Gar came panting up, blood running from cuts on his cheeks and brow and staining the fabric of sleeves and tights. “Where have you been?” Gianni snapped, then saw the man’s wounds and was instantly sorry. “Your pardon …”
“Given,” Gar panted, “and gladly. It was not only here that they came ashore, but at every dock and water stair all around the island. I suspected it the instant I heard the alarm and ordered troops to every such site. Then I led my marines from one outbreak of clamor to another. We have run long, Gianni, but we have pushed the lords’ men back into the sea.”
“It was well done,” Gianni said, eyes wide. “You are wounded, Gar!”
“Nothing but cuts,” the giant told him, “and you have a few yourself.”
“Do I really?” Gianni touched his cheek and was amazed to see the hand come away bloodied.
Gar looked him up and down quickly. “Again, nothing of any danger, but we shall have to see the physician to be sure. I fear many of our men came off much worse—and many more of the enemy.”
“Yes …” Gianni’s gaze strayed to a black-clothed heap near them. “The poor slaves … How did they ever think of a ruse so simple, yet so subtle?”
“They didn’t,” Gar said, lips pressed thin. “This is not the sort of thing that would occur to a Taliponese nobleman raised on tales of chivalry and battle glamour. Test that man’s tunic, Gianni. Try to tear it.”
Puzzled, Gianni knelt by the corpse and yanked at the fabric. It gave not at all. “Silk?” he asked, amazed. “For thousands of warriors?”
“Not silk.” Gar handed down his dagger. “Cut it.” Gianni tried. He tried hard, even sawed at it. Finally, he looked up at Gar in amazement. “What is this stuff?”
“The mark of the Lurgan traders,” Gar told him, “and if you tested that black face paint he wears, you would find it to be no simple lampblack and tallow, but something far more exotic. The Lurgans told the lords how to plan this raid, Gianni, and gave them the materials to make it work.”
Gianni stared up, appalled. “Are they war advisers now?”
“Apparently so,” Gar said darkly. “We knew they recognized Pirogia as a threat, didn’t we?”
And yourself, Gianni thought, staring up at the grim, craggy face—but he most definitely didn’t say it.
From that time on, the sentries stayed alert again, staring twice at every shadow—but needlessly, as it turned out. There were no more night raids, for Pirogian caravels patrolled the channel between the city and the mainland. The grumbling in the lords’ camp grew ever worse, and morale ever lower, according to the reports from the spies there. The Pirogians welcomed each new caravel that brought them food, and toasted its sailors with the wine from its casks. Gar, of course, grew more and more tense, more and more hollow-eyed, stalking the battlements muttering to himself. Finally, Gianni asked him why, and Gar answered, “Things are going too well.”
Very well, indeed, for the people of Pirogia. Even better, courier boats brought word from other cities, and caravels took arms to them—but they were all port cities, and none lacked for food. They were having more difficulty defending their walls, since only Pirogia had a natural moat to protect it—but none of the inland lords had so very big an army by himself, and all his allies were sitting and fuming outside the walls of their own merchant towns, or with the prince at Pirogia. Gar sent cannons and crossbows and advice, and watched the stew boiling in the prince’s camp with a grin.
They also seemed to lack knowledge of sanitation, these inland soldiers who had never lived in groups of more than a hundred with no less than a mile between villages. It wasn’t long before the offshore wind bore their stench to Pirogia, and the soldiers the Pirogians captured in their endless sinking of new vessels told tales of dysentery and cholera stalking the camp.
“They’re weakening nicely,” Gar told Gianni, “but the noblemen only have to learn better siege tactics, and I’m sure they won’t lack for advisers.”
Gianni thought of the fake Gypsies and the dour Lurgan traders, and nodded. “Do they really know so much of war?”
“No,” Gar admitted, “but they have no shortage of books to tell them of it.”
Gianni stared—he certainly hadn’t thought there would be much room for books in the caravans—but he didn’t doubt Gar.
The Wizard appeared in Gianni’s dream that night, and told you, You do well, you and your giant barbarian. You hold the lords at bay, here and all around the coastline—but that is not enough.
What then? Gianni asked, amazed.
You must give them reason to leave, and more importantly, an honorable reason to leave—of a sort.
Gianni frowned. What sort of reason could there be, for giving up ignominiously and going home?
A diversion, said the Wizard, and explained.
Gar thought it was a capital idea when Gianni repeated the explanation to him. “Wonderful!” he cried, slapping his knee. “How do you think of these things, Gianni?”
“I really haven’t the faintest idea.” For his part, Gianni was just glad it had been Gar’s knee and not his own.
That night, when the docks were dark and deserted except for the sentries Gar kept posted, a hundred marines with fifteen gunners, ten horses, and five cannon boarded two long, lean, dark-colored ships—captured galleys outfitted with proper sails. Off they went into the night, and as far as Pirogia was concerned, they ceased to exist for a week. Gar and Gianni were both with them, leaving the captain of the guard in command with Vincenzio as his second. The scholar had shown an amazing talent for commanding men; Gianni thought it came from his years of cajoling and maneuvering people into giving him money and helping him go from town to town, saving to return to the university.
By dusk, they were well past the prince’s lines, and far enough to the north that a single night’s march should take them to Tumanola, the Raginaldis’ city. The galleys rowed into a little bay as far as they could and anchored; then longboats began the tedious process of ferrying men and equipment ashore. When they were all gathered, the galley weighed anchor but rowed only as far away as the shadows of the high bluffs that warded the little port. The marines hoisted their packs and began to march, the gunners right behind them with their horses.
It was a long march, and all the men gazed down with relief when they came to the top of the slope that led down to Tumanola. Gar wouldn’t let them rest, though, until they had all moved silently into the positions he assigned them, and camouflaged themselves. Then he posted sentries and let his marines collapse gratefully behind their blinds. Gianni collapsed, too, and took what sleep he could, until Gar waked him to take the second watch. Gianni spent the next four hours moving as silently as he could from sentry post to sentry post, but always found his men awake, if not terribly alert. He glowed with pride, and was quite unsure that he would be able to keep the vigil as well as they, with so little sleep—but he did.
Gar woke them all at dawn. They breakfasted as they had supped—on clear water, cold journey bread, and jerky. Then, as the sun warmed the earth, Gar gave the signal for the bombardment to begin.
Cannon boomed to the east and west of the city, slamming boulders into the walls. Alarms rattled inside the city, and the home guard came running to the ramparts. They couldn’t know that the booming from east and west came from cannon with no ammunition to throw, that now belched only blank charges; they could only assume the gunners were very poor shots.