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

grand staircase to the second level, then through an immense set of oaken doors into a large empty room. Tapestries depicting various ancestors of the Viscount in chivalric settings hung around us, but the room was too dark for me to see them in detail.
    “The parties this room would see when Barral was alive were something,” murmured Pantalan. “There would be hundreds of guests and as many servants, dozens of musicians and entertainers. Now, this.”
    “Where is your lord?” I asked the seneschal, who was taking a cloth cover off an ancient pair of chairs carved from wood darker than the room.
    “At prayer,” he replied. “He has a private chapel. It gets more use than any room here.”
    “How long will he be?” asked Pantalan.
    “Until his prayers are answered,” said the seneschal.
    “I don’t know if we can wait that long,” said Pantalan.
    “I don’t know if anyone can wait that long,” I said. “Could you tell him that a pair of fools have come to visit?”
    “Yes, let him cease his prayers for a while,” said Pantalan. “God could probably use the break.”
    The seneschal grimaced and shuffled off.
    “There’s something missing here,” said Pantalan. He walked over to the large windows at the far end of the hall and threw the shutters open, one by one. “Let there be light!”
    And there was light, which illuminated the dust that had collected on every surface in the room. The tapestries’ colors were dull and faded, and the wooden floor was pitted and stained.
    “Servants’ day off has lasted a good twelve years, I’d say,” commented Pantalan.
    “Which may have been the last time you set foot in this place,” said a man standing in the doorway opposite.
    “Viscount Barral, a pleasure to see you,” said Pantalan as we both bowed.
    “What brings you here?” said the Viscount, blinking rapidly as he stepped into the light.
    “I would have come sooner, but I was waiting for you to throw a party,” said Pantalan. “I sat by my door, listening for the footsteps of your messenger bearing my invitation. People would come by, urging me to give up, to entertain elsewhere, at the very least to partake of some meager sustenance, but I never lost hope. ‘No, no!’ I would cry. ‘What if my lord sends for me and I am not here to rush to his side and lighten his heart with a song?’ Finally, I decided to come myself and find out when I could expect it.”
    “When Hell freezes over,” said the Viscount.
    “But that happened just this morning,” I said. “We put on our skates and came immediately.”
    He looked at me for the first time, and I looked back at him. I saw a man I would have taken for a monk, albeit a more affluent member of the order. His robes were white, but trimmed with ermine, and he was nervously fingering a large gold pendant that would have been out of place in an abbey. He was balding, which gave him the effect of being tonsured.
    “Who is this?” he asked Pantalan.
    “A fellow fool, come to visit Marseille,” said Pantalan. “His name is Tan Pierre, and he is of abundant talent.”
    “Tell him to take it to someone who needs it,” said the Viscount. “Tell him to—”
    “Roncelin, my lord, is this any way to behave to your guests?” scolded a woman coming into the room.
    “They aren’t guests. They are fools,” he replied ungraciously.
    “Even better,” she said, beaming at us. “Much more entertaining than your relatives.”
    “Domna Eudiarde, how delightful to see you,” said Pantalan, winking at her as he bowed.
    She simpered happily, then turned to me. “And who is this tall fellow?”
    “Tan Pierre, at your service,” I said, bowing deeply. “A visitor to your fair city.”
    She was a robust woman with black hair that was coiled into a pair of elaborate braids on either side of her head. She wore a gown of the vivid red cloth that was a specialty of this city. That, combined with her olive complexion, managed to make her husband look