Yezhri stands ankle-deep at the landing as if the river has appointed them there. Their oilskin coat shines with a dull, rain-polished luster, and their heavy boots leave dark crescents in the mud. They move with the economical balance of someone accustomed to a deck pitching beneath them, turning their whole body before shifting their feet. A constant smell of wet rope, lamp oil, and bruised mint follows them; they know about the oil and insist the mint is for nausea, not sentiment. When rattled, their breath catches in two dry clicks before they speak.

Yezhri is exacting about small procedures but unexpectedly forgiving of human mistakes. In calm weather they are dryly funny and attentive; under pressure they become terse and controlling. They distrust grand promises yet will risk their life for a stranger whose name they have written down.

Yezhri was born in a riverside hamlet and learned ferry work from their mother, who taught them to read current seams as other children learned letters. During the disastrous Siltwinter flood, a panicked crowd overloaded the ferry. Yezhri cut its mooring to keep it from crushing the landing, saving the village but sending their younger brother, Toma, and three passengers downstream. Toma survived and never forgave them. Since then, Yezhri has kept a careful record of every crossing, partly for tolls and partly because they cannot bear for anyone to vanish without a trace. Their former apprentice, Eren, now pilots a smuggling skiff and leaves secret messages beneath the landing planks. The river has risen unusually high this season, and Yezhri suspects the upstream mill has opened a blocked sluice. They need proof before confronting its owner, whose workers still use the ferry.