The Lark's Lament: A Fools' Guild Mystery by Alan Gordon Page A

would go to Le Thoronet to convince Folc, then go straight to Toulouse. I didn’t bother bringing myself up to date on Marseille.”
    “Well, Pantalan’s in the Guild; so there’s our start,” she said. “And we now have Hélène’s brother, so that’s twice as much help. We came into Constantinople with less.”
    “And almost got ourselves killed several times over,” I reminded her.
    “But if Constantinople couldn’t kill us, I doubt that Marseille can,” she said confidently.
    “Your logic is impeccable,” I said. “I feel much better now.”
    “But just in case, let’s find that notary in the morning,” she added.
    The Ville-Haute was the section of the city ceded to the Church during the great partition some forty years before. The Church promptly built walls around the district, and we found them easily enough. From there, it was just a short ride to the gate.
    “Why do they want to wall themselves off from the rest of the city?” asked Helga.
    “Because as great and noble Christians, they do not wish to sully themselves with common pilgrims,” I replied.
    “Why then would a fool live here?” she wondered.
    “Ask him when you see him,” I said. “In fact, that will be your next assignment, Apprentice.”
    We spotted the church of Saint-Martin by its bell tower and made our way toward it, passing rows of carpentry shops. The Ville-Haute had an unusual but not unpleasant assortment of smells, the fresh-cut wood and sawdust mingling with the aroma of cured leather from two streets down, both giving way to flower and herb gardens near the church.
    Queries to a series of locals brought us to a courtyard with a cistern in its center. One of the two-storied houses facing it had a grinning white face surmounted by cap and bells painted on its door. We pulled up in front of it.
    “A serenade?” I suggested, and we stood on the wain, Claudia with Portia in her arms, and sang:
    Lord of emptiness, King without subjects,
    Ruler with no rules.
    A short, stout man stuck his head out of the second-story window, his whiteface, cap, and bells the mirror to the image painted on his door.
    All hail Pantalan, a jester’s jester,
    Emperor of Fools!
    “Passable!” he cried. “Now, once more, sing from the gut, especially that poor excuse for a scarecrow on the tenor voice, and above all, give me sincerity!”
    We repeated the song as the women of the other houses leaned out their windows and their children poured through the doorways to see what was causing the commotion. Pantalan conducted us from above, waving his arms grandly, then led the applause when we finished.
    “Excellent, and welcome to Marseille, my peripatetic, peregrinate pelerins,” he called. “I’ll be down in a trice.”
    We waited, watching the door for his entrance. We should have known better. He came hurtling out the window, arms outstretched, and before anyone could scream, he reached the end of the rope tied around his waist. He swung down to the ground, landing lightly just before the front wall of the house. Everyone cheered, and he bowed, then slid the rope down and stepped out of it.
    “Nicely done,” I said, jumping down from the wain and helping the ladies. “A fool’s welcome if ever there was one.”
    “Welcome again, my friends,” he said, then added under his breath, “and who the hell are you?”
    I whistled a few notes softly, and his eyes narrowed for a moment. Then he whistled the countermelody back.
    “I know you,” he said quietly. “You came back from Outremer with some silly minor king. End of ’92 or thereabouts. I don’t know the woman, though.”
    “I’m Tan Pierre, Guildname of Theophilos,” I said. “My wife, Domna Gile, Guildname of Claudia.”
    “Pantalan, Guildname of Artal,” he replied. “And the brats?”
    “Our apprentice, Helga, and our daughter, Portia,” I said, waiting. Sure enough, he walked over to Helga and looked her up and down.
    “Scrawny little thing like this thinks she