trotted to the boat, whining at it softly as it bobbed in the water. “Come on,
Tyr,” she said. “We have to go across. He’s on the other side.”
Tyr whined again, looking distrustfully at the boat, and finally jumped in.
“The little dog too?” said the ferryman. “Dogs go for half fare.”
Tyr stood on her hind legs to give the ferryman the coin, then sat down on the
boat’s middle seat, grinning, and barked, thumping her tail on the gunwale.
“Why, thank you, missy, that’s a kindness and so I shall,” said the ferryman,
hastily pocketing the second half of Tyr’s coin, which he had bitten in two.
“They don’t overpay us down here, and times are hard all over, eh? It’s much
appreciated. Don’t put your hands in the water, ladies. Anyone else? No? Cheap
lot they must be up there these days. Off we go, then.”
And off they went, leaving behind the sad, pushing crowd on the bank. Mriga sat
by the gunwale with one arm around Tyr, who slurped her once, absently, and sat
staring back the way they’d come, or looking suspiciously at the water. The air
grew colder. Shuddering, Mriga glanced first at Siveni, who sat looking across
the wide river at the far bank; then at Ischade. The necromant was gazing
thoughtfully into the water. Mriga looked over the side, and saw no reflection
… at first. After a little while she averted her eyes. But Ischade did not
raise her head until the boat grounded again; and when she looked up, some of
that eternal assurance was missing from her eyes.
“There are the gates,” the ferryman said. “I’ll be leaving you here. Watch your