“One of the city spies you advised me to commission, and the stealthy one has already proved the worth of your advice. But he also whispered to one or two other folk that the man was doing something suspicious, and they saw and remembered. He kept them from offering violence to this poor deluded soul.”
“Deluded!” the man burst out. “You, who would upset the old ways and take from us the assurance of the noblemen—you dare call me deluded?”
“He seems to have had a good lord,” Oldo said, with irony, “and doesn’t realize how lucky he was, or how rare his master is.”
“So he admits his crime?” Gar asked.
“He does,” Oldo confirmed. “Four citizens confronted him and bore witness to his deeds.”
“But not your spy!” the man said hotly.
“Counterspy,” Gar corrected. “It is you who are the spy.”
“A counter indeed, a counter in your game,” the man sneered. “They wouldn’t let me see the man himself!”
“Of course not—once a spy’s face is known, he can be of little more use,” Gar said. “He was wise enough to see you had other accusers. In fact, I would guess he himself made no accusation, only supplied information.”
The spy chopped sideways with his hand in a dismissive gesture. “What will it be now? The gallows? Go ahead—I’m ready to die for my lord!”
“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary,” Gar said mildly, and to Oldo, “I’d recommend he be a guest of the city, with a room to himself. Not a very luxurious room perhaps, and not a very rich diet—but only a guest with a barred window, until the current unpleasantness is done. It may be his lord will value so loyal a retainer—value him enough to trade us a dozen prisoners of war for him.”
“An excellent thought,” Oldo said, with a gleam in his eye. The prospect of bargaining appealed to him. “Guards, take the prisoner away and clap him in a cell alone, where he can spread no more of his insidious talk!” As the watchmen hustled the peasant away, Oldo turned to Gar. “I thank you, friend, for the excellence of your advice. I shall appoint more counterspies, and have them watch our new citizens very closely.”
“And the old ones, too,” Gar reminded him. “Some of them might lack confidence in the navy and our new army, and might try to guarantee their family’s safety by selling information to the lords.”
Oldo’s face darkened. “It goes against the grain to even think of it, but I shall do so. Do you really think it necessary for the counterspies to seek to have other citizens bear witness, though?”
“Very important,” said Gar, “for a position like that opens itself to abuse of power very easily and readily. A counterspy could settle an old quarrel or gain long-awaited revenge, just by accusation. No, Maestro, I strongly recommend you require witnesses and proof.”
“Well, so we shall, then,” grumbled Oldo. “But I thank you, masters.”
As they came out of the courtroom, Gianni said, in a shaken voice, “I had never thought there might be spies among us!”
“Oh, there most definitely are,” Gar assured him. “It’s a fundamental principle of war.”
“But what of the lords’ armies? Will we have spies among them?”
“We already do,” Gar answered. “Do we not, Signor Braccalese?”
Papa nodded, looking grim, and Gianni suddenly felt very young, and very, very naïve. He reflected, though, that he was learning very rapidly.
So was his city. The merchant town that had felt no need of an army was studying war with a vengeance. The shipyard hired every carpenter in town, and half-built houses had to wait while keels were laid and caravels built. Chandlers bought every bale of hemp the farmers could bring, every skein of linen thread, to make cables and sails.
There followed the most frantic two weeks of Gianni’s life. Gar taught him how to drill with the others, taught him in a day as much as they learned in two, then left him in charge of training the recruits with the help of the captain of the Pirogia City Guard and a few of the guardsmen. Mama and Papa Braccalese kept track of the young men who enlisted, while Vladimir the beggar took charge of ordering up tabards, plumed hats, and weapons. The workshops of the city threw themselves into turbulent activity; lamps burned all through the night, and the citizens of Pirogia could scarcely sleep for the sounds of the hammers beating at all hours in the forgeries. Old Carlo Grepotti worked side by side with Vladimir, grumbling over every single ducat spent but dutifully doling out the gold to the tradesmen of his city as he did. The Maestro himself took charge of raising money for Carlo to spend, going from merchant to merchant and arguing very reasonably that generous donations would forestall a Council vote on the need for higher taxes.
Gianni was very proud of his fellow citizens—the young men came trooping in, waiting in long, long lines for the scribes to take down their names (and many who were not so young—Gianni was glad he could leave it to his father to explain to old Pietro why a sixty-year-old man with gout and rheumatism should not enlist). He had his hands full overseeing his road companions as they trained the young men in drill, each hopeful soldier with a pole over his shoulder until he could learn how not to hit his mates with it as he turned and wheeled. Vincenzio kept his men in line with all the sternness of a schoolmaster, protesting in an undertone that this was no fit occupation for a man of letters; Estragon the thief reveled in actually giving orders to the law-abiding; and Feste was in his element, posturing and strutting as he led his troops. Gianni was constantly on the run from piazza to piazza, trying to keep up with the drill practice in the mornings and the weapons practice in the afternoons, when his lieutenants became pupils themselves, studying halberd-play and archery and swordsmanship from the Pirogia City Guard.
At the end of the first exhausting day, Gianni threw himself down in his bed, sure he would sleep so deeply that dreams wouldn’t dare come near him—but the circle of light appeared and expanded before he could wish it away or dare command it to be gone, expanded to show him the face of the Wizard, hair and beard swirling. Gianni still felt a little fear, but much more exasperation. What do you want this time?
The wizard stared in surprise; then his brows drew down in anger, and pain stabbed Gianni from temple to temple as the deep voice thundered around him. You forget yourself, child! Do not think that because I honor you with a glimpse of me, you are entitled to insolence!
I … I beg your pardon, Gianni stammered. Better, the voice said, no longer all about him, and the pain ceased as abruptly as it had begun. I have come to tell you that you have done well, Gianni Braccalese, in persuading your citizens to fight. Thank you. But this was one time that Gianni really didn’t want the credit. Gar had more to do with it than I, though. Why don’t … I mean, would it not be more effective to talk to him?
He is not born of Pirogia, nor even of Talipon, and has no access to your Council by himself, the Wizard said. For better or for worse, it must be you through whom I save the world of Petrarch.
Gianni couldn’t answer, he was so astounded, so aghast at the Wizard’s colossal arrogance. Who was he to speak of saving a whole world? A city, perhaps, but a world?
But an army is not enough, the Wizard told him, nor even the marines that your friend Gar intends to raise.
Marines? Gianni wondered what that was. Something to do with the sea, yes—but nearly everything in Pirogia had to do with the sea. What else can we do?