Then he smelled smoke.
Smoke! In a wooden cave? Fear lent him energy; he sat bolt upright, staring at the glow in the gloom, the flicker of a small campfire sitting on a broad, flat stone, its light shining upward on Gar’s homely features. The wood must have been very dry, for there was very little smoke, and what there was streamed up and to the side past Gar, to the hole through which the water dripped.
Gianni felt the hair prickle all over his scalp. How had the giant done that? Having the presence of mind to bring a stone inside, rather than trying to light a fire on wood, yes, that was common sense—but how had he lit the fire? He had no flint and steel, nor a live coal carried in a terra—cotta box. “How … how did you do that, Gar?”
“Do?” The giant blinked up at him, as though the question held no meaning.
“Light the fire,” Gianni explained. “How did you do it?”
“Do.” Gar stared down at the flames, brow furrowed, seeming to ponder the question. At last he looked up and gave his head a shake. “Don’t know.”
It sent the eerie prickling over Gianni’s back and scalp again—but he assured himself that whatever Gar was, he was Gianni’s friend. At least, Gianni thought so.
And if not?
Gianni scolded himself for a fool. Who, but minutes ago, had not cared whether or not Death came to claim him? If it did, what matter whether it came at the hands of the cold, or the hands of a madman? And, of course, it might not come at all.
In the meantime, they had warmth—and Gianni could already feel the heat reaching out to him, drying him, comforting him. The thought of food crossed his mind, and he felt his stomach rebel—the ache in his head was still too painful to permit the thought. But the warmth lulled him; he felt his eyelids growing heavy. Still he fought off sleep, for he noticed that Gar was feeding the fire with their shelter’s substance—bits of rotten wood, handfuls of rootlets, pieces of root that he had broken off and piled high. What would happen if that blessed, lifegiving fire escaped its rock? What would happen if their shelter itself caught and burned? Oh, Gianni might not care about his own life—but a vision of Gar, poor, near—naked, deprived of his wits, floundering and wailing in the midst of flames, sent the pain racking through Gianni’s head again. No, he’d have to stay awake, for he couldn’t ask the giant to put the fire out they needed it too much, and a glance at Gar’s profile—empty, but still strong—made Gianni think he wouldn’t take kindly to having his fire drenched. No, Gianni would have to wake and watch … but the fire was so warm now, so lulling, the rotted wood beneath him so soft …
You need not stay awake, said the old man with the floating hair and beard.
Gianni stared. What are you doing here when I’m awake?
Fairly asked, the old face said. Turn it about. If you can see me, can you be awake?
Gianni glanced about him, and saw—nothing. The ancient face floated in a void of darkness. With shock, he realized that he really had fallen asleep. A wave of self-contempt flooded him, that he couldn’t even stay conscious for a few minutes after having decided to do so. Then came alarm; what was Gar doing while he slept? What was the fire doing? Do not be alarmed, the face said, almost as though it had read his thoughts. Sleep easily; the giant is awake and watching, though he has scarcely mind enough to do any more than that. He will keep the fire contained.
But if he should fall asleep …
He can’t, the fire has lulled him into a reverie, and he roams among his memories while he watches the tongues of flame. His trance will refresh him as much as sleep would, but his body can still act if there is need.
Gianni relaxed—a little. But the other question came to his mind, now that the most immediate was gone. Why do I see you now? I’m not seeking death again!
Are you not? The swirling hair drifted away from one eye, leaving it completely unmasked, and the gaze seemed to pierce through the depths of Gianni’s soul.
Gianni shuddered but stared back, resolute. Well, what if I am? I can’t allow it, as long as I have a friend depending on me—on what few wits I have. If that’s your concern, you may leave me—or let me leave you.
That is the least of my concerns, at the moment, the face informed him. It’s not enough that you live through the night—you must live after that, too.
Gianni frowned. Why should you care?
That is my affair, the face said curtly. Suffice it to say that you must play a part in that affair, a part that will be in the interests of yourself and your city while it benefits me, as a boat leaves eddies in its wake.
What interests are those? Gianni demanded; he was losing awe of the face.
None of your concern at all! Suddenly, the hair drifted away from the face completely, the eyes flashed, and pain lanced through Gianni’s head from temple to temple. Agony held him paralyzed for a moment, a long moment, whole seconds that seemed to stretch into hours.
At last the eyes closed, hair swirled across to veil them, and the pain was gone as suddenly as it had come, leaving Gianni stubbornly staring, but quaking inside. Hear! the voice commanded. A troop of Gypsies comes your way! They’ll pass near in the morning! Throw yourselves on their mercy, beseech their aid if you must—but join with them, so that you may live, and come to a safe refuge!
Some well of stubbornness within Gianni suddenly brimmed over. And if I don’t?
Then you will die, the face said, simply and severely, at the hands of the condotierri, or from cold and hunger—but be sure, you will die! It began to dwindle, hair and beard swirling about it wilder and wilder, hiding it completely as the voice, too, faded, still saying, Be sure … be sure …
Wait! Gianni cried in his dream. Who are you, to command me so?
But the face dwindled to a tiny dot, still bidding him, Be sure … be sure … beware … and winked out.
Gianni cried out in anger and frustration—and saw a small fire, not a swirl of hair, and the giant half-wit staring at him in alarm. Gianni realized that his own shout had waked him, and tried to cover his gaffe by saying, “It’s my watch now. Go to sleep, Gar.”
“Sleep?” The giant frowned, puzzled.
“Sleep,” Gianni confirmed, and rolled up on his knees. Every ache in his body protested, and his head began to throb again—but he hitched himself close to the fire, took up a stick of kindling from Gar’s heap, and said, “Sleep. I’ll tend the fire.”