“Time to get across, I think,” said Danivon to the air, to himself, to the pocket munks peeking from his shirt, to Zasper’s ghost. He had been talking to this audience for some little time. “It’s an easy slope along here. We’ll build some kind of raft out of reeds.”
He would need to sleep for a while before he built anything, much less a raft, but he did not dwell on this as he staggered down the wooded slope toward the tall, shadowed growths along the shore. From here the dark line of the wall marched across the world and out into the water, an inviolable barrier.
“I wish we had Great Dragon here,” murmured Danivon. “To get us across that wall as he no doubt did the women of Thrasis. I’d be willing to ride him bareback if he’d do that.”
He stared at the wall, his nose twitching. Were the pursuers going to come through the wall after him? Over the wall? Around it?
His nose said nothing, nothing hostile beyond the wall, but no knowledge of whether they might come there, either.
At the bottom of the hill a wandering streamlet wove its way among the reeds, reflecting the gray sky to make silver meanders as it sought the river. He waded up to his hips in mud and rotting vegetation, clutching at the tall stems to keep his balance. At last he staggered out of their shade into a shallow sandy-bottomed lagoon to see a dark cluster of anchored boats, their sails furled and gear carefully stowed. Drying nets were silhouetted against the sky, and the outline of a walkway on pilings above the mud told him he had found the fishing fleet of a nearby village.
“How do you feel about a bit of thievery?” Danivon asked himself as he wiped mud from his face and stared at the walkway in disgust. “Wouldn’t you say we’d earned it? Being such good guys there in Beanfields. Abstaining from any unnecessary slaughter?”
He waited a moment, as though for an answer, then answered himself. “Indeed, we’ve earned a bit of license. If one boat will do, by all means, do one boat.”
He had smelled death behind him since Zasper died. It had come closer since midnight. He thought it would be less likely to catch up if he were on the river.
He tossed up a handful of leaves and saw them spin away toward the west. “The wind’s in the right direction, at least. Won’t need to tack back and forth. Which is a good thing!”
Danivon was no boatman; though he had had the advantage of observing the sailors on their way up the Fohm, he was not at all confident he could get safely across the river.
Still, there was no other choice. He pushed the nearest boat into the river, held to its side while he dunked himself repeatedly to wash the stinking mud away, then climbed in and set the sail more or less as he had seen the captain of the Dove doing all the days of their upriver trip. The wind was gentle, barely enough to move them against the current, and he lay wearily in the bottom of the boat, fighting to keep his eyes open, the tiller beneath his arm as he watched the shore creep slowly by. After what seemed an eternity, the wall approached, grew taller, loomed off the port beam, then edged away behind him.
“Now cross over,” said Danivon wearily. “If Fringe and the twins are anywhere, they will be on the other side.”
The little boat had been designed for use in the slow waters and quiet lagoons along the bank. It jigged like a beetle as it inched its way across the wavelets in its reach for the far shore and Danivon thought hopelessly of gavers. He was of the opinion the Brannigans Zasper had told him of had set the gavers against the ship. He was almost certain it had been a gaver that had taken Fringe. A huge and inexorable beast, lunging up from beneath the waves.
Dawn came. The sky lightened. The far shore became visible and drew gradually closer, the undulant banks rising into grassy precipices or falling into mud flats. Danivon steered for a place where the banks were low. At last he felt the keel thrust into the mud and hold there, the boat shivering for a moment before it tilted against the soil and was still. He furled the sail.
“Could we set the sail, do you suppose, to take it home?” Danivon asked of the air. “Back to Beanfields?”
There would likely be no one there to use it. No doubt the Brannigans were making their usual wholesale destruction.
He staggered up the bank, clawing his way the last few feet to the cushiony grasses at the top, then lay there, unable to go farther. At the rim of the sky, the last stars winked out.
“I saw you coming,” said a voice. “I was very glad to see you alive.”
He looked up, taking in the purple plumes against the gray sky of early morning, the polished boots beside his head.
“Fringe,” he breathed, unable to believe it. He stood up, took her by the shoulders, hugged her to him. “Fringe.”
“Danivon,” she said.
He stood back and looked at her, his joyous smile fading. It was Fringe. Her eyes, her face, her voice. And yet, not Fringe. Not Fringe at all. No nervous little movement as she pushed him away a little, no sidelong look. No apprehension in her gaze, saying, Love me, leave me alone, love me. Nothing of that at all. Only sureness. Competence. Poise. Certainty.
She smiled gladly. “It is good to see you well. I was worried about you.” Her voice was unworried. “Where’s Zasper?”
Danivon reached out to her, to the gap in her shirt that showed her bare throat. “Where is the pendant he gave you. You wore
