Outside, the storm had calmed down and so had Brindy. I had set her in front of the fire where she had crawled down moaning.

Prostrate beside her, I digested the news like a bad meal. My tiredness had disappeared, replaced by the sting of a disillusioned anxiety.

Sesh had betrayed me. His silences and strange behavior during the last few days could finally be explained: he knew about Robin and had decided not to tell me. I was devastated. The only adult I could have turned to for help in the face of this unexpected tragedy had lied to me and abandoned me. My tense fingers were wrapped in my hair, tying and untying tight knots, as if by this repetitive process I could invoke a solution. I barely noticed the taste of blood in my mouth. One of Brindy's blows, more precise than the others, had nicked my lip.

I was dismayed by what had happened to Robin, that he had been taken among all the children of the town and the Basin. I could hardly conceive of his absence. Perhaps it was my disbelief that drove me to look for a way to make it right: I still believed that the outcome could lie in my hands. That it could always be a misunderstanding or an accident. My anger against Sesh was the other driving force. I wanted to succeed where he had failed, and make him pay the price for his treachery. Suddenly I got up and started a series of back and forth trips to the shadows of the hovel, which had the immediate effect of pulling Brindy out of her torpor and pain. I hadn't lit the candles again, but I could see her gaze, her wide open eyes waiting for me to do something.

My mind was bursting, entangled in an inextricable chaos. The dead man. Sesh and his betrayal. The disappearance of Robin. The tears of Brindy. My rivalry with Ucar. The mysterious smugglers. And my childhood fantasies that tried to patch it all up. What was certain was that I desperately wanted to act, and without delay. Disobeying Sesh out of pure vengefulness was also a priority. It all blended into a confused magma before crystallizing awkwardly under the influence of urgency. I suddenly stopped pacing around on the squeaky floor. My decision was made. I turned to Brindy. "We're going to find Robin," I said to her in a reassuring voice. "We're going right now."

Brindy painfully stood up, her doubt engraved on her face, her lips trembling. I feared for a moment that she would start crying again. "But Fyss, we've looked everywhere already..." I stubbornly shook my head and put on my dirty cloak. I grabbed her hand and turned to face her. " You couldn't have looked everywhere," I said defiantly. "You couldn't have gone to the smugglers, because no one knows where they are. Smugglers know a lot of things. They'll know where Robin is. And I know where to find the smugglers. They are in the Stream." I don't know if Brindy believed me completely, but I had convinced myself of what I was doing, and I had used such a confident tone that I saw hope reborn in her eyes. I was Fyss, the smartest of the four of us, and I was going to save my friend.

I pushed the door open, and the cold swallowed us as I dragged Brindy behind me towards the lower city. My determined step on the pavement of the empty streets had finally given her energy, something that revived her fighting spirit. When we reached the Gates alley, Brindy walked beside me, skirts in the wind, eyes sparkling. Despite the seriousness with which I apprehended the situation, I could not help but think about what would happen between us when I would have found Robin. I imagined myself becoming her protector in fierce battles against the smugglers, which invariably ended with my heroic victory, the gratitude of my friends and Sesh's apology. And then, as we approached the Stream and the cobblestones were replaced by planks and dirt, I began to regret my knife, which had remained behind a loose stone in the barn of the widow Ronna.

The cold storm gave way to a period of calm and the night resumed its normal course in the lower city. In fact, at this time of night, Seven-Steps street was without a doubt the busiest street in the city. Torches blazed here and there, lighting up colorful signs, some evocative of alcohol and dice, others with a particularly explicit lustfulness. In the shadows beyond, the alleys disappeared in the darkness like black tributaries. Along the winding street, taking advantage of the lighted areas, we crossed the path of dozens of joyful girls of all ages and shapes, some round, with heavy curves, others with a fragile look. More clothed in this season, they tried to put their charms forward in other ways: suggestive poses, exaggerated expressions of lasciviousness, and promises so raw that, even without understanding half of them, we were quickly red up to our ears.

The smell of sertilian tobacco, grilled meat, and the heady scent of musk incense candles burning in some of the best brothels impregnated the fresh air, mixed with the acidic reminiscences of urine and alcoholic vomit flowing from the alleyways.

Drunk men and women staggered, screaming and spitting insults or laughter, their vaporous breaths condensed by the cold. Lewd songs echoed in the darkness. Above, the stars sometimes shone, between the interstices of the clouds. I had never witnessed anything like the nocturnal debauchery of the Stream and, despite all the good intentions with which I had come, I must admit that this cacophony intimidated me. However, I tried not to let it appear, so as not to frighten Brindy.

A fight broke out just as we passed a small gambling shack, and we stopped, lurking in the shadows like two curious rats, waiting for things to settle down. A pair of bearded drunkards barely holding on their legs exchanged large inefficient blows while shouting inarticulate insults. One of them ended up falling backwards, and the other brawler took the opportunity to run away before the intervention of an inconvenient brute, who had just left the awning of the establishment. Like a lightning bolt, a small, furtive shadow rose from an adjacent alleyway to hasten to the slumped figure. I perceived the spark of a short blade, guessed the section of the purse's cord as the bearded drunkard stood up grumbling, without noticing anything. The thief disappeared as he came, and I understood why I came across so few children on my daily excursions in the Stream neighborhood: those who did not work during the day worked at night.

We cautiously resumed our walk, but Brindy slipped on a gravel road which attracted the stern look of an elderly prostitute with a face covered with warts. Almost simultaneously, a threatening warning came from the alley behind us. "It's our corner here, buzz off! " Brindy squeezed tighter against me as I scanned the indistinct shadows, fearing that the invisible thief that had just called on us might appear to stab us. We quickened our pace. We reached the heart of the Stream and things were not getting any better. A few individuals with a patibular mine, screaming trappers wearing furs, rough faces decorated with tattoos and scars, left a brothel laughing in a mountain dialect. They walked so close to the corner where we were hiding, behind a pile of moldy straw, that one of them almost put his studded boot right on my head. Brindy pulled on my cloak's sleeve to get us back on our way, while my curious gaze lingered on the cul-de-sac to our left, where two indistinct shapes were panting against a low wall of crumbling stones.

Further on, a wide-eyed bald man, whose lips had the bluish tint of the smokers of rigan smoking herbs, approached us, then accompanied us with a smile for a few dozen steps, but he was too drunk or intoxicated for us to really understand what he was saying, and we ignored him. Between two vacillating tirades about the benefits of the star-gum, we left him where he was, in a stinking gutter, and I dragged Brindy under a dark and wobbly porch, until the undesirable one lost interest in us. I squinted my eyes in the dark, pushing away the ammonia smell of rotten sawdust and cat shit. About twenty spans away, on the other side of the road, was the sign of "Mirabelle's".

We ran across Seven-Steps street, between two groups of workers who were leaving, and I was relieved to see that there was no one in the alley adjacent to the tavern, where my usual hiding place was in the large empty barrel. That's where we rushed in for a quick getaway. Brindy tipped into the barrel and I followed right behind.

We found ourselves cramped but invisible. As we were deprived of our other senses, hearing took over. The screams came distinctly from the main street. There was also a muffled clamor inside the establishment next to the barrel, where I wanted to believe that some of the smugglers who had so far eluded me were there at this late hour. Brindy pulled me by the sleeve again, and whispered:

"What do we do now, Fyss?"

"We wait for a smuggler to show up. Then we ask him where Robin is."

"But what if he doesn't know?"

"Smugglers know everything. Don't worry about that."

I put my eye over the hole, trying to chase away my own doubts, but I couldn't shake off a certain uneasiness. My armor of confidence had been shattered by the unfamiliar face presented to me by this nocturnal Stream. If I found a smuggler, how would I approach him? What if he demanded gold for Robin's freedom? Worse, if he had a sword and chopped me up? The sound of a flute and the beat of a drum came over us, and the muffled songs turned into a din for a few moments when the door of Mirabelle's opened. I held my breath. Three old fishermen passed by the alley, clamoring and disappearing. A great wave of disappointment swept over me. The miraculous metamorphosis I had hoped for had not taken place. The night had not converted the tavern into a den of bandits. An hour passed, without anything remarkable happening. Behind me, Brindy was agitated:

"Fyss. I'm cold."

I blew on my hands and my breath immediately condensed.

Even sheltered by the barrel, it is true that it was cold, and the girl was neither dressed as warmly as I was, nor used to standing still for so long. I removed my cloak and handed it to her gracefully, hoping that my two shirts would be enough for me. Brindy curled up next to me, which at least prevented me from shivering. Two bearded men came to discuss at the entrance of the alleyway, woodcutters, as far as I could judge, who debated endlessly about their decreasing pay and whose fault it was: those damn savages who did not buy wood, or the half-blooded scum who agreed to work for less, since they could count on other income thanks to the summer barter. I felt against my back that Brindy's breath was getting deeper.

She had just fallen asleep. Despite the coolness, I repressed a yawn myself.

Three more groups of particularly ordinary workers left the inn. The bustle of the Stream was gradually calming down. It must have been close to midnight. My eyelids were dropping. No black capes, no swords, no flashy gold necklaces. A needy cat miaowed plainly in the alley somewhere behind me. My eyes closed, once, twice, and then exhaustion set in and I stopped struggling. I let myself go backwards against Brindy that muttered in her sleep.

I was startled by two men laughing, so close that I felt as if it was coming from inside the barrel itself. The noise resonated in the alley. With fear in my chest, and slightly disoriented, although I had only slept for a few moments, I put my hand by pure instinct on the mouth of Brindy, who had just wiggled. The drunken hilarity continued, so close that I didn't even dare move to take a look. A cheeky voice exclaimed jovially:

"... And there, this moron starts to run. Brownian or not, bam! We nail it like a rabbit. And while he's dying, I say: 'What do you have to say now, Minnow?' I had always said that a guy from Cover-Pass could not understand it. They don't live with the tinted. They don't know what it costs us, and what it cost our elders."

A hot liquid splashed on my hair. The man relieved himself in the barrel. Brindy stirred, I saw her eyes exorbed in disgust, but panic helped me to hold her firmly, while suppressing my own revulsion. The man urinating had just confessed that he was one of those who had murdered the dead man. I did not dare to imagine what he would do to two little tinted if he caught them spying on him. A deluge of droplets followed the continuous stream. One of them fell on my nose.

"Come on, I'll buy you another one," the voice said, and somewhere behind him, a grunt of approval was heard. Footsteps echoed down the alley and the tavern door slammed.

I released the pressure on Brindy, which gushed out of the barrel like a burnt cat, while swearing like a cartwright. Miserable and covered with urine, I followed her, got stuck on the ledge with my soaked shirts and almost fell all the way down. I hadn't seen the face of the murderer and, finally, I didn't think my idea of smugglers was what I think it was.

I shivered, defeated by piss - that the night was freezing - and out of ideas.

Brindy faced me, hands on her hips, her expression of anger was nuanced by a slight tremor in her voice. She seemed to be terribly close to a new breaking point, and her tone was slipping dangerously high:

"We just got pissed on. We just got pissed on, Fyss. And we didn't find anything about Robin. We've got to do something. We have to do something now."

I didn't have time to open my mouth, that she was already rushing in the middle of Seven-Steps street. I followed her, filled with terrible apprehension. Standing in the middle of the street, Brindy began to scream in a quivering voice and, despite all my efforts to silence her, she pushed me away so brutally that I could not succeed in stopping her. I was horrified. Brindy was spinning around, a somewhat desperate music box doll screaming towards the surrounding hovels:

"Ahoy! Smugglers! We're looking for our friend Robin! Please help us! Please help us! Ahoy!"

Reactions came quickly. A few candles were lit here and there in the shacks, and soon a growing chorus of sleepy voices discourteously enjoined her to shut up. A young prostitute with dyed hair approached us with a brisk step and told us to get out of here as quickly as possible, if we didn't want anything to happen to us, after which she quickly disappeared into a dark alley shaking her head sadly.

However, Brindy did not stop supplicating. Her plaintive voice rose crescendo towards the stars, she cried again and refused to leave.

The reproving commotion coming from the surrounding area reached quite intimidating proportions. It wasn't until the owner's son of "Mirabelle's" came out of the tavern to inspect the source of the racket, accompanied by several evil-looking customers, that I understood that something bad would really happen to us if we stayed there. Brindy must have seen it too, for now she was sobbing more than she was talking and reluctantly allowed me to drag her in the approximate direction of the Gates alley. For the time being, all I wanted to do was get out of the Stream before anything bad happened.

Taking Brindy with me, I quickly branched off into the maze of alleys to find a safe hiding place where she could calm down before we left. I opted for a small inner courtyard that smelled like chicken shit, empty except for a small pile of stumps.

Moving with difficulty in the dark, I forced Brindy to sit on the pile of logs. She cried uncontrollably. I myself wanted to do the same, because in addition to my past fright and disappointment, Robin's disappearance was just beginning to sink in, and I was only just beginning to become aware of it. Clearly, I had been mistaken. I managed to avoid crying, while I held Brindy against me. Eventually her tears stopped, but I didn't want to let go of her fearing that she might fall back into the catatonic state of depression she had entered earlier in the evening. There was also the fact that I could smell her hair again, which I had missed terribly. A poisoned gift that sent me back to the farm, and thus to Robin, and thus to our shared misfortune.

Then suddenly there was a quick step and the hoarse voice of a man nearby:

"They're here!" A stump fell with a crash on the uneven cobblestones of the courtyard.

Brindy screamed. I was seized by a nervous grip that painfully twisted my neck. As I tried to scream, a rough, viscous, perfumed cloth was pressed against my face. The smell was powerful, even thick, both pungent and sweet. I would learn to name it later: mad-care oil. I was trying to breathe, and my lungs became sticky, shaken with swirls, vibrating with lightness. I felt as if someone had hit me with a velvet club. All perception was disintegrating. The whole world was dissolving into fragments. Something squeezed me tightly, then the sensation widened, like a lagoon on the sea. A slow drift.

Panic, then darkness.