After Arista had regained her breath, Price resumed rushing them along at a storm’s pace. They ducked under a narrow ivy-covered archway and passed through a wooden gate, which brought them to the rear of the estate. A short stone wall, only a little above waist high, guarded the drop to the river gorge. Looking down, she could see only darkness, but across the expanse she could make out points of light and the silhouette of buildings. Price directed them to an opening and the start of a long wooden staircase.

“Our neighbor, Bocant, the pork mogul, has his six-oxen hoist,” Price said, motioning to the next mansion over. Arista could just make out a series of cables and pulleys connected to a large metal box. Two lanterns, one hung at the top and another at the bottom, revealed the extent of the drop, which appeared to be more than a hundred feet. “But we have to make do with our more traditional, albeit more dangerous, route. Try not to fall. The steps are steep and it’s a long way down.”

The stairs were indeed frightening—a plummeting zigzag of planks and weathered beams bolted to the cliff’s face. It looked like a diabolical puzzle of wood and rusting metal, which quaked and groaned the moment they stepped on it. Arista was certain she felt it sway. Memories of a tower collapsing while she clutched on to Royce flooded back to her. Taking a deep breath, she gripped the handrail with a sweaty palm and descended, sandwiched between Royce and Hadrian.

A narrow dock sat at the bottom and a shallow-draft rowboat banged dully against it with the river’s swells. A lantern mounted on the bow illuminated the area with a yellow flicker.

“Put that damn light out, you fools!” Price snapped at the two men readying the craft.

A quick hand snuffed out the lantern and Arista’s eyes adjusted to the moonlight. From previous trips to Colnora, she knew that the river was as congested as Main Street on Hospitality Row during the day, but in the dark it lay empty, the vast array of watercraft bobbing at various piers.

When the last of the supplies were aboard, Price returned their weapons. Hadrian strapped his on and Royce’s white-bladed dagger disappeared into the folds of his cloak. “In you go,” Price told them, putting one foot on the gunwale to steady the boat. A stocky, shirtless boatman stood in the center of the skiff and directed them to their seats.

“Which one of ya might be handy with a tiller?” he asked.

“Etcher,” Price said, “why don’t you take the tiller?”

“I’m no good with a boat,” the wiry youth with a thin mustache and goatee replied as he adjusted the lay of the gear.

“I’ll take the rudder,” Hadrian said.

“And grateful I am to you, sir,” the boatman greeted him cheerily. “Name’s Wally … You shouldn’t need to use it much. I can steer fine with just the oars, but in the current it’s sometimes best not ta paddle a’tall. All ya needs to do is keep her in the center of the river.”