“It does,” Gar said, “but it’s home, and a village begins to seem a prison as a youth comes to manhood. I became restless and went exploring in my father’s ship with an old and trusted servant. Then, when I found employment, the servant took the ship home. One job led to another, until I signed on aboard the ship of the merchant who brought me to Talipon, then was kind enough to write a letter recommending me when I wished to stay and discover more about your island. I enjoy seeing something of the world, though the danger and the hardship are unpleasant.”
There was a cry from the corner of the wall. “Master Gianni, come quickly!”
Gianni was up almost before the call was done, running over to the corner with Antonio right behind him. Gar followed more slowly.
Old Ludovico lay, his face pale, his eyes staring at the sky. “He stopped breathing,” the driver said. Gianni leaned closer and held a palm over the old man’s mouth and nose. He waited a few minutes, then reached up to close the merchant’s eyes.
By morning, the villagers, those who survived, had begun to peer out of their houses. A priest newly arrived from a nearby monastery stared in horror at what he saw, then began the mournful business of conducting funerals. Gianni and his men stood about Ludovico’s grave with bared, bowed heads, listening to the monk’s Latin, then singing the “Deus Irae” in slow and solemn tones. Oddly, it made them all feel a bit better, and they began to chat with one another as they loaded their mules. They even set out on the road to Pirogia with a few jests and laughs.
“Your men cure their spirits quickly,” Gar noted.
“Ludovico wasn’t one of us,” Gianni replied, “only a trading acquaintance.”
Gar nodded. “Close enough for his death to shake you, not close enough to cause true grief. Still, your men have spirit.”
“Meaning that they march in the shadow of condotierri and manage to smile?” Gianni suited his own words. “So many mules can’t move in silence—so why not laugh while you stay vigilant? After all, would a whole mercenary company post sentries along the roadside to watch for fat travelers?”
“Yes,” Gar said instantly. “At least, if I were the captain of such a band, I would set a few men to watch for every chance of plunder.”
Gianni looked up, shaken. “Would you turn bandit, then?”
“Definitely not,” Gar said, just as quickly. “But when you wish to guard against an enemy, you must think ahead, to what he will most likely do—and the best way to do that is to put yourself in his place and try to think as he does. So, although I would never allow men of mine to loot or plunder or attack civilians, I imagine how I would think if I were such a captain.” He looked directly into Gianni’s eyes. “Can you understand that?”
“Yes,” Gianni said, somewhat shaken, “and it speaks of great talent or long training. You aren’t so new to soldiering as you seem, are you?” He was very much aware that he still didn’t know enough about Gar to be sure he was trustworthy, and wasn’t about to miss a chance to gain a little more information.
Nor was Gar about to give it. “I was raised to war, as are most barbarians.”
Gianni nodded. “Still, you’re young to be a captain.”
“And you’re young to be a merchant,” Gar returned.
Gianni smiled. “As you said—I was raised to it. Still, the goods aren’t mine, but my father’s, and I don’t take the profit myself—I only receive a share.”
“A share?” Gar raised his eyebrows. “Not a wage?”
“No—Papa says I will work harder if the amount of my pay depends on the size of the profit.”
Gar nodded slowly. “There is sense in that.” Antonio only listened to the two young men chat, smiling with pleasure.
“But your father sends ships out to trade,” Gar said. “Why does he bother sending men inland?”
“Because we must have something to send on those ships,” Gianni explained. “If we sent only gold, we would soon have no gold left—and barbarians like you, and the nomads of the southern shore of the Middle Sea, have little use for precious metals. They have need of iron ingots, though, and of the cotton and linen cloth that our weavers make. The rustic lords of the northern shore love our tapestries and woolens and cottons and linens. Besides, gold is compact, taking up very little room in a hold. Why have a ship sail almost empty when it could carry a full cargo that won’t drain our reserves?”
He was rather surprised that Gar seemed to understand every word. “There is sense to that,” he said, “but couldn’t your ships carry timber and grain from those trading voyages?”
“Why, when they are much more cheaply had here, near home?” Gianni countered. “The cost of bearing them to Pirogia is so much less. No, from the barbarian shores, we bring amber and furs and all manner of stuffs that are luxuries to the people of Talipon, and from the old cities to the east and the warlords of the south, we bring spices and silk and rare woods. Those are the cargoes that we can sell at a profit in Talipon, my friend—not the goods that they already have.”
“There is sense in that,” Gar admitted. “Who decides to trade in this fashion? The merchant princes of your Pirogia?”
Gianni laughed. “I would scarcely call them princes—solid city men, prosperous, perhaps, but they certainly don’t live like princes. And no, my friend, the Council doesn’t decide what to ship and what to import my father does that, as does every other merchant. Each decides for himself.”
“Then what does your Council do?”
Gianni took a breath. “They decide the things that affect all the merchants, and all the city—how much money to invest in ships of war, how much in soldiers, whether to hire mercenaries or train our own …”
“Your own,” Gar said firmly. “Always your own.”
Gianni blinked, surprised that the man would preach against his own trade. Then he went on. “They decide whether or not to build bridges, or new public buildings, or to shore up the banks of the rivers and canals—all manner of things affecting the public good.”
“Say rather, the good of the merchants,” Gar pointed out. “Who guards the interests of the craftsmen and working men?”
“The craftsmen have their guilds, whose syndics may argue in the Council if they care strongly about an issue that’s being discussed.” It occurred to Gianni that he could have taken offense at that question, but he was too busy explaining. “As to the laborers, I’ll admit we haven’t yet discovered how to include them in the deliberations, other than to charge each councillor with speaking about the issues to all the folk in his warehouses and ships.”
Gar nodded. “How are these oligarchs—your pardon, the councillors—chosen?”
Gianni frowned, not liking the word “oligarch,” especially since he didn’t understand its meaning—but he decided it must be a word in Gar’s native language and let it pass. “The merchants of Pirogia meet in assembly and elect the councillors by casting pebbles into bowls that bear the name of each merchant who’s willing to serve that year—green pebbles for those they want to serve, red for those they don’t want. There are always at least twice as many willing as there are positions on the Council.”
“How many is that?”
“A dozen.” Gianni wondered how his attempt to learn more about Gar had turned into a lecture on the government of Pirogia, and might have asked exactly that, had the condotierri not fallen upon them.
They came riding across the fields, shouting for the merchants to stop. “Ride!” Gianni called. “Do they think us fools?” He kicked his horse into a canter, and Gar matched his pace on one side, Antonio on the other. The drivers whipped their mules into their fastest pace, which the beasts were frightened enough to do—but the train could go no faster than a laden mule, and the condotierri came on at the gallop.