Sir Corc stared hard and the Lord of the Pile returned his gaze, the knight’s face full of fury, the goblin’s placid. The coburn turned and strode away. Rosheen followed him.

Even Muckle was silent as they made their way back to the city proper, but the time for tight lips was over. Rosheen wheeled on Sir Corc.

“Why did you bring me to see that?”

The knight stopped. “That madness was not expected.”

“Then what? What did you expect?”

“You do not trust me,” he replied. “You think I am idle in the face of danger. That I ignore it, but these threats are very real to me, piskie, and maybe now you can believe that. I am not going to help your friend. I ask your pardon, but if he did survive then he is in the Red Cap’s wake and far safer than we are. You saw a village burn, I doubt that not, but this city is next and my duty is to the safety of…others.”

Something crossed the knight’s face that Rosheen could not place. He had almost said something else and then caught himself. Frustration gnawed at his face and Rosheen waited.

“Also,” the knight said at last, “I wanted your council. You are wise and I wager, a keen judge. So, I ask you. Is the Lord of the Pile a Red Cap?”

Rosheen did not hesitate. “No.” Sir Corc nodded, both relieved and troubled. “Will he fight?”

This time Rosheen did hesitate, but it was not for lack of certainty. No. She shook her head.

“As I feared,” the knight said.

“What now?” Muckle asked.

Shame settled over the knight when he answered, but Rosheen did not judge him harshly. “We flee.”

Pocket sat in the tiny garret room of the townhouse that served as his bed chamber, looking out the round window at the night covered roofs of the city. He was supposed to be asleep, but he lay in his bed long after blowing out the candle. Bantam Flyn was silent at last, the sounds of his stumbling and drunken singing no longer coming up through the floor from the squire’s room below. He had bought a flagon of wine from a street vendor on their errand for Sir Corc and happily told Pocket his plans to celebrate his brief freedom. The squire’s good cheer had soared upon their return when Sir Corc informed them that they were to be leaving the city within the week and he had spent the night passing the bottle with Old Lochlann.