Rickard pauses and stares at the knight. He doesn't like to leave his dogs behind. Not because he doesn't trust them; they are well-trained, and he never fears that one might wander in his absence, or go rogue and begin to attack people without due cause. It's a security thing for Rickard. He's trained the hounds for over a decade, close to fifteen years. In all that time he has lacked the sight of one eye, and his dogs are almost an extension of himself. He feels vulnerable without their senses at his disposal.

Yet he knows he cannot argue. Explaining as much would do him no good: the knight would not care, and Rickard has no desire to appear dependent. He says nothing to their guide and turns to the beast. 

"Kerr," He speaks firmly, and then the command: "Belach." He trains the dogs in a dead tongue. This way they do not become confused if they hear one of their key words spoken in casual conversation by their handlers. It also makes it harder for outsiders to influence them or confuse them. Anyone can yell at a dog to stay or heel; not anyone could do so if the words the animal responds to are of a language no longer practiced. These are the only words Rickard has spoken since the knights had approached their table.

Kerr sits obediently by the side of the building. She continues to stare at the group, but doesn't move. Satisfied, Rickard turns back to the others, but spares them no words. He has nothing to say to them, though he hopes his partner's excitement isn't for naught. Moving up in importance, Septus had said.
He fails to feel elated.