Flyn scoffed. “That one could live on dirt and rainwater. Tough old bird…and a damn fraud.”

“Fraud?”

Flyn did not answer for a long moment, but when he finally spoke his voice was bitter. “You hear a lot about the knights, as a squire. The Knights Sergeant are forever in your face, training you, but it’s the Knights Errant that everyone talks about at meals and after the curfew bell. The long dead legends like Mulrooster, sure…but the living ones, the knights out in the world, those are the ones we aspire to be. You hear such deeds…how Pitch Feather hunted a pack of barghests to their lair and slew the den mother. About the time Blood Yolk singlehandedly boarded a slaver ship, cut every man down and liberated the holds. The Mad Capon drank a giant under the table…”

“Bronze Wattle once rescued Áedán mac Gabráin’s daughter from the gruagach,” Pocket threw in. “And Poorly Well prevented a grove sacred to the woodwose from burning.”

“Yes!” Flyn agreed. “The White Noble outwitted the Slip Noose Gang, Pyle Strummer saved the flocks of the Dal Riata from a vargulf and--”

Pocket waited for him to continue, breath held. He had heard about all of these deeds, but never from one so close to them. Surely Flyn knew more and Pocket could not wait to hear the details of these exploits. But the squire had stopped completely, an angry and sullen expression creeping across his face.

“And?” Pocket urged.

“And,” Flyn locked his attention. “Of all those stories, not one of them relates to our laconic ambassador. No tales are told of Sir Corc the Constant. No songs or poems. But despite that, there was one known fact about our knight that could not be denied and we squires spoke of it with as much reverence as any of the others. Of all the heroes of the Order, Sir Corc stays on errantry longer than any other, often gone for years at a time. I once heard the Old Goose say that he used to not return even on the two-year, sending only written notes as evidence that he still lived.”

Pocket frowned. If that was true, then it must have been ages ago. The Knights Errant had returned to the Roost twice in Pocket’s memory and Sir Corc was there both times.

“That was dedication to the quest that could be boasted by no other. That was a true sense of duty. But…now we know where he goes,” Flyn gestured dismissively at the house. “This is where he goes…what he does. Meetings. Sitting. Nothing. A fraud.”