Roger had guessed his replacement would be someone dangerous or reckless, and he was insufferably bored of being right. There was no joy there anymore, just a disappointment in the world for having long lost its creativity. Unquestionable loyalty, no political experience, and a complete madman. Words he had used to describe the new sheriff in York, and increasingly fitting to Guy of Gisbourne. In the last month the captain had abandoned his post to search the forest for hunches, and crippled the city’s trade by shutting down the dockside markets. His ineptitude had forced Roger to authorize the barbaric act of disfiguring every suspected criminal, and his diplomatic skills inspired a lord to publicly defecate into a charity meal. These were the rabid actions of a man in decline. But the captain had always been ambitious, and it seemed he had set other machinations at play behind Roger’s back.

“It’s my own fault, I’ve been worshipping the wrong gods.” Roger peered over the lip of his wine glass, letting it obscure most of Margery’s face excepting her eyes. He hoped the gesture was as mysterious as it felt. “I’ve prayed at the altar of reason. As it turns out, that’s rather like betting on chickens in a dog fight.”

“Perhaps you should have tried Catholicism,” Margery offered, pouring herself another glass. “It is a somewhat more standard selection.”

Roger had asked for the oldest bottle in the cellar, which had proven undrinkable, but settled on another rare vintage that was appropriately inappropriate for the occasion.

“It’s blood, that’s the real power,” Roger lamented. “Logic is nothing to blood. You know I don’t like praise, but I’ll tell you with little regard to humility that everything I’ve done here as sheriff has been nothing short of brilliant. I’ve restructured everything about the office, changed countless policies in favor of new ones that merit results. But all in ways nobody notices, and certainly doesn’t talk about. No one comments on my clever redistribution of textile trades last year because it’s boring, even to me. But a few thieves rattle some branches, and suddenly I’m seen as incompetent.”

The worst part was that he had foolishly fought against it. He thought if he could wrangle Lord Oughtibridge and his allies back into obedience, that it might be victory enough to keep his title. He’d retreated into a corner rather than hold his ground. Gisbourne was still out “reclaiming” taxes from innocent people now, and Roger had authorized it. It was wrong, and it made him sick. And for what? For one last futile grasp to stay in power.

While the damned document in his hands had already been signed.