The sergeant stopped the small company about a quarter of a mile from
the city of Bari. His detachment numbered only ten but they were well
armed with short swords and blunderbusses and wore mail and steel
helmets. On the face of it, they would have been a match for ten times
this number of merchants.
It was hardly noon but the sergeant had obviously already been at his
wine flask. He leered at them. "And where do you think you go?"
The merchant who led the rest was a thin little man but he was richly
robed and astride a heavy black mare. He said, "To Bari, soldier." He
drew a paper from a pouch. "I hold this permission from Baron Mannerheim
to pass through his lands with my people and chattels."
The leer turned mercenary. "Unfortunately, city man, I can't read. What
do you carry on the mules?"
"Personal property, which, I repeat, I have permission to transport
over Baron Mannerheim's lands free from harassment from his followers."
He added, in irritation, "The baron is a friend of mine, fond of the
gifts I give him."
One of the soldiers grunted his skepticism, checked the flint on the
lock of his piece, then looked at the sergeant suggestively.
The sergeant said, "As you say, merchant, my lord the baron is fond of
gifts. Aren't we all? Unfortunately, I have received no word of your
group. My instructions are to stop all intruders upon the baron's lands
and, if there is resistance, to slay them and confiscate such properties
as they may be carrying."
The merchant sighed and reached into a small pouch. The eyes of the
sergeant drooped in greed. The hand emerged with two small coins. "As
you say," the merchant muttered bitterly, "we are all fond of gifts.
Will you do me the honor to drink my health at the tavern tonight?"
The sergeant said nothing, but his mouth slackened and he fondled the
hilt of his sword.
The merchant sighed again and dipped once more into the pouch. This time
his hand emerged with half a dozen bits of silver. He handed them down
to the other, complaining, "How can a man profit in his affairs if every
few miles he must pass another outstretched hand?"
The sergeant growled, "You do not seem to starve, city man. Now, on your
way. You are fortunate I am too lazy today to bother going through your
things. Besides," and he grinned widely, "the baron gave me personal
instructions not to bother you."
The merchant snorted, kicked his heels into his beast's sides and led
his half dozen followers toward the city. The soldiers looked after them
and howled their amusement. The money was enough to keep them soused for
days.
When they were out of earshot, Amschel Mayer grinned his amusement back
over his shoulder at Jerome Kennedy. "How'd that come off, Jerry?"
The other sniffed, in mock deprecation. "You're beginning to fit into
the local merchant pattern better than the real thing. However, just for
the record, I had this, ah, grease gun, trained on them all the time."
Mayer frowned. "Only in extreme emergency, my dear Jerry. The baron
would be up in arms if he found a dozen of his men massacred on the
outskirts of Bari, and we don't want a showdown at this stage. It's
taken nearly a year to build this part we act."
At this time of day the gates of the port city were open and the guards
lounged idly. Their captain recognized Amschel Mayer and did no more
than nod respectfully.
They wended their way through narrow, cobblestoned streets, avoiding the
crowds in the central market area. They pulled up eventually before a
house both larger and more ornate than its neighbors. Mayer and Kennedy
dismounted from the horses and left their care to the others.
[Illustration]
Mayer beat with the heavy knocker on the door and a slot opened for a
quick check of his identity. The door opened wide and Technician Martin
Gunther let them in.
"The others are here already?" Mayer asked him.
Gunther nodded. "Since breakfast. Baron Leonar, in particular, is
impatient."
Mayer said over his shoulder, "All right, Jerry, this is where we put it
to them."
They entered the long conference room. A full score of men sat about the
heavy wooden table. Most of them were as richly garbed as their host.
Most of them in their middle years. All of them alert of eye. All of
them confidently at ease.
* * * * *
Amschel Mayer took his place at the table's end and Jerome Kennedy sank
into the chair next to him. Mayer took the time to speak to each of his
guests individually, then he leaned back and took in the gathering as a
whole. He said, "You probably realize that this group consists of the
twenty most powerful merchants on the continent."
Olderman nodded. "We have been discussing your purpose in bringing us
together, Honorable Mayer. All of us are not friends." He twisted his
face in amusement. "In fact, very few of us are friends."
"There is no need for you to be," Mayer said snappishly, "but all are
going to realize the need for co-operation. Honorables, I've just come
from the city of Ronda. Although I'd paid heavily in advance to the
three barons whose lands I crossed. I had to bribe myself through a
dozen road-blocks, had to pay exorbitant rates to cross three ferries,
and once had to fight off supposed bandits."
One of his guests grumbled, "Who were actually probably soldiers of the
local baron who had decided that although you had paid him transit fee,
it still might be profitable to go through your goods."
Mayer nodded. "Exactly, my dear Honorable, and that is why we've
gathered."
Olderman had evidently assumed spokesmanship for the others. Now he said
warily, "I don't understand."
"Genoa, if you'll pardon the use of this name to signify the planet upon
which we reside, will never advance until trade has been freed from
these bandits who call themselves lords and barons."
Eyebrows reached for hairlines.
Olderman's eyes darted about the room, went to the doors. "Please," he
said, "the servants."
"My servants are safe," Mayer said.
One of his guests was smiling without humor. "You seem to forget,
Honorable Mayer, that I carry the title of baron."
Mayer shook his head. "No, Baron Leonar. But neither do you disagree
with what I say. The businessman, the merchant, the manufacturer on
Genoa today, is only tolerated. Were it not for the fact that the barons
have no desire to eliminate such a profitable source of income, they
would milk us dry overnight."
Someone shrugged. "That is the way of things. We are lucky to have
wrested, bribed and begged as many favors from the lords as we have. Our
twenty cities all have charters that protect us from complete
despoilation."
Mayer twisted excitedly in his chair. "As of today, things begin to
change. Jerry, that platen press."
Jerry Kennedy left the room momentarily and returned with Martin Gunther
and two of the servants. While the assembled merchants looked on, in
puzzled silence, Mayer's assistants set up the press and a stand holding
two fonts of fourteen-point type. Jerry took up a printer's stick and
gave running instructions as he demonstrated. Gunther handed around
pieces of the type until all had examined it, while his colleague set up
several lines. Kennedy transposed the lines to a chase, locked it up and
placed the form to one side while he demonstrated inking the small
press, which was operated by a foot pedal. He mounted the form in the
press, took a score of sheets of paper and rapidly fed them, one by one.
When they were all printed, he stopped pumping and Gunther handed the
still wet finished product around to the audience.
Olderman stared down at the printed lines, scowled in concentration, wet
his lips in sudden comprehension.
But it was merchant Russ who blurted, "This will revolutionize the
inscribing of books. Why, it can well take it out of the hands of the
Temple! With such a machine I could make a hundred books--"