a granary-if we can find one." Gar was tense, alert, his eyes luminous, but seemed quite poised, quite cool-headed. The mere sight of him calmed Gianni a bit. "There is the ditch," the mercenary went on, "but they're sure to glance down and see us crouching in the mud ... Hold! The mud!"