Guy winked. “My apologies, not all women can handle me.”

Bolt never laughed out loud, but he grinned wide and his neck clenched tight, as if his whole face was swallowing itself. Reginold and Bolt were implausibly good men, and would have joined the war both if not for Bolt’s limp. Reginold had refused to leave his “little brother” behind.

“You all heard about Bassett’s big fish this week?” Guy turned to his young protégé. Bassett had recently arrested a few members of the Red Lions, a wharfside street gang that often tried to claim control over Nottingham’s fish market.

“Heard about it?” asked Eric of Felley, twisting his long hair into a tail. The once-crown ranger pounded his fist to the table. “We were there!”

Guy patted Bassett’s shoulder, “It was a fine job, Jon. That’s praiseworthy.”

“Oh, I wish it weren’t.” Bassett shrugged it off. “Never cared much for praise.”

It was the right answer, and Guy took pride in it. Before he had started grooming Bassett for leadership, he’d been as sharp a brat as any. “I imagine those Red Lions were just as surprised as I was to discover that beneath your bullshit, you may actually be a decent Englishman.”

Bassett’s eyebrows danced. “Try not to tell anyone.”

“I intend on telling everyone,” Guy returned. “You’re coming with me to Locksley tomorrow.”

“What’s in Locksley?”

Recruits, but he couldn’t tell the others. “Some people that need a reminder that we still punish people for little things like crimes.”

Guy wasted ten minutes or so with the boys. They laughed, drank ale, and swapped stories. Their recent arrests made for legendary tales since action in the Guard was generally few and far between. Any stories more exciting than tax evasion were good for morale, and catching legitimate criminals made for legitimate heroes. Amongst these men, Guy was almost able to forget about the troubles beyond the table, the threats that lay hidden behind every false smile within the Common Guard.

He scanned the crowd again for Arable, and found her emerging from a sidewall with fists full of ale. She walked directly toward him, eyes wide, begging for attention. Guy rose from his chair to watch her, to find the gerold she had identified.

But instead she came to him, even serving his table first. The boys hooted and whistled at her, but her eyes never broke from Guy’s even as she slammed the drinks onto the table in front of each man, deliberately, ending with Jon Bassett. Only then did she break her gaze down to that final cup, the dented pewter tankard.

Guy’s throat clenched, a harrowing sense of betrayal claiming him. He instantly regretted telling Bassett about the recruits from the prison, if only to avoid this heartbreak.

Arable had not overheard a group of gerolds conspiring against good men.

She had overheard Jon Bassett planning something against the gerolds.