Thirteenth Night (17 page)

I grabbed some soap and a brush and entered one of the seven alcoves containing smaller tubs. I plunked myself down in one as an attendant poured a couple of buckets of hot water over me and set to work in earnest. I had almost completely lathered my hair and beard when a booming voice shouted, “Beware, lads. He may be rabid.”

“Greetings, Sir Toby,” I said without looking up.

“Bless me if it isn't the merchant fellow,” he said. He was naked, of course, and a larger mound of pink flesh I have never seen on one frame. He crashed into an oversized tub that must have been specially built to accommodate him and sighed in contentment.

“Heavenly, isn't it?” he said. I nodded. “Best thing to come out of the Crusades, if you ask me. Only good thing, in fact. Very clean, those infidels. Cleaner than the Jews, if you can imagine such a thing.”

“Really?” I said.

“Of course, they don't wash together. Unclean, unclean. But the baths are splendid.”

“The only thing missing is a jug of wine to go with them,” I said idly.

“A jug is an insufficient quantity,” he pronounced, lifting an enormous wineskin from the side of his tub. He upended it, then passed it to me. It was still the old year. I drank.

“What was it like being on Crusade?” I asked.

“Completely ludicrous,” he grumbled. “We went off, puffed up with the glory of our puissant selves, arrived seasick, and lay around camp for months dying from the sun and the boredom. Broken by periods of intense slaughter on one side or the other. We saw very little of that, fortunately. Our little band mostly went plundering and pillaging on behalf of Rome, with the priests waiting to bless the hauls when we returned. Most exciting thing that happened was when Andrew got himself captured.”

“And the Duke rescued him.”

He laughed, sides shaking while waves of soapy water washed over the sides of the tub. “If by rescue you mean he walked up to the Muslim city and bribed them for his release, then he rescued him. But it was more haggling than it was jail breaking. Of course, they put up a fierce front. Held him for a month trying to hike up the ransom, but they let him go. It was cheap enough for them to keep him—he barely eats. They worked him over pretty well looking for information, I remember, but the man never knew a thing worth knowing in his life, so they finally gave up and let us have him back.”

“Did you see combat, Sir Toby?”

“I did,” he said, and took a long pull on the wineskin. “I acquitted myself on the field of battle with honor, and I never want to do it again. Rome can fight its wars without me. I'm quits with all of them, priests, bishops, generals, the lot. We came back trumpeting our conquests, knowing ourselves to be dupes, frauds, and hypocrites. Since then I have devoted myself to nothing more profound and holy than good drink, hot baths, and a loving wife, and I've been a happy man for it.” He leaned back and gazed at the artificial heavens. “Look at this place,” he said quietly. “The Duke started two buildings when he returned. One for pleasure, one for sanctity. Look which one was finished first.” An attendant was hovering nervously nearby, and Sir Toby fixed him with a glare. “It won't happen!” he bellowed. “Go on about your business and leave me to my ablutions.” He turned to me and winked. “They're terrified of me, you know. Not that I'll harm them, but that I'll fall asleep and drown in the tub, and it will take a squadron of them to lift me out of it. Not a bad way to go, now that I think of it. Some lithe wench to straddle me as I fade away, and I'll have no need of Heaven.”

“I am surprised that with such an attitude you would seek the responsibilities of the regency.”

He shot a quick glance at me. “Oh, so you heard about that, did you? Well, contrary to appearances, my motives are pure. I don't care about the power or the wealth. I just want to protect the lad from the rest of them. Just until he's old enough to take care of himself. If he gets caught between the aunt and the mother now, he'll be lucky to have any kind of childhood left. Now with me he'll learn to drink, to swear, to chase women, all one needs to know of becoming a man.”

“Perhaps you could hire on as a tutor,” I suggested.

He laughed. “By God, you have it,” he said. “I shall start my own school. Sir Toby's Academy for Advanced Wastrels, complete with wine tasting. I shall be the headmaster and chief lecturer. It will all be done through demonstration.”

“Allow me to enroll immediately,” I said, getting up and toweling off. He saluted me and lay back to contemplate the ceiling some more.

*   *   *

I wanted to talk to Viola. I had a disturbing feeling that Malvolio would be making a move soon. I still hadn't made up my mind as to whether I should reveal myself to her, but of all of them she was the one I could trust if it came to that.

Well, the mountain and Muhammad were being kept apart by a too-praiseworthy manservant. Surveillance of the house bore no fruit, so I decided to keep watch over one place I might catch her unguarded. I filled my pack with enough food and drink to last me a full day and walked up the hill to the north gate.

The cemetery lay on a rise overlooking the town, a rock-strewn plateau on which little grew. Grave-digging in that ground was such backbreaking work that most families who could afford it built mausoleums. This led to the usual ostentatious competition. The final dwelling place of the Dukes of Orsino would have been a modest enough affair if it had been placed next to, oh, say the Parthenon. Over the centuries it had gotten a bit crowded, and it was rumored that some of the oldest skeletons had been quietly removed to less desirable real estate. So far, there had been no complaints.

I staked out a sheltered patch of woods nearby, piled up some dead leaves, and burrowed into it with a blanket I had borrowed from the Elephant. Only my eyes were exposed from under the hood of my cloak. I soon discovered how cold one's eyes could become. After the weeks of luxurious living, it was pleasant to return to my impoverished and uncomfortable jester ways.

A few pilgrims wandered up the hill to pray or wish their ancestors a Happy New Year, but no one approached the ducal sepulcher. As the sun set, I could hear sounds of revelry from the town. Good job, Theo. You've added the feast of Sylvester and New Year's Eve to the fun you're missing on this mission.

And then, in the gloom, when the cemetery was deserted by all but the dead, I saw a slight figure creeping up the hill. I left my hiding hole and slipped behind a lesser mausoleum to gain a good vantage. It had to be her.

But, to my surprise, it was Claudius. He glanced around briefly, then entered the building. I sneaked up to the door and placed my ear against it. I heard a low, anguished sobbing.

Of course. So obvious, anyone would miss it. I sat on a low wall opposite and waited. He emerged after twenty minutes or so, his face tearstained, his eyes cast down. He plodded towards me without seeing me.

“Good evening,” I said politely.

My God, he was fast! Before I could blink, his sword was out and under my chin.

“You know, this is the third time I've had a blade at my throat in the past week,” I complained mildly. “It must be the beard. Ever since I grew it, people seem compelled to try and remove it.”

“I would be happy to oblige,” snarled Claudius. “I may take your head off with it.”

“Let me make it easier for you,” I said, unbuckling my sword and letting it fall. “And there's this.” I pulled my dagger from my sleeve and dropped it. “Oh, and I almost forgot. With your permission.” I slowly reached into my boot, removed my knife, and added it to the pile. “Now, let us proceed.”

“What the hell are you doing here? Why are you following me?”

“I didn't follow you,” I said. “I've been waiting here for the better part of the day. Then you showed up.”

“This is hardly the time or place to discuss business, Herr Merchant,” he said. His sword did not waver for an instant.

“Oh, but I think it is. Depending on the business, that is. I think that we might help each other, Signor Claudius, but I find myself in a bit of a quandary. I have stumbled upon a secret of yours, but in order to confirm it, I would have to reveal one of my own.”

“You speak in riddles, merchant.”

“Sorry. Force of habit. I must say I admire your attachment to your late master. Far beyond the usual clerical loyalty.”

“You insult me. He was an excellent man.” Tears welled up, but whether of anger or grief I could not say.

“A most excellent man,” I agreed. “And a devoted husband. Wouldn't you say so, Duchess?”

He glanced behind him quickly, then back at me. “There is no one here besides the two of us. Who were you addressing as Duchess?”

“You,” I said, then gasped as the blade touched my neck. “Really, Viola. The last time I saw you wield a sword, it was most unimpressive.”

“Who are you?” he whispered—she whispered.

“It's Feste, Viola. Shave my countenance in your mind, subtract the years from your memories, paint me in whiteface, and see me as I was.”

She shook her head vehemently. “No. Feste wouldn't come back here. Not unannounced. Not in disguise. Who are you and what do you want?”

“Put me to some test, something only Viola and Feste would know.”

She frowned under the beard, thinking. “The first time I saw Feste,” she said falteringly, “he sang to Orsino, to my husband. Sing that song, and I'll know your voice.”

A good test, and all too appropriate under the circumstances. I cleared my throat. “Come away, come away, death,” I began. “And in sad cypress let me be laid.” The tears fell, the sword dropped. “Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid.”

“Feste,” she breathed and fell into me, clinging hard.

What a strange sight we would have made for any onlooker, two middle-aged, bearded men embracing on a moonlit night on a wintry burial ground. I cared not. These were but masks. Underneath them, Feste held Viola—Theo held Viola—I was holding her and I didn't want to let go. But I could do nothing more than continue singing.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,

O, prepare it.

My part of death, no one so true

Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,

On my black coffin let there be strown;

Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.

A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, O, where

Sad true lover never find my grave,

To weep there.

She released me when it ended, smiling ruefully. “I suppose some explanations are in order. For both of us. What miracle brings you here in this masquerade?”

“Did you not send for me?”

“Did I? No.”

“I thought not. Tell me, Duchess, how did your husband die?”

It was cruel, but I had to be for the sake of the truth. “He fell off a cliff,” she said.

“Do you believe it was an accident?”

She looked up at me, not wanting to speak. “No,” she said finally.

“Do you think he took his own life?”

“I don't know,” she said, choking on the words.

“May I see him?” I asked gently. She was surprised but nodded and led me inside.

He had been laid inside a simple sarcophagus for the time being. A more elaborate one had been commissioned and would be completed by the summer, she told me. It suited me fine. I pushed the lid back and looked at the corpse of my onetime friend and lord.

The long, frigid winter preserved him well enough for my purposes. His face was smashed beyond recognition, though the blood had been carefully cleaned away. Age had taken its toll as well, but it wasn't his face I was concerned with.

“I was summoned here by news of his death,” I said, watching her closely. She was looking away from him, but I could tell she was startled.

“Who summoned you?” she said. “Why?”

“To lure me here, I believe, to investigate the murder of your husband.”

She turned to look directly at me, pale in the flickering torchlight. “Murder? Why murder? And why you?”

“For revenge, Milady. May I?” I indicated the body. She nodded. I reached gently under his head. “There. Forgive me, but I need to prove this to you. Feel here.” I took her hand and placed it on a portion of the back of his skull that gave to the touch. “It's broken. Crushed.”

“He fell off a cliff!” she screamed, yanking her hand away.

“And landed on his face.”

“What?” she said incredulously.

“A beach dweller named Hector saw him fall. Fall without screaming, without moving like a man who fell by accident or who had flung himself over the edge. And he saw him land on his face. That wouldn't cause this injury.”

“Hector is a drunken old man.”

“So am I, Duchess. But he has a sharp eye for all that, and if you remove all the veils from his stories, you are left with the truth, exposed for one patient enough to look for it. Your husband was dead before he fell, struck from behind.”

“But Hector saw him alone. That's what he told us at the time.”

“The angle of the cliff could have concealed the assailant. Or it was done by some missile. But Orsino was murdered, Viola.”

She fell to the floor. I thought she had swooned, but she was sobbing. “He didn't kill himself,” she said in a quick burst. “They all hinted he did, that it was only his position that allowed him to be placed in consecrated ground. I hoped it wasn't true, but I thought I would never know.”

“I'm sorry.”

“No,” she said, allowing me to pull her to her feet. “I was afraid it was because of me, somehow. But it wasn't. It was…” She staggered again. “Revenge? You said revenge. You mean … Not Malvolio?”