The river had taken the stepping stones and left the ferry.
On the morning of day 1288, Isha led the party down to the upper crossing with both pack animals still on the sheltered path. The low road’s flat stones had vanished beneath brown water. Above them, a hand-drawn ferry ran between two old rock landings, guided by an ordinary rope and worked from windlasses on both banks.
Its keeper, Dovan, showed them the stage marks before he discussed a fare. The river stood below the ferry’s accepted limit, though well above its pleasant one. Small debris had been passing since dawn. He would cross only with a watcher upstream and no animal tied to a person.
“We can wait,” he said. “Or use it at the setting I give you. I will not make it faster because the guide has promised a date.”
Isha had promised an estimate with a seasonal alternative, not command of his river. She accepted the working limit and kept the animals back while Tavin and Dovan checked the deck.
The ferry was broad enough for one unloaded pack animal with two handlers, or four people and light bundles. Its lower rail had a sound removable board for loading. The guide rope’s bank seats were ordinary iron fixed into old rock. The keeper’s assistant was already on the far bank, checking the receiving windlass and the clear exit.
