Rosheen could almost see the frustration resonating off the young squire in waves. It was no wonder he worked constantly at the dummy; any less and he might burst. Rosheen followed Flyn’s stare to the door.

“What does he do in there?”

“He listens,” Flyn said, practically spitting the second word.

He stalls. “Has he always been this…sober?”

Flyn let out a noise that was half disgust and half dismissal, but said nothing.

He does not know. “And the boy?”

Flyn turned away from the door and the swagger returned to his shoulders. “Pocket was at the castle long before me. He and our goodly knight have a history of which the boy knows little and Sir Corc says nothing…not like him at all.”

Damn peculiar. Rosheen’s hopes had risen when she first saw the coburn and the colors they wore. The Knights of the Valiant Spur were a dwindling sight on the isle, but once they had commanded great respect and a reputation for righting wrongs. But this knight seemed content to languish in Black Pool holding councils, accompanied by a squire he kept in the dark and a gurg page with no talent in actually changing his skin. Sir Corc seemed to be respected by the myriad of visitors that occupied his time, but as for righting wrongs, he had done nothing that Rosheen could tell.

The door to the townhouse opened and Rosheen groaned audibly when the dwarf stepped out. She had spent enough unwanted hours with him and the pipe he was now filling. She hovered off the training post and then realized she had nowhere to go. Damn all cities!

Fafnir gave her a polite nod, which she ignored, then turned his eyes on Flyn who had given up trying to thwack away with his staff and now stood inspecting the blade of the massive sword that received the second half of his daily hours.

“Still a fine blade,” Fafnir said as he approached. The strange lilting of his accent made Rosheen’s fingernails grow.

“Still?” Flyn asked.

“Well cared for,” Fafnir gestured appreciatively at the sword with his pipe. “Given how old it is.”

“You will not find any notches in the blade on my account,” Flyn said bitterly.

Fafnir seemed to find that very funny and let loose a smoke filled chuckle. “No, no. I very much doubt it.”

Flyn’s comb rose off his head and visibly darkened. He turned towards the dwarf, feathers almost quivering and looked ready to strike him. Rosheen was suddenly very glad she stayed. Never seen a dwarf beheaded.

“Meaning?” Flyn asked.

“Meaning,” Fafnir said nonchalantly, “that steel is as strong now as the day it was forged. Very difficult to put a nick in it. I had forgotten how sound it was.”

“You have seen this sword before?”

“Not since the day I gave it to Coalspur,” Fafnir tucked the pipe into his teeth and looked wistfully at the blade.

“You?”