AT SUNRISE EVERY SUNDAY morning, before the church bells called their masses, the castle gates were opened with hot meals prepared for as many people as were interested. Few people were as old as Guy to remember how the tradition started. Sheriff Osbert Sylvanus, who was also a bishop, wanted to give an incentive to the people to get their asses out of bed and into a church. One’s immortal salvation was usually not reward enough, but a hot bowl of stew and potatoes could get anyone to their feet. A shambling crowd would enter through the castle gates and take their food, and then had little excuse to avoid St. Peter’s on their way back through the city.

Sylvanus had not lasted even a year in his role, but forty years later the Sunday Temperance Lines were still a tradition. Along the way it collected some additional religious slog, something about walking the savior’s footsteps by caring for the poor. This dubious description meant it was an “honor” to work the line, which for Guy meant it was easier to assign the duty to a Guardsman who would otherwise hate it. It wasn’t exactly near the top of Guy’s favorite tasks, either, but still he made sure to stand the Temperance once every other month or so, if his responsibilities allowed.

“You’re welcome,” Devon said, beside him, extra careful as he poured a ladle of the morning’s barley porridge into a bowl. Guy never ordered any of the men in his private regiment to stand the food line, but Devon was here of his own accord.

“That girl didn’t say thank you,” Guy noted dully.

“Doesn’t matter, she’s still welcome.” It was no surprise that Devon would delight in such things. The man had escaped the hell of captivity twice—first from the traitor lord, and second from a gaol cell. Now he was in a position to help those in need, and he reveled in it. Guy wondered how long it would take for Devon to become a sour old grump like himself.

“You’re welcome.” Guy gave a smile to the next person in line.

“Thank you for doing this,” came the woman’s reply, in earnest. Her muscles were pulled back in a reflexive wince, the sign of a life lived constantly at wit’s end. One knobby hand clutched two young girls who held out their bowls without emotion. “It’s good to know that someone’s looking out us.”

“Of course.” Guy put a husk of bread in each of their bowls, staring intently at each. Neither child moved a muscle.

“Thank goodness,” she repeated. “We don’t get any Robin Hood here in the city, so this’ll have to do.”

Guy bit his lip and said nothing.