A Wizard in Mind

CHAPTER 10

Gar flailed about him with a total lack of skill, but with devastating strength. His fists knocked two Stilettos off their horses; then he caught the leg of another horse and heaved, throwing the animal over and the man on top with it. But as he straightened, a horseman behind him struck down with a club.

Gianni jumped in the way with a feeling of despair, leaping high and catching the club, knowing his own stupidity but also knowing that he couldn’t leave Gar to fight alone. He was amazed when the Stiletto tumbled out of his saddle, his club falling free, but not so amazed that he didn’t remember to strike the man with his own club as he hit the ground. He didn’t get up, but a friend of his was swinging down with another club, and Gianni blocked with his cudgel in both hands, then swung it two-handed at the man’s skull—but the soldier blocked, and a blow from behind made the world swirl around Gianni; he felt the cudgel slipping from his fingers, felt himself stumbling back against something warm and hairy, felt huge hands fasten onto his wrists with exclamations of disgust from above. When the world stopped tilting, he saw Gar on his knees with his hands bound behind him, felt rough hands tying his own wrists, and saw his whole company of refugees gathered together in a circle wide-eyed, moaning, and surrounded by horsemen.

“What are we to do with this lot now?” one Stiletto asked with disgust. “The captain said we weren’t to waste time gathering men to sell to the galleys until we had searched every traveler and the campaign was over!”

“Yes,” said a young man with more elaborate armor and an air of authority, “but he wasn’t thinking of people who were so stupid as to fight back. Those, I think, we can ship off to the galleys—or at least pen them in Prince Raginaldi’s castle until His Highness delivers judgment. Come along, you lot! Sergeant, drive them!”

And off they went to the castle, hustled so fast that they had to run. The Stilettos didn’t slacken the pace until a few men had begun to stumble and fall. Then they slowed down, but the captives still had to trot. It was just as well they had no breath to spare, Gianni reflected—he didn’t want to hear how they would be cursing Gar and him, for getting them back into the prison from which they had so lately been freed.

As they came to Castello Raginaldi, Gar looked up. Gianni was too miserable with forced marching and prodding spear butts to care much where he was going, but he followed Gar’s gaze. The big man was staring up at the towers of the castle—and there was something strange about the tallest one. Squinting, Gianni could barely make out a skeletal contraption, a spidery triple cross mounted on a slender pole. He frowned, trying to remember which saint had a triple cross as his symbol, but could think of none. Why would the prince have such a thing atop his castle?

Perhaps it was some sort of new weapon. Yes, that made sense. Gianni determined to watch closely, to see how it was used. Then a spear butt struck his shoulder blade, and he lurched into faster motion again.

Across the drawbridge they went and, mercifully, the horsemen had to slow because of its narrowness—mercifully, because all the captives were stumbling with weariness. The Stilettos held the slow pace as they came out into a huge courtyard, where soldiers practiced fighting with blunted swords, and cast spears and shot arrows at targets. Iron clanged on iron from the smithy, far away against the castle wall, and the keep towered above everything, throwing its ominous shadow over them all.

They rode deeper into that shadow, but only to the wall of the keep itself, where a huge cage stood, iron bars driven into the hard-packed earth of the courtyard, then bent six feet high to slant upward to the stones of the wall. The roof was thatched over those bars, but the sides were open to wind, rain, and the baking sun. The door stood open, and the Stilettos herded them through it with snarls and curses. The recycled prisoners stumbled in and fell to the ground with groans of relief—at least they didn’t have to run from the drubbing of spear butts any more. The door clanged shut behind them, and the sergeant fastened a huge lock through its hasp with a sound like the crack of doom.

Gianni sank down in a patch of sunlight with the rest, looking about him. The place was messy, but not squalid—apparently someone had shoveled it out and heaped fresh straw against the castle wall—but it had clearly housed many, many men before them. Since it wasn’t big enough to hold more than a score, Gianni deduced that it must be the holding pen for prospective slaves. It seemed odd to him that there was no separate cage for women, until he remembered that there wasn’t much of a market for female slaves except for the young and pretty, who were generally kept safely at home. In fact, there probably would not have been much demand for male slaves either, if it hadn’t been for the galleys—peasants were cheaper, since their parents made them free of charge, and were always at a lord’s bidding.

It galled Gianni to think of people being used as merchandise, but he knew that was how the lords, and their hired Stilettos, saw the commoners.

A shadow fell across him. Looking up, Gianni saw Gar settling down cross-legged by him. With resentment, Gianni realized that the big man wasn’t even breathing hard, scarcely sweating at all—the pace that had so exhausted the other captives had been light work for him! “It’s easy enough for you,” Gianni grumbled. “After all, you’re the one who got us into this mess!”

“We won’t stay in it long,” Gar said softly, his eyes on the courtyard.

Gianni stared, unbelieving. The half-wit who had brought down the wrath of the Stilettos had disappeared again. “Have your wits come back so soon?” he asked. “Or were you shamming?”

“Shamming, this time,” Gar told him, his voice still low, “pretending, so that we could get into Castello Raginaldi to see for ourselves what’s going on.”

“See for yourself,” Gianni said bitterly. “Our companions have seen more than enough already! Oh, you’ve brought us in here easily enough—but how shall you bring us out?”

“Not quite so easily, but with a great deal more subtlety,” Gar told him. “First, though, I want a look at that tower.” He nodded at the spidery triple cross.

Gianni stared. “All this—putting us all in danger of the galleys just so you can look at a tower you might have gazed at from the top of a ridge?”

“I couldn’t have seen inside it,” Gar said patiently, “and you won’t go to the galleys—no, none of you.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because,” said Gar, “the time for fair play has passed.” And he would give no more information than that, only turned aside Gianni’s questions with short lectures that veered quickly from the point until the young merchant gave up in exasperation.

When night fell, though, Gar became much more communicative. He gathered the prisoners around him and said, low-voiced, “We’re going to leave this castle, but before we do, I must see what secret the prince is hiding in his tower.”

“What does your curiosity matter to us?” Giuseppi said bitterly.

“A great deal, because I’ve begun to suspect why the noblemen have paid the Stilettos to steal as they have never stolen before, and why they seek to screw the merchants down as though they were boards to walk upon.”

Gianni stared. What did Gar mean? They knew why the lords had united against the merchants—because of the scheming of those fake Gypsies! Though, now that he thought about it, they did seem an awfully ineffective lot, to have so mobilized the lords—in fact, they seemed far more the kind of people who sat around and argued heatedly about what to do rather than the kind who actually did it.

Giuseppi frowned. “What reason do they need, other than greed?”

“They’ve had that all along,” Gar explained, “though I think it’s increased hugely this last year. But I have to know, you see, or I can’t fight them with any hope of winning.”

Ambiguous as it was, that seemed to make sense enough to the others; they subsided, grumbling. It didn’t make much sense to Gianni, though, and he found himself wondering why they could be so easily convinced.

Then he looked into Gar’s glowing eyes, and saw why.

“Come!” The giant rose, stooping slightly because of the roof. “Follow and do as I bid, and you shall be out of this castle before dawn!”

They murmured a little as they followed him, then went quiet as he stood by the gate, reaching out to lift the huge padlock in both hands, staring at it as though by simple force of will he could make it open. Slowly he wrapped his fingers around the curving top of the lock, wrapped the other hand around the keyhole, then began to twist …

The lock groaned, gave off a sharp cracking noise, then wrenched open, the curving top curving even more, its tip shredded.

The prisoners stared, speechless.

Carefully and silently, Gar removed the lock from the hasp, laid it on the ground, then opened the gate and crept out into the night. Wordlessly, they followed as Gar turned toward the keep—but Gianni reached up to pull on his shoulder. “You’re going the wrong way!” he hissed. “The gatehouse is over there!” He pointed, his arm a bar of urgency.

“But the gatehouse isn’t what I came to see,” Gar whispered back, his tone gentle. He started toward the keep again. Gianni glared after him a minute, then threw up his hands in exasperation and followed. Everything considered, it was probably safer with Gar than without him, if his wits lasted. Of course, Gianni thought inanely, if his wits were sound, would he have come in here in the first place?

But there was no good answer to that question, so he followed with the rest of them.

Gar drifted up to the door of the keep like a shadow made gigantic by candlelight—only this shadow clasped a huge left hand around a sentry’s mouth and pressed fingers to his neck. The man folded without a sound. Gar handed him to Gianni and stepped across the doorway just as the sentry’s partner turned to look. He stared, speechless with surprise—then speechless because Gar’s palm covered his mouth, pressing him back against the wall, as the other hand pressed his neck. In minutes, he, too, slumped unconscious. Gar handed him to Giuseppi and whispered, “Tell Claudio and Benvolio to put on their livery.”

Claudio chuckled as he dressed the unconscious soldier in his vermin-ridden garb.

“Be sure they stay unconscious,” Gar whispered to Vladimir, who nodded and pulled the bodies into the shadows, then sat down beside them with one of their own truncheons in his hand. “Keep the watch,” Gar hissed to Claudio and Benvolio, and they nodded, then lifted their halberds slanting outward and stood vigilantly at the door. As an afterthought, Claudio pushed it open for Gar. He beckoned his little company forward, and prowled into Castello Raginaldi.

Stairs wound upward alongside the entry hall, and Gar headed straight toward them. Just as he came to their foot, hard footsteps sounded, and a Stiletto captain came around the turn. He saw Gar, yanked at his sword, and managed a single shout of anger before one big hand clamped down on his mouth and the other swung a borrowed truncheon. The captain’s eyes rolled up as he slumped down. Gar handed him to Feste, hissing, “You’re promoted. Strip him and dress! Bernardino, Estragon! Bind him and gag him, then hide him.”

“With pleasure,” Bernardino said, grinning, as Feste stooped to start stripping the captain. He grumbled a little at shedding his motley, but it was very grimy, after all, and the clean livery felt much better.

Gianni was amazed that they were all so eagerly following Gar, so blindly obeying him. But he was no better off himself; his pulse had quickened with excitement at the audacity of it, and at the hope of striking a blow at the noblemen and their tame condotierri. Up the stairs they went with Feste strutting at their head, his hand on his new sword. No one else stopped them until they came to the top, where two more guards stood at either side of a brass-bound oaken door. They snapped to, halberds slanting out at the ready, as Feste came in sight, then relaxed at the sight of his clothing. “Oh, it’s you, Captain,” one said, then looked more closely. “Hold! You’re not the captain! And who’s that monster behind …”

Gar stepped past Feste and cracked their heads together. Their helmets took most of the force of the blow; one of the guards turned jelly—kneed but managed a shout of alarm anyway, before a right cross to the chin felled him. The other was shaking his head and blinking furiously, trying to bring his halberd to bear, when Feste clubbed him on the side of the head with his sword hilt. The man folded.

“Not quite the way the sword was meant to be used,” Gar said, “but it will do. An excellent improvisation, Feste. The rest of you, quickly! Into the chamber! Trade clothes with them and tie them up!”

“How?” Gianni shoved at the door. “It’s locked!”

“Yes, but not that strongly.” Gar grasped the handle, glared at it, and pushed. The lock groaned; then the door opened. The fugitives stared, then came alive and dragged their captives into the room. Feste turned about, hand on his hilt, the captain of the guard on sentry—go. Gianni shut the door—but as he did, he glanced at the lock. And shivered. The bar had sunk back into the wood, unbroken. Somehow, Gar had opened that lock as surely as though he had held the key!

No time to worry about it now—they were in darkness, except for a swath of moonlight through a small window that served to show them, at least, where a candle sat by a tinderbox. Gar’s shadow obscured the window and the candle for a moment; there was the scratch of flint on steel, then a soft glow that grew into a small flame. Gar held it to the wick, and the flame grew brighter. Then he closed the tinderbox, and the light was less, but constant. The candle flame showed them a circular room about twelve feet across with walls of mortared stone, a water stain where the roof needed patching, a table and chair near the window, where the candle stood.

And on that table, a low rounded shape that Gianni first took to be a giant egg. Then he saw that it had a curved handle on top and decided it must be a curling stone, such as the old men used for playing their unending lawn game on the village greens …

Until he realized the stone had a long, thin strip of light across its front, a strip with numbers on it. Beneath that, there were five circles, each a different color, and now that Gianni looked, the handle on the egg had a little wire wrapped around it, a wire that ran up the wall and disappeared into the roof. Gianni saw that Gar had followed its route, too, and asked, “The triple cross?”

Gar nodded. “Yes, and I think it’s a triple cross in more ways than one.”

“What is this?” asked Vincenzio. “An alchemist’s workshop?”

“Something of the sort. Don’t let it trouble you. We won’t stay here long.” Gar sat down and peered at the lighted strip. “Back up my memory, Gianni—it’s becoming moth-eaten. ‘Eighty—nine—oh—one M.H.’ ”

“ ‘Eighty—nine—oh—one em aytch.’ ” Gianni repeated dutifully. “What does it mean, Gar?”

“It means,” said Gar, “that our false-Gypsy friends have competitors they don’t know about.”

“Orzans!”

Gianni turned to look, and saw Rubio leaning over an open sack with jewels running through his fingers. “Orzans, hundreds of them! And there are four more bags like this one!”

Gar nodded, mouth a grim line. “I had thought as much. No wonder this room is stoutly guarded.” He turned back to the curling stone and touched the green circle. Gianni reached out to stop him, his heart in his mouth—then froze as he heard the stone say, in a strange, very thick accent, “Prince Raginaldi, please answer!”

“What is that?” Rubio cried, leaping to his feet. “Shush!” Gar hissed. “It’s only a magical memory, nothing more.”

The stone spoke again. “Since you do not appear to be near the far-talker now, Your Highness, I will ask you to call Zampar of the Lurgan Company when it is convenient. Thank you.” There was a chime, then silence.

The men stared at one another with wide, frightened eyes. “Sorcery!” Rubio hissed.

“No, just great cleverness,” Gar assured them. He touched some more colored circles, then said, “Gar to Herkimer. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Gar.” The reply was instantaneous; the voice was well modulated, cultivated, gentle. “I am glad to hear you alive and well.”

“Well enough,” Gar replied. “Herkimer, please start eavesdropping on—eighty—seven—oh—two, was that, Gianni?”

Gianni felt a chill. So soon? “Eighty—nine—oh—one em aytch, Gar.”

“Eighty—nine—oh—one m.H.,” Gar repeated. “Not so well as I might be, Herkimer; my brain may need an overhaul after this little jaunt. Check who uses that frequency, please.”

“The Lurgan Company, Gar. Since your departure, I have become aware of their activities through their transmissions.”

“The Lurgan Company, yes.” Gar’s lips were thin again. “What is it?”

“A semilegal syndicate who have been known to break laws designed to protect backward planets, Gar.”

“How can they be legal at all, then?” Gar growled. “By setting up their headquarters on planets that do not yet subscribe to the full I.D.E. code,” the voice told him. “When a host planet does agree to full enforcement of that code, the Lurgan Company moves to a newer planet.”

“Semilegal perhaps, but ethical not at all,” Gar growled. “What information do you have about orzans, Herkimer?”

This time there was a pause of several seconds before the voice answered. “They are extremely rare fiery gems that are found only on Petrarch, Gar. They begin as crystals grown from water laden with a rare mineral that dissolves out of impure limestone through seepage in caves; those that have been buried under rock for several centuries acquire the luster and clarity that makes them so prized as ornaments.”

Gar glanced at the gems in the big sack and hissed, “Put them back, Rubio.” He turned back to the stone. “Current market value?”

“A flawless one-carat specimen would pay the annual power bill for a small city,” the voice replied. “Consequently, the only market is on Terra and the older, very wealthy colonies, such as Hal IV and Otranto.”

“The playgrounds of the rich,” Gar muttered. “I thought they looked familiar.”

“Your great-aunt does have one such pendant, Gar, yes.”

Gianni felt as though his hair were trying to stand on end. Terra? Hal Four? Otranto? These were names from legend, names of fairy-tale realms!

“It’s all as I had thought,” Gar said. “Thank you, Herkimer. Please keep monitoring that frequency.”

“I shall, Gar. Be careful.”

The room was suddenly amazingly silent.

“Who was that?” Gianni whispered. “Your tame wizard?”

“Eh?” Gar looked at him, startled. “Well, yes, I suppose you might say that. Not a bad analogy at all, in fact.” Then he scowled at the other young merchant. “Leave the bag here, Rubio!”

“It’s a fortune, Gar,” Rubio protested, “the chance of a lifetime!”

“The chance of a hanging, you mean! Steal that bag, and Prince Raginaldi will never rest until he has found it again, and when he does, he’ll have you flayed to make sure you haven’t hidden any of them under your skin! Leave them, and he may forget about us. Which reminds me …” He turned to touch the colored spots again, muttering, “Eighty—six …”

“Eighty—nine—oh—one em aytch,” Gianni said quickly.

“Thank Heaven one of us has a memory,” Gar growled. He finished punching, then turned toward the door, not even looking as he said, “All of them, Rubio!”

“Only as many as were stolen from me, Gar!” the young merchant said stubbornly.

“I suppose that’s only just,” Gar sighed. “But not a fragment more, mind! Now outside, everyone, and silently!”

They went out, and Gar closed the door carefully; Gianni was sure he heard the lock turn, but with a tame wizard, why not?

“Not a tame wizard,” Gar whispered as they started down the stairs, and Gianni jumped; he would have thought the giant had read his thoughts. “More of a friend—well, an associate.”

“But still a wizard.” Gianni frowned up at him. “Does he appear in your dreams?”

“No,” Gar replied, “but he says I appear in his.” Gianni digested that as they went down a few more steps. Then he asked, “What was that object?”

“Magic,” Gar answered.

“Of course,” Gianni said dryly.