My arrival at the harbor is timely. I dock the Dragonsilver at the narrow end of the Boann's mouth, a good distance from a small, recently-arrived, British cargo ship. The vessel is not of the frail Roman design but of the enterprising Celtic variety. The Celts were never a people fearful of venturing from the sight of shore. These merchants are clearly pastoral folk of the old Cymric clanholds, outside the Legion settlements. Not many Romans dared risk the journey to the Green Isle.

Perhaps Spring has already reached the Isle of the Mighty, and its restless adventurers have become seduced by wanderlust. By the looks of it, they bring with them a good many things to trade, but what do they seek? Gold? Building stone? Brides? Homes? I hope they don't bring beer; Felann's store will last us another 10 winters!

Of the passengers, I take note of one distracted fellow who disembarks empty-handed, sighing heavily. Not a merchant, by the looks of him. A traveller then? He may be looking for safe passage up the river. I wait in my boat, the Dragonsilver, offering my ferrying services in unspoken stillness.