Part 6 (1/2)
”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 s.h.i.+ning 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 .. .”