Thirteenth Night (20 page)

“Good morning,” I said cheerfully. “Tell the Duchess I've changed my mind.”

When sunrise came, I peeked into Bobo's room. He saw me and lifted a hand in greeting.

“How's the patient?” I asked.

“One night to the good,” he said hoarsely. “My head is killing me.”

“Mine, too.”

“What's your problem?”

“New Year's resolution.”

“Ah. I usually get the shakes the second day.”

“Same here. Take a look at this.” I tossed a crossbow bolt onto his blanket. He examined it curiously.

“Where did you get this?”

“At the cliffside where we were attacked.”

He sat bolt upright in surprise, a move he immediately regretted as pain shot through him. He collapsed back onto the pillows.

“If you continue to risk your life like this,” he said slowly, “then I won't guarantee its length.”

“Never asked you to. Besides, I figured our visitor wouldn't be returning to that spot so soon. What do you think about that bolt?”

“It's a crossbow bolt. What am I supposed to think?”

“You're the one from Toledo.”

“Oh, and suddenly I'm an expert on arms,” he grumbled. Nonetheless, he peered at it more closely. “All right, look at this.” He indicated the tip, which was diamond-shaped and came to a nasty little point. “That's called a bodkin point. Splits the links in chain mail from a hundred paces. You weren't wearing chain mail, were you?”

“Afraid not.”

“Well, my boy, this would have gone right through you and landed in Genoa. As to where it came from, I haven't any idea. They're easy enough to make. This could have come from a foundry anywhere from Toledo to Damascus.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking it back from him.

“I just thought of something,” he said. “There's another kind of bolt that has a square head. It'll knock a knight in plate right off his mount, and then it's turtle soup for everyone. Maybe that's how he did in Orsino.”

“A broken skull and no one with him,” I said. “And you could pick the bolt up when the coast is clear. Or tie a string to one end and pull it back. Of course, a well-thrown rock would have done the trick.”

“Or one from a sling. But with a crossbow, you're less likely to miss. It could be his weapon of choice. A coward's weapon.”

“He may be many things, but I doubt he's a coward.”

He looked at me oddly. “One would almost think you admired the man,” he said.

“Not in the least. But I am impressed with his cunning. This is a kind of madness, this revenge. How long has he been planning it? The disguise, the information, the infiltration. It's all quite brilliant.”

“And then he missed you when he had a clear shot.”

“No. He missed me intentionally. The first shot was just to toy with me. It would have been less amusing if he killed me without taunting me first.”

“Maybe,” he said, still skeptical. “Still, there was something odd about last night. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I'll sort it out when my brain starts working again.”

“Use it now. What did he look like?”

He closed his eyes. “I came up behind him. He wore a monk's cowl, a brown one. He was moving into a position where he could shoot you when I yelled. He whirled and struck me with the crossbow. I saw a black beard, trimmed to a triangular point, a mustache coming down on both sides to join it. No clear look at the face—the sun was behind him and the hood concealed most of it. Then I saw stars in daylight, and then I looked up at the treetops for a long time. I'm sorry, that's not very helpful.”

“Could it have been any of our candidates?”

“The beard didn't match any of them. In fact, our esteemed representative of the Holy Father is beardless. Either Malvolio is none of them, or whoever it was put on the beard for the festive occasion of spitting you.”

“Maybe he did. Maybe he needs me to see him as Malvolio was for the revenge to be complete. I wonder if it's worth checking the monastery.”

“Probably not. If he was there, which I doubt, then he's cleared out. He's probably gone to ground until he makes his next move. And what will yours be? Will you become Feste now?”

“Not just yet.”

“Why not? There's not much point in the disguise if he knows who you are.”

“Maybe not. But something tells me I should keep it a while longer. If I abandon Octavius, then the whole town will know why, and we'll never catch him.”

He looked at me for a long moment. “If we scare him away, then we may save some lives. Have you considered that?”

“Yes. For the near future. But he will return eventually. He can only hibernate for so long before the madness drives him out again. Octavius remains.”

He closed his eyes. “The way we play with peoples' lives without their knowledge. It frightens me sometimes.”

“Get some rest. We've let it out that you were injured in a drunken fall and are recuperating here. No one will be shocked by the news. Would you like me to bring Fez here?”

“Good God, I had forgotten him! He'll never forgive me. Please, if you would be so kind. And I will try and think some more, since I'm of no use for anything else.”

I collected Fez from the hostel and dragged him to the villa. As I was doing so, I was hailed by Captain Perun riding by.

“Well, merchant, a steed more suitable to your stature,” he said. “I've seen many a speculator ride in on a horse and ride out on an ass.”

“Very good, Captain. Perhaps we should race again for the amusement of the town.”

He scowled. “Your time here is dwindling. Have you concluded your business yet?”

“No, but I am making progress. Thank you for inquiring.”

“Yes, I know. You now reside in the Duke's villa by a clever ruse.”

“Excuse me?”

“Recruiting that fool to gain entry for you. What does one pay a man to have his head broken?”

I looked at him, amazed. “Are you so cynical that you would suspect a mission of mercy?” I asked him.

He smiled, a hideous sight. “I don't believe in mercy,” he said. “Remember that if you are still here five days from now.” He turned and rode off.

T
WELVE

The way of a fool is right in his own eyes.

PROVERBS 12.15

 

I spent much of the day searching the docks, the taverns, and the brothels for men with triangular beards but to no avail. It was a large town where a man could lose himself without difficulty or pay to have his location kept quiet.

I stopped by the Elephant around noon to explain my change of accommodations to Alexander and to settle my account. Sir Andrew and Sir Toby were there and hailed me to their table.

“Where've you been hiding yourself?” asked Toby. “You've missed all the festivities. Did you bathe for nothing, or did one of our village maids clasp you to her bosom for the New Year?”

“No such luck,” I replied, laughing. “I've merely moved. I received a very kind invitation to stay at the Duke's villa.”

“Well, well, your fortunes are improving,” applauded Sir Toby. “And how is Mark?”

“I haven't seen him yet,” I confessed. “But I am told he is somewhat better.”

“I visited him this morning,” volunteered Sir Andrew. “He's clearly on the mend, but I hope they keep him inside until spring. These winter winds could only precipitate a relapse.”

“Nonsense,” scoffed Sir Toby. “Just the thing for him. Get him out in the brisk air with his friends, put him on a horse. It's all of these smothering women that hamper the cure. He's being coddled to death. What about Viola? How fares the lady?”

“I was only allowed to pay my respects for a moment,” I said.

“And how did sh, sh, she…” Sir Andrew broke off in a fit of stammering.

Toby laughed and clapped him on the shoulders, nearly shattering the poor knight. “Still afraid of her after all this time,” he said, guffawing. “Fought a duel with her once, back when we all thought her a man. Funniest damn thing I ever saw, two terrified swordsmen thinking they were meeting their doom. And then we found out he had battled a maid! God, that clown Feste reenacted it virtually every night for a year and we never ceased laughing.”

“Really, Toby, why can't you stop dwelling on the past?” muttered Sir Andrew.

“Because it's worth dwelling on,” replied Sir Toby. “It was the best part of our lives, that time. It was the time I fell in love, and I choose to dwell there.”

“I prefer to dwell in the present,” said Sir Andrew.

“And yon merchant dwells in the future, being a speculator,” concluded Sir Toby. “We are the very Fates sitting here, only I can't weave worth a damn. Back to the topic—how did Viola seem?”

“I could not see her face. She was still veiled.”

Toby glanced at Andrew and shrugged. “To each his own, or her own, I should say. But that isn't healthy, either. She is too much in mourning. Give it a month, then move on to the next one, I say. She'll turn nun shortly, mark my words, and that'll be the waste of a damn fine woman. I hope when I go that my Maria will have a good, long cry, a respectable two weeks of bereaving, then go carousing through every tavern in town looking for a replacement.”

“Why waste two weeks on you, you drunken reprobate?” said Maria, standing in the doorway.

“Good God, it's the wife!” roared Sir Toby. “Come to my arms, my love, and give us a kiss.”

“In front of all these people? 'Twould be scandalous,” she protested, approaching nevertheless.

“Would everyone kindly turn their back while I kiss my wife?” he cried, looking about the room. No one moved. He looked at her and shrugged, then pulled her into his embrace. “I asked, my dove, I asked politely.”

“You did at that,” she said. “I guess there's no help for it.” She threw her arms around him, well, almost around him, and delivered her lips with force enough to drown most men and then resuscitate them. We applauded heartily.

“May I present the noble merchant Octavius?” said the knight after a lengthy disengagement. “My loving wife, Maria.” I bowed low and she smiled, that same wicked grin that crossed her face when she was first enticed into forging the letter from Olivia to gull Malvolio. She had become plump since then, though still slender next to her husband.

“As one who has never married, I stand in awe of such a perfect match,” I said, lifting my cup.

“Is he drinking mead?” she asked her husband. “It must be, for honey has coated his tongue. I dislike flattery, sir, except when it is directed at myself, so you are most welcome.” I bowed again. “As for the two of you, it's past time you came in for dinner. Our turn for the mince pie, Andrew?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I'm really going to manage it this year. A different house and a mince pie for every day of the twelve.”

“And when your luck changes, what do you plan to do?” asked Toby.

Andrew looked startled. “I'll do what I always do, but this time successfully.”

“And does mince pie truly have this miraculous power?” I asked.

“We'll see,” he said. “And if it doesn't, then no harm done. And, truthfully, I do love a mince pie.”

“No sign of it,” said Maria, inspecting his frame critically. “Me, I just look at one and I get fat.”

“I remember when you used to say that about me,” commented Sir Toby with a wink at the crowd. She slapped him gently.

“To think I believed I was marrying a gentleman,” she said ruefully. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Signor Octavius. We'll have you to dinner later this week.” I bowed, and they left.

Fabian sauntered in a little while later, nodded at me. “Have you seen that fool hereabouts? He was to help me at the rehearsal, teaching the demons how to fall.”

“Alas, he should have rehearsed himself first,” I said. “I heard he took a drunken tumble yesterday and is mending at the Duke's villa.”

“Bad luck,” he grumbled. “Just when a fool would come in handy, and to have one actually available. Buy you a drink?”

There was nothing I would have rather had, but I declined politely and took my leave.

*   *   *

The shakes came that night, and I was thankful I had supped lightly during the day for I had a chance to revisit the meal. I slept poorly again, hearing the same evil laugh in my dream. It was Malvolio who became my juggling partner in the forest, sending his missiles at me at a pace that would have overwhelmed even Brother Timothy. They writhed in my hands as I returned them, and I saw that they were people, not clubs. We were juggling living souls in our duet, and Orsino already lay twisted and broken at my feet.

I woke with a sour stomach and disposition to match. I staggered to the window, threw open the shutters, scooped some snow from the sill, and rubbed it into my face. I didn't feel any better afterwards.

*   *   *

The first order of business was to visit my wounded colleague. Bobo waved weakly when he saw me.

“How's the search going?” he asked.

“Badly,” I said. “How's the thinking going?”

“Also badly,” he said. “Thinking made my head hurt when I was healthy. You can imagine what it's doing to me now. They've left me some food. Want some?”

My stomach lurched, but I forced down some bread.

“One thing I've been wondering,” he continued. “How do you think Malvolio knew who you were?”

“Maybe he sought me out at the Guildhall before he came here. Maybe some spy of his sent my description to him. Maybe someone in the Guild betrayed me.”

“That's a frightening thought. Any evidence?”

“I prefer to leap to conclusions without evidence. It saves time.”

“Then here's another hurdle for you. If he knew who you were, why did he wait so long to attack?”