Jester Leaps In: A Medieval Mystery by Alan Gordon

Empires also face threats from their own people. The large triangle made by the forks of the Mese and the land wall is mostly farmland, hills, and the odd ravine.
    Those of you who have been to Constantinople and who feel protective toward it may be somewhat offended by my choice of animal for comparison. Let me say in my defense that there are cities that I would compare to an entirely different portion of a horse’s anatomy. Consider yourselves fortunate.
    By now, fellow fools, the clever ones amongst you will have deduced that I survived this particular story to write about it. Naturally, Historians are always survivors. But rest assured, not everyone you will meet in this tale will have the same luck.
     
    We stabled our horses, paying a week in advance, and hoisted the saddlebags onto our shoulders. We hurried along as best we could, for the sun was setting, and to be caught out after darkby the Vigla would have meant our immediate arrest. As newly arrived foreigners, one in disguise, we would have faced some unpleasant forms of interrogation.
    Viola was puffing slightly under the weight of her bags. “Several leisurely weeks on horseback,” she grumbled. “Now, all of a sudden, we have to run? I don’t even remember how to walk after all that riding. My legs will never forgive me. I may never forgive you.”
    “Look up for a moment, Apprentice,” I suggested.
    She glanced over as the setting sun bounced its beams off the variegated domes and spires of the city proper, gold leaf and porphyry and a dozen different colors of marble transmuting the rays into something altogether glorious.
    “All right, I forgive you,” she whispered.
    There was a small neighborhood that had sprung up where the Rhegium and Romanos roads met, a grouping of taverns and hostels seeking to beguile weary travelers before the bulk of the city had its way with them. In the center of this larcenous cluster was the Rooster, an inn of uneasy repute that nevertheless set a fine table and, more to the point, possessed a worthy wine cellar. It was a two-story, brick construction, and the second floor projected out over the street, sagging slightly. The red, rounded roof tiles gave the inn the appearance of having a cockscomb.
    Dinner, mostly of a liquid nature, was taking place, as the several men who stayed there had just returned from a day’s honest labor before sneaking out again for a night’s dishonest labor. The room, which was at the level of a general roar, became somewhat quieter as we made our entrance. Claudius, I observed approvingly, had adopted not so much a fierce expression as a studied bland one. The most dangerous men are those who choose not to reveal it, and the cautious appraisals of the toughs in the room acknowledged this truth.
    I drew my usual stares, of course, mingled with some anticipation of entertainment. At least, I assumed that anticipation was there, though it may have been my vanity whispering in my ear.
    The tapster was a tall fellow, heavily scarred about the face and neck, his knuckles thick and calloused. I caught his eye, and he limped in my direction.
    “Drink or what?” he rasped. His Greek was fluent, but with an accent I couldn’t quite place.
    “Drink, victuals, and lodging, my good fellow, assuming you are the proprietor.”
    “I am. The name’s Simon. You’re together?”
    “Indeed. My name is Feste, and this is my manservant, Claudius. How much for your best room?”
    “My best room is taken. So is the second best. The two of you can have the last room on the right upstairs. You’ll have to share the pallet. How long will you be staying?”
    I smiled. “It depends on how well we do.”
    “Then I want two weeks in advance. Now.”
    I sighed and paid the fellow.
    “Claudius,” I said. “Take the bags upstairs. I’m going to introduce myself to our new neighbors.”
    Oh, the resentful glare from my newly appointed manservant! Muttering invectives in my direction, she hoisted my bags