“I wasn’t fighting a duel,” the Runner mumbled, sheathing his own spear. “The kid got above himself. I was punishing him.”

“You punish with the haft of the spear. And anyway, this is my band and I do the punishing around here. Now move on out, all of you, and get ready for the council. I’ll attend to the boy myself.”

They went off obediently without looking back. The Trap-Smasher’s band was famous for its discipline throughout the length and breadth of Mankind. A proud thing to be a member of it. But to be called a boy in front of the others! A boy, when he was full-grown and ready to begin stealing!

Although, come to think of it, he’d rather be called a boy than a singleton. A boy eventually became a man, but a singleton stayed a singleton forever. It was almost as bad as being a bastard—the child of a woman not fully accepted by the Female Society. He put the problem to his uncle who was at the niche inspecting the band’s reserve pile of spears.

“Isn’t it possible—I mean, it is possible, isn’t it—that my father had some children by another woman? You told me he was one of the best thieves we ever had.”

The captain of the band turned to study him, folding his arms across his chest so that biceps swelled into greatness and power. They glinted in the light of the tiny glow lantern bound to his forehead, the tiny glow lantern that only fully accredited warriors might wear. After a while, the older man shook his head and said, very gently:

“Eric, Eric, forget about it, boy. He was all of those things and more. Your father was famous. Eric the Storeroom-Stormer, we called him, Eric the Laugher at Locks, Eric the Roistering Robber of all Mankind. He taught me everything I know. But he only married once; and if any other woman ever played around with him, she’s been careful to keep it a secret. Now dress up those spears: you’ve let them get all sloppy. Butts together, that’s the way, points up and even with each other.”