"Robin! Robin!"

The strident screams of the widow woke me up. I opened two sleepy eyes. The sun filtered through the open barn door, between the interstices of the crooked planks. It must have been late, but at least it stopped raining. I had returned the day before, in silence, and despite the effort it had cost me, I had not told the others about the events of the previous day. They would have asked too many questions, and inevitably I would have had to reveal to them the origin of the gifts I was giving to Brindy. I had slept very badly, because I had spent the night brooding: Sesh, the thefts, my guilt, and the anguish that my terrible secret would be discovered. Sleep had finally caught me in the early morning, in spite of myself, and now I felt like a real late riser.

I heard Robin's voice chirping an inaudible answer. The widow must have seen him in the distance on the road. On all fours I crawled out of the straw, scratching an itchy flea bite on my lower back.

Discreetly approaching the worm-eaten gate, I glanced stealthily into the courtyard. The widow Ronna stood on the steps of the farmhouse, hands on her hips, an egg basket beside her. I could barely see her, between the grass and the shimmering reflection of the hanging charms. Robin came running, leaping over the puddles with the spirit of a small hare. Solas flapped his wings to get out of the way. Robin slowed down in front of the widow, who had not taken her eyes off him. I heard her take a deep, irritated breath. "Robin", she said in a falsely curious voice, "I have just received a message from the legate Shortoar. He asked me to teach you to count, and to feed you better. You wouldn't know anything about this by any chance? »

I saw Robin making big eyes, before bending his head to think for a moment. Then he shook it vigorously:

"No, mistress. Maybe because of Ucar's catfish? It is said that its head is the pride of the great hall."

I sighed softly. Robin had unknowingly come to find in my place an excellent excuse. From my point of view, the connection between the messenger of the legate and the first-blade Sesh was obvious. Not content to have forced me to collaborate through blackmail, his clumsiness was now sowing discord on the farm. The widow kept silent, as if she was weighing the pros and cons. She had probably thought that we had gone to the castle to complain behind her back, and had prepared to give Robin a memorable dressing-down. Even if this suspicion was still clearly in the widow's mind, Robin had been very convincing, all the more so because the innocence with which he expressed himself was not feigned. The widow therefore had to decide to give him the benefit of the doubt and gave a small grunt of approval before continuing in a dry voice:

"Well anyway, I feed you as I feed myself, and as long as it hasn't been decided up there to lighten my taxes, things will remain as they are, period."

The widow paused, probably to avoid engaging in the diatribe she had prepared. Then she resumed in a barely softened voice in which one could feel a hint of exasperation. "How many pigs do I have, Robin?" The latter answered without hesitation: "Three, mistress."The widow walked down the stairs with her basket in her hand and put it down in front of the young boy. "How many eggs are in there, Robin" she asked in a weary voice. I saw Robin bend over, put his hand in the basket, and then straighten up. "Eighteen."The widow nodded." That's what I thought."Then she turned around, shaking her head, and slammed the door of the cottage. We had already mastered counting to one hundred, and Brindy even knew how to go a little further, as the widow already suspected. When a mathematical error results in an empty stomach, one usually learns very quickly.

I left the shadow of the hay barn to join Robin in the bumpy yard. Robin immediately handed me a fillet of smoked carp, miraculously pulled out of the folds of his thick shirt. Robin had a talent for music, but he also tried his hand at prestidigitation, little tricks he had in store for us. He had a full smile on his face that morning:

"We thought you had the flu, since you slept in. I'm going to play the pipe on Well Square. Are you coming?"

I answered by the negative. "Where are the others? "Robin looked sorry and shrugged his shoulders:

"They went fishing. They want to catch another catfish. They say it bites well after the rain. But for me, fishing is a pain in the ass. Are you sure you don't want to go to the city?"

Despaired to know Brindy alone with Ucar, I refused the invitation again.

Sesh had asked me for information, and I didn't want to delay the case. The thought that the child killer might have some kind of hold on me burned me more than if I had had a burning coal in my pocket. So I had to go to the Basin, and alone. "Go ahead, I replied. I must go and help Frieze."Robin nodded, gave me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and went on his way. His hairstyle raised by the carved wooden tube swayed in rhythm, making him look like a saltimbanque.

I felt terrible remorse for lying like that to my friend, but I kept telling myself that it was for his own good, for all of us. It was imperative that I diverted Sesh's attention from the Ronna farm. If I found the horse thief, I could refuse to help him more, and everything would be back to the way it was before. The fact remained that this messenger story was bothering me. Even though prudence dictated that I should consider him a danger for the time being, and treat him as such, I came to wonder briefly whether Sesh was really the monster that everyone thought he was.

I devoured the fish brought by Robin, relieved to have something to put in my stomach, because I had been so lacking in appetite the day before that I had let Ucar finish my soup, a gesture that I regretted even more since he was now on the banks of the river with Brindy. I washed myself briefly in the rainwater tank and retrieved my cloak that I had hung to dry. The sun was shining, but the weather was getting colder. Around noon, I climbed up the hill towards the Basin.

The Brownians may have treated those in the Basin as savages, but their camp was much less muddy than some of the streets of the lower town, and I took undisguised pleasure in walking around without each step I took causing a terrible sucking noise. When I had reached the ridge, I strolled around listening to the conversations and looking at the sheep's cheeses that were drying, because after the walk I soon realized that Robin's fish had just sharpened my appetite.

After a while, I finally took my courage in both hands and approached a fyss trapper to ask him about the missing horses. The man clicked his tongue without giving me a single glance, and walked away shaking his braids.

With great dismay, few people really paid attention to the sound of my voice, and I was often dismissed with a simple wave of the hand. I didn't insist, afraid that I would be beaten. The people of the clans were on edge. A boy of about twelve years old had disappeared the day before, the second child within a few weeks. If the chact girl could have fallen into the river and drowned, an accident that happened from time to time, two inexplicable disappearances in such a short time, it was beginning to look like a pattern. I heard a peygen huntress claim that she had not found any predator tracks in the vicinity, and that the tracks of the children had been lost near the camp.

I walked to Frieze's stall, which at least took the time to listen to me, without being able to be of any help. Nobody seemed to have heard anything about the three horses, but I suspected that nobody wanted to talk to me about them. I ended up wandering around randomly, miserable and haggard, trying to imagine how Sesh would react if I didn't bring him anything, because in my mind my hand was still on borrowed time. I was thinking of giving up, at least for the day, when somewhere behind me a high-pitched voice called out to me:

"Hey! You!"

I turned around. A few spans away, arms crossed, stood Dera, the girl who had told us her story about the scal and who had a fight with Ucar. She had short, black hair, with tinged red tips, as was customary among the Chaigs.

Dressed in pants similar to mine, only a shiny pectoral bone covered her small bust. Her features were thin but - unusual for a clan girl - she had a sad mouth and a firm chin, probably squarer than mine. This made her look strange, but it didn't make her look ugly. We were the same height, and she was staring at me, certain that she had caught my attention:

"I hear you're asking questions about horses."

I nodded. She stepped forward, and proudly said:

"I want to help you."

To say the least, her statement caught me off guard. I frowned and babbled before a single suspicious word could pass my lips. I asked, "Why?" Dera looked serious and seemed to be pondering the question. "Because I like you," she finally answered in a resolute voice. This explanation did not suit me. She had seen me only once, maybe twice, and, come to think of it, she hadn't made a very good impression on me by making Ucar cry. I shook my head and turned away to carry on my way, certain of my loneliness and failure. I hadn't taken three steps, that she called me again:

"Hey! You! Boy!"

I turned around quickly, completely exasperated by her persistence:

"Fyss! My name is Fyss, not 'boy'."

In spite of the irritation, I had pronounced my first name with the accent of Brown Horn, to avoid her confusing it with the clan term or taking it as an insult. As I did so, I noticed her sorrowful look, which made me swallow my irritation a little. "Why don't you want me to help you, Fyss? "she asked me in a low voice.

I took the time to think, so as not to cause a scandal, as happened with Ucar. "Because it's too dangerous," I ended up carefully saying. The girl hesitated for a few moments, then her bubbling confidence returned immediately, accompanied by a broad, victorious smile. Her eyes sparkled dangerously:

"I know how to fight!"

I made the mistake of giggling. The next moment, I was lying in the grass, arms and legs in the air. I didn't see anything coming. I got up with difficulty, my hand pressed against the corner of my mouth. I was bleeding where my teeth had nicked my lip, and the swelling would soon follow. I spat a bloody spit into a nearby thorny bush, staring at Dera with defiance, but also with a nascent and painful respect. She had crossed her arms again and struck me with a dark look full of violent promises. I nodded unwillingly, in a submissive tone:

"All right, you can come."

The little Chaig sketched a radiant smile. Then, in a way that suggested that all this was behind us, she took me by the arm and brought me back to the camp as a trophy, babbling incessantly as if we had known each other forever. She told me that she loved horses, but not white ones, that she would later become a great huntress (an old woman had read it in a wolf bone), that I was strange but nice, and that she also loved old Frieze, who sometimes gave her wooden beads.

She promptly let me go at the entrance of her family yurt, offered me a slice of peppered bacon on a flatbread and went looking for her brother.

After that, I would be lying if I said I had anything to do with the investigation of the stolen horses, if the term "investigation" was correct. It was more of an inquisition. Dera questioned her brother, who had spoken with a peygen trapper, who had heard from a merchant, and so on until she had established the full line of the various and varied interlocutors who had heard of the affair. It was she who spoke, and it was to her cheeky insistence that one answered. In the late afternoon we finally discovered that a young Fyss father had gone to join his family for the wintering, with three horses that matched the descriptions Sesh had given me. It was a man from Brown Horn who had sold them to him, presenting them as his own, and we also had a correct description of the individual.

I thanked Dera profusely for her efforts, and she began to radiate intense self-satisfaction. When I vowed to come back to see her, she gave me two of her favorite carved wooden beads, which she placed on either side of the pendant that Ucar had given me, so that I would remember my promise. Then I ran for my life, because even though I had quickly become attached to Dera because her desire to make me her friend was so obvious, I felt that in the long run, her endless jabbering was going to get on my nerves. So I ran to Brown Horn in search of the first-blade Sesh.

I arrived breathlessly at the gates of the city, greeted the old Nep which was there in faction, and ascended to Hill Horn, gasping for breath.

I jogged through the lower town on the main avenue that was cobbled, passed under the arches of the old gate, climbed again, towards the castle. Castle Horn was a venerable building, a large, simple and austere keep surrounded by high walls of carved granite, at the foot of which, inside and outside, were the administrative buildings of Brown Horn, as well as the garrison. Towers had once stood on these walls, but when I was a child, their stones were used to build the second wall, and not a trace of them remained. The dungeon had once served as a stronghold, but it had gradually developed into a spacious residence for the primate and the families of his most important lieutenants: counselors, legates, and other important people. The windows and doors had been widened, the hard corners had been rounded, and the interior gradually reorganized into a living space that no longer had anything to do with the entrenched fort of the past. It was the focal point of the city, where, among other things, the great hall where the dignitaries were received and the nobility of passage, as well as the Circle of Judgment, where once a moon, the Primate Bard rendered justice.

When I arrived at the castle portcullis, I did exactly what was recommended to me: I demanded to see the first-blade Sesh. My words triggered the hilarity of the guards, who immediately embarked on a series of dark and bloody jokes, some of which were straightforward about how Sesh was going to cut me up, just as he had cut up the other little savage. I finally got some directions, and after a brief exploration of the Hill Horn neighborhood, I came to push open the door of a tiny building on the outside wall to the immediate right of the castle arch. The first floor was narrow and dark, but clean, with only a layer of canes, some scattered furniture and the crackling hearth of a small fireplace. After a brief glance, and in the absence of other options, I climbed the wooden stairs to knock on the door at the top :

"Yes?"

It was undoubtedly Sesh's voice, as sharp as his sword. I opened the door to a small, dark room, lit by candlelight. Sesh was sitting behind a huge pinewood desk covered with stains, and I wondered how it had been brought upstairs. At my hesitant entrance, the soldier put down the quill pen with which he scribbled vigorously. He greeted me dryly but kindly, and even offered me a slightly mouldy cookie, before asking me how I was doing in a particularly insistent manner. My suspicions as to the interest of Legate Shortoar in the Ronna farm became certain. Sesh seemed to think that I had come early for the bread he had promised me, and did not expect me to carry out the task he had entrusted to me so quickly.

My story was concise but laborious, all swallowing and pausing, but I still managed to tell him what I had heard in the company of Dera that afternoon. Sesh smoothed his red moustache and listened to me with great attention, especially when I sketched the portrait of the mysterious horse dealer. "A little fat, a curly mop and a split eyelid? "He squinted his eyes. "The one you describe could be the young Wooly, who is one of the assistants of the groom of Castle Horn. And not the cleverest, from what I've seen. I'll go and interrogate him tomorrow."

When he had finished speaking, Sesh straightened up a little abruptly and cleared his throat. A thin smile adorned his thin lips, and he tried - unsuccessfully - to make it as benevolent as possible. He then glanced at my swollen lip, but didn't make any comment. I had the distinct impression that he was wondering what he was going to do with me. "That's very good, Fyss" he finally said. "You've been a great help to me. "I was surprised to see a nervous smile on his face, because it was the first time an adult had ever deigned to call me useful. In fact, I was quite used to the opposite.

Sesh rummaged through one of the drawers of his desk and placed some pewter coins on the table in front of me:

"This is for you. You will be able to buy yourself some dounuts."

The wink he gave me was terrifying. I took the money without saying anything, because it made me think that Sesh still considered me his debtor. So I replied "I'd rather have a good knife."

"No!"

Sesh had shouted, not in an angry manner, but rather in horror. His large, pale eyes were bulging. He stared at me as if I had been a ghost, and years later, as I remembered the conversation, I realized that this was exactly what it was all about. I stood in front of him, terrified again. Although at first it seemed to me that the soldier never took his eyes off me, I realized that in reality his gaze had been cast into the void, into a place that I could not see. Sesh finally put his hand on his face. He sat down heavily at his desk and signaled me to get out.

I was so happy that he dismissed me at that moment, that I promptly ran down the stairs. However, I barely had time to go down a few steps before his voice resounded behind me. "No, wait! Come back."

It wasn't that I lacked the urge to get away, but the soldier's tone had made me feel like a roach. It was an order, barked by a man who was used to using his voice as a tool, and who suffered no insubordination. Slowly I turned around, with death in my stomach. Sesh had gone around his desk and was waiting for me by the door. He put one knee on the ground and held out his hand to me. "Give me back the money," he said without hesitation. Outraged that he would take back what he'd given me, but afraid of disobeying him, I gave him the money back. His eyes lit up briefly and I detected a slight tremor in his voice, as if what he was saying was costing him a terrible effort:

"There may have been enough for a knife, but not for a knife worth buying. Here you go, kid. Take care of it."

In his palm was a short, nicely worked, slightly curved blade with one of those mechanisms that made it possible to fold it to fit in the pocket. The handle was made of white chestnut, on which a deer hunting scene was meticulously engraved. In spite of this coquetry, the knife looked comfortable and functional. But it was not a toy, I knew that. On the contrary, it was a small forged treasure that must have cost at least a hundred times as much as what Sesh gave to me earlier.

Open-mouthed, with a feverish hand, I took hold of the present that was offered to me, as carefully as if it had been made of crystal. I barely heard the soldier dismiss me, I barely noticed his sad and pale smile. In fact, I was so absorbed in contemplating the knife that I even forgot to inform him that I no longer wished to work for him. It was only on the way home that I realized how I had been bought by steel. Any desire for rebellion had left me by the time the blade had changed hands.