The room erupted into noise again—exclamations of wonder, and not a little scoffing. The Maestro let it run its course, then asked Gar, “What was this strange egg-shaped thing?”
“A magic talisman that allowed the prince to talk with the Lurgan traders, even when they were far from his castle,” Gar said. “That way, when he had enough orzans to be worth the trip, they could come to get them, and give him his gold.”
“I do not believe in magic,” the Maestro said. “Rightly, too,” Gar replied, “but it’s easier to say ‘magic talisman’ than ‘an alchemist’s device,’ and it’s beyond understanding in any case. What matter is what it does.”
“Apparently you’ve some understanding of it, if you could use it to talk to a friend of your own.”
“Yes, my lord. I also understand how to use a cannon, but I would be hard put to tell you how its powder worked, or why.”
Gianni noticed that he didn’t say it was impossible, just difficult—but the Maestro accepted the answer. “And who is your friend Herkimer?”
“Another mercenary,” Gar said readily, “who will come to our aid if I ask it, and take the noblemen from the rear. Think of him as an alchemist with cannon—excellent cannon, for he makes better gunpowder.”
“And he can watch this Lurgan Company for you?” The Maestro was looking rather skeptical.
“Well, eavesdrop on them, at any rate,” Gar said, “though what he hears would have to be very dire before he would drop a message for me into your Piazza del Sol, taking the risk of knocking a hole in someone’s head.”
“Have you no talisman to use for talking with him?”
“No, my lord. It was with the kit that I had when I came to your city, but which the Stilettos stole along with the rest of my gear.”
“Will they know it for what it is?” old Carlo asked. “I doubt it,” Gar told him. “It was well disguised.” He didn’t elaborate, and Carlo Grepotti managed to bite back the question.
“What is your advice?” the Maestro asked.
Gar shrugged. “I’m a mercenary soldier, Maestro. Of course I advise you to fight.”
“Forget your profession for a moment.” The Maestro waved a hand, as though he could clear Gar’s mind of all preconceptions with a gesture. “Try to think as a merchant, not as a soldier. Would you not advise us to flee, to evacuate the city?”
“No,” Gar said, instantly and clearly. “It would be almost impossible to move so many people so quickly—many would be likely to die in the trying—and no matter where you went, the Stilettos would sniff you out and kill or enslave you.”
“We could divide into many bands, and go in many directions,” a merchant offered.
“If you did, you’d only make it easier for the Stilettos to kill you,” Gar said, “and give sport for many noblemen and their armies as they hunted you down—sport for them, and employment for all the Free Companies, not just the Stilettos. No, masters, your only hope is to stay and fight. Yes, many of you may die—but many more will live!”
“But we have no army!” cried another. “How can we fight the lords?”
“By burning your bridge to the mainland,” Gar said. “Gianni tells me it was designed for that, and whoever thought it up built wisely. Yes, it will take time and money to rebuild, when we have beaten off the lords—but it’s the smallest of the losses you could have. With it gone, no army can come at you without ships—and your navy is unsurpassed; I’m sure they will scuttle any army the lords try to bring against you.”
“Some boats might reach us,” a merchant said darkly.
“Yes, and for that you will need soldiers.” Gar nodded. “I can make your young men into an army for you, and free lances will come quickly enough if we spread word that we’re hiring. In fact, we’ve brought back eight men from our travels who are willing to serve with you; I spent yesterday drilling them and taking the first steps toward turning them into an army. Will you come see them? They’re waiting outside.”
There were a few voices of denial, but the vast majority were more than ready to see a show. They answered with a shout of approval, and the Maestro cried, “Adjourned! We shall meet again outside! Stand around the edge of the piazza, masters!” Then he struck the gong, and the move toward the doors began.
Even as they came out, they saw Gar’s eight men drawn up in three rows of four each—three, because a few of the Braccalese drovers had been fired with military zeal when they saw the tabards Mama Braccalese and her friends had made, splendid golden tabards with the eagle of Pirogia painted on them, as some hint of livery. The merchants exclaimed as they came out, seeing the men drawn up in a square with plumed hats and the sun glinting on their halberds (they had fitted new handles to the trophies of their raid on Castle Raginaldi). At Gar’s command, they came to attention, and the drummer and trumpeter he had hired began to play. Then, as he barked orders, the twelve marched across the square, turned as one and marched across its breadth, then wheeled and marched across it on the diagonal. Again he called, and they turned to march straight toward the Maestro with old Carlo Grepotti beside him. One more barked command, and they stamped to a halt, front row dropping to a crouch, halberds snapping down to point directly at the spectators.
The merchants burst out cheering, and the few voices of dissent were drowned in an accolade that heralded the founding of Pirogia’s army.
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?”