"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 ca.n.a.ls, 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 a.s.sured 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-very 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 n.o.bility, 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 n.o.bility 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 the 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 backtime 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 G.o.d!

Praise G.o.d, 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 . . . "

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 gla.s.s in your hand!" Papa Braccalese commanded. "Then you shall tell me all about itbut until then, not a word!"

However, when they did have gla.s.ses 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 t.i.tle (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 sh.o.r.es!"

"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 a.s.sume 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 pa.r.s.e 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 a.s.surance 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 ma.s.sing 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 n.o.bleman'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 n.o.blemen? 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 compet.i.tors. 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!"