Through at Brindle Ford

At Brindle Ford the river stayed knee-deep, so the Tide House’s catch went over the shallows on foot, the way smugglers and Confiscators both preferred. Sefton Mirrel, the border sergeant, took the toll in dry coin and gave back one word, low, through the reeds: through. Across the water the Glare’s lamps burned warm and close, every one of them watching.