Part 5 (1/2)

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 s.h.i.+rt 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 s.h.i.+rt, 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 s.h.i.+rt 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.