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the throne, scribbling with a small quill on documents as they were handed to him.
    It was not the first time that I had seen Conrad of Montferrat, but it was the first time I had seen him close up and sans armor. He had made periodic appearances at Acre, mostly staying by the side of the King of France, murmuring advice and occasionally directing the distribution of supplies. In retrospect, I imagine that he had directed some of them north to Tyre. He was lean but powerfully built, a scrapper’s body with immense forearms. They said he could wield a sword proficiently with either hand, and he favored a hauberk made of many folds of linen stiffened with brine instead of a coat of mail, preferring the lighter weight and mobility.
    “Not possible,” he was saying to a priest as we approached.
    “But the church,” protested the priest, a walking corpse of a man whose bony hands emerged from his robes to clasp in skeletal supplication.
    “The church will be a mosque inside of a year if I shift even one repair crew away from the defenses,” interrupted Conrad of Montferrat. “Put some of those fat deacons to work. It will be good for them. They can get into shape and ennoble their spirits at the same time.”
    “That’s Philip, Bishop of Beauvais,” muttered Scarlet. “A righteous man in the ways of greed and ambition. I’ll tell you more about him later.”
    Conrad shoved the document back into the priest’s hands, and the latter slunk away.
    “Next!” shouted Conrad.
    “If it please you, sir,” said Scarlet. “I wish to rule in your place.”
    A broad grin split the almost-monarch’s face as he beheld the dwarf.
    “Be careful what you wish for, little friend,” he chortled, stepping down. He picked up Scarlet and set him on the throne, then looked at him critically. “It suits you,” he said.
    “Well, of course it does,” replied the dwarf regally. Then he looked up and gasped. “No,” he cried. “The weight of responsibility! The burdens of rulership! Aiieee!” He shoved his arms into the air as if he were Atlas trying to support the world and slowly collapsed. “Take it back, Conrad,” he said, his voice muffled. “It’s too much for me.”
    Conrad threw his head back and roared.
    “Come here, you scamp,” he shouted, and the little fellow jumped into his arms.
    “Greetings, liege,” said Scarlet. “I return heavily laden.”
    “So I hear, so I hear,” replied Conrad. “Well done. You’ve made good on your boasts, and then some. And I see you’ve brought a companion.”
    “This is Droignon, a fellow fool,” said Scarlet by way of introduction.
----
    D roignon ? exclaimed my wife. You called yourself Droignon then? How many names have you had in your life?
    So many that even I cannot remember all of them.
    She looked at Portia. Forget about Theophilos, she said to our daughter. You had better stick to Mama and Papa until you’re old enough to make sense of all of this.
----
    “ S o , Droignon, you’ve come to seek your fortune here?” asked Conrad.
    “Mine, or someone else’s,” I said, winking at him.
    He looked at Scarlet knowingly.
    “I take it that this fool shares some of your talents,” he said.
    “He does,” replied Scarlet. “We were quite the entertaining team in Acre, although I cannot say that we left them laughing.”
    “As it turned out, the joke was on Richard,” I added.
    “Then, Monsieur Droignon, I am in your debt as well,” pronounced Conrad.
    “Twenty bezants,” I said.
    “What?”
    “’tour debt to me. Twenty bezants. That’s what I was promised for risking my neck. And there were expenses.”
    Conrad looked at Scarlet, who shrugged.
    “The price of leadership,” sighed Conrad, handing me some coins. I bowed.
    “And I’ll be needing papers for the city,” I said. “I burned quite a few bridges behind me. If Richard finds out that we were involved, he’s likely to send someone to seek recompense, and not necessarily the monetary