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It's a bright day. The village market bustles with merchants and traders selling all sorts of wares — fleeces, horses, cattle, corn, meats, and pies. You are on your way to fetch a sack of rare spice by order of your ill-tempered master when two masked men ambush you and steal the schillings your master gave you. It hurts, but it's not the worst thing that could have happened. You get it back as they run past, and you're still going to the market. You are carrying your bundle, but the sack with your master's spice is no longer on your back. You balance a brown-haired girl on your shoulders and no longer walk with a brisk step. You are starting to regret taking her, even if she is a very good cook.

It turns out those two men were serious, and they were not tools of the master or of someone who prefers lurid violence. You were chased by a group of mercenaries hired by your master, who has been trying to take over the town and pretend as if there were no ancient faction in the city preventing him. If your master would never have gone as far as actually hiring mercenaries, the market would have not been attacked. You would not have had to run, and worse, you would have not had to get your recipe for special pie back from the mercenaries. You would have simply gone with your errand to the market, watched how the merchants sell, and left with your sack of spice. But now you have to go figure out a new recipe, and you have to hope that your master won't find out that you got your recipe stolen (well, it was not just stolen).

You have not lost heart and take your time looking around the market. You gather herbs, watch the unique juices flowing from the juices, and inspect antiques. You are not in any hurry, and you find what you want after a long walk.

You hand over your package, and they ask you to pay. "Keep it your master," you say.

"Thank you, kind sir," they respond with a nod of the head. "For having stolen it, anyway."

You depart the marketplace and walk to the nearest bridge. It's a narrow one, worn under the extent of many years. It isn't a high one, but when you are holding a young girl on your shoulders and nothing else to carry, it's just the right height.

"Look up there, Missy," says another young man who is walking next to you. He has long brown hair that, even with a long brown beard, is worn in braids. "Those are a big group of brigands across that bridge, and they look like they are about to cross it."

"Do you think we should go over there and see if we can find out what they are doing?" you ask.

"You think we can get away with this?"

"We should just go and take a look, no matter what they are doing, then," you answer.

He agrees, and you continue the journey.

When you are closer to the bridge, there are already four men who, like you, are taking a look. As they are taking a look, they are also deliberating what they should do.

Then you get to the bridge. You offer the girl to your friend and you inspect the river. It's quiet as usual. There is a group of men on the other side, and some are already crossing. You wait for the other three men to come over, and then you cross. You get to the other side, and all you see is the group of men walking somewhere. They seem to be in a hurry, but you cannot really see. You are innocent countrymen, after all.

Now, you are the only ones, and you are starting to get cold feet. "What should we do?" you ask.

One of the men on the side says, "Get out of here."

"What?" you ask him. "Why?"

"Never mind," he says. "Just get out of here."

"Look," you say. "The men are going toward the castle. They are heading straight."

The man says, "Go with the other three men, right now."

"Why? What are they doing?" you ask.

"They are going straight home. They are going to steal, and they're doing it for us," he answers. "They are our friends, after all, and we can't let them down.