Marshall explained to Silas, “We’ve taken to nippin’ the eartips off those that come in on violent account. So we can always recognize them.”

“I came up behind Hawkins,” Morg tried to demonstrate, but his arms were weak, “meaning to cut his tip off. But he caught wind and turned, tried to fight back. Pricked himself right in the neck, idiot.”

“Of course he was going to fight back,” the other Yorkie finally spoke. “What did you expect him to do?”

“I expected he was going to kill someone,” Morg snapped, “and I wasn’t interested on waiting for it to happen!”

Marshall defended him. “You want him to simply ask, Pardon me, aren’t you a murderer? Would you mind letting me clip your ears now? No.”

“Seems he’s gotten out of two gaols already,” Morg said, finding his resolve. “He needed to be branded before he did it again.”

Poor Morg thought Dale Hawkins was an assassin in disguise. If Guy had told his men about the gerolds in the first place, this wouldn’t have happened. Every bit of every damned thing that was going wrong was on him. He never should have accepted de Lacy’s policy on this.

He should have done what was right, instead of his duty.

The jostling of mail heralded a new flood of bodies into the room, and not one of them was a face Guy knew. There were too many strangers in Nottingham and they all wore Guard tabards.

“Which one’s Morg?” the stranger’s voice was kind. “Sheriff’s asking for you.”

“Shit.” Something about the way Morg pronounced it made the word even more offensive. “Is he dead?”

“Doesn’t look good. Come on now. He wants everyone.”

Morg stood and straightened himself out, ignoring the blood on his tabard. He went first, the others filing out behind him.

THE BLOOD ON THE floor of the barracks’ dining hall streaked away, sticky bootprints leading in various directions. The longtable Dale Hawkins had been led to was empty again but for the dark pool congealing beneath it. It alone was deserted. Every other table was filled with men and women, every soul in the castle might have been there. The air was hot with human breath.

In the center, Wendenal, the man who called himself Sheriff, was raising hell.

“Is this true, Guardsman?” He unloaded his fury on Morg as their party entered the hall. “You slit your brother’s throat?”

“That is not true.” Morg stood his ground. “That man was not my brother.”

Every muscle in Wendenal’s face found a way to turn smug. “Try to imagine how little I care for what you call him. He was a member of the Sheriff’s Guard, as are you, and you put your knife to his throat. Do you contest that?”