Thirteenth Night (2 page)

“Theophilos will be giving a demonstration on pratfalls next week,” announced Timothy as I regained my feet. “Or, for the price of a drink, anytime you like.”

“Thank you, thank you all,” I said grandly, waving my scarf. “And now, I leave you in the competent and roving hands of Brother Timothy.”

An unimposing wooden door led me to a pantry. I lit a candle, then slid back a section of the wall and descended a stairway carved into the mountain on which the Guildhall perched. A rough tunnel snaked through the rock for perhaps five hundred feet to the monastery on the eastern slope. I passed through it, ducking occasionally, for it had been excavated by shorter men than myself. At the other end, I opened the door and walked down a hallway until I found Father Gerald's rooms and knocked quietly on the door.

“Come in,” he called, and I entered to find him poring over a sheaf of yellowed papers, the red string that had bound them lying crumpled by the candle. Hundreds of others filled pigeonholes built into one wall of the tiny room, sorted by a system known only to himself. No one knew his true age, though all agreed that there could be no one older. His face at this point might have been shaped by the same ancient tunnelers whose handiwork I had just traversed.

“Theophilos, good,” he said, waving me to a bench with his gnarled hand. “You've saved me the trouble of sending for you. Sit, boy, sit. You've come to tell me of the death of the Duke Orsino.”

“Do you keep spies in the tavern?” I asked as I sat down.

“I do, but that's not your concern. As it happened, this messenger came to the Guildhall first with his news. Looking for Feste. Imagine that.”

“Imagine that.”

He looked at me sharply.

“Now, why do you suppose anyone would want you?” he asked.

“Because Orsino was murdered.”

“That's not what the message said. But let's assume that it's true. You suspect this man Malvolio.”

“Naturally. Who else?”

Father Gerald glared at me. “Who else? Do you think perhaps there could be another reason why anyone would kill Orsino?” He motioned me over to his desk and pulled out his map. Never a good sign when an Irish priest pulls out a map. “Orsino, Orsino,” he muttered.

“The Dalmatian coast, below Zara, above Spalato,” I said helpfully.

“Of course,” he said, stabbing at it with his finger. “I remember being irritated that you called it Illyria in your report. Only you would use that antiquated name. No one's called it Illyria in centuries.”

“I like it better,” I said, shrugging.

“To start with, Orsino owed his allegiance to Hungary. But Hungary is far, and Venice is close. It's on the Adriatic, so any intrigue is likely to originate from the Doge. Or from Pisa or Genoa, if they thought Orsino was favoring Venice. Or from Rome or Hungary, if they thought he was favoring Constantinople.”

“Or from the Saracens for all of the above reasons, or just to cause trouble. Or maybe the Catholics thought him a Cathar, or the Cathars too much a Catholic. Or the Guelfs thought him too Ghibelline, or the Ghibellines too Guelf.” I continued in spite of his deepening glare. “Maybe a jealous husband caught him unawares. Or a jealous wife or mistress. One of his heirs with precocious ambition. Maybe he died by chance, by happenstance. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe the gods looked down and flicked him off of the cliff to amuse themselves and tantalize the rest of us. But it was none of these.”

“Your reason, Fool?” snapped Father Gerald.

“Because I was sent for.”

He nodded slowly. “Aye, there's that. Had there been correspondence before this?”

“I left fourteen years ago. A few letters reached the Guildhall but none in over a decade.”

He leaned back and held up the sheaf of papers. “I've been reading your reports from that assignment, but I'd rather hear it from your own sweet mouth.”

I took a second to collect my thoughts. “The town is by the mouth of a river. It lives off the barges coming from inland and the boats arriving at the port. Much of the commerce was controlled by two families, one headed by Orsino, the other by a young woman named Olivia. At the time the Guild assigned me there, the late Duke was obsessed with the Countess. She spurned his love, for she was in mourning for her late brother. He was so wracked with melancholy and she with grief that they completely neglected the affairs of the town. The Guild, concerned that a strategic port could become vulnerable to Saracen piracy or even invasion, sent me.”

“With an eye towards encouraging the alliance of the two families,” remembered Father Gerald.

“Yes, only she didn't want him, which was just as well. They would have been wrong for each other even in the best of circumstances. As it stood, they were paralyzed. She was attended by this man Malvolio, who I discovered had his own designs. At first, I thought he wanted her for her wealth, but after observing him closely I began to suspect that he may have been an agent for someone.”

“Did you ever discover who?”

“No. He was very secretive. I believe that he practiced on the Countess to encourage her despair. He may even have been administering some subtle drug that sapped her will. I decided that outside intervention was needed. I learned of a suitable pair of siblings, a young man and woman of good family. Through the Guild, I arranged for them to be shipwrecked and guided towards the town by our agents, hoping that their arrival would rouse either the Duke or the Countess.”

“One of your typical, harebrained schemes.”

“Thank you, Father. But something odd happened. The sister, Viola, proved to be unusually resourceful. Fearing for her safety, she disguised herself as a man and found employment as Orsino's servant. He used her as an emissary to the Countess, but the Countess took one look at her, or him, and fell in love. Viola subsequently fell in love with the Duke but feared discovery. Things were getting complicated but fortunately her brother Sebastian finally came on the scene. I managed to intercept him and divert him to the Countess. She mistook him for his sister and promptly married him. Orsino, the scales fallen from his eyes, returned Viola's love. Happy ending.”

“Except,” prompted Father Gerald.

“Except for Malvolio. I took him out of the picture by a trick which I suggested to Sir Toby, a relative of the Countess. By various ruses, he and other members of her household convinced Malvolio that the Countess loved him and would respond to certain bizarre behaviors we invented. He fell for it and was promptly imprisoned as a madman and remained so until events had safely taken their course.” I paused, hearing again Malvolio's chill curse as he stormed away,
I'll be revenged on the whole pack of you!

“Did he know about you?”

“I don't think so. I was too lowly a creature for his concern. He suspected Viola, certainly. He discovered one of our agents, who was the captain of the vessel she arrived on, and had him locked up on some pretext. He was clever, but so full of himself that he was fairly easy to gull.”

“Did you consider the threat to be serious?”

“Certainly. After what we had put him through, I thought him capable of any rash act. But he simply packed his bags and rode out of town, to the south as I recall. I would have followed, but my performance was required for the nuptial festivities, so I had our captain make certain that he left for good.”

“And then?”

“Standard procedure. With Pantolino, who was traveling the troubadour route at that time, I composed a rhymed account of what happened that minimized my own part in it. And he took with him a description of Malvolio to circulate among the Guild in case he turned up anywhere. That was the last I heard of him. A year later, I left.”

The old priest removed a single page and handed it to me. “This came a year after I received your report.”

The letter was in Greek. It still bore the splatters of ink from someone writing in haste.

“Dear Uncle,” I read. “Spotted someone who looks like this Malvolio fellow you wrote me about. I've been keeping an eye on the
Tigris,
which pulled into harbor three days ago. The ship's Genoese, but trades openly with the Ayyubids and is generally suspected to spy for Saladin. Malvolio has arranged passage to Beirut. Think I'll do the same. The crew could use a little entertainment. I'll get in touch with our man there once I arrive. Must dash, yours in Christ, Sean.”

I looked up. “So he was working for Saladin.”

“We received this from Damascus four months later,” he said, handing me another report.

I write to tell you a curious set of circumstances, and how I responded to them. I hope I did well. They occurred rapidly, and only now do I begin to wonder at them.

You know by now of Saladin's victories at the Horns of Hattin and Jerusalem. The troops exhausted, he decided not to lay siege to Tyre and has returned to Damascus, where I had been forced to remain for the pendency of the campaign. I have again waited upon him, enlivening his days while gleaning what I can of his plans. He looks weary, and it is whispered about the town that he is not long for this world. It is unfortunate—he was provoked to this last war by wrongful actions of the so-called Christian Reginald of Karak, and many lives have been lost as a result.

On the fourteenth of March, if my calendar still be accurate after so long a time in Islamic lands, a Christian prisoner was brought before him, shackled, dressed in sailor's garb. Black-bearded and dark-visaged, he seemed almost a madman, his eyes casting about in every direction. To my surprise, Saladin began railing at him in Arabic, and the fellow replied fluently in the same tongue. He was being dressed down for failing in some mission—the details were not discussed. Mostly, he was begging the King for mercy and another chance to serve him. I was ready to dismiss him as no more than a common spy when I spotted a Guild ring among the many that bejeweled his hands. It was of iron, with a single small blue stone set in an ass's mouth. I conjectured that the fellow was one of us, and sought an opportunity to speak with him.

This was easier said than done. Saladin had him imprisoned in a dungeon in an area I am normally not privy to, but I wheedled and joked with the guard until I was able to gain access to the fellow's cell. I whispered the password,
“Stultorum numerus…,”
but he failed to reply. He came to the front of the bars and stared at me for a long time. “You're a fool!” he said in astonishment.
“Stultorum numerus…,”
I whispered again.
“… infinitus est!”
he replied, and clasped my hand.

“I didn't know there were any fools here,” he said. “Praised be Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

“Praised be,” I replied. “Few in the Guild know of my mission. Good for you that I was here, and that I spotted the Guild ring.”

“The Guild, yes. Of course.” He paced about the cell, running his hands though his hair. “Forgive me, I am much distracted. I did not stand up to torture as well as I had hoped.”

“Poor fellow. Is there anything I can do to help?”

He seized the bars and hissed, “Can you get me out of here?”

I was somewhat taken aback. Normally, our training is to resign ourselves to whatever end Fate brings us when a mission fails. Freeing him meant jeopardizing myself and my mission. I explained this to the fellow. “After all, the Guild comes first. I am sorry.”

“But don't you understand? The Guild itself is threatened.”

“Explain.”

He paced back and forth. “I was taken when a fellow fool, one who purported to be of the Guild, gained my trust and then betrayed me. I discovered too late that he was a Saracen spy, sent to infiltrate the Guild and learn its secrets.”

“Impossible,” I said. “It takes years of training to become a fool.”

“He had it,” insisted the prisoner. “He could sing, play instruments, rhyme
ex tempore
in several languages, juggle, tumble, dance, and recite. He took me in completely, and after I was imprisoned on the ship that took me here he came and boasted of his plan. He's an assassin, I tell you, and the whole Guild is at risk. And only I know what he looks like.”

Needless to say, I was horrified by his report. I agreed to help him escape. By constant observation, I discovered which slave brought the dungeon guards their meals. I slipped a slow-acting sleep potion into their dinner, then crept down late at night and freed our comrade. I took him from the city through one of the water tunnels, and provided him with enough food for three days' journey. It was all I could do.

The uproar over his escape has died down, and fortunately suspicion was never directed towards me. Upon reflection, I wonder at the man and his story. He did not, despite the ring and the password, strike me one of our brethren, though I well know the diversity found within our membership. Perhaps his ordeal as a captive soured his personality.

I send this warning to you in the event that he fails to return to the Guildhall. There is a traitor amongst you, Father. Take heed. Al-Mutabbi.

I handed the report back to the old priest, who was gazing sadly at the fireplace. “Sean was never heard from again,” he said softly. “Al-Mutabbi was denounced as a spy by an anonymous letter to Saladin and beheaded. They say he was laughing when the axe came down.”

“Sean was your nephew? I never knew that.”

“I put that ring on his finger myself when we initiated him into the Guild. A boisterous, impetuous boy. He looked like my brother at that age.” He sat in silence as the flames flared suddenly. “We'll send someone to Orsino,” he said finally.

“We'll send me,” I said.

He shook his head. “He'll be expecting you. It's too dangerous.”

“It will be dangerous for any fool who goes rushing in. At least I know the territory and the players.”

“Knew them, Theophilos. That was fifteen years ago. Everyone's gotten older, including you.”