Widow of Jerusalem: A Medieval Mystery Read Online Free Page A

now.”
    He hopped off the stool and went to the bar. “A pitcher and two cups,” he called up to the Syrian. He took a coin and tossed it high into the air. It landed in a cup by the barkeep’s hand.
    The Syrian handed him the pitcher, which made a comforting sloshing noise as the dwarf carried it back to the table. He placed a cup in front of me and poured, then sat back and waited.
    “Aren’t you going to have one?” I asked, pointing to his empty cup.
    “I’m going to get drunk along with you,” he said. “But I’m giving you a head start, ‘’tou’re a great, lumbering lummox of a man. It’s going to take a few to have any effect. But I’m just a dwarf. If I have more than two, then I’ll be dead to the world, and I’ll wake to find myself having a game of catch with drunken soldiers. With me as the ball. So, drink up, brother Fool. I’ll join you in oblivion soon.”
    I still couldn’t make out his features. All I could see were his eyes, the pupils reflecting the candle. No, they shone of their own accord, I’m sure of it. And I might have wondered about that, but there was a cup of wine to be drunk, and another, and yet another after that. On the fifth cup, Scarlet poured one for himself and held it aloft. “To forgetting,” he said softly, and he drank.
    And I can’t remember the rest of that evening.
----
    I woke in a small room with the sun shining directly into my face. I was lying on a pile of old straw, a blanket tucked around me. It was only when I saw the dwarf sitting cross-legged on a cushion by the opposite wall that I remembered some of the previous day.
    Now that I could see him more clearly, I observed that he was clad from head to foot in no color but scarlet, down to his boots and up to his cap. He had a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, both black, and hair that was gathered in a single braid in back.
    His eyes were deep blue, like the sea on a calm day. The flicker of the previous night was a mere twinkle now.
    I couldn’t guess his age, as is often the case with dwarves. He was, when we both stood up, about half my height. Less when I stretched, which I commenced doing immediately.
    “Good old Guild training,” he said, watching me with amusement.
    “Get limber in the morning,” I began.
    “And you’ll stay limber at night,” he finished, and we had a brief mutual chuckle, remembering the motto of Brother Anthony, who had been the tumbling instructor at the Guildhall, a man who could still bend backward to touch his toes at sixty.
    “When were you there?” I asked.
    “As a child, and not for long,” he said. “I’ve been out here since I was fourteen. Feel better?”
    “Hung over,” I said. “By which I mean, yes, a little better, thanks.”
    I looked around the room. It wasn’t much larger than the two of us. My bag was at my feet, and a smaller one lay in the far corner. There was one large, shutterless window by where he was sitting.
    “How did we get here?” I asked. “More to the point, how did you get me here? I’m guessing that you didn’t carry me.”
    “No,” he said. “I dragged you by the feet along several streets and up two flights of steps, taking special care to bang your thick skull on each one of them. What do you think, Fool? I paid someone to carry you. Not the first time I’ve done that for a colleague, I assure you.”
    “Thanks,” I said. “How far into the day are we?”
    “Midmorning,” he said. “There’s a nice view from here if you’re interested.”
    I looked out the window. We were on the third story of a building that must have been in the eastern part of town, because I could see the bend in the outer wall at the Turris Maledicta.
    On the other side of the wall, the bulk of Richard’s army was bustling about, packing their gear, collecting spent bolts and arrows, repairing straps and saddles and disassembling some of the larger machines of war for easy transport. Even Mategriffon, the great wooden fort that