SLIPPING ONTO THE STREETS of Nottingham felt like sliding back to sleep after being roused. He fit into them perfectly, an intoxicating sort of comfort. He remembered every step from a few lifetimes ago, taking Walnut Tree Lane toward the wharfs. It was narrow, with a thick gullet in its center beaten with the leaking slop and filth from surrounding windows. Another day might have tempted him east to the Alleys, to catch up with some of the Red Lions that hadn’t gone to ground. Though they might not have the easiest time understanding why he came dressed in Guard blues, like some cock-hungry ferrers. The irony, of course, was that a real-life Ferrers was actually in the Guard with him, but he doubted the Lions would appreciate the distinction. So no, today, the Raff Yard would do, wouldn’t it?

The last grasp of town before rock pushed up into castle, or crashed down into the river. Here were the poor souls who lived off the scraps of the wharfs, in every way. A muddy pit of poverty. He stowed himself behind a netted array of barrels just after Canal Street to remove his tabard and doublet, stripping all the way down to his britches and boots. The cold air was tight on his skin, but refreshing for the alertness it forced on him. He rolled his uniform into a ball and tucked it under the ropes that lashed the barrels together, and smeared himself with whatever black slurry he could find on the ground.

The Raff Yard was the same as it had ever been. He took a quick glance around, then closed his eyes to remember what he had seen. A man with a furious mane of hair and vacant eyes. A tall gaunt worker beating the ground with a thick club. A skinny mother prying open her naked child’s hand. A dozen others like these, the desperate. But, fortunately for them, memorable. He gave another look, and then a third, keeping track of anyone who stood out. Finally, on his fourth pass, he looked specifically for anyone whose face he had not noticed, for those that were the most forgettable of the forgotten.

Gilbert settled on a man who sat curled up against the rockside, absently brushing dirt off his cheek. These were all nothing men down here, but Gilbert had made a deal with himself once upon a time, to never make it easy. That which he chose to do had no limitations, but this … this was something he did not choose. And for it, for being a slave to this drive, he had made rules to abide by. When his heart sang for blood, he would only take that which would never be missed. There was no joy in sitting in filth, to wait amongst this human herd. It was a punishment, which he put upon himself, which he deserved, didn’t he?