The man frowns. "I's thought these are improper times." He holds up both of his hands to his chest, displaying what you had suspected.
No ring fingers.
"You're dishonored," you say.
"Yeah, that I am," he replies with a laugh. "I's been for many years, Marshal. It's the powers-that-be that fucked me up the arse. Left me without them fingers to die. But hey, should'a tried harder. I's still alive, o'er a decade later."
You chuckle yourself. "I don't meet many like us, sire."
"Nah, I's don't neither, sire. Hell, me fellow soldiers are all wary of meself."
"Is that so?"
"Yeah. They's fuckin' wary of you, too. Terrified is a better word, honestly. And, I's don't blame 'em, you're a mean-lookin' sonuvabitch. But I know you ain't evil, like some say. You're a good man. And if you ain't… well that just makes you more like us, I's guess."
You frown. "More like you?"
"Us real dishonored men. You have the cuts, yeah. But they ain't deserved. Unlike you, I's deserve my mutilation. You don't."
"What'd you even do, gov'nor?" you ask.
"Well, the nobles steal from us with the taxman's cudgel. The clergy steals from us with them damn tithes. So I's figured I's steal with my own two hands."
"Stealin' doesn't get you dishonored," you remark.
The man nods. "Yeah. It won't. Unless you steal from them clergymen."