“You’re small, I’m not going to kill you. You’re going to grow up, see, you’ll be as big as I am someday, and strong, too.” He flexed his muscles, but was only rewarded with a confused stare. “Yeah, that’s you. You’re gonna be this tall and this strong. Little Stabhappy’s going to be Big Stabhappy. And then. That’s when I’ll kill you. But not today, alright?”

He picked up the boy by his scrawny shoulders to get him on his feet, but the boy started running toward the wooden doorway that led out to the battlements.

Robin redirected him back around. “No, not that way. They’ll kill you that way. Go down the stairs, see? It’s genuinely horrifying, but you’re small, you’ll be fine.”

The boy hesitated, until Robin realized he wanted to reclaim his knife.

“Hey no, fuck you, you don’t get that back.” Robin picked it up. But by the look of it, it wasn’t English. More a tool than a weapon. It wouldn’t matter in the long run. “Never mind, take it, just don’t let me see you again.”

He handed it hilt first to the boy, who coughed out some more utter gibberish and disappeared down the cruel staircase, practically running, but not missing a single step. Robin had seen boys like that butchered, too recently. They see their fathers and brothers fighting in a war and they think they’re supposed to join in, and most soldiers don’t even flinch. A quick blow to the head with a sword hilt, or a shield, and that’s one less enemy to worry about in ten years. But a little kindness might change that boy’s mind, it might stay with him longer than any of the death.

That, at least, was something Robin was proud to have within him, and to know was instinctive. Not the intellectual mercy philosophers could argue endlessly about. Knowing the theory of mercy is easy. Anyone can tell you not to kill children. Nobody wakes up and thinks, Today’s a right day to kill some babies. But in the moment, nine out of ten men outside this room would have skewered little Stabhappy before knowing to stop. Mercy isn’t learned, it either lives in the bones or it doesn’t.

Other people would have killed the boy. Robin didn’t.

He repeated that to himself with pride, and tried not to think of Edmond.

THAT EVENING, ROBIN RETURNED to Richard’s terraced new residence in the greatest part of the city, hoping to share his story with William. The room was filled with colorful silks and curious tapestries, but its only occupant at the moment was the Earl of Derby, William de Ferrers. Robin was predisposed against the man based on William’s warning, but the earl stopped Robin before he could excuse himself.