Still Gianni crouched, hand on his rock (though no longer clenched), not quite believing they had escaped.
Finally Gar stirred, crept out on hands and knees, peered around the boulder, then finally stood, staring after the soldiers, his face blank, eyes wide.
“Are they gone?” Gianni began to uncurl.
“Gone.” Gar nodded firmly. “All. Gone.”
Slowly, Gianni stood to look. Incredibly, it was true—the soldiers had passed them by, had disappeared into the trees that hid the road, and the dust of their passage was settling.
“Go now?” Gar looked down at him.
“Uh—yes!” Gianni snapped back to the here and now. They must not lose this chance! “But not down the road, Gar. Up over the ridge—and the next ridge, and the next, until we stand a fair chance of coming nowhere near Prince Raginaldi or his men!”
They found another road, but it went east and west. Still, the road from Pirogia had led them west into the mountains as well as north, so Gianni led Gar east. At the worst, he supposed, he could follow this road to the seashore, where they could build a raft and float home if they had to.
When darkness came, Gar plucked at Gianni’s sleeve, pointing toward the wooded slope to their right, then set off exploring. Gianni followed him, frowning, until Gar pointed to a fallen tree—an evergreen that must have fallen quite recently, for very few of its needles were brown. Gianni saw the point immediately: the trunk had broken below the line of boughs, but not broken completely—it angled downward, giving room enough to sit upright beneath it. He set to work with Gar, breaking off enough of the branches beneath to make room for them to stretch out full-length, and they had a tent. The broken branches would even serve as mattresses.
Then Gar surprised him further by coming up with a handful of roots and some greens, so they didn’t go to bed hungry after all—well, still hungry, but not starving. As they ate, a thought sprang in Gianni’s mind, and he looked up at Gar, weighing the risk of saying it. Curiosity won out, and he asked, very carefully, “Have your wits begun to return?”
“Wits?” Gar looked up in surprise, then frowned, thinking the question over. Finally he judged, “Yes.” A wave of relief swept through Gianni, but caution came hard behind it. How quickly would all those wits return?
And, of course, there was still the possibility that Gar was pretending.
The next morning, they set off down the road again, with Gar stopping every now and then to strip berries from a bush and share them with Gianni, who concluded that the giant had been trained in woodlore from his childhood, and old knowledge surfaced with hunger at the sight of the berries without his actually having to think about it. For himself, city-born and city-bred, Gianni would have been as apt to pick poisonous berries as nourishing ones.
They came out of the pass onto sloping ground, with an entire valley spread out before them. Gianni halted in amazement—he hadn’t paid much attention to the view coming up, since his back had been toward it, and he had been too concerned about his drivers and mules and cargo. Now, though, with no goods to protect, he found himself facing the vista, and even though he was cold and stiff, the sight took his breath away.
“Beautiful, yes?” Gar rumbled beside him. “Yes,” Gianni agreed, then looked up sharply. “How much do you remember now?”
“More.” Gar pressed his hand to his head. “Remember home, remember coming to Talipon, meeting you.” He shook himself. “I must make an effort; I can talk properly again, if I work at it.”
“Do you remember our meeting with the Gypsies?”
“No, but we must have, mustn’t we?” Gar looked down at his gaudy clothing. “I … do remember soldiers looking for us.”
Gianni nodded. “The Gypsies told them about us.”
“Then we would do better to go naked than in the clothes they gave us.” Gar began to pull his shirt out, but Gianni stopped him.
“The mountain air is cold. We can say we stole the clothing while the Gypsies slept.”
Gar paused, staring at him. “Steal from Gypsies? And you thought I was the one with addled wits!”
Suspicion rose. “Were you shamming, then?”
“Pretending?” Gar gazed off over the valley. “Yes and no. I was tremendously confused when I waked and found myself with you in a mire, and I couldn’t remember anything—neither my past, nor my name, nor how I came to be there. You seemed to be a friend, though, so I followed you. The rest?” He shook his head. “It comes and goes. I remember sleeping under a wagon, I remember the soldiers going by, I remember everything since I waked this morning.” He shrugged. “I’m sure the gaps will fill themselves in, with time. Even just talking with you now, I’ve begun to recapture the habit of proper speaking.”
“Praise Heaven your wits were addled no worse than that,” Gianni said with heartfelt relief—but the suspicion remained: Gar could be lying. He tried to dismiss the thought as unworthy, but it wouldn’t stay banished.
Gar pointed downslope. “There’s the fork in the road, where you told me we could go northeast to the coast or northwest to Navorrica. It would seem that, like Shröedinger’s cat, we have gone both ways.”
“Shreddinger?” Gianni looked up, frowning. “Who was he?”
“Why, the man who owned the cat.” Gar flashed him a grin. “It never knew where it was going to be until it was there, because it was in both places at once until the moment came when it had to decide—somewhat like myself these last few days. Come, let’s retrace our steps southward from the fork, and it may be that both parts of me shall pull together again.”
He set off down the slope, and Gianni followed, not sure that he hadn’t preferred the big man without his wits.
As they came to the fork, though, they saw two other people coming down the other road. Both pairs stopped and eyed each other warily. “Good morning,” Gar said at last. “Shall we share the road?”
“I have never seen Gypsies without their tribe and caravan,” one stranger answered.
“Oh, we aren’t Gypsies,” Gianni explained. “We only stole some clothing from them.”
The man stared. “Stole clothing from Gypsies? I thought it was supposed to be the other way around!”
“The Gypsies have always been blamed for a great many thefts they didn’t really commit,” Gar explained. “It was very easy to put the loss on them, for they were gone down the road, where they could neither deny it nor admit it. In any case, they don’t seem to guard their laundry lines any better than anyone else.” He offered a hand. “I am Gar.”
The other man took it, carefully. “I am Claudio.” He nodded to his partner. “He is Benvolio.”
“A pleasure,” Gar said, and glanced at Gianni. The young man smiled, recognizing a signal, and stepped forward with his hand open. “I am Gianni. We lost our clothes to the Stilettos when we had the bad luck to run into them.”
“You, too?” Benvolio stared as he took Gianni’s hand. “I thought we were the only ones with such bad luck.”
“Oh, really!” Gianni looked him up and down. “You fared better than we, at least—they left you your clothes.”
“Yes, they did that.” Benvolio let go of his hand with a grimace. “Took our cart and donkey and all our goods, yes, but they did leave us our clothes.”
“They took our whole goods train, and our drivers to sell to the galleys,” Gianni said, his face grim. “They would have taken us, too, if they hadn’t thought we were dead.”
Claudio nodded, commiserating. “I’m sure we would be slogging toward Venoga and an oar this minute, if we hadn’t run as soon as we heard them coming, and if the woods hadn’t been so thick that they couldn’t ride in to follow us. It seems Stilettos would rather lose their prey than chase it afoot.”