Part 3 (1/2)

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 s.h.i.+ps out to trade,” Gar said. ”Why does he bother sending men inland?”

”Because we must have something to send on those s.h.i.+ps,” Gianni explained. ”If we sent only gold, we would soon have no gold left-and barbarians like you, and the nomads of the southern sh.o.r.e 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 sh.o.r.e love our tapestries and woolens and cottons and linens. Besides, gold is compact, taking up very little room in a hold. Why have a s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+ps 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 sh.o.r.es, 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 fas.h.i.+on? 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+ps 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 sh.o.r.e up the banks of the rivers and ca.n.a.ls-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 s.h.i.+ps.”

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 pa.s.s. ”The merchants of Pirogia meet in a.s.sembly 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 cl.u.s.ter 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.