Medallia went over to rummage through the sprawl of torn garments. "Rags to wash windows withnothing more."

Gianni felt empty. "I'll bring clothes."

Gianni started to protest, but Medallia had already turned away to go back to her caravan.

"A rare woman," Gar said, following the swaying form with his eyes.

"Most rare indeed." Gianni wondered what her figure was like, but her skirts were full, and she wore a shawl draped around her shoulders and down to her hips. He was sure she was beautiful in every way, though, for if she weren't, how could she move so sensuously? Especially when she didn't intend to. Gianni watched her climb up onto the driver's seat, then heard a door open and shut, heard her footsteps inside ...

"How could she know it wouldn't be dangerous to revive us?"

Gianni jolted out of his reverie, staring at Gar, appalled. "You can't mean to molest her!"

"Never," Gar said, . with all the resolution of profound morality and beyond. "But she couldn't have known that."

"No-that's true." A dark, slow anger began to course through Gianni, at any man who would take advantage of a ministering angel-but he knew enough of the world to believe such men existed, and suspected Gar knew it even better than he.

A door in the back of the caravan opened, and a set of steps fell down. Medallia descended, her arms full of clothing, and came back to the men. She knelt beside Gianni and held a shirt up. "Will this fit you?"

Gianni raised his arms-halfway. There he grimaced with the pain of a bruise, but started to force his arms higher.

"Don't." Her voice was gentle. "The bone may be bruised as well as the muscle.

Here." She settled the fabric over his head and pulled it down. He did have to force his arms through the sleeves, then ran a hand down the front of the shirt, amazed at its texture. At first he thought it to be silk, then realized it was only a very finely spun cotton-but how had she polished it to such a sheen?

It didn't occur to him to wonder why she carried men's clothing.

Medallia looked him up and down, then nodded. "Perhaps a little too large, but no one will notice. Try the trousers, while I take the rest to your friend." She rose and moved away.

Tactful, Gianni thought-it could have been rather embarra.s.sing to have her help him pull on his pants. He managed to bend stiff legs well enough to push them down the tubes of black cloth, then looked down, intrigued by the looseness of their fit. They felt so much more comfortable than his hose-but of course, they didn't show off the legs that he had exercised so hard to perfect.

He looked up and saw that Medallia was having a bit more trouble with Gar. The shirt fitted very tightly indeed, making the man's chest muscles appear even more huge than they were-and his upper arms strained the seams. The sleeves were far too short, but she disguised that by rolling them back a little, as though they had been shortened by intention, for hard work. The shirt didn't meet the belt, but she solved that by winding a wide sash twice around his midriff (though Gianni wasn't sure he liked the way her hands caressed the fabric over Gar's belly muscles). The trousers were far too short, but she said, "We'll have to find you some high horseman's boots."

She went back, then returned with the boots. "Those, at least, I have." Gar pulled them on, and Medallia stood back, eyeing them critically, then nodding. "They will be high enough, yes. You'll pa.s.s if the condotierri don't look too closely, and it will do to bring you home-but until then, you'd do well to stay where no one can see you. I think you would do better to ride than to walk for a while, in any case.

Will the two of you come into my caravan?"

Would he! The blood pounded in Gianni's head at the mere thought, though he realized the invitation was quite impersonal. He reined in his rampant emotions and said, "You're most kind indeed! Yes, by all means, we'll be glad to ride with you!"

"Come, then." Medallia helped him up, and had to steady him as he found his feet. Gianni groaned with the pain as a dozen bruises screamed at him for the folly of moving. He felt his knees buckle, but Medallia's shoulder was a bulwark against unconsciousness, and he began to hobble with her toward the caravan.

"Slowly, slowly," she crooned. "We'll be there soon enough." And there the yellow boards were, right in front of him. She tucked his fingers over the dashboard, saying, "Hold tight, now, till I bring your friend, for I think six weak hands will do better than two strong, in hoisting you up." She went back for Gar.

But the big man had already pushed himself to his feet and stood swaying, propping himself up with a pole that had a ragged end. With a shock, Gianni realized that the man must have broken a pike, and that its owner had taken the head with him, for steel was valuable. Medallia took Gar's hand and placed it on her shoulder (Gianni was surprised at the sudden jealousy he felt). Gar nodded gravely and followed, but Gianni could see that he wasn't leaning on the woman, only held her shoulder as a guide. She anch.o.r.ed him to the back of the wagon, then returned to lead Gianni there, too, then on up and into the caravan, where she lowered him onto a padded bench, then went back for Gar.

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 gla.s.s divided into many small panes that could easily be cut from sc.r.a.ps. 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 bra.s.s 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 p.r.i.c.kle 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 att.i.tude 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 mult.i.tude of veils only hinted at a lush and voluptuous figure, and certainly didn't reveal it.

Gianni. Her voice spoke inside his head-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 f.e.c.kless 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 embarra.s.sment. "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."