Pocket sat on the ground, his back to the courtyard wall and felt his feet begin to bark sorely from the day’s long ordeal on the cobblestones. Flyn continued to hammer away, his body in motion, his face restless. Pocket looked over and saw Coalspur leaning a few feet down the wall. The sword was still encased in its old scabbard, but now a belt and harness of new leather was affixed, so that the blade might be worn across the back. It was simple work, but likely the best the squire could afford.

“Had to send Lochlann out for it,” Flyn stopped his practice and strode over.

“It’s quite handsome,” Pocket told him.

“Might as well be hanging on the wall in the Marshall’s Hall for all the use it’s getting.” Flyn leaned his quarterstaff against the wall and sat down next to Pocket.

He had a point. When they left Albain, Pocket had imagined grand adventures in snowy mountains and dark forests, duels on bridges and quests to lonely towers. Running messages through a maze of smelly buildings was certainly not in his musings and he was barely a page, with no hope of ever wearing the spurs. He could not help but feel a little pity for the squire.

“How fares Black Pool?” Flyn asked.

“Big,” Pocket responded. He did not want to say too much. Sir Corc had not allowed Flyn to go out into the city without his presence and the knight had hardly left his rooms since their arrival. Flyn plucked pebbles from the ground and tossed them halfheartedly at nothing. After a while, Old Lochlann shuffled out the doorway, knobby knees poking through his thin hose. He squinted at the pair of them sitting against the wall.

“There’s fish stew above the fire if you’ve a mind,” he told Pocket. Bantam Flyn gave his arm a subtle squeeze in warning.

“Thank you,” Pocket said with a smile. “I am alright for now.”

The old man gave a quaking nod, his lank white locks swinging and went back inside.

“He is trying to murder us,” Flyn said with feigned concern. “Wants the place back to himself.”

Pocket smiled but did not laugh. He had taken quickly to the steward. When they arrived he had not so much as blinked when he saw Pocket, but simply tucked his cap with mumbled courtesies and shown him to the garret where he was to sleep. He was nothing like Moragh, but nor was he anything like the other humans Pocket had known.

“He cannot smell or taste so good anymore,” Pocket said. “I think that is why his cooking is so bad. I’ll make us something when he is not around.”

“Be careful where you dump that stew,” Flyn said. “If any of the locals’ animals die, they’ll seek recompense.”

“Sir Corc doesn’t seem to mind the food.”