His muscles screamed protest as he slowly, painfully, lowered himself to his knees, with one hand on the side of the wagon and Gar holding the other arm. Then Gar braced himself on Gianni’s shoulder as he creaked down and bowed Gianni ahead. Gianni lay down, very carefully, and rolled under the wagon, across the nearest pallet, then onto the farther one. Gar came rolling after him, grunting with pain, then lay on his pallet staring up at the bottom of the wagon, gasping in quick shallow breaths.
“More than bruises?” Gianni asked with concern.
“A cracked rib, I think,” Gar answered. “It will mend.”
“Walk carefully,” Gianni warned.
Gar nodded. “Be sure, I’ve had ribs cracked before—yes, and broken, too. But thank you for worrying, Gianni.”
“Thank you for a scheme that saved us,” Gianni replied. “Good night, Gar.” He thought he heard the big man answer, but that might have been a small dream as he fell into sleep.
Sleep was black, until a small, swirling form began to appear. Not again! Gianni thought, and struggled to wake himself—but before he could, the object grew, and he realized that he wasn’t seeing hair and beard swirling around a face, but veils floating around a supple body. Closer she came and closer, turning and undulating in a languid dance. Was that music that accompanied her movements, or was she music embodied? If it was sound, it was so barely audible that he thought he felt it, not saw it—as he also seemed to feel every turn, every gesture. Light grew about her, but somehow left her face in shadow. He longed to discern her form, but the multitude of veils only hinted at a lush and voluptuous figure, and certainly didn’t reveal it.
Gianni. Her voice spoke inside his head—but of course, he realized; this was a dream, so it was all inside his head. Gianni, hearken to my words!
To every syllable, he breathed, then frowned at a thought. Do you have a father?
A father? Her tone was surprised. Yes, but he is far away. Why do you ask? Clearly, she had not been expecting that.
Because I have seen an old man who comes and goes as you do. Perhaps her father wasn’t so far away as she thought.
Does he indeed! Her tone was ominous. Let us hope we never meet!
Oh, but I am so glad we have! Gianni reached out, but found that whatever dream presence he was had no body.
No—not you. Her tone softened amazingly, then became inviting, seductive, as she said, I, too, rejoice in meeting you, brave and handsome man of Pirogia! But know that contact between the dream realm and the real is forbidden, save to those living souls who have learned the art of the waking dream. I would not violate that rule if I did not have words of import for you.
Whatever it is, I’ll treasure the cause! What word have you for me? Gianni found himself hoping ardently.
Love, she said, and Gianni’s hopes soared—then crashed as she said, You must avoid it. Turn aside, turn away—do not fall in love with the Gypsy Medallia! Do not!
Small chance of that! Gianni declared, with all the ardor of a newly besotted soul, for I have fallen in love with you!
The dancer stilled and stood awhile frozen, and Gianni gloated, thinking she had not suspected this! Could he take her by surprise, then?
But the dancer began to move again, the veils rising and falling as she turned, then turned again. Do not, she counseled, for I am faithless and fickle, as likely to turn to another man in a minute as I am to return to you. No, in all likelihood, you shall never see me again.
You couldn’t be so cruel! Gianni protested.
She threw back her head and laughed in the tone of silver bells. Oh, in affairs of the heart, I can be cruel indeed, Gianni! I am truly a woman without mercy! Nay, you are a fool if you fall in love with Medallia, but a greater fool if you fall in love with me!
Then I am a fool no matter how I turn, Gianni said, with conviction. He found he didn’t really mind the idea.
Not at all—you need not fall in love with either! the vision snapped, then turned away, with a gesture of finality—and Gianni woke.
He found himself staring at the bottom of the wagon above his head, startled to find himself back in the real world. Was he to spend his life lost in dreams, then?
If such divine creatures inhabited the dream world—yes. He was growing remarkably repulsed by reality anyway. He lay awake awhile, marveling at how faithless and feckless he was. And he had always believed himself to be constant and virtuous!
But then, he had never fallen in love before—or at least, never so deeply as this.
CHAPTER 5
They came into Pirogia through the land gate, Gar and Gianni sitting up on the driver’s seat with Medallia, one on each side of her. The sentries didn’t recognize Gianni at first and tried to bar them entrance, but when he protested, “I’m Gianni Braccalese,” they stared in surprise, then threw their heads back and guffawed, staggering to brace themselves against the wall. Gianni reddened with embarrassment. “It isn’t so funny as all that!”
“To see a merchant of Pirogia dressed up like a Gypsy?” one sentry gasped, wiping his eyes. “Oh, it’s a tale to be savored and retold many times—not that I would, mind you.”
Gianni took the hint. He sighed and said, “I don’t have any money with me, or I’d invite you for a bite and a drink while I told you how I came by these clothes. Shall I meet you at Lobini’s coffeehouse to tell you the tale?”
“Aye, and gladly! We’re off duty at three.”
“At Lobini’s, then.” The other sentry stepped aside and waved them through the gate.
Medallia clucked to her donkeys and drove in, Gar saying out of the corner of his mouth, “A bribe well and discreetly offered.”
“Let’s hope they’ll be discreet in turn,” Gianni sighed. “Yes, I’ve had some experience at the craft.”
“Are you so ashamed to be seen with me as that?” Medallia challenged them.
“Never!” Gianni protested, and was about to explain at length, when he saw the twinkle in her eye and relaxed.
They rode across the causeway, and Gianni explained to Gar that there were charges of gunpowder every dozen yards or so, in case an army tried to charge across the causeway to attack the city. The big man nodded. “Wise.” But his eyes were on the panorama spread out before him, and his lips quirked in a smile. “I thought you said this city was built on scores of little islands.”
Gianni looked up at his home, luminescent in the morning mist, suddenly seeing it through the eyes of strangers, suddenly seeing it as magical and fantastic. Bridges were everywhere, spanning canals, arcing over waterways, swooping between the taller buildings—buildings that seemed like giant cakes, their walls painted in smooth pastels and adorned with festoons of ornamentation in bright colors. Where the rivers were too wide for bridges (and even where they weren’t), long, slender boats glided, in the design Gianni’s ancestors had copied from the barbarians of the North, for the people of Pirogia were always eager for new goods, new artifacts, new ideas, and copied and modified with delight, shrugging off their mistakes and embracing their successes. Their critics called them shameless imitators, devoid of originality; their enthusiasts called them brilliant synthesists. The Pirogians called themselves successes.