Free Thirteenth Night by Alan Gordon

to a particular matter?”
    He sat down across from me and leaned forward. “Depends what you’re asking for. I don’t keep a bawdy house here.”
    â€œContent yourself, good barkeep. I shall not scandalize you. I only wish your aid in finding a particular person, should he arrive here. My brother, in fact. We had arranged to meet in Orsino come the New Year, but my affairs were settled early enough for me to get a head start. He’s about my height, a year younger, and when I last saw him sported black hair and a beard. However, that was three years ago and he may be gray, bald, clean-shaven, or one-legged by now, for all I know. He may be traveling under an assumed name, as well. His given name is Heinrich.”
    Alexander shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Why so secret?”
    â€œBecause of our competition. A certain Venetian colleganza would be most unhappy if we succeeded, and the stakes are high enough that they may try to interfere. I sense that you are a man of honor, and I am counting on you.”
    He stood up beaming. “Well, there’s counting, and there’s accounting, if you take my meaning. I’ll keep my ears peeled in the meanwhile.”
    I thanked him, then decided to stretch my legs before curfew was called.
    I passed through the gate and found the north road. Without thinking, I wandered up the hill and found myself in sight of the Duke’s villa. It was perched on the highest point in the town, giving view to the harbor and the outlying estates. It was a grand, sprawling, stone structure, with three levels to the main house and lengthy wings on either side. The east wing had been started when I was last here and still seemed incomplete at the far end. The front gates were open, and servants were distributing food and coins to the poor. I watched as the haughtiest of the servants shooed away an excessively thankful woman. He appeared to be the chief almoner. I approached him.
    â€œHere you are, Merry Christmas,” he muttered, thrusting a roast joint into my hands. I handed it back.
    â€œSave it for someone who needs it,” I replied. “Is the Duchess at home?”
    He looked at me for the first time, sized up my merchant’s costume, and sneered. “The Duchess is not receiving visitors. She is in mourning, as you have no doubt heard.”
    â€œI have, and I wished to pay my respects. I knew the late Duke many years ago.”
    He looked at me again. “I don’t know you,” he said.
    â€œNor I you. The Duke’s man was named Valentine, as I recall. His steward was Curio, and I don’t recall the chief servant, but he was an older man and I suspect has either died or been pensioned since then.”
    â€œDead, five years ago. His name was Malachi, as is mine. I am his son.”
    â€œMy belated condolences on the loss of your father. I hope you are up to his standards of service.”
    â€œFrankly, sir, I have surpassed them. The Duchess is not receiving anyone. Good evening.”
    He closed the gates, and I heard the bars fall into place behind them.
    â€œAnd a Merry Christmas to you,” I murmured. There being nothing else I could accomplish, I returned to the Elephant and collapsed into a profound sleep.

F IVE
    The life of the world is only play,
and idle talk, and pageantry.
    KORAN, LVII, 20
    Â 
    The snow came during the night, a heavy one, covering the streets to about mid-shin. Force of habit woke me at dawn. Force of habit left me singularly unrested. Alexander kindly let me borrow some blankets from the unoccupied rooms, and within them I had made myself a burrow with just the slightest crack to let the air in. My jaw, unaccustomed to being bearded, itched. Perhaps some quilt-dwelling mite had made its way into my whiskers. I resolved to wash it if I could find some hot water on this cold day.
    There was a soft but heavy thudding going on outside. I dressed and opened the shutters to