Jester Leaps In: A Medieval Mystery by Alan Gordon

practice for so long.” She attached the beard, replaited her hair, and stuffed it under the wig. Then she looked at me. “When do I get to be a woman again? I survived the journey.”
    “I’ve been thinking it would be useful to keep that identity a secret. It’s like having another person in reserve. Carry women’s clothes and makeup in your kit for a quick change.”
    “And when do I perform again?”
    “Soon, Apprentice. I need you watching the crowd again. And then we’ll check out Thalia’s quarters.”
    I set up at the Forum Amastrianum, Claudius wandering among the horses. She kept her purse tucked safely away. This was an area known for attracting the worst elements, and that wasn’t even counting the horse traders. There was a statue of an honest scale and measure in the center of the square, a stern advisory to the local merchants. A sterner one was the use of the square for public executions. One of the less scrupulous local merchants was dangling from a gibbet nearby, swaying gently with the breeze.
    It was a decidedly more masculine crowd than I had previously seen. Horse-trading was traditionally a man’s profession in these parts. So was horse-thieving. The beasts varied in quality and breed, some showing Arabian heritage, others the short but study mixes of the north. Some had battle scars equal to any I’d seen on a soldier, and it was these who drew the attention of a number of military types.
    I performed for a few hours, and did moderately well. Several in my ever-changing audience inquired about my lodgings, I hoped for the purpose of retaining my services rather than slitting my throat while I slept.
    As I was packing my gear, an emaciated, ratlike man of some fifty years sidled up to me, clutching his threadbare cloak about his body.
    “You look like a man who could use a little luck,” he said out of the side of his mouth.
    “What man couldn’t?” I replied.
    He nodded rapidly several times. “Sure, sure, what man couldn’t? But luck doesn’t just happen, you know. It needs encouragement.”
    “Does it?”
    “Yeah. Sure it does. How do you think people get rich?”
    “Inheritance? Light fingers amongst the gentry?”
    He shook his head. “You don’t know anything. There’s luck. And it doesn’t . . .”
    “. . .just happen. You mentioned that before.”
    He smiled, showing blackened gums and nothing else.
    “I know how to get luck,” he said. “I can help you.”
    I looked at him. He was bald, scrofulous, and missing part of his right ear.
    “Do you practice what you preach, friend?” I asked.
    “No, no, you can’t get luck for yourself. But if you give the right talismans to someone, they can get lucky.”
    “You are proposing a gift, then.”
    He shook his head.
    “It’s an exchange of luck,” he said. “You give something to me, I give something to you.”
    “You look like someone already gave you something, and feel free to warn me away from her.”
    He opened his cloak slightly. Sewn into the lining was an astonishing array of odd trinkets: bits of bone, locks of hair, shriveled frogs, lizards, pieces of other animals, small vials, boxes, rings, and all manner of talismans.
    He launched into a well-rehearsed patter. “Troubles in the marriage bed, place these under it and all is well.” He pointed to what appeared to be a decaying pair of bull’s testicles. “Wax from the tomb of Saint Stephen, rub it on your doorstep and no evil will dare enter. The thumb of Saint Simon, the Canaanite. Menstrual blood from a black witch, no need to tell you its powers. The actual ring that Saint Edward the Confessor gave to a beggar. The beggar, on his deathbed, passed it on to me. It cures all manner of fits. A toadstone, place it by your drink, it will detect any poison; place it in someone else’s drink, and if they be sinners, they will not live out the night.”
    “And if they are not sinners?”
    He showed me his gums again. “We are all stained with original