He stared at the black plume, feeling his stomach hollow with dread. Only one thing could explain so large a fire—a burning town. “Speed!” he called to Antonio. “We may be in time to save a life!”
Old Antonio gave him a sour look, but dutifully shouted to the drivers to whip up their mules. Gianni felt a burst of gratitude toward the older man—he knew, almost as well as though he had been told, that his father had bidden old Antonio to watch over him and teach him trading. The drivers and the guards were all very polite about it, but there was no question as to who was really managing the train—though with every trip, Gianni had needed to ask fewer questions, had been more sure in his directions and in his bargaining. He had even acquitted himself well in two minor skirmishes with bandits.
This, though—this was something of an entirely different order. Bandits who could attack a goods train were one thing—bandits who could sack a whole town were another! Admittedly, Accera was not much of a town, so far from the coast and with only a small river to water it, but it had had a wall, and its men had known how to handle their crossbows as well as most!
Why was he thinking of them as though they were gone?
He cantered along on his horse, with anxious looks back at the mules who bore his father’s wealth. The drivers had whipped up the beasts with gentle calls, not wanting to make any more noise than they had to, and Gianni went cold inside as he realized the reason. Whatever bandits had lit that fire might still be nearby—might even be in Accera itself! Gianni loosened his rapier in its scabbard as he rode, then swung the crossbow from its hook on his saddle. He might be a novice at trading and leading, but he was an expert with weapons. Every merchant was, in a land in which the distinction between trader and soldier was less a matter of vocation than of emphasis and of the way in which he had made his fortune.
The wall of Accera grew from a line across the fields to a solid structure—and there was the breach! It looked as though a giant had taken a bite out of the wall—a giant with no taste for flesh, for dead men lay all around that hole and some lay half in, half out of it, their pikes still resting against nerveless fingers. Gianni slowed, holding up a hand to caution his men, and the entire train slowed with him. This was no work of starving peasants gone to banditry to find food—this had been done professionally. The condotierri had struck.
Mules began to bray protest, scenting blood and trying to turn away, but the drivers coaxed them onward with the skill of experts. They rode through the breach with great care, Gianni glancing down at the bodies of the men of Accera, then looking quickly away, feeling his gorge rise. He had seen dead men only once before, when Pirogia had fought a skirmish with the nearby city of Lubella, over their count’s fancy that his daughter had been seduced by one of the merchants’ sons. They had fought only long enough to satisfy the requirements of the count’s honor—and to leave half a dozen men dead, all to provide a high-bred wanton with an excuse for her pregnancy. Gianni still wondered whom she had been shielding.
Now that they had slowed, the traders went cautiously down the main street of the town, between rows of cream-colored, mud-brick buildings with red tile roofs, glancing everywhere about them, crossbows at the ready. The sound of weeping came from one of the shadowed windows, and Gianni felt the protector’s urge to seek and comfort, but knew he dared not—not when enemy soldiers might be hiding anywhere. Then he saw the dead woman with her skirt thrown up about her waist and her bodice ripped open, saw the blood above and below, and lost all desire to try to comfort—he knew he could never know what to say.
On they rode, jumping at every shadow. Gianni saw broken doors and shutters, but no sign of fire. He began to suspect where he would find it, and felt dread rise within him.
Something stirred in the shadows, and half a dozen crossbows swiveled toward it—but it was only an old man who hobbled out into the sunlight, an old man with a crutch and a face filled with contempt, saying, “You need not fear, merchants. The rough bad men have left.”
Gianni frowned, stifling the urge to snap at the old man. The blood running from his brow showed that he had suffered enough, and the huge bruise on the left side of his face showed that, crippled or not, he had fought bravely to defend his family—as long as he could.
Old Antonio asked, “Condotierri?”
The old man nodded. “The Stiletto Company, by their insignia.” He pointed farther down the road. “There are the ones with whom you have come to trade—if they have anything left to trade.”
Antonio nodded, turning his face toward the plume of smoke. “I thank you, valiant vieillard. We shall come back to help where we can.”
“I will thank you—then,” the old man said with irony. “In the meantime, I know—you must see to your own.”
Gianni frowned, biting back the urge to say that Signor Ludovico and his old clerk Anselmo were only business associates, not relatives—but he knew what the old man meant. Accera was a farming town—they had brought trade goods to exchange for produce, after all—and to the farmers, the merchants were a tribe apart.
They turned a corner from the single broad street to see the stream flowing in under the water gate to their left, and the burning ruin of the warehouse to their right.
“The western end still stands!” Gianni shouted. “Quickly! They may yet live!” He dashed forward, all caution banished by the old man’s assurance that the condotierri had ridden away. Antonio, more experienced, barked to the drivers, and crossbows lifted as men scanned their surroundings.
To say the western end of the warehouse still stood was a considerable exaggeration—the roof had fallen in, and the main beam had taken the top half of the wall with it. But the fire had not yet reached the shattered doorway where a body lay, nor the corner where another body slouched, half-sitting against the remains of the wall. Even as he dismounted and ran up to them, Gianni was seized with the ridiculous realization that neither wore a doublet or robe, but only loose linen shirts and hose—shirts that were very bloody now. He knelt by the man in the door, saw the dripping gash in his neck and the pool of blood, then turned away toward the other body to cover his struggle to hold down his rebellious stomach. He stepped over to the corner, none too steadily, and knelt by the man who lay there, knelt staring at the rip in his shirt, at the huge bloodstain over his chest—and saw that chest rise ever so slightly. He looked up and saw the gray lips twitch, trying to move, trying to form words …
“It is Ludovico.” Antonio knelt by him, holding a flask of brandy to the man’s lips. He poured, only a little, and the man coughed and spluttered, then opened his eyes, staring from one to the other wildly …
“It is Antonio,” the older man said, quickly and firmly. “Signor Ludovico, I am Antonio—you know me, you have traded with me often!”
Ludovico stared up at Antonio, his lips twitching more and more until they formed an almost—silent word: “An—Anton …?”
“Yes, Antonio. Good signor, what happened here?” Why was the old fool asking, when they already knew? Then Gianni realized it was only a way of calming Signor Ludovico, of reassuring him.”