“Yes,” the lie came easily. He liked Muckle, but the thought of what Sir Corc would say if he returned in such company was too much to risk. “Thank you for your help.”

“Pfshh!” Muckle waved him off. “I didn’t do much. Except save you from jumping in the river and that’s…well, yes, pretty damn impressive, but small on the long list of greatness I perform daily. Luck to you.” And with a wave he turned away, passing the bell founder’s up completely. Pocket could hear him even above the clangor. “I can so play the harp, but now you’ve gone and spoiled it. No! I don’t want to be a bell anymore. Don’t you try and apologize to me you wall-eyed bastard, I’ll have you know…”

Pocket delivered his message to the dwarf that ran the bilker’s shop and waited amongst the racks of various axes while a reply was drafted. He tucked the missive into his jerkin and promptly asked the billier for directions.

He found Bantam Flyn at practice when he returned. The squire had taken to drilling with his quarterstaff in the little walled courtyard at the front of their quarters, his frustration taken out on stuffed sacking nailed to several posts. The results of this day’s exercises were spread over the yard in pitiful heaps of split hemp and scattered straw. The dull smacking of wood continued as Flyn worked the now unprotected poles, his staff a whirlwind of stroke and counterstroke.

“Hello, carrier pigeon,” Flyn said as Pocket entered the yard, not taking his eyes off his target nor halting his strikes. “Come back with another love letter?”

It was said lightly, jestingly, but Pocket noticed that the squire’s staff struck harder with each word, the iron tips sending splinters flying.

“A message, yes,” Pocket told him, trying not to be awed by the speed of the quarterstaff. “I best get it to Sir.”

“Best wait,” Flyn grunted between swings. “Sir is occupied with guests…again.”

Pocket nodded. Sir Corc had hosted a steady stream of guests since their arrival, often spending hours at a time shut away in the small receiving room at the back of their quarters. Pocket’s curiosity could not overpower his sense of place and he never asked what was happening in those meetings. Bantam Flyn had no such qualms. On their second morning in the city after a pair of undine had departed, the squire flat out asked what Sir Corc was doing behind closed doors.

“Listening,” was all the knight had said.