Then light burst, and Gianni sat bolt upright in bed to find he was staring at the sunrise. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned away, but could not quell the feeling of doom that the dream had raised.
Still, it was just a dream, and with a good breakfast inside him, his cheeks shaved, and clean clothes on his back, Gianni was able to dispel the lingering nightmare and determine to lead the goods train out, as his father had told him.
First, though, they saw Medallia off—she would not stay for more than a few nights. The hostler drew her caravan up by the door, and she turned to tell the Braccalese family, “Thank you for your hospitality. Rarely have I found folk so welcoming.”
“Then you should stay with us, poor lamb!” Mamma gave her a hug, and a kiss on the cheek. “But since you won’t, come back this way often, and visit!”
Gianni was worried, too—how had she survived so long, a woman alone in this lawless country? But he bade her farewell nonetheless, holding her hands and looking into her eyes as he said it. For a moment, he thought he might kiss her, so wonderfully desirable did she seem—but some air came over her, some aura that said, Touch me not, though she still smiled and returned his gaze, so the moment passed, and he could only watch as she mounted the seat of her caravan, took up the reins, and clucked to her donkeys. Then away she went out of the courtyard, with the family waving.
Three days later, it was only Papa and Mamma who stood waving as Gianni and Gar led five drivers and ten mules out through the gate. Gianni felt apprehensive and nervous, and missed old Antonio severely—but Gar’s great bulk was very reassuring, the more so as the giant wore a new rapier and dagger, plus a crossbow, and a dozen other weapons that he assured Gianni were there, though they could not be seen.
Out the city gate they went, over the causeway and out through the land gate—and the oppression deepened, hollowing Gianni’s stomach, but he forced himself to laugh at a comment Gar made, and hoped the big man had meant it as a joke.
Two days later, they were following a track through a high valley with steep, wooded hillsides on either hand. Gianni drew his cloak close against the morning chill. Gar did likewise. “I thought your land of Talipon was warm!”
“It is, as you’ve seen,” Gianni replied, “but even the warmest country will be chill in the early morning, up high in the mountains—won’t it?”
Gar sat a moment, then nodded stiffly. “You’re right—it will. At least, that’s how it has been in every country I’ve visited, though I haven’t been up in the mountains in each of them. In some, I only know what I’ve heard from mountaineers I met.”
Gianni looked up at him curiously. “How many lands have you visited?”
“Only seven,” Gar told him. “I’m young yet.” Seven! It made Gianni’s head reel, the thought of visiting seven other countries. Himself, he had only seen Talipon, and a little of the city of Boriel, on the mainland. Not for the first time, he wished his father had let him go voyaging more often.
“Mountains are always places that delight the soul,” Gar said, “but they should make one wary. The mountaineers have a hobby of robbing goods trains.”
Gianni shook his head with assurance. “There’s no fear of that. Pirogia pays a toll to the folk who live here, to guarantee safe passage to our merchants.”
“Wise,” Gar allowed, “as long as you call it a toll, not a bribe. But let us suppose that the Stilettos have learned that, and have decided to beat down the mountaineers and set an ambush here, as a way to begin their chastising of Pirogia’s merchants …”
“That was just a remark heard in passing,” Gianni said dubiously.
“Will you let Grepotti persuade you so easily? Trust your own ears, Gianni! You heard it, and so did I!”
More importantly, Gianni thought, he had heard his Dream Dancer say it. He looked about him with sudden apprehension. “If they were to do so, would this not be an excellent place for an ambush?”
“Yes, but the end of this valley would be even better.” Gar loosened his sword in its sheath. “We’re braced for ambush now, but as we near the debouchment of the pass, we’ll begin to relax, to lower our guard. Then will be the ideal time for them to fall upon us.”
“But our men have relaxed their guard,” Gianni said, “because they trust in the good faith of the mountaineers.”
Gar stared at him in alarm, then turned back to the men, opening his mouth to yell, but a shouted cry of “At the point!” came out, came out and echoed all about them, and it took Gianni a second to realize that it was not Gar who had called, but men at either hand. He looked about wildly and saw condotierri charging down the slopes from each side—charging on foot, for the angle was too steep for horses to gallop. Gianni’s drivers barely had time to realize they were beset, were only beginning to react, when the bandits struck, struck with the clubs they held in their left hands, struck the drivers on the sides of their heads or their crowns. Three went down like felled oxen; the other two dodged, pulling out swords as they did, but the condotierri were behind them and all about them, twisting the swords out of their hands even as they raised them to strike, then bringing them down with a fist in the belly and a club behind the ear. Gianni cried out in agony, seeing their futures as galley slaves—but it was too late to try to ride to their rescue, for the condotierri had surrounded Gar and him, surrounded them with a thicket of steel, swords striking from every angle, clubs whirling. They were on foot, though, and Gianni and Gar were mounted, striking down with greater force and the advantage of thrusting over the soldiers’ guards.
Gar bellowed in rage, catching swords on his dagger and plunging his rapier down again and again. Bandits fell, gushing blood, and others leaped back out of his range, then leaped in again to stab, but Gar was quicker than they, catching their blows on his dagger and striking home as other thrusts missed him. Gianni could see only when the fight turned him far enough to one side or the other, but he had a confused impression that most of the swords aimed at Gar somehow missed, sliding by him to one side or the other. A condotierre seized Gianni’s horse’s bridle and pulled the beast forward, just far enough for another soldier to step in behind Gar, swinging a halberd in a huge overhand are. Gianni shouted, trying to turn to stab the man, trying to reach, but he overbalanced, lurched forward into waiting hands, and heard the halberd shaft strike Gar’s head with a horrible crack, a crack echoed by the club struck against his own skull, and even as the familiar darkness closed in, he realized that his Dream Dancer had been right.
But it wasn’t the woman who banished the darkness, it was the old man with the floating hair and beard, and there was no persuading this time, no arguing or warning, but only the stern command, Up, Gianni Braccalese! You have ignored sound advice; you have brought this upon yourself! Up, to suffer the fruit of your folly! Up to labor and toil in the poverty you deserve, and will deserve until you start fighting with your brain instead of letting your enemies overwhelm you with arms!
But I did only as I was bidden, Gianni protested.
Up! the face thundered. Up to labor and fight, or must I make this one refuge a place of torment instead of healing? Up and away, Gianni Braccalese, for the honor of your name and the salvation of your city! UP!
The last word catapulted Gianni into consciousness; his eyes flew open and he lurched halfway up, then sank back onto a cold, slimy surface, his head raging with pain, his eyes squeezed to slits against the glare of the sky—and there was no gentle face floating above his this time, nor even Gar’s homely, craggy features.