Graba had cursed the troupe and all of their doings. Grubs would follow wherever they went. Burning birds would fly screaming down at them until the stage and wagon caught fire, and they all burned with it—unless the River rose up in a flood before Graba had the chance to burn them. Bad things were coming—in water or in fire or both at once.

Semele pointed to a spot on the southern side of the ravine. “There,” she said. “That is the place we should be aiming for, yes.”

Nonny steered them to where Semele had pointed. She tossed a grappling hook, grappled riverside tree roots with it, and roped the raft to shore. Then she stopped the spinning paddle contraption and climbed inside the wagon. The raft drifted at the end of its tether.

Rownie looked around. The place did not seem in any way special. “Why this spot?” he asked.

“This is our climbing place,” Essa told him. “We need to get up to street level, to drive back into town.”

Rownie looked up. The ravine was steep and very high. It did not look climbable. “We’re going to climb that?”

“No, no, no, no,” Essa said. “Definitely not. Nonny is going to climb and let down a rope, and then hoist the wagon back up to shore with a winch and crane.” She made it sound like a very easy thing to do. “The winch and crane are both already up there. Smugglers use them to carry things into Zombay without having to go through the dock wardens, but they haven’t used it very much lately. I don’t think so, at least. Hopefully there are no smugglers trying to use it right now.”

Nonny came up through a hatch in the wagon roof. She had several tools in the loops of her belt. Without saying good-bye—or anything else—she stepped nimbly across the rope between the wagon and the shore, and started climbing.

“Shouldn’t take too terribly long,” Essa said. Her fishing line tugged, and she started jumping up and down. “Hey, I got something! Fresh dinner, everybody! Fresh dinner!”

Essa hauled a mass of green tangles onto the raft. It landed with a splat.

“Hmm,” she said. “Never mind. We could make a riverweed stew, I suppose, but the only time I’ve ever known a riverweed stew to taste good was when we left out the actual weeds, so I should probably just toss them back in.”

No one else said anything.

Essa climbed quietly down to the edge of the raft and kicked her catch of weeds into the River. The green tangle sank out of sight. “I remember making wishes on riverfish, as a little girl,” she said, “though I don’t remember what the wishes were. And I was just as little as I am now, I guess. We don’t get any taller, not even if we live for a thousand years.”