A Wizard In Mind - Rogue Wizard 01 Read online

  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 do-gooder 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 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 pre-democratic 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 mid-afternoon, 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 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 lookin
g 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 are 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."

  "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 town—they 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.

  "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 fre
ely—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."