It was out of love for Brindy that I began to steal.

The case of the dead man, which I had taken to heart in spite of myself, led to an enigmatic cul-de-sac that left me unsatisfied and irritable. In the week that followed the discovery of the body, the guards of Brown Horn eagerly lost interest in it, pretexting that it was a settling of scores between Fysses and that, as a result, it was not their responsibility.

Even as an eight-year-old boy, I couldn't believe it at all. While the man may have been the size of a remarkably large Fyss, the arrows I had seen stuck in his back were far too long and looked more like the projectiles of a long brownian bow than the short arrows of a clan hunter. Most people accepted the story of the guards, and other problems soon replaced the unidentified corpse.

A Chact girl had disappeared from the Basin, but the Brown Hornians didn't care about that. On the other hand, the story on everyone's lips was that of the three horses that were missing from the stables of the primate Bard.

It took several days for Ucar to recover from the capture of his catfish. The day after his miraculous catch, his arms hurt so much that we had to bring the food and water to his mouth ourselves.

Nevertheless, the prospect of spending his hard-earned loot quickly put him back on his feet. Ucar was unbearably generous with his money, especially towards Brindy, which filled me with deep despair.

In fact, Ucar bought almost nothing for himself, except for a few treats here and there, and he devoted almost all of his fortune to giving us gifts. For me, a necklace with a small hollow bone hanging from it that contained a sharp blade, very useful for picking nails or peeling a rabbit. Robin received a new pipe and a hair tube made of carved wood. Robin, whose hair was as long and straight as Brindy's, immediately fell in love with the object and now wore his hair in a long, wild but distinguished tail that fitted him beautifully.

Of course, it was Brindy who inherited the most precious gifts. A sturdy embroidered work dress to wear over her skirts, which made her look like a real small woman. A bracelet of carved wooden beads, half a whole pound of glazed nuts. A bone comb and a pair of boots filled with wool for the winter. I knew I should have felt gratitude for Ucar's simple kindness, but the smiles that his gifts brought to Brindy triggered the opposite effect in me, and I felt terrible about it, almost as much as I did about Ucar.

After a week of spending, the money had disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, and we found ourselves as poor as stones again. Eventually things began to return to normal, my shoulder was occasionally given the head of Brindy on the orchard hill, and the apples ripened, providing a good portion of our meals without the fear of further gastric discomfort. However, I had noticed the pronounced taste of Brindy for Ucar's gifts, and I set out to provide her with more - my own - by whatever means I had to employ. At the beginning of autumn, while on the other bank of the Brown river the forest of Vaw took on a red and gold hue and the first rains sometimes veiled the landscape, I went alone to the lower town to find presents for Brindy.

There are two walls at Brown Horn, three if you count those of the castle, and even if things have changed, these walls still carve out the village, like huge cake moulds. The town itself is perched on a broad, flat hill to the east, with buildings clinging to it like barnacles to a rock. At the top, called "Horn Hill", stands the castle where the lord-primate Bard Govon the Young resided at the time. Around these fortifications rises the upper town, surrounded by the first wall. There are a few public gardens and fountains, but above all there are the estates of the old families, who are descendants of the first settlers and founders of the city and who prospered for generations from the export of wood and granite.

In the lower town, surrounded by the second wall, are located most of the shops, and the homes of the less well-off city dwellers.

However, some neighborhoods were beginning to borrow a little of the pomp of the upper city, as some of the poorer merchants had skillfully taken advantage of the new commercial opportunities offered by the clans, while the elders were adamant in refusing to barter with the barbarians. The elders despised the clans almost as much as the inhabitants of the lower town, some of whom, moreover, were half-blooded and could claim to compete with them in influence and prosperity. Among the upper people, it was customary to say that while the first wall had been erected to keep the savages out, the second had been erected to invite them in.

My petty theft took place exclusively in the shopping streets of the lower part of the city, where every day, street vendors and craftsmen displayed their goods to the eyes of the shoppers, that is to say in the middle of the street. As no one can watch his stall all day long, I took advantage of the momentary absence of some owners to help myself in a hurry and leave immediately. I was patient, clever and quick, and above all I was content with little. A trinket here, a treat there, which I kept preciously until the evening to offer it to Brindy. I used cunning pretexts so that my companions would never suspect the origin of these gifts, and despite the efforts and fears that my illicit activities gave me, the idea of keeping my loot for myself had never occurred to me. That didn't stop me from getting caught.

It was a rainy autumn afternoon, and the streets were almost empty.

I should have been more cautious, because I usually took advantage of the racket of the crowds to commit my misdeeds. I was leaning against the cob of a house, sheltered from the weather, wrapped up in my rough cloak, a few steps away from Solc street. For some time I had been looking at the fragrant stall of Bulmine, an old grumpy confectioner, where apple donuts steamed under their golden crust. The old Bulmine, all dry sheltered by his porch, was smoking a pipe while watching the rain with a gloomy air. His wet eyes stung in search of rare customers and, when the occasion presented itself, he did not hesitate to violently harass the passers-by, asserting to them long toothless dithyrambs to praise his delicacies. I had already stole Bulmine without ever having any problems. When the old man finally pushed open the door of his little store, I sneaked out to the stall, grabbed a donut, and turned around and stuck my grip in the folds of my garment. I left Solc street on a brisk walk, and walked down an adjacent muddy alley, which overlooked the dripping ramparts of the second wall.

A heavy hand grabbed me by the neck and lifted me up like a wriggling fish. I was so surprised that I didn't make a sound and the grip grew stronger on my wet cloak. I was like a cat held by the skin of the neck, and could not even twist back to learn the identity of the one holding me. My attacker thus carried me at arm's length towards the wall, in a disturbing silence. The only noises I could discern were those of the clapping of two pairs of boots that struck the peaty soil and the crackling of the rain on thatched roofs. So we went to the nearest watchtower. I struggled as I pestered in my cloak, and my captor would not let go of his grip.

I was thrown unceremoniously inside the tower, a small, dirty cube whose only furniture consisted of a wobbly ladder to access the upper crenellations. I lost my cloak, and bounced hard on the damp straw floor. Trapped, I faced those who had just taken me. The two helmeted men wore on their tabards the colors of the guard of Brown Horn, a black mountain on an ochre background. My stomach liquefied. The first, holding a spear and a brownian shield too big for him, was a disheveled and ungainly teenager, his face reddened by acne, and with a tortuous look in his eyes. The second, who wore a weapon belt with a broad sword with a stained handle, was tall and well built, in his late twenties, with two sad, penetrating pale blue eyes and a carefully trimmed red mustache. I hold my breath. It was first-blade Sesh.

In High Brown, the first-blades are senior members of the civil guard, somewhere in the hierarchy between militia captains and sergeants. Their job, while that of the regular guard is limited to defending the walls and maintaining order, is to investigate crimes and apprehend criminals. The first-blade Sesh was a peculiar figure in the Brown Horn guard, both feared and despised.

It wasn't that he was particularly vindictive, or even violent, but his reputation was soiled by a sordid affair that had taken place three years earlier. Sheep had been stolen from the side of the south road, and Sesh had conducted an investigation. On a blood moon night, he had finally caught two Fysses, a father and son, on their way to the High Lands with their small herd of stolen sheep. When he told them to give back the animals, the father drew his sword, and Sesh killed him. Then the child drew his dagger, and Sesh killed him as well.

Since then, he was like a thorn in the side of his superiors' feet, a good element that could not be disposed of. The affair had more resonance among the people of Brown Horn than among those of the Basin, for some of the stolen sheep bore the mark of peygen families. In any case, since the incident, children hid when he approached, their mothers shook their heads as he passed, and most of his own brothers in arms carefully avoided his company.

I literally trembled in terror, certain that I would be the second child to perish under the sword of first-blade Sesh the bloodthirsty. The soldier approached with a heavy step as his pimply-faced sidekick guarded the entrance, his helmet dripping in the rain, tinkling like a steel gutter. I thought I was about to die when Sesh reached out his hand to me. His pale eyes found mine, and I froze, stuck like a rabbit by a hunting snake. Seeing that I was not reacting in any other way than by shivering, he finally spoke to me in a calm but firm voice:

"The donut, kid."

I shook the greasy loot out of my pocket and handed it to him. Sesh grabbed it, stared at me for a few moments, then tore it in half. He stuffed one half of the loot into his mouth, and handed me the other half. A few large lumps of sugar remained on his moustache. I still didn't dare to move, but he insisted with his hand. I finally took what was offered to me, and swallowed it in quick bites, without taking the time to savor it, praying not to regurgitate it under the effect of fear.

A glimmer of compassion briefly passed over Sesh's face, who must have mistaken my haste for hunger. When I had finished, he stared at me again:

"Do you know that I could take your hand for that?"

It took me a while to understand these words, because the consequences of my actions in case of a conflict with the authorities had never really occurred to me. Moreover, if certain southern primacies did justice in public before eager crowds who came to rejoice as if it were a vulgar puppet play, in our country it took place in private, in the sole presence of the primate, the executory legate, and the parties concerned. Because of this, I knew, without ever really having made the connection with myself, that when a man steals, the punishment for his crime is the taking of the hand that has seized the property of others.

My eyes widened and Sesh talked again, in an almost playful tone, as if he was discussing the return of good weather:

"How good was that donut, kid?"

I strongly nodded, and at that point I would have nodded with the same vigor if he had asked me if I was a dog. Sesh leaned over me, his teasing gaze terrified me more than all the rest put together:

"But still not good enough to make it worth losing a hand, right?"

I shook my head vigorously. Sesh made a slightly sad smile and knelt down in front of me. Slowly he untied his helmet, popular among the men-at-arms of Brown Horn. After carefully laying it down on the ground, he grabbed my chin between two fingers gloved in thick leather. With firmness, but also with a softness I did not expect, he turned my face to the right and then to the left, while staring at me with a curious look. I had the impression of being a mule being checked in the market place. Like any good mule, I let myself be checked. Suddenly his eyes lit up:

"You're one of the kids from the Ronna orphanage, am I right? What's your name?"

I suddenly released myself from his grip, and he didn't hold it against me.

I was horrified that the child killer knew where I lived, and if a spark of courage finally bloomed in me at that moment it was probably due to my willingness to protect Ucar, Robin and Brindy. I raised to him a challenging face that I was now able to make, and said in a clear voice:

"Fyss."

Sesh bent his head backwards, his eyebrows frowning from an internal questioning. "Curious" he murmured, "I would have said Peygen". He stood up, picked up his heavy helmet, and exposed his dirty teeth to me with a smile so carnivorous that I couldn't repress a shiver. Then his seriousness regained the upper hand, there was a long moment during which he nodded rhythmically, and finally, Sesh seemed to make a decision. He spoke to me in a voice that seemed to want to appear decided and playful at the same time:

"Very well, Fyss. Here's what we're going to do. Every last day of the week, starting this week, you will go up to the garrison. There you will ask for the first-blade Sesh. I will give you a loaf of bread and a small coin. In exchange, you will do me a few small favors when I need them, and we will forget about the whole donut thing. What do you think?"

Realizing that the question was essentially rhetorical, and that I was even doing quite well so far, I agreed. This seemed to delight the soldier, who was still smiling:

"Perfect! Here's what you can do for me this week: three horses have disappeared from the castle's stables. Two large geldings, one brown, the other grey, and a small black-coated steed with a white star in the middle of the forehead. I know that you often go to the Basin with your friends, so I'd like you to go and see if you can get me some information about these horses, okay?"

"Okay."

"We say "okay, first-blade". Don't forget you work for me now."

"Yes, first-blade."

"That's good, kid. If you have any information to give me, do you know where to find me?"

"At the barracks. First-blade."

Sesh stroked my cheek, pretending not to notice how I was startled, and grabbed his helmet and turned around. Outside, his soaking wet companion was bending his back in the pouring rain. Just when I thought I got rid of him, the soldier turned back toward me, his hand on the pommel of his sword, his eyes wide open. I feared for a moment that he had changed his mind. Sesh stared at me for a few more moments before pointing at me and saying in an authoritative voice:

"And no more stealing!"

Then he disappeared. The lapping of the boots in the mud was gradually fading away. I didn't dare move for some time, and then, carefully picking up my cloak that Sesh had left in the straw, I slipped into the street, my legs wobbly and a knot in my stomach. In the pouring rain, I walked along the second wall towards the door, wondering what kind of trouble I had gotten myself into for the price of a donut.