The iron barge pushed away from the rotting timbers of the Blackwater Wharf with a low, groaning scrape that shook through the soles of Ren’s boots.
The river was even more terrifying from the deck than from the shore. The sluggish, ink-black water pressed against the iron hull with an unnatural, heavy thickness, barely parting around the flat prow. No ripples spread across the surface. Instead, the thick, sticky fluid folded upon itself like chilled oil. It took in the amber glow of their animal fat lanterns until the light seemed to drown two inches beyond the boat sides.
At the stern, the giant Lead Ferryman stood hunched over his twelve-foot oar. His lead-thimbled gauntlets hauled the heavy timber through the sludge with slow, clockwork rhythm. Every stroke caused the brass toll-scales welded to his chest to creak against his ribs. The black osteo-ink inscribed by Necro-Scribe Ren still crawled across the Ferryman’s iron collar like frozen frost, enforcing the terms of their receivership seizure with cold, contractual total.
In the center of the deck, Mira sat upon a low supply hamper, her embroidery hoop resting in her lap. Her right arm, gleaming with many-sided quartz clarity, rested flat against the gunwale.
