An errant course

Previously: Esmiralda, a freelance historian, has recently been recruited to the Ministry of Human Preservation. She and her new companions have stumbled upon a new mystery...

A ship decaying in the middle of the forest with no bodies nearby and no recognizable insignia to point toward its port of origin. I considered this.

"If they had met some misfortune, there would still be signs nearby," I said. "Bones, weapons, something of the like. I think we can assume that whoever helmed this craft survived this bizarre landing and wandered off—or perhaps they had some destination in mind and fell short."

"They could have been abducted by the giants," Merrick guessed, referencing our recent encounter.

"I don't think so. This ship has been here for some years. We can assume that that evil plot did not have that much history."

"Course," Seymuhr grunted. "Because you would have known of it."

I glared at him, but nodded. I feared he would pounce on every occasion to attack my knowledge of the land and its history—knowledge forged by walking throughout the countries for decades and reading about their histories for just as long.

"Is there a task that you might find more productive than goading me into a shouting match?" I asked him. "If so, you don't need my permission to start it."

He chuckled, probing the space between his teeth with his tongue. "I'm going to find something to eat."

"Perfect."

Merrick had approached me. He hiked his trousers up around his thick middle and watched Seymuhr's broad form disappear into the forest. "Don't worry. He can take care of himself."

"Oh. I'm not worried."

"If this craft indeed belongs to the Free Sailors, might you know any tales of ships they lost?"

Free Sailors. An interesting word choice. It meant Merrick was mostly like from Gole, a southern land that had coined the phrase because their duke, Surval Gruddun, had flat out denied that there was a problem with pirates raiding the shores of his land. He was an idiot, of course, like many rulers, and preferred to keep his treasuries filled with trinkets rather than empty it on a navy.

"The word is 'pirates'," I reminded him, "and yes we agree on that. There are many tales of pirates lost at sea—tis the nature of the life they choose—but few of them are recorded. Pirates aren't known for their written histories. Those that I have seen are difficult to read."

"Why is...that?" Broo Fang Tane had been listening to the conversation.

"Too many 'Arrrrs'," I answered, smiling at my own joke.

Merrick didn't even smile. "Perhaps. It would be unlikely to find one that referenced this vessel in particular, anyway. It is doubtful that any of its crew—or prisoners, I would add—would return to a Temple of Knowledge to record the voyage. Still, would the captain not keep a log for his own reference? Or, perhaps some other document, like a..."

"...a map," I finished with him. It was entirely possible. We all, in some form or another, wanted to be remembered. Pirate captains were as prideful as they were merciless and historians—or bards, or whatever label you put on someone who liked to tell stories—were always in need of coin. A map would not only provide detail to some of the voyages, but could also lead the way to a lair, where the spoils of their victories could be hidden. I was suddenly certain of it. "Indeed, it is likely. Let's take a closer look."