I barged in the Gates alley, to discover Frieze struggling with three brown-hornian guards. One of the men firmly pinned the old man to the wall, using the shaft of his spear with both hands, while his companions were beating him hard. Frieze screamed and tried to free himself, but he could not escape the blows of his assailants, who hit him on the legs, arms, and his panicked face. The word "tinted" rythmed the beating like a dangerous drum. Above, in the pale sky, swirled the first snowflakes of the year.

A small crowd had already gathered around the show and, while a few shook their heads, no one intervened in favor of the chaig merchant.

Worse, some of the people who raised their voices had taken the side of the assailants. The blanket had been torn off and blown against the wall, and Frieze's trinkets had fallen to the ground, trampled on by the studded boots of the armed men. In the shadow of the arch, behind the tumult, I suddenly recognized the smiling face of Randu Lemis. I didn't care whether he was the instigator of the beating that Frieze was receiving or whether he was simply enjoying the show. Something in me snapped.

All this unexpected violence that I didn't really understand sent me back to Robin and his absence that I still couldn't digest, that I even nourished with fantasies of redemption, storms of blood and poison. This childish but absolute desire for revenge crystallized in Frieze's screams of pain. I saw red and screamed in my turn, a strange, high-pitched sound. With the firm intention of fighting, I rushed without thinking. I jumped out of the surprised crowd like a small furious lightning bolt, and hit the dazed soldier who turned towards me without having understood that someone was really attacking him. I was young and frail, and if I managed to throw him off balance enough to get him away from Frieze, I also bounced off the soldier like a gravel thrown at an ox.

As I struggled to get up, I saw a flash of insight pass through the man's eyes, accompanied by an evil pout. He was twenty years old, perhaps less, with a beardless face, good-looking but a little stupid. Brown and curly hair, glistening with oil, fell under his iron helmet. Vociferating all the insults I knew, I attacked him again. He hit me heavily on the side of the face with his leather-gloved fist. I made a gliding flight, before landing hard on the cobblestones. I tried to stand up again, staggered, and fell down against a pair of legs. I raised an uncertain gaze. Of course, the legs belonged to Randu Lemis, and the situation, or what little I could understand of it, spoke for itself. His lip curled disdainfully, and he started swinging his ornamental cane. I closed my eyes and began to crawl.

The blow never came. A thunderous, inhuman voice resounded under the arch, covering the din of the crowd, the dull sound of the blows and the indignant screams of Frieze. I staggered, and turned again to move away from this new danger. A deadly silence suddenly fell on the crowd, like a calm storm. Someone was advancing rapidly under the arch. A livid skin with red spots, two exorbed blue irises and a ginger moustache. It was Sesh, angry as I had never seen him before. I didn't know whether I should feel relieved or not at the sight of that scarlet ire. I barely had time to contemplate the unlikely coincidence of once again escaping in extremis a beating by Randu Lemis under the old gate. Sesh walked past me without a glance and, filled with rage, went to stand a few steps away from the guards. The soldiers left Frieze to face him, and the old man huddled up and let out a frightened groan.

Sesh hollered again. Spit spurted out of his foaming mouth.

"What in the frail whore's ass is going on here?"

A rustle swept through the crowd, and they swayed, as if shaken. The soldier who had stunned me seemed to answer, with a not very confident voice, confirming at the same time my first impression: behind the stupid face sat a stupid mind. "The tinted was in the way, sir, so..." He didn't have time to finish his sentence. Sesh took two steps forward and hit him. I'd seen drunkards fight before, and occasionally I'd fight as a game with Dera, but Sesh's lightning strike had nothing to do with it. It was a blow by a professional soldier, intended to reduce another man to a pulp. The dazed guard stepped back, looking surprised. Sesh followed him and hit him again, and the soldier kneeled down, helmet askew, his head dangling. Blood flowed, dripping from his split lip and broken nose. His two companions retreated, both of them looking at each other worriedly.

The first-blade then leaned over his victim to growl something in a muffled and threatening voice. The man did not react, or not fast enough for Sesh, who suddenly shouted in a demented voice: "Your weapons, soldier!" Another fist crashed into the ear of the unfortunate man, who found himself on all fours. Sesh pulled out a dagger, and a few horrified murmurs escaped the crowd. The blade plunged repeatedly, first severing the helmet's chinstrap, which then fell to the ground with a crash, and then, one after the other, the armor's clamps got cut as well. The weapon belt fell to the ground as Sesh ripped off the quilted armor.

He got rid of his dagger, grabbed the ragged guard by his overcoat, and put him back on his legs. From where I was hiding, I could see him literally trembling with rage. With a brutal thrust, he sent the soldier in the direction of his companions, who received him disgracefully. Sesh advanced toward them, while the crowd gave way. He violently brandished the quilted armor towards their fleeting glances, the coat of arms of Brown-Horn first, the black mountain on its ochre background: "The primate you serve is a tinted!" he shouted several times. The soldiers bowed their heads. Making a visible effort to control himself, Sesh breathed like a seal, his nostrils dilated. Then, in a voice made hoarse by the screams and as deceptively calm as the surface of a volcano, he finally said, "You're going to take this idiot to the infirmary, so they can fix his nose. Then he will go to Captain Rouq and let him know that he is resigning. As for you two, your pay is withheld and will be paid to the old man until he gets better. If it is ever brought to my attention that either of you again defiles the coat of arms he wears by using that vile word, I will have you both condemned for treason and have your tongues ripped out. Get out of the way!"

As the three guards stumbled towards the castle, Sesh turned to me, paying no attention to the crowd, which was dispersing as quickly as it had formed, or to the snowflakes, which were falling more and more. He displayed that absent expression that I sometimes knew him to have. I had taken advantage of the lull to go to Frieze, who hadn't moved since he had been let go. Bent and shivering, the old man seemed as detached from the world as the first-blade himself. Sesh's eyes, once again pale and melancholic, stared at mine as I turned to him, two clear globes on which a veil of sadness was floating. He stepped towards me, and I moved backwards. Sesh grimaced, extended his hand towards me, and then stopped, his gaze frozen on the gauntlet stained with blood and snot. A hazy expression came flying over his face. Then, in spite of his expression he seemed to pull himself together and finally coughed while readjusting his helmet.

"I'd like you to take the old Chaig back to the Basin, Fyss." Sesh wasn't looking at me. "And also... we should talk sometime. You know where I live, I think." The first-blade took a deep breath, clumsily picked up his dagger and placed an uncertain hand on the pommel of his sword. He then turned his heels and walked down the road to Horn-Hill with hunched shoulders.

I stayed near Frieze, with my arms dangling, without really managing to grasp what had just happened. My eyes lingered on Sesh's silhouette, which was moving away. The swelling of my face began to throb, and at the same pace, my right ear was whistling a sneaky melody. My mind was in the same state as my body, a tense knot of numb confusion. I ended up acting by default, according to Sesh's instructions. I helped Frieze to get up. After I had retrieved the few goods that appeared not to be in too bad a condition, we left Brown-Horn. I had arranged the blanket into an improvised bundle and walked next to Frieze. The surrounding moorland was dissolving in the snow. The mountains in the north could no longer be seen, nor could the forest in the south. The surroundings were covered with a white and rustling coat. Frieze did not speak on the way back. I think his pride had taken a blow, to have been beaten and publicly humiliated in this way, especially in front of me, and the silence around us, accentuated by the snowfall, was terribly uncomfortable.

When we reached the ridge, Frieze stopped, leaning against one of the granite edges. He looked like he was suffering. Some metallic red blood had coagulated on his face, where his brow bone had been split by a more vigorous blow than the others. The afternoon sky had darkened even more, and the wait seemed endless. I had stood in the middle of the path, my feet frozen, fiddling with the bundle while trying not to look at Frieze, when the sound of his voice came to me. "You'd better go home now, wanderer," he said in a hoarse voice. Frieze had straightened up and seemed to be breathing better. "It's okay, don't worry. I've been through worse, go."

I hesitated briefly, then, not really knowing what to say or even where to start, I nodded, carefully avoiding his gaze, and handed him the improvised bag. Frieze tapped my shoulder awkwardly as a thank you, an embarrassed expression on his face. Then, limping, he disappeared into the snow. I found myself alone, with the sole company of an embarrassment that only half belonged to me, a nascent headache and a hard knot at the bottom of my belly. Displeased, I contemplated the idea of going back to the farm, but in these conditions facing Brindy and Ucar was beyond my strength. I ended up sitting on the ground sheltered by the ridge, wrapped up in my cloak, waiting to have a clearer mind.

As the flakes fluttered all around me, I curled up against the cold granite. Curled up against the interlacing of ancient marks that the lichen had half erased, I shivered as I ruminated dark thoughts.

I felt like crying as I usually did to get better, but burning somewhere deep inside me, a nascent tenacity stood in the way of tears. My altercation with the guard and the beating of Frieze had put a new idea in my mind, a thought with dangerous ramifications, but which brutally released me from some of the guilty suffering that was consuming me: there were those responsible for my misfortune, and those responsible were not me.

With clarity, it suddenly appeared to me that it was this hatred for the tinted, insidiously implanted within the walls of Brown-Horn, that had separated me from Robin. It was also this that had separated me from Brindy and Ucar, and also from Sesh. Finally, it had just wounded Frieze and dug a ditch of discomfort between us, which augured for me a long and lonely winter, deprived of the stories for which I had developed an obvious passion and of the company of a man whom I had come to regard as my only friend in the world. I remembered the events of the afternoon, what I should have said or done, and my bitter anger soon crystallized in the person of Randu Lemis, who represented not only an emblematic figure of the upper class' hatred, but also a personal enemy. Little by little, as the snow around me covered the stones, I decided to make him pay for my misfortune.

Squeezed between the mineral teeth like a lost kitten, I was blowing on my numb hands while methodically planning my revenge. I had learned, during my stays in the Stream, that Randu's father, Mr. Lig Lemis, had entrusted his son with the management of one of his most prestigious shops, as a gift for his majority. According to the rumor, which I had heard from one of his employees, the young aristocrat was not much interested in cabinet making and preferred to spend his days in the company of his friends. Nevertheless, he did not hesitate to take credit for it when this or that furniture was going to decorate the luxurious residences of the upper class or the rooms of the castle, and he bragged about being a fine merchant while the store was running without the slightest intervention on his part.

That was how I was going to attack him. My first idea was to torch the store, which I quickly renounced to. A fire had ravaged a good part of the Stream two years ago.

We had watched the city burn from afar, and I had a vague recollection of the destruction that could be caused by it. I wanted the attack to be targetted, and clear, so that Randu knew that someone was coming after him, directly. So I opted for a second solution: enter the establishment at night, wreck the place, and steal the content of the register.

As the shadows cast by the black granite lengthened, the snow stopped falling. I was hungry, and cold, but my ears were still ringing with the screams of Frieze, and my resolution grew stronger with every heartbeat: revenge would not wait, it would happen that very evening. I sniffed as I readjusted the strips of cloth that wrapped my numb feet, and then, clenched in my cloak, and burning with sinister determination, I walked across the icy moorland. I reached the gates of Brown-Horn shortly before they closed, and pushed myself into the maze of empty streets.

Lemis' store was located in the west end of the city, in one of the trading districts along the path of the city walls. I circumvented the heights of Hill-Horn, a black silhouette in the semi-darkness, my footsteps dampened by the snow, as discreet as an alley cat. As night fell, my night walk was punctually illuminated by the candles or the glow of the chimneys that came out from the half-timbered houses of the lower town, casting uneven shadows on the layer of flakes lining the cobblestones. Above me, the ancient wall was a black abyss from which the flickering glow of the blazes and torches in the towers occasionally escaped. The din of the day had subsided, and as I walked, even the hustle of the Stream at the eastern end of the city turned into a vague rumor.

I waited in the cold, lurking near a pile of damp straw outside the walls of one of the city's most spacious inns, The Shovel and the Pod, discreetly observing the last comings and goings to pass the time. On the other side of the wall where I had leaned, I could sometimes make out the satisfied squealing of the horses in the inn's stable. I shuddered and shivered as the darkness finally reached the streets. The night was deep, helped by an overcast sky and a waning moon. I did not give up on my idea. Even if sometimes, contemplating the matter, I gave in to the dizziness of fear, anger quickly regained the upper hand. From where I was standing, I had a good view on Lemis' shop and, since my arrival, I had not detected the slightest trace of activity.

As I was about to cross the road to fulfill my vengence, a man leading a draught horse by the bridle appeared in the darkness to my right. Moving up Artisan street, the animal had its large hooves covered with an icy crust and its breath gushed out in thick volutes in the night. They passed a few steps from my hiding place before turning into the courtyard of The Shovel and the Pod. A moment later, voices echoed. I watched the negotiations between the traveler and the innkeeper escalate, the tone rising as they echoed through the enclosure, until the clatter of a doorframe interrupted the dialogue. I was still waiting for a stable boy to go out and take care of the animal and for relative silence to return. Then, making sure that there was no one on either side of the street, I ran, bent in half, to the front of the woodwork shop.

Kneeling in the snow, I glanced through the dark glass to check that no one was working late. It didn't take long to convince myself that the building was deserted, but the front door, whose elegant carvings attested to the skill of the craftsmen who had made it, didn't move. As I fumbled around, I discovered that it was closed with a large blackened iron lock. I took a few moments to think, my heart beating fast. Finally, not wanting to attract attention by breaking a window (even if its replacement would have cost the Lemis), I decided to walk around the building, where I had previously spotted a small backyard.

After a few unsuccessful slides, I managed to carefully climb to the top of the snow-covered wall, before dropping inside the enclosure. As I landed on all fours, a dog started barking two blocks away, which froze me for a few moments in the snow. Once the fright passed, I fugitivously crossed the enclosure, joining the awning adjoining the store itself, under which were piled spans of rough wood. There, inhaling the scent of the precious essences, trampling on piles of fresh sawdust, I groped my way to another door, much larger, and whose mechanism seemed to me coarser than that of the front. I redoubled my efforts to open it, first pushing and then pulling when I slipped my frozen fingers through the crack between the door and the sealed rubble floor. I finally realized that there must be a latch on the other side, blocking my way. Under the dark awning, I probed the debris for a splinter of wood long and thin enough to lift the latch.

Once I got my hands on a long splinter of hard pine, I started to slide it between the door and the uneven stone wall, opposite the hinges. I slowly climbed up the gap, probing the space in search of the latch. Soon I encountered resistance and, after I had briefly forced it, something tipped over. I carefully pressed myself against the door, which creaked open. The space that awaited me was unusually dark, and even as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could only see indistinct shapes. I walked cautiously through what seemed to be a workshop, bumping into the hard corners of half-finished furniture several times. I quickly realized that the devastation of the store was going to be harder than I thought. Without light to find an axe or similar object, I risked not only hurting myself, but also making too much noise. When I reached the back of the workshop, where a series of short steps visibly led to the store itself, I crouched down to feel my bruises. I then climbed the stairs without being able to repress a shiver of excitement and, leaning close to the floor, I studied the surroundings, my heart beating.

The few torches that illuminated the front of The Shovel and the Pod danced through the uneven glass of the windows, like evanescent fireflies, lighting up the store with flickering, fairylike glows. Compared to the darkness from which I had slipped, I welcomed this hesitant light as a definite improvement. The silence around me was stifling, almost unreal. There was some furniture on display, a crafted box placed on a coffee table carved in the shape of a leaf. It was here that clients were received, where they were shown how the reputation of the shop was not overrated, and where contracts were finalized. I moved to the counter like a ghoast. My hands lingered on the fine carvings which drew strange forms of living shadows. After doing a little digging, and inadvertently knocking over an inkwell on a scribbled parchment, I came across a small box containing several handfuls of coins. I hastened to transfer the whole thing into my pockets. Triumphant, and trembling with excitement, I completed my revenge by using the ink to roughly smear the display furniture. On the verge of letting the empty crystal bottle fall, I froze on the spot, my heart beating, my mouth dry. I thought I heard a whisper. Then the front door opened abruptly, the sudden glow of a lantern dazzled me and loud screams burst into the air all around me.

I was never to know how the guard found me. Perhaps an old man more of a night owl than the others had seen me through his window into the shop's yard, unless it was the guard itself, vigilant from the top of the old wall, or simple bad luck, an attentive patrol passing by. Either way, disoriented and distraught, I rushed to the rear exit, only to see the forbidden passage blocked by another blinding halo and a vociferating new silhouette. With my stomach liquefied by terror, it quickly became clear to me that the situation was inextricable. After knocking over some furniture in a vain attempt to escape, I bowed my head in a corner to escape the light.

Trembling but resigned, I had to let them take me.

END OF PART 1

I hope you liked it ;)