"Thief! Stop!" The shouts were not nearly as close as expected.

Mince continued to run. Finally reaching the stable, he ducked between the rails of the fence framing the manure pile. He crouched with his back against the far wall, exhausted. The boy shoved the knife into his belt and stuffed the purse down his shirt, leaving a noticeable bulge. Panting amidst the steaming piles, he struggled to hear anything over the pounding in his ears.

"There you are!" Elbright shouted, skidding in the snow and catching himself on the fence. "What an idiot. You just stood there-waiting for the fat oaf to turn around. You're a moron, Mince. That's it-that's all there is to it. I honestly don't know why I bother trying to teach you."

Mince and the other boys referred to thirteen-year-old Elbright as "the Old Man." In their small band only he wore an actual cloak, which was dingy-gray and secured with a tarnished metal broach. Elbright was the smartest and most accomplished of their crew, and Mince hated to disappoint him.

Laughing, Brand arrived only moments later and joined Elbright at the fence.

"It's not funny," Elbright said.

"But-he-" Brand could not finish, as laughter consumed him.

Like the other two, Brand was dirty, thin, and dressed in mismatched clothing of varying sizes. His pants were too long and snow gathered in the folds of the rolled-up bottoms. Only his tunic fit properly. Made from green brocade and trimmed with fine supple leather, it fastened down the front with intricately carved wooden toggles. A year younger than the Old Man, he was a tad taller and a bit broader. In the unspoken hierarchy of their gang, Brand came second-the muscle to Elbright's brains. Kine, the remaining member of their group, ranked third because he was the best pickpocket. This left Mince unquestionably at the bottom. His size matched his position as he stood barely four feet tall and weighed little more than a wet cat.