Christopher Stasheff - Rogue Wizard 1 - Wizard in Mind

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A Wizard In MindA Wizard In Mind

The First Chronicle of Magnus D'Armand, Rogue Wizard

By Christopher Stasheff

ISBN: 0-812-53648-7

PROLOGUE

A spy can't quit and stay healthy-everybody knows that. In fact, a spy can't

quit and stay alive-but Magnus d'Armand was still living, even though he had

resigned from the Society for the Conversion of Extraterrestrial Nascent

Totalitarianisms more than six months before-still alive, and not really

terribly worried about it.

Of course, SCENT wasn't a secret service with missions of mayhem-it was

(officially) a private organization dedicated to subverting dictatorships before

they started, by converting planets to democracy before they developed out of

their Middle Ages. So Magnus wasn't really a spy, though he was a secret agent.

He was also a secret wizard. That helped, sometimes. A lot.

At the moment, he was sitting in the control room of his spaceship, talking with

its robot brain. "Well, Herkimer, which planet shall we subvert next?"

"There is a wide choice." Herkimer supplied the sound of index cards flipping

behind his rather theatrical sigh. "I do not suppose I could persuade you to

consider a planet for which democracy is obviously the ideal form of

government?"

"You could persuade me to try the planet, but not the democracy-at least, not

without a massive amount of proof. After all, that's why I quit SCENT-because I

wasn't willing to impose democracy on a society it wasn't right for."

"And because you disapproved of some of SCENT's methods-yes, I know." Herkimer

didn't mention the other reason for Magnus's reluctance to "impose"

democracy-the young man's father, Rod Gallowglass, who was one of SCENT's most

famous agents (though Rod himself didn't know about it), and had spend most of

his life laying the foundations of democratic government on Magnus's home

planet, Gramarye. The young man's need to separate himself from his father, and

to establish his own reputation, no doubt had a great deal to do with both his

quitting SCENT and his reluctance to establish democracies.

"I can't accept sacrificing good people just to give an edge to your favorite

form of government," Magnus told him. "Societies come in a great number of

different forms, Herkimer, so it only makes sense that they need different forms

of government. If I find a planet that requires a dictatorship, I'll work to

establish a dictatorship!"

"Certainly, Magnus-if you do find such a society." Herkimer had already scanned

his complete SCENT database, along with the d'Armand family archives that he had

down-loaded from Fess, the family robot. With that knowledge in his data banks,

Herkimer could easily see that although dictatorship might be good for a

society, it wasn't good for the people, unless there were some way of

guaranteeing their civil rights-in which case, it wasn't a complete dictatorship

anymore, but was on the way to becoming something else. "The planet Kanark might

be the sort you are considering." He put a picture on the screen.

Magnus frowned, studying the peasants in their felt caps and faded blue tunics

as they waded through a yellow field with scythes, singing in time to the sweep

and lift of the blades. "The planet is eight percent greater in diameter than

Terra," Herkimer informed him, "but with ninety-eight percent of Terra's

gravity, presumably indicating fewer heavy metals in the planetary core. Its

rotation is twenty-two hours, forty minutes, Terran standard. The axial tilt is

nine degrees; distance from the sun is one-point-oh-five AU."

"So it's slightly colder that Terra?"

"Yes, and the ice caps are greater, as is the landmass. Still, there is no

shortage of free water, and maize, millet, barley, and wheat grow well."

"Presumably brought in by the early colonists."

"The records of the pioneers indicate that, yes," Herkimer confirmed. "The

economy is still agricultural, though with an increasing industrial base."

"So the majority of people are farmers?"

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"Yes-yeomen. Eighty percent of them own their own hectare or two. The remaining

twenty percent are approximately evenly split between merchants and agricultural

laborers employed by the largest landowners."

"Who are, of course, the government."

"Yes. The government is pyramidal, with small landowners governed by larger. The

wealthiest dozen men in each sovereign state constitute the highest authority.

They agree on legislation, but each acts as both judiciary and executive over

his own estates. Land ownership and rank are hereditary."

"An aristocracy, and a rather authoritarian one." Magnus frowned. "Let's see how

these noblemen live."

The picture of the field workers was replaced by an interior picture of a large,

circular room, paneled in wood but with the roof beams showing. Tapestries

adorned the walls, large windows let in sunlight, and a fire burned in a huge

fireplace. Half a dozen people were moving about. Magnus frowned. "They're all

dressed decently, but not richly. Where are the rulers?"

"The duke stands near the hearth. The others are his family."

Magnus stared. "I would scarcely say they were dressed sumptuously-and the room

is certainly not richly furnished! In fact, I'd call it rather Spartan. Let me

see a yeoman's house."

The picture dissolved into a view of a similar dwelling, except that the roof

was only a foot or two above the heads of the eight people. Three were obviously

teenagers, two middle-aged, and the other three, children. The windows were

smaller than in the duke's house, and the walls were decorated with arrangements

of evergreen branches instead of tapestries.

Magnus frowned. "It would seem that wealth is fairly evenly distributed. Is

there evidence of oppression?"

"Only in the punishment of criminals-which includes political dissenters. It is

not a wealthy planet."

"But most of the people are content." Magnus shook his head. "There isn't much I

can do there to make them richer, and they seem happy enough in any case; I

might make their lives worse. Let me see people who toil under a more oppressive

regime."

The screen cleared, and Herkimer put up the sound of cards flipping again, to

indicate that he was searching his data banks. Magnus waited, feeling oddly

troubled. The aristocrats were no doubt acting in their own interest first and

foremost-but they seemed to be aware that their own prosperity depended on that

of their people, and that their power was based on the yeomen's contentment with

life. Magnus really had no reason to interfere. He didn't doubt that government

of the people should be for the people-he just wasn't all that sure who should

be doing the governing. In this case, the aristocrats seemed to be doing well

enough for everybodywhich seemed wrong.

"Andoria," Herkimer said, and the screen lit with a picture of a row of people

wearing only loincloths, bent over to cut grain with sickles.

"Spare me the geophysical data." Magnus leaned forward, feeling his heart lift.

This looked like a more promising setting for oppression-though now that he

looked more closely, he could see that each of the peasants was well fed. They,

too, sang as they worked, and the song was cheerful. "Begin with the

government!" Magnus was already feeling impatient.

"The government is an absolute monarchy," Herkimer said, "with overtones of

theocracy, for the monarch is a god-king."

"God-king?" Magnus frowned. "Is this Neolithic?"

"Bronze Age, but with some surprisingly sophisticated notions, no doubt supplied

by original colonists whose Terran-style culture fell apart without a high

technology to preserve the infrastructure. All land is the king's, and is

administered by his stewards, each of whom supervises a hundred or so bailiffs."

"How are they chosen?"

"Candidates are selected by examination, but the final selection is the king's."

"A civil service!"

"Yes, but one that is largely hereditary. The king tends to appoint the sons of

the same families, generation after generation, century after century. New blood

enters the civil service only when one of the families fails to produce a male

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heir, or the scion of the line chooses another profession-for example, the

priesthood, or the army."

"There's a standing army, then?"

"Yes, but it's the king's, and only the king's. The officers tend to come from

the old families, but may be promoted from the ranks. In both civil service and

army, new appointees constitute approximately twelve percent of the personnel."

"So there's some vertical mobility." Magnus pursed his lips. "I gather, from the

fact that the king feels it necessary to maintain an army, that his civil

service's main purpose is to assure abundant income for himself and his

household."

"No, though that purpose certainly seems to be well served." Herkimer replaced

the picture of the field with the interior of a stone palace, lush with

decoration, a marble floor polished mirror-smooth, and a double file of

bare-chested soldiers with spears leading to a golden throne on a high dais, on

which sat a tall man wearing a robe richly ornamented with golden beadwork

interspersed with gems. "The godking charges his stewards with seeing to the

welfare of his people. They gather every bit of surplus grain into royal

granaries, yes-but the people are fed from those granaries, and clothed from the

cotton and linen produced by the corps of king's weavers."

"So every facet of life is governed and everything is taken from the people, but

everything is given to them, too-at least, everything they need," Magnus mused.

"It is. In sum, only fifteen percent of the wealth goes to support the luxury of

the king and his administrators."

"Scarcely excessive," Magnus said in exasperation. "I can hardly call that

oppressive. Don't you have anything more promising?"

"Searching," Herkimer told him, and the card ruffle sounded again as the screen

filled with dancing points of light. Magnus sat back, feeling nervous and edgy,

then wondered why he should be so dismayed to find two societies that didn't

need his help.

But he didn't have any other purpose in life-his family could take care of

themselves and their home planet, Gramarye, quite nicely without him-and he had

already given up on falling in love and devoting his life to a wife and

children. He was only twentyone, but had already had some bad experiences with

women and romance-some very bad, and none very good. What else was a rich young

man supposed to do with his time? Well, not rich, exactly-but he had a spaceship

(a guilt offering from the really rich relatives) and could make as much money

as he needed whenever he needed-make it literally, being a wizard. Well, not a

real wizard, of course-he couldn't work real magic-but he was tremendously

gifted in telepathy, telekinesis, and other powers of extrasensory perception.

Of course, he could have devoted his life to building up as great a fortune as

his relatives had-but that seemed pointless, somehow, without anyone else to

spend it on, and a rather unfair use of his gifts. His brief experience with

SCENT, and his rebellion against it, had given him a solid feeling of

satisfaction at helping an oppressed serf class who really needed liberating. He

had been looking forward to that feeling of elation again-perhaps even looking

forward to the strife and suffering that produced it. He wondered if, somewhere

deep, he secretly believed he deserved punishing.

"This would be considerably easier," said Herkimer, "if you would also allow me

to investigate planets that currently have SCENT projects under way."

Magnus shook his head. "Why waste time and effort when someone else is already

working to free them?" Besides, he found himself unwilling to oppose his

father's organization. On the last planet, when he had seen for himself that

what the SCENT agents were doing was wrong-or rather, that they were doing wrong

things in order to accomplish something right it had been another matter; he had

felt the need to step forward and take a stand to protect good people whom the

SCENT agents were willing to abandon. But deliberately landing on a SCENT planet

with the intent to upset what they were doing was another matter entirely. "No,

there is no need to duplicate effort."

"As you wish," Herkimer said, with a tone of resignation that made Magnus long

for the good old days when robots were unable to mimic emotions. "Your next

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possibility is the planet Petrarch." A pastoral scene appeared on the screen, a

broad and sunny plain with the walls of a medieval city rising from it. Carts

rolled along the road that ran from the bottom of the frame to the city's gates.

Magnus frowned, not seeing anyone being oppressed. "This is a retrograde colony,

I assume." Aren't they all?

Not quite, he answered himself. A handful of Terran colonies had been so well

planned, and so fortunate, that they had been able to establish industrial bases

before Terra cut them off, in the great retrenchment of the Proletarian Eclectic

State of Terra. Most, however, had fallen apart as soon as the support of Terran

commerce and new Terran equipment was withdrawn, some even reverting to

barbarism and Stone Age technology. Most, though, had regressed no further than

the Middle Ages and, without electronic communications to hold together

continentwide governments, had fallen into feudalism of one sort or another.

Petrarch, at least, seemed to have pulled itself together a bit.

"Petrarch orbits a G-type sun at a distance of one and one-third astronomical

units," Herkimer began, but Magnus cut in to abort the lecture before it

started.

"Once again, spare me the geophysical data until we're sure whether or not

there's any political problem worth our interference."

"I assume you mean 'intervention,' " Herkimer said primly.

Magnus had the fleeting thought that perhaps he should change the robot's voice

encoder to give it a crisp, maiden-aunt quality. "Is there reason for it?"

"Abundant reason," Herkimer assured him. "When Terra withdrew its support, the

culture virtually crashed. The infrastructure could not be maintained without

electronic technology, and on every continent, the result was anarchy. People

banded together in villages and fought one another for the little food and fuel

that remained. As one village conquered its neighbors, warlords arose, and

battled one another for sheer power."

Magnus turned pale; he knew what that meant in terms of the sufferings of the

individual, ordinary people. "But that was five hundred years ago! Certainly

they have progressed past that!"

"Not on two of the five continents," Herkimer said regretfully. "They remain

carved up into a dozen or more petty kingdoms, continually warring upon one

another."

And when petty kingdoms warred, peasants did the fighting and dying-or were

caught between two armies if they weren't quick enough about running and hiding.

"What of the other three?"

"There, barbarism is the order of the day. There are hunting and gathering

societies, herding societies with primitive agriculture, and nomads who follow

the great herds. Here and there, small kingdoms have risen ruled by despots, but

there are no empires."

"Let's hope nobody invents them." Fleeting visions of torture chambers, armed

tax collectors, and starving peasants flitted through Magnus's mind. "Yes, this

sounds as though there might be work worth our doing. Now tell me the history."

"Petrarch was originally colonized during the twenty-third century," Herkimer

told him as the screen filled with the towering plasticrete towers of a Terran

colony. Women in full-length gowns of brocade and velvet passed before them,

with men dressed in doublets and hose. Here and there, one wore a rapier, though

it had a rather solid look, as though scabbard and hilt had been cast in one

piece.

"Yes," Magnus mused, "that was the century that was famous for the Renaissance

revival fad of its last decade, wasn't it? I remember Fess teaching us children

that it was a prime example of mass silliness."

"That was indeed the century, the decade, and the fad, though the silliness

passed quickly enough everywhere else in the Terran Sphere. On Petrarch, though,

it became permanent."

The picture changed, though the dress styles remained. The background, though,

was that of the low plasticrete buildings typical of any early Terran colony,

with here and there the timber-and-stucco houses of the first phase of building

from native materials. Magnus saw the occasional costume with wildly exaggerated

shoulders, two-foot-high hats with crown upon crown, or veils that fluttered

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behind a lady for several yards of fluorescent color. "They seem to have made

some very flamboyant developments."

"They did indeed, but only within the Renaissance context. On Talipon, an inland

in the center of an inland sea, dress styles fossilized-and so did architecture,

painting, and all aspects of its culture."

"An odd occurrence." Magnus frowned. "Was there a cause, or was it merely a mass

aberration?"

"The cause was the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra's coup d'etat. When PEST

became the government of the Terran Sphere, it cut off contact and support for

the outlying planets, and Petrarch was virtually frozen at its current cultural

level."

"It was fortunate that the colony had developed an economy and technology that

could sustain that culture." Magnus frowned. "I'm surprised that constant war

didn't force them back to the Stone Age, as it did on so much of the rest of the

planet."

"They seem to have formed alliances between resource-rich states and

manufacturing states," Herkimer explained.

"Alliances, or conquests?"

"Some of the one, some of the other. The more remote districts did regress, some

even becoming rather primitive."

"So there are three barbarian continents, two feudal continents, and an island

of modern culture?"

"Definitely not modern-perhaps late medieval, even Renaissance."

"How large is this island?"

"Approximately four hundred ninety kilometers by one hundred thirty-five. It

contains a group of independent city-states, constantly feuding with one

another-but their wars are limited, they share a common language, and there is a

constant interchange of people moving from one city to another."

Magnus smiled sourly. "It almost sounds like one nation with a great number of

rival sporting teams."

"A good analogy," Herkimer said with approval. "Some of the sports are rather

lethal, of course, and the different cities are adamant in not submitting to

anyone's law but their own-but they do indeed constitute one nation."

"With no national government?"

"None at all. In fact, each city-state governs itself as it sees fit. There are

monarchies, aristocracies, oligarchies-even a fledgling republic of more or less

democratic tendencies."

"It could be used as a center for enlightenment about the rights of humanity,

then," Magnus said thoughtfully. "I take it the city-states are agricultural?"

"Several are early industrial, and a dozen coastal cities are mercantile. Two

have risen to prominence, establishing virtual trading empires-Venoga and

Pirogia."

"Ideal for spreading advanced ideas! Yes, I think Talipon will do nicely as a

base of operations. Are there any obstacles to my efforts?" Magnus remembered

the futurian anarchists and totalitarians who continually tried to defeat his

father's efforts to develop democracy.

"None except AEGIS," Herkimer said helpfully. Magnus sagged. "No obstacle but an

off planet dogooder society trying some uplifting of its own! Only an unofficial

branch of Terra's interstellar government! Should I really bother?"

"Oh, yes," Herkimer said softly. "AEGIS is not a prime example of good

organization."

That, Magnus reflected, was an understatement. AEGIS, the Association for the

Elevation of Governmental Institutions and Systems, was a private,

nongovernmental organization that nonetheless received hefty donations from the

Decentralized Democratic Tribunal, the central government of the Terran Sphere,

because its activities helped bring retrograde colony-planets back into contact

with the civilized worlds, and prepared them for membership in the DDT. AEGIS

was dedicated to raising the cultural level of the planets with which it worked.

In order to do this, it tried to minimize war, improve the economy, and inject

the fundamental ideas of civil and individual rights into the culture-it

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considered human rights to be prerequisite to education and development in the

arts. Its members approached their work with an almost missionary fervor, but

frequently didn't realize what the results would be. Their efforts usually did

tend to produce some sort of predemocratic government, though. Usually. AEGIS

had been known to come up with a monarchy or two. They didn't care, as long as

it promoted the development of the human soul.

"Amateurs," Magnus said scornfully. "They're incapable of seeing the results of

their own actions. Bumbling, clumsy . . ."

"But well-meaning," Herkimer reminded him. "Well, yes, but we all know which

path is paved with good intentions. Is AEGIS working throughout the whole

planet, or only on Talipon?"

"Primarily on Talipon, but with the idea that the island's influence will spread

to the rest of the world, through its energetic merchants and merchant marine."

"Well, they had one idea right, at least-the most obvious. I think I'll see if I

can augment their work in some unofficial manner. At least, if AEGIS is working

there, I can't do much more harm than they will."

"There is that," Herkimer agreed. "How do you intend to proceed?"

Magnus took on a contemplative look. "Given the incessant feuding, I would

probably be most effective if I fell back on my former disguise-a mercenary

soldier."

"You will certainly have entree to any city you wish to visit."

"I'd rather not wind up as an entree . . ." Herkimer ignored the remark. "Will

you use your previous pseudonym, too?"

"Gar Pike? Yes, I think I shall." Magnus pursed his lips. "It would be a little

too obvious if I simply showed up in the middle of Talipon, though. I had better

land in one of the less developed kingdoms on the mainland, and work my way to

the island more or less naturally."

"That should disguise you from AEGIS's scrutiny," Herkimer agreed. "After all,

you will rather stand out among the Taliponese."

"Really?" Magnus frowned. "Why? You will give me a crash course in their

language, won't you?"

"Of course-but the average Taliponese man is five and a half feet tall."

Magnus was nearly seven.

CHAPTER 1

Old Antonio pointed ahead and shouted. Young Gianni Braccalese looked up, saw

the plume of black smoke ahead, and felt his heart sink.

Only minutes before, Gianni had run a finger around the collar of his doublet,

wishing he could take off the cumbersome, padded, hot garment. The sun had

heated the fields to baking by midday, and now, in midafternoon, the breeze had

died down, so the only thing moving was the sweat from Gianni's brow. If only

they hadn't been so close to Accera! It wasn't much of a town, of course, but

its two merchants were important sources of the grain and cotton that would

fetch so high a price at home in Pirogia, and of the orzans that would make so

beautiful a necklace for any lady who caught Gianni's eye--so he knew he must

not shame his father by appearing bare-chested, no matter how hot it might be.

He scolded himself for not having thought to take off his doublet in midmorning,

when the day began to grow hot-but it was the first time he had led a goods

train in summer, and only the fourth time he had led a goods train at all. He

had turned twenty after All Saints' Day, so it was only a matter of months since

his father had promoted him from his duties as a clerk, to actual trading. He

was very anxious to make a good showing-but now this!

He stared at the black plume, feeling his stomach hollow with dread. Only one

thing could explain so large a fire-a burning town. "Speed!" he called to

Antonio. "We may be in time to save a life!"

Old Antonio gave him a sour look, but dutifully shouted to the drivers to whip

up their mules. Gianni felt a burst of gratitude toward the older man-he knew,

almost as well as though he had been told, that his father had bidden old

Antonio to watch over him and teach him trading. The drivers and the guards were

all very polite about it, but there was no question as to who was really

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managing the train-though with every trip, Gianni had needed to ask fewer

questions, had been more sure in his directions and in his bargaining. He had

even acquitted himself well in two minor skirmishes with bandits.

This, though-this was something of an entirely different order. Bandits who

could attack a goods train were one thing-bandits who could sack a whole town

were another! Admittedly, Accera was not much of a town, so far from the coast

and with only a small river to water it but it had had a wall, and its men had

known how to handle their crossbows as well as most!

Why was he thinking of them as though they were gone?

He cantered along on his horse, with anxious looks back at the mules who bore

his father's wealth. The drivers had whipped up the beasts with gentle calls,

not wanting to make any more noise than they had to, and Gianni went cold inside

as he realized the reason. Whatever bandits had lit that fire might still be

nearby-might even be in Accera itself! Gianni loosened his rapier in its

scabbard as he rode, then swung the crossbow from its hook on his saddle. He

might be a novice at trading and leading, but he was an expert with weapons.

Every merchant was, in a land in which the distinction between trader and

soldier was less a matter of vocation than of emphasis and of the way in which

he had made his fortune.

The wall of Accera grew from a line across the fields to a solid structure-and

there was the breach! It looked as though a giant had taken a bite out of the

wall-a giant with no taste for flesh, for dead men lay all around that hole and

some lay half in, half out of it, their pikes still resting against nerveless

fingers. Gianni slowed, holding up a hand to caution his men, and the entire

train slowed with him. This was no work of starving peasants gone to banditry to

find food-this had been done professionally. The condotierri had struck.

Mules began to bray protest, scenting blood and trying to turn away, but the

drivers coaxed them onward with the skill of experts. They rode through the

breach with great care, Gianni glancing down at the bodies of the men of Accera,

then looking quickly away, feeling his gorge rise. He had seen dead men only

once before, when Pirogia had fought a skirmish with the nearby city of Lubella,

over their count's fancy that his daughter had been seduced by one of the

merchants' sons. They had fought only long enough to satisfy the requirements of

the count's honor-and to leave half a dozen men dead, all to provide a high-bred

wanton with an excuse for her pregnancy. Gianni still wondered whom she had been

shielding.

Now that they had slowed, the traders went cautiously down the main street of

the town, between rows of cream-colored, mud-brick buildings with red tile

roofs, glancing everywhere about them, crossbows at the ready. The sound of

weeping came from one of the shadowed windows, and Gianni felt the protector's

urge to seek and comfort, but knew he dared not-not when enemy soldiers might be

hiding anywhere. Then he saw the dead woman with her skirt thrown up about her

waist and her bodice ripped open, saw the blood above and below, and lost all

desire to try to comfort he knew he could never know what to say.

On they rode, jumping at every shadow. Gianni saw broken doors and shutters, but

no sign of fire. He began to suspect where he would find it, and felt dread rise

within him.

Something stirred in the shadows, and half a dozen crossbows swiveled toward

it-but it was only an old man who hobbled out into the sunlight, an old man with

a crutch and a face filled with contempt, saying, "You need not fear, merchants.

The rough bad men have left."

Gianni frowned, stifling the urge to snap at the old man. The blood running from

his brow showed that he had suffered enough, and the huge bruise on the left

side of his face showed that, crippled or not, he had fought bravely to defend

his family-as long as he could.

Old Antonio asked, "Condotierri?"

The old man nodded. "The Stiletto Company, by their insignia." He pointed

farther down the road. "There he the ones with whom you have come to trade-if

they have anything left to trade."

Antonio nodded, turning his face toward the plume of smoke. "I thank you,

valiant vieillard. We shall come back to help where we can."

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"I will thank you-then," the old man said with irony. "In the meantime, I

know-you must see to your own."

Gianni frowned, biting back the urge to say that Signor Ludovico and his old

clerk Anselmo were only business associates, not relatives-but he knew what the

old man meant. Accera was a farming townthey had brought trade goods to exchange

for produce, after all-and to the farmers, the merchants were a tribe apart.

They turned a corner from the single broad street to see the stream flowing in

under the water gate to their left, and the burning ruin of the warehouse to

their right.

"The western end still stands!" Gianni shouted. "Quickly! They may yet live!" He

dashed forward, all caution banished by the old man's assurance that the

condotierri had ridden away. Antonio, more experienced, barked to the drivers,

and crossbows lifted as men scanned their surroundings.

To say the western end of the warehouse still stood was a considerable

exaggeration-the roof had fallen in, and the main beam had taken the top half of

the wall with it. But the fire had not yet reached the shattered doorway where a

body lay, nor the corner where another body slouched, half-sitting against the

remains of the wall. Even as he dismounted and ran up to them, Gianni was seized

with the ridiculous realization that neither wore a doublet or robe, but only

loose linen shirts and hose-shirts that were very bloody now. He knelt by the

man in the door, saw the dripping gash in his neck and the pool of blood, then

turned away toward the other body to cover his struggle to hold down his

rebellious stomach. He stepped over to the corner, none too steadily, and knelt

by the man who lay there, knelt staring at the rip in his shirt, at the huge

bloodstain over his chest-and saw that chest rise ever so slightly. He looked up

and saw the gray lips twitch, trying to move, trying to form words ...

"It is Ludovico." Antonio knelt by him, holding a flask of brandy to the man's

lips. He poured, only a little, and the man coughed and spluttered, then opened

his eyes, staring from one to the other wildly ...

"It is Antonio," the older man said, quickly and firmly. "Signor Ludovico, I am

Antonio-you know me, you have traded with me often!"

Ludovico stared up at Antonio, his lips twitching more and more until they

formed an almost-silent word: "An-Anton ... ?"

"Yes, Antonio. Good signor, what happened here?" Why was the old fool asking,

when they already knew? Then Gianni realized it was only a way of calming Signor

Ludovico, of reassuring him."

"C-condotierri!" Ludovico gasped. "Sti-Stilettos! Too ... too many to fight off

... but ... "

"But fight you did." Antonio nodded, understanding. "They drove away your

workmen, and ... beat you."

"Workmen ... fled!" Ludovico gasped. "Clerks ... home!"

"Ran home to try to defend their wives and children?" Antonio nodded, frowning.

"Yes, of course. After all, the goods in this warehouse were not theirs."

"Fought!" Ludovico protested. "Crossbows ... there . . ." He gestured at the

wreckage of a crossbow, broken in both stock and bow, and Gianni shuddered at

the thought of the savagery with which the condotierri had punished the older

man for daring to fight them.

"Thought me ... dead!" Ludovico wheezed. "Heard ... talk . .."

"Enough, enough," Antonio soothed. "You must lie down, lie still and rest." He

gave Gianni a meaningful glance, and the younger man, understanding, whipped off

his cloak and bundled it up for a pillow.

"Not ... rest!" Ludovico protested, lifting a feeble hand. "Tell! Conte! They

... spoke of ... a lord's pay ..."

"Yes, yes, I understand," Antonio assured him. "You heard the condotierri talk

about being in the pay of a nobleman. Now rest we can reason out the remainder

of it well enough. Water, Gianni!"

Gianni had the flash ready and unstoppered. Antonio poured a small amount

between Ludovico's lips. The merchant coughed as he tried to speak a few more

words, then gave over the effort and drank. The taste of clear water seemed to

take all the starch out of him; he sagged against Antonio's arm.

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"The wound?" Gianni asked.

"It must be cleaned," Antonio said regretfully. "Pull the cloth away as gently

as you can, Gianni."

This, at least, Gianni understood from experience. Delicately, he lifted the

cloth away from the wound; it pulled at the dried blood, but Ludovico didn't

seem to notice. Gianni probed with a finger, very gently, managing to keep his

stomach under control-here, at least, there was a chance something could be

done. "It's wide, but low."

"A sword, and the soldier twisted it." Antonio nodded. "It pierced the lung, but

not the heart. He may yet live. Still, it must be cleaned. Dribble a little

brandy on it, Gianni." Then, to Ludovico: "Brace yourself, for there will be

pain-there must be."

Gianni waited a few seconds to be sure the man had heard, but not long enough

for him to protest, then tilted the brandy bottle as Antonio had said. Ludovico

cried out, once, sharply, then clamped his jaw shut. When he saw Gianni stopper

the bottle again, he sagged with relief.

"Clean the space around him," Antonio told Gianni. "It would be best if we do

not move him." Gianni frowned. "The bandits ... ?"

"They have been and gone. They would need sharp sentries indeed, to learn that

new goods have come into the town-and why should they post watchers where they

have already been? We are as safe here as behind a stockade, Gianni. Set the men

to putting out the fire, as much as they can; these walls will still afford us

some shelter."

Gianni did more-he set the men to clearing a wide swath of everything burnable.

When night closed in, the fire was contained and burning itself out. Tent canvas

shaded poor old Ludovico, and the mules were picketed inside what remained of

the walls, chewing grain; their packs lay nearby, and the men sat around a

campfire, cooking dinner.

Antonio came out from beneath the canvas to join Gianni by the fire.

"Does he sleep?"

Antonio nodded. "It will be the Great Sleep before long, I fear. The wound by

itself will not kill him, but he has bled too freely-and much of the blood is in

his lungs. He breathes with difficulty."

"At least he still breathes." Gianni turned back to the steaming kettle and gave

it a stir. "Do you really think a nobleman sent the Stilettos to do this work?"

"No," Antonio said. "I think he heard the soldiers discussing their next battle,

and whose pay they would take."

Gianni nodded. "The Stiletto Company last fought for the Raginaldi-but they've

come a long way from Tumanola."

Antonio shrugged. "When there's no work for them, mercenary soldiers turn to

looting whoever has any kind of wealth at all. They needed food, so they came

and took it from Ludovico's granary, and while they were at it, they took the

wool and cotton from his warehouse-and, of course, the orzans."

"Must we bargain with them for it?" Gianni asked indignantly.

"You don't bargain with condotierri unless you have a high, thick city wall

between their spears and your hide," Antonio reminded him. "Talk to them now,

and they will take all your father's goods-as well as our lives, if the whim

takes them." He turned and spat into the darkness. "I could wish the Raginaldi

had not made a truce with the Botezzi. Then their hired dogs would still be

camped outside the walls of Renova, not here reiving honest men."

"It's an uneasy truce, from all I hear," Gianni reminded him, "and wearing thin,

if the soldiers see new employment coming."

"A fate to be wished," Antonio agreed. "Soldiers in the field are bad enough,

but at least a man can find out where they're battling, and stay away."

"Renova and Tumanola are the strongest powers in this eastern edge of Talipon,"

Gianni said. "Their battlefield could be anywhere."

"True, but at least their troops would stay there, putting up a show of fighting

and taking their pay, not going about robbing poor peasants and honest

merchants," Antonio replied. "Idle soldiers make the whole of the island a

devil's playground."

He did not quite say the soldiers were devils, but Gianni took his meaning. "Is

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it possible that some noblemen sent them to loot Accera as a punishment for some

imagined insult?"

Antonio shrugged. "Who can tell with noblemen? They're apt to take offense at

anything and order their men to any action."

"And who can say, with mercenary soldiers?" Gianni returned. "When they're being

paid, they're an army; when they aren't, they're condotierri, worse than any

mere rabble of bandits."

"Far worse," Antonio agreed. "I only wonder that it has not yet occurred to them

to steal a whole city." Gianni shuddered, taking Antonio's meaning. If the

Stiletto Company ever did decide to conquer a city to rule for themselves, it

could not be one ruled by a noble family, for if they did, all the noblemen of

Talipon would descend on them en masse, with every free lance they could hire to

fight for them. No, the mercenaries would seek easier game, some city of

merchants who ruled themselves-Gianni's home, Pirogia.

"These condotierri may be working for themselves, or for one of the noble

houses-it's impossible to tell," Antonio summarized. "But Accera lies within the

lands claimed by Pirogia, before our grandfathers overthrew the conte and chased

his family out. The attack may be only that of a hungry army needing practice,

but it's not a good sign."

"Rumor says that the merchants of Tumanola grow restive, seeing how well we

govern Pirogia," Gianni said, "and that they have begun to petition their prince

for some voice in the conduct of the affairs of the city."

"The same is said of Renova." Antonio scowled, shaking his head. "Me, I can only

wonder how long it will be till both great houses march against our Pirogia, to

put an end to the upstarts who're giving their merchants such troublesome

ideas."

One of the drivers cried out from his station by the remains of the wall. "Who

goes there?"

"A friend," answered a deep voice, "or one who would be."

Antonio was on his feet almost as quickly as Gianni. Both turned toward the

voice-and saw the giant step out of the shadows.

The stranger towered over the sentry. He looked to be seven feet tall and was

broad-shouldered in proportion and, though his loose shirt and leather jerkin

hid his arms and chest, his hose revealed legs that fairly bulged with muscle.

Gianni could have sworn the rapier at his hip was as long as the guard was tall.

Rapier, leather doublet, high riding boots-there was no doubt about his calling.

The man was a mercenary. A giant, and a mercenary.

He was black-haired and black-browed, with dark deep-set eyes, a straight nose,

a wide mouth, and a lantern jaw. His nose was no beak, but there was something

of the hawk about him-perhaps the keenness with which he scanned the

merchants-though no cruelty; rather, he seemed quietly amused. "I greet you,

merchants."

He spoke with a strong accent, one Gianni did not recognize. So, then-a giant, a

mercenary, and a foreigner! Not surprising, of course-most of the mercenaries

were foreigners from the mainland. He did not ask how the giant knew they were

merchants-with their mules and packs, it was obvious. "Have you been watching us

all afternoon?" he asked.

"Only since I found the town at sunset. I had a scuffle with some bandits back

there"-the giant nodded at the hills outside the town-"three of them. They won't

fight for a long while. No, no, they still live-but my horse does not. I saw

you, and thought you might have an extra horse to sell."

They did have spare mounts, but Gianni said anyway, "It was not one of our men

who died."

"I had thought not-your men talked too much while they dug the grave."

"These bandits who beset you-did they wear dagger-badges on their jerkins?"

Antonio asked, stepping up beside Gianni.

The stranger nodded. "Long, slender daggersstilettos, I think you call them."

Antonio turned to Gianni. "He isn't one of them."

"If he tells the truth." But Gianni could not think of a single reason why the

Stiletto Company would send a man to spy them out, instead of falling upon them

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