A worldly warrior woman enters the hall and salutes the inn-keeper with familiarity. The brughaid appears to match this Gaulishwoman in spunk and ruggedness, though she does not wear breeks or any visible arms. Both appear capable of defending themselves should trouble brew. And the way I'm feeling now - the mead won't douse the fire - I'm keen to start brewing.

The road out of Connacht was the roughest, but I am now in lands where my name and face are unknown. Even the ogham brand in my flesh, given me by my captors, has no meaning in Munster. What does have meaning, from Rathlin Island down to Grecia, is the mionnfháinne. The silver ring is bejewelled and etched befitting a Brehon's rank, to be worn on the first finger. The fit is too snug, made for a woman's hand, but it's nothing a master smith can't help. And so I'll find me a worker of hammer and tongs.

With the distinguished mionnfháinne upon my finger and my new tunic and mantle (stolen yesterday from a gullible landlord), no one will suspect me as I travel through the country. Even the Connachtmen will not recognize me...unless. Ha, there is no chance. I suppose they may have met up with the Brehon-woman whose ring I stole and the landlord whose rich raiment I now wear...but it is fruitless to think on it.

On to business. "Gabh mo leithscéal," I interrupt Katlyne and the Gaulishwoman in a feigned Munster accent. "But might one of you know where I would find the local smith?"