“I hope it doesn’t get worse than this,” Marshall sighed. “The world is insane enough. The Sheriff being killed in his own office, Derbymen running my prisons … no offense,” he added, to Ferrers, who shook it off. “Captain, I don’t know if you’re the man who can step up and put a stop to it all, but I’ll do what I can to help you.”

“I don’t know if I am, either. But God willing, I’m going to try.”

They moved through the skeletons of trees in silence, as Guy let it all filter through his head. The burden was obviously his to bear. There was nobody else who had seen the plot unfold as Guy had, no others who were close enough to the sheriff’s office to effect change. It’s why they had targeted him, he was certain.

He opened his mouth to comment upon it to Marshall, but suddenly doubted himself. The lecture he had just given, it was the sort of lesson he was happy to give to those under his guidance. Young men, like Jon Bassett, and Devon of York. One still missing and likely to never resurface, the other dead. His protégés had a disturbing tendency to suffer cruel fates, and Guy wondered what percentage of that curse was his. It seemed every time he spoke truth to the world, someone suffered for it.

“Both,” Ferrers said, crisply. “It’s better to be both ambitious and intelligent.”

He smiled to Guy, awkwardly. It was as rousing a compliment as the young man had ever given. And if he continued to follow Guy, he was likely to be murdered by nightfall.

“Thank you, Ferrers.” Guy tried to mean it. “Look at you, already so much smarter than your father.”

TO CALL THORNEY A village would be insulting, like calling a beggar a king. Something of a mockery by association. A small collection of shambling hovels clustered around a barren fire ring, and the nettled woods receded just enough for a few sickly fields of vegetables and grain fighting back stalkrot. Guy and his company kept their distance, but saw no indication that Locksley or his men were anywhere nearby.

“Captain.” Marshall pointed two fingers at a solitary figure watching them, alone at the outskirts of the fields. Guy prompted Merciful forward. The thick man was made thicker with mangy hair that poured from every available orifice. He half squinted, his hands dangling uselessly at his sides. No weapons hung from his belt, but the lumps of his ill-fitting clothes might easily conceal a knife. Hell, so could his beard.

When they were close enough, Guy shifted so the hilt of his stolen sword could be easily seen. “We’re looking for Robin Hood.”

“Well, you’ve found Stutely,” the other said, blinking slowly.

“Excellent, just the man we’re looking for,” Guy lied. “We were told you were the one that could lead us to him.”