and crushed together by the press of souls that strained, crying out weakly,
toward the boat.
“Get back, get back,” the boatman said. He lisped and spat when he talked:
understandable, considering the shape his teeth were in. “I’ve seen you lot
before, and you none of you have the fare. And what’s this? Na, na, mistress,
get back with your pretty eyes. You’re alive yet. You’re not my type.”
Ischade smiled, a look of acid-sweet irony that ran icewater in Mriga’s bones.
“It’s mutual, I’m sure. But I have the fare.” Ischade held up the gold quarter
talent.
The ferryman took it and bit it. Mriga noticed with amusement that afterward, as
he held it up to stare at it, the coin had been bit right through. “All right,
in you get,” he growled, and tossed the coin over his shoulder into the water.
Where it fell ripples spread for a second, then were wiped out by a wild boiling
and bubbling of the water. “Always hungry, those things,” grumbled the ferryman,
as Ischade brushed past him, holding her dark silks fastidiously high. “Get in,
then. Mortals, why are they always in such a hurry? Coming in here, weighing
down the boat, has enough problems just carrying ghosts. Nah, then! No gods!
Orders from her. You all come shining in here, hurt everyone’s eyes, tear up the
place, go marching out again dragging dead people after you, no respect for
authority, ghosts and dead bodies walking around all over the earth, shameful!
Someone ought to do something …”
Mriga and Siveni looked at each other. Siveni glanced longingly at her spear,