[So, here they are: The ferryman had shown up thirty minutes late, drunker than half of Wycome at tourney-time, to find an outsized and impatient crowd of Inquisition personnel waiting for him. Rather than do the sensible thing he'd crammed them all aboard cheek by jowl and launched for the Gallows. Already shaping up to be an unpleasant trip--

And then the man started singing, the most heartfelt and thoroughly awful rendition of "The Littlest Sister of Val Chevin" ever to afflict the ear.

It's around the verse with the two goats, the butter-churn, and the three strapping dwarves Myr speaks up in an undertone,]

We've two options, to my thinking: Either we join in on the harmony or we mutiny and hope a ducking in the harbor sobers him up.