He waves off the thanks. "I do no more than was willingly done for me when I arrived. As for lodgings, ask about; there are surely those with space for a boarder, and everyone here tonight has fallen into the place just as you have, all unprepared -- for, if you'll forgive me, I take it from your speech that you are not a man of this time any more than I. I would offer you a place, but I'm not yet master of my own house."
Iago grins and shakes his head a little. "The wolf is called Etienne Navarre, and has the soul of a man. He would let himself be run through with cold steel ere he would let harm come to Dora. 'Tis the least of the strangenesses of this place."
He nods, about to go for the drink, and then he stops dead. Slowly, his fingers tighten. "William Shakespeare. The maker of plays?"