As if conjured, the door opened and Old Lochlann escorted two men and a goblin through the yard and out the little gate. The trio did not spare a look for Flyn or Pocket. Sir Corc came out directly looking very tired. Pocket stood when he saw him. Flyn stayed where he was, throwing pebbles. Sir Corc held out his hand and Pocket approached, placing the note the billier had given him into the knight’s broad palm.

“Will Sir be wanting any supper?” Lochlann asked as he returned from the gate.

“No,” Sir Corc said as his eyes scanned the note. Then he looked up. “On your feet, Bantam Flyn. Pocket, please fetch my sword.”

Pocket hesitated for a moment, but Lochlann cast him a “get to it” look and he rushed into the house, quickly gathering Sir Corc’s sword belt from the wall peg. When he returned to the yard, Flyn was standing, the hilt of the greatsword towering over his right shoulder. Sir Corc took his own weapon from Pocket and buckled it on.

“We will be back before dark, Lochlann,” Sir Corc told the steward. “Do not admit anyone until my return. You two, with me.” The knight walked purposefully out the gate without waiting to see if they followed.

This time Pocket did not wait for an urging look, but went right on out. Flyn drew even with him, his face unable to contain his excitement. The easy smile was back, the swagger returned to his steps. Pocket smiled when the squire thumped him companionably on the back.

Sir Corc led them competently through the streets, avoiding the larger market squares, but also keeping out of the narrow alleys. His pace was steady, never halting to check a street or his direction. Soon they came to a bridge which Pocket, thanks to Muckle, knew to be the Goat’s Tongue and Sir Corc led them over, crossing the Poddle and into Hogulent. Pocket had yet to set foot on this side of the city, but he quickly saw why it had a reputation for being the worst end of Black Pool. The buildings were little more than lean-tos next to the river and housed a thriving community of the city’s most destitute, but Sir Corc passed the forest of begging hands and pressed further into the slums. The choking reek of the tanneries that operated in the district threatened to gag Pocket and though Flyn put on a brave face it was obvious he was suffering as well. Sir Corc did not appear to notice.