Rapier, leather doublet, high riding boots—there was no doubt about his calling. The man was a mercenary. A giant, and a mercenary.
He was black-haired and black-browed, with dark deep-set eyes, a straight nose, a wide mouth, and a lantern jaw. His nose was no beak, but there was something of the hawk about him—perhaps the keenness with which he scanned the merchants—though no cruelty; rather, he seemed quietly amused. “I greet you, merchants.”
He spoke with a strong accent, one Gianni did not recognize. So, then—a giant, a mercenary, and a foreigner! Not surprising, of course—most of the mercenaries were foreigners from the mainland. He did not ask how the giant knew they were merchants—with their mules and packs, it was obvious. “Have you been watching us all afternoon?” he asked.
“Only since I found the town at sunset. I had a scuffle with some bandits back there”—the giant nodded at the hills outside the town—“three of them. They won’t fight for a long while. No, no, they still live—but my horse does not. I saw you, and thought you might have an extra horse to sell.”
They did have spare mounts, but Gianni said anyway, “It was not one of our men who died.”
“I had thought not—your men talked too much while they dug the grave.”
“These bandits who beset you—did they wear dagger—badges on their jerkins?” Antonio asked, stepping up beside Gianni.
The stranger nodded. “Long, slender daggers—stilettos, I think you call them.”
Antonio turned to Gianni. “He isn’t one of them.”
“If he tells the truth.” But Gianni could not think of a single reason why the Stiletto Company would send a man to spy them out, instead of falling upon them in a body—and he might need a professional fighting man before he saw Pirogia again. He held up a hand, palm open. “I’m Gianni Braccalese.”
“Well met, Gianni.” The giant, too, held up an open palm, the sign of friendship—or, at least, that they weren’t enemies. “I am Gar.”
Yes, the accent was very heavy—he made Gianni’s name sound like “Jonny,” missing the first i completely. “No family name?”
Gar shrugged. “I come from a poor country, too poor for second names. May I share your fire?”
“We will be honored to have you as a guest.” Gianni bowed him toward the campfire. Gar came and sat near the flames, opening the pouch that hung from a strap over his shoulder, across his chest, and down to his hip. He took out a waxed ball. “I have a cheese to share.”
“It’s welcome.” Gianni took a loaf from their journey bag and cut a slice with his dagger, then handed it to Gar. “The stew has yet a while to simmer.”
“I thank you.” Gar laid a slice of cheese on the bread, cut it down the middle, and gave half to Gianni. Antonio was content to sit near, watching the two young men perform the simple ceremony with approval.
“You’re a mercenary soldier, then?” Gianni asked before he took a bite of bread.
Gar swallowed and nodded. “A free lance, no member of a company. These bandits I fought were?”
“The Stiletto Company, yes—unemployed, for the moment. There’s no work for you there.”
Gar grinned. “I wouldn’t hire out to those who have attacked me.”
Gianni felt the thrill of bargaining begun. “But you are for hire?”
The giant nodded, chewing.
“Have you letters of reference?” Antonio asked. He knew the man probably did not, most likely could not write, but it was a good ploy for lowering his price.
The giant surprised them both, though; he swallowed and nodded. “Here.” He took two folded parchments from his pouch and gave them to Gianni.
The young merchant opened them; Antonio came to read over his shoulder, keenly interested in discovering a mercenary who had actual letters. The first was in a foreign language, but Gianni had learned the tongue of Airebi, for his father’s captains dealt with them frequently. It was from a merchant captain, who testified that he had hired Gar in Donelac, a land far to the north, and that the giant had done excellent service both as a sailor and a fighter. The other was in Taliponese, stating that Gar had been excellently loyal in transporting cargo from Venoga to Renova, and was very effective in fighting off bandits. That was especially interesting because Venoga was Pirogia’s main commercial rival, only a little behind them in volume of trade, but considerably behind in wealth; Gianni suspected that was because the merchants there had not yet succeeded in ousting their conte, who took entirely too much of their profits, thereby limiting their ability to reinvest, and capped it by strictly limiting the luxuries they could buy or possess. He had not quite signed his own death warrant yet, Gianni reflected grimly, but the blank parchment was before the nobleman, just waiting for him to write.
The merchant ended with regrets that he could not employ Gar any longer, but would have no new trading ventures for several months. He recommended the mercenary to any merchant who had need of his services—and even to those who did not, just in case. Gianni nodded and refolded the letters, handing them back. “Those are good, very good.” It occurred to him to wonder if there had been employers who had been dissatisfied and had therefore not given letters, but he dismissed the notion as unworthy. “Will you take our ducat to guard us against the Stiletto Company?”
“Or anyone else who might attack us on the way home,” Antonio added quickly.
“Gladly,” Gar said gravely.
With a feeling of triumph, Gianni took a ducat from his purse and held it out to Gar. The giant took it, saying, “I charge one of these for every seven nights I fight for you.”
“That will be enough,” Gianni assured him. “We have to go back to Pirogia—and go back empty-handed, since the Stilettos have stolen the grain, cotton, wool, and orzans we came to trade for.”
The mercenary frowned. “What are orzans?” Gianni stared, then remembered that Gar seemed to be fairly new to Talipon. “An orzan is a flame-colored gem—not very rare, in fact only semiprecious, but lovely to behold.” He gestured at the burned-out shell about them. “Signor Ludovico wrote that he had gathered a bag of them to trade with us, but it’s gone now—of course. Semiprecious or not, a whole sack of them would be worth a good sum.”
“So.” Gar smiled as he slipped the coin into his pouch. “We both have reasons to wish the Stilettos ill. Tell me of this Pirogia of yours. Is it true the merchants rule the town?”
Gianni nodded, and Antonio said, “We would sooner say ‘govern’ than ‘rule.’ ”
“It is the fact that matters, not the word,” the mercenary replied. “How did you manage to gain such power?”
Gianni smiled; he had learned an excellent way to fend off nosy questions. To the very first question, give a far longer answer than anybody could want but with as little information as possible. He launched into a brief history of Pirogia.
CHAPTER 2
We didn’t exactly throw out our contes,” Gianni explained, “any of them. It was more a matter of our great-grandfathers having become impatient with the restrictions of the princes and the doges—and with their taxing us as highly as they could while still leaving us any capital at all to work with.”
Antonio said nothing, only glancing at his young charge with bright eyes every now and then. Well, Gianni thought, at least, if I’m being tested, I’m passing.
The stranger nodded with an intent frown. That would change, Gianni reflected wryly. He was very surprised when it didn’t. “So merchants from six cities, who knew each other from trading, banded together and built warehouses on islands in a lagoon on the eastern tip of Talipon. The land was technically within the demesne of Prince Raginaldi of Tumanola, but it was a wilderness and a swamp, so he paid no attention.”