SIMON FITZSIMON WAS NEARLY alone in the massive dining gallery, since the majority of Nottingham’s Guardsmen were out on the tax raids. The giant Scotsman appeared smaller in that great emptiness, huddled over a bowl making the disgusting sorts of noises that larger men make when they eat. A few guards lingered at the outskirts of the hall, short skinny things, no doubt the freshest of recruits. The hall gave Roger’s footsteps an epic quality as he descended the wide stairs, and Simon begrudgingly stood at the sight of him.

“Master-at-arms!” Roger called out, liking the way his voice echoed. “Which part of you is the most incompetent? Tell me, that I may remove it from your body and feed it to your children.”

Simon simply chewed, slowly, giving the effort his full attention. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

“I should say you could fall on your blade, but that end is generally reserved for more honorable men.” Roger toppled an empty tankard over with a single finger, still half the room away from FitzSimon. The guards at the edges pretended not to listen. “The least you could do is leave Nottingham tonight, and never be seen again.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on,” Simon ground his jaw, “or do you just insult me until I guess?” Roger rarely interacted with the arms trainer, as there was little overlap in their worlds. But FitzSimon was well respected in the Guard, and worked closely with Gisbourne. So Roger was betting they shared the same opinion on a certain policy.

“There is only one real type of secret in the world,” Roger curled his lips on each word, “the kind shared by the dead. You thought that your pet boys would never say anything? You put swords in the hands of criminals and ale in their bellies and trust that they’d behave? You’re an even bigger idiot than your size would suggest.”

They weren’t actually Roger’s words. Gisbourne had fought Roger at every step when enacting the plan to recruit nonviolent tax offenders into the Nottingham Guard. Some men would always consider the word prisoner to be synonymous with evil. No doubt it would be the first policy Gisbourne would destroy upon taking the sheriff’s seat tomorrow.

Simon squinted. “What the hell am I supposed to do? They know not to say anything.”

“So you admit it, then.”

“Admit what?”

“This obscenity. This utter corruption of justice!” Roger chose to wave his arms in increasingly large circles, fearing he’d laugh at himself if he tried to continue seriously. “Your use of men from the prisons as fodder for Guardsmen! Putting wanted men side by side with those loyal to Nottingham? Inviting betrayal into the ranks! Are you even vaguely familiar with the concept of a criminal?”

Simon put his hands out, his stubby fingers spread wide. “I. Agree.”

“What do you mean, you agree?”