Free Jester Leaps In: A Medieval Mystery by Alan Gordon

turned it upside down. Nothing fell out. I located the hidden trigger and pressed it. There was a faint click.
    “There’s nothing in it, and it hasn’t been used,” I said. “Whoever killed him took him unawares.”
    “What did they do with the body?”
    “Who knows? The landlady looks like she could sleep through Judgment Day given a decent wineskin, so it wouldn’t have been hard to carry him out. Let’s go see if our new employee found out anything.”
    Asan was at a table, digging into some gray slop like it was his last meal. He started as he looked up to see us seated on either side of him.
    “Greetings and well met, my little burglar,” I said.
    “Hush,” he said, looking around nervously, but the general din of the room drowned us out.
    “Any news of Tiberius?” I asked.
    He shook his head.
    “He’s gone,” he said. “Been gone for months. Must have owed someone badly, because he left in a hurry. His things were still there.”
    “Who was he running from?”
    He snorted. “Could have been half a dozen men tired of waiting for him to pay up.”
    “Any of them likely to kill him rather than take his money?”
    “Most of them would want to do both. If he had anything belonging to you, it’s long gone.”
    “Any friends? Did he keep a mistress?”
    “A mistress?” he laughed. “He was a fool. He was a debtor with aspirations to poverty. What woman would want such a creature?”
    “One never knows,” commented Claudius.
    “Any friends, then?” I asked.
    “That other fool, Demetrios. They used to work together, entertaining the troops at the Great Palace garrisons, sometimes working the Hippodrome. But no one’s seen him in ages, either. Maybe they left together.”
    “Maybe. That’s most likely the case. Well, young thief, you are quit of your debt to me. Go and sin no more. Or as little as you can without going hungry.”
    We shifted to another table, taking some of the glop with us, washing it down with some brown ale. I craved more colors in my food.
    There was a table of soldiers in the inn, and one of them threw me a coin and bade me sing. All in a day’s work. I unslung my lute and launched into something appropriately martial, then segued into something more bawdy. The latter was apparently what they were looking for, so I continued in that vein, Claudius joining in, beating on my tabor. The wine and ale flowed freely, and when I came to the end, several of them clapped me heartily on the shoulders, some taking the time to pummel poor Claudius as well.
    Simon was quite happy to have the free entertainment in his place, and even happier that it led to such free-spending inebriation. He came out from behind the bar with a pitcher of ale and plunked down in front of me.
    “I should introduce you to these fine fellows,” he said. “This one’s Henry of Essex. He’s a captain with the Varangians.”
    I saluted him. He was a flaxen-haired fellow of medium build, with a livid scar crossing from the bridge of his nose down to the bottom of his left cheek. He noticed me marking it, and bellowed, “You should see the other fellow!” I saw his axe leaning against the table, the lamplight bouncing off it.
    “Just give me a shovel and show me where to dig,” I replied, and he guffawed.
    “This one’s Cnut,” continued Simon, throwing a massive arm around the shoulders of a tall lad of eighteen. A pale down clung to the boy’s cheeks. “He’s also a Varangian, from that Danish city I can’t pronounce.”
    “Kjoebenhavn?” I guessed.
    Cnut’s jaw dropped. “How did you know?”
    “It’s the only city in Denmark I’ve been to. Let me guess. You’re the third son of a merchant. The diet in Denmark is too bland, so they sent you to Constantinople for seasoning.”
    The other Danes at the table laughed and nudged the youth.
    “And this is Stanislaus,” said Simon, pointing to the only man at the table not wearing the Varangian armor. “He’s a captain with the Hetairia.