Against all odds, Dani found a grip; there, near the end, where the slick wood was gnarled. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Clinging to the rope with one arm, Uncle Thulu hauled hard with the other, grunting and panting with the effort. The leather rope thinned and stretched, thwarting their efforts … but it held and did not break. The muscles of his arm quivered as, inch by torturous inch, Thulu of the Yarru-yami pulled his nephew from the abyss. When his head reached a level with the overhang, Dani clawed at the rock with his free hand, ignoring the pain in his shoulders and levering himself upward until he got a foot beneath him, toes digging hard against the granite, and drew himself up onto the ledge to stand on wavering legs.

“Oh, lad.” Uncle Thulu embraced him with one arm, weeping. “Oh, lad!”

“Truly, Uncle,” Dani said, his voice muffled against Thulu’s shoulder, “if I am the Bearer, I could ask no better guide.”

It took a long time to get from ledge to cliff-top. When it was done, both were trembling with a mix of exertion and the aftermath of fear. Uncle Thulu unwound the rope from his waist and unknotted it from the anchor, a proud jut of granite. He kissed the rope in gratitude, and for good measure, the stone itself. “Uru-Alat be praised,” he said fervently, shoving his digging-stick into his waistband.

“Truly,” Dani murmured, collapsing onto the chilled stones. His arms ached and his shoulders felt half-pulled from their sockets. “How much farther, Uncle?”

Uncle Thulu paced the edge of the cliff, eyeing the river below. “We’ll find another route.” His voice was decisive. “A better route, Dani. The Spume is a key, I’m sure of it. There are … traces, a foulness in the current.” He stroked his digging-stick, humming absently for a moment, then stopped. “There is a branch underground that leads to the Defile. That much I sense for, even here, the waters are tainted.” Pausing in thought, he tapped his lips. “It must happen some leagues to the west. Perhaps, if we abandon the heights and cut westward … yes. Such is the pattern of Uru-Alat’s veins.” Thulu glanced at his nephew, who sat huddled in his cloak, cradling his aching limbs. “Have you the strength, lad?” he asked gently.

“Aye.” Dani shuddered, and laughed. “At least,” he said, “we’ve not encountered the Fjeltroll.”

“WE HAVE RECEIVED NO REPORTS of such travelers.”

Their host spoke smoothly; but then, Coenred, Earl of Gerflod, was a smooth man. His auburn hair was smooth, flowing over his shoulders. His beard was groomed and silken, and his ruddy lips were smooth within their tidy bracket of facial hair.

Osric nodded. “Like as not, they’ve not been spotted yet.”