Or which country.

He had not yet found an answer to that dilemma when he mounted his horse again and headed grimly north, to try and stop disaster.

The storm lasted a full week, howling across the distant shores of Jora Island to smash into Fortress Dunadd, perched stolidly above its grey-water harbor. It was a merry week, considering. King Dallan was a congenial host, delighted by the gift of fine Roman wine and eager to show his own kingdom's wealth to best advantage. Princess Keelin was a vision in the lavender silk gown, distracting everything male within viewing distance of her. She and Medraut spent carefully chaperoned afternoons playing silly games and talking of everything from inconsequentials to privately held dreams for the future.

Lailoken watched and listened, nodded and smiled to himself, assigned the role of male chaperone, just as Riona Damhnait had been given the role of female chaperone: part companion, part tutor, part servant. Only in Riona's case, the servant was a royal Druid and a very shrewd judge of character. Lailoken was exceedingly careful in her presence, lest he betray his own and Banning's seething hatred of everything Irish.

The young potential couple, aided by Keelin's grasp of the Brythonic language, got on famously, boding well for the future of the alliance. At least, it would have if alliance had also been on Lailoken's agenda. He made it a point to become friendly with the soldiers who patrolled the fortress walls and village streets at night, playing his harp and flute and plying them with good Roman wine and more ordinary Celtic mead and ale, which solved many a problem of translation—alcohol, music, and laughter being universals of human expression. He got to know the soldiers well and, more importantly, got to know the timing of their rounds, down to the minute. He located the wells which supplied the fortress and the town, noted their positions and when the patrols of the soldiers took them close to those wells and when they didn't.

And every night, Lailoken broke open one of his foul bottles, mouth and nose carefully masked, hands carefully gloved, and poured a bit of the filth from it over a bit of fish or boiled beef, which he gave to one of the many dogs that roamed the fortress and the town, always a different dog, to be certain that he wasn't witnessing the effects of cumulative poisoning, but rather the effects of accumulating potency. It took the full week they spent in Dunadd before he got the results he had been waiting so patiently to witness. A brindle bitch he had singled out some twelve hours previously died near noon their seventh day in the town, vomiting, wracked with convulsions, and progressively paralyzed.

The moment he noticed the animal's illness, he made his apologies to Medraut, hinted that he wished to spend a bit of time with an Irish lass he'd met, and slipped away into the forest that crowded the edge of town, carrying the dog with him. It took the beast several hours to die, in agony. Lailoken watched in rising delight, amazed at the potency of Banning's bottled poison. 'Tis wondrous powerful! he crowed. Banning chuckled. Tonight, we'll drop one bottle down each well in town and press Dallan mac Dalriada for his answer. If he and Keelin come with us, grand. They'll return from Lochmaben to a town filled with death. If they decline the offer, I fear our lovely little princess will not have much time to enjoy her silks.

It was almost a pity to destroy a creature so lovely and innocent.

Almost.

His wife had been just as lovely, and the Irish had gutted her without mercy.

Once the dog had finally died, Lailoken kicked the corpse into a fast-flowing stream, washed his hands in the icy water, and made his way back into town, whistling merrily despite the continuing squalls of rain and wind. As he emerged near the harbor, he caught a glimpse of blue sky far to the west. The storm was breaking up. Better and better. They would leave on the morrow's dawn, whatever answer Dallan mac Dalriada made. He hunted up the captain of the fishing sloop, which still rode proudly at anchor where the water shoaled, and suggested that this would probably be their last night in town, given the break in the weather.

"Aye," the captain nodded, tankard of Irish ale in one hand, a hunk of black Irish bread in the other, "I'd noticed it myself. We'll be ready, come the dawn."

Well pleased, Lailoken made his way up the wind-swept road to the fortress, where he found Medraut fairly dancing with impatience. The boy rushed forward to greet him.

"You've been gone for hours!"

"That I have," Lailoken nodded, winking. "What is it, lad? You're fairly trembling."

"King Dallan has said he will give us his decision tonight! Lailoken, she's lovely! Sweet and intelligent and full of laughter and curiosity."

"Does she like you, lad?"

His eyes shone. "She does. She whispered to me not three hours ago, she'll tell her father so, before the feast tonight. Riona Damhnait supports her in this, I'm sure she does!"

"Well, then, your worries are over, are they not? You're a fine catch for any maiden."

Medraut sighed happily, then exclaimed, "Oh, whatever am I to wear? My best things are wrinkled and musty!" He clapped a hand to his forehead, then plunged away through the fortress gates, hurrying to repair the damage to his wardrobe before appearing in front of the girl's father. Lailoken chuckled aloud, then headed for his own rooms. He had preparations to make as well.

The sun was sinking into the western sea, an immense ball of orange flame balanced on the water, when Lailoken entered the grand hall, where great trestle tables had been set up for the night's feast. As well fed as they'd been on previous nights, this evening's banquet outdid the rest of the week's feasts combined. Lailoken couldn't even put names to most of the dishes offered, with costly sweetmeats vying for space with venison roasts and great haunches of ham from wild boars, roasted ducklings, pastries of mouth-watering variety, and an abundance of ale. So much food, Dallan mac Dalriada must have emptied the fortress larders.

He smiled. The townsfolk wouldn't live long enough to miss the food consumed here tonight. The king's table had been set with shining silver cups and finely carved wooden trenchers. Fresh rushes on the floor added a tang of salt air to the mouth-watering scents rising from the tables. Irish musicians had already begun to play, down in one corner of the hall, since the fortress had no minstrels' gallery—an architectural feature that Banning had halfway expected to find and one that Lailoken had never even heard of, although the notion intrigued him.

Medraut appeared, nervous and resplendent in his finest—and freshly pressed—woolen tunics, plaid trousers, and golden torque of rank, the one given him by Ancelotis to wear while that worthy served as regent king of Gododdin. "Is she here yet?" he asked anxiously, peering through the crowd of Irish nobles which had begun to gather.

"Nay, lad, I've not yet seen her. But then, the king her father isn't here, either, so hold your patience and wait."

He nodded, tugging absently at the hem of his tunic, fidgeting with his belt, fingering the hilt of his sword, worn ceremonially in a silver-inlaid scabbard. He was every inch the wealthy and cultured Briton princeling, about to inherit a kingdom and help himself to a wealthy wife. It amused Lailoken that Medraut had evidently forgotten Ganhumara even existed. Lailoken smiled, toying absently with the strap of the satchel he carried over one shoulder, a satchel carefully filled with ordinary dirt taken from the shore of Galwyddel. Banning had warned him that should the Dalriadan king agree to this alliance, he would be likely to insist upon a certain ceremony for which the Dalriadan kings had become famous. That being so, Lailoken had carefully scooped up the dirt before their departure from Galwyddel's western shore, and carried with it a well-made Briton shoe, to be used at the right moment.