A Wizard in Mind

CHAPTER 13

The whole city threw itself into a positive fever of preparation for war. Furnaces roared in the foundries day and night, casting cannon for the navy and the city walls; peasants streamed in through the gates with carts full of food, and stayed to enlist in the army if the city found room for their families—for these peasant farmers had no illusions about what happened to the people in the villages when their fields became battlegrounds.

One of those farmers, however, turned out to be a problem. A messenger came knocking at the Braccalese door just as the family was sitting down to breakfast, and the servant appeared in the doorway seconds later. “Master Paolo, there’s a messenger from the Council in your study.”

“A messenger from the Council? So early?” Mama exclaimed, and her face was full of foreboding.

“It must be urgent if it comes so untimely.” Papa rose and went to the door, saying, “Begin without me, family, Gar. It might not be short.”

But it was. He came back only minutes later and sat down at table again, tucking the cloth into his neck and saying, “Eat quickly, Gianni, Gar. I think you had better come along.”

“What is it?” Suddenly, Gianni’s appetite was gone.

“A spy,” Papa told them. “Eat, Gianni. You’ll need it.”

They ate, then went out the river door, stepping into a sculling boat, and went not to the Council chambers but to the magistrate’s hall—and it was Oldo Bolgonolo who greeted them, not as Maestro but as a magistrate. He ushered them into the courtroom, where a mild-mannered, bland-faced man stood before the bench in chains. He wore a simple farmer’s smock and leggings, and seemed entirely inoffensive.

“What did he do?” Gianni asked.

Oldo waved him to silence and said, “Master, signori! This peasant was seen watching the soldiers drill, and later seen going to the stall of a pigeon seller in the market. There is no crime in that, but the pigeon he bought, he took down to the quay, tied a scrap of parchment to its leg, and sent it winging into the air. The man who followed him shot the pigeon through the wing. It heals, and may be of use to us in sending a message other than this.” He held out a scrap of parchment. “Read, and advise us as to his judgment.”

Papa took the parchment and scanned it, scowling, but Gar asked, “Who bore witness against him?”

“One of the city spies you advised me to commission, and the stealthy one has already proved the worth of your advice. But he also whispered to one or two other folk that the man was doing something suspicious, and they saw and remembered. He kept them from offering violence to this poor deluded soul.”

“Deluded!” the man burst out. “You, who would upset the old ways and take from us the assurance of the noblemen—you dare call me deluded?”

“He seems to have had a good lord,” Oldo said, with irony, “and doesn’t realize how lucky he was, or how rare his master is.”

“So he admits his crime?” Gar asked.

“He does,” Oldo confirmed. “Four citizens confronted him and bore witness to his deeds.”

“But not your spy!” the man said hotly.

“Counterspy,” Gar corrected. “It is you who are the spy.”

“A counter indeed, a counter in your game,” the man sneered. “They wouldn’t let me see the man himself!”

“Of course not—once a spy’s face is known, he can be of little more use,” Gar said. “He was wise enough to see you had other accusers. In fact, I would guess he himself made no accusation, only supplied information.”

The spy chopped sideways with his hand in a dismissive gesture. “What will it be now? The gallows? Go ahead—I’m ready to die for my lord!”

“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary,” Gar said mildly, and to Oldo, “I’d recommend he be a guest of the city, with a room to himself. Not a very luxurious room perhaps, and not a very rich diet—but only a guest with a barred window, until the current unpleasantness is done. It may be his lord will value so loyal a retainer—value him enough to trade us a dozen prisoners of war for him.”

“An excellent thought,” Oldo said, with a gleam in his eye. The prospect of bargaining appealed to him. “Guards, take the prisoner away and clap him in a cell alone, where he can spread no more of his insidious talk!” As the watchmen hustled the peasant away, Oldo turned to Gar. “I thank you, friend, for the excellence of your advice. I shall appoint more counterspies, and have them watch our new citizens very closely.”

“And the old ones, too,” Gar reminded him. “Some of them might lack confidence in the navy and our new army, and might try to guarantee their family’s safety by selling information to the lords.”

Oldo’s face darkened. “It goes against the grain to even think of it, but I shall do so. Do you really think it necessary for the counterspies to seek to have other citizens bear witness, though?”

“Very important,” said Gar, “for a position like that opens itself to abuse of power very easily and readily. A counterspy could settle an old quarrel or gain long-awaited revenge, just by accusation. No, Maestro, I strongly recommend you require witnesses and proof.”

“Well, so we shall, then,” grumbled Oldo. “But I thank you, masters.”

As they came out of the courtroom, Gianni said, in a shaken voice, “I had never thought there might be spies among us!”

“Oh, there most definitely are,” Gar assured him. “It’s a fundamental principle of war.”

“But what of the lords’ armies? Will we have spies among them?”

“We already do,” Gar answered. “Do we not, Signor Braccalese?”

Papa nodded, looking grim, and Gianni suddenly felt very young, and very, very naïve. He reflected, though, that he was learning very rapidly.

So was his city. The merchant town that had felt no need of an army was studying war with a vengeance. The shipyard hired every carpenter in town, and half-built houses had to wait while keels were laid and caravels built. Chandlers bought every bale of hemp the farmers could bring, every skein of linen thread, to make cables and sails.

There followed the most frantic two weeks of Gianni’s life. Gar taught him how to drill with the others, taught him in a day as much as they learned in two, then left him in charge of training the recruits with the help of the captain of the Pirogia City Guard and a few of the guardsmen. Mama and Papa Braccalese kept track of the young men who enlisted, while Vladimir the beggar took charge of ordering up tabards, plumed hats, and weapons. The workshops of the city threw themselves into turbulent activity; lamps burned all through the night, and the citizens of Pirogia could scarcely sleep for the sounds of the hammers beating at all hours in the forgeries. Old Carlo Grepotti worked side by side with Vladimir, grumbling over every single ducat spent but dutifully doling out the gold to the tradesmen of his city as he did. The Maestro himself took charge of raising money for Carlo to spend, going from merchant to merchant and arguing very reasonably that generous donations would forestall a Council vote on the need for higher taxes.

Gianni was very proud of his fellow citizens—the young men came trooping in, waiting in long, long lines for the scribes to take down their names (and many who were not so young—Gianni was glad he could leave it to his father to explain to old Pietro why a sixty-year-old man with gout and rheumatism should not enlist). He had his hands full overseeing his road companions as they trained the young men in drill, each hopeful soldier with a pole over his shoulder until he could learn how not to hit his mates with it as he turned and wheeled. Vincenzio kept his men in line with all the sternness of a schoolmaster, protesting in an undertone that this was no fit occupation for a man of letters; Estragon the thief reveled in actually giving orders to the law-abiding; and Feste was in his element, posturing and strutting as he led his troops. Gianni was constantly on the run from piazza to piazza, trying to keep up with the drill practice in the mornings and the weapons practice in the afternoons, when his lieutenants became pupils themselves, studying halberd-play and archery and swordsmanship from the Pirogia City Guard.

At the end of the first exhausting day, Gianni threw himself down in his bed, sure he would sleep so deeply that dreams wouldn’t dare come near him—but the circle of light appeared and expanded before he could wish it away or dare command it to be gone, expanded to show him the face of the Wizard, hair and beard swirling. Gianni still felt a little fear, but much more exasperation. What do you want this time?

The wizard stared in surprise; then his brows drew down in anger, and pain stabbed Gianni from temple to temple as the deep voice thundered around him. You forget yourself, child! Do not think that because I honor you with a glimpse of me, you are entitled to insolence!

I … I beg your pardon, Gianni stammered. Better, the voice said, no longer all about him, and the pain ceased as abruptly as it had begun. I have come to tell you that you have done well, Gianni Braccalese, in persuading your citizens to fight. Thank you. But this was one time that Gianni really didn’t want the credit. Gar had more to do with it than I, though. Why don’t … I mean, would it not be more effective to talk to him?

He is not born of Pirogia, nor even of Talipon, and has no access to your Council by himself, the Wizard said. For better or for worse, it must be you through whom I save the world of Petrarch.

Gianni couldn’t answer, he was so astounded, so aghast at the Wizard’s colossal arrogance. Who was he to speak of saving a whole world? A city, perhaps, but a world?

But an army is not enough, the Wizard told him, nor even the marines that your friend Gar intends to raise.

Marines? Gianni wondered what that was. Something to do with the sea, yes—but nearly everything in Pirogia had to do with the sea. What else can we do?

You can raise all the merchant cities against the aristocracy. The cold eyes seemed to pierce Gianni’s brain, transfixing him, depriving him of all powers of resistance. You can bid them cut off the last vestiges of power that their contes and doges may have, even expel those noblemen completely—after all, their guilds and merchants’ councils really rule their cities already. Then they too can raise armies and build navies, and the lords will have to split their forces, and will be unable to combine against Pirogia completely.

But the other cities may be defeated! They may fall!

Then Pirogia must come to their rescue when you have driven off the Prince and his minions, the Wizard said sternly. Your city must make alliances, Gianni Braccalese. You must form a league of merchant cities, a true federation, a republic!

A republic of merchant cities? Gianni’s brain reeled under the vision of the seacoast of Talipon all united as one nation, leaving the interior split up into a score of ducal cities. They would fight with viciousness and not the slightest trace of mercy, those aristocrats. Many people of the merchant cities would die …

But many of them would die if they didn’t fight the lords, too—the false Gypsies and the Lurgan Company had seen to that. It may be as you say … there may be a chance of success …

It is your only chance of success! The Wizard’s voice was harsh with anxiety, with urgency. Tell your father, tell your Council! The die is cast, Gianni Braccalese, the wagers are placed! You must ally or die, and all the other merchant cities with you!

Gianni realized the truth of what the Wizard said. It was do or die, now—and if the lords eliminated Pirogia, they would go on to enslave or crush all other merchants, too. I shall do as you say, he promised. But the Council has already rejected such a notion.

Before the lords marched on them, yes! Now that they know they must fight, you will find them much more willing! Tell your father! The face began to recede, hair and beard swirling up to hide it. Remember—tell! Persuade! Or fall and die!

Then the face was gone, and Gianni woke, shivering with fear—but also with elation. The prospect of a league of merchant cities awed and enthralled him—a league with Pirogia as its leader! With all the navies of the island at its command, all the new armies of the coastland coordinated in their strategy! The day of the nobleman was done!

If the Council could be persuaded.

The Council was persuaded.

Gianni’s father returned home from the meeting, jubilant and brimming over with his triumph. “There wasn’t the slightest hint of disagreement! They heard me out, they voted unanimously, and the couriers are already taking fast boats out past the bar!”

Gianni and Mama stared in amazement. “However did you manage it?” she asked.

“I told it to them as though it were an idea new-made, as though I had never told it to them before—and they are all intent on war now, for even those who opposed it understand that once it has begun, their only hope of survival is to win! They didn’t need persuading—they were ready to embrace the idea, any idea, that would give them a greater chance of winning!”

While Gianni was drilling the army, Gar combed the waterfront for stalwart young men, catching them before they could line up to enlist—young merchant sailors and sons of fishermen. He took two hundred of them under his personal tutelage, promoting the quickest learners to corporal at the end of the first day and to sergeant at the end of the second. He marched them about on the quays from dawn till dusk. They were exhausted and cursing him by the end of the first day, but drilling like professionals by the end of the week, with no signs of weariness even as darkness fell. Then he taught them weapons drill, and at the end of the tenth day buttonholed the city’s two admirals. The result of their conference was that he marched his fishermen aboard a dozen ships in the morning and sailed out to the horizon, where ship met ship, for all the world looking as though they were fighting one another. They came sailing back at noon with the soldiers dragging their pikes, but the captains and admirals glowing—and the two hundred were dubbed “marines,” and marched on board to row out to the bar, waiting.

They didn’t have to wait long for a small, swift courier boat to come running back with the news that a pirate fleet was approaching.

The admirals sent the courier on with word for the Maestro and the Council before they set sail to meet the pirates. That word ran through the town, and when Gianni realized that his soldiers were virtually the only ones who weren’t down by the docks waiting with bated breath, he called for fifty volunteers to guard the bridge to the mainland and sent everyone else off to wait and hope and pray with the rest of Pirogia. The hours dragged by, and people began to curse beneath their breath—but there wasn’t a single echo of cannon fire, nor a trace of gunsmoke in the sky, for the navy had done its job well and attacked the pirate fleet far from the city.

Dusk fell, and people began to go home, dispirited and worried—but sausage sellers appeared, hawking their wares in the midst of the crowd, and a few enterprising wine merchants realized the chance to rid themselves of some of their worst vintages, so most of the crowd stayed, sipping near-vinegar and bolstered with meat that was best not studied too closely, waiting and hoping but growing more and more fearful by the hour, then by the minute.

Finally, hours after darkness had fallen, a shout went up from those who waited out by the headland, a shout that traveled inward to the watchers on the quays. “Ships! Sails!”

But whose? Impossible to tell, when all they could see was moonlight glinting on canvas in the distance—and the gunners stood by their cannon in the harbor forts while Gianni barked commands, and his brand-new soldiers marched forward to stand at the edge of the quay, hearts thumping so loudly that the crowd could almost hear them, halberds slanting out, waiting for sign of an enemy. The civilians gave way, letting themselves be elbowed back, more than glad to yield place to the soldiers in case the ships were pirates.

Then a shout of joy went up from the headland and traveled inward. As it reached the quays, three ships rounded the headland, their standards clear in the torchlight from the forts, the emblem on the one intact sail huge enough for all to see—the eagle of Pirogia! Then the citizens recognized the ships of their own building, and a shout of joy went up and turned into mad cheering that seemed as though it would never stop. The soldiers waved their pikes aloft, shouting in jubilation too.

More ships followed them, and more. The first of them glided up to the quays, and weary but triumphant sailors leaped over the side, elbowing their way through soldiers who laughed with joy and clapped them on their shoulders, cheering them on as they plowed into the crowd in search of sweethearts, wives, parents, and children.

Last from the last ship came the rear admiral, leaning heavily on Gar’s arm. A reddened bandage wound up across his chest to his shoulder, but he was smiling bravely, and the light of victory was in his eyes.

“A surgeon, a surgeon!” Gar cried. His uniform was blackened with gunpowder, rent with sword cuts in a dozen places; he had a bandage around his left arm and another about his head—but he seemed clear-minded and able.

The surgeons took the admiral away, and—Gianni ran up to clap Gar on the back and wring his hand, crying, “Congratulations! All hail the hero! A victory, Gar, a fabulous victory!”

“My men’s, not mine.” But Gar was smiling, his eyes alight. “But it was a fabulous battle, Gianni! I wish men could turn away from war—but if there have to be wars, they should be like this!”

“Tell me how it was!”

“We left the harbor with the morning breeze to waft us out to sea. A mile out, the fore admiral, Giovanni Pontelli, led half of our forces further out, past the horizon, while the rear admiral, Mosca Cacholli, led the rest of us on southward, following the coast, to meet the pirates as far from Pirogia as we could. With the wind at our backs, we made good time, and the breeze was beginning to turn toward shore when we met the pirates off Cape Leone. Admiral Cacholli hove to and gave the command to begin the bombardment. You know how I insisted the cannon be placed, Gianni—all on the deck, covered by canvas in case of storm, but none belowdecks, or the crew would be truly deafened by the sound, roasted by the heat, and suffocated by the smoke. Well, it wasn’t much better on the decks, but all my gunners can still hear their orders and none died of smoke—though I think the sun’s heat may have been just as bad as any on a gun deck. Still, my cannoneers pulled the canvas off their guns, loaded, and fired. The whole ship swayed with the recoil, but I had also insisted the ships not be too high, so they didn’t capsize, and my crews proved the worth of their drill, because no one was crushed by the guns as they rolled back. Cacholli staggered the fire, so that as one ship fired, another was reloading and a third was taking aim, and we loosed a round every minute or so.”

“Well, the pirates just weren’t expecting anything like it. It was a horrendous noise, even over two hundred yards of water, and they had never faced such a rolling bombardment. We sank a dozen of their ships, for they turned broadside to fire at us, and their long galleys gave us excellent targets, while our little caravels, with so much space between them, gave them very little to aim at and less to hit. We couldn’t hear their cannon because of the din of our own, but we saw their shot splash into the water in front of us—in front, between our ships, behind us, and every place except on our ships themselves. Simply put, their gunners couldn’t even hit us!”

“Not a single one?” Gianni asked, eyes wide.

“Well, one of our caravels lost its mast and three deck hands; I could swear the shot hit by accident! But no matter how good our bombardment, it wasn’t enough to decide the battle by itself, because there were three of them to every one of us, and the rest pressed on through the bombardment to grapple us. We turned and ran, and the pirate galleys fell farther and farther behind with every minute. The sea heaved beneath us, our little ships bucked and seesawed like horses, and the waves broke over our bow and drenched us with salt spray—but we were sailing against the wind, tacking, and the pirates had no idea how to do that. Oh, they furled their sails, but the wind still blew against them, and their oarsmen had to strain to make any way at all. Those oarsmen must have been new slaves pressed to learn to row in a week! Try as they might, they fell farther and farther behind us, and when we had distance enough, Admiral Cacholli turned us for another broadside and another, chewing their fleet to bits. Finally the pirates gained some modicum of sense and sent a wing to row up on our flank while we bombarded, so when we turned to run again, they came down from seaward with the wind behind them, and grappled us.”

Gar’s eyes glittered. “Then was the test of my marines, and they surpassed those poor farm boys forced to masquerade as pirates as thoroughly as a warhorse surpasses a child’s pony! The ‘pirates’ came over the side with their scimitars waving, but my marines met them with a line of halberds. They ran the first wave through, then chopped the second wave in chest and hip. As they tired, they fell back and left the third wave of pirates to the second rank of marines, who stabbed and chopped as well as the first. But the pirates’ officers drove them on with lash and blade, and they came over both rails in such numbers that my marines had to drop their spears and lug out their swords. Then it was man to man and blood and steel, each on his own. Three farm boys came at me all at once, yowling like demons and chopping as though their swords were axes. My blood sang high, for it was kill or be killed, so I tried to forget that they were forced to it and lunged, running the first through and ducking so that his body slammed into my shoulder. I straightened and threw him off as I parried his mate’s slash, then stepped aside to let the third stumble past me—but I put out my foot and let him fall, even as I parried the second’s slash again, then beat down his blade and ran him through.”

“Then, incredibly, there were none more at me. I looked about and saw two of my marines back to back, beleaguered by a dozen plowboys—poor fools, they didn’t realize that only six at a time could do any good, and they were getting in each other’s way. I caught one by the shoulder, yanked him back, and stabbed him through the other shoulder, then turned to catch another by the arm and send him after the first. He tripped and went down, and another marine stabbed as he fell. I caught another and another, wounding each as he turned—but by the time I’d uncovered my two marines, they had slain all six of the men within reach. We turned and went looking for new quarry.”

“That was the way of it. My marines went through the sea robbers’ ranks reaping death until the ‘pirates’ began to throw down their arms and cry for mercy. Then my captains managed to rein in their sailors as I called back my marines, and ordered them to lock the pirates in the holds of their own ships.”

“But that was only the flank,” Gianni said, his eyes wide.

“Only the flank, but they delayed us long enough for the main body to catch up with us.” Gar nodded, his face turning somber. “There were half a dozen ships in the center of their line who were the real pirates, and they grappled and boarded. Then my boys died—one of each five, as we learned when the battle was done—but each took half a dozen pirates with him, and those who lived took ten and more. One huge brute came at me, all mustaches and leering grin. I parried his slash, but he kicked at me; I blocked the kick with my shin and thrust at him, but he was quick enough to catch his balance and slap my sword aside with his blade. I leaped back, but not quite quickly enough, and his cleaver took a slice off my arm—there … ” He nodded at his wound. “I bellowed in anger and thrust before he could recover, ran him through like the pig he was, and turned just in time to see another like him chopping one of my lads through and yowling with delight as he did. The whole view darkened with redness then, and I leaped in to catch him by the hair and shave him gratis. I would have bandaged the cuts I made, but there was no point, since he’d lost his head.” Gar shook his head in self-disgust. “But I let my heart carry me away there, and turned from his execution to see three of his smaller mates coming for me with swords waving, howling like the north wind. I ducked and stabbed upward, running one through just under the breastbone as I caught up the butcher’s scimitar from the dead man. I cut with it at the man on my left, and he skidded to a halt to block with his own as I parried the blow from my right, then swung my rapier about and ran the man through. Then I turned to my left and caught the fool’s next slash, scimitar against scimitar, and ran him through with my rapier.”

“So it went. We paid a high price in blood and life, but we cleared all the real pirates from our decks, then boarded their ships and slew the few who were left, throwing their bodies to the sharks. They’ll be in blood frenzy all along this coast for weeks, so bid everyone to forgo swimming.”

Gianni shuddered. “But the rest of the fleet?”

Gar’s eyes glinted again. “While the false pirates were struggling to reach us, Admiral Pontelli had been sailing past them on the other side of the horizon. Now when they grappled, he swooped down on them with the wind at his back, hove to, and fired point-blank at their rear. It was a fearful carnage, they tell me, and the foolish false pirates had jammed themselves too closely for no more than a few of them to beat their way clear with their oars. Indeed, they did more damage to one another than the admiral did, ramming into their own ships and breaking each other’s oars—and oarsmen,” he added darkly. “When they’d sorted themselves out, our ships grappled them one by one, and my marines made me proud of their training again. They lost only a dozen and were disgusted with the work they had to do, for they were fighting untrained plowboys again, who surrendered quickly enough, though, and we locked them in their holds as we had before. Then we set prize crews to each ship—they should be sailing into the harbor before dawn. They have to go slowly, for they’ve no oarsmen and only skeleton crews, but we’ve doubled the size of our fleet!”

“A fabulous victory!” Gianni cried. “But how can you be so sure that the false pirates were peasants forced into service?”

Gar grinned from ear to ear. “Why, because when our admiral struck the sword from the hand of their admiral and bade my marines seize the man, he cried, ‘Unhand me, lowborn scum! Know that I am the Conte Plasio, and worth more than all your ragtag horde put together!’ ”

Gianni stared in disbelief, then broke out laughing, slapping Gar on the back. But his mirth slackened and died when he heard the wailing from the back of the quay.

“I said we lost men,” Gar said, his face darkening, “marines, but sailors, too. It was a great victory, and cheaply bought, when you see how many we sank and how many we won—but we did pay a price, and there’ll be many who mourn this night.”

Gianni stared toward the sounds of grief, suddenly realizing how real the war was—that it was more than some gigantic contest, some game lords played to relieve their boredom. Their playing pieces were living human beings, and their play ended in tragedy.

“The philosopher told us that eternal vigilance is the price of freedom,” Gar said softly beside him, “but he forgot that vigilance must all too frequently end in war, and those who say it’s better to die free than to live a slave must think long and truly before they say it.”

Gianni heard, felt the question sink deep within him—but heard the ring and the hardening of instant certainty, too. “I hope I won’t have to pay that price, Gar,” he said, “but I will if I must.”

“Yes.” Gar nodded. “After all, you’ve come near to paying it twice, and that without even having a chance to fight to stay free, haven’t you? At the last, the question is not whether or not you’ll die, but how.”

The day after the battle, the courier boats came back—three that first day, two the next, and five more on the third. All the other merchant cities, after furious debates in guildhalls and councils, had finally seen that they must fight or be ground under the noblemen’s boots. With the three cities that wavered, news of the navy’s victory against the lords’ thinly disguised fleet turned the tide, and they, too, cast their lot with Pirogia. Their ambassadors met in the Council Hall, and with ponderous ceremony signed a Charter of Merchant Cities, agreeing to fight together under a strategy devised by Pirogia. That was all they would promise, and only for the duration of the war; peacetime details would be thrashed out when (and if!) peace came. But it was enough to make the Pirogians jubilant again—and to bring Gianni the most splendid dream of his life.

The circle of light appeared amidst the darkness of sleep, and Gianni braced himself for another encounter with the cantankerous old Wizard, but the expanding circle of light showed not floating hair but swirling veils, and it was the Mystery Woman who undulated before him, not the grim old face—and her gyrations were more pronounced than before, slower, more rhythmical, more enticing. There was an aura about her, an aura of desire—not his, but hers.

Bravely done, Gianni Braccalese! Her voice was warm all about him; he could have sworn he felt breath in his ear. You have done well and wisely to persuade your father, and the merchant cities have listened to your reasoning! The league is formed, and it is your doing, O my brave one, all yours!

Gianni bathed in every word of her praise—indeed, he felt it as caressing all over his skin—but honesty made him protest, It was Gar’s idea first, and my father who brought it to the Council!

But the arguments your father used were yours, and it was you who pressed him into making the demands again! Oh, you are brave and worthy and valiant, and all that a woman could want! She swam closer, closer, and her face remained shadowed, even though the veils stilled and dropped, and the glory of her figure shone in a wondrous rose-hued light. Gianni gasped and felt his whole body quicken, aching for her—and discovered that he had a body in this dream, a body far more muscular and unblemished than his real one, naked and fairly glowing with his desire for her.

And she was there beside him, taking his hand and laying it upon her breast, then moving it gently to caress. Mechanically, he continued the action when her hand stopped, staring in fascination and awe at the glorious curves of breast and thigh and hip. Some lingering scruple screamed at him that this was wrong because they weren’t married, but she must have heard and breathed, No. Nothing is wrong, in a dream for you have no control over your dreams, and therefore can have no guilt, they do with you as they please. And she did indeed seem to be doing with him as she pleased, caressing his body too, wherever she wished—and more clearly, wherever he wished … Oh, be very sure that you have no control over this dream, she assured, for I do, every instant. Come, do as I wish, for you can do nothing else—your only choice is to fight your desires while you do as I please, or to fulfill those desires, as is only right, very right, perfectly right—in a dream. Dream with me, Gianni, for there can be no guilt and no sin here, and the only wrongness is to refuse the gift of pleasure thus given.

It was true, her words rang true within him, and Gianni threw away all scruple and inhibition, giving himself over fully to her and her wondrous dreambody, and the pleasure vouchsafed him. He who had never lain with a woman but always dreamed of it, dreamed now in earnest, and learned the ways of lovemaking to their fullest in the depths of his sleep.